Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

☆ ☆ ☆

“Hello, hello… ? ♪ Is His Majesty still receiving visitors?”

Eichi’s heart skips a beat—a concerning event for someone with a cardiovascular system as weak as his, and certainly cause for a nurse monitoring his vitals to rush in and check on him. 

Fortunately, his heart rate having strengthened and stabilized enough to no longer necessitate around the clock supervision, the doctor had unfettered him from the electrocardiogram last week. He is supposed to be wearing a pulse oximeter on his index finger at the moment, but he’d pried it off almost as soon as the on-call nurse had turned his back. He was certainly in for a scolding soon, but it was worth it for the temporary relief from the bothersome pressure on his fingertip.

And thank goodness he did remove it; with the monitor at his bedside intentionally angled out of his line of site, the stutter and ensuing sharp spike in his pulse would have been plainly visible to anyone standing in the doorway. Another reason to do away with the pulse oximeter—Eichi loathes the idea of any stranger passing by his room being able to gleam even the briefest of insights into his health—or his emotional state.

Still, apart from the instinctive jolt to his heart rate, Eichi manages to subdue his reaction to the slightest tensing of his posture. And such a thing would be natural, wouldn’t it? A sudden appearance in the doorway of one’s hospital room would unsettle anyone, regardless of the identity of the visitor. 

Not to mention the fact that he hasn’t received an unexpected visitor—hasn’t received any visitors, apart from Keito and the occasional disinterested relative—in the weeks that he’s been hospitalized. 

And certainly not to mention the fact that the person visiting him is—

Ah.

It’s only then that Eichi realizes that he’s looking him straight in the eye. And that he—that Hibiki Wataru, with a curious smile painted on his handsome, perfect face, is staring right back at him.

“M-Mr. Tenshouin!” 

A second later, another person rushes to join Hibiki in the doorway. She’s short, even in platforms, and Hibiki towers above her like a grand, otherworldly being. She doesn’t even pause to look at him, however, as she brushes past to approach Eichi’s bedside and greets him with a frantic bow.

“Apologies—I-I’m so sorry to disturb you! He rushed ahead of me, and—I—” She’s clearly out of breath, and frazzled on top of that. “He says he knows you. Is... that correct, Mr. Tenshouin?”

Eichi is grateful to have somewhere to look besides Hibiki. He focuses his attention on the receptionist and concentrates on keeping his expression as neutral as possible. He has never spoken to her, but he recognizes her as this floor’s new receptionist—he faintly remembers exchanging a pained smile with her when he’d passed the reception desk during one of his recently mandated “fitness walks” around the wing. 

“Yes,” he says, his voice coming out embarrassingly hoarse. He’s not sure if the two of them are close enough to hear, so he clears his throat softly and tries again. “Yes… We are classmates.”

Eichi resists the urge to turn to Hibiki for confirmation; they are classmates, after all… though it sounds absolutely ridiculous to actually say aloud. If not entirely incorrect, the term is at the very least misleading; the word “classmate” connotes a certain level of familiarity and camaraderie so foreign to Eichi throughout his enrollment at Yumenosaki that he’d hesitate to describe his relationship to nearly any of his fellow students that way. As such, it feels revoltingly offensive— dirty , even—to link himself to Hibiki in such a way after… well, after everything .

But what choice does he have? It’s absolutely unfathomable that Hibiki is here right now, but—unless audiovisual hallucinations are the newest symptoms of his progressing illness—here he is. And Eichi cannot and will not turn him away. He only hopes that Hibiki will pardon the disrespect in his clumsy choice of word.

The receptionist exhales a sigh of relief. “Alright. Thank goodness. He wasn’t on the list of approved visitors, but—he insisted that you’d welcome his visit—” She pauses to take another breath. “I told him to contact you directly to ask for your approval—but then he said—”

“ Why wait around for all that and waste our time when I can ‘contact him directly’ right now?” Hibiki interjects from the doorway.

The receptionist jumps, startled, and then shoots him a dirty look, clearly frustrated with the outburst. Hibiki smirks, raising his palms appeasingly. “Fufu. Apologies for interrupting~ I was trying to spare your breath—and to corroborate your story! Come now, come now~ Inhale, exhale…” Raising and lowering his arms as if to make certain she understands the concept, he exaggeratedly puffs out and deflates his chest with each instruction. “And iiiiiiiinhale… eeeeeeexhale…”

The receptionist, stone-faced, says nothing—but after a few seconds, it appears that her breathing has slowed. At a loss for what else to do, Eichi breathes along with them, hoping that a couple deep breaths will quiet the desperate thump of his heartbeat in his ears.

A moment later, Hibiki turns to Eichi. “Everything she says is correct: I am the one at fault here. I was so excited for this visit that I opted to skip the formalities; I’ve come all this way to see you, after all! So I excused myself and hurried along to find your room so we could all settle this matter right now.” He clasps his hands together and lowers his head as though in an exaggerated plea for mercy. “Sooooorry, sorry~”

The receptionist’s lips curl down into a grimace before redirecting her attention to Eichi. “He’s not on the list, so I’m happy to call for security to escort him out right now…” She lowers her voice, addressing him in a delicate tone. “I know this is an awkward situation, but—would you like me to do that, Mr. Tenshouin?”

Escort him out?

“No,” Eichi answers immediately. “That’s not necessary.” 

He doesn’t need to second-guess his words this time; whatever Hibiki’s reasons for coming here, Eichi has no intention to get in his way. The notion of turning him away—of refusing Hibiki Wataru anything he wanted after everything that Eichi has already put him through… 

He doesn’t care what Hibiki does next. He can smother Eichi with a pillow the second the receptionist turns her back—Eichi wouldn’t dare raise a finger to stop him.

“In fact... Please add Hibiki-kun to the approved list of visitors right away. His presence will always be welcome here.”

Her eyes widen with surprise, but she immediately nods in acceptance. “Yes, sir.” Still clearly uncertain and uncomfortable with the arrangement, she turns to Hibiki, who is leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

Her eyes flit between him and Eichi for a moment before she finally settles on the latter. “Then… Mr. Tenshouin, if there’s anything else you need, please contact the nursing staff or myself at any time. Again, I am deeply sorry for the disturbance.”

She gives Eichi a polite bow and, taking care not to acknowledge Hibiki in any way, turns around and hurries back down the hallway.

The click-clack of her footsteps echo throughout the quiet ward for a few moments before finally fading away entirely… and leaving the two of them in weighty silence.

Shaking his head, Hibiki chuckles regretfully. “Ah… I do feel a little bad. It wasn’t my intention to make her life more difficult... but after her initial refusal, it seemed this was my only course of action. I don’t have your phone number or home address, after all; unfortunately, there’d be no way for me to get in touch with you.”

Unfortunately? Then… is he... asking for Eichi’s cell phone number and home address? 

No… of course not. He must just be teasing, then. It’s considerate of Hibiki to keep the tone light for now… far more considerate than Eichi deserves. His heart is still racing, and his blood pressure has certainly elevated to a concerning degree—thank goodness he ripped off that irksome device, as the spike in his vitals certainly would have alerted the nursing staff, and there’s no way in hell that Eichi could tolerate an interruption now—but Eichi does everything in his power to keep his breathing steady and his face relaxed. Hibiki is being friendly and polite, and so he will follow suit. 

Trying his best to match his lighthearted tone, he replies, “It’s alright. She’s new, so she hasn’t yet grown ambivalent to the typical chaos that accompanies my tenancy here; frankly, you’ve done us all the favor of hurrying the process along. I’m sure that the next time we have an intruder, she won’t do so much as look up from her computer screen.”

Hibiki nods in understanding. “Yes. In my experience, humans adapt dishearteningly quickly to the peculiar; all too often, phenomena initially thought of as ‘unbelievable’ quickly lose their luster and simply become another fixture of mundanity…” 

He cocks his head to the side, ponytail lazily swinging behind. “However, even knowing this, I must have overestimated your reaction to my surprise visit—it’s as though you were expecting me.”

Does Eichi really appear that calm? He’s relieved to hear it. In their few interactions, he’s always had the uncanny feeling that Hibiki can see straight through him… But perhaps he’s just being polite again.

“No—not by any means,” Eichi assures him. “I suppose I’m in a state of shock at the moment... I can’t be certain that I’m not dreaming again.”

“Again… ?” Hibiki prompts. 

Again? God, why on earth did Eichi say that? And what is he supposed to say now? What possible explanation could he give to satisfy him besides the truth: “You’ve already visited me here once before—in my dreams”? 

But before Eichi can begin to agonize over how to respond to the question without embarrassing himself further, Hibiki continues: “Perhaps you are dreaming. Unlike our skeptical waking selves, our unconscious minds often find strange situations very easy to accept. Hmm... Then, do you find your current nonchalance to be uncharacteristic? Do you think that, if you were awake right now, you would have cried out in surprise at my unexpected appearance in your doorway?”

“... I’m not sure,” Eichi answers honestly. Until a couple of minutes ago, he would have dismissed the premise outright as pure fantasy; after all, he would never willingly speak to Eichi again, so what would be the purpose of fantasizing about something as absurd as Hibiki appearing in his hospital room? “That would be the most reasonable reaction, I think. But human beings don’t always behave as you’d expect.”

“ Yes , that’s true! ☆ That’s why I love all of humanity so dearly ♪ No level of calculation can possibly account for the whimsical, contradictory nature unique only to our species. If we always behaved predictably, adhering strictly to logic and ‘common sense,’ this life would be devastatingly boring, don’t you think?”

Agh; it’s becoming hard to focus. Did Hibiki really show up here to discuss dreams and the nature of humanity with him… ? Eichi’s brain feels waterlogged with thought.

Still, as absurd as this situation feels, he’s almost positive that he is awake right now. With sleep comes relaxation, and even Eichi’s most vivid nightmares have always been fogged with a comforting oblivion inaccessible to him in his waking life. Sleep serves to muffle—if not completely silence—his overactive mind… but in this moment, his thoughts are so loud that the less rational side of him almost suspects that Hibiki can hear them.

Besides, if he were dreaming, surely his subconscious would have grown impatient by now and hurried the conversation along? Hibiki has been standing here for minutes now and the two of them have yet to say a truly meaningful word to one another.

But—wait. Eichi snaps off his train of thought. That’s right; he’s having a conversation right now. And Hibiki is looking at him expectantly, so he’d better reply quickly before he makes the situation any more awkward than it already is… 

But… 

Agh. It’s no use; he’s completely lost track of what they were talking about. Hibiki had asked him a question, and Eichi, foolishly, had nodded along instinctively before he’d processed his words. And now several more long seconds have gone by and Eichi, still faintly nodding, has said nothing and Hibiki’s expression hasn’t changed—as though they would remain frozen in time until one of them finally breaks the silence.

Eyeing the smirk on his face, Eichi has the distinct impression that Hibiki has no intention of being the one who blinks first.

“H-Hibiki-kun,” he stutters out. “Ah—I don’t mean to be rude, but... What are you doing here?”

Hibiki widens his eyes in exaggerated surprise. “Hmm? Whatever do you mean? I believed it was obvious.” He pauses for a second as though expecting Eichi to suddenly intuit his meaning; when he says nothing, Hibiki’s confident smile returns. “Why, I’m here to retrieve my next script, of course! ☆”

“... Your what?”

“Hm?” Hibiki cocks his head to the side. “Well, exactly what I said... I thought that I was speaking clearly, but—Oh!” He clicks his tongue. “Forgive me; am I too far away for you to hear me? Let me come closer, then… ♪ Would His Highness like the door open or closed?”

“... Closed,” Eichi answers after a moment, his brain largely preoccupied by the dually enticing and terrifying notion of Hibiki coming even closer to him. Whatever Hibiki intends to say or do next is no one’s business but their own; either way, he would like privacy.

“Very well,” Hibiki says, and gently pushes the door shut with a soft click. Then, with the nonchalance of someone who has performed this very task countless times before, he retrieves a chair from the nearby desk and places it at Eichi’s bedside. 

Without missing a beat, he takes a seat, casually crossing one leg over the other. In the same smooth movement, he leans forward just slightly, propping the elbow of his right arm atop his crossed knee and resting his chin on his palm. In all, his posture is bizarrely informal; to an outsider, he would actually appear to be a concerned classmate sitting at the bedside of his sick friend.

With an almost unnervingly placid smile, he gazes down at Eichi. “Sooo, can you hear me now? ♪” he prompts.

Eichi forces himself to meet Hibiki’s brilliant violet eyes—even though, from this close, looking directly at him feels like staring straight into the sun. “I could hear you just fine before…” he says, relieved that he’s at least able to speak a bit softer now and spare his lungs. “It’s the meaning of your words that I’m struggling to comprehend. You… said that you’re here for your ‘next script’... ?”

“Naturally!” Hibiki exclaims, as though Eichi had said something truly insightful. “The climactic finale of the first act of your great play was quite the success—if I do say so myself—but you can’t keep your audience waiting for too long! No playwright would go through the efforts of crafting the first arc of such a brilliant, heart-wrenching tragicomedy only to let the grand narrative fizzle just as soon as it’s truly begun!”

“Playwright?” Eichi repeats.

“Is there another term you’d prefer? Do you see yourself as a director instead? Hmm, or does the theme itself not resonate with you? Something more musical, perhaps… Then how about a conductor? A composer?”

Eichi’s skin burns with discomfort, and he stammers to interject before Hibiki can continue. “I-I see. You’re speaking metaphorically, then.” He lets out a shallow exhale. “Well, I... I hate to disappoint you, truly… but this ‘great play’ is finished. Even if that wasn’t so—even if there was more that I wished to, ngh… ‘write’ for you... all of the other actors have left the stage.”

“Well, I’ve grown quite accustomed to standing alone, and I’m no stranger to a one-man show!” He winks. “But I’m afraid that you’re mistaken. Another actor remains onstage beside me: you, Tenshouin Eichi-kun, Yumenosaki’s almighty Emperor ♪”

Tenshouin Eichi-kun… Even his own name sounds beautiful when Hibiki says it.

“I’m afraid not,” he disagrees. “As you can see… I am in no condition to return to the stage anytime soon.”

“Ah. But didn’t you decide that we were speaking metaphorically? A true protagonist need not stand on stage to play his part; the spotlight follows him wherever he goes.”

“Well, then, I have no desire to remain in the spotlight.”

“That’s all well and good; however, in this life, we cannot always choose our roles. Sometimes the spotlight is cast on us and, willing or not, we are given no choice but to perform…” He narrows his eyes ever so slightly. “Some of us cannot choose the parts we play. You understand that truth better than most, correct?” 

Though Hibiki says this with a friendly smile and a playful tone, the accusation lying just beneath his words makes the hairs on the back of Eichi’s neck stand on end.

Still, he’s strangely relieved to hear such a pointed remark. Of course, Eichi had already been certain that Hibiki must utterly loathe him for what he’s done, but his unsettlingly amiable behavior up until now had planted the tiniest seed of uncertainty in his mind… 

He wonders if, had things continued as they were for a bit longer, he even could have been convinced of the impossibility that Hibiki came here today to befriend him.

Eichi is an idiot. Hibiki hates him, and his words just now prove that. And he’s right, of course; Eichi, more than anyone, is guilty of using and manipulating others to perform his will. He doesn’t regret it—he can’t regret it, as Keito, his only remaining companion, has flatly refused to entertain any conversations anywhere in the vague proximity of doubt or regret—but he still feels a wave of freezing shame crash over him under Hibiki’s gaze.

He looks down and sighs. “Why are you really here, Hibiki-kun?” he asks, his eyes trained on his own hands, delicately placed one atop the other on his lap. “I don’t understand… If you want to curse me like Sakuma-kun, then I’ll accept it—I’ll embrace it, even. If you want to yell at me or hurt me in any way, then I’ll welcome that too… You can do whatever you want, truly; whatever it is, I’ll surely deserve it. But for you to act so—so familiar ...” He knots his fingers together, digging his nails into his knuckles. “... Please, you’ll have to explain it to me outright.”

In his periphery, he sees Hibiki lean back, uncrossing his legs and straightening his posture. “Why I am… really here?” he slowly echoes, as though sounding out the words to make sense of them.

“Yes,” Eichi answers, his eyes flitting back up to him anxiously. “I mean… You’ve come here for a reason, right? There must be something you intend to do—or to say.”

“There must be ?” he asks, raising his brows. “Hmm…” His lips twitch. “Well! It seems I’ve been caught. And all this time, I’d thought that my performance was impeccable! There really is no fooling some people, fufu ♪”

Eichi continues looking down.

“Yes… you are correct,” Hibiki continues with a solemn nod. “I did, in fact, come here for a reason. It’s rather embarrassing to admit aloud, so I hope you’ll excuse my reluctance to make my intentions clear…” 

He closes his eyes for a moment and gives a minute shake of his head as if to shoo away his insecurities. Eichi, captivated, turns to gaze up at him in rapt anticipation.

“You see, the truth is—” With each syllable, his voice raises in pitch and volume, his speech becoming more hurried. “Agh, please don’t laugh, but, well—” As his voice catches on the final word, he jerks his chin to the side to forcefully break eye contact. 

The words pour out of him in a frantic mess.

“The truth is, I came to the hospital today to pay my respects to my sick classmate! There, there, I said it! ”

… Huh?

Hibiki gives Eichi a moment to sit in baffled silence before speaking again. “Allow me to prove it to you!” he exclaims, raising his right palm. “Seeeee… ?” He wiggles his fingers in the air to ensure that Eichi’s attention is on his hand. “I even brought flowers!” 

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Hibiki closes his hand into a soft fist and opens it to present a thin but pristine bouquet of white lilies.

“Oh— wow! ” Eichi gasps, raising a hand to his heart instinctively. “You... It’s like you pulled them out of thin air... And they appear to be fresh, too...” 

“Yes, naturally!” Hibiki confirms. “I’m impressed that you were able to tell the difference so quickly.” He chuckles. “The line between what is ‘real’ and what is ‘not real’ is not so easily drawn for many of us… You have quite the eye, Your Majesty.”

That’s incredible… It being the middle of winter, lilies aren’t going to be in season for half a year. Eichi wonders whether they were difficult to find. Having never been to a regular flower shop himself, he has no frame of reference to draw from.

But—could that be right? Would Hibiki really have gone to a flower shop and bought Eichi flowers? No… perhaps he purchased these in the hospital gift shop… Eichi will have to ask Keito whether they sell bouquets like these here.

