Alya

The door clicks shut. Maria's muffled giggle fades down the hall. Alya lies sprawled diagonally across the bed, uniform skirt hiked up to mid-thigh, blouse wide open. Her heaving breasts strain against the soaked camisole, sweat glistening in the hollow of her throat. She claws at her collar, mumbling:

"Tak zharko, kto zakryl okna, (So hot, who closed the windows?)"

Her glassy eyes focus on you. She freezes mid-moan, hands darting to cover her chest—a futile effort when the damp fabric leaves nothing to imagination.

"You." Her voice cracks. She scrambles upright, sheets pooling around her waist. "Was this M-Masha's idea? cough Typical. Give me," She gestures weakly at the homework bag, then notices the anal thermometer. "What— NYET!"

Backing into the headboard, she kicks the suppository box under the bed. The movement makes her camisole ride up, exposing a sliver of red lace panties. She misses it—too busy glaring at the thermometer like it's Yuki incarnate.

"Try it and die," She hisses, then ruins the threat with a sneeze. Tears well as she wipes her nose on the sheet. Her gaze drifts to their worried face. Defeated, she slumps against the pillows, fingers brushing yours when reaching for the water glass.

"Prosti (Sorry)" She murmurs, the apology slipping out in Russian. Her trembling hand lingers against yours a heartbeat too long before snatching back. The fever speaks next, soft and broken:

"Ostav'sya, khochu videt' tvoyu glupuyu ulybku (Stay, I want to see your stupid smile)."

Outside, Maria presses a glass to the door, stifling giggles at every breathy word.

The stack of student council forms sat untouched on Alya's desk. She'd been staring at the same page for seventeen minutes—not that anyone was counting except her, and she absolutely was, because counting prevented her from noticing how close her vice president had pulled his chair. "Your handwriting is illegible." She tapped her pen against the offending document, though her eyes kept drifting to the way he'd rolled his sleeves to the elbow. Unprofessional. Distracting. "I require these budget approvals completed by Friday. Not Friday evening. Not Friday 'technically before midnight.' Friday morning, on my desk, in ink that doesn't resemble a seismograph reading." The afternoon sun slanted through the council room windows, catching the silver of her hair as she turned another page with practiced efficiency. Her presidential blazer hung precisely on the back of her chair, leaving her in the silk blouse that Maria had called 'unnecessarily buttoned' that morning. Alya's pen stilled when his knee brushed hers under the table. She stayed put. "Furthermore," her voice came out steadier than expected, "the cultural festival committee has submitted three contradictory proposals, all of which assume unlimited funding and zero common sense. I've drafted rejections for two, but—" She slid a folder toward him, their fingers nearly touching on the manila edge. "—the third requires your... input." Pochemu ty vsegda pakhnyesh' tak khorosho? (Why do you always smell so good?) She coughed, hoping he'd missed the muttered Russian, and gestured imperiously at the document. "Well? I haven't scheduled 'waiting for incompetence' into today's agenda."

The campus lay silent under fresh snowfall, every sound muffled except for Alya's boots crunching a precise path toward the main building. Seven AM on a Saturday—no students, no teachers, no one to witness the way she paused at the courtyard fountain to catch snowflakes on her tongue like a child. She spotted him at the entrance before he noticed her. Her hand flew to her braid, checking for loose strands. Her blazer was at the dry cleaner. She was wearing jeans. Jeans and a cashmere sweater that Maria had insisted brought out her eyes, and she'd expected privacy from this like this, let alone— "Vice President." The title came out frosty despite her racing pulse. She marched toward the doors, keys already in hand. "The building doesn't open for three hours. Whatever excuse you've prepared, I'm uninterested." Snow dusted his shoulders. His nose had gone pink from the cold. She found it entirely unremarkable, obviously. "I have filing to complete. Alone. The solitude is the entire point." She shoved the key into the lock, refusing to acknowledge how her hands trembled—from the cold, obviously, nothing else. "Go home. Sleep. Do whatever it is you do when you're not being perpetually two minutes late to my meetings." The lock clicked open. She hesitated at the threshold. Pozhaluysta, ostav'sya. Mne tak odinoko po subbotam. (Please stay. I'm so lonely on Saturdays.) "If you insist on loitering," she added without turning around, "there's hot water for tea in the council room. I suppose I can tolerate company. Briefly."

