Archive of Our Own

Yusuke’s never quite understood or cared much for the sentimentality of chocolates or flowers, much less why an entire day should be dedicated to something as stupid as “true love.”

He doesn’t mean that to shit on people who are into all that romantic junk, per se. He’s just personally never gotten the appeal of a full 24 hours of weeping singles and obnoxiously intimate (read also: ridiculously horny) couples making out in the street.

Besides, it’s not like he ever got anything, anyway. Not from anyone besides Keiko, but that doesn’t count. She always got him something.

…He should probably be more grateful for that, on second thought.

Whatever. The point is that Yusuke isn’t the romantic type, and the annual Valentine’s Day rituals have never once appealed to him. Love is for nerds, girls have cooties, and so forth.

So with all that being said, if you came up to Yusuke and asked him why he’s currently standing in the middle of his kitchen covered head to toe in cocoa powder on the night of February 13th, he’d not have a damn good answer to give you. At this point, he’s not too sure himself.

Chalk it up to the cocoa powder lodged so far up his sinuses it reaches his brain, but his memory momentarily fails him in this regard. That is until the mopey face of a familiar doofus resurfaces in his memory.

Ah, right. Kuwabara. That’s why he’s here. 

It was about a week before when Yusuke had been on a peaceful stroll home after a long, hard day of slacking off and skipping class. It wasn’t long before Kuwabara bounded up to him, just as he’d done a million times before.

“Hold it right there!” He’d called out, his familiar, competitive grin tinged with an edge of childlike glee as he blocked the other’s way with his wide frame. Jabbing a thumb to the center of his chest, Kuwabara boldly declared: “Urameshi, I challenge you!”

Yusuke couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“You here for your daily ass-kicking appointment? Can’t promise I’ll make it quick and painless.” He snarked, raising a fist from where it was buried deep in his pockets. “Well, ‘cept maybe the ‘quick’ part.”

“Keep talkin’ all the smack you want, just you watch! I’m gonna cream you this time, punk!” Kuwabara screeched, downright cartoonish, as he shot an accusatory finger his rival’s way. “There’s no way I can lose when I’ve got true love on my side!” 

Yusuke snorted. “Love?” He questioned dryly, to which Kuwabara proudly produced a small letter from his pants.

“From my secret admirer,” he huffed, puffing his chest like a peacock. Yusuke was less than impressed, making a show of loudly gagging. 

Getting on Kuwabara’s nerves had always been something of a fun game for Yusuke. There was a consistency to his fiery temper, a timeless joy in making the other boy screech with indignant rage that would well and truly never get old.

Unfortunately for him, though, Kuwabara paid the mockery no heed. He instead held the paper to his chest lovingly, cheeks tinged pink as he let out a happy sigh.

“She left it in my locker this morning,” He perked up, triumphant as if he had already won their bout, as he exclaimed, “I’m gonna meet up with her after I kick your butt!”

Yusuke simply gave him an unimpressed look before bursting into a fit of laughter. “Sure you are, dude. That shit’s totally fake!” He mocked between cackles, accenting his words with a lazy flick of his wrist. 

In the blink of an eye, Kuwabara’s face had reddened with a wave of embarrassment and, soon after, rage, scowling so intensely that Yusuke was sure he could hear the gnashing of teeth.

“No, it ain’t! Shut your pie hole!” He roared, rushing forward and balling Yusuke’s collar in his fists, lifting him to the tips of his toes. Any intimidation this should’ve caused was inevitably lost on Yusuke, who silently cheered when he noticed the enraged veins popping out of Kuwabara’s neck. 

“Is too. There ain’t a girl in this whole damn town who’d touch you with a ten-foot pole!” Yusuke egged on, clutching Kuwabara’s wrists in a bruising grip while reveling in how the red in his rival’s face increased with his words.

Finally, Kuwabara raised his fist high, swinging wide as he hollered, “Why, you little–!” and who was Yusuke to deny him of the fight he so clearly wanted? 

To his credit, Kuwabara put up one hell of a fight, at least in comparison to his other attempts. Yusuke still laid him out with little effort, as he always did, but he nonetheless had to appreciate the determination. Or stupidity. Whichever made him feel better.

Either way it goes, by the time Kuwabara was dizzily faceplanting with every hurried attempt to return to his feet, Yusuke was content to leave him to his devices. “Catch you around.” He laughed, raising a hand to wave goodbye without even turning to look back at the other. 

“Get back here! I’m not done with you yet!” Kuwabara hollered from his place on the pavement, but his demands were swiftly blown off. “Give it a rest, man, you’ll knock out whatever brains you’ve got left. Just tell your fake girlfriend I said hey, yeah?” 

“For the last time, she ain’t fake!” 

Yusuke simply continued to jog away, underscored by the other’s screeching insistence he had more fight in him; something about “the power of love” giving him the win yet. He couldn’t help the snort that escaped as he turned the corner, the edges of his smile softening around amusement– something perhaps akin to fondness. Crazy bastard. 

As hard as it was to believe the big guy managed to score, Yusuke was sort of happy for him. Lord knew he needed the win, anyway, after getting his ass handed to him on the daily for who knows how long at this point. 

Even if that dumb letter was a prank, he’d get over it. Kuwabara was resilient, in that way— like a mountain or roaches. Nothing ever kept him down for long. 

It wasn’t long before Kuwabara’s secret admirer escaped his mind, the memory fading into the obscure recesses of his subconscious. Deemed irrelevant, pointless, and therefore forgotten entirely.

That is until he caught sight of Kuwabara the very next day while he was smoking outside the arcade. 

From the moment he saw him trudging down the street, even despite his feeble memory, Yusuke knew something was seriously off. From the apex of his pompadour to the soles of his banged-up shoes, Kuwabara had a specific, consistent demeanor Yusuke had grown accustomed to. Loud, brash, overconfident, short-sighted, boisterous– All traits Kuwabara typically embodied but now sorely lacked. Just for starters, his posture. 

Everywhere he went, Kuwabara slouched– Except for when he saw Yusuke, of course, which is when he would stand tall, chest puffed comically in a futile attempt at intimidation– but in every other instance, he remained hunched over. It was to the degree that if he didn’t know the big lug any better, he’d assume Kuwabara was trying to make himself smaller. Which, in retrospect, may not be too far off from the truth, considering he was already well within doorframe-checking height at fourteen.

This was not the way Kuwabara usually stood, though. His posture today could best be described as droopy, like wilted greens. His loud, confident strides had quieted to a pitiful shuffle, head down as he kicked a rock along the sidewalk. The sight was well and truly pathetic. 

Yusuke probably should’ve just huffed a laugh and continued on his merry way, content in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be bothered. The keyword there being should’ve. He didn’t, though, for some reason. 

He instead watched his rival from where he was squatting with a keen eye, lips set into a small frown. There was something about the sight of Kuwabara– normally so vivid and unapologetic, loud enough to make your ears ring and always trailing just a few steps behind Yusuke with that dopey, determined glare of his– reduced to this… It pissed Yusuke off like nothing else.

With that being said, what more could Yusuke do in this scenario than give a needy soul a helping hand, like the good samaritan he was? A shock of life, if you will. He needed to let off some steam, anyway. With that train of thought concluded, Yusuke removed the cigarette from between his lips and snuffed it out on the brick behind him, sauntering up to Kuwabara with a casual stretch.

Swiftly, roughly, Yusuke shoulder-checked him from behind. “Yo.” He greeted, his sly grin lazy around his words. Predictably, Kuwabara barely flinched with the impact, which, in Yusuke’s mind, was a good sign.