Still… to be given flowers by Hibiki Wataru… hand-delivered, no less… Perhaps he really is dreaming.

“And—And they’re for…” Recognizing the ridiculousness of the question a bit too late, Eichi trails off awkwardly, his cheeks burning.

To his relief, Hibiki understands. “Why yes, of course! They’re yours to keep! Here... ♪” He places the bouquet on the small bedside table. 

“Huh…” Eichi murmurs, eyes following the flowers. “It really was like you pulled them from thin air… You know, I haven’t the slightest idea how you did that.” Forgetting his nerves for a moment, he lets out a light chuckle… “You’re truly a magician, Hibiki-kun.”

Suddenly perplexed by the unfamiliar strain in his cheeks, Eichi realizes that he is smiling.

“Yes, well, that’s one of the many hats I wear! Acting, singing, dancing, magic, acrobatics… Ideally, I would like to become an expert in everything! You see, I have the soul of an entertainer! ☆” He pauses for a moment; when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Which is why you must understand that... without a captive audience to perform for, I’m absolutely nothing.”

Eichi raises his brows. “Well, I don’t see how someone as talented as you could ever be without an audience, Hibiki-kun. In this fiercely competitive industry, you stand at the very apex of all idols. If the world somehow failed to recognize that talent…” He shakes his head. “Then I’m certain the fault would lie in humanity, not in you.”

Hibiki’s expression falters for just a moment—but before Eichi is able to process it, his wide smile returns. “... You know, though you critiqued me for it a moment ago, you’re acting rather ‘familiar’ yourself! I must admit, I didn’t expect this sort of treatment. I was sure that you’d have re-donned the mask of His Majesty the Emperor and seized the opportunity to gloat~”

“ Gloat?” Eichi exclaims. “No, of course not! I have—” 

Eichi catches himself; he had very nearly said “I have nothing to gloat about”... Not a lie, not at all, but to say such a thing to someone like Hibiki would be to contradict the “truth” that it is vital he sanctify: fine and the student council were righteous, and their actions were necessary and just… That was why they won. Eichi’s own feelings must be irrelevant—invisible beneath the shadow of the empire he is building.

Hibiki himself had reminded Eichi of that fact on the eve of their DreamFes. 

If you are an idol, then lock those words away in the back of your heart.

Yes, now Eichi understands why his words had taken Hibiki aback. Keito would reprimand him for hours if he overheard how openly he’d praised Hibiki—one of the Five Eccentrics—just now. But Eichi is certain; he didn’t say anything that wasn’t “true.” It’s an undisputed fact that the Eccentrics are talented, and only a liar or a complete fool would deny such a thing. 

It’s because they squandered their natural gifts and lazily monopolized their positions as top idols that they needed to be killed.

The War is over, but the narrative still must be maintained.

He has to choose his words carefully here. No good will come from apologizing, and Hibiki has nothing to gain from Eichi’s guilt. Even if Eichi were to collapse to his knees and recount every one of his sins through hiccuping sobs, there would be no benefit for his witness—aside from some dark amusement at the pitiful display, perhaps.

No. Eichi must remain resolute and certain of his ambitions. 

He changes course. He cannot apologize for the majority of the ways he has hurt everyone… but he can apologize for one thing.

“Well… Especially since... Hibiki-kun, about what happened after the performance…”

Hibiki stiffens just slightly—but perhaps Eichi is imagining it.

He forces himself to continue. “Ah, I decided it would be awkward to ask you something like this in a letter or text message, but since you’re here now... Please. Let me cover the costs of your dry cleaning—or, better yet, allow me to pay to replace your outfit entirely. I’ll write you a check for any amount without question, so—”

“That’s not necessary,” Hibiki quickly interrupts, with uncharacteristic sternness. “That costume is completely fine; moreover, even if it was not, I have no intentions on ever wearing it again. So it would be a waste of our time to discuss the idea even a syllable further.”

Eichi holds his tongue; he wants to protest, but it’s clear that the other isn’t interested in continuing this topic of discussion. He can imagine why. His skin prickles with burning humiliation whenever he recalls it… the absolute lowest point of his life.

The final member of fine and the last of the Five Eccentrics stood on stage alone as the curtains closed.

The floodlights were blindingly bright—his wobbling hand doing little to shield his eyes; all around him, the ecstatic shrieks of the audience reverberated through his eardrums like the gnash of grinding gears; his vision spun and kaleidoscoped with sparkling, splotchy spots, making it hard to tell up from down… 

And then, his head so heavy with sensation, there was suddenly no ground beneath his feet. He staggered, unable to muster the strength—no, the will to stand on his own any longer… 

Hibiki—his idol, his enemy—was the only one at his side when he collapsed.

And he caught him. 

After all, he had no choice; there was no one else who would. And Hibiki was too good a person to ignore a fellow human in distress… Even if that human was Eichi.

He doesn’t remember most of what happened after; only that, moments later, Eichi’s stomach had lurched with misery… And then Hibiki’s cheek and outfit were drenched in crimson. 

True to his foul nature, it was Eichi’s way of repaying Hibiki for his selfless act of pity.

Then he woke up, days later, in this room.

Of course Hibiki wouldn’t want to be reminded of such a thing… The memory must disgust him to his core; perhaps even more than it disgusts Eichi.

Still, the selfish desire to apologize for something, anything impedes him from making the courteous, mature choice and abandoning the subject.

“Then please, at least allow me to offer my sincerest apologies—and my deepest thanks. I feel mortified about what happened… Hibiki-kun… I am so sorry for soiling your outfit like that.”

Hibiki makes the choice for him. “Now, now ♪” He wags his finger in playful chastisement. “Let’s not speak of it for a second longer, alright? The past is past, and there’s no use dwelling in what’s already done.” 

He claps his hands together. “It’s the mystery of the relentless present that intrigues me far more! ☆ Now that his war is won, what is Yumenosaki’s new reigning Emperor going to do next?”

“... Ah.” Eichi frowns. “I’m sorry, but you’re asking the same question as before, so my answer isn’t going to be any different. I am not going to do anything... not for quite a while, at least. I’ll surely be here in the hospital for at least a couple of months… and likely even longer.”

“Hmm. Yes, that is unfortunate… Classes will resume in a couple of weeks, as I’m sure you know. I take it you won’t be attending, even part-time?”

“No. I’ll do what schoolwork I can from here, but it’s not as though I’ll be able to participate in anything truly meaningful... Honestly, I probably won’t be able to return until the beginning of the new school year in April—if then.”

“That’s a terrible shame.” Hibiki sighs dramatically. “Ah, I imagine that school life will be very dull until then. The thought makes me want to skip the remainder of the school year as well~”

Eichi’s mouth curls up into a half-smile. “I sincerely hope you don’t. There will always be excitement at Yumenosaki as long as you’re there.” He wills a full smile onto his face. “Don’t worry. Our beloved school was dull; now that its spirit has been resuscitated, it will be much livelier now.”

Hibiki smirks. “How wonderful~ We are all in your debt, Your Majesty.”

“Hm.” Eichi’s brow furrows with a flash of frustration. “Even if you’re kidding, I’m not sure why you keep calling me that… As you can see, I’m nothing close to a monarch; I’m a sick child wasting away in a hospital bed.”

“Ah, so is it pity you want? I’m happy to take direction, so please offer me notes until I’m performing to your liking! ☆ Perhaps you’re not an Emperor, then, but rather a sad and neglected little prince... Cordoned in a cell in a high tower, his leg shackled to the wall... surrounded by all of his precious toys, but never able to play with them, for no matter how many times he desperately stretches out to grab them, they are always just out of arm’s reach...”

“... If you’re alluding to some work of literature, I don’t recognize it. Or perhaps you’re conflating the words ‘prince’ and ‘prisoner’... ?”

“Fufu. What a unique observation. But the two hold very similar meanings to you, don’t they? Here you are, the heir to an unfathomable fortune, having just made an entire academy of rising stars kneel at your feet... trapped in this lonely room, unable to reap any of what he’s sown.”

“Aha...” Eichi laughs weakly. Growing restless with discomfort, he casts his eyes downwards. “It all sounds so tragically beautiful coming from you. That’s your superpower, Hibiki-kun... You can spin anything into art.”

“Oh, I’m nothing but a second-rate spinner of tales when compared to that clown of yours. But I’ll never turn down well-intended praise; thank you.”

That clown … Eichi’s heart thuds like a dense, heavy rock against his lungs. Why did he have to bring him up? Eichi had been managing just fine by avoiding any and all thoughts of him. 

Hibiki had been there when the two of them had last spoken; he had seen exactly how disastrously their relationship had terminated. He must know how tender the memory is. 

Is he trying to hurt Eichi’s feelings by reminding him of Tsumugi?

“You’re welcome,” he says, though he’s forgotten what Hibiki had thanked him for. Having bought himself a few extra seconds, he wracks his brain for any way to salvage this conversation. He doesn’t want to speak about him —about anything or anyone from the past—but he cannot bear the thought of silence; for, as long as the two of them are talking, Hibiki will remain here. 

He can’t leave yet. There has to be something left to say—besides Tsumugi, besides the Eccentrics, besides the War… There has to be a reason to get him to stay just a little longer.

Knock, knock, knock.

For the briefest second, Eichi’s gentle frown turns into an indignant grimace. Then, as quickly as it appears, he replaces it with a blank expression of polite indifference.

“Yes, what is it?” he calls, his tone level yet curt.

One of the usual nurses pokes his head in. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, Mr. Tenshouin... The doctor was interested in looking over your recent test screenings with you before her shift ends. Would that…” The nurse’s eyes flick to Hibiki, surprised to see an unfamiliar face in the room of a patient with only one regular visitor. “... be alright with you, sir?”

No, of course not. Get out. 

He desperately wishes he could snap at him like that and send him away. And he would—he wants to… But, out of the corner of his eye, he can feel the weight of Hibiki’s eyes on him. 

Right… This is the last time the two of them will ever interact. Even if Eichi’s weak answers to his questions were unsatisfactory, Hibiki must have at least gotten what he truly came for: to see Eichi—”the Emperor”—reduced to such a lowly, pathetic state. 

Now, his morbid curiosity surely having been satisfied, Hibiki has no reason to return. 

Eichi doesn’t want the moment to end so soon… He doesn’t want Hibiki to leave. If he were to dismiss the nurse and order him to leave them alone, there’s a chance that the two of them could speak a bit longer… But he’d never forgive himself if he let Hibiki’s final memory of him be of him behaving like a brat.

Not trusting his own mind to keep his mouth shut, Eichi bites at the inside of his lower lip—a familiar anxious habit that would always give him awful mouth sores as a young boy. When the brunt of his indignation has passed, he offers the nurse a stiff nod.  “... Very well. Tell her to wait just a minute.”

“Yes, sir,” the nurse says, and the door quickly shuts.

He turns back to Hibiki and wills himself to act like an adult. “My apologies, Hibiki-kun. I’d like to continue talking, but it appears as though the powers that be have other plans for my evening. Thank you very much for the flowers; I’ll be sure to display them as soon as I can.” He offers a smile wide enough to reach his eyes—but only just.

“And thank you for your kind reception, Your Highness,” Hibiki says. He stands and, placing a hand over his heart, bends down in a courteous, but not exaggerated bow. “And for your company. I pray that your health improves sooner than you anticipate—for your sake, and for that of the adoring subjects who await you in your newly-founded kingdom.”

Eichi forces a laugh. “Yes... Thank you—I appreciate that... Please have a lovely evening.”

Hibiki nods and turns towards the door. A long second passes before he reaches out to grab the knob; desperate to spend just a few more seconds in his presence, Eichi calls out without thinking.

“And—Hibiki-kun... ?”

“Hm?” Hibiki asks, looking over his shoulder to meet the other’s eye.

“If you change your mind... about repayment… Please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Hibiki laughs in a way Eichi has never heard before—it’s harsh and dry, almost humorless. “Yes,” he says. “Understood, Your Highness.” 

Then the door shuts softly behind him.

Chapter Text

☼ ☼ ☼

Though a couple of weeks have passed, the prop room is just as Wataru left it. It appears that, despite his many complaints about Wataru’s admittedly whimsical organizational methods, Hokuto didn’t care enough to rearrange the room to his liking behind his back. Or perhaps his troublesome little pupil truly respects his authority as club president? ♪

No, it’s more likely that Hokuto simply didn’t consider such a petty maneuver worth his time—especially considering how tedious of a chore it is to visit Yumenosaki during winter holiday. With the regular academy staff also on break, only a few administrators remain on campus; and so, to protect the academy against vandals or trespassers, the gates are kept shut and will only open for staff and select authorized students—such as student council members, and club presidents, and unit leaders. Wataru supposes Hokuto could have asked his little friend on the student council to grant him access… but, of course, he’s too prideful for that~

Anyway, “chore” is a bit of a misnomer. Really, gaining admittance past the gate hadn’t been especially troublesome—all in all, the exchange had only taken about a minute. Still, there was something uniquely rattling about having to present his school ID to a guard at the front gates; as an idol attending this school—especially one as infamous as him—shouldn’t his face alone be identification enough? However, having already put one unfortunate service worker through undue trouble in the past twenty-four hours, Wataru swallowed the urge to playfully voice his indignation to the gatekeeper.

But even something like that wouldn’t usually bother him—it’s unfair to expect a seasonal security guard to familiarize themself with the entire student body for such a short-term position, after all.

No, the truth is, Wataru simply feels… unsettled today.

However! The day is still young—it’s not even noon yet!—and he hopes that, by finally getting around to this minor errand that he’s been putting off for some time now, he’ll regain some of his good humor.

And yet… as he holds the garment bag in his hands, he can’t yet work up the will to unzip it. He’s kept the costume sealed in the black plastic for some time now; though it’s been hanging in his bedroom closet all this time, he hasn’t laid eyes on it in weeks. It was the strangest thing, really; he hadn’t had the slightest issue with inspecting and touching it while it was still dirty, but as soon as it was clean, Wataru immediately wanted it out of his sight.

The costume is flexible enough to fold and store away in a box or chest, but he is resistant to the idea. No, he’d prefer to hang it up; there’s still a fair bit of room left on the free-standing rack, so why pack it away? Still, it would be wise to at least keep the costume in the garment bag, but he’s not concerned with long-term storage at the moment. Besides, perhaps the gold trim will catch the eye of passersby long enough for him to seize their attention and persuade them to enroll in the theater club?

… A shoddy excuse. He’s not interested in recruiting anyone; those with a passion for theater will join, and while most of them may not stay for long, the ones with talent—and if not talent, then at least adequate stamina and perseverance—will remain.

In truth, Wataru does not want to give anyone the impression that he’s hiding the outfit—and his past—away.

With that sentiment driving him, he grips the zipper tab between his thumb and index finger and gently glides it down. Holding the hooks of both hangers—one for the blazer, one for the slacks—in one hand, he unzips the garment bag about two-thirds of the way down and then, as though helping a butterfly rid itself of its cocoon, he tugs the remainder of the black plastic to the floor.

Naturally, the reveal is anti-climactic; it looks just the same as it did when he’d last seen it.
In fact, it actually looks better than he remembered! It is absolutely pristine; try as he might, he can’t find even the slightest trace of a stain anywhere. And he knows exactly where to look, after all.

Running his fingertips across the collar, he recalls the weight of that ashen forehead as it thumped against his chest... surprisingly heavy for such a thin person. One would suppose an angel, even in its material form, would be as light as feathers—and yet it was as though the Emperor’s fragile body was weighed down by a thousand stones. The force of their impact was not nearly enough to topple Wataru, of course; no, it was the shock of the sudden hiccup in their otherwise flawless final scene that made him suck in a sharp breath.

Had the Emperor heard him? He doubts it; he was likely fading out of consciousness by then, as soon enough, it wasn’t merely the weight of his head that Wataru had to support, but that of his entire body. His collapse was a truly captivating sight to witness up-close—in the blink of an eye, he had gone from tall and proud to as limp as a ragdoll, as though someone offstage had snapped their fingers and yanked all of the remaining life out of his body.

… Hmm. “Ragdoll” was a rather degrading comparison, wasn’t it? Wataru has always been a method actor, so it’s imperative that he begins filtering his own thoughts. A certain degree of playful teasing is expected from a jester, but there is a fine line between playfulness and cruelty, so he’ll amend it: Rather, much like Atlas succumbing to the weight of the world, so did the Emperor finally topple beneath his sins.

Yes, that’s a more favorable allusion… although Wataru and his ilk are a more apt comparison to the Titans, aren’t they? Vile, immoral beasts methodically slaughtered by the holy and righteous gods in their efforts to cleanse the world of depravity and claim the heavens for themselves… Eugh . The Emperor and his conspirators were right to end this chapter of the story when they did; it is quite clichéd.

Wataru had never actually supported the full weight of another human before. He’d been in similar positions in acting scenarios, of course—both as fainter and faintee . The common theater exercise of “trust falls” comes to mind: one person willingly leans back on the balls of their feet until they begin to blindly fall backwards, but are caught in the arms of their partner before they can hit the ground. A cute enough team-building activity, but Wataru has never found the feat particularly impressive. Even if you are certain that you will be caught when you collapse, there will always be some manner of restraint in the falling; it’s only human nature to brace oneself against even the remote possibility of pain or injury. One’s logical mind may trust their partner to catch them, but the body is naturally suspicious and deeply pessimistic. Only the most gifted of performers are able to suppress their innate survival instincts in favor of pursuing their ultimate artistic potential.

A stage actor only performs on cue, and Wataru is certain that that spectacular collapse was not on-script. The Emperor must be quite the improvisational prodigy. 

Yes, no matter how devoted to one’s craft an actor is, pretending to faint and actually fainting are two different matters… Still, Wataru wonders if he is capable of simulating something close to what he’d witnessed that day... ?

Fufu, certainly he could. It’s merely a matter of selecting the appropriate manuscript… Something melodramatic, naturally, yet not entirely without hope... And, oh, wouldn’t it be much more exciting if he were to collapse dead rather than merely faint? The subtleties may not communicate to the untrained eye, but he has been practicing regulating his own heartbeat to near-zero… Or—hmm, perhaps there’s a role which could give him the opportunity to faint and collapse dead…? 