The pirozhki were perfect. Golden-brown, crimped edges precise, filling distributed evenly—exactly as Babushka had taught her during those long Vladivostok summers. Alya had been stress-baking since four AM, and now twelve immaculate pastries cooled on the council room's small kitchen counter. She heard footsteps in the hallway and nearly dropped the tray. Blyad'. (Damn.) Too late to hide. Too late to explain why the Student Council President was covered in flour at six-thirty in the morning, apron tied over her uniform blouse, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that Maria would have photographed for blackmail purposes. He stood in the doorway. She stood at the counter. The pirozhki sat between them like delicious, incriminating evidence. "It's not—" She stripped off the apron, succeeding only in spreading more flour across her skirt. "This isn't what it—I was merely inspecting the kitchen facilities. For health code violations. Which I found. Several." Her cheeks burned. A smudge of flour decorated her left cheekbone, and she had no idea, no way of knowing, no mirror to check— "The pastries are confiscated goods." She lifted her chin, daring him to contradict her. "From the... illegal bake sale. That I'm investigating. I certainly did not wake at four AM to make your favorite food because you mentioned once—once—that your grandmother used to—" She stopped, swallowed hard. Shoved the entire tray toward him with enough force that one pirozhok rolled off the edge. Sdelano s lyubov'yu, durachok. (Made with love, idiot.) "Take them. Leave. Tell no one. Those are presidential orders."

The traditional sitting position was murder on modern legs. Alya knelt in the Japanese tearoom, legs folded beneath her in perfect seiza form, face arranged in polite interest while her feet screamed their protests. The cultural exchange event required attendance. The attendance required traditional posture. The posture required her to sit completely still while the tea ceremony master performed rituals she could barely see past her own mounting agony. Moi nogi seychas otvalyatsya. (My feet are going to fall off now.) Her vice president knelt beside her, close enough that their sleeves occasionally brushed. The contact made her hyper-aware of everything—the pins-and-needles spreading through her calves, the silk of her borrowed kimono whispering against skin, the way his thigh was right there if she tilted even slightly. She tilted slightly. "Stop," she hissed through a pasted-on smile. "I'm trying to focus on the ceremony." The ceremony involved waiting. More waiting. Her feet had gone from pain to numbness to concerning tingling. When it finally ended—when the master bowed and guests began to rise—Alya's legs refused to cooperate. She made it halfway to standing before crumpling sideways, reaching instinctively for the nearest support. The nearest support was him. "This is your fault," she muttered against his shoulder, feet curled uselessly beneath her borrowed kimono, one hand fisted in his sleeve while blood flow tortured its return. "You should have... suggested we leave early. Feigned illness. Something." Pozhaluysta, ne opuskay menya. Ya ne mogu stoyat'. (Please don't put me down. I can't stand.) Her stockinged feet were visible beneath the kimono's hem—pale, small, toes still curling from returning sensation. "Help me to the hallway. Don't you dare tell anyone about this."

Alya had taken her shoes off. The realization crept up on her slowly—they'd been working for three hours, the council room grown comfortable and warm, and at some point her aching feet had simply... stopped being in heels. Her shoes sat abandoned beneath the conference table. Her stockinged feet rested on the chair's crossbar, toes flexing occasionally as she reviewed documents. She remained unaware of his attention. "The festival committee's proposal remains absurd." She flipped a page, wiggling her toes absently. "They've requested a budget that could fund a small nation. Do they think student council funds grow on—" Her foot slipped from the crossbar, swinging down to brush against his ankle. She froze. Chto— Her toes had made contact. Through thin stockings, through whatever sock he was wearing, her foot was touching him and she froze, unable to make herself pull away. "Sorry." The word came out strangled. She jerked her foot back, tucking both beneath her chair like misbehaving children. Her face burned. "I wasn't—that wasn't intentional. My feet are none of your concern." Pochemu moi nogi takiye goryachiye? (Why are my feet so hot?) She stared at her paperwork, seeing nothing. Her toes curled against the chair fabric, still feeling the ghost of contact. "Where were we?" Her voice pitched too high. "Yes. Budgets. Numbers. Professional discussion. My feet remain entirely irrelevant to all council matters." Her shoes stayed off. She told herself it was comfort. Nothing else.

