The blonde girl sighed, brushed away a strand of hair stuck to the back of her neck, and casually glanced toward the sports field—only to widen her eyes a little.
That was… Kiyono?
Before she knew it, Eriri had run downstairs—pure curiosity, nothing more!
On the field, cumulus clouds like cotton tufts seemed to drift lower, gathering behind the young man. Kiyono, helmet on and metal bat in hand, was practicing baseball with another boy.
Eriri blinked, struck by a strange dissonance. It was hard to link Kiyono with baseball. He was a writer, and he often gamed at home with her. He looked like an otaku—just like she did.
Yet there he stood, brimming with energy. He twisted his waist and swung; the clouds seemed to quicken, dust rose, sweat fell, and the white ball arced high into the glass-blue sky.
The scene, inexplicably, smelled of summer.
She tilted her head back, tracking the ball's graceful curve, and sighed softly.
"This guy… why does he keep adding new talents? He's a famous novelist, top of his class, and now even his athletic ability is amazing? Does he plan to become a perfect man?!"
Even as an outsider, she could tell the swing was beautifully executed.
The blonde girl murmured on, half to herself. She knew him—his favorite games and music, his online habits, the joys and frustrations he felt when writing—
She knew Kiyono's hidden gentleness and brilliance, too; and even so, it felt as if she'd only skimmed the lake's surface.
If the other girls at school saw even that surface, wouldn't Kiyono instantly become the most popular boy on campus?
For some reason, the thought annoyed her.
Just then, Kiyono noticed the movement. He took off his helmet and glanced over.
This time, Eriri didn't tsundere her way through with, "I only came down because you were being noisy…" She simply asked, curious:
"You can play baseball, too?"
"I'm a rare genius." Kiyono lifted his chin proudly. Eriri and Yanami were similar in that way—once they got comfortable, neither had hidden motives, and there was no need to overthink things.
"Kiyono really does have talent, and his height helps. It's a shame he won't specialize in baseball…"
The pitcher jogged over, buzz cut marking him as a baseball-club member. He'd stumbled on Kiyono's knack and tried to recruit him—shot down, sadly. Since then, they'd occasionally practiced together like this.
"This guy?" Eriri eyed Kiyono skeptically, seeing nothing that screamed "baseball prodigy."
"Honestly, I just exercise when I've got nothing to do." Kiyono's swagger evaporated. "So, Sawamura-san, what can I do for you?"
"Th-this…"
After a brief stammer, Eriri found herself an excuse. "I just wanted to ask about your recent ideas—so we don't repeat last time!"
"Don't worry, I already revised in advance."
Kiyono bent to pick up a ball, chatting as he moved. "More importantly, are you managing? Didn't you say you joined a new club?"
Aki Tomoya… Eriri's expression turned complicated. With the heroine uncooperative, their club's progress had stalled. Lately he'd proposed a new plan: build a simple trial game first to impress the heroine.
As the sole original artist, she was naturally pouring herself into it.
Not that she said any of that. She just turned her head and sniffed, "It's a breeze."
"By the way, about creative work… could I ask Sawamura-san for a favor?" Kiyono kindly ignored the tsundere.
Eriri's heart gave a small, traitorous flutter.
"If it's very important… I suppose I can listen. But you'll have to book an appointment." A normal answer, at last.
"In that case," Kiyono said solemnly, "Sawamura-sensei, could I trouble you to teach me how to draw this weekend?"
"Talking through the novel should be enough… Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh?"
Eriri's eyes went wide. She stared blankly at the boy in front of her.
Kiyono—youngest Akutagawa Prize winner in history, the brightest star in the light-novel world—suddenly wanted to…
"Draw?" Her voice jumped an octave.
"Mm." Kiyono nodded, as if it were obvious.
He was preparing to step into the art world. He'd been studying how his talent-entry worked; while he could level up alone, the experience bar rose slowly. Creative talent had to be honed at the edge.
Eriri fell silent, studying him with a peculiar look. At last, she grasped the essence of the word willful.
But if Kiyono was genuinely interested in painting… wasn't that her strongest field?!
Her blue eyes gleamed.
A little apart from town, a small parcel of private land spread over a lush hillside. A Western-style mansion crowned the rise.
In Japan, such houses weren't rare. Many dated to the Taishō era, when European romanticism held sway; most were ancestral homes now—and quite valuable.
This one, though, was different. Newly built, it felt less "Western house" and more "medieval manor," its surrounding greenery giving it a villa's grace.
Whatever the style, owning such a place meant wealth. The bolder types lingered near the edges, sneaking photos.
This villa belonged to the doujin artist Sawamura · Spencer · Eriri.
At her vanity, the blonde girl tapped her phone at lightning speed.
[Meet at the mall at 11:30 today. Any problems?]
The tone: all haughty command.
Why is it an hour later again?
Why?
Eriri snorted. Did this guy know nothing about girls? Showers take time. Getting dressed takes time. Then there might be lunch—or something.
This would be completely different from their first meeting.
