remember when I moved in you
the holy dark was moving too
and every breath we drew was hallelujah
Hallelujah // Rufus Wainwright

***

You are ambitious. You are beautiful. You are wealthy.

All of these attributes were not granted to you in minute quantities; indeed, some might claim that your maker had shortchanged quite a few other individuals in order to create you. Though you are secure in the knowledge of your perfection, you pride yourself on one quality above all else: intelligence. You know there is nothing you can't discern if but granted a few nights and the appropriate texts, and you write your own scores on your exams ("perfect") because to get anything lower is an impossibility.

Perhaps this is what vexes you the most about Arisato Minato, then: that you can't figure him out.

***

"Takeba," you question one night, shutting your textbook with a definitive snap, "where is Arisato?" The younger girl glances up at you with an unease as evident as cats' eyes in the dark; you return the look with a gaze as flat and cold as the ice-storm Penthesileia is fond of casting. It is the look that you are fond of using when you desire answers in a timely manner, and it works beautifully on Yukari.

"If he's not in his room, then I don't know."

Something that might have been called displeasure on a gentler person flashes across your face, and she stammers on. "W-Well, now that I think about it… one night I ran into him on our floor, going up the stairs. He's probably not in the meeting room, so… the rooftop?"

"Thank you," comes your reply, and it sounds like a dismissal above all else. Yukari stares down into her bowl of ramen, but you possess a gift that all members of the female gender lay claim to: the ability to taste the vitriol coming from another without ever having to lay eyes on it. With a weary sigh you turn it aside with an ease that can only come from years of practice; it seems to be one of two looks anyone ever gives you these days: that, or blind adoration, and you find yourself unusually dispassionate about either.

He, however, looks at you in a way that is entirely foreign… and not entirely unwelcome.

Enough, comes the rebuke from something small and sharp in the back of your mind, and you gladly resign yourself to its control as you ascend the stairs.