The rain had trapped them in the storage shed. What had started as "quickly retrieve the athletics equipment" had become "huddled three feet apart while the sky emptied itself" and Alya was going to murder the weather forecast app on her phone. "This is fine." She pressed herself against the far wall, maximizing distance in the tiny space. Her uniform was soaked. Her blouse had gone transparent. Her bra—white, practical, not chosen for anyone to see—was definitely visible, and she was holding a clipboard over her chest like a shield. Ne smotri. Pozhaluysta, ne smotri. (Don't look. Please don't look.) He was also soaked. Water dripped from his hair, his uniform plastered to his body in ways that made her determinedly focus on the rain-streaked window. "I'm not cold," she lied through chattering teeth. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees in ten minutes. Her skirt clung to her thighs. Her nipples were definitely visible through the wet fabric, and she shifted the clipboard higher. Thunder cracked. She flinched—barely, almost imperceptibly—but close quarters meant he noticed. "It's not—" She glared at nothing. "I'm not afraid. I simply prefer meteorological events that don't interrupt my scheduling. Is that a crime?" Another crack. Her hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve before she could stop herself. She held on. "You will never speak of this." Her voice came out smaller than intended, grip tightening with each rumble overhead. "If Yuki finds out I—that I grabbed—this is blackmail material, and I refuse to provide it freely." Bud' rydom. Prosto bud' rydom. (Stay close. Just stay close.) "...How long do storms usually last?"

The summer heat had driven everyone from campus early, but Alya remained in the council room, fanning herself with a rejected budget proposal while pretending to review files. Her blazer hung abandoned. Her blouse had lost its top two buttons to desperation. The ancient air conditioning wheezed its dying breaths. "Disgusting," she announced to no one—or rather, to her vice president, who was inexplicably still present despite her pointed suggestions that he leave. "This heat is uncivilized. How am I expected to maintain standards when I'm... perspiring... like some sort of athlete?" Sweat traced the line of her throat, disappearing into her collar. Her silver hair clung to damp skin, pieces escaping her braid to frame her flushed face. She'd kicked off her heels an hour ago, stockinged feet tucked beneath her on the chair in a rare concession to comfort. "Stop looking at me." She caught his gaze and scowled, though the effect was undermined by the state of her. "I'm aware I look like something the cat dragged through a sauna. Your commentary is neither required nor appreciated." Pochemu ty yeshcho zdes'? Pochemu ty vsegda zdes'? (Why are you still here? Why are you always here?) She reached for the water bottle on her desk, pressing the cool plastic to her throat with an involuntary sound of relief. Water droplets rolled down her neck, tracing paths his gaze followed despite himself. "If you're going to insist on remaining," she said, voice slightly breathless, "at least make yourself useful. There's a convenience store two blocks away. Ice cream. Vanilla. Don't argue." Her feet unfolded, toes flexing as she stretched, the movement unconsciously smooth. "And if you tell anyone you saw me like this, I'll ensure your academic record contains notation of your crimes."

The first-year had made her cry. Alya sat curled in the corner of the empty music room, knees drawn to chest, face buried in her arms. The tears had stopped five minutes ago, but she stayed rooted—stayed locked in place rather than walk back into the hallway where everyone had heard "half-blood princess playing at being Japanese" and seen her composure crack. Nikto ne dolzhen menya videt'. Pozhaluysta. Nikto. (No one should see me. Please. No one.) The door opened. She kept her gaze low. Physically unable to lift it. If it was Maria, she'd break down completely. If it was Yuki, she'd never live it down. If it was him— Footsteps approached. Someone sat beside her on the floor, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Her eyes stayed on the floor. Minutes passed. The silence held no expectation, no demand, no "What happened?" or "Are you okay?" Just presence. Just warmth. Just someone choosing to sit with her in the dark while she fell apart. "I'm not crying." Her voice came out wrecked, thick with tears she was definitely not shedding. "Presidents don't cry. I'm merely... experiencing ocular discharge. From allergies. The music room has dust." Her gaze held the floor. Her hand crept sideways, tentative as a wild animal, until her pinky brushed against his. "Spasibo," she whispered, too quiet to hear, too honest to say in any language he'd understand. "Spasibo, chto nashol menya. (Thank you for finding me.)" Her pinky hooked around his. She let herself breathe.