… Aha . It will take quite a while to prepare the costumes and sets, not to mention whip his future juniors into adequate shape… but perhaps by the spring of next year?

Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.

I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins that almost freezes up the heat of life... ♪

Goodness. The perfect outfit for his climactic scene is already taking form in his head. Oh, surely Shu will indulge him with the costume design; who could resist a pretty dress?

But he’s gotten distracted. Or, rather, he’s distracted himself long enough.

He saw Tenshouin Eichi yesterday.

Ah, it sounds so exciting when he phrases it like that! Hibiki Wataru, the repulsive and enigmatic magician of the Five Eccentrics, and Tenshouin Eichi, student council president and puppetmaster of the glorious Yumenosaki War, shared a private conversation for the first time since the former was slaughtered onstage by the latter’s own hand!

… And yet, to Wataru’s frustration, he feels utterly dissatisfied by the encounter. He’d visited with the expectation of being entertained, and yet... while he was entertained — oh, very much so, in fact—he can’t shake the feeling that he did not receive what he came for.

“ His presence is more than welcome here,” he’d said. That boy— the Emperor —had been off-script from the very start. Why was it that he could be so cold and ruthless to all of his enemies but Wataru? How painful! He absolutely loathed being excluded. But perhaps his etiquette and kindness were a facet of his cruelty; a monarch must reserve his widest smiles for his enemies. Rei could attest to that.

Even so, Wataru’s gut tells him that this was not the case yesterday. Take that banal magic trick, for instance. Knowing what he did of the other’s esteem for him, Wataru had certainly anticipated a favorable reaction to the bouquet reveal—but the amplitude of his reaction felt entirely disproportionate to the quality of the trick! It’s as if his entire demeanor had changed! In an instant, he had gone from impassive restraint to an almost childish delight. Over a tiny bouquet of flowers! Belonging to one of the wealthiest families in Japan, surely he’d been presented with extravagant flower displays as large as a Bengal tiger; a thin bundle of lilies should merit nothing more than a polite nod.

Once again: what made Wataru the exception?

Well, there’s no use in overthinking it. These things take time, after all; and he has every intention to be patient. It’s no fun when a storyline is rushed to its conclusion, and skipping ahead would spoil the rich pleasure of the journey. Of course, he has his suspicions about how this tale will unfold, but he is in no hurry to reach the ending prematurely.

That having been said... He’s still at a bit of a loss for how to proceed. Really, he’d expected more of a reaction out of his host today—frankly, any strong emotion would have done! That short burst of excitement at the flowers was a start, but it hadn’t been enough to break through the Emperor’s pretense. Tragically, none of his reactions or expressions were unambiguous enough for Wataru to fully sink his talons into. Yes, he was clearly unnerved and more than a little uncomfortable, but the source of his disquiet was difficult to pin down…

There are the obvious reasons, of course; his weak apology and multiple offers to “repay” Wataru were about more than the mess on his jacket. But if he truly was so ashamed and guilt-ridden, how on earth was he able to carry a conversation? To smile and even laugh—however half-heartedly? How was he able to even look Wataru in the eye?

Well, perhaps Rei is right. Maybe he is heartless.

Gah, and yet he had offered to pay for the outfit to be dry cleaned! The Emperor is not that skilled of an actor; if he was being disingenuous in his cordiality, how is it that he was able to say something so bizarre with such a straight face? It was the sort of offer you’d make to a friend when you spill your drink on their new shirt—not the sort of thing you’d say to someone whom you… Well. Wataru is still confounded by the exact nature of their relation to one another, so he won’t follow that thought any further.

Besides, it truly was an unnecessary offer; after all, it wasn’t Wataru’s first time washing and sterilizing an outfit stained with blood. Although he wouldn’t readily admit it, it took a decade of dedicated, painstaking practice to hone his acrobatic skills to where they are today, and Wataru had snapped many a branch beneath his feet in his failed attempts at leaping down the tallest trees he could climb. He hadn’t developed his animal handling skills overnight, either—and doves’ beaks are deceptively sharp.

Still, as spotless as it is now, Wataru will never wear this outfit again. But he would also never throw it away; apart from the previous stains and the memories associated with them, it really is a flawless ensemble. The stains are long gone now, and the memories will soon fade away as well. Perhaps, years from now, after he’s left the idol world behind altogether, a future theater club member will be able to wear this outfit and feel none of the weight of its history.

Or, if nothing else, Shu can scrap it and use the materials for a new design. Though Wataru doubts he’d be interested in so much as touching the costume no matter how thoroughly Wataru swears he cleaned it.

Either way, he thought to himself as he hung it back on the rack, it won’t go to waste.

Now, with that errand done, Wataru doesn’t have any reason to stay on campus. Yumenosaki is eerily quiet during holidays—so quiet, in fact, that he wonders whether the Phantom of Yumenosaki themself has taken a vacation as well. A mysterious singing coach who lurks beneath the auditorium… Are they salaried, or does the academy pay them hourly?

Fufu, now The Phantom of the Opera would be a thrill to perform this year as well. But would Wataru rather play the role of the phantom or of the heroine? He’s never one to pass up an opportunity to wear a mask, of course; but on the other hand, how can he possibly resist the chance to wear a beautiful dress? Hmm, well, he supposes that he could always have the phantom wear a dress… Or, better yet, make the phantom a woman altogether! Ah, layers upon layers of forbidden romance… ♪

“Hibiki.”

Ah. It seems as though rehearsals have already begun! This must be the scene where the phantom visits the heroine in her dressing room! Though it appears that his scene partner has forgotten his cue; doesn’t he know that the two leads are supposed to lock eyes for the first time on either side of a mirror? He was supposed to wait until Wataru hit his mark before revealing himself—a ridiculous error, seeing as how the prop room’s mirror is on the wall opposite to where Wataru is standing.

Wataru spins around, grinning. He’d recognize that surly tone of voice anywhere.

“Megane-kun, hello, hello! Welcome! Now whyever could you be here today?” He claps his hands together with a happy sigh. “Ah, it must have been the whims of fate that whisked you to my doorstep~ Hoho, are you interested in enrolling in the theater club, by chance? As a single parent, please understand that I am veeeery selective about the sort of man I’ll allow into my precious Hokuto-kun’s life, but I suppose I could be persuaded to roll the dice with a handsome scoundrel like you…”

Hasumi’s left eye twitches; yet even this tiny crack in his stony expression is a relief after yesterday. Irritation—now that’s an emotion Wataru has oceans of experience with.

”Don’t jump to ridiculous conclusions before I’ve been able to say more than a single word,” Hasumi deadpans. “I am here because I saw your name on the sign-in sheet at the gate and inferred that you would be here. I have no interest in joining your ‘club’; at this moment, nothing interests me less than the notion of…” He gestures vaguely at the room. “...Playing dress-up and frolicking around like careless children.”

Wataru grins. “Fufu. Although those are some of our favored activities, I’ll have you know that dressing up and frolicking isn’t all we do! No, no, I take my duties as theater club president incredibly seriously! Why else would I be here during my winter vacation?”

“I couldn’t possibly answer that,” he retorts. ”However, taking your abysmal attendance into account, I struggle to believe that you came to campus today with good intentions.”

“What? Are you talking about me? One could even argue that I take my duties more seriously than you… You signed in after me, after all, which means that I arrived on campus first~ Did you sleep in late? Is that why you’re so tardy today? ♪”

“No. I had a personal affair to see to first; not that that’s any of your business. Anyway, attendance is not recorded during school holidays, and the time of my arrival reflects nothing of my devotion to my studies or my student council duties. Furthermore, thus far, you’ve failed to demonstrate any interest—or capability —in behaving like a responsible student or mentor. Until you do, I will tune out all of your empty boasts as meaningless white noise.”

“Wahahah! Your words slice sharper than knives! Scary, scary~” Wataru laughs. “I suppose I should watch my tongue around you—but I think we’d both have much more fun if I didn’t. Although... as much as I’d like to submit to a tongue lashing, I imagine that you didn’t come all this way simply to chastise me?”

“No— hngh , however much your behavior warrants it. You are correct: I am here on official student council business. Hibiki, you are aware of the current requirements of Yumenosaki students enrolled in the idol course.”

The statement is not phrased or spoken with the cadence of a question, but Wataru recognizes it as a prompt to speak regardless.

“Perhaps… ?” He looks to the side and strokes his chin contemplatively. “Although there have been quite a few changes this past year, and, not having the slightest interest in politics and bureaucracy, I can’t say I’ve paid much attention to such minutiae…” He tuts. “Oh, but that’s surely not the answer you were hoping to hear... Have you changed your mind about that scolding yet? ♪”

“Ngh... Then you must at least know of one of the most fundamental recent regulations: the requirement that every student in the idol course be registered to a unit constituted of two to five members.”

“Ah! Yes, yes, I believe I’d heard one or two passing mentions of something like that! Howeeeeever, I unfortunately still have quite a middling interest in the subject; honestly, I’m straining my cognitive abilities to their very limits in my attempts to remain engaged in this conversation! Hmm, perhaps the student council’s recent achievements are a topic better discussed with someone who has a more personal connection to the whole ordeal… ?”

Wataru snaps his fingers and dons a mischievous smirk. “ Ohoh , wait a moment... You and Rei are close friends, aren’t you? Or—was it formerly close friends... ? ♪ Either way, if you’re looking to reconnect, I suggest you try boasting about the student council’s good deeds to him~ As the former president, I’m certain he would be exceedingly interested in the accomplishments of his successors~”

Hasumi grimaces. “Don’t introduce unnecessary topics. I have no interest in having any contact whatsoever with Sakuma.” He pauses, his brows pinched together in reconsideration. “And—Well, if there were something he cares to speak to me about, then he is more than capable of approaching me himself.”

He clears his throat with obvious discomfort. “Anyway. Hibiki, even you aren’t deranged enough to misinterpret the point of my visit so spectacularly. But if you insist that I spell it out plainly, then I will do so: The student council has been exhaustingly patient with your failure to form or join a unit, but that patience will promptly expire at the start of the next school year. If you are not in a unit by that time, you will not be permitted to continue in the idol course at Yumenosaki Academy.”

An ultimatum? Ah, of course; a story must establish a clear deadline, lest its audience fear that the narrative will be aimless or unending… Very well: this intermission will span three months, then. He only wishes he could thank Hasumi for the direction—perhaps this will do?

“Oh, my.” Wataru raises a hand to cover his mouth. “Megane-kun... Has anyone ever told you how handsome you look when you’re threatening someone?”

“Don’t—” Hasumi’s cheeks turn pink in a satisfying concurrence of irritation and embarrassment.

“Wahaha, please tell me you’ll give a second thought to my invitation to join the theater club! With all of the free time I am apparently soon to have, I’ll be able to make a dedicated search for all of the perfect romance scenes for us to perform together... ♪” Wataru tilts his face to the side in mock shyness and flutters his eyelashes coquettishly.

Hasumi’s jaw clenches; Wataru watches with thinly-veiled delight as the tendons of his neck tense with the strain. “Stop attempting to steer this conversation away from its sole purpose,” he growls through his teeth. “Listen to me, Hibiki. If you wish to remain an idol at this school, then you have only two choices: you can either join an existing unit or create one of your own.”

“Aha! Now I see; you’ve given me a riddle. A premise that seems impossible at first but that, through a clever change in perspective, can be answered with surprising ease.” Wataru taps his right foot against the floor and hums to himself. “Hmm... If you say I only have two choices, then that must mean that the correct answer is… neither? Or... perhaps both? Then—I suppose I should join a non-existent unit... Or create one that already exists? ☆” He locks eyes with Hasumi. “What do you think—am I getting warmer...?”

Sadly, to his disappointment, Hasumi doesn’t react. A shame—Wataru supposes that their back-and-forth must have already grown too formulaic, allowing Hasumi to anticipate and steel himself against Wataru’s most recent attempt to rile him up. Well, that’s to be expected; stubborn, rigid people like him are very easy to shake around, but awfully difficult to snap . It appears that Wataru has pushed him as far as he’ll bend today.

“Hmph,” Hasumi grumbles. “As usual, every single word out of your mouth is nonsense. I came here as a courtesy, but I can see now that it was a waste of my time… Well, being the sane one in this situation, I should have anticipated this; I only have myself to blame.” He readjusts his glasses atop the bridge of his nose with two stiff fingers. “You are beyond help, Hibiki—your only remaining option is to help yourself.”

He turns to go. However, before he can cross through the doorway, Wataru calls out. “A courtesy, then? Is that really why you came all this way to see me?”

Hasumi stops and then turns around. “What are you implying?”

Aha. It seems like his hunch paid off. Their encounter today was a little too fortuitous to be believable as a coincidence—once again, the script writers are leaning heavily on clichés… Well, clichés are overused for a reason, aren’t they? The more contrivances, the merrier; he doesn’t place much stock in what’s considered “normal,” anyway.

“How should I know? You’re far cleverer than I am, after all... As such, I struggle to grasp why you, knowing my character as well as you say, would come all this way to pay me this favor.”

“This was not a favor. Don’t twist my actions—I have no intention of assisting you in any way. The only reason I’m here is because, as the interim head of the student council, it falls upon me to—”

“Riiiight, right,” Wataru interrupts, waving his hand dismissively. “ Interim head... Ah, now that reminds me! Have you visited the student council president lately? You know, it’s astounding how quickly he’s recovered from his little episode! I just can’t put into words how relieved I was to see him well yesterday. It gives me hope that fine ’s shining star might one day return to once again walk down these very halls… ♪”

Hasumi’s eyes widen with fury. Perhaps Wataru spoke too soon; Hasumi might have been splintering more than he suspected. “You—You are utterly shameless ,” he spits. “Don’t speak about Eichi’s health so frivolously—as though you actually care about his recovery. Even if you’re content to waltz through life without any bonds or earthly attachments, you have no right to infringe upon the private lives of others needlessly.”

... Eichi? That’s what Hasumi calls him?

What exactly is the nature of their relationship?

Wataru feels as though he could burst with eagerness; he was expecting a supporting cast member, but this one appears to have already claimed a lead role.

“Yes... Meddling in the fates of others for the sake of one’s own interests would be absolutely unforgivable, wouldn’t it? Thank you very much for the advice.”

Hasumi sighs in exasperation—but, to Wataru’s surprise, says nothing.

“Well?” he prompts after a moment. “Are you really going to leave without scolding me? I’ve been looking forward to it with all my heart, so please don’t let me down, Megane-kun~”

“You’re not worth the breath I’d waste. I have actual work to do now. You had your fun, Hibiki—” He pauses. “And I hope that you got whatever it was you were looking for. Stay away from Eichi from now on.”

With that, he turns around and stalks out of the room.

Wataru chuckles under his breath.

Well, there’s just no getting around it, is there?

There are too many missing pieces to this puzzle; even with a few daring guesses, he has no chance of solving it yet. He’d planned on biding his time for a bit—a week, perhaps—on the off-chance that the other would find some way to make contact with him first... But he simply can’t resist.

The day is still young, after all. And with his second-in-command preoccupied with all of his very important scholarly duties, the Emperor must be getting terribly lonely.

Chapter Text

☆ ☆ ☆

Click… click… 

The sound of oncoming footsteps throws Eichi into high alert, giving him only a few seconds to react before the visitor reaches his room.

Click… click…

The steps aren’t heavy, yet they reverberate in the quiet hallway with an insistent, echoing tempo—not hurried, not casual, but perfectly paced, as though the stride of each leg is the ticking arm of a metronome.

No one walks like this in here. Medical staff and hospital clerks always have somewhere else to be, so their steps are light and brisk. Patients, who have nowhere to be, shuffle and drag their feet along the glossy vinyl floors like listless zombies. Visitors—friends, family members, priests—may fall to either extreme, depending on their eagerness or reticence to see an inmate (Keito, to his credit, always seems to be in a hurry to get to Eichi’s room as soon as possible), but Eichi has never heard a person walk at such an impeccably steady, casual pace in a hospital.

Whoever this person is, they are an outsider—an outsider who wants to be noticed.

He trains his eyes on the open doorway… and, as soon as Hibiki’s torso crosses into view, Eichi speaks.

“Hibiki-kun… Good afternoon.”

He’s greeted with a wide smile.

Eichi is by no means prepared for Hibiki’s second visit; however, he is, at the very least, significantly less shocked to see him.

Not unaffected—not at all. The sight of him still thrills his heart into an onslaught of fluttering palpitations—the sudden rush of blood from his extremities into his chest making his fingertips feel weightlessly cold and his brain woozy with exhilaration… But such sensations are only natural—Eichi’s body has always responded this way in the presence of Hibiki Wataru.

Of course, his fragile physical condition and even more abysmal emotional state have exacerbated these reactions to an even greater extreme than normal. Early on, when his health had been more stable, he’d almost been able to swallow down the butterflies in his stomach whenever he passed Hibiki in the hallway or accidentally made eye contact from across the courtyard. Still, even then, the slightest glimpse of him would unsettle Eichi’s day and stick against the wall of his mind like a tacky piece of hard candy.

No… as much as the thought worries and frustrates him, Eichi has never been prepared to see—much less interact with —Hibiki. However, while the idea of Hibiki suddenly appearing in his hospital room had been a laughable impossibility just two days previous (and it had been an impossibility—the ridiculousness of which had felt blatantly obvious as soon as Eichi had awoken from his Christmas Eve fantasy), Eichi can no longer deny reality.

Hibiki is here. Again.

(Although, he did say something yesterday about the unconscious mind being quick to adapt to extraordinary situations… Eichi’s sure he had woken up a couple of hours ago—his visit with Keito having been far too tedious and mind-numbing to be a dream—but is it possible that he’s fallen back asleep… ?)

Well… no progress will come from overthinking it now. It’s imperative that he stays present and alert in this moment; asleep or awake, Eichi owes Hibiki Wataru his undivided attention.

“Your Majesty,” Hibiki returns smoothly, as though pleasantly greeting a good acquaintance. “My sincerest apologies.”

Eichi coughs out a choked laugh. “E-Excuse me—? What could you possibly have to apologize for?”

“Well, for my lateness! It’s clear that you’ve been expecting me. I sincerely regret having made you wait ♪”

Expecting—? No, not at all! Quite the opposite, in fact—Eichi had every expectation that he would never interact with Hibiki again.

What would give Hibiki that impression… ? Because Eichi had been facing the door when he’d approached? He’d tried to look calm and friendly when Hibiki approached—but perhaps his expression had read as expectant instead?

