Set of rules

      Hajime almost flinches when a young man without a distinguishing jacket passes by their wide-open classroom. He walks straight, looking at the floor, making no unnecessary noise - a model of cultural behavior at the Academy. Hinata restrains himself only to avoid giving his classmates any reason for suspicion and gossip - wagging tongues have already sent several students home and branded them with shame. He is worried, but not without reason. He calls it a preventive measure. The passerby, who didn't even glance at the classroom, calls it paranoia and a reason to contact someone in a white coat.       By the end of the lesson, theoretically, there remained about two or three minutes - that's if luck was on his side and the teacher didn't decide to expound longer than necessary. Hajime didn't want to rely on luck - he conserved it as a precious resource for more significant endeavors. Slightly restless with impatience on the chair due to the scorching heat permeating his entire body, he twisted a thin rod with trembling fingers, covered in blue paste. The essence of what he was jotting down slipped away just as quickly as a baritone scatters terms and dry, convoluted formulations. The perpetually sober part of his mind banged on the student's head from within, fervently demanding in a parental voice that he immediately cease this misunderstanding, sit up straight, and finish everything to the last word; while the suddenly intoxicated part pleaded for mercy and counted down the seconds until the refreshing bell. "You may be free," combined with the trill and the scraping of chair legs against the cold floor, caused Hinata to nearly take flight from his place. However, he could not allow himself such sudden abruptness, therefore he leisurely packed everything that had lain on the desk just a couple of minutes ago into his backpack. Maintaining his composure while waiting for the corridor to empty was an unbearable hardship. Worse than any pile of essays awaiting him at home? worse than any debts that appeared out of nowhere, which were even more repugnant. Contrary to his fears, he did not wait until the last few individuals departed, but rather hurriedly walked towards the old offices and staircases - the direction where no one lingered at the end of the day.       And it's like that every Friday.       The storage room with a jammed door fits perfectly among a series of rooms whose floors are already covered in a thick layer of dust. There is no point in playing silence here, and that is why Hinata struggles with the handle, hardly looking around and not hesitating to shake it haphazardly. Fifteen seconds later, voila: a small space with tall metal shelves cluttered with boxes of what seems to be all kinds of cleaning agents, presents itself before him in all its dimly lit glory. With the closed door, light infiltrates only through a small window near the ceiling - apparently, the storage room was originally planned here.       It's enough to keep the lanky figure on the stepladder from being overlooked.       "And if someone had seen?" instead of a greeting, Hajime reasonably clarifies, instantly throwing his backpack into the corner, closer to the buckets. At least there is a subtle hint of cleanliness.       "No one from your class can see beyond their own nose — everyone's busy staring at their desks. What is there to be afraid of?" Nagito understands the essence of what was said instantaneously; possibly because he took the risk precisely for such a question.       "Because I could betray us with my own reaction." Taking a step closer, getting within touching distance. A foreign warmth envelops the entire body. Almost there, but patience is running out and anxiety is growing.       "But do I have to?" He's leaning forward, while a greasy smile appears, lingering and almost grinning. He's not getting offended or falling behind — that's why he's beloved. He reaches out, sticky: "I know that you would do anything for us. You will control yourself, endure, calm down. That's just who you are."       He smiles, and in Hajime's mind, it echoes with an ugly laughter. He smears the smile on Komaeda's lips with a couple of touches of his own, then quickly withdraws. When he hears a dissatisfied exhale due to the newly formed distance, he himself smiles.       "So, have I held back, have I tolerated, have I calmed down now?" teases, annoys, knowing that everything is forgivable to him. Fueling curiosity is unnecessary trouble, but somehow it feels so pleasurable inside. As the night approaches, everything said here will be buried deep in the memory, so much so that even the most experienced mind reader won't be able to extract it. These thoughts are like a green light, a sudden whistle.       "Like many other things, this is more of an exception than the rule." The smirk returns, as if to defy, and provokes to repeat what has just been done. "Just think about it, how poetic: against prohibitions, rules, one's own moral principles. And so it goes every time."       "Are you going to keep rambling on for long?" Hinata warns, covering his face with sharp features with both palms. The soft, smooth movements of his fingers do not match the slightly irritated tone.       "Just stop giving me a reason then." The Lucky Student knows that everything said is deceit, and it will remain so until a certain point. He only believes in actions.       Hajime immediately obeys demands — silences himself and forces Nagito to be silent too. Wiping all local surfaces with his own or someone else's shirt has become a peculiar hobby.       Komaeda, thanks to his physique, does not fall off the ladder, nor does he slip. He finds it extremely comfortable to hold onto Hinata's shoulders under the jacket draped over them. He believes the fabric is too dense to feel everything he desires. With slender fingers, he delicately traces a path upwards, along the relaxed neck, pausing for a moment at the very tips of the ears, then downwards, sliding along the white collar and pressing his palms somewhere near the collarbone — it's easier to understand through touch. Hinata expresses approval in his own way — gently and quietly, he brushes his lips against Nagito's cheek, rewarding with small kisses for the audacity. Everything inside him yearns to feel the same thing, but lower.       The wish is fulfilled at the same moment: the track stretches along his neck, which Komaeda stretches out deliberately to make more space for pleasure. He practically chokes on the curve at the protruding bones, either because the place is so good, or because there's a slight pause - not that Hajime is comfortable fiddling with his tie.       During these maneuvers, the unfortunate black jacket falls to the floor, and along with it, all worries and anxieties seem to disappear. Hajime feels like he has caught the best opportunity to surrender to Luck and rely solely on fortunate circumstances.       "And what will your classmates and teachers think if they find out how you handling the Academy uniform?"       Komaeda seems to be poisoned by the prolonged silence, and he doesn't strive to reconcile. Hinata tries to ignore it, attempting the same trick as before, but Nagito is cunning in every sense — he evades touches and gazes as if he doesn't crave them the most in the world at that moment. He silently taunts, tormenting both of them with his mockery.       "The same as yours, if they find out how you feel about its rules."       Touché. Komaeda is already satisfied with the response he received, to the point that he eagerly moves forward, almost tearing the buttons of the revered uniform, which does not belong to his class or level.       The set of rules they once memorized and pledged to abide by crumbles in their memory. Over the meticulously detailed points printed on smooth, snowy-white paper, the memory of white hair intertwining between their fingers and delicate sun-kissed skin overlays. The ingrained teachings seem to crumple like neatly pressed shirts in the morning, fading like the ends of someone's strands.       The forbidden allure, hypnotizing with his gray eyes, tests Hajime's patience with reminders of the rules, thrown in between touches of lips. The remnants of Hajime's decency note that if someone catches them and reports what's happening, he can say goodbye forever to his reputation and warm family relationships. As a souvenir, he will receive an almost empty parental wallet and the contempt of a society that values rules. Well, so be it. The sincere devotion of Lucky Student is worth much more than Reserve Course.       They would like to believe that Fridays will never cease to amaze.