Unfortunately, that sentiment was short-lived. Kuwabara whipped his head around, and just as soon as he did, Yusuke’s smile dropped. He’d gotten an up-close-and-personal view of the brand new shiner Kuwabara sported– One that Yusuke did not remember giving him himself, mind you– along with a myriad of similar afflictions, inflamed and ugly on his bandaged, louring face.

“The hell happened to you?” He inquired with a hardly concealed wince. Kuwabara only grunted, quickening his stride with a grumble. “Don’t rub it in.”

“I’m not rubbing it in; I’m asking why you look like you made out with the bumper of a speeding car.” Yusuke pried again, to which Kuwabara pointedly ignored him. Yusuke did not take too kindly to that at all. 

“Hey, you got shit in your ears or somethin’? I’m talking to you.” The uncharacteristic silence remained, underscored by the hush of an anxious crowd watching their altercation. “Kuwabara. Hey! Kuwabara!” 

Muttering agitated curses under his breath, Yusuke pumped his legs faster, surpassing his rival’s pace before promptly whipping his body around to block Kuwabara’s path with an annoyed snark. “Why’re you all pissy today, man? That time of the month?"

“Shut up, you’re bein’ a pig.” Kuwabara finally retorted, frustration growing as his every futile attempt to side-step Yusuke was mirrored, who cracked a smirk, “But it got you to respond, didn’t it?”

In all fairness, Yusuke was quickly starting to feel anger creeping up on him as well; he’s not a big fan of being brushed off, especially while he’s doing charity work.

“Dude, seriously, what the hell happened? You look like you fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.” He demanded once more, then added with a snicker, “What? Little Miss Secret Admirer put her note in the wrong locker and got a scare?”

At the remark, Kuwabara’s cheeks lit aflame with an angry, violent crimson hue. “Screw you, man! It ain’t none of your business!” He barked, violently shoving past Yusuke. 

He let himself be pushed aside with a slight stumble to his step but took no offense to the tarnishing of his pride. He was far too occupied with watching the other storm down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets while grumbling furious nonsense, gaze searching and perplexed. 

Kuwabara was temperamental, sure– in fact, Yusuke often banked on that for kicks– but what he said couldn’t have been that much different from his usual shit-talk, could it? It was just a joke!

If he wanted to, he could’ve yanked Kuwabara back by the collar and demanded he fess up to what had him in such a shit mood, but something felt weirdly personal about this most recent encounter. It left Yusuke with a heavy, squirming feeling taking root in his gut, perhaps akin to guilt. Had he taken it too far?

He’d rather die than do something as embarrassing as actually apologizing, though, because that was stupid and lame, and Yusuke had done nothing to be sorry for. They weren’t friends, and if something was wrong, then Kuwabara should’ve just said something instead of being all gloomy and shit. He wasn’t going to ask him what was wrong, that was dumb!

No, instead, he took the much more logical route of stalking him people-watching, so he could gauge what was up with Kuwabara and then extrapolate from there. He was not only a savant as a fighter but also as a detective, as evidenced by his recent (albeit involuntary) career choice.

He’d learned a lot from such an excursion. In particular, the specific way you should glare at someone to stop them from calling the police on you for suspicious behavior, but also that the letter Kuwabara received was, indeed, a prank. 

With what he’d gathered from Kuwabara continuously moping to his friends, Yusuke could piece together a semi-loose timeline of events. 

As it turned out, instead of a cute girl waiting where he was supposed to meet up with his sweetheart, Kuwabara was greeted by a bunch of guys– Which, in his professional opinion, made Kuwabara’s shitty mood make a lot more sense than if he just got rejected, which Yusuke could only assume he would be used to by now. What he wasn’t too keen on believing was a frequent occurrence, though, was the part where said guys all jumped him at once, leaving the poor sap battered, humiliated, and, most of all, heartbroken.

“Jeez,” he’d thought, “Guess it was Kuwabara who got a scare, huh?” Unsurprisingly, that only worsened the nagging maybe-guilt feeling.

Yusuke wasn’t a saint by any means, and he wouldn’t dare claim to be one. He held his title of “Worst Punk at Sara. J.” with pride. Hell, if you asked any of his classmates or teachers, they’d probably tell you that Yusuke’s the exact type of person to pull this sort of prank on someone. Which, in all fairness, has a kernel of truth to it, but only if the guy deserved it, and Kuwabara clearly did not fall into that category.

He was annoying, for sure, and a dumbass to boot. But he was earnest, or as he’d insist, honorable. Obnoxiously so. Definitely not the type to deserve getting pummeled by a bunch of losers with pencils and a grudge.

And maybe Yusuke had gone a bit softer on the guy after seeing the lengths he’d gone for his buddy during his foray into the spectral plane a few weeks back. Who’s to say?

All Yusuke knew for sure was that there were two things sure to piss him way the hell off; Punks too chickenshit to pick on people their own size and being ignored, especially by someone like Kuwabara. And as anyone with more than two neurons to rub together in Kaidan knew, pissing off Urameshi Yusuke was a virtual death sentence.

And so, Yusuke began concocting a plan of his own. A case, if you will. He’d track down the guys that pranked Kuwabara and kick their asses. Simple, efficient, and personally satisfying. Plus, he wouldn’t have to see Kuwabara’s mopey face anymore. It was practically charity work.

It wasn’t very in-depth or well thought out, granted, but that was never Yusuke’s style. 

It didn’t take much to narrow down who had written that letter either, which was good because Yusuke was never one for in-depth research. A simple round of semi-intentional, semi-coincidental eavesdropping while lounging on the roof was all it took to bring the name Kasanegafuchi bubbling to the forefront of his memory and, thus, his case. 

It wasn’t long before he’d begun to associate the name with a particular group of boys: three decently tall punks who occasionally wore face masks, all with one hell of a grudge against Kuwabara, considering he and his gang rocked their shit a couple weeks back after they tried pulling a fast one on Keiko– an incident Yusuke was still planning on making them pay dearly for. 

Furthermore, Yusuke would often find Kuwabara fighting the trio either before, during, or after school, sometimes accompanied by his own gang, but most often in 3-1 brawls. That by itself would’ve been enough to tell Kuwabara had something to prove– everyone knew he thought anything but a wholly even match was cowardly– but Yusuke’s suspicions were doubly confirmed whenever the boys would mock Kuwabara’s foolish naïveté in a high falsetto, simultaneously making both Yusuke and Kuwabara’s blood boil. Unfortunately, the blind rage this derision sent him into was often to his detriment, leaving Kuwabara susceptible to sneak attacks that left him in a bruised heap on the floor.

“I’ve gotta beat ‘em.” Yusuke had overheard Kuwabara insisting to his gang one sunny afternoon, flexing a newly bandaged hand. “If I don’t, I’ll never be able to show my mug around here with pride again.”

They’d insisted he was a fool on a death march, and with his temper steadily rising to a fever pitch, Yusuke could not agree more. This was a task unsuited for an honorable man, much less a #2 Punk. Luckily for Kuwabara, Yusuke knew how to get shit done when he had his heart set on it.

He’d had a few run-ins himself with those Kasanegafuchi dorks in the past already, so he remembered how they operated well enough. Or, at the very least, he remembered the pants-pissing terror on their faces after he’d knocked out their leader with one clean blow before scrambling off to whatever chicken coop they’d crawled out of. 

It wasn't long after he’d identified his targets that he began what he’d already known would be his favorite part of all of this: The payoff. Or, more specifically, getting to rip those punks a new asshole. 

It was as easy as catching any of the three on their commute home from school, pulling them into the nearest alleyway, and then thoroughly acquainting them with the bottom of his shoe. And his fist. And his head. And the pavement.