But Eichi was only reacting to the sound he’d heard. Yes, he likely appeared more surprised yesterday, but that’s only because, unlike today, he had been given no time to react before Hibiki appeared. There’s a chance that he had failed to notice the sound of his oncoming footsteps, but…

No, to Eichi’s recollection, the hallway was utterly silent until the very moment Hibiki called out to him. Though he had apparently run from the reception desk to Eichi’s room, Eichi had only heard one set of shoes: the distinctive squeak of the receptionist’s sneakers. And even then, Hibiki, having outpaced her by roughly ten seconds, appeared in his doorway before the echo of her hurried steps could reach Eichi’s ears.

There’s no way that a human being could modulate the sound of their footsteps to such a degree by accident… So Hibiki must have known that Eichi could hear him coming, right? If that’s so, then the logical conclusion is that Hibiki is being insincere in his strange apology…

But… why? To taunt him? To hurt his feelings? Or… simply to see if Eichi will notice?

It’s not as though Eichi can call him out on it—he would never dare to speak to Hibiki so impolitely. No, he has no choice but to give an awkward, cordial answer in response.

“Ah… Well, there’s no need to apologize, then; I was not expecting you.”

“Oh?” Hibiki’s eyes widen. “And yet you appear so relaxed… When surprised, humans usually give some form of reaction—a flinch or gasp, for example! Witnessing such gestures in response to one of my tricks is a longtime pleasure of mine, you know.”

Is he… criticizing Eichi’s lack of reaction? No… No—he must be kidding again.

And yet, he isn’t smiling… Don’t people usually smile when they’re joking?

… Agh, insincere or not, Eichi is overcome with the senseless urge to reassure him. “My reflexes must be defective, then. Even though my reaction was lukewarm, I promise that I am surprised to see you, Hibiki-kun.”

Hibiki raises his brows. “Truly? Well, perhaps my expectations were skewed; you see, just a moment ago, that woman at the reception desk made an incredible scowl when she saw me approaching!” He shakes his head in apparent disappointment. “I wondered perhaps whether someone had written something vulgar on my face while I was asleep, as, wouldn’t you know it, I was greeted with the very same hostility by a completely different person only an hour ago!”

A smile creeps onto his face as he continues. “So, as I walked down the hall, I couldn’t help but imagine what sort of face you’d make when you saw me~”

He’s smiling now—does that mean that he really was serious before? Unsure how exactly to respond, Eichi remains silent for an extra beat; Hibiki picks up the slack.

“Regardless, it’s good to see you once again, Your Majesty. Hmm… You said yesterday that you were able to hear me at this distance. Should I stay here, then? Or would you prefer I come closer?”

Oh, my. “Should I stay here or come closer?” What tricky phrasing… There’s no question as to whether he’ll leave, then—only how close Eichi will allow him to be. Once again, he’s put Eichi in quite the awkward position; there is only one polite way to answer.

“Well, I’d be a terrible host if I asked you to keep standing there…”

Hibiki nods enthusiastically. “Excellent! Yes, your hospitality is without equal! I’ll make myself at home, then~” He takes a single step into the room before pausing. “And the door; open or closed?”

And, mere seconds later, Eichi is put on the spot once again.

Well, yesterday he answered “closed.” It would be natural for him to give the same answer again—it would be suspicious if his preference changed overnight. Furthermore, still clueless as to Hibiki’s intentions with him, Eichi would like to offer him the same courtesy again: the freedom and privacy to act however he’d like with no other witness but himself.

However… Does Eichi saying that he wants the door closed give the impression that he’d prefer absolute privacy—that he has something to hide?

Of course, it could be a meaningless question. Doctors and nurses have asked him the very same thing as they exited his room. If it were anyone else, Eichi would assume the question was an act of courtesy… But Hibiki is different; he’s a genius. So Eichi can’t take anything he says at face value, right?

Still, as much as he’d like to provide the objectively correct answer to his question, Eichi is distracted by a tight clenching in his stomach… Indignation. A small, petulant, part of him wants Hibiki to be put on the spot for once. It’s not fair that he be able to take command of the conversation before it’s even begun, right?

“... Whatever you think is best,” he answers.

“Oh?” Hibiki blinks. “Well, then… If neither of us has an opinion, then I suppose I’ll leave it as it is.”

Just as he did the day before, Hibiki strides towards the desk to retrieve the chair. Once again, however, he pauses and returns his attention to Eichi.

“Hm. Was my redecoration not to your tastes, then?”

“What?”

“If you’ll recall: I moved this very chair to your bedside yesterday. And yet, today it has reappeared in its original place! I can only assume that His Highness was displeased by its relocation.”

… Is Hibiki actually a mind-reader? Or is it really a coincidence that he’d ask such a question only a couple of hours after someone else had pestered Eichi about that very chair’s placement?

He disguises his surprise with a breathy laugh. “Ahah. No, please move it wherever you’d like. I had no problems with where you’d placed it.”

“But… someone did?” Hibiki prompts.

Eichi can’t hold back a smirk. “Yes, someone did…” He gestures to the chair opposite Hibiki on the right side of his bed, its back to the window. “There’s already one chair here, you see. This one is for visitors… that one belongs at the desk.”

He’s being a bit unfair; Keito’s irritation this morning had very little to do with the relocation of the furniture and much more to do with the identity of the redecorator. He feels a warm rush of affection at the memory of his precious childhood friend huffing with irritation as he demanded to know who had visited the day before, his cheeks reddening as he grew increasingly frustrated with each of Eichi’s coy non-answers.

“Who moved this chair, Eichi?”

“Fufu… Why, I did, of course.”

“At least look me in the eye when you lie to me so brazenly. If you really have the strength to lift a chair, then stand up right now and give me a second demonstration of your miraculous recovery.”

“Hehe ♪ Why should I do that when my lifelong servant is right here to do all my work for me?”

He’d eventually figured out the culprit on his own, no thanks to Eichi’s teasing. He’d assured Eichi that he’d “get to the bottom of this” with such adorable determination in his expression—and yet here Hibiki is, only hours later… Oh, Eichi is already looking forward to seeing Keito’s reaction to the chair being moved once again~

Hibiki furrows his brow. “Only one chair for all of the Emperor’s visitors? What are they expected to do—sit stacked on one another’s laps?”

“That hasn’t been an issue so far,” Eichi answers simply. “As I said, it’s really no trouble if you move it again.”

“... Can’t I sit in that chair, then? I am a visitor, after all—it’s essential that I sit in the appropriate seat.”

“O-Of course,” Eichi says quickly. Though Keito will like that even less. “Although the view won’t be as nice; you won’t be able to look out the window that way.”

Hibiki’s eyes narrow for a brief moment. “... That’s alright,” he says, and then shrugs and makes his way to the other side of the bed.

As Eichi follows him with his eyes, he realizes his mistake: the curtains are drawn shut, making his counterpoint about the “view” completely idiotic. Ugh, and Keito’s always lecturing him about the value of letting in natural sunlight—he must’ve been too distracted by the chair to remember to draw the blinds this morning.

But, fortunately, it seems that Hibiki has chosen to let Eichi’s blunder go; he passes the covered window without so much as a glance before seating himself on Keito’s chair.

Just as he did the day before, he leans forward, chin on palm, and focuses his eyes—and his attention—entirely on Eichi. “I am more than satisfied with my view~”

Eichi’s heart throbs in his throat. Before he can even begin to ponder the intent or meaning behind Hibiki’s words, Eichi’s brain begins searching desperately for something to say. For a reason he can’t explain, it is suddenly essential that he changes the subject as soon as possible.

“... How is your day?” he asks, with forced nonchalance.

Hibiki exhales a soft laugh. “—How kind of you to ask.” He hums in thought for a moment. “You know, I’ve done this and that… I’ve gotten quite a few things done already, in fact. Still, it’s been an endeavor to seek out interesting ways to pass the time.”

“For someone like you to be bored, the outside world must be completely devoid of all entertainment,” Eichi replies with a smile. “Fortunately, winter break will end soon and everyone can return to school.”

“Hmm, I suppose so. Still, I don’t believe attending classes will help ease my ennui… Perhaps you have the right idea; I think that I will look into completing my schoolwork remotely as well.”

Another insincere remark… He must be mocking him, right?

Eichi frowns. “Well, it wasn’t my idea. I’d much rather be attending classes in-person. If I had my way, I’d never have gotten into this bed in the first place.”

Hibiki raises a brow. “So you are a prisoner, then. You couldn’t be a mere hostage; if that were the case, surely you’d have already paid your ransom by now!” He sighs woefully. “How reprehensible it is that you’ve been kept locked up against your will for so long. Shall we stage a prison break?”

Eichi chuckles under his breath. “Unfortunately, those have never proved successful for me.”

“Well, that’s because you’ve never had my assistance.”

Eichi shakes his head. “Well, I don’t doubt that you would be able to help me escape unnoticed… But my family always has ways of locating me; it would only be a matter of time until I was found once again.”

“Have you considered changing your appearance and taking on a new identity? You know, your hair is so light that you’d be able to dye it any color you like!”

“Haha… That’s a good idea, but I’m afraid I’m not suited for a lifestyle on the run… My body would certainly fail me after a short while… No, instead, I am fated to a brief and sedentary existence. God decided that for me at the moment of my birth.”

“God, just like any ruler, is fallible. Even if that is true—that each of us was created with a singular purpose in mind—we human beings were also endowed with the gift of free will. Who is more suited to decide our fates than ourselves?” He eyes Eichi for a moment before adding, “... Unless you’re speaking as a true believer—and, in that case, please forgive any offense.”

“Nothing you say could ever offend me,” Eichi assures. “Say whatever disdainful things you like about God; I’ll most certainly agree with you. I hold no deference to him.” Concerned that his words sounded too much like a command, he hurries to clarify: “... Not that I expect you to speak more on a topic you’re not interested in.”

“Put your mind at ease, for I am interested in everything! ☆ However, I suspect that you have more insight on the subject than I do—being a ‘God’ yourself.”

Eichi can’t suppress a small pout. “... If that’s a new title I’ve gained without my knowledge, I must say that I’m unhappy with it.”

“Fufu. There’s no use trying to dictate how others refer to you; in my experience, I’ve found it best to embrace it~ However, as far as I’m aware, your title has not changed. You are still ‘only’ Yumenosaki’s Emperor. It was merely an observation of mine—consider it a suggestion, if you find your current nickname ever grows stale.”

Eichi lets out a dry laugh. “In my eyes, that title grew stale long ago… But it’s certainly stuck, hasn’t it? I’d be lucky to live long enough to outlast that nickname; as it stands now, I suspect it’ll be inscribed on my tombstone.”

Hibiki smirks. “A meager tombstone? Don’t you mean mausoleum, Your Majesty?”

Eichi laughs again. “Close, but not exactly. You see… someone promised me long ago that I would be buried in a giant pyramid when I died.”

Hibiki’s brows shoot up in eager curiosity. “Oh? That’s quite a promise to make! I wasn’t aware that there were any giant pyramids in Japan!”

“There aren’t. That’s why he’ll build one just for me~” Eichi softly clears his throat. “Well—I’m kidding, of course. That would be an awful waste of money and land, after all. And it’s not as though I’ll be able to appreciate it—unless an afterlife really does exist. Otherwise, it would just be a giant, luxurious monument to a rotting corpse.”

To his surprise, Hibiki doesn’t counter with a clever rebuff. Instead, he simply nods and says, simply,  “... Yes, yes, I see.”

Whoops.

Eichi is intimately aware that his dark sense of humor is off-putting—and he’ll admit that part of the fun of making morbid jokes is the discomfort he induces in others. Keito chastises him about it, but he’s the one at fault, really; it’s hypocritical of him to turn his nose up at it now after indulging and encouraging his morbid sense of humor throughout the bulk of their childhood. Over the past couple years, Eichi’s gotten him to play along every now and then, but for the most part nowadays, Keito shuts down whenever Eichi even indirectly references his looming death—even refusing to engage in the driest, most practical discussions about how Keito’s  career ambitions will shift after Eichi is gone.

Eichi shouldn’t have assumed that Hibiki would be unaffected. Death is still a sensitive topic for most people, after all… Even if he doesn’t care about Eichi personally, it’s natural for him to be uncomfortable with discussions of mortality. Yes, he must have been joking just now as a way to lighten the mood—and yet instead of taking the hint, Eichi doubled down and left Hibiki, a man with the quickest wit he’s ever encountered, at a loss for how to respond.

Ugh, what an awful misstep… Keito is right. Eichi is hopeless.

“So,” he adds hurriedly. Even if he cannot salvage the conversation, he can at least ensure that Hibiki receives what he’s come for. “I assume you changed your mind?”

“What’s that?” Hibiki asks.

“Concerning repayment. I should have left you with some of my contact information so you didn’t have to come all the way back here—that was an oversight. I don’t have my checkbook with me, but if you give me a moment to make a phone call, I can wire funds directly into your account. Or—would you prefer to be given bills?”

Hibiki purses his lips. “... As I said yesterday, that’s entirely unnecessary.”

Of course, of course. Money is another awkward subject matter—but fortunately, Eichi is better equipped to navigate this topic of conversation delicately. If he insists a few more times, surely he’ll assuage Hibiki’s pointless shame about accepting payment.

“It would be my pleasure. Even if you don’t want it dry cleaned, I can at least reimburse you for the cost of materials and labor that went into—”

“I am not interested in your money,” Hibiki interrupts brusquely.

“Oh,” Eichi says reflexively. “Then… Why—”

“Why, indeed!” Hibiki exclaims, suddenly bursting with eagerness. “You are very inquisitive! That’s an enviable trait for a leader! ☆ It speaks to one’s open-mindedness; those whose worldviews are limited to their own perspective never ask questions, believing, as they do, that they already have all of the answers.”

Right. He’s changing the subject. Eichi won’t make the same mistake again; he’ll follow along.

“Open-minded…” he repeats. “I don’t think I’ve ever been described that way.”

“Is that so? Then perhaps I’m wrong; after all, we don’t know one another very well.”

I know you, Eichi wants to say—not because it’s true, but because he wishes it were. I want to know every single thing about you.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “You and I are strangers.”

Hibiki straightens in surprise. “No, no! Not strangers! We’re ‘classmates, aren’t we?’! Who in their right mind would add a stranger to their visitors’ list?”

… That’s funny. The tone of voice is entirely different, of course, but Eichi is certain that Keito would have said the very same thing—which is exactly why he neglected to tell him that, in addition to hosting him in his hospital room, Eichi had also given Hibiki full visitation privileges.

“I’d prefer not to become strangers, either,” Hibiki continues. “Don’t you feel the same way?”

No. Yes. Of course not.

They should be strangers. Hibiki would be far better off had they never met—had Eichi never known of his existence.

And Hibiki knows that; he must know that. So his statement must be facetious—and the question rhetorical. He’s asking only because he already knows Eichi’s answer.

Throughout all of this, Eichi’s feelings have never changed. Even though he’s known from the very beginning that they would end up estranged… that there would be no returning from what he’d done to the Five of them. He’d known this, and he’d accepted it—he hasn’t regretted it—

But, no. It’s not what he wants.

He wants him. If he could, Eichi would paint every dismal corner of his existence in the vibrant colors of Hibiki Wataru. How could someone like him—the very person who inspired Eichi’s dream, whose passion and vitality and love for the world encouraged him to believe, for the very first time, that there was a meaning to his birth—ever truly become a stranger to him?

He’s always wanted him. Eichi has wanted to meet him—to get close to him—to know him—to stand beside him as a true equal—from the very moment he first laid eyes on his pixelated form through the hospital television screen… From the very first time he heard the opening lines to his program—the lines that made his childhood self giddy with anticipation: Hello! It is I, your Hibiki Wataru! Wouldn’t you like to see something truly Amazing? ☆

“... Hello?” Hibiki prompts. “It’s your turn to speak, you know; did you truly not hear me? Or did you happen to fall asleep with your eyes open?”

“I’m sorry,” Eichi stutters. “I was… distracted.”

“That’s understandable… You’re a busy man, after all. But you should know that it hurts my pride as an actor when my scene partner’s attention drifts.”

“I would hate to do that,” Eichi replies. “You’ve earned your pride. You’re the greatest actor—the greatest idol in the entire world.”

Hibiki looks down—almost coyly—for a moment before returning Eichi’s gaze and offering him a curious smile. “... It appears that now I’ve gained a title without my knowledge. Well—not that I disagree; you’re right, of course. It’s because I sat at the peak of the industry that I was able to make such a spectacular fall from grace.”

Hmm. Fall from grace… Could that be an allusion to Lucifer—the original fallen angel? He called Eichi “God” earlier, after all. Eichi thinks he understands what he means by the metaphor: Eichi and fine overthrew Hibiki and the Five from their positions at the peak of Yumenosaki just as God cast Lucifer and his conspirators out of Heaven…

His stomach turns with contempt; he’d rather die on the spot than ever be compared to God again.

Anyway, Hibiki isn’t a devil, and he never fell; he’s just as perfect and miraculous as he’s always been. In truth, he is much better suited to fine’s angelic image than Eichi is…

… Fufu. That’s right. It was through that window that Hibiki—no, that Angel-sama appeared in his dream that night… And now, just a little over a week later, here he is again… ♪

He should be embarrassed—he is embarrassed—but, in this moment, he’s overcome with exhilaration at the realization.

Even if Hibiki hates him, even if he has only the worst intentions for Eichi… Couldn’t this moment still be called a dream come true?

Nearly dizzy from the torrent of evanescent, contradictory sentiments, he speaks without thinking. “Well, it’s fortunate that you can fly, then… ♪”

Hibiki cocks his head, lips curling up into a baffled grin. “... Can I, now?”

Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. Why can’t he stop himself from saying the most ridiculous things in Hibiki’s presence?

“Ah…” He forces a laugh. “It was a figure of speech. What I mean is: I’m certain that this was only a temporary setback. Someone like you—someone with your raw talent, natural charisma, and lifetime of experience—will easily ascend back to the top. You’ve done it before, under nearly impossible circumstances. Only Hibiki Wataru would be able to propel himself out of obscurity and enshrine his name in the industry at such a young age.”

