Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"oh"

apathy as a form of affection

attention isn't love

but it’s close enough to fool her

close enough to build castles in the air and hold court with ghosts that never meant to stay.

It was a simple slip of the tongue.  Just an oh. A tragically earth-shattering oh.

“Saiki?”

A strange slip that came to him so swiftly,  almost naturally.  As if it had been at the back of his mind and his mouth had simply been a vessel for it— but that wasn't the problem. 

Kusuo only just stared,  his thoughts unraveling, thread pulled too quickly from the spool.  For as long as he could remember, he had prided himself on his composure, one who maintained the delicate balance of calm, who carefully weighed each word before it fell from his mouth, who kept his emotions tethered.  And in the place of all rational thought and reason was one single word that he had no right to vocalize,  but did so in the most natural way possible.

A part of him burned with quiet frustration—not because of the slip of oh that handed Kokomi the absurd triumph she so eagerly, but rather that he had those thoughts in the first place.  This was where his standards had fallen.

Kokomi seemed to not notice at first, but her eyes narrow slightly when she does. But then she blinks.  Her surprise is more for herself than for him in this moment.

This was everything to her.  Confirmation. A golden trophy delivered on a velvet pillow.  The ultimate prize:  Saiki Kusuo, the boy immune to her charms,  had finally acknowledged her—voluntarily.

She blinked again slowly,  her glossy hair catching the light just so, as if the very beams themselves sought to adorn her as she stood frozen in the hallway.  Did the heavens just open?  Did the wind just carry the whispers of angels?  

No.  That was just Kusuo walking away like nothing happened.  Acting as if an oh from him was normal— As if it wasn’t the culmination of three years of subtle head tilts,  radiant smiles, and painstakingly timed “fuwafuwa~” sound effects.

He was bound to say it eventually.  Honestly, she was surprised he lasted this long.  His “oh” wasn’t a mistake, it was a prophecy.  She is irresistible. Inevitable.  She is worship made flesh.

Even someone like Kusuo:  quiet,  distant,  unshaken. He really thought he could resist her?

Please.

The universe doesn’t grant exceptions. Not when it comes to Kokomi.  She is the axis it spins around.  The standard.  The pinnacle.  The endgame.  The apex of human existence.  And for god’s sake, she even had the decency to be humble about it. 

The universe bends for her.  It always has. 

And now,  so has he.

: : :

‘Oh. So that’s what she got from that.’

He kept walking away. Kept his expression blank. Kept his thoughts from spilling out, because if he reacted—really reacted—she might take that as a marriage proposal.

One slip. One. A stupid, thoughtless syllable, and now he was apparently offering his heart on a satin tray?

He peeked at her from the fringes of his sight. She was standing there, practically glowing, eyes distant like she was hearing wedding bells in Dolby Surround. She was basking in her glory and success, he knows of it.

‘He finally acknowledged me,’ she gushed to herself. ‘I’ll act like it’s no big deal. That’s what a goddess would do. But he knows. Oh, he knows.’

Kusuo exhaled through his nose. ‘I said ‘oh’, not ‘I love you’.’

He sped up his pace slightly, hoping distance might dilute the delusion somehow. It didn’t.

If anything, her thoughts only got louder.

‘This changes everything,’ she was practically squealing inside her head. ‘He’ll start noticing my charm more now. He’s probably already regretting walking away. Should I look over my shoulder? No—no, that’s too obvious. I’ll sigh instead. Yes. Melancholic but graceful.’

.

.

.

This was punishment.

Punishment for letting his guard down for one second. For uttering one syllable. One fleeting, involuntary expression of vague recognition. Now she thought she had him on a leash woven from sunbeams and her own hair.

Typical.

Still, he didn’t bother correcting her. He never did. What would be the point? Kokomi didn’t hear things—she interpreted them. Twisted them into constella tions that always, somehow, spelled out ‘he loves me.’

He could walk past her with a completely neutral expression, and she’d take it as longing.  He could avoid her for a week, and she’d call it mystery.  At this point, if he flung her into the sun, she’d probably think it was some kind of cosmic love confession.

It didn’t matter.

Tomorrow,  she’d do what she always did. Beam at him like her smile could force heart palpitations. Toss her hair like it was a divine miracle.  Radiate the kind of presence that demanded attention—and then feign surprise when people gave it.

He sighed.

This wasn’t new.  It was just Tuesday.

Chapter Text

If silence is a virtue, it is an unwilling one.

If silence is mercy, it is a cruel one.

A glance without weight.

A laugh without orbit.

(You, suddenly, without gravity.)

It is easy to notice the extraordinary—the outbursts, the declarations, the wild splashes of color across the drab walls of routine.