What? He never claimed to have “honor” or whatever. That was Kuwabara’s thing. What Yusuke lacked in principle, he made up for with results.

Results came in the form of them begging for mercy in the face of Yusuke’s might, after which he would execute the final act of his genius plan: Promising to let them leave with their legs intact if, and only if, they backed the hell off of Kuwabara. Of course, they agreed because he's Urameshi fucking Yusuke. Then, he’d rough them up a bit more, partially to make sure they got the idea but also for his own satisfaction. 

Soon enough, Yusuke found Kuwabara once again on his way to challenge his perpetrators to a brawl, and, as agreed upon, he came out on top. After that, Yusuke didn’t see hair nor hide of them anywhere on his side of town. He hadn't even asked them to do that, now that he thought about it, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

It wasn’t long until Yusuke was sauntering right up to Kuwabara’s desk after the final bell of the day rang throughout the school, slamming his hand down on the wood with conviction and a cocky grin. “You wanna get outta here?”

Kuwabara’s neck audibly cracked as he whipped his head up to face Yusuke with a bewildered expression, eyes wide. “Huh?”

“I said, do you wanna get outta here? There’s an old parking lot a way out,” Yusuke reiterated, jabbing his thumb off to the side as he leaned further into the desk, “Real popular spot for dorks looking to get their asses kicked. Thought you might wanna check it out.” 

Yusuke’s had a pretty good idea about how this specific interaction would go for a while now; Kuwabara will stand up so quickly that his seat clatters to the floor behind him, striking the desk before shouting something corny and predictable like, “As if! I’m gonna be the one kickin’ your ass, Urameshi!” 

Then, Kuwabara will reference the punks from Kasanegafuchi, proclaiming that he finally reclaimed his honor. Of course, Yusuke will laugh at him because he knows what really happened, but he won’t tell Kuwabara that. 

Instead, he’ll just keep egging him on until eventually, with likely minimal effort, he’ll be riled up enough to fight Yusuke again, who’ll kick his ass, then boom. Another case closed for Reikai’s best (and only) Spirit Detective.

That is not what happened, unfortunately.

It’s with great disappointment that Yusuke realizes Kuwabara had relaxed at the snarky elaboration Yusuke provided for reasons he couldn’t even begin to comprehend, and instead of a competitive spark returning to his eyes, Kuwabara let out a deep sigh. “I already told you to buzz off. I don’t feel like fightin’ you right now.”

Yusuke felt his brow twitch with annoyance, “This shit again? Like hell you don’t, c’mon.” Kuwabara didn’t look the slightest bit swayed.

He rolled his eyes, already pissed off and exhausted. “What’s the big deal, anyway? It’s not like those Kasa-whatever the hell dorks are bothering you anymore, right?”

Kuwabara opened his mouth to protest before pulling a face “How do you know about—”

“Not the point. You can’t seriously be that hung up over getting pranked.”

Kuwabara just went all quiet and overly dramatic again, half-heartedly glaring off to the right of Yusuke to run home the idea he was ignoring him. 

“…’f Love.” Kuwabara eventually grumbled, only half of his sentence audible. “Huh?”

He scowled up at Yusuke through furrowed brows and surprisingly long eyelashes, arms curling further in on himself as an embarrassed fluster overtook his face. 

“I’m a Warrior of Love, Urameshi.” He repeated more boldly, finally committing to full eye contact with his rival, “I didn’t get to beat 'em. Even if they skipped town, it don’t matter. It won’t bring back my pride as a Warrior of Love or as a man!”

“…What?”

Kuwabara doubled down. “You heard me.”

While, yes, he may have been right in that assertion— Yusuke had indeed heard him correctly— that didn’t mean he in any way comprehended what had just been said.

He could’ve, no, definitely should’ve thought more carefully about his next words. After all, this was the most he’d been able to get out of Kuwabara for a hot minute.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Yusuke does not think. Ever. So, instead, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind: “I think that might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

Immediately, Kuwabara’s temper flared. He rocketed out of his seat and yanked the other up to his level by the collar. “Urameshi—!”

Yusuke’s face barely had the chance to break into a surprised but triumphant grin before Kuwabara paused, jaw trembling with the effort his silence took him. With great frustration, Yusuke recognized the expression as the same one he made before Yusuke stopped him from punching the daylights out of Akashi– Furious but resigned restraint.

“This ain’t worth my time,” Kuwabara grumbled as he let Yusuke fall back from the tips of his toes, quickly snatching his unopened textbook off his desk and storming off with a scowl. Yusuke was trying to stop him as soon as he made his way to the doors. 

“Kuwabara.” Yusuke pulled him back by the shoulder in an attempt to gauge his attention, but he merely shrugged his hand off. “Kuwabara!” He barked once more, but his rival was already storming out of the open doors.

Eventually, after a while of glaring daggers at the exit– as if somehow Kuwabara would feel Yusuke’s leer from down the hallway and come running back– he scoffed. 

Fine then. If Kuwabara wanted to keep sulking like a baby, then it wasn’t Yusuke’s problem. 

In what he’d never admit was a retreat, Yusuke resigned himself to shoving his hands in his pockets with a gruff mumble of, “Whatever.”

If he was gonna keep throwing a tantrum over his bruised ego after Yusuke (albeit secretly) gave him his victory on a silver platter, then the bastard could pout. 

Now, why exactly this was the case, Yusuke could not possibly understand. He literally did the hard part for him! Maybe the big guy was a masochist, after all.

Or maybe not getting to beat up the dudes who jumped you left a sour taste In Kuwabara’s mouth. In retrospect, Yusuke probably should’ve considered before going in guns blazing, but whatever. That’s just how he does things.

Besides, it’s not like Yusuke cared . He didn’t! Kuwabara should be thanking him. He had helped that big lug, done him a selfless favor out of the goodness of his heart, and all he got was the cold shoulder. 

He’d done his part to make up for being a dick. If Kuwabara wasn’t receptive to that, then it wasn’t his problem! He could ignore him all he wanted, Yusuke had plenty of other people he could fight.

But with every easy win he received over the following days, he couldn’t help but begin to feel antsy. His mind would turn to Kuwabara whenever a well-placed right hook once sent an entire gang turning tail, leaving him with a hollow lack of fulfillment; an aching void where satisfaction should be.

Yusuke would be a liar if he said he hadn’t gotten sort of used to the bullheaded resilience Kuwabara possessed. He had to admit that there was a certain rush to watching Kuwabara get back on his feet time and time again, battered and bruised but still ready to tussle just a bit longer. It was a nice change of pace in the face of the sea of shrimps that occupied his town.

Not to say Yusuke missed Kuwabara. Of course, he didn’t. But while he wasn’t much of a challenge at all, he at least had that one thing going for him: He’d never back down, no matter what. Not unless he was physically knocked unconscious, which was often, but still. He always got back up.

And maybe felt a little bit bad about kicking the guy while he was already down. Just a little bit.

He tried and tried and tried to ignore this single fact until it became too great to ignore: Yusuke was bored without Kuwabara. He hadn’t had a halfway decent fight in weeks, and if he didn’t get to scratch that itch soon, he didn’t know what was going to happen. Maybe he’d actually, for real this time, just keel over and die.

He was left with no choice. The responsibility of dealing with Kuwabara's ongoing bitch-fit had fallen onto him once more. Again. Luckily for him, Yusuke was feeling nice. And desperate. Mostly desperate.

So, Yusuke considered his next moves over an afternoon date with the Goblin City arcade cabinet and came up with this:

Valentine’s Day was around the corner, right? And Kuwabara wanted to reclaim his status as a so-called “Soldier of Romance” or whatever. So, come February 14th, what if it just so happened that a girl left Kuwabara a real secret admirer note– Hell, maybe some chocolates too, just to make it extra believable– in his locker? 