“Obscurity,” Hibiki repeats. “So I spawned out of the shadows? I suppose that’s only natural for a monster like me~”

Eichi’s cheeks burn. “I intended it as a compliment. Unlike someone like me, who’s only come this far through the use of my family name and resources, you achieved your status through talent and hard work alone. You have gifts that all of the money in the world cannot buy. The higher-ups in my family’s company would undoubtedly laugh at the idea of giving a no-name child his own televised magic show—and perhaps they did, at the time—but you proved everyone wrong. You took your name and made it into something dazzling—something that no one could possibly look away from.”

Hibiki’s expression hardly changes; he continues watching Eichi with the same curious smile as before. However, when he speaks, there is an edge to his voice—Eichi would almost call it a sneer if his tone weren’t so even.

“... My. You speak with the knowledge and zeal of a dedicated fan. If nothing else, I’m certain that no one could ever accuse you of being ignorant or misinformed... Your Majesty. Tell me, did you research all of ‘us’ so thoroughly?”

His heart plummets to his stomach.

So it really isn’t about money.

“... Ah. You do want to talk about ‘that.’” Eichi swallows dryly. “Well, of course I have no grounds with which to object; you... all of you deserve the truth.” He can’t count out the possibility that one of the others sent him here—or that all of them collaborated on a plan and settled upon Hibiki as the lead operative.

“So... Ask me absolutely any questions you like, Hibiki-kun, and I swear that I’ll answer them with brutal, uninhibited honesty.”

Hibiki smirks. “Fufu. Once again, I don’t mean to offend, but... are you sure that you’re in good enough condition to be ‘brutal’?” He teasingly cocks a brow. “Anyway, while I appreciate the offer, I’m not interested in your ‘answers’—none of that sort, anyway. I believe I have a good enough grasp on the situation... and if it turns out that I’m wrong, well I’ll be all the happier! The world is full of love and surprises, after all ♪ Discovery is one of life’s ultimate joys, Your Majesty, and I’m not one to deprive myself of any of the pleasures available to me.”

Again, Eichi is stumped. He’s relieved, he supposes—but it’s a superficial, temporary relief. If Hibiki doesn’t want money and doesn’t want answers, then… What else is left?

Desperate to find out, he speaks on impulse. “Then…” Eichi starts. “Then why—”

“However!” Hibiki interrupts, abruptly jumping to his feet and clapping his hands together in punctuation. Eichi flinches at the sound; if it were possible to get whiplash from the tonal shifts in a conversation, then he would surely need a neck brace by now. “Because there is also joy to be found in contradiction, I suppose that there is one question I would like to ask you.”

“Yes,” Eichi says quickly. “Anything at all. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Wonderful~” With that, Hibiki takes a step forward and begins leaning down—his eyes trained on Eichi’s face all the while.

Eichi’s certain that his heart will stop if Hibiki gets even a centimeter closer—and then he does, and Eichi wishes his heart would stop because it’s surely going to burst out of his chest at any moment now if this continues—and then Hibiki gets even closer, gently placing his left palm along the bed railing to anchor his upper body as he leans in further, his long ponytail lolling to the side as he tilts his shoulders further towards Eichi, his face steadily moving closer, and closer—

“Then, tell me, if you please…” he begins, his voice a low murmur.

Eichi holds his breath, mesmerized and terrified by the sight of his beautiful face.

However, after a few seconds of silence, Hibiki’s eyes narrow with concern.

“What is that behind your ear?”

“... H-Huh?”

Hibiki, his eyes trained on Eichi’s right ear and his brow knit with befuddlement, leans forward another few inches.

Eichi looks down; he has to. Hibiki is close enough that, if he were to look up, he could make out each of his thin blue eyelashes, or the soft pores of his skin, or the glinting flecks of violet in his purple irises... 

“Just hold still a moment,” Hibiki murmurs, his voice still soft. Eichi thinks he can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek as he leans in even closer , but he refuses to look. He feels dizzy—he fears that even the smallest movement of his body—even his eyes—will make him pass out.

“... Oya? What’s this? ” Hibiki says, his pitch rising with intrigue. He can feel the slightest of pressure as what must be Hibiki’s hand brushes back the strands of hair tucked behind his ear. “Now, how in the world did this ... ?”

“What?” Eichi gasps, with humiliating urgency.

As if compelled, Hibiki immediately pulls back to present his find for Eichi’s inspection:

It’s… a pin.

A tiny metallic button featuring a cartoon white rabbit in a hospital gown holding a bright red balloon. Below the illustration, the words I CAN DO THIS! are printed in round, exaggerated characters.

“Your Majesty,” Hibiki says, sounding almost scandalized. “Is this yours?”

Eichi stares blankly.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand what’s happened; the “object behind the ear” gag is one of the most basic and fundamental of tricks a magician can perform. Eichi doesn’t know the exact logistics, but the procedure easy enough to guess: Hibiki likely had the pin hidden in his sleeve and, when he was certain Eichi couldn’t see, shimmied it out onto his palm, conjuring it out of thin air—or, rather, out of Eichi’s ear.

Eichi is perplexed by the pin itself—though he at least recognizes the character. It’s been redesigned to appear more “modern” since he was a child, but the fundamental elements of the mascot of this hospital’s children’s ward—white fur, floppy ears, large baby blue eyes—have remained the same for decades. Hibiki must have retrieved this from the pediatric wing of the hospital during one of these visits… Or perhaps he picked one up in the gift shop when he purchased the bouquet of lilies?

But, more than anything, it’s the why of everything that stupefies him—that’s been stupefying him since yesterday. He’s refused to let himself think too deeply on it so far, but the image before him is too bizarre to brush off: Hibiki Wataru, Eichi’s idol since early adolescence—now his victim, his enemy —proudly holding out a tacky little pin with an superficially inspirational but ultimately shallow motivational slogan on it.

(“ I can do this”? Is that supposed to be a dig at Eichi—an accusation that he is the perpetrator behind all of the events of the past year? The rabbit must represent him, of course, with its blue eyes and hospital gown. Are the rabbit’s smile and triumphant pose meant to evoke Eichi’s “triumph” over the Eccentrics, then? And the balloon... It’s red, so perhaps it represents Akatsuki... ? No, Keito, more specifically. It’s appropriate: Eichi’s certainly kept him, a creative prodigy with the potential to soar so much higher, tethered firmly at his side.)

The gears in Eichi’s brain grind against one another as he desperately reaches for a simple explanation for this turn of events . But he doesn’t even know where to start, as though the loose strand of thread in the giant knot before him keeps slipping through his fingers before he can even begin to unwind it.

He has no clue what Hibiki wants him to say, so he simply opens his mouth and responds with the blandest of courtesies. “Thank you...” he says, the final syllable lilting with uncertainty.

Hibiki’s eyes widen for a nanosecond in what Eichi could almost mistake as surprise. Then, breaking into a wide grin, he lets out an energetic chortle. “Ahahaha! ☆ Well, now that’s a much duller reaction than I’d anticipated! Was it truly so unimpressive? Or are you only interested in tricks involving flowers? If that’s so, then...”

Hibiki snaps the fingers of his free hand, and before Eichi’s eyes, the petals of a large yellow chrysanthemum unfurl and bloom in his palm.

“Ah!” Eichi says instinctively. “How—”

“Hoho! ♪ So you are partial to flowers!” Hibiki beams. “I’ll make note of that! Still, since this pin came from your own ear, you are its proper owner—so I’ll leave it in your care. Please open your palms and allow Hibiki Wataru to pay tribute to His Majesty with these two offerings! First, a token of courage...”

He gently drops the button into Eichi’s open hands. Their fingers don’t touch, but Eichi’s skin still tingles at the proximity of their skin.

“And of nobility.” He tilts his other palm down and the chrysanthemum flutters to rest beside the pin.

“... Thank you,” Eichi says again. “I’ll… look after both of these from now on. I only wish I had a gift for you in return... Ngh. Hibiki-kun, if there’s anything at all that I can—”

“Ah, come now!” Hibiki shakes his head with an exaggerated sigh. “How many times have you made that offer? Repetition has its charm, but it must be performed with proper care. Repeat a line one too many times, and you risk your audience growing bored prematurely.”

“I thought you said that you were already bored.”

“Yes, I was ,” Hibiki answers breezily.

“... I don’t understand,” Eichi concedes.

“Fufu. That’s alright. There’s not going to be a pop quiz~”

“N-No, it’s not alright. It’s—” Eichi forces himself to pause and take a deep breath. It’s likely a futile effort at this point, but he needs to at least make a perfunctory effort to keep his head level. “I... I don’t understand what would motivate you to be here—to visit me here, in my sickbed, twice now. It’s baffling to a disorienting degree…”

“Poor thing. Should I fetch a nurse?”

“No, no. What I mean is—I’m struggling to get a grasp on this situation... I’m beginning to suspect that I really am dreaming. It’s the only proper explanation for all of this.”

Hibiki sits back down in Keito’s chair. “Is it a pleasant dream, at least? Or have I ensnared you in a nightmare?”

Eichi stares down at his palms; the bunny smiles back up at him. “... No. It’s not a nightmare.”

“Then what’s the hurry to wake up?”

“We all must wake up eventually. Dreams alone are not sustainable.”

“Hmm, that’s true enough. But while life requires sustenance, one cannot truly live on the bare essentials alone. If you don’t permit yourself to indulge in fantasy every now and then, what purpose is there to continue on?”

“I don’t wish to live a life of fantasy. I have goals that I must see through before I die.”

“So you’re interested in goals, not dreams… How foolish of me; I’ve always considered the two to be one and the same.”

“Either way, dreams and goals are both a means to an end. They are tools one can use to heave themself to their destination. I’m only interested in reality—in creating the reality I’ve dreamt of.”

“... Someone else would be tempted to say that you contradict yourself.”

“Maybe I do. I don’t care; this is all just a rationalization of how I already feel—it doesn’t matter if it makes sense to anyone else. I know what I want, and I know what to do to achieve it.”

“If that’s so… Then what, exactly, do you not understand… ? If the path before you is so clear, a pitiful fool like me should hardly pose as an obstacle.”

Eichi sets his jaw and looks up to meet his eyes. “Hibiki-kun, I want to know why you’re here.”

“... Or?”

“Or what?”

“Fufufu ♪ That’s for you to answer. You made that request with such resolve; surely you’re prepared to follow through with consequences if I fail to answer to your satisfaction, yes?”

Eichi says nothing.

“Allow me to complete your thought: ‘Hibiki-kun, I want to know why you’re here—or else…’ “ He gestures encouragingly to Eichi. “Sooooo? Or else what?”

“... There is no ‘or else.’ It was simply a question; of course there won’t be any ‘consequences’ if you don’t answer.”

“Ah, that’s disappointing! I was hoping you’d finally bare your fangs and show me some of that ‘brutal honesty’ you promised~”

“Ngh… I am being honest with you. You wouldn’t have come here again without reason. I assumed that you were curious before—that you had to confirm the state I was in with your own eyes. But, if that were the case, one visit would have been enough. You’re too smart to waste your time; and so, there must be a reason why you’ve returned.”

Hibiki says nothing.

“I offered you money, and you declined; I offered you answers, and you declined those as well. I have every intention to follow through on those offers if you truly are interested… but, well, I won’t bore you by repeating myself.”

Eichi takes a deep breath. “The fact is: There is something you want, and you are here because you believe I can give it to you… And, if that’s what you believe, then it must be true. So, Hibiki-kun: whatever it is you want from me, it’s yours to take. All you need to do is ask.”

Hibiki smirks. “... It almost sounds like you’re propositioning me~”

“Eh? Propositioning you to do what… ?”

“Fufufu, nevermind. It’s fascinating to hear your thought process on the matter ♪  I thank you for sharing it with me~”

“Are you saying that my logic is incorrect?”

“It’s sound logic. It would be ridiculous if I was here without purpose. That’s not how human beings behave, after all. So I must have some underlying motivation, shouldn’t I?”

“Is that question directed at me… ? As I said, I have no idea what you might want from me—but, yes, I firmly believe that there is something you want.”

“And if there is… what would you ask for in exchange?”

“N-Nothing, of course. This wouldn’t be a transaction.”

“You’d do this out of the kindness of your heart.”

“No, not at all. I’d… I’d be repaying you for—” No, he can’t say that; it implies culpability. “I’d be…”

“You’d be what… ? ♪”

“... I’d be giving you what you’re owed… what you deserve.”

Hibiki sighs, as though let down by his answer. “Well. If you’ll excuse my bluntness: I am aware of exactly what I deserve, and I do not feel ‘owed’ a single thing—not from you, not from anyone. I forge my own path, and I will only take—and accept—what I’ve earned… and what I want. You’re the same, aren’t you?”

“... And there’s nothing that you want from me.”

He smiles. “That’s not what I said… It all depends on what you’re offering. But I’m not interested in repaying debts or receiving charity.”

“And I don’t want your charity, either.”

“Good, as I have none to offer you. So, Your Majesty… Are you interested in a trade?”

Eichi’s brows pinch together in chagrin and frustration. “I… still don’t understand. Hibiki-kun, there’s nothing I want from y—”

“Ah!” Hibiki interjects, raising his palms in the air as though surrendering to a relentless opponent. “As I said, this is not a pop quiz! So there’s no need to speak recklessly, alright? Look, look,” he says, rising to his feet, “I should be on my way anyhow. So… think on what I said, will you?”

What he said? Where is there to possibly begin? He’s said so much in this short encounter—Eichi could spend hours analyzing every sentence Hibiki has uttered today and still find himself hopelessly out of his depth.

But he doesn’t object. He won’t embarrass himself any further by asking for an explanation he knows he will not receive. He won’t beg for hints or handouts; he will do precisely what Hibiki asks of him.

Instead, Eichi nods and wills a gentle smile onto his face. “Very well.”

But before he can reach the door, a childish whim pops into his head. “—Ah, before you go?”

Hibiki practically spins on his heels. “Yes?”

“... Will you please relocate that chair by the desk to my bedside—on the left, where you placed it yesterday? After some consideration, I’ve decided that I prefer it there after all.”

Hibiki flashes his teeth in a wide grin. “Why, certainly, Emperor ♪ It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter Text

☼ ☼ ☼

Wataru only makes it two steps into the lobby before he is ambushed.

“That’s far enough, Hibiki.”

Well, “ambushed” isn’t quite right—Wataru would’ve been far more surprised had he actually been able to make his way up to the Emperor’s room without incident. Stopping him at the entrance like this isn’t exactly a clever move, but a person like Hasumi operates in terms of cause-and-effect, not theatrics.

Yes, being such a highly accomplished honor student, his way of thinking is undoubtedly much more scientific… How about this? Newton’s third law dictates that Wataru’s action yesterday warrants an equal reaction from his opponent today. Hasumi warned Wataru not to visit, and yet Wataru visited; words already having proved an ineffective deterrent, the obvious next move is to physically impede Wataru from visiting.

It’s logical. It’s straightforward. It’s assertive… But, oh, isn’t it so boring? Such a methodical approach kills any dramatic tension! It’s all brute force and no strategy—little more than a game of whack-a-mole where the two take turns playing hammer and target.

But Wataru isn’t actually complaining; after all, the appeal of conventional characters is their predictability. (Hasumi has his unique quirks, of course, but he nevertheless falls into a familiar archetype—Wataru’s not so superficial to choose the nickname “Megane-kun” solely because of his looks.)

And with predictability comes reliability; Wataru was counting on the interruption, in fact. It’s why he has returned today precisely twenty-four hours after his previous visit. It goes against his own improvisational instincts, but he is capable of being “predictable” too; he visited at noon yesterday, and so he is here at noon again today. He won’t offer such courtesies from now on, but he’ll make an exception just this once.

Hasumi’s intention is to catch Wataru off guard—and Wataru lives to please.

Wataru raises a hand to his face in mock surprise. “Oho! Megane-kun—!” he exclaims. “What in the world are you doing here—?!”

Hasumi’s lips press into a thin line. “ Keep your voice down. This is a hospital . Have some human decency and exhibit a modicum of tact for once in your life.”

Well—Yes, he had been a bit loud. The hospital lobby is fortunately rather unpopulated, with only a few plain-clothed individuals scattered throughout the seating area by the entrance. A few yards away is the reception desk, where a line of receptionists (he fondly recalls his new friend from the other day, stationed at the VIP wing nearly twenty stories above them) gracefully flit between their computer monitors, telephones, and thin, but steadily-refilling, queue of anxious patrons.

All in all, it’s dreadfully quiet in here—and unsettlingly tense.

So, really, Wataru had no choice but to be loud! What audience could benefit more from a bit of entertainment than the sick, grieving, and overworked?

… At least, that’s the excuse his mind instinctively conjures in his own defense. But he holds his tongue. Hasumi is right; Wataru had let his excitement get the better of him for a moment… Gah, he’s almost embarrassed—even method actors must retain some self-control. Having dually-cast himself as both actor and scene director, he treads a fine line between passion and austerity… Even in minor, near-redundant scenes like these, there is no room for error.

Careful to maintain the same wide smile on his face, Wataru acquiesces and lowers his voice to a conversational volume. “I see… Then, I suppose we should go outside and talk? After you’ve come all this way to see me, I’d be heartbroken if you weren’t able to speak your mind to the fullest~”

“Hmph. We can stay inside as long as you do not make a scene. But… Take another step this way—I don’t want you to block the doorway.” Taking a few steps back himself, Hasumi beckons him over with a stiff hand gesture.

“—Ooh… ♪” Wataru coos, immediately obliging with a long stride in his direction. “My, my, how forward of you… It will be hard for me to maintain my tactfulness if you continue to openly provoke me like this~”

Hasumi shakes his head sternly. “Gh—Stop that. I did no such thing—and do not mistake my intentions: I have no interest in speaking with you.”

“Is that so? Huh… So you weren’t here waiting for me… ?” Wataru cocks his head. “Then, I suppose you must also be here visiting His Royal Majesty? What a spectacular coincidence~ ☆ Would you like to go up and see him together?”

“Ngh— ‘Also’? ” His upper lip curls with indignation. “No. I am here to see Eichi, and you are leaving. Now.”

Ah, it’s adorable how straightforward he is. Is this how he speaks to everyone—to the Emperor? Or does he truly think Wataru is that dense? ♪ Well, if the latter is true, then, as a firm adherent to the improvisational tenet of yes-and , Wataru will continue to play dumb.