It is much harder to notice when something slips quietly out of frame.

A ghost of a presence that once demanded to be known, now slipping through the cracks without fanfare.

There is no announcement for an ending.

No sirens. No fireworks.

Only the faint aftertaste of something sweet, rotting quietly at the edges.

you do not mourn the absence at first.

you only notice the echo,

how empty your own mind sounds

without hers crashing through it. 

The worst part is realizing you miss it.

Not all at once.

But slowly, insidiously.

: : :

Kusuo Saiki sat in silence, deadpan as always. He wasn’t here to stand out—just to survive the day without blowing his cover. A psychic who could read minds in a world too loud, too nosy, and far too easy to heart.

Today was no different from any other, draped in the mundane and the ordinary, with nothing to set it apart 

Morning announcements stuttered over cheap speakers,  students shuffled past each other in half-conscious herds, the usual chaos diluted by winter fatigue. The air reeked faintly of pencil shavings and lukewarm cafeteria starch.

“I'm telling you, it’s clearly a cape,”  Shun said,  yanking his scarf dramatically around his shoulders. “The length, the flow—cape energy.” Kaido Shun, spiky blue hair and all, stood like he was mid-battle. A full-time chuuni with a scarf and a savior complex.

Aren squinted at him.  “It's a scarf. Just because you spin when you walk doesn't make it not a scarf.”

“It flutters,”  Shun insisted.  “Scarves don’t flutter like this! Look at the trajectory.”

“What the hell? What, are you measuring wind resistance now?”

“I could,” Shun huffed. “You just don’t get the symbolism. A cape represents justice, rebellion, power—!”

It was subtle at first. A quiet that wasn’t supposed to be there. Not the quiet he liked, nor the silence he curated—quiet corners, ignored conversations, a deliberate kind of nothing, but the kind of silence that suggested absence. A blank space where there should’ve been noise.

Her noise.

No gleaming smiles to pierce the quiet. No sparkling monologues. No footsteps hurrying slightly just to fall into step beside him. No internal narration about destiny, or fate, or how his silence was clearly a form of divine affection.

Nothing.

The sharp morning light glances off the perfect sheen of her hair, catching in fleeting strands of gold. Across the room, Teruhashi eases into her seat with the same effortless precision she always wields, every tilt of her head, every curl of her smile so carefully measured it almost dares you to believe it’s natural.

Teruhashi Kokomi had not looked at him once. Had not thought of him once.

And he would know.

He should be enjoying the reprieve from her noisy thoughts—the relief from her incessant rambling.

Kusuo sat in his seat, hand pressed to his cheek,  staring vaguely out the window as Shun and Aren’s bickering became little more than background noise.  If someone had looked closely,  they might’ve seen a faint crease between his brows.  Not deep, but present.

Strange.

He shifted slightly in his seat,  trying to catch the rhythm of her inner monologue—he didn't even need to look.  Normally, he couldn’t shut her off.  Her thoughts used to barrel through like freight trains—loud, sparkly,  impossible to ignore and demanding praise,  validation,  breathless worship. But now?

Her mind was on the weather,  the color of her nails,  the possibility of ramen for lunch,  ordinary things,  mundane things.  Things that didn't include him.

If nothing else,  she was always hyperaware of him.  Always finding ways to try and insert herself in his life,  his routine,  like a persistent thorn.  A pretty thorn sure,  but a thorn nonetheless.  This new silence was so jarring,  so off-putting,  so completely wrong it made his ear twitch.  It was a disturbance in the usual humdrum, the monotony of her presence and her ceaseless attention.  He frowned.  Almost imperceptibly. What was this? 

‘I hope the cafeteria has those egg sandwiches today.  I’m craving something aesthetic.  Maybe I’ll manifest a perfect lunch.  It’s what the universe owes me, anyway!’

‘Wait. Should I cut my bangs again? no, not yet.  The world isn’t ready for that level of power.’

‘That girl from class B has been using my perfume.  I can tell. I should sue.’

He couldn’t focus,  this change was too unfamiliar for his comfort.

Kusuo picked up his pen,  stared at the blank page of his notebook.  This was fine. No, really.  This was ideal.  She wasn’t annoying him.  She wasn’t narrating their future children’s names or analyzing his blinking speed for romantic subtext.  Her thoughts used to arrive uninvited.  Loud, garish, bursting with self-celebration and fabricated drama. 

He used to drown in them.

And now? Nothing.

This should be good.

This was good.

This was ideal.  A dream scenario.  Peace and quiet, no sparkling narration,  no self-written rom-com playing on loop in her head,  no fantasy wedding projections interrupting his attempts to focus.