It was genius, with no greater indication of Yusuke’s involvement. Honestly, he impressed even himself.

Now, granted, utilizing the same strategy as the guys who caused this whole mess in the first place looked an awful lot like a bad move, something that pocket-protector-wearing nerds would perhaps even call morally bankrupt. 

But they would be flat wrong! This was for a good cause, so the emotional manipulation aspect of a plan like this was totally fine. Plus, any inherent wrongdoing shared between the plots just canceled out. It’s like PEMDAS. That’s how that worked, right?

No, the problem came in when it came to the execution. Beating up a couple of bad guys was one thing, but writing a love note for another dude? That was a different beast entirely. He still had pride! 

…But at the same time, he was definitely too stupid to come up with something better than the masterful plot he’d already concocted.

Yusuke knew what he had to do, but by god, he was not willing to sacrifice his dignity to do it. So, he did what he always did whenever faced with an intellectual challenge; he said fuck it and elected to copy Keiko’s (in this context metaphorical) homework. 

The only thing is, doing such a thing, even under normal circumstances, was already about as easy as pissing upside down. It didn’t help that there was already a certain level of desperation that became abundantly obvious when doing something like trailing after Keiko like a lost puppy on her walk home. 

Thanks to the whole “getting hit by a car and dying” thing, he didn’t quite think she only kept him around to lecture anymore, but damn it, did she make it hard to believe that when she gave him her patented judgemental side-eye. 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just this once! Just one tiny little box of chocolates and an itty-bitty note, that’s it!” Yusuke pried shamelessly while Keiko pointedly attempted to ignore him from a good distance ahead. “Why exactly can’t you just buy some from the store?” She interrogated.

“Cuz then he won’t believe that they’re actually love chocolates! C’mon, you know this!”

“And the note?”

Yusuke trailed off. “Well…” He huffed, fidgeting with the inner lining of his pants pockets, “You gotta understand how that’d be embarrassing for a guy, right?”

Keiko rolled her eyes into the back of her head and made a move to speed walk away from Yusuke, who, in a panic, called out in one last ditch effort, “I’ll stop cutting class for a week!”

She finally stopped in her tracks at that, shooting him an unimpressed look that seemed to silently call his bluff. He quickly began to crack under the weight of the commitment he’d just made.

“A couple days…?” Yusuke paused to once again reconsider his bargain. “Okay, final offer: an afternoon. I’ll stay in class for an afternoon if you whip up some chocolates and a note for Kuwabara on Valentine’s Day.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to have to be a no.” She huffed, pivoting forward before marching away from Yusuke with renewed fervor, who desperately picked up the pace to keep up. 

“Keiko, c’mon! Don’t be like that—!” 

She stopped once more, whirling around to face him with a steady scowl. The action made Yusuke stumble over his own feet with its suddenness, which thoroughly cemented this back-and-forth as the worst game of ‘Red Light, Green Light’ he’d ever played.

“Look, there’s a lot of reasons why I’d never in a million years agree to that, but have you even thought this through?” She catechized, her book bag knocking against Yusuke’s knees in a way he assumed was accidental but could’ve very well been subconscious retaliation on her end. “An anonymous letter from a secret admirer professing her love to him right after he got tricked by that exact scenario? He’s not dumb!”

Yusuke shrugged with a hiss, “Well–” 

“Yusuke.” She sighed, frustrated expression softening with sympathy. “Look, it’s sweet you want to help him–” He pulled a face at that, “-- but, honestly, it doesn’t take a genius to put together how fabricated this all is. This’ll probably just hurt him worse when he realizes it’s fake.”

“See, that's the best part: He won’t.” Yusuke insisted confidently, “Just write that you’re a girl in the letter! Big guy won’t suspect a thing.”

“Now isn’t a time for jokes, Yusuke.” She sighed, to which he responded confusedly, “What joke?”

Keiko stared at Yusuke searchingly; brows furrowed in astonishment.

Yusuke blinked back with nothing behind his eyes.

Then, she finally slumped forward, an exhausted groan ripping through her vocal cords. “Why do I even try?” Soon after, she straightened back up, meeting Yusuke’s gaze with an exasperated but steeled resolve.

“If I can’t stop you, then I can at the very least help you so you don’t make a mess you can’t clean up–” Keiko held out her arm in front of her, index finger pointed upward and right in his face in a stern quirk of hers he’d long since grown accustomed to. “--But! I’m not making any of this stuff for you.” 

Yusuke’s smile dropped instantly. “Hey–!”

“I don’t want to hear it! I have a chocolate recipe and a set of molds for you to use. You can either take them or leave them.” She crossed her arms with her assertion. At this point, Yusuke’s grown beyond the exhaustion of negotiation, dropping this pleading demeanor and falling back into defiance once more. 

“Fine then, you ugly witch! You can keep your damn recipe– I don’t need your help anyway! I’ll be just fine on my own!” He shot back, jabbing a thumb to his chest with a snarl.

“Ugh!” Keiko herself reacted with a similar offense, stomping her foot as she hollered, utterly incensed, “I don’t know why I even try with you, you’re such a brat!”

“Fine, whatever!”

“Fine!”

With twin grunts, the pair marched away from each other down opposite sides of the street. To an outsider, it would seem little to no progress had been made at all in Yusuke’s plan, thanks to Keiko’s unwillingness to help (read also: step in to account for his pride.), but really, who needed her help, anyway?  

He could write a stupid letter. He could make some stupid chocolates! He’s got a pencil and paper, and chocolate’s just cocoa powder and milk, right? 

Honestly, how hard could it possibly be?

Unfortunately, that leads him to where he is now: standing in his kitchen surrounded by dirty dishes, wearing filthy clothes, with not a shred of dignity in sight (he caved and called Keiko asking for her recipe and molds about half an hour ago,) all so Kuwabara could feel better about getting his “Fighter in Passion” status tarnished. 

In short, Yusuke is a fool. He is a dumbass. He is a braindead sonofabitch who makes the most obvious jinxes known to man, and now he’s paying for his transgressions with cocoa powder lodged so far up both of his nostrils he’s quite literally seeing brown. 

Or maybe that's just the aftermath of his earlier, ill-fated sneeze permeating his vision. Either way, the point stands that he is a confectionary Icarus whose wings (and entire body) have melted under the unflinching heat of the blazing sun. But he’s in too deep to back out now. If he did, he’d only be proving Keiko right, and on his life, he cannot let that happen twice within a 24-hour time slot.

It’s as Yusuke’s contemplating going in for his 3rd attempt at making the chocolates that he’s greeted by the sound of the front door creaking open. When he glances up to shout at the visitor, he’s quickly silenced by the sight of his (surprisingly sober) mom carrying with her a collection of pink rubber molds and a small piece of loose-leaf paper.

He freezes, caught red-handed and instinctually bracing for ridicule. As soon as she makes it through the threshold, though, Atsuko lets out a small cough. “Christ, kid, you sure you’re making chocolate?” She remarks, kicking off her shoes.

Yusuke huffs, feeling his shoulders relax. “What do you know, hag?”

She rolls her eyes and plops her gifts onto the counter. “I know what Keiko told me when I caught her stomping down the street on my way back over here from hanging with the girls.” She snorts at Yusuke’s embarrassed scowl. “She looked pretty pissed, so I offered to take these off her hands. You’re welcome, by the way. Probably saved your ass an earful.”

He simply grunts at first, before muttering, “Thanks, I guess.”

Atsuko simply hums with a smug grin, leaning on the counter as Yusuke spitefully snatches up the loose-leaf paper. 