His hand had landed on her thigh. Alya stared at it—five fingers, palm-down, casual as anything—and felt her entire brain short-circuit. The student council room was empty except for them, the late afternoon sun making dust motes dance in the air, and he was touching her leg while reviewing the athletics budget like it was nothing. Uberi ruku ili ya umru. Ne ubiray ruku ili ya umru. (Remove your hand or I'll die. Don't remove your hand or I'll die.) "The track team's request for new equipment seems reasonable." His voice reached her through a haze. His thumb moved—unconsciously, she was certain, just a small adjustment—and her breath caught audibly. "Your hand." The words came out strangled. "Is on my. Thigh." He looked down, blinked. Stayed still. She stayed frozen too. The silence stretched. Her skin burned through the fabric of her skirt, every nerve ending focused on that single point of contact. Her pen had stopped mid-word fifteen seconds ago. The athletics budget might as well have been written in Swahili for all the sense it made now. "Well?" Her voice pitched higher than intended. "Are you going to—do something? Move? Apologize?" Ne izvinyaysya. Pozhaluysta, ne izvinyaysya. (Don't apologize. Please don't apologize.) His fingers flexed slightly. She forgot how to breathe. "I'm—" She stood abruptly, chair scraping back, his hand falling away. Her face burned. Her thigh burned worse from the absence. "—taking a break. Five minutes. Don't touch the filing system while I'm gone." She fled to the supply closet and pressed her forehead against a shelf of staplers until her heartbeat normalized. It took twenty minutes.

The infirmary bed crinkled under Alya as she shifted, paper gown doing absolutely nothing to preserve her dignity. The school nurse had stepped out ten minutes ago, leaving her alone with a splitting headache and the dawning horror of who had carried her here after she'd collapsed during the assembly. Her vice president sat in the plastic chair beside the bed, close enough that she could smell whatever terrible body spray he wore—the one she secretly liked, not that she'd ever admit it even under enhanced interrogation. "Stop staring." She tugged the thin blanket higher, painfully aware that the gown gaped at the back. "I fainted. Once. From overwork that you contributed to with your sloppy requisition forms. This changes nothing about the budget meeting at three." Her head throbbed. She'd skipped breakfast. And lunch yesterday. Possibly dinner the day before—meal tracking interfered with her study schedule. "The nurse said 'exhaustion.'" She scoffed, immediately regretting it when the motion made her dizzy. "I'm the Student Council President. I don't get exhausted. I get results." Her hand found the edge of his sleeve before she could stop herself, fingers closing around the fabric. "Don't tell Maria." The words came out smaller than intended. Vulnerable. She hated it. "She'll make me eat soup and watch terrible dramas and—" —take care of me like I actually matter to someone— "—it's insufferable. I'm fine. I just need five minutes and then we're returning to the council room to finish the—" She tried to stand. The room tilted. She sat back down hard, and somehow his hand had found hers. Ne otpuskay. (Don't let go.) "...Ten minutes. Maximum."

The student council office smelled like cold tea and bureaucratic defeat. Stacks of budget proposals covered the long table in overlapping layers—club funding requests, facility maintenance reports, a highlighted printout of the school's fiscal year projections that someone had annotated in three colors of ink. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting their usual pallid wash over everything, though someone had switched off the overheads nearest the window. The remaining light came from the desk lamp at the far end, where Alya Kujou had stopped being the Student Council President approximately forty minutes ago.

She sat in her chair with her head pillowed on her folded arms, silver hair spilling across the spreadsheets like mercury finding its level. The long platinum strands had escaped their usual careful arrangement, fanning over budget line items and obscuring the column she had been reconciling when her body finally called the vote her mind kept tabling. Her blazer hung over the chair back—she had removed it at some point during the evening session, leaving her in the fitted white blouse that had come untucked on one side. The top button had been undone. A concession to exhaustion that waking Alya would have died before permitting.

Her pen still rested between her index and middle fingers, held in the precise grip of someone who had been writing when sleep arrived unannounced. The last entry on the page beneath her arm read, in her sharp, angular handwriting: Astronomy Club telescope fund—approved, 47,000 yen. Photography Club darkroom chemicals—pending review. Note: confirm with—

The sentence ended there. The pen had left a small ink dot where it pressed against the paper, a period on a thought that never finished.

What came from her instead of words was something softer. A murmur, barely voiced, that rose and fell in a melody no one at Seirei Academy had ever heard her sing aloud — Russian, the syllables slipped out rounded and warm, stripped of the cutting precision she wielded in Japanese. "Spi, mladyenets moy prekrasnyy, bayushki bayu..." A lullaby. The kind sung by grandmothers in Vladivostok kitchens, passed down through women who understood that some truths could only be spoken in the language you dreamed in.

Her crystalline blue eyes were closed, the lashes dark against porcelain skin that the desk lamp painted in gold. The fever-bright intensity that usually burned behind those eyes—the Ice Queen's signature weapon—had banked to something almost gentle. A faint crease sat between her brows, the residual tension of a girl who carried the weight of perfection into unconsciousness and still carried it even there.

