Megumi had gotten into a fight. Again.

Trouble seemed to follow the young Fushiguro wherever he went, as persistent as his own shadow; if there was one thing he inherited from his father, he wasn’t one who backed down.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” He continued to swat at the other student’s hand half-heartedly, knowing that a handful of folded tissues wouldn’t help much to fix his soiled uniform. The milk in his hair had mostly dried and congealed, causing some of the dark strands to stick against his nape.

Megumi kept his gaze averted, face turned away, as he casted his dour scowl down the otherwise empty school hallway.

“You should see the other guy,” He muttered drily, deciding to leave out the fact that the ‘other guy’ in question was his older sister.

The argument they’d had was still fresh in his mind, as poignant as the scent of artificial strawberry that’d seeped into the threads of his uniform blazer.

When his classmate continued to dab at the dull stains, Megumi spoke again: “…Knock it off,” Avoiding the exasperated glare being shot at him from the corner of his peripheral, he leaned back against their perch on the windowsill with feigned nonchalance, “I’ll just get it cleaned when I’m back home.”