He’s about halfway through reading the recipe written neatly on it (you’re supposed to add sugar?) when he glances up. Atsuko is still standing there, scrutinizing the mess he made. “What? Your soaps not on?” He sneers.

“Shut up, brat, it’s my kitchen.” She retorts back just as quickly, tipping a bowl forward to examine its soupy contents. Yusuke only grunts again, waving her off as he opens the cabinets to survey their current stock of ingredients.

It’s silent again for a moment, the only sound being the rummaging of cupboards and the distant shrill of cicadas. Atsuko speaks up once more. “So,”

“So?” Yusuke responds before she can even finish, despite having no real reason to. Atsuko unexpectedly takes it in stride. “Who’s this Kuwabara kid? He a friend?”

“No.” Yusuke scoffs quickly, glaring at a possibly expired container of coconut oil, “More of a pain in the ass, really.”

“Language. I’m still your mother.” She lazily reprimands him, to which Yusuke rolls his eyes. Barely.

“Sure are putting in a lot of effort for a pain in the ass.” 

Yusuke whirls his head around to face her, expression set into a hard glare. Atsuko meets his gaze with casual disinterest, something Yusuke knows not to buy into, given his own mannerisms. “The hell do you mean by that?”

“I’m not gonna tell you again, brat. Watch your damn mouth.” She derides, taking the once goop-covered spoon she’s been suckling on and jabbing it in Yusuke’s direction. “That coconut oil’s still good, by the way.”

“Answer the question.”  He scrunches up his nose in displeasure like he smelled something funny.

Perhaps accidentally, Atsuko mirrors the expression almost exactly. “Not with that attitude I’m not—”

“Mom!” 

“Son!” She retorts, mimicking his bratty tone. Yusuke goes quiet, silently glowering at her. Atsuko raises her eyebrows at him testingly as if daring him to keep pushing. They stare at each other for a good while, tension thick in the air.

Inevitably, Yusuke folds first, scoffing and turning back to the cabinets. “Hag.” He spits, just quiet enough that she probably won’t hear it.

Atsuko sniffs casually, not letting it show whether or not she had, “Just saying. I know what it looks like when you don’t give a shit about someone, and this ain’t it.”

“Yeah, well,” Yusuke huffs, rummaging around shelves he doesn’t even need to be going through anymore, “I kinda owe him one.”

“That being?”

“Nunya.”

“Fine then, be a brat. Fuck me for trying to connect with my son.” She grumps, pushing off the counter and finally walking towards her bedroom. “Have this cleaned by morning, or you’re grounded.”

“Whatever.” He spits right back, not daring to watch her leave. It’s quiet again for a while.

“G’night!” She calls from down the hall.

Yusuke huffs, still glaring spitefully into the cabinets. After a while, he finally calls back. “Night.”

When he finally turns back to the counter, he is once again greeted by the mess of dishes and ingredients he’d created for him. As he approaches them, he catches sight of the spoon his mother had licked clean. He clicks his tongue, snatching up the silverware and tossing it into the sink with a clatter.

What does she know, anyway? He has work to do.

By the time Yusuke creates something he wouldn't have assumed was brown goop and/or raisins had he been presented with it, he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed over his actions, whether that be pouring the sweet mixture into heart-shaped molds, or putting the hardened confections in a cutesy box he nabbed from the convenience store. 

Where his bruised pride should be, there is only accomplishment and a somewhat petty sense of satisfaction. Oh, and the feral need to shower as soon as humanly possible, which he thankfully does do after begrudgingly washing the dishes as instructed.

After all is said and done, though, making the chocolates themselves was far from the hardest part of his plot. No, that honor easily goes to the note.

This entire time, there's been a certain level of separation Yusuke could create between himself and the task at hand. Not even just this latest "secret admirer" plot, either. This whole “case” he’s been on of trying to get Kuwabara back to his old self.

When it comes to beating up a couple of losers to get them off Kuwabara's ass, trying and mostly failing to make sweets? It's all impersonal. Anonymous. He could pass those deeds off onto someone else and walk away from this with next to no permanent ties.

But when Yusuke’s actually sitting down on his bed, the blank pages of his scarcely used notebook glaring up at him from where it’s balanced upon his knee, that dissonance is much harder to cling onto. He finds the lines between himself and the task at hand have blurred to something indistinguishable from the other. Uncomfortably intimate.

No matter what he writes here, it will remain irrevocably connected to him, to his mind. Yusuke will have to look Kuwabara in the eye after this, see that goofy, lovesick grin upon opening the letter— his letter—and know he was the one who wrote it.

Whatever. It’s not like Kuwabara’s gonna know that, anyway. He’s got bigger fish to fry. He needs to come up with a good opener. Tapping his pen against the paper, he makes a valiant attempt to go from a straight-F student to a halfway competent writer. 

Best to start with a classic. “Dear Kuwabara,” he writes. Yusuke pauses to read over what he’s put down before quickly scratching it out. Too formal. It’s gotta be something a lovesick girl would write. 

She’d probably use his given name. Chicks do that kinda junk, right? Yusuke leans back over the paper and begins to write once more. “Dear…”

…

Wait, what’s Kuwabara’s first name?

Okay, never mind. Scratch that, Plan B.

“Dearest Kuwabara,” No.

“My Dearest, Kuwabara,” Barf.

“My love, Kuwabara,” Double barf.

“To the father of my future children,” Please, someone just hit him with another car already. 

“This is so fucking stupid!” Yusuke throws his head back with a shout of agony, crying out to no one in particular. He receives a reply in the form of twin bangs from the adjacent wall.

“Pipe down, I’m trying to sleep!” Atsuko scolds from her bedroom, “Also, watch your fucking language! I don’t teach you to swear all the goddamn time!”

Yusuke’s temper instinctively flares, barking back, “Hag!”

Atsuko’s reply comes not a second later. “Don’t make me come in there, brat!”

Yusuke’s mood is immediately soured even further as his mouth clicks shut, expression dropping into a harsh scowl. His spiteful gaze shoots back down to the paper. Screw this. He’s just gonna write “Hey.” 

Shit, now what?

He’s never experienced writer’s block before— largely because he’s never written anything even close to this in his entire life— but he’s already decided he hates it. He can’t just write some stupid shit like, “You’re hot,” could he? But what else was there to say in a note like this?!

The longer he stares at the blank page, the more it feels like it’s mocking him. He’s barely started, and this is already like doing homework, but somehow, it's even worse.

His mind drifts despite any and all attempts to focus, as it often does in moments like this. It goes to something Keiko had told him over the phone while convincing her (after some groveling on his end) to let him borrow her baking supplies.

“How do you even do a believable love letter, anyway?” He’d asked with a bit of spite, covering one nostril to shoot out yet another cloud of brown clogging his airways.

“You say it like I’ve written one before,” Keiko replied, audibly miffed. Despite the distance the landline created, Yusuke could still visualize that trademark pout of hers with perfect clarity. “I mean… don’t girls know this sorta junk?”

“Yusuke, I will hang up right now—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m a pig and a brat, I know. My bad. You can smack me for it when you get here.” He sighed, fidgeting with the phone cord as he knocked his head against the back wall, “Just figured I’d ask since you seemed like such an expert when you were chewing me out earlier.”

Keiko huffed again but didn’t say anything. Yusuke began to fear the line had gone dead for a second before she spoke up. “Look, even if it’s fake… If you’re writing a love letter to someone, you want to be as honest as possible. Write from the heart. That’ll get your point across better than anything.”

Yusuke frowned. Well, isn’t that just about the most vague thing in the world? 

He let out a small laugh after a few moments of thought, almost instinctively. “Well, guess I’m pretty much screwed then. I don’t think he’ll like what he hears, if we’re talking honesty. But hey, thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to think long and hard about that one.” Keiko’s sigh only made him chuckle even more. 