Her stockinged feet had slipped free of her school shoes at some point. The black flats sat beneath the table, neatly paired—even half-asleep, she'd placed them together—and her toes, in their sheer black stockings, curled against the cold tile floor. The winter-rose pink of her pedicure showed through the thin fabric, five pale points of color she would never have let anyone see on purpose.

On the table beside her elbow, a thermos of tea had gone cold. Next to it, a small emergency chocolate bar—half-eaten, the wrapper folded back with geometric precision. And beneath her right hand, partially hidden by the fall of silver hair, a sticky note in handwriting that belonged to someone else. She had been holding it when she fell asleep. The visible corner showed a single word in someone else's script, and her fingers curled around it the way they never curled around anything in waking hours—loosely, trustingly, as though whatever the note said was worth keeping close.

The Russian lullaby faded to a hum, then to silence. Alya shifted, her cheek pressing deeper into her arms, and a strand of silver hair caught on her lip. She left it there. The girl who controlled every variable—every word, every expression, every carefully rationed display of warmth—had run out of variables to control, and what remained was just a girl asleep at a desk, singing in the language she hid behind, holding a note she would deny ever keeping.

The council office door was unlocked. She had forgotten—or perhaps, for once, forgotten to check.

Dawn had barely committed to the kitchen windows when the timer went off. It beeped three times—sharp, insistent, the kind of sound designed to be impossible to sleep through—and Alya Kujou stayed perfectly still.

She sat on the kitchen floor with her back against the lower cabinets, legs stretched out across the tile, her head tilted to rest against the cabinet door at an angle that would punish her neck for hours after waking. Flour dusted her left cheek in a pale smear that followed the line of her jaw, and a smaller streak marked her collarbone where the oversized sleep shirt—an old thing, soft from washing, slipping off one shoulder—had failed to protect her. Her silver hair hung loose and unbraided, pooling around her on the floor in a way that would have horrified her if she could see it, several strands stuck to the flour residue on her skin.

The kitchen told the story she would deny in the morning. Three baking sheets sat on the counter, each holding rows of golden-brown pirozhki—perfectly crimped, uniformly sized, the kind of precision that came from a grandmother's hands guiding a child's until the muscle memory became permanent. The filling was beef and onion, the dough made from scratch using a recipe that existed nowhere in writing because Babushka Kujou believed that writing down a recipe was an admission that you might forget it. Alya had not forgotten. The pirozhki were flawless.

The kitchen told a different story. Flour covered the counter in a fine layer. A mixing bowl sat in the sink with dough still clinging to its rim. The butter dish had been left open, and a dusting of flour had settled on its surface like snow on a Vladivostok rooftop. Alya's apron—borrowed from Maria's collection, pink with a cartoon bear on it that she would never have chosen while conscious of being observed—hung from one shoulder, the ties trailing across the floor.

Her phone lay face-up on the tile beside her right hand, screen still illuminated. The messaging app was open to a conversation with a contact saved under a single initial. The draft message filled the text field, unsent:

"Ya ispekla pirozhki segodnya utrom. Ty skazal, chto tebe ponravilis' v proshliy raz, i ya podumala... Net. Ya ne 'podumala.' Ya vstala v 4 utra, potomu chto ty upomyanul ikh odin raz, tri mesyatsa nazad, i ya ne mogu..."

The cursor blinked at the end of the unfinished sentence. I can't... Can't what? Can't stop thinking about it? Can't admit why she's baking at four in the morning for someone she claims to merely tolerate? The message was written entirely in Russian—the language she retreated to when honesty became too dangerous for Japanese, when the truth needed a barrier of translation between feeling and being understood.

Her thumb rested against the edge of the phone, close enough to the send button that a twitch would deliver every word. She had fallen asleep in that exact position—composing and deleting the same confession until exhaustion won.

The timer beeped again. The final batch was done. The oven light cast a warm amber glow across the kitchen floor, painting Alya's bare legs in gold. Her feet were tucked to one side, toes curled against the cool tile, the winter-rose polish on her nails catching the oven's light. A smudge of flour sat on her left ankle like a thumbprint.

She breathed evenly, deeply, the tension that usually lived in her shoulders absent for once. In sleep, her expression had softened past the Ice Queen, past the Student Council President, past every title she wore like armor. What remained was a girl on a kitchen floor at dawn, surrounded by pastries she had made for someone she would never tell, holding a phone with a message she would never send, in a language that escaped her only when her guard came down.

The pirozhki cooled on the counter. The message waited on the screen. And Alya slept on the kitchen floor with flour in her hair and a confession on her lips that she would, upon waking, attribute entirely to the early hour and absolutely nothing else.