It was peace.  He should be relieved.

Chapter Text

It started during lunch.  Or maybe, he just noticed it more then.

The cafeteria buzzed with the same tired energy it always had—girls laughing too loudly in clustered corners, boys shoving each other over jokes that weren’t funny, the distant clatter of trays and chairs scraping tile. The scent of cafeteria curry drifted through the air, weirdly sweet, paired with strawberry milk and a faint trace of disinfectant that never quite went away. 

“Hey!” Nendo yelled,  far too loud for the distance between them.  His tray clattered as he slid into the seat across from him.  “You ever think about how cafeteria curry tastes different on Tuesdays?”

Shun didn’t look up.  “That’s because they put less effort in on Tuesdays.  The Dark Reunion siphons the spice levels to fuel their base.”

“…Hah?”  Nendo blinked.  “You sayin’ they’re stealin’ flavor?”

“It’s more complicated than that,”  Shun said, arms folded.  “They operate in subtle layers.  Psychological warfare.  First it’s the curry..  then it’s the weak-willed masses.  That’s how it always starts!!”

Kusuo,  seated one table over,  didn't blink.  Didn't flinch.  Just continued sipping his coffee jelly while letting their nonsense fade into background static.  It was easy to ignore them. It was always easy.

What wasn’t easy,  though,  was the fact that Kokomi’s laughter cut through the noise like it had never belonged to him in the first place.

She tilted her head just slightly when she laughed, like she was posing for a camera that didn’t exist.  Someone handed her a chocolate-covered snack with too much ceremony.  Another offered their umbrella for when school ended, even though the sky was still clear.  People hovered, orbiting her without thought, like gravity had nothing to do with it.

She smiled like she meant it.

A perfect curve of the lips. Delicate, practiced, devastating. Her eyes softened just the right amount. She tilted her head to feign amusement, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like it hadn't been placed there already. To everyone else, it looked effortless. Like kindness.

“Aw, thank you! That’s so thoughtful of you!” Teruhashi chirped, accepting the umbrella with a small gasp, the kind that made hearts stutter and pride inflate.

‘I don’t need an umbrella. It’s not going to rain.’

‘You’re blocking my light. Move.’

‘Did you actually think handing me a cookie would make me look at you longer?’

‘When will these people leave? Oh my god.’

She blinked slowly. Giggled when someone complimented her earrings. Nodded along to stories she didn’t listen to. Her posture remained pristine, back straight like her presence alone carried weight (It did carry weight. But none of them could feel it properly. They were too busy tripping over themselves just to earn a second of eye contact. Too desperate to recognize how easily she gave it when it meant nothing.)

Across the cafeteria, Kusuo watched in silence.

No thoughts from her drifted toward him. No internal gasps of ‘he’s looking at me,’ no mental rewrites of a future wedding, no psychotic over-analysis of the way he breathed.

Nothing.

She didn’t spare him a glance. And that, somehow, said more than any stare she’d ever given

The conversation between Shun and Nendo continued on, the former growing progressively more animated by the second—gesticulating wildly with his hands, trying to explain the intricacies of battle tactics and the various phases of the Dark Reunion’s strategy, until he finally broke down into an anguished wail.

And through it all, he could still hear her laughter, slicing through their mindless babble every time. A sharp, jarring contrast.

He watched her laugh at a mediocre joke, her eyes sparkling with a fake delight, the kind that never reached her irises. It was all fake, he knew, everything about her was a facade. A flawless lie, one that had everyone under her spell and fooled into believing that she was genuinely good and kind.

He was literally within eyesight. She’d never hesitated to walk right up to his table and lean in close—always in the guise of asking something or offering him something or complaining about whatever was inconveniencing her that day, and he knew that her real goal was his attention.

For a long time, he’d told himself it wasn’t about her. It was about the disruption, the overbearing chaos of her attention. Her voice, her gaze, the storm that followed her everywhere.

But now, in the absence of it—He saw clearly what had always been true.

You win. I don’t know what game we were playing, or when it started, or why it mattered—But you won, Kokomi Teruhashi.

Not because she’d conquered him. Not because he wanted her attention. But because he noticed its absence.

Because it meant something.

Because she meant something.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even personal. He was just another person she chose to stop caring about.

He closed his eyes.

She’s not even doing anything and it’s irritating.

...Unbelievable.

Chapter Text

The hum of the convenience store overhead lights grates like static—low, constant, grating in a way that clings to the air. Kusuo— no, Kuriko today,  lingers beneath them, half-bathed in the flicker of fluorescent white, her gaze unfocused on the shelves ahead. Rows of melonpan blur in her (his?) vision, indistinguishable, irrelevant. The bread didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to eat it. She just needed a reason to be here.