“Are you being sarcastic?” She deadpanned, to which Yusuke grinned broadly, even knowing she couldn’t see it. “Who’s to say?”

In his current position in the present, he’s forced to take those words into more serious consideration, and so far, it’s brought him nothing but the beginnings of a migraine. How the hell is being honest supposed to help him here? He’s quite literally writing this on the foundation of a lie, for christ’s sake.

Be honest. Who did she take him for?

Someone desperate enough to ask someone else to write their fake love letter for them, evidently.

He lets out a tired exhale, pushing his loose bangs out of his eyes before resting his temple on the ball of his hand. Dammit, this was a shitty idea.  

“You…” He sighs once again as if trying to free his very soul with the breath. Okay, fuck it. Here we go. “…fight like hell.” 

A girl probably wouldn’t write that about a guy she likes, huh? He scribbles out the sentence with a furious grunt.

“I really respect your sense of honor.” Definitely not something a girl would say, either.

“You’re kinda stupid, but I appreciate your strength of will.” That’s too honest.

“I’ve fallen madly in love with your dashing good looks and smarts!” That’s too much of a lie.

“GIVE ME YOUR BABIES!!!” Okay, he’s gotta stop falling back on that one.

This cycle continues for a while: writing, scribbling out what he put down, writing, then scratching it out again. No matter how hard he tries, everything he comes up with is either too stupid, too obviously a lie, or not romantic enough.

He’s just about on the verge of giving up, having filled over half the page with just fuck-ups and desperately wracking his brain for anything to write when his memory calls to him one more. 

“Be honest.” Keiko’s voice echoes from somewhere distant, “That’ll get your point across better than anything.”

Yusuke glowers silently at the page, clutching his pen tightly in his fist. He glances down to his lap, to his mural of mistakes, with his lips pursed. 

Then, he writes. “You’re a really great guy.”

“Your loyalty to the people and things you care about is pretty cool.”

“You always put 100% of yourself into everything you set your heart on.”

“I wish I could apologize for all the fucked up shit I’ve said to you.”

Yusuke lowers his pen nib to the page once more, but he hesitates. He stares at the collection of statements before him and, for a lingering instant, feels something hold him back. Pride, self-preservation, or just plain logic– He couldn’t say.

“From the heart.”

With a sharp inhale, he scribbles one last sentence in a rush. He sits back, his gut twisting funnily, staring down at the messily scrawled text with something akin to contempt.

“This is gonna sound weird, but I feel like you really get me.”

He pauses.

Yusuke slams his hand down, frantically obscuring all he wrote with ink in a bid to hide his shame. With a deep, frustrated exhale, he plops back onto his bed, hands covering his face. 

Only with the absence of visual stimuli does he finally notice the cicadas outside his window, their grating, cacophonic shrill serving only to stoke the flames of his worsening headache.

He groans deep in his throat, sliding his palms down his eyes and his cheeks before finally letting them fall to his sides, tiredly glaring up at the ceiling. 

This is all so damn stupid.

He isn’t even sure how he’s going to get all of this stuff to Kuwabara now that he thinks about it. Maybe he could just throw them at him, then run for the hills?

…No, he’ll probably just end up knocking him out by accident. Can’t read a confession letter if you’re in the ER.

His desk is an obvious no-go– at least one person’s always staring at Yusuke on the rare occasion he shows up to class– and it’s mighty suspicious to just show up then immediately leave. The same problems are only doubled with Kuwabara’s book bag, too. 

That leaves Yusuke with one last (and honestly, the most obvious) option. Maybe he could just stick it in his locker like the Kasanegafuchi guys did.

There’s something about that mental image that leaves an uneasy feeling in Yusuke’s gut. Sneaking around during class time to ensure no one’s around to witness him, a pink box of homemade chocolates clutched beneath his arm, quickly scanning the area once more before slipping it into the locker and scurrying away. Like somehow, after all that he’s done already, that’s a step too far.

He doesn’t know why, but for the first time, he starts to consider the possibility of Kuwabara responding negatively to the offerings. What if he eats one of the chocolates and spits them out? What if he crumples up the note and throws it in the garbage? Hell, what if he throws the entire box away without even opening it?

His gut churns sickly with something close to uneasiness. He sits back up, jaw set tight, as he takes his notebook into his hand. The scratched-out text suddenly isn’t nearly covered enough, fractions of words exposing the meaning of sentiments Yusuke tried so desperately to smother.

He still had to get something down by the end of the night; he knew that well enough.

Write from the heart. He was starting to hate that phrase.

The pen weighs heavy like lead in his palm as he rests its nib against the paper. Something believable yet impersonal. He has to make this count; there’s only a little room left on the page.

“Your laugh makes me sm–”

What if Kuwabara saw Yusuke putting the box in his locker? 

Something lurches from deep within Yusuke, something unknown and frantic and gross. In a flurry of movement, he’s overlapping his previous scribbles with another, much larger scribble. His pen is hardly a hairsbreadth away from the page before he’s returned to what blank space is left on there.

In harsh, barely legible text, he scrawls: “I like you.”

Yusuke tears out the page with a grunt, uncaring if it rips, before sloppily folding it into fourths and shoving it into the box on his nightstand. Then, he kicks the notebook off his bed, ignoring its worrying clatter against hardwood as he shoves himself under the covers and squeezes his eyes shut.

He doesn’t bother to turn off the lights. He doesn’t think too hard about what he’s done.

He falls asleep easily enough, anyway.

It’s the morning of February 14th, and Yusuke shows up to school feeling like he’s got a bomb in his pocket.

He doesn’t notice the fact that, for once, he’d managed to beat Keiko in terms of earliness. He’s far too on edge for that. Throughout the walk to school, he feels every glance from passersby burn holes into his back. Like, somehow, they know what he’s about to do and are judging him for it.

When he arrives at school, he’s one of the first people there. As soon as he enters the threshold into the building, he’s booking it for the rooftop, staking claim to his usual hang-out spot, and waiting for his moment to strike.

It gives him ample opportunity to think and/or wuss out, but Yusuke does neither. He simply lounges against a wall, staring out beyond the fence that surrounds the area, and lets the day go by. 

Time flows equal parts too slowly and too quickly as he waits. He’s too keyed up to get bored, but he can’t bring himself to leave the roof, perhaps out of fear of losing his nerve. He just sits, turning over his box in his pocket but not daring to pull it out to inspect it.

There’s a loud part of his brain that’s urging him to turn back, to save face. His pride shouts at him to throw the damn chocolate box and the note contained inside off of the rooftop, praying it somehow lands in the incinerator so no one can recover it. 

Yet strangely, he can’t entertain that notion seriously. Maybe it’s a moronic, overly sentimental thought, but if this stupid box will help get Kuwabara out of the funk he’s been in, Yusuke can’t find it in him to deny him of that. 

Whatever. He’s thinking about this too hard. He’s already come this far. It’d just be stupid to give up right at the finish line, anyway. 

And so, about 20 minutes or so after the bell rings, Yusuke slinks down the stairs of the rooftop and back towards the entrance, where the last couple of students are filing out. When the coast is finally clear, all that’s left is him and Kuwabara’s locker. 

He just sort of stares at it for a good while, holding the box just a hair too tightly in his pocket, his damp palms likely only deforming its shape. He looks around one last time, just to be certain there’s absolutely no one around who could witness him. 

With a sharp intake of breath, he flings the locker open (they really should get locks for these things) and haphazardly shoves the box inside, slamming the door shut before finally sprinting off of school grounds as fast as his legs can carry him. By the time he feels he’s gone far enough, he’s several blocks away. His calves ache, and his chest burns with every desperate, winded gasp he lets out.

