Chapter Text
Chrysanthemums calm Ojiro.
It's deeply satisfying to have come so far, to have reached the top hero track of all Japan. That satisfaction fills his core, warms his fingertips. Makes every grueling hour of training and preparation a touch more bearable. Heroism is any boy's ideal lifestyle, but it grinds at Ojiro's bones and exhausts his muscles. By the end of each day, his heart slumps beneath his chest and Ojiro needs a breather. Something to restore him, to strengthen his resolve.
That restoration, that peace Ojiro seeks - he finds it in the smooth, vibrant petals of the chrysanthemum. Perhaps it's their longevity and earthy fragrance that consoles and reminds him of his purpose. While other flowers flourish in the spring, the chrysanthemum continues on as a bud, patient and unfazed by the colorful gardens blooming without it. But as autumn arrives and roses wilt, the chrysanthemum blossoms: symbols of adversity or love, of honesty and joy - they persevere well into the end of December, their bright pinks or deep oranges undeterred by the glossy chill blanketing Japan's concrete roads.
Ojiro likes to think of himself as a chrysanthemum, waiting for the final days of summer to wane. He knows he's not exceptionally noticeable - not in the way many of his classmates are. Where they're eccentric and loud or callous and aloof, Ojiro is proper and kind, calm and easygoing. Some may mistake that for complacency, that such a boy accepts his average lot in life. And many have underestimated Ojiro before, taking his guileless smiles and gracious heart as signs of weakness. Where they can shove him aside and bloom in his stead.
His body tells another story, however. Muscles carved by a flurry of endless kicks, jabs, and swipes. Stamina built through years of laps around his favorite park, despite blistering heat or pouring rain. Ojiro hones his skills, his mind, his body - all to bloom when he's ready. When his patience and adamant pride pay off, and he claims the seeds of his labor. Instead of a vacant meadow - instead of whispers of simplicity or plainness tugging at his back, nipping at his ears - vivid reds and golds would spurt forth, unveiling the height of his potential. What all had failed to see.
The chrysanthemum reminds him of this - that patience is essential, that his training can manifest into something worthwhile.
That delay of gratification, of a future that sears itself into the very fabric of his thoughts, is essential. And yet, Ojiro still needs to breathe. Still needs something to revitalize his soul and all his ambitions.
So after he showers, eats, and goofs off with his classmates in front of the TV, Ojiro slips out of the common room and walks over to the gardens at the dorms' center. Most of the bushes are mere shrubs, their stems cut or their petals falling onto the pavement below. The cherry blossom trees bear not a shade of pink, their branches naked and exposed to the cool autumn night. But in the right-hand corner, with a stone bench across the way, sits a rich assortment of chrysanthemum flowers. A lamppost stands behind them, its warm light highlighting their snowy whites and crisp reds. He finds himself most drawn to the small yellow bushes at the ends, their tips stained a deep magenta. The color, the contrast - it eases him, helps him take soft, relaxed breaths while he sits and stares at the flowers before him, the quiet of the unfolding night his only companion.
"I'd thought I'd find you here."
Or so he thought.
Ojiro doesn't turn his head, but beckons the voice with a wave of his hand and pats the stone slab beside him. He waits until the newcomer plops onto the bench, their fingers briefly touching his before retracting to the back of their neck. "Couldn't find me in the dorms?"
"Obviously," the voice replies, tone dry and sardonic.
Ojiro turns then, biting the inside of his bottom lip to keep from laughing or smiling. Better to keep his kind-of, sort-of friend in check than inflate his ego any further. The boy all but preens when he elicits such reactions from Ojiro.
He's surprised by the gray beanie covering most of Shinsou's hair. A few purple locks graze the back of his pale neck, and his fingers fiddle with the borders of the beanie's soft fabric, as if he's unsure what else to do. Or say, since Ojiro has yet to respond. Shinsou isn't even looking at him, his gaze fixed on the largest chrysanthemum bush, their red petals poised and composed. Maybe he thinks it was a mistake, seeking him out.
"You know, if you were a flower, you'd definitely be an amaryllis," Ojiro blurts out, waiting until Shinsou meets his gaze and stitches his brows to continue. "They're cool - good height, sturdy stems. And their petals kind of fold back like your hair does. Though the purple amaryllis is kind of rare - they're more common in shades of red or white, or a hybrid of the two."
A beat passes before Shinsou shuffles against the stone bench, his free hand pinching the ends of his sweatshirt. His voice is soft when he replies, almost wondrous. "I remind you... of a flower?"
"Yeah! Like the general shape of the amaryllis. That's you," Ojiro gestures with his hands, doing his best to outline the flower's tall stems and wide petals. "But it's also what the flower means. Amaryllis are symbols of strength and determination. They're these amazing plants that bloom and stay bloomed for months at a time if they're nurtured properly. What you're doing and what you're trying to accomplish - it's a testament of your determination. And you're stronger even now - almost beat me in our last spar!"