The reason: something trivial. Mundane. A backdrop for absence, for silence, for avoidance dressed up in idle shopping. 

Kusuo hadn’t wanted to do PE. That was it. Simple. Logical. Rational avoidance.

 Too loud. Too many limbs, too many voices. Boys in his class threw with the desperation of future failures trying to reclaim relevance. Shun nearly dislocated a shoulder mid-monologue. Aren used his head as a weapon.

So she’d switched forms, turning herself female, ducked into the gentler lull of the girls’ side of class, faked a cramp ten minutes in, then slipped away to a nearby convenience store once class was over..

It was meant to be a clean escape.

But of course, fate—or whatever bitter force oversees his life—had other plans. God really played favorites. 

“Ah!” A familiar voice. Teruhashi turned the corner holding a strawberry-flavored drink.

Of course.

He didn’t even need to turn. He knew the pattern of her footsteps now, knew the rhythm of her shallow breath whenever she was about to act like she didn’t rehearse her every syllable.

Kuriko turned anyway.

“Oh! Saiki-san's... relative, right?” she said, feigning surprise even though her tone was too sweet to be casual. “Kuriko-chan?”

‘...Yes.’ Kuriko appraised her. ‘Good memory.’

It was strange. Kokomi’s usual smugness, the effortless charm, the unbearable self-assurance—none of it was there. Right now, she was looking at Kuriko—not him, not Saiki—not like she was someone to win over or flirt with or impress. Her presence felt unguarded, she was relaxed. Almost warm.

Kokomi tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with an absent motion. “Are you and Saiki-kun twins?” The words floated between them, light as dandelion seeds—and just as directionless.

Across from her, Kuriko blinked, slow and glassy-eyed, her mind clearly wandering somewhere far beyond the boundaries of the conversation. There was a mechanical patience to the way she nodded, to the way she pressed her hands together in her lap, polite but disinterested.

She was running out of things to say. Dredging the bottom of a dry well, scraping together whatever she could to keep the surface of the interaction intact. basta she just made things awkward js bc she wanted the convo to keep going

‘No.’

“Cousins?”

‘No.’

“Just sisters?”

Kuriko hesitated, words lingering in her throat before she simply let them fall.

‘...Sure.’

Kokomi hummed thoughtfully at Kuriko’s non-answer, then took a sip from her strawberry drink. She didn’t seem to notice the silence dragging between them like a weighted blanket. Or maybe she did, but chose not to care.

“I always thought you two were super similar,” she said. “You know, like,  the kind of siblings that can read each other’s minds!”

Kuriko nodded absently.

“Though lately,” she added, her tone dipping slightly, “I haven’t talked to Saiki-kun much at all.”

Kokomi tilted her head. “It’s not like we talked that often, but it’s been… less, you know?” she added quickly, flicking her hand through her hair in a practiced motion. “He’s probably just been busy. Or maybe he’s avoiding people again. He passed by me in the hallway earlier and didn’t even say hi.”

Kuriko’s fingers curled loosely around the hem of her sleeve.

Busy? Avoiding people? I’m right here.

Kuriko nodded once. Noncommittal. Her gaze flicked past Teruhashi to the freezer section. She considered disappearing behind it.

Kokomi didn’t take the hint.

“You have a very calming vibe, you know that?” she said. “Like, it’s easy being around you. It’s refreshing.”

‘What?’

Kokomi giggled. “I mean it in a good way! I talk to so many people all the time, but it gets kind of loud, you know? You’re like—background music.”

Kuriko raised an eyebrow.

“Wait, not in a bad way! Like the good kind. Rain sounds. Lo-fi beats.” She waved a hand as if to fix the analogy. “I don’t know. You’re just… chill.” 

Awkward.

Kuriko looked at her for a long second. ‘I don’t think I’m anything like music.’

“Mm… maybe you’re more like a really smooth mirror.”

What does that even mean.

Kokomi leaned slightly against the counter near them, sipping her drink. “It’s funny. I never feel like I have to say anything clever around you.”

Kuriko folded her arms. “You say clever things?”

Kokomi made a pouty face. “Okay, rude.”

Kuriko looked down, lips twitching. Almost a smile. Almost.

There was a pause. Just long enough for Kuriko to feel the shift.

She was talking. Laughing. At ease. All with the same person she’d been subconsciously avoiding for days. Just… not the right version.

Kusuo remained invisible. Kuriko got her light.

“Aaah~ why do I always end up running into people when I look like trash?”