It takes a while for the blood to stop rushing in his ears, but once it does, all he’s left with is the rapid thud of his racing heart rate and the rush of traffic. He brings up a hand to card through his slicked-back hair, faced with insurmountable anxiety and regret taking root in his gut.

Questions buzz like a swarm of agitated wasps in his mind. Did I cover up that weird shit well enough? Does he know what my handwriting looks like– Shit, what if he recognizes it?! Why didn’t I think of that earlier? Fuck, if he finds out, I’m so fucking–!

Yusuke pauses as his hand falls from his hair to the side of his face, clammy palm pressed flush to his cheek. He can feel his entire skeleton lock up at once.

His face is warm, and now that he thinks about it, his ears feel red-hot, too. They have for a while.

In an instant, he’s rocketed his hand as far away from his face as humanly possible, staring at his palm as if it betrayed him. No, stop. Don’t be fucking weird. It’s cuz you’re winded. That’s all. Don’t make it fucking weird!

Yusuke stops, takes a deep breath, then lets out something between a sigh and a wheeze. It’s fine. He’s freaking out for no reason. Everything’s completely fine.

Kuwabara isn’t that perceptive. Hell, the big lug probably needs glasses anyway, considering how squinty he is all the time. It’s fine. 

Yusuke didn’t know what the hell had gotten into him since the night before, but y’know what? It doesn’t matter. Cuz now, that box is off his hands, and now, all will be well and normal.

He finally wouldn’t have to deal with a mopey Kuwabara. This is his victory! Hell, he should be celebrating! 

He clings onto that sentiment like a lifeline throughout the rest of the school day. He takes it upon himself to bum around the arcade for as long as his pockets can handle, loitering in various spots, then taking a stroll through the city just because he can, laying flat any dumbasses who want to try it along the way. For all intents and purposes, Yusuke is holding to that declaration of celebration as he lounges on a park bench with a soda in hand.

But still, no matter how hard he tries to disregard it, he remains haunted by this feeling of incompleteness, his nerves on edge while something in his subconscious screams at him like he’s forgetting about something incredibly important. Like he needs to be somewhere. Which, of course, makes zero sense because he already did what he needed to. 

When he glances at the street clock, watching it strike four, the feeling only grows stronger. A draw much more powerful than a love of slacking off or even his never-quite-satiated itch to brawl. A never-ending hum of nerves thrumming in the back of his mind, no matter how ferociously he tries to shake it.

He knows what it is. He’s known for a good while now, unfortunately.

It’s pure, unadulterated, unfiltered panic and regret.

Self-preservation has finally kicked in, and the feral need to get that box of chocolates out of Kuwabara’s locker as soon as possible hits Yusuke all at once. He makes the realization just in time, too, considering he has about thirty minutes to get back to where he needs to be from the inner city, with no bike or car in sight .

Kuwabara could figure out his weird Love Samurai shit on his own, he decides in an instant— The preservation of Yusuke’s dignity is far more important! 

Without a second to lose, Yusuke carelessly tosses his soda onto the grass and books it back to the school as fast as his legs can carry him, ignoring the commentary of those around him as he whizzes by . Looking at the horizon, he can see the day beginning to turn to dusk, which only pushes him to try running even faster. 

After Yusuke’s impromptu adrenaline-induced marathon, he finally, finally, makes it back to school. Shoes skidding across the concrete, he frantically scans the entrance area and finds it devoid of students. Awfully convenient, sure, but Yusuke can’t find it in himself to look a gift horse in the mouth at the moment. He’s got bigger fish to fry.

He rushes to open the locker, praying to whoever will listen that the box will still be inside. He swings the door open, and inside, the pink chocolate box rests crookedly atop Kuwabara’s school shoes. A sigh of relief escapes from so deep in his chest that it feels like it came from the depths of his very soul. All he needs to do now is take out—

He hears a familiar raspy voice call from down the leftmost hallway, “Alright, catch you guys later!”

Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me.

In a flurry of limbs, Yusuke slams the locker door shut with all his might and dives behind the second set of lockers with the urgency of a man avoiding gunfire, crashing onto the tiled floor with a grunt and hoping, desperately, that his rival hadn’t seen him.

The footsteps from down the hall rapidly grow closer until, eventually, they stop just a couple of feet shy of where the lockers shield Yusuke from the left side of the hallway. 

“The hell…?” He hears Kuwabara mutter, footfalls picking back up as he approaches his locker—Which, Yusuke quickly realizes, is conveniently on the opposite side of where he’s currently crouched. Y’know, cuz this series of unfortunate events needs to be even more like a cheesy romance manga.

“Anyone there?” Kuwabara once again calls suddenly, making Yusuke jump. He’s as still as humanly possible, holding his breath and pressing his back snugly against the side of the wall opposite Kuwabara. Like somehow, he can save his skin by camouflaging into the metal. This does not stop Kuwabara’s footsteps from traveling right, unknowingly a single turn of a corner away from blowing Yusuke’s entire cover.

Had he found anyone else in his current position, Yusuke most certainly would’ve laughed at them until his sides ached, but now that he’s the one on the chopping block? He can safely say it's much, much less funny. It’s scarier than any horror movie he’s ever seen, and his mind is overrun with a single-minded, frantic train of thought, “Please, for the love of god, don’t notice me.”

After a period that could’ve been anywhere between 10 seconds and 50 years, Kuwabara’s footsteps finally begin to retreat to his side of the wall with a confused little noise. 

“Huh,” He sniffs, “Weirdos.”

Yusuke is actually, seriously going to kill this motherfucker.

His bloodlust is swiftly quelled when he hears the telltale click of Kuwabara’s locker opening, and in an instant, his anger is replaced by a racing heart and sweaty palms once more.

Yusuke is struck with the strangest, most illogical compulsion he’s ever had. He wants to see Kuwabara. He has to at least try, his mind demands, heat reigniting on the tips of his ears; he’s already come this far. He has to know.

But, fuck, is he really gonna do that? Is he gonna risk it all over something that dumb?

Considering he’s risked it all over much less many, many times before, yes. Yes, he will.

Swallowing the frog in his throat, he begins to stealthily tip-toe along the side of the wall. He inches across the expanse of the lockers, careful that his shoes don’t squeak along the tiled floor, all while keenly aware of just how stupid he is for this.

At this moment, Yusuke feels he has the ears of a bat. He can pick up on every subtle sound Kuwabara makes, all other noise fading into silence. There’s another click, a pause, and then the shifting of fabric accompanied by hollow, shuffling thumps.

Then Kuwabara lets out a choked squawk of surprise, and Yusuke hears a thud he can only assume is Kuwabara dropping the box on the damn floor. “Nice going, numb nuts.” He mentally chides.

As Kuwabara quickly scrambles to pick up the box he’d fumbled, Yusuke finally makes it to the opposite end of the wall and takes the opportunity to crouch down, peering over at his rival.

The warm light of the late afternoon sun washes the open school entrance in vivid shades of orange and yellow, shining past the open doors so brightly that Yusuke can see the dust particles drifting in the air. Kuwabara is only halfway into this light, the left side of his body obscured in blue shadows, but he still seems to almost glow under the dusky rays.

Kuwabara holds the box in his hands gently as if it will disintegrate at the slightest touch. He had the appearance of someone overtaken by doubt but, at the same time, with an expression reading as tentatively hopeful. With a visible gulp, he gingerly opens the lid with trembling hands.

His brows rocket into his hairline at the sight of the cute, heart-shaped chocolates held within before he clutches the box closer to his chest, the reaction causing Yusuke to grip the locker just a hair tighter. What does that mean? Does he not like them? 