Shinsou's eyes flicker to the chrysanthemum bushes, his fingertips massaging circles into the base of his neck. He neither seems upset nor surprised by this information, but his lips flop into a frown and he continues to avoid Ojiro's stare. "How do you know all of that?"
Ojiro hopes Shinsou catches his budding smile from the corner of his eyes, turning his attention back to the yellow chrysanthemums. "When I was little, I knocked a few books off my mother's library with my tail. At first, I panicked and tried to put them all back the way they were, but I stopped when I saw this book about the language of flowers. I was only six, so most of the words were hard to read. I found my mom and asked her to read a few of the entries. She smiled and walked me out to the garden, and she identified all the flowers and told me what they meant. The flower I liked the most was the chrysanthemum, but I learned about other flowers and their meanings, too. Learning all that, helping my mom garden after school or my judo practices... it was a nice hobby. Calmed me down, kept me in check. So I stuck with it, and I visit gardens whenever I need time to reflect or just... I don't know. Be."
"You mean you learned all that..." Shinsou trails, looking back to Ojiro, "Because your clumsy tail whacked some flower book off a shelf?"
This time, Ojiro can't help himself - he mockingly scoffs and pushes Shinsou's arm, doing little to hide his laughter. "Hey, hey! That was an incredibly heartfelt story. You're like the only person I've ever told!"
"Really?" Shinsou asks, returning Ojiro's smile with a lop-sided smirk. "That makes me feel so special."
"It better," Ojiro insists, crossing his arms. "How d'you know I'd be here, anyway? I haven't talked to you about flowers before."
Shinsou's smirk drops in response and he takes a deep breath, removing his hand from his neck and curling it into his lap. "That's right, you haven't. I... your friend, Hagakure said you weren't around. And I know you're not the type to sneak out of the dorms after curfew. So that led me here. I'm a little surprised - this garden is nice. You think more students would take advantage of it."
"Yeah, well... they got TV and video games and all those neat gadgets inside the dorms," Ojiro shrugs, keeping himself from sounding too pretentious. That's not the impression he wants to give Shinsou.
Funny: when did Shinsou's impression start to matter? When did the bridge between rival and friend start to collapse from underneath Ojiro's feet?
"I like all those, too. To distract me," he clarifies. "But it's nice. To just sit beneath the stars, looking at flowers."
"To just be," Shinsou nods his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That sounds like you."
"Oh, and how do you know what I sound like?" Ojiro teases, the words easily slipping out of his mouth despite his lack of practice. This playful banter is new territory: he's done nothing like it before. Not even with Hagakure or Kaminari, his two closest classmates. Maybe it's something rivals are supposed to do - poke at the other's ego, prod at their habits and unthinking decisions.
Shinsou clutches the front of the bench and leans back, avoiding eye contact yet again. Ojiro thinks there's something to that, but he dismisses the thought for another time. "You see those chrysanthemums over there?"
Ojiro replies, "Yep. Sure do."
"Those are one of the few flowers I can name," Shinsou admits, craning his head back until his eyes are parallel with the night sky. "They've never really held my interest, flowers - I think someone pointed out a tulip garden to me a few weeks ago, and I could barely register the name. But chrysanthemums... we have those festivals for them in October, and I've always liked the colors. Nothing too flashy or exhausting to look at. They're hardy. Classy. Not a plant I'd call delicate."
He pauses for a moment and tilts his face back to Ojiro. His purple eyes unreadable, expression vague. "I pay attention to things that interest me."
Ojiro blinks, processing the words. It's subtle, in a way that only Shinsou seems capable of, but Ojiro's sure: that was a compliment. Paying attention to things that hold his interest... is Ojiro one of those things? Is that why Shinsou continues to seek him out, even after their truce and promise to compete as equals in the next festival? Is it why Shinsou used him all those months ago?
Ultimately, those questions remain unanswered. He cocks his head, his brows threaded together in bemusement. "Thank you?"
Shinsou nods his head again but neglects to reply, turning his attention back to the tapestry of stars suspended above them.
It shouldn't be this easy. The quiet between them shouldn't be this comforting, shouldn't feel so... calming. Right.
Like the chrysanthemum, Shinsou calms Ojiro. Relaxes his tired muscles and worn spirit.
And like the chrysanthemum (like Ojiro), Shinsou blooms past the prime of spring and long summer days. Defying expectations and his self-inflicted doubt.
Ojiro allows the silence to waft over them for a moment more, settling his gaze onto the yellow chrysanthemums. He exhales through his mouth, trying to release any lingering tension. There's none to find, however - not a single sediment of nerves or dread coils over his bones or slithers across his skin.
That's good. That's something worth smiling about.
"Chrysanthemums calm me," Ojiro says, hoping Shinsou catches the authenticity behind his tone.
Because chrysanthemums help him be.
And perhaps...something else does, too.