“Why would I do that? I just arrived! It would be pointless for me to come all this way without at least stopping in for a quick hello—not to mention impolite . But if you’d like to be efficient about it, how about you and I go up to see him together? Fufufu, if you want we can make this a truly special occasion and surprise him! Hmm, hmm…” He lightly taps his foot on the linoleum floor as he thinks for a second. “Do the hospital windows unlatch from the outside, by any chance?”

“Hmph. If you’d like to fall to your death trying to scale up nineteen stories, you have my full support.” Though Hasumi’s frown stays firm, for a brief second the corners of his eyes crease with the beginnings of a smile. “... But don’t involve either of us in it. Eichi’s heart is far too weak for him to handle ‘surprises’ of any kind. He is not one of your playthings; he is a human being with a serious health condition.”

“Really? Don’t you think you’re coddling him a bit too much? He seemed to be in excellent spirits on both occasions I saw him. You know, if you were to ask my opinion, I’d posit that some continued excitement could serve to revitalize his health—and perhaps even make him livelier than ever before!”

Hasumi scoffs. “I will never ask your opinion—and certainly not on medical matters.” He adjusts his glasses with two rigid fingers. “Now, drop the act. Your shallow attempts to sway me only serve to lower my opinion of you even further. Being your classmate this year has allowed me to build a level of immunity against your nonsense; your frivolities irritate me less than the buzzing of a gnat.”

A gnat? How insulting; surely Wataru’s at least as annoying as a fly.

“Soooo harsh! ♪” he gasps. “You’ve quite the mouth on you~ Do you speak to His Majesty this way, too?”

For once, Hasumi completely ignores his goading. “Enough. I’m here to tell you to stop these visits. Furthermore, it’d be best that you never speak to Eichi again, even when he returns to school.”

Could this be an actual threat this time? Oh, how scary… ♪ Ah, it really would be so much simpler if Wataru could just visit the Emperor in peace without having to fiddle around with this squeaky third wheel… But it’s so much more fun this way ♪

“Fufu. Did he send you here to pass along this message? I suppose that’s not surprising; a mighty ruler shouldn’t have to debase himself by swatting away irrelevant pawns like me once we’ve outlived our usefulness.”

“... Ngh. Do you only spout nonsense? I’ve already told you: I’m not going to participate in whatever game you’re trying to play. All I want is for you to leave—and for you to swear that you will never come to this place again.”

Swear? His bluntness, while inelegant, is refreshing—it reminds Wataru of his darling Hokuto~  So he wants to make a verbal contract. Such a move is, yet again, commendably in-character for such a logical and righteous individual… though logic is most certainly not the primary motivator at play here when it comes to “Eichi .”

But logical and emotional motivations aside, it’s also simply Hasumi’s nature to be relentless and overbearing… He is merely performing according to his own internal script—and Wataru is sure that he sees himself as quite the effective deuteragonist.

However, he is not the only relentless and overbearing character in this cast! Hasumi will have to work much, much harder than this to get what he wants.

Wataru leans in ever-so-slightly. “And… to whom shall I address this oath? To the Emperor... ? Or to you?”

“Wh—What does that matter. I’m Eichi’s right hand; I speak for him.”

Eichi’s right hand … ? Oh, how cute.

Is that what the Emperor calls him? Hmm, perhaps—but, judging by his disdainful comment yesterday about his own title, he doesn’t seem very fond of nicknames… (Boo. He has quite the knack for them! …Unless it was actually Hasumi, not the Emperor, who coined the term
“Eccentric”? Wataru will have to look further into it—he needs to know to whom he can address his thank-you note!)

Hm. If Wataru’s hunch is right, “right hand” is a title that Hasumi claimed for himself—and, if the soberness in his expression is any indication, it is one that he values very dearly.

Cute, cute, cute… Hasumi may not consider himself an actor, but he still treasures his role with the zeal of a true thespian.

Ah, finally, something Wataru can actually work with. Hasumi offered more resistance this time, but his main weakness is far too obvious—all it takes is a few pointed jabs at his precious companion (friend? accomplice? partner?) to chisel a crack into his armor. And now with his foot in the door, he can finally start pushing in earnest.

“Is that so? Fufufu. Well then, Mr. Right Hand ... ♪” He leans in another few inches. “You say that you’re acting in his best interests—on his behalf. If that’s truly the case, then answer me this: Knowing him as intimately as you say you do... do you sincerely believe that he has no interest in seeing me?”

Hasumi holds his gaze. “I told you. I’m not interested in playing games.”

Wataru tuts. “That’s a shame. You seem like you’d make a wonderful playmate! Fufu, I know how entertaining it can be to watch a play unfold from the backside of the curtain, but haven’t you ever considered stepping into the spotlight yourself?”

Hasumi’s eyes narrow, but he remains silent—a dare to continue?

“I suppose you have no choice now, with your former lead so indisposed... You did say you were ‘interim student council president,’ correct? Could you be vying for a more permanent seat on the throne? … Or are you instead searching for a new protagonist to claim his title?”

Hasumi balks for half a second—giving Wataru just enough time to second-guess his words—before his face distorts into a furious scowl.

“You—! You disgust me,” he hisses. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking about Eichi—about your sick classmate so callously? Does human life mean absolutely nothing to you? Is there even a single mote of decency in that empty cavity rotting away in your chest?”

… Hm.

Hasumi’s fiery eyes don’t satisfy Wataru the way he’d hoped… A case of diminishing returns, perhaps.

It was too cheap of a shot—and, though it was not his intention, too morbid. His second thoughtless move; he was only trying to poke at any potential insecurities in their relationship regarding Hasumi’s loyalties, not allude to the Emperor’s serious health issues… A shameful mistake.

Ngh , it’s almost frustrating—Wataru wouldn’t be having this much trouble staying sharp if Hasumi wasn’t such an easy mark.

There’s no walking this back now; he’ll need to make a tactical retreat. He simply can’t afford to fully burn this bridge.

Wataru puts his hand to his chest and bows. “My apologies. You see, I am Hibiki Wataru of the Five Eccentrics; it is simply in my nature to be monstrous.” Catching Hasumi’s eye again, his voice softens. “Please pardon me, Mr. Right Hand. It appears I’ve offended you. In truth, I bear no ill will towards you or the Emperor.”

Hasumi seems the slightest bit appeased by Wataru’s apology; with a heavy exhale through his nose, he relaxes his grimace into a stern frown.

“... If that is somehow actually the truth, then listen to me, Hibiki: Eichi is extremely ill. You were fortunate enough to see him on two of his better days—and I’m grateful for every good day he has. But his health is far from stable, and even the slightest of stressors could lead to a sharp decline in his recovery.”

He sighs again—almost as though catching his breath—and then looks back up at Wataru with renewed intensity. “I have known him for a very long time, and I know how fragile his body can be. There have been days where he hasn’t had the strength nor will enough to speak... or even to open his eyes. I’ll die before I allow him to fall into such a state ever again.”

… Huh. The fervor in Hasumi’s eyes would be unnerving if Wataru weren’t so compelled by his words. It’s a shame that it’s considered rude to applaud someone in the midst of a casual conversation; Mr. Right Hand’s commitment to his role is truly inspiring.

“... I see. You care very deeply for him—your passion nearly gives me goosebumps. It’s fortunate that the Emperor has such a devoted friend looking after him, isn’t it?”

Hasumi looks away and shakes his head dismissively. “Just get out of my sight. And don’t come back here again—or I’ll have you forcibly removed.”

Wataru chuckles under his breath. “Yes, yes... It would be prudent of me not to test your patience, wouldn’t it? ♪ Just—before I go, I have one request. Since I’ve come all this way to deliver His Majesty some flowers... Will you be a gentleman and take them up to him for me? ☆”

Wataru holds out his hand, fist clenched around empty air, and gestures it towards Hasumi in the pantomime of someone proudly presenting a bouquet to an esteemed companion. But then—he raises his brows and, opening his closing his fist, bats his eyes in a few exaggerated blinks of befuddlement as he stares down at his empty hand.

“Oya, but what’s this… ? Hold on a moment. Where in the world did I—?” He feigns patting at the side pockets of his coat, and then at the breast pocket, and then at the front pockets of his slacks—

Hasumi rolls his eyes. “... Save us both the effort and don’t bother. Whatever sleight of hand you’re about to muddle through will be wasted on me; there’s nothing on this earth I care to see less than one of your tired parlor tricks. Goodbye, Hibiki.”

With a final pointed glare, Hasumi turns and stalks towards the elevators.

“Goodbye, Mr. Right Hand! Until we meet again!” Wataru calls— raising his voice in a hospital! —and, even as Hasumi pointedly avoids eye contact, continues waving at him until the elevator doors finally close.

Wataru smiles. Truly, there is no greater pleasure in life than acting… And yet, in moments like these, he sincerely envies the omniscience of the audience—for he really, really, wants to see what is about to happen next.

Chapter Text

☆ ☆ ☆

“Good afternoon, Eichi.”

Eichi drowsily blinks up at his companion. Afternoon? Wasn’t it just 8 AM when he checked his phone a minute ago…?

— Urgh. He must have fallen back asleep.

After another restless night of sleep, he had somehow woken up this morning with a burst of adrenaline and the stubborn desire to remain awake for the rest of the day… or at least until— if —he gets any visitors.

But it appears he’d failed and dozed off again anyway. And not comfortably, either; having angled the head of the hospital bed up with the intention of watching something on his tablet to stay awake, Eichi had fallen asleep propped up on his back, his joints stiff and tendons aching from the awkward way he’d bent his neck to rest his left cheek against his pillow.

It’s not natural or pleasant to sleep upright like that; he must have looked more like a corpse than an unconscious patient… What an unappealing sight. He is profoundly grateful that it’s Keito who found him in such a state instead of… anyone else.

“Hello, Keito…” he greets through a yawn, nudging the tablet off of his lap. “Is it afternoon already... ?”

“Yes. It’s nearly 12:15,” Keito answers curtly, clicking the door shut behind him. “Tch, have you seriously had the curtains closed all day?” He hurries across the room towards the windows.

“Ugh… 12:15 is still noon,” Eichi mumbles, fighting against his heavy eyelids as he watches his friend pass by his bed. He’d been quick to awaken when he heard the door opening, bracing himself for the third in a series of encounters with his enemy-idol-acquaintance, only to be hit with a stunning wave of both relief and disappointment at the familiar sound of Keito’s voice. The adrenaline came and passed through his body as quickly as a cold chill… and now, in the company of his one and only friend, Eichi’s barely-conscious mind and body are ready to surrender to oblivion once again.

If he passes out again, will Keito take pity on him and let him sleep longer, watching over him from his bedside chair—just like a devoted lifelong friend should? Or will he chastise and prod at him until he wakes up for good like the relentless bully he is?

Blinking his eyes open again, Eichi rolls his eyes with fond annoyance. “It won’t be ‘afternoon’ for another hour… You made me worry that I’d slept the entire day away, you meanie. Ugh, you’re just desperate for any excuse to chastise— Oh! ” He exhales a soft, delighted chuckle.

Keito spins around, startled—his hands, poised to pull open the blinds, now raised palm-forward by his face like a soldier in surrender. “What? What’s the matter? Are you in pain?!”

Eichi grins up at him. “Keeeito~ You get jealous so easily...”

“E-excuse me—?”

Eichi tilts his chin towards Keito’s messenger bag, still hanging off of his right shoulder. “That’s why you brought me flowers, right? Because you missed being the sole object of my attention? ♪ Hehe. You’re so obvious... But it’s okay~ It’s kind of cute ♪”

“ Flowers? Eichi, I have no idea what the hell you’re—” Keito follows Eichi’s gaze to his schoolbag… inside which sits a bright bouquet of yellow roses and white gardenias.

Eichi’s heart flutters. Is this… a peace offering? An apology for their argument last night? Or… is Keito really, truly jealous of Hibiki? He didn’t come in holding them, so was he planning on formally presenting them to Eichi—on surprising him with them? Eichi’s almost sorry that he said anything; he would have been thrilled to see Keito stutter through an awkward preamble before shoving the bouquet in Eichi’s face, his cheeks red with embarrassment…

But—instead of shaking his head at having had his surprise spoiled and begrudgingly offering the bouquet to Eichi…. Keito just continues to stare down at it, mouth agape.

With every passing second, the possibility that Keito is joking—already a chance slimmer than the wire of his eyeglasses—plummets closer and closer to zero… He looks genuinely shocked… Like he really had no idea they were there.

But that’s ridiculous—Keito surely would have noticed if someone had unzipped his bag and placed something as large as a bouquet inside. It’d be impossible to pull such an overt trick on most humans, but as perceptive and vigilant as Keito is about his belongings, the culprit would have to be something entirely non-human—something superhuman—

Ah. Eichi’s smile widens.

Keito’s nostrils flare.

“... Eichi. Pardon me for a moment.” He drops his bag onto his chair and yanks the bouquet out with a clenched fist.

Wide awake now, Eichi watches him stomp back towards the door. “Eh? Where are you going?” he calls. “Are you getting a vase? ♪”

Keito pauses to glare at him over his shoulder. “I’m going to search for a trash bin to stuff these into—the one in here is pitifully small.”

Eichi giggles. “Ah, now, now~ There’s no need to do that! They were a gift to the both of us, so it’s only right that we appreciate them together~”

Keito’s offended grimace only makes him laugh harder.

But, disappointingly, Keito’s expression doesn’t budge… He doesn’t seem eased or angered by Eichi’s amusement—he only continues to silently fume. Usually, Keito’s displeasure only serves to heighten Eichi’s amusement—but this time, for whatever reason, the continued sight of his stiff disgruntled face sobers him up. After only a few moments, Eichi’s laughter feels more performative than genuine, and he trails off into an uncomfortable silence.

Seriously, would it kill him to lighten up just a little?

When Keito finally speaks again, his voice comes out in a strained, nearly-forced deadpan. “... I wonder if they incinerate medical waste on this floor. I’d like to see that these are disposed of entirely this time.”

Oh. Well, that was kind of funny… Phew. Maybe he really does feel like joking?

“ Keeeito ,” Eichi whines, playing up the petulant child angle. “Be serious.”

This, to his surprise, makes Keito’s eyes widen with fury.  “No, Eichi— you need to be serious. What the hell are you doing?”

Eichi gawks back at him. “Whaaat… ? I haven’t done anything!”

“Don’t bullshit me. I’m not as stupid as you think I am; and you are not some innocent bystander. This is now the third time that Hibiki has come to this hospital and disrupted everyone’s day. He would not be here again if you hadn’t provoked him in some way.”

“I did not provoke him!” Eichi objects, his affected whininess twisting into genuine aggravation. “I was civil and polite—and so was he.”

“That is exactly the issue. If you’d firmly dismissed him immediately like you should have, then I wouldn’t be burdened with the misfortune of cleaning up this mess.”

A guilty, childish knot of angst coils in his gut. Shouldn’t you be used to burdens and misfortune by now, Keito? You’ve been my friend for quite a long time now, after all.

He glares back at him. “He’s an independent being with free will. No one can be made to do something they truly don’t want to do—especially not someone as free-spirited as him. Why are you blaming me for Hibiki-kun’s choices?”

Keito’s shoulders tense and he leans forward as though he is about to argue back—but instead he softly exhales and re-straightens his posture. Keeping his eyes trained on Eichi, he carelessly tosses the bouquet onto the end of the bed. “... Fine. You are correct, Eichi. My issue is not with Hibiki’s choices, but yours . Really. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

With an aggressive flick of his wrist, he gestures towards the plastic vase of white lilies sitting atop the corner desk.

Eichi doesn’t give Keito the satisfaction of looking at it; he maintains eye contact with Keito, his lids hooded with feigned disinterest. “Not at all,” he answers breezily. “I was waiting for you to comment on it. You’re very perceptive, thanks to those snobbish glasses of yours~”

He snorts. “ Snobbish? Who the hell are you to—There is nothing snobbish about these glasses! They are understated and sensible —not that I’d ever expect a cultureless good-for-nothing like you to appreciate—” Keito closes his eyes and readjusts the bridge of his glasses—an endearing little tic of his that, despite his growing irritation, sends a little spark of affection to Eichi’s heart.

Keito takes a deep breath. “Stop trying to distract me. What are those flowers doing here?”

Eichi shrugs. “Hibiki-kun gave them to me; they’re mine to do with as I please.”

“And I thought we agreed that, in lieu of throwing them out, you would give them to the nursing station.”

Eichi nods. “Yes, we did.”

“Which is why I dropped them off with a nurse yesterday before I left.”

“Yeees, I’m sure you did. Would you like to be praised? Good boy, Keito~” Eichi claps his hands together in mock applause to layer his teasing on even thicker.

Keito’s left eye twitches. “—And yet here they are in your room… in a vase.”

Eichi can’t suppress a pout; he wishes Keito would at least play along for a little bit. He’s acting like he believes Eichi really doesn’t understand the situation he’s in… But shouldn’t Keito know him well enough to intuit that Eichi is taking it seriously enough for the both of them?

He’s already lost two nights of sleep to this issue; he doesn’t need the added stress of Keito’s anxiety. And, being so concerned with Eichi’s health, shouldn’t lecturing him about circumstances out of Eichi’s control be the last thing Keito should be doing?

Can’t they both just pretend that everything is normal?

“I suppose one of the nurses must have put them in the vase. I’m not sure where they got it… But it doesn’t look new or particularly expensive, so they probably had a spare lying around.”

“I don’t give a damn about where the vase came from. Why is it here ?”

“Well—because I changed my mind; I do want to keep the flowers after all. So I asked the nurse if he would return them, and he obliged.”

Keito eyes him, as though contemplating whether to believe him or challenge him further. “And when was this? They weren't here when I came yesterday evening…” His face darkens. “Unless you were hiding them from me. You could have asked someone to stash them in a cabinet before my visit. Did you put them out for Hibiki to see and then hide them again so I wouldn’t see?”

Eichi bites his lip to hold back a snicker. “Pfft—Why would I do that just to put them on display again for you to see this morning?”

He truly had no reason to hide the lilies from Hibiki’s first visit. Even if Keito hadn’t already seen them, it’s not as though they incriminate Eichi of anything. It’s customary to bring a gift when visiting a sick person in the hospital—especially flowers.

… So why had Eichi felt the need to stuff the pin and chrysanthemum blossom from yesterday in the very back of his bedside drawer?

