It was almost embarrassing, how quickly Summer scrambled to obey.
But then he always had had a weak spot for the natural sense of authority Iseya exuded, and it made Summer’s breaths catch just a little to let himself give in to the urge to do exactly as Iseya said.
He sank down in the chair, shifting a bit uncomfortably, trying to find the right way to sit before he just gave up and leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the edge of the desk.
He wanted to ask.
Nearly vibrated with it.
But instead he made himself say, “Grading pa—”
His voice cracked. Squeaked.
And Iseya’s gaze flicked up, sharp-edged blades of silver skewering Summer over the rims of his glasses.
Iseya said nothing.
Summer’s cheeks went hot, and he cleared his throat, dropping his eyes to stare down at the desk. His own reflection stared back up at him, just a little too wide-eyed and timid, and he didn’t think all of the red in his cheeks could be blamed on the cherrywood lacquer.
Right.
Try again.
“Grading papers?” he managed to ask in a rather stilted mumble, then closed his eyes, suppressing a groan.
Whatever confidence he’d had yesterday morning, standing by the lakeshore and watching how the sunlight dappled over Iseya’s hair and shoulders...
It had clearly deserted him today.
His bones felt like water, and the only reason he didn’t turn and bolt was because he didn’t really think his body would hold him up if he tried to stand.
“If you have the slightest recollection of my classes at all,” Iseya said crisply, his deep, rolling voice edged in glacial frost, “you’ll recall I have no patience for obvious questions.”
“Don’t,” Summer said. It came out faint, soft, but he made himself say it. That was something he’d been trying to learn to do since he’d escaped Omen: make himself say the things that needed to be said, even if his voice was small when he said them. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your misbehaving students. Please. I’m supposed to be your peer, even if I have a lot to learn from you before I’m ready to teach.”
“Is that what you want to be to me, then?” Iseya asked, deceptively soft when there was a core of flint to those precise words. “My peer?”
Summer drew his brows together. “I don’t know if you’re asking me that in a professional context or a personal context.” He darted his tongue over his lips. “And I don’t...know what your note meant. ‘Challenge accepted.’ I wasn’t trying to challenge you—”
“Weren’t you?” Iseya countered. Still so flat, so cool, almost mocking, and Summer deflated. “Isn’t that the point of your little game? Not just to challenge yourself, but to challenge me? To prove that you can convince me to break down my walls for you, one day at a time, one kiss at a time?”
That stung—like brambles wrapped around his heart and digging in, that stung, and Summer flinched, lifting his gaze to find Iseya watching him with that same icy, impenetrable stare, almost accusing.
“Why are you being like this?” Summer blurted. “Are you...are you that upset that I want to see you as a person instead of this...this terrifying figurehead?”
“I am not upset,” Iseya hissed, slamming the pen down atop the pages, the uncapped tip dipping to leave a deep red inkblot like blood spreading against white.
Summer just stared at him.
“You’re acting like you are,” he murmured, and bit his lip. “I’m...sorry. I’m sorry if you’re still...hurting so much that it feels like I’m playing some kind of game with you. Just...forget I ever asked. I didn’t... I didn’t mean to be disrespectful of...”
“Of what?” Brittle, sharp, Iseya’s eyes flashing—heat slashing through that ice like a stab of lightning. “What do you think you know about me?”
Right now, looking at Iseya felt like...
Felt like pleading.
Pleading with him to just...stop, when Summer didn’t have to be an expert to know that this...
This was the pain talking.
Not Iseya himself.
“I know that twenty years is a long time to grieve,” Summer whispered, heart in his throat.
This wasn’t how he’d wanted this to go. A simple wish, a silly game, an ache in the pit of his stomach, but somehow it had gone all wrong and he’d upset Iseya—but now that he’d started it, he had to finish it and say what had to be said to see this through.
He always said all the wrong things anyway.
He guessed that wasn’t going to change.
“And a long time to define yourself as if that grief is all you are,” he finished, the words driving through his tongue like iron nails.
Iseya faltered, physically recoiling as if Summer had slapped him. His gaze flickered strangely, before he looked away—and when he spoke his voice was softer, that lashing edge gone.
“If you think you will find anything else underneath that,” he murmured, “you will be sorely disappointed.”
Summer half-smiled, even though it hurt like someone had pulled his rib cage open and plucked one curving bone out to fit it to the shape of his mouth. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That you’ll disappoint me?”
“What makes you think I’m afraid of you in any way, Mr. Hemlock?”
“The fact that you won’t look at me directly unless you’re angry with me,” Summer pointed out. “Because I won’t look at people, either...because then I’m afraid they’ll see too much about how I feel.”
Iseya made a soft tch sound under his breath, lifting his chin a touch haughtily—and yet still those silver eyes remained on the bookshelf, not on Summer. “Is that why you avoid eye contact? A mystery solved, I suppose.”
“It’s why I do. I’m wondering if it’s why you do, too.”
“It’s considered rude to stare at people with prolonged eye contact in Japanese culture.” Iseya thinned his lips. “Granted, I was not raised in Japanese culture outside my family home after my adolescent years, but I believe the common phrase is ‘that’s my story, and