As for what was different, she avoided the thought. In her heart, even though Kiyono was excellent—and being with him made her happy, drawing her eyes again and again—Eriri felt she still hadn't forgotten that ordinary otaku.
"Which dress should I wear?"
With time to spare, she stood before her open closet, frowning at the options.
This one.
She plucked a dress she'd bought two days ago, slid into slippers, and hopped to the shower.
Compared with meticulous girls, Eriri was already fast; even so, washing her golden hair thoroughly took over thirty minutes. She set down the dryer, slipped into fresh clothes.
A white blouse; a cream-colored, cute short jacket; a small bow at the collar—soft, lovely, unmistakably her.
Below: her usual pleated skirt and black over-the-knee socks. Finally, two black ribbons for twin tails, and colored contacts in the mirror.
A sweet, delicate, petite beauty with a youthful glow looked back.
"This—this is because he might ask me to model, so I have to dress appropriately…"
Even alone, she felt compelled to explain. She sat, applied simple makeup. For an otaku, she was far ahead of most girls her age in fashion.
This was practice since childhood. As a young lady, like Yukinoshita Haruno, she had family expectations to bear.
"Done!"
Capping her lip balm, Eriri nodded, gathered her drawing tools, and headed downstairs.
"Eh? Eriri?"
On the sofa, snacking and watching TV, Sawamura Sayuri turned at the sound. Her warm, black eyes widened slightly.
No one knew Eriri better. Her daughter almost never went out, and even when she did, she hid her real appearance. To dress up like this was rare indeed.
Sayuri pressed a folding fan to her chin, playful. Drawing out her words, she sing-songed, "Oooh my, is this a secret date with Tomoya-kun?"
At her mother's bold jab, Eriri's ear tips went pink. She snorted.
"It's that light-novel author whose drawing is trash! He practically knelt in the art room begging me to teach him basic sketching—and he even tightened the easel screws himself!"
That child?
Sayuri thought a moment, then offered a meaningful "Oh." She snapped open her fan with a sweet little, "Oh?"
The fan slid up to veil her smile; she looked scarcely older than her daughter, crescent brows arched.
"Then if you just happen to… bump! into! Tomoya-kun while being all lovey-dovey with this 'drawing instruction subject' in Akihabara—"
Eriri flushed deeper, whipped her head aside. "I told you it's not a date! And so what if that idiot otaku sees? My schedule clearly says 'Art Special Training'!"
She herself didn't know whether she was flustered about Kiyono—or Aki Tomoya.
Sayuri chuckled, eased off the teasing, and reminded her to be careful on the way.
She watched her daughter's retreating figure, an inexplicable look on her delicate face.
She's barely tsundere toward Tomoya-kun anymore… so things have moved along without her noticing, huh?
But Eriri's obviously still confused. What to do…?
Sayuri tapped her temple with the fan, troubled.
Unaware of her mother's thoughts, Eriri checked her phone at the gate. Forty minutes to spare—perfect. No bike, no taxi. She simply walked, long legs eating up the distance.
On the way, she couldn't help the little whirlpool in her chest.
Kiyono will definitely be amazed, right? Will he praise me?
Her steps grew lighter. Turning the corner near the meeting spot, she smoothed her clothes one more time—ready to find him or wait.
A flawless, angelic smile bloomed.
Footsteps light as feathers.
Eyes lifted.
Perfect first impression, ready—
And then Miss Eriri's fists clenched; her expression went blank.
Before her stood a tall, slender boy with a sunny smile—and beside him, a girl. Long black hair past her shoulders; cool features softened by a hint of cuteness; standing quietly, untouched by the surrounding noise.
Yukino Yukinoshita. His childhood friend.
You're going on a—no, you're meeting me, and you bring another girl!?
Eriri's face twisted. She bared her small fangs, suddenly wanting to bite Kiyono's neck.
In an instant, all the pink bubbles she'd meticulously blown popped.
—
Kiyono did have a reason for bringing the righteous Second Miss. When a boy and girl go out on a weekend, unexpected situations are all too easy. Add one more person, and all three can relax.
Redundant? Maybe. But he wanted to avoid needless complications.
"This is the model I invited today," Kiyono said seriously.
Eriri hurried to stand in front of them, golden twin tails bouncing with her mood. She stopped herself just before speaking, then arched a brow. After all, she and Kiyono weren't in any special relationship; she wouldn't blurt out a complaint.
—Her favorability seemed to have dropped.
Seeing Eriri's pretty face, Yukino froze slightly, as if something clicked—Kiyono was very loyal to the Yukinoshita family, it seemed.
—Her favorability seemed to have risen.
Eriri snorted proudly and, like a princess, lifted her chin and led them into a tucked-away café with regal poise. She quickly deflated like a punctured ball, because—because…
What was wrong with these two!?
Her gaze ping-ponged between them; her mouth twitched.
Their pinkies "accidentally" touched while trading shopping bags. Their eyes met and said more than words. When ordering, they both said "the usual" in perfect unison… That baked-in familiarity, present in every small gesture, wound around them like ivy that had twined for ten years.