Burying the budding thought, Eichi presses on. “It’d be a waste of time anyway; even if I tried to hide something from you, you’d figure it out sooner or later. You never allow me any privacy…”

Moping is a surefire way to either rile Keito up further or elicit some begrudging tenderness out of him—especially in the past couple of weeks, as, following his hospitalization, Keito’s reactions to Eichi’s provocations have become far more frequent and far more extreme.

Stony-faced, he adjusts his glasses again. “Stop sulking—you won’t get any sympathy from me. Spare your breath and tell me the truth."

Eichi feels like a child being interrogated by a disapproving parent, and impotent frustration burns in his stomach. It’s like his comment bounced right off of him… Any appeals to emotion are useless whenever Keito decides to erect that infuriating invisible barrier between them—the one that Eichi, after years and years of kicking and clawing, has never been able to topple.

“Ugh… I asked for them back last night after you left... Seriously, Keito, this is ridiculous. What does it matter when I asked for the flowers—or what I do with them at all? Really, you should be happy; you’re always complaining about how dull it is in here.”

Keito scoffs. “I never used the word ‘dull’—I merely criticized the lack of stimuli in this room. Voicing legitimate concerns for your mental health is not ‘complaining.’ If I knew you wanted flowers, I would have bought you some myself.”

Eichi blinks.

“... So you are jealous.”

“ No. What the hell is there to be jealous of? If Hibiki sincerely wants to take up the unenviable burden of caring for you, then I’m more than happy to hand him your leash. I’d be sincerely indebted to him, in fact.”

Eichi’s hope is dashed away as swiftly as it appeared. Keito’s finally joking… but the humor is cold and mean. He doesn’t like the tone of his voice. He sounds… nasty. This is not one of his usual superficial, short-lived bursts of anger; this is something deeper—and scarier.

“You don’t mean that,” Eichi mutters sulkily.

Eichi wasn’t even trying to rattle him this time; and yet Keito seems the slightest bit stirred by his artless retort.

“... No, I don’t,” he agrees quietly.

Keito lets out a long, tired breath.

“So let me be clear: Hibiki does not have good intentions for you, Eichi. These little gifts are a trifling, blatant attempt to appease you and lower your guard.”

Maybe .

“Lower my guard… so he can do what?”

“I… I’m not sure yet. Who knows what that buffoon could be thinking. But I know this with absolute certainty: Though he may attempt to sweet-talk you into believing otherwise, Hibiki has no reason to bear you a single shred of goodwill… and every reason to resent you.”

That’s true.

Eichi’s mind flashes once again to that yellow chrysanthemum. He won’t dare to show him now, not when it will only make him more obstinate in his suspicions of Hibiki… but still—Eichi wonders if Keito’s reaction to the flower would mirror his.

Hibiki said that it was a token of nobility, which means that he likely chose the flower and color as a reference to the Imperial Family crest—a dig at Eichi’s ridiculous “Emperor” title, certainly.

But the Imperial seal isn’t the first image that comes to his mind when he sees chrysanthemums. And he doubts it is for Keito, either.

Rows of standing arrangements surrounding a framed photo, small bouquets gifted to a candlelit altar, a blanket of white and pink and yellow blossoms laid upon a coffin… As the heir of a sickly family and the son of a Buddhist priest, they have been to dozens and dozens of funerals in their short lives.

Holding that spiraling cluster of thin yellow petals in his palms yesterday, the first thought that came to Eichi’s mind wasn’t of nobility, but of death.

But Hibiki couldn’t have known—the association must just be Eichi’s own tendency towards morbidity. There’s no way that Hibiki would give him a chrysanthemum knowing that it would remind him of funerals—of sickness—of dying.

“How can you be so sure?”

“How can you be so blind?” Keito retorts. Then, just as Eichi opens his mouth to respond, he adds, “Don’t make some stupid joke about my glasses.”

Eichi, robbed of his last-ditch attempt at levity, simply sighs.

Keito takes a small step forward. “Get rid of him, Eichi… Please.”

His voice is barely above a whisper now; another flood of tenderness rushes into Eichi’s chest.

“If you won’t do it for yourself, then—then do it for—”

Eichi watches him intently; Keito, his eyes wide with urgent earnestness, gazes back at him.

For whom?

Keito’s brow furrows with thought; Eichi wishes he would just open his mouth and say it already.

Tell me, Keito. For the first time in our lives, be honest and tell me what you want.

Another second passes. Eichi wishes he would step closer—why is he standing so damn far away?

— Please. What do you want?

And then Keito looks down.

“Do it…” He fidgets with his glasses. “... for the sake of your dream.”

My dream.

… Right. Of course he would say something like that. That’s what this has always been about, after all.

So, pressing his lips together so hard his teeth ache, Eichi looks away too.

“... Go ahead, then,” he finally mutters.

“What?”

He waves his hand at the bouquet; the yellow of the roses makes his stomach churn.

“Get them out of here already.”

Chapter Text

☼ ☼ ☼

This time, Wataru decides to wait until evening—and, consequently, spends the entire day antsy and abstracted. He goes for a walk in the early morning, busies himself with some reading and cleaning through the early afternoon, and then dedicates a couple hours to his feathered children.

He would never admit to having a favorite… but he’s always felt a unique bond with Jeanne d’Arc. While every bird he’s raised has been special and dear to him in their own way… Well, she is an especially singular creature. Maybe he feels connected to her because she doesn’t fit in with the rest of the flock—because she’s an outsider who the others look down upon… Or perhaps he has it backwards: instead, the reason she gets picked on and excluded is because she’s an eccentric like he is.

Wataru’s saved her for last today—not out of favoritism, but out of necessity. A fair amount of squabbling and pecking is to be expected in any flock, but the group bullying has escalated to the point where her presence distracts the others during training. He’s tried intervening and scolding the others when they attack her, but he cannot change their natures.

While the others feast on some fruit, he takes her onto his finger. She’s incredibly clever, but she struggles with tricks that don’t center around human interaction; so they have been working hard on target training. The goal is to teach her to tap her beak against a designated item on his command. They started small with treats and toys, and lately they’ve been working on a proper target stick. She’s a timid little thing, so it’s taken some time, but she’s been very brave for the past few sessions—though she still only performs when perched on his hand.

It’d be better if she were more independent… but as she rubs her tiny, precious face into the crook of his thumb, Wataru silently revels in the sensation of being needed.

“Come now, Jeanne. Let’s focus. I know you can do it ☆”

Although he hasn’t performed much with his birds over the past year, he is consistent with training. It’s a form of enrichment, after all—both for them and for himself. Even if there is no audience for their magic, that’s no excuse to let their skills grow rusty. It was his original passion, after all.

… That reminds him. That was a funny thing he’d said the other day… Something about how Wataru, the no-name child, had propelled himself out of obscurity through his magic show.

What a strangely specific comment to make; it was as though he’d read a dossier on him. And he wasn’t incorrect—performing magic was how Wataru had gotten his start in the industry. Still, it’s hardly what he’s known for nowadays.

Wataru’s show had ended years ago—a relatively short run, with only a couple dozen episodes. It was fairly successful, and perhaps could have retained its audience for a few dozen more, but Wataru’s sights had shifted. He loved performing magic more than almost anything… But he was far too young—and far too talented—to settle on a single passion so early in life. What else was out there for him to try?

He quit his show to become an idol. He has been performing as an idol for years now. By all accounts, he still is an idol. At least until the end of the school year.

So why did the Emperor bring up magic ?

Jeanne, as sly as ever, gives him a testy peck of impatience. Ah, right. He’d grown absentminded again. The knuckle of his pointer finger stings; she didn’t strike hard enough to draw blood, but her point was made. He murmurs an apology—no one likes to be ignored—and does his best to concentrate.

The sky begins to tint gold just a little past 4 PM. His punctual little doves, naturally attuned to the setting sun, fluff out their tiny chests with satisfied fatigue. He praises them for their work and returns Jeanne, still comfortably settled on his finger, to her isolation cage to roost.

They’ve all earned their rest… And Wataru, his fun. Reminding them to be good while he’s away, he wishes them a very good night and then slips out the door to head to the train station.

☼

It’s hard to sit still.

As he looks out the blurred shapes whizzing past the window, he feels acutely aware of how motionless he is right now. His fingers flex and twitch with restless anticipation, his mind eager for any stimulation.

Fortunately, there’s a coin tucked into his sleeve… With a practiced flick of his wrist, he loosens it from its hiding place and rolls it down into his palm. Without taking his eyes off of the window, he mindlessly slips it back and forth between his fingers, back and forth, back and forth... This settles him down a little, and he is able to remain in his seat until the train reaches his stop.

It’s nearly 5 PM when he arrives at the hospital—and, assuming the clock in the reception room is accurate, it’s 5:02 when he steps off of the elevator at the nineteenth floor. It only occurs to him now that there’s a chance visiting hours could have ended at the top of the hour, but the receptionist’s nod and stiff half-smile when their eyes meet assuage his worry before it can truly set in. (He makes a mental note to check online when he gets home.)

And then he is walking down the hall.

Yes. Finally, finally, finally.

Oh, he wishes it were more in-character for him to skip! It’s difficult; Wataru has exceptional patience, yes, but only through dedicated, practiced self-restraint. He can be patient, especially when it comes to nurturing and assisting others, but Wataru is an impatient man.

When it comes to himself—to what he wants—restraining himself is like holding his breath. One can strengthen their lung capacity with time and practice, take up yoga or free diving, adjust their posture and learn to breathe through their diaphragm… but no matter how much they may improve, holding one’s breath is still, by nature, unnatural. It takes two aching lungfuls of discipline to keep himself from diving headfirst into his newest passion. He can resist… but it still hurts.

But that’s all the better, really. Because, when you’ve been holding your breath for so long, nothing in life is sweeter than the feeling of finally letting it go.

Twitching his fingers against his thigh, he turns the corner down the hallway.

—What’s this, now?

The door is closed today. That’s out of the ordinary; it had been wide open for his previous two visits. Now he wishes he had skipped; he could’ve generated a swift breeze that blew the door open to herald his arrival ☆

At the pace at which he’s walking, Wataru has a healthy five seconds until he arrives at the Emperor’s room. Hmm, how to play this…

There’s a thin vertical panel of blurred glass centered in the door. If he adjusts the angle of his approach, he can sneak a quick glance into the room without making himself visible from the other side. The door could be closed because the room’s occupant is asleep, after all. In that case, it would be disrespectful of him to walk in unannounced…

Not that he has any qualms about being disrespectful ♪ Still, it’s not simply the Emperor’s pride he must be concerned about. As he approaches the door, Mr. Right Hand’s warning reprises in the back of his mind: His health is far from stable, and even the slightest of stressors could lead to a sharp decline in his recovery.

He’s certain Hasumi meant well, but Wataru found his concern to be a bit… extreme. After all, the Emperor hadn’t seemed too shaken by Wataru’s initial surprise visit. Taken aback, yes, but not surprised. Not in any satisfying way, at least.

So, what then? Was Hasumi exaggerating? And if so, was this a conscious effort to scare Wataru off? … Or does his love for the Emperor run so deep that his anxiety swallows reality, leaving his unchecked mind to catastrophize the state of his companion’s health?

Or maybe it was intended as a convoluted insult ♪ To call Wataru less annoying than a gnat is one thing, but to insinuate that he doesn’t qualify even as a potential “stressor” to the Emperor’s health? Boohoo… Some people’s cruelty really knows no bounds.

Though perhaps the Emperor is a skilled actor himself. It would line up with all of the blasphemous gossip he’d heard about him—two-faced, manipulative, backstabbing… Such prestige isn’t garnered cheaply; he must have worked very hard to earn his infamy. (Wataru’s one of the lucky ones; his was handed to him on a silver platter.)

And yet—Even if his warning was exaggerated, it is a fact that Hasumi knows the Emperor far, far better than Wataru does. Maybe Wataru just got lucky that first time; maybe he really did happen to catch him on one of his “better days.”

This is all so new to him. More than anything else, it’s his untamed arrogance that keeps him moving forward with this storyline. Really, it’s quite fortunate that Hasumi hadn’t given him this warning before his first visit… If he had, Wataru’s not sure whether he would have followed through.

He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt; he only wants to have some fun.

So he makes a snap decision. He will not peek through the glass—it would appear too timid—and he will not open the door and barge in blindly—too risky.

Instead, he will behave in a manner befitting a gentleman caller.

At the very same moment that he steps into the view of the window, he raises his right hand and, bending his fingers into a gentle fist, taps his knuckles twice against the door.

Knock, knock ♪

Now, this is a new sight.

The Emperor is not asleep; rather he is sitting up in his bed with a fine wooden bed tray situated above his lap. Atop the tray, there is an open packet of papers beside a stack of several thick folders. His shoulders straight and relaxed, the Emperor leans over just enough to rest his left wrist on the table, the corner of the top sheet of paper pinched between his fingers.

Hasumi was surely exaggerating about his illness, then. His appearance now is the sight Wataru had expected to greet him on his first visit: a determined and hardworking teenage boy who, while physically weak and temporarily bedridden, continues his endeavors as though nothing has changed.

So hardworking, in fact, that he doesn’t pause to acknowledge Wataru’s arrival. At least, not immediately.

Truly, it’s impressive just how little he reacts to the knock—not a flinch, not a breath, not even a blink. For a long couple of seconds, his eyes continue scanning the paper in his hand until, ostensibly having arrived at an acceptable stopping point, he finally looks up and meets Wataru’s eyes.

Even then, he hardly reacts, as though he knew for certain Wataru would be there—as though Wataru is the only person in the universe who could have possibly been on the other side of that glass.

Huh.

The Emperor smiles politely and beckons him inside with a twitch of the middle and forefinger of free hand.

Wataru’s hand is on the doorknob before he can stop himself.

—But as soon as he has crossed the threshold, he knows that something is amiss.

The chair he’d asked Wataru to move is gone once again. He’s certain the culprit was Mr. Right Hand, who surely made quite a fuss as he returned it to its proper place at the corner desk just as the Emperor said he had the other day—though he cannot confirm. From his vantage point at the entryway, the corner of the room is in Wataru’s sole blind spot, only visible to him if he actually turns his body to look. (Or rotates his neck 180 degrees!)

Either way, he would have to divert his attention from the Emperor—a treasonous act if there ever was one. But he doesn’t need to check, as he expected that the chair would be moved. And he’s glad to see it! If Hasumi takes pleasure in rallying a piece of furniture back and forth across this room, Wataru is more than happy to eternally prolong this stalemate.

The issue, however, is not with the arrangement of the room. Instead—to borrow a term his cute little Natsume might use—the problem that concerns Wataru is its aura.

Through his lifetime as an entertainer, Wataru has developed a keen sensitivity to shifts in a venue’s atmosphere. All seasoned performers naturally cultivate some degree of awareness to this intangible concept, but it’s stage actors especially who go to great lengths to ensure the ambient consistency of their theater.

Though he has always adhered to such traditions out of respect and a desire for camaraderie rather than genuine belief, he understands the rationale behind honoring these ancient superstitions. Avoiding the name of the Scottish play, using plastic jewelry instead of antiques, always leaving a light on in an empty theater… Human beings instinctively desire the utmost control over their fates—and thus are more than eager to explain away flubbed lines or unreceptive audiences to “bad luck” brought about by disrespecting tradition.

He is not superstitious. He does not believe that this hospital room has been cursed. But the atmosphere has changed. And in an unpredictable atmosphere, performances can easily go awry.

For example: In the few seconds it takes for him to open and enter through the door, the Emperor’s attention has already returned to his papers.

“Good evening,” the blond says without looking up.

A rather bland and dispassionate greeting… Wataru wasn’t anticipating unchecked enthusiasm by any means, but the Emperor had at least addressed him by name last time… Still, his tone is even and polite—a simple case of nerves?

It’s too soon to accurately take the temperature of the room. Wataru’s gut tells him to stay cautious. He could only afford to be a little reckless around Hasumi yesterday because (though much of the information was gleaned secondhand through Rei) Wataru’s vague familiarity with his character gave him confidence. There is a considerable difference between free diving into a swimming pool and an ocean; even in the deepest man-made pool, one can be certain that, as long as they keep swimming, they will be able to reach the bottom before they drown.

“Good evening to you, Your Majesty!” Wataru greets. He gives an exaggerated nod in the direction of the documents on his lap desk. “Preparing for the new school term, are you?”

It’s a stupid and unclever thing to say, but, in the precarious moments of a new interaction, it is essential to leave no silence vacant. Some pauses, be they tense or contemplative, serve to enhance the mood of a scene—but a silence here would only be awkward.

The Emperor exhales a light chuckle. “Ah—no, these are some business documents… Though they’re arguably less interesting than schoolwork.”

Yes, yes, banter! Excellent.

“Well, I certainly hope that you’re getting paid overtime for your labor. The typical workday ends at 5 PM, correct?” He gestures towards the window which, while obscured by curtains, emits the faint indigo haze of twilight.

A pause.

The Emperor’s brow twitches and he sets the stack back down, clicks his pen, and scribbles a comment in the margins. (Oh—so he’s left-handed? A fitting trait for a villain, if one believes in such superstitions; too bad he’s been cast as this tragicomedy’s tortured hero.)

Wataru wonders what he’s reading; but even if he were to ask—and the Emperor were to answer—he’s uncertain how much of the explanation he will understand… Wataru has worn many, many hats, but that of a businessman has never been one of them—and the breadth of knowledge and life experiences of the scion of a preeminent zaibatsu is a bit too overwhelming to truly consider. The thought only makes him more curious.

“It’s hardly labor,” he finally replies. “I would just be lying here in bed otherwise. I can’t perform any idol work in this state, but I can at least contribute to my family business.”

Hmm… “Family business” is a curious way of referring to one of the largest corporations in the country. An attempt to sound humble? The gears in Wataru’s head begin to turn—perhaps this will be their focus for today. Maybe the Emperor feels that their conversation last time grew too tense, too personal; Wataru can appreciate that. So instead, this time they’ll swing the opposite way and concentrate on business.

He’ll start soft, give the Emperor an easy question—but an open-ended one, one that he can’t answer in only a few words. Something complimentary too, to put him at ease… Yes, he’ll attack with an “awestruck pauper” routine: appeal to his high status, stroke his ego, coax him into bragging about his accomplishments. A round of that will surely serve to cleanse this room of any foul auras.