His gaze obsessively follows Kuwabara’s hand as he reaches into the pink box and plucks a piece of chocolate from it. Yusuke sucks in a breath and holds it; attention locked onto Kuwabara as he eyes the confection skeptically, holding it up to the light.

Heart pounding out of his chest, Yusuke watches as Kuwabara seems to deem the chocolate safe, hesitantly taking a bite. Slowly, with furrowed brows and tension in his shoulders, he chews once, then twice.

Then, Kuwabara’s eyes light up, gaze flicking to the half-eaten confection in his hand with something akin to wonder before hurriedly shoving that and another two pieces of chocolate in his mouth. Yusuke’s face breaks into a wild grin at the sight before he can even process he’s done so, chest fluttering with pride.

He stares, unbridled glee practically coming off of him in waves, as his rival shamelessly stuffs his face with chocolates– Ones he made for him, mind you.

The joy doesn’t last long, unfortunately, as the moment is soon broken by a tidal wave of embarrassment because what the hell is he even doing right now, getting all excited over this like some kinda stupid, lovesick schoolgirl?!

But then Kuwabara looks into the box again (likely in search of more candy), and suddenly, Yusuke’s pride is the least of his concerns as panic rushes to the forefront. He forgot about the note.

“Shit!” He unconsciously gasps in dismay, causing him to slap his hands over his mouth and dive behind the safety of the lockers once more. Fuck, fuck, fuck! There’s no way he didn’t hear that! Idiot, idiot!

Kuwabara, of course, whips his head up in surprise. “Hello?” He calls out to nothing, voice tentatively hopeful.

Yusuke holds his breath, pulse pounding in his ears as he braces both for the inevitable sight of Kuwabara looming over him and the mortification that was sure to follow (how the hell was he gonna explain this?!), but it never comes. There’s only silence and the distant sound of birds happily chirping away.

Then, after who knows how long, Yusuke hears the distant crinkling of paper.

He can’t believe it. He’s almost pissed! Kuwabara has to be either stupid or deaf because there was no way on god’s green earth that he didn’t hear him just now. Did he just assume he was hearing things? What the fuck?

Crawling back over to the edge of the lockers, Yusuke tentatively peeks out to gauge what the hell Kuwabara’s doing, just to test his theory, and what do you know– The guy’s back staring down at the note still folded into messy fourths in his hands, the now empty box of chocolates closed and tucked under his arm. For a while, he’s just sort of standing there.

Then, carefully, he unfolds the crinkled paper, and there it is. Yusuke’s note in all of its ink-blotted, scratched-up glory. He pulls a confused face, then squints down at the text– undoubtedly in an attempt to make sense of what had been written– leaving Yusuke just barely able to suppress the violent urge to bash his head against the nearest wall.

It’s over. He’s done. There’s no possible way Kuwabara’s gonna think that shit-show of a note is actually from a cute girl. Yusuke should’ve just cut his losses and let the chocolates speak for themselves, but no. If his cover wasn’t blown before, it certainly is now. He’s either going to have to kill Kuwabara or himself because there’s not a chance in hell he’s coming out of his with his dignity intact.

But then, Kuwabara smiles. 

Yusuke looks closer at his rival, just to be sure he’s seeing what he thinks he is, and– Yep, there it is. That small upturn of his lips, and– maybe this was just the light playing tricks on him– the faintest hint of rose brushed across his cheeks.

Then Kuwabara’s eyes flick lower onto the paper, confirming for Yusuke that, no, he hadn't covered up those last couple sentences well enough. Yet, Kuwabara’s smile only grew wider, breaking into a grin one could even describe as giddy. Yusuke’s stomach does a strange little swoop at the revelation, face tingling with the beginnings of heat.

Kuwabara holds the note to his heart, the abrupt nature of the action making Yusuke quickly jump back in surprise. “I dunno who you are, but thanks!” He chirps, his raspy voice ringing jovially throughout the empty air.

Yusuke feels his heart stop right then and there.

Maybe he’s just… talking to himself?

“You’re a really good baker, y’know. Seriously, these things are addicting.”

God dammit.

Kuwabara just laughs in the face of the silence, undeterred. Yusuke can practically see that goofy smile of his stretched proudly across his cheeks as he says, “You don’t gotta be shy. I’m a real chivalrous guy, you’ll see!”

Yusuke doesn’t dare move an inch, but he’s nonetheless incredulous. His plan worked. Kuwabara actually thinks he’s talking to a girl right now. At this point, Yusuke can’t even pretend not to be shocked by that.

A few more seconds of silence pass before Kuwabara finally sighs. “Well, guess I can’t force you to come out if you don’t wanna…” The tension bleeds from Yusuke’s muscles like waves retreating from the shore: gone for a moment, then back in an instant.

“It’s gettin’ pretty late. You should start headin’ home! It’s dangerous for girls to be out alone so late in the day, y’know?” Kuwabara continues to speak to the air. There’s a shuffling of feet accompanied by another bubble of boisterous laughter, “Here, I’ll turn around, that way, I can’t see ya. Promise!”

Yusuke almost scoffs. He seriously didn’t think anyone would fall for that shit, right? As soon as he steps out, Kuwabara’s gonna try and sneak a peek, and then it’ll be over. He’s gonna have to find another way out.

But then a horribly irrational thought occurs to him: Kuwabara’s a good guy. He wouldn’t lie to someone like that. It goes against his honor code.

Perhaps (definitely) foolishly, he feels he can trust Kuwabara to keep his word. Call it a gut feeling.

God, Yusuke is such a moron. If it turns out he’s lying after all, he's going to skin him alive just for making him look dumb.

Carefully rising to his feet, Yusuke hesitantly steps out of his hiding spot and into the light shining in from the entrance doors.

The afternoon casts a tall shadow of his form across the tiles, stretching wide across the warm expanse of the sun’s light until eventually connecting with the beginnings of Kuwabara’s silhouette, small in comparison but just as stark in contrast.

Just as promised, he stands facing the wall away from Yusuke, his hands covering his eyes for good measure. It doesn't matter how long Yusuke stands there, either. Kuwabara doesn’t move an inch.

Something akin to fondness squeezes in Yusuke’s chest, his lips twitching into a charmed smile. He couldn’t believe it. Despite all temptation, the big lug was keeping his word.

“Thanks again, by the way. Sorry that I can’t walk you home.” Kuwabara speaks again, not making even the slightest move to turn around, “I can tell you’re a real sweet gal. Come talk to me sometime, yeah?”

Yusuke’s smile broadened into a full-on grin, a humored huff of breath escaping his nose. He really had no idea, did he?

Sparing one last glance at his friend, Yusuke turns around and high-tails it back down the street, safely off the property and out of Kuwabara’s sight. There’s significantly less urgency to it this time, however, because he trusts Kuwabara. He knows he won’t turn around until Yusuke’s long gone.

Yusuke never does wind up telling Kuwabara who his “secret admirer” really was, and conversely, Kuwabara never bothers to tell Yusuke about the girl who ran away without ever telling him her name. 

Eventually, the day comes when this entire incident becomes little more than a distant, perhaps a tad embarrassing memory, at least for Kuwabara. But Yusuke never forgot. Not when Kuwabara still kept that old pink box on his desk years after the fact, even as he forgot why he kept it there in the first place.

That’s okay, though. Yusuke got all the satisfaction he needed on the morning of February 15th when Kuwabara came bounding up to him, beaming wide and posture proud as he boldly declared, “Urameshi, I challenge you!”

For the first time since they’d met, Yusuke met that smile with one of his own: now genuine, without a hint of malice.