Blossoms of the Dark

CLXXVIII Shouto: Convoluted

Selene was supposed to return last evening.

But she arrived to school this morning.

Most people would excuse it as her being caught up in something urgent.

Not for one second do I believe that is true.

Especially given that she appeared to be on the verge of collapse the entire day. She barely raised her hand for attendance; her head rested in her arms during all of our classes; she barely uttered a word. Most surprising of all, she didn't eat lunch when today was ice cream day.

So when classes finish for the day, I seize my chance to get answers.

The exits are in one direction; she heads in the other. Selene limps against the wall instead of her cane. Another reason to worry. I don't wish to startle her, but when she trips, I have no choice but to catch her from behind.

"Let me escort you to Recovery Girl," I say. It is pointless to even ask if she is all right when the answer is so glaringly obvious. Even I have enough social awareness to recognize that.

"I'll ... manage ... Thank you, though ..." she heaves.

I won't listen to her protests. "You'll faint before you even make it halfway. I've helped you before; allow me to do it again."

"You'll gather ... unnecessary attention ..."

I loop my arms under her knees and around her back. She is concerningly warm, even as she trembles subtly. Lifting her, I counter with, "Screw them. You are more important." She opens her mouth to press further. I beat her to it. "Shhh. No more talking until you get some rest."

When we reach the infirmary, Recovery Girl retrieves her equipment while I set Selene down onto a bed. I remove her shoes and glasses so that I can cover her with a blanket. She groans in pain. Chills, weakness, aches. I touch her forehead with my palm. Hot skin. What I suspect is true. Selene has a fever. A pretty intense one, given all those symptoms.

Recovery Girl returns with her tools and inserts a thermometer in her mouth. 39 degrees Celsius. Numerical proof of a fever. She asks me to fill a cup with water while she opens a package of paracetamol. I have to help Selene take it.

When she swallows the last drops of water, Recovery Girl asks her about the fever. Since neither one have told me to leave, I don't take any initiative to do so myself. I desire the truth, too.

Though it's strained and quiet, Selene regains a little bit of her voice. "Yesterday, I overused my quirk. I endured multiple arthritic convulsions throughout the night, but apparently those weren't the last of it. "

That justifies her behavior all day. But one question remains. I ask, "What did you have to do that made you overuse your ability?"

"Very long story."

She's evading the question. My doubts rise. Either the matter is confidential, or she cannot speak freely because Recovery Girl is present. I'm betting on the latter.

I try to conjure a viable excuse to convince Recovery Girl, but she is excellent at reading the room. "I cannot do much for fevers, since they are a natural response of the body. The paracetamol should kick in about half an hour from now, and I've prepared some towels and hot water on the counter. Call me if you need anything."

Both of us watch her figure retreat. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and dip a towel in the bowl of water. Selene's eyes close when I place it on her forehead. Her breathing eases just a little. I repeat the process a few more times before bringing up the subject.

"Selene, did something happen yesterday?"

She opens her eyes but hesitates. I can almost picture the debate in her head, deciding what to tell and what not to tell. She's secretive. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I hate it. Now is one of those instances where I don't like it. But it isn't as though I can push her to tell me.

So I wait.

After a long time, she starts speaking

"Yesterday, Hanada-sama's son engagement was formally announced." My impassivity relays to her that I already know. "There was a private yet grand celebration that night. I was asked to perform many spectacles to impress the bride's family."

I frown as I recall the Sports Festival. She had turned every one-on-one battle into a performance for the audience, so her explanation is not unfeasible. Still. "Why would you have to impress them? You're from the groom's side."

"Politics," she replies casually. "Business and politics have always gone hand in hand. Just think about it: the groom is the scion of the Hanada Group of Companies, his twin brothers will be his right hands, and the youngest is a student at U.A. who has come into the spotlight many times. The bride's family has close ties with the government, and her father plans to begin his own campaign next year."

She doesn't have to explain the rest.

More than a celebration, last night's party was a test to gauge everyone's usefulness. Hanada-shi, by deciding whether supporting his son's future in-laws in their political campaign will aid his industrial expansion; the bride's father, by evaluating how he could use his daughter's future in-laws to suit his agenda. Given that Selene was sent to U.A. as an investment for the hero business, both families must be considering making her a public figure to garner attention and votes from the citizens.

I should have known. Marriages in high circles are not just between the children; they are alliances between families who each have something to gain. Mom and Dad's marriage to each other was no different. Everyone is a pawn, and so is Selene.

This whole situation is complicated and convoluted. Delving into the intricacies makes my brain hurt. I cannot help but sigh as I put another hot compress on her head. "Are you okay with all of this?"

Her smile is melancholic. "Do I have a choice?"

It was cruel of me to ask that. These things are bigger than us. In the coming year, she is about to become that much more trapped inside the web of power. Helping her escape her abuse will become that much more difficult. With each passing day, I find it harder to find a solution. All I can do right now is warn her to be careful.

I play the recording of my encounter with Miyamoto and Kurosawa. She listens to the exchange intently.

Meanwhile, I scrutinize her reaction.

She is expressionless. Her face belies none of the thoughts spiralling in her head. I suppose she would have to be a decent actress, given the environment she grew up in. When the audio finishes, she scoffs in resignation. "They want revenge for their bruised egos. Since I am disabled, they think I am an easy target."

The water is getting cold. I remove the compress and say, "I agree. But I still would like for you to be cautious."

She covers my hand with her own when I say that. The desperation must be brimming in my eyes.

"I promise to avoid them. And if they still try anything, I will be sure to reciprocate their sentiments with a swing of my cane. Thank you for your firm refusal when they accosted you, and thank you for informing me."

I squeeze her hand. "I don't like any of this."

"Neither do I."

"Our happiness was so brief."

"It will come back."

I hope so.

A chaste kiss to her forehead is my silent plea.

Then out of the blue: "The cafeteria was selling ice cream, right?"

I give her the glare my sister gives me when I ask ridiculous questions before pulling the blanket all the way to her face.

"As if I will let you eat cold stuff during a fever!"

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