>>4197507He is thirteen, the shitty brat. Some of the blame lies on the architect — the bedroom windows are directly facing each other for some reason, part of it is on you. You still see him as the precocious seven-year old, so you forgot to close the blinds. Still.
She's thirty. You don't remember how old the other lady is, but you know God is real.
He's thirteen. You thought about going to his mother about this at first, but decided against it, instead confronting him when she isn't at home. He's shaking, though not crying yet. You yell at him, demand to explain what is it that he thought he was doing, and so on, and so forth. You're more angry at him than you think you were. You tell him that if you catch him peeking into yours or, for that matter, other people's windows again, he'll really pay for it. He asks if that's what the other lady was in for, and that takes the wind out of your sails, as you simultaneously blush and break into a giggle. He picks up your laughter as well, before you stop yourself, clear your throat and warn him to seriously not do it again. Technically it would be as simple as always leaving the blinds closed before showering or anything else, but you guess it was warning enough, or it will be a secret test of character if you forget to do it sometimes, or whatever, you'll figure it out.
She's thirty two. You only jokingly claim credit for her entire career: years ago she said she was sorry for running out of coop games, but you said your favorite thing was watching her play. You were entirely sincere when you said that, and you are coping with the fact that it is still true, and, moreso, that hundreds of thousands of people can sincerely say that now. Your mother thinks you're just in it for a well-paid profession to support her financially, given how much she did for you (not much, honestly, she was almost never home and you subsisted mainly on scraps of the alimony). But the honest answer was that you were going to become a computer programmer so that you could make more videogames for her to play. You say as much. It is completely ridiculous, and you definitely expected her to laugh out loud, but she does not. She asks if there's anything she can do to help.
He's sixteen. His hands are tender, almost girly. He takes great care of his fingers now, says they're very valuable to him as a work tool. Reminds you of a story you read once, though instead of hiring other boys to beat people for him, he transitioned to kickboxing and relies almost entirely on his feet to attack. This is not a viable style for street self-defense, you don't really know what he's thinking. You unclasp your bra, and that's when he ditches you and runs away, dropping the bottle of sunscreen. This kid feels hopeless sometimes.
She's thirty four. You came in part to say you're leaving, since you have been accepted — into the very same university she graduated from years ago; if she had any part in it she will never admit it. It's not actually a goodbye, and not a poignant yet delusional kind of "not actually a goodbye" — Tōdai is a fairly short train ride away, he can visit any time. Both of you have had a few rounds in you and a good chunk of birthday cake, so now you're obviously playing Mario Kart. She suggests a penalty game to make it more exciting.
He's seventeen. He'll become eighteen at midnight.
She's thirty four. You are awoken by a combination of a horrible headache, the smell of freshly-baked pastry, and her humming the Dragon Quest IV main theme. Fighting off the former and lured by the latter two, you slowly crawl into the kitchen. You're greeted by the sight of her wagging her tail while checking something inside an oven — the tail seemed like the most polite thing to focus your gaze on, given that her clothes didn't hide much of anything. And by clothes you meant apron.
"So." you start.
"Good morning, and yes~ we~ have~"
"What now?"
"Now you take responsibility, my dear! Or art thou willing to declare thyself forsworn?" She put on a Dark Souls-esque voice for this one but broke character and giggled. "Here." She closes the oven door, runs to her bedroom and comes back with a small box. "You promised." Inside it is the shitty clay NES gamepad you made as a kid. All those years?
"No, that's not what I meant. How do I- When w- Are we going to be public about it?"
"Why not?"
"Look, I love you, but... we're sixteen years apart. What will people think?"
"Sixteen years is nothing if you convert it to dog years. And I love you too. The coronets are going to be ready in about ten minutes, can you think of a way to kill some time?"
Her lips taste faintly of chocolate.