‘You don’t look like trash.’ Kuriko said. Simple. Flat. Factual. Kuriko didn’t mean it as a compliment. It was just true. Kokomi looked good. She always did. She looked good when she was ignoring him, too.

There was a moment of pause—just long enough for the words to hang in the space between them—before a soft, surprised laugh slipped from her lips. It was brief, almost uncertain.

“Who knew you’d be so charming? I might have to reconsider my type.”

It was a joke. A harmless throwaway.

But something about the way she said it—without a smirk, without that usual glint of performance—made it land differently.

Kokomi took another sip of her drink and glanced at the melonpan in Kuriko’s hand. “You should try the custard one next time. It’s sweeter.”

Kuriko looked down at it. I’m not eating this.

She didn’t say it. Instead, she gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod.

“Oh!” Kokomi eyes lit up. “There’s this new café that opened near the station. They have melon soda floats. You seem like the type to like that.”

Kuriko blinked. ‘The type?’

“Yeah,” Kokomi said, smiling. “Quiet, serious, probably has good taste in sweets. Like Saiki.”

Kuriko tilted her head slightly. ‘That’s… specific.’

“Well, you have a vibe,” Teruhashi said. “I don’t know. I feel like you’d just get it. The menu, I mean.”

Kuriko looked at her for a beat too long. The irony wasn’t lost on her—on him.

She didn’t care much about soda floats. But Saiki did care that Teruhashi looked… light. Effortless. Human, in a way she never seemed around him.

Kuriko gave a small shrug. ‘Yeah.’

Teruhashi’s smile widened like she’d just won something. “We should go sometime.”

A pause.

‘Together?’

“Mhm, why not?”she said, waving a hand like she hadn’t just dropped a lit match. 

“I should go. I’m meeting someone in like ten minutes and I still need to find a mirror.”

Of course she was.

Kuriko gave a shallow nod, almost mechanical.

But Teruhashi didn’t turn to leave just yet. She lingered, just a breath too long, adjusting the strap of her bag like it needed fixing. Her eyes flicked to Kuriko’s for a second—fleeting, as if to measure something. Interest? Amusement? Curiosity? Pity?

Kuriko couldn’t tell. She never could.

“I mean it, by the way,” Teruhashi added, tone lighter now, more practiced. “About the café. You should try it. You’d like it.”

Kuriko opened her mouth, but no words came. So she just nodded again, smaller this time.

“And tell your brother I said hi,” Teruhashi added, too casually to be casual, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

With that, she turned, her ponytail catching in the sunlight as she walked away, all bright ribbons and effortless grace. She didn’t look back.

Kuriko watched her retreating figure, watched the way she moved like she expected the world to peel itself open for her, to step aside and let her pass untouched. The air itself seemed to yield, parting in soft eddies around her, as if unwilling to brush against her without permission.

And still, she had spoken of rain sounds. Of weather. Of nothing.

Teruhashi didn’t hate him.

She didn’t love him either.

She didn’t think about him much at all.

Not anymore.

And maybe that should’ve been fine.

So why wasn’t it?

Kuriko shifts, the cheap linoleum groaning faintly underfoot, and places the untouched bread back onto its shelf with surgical care, as if it might shatter. Her—his—fingers linger a second too long against the plastic, taut with something ugly and shapeless he refuses to name.

What was he even doing here?

Moping in a convenience store aisle like some discount tragic heroine? Shoving himself into a shape that wasn’t real just to breathe a little easier, only to choke anyway?

Kuriko drags in a breath through her nose. It tastes like dust and artificial strawberries. It tastes like losing.

Get it together.

Outside, the sky had already slipped into that watery, molten blue of early evening, bleeding against the windows in thin, viscous streaks. He should leave. Go home. Get out of this stupid store before anything else—anyone else—cornered him.

And yet.

His feet remained stuck to the peeling tiles like some defective adhesive, and the words Teruhashi left behind floated in the stale air, bobbing like broken buoys.

“You're easy to be around.” "You're like rain sounds." “We should go sometime.”

Saiki pressed his thumb hard against the seam of the melonpan’s wrapper until the plastic wrinkled sharply under his nail.

God, he hated this.

Hated how she spoke so easily to Kuriko—all loose, wandering sentences and real, unguarded smiles. Hated that he had to disappear, had to reduce himself into a silhouette of something quieter, gentler, smaller just to witness it. Hated how light she became in his absence.

Teruhashi had never laughed like that around him. She had never stumbled over her words, never tucked her hair behind her ear with anything other than precise, practiced intention. Around Saiki, she was polished glass, always gleaming.

Around Kuriko, she was human.

And still.

He stayed Kuriko for another hour.

Just in case she came back.