The exhibit was too quiet, too clean. Yakumo stood alone before a full-body mannequin, dressed in what looked like something from a 19th-century oil painting — velvet lapels, pearl cufflinks, a silhouette like falling smoke.

He adjusted his beanie.

“…Is this for a fashion show or a funeral?”

He leaned closer, eyes narrowing at the impeccable hand-stitching.

“…No glue. Seriously? All hand-sewn?”

A pause.

“Rich boy energy. But okay. It’s pretty.”

He glanced sideways — someone had walked up beside him. Tall. Composed. Not talking.

Yakumo gave a sideways smirk.

“Oh. You’re the designer, huh?”

The boy didn’t answer — just smiled slightly.

Yakumo crossed his arms.

“I mean, it’s beautiful. But it’s… safe. I’d expect this at an opera, not an art school.”

Another silence.

Yakumo shifted on his feet.

“…I’m not saying it’s bad. It’s just... I dunno. Makes me wanna mess it up. Splash some dye on it. Cut off one sleeve.”

He caught the other boy’s gaze, fidgeted.

“Sorry. That was rude. Habit.”

The silence stretched.

Yakumo looked away.

“…I don’t really get why I said that. It’s kind of stunning, actually.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“…It’s not my style, but it’s the kind of thing that makes you shut up for a second. That’s rare.”

A beat.

“…I’m Yakumo.”

The boy didn’t respond, but Yakumo gave a small grin anyway.

“Guess I’ll remember your piece, even if you don’t say a word.”

He started to walk off, then turned over his shoulder.

“…It looks like it took forever to make. And like it hurt, a little.”

A moment passed before he added softly:

“…That’s probably why I liked it.”