Hmm—with that in mind, perhaps he should offer to open a window? Some fresh air would surely do their synergy some good, and—

“Anyway,” the blond continues. “What brought you here, Hibiki-kun?”

Wataru wants to laugh—he should laugh—at the inconsonance of the question.

“Hm… ? What brought… ?” he begins, before his brain overtakes his mouth and his jaw clamps shut.

The other looks up at him. “Let me rephrase. What can I do for you today?”

… Well, the Emperor is sticking to the script, at least—though quite haphazardly.

”Why are you really here, Hibiki-kun?” That first day, he’d only posed the question after lots of careful prodding on Wataru’s part… His voice soft and his eyes cast downwards, it was as though he was being forced to ask against his will.

But then, the very next day, his brow set and mouth tight with resolve, he’d looked Wataru in the eye and said—not asked!—“Hibiki-kun, I want to know why you’re here.”

Ah… ♪ It nearly gave him butterflies. Just like the very first time Jeanne stretched her little body across his hand to tap her beak against the target stick… Nothing compares to that very first glimpse of the fruits of one’s labor.

Oh, it had taken the Emperor so, so very long to work up the nerve to be so direct! Being as wealthy as he is, one would assume that the Emperor would be used to stating his wants… Or is his privileged upbringing exactly why it was so difficult for him? When someone is handed everything on a silver platter from the moment of their birth, their every need accounted for and every want anticipated, there’s little opportunity for them to learn how to articulate their desires.

A question the first day, a statement the next… Wataru had gotten his hopes up in anticipating that today the Emperor would pose his curiosity in the form of a demand.

He is being direct about his wants today, yes. But this… this question, delivered plainly and passively, hardly feels like a question at all—but rather a pleasantry.

“It would be inconsiderate of me to make demands of you while you are preoccupied. But, if you’re interested in taking a break, I would be pleased to share your company for a little while.”

The Emperor’s fingers, in the middle of flipping to the next page of his document, pause in midair for a moment before completing the arc. He stares down at the fresh paper, his eyes unmoving.

“That’s—kind of you to offer. But I intended on reading through this before I went to sleep; and I’m already getting tired…”

Keep pushing. All I need is one foot—one toe—in the door.

“Worry not! If you’ll permit it, I will gladly read the remainder of your documents aloud to you while you rest your eyes.”

“If I were to close my eyes now, I’d likely fall asleep.”

“Then all the better. Think of it as a bedtime story… ☆”

He sighs softly. “—You see, it’s a rather inconvenient time for me right now.”

“I understand! What time should I return, then?”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that. Classes resume in a couple of days, after all. I’m sure you’ll be very busy soon…”

“I am always busy! The world is brimming with excitement and pleasure! There may only be one Hibiki Wataru, but there are twenty four hours in a day! Why, even if you are only available on the twenty-fifth hour, I’m certain that I can accommodate your needs!”

Wataru is almost certain that he sees the Emperor’s lips twitch... But he doesn’t respond. Instead, he continues to stare downwards at his papers impassively.

Hm. He’s very eager to return to his reading. A blip of frustration rushes through him.

Your Majesty. To be clear: you consider your paperwork to be more boring than schoolwork—yet still more entertaining than me?

But that isn’t right. Wataru is entertaining; he is an entertainer. And what was it that the Emperor said the other day? “You are the greatest idol in the world”? He must have quite the lowly opinion of idols, then.

Ngh. It’s pitiful how fragile his pride really is. The Emperor is clearly toying with him. Even if he was lying when he praised him before, his interest in Wataru is undeniable. Be it hatred, envy, curiosity, infatuation—he’s no master at human emotions, but he can at least recognize when he is the spotlight of someone’s attention.

—Is that what’s bothering him? That, for the very first time—after nearly a year of prolonged stares and mumbled hellos—the Emperor is not showing any interest in him.

It’s some manipulative ruse. Wataru is more interesting than anything that could possibly be in that stack of papers.

… But rationalization doesn’t help. Really, it doesn’t matter why he’s being ignored; it still bruises all the same.

Okay. Something more provocative, then! Cajolery and pleasantries haven’t gotten him anywhere, so what else?

Hmm, well, Mr. Right Hand always becomes very aggravated whenever Wataru even vaguely alludes to his relationship with his better half… Will it be a sore spot for His Highness too?

“Did Megane-kun safely deliver your present yesterday?”

“Yes, I received them,” the Emperor answers immediately. “They were very beautiful; thank you.”

Oh. Another incredibly bland response. So it didn’t faze him at all.

And he even anticipated and answered the natural follow up: Did you enjoy them? Now asking any further questions would make him sound too curious—too desperate for conversation.

Of course, Wataru has no qualms with playing the heel—the pest, the bother, the overzealous kid who can’t take a hint. But… Well, he hadn’t prepared enough for that role today. He’d expected their dynamic to be different. He’d expected the Emperor to be—

Ugh, does he know that he’s painting Wataru into a corner here?

“It was my pleasure. You’re very welcome,” he says simply.

And then—he says nothing else. It’s the Emperor’s turn to wrestle with this uncomfortable silence, he tells himself, as though his inability to craft a response is strategy instead of surrender.

But he appears unmoved. Eyes downcast, he continues to silently scan his papers. It’s clearly a pretext; for whatever reason, he does not want to engage with Wataru today, and he is using his “work” as an easy way to avoid eye contact and run out the conversation.

It’s a cheap and childish move… And yet Wataru feels as though he is being outplayed.

Well. Decorum and logic would suggest he leave; his host has repeatedly demonstrated disinterest in keeping his company. He did announce his presence like a gentleman; it would round out the scene if he exited like one as well.

… Ah, right. There is one more thing he can try.

“Hmm, well. I suppose I should leave you to your work, Your Highness. But, please—don’t wait too long to put those flowers in some water, lest they begin to wilt prematurely!”

This finally gets a reaction—albeit a minute one. The boy’s blank expression falters, his brow wrinkling while his mind works to process Wataru’s statement. He hesitates for a moment—perhaps trying his very best to resist the obvious bait—but eventually folds and, with a delightful stubbornness on his face, looks up to meet his eyes.

Wataru doesn’t push his luck; he won’t make him ask. Instead he raises a brow and, with an arrogant smile, gestures behind the other with his chin—wordlessly beckoning him to turn around.

To Wataru’s complete delight, the boy jumps in surprise when he sees a spotless bouquet of red and pink gerberas bulging out from beneath his pillow.

He raises a hand to his mouth in shock and immediately whips around to face Wataru. “H-How—How on earth —”

Wataru’s luxuriates in the victory. The Emperor really does have a weakness for flowers. How curious… ♪

“Fufufu~” Now that he has his attention, he can’t pass up the opportunity to take a final stab at conversation. “You won’t get very far if you limit your realm of understanding to the earth alone. Yes, there was an age where philosophers believed that our planet was the center of the universe, but humanity has known for quite some time that we are not alone in space. Perhaps you’ll discover, Your Majesty, that if you open your world view to the unfamiliar, you may eventually find yourself with answers to questions you’d never have even thought to ask... ♪”

The other boy blinks, uncomprehending. “... Ngh. I just can’t wrap my head around how you could have possibly put those flowers there. You’ve been standing over there this entire time; you never came anywhere close to my bed…” He turns back again to stare at the flowers, and impulsively begins to extend his right hand towards the bouquet, nearly close enough to brush his fingertips across the petals… but retracts his arm and returns his attention to Wataru. “... I can almost believe that it was real magic.”

“Ah. ‘Almost,’ is it?” Wataru tuts. “Half-hearted praise like that could be very frustrating for a magician to hear, you know—however, I’ll choose to internalize your critique as encouragement instead. Before we are finished, I promise that this Hibiki Wataru will show you real magic.”

… But it seems that the paradigm shift in the conversation he’d been hoping for has failed to take place. The Emperor’s face has already hardened once again.

So the trick hadn’t been impressive enough, then. But—no, his reaction was certainly quite extreme... Wataru had surely managed to break his mask for a few moments there. So, what had he done wrong?

Perhaps it wasn’t that his magic was not flashy enough, but rather that his words just now struck the other as too authentic . Does even the most veiled of allusions towards one’s own feelings repulse him—remind him too much of his previous clown?

No, no—It’s nothing to do with the trick or his lines. This scene has been doomed from the very start… Something outside of Wataru’s knowledge and control is interfering in the narrative.

Wataru feels himself growing hot with—something. He wants to know more. He wants to know what happened between the Emperor and his right hand yesterday. He wants to know what he’s thinking right now… He wants to know whether he’s upset with him.

Or, failing that, he’d at least like to talk to him a little bit longer. He’s barely just arrived, and the visit is already nearing its end. Can’t the Emperor tell that it’s far too early for this scene to end?

Regardless, it seems that Wataru has lost the battle of wills tonight. For now, the unstoppable force will have to cede to the immovable object.

While he’s been preoccupied with his own thoughts, the Emperor has been offering some bland something or other in reply—a polite deflection of Wataru’s offer, it seems. The words don’t matter; his meaning is clear. He’d like Wataru to go.

His eyes cast downwards after he’s finished speaking in a blatant attempt to communicate his disinterest in the conversation. The gesture, while painfully obvious, strikes Wataru as carefully rehearsed; it’s natural for the young heir to have developed non-verbal ways of hastening the conclusion of an unwelcome interaction.

He bows. “I’m afraid I am only able to visit for a short time this evening, and the time has come for me to hurry off to my next arrangement. You’ll have to excuse me, Your Majesty.”

Confused, fed-up, and having no desire to wait for another demonstration of the Emperor’s feeble politesse, he immediately turns towards the door—only to see, out of the corner of his eye, a bouquet of lilies sitting on the corner desk.

Now, that’s… surprising.

These weren’t here during his last visit—he’s absolutely sure of it, as, at the time, he’d noted their very absence with curiosity but not surprise. Sure, the Emperor had initially appeared enamored with the gift, but there are many reasons why he would hesitate to actually display them. Wataru would have been perfectly content with the ongoing mystery of where all of the flowers he bestowed on him were disappearing to… but this riddle is more than he could have asked for.

On the 3rd day of January, he gave the Emperor five white lilies.

On the 4th day of January, the lilies disappeared.

And now, on the 6th day of January, here they are again—on display in a clear plastic vase.

A vase. The Emperor is bedridden, is he not? So, then… Who, exactly, displayed them? And—where did they disappear too? And why are they back?

Huh. What an intriguing magic trick.

In the seconds it takes him to process this information, his head has cooled off just a bit, so he conjures the will to flash a smile over his shoulder. “Have a good night.”

The Emperor nods without looking up. “Yes, you as well.”

And that’s that.

The Emperor, for whatever reason, had no interest in playing with him today. That’s alright; sometimes actors rush or skip lines when they’re nervous. Wataru has no problem gently guiding him back on track.

At least—that’s the favorable way of looking at the situation.

He really had been too eager, anyway—what was he expecting? They had made progress the other day, but true character development does not occur within two meager scenes.

… But as he’d watched the Emperor, his face gentle and serene, smile coolly down at his paperwork… Wataru had gotten the sinking, exhilarating feeling that he was submerging himself into something truly out of his depth.

As he strolls back down the hall, he fixates on the mystery of the lilies—and tries with all his heart not to be disappointed.

Chapter Text

☆ ☆ ☆

Eichi’s decided: He’s not going to get up today.

Not for anything.

He’d rather not move much either, if he can help it.

He ignores the nurse when he comes in with his breakfast tray. True to his word, an hour later, when the nurse returns once again to retrieve it, Eichi has not moved a single centimeter. The nurse does not attempt to greet him or get his attention; fortunately, he seems to think Eichi is asleep.

It’s a fair assumption. Having spent the majority of his nights hooked up to at least one apparatus or another—IV bags, heart rate monitors, oxygen masks—Eichi’s become well-accustomed to falling asleep in any position; and so, too, have the nurses grown used to encountering him asleep in poses one would otherwise think unnatural.

It’s not out of the ordinary for Eichi to sleep in this exact posture: flat on his back, head propped up on two firm pillows, arms long and limp at his side. As stiff and silent as a corpse.

The nurse lingers in the room for a few seconds after picking up the untouched tray, and the silverware clatters softly as he takes a few quiet steps towards him… Checking that he’s breathing, most likely. A moment later, seemingly satisfied, the footsteps recede and the door shuts quietly.

He’ll tell the rest of the staff that he’s still asleep; that will give Eichi at least another hour of peace and quiet before someone checks on him again. At the success of his inadvertent ruse, he is overcome with a brief, familiar rush of exhilaration.

Eichi is highly adept at feigning sleep—at least, he used to be, when he was a child. It was one of his most trusted strategies, in fact; as, back when he was that sickly, willful little brat no one in the household could tolerate, there was nothing in his limited universe that he resented more than behaving .

Smiling at social events, holding his mother’s hand, letting strangers pat his head while they gazed down at him with that ubiquitous pitying sneer… He almost hated even the brief ritual of being introduced to a new nanny or housekeeper, but the discomfort of having to bow and shake their hand was slightly outweighed by the anticipation bubbling in his stomach at the promise of a new subject to terrorize.

He hated being sick too, of course, and hated actually being bedridden. But back then, Eichi’s bed was one of the only places in his house that promised peace, darkness, and, middling as it was, freedom. No one would waste their breath ordering or reprimanding a sleeping child (though, of course, he made sure that his attendants’ breath was still wasted in their attempts to wrangle him when awake).

He hasn’t pretended to sleep much over the past several years; he’s had reasons to get out of bed. Rather than a refuge, his bed became something to fear and avoid at all costs. Laying in bed—sleeping, recovering, healing, dying—means that he is not moving forward. That he’s losing time.

He’s not trying to feign sleep today… but maybe some of his latent behavior is resurging. Maybe he’s regressing back to that insufferable eight year-old boy.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It would be nice to have no responsibility. Isn’t that what one is supposed to strive for? A life of ease?

But with no responsibility, you have no control—no power.

You become a victim. You become a burden.

He’d hate to be a child again.

Overcome with self-pity, he forgets his resolution not to move and curls onto his right side. The IV cord connected to his right hand bunches uncomfortably beneath him, but he only twists his wrist just enough that the pain isn’t sharp.

Though he still hasn’t opened his eyes today, Eichi can faintly make out the dull morning sunlight through his heavy eyelids. The curtains are closed, but they’re not long nor thick enough to block out direct light. He feels a rush of indignance— They couldn’t have budgeted for light-proof curtains for the VIP wing? —that’s soon overtaken by shame.

He doesn’t give a damn about the curtains, or the sunlight.

He hasn’t seen Hibiki Wataru in four days, and he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this awful.

Keito is pleased—at least, Eichi assumes he is, since he’s still behaving just as rigid and anxious as always. Honestly, Eichi was almost glad when the first day of school finally came yesterday; it meant Keito would stop restlessly loitering about in his room for hours and hours of the day—like a shinigami impatiently counting down the seconds to his death.

More importantly, it means Keito can focus his attention on other things. He thinks he’s keeping the student council in order for Eichi’s return, for instance. It’s a suitable motivation, for the time being; Keito never does anything for himself, so this pretense is necessary for now.

If all goes well, after a few months he’ll have cemented himself as a suitable successor for president. He’ll nag and resist and wring his hands, but he’ll have no choice in the end. Because Eichi’s never going back there.

He can’t even get out of bed.

… Ha. He really is acting like a brat.

If Keito were here, he’d nag and bully him until Eichi’s depression was eclipsed by his irritation. If he saw him like this, he wouldn’t stand for it; he’d drop everything and stay there like a stubborn thorn in his side until Eichi finally sat up and ate. Keito’s the only one who’s ever been able to get him to behave.

Eichi’s glad he’s not here.

… Tsumugi would do the opposite. He would be infinitely patient and considerate; he’d dote on Eichi, doing his utmost to anticipate his wants and slowly—in a manner he thinks is inconspicuous, certainly—coax him up with soft words of comfort and encouragement. Maybe he’d even sit on the edge of the bed and, with the gentlest of touches, place his hand on Eichi’s shoulder.

Eichi wonders if it would have worked.

It’s pointless to consider such things now; and, more than that, it’s selfish. Tsumugi and he are out of one another’s lives. It’s cruel and pathetic of Eichi to dredge up his image in the attempt to momentarily comfort himself with vain fantasies of what could have been.

Because Tsumugi is free from him now—he has no right to think of him fondly anymore. The sooner he realizes that, the sooner he can actually—

… Was that… a breeze?

No, impossible. There’s no way that the window could be open; Keito’s as diligent about latching it shut at night—so Eichi “doesn’t catch a chill”—as he is about opening it in the morning—“for fresh air.” (Eichi thinks it sounds idiotic; why is outside air healing sometimes and harmful other times?)

Regardless, Keito didn’t visit before school today, so the window should still be closed just the way he left it last night.

And anyway, that breeze blew from the opposite direction. He was certain at the time that he heard the nurse shut the door, but perhaps he’d left it just slightly ajar? But still, that would only serve to explain how the draft entered his room—not its source.

… Hold on, there’s—a weight on his shoulder. It’s incredibly light; far too light to be a hand or even one of the lightweight cotton blankets kept in the cabinet across the room. Besides, he would have heard if someone had entered.

So… Maybe something fell from his desk… ?

Still too stubborn to open his eyes, Eichi jerks his shoulder a couple of times to jostle the weight. He only knows that the object has moved when he suddenly feels a feather-light touch graze across the tip of his nose. He twitches his nose experimentally, and, with a soft rustling, the object slides to tickle against his left right instead.

It’s… a paper?

Too compelled by the mystery to continue with this ridiculous guessing game, Eichi opens his eyes and is greeted by… the befuddling sight of a paper airplane.

Before he can even begin to question the far more pressing concerns of how and why such a thing ended up here, Eichi’s mind decides to fixate instead on the design of the handicraft. Something is off about it. With his untethered hand, he grasps it gently between his fingers and holds it as far away from his face as he can without uncovering his arm from beneath the blanket.

It is a paper airplane… but not like the kind he’s seen on TV. Rather than the thin, aerodynamic shape one would expect, this one’s design is uniquely wide, the bulk of its body constituted of two swooping, thickly-folded wings.

With just this simple alternation, this version already looks more like an airplane than the traditional design does—but that’s not where the differences end. Between the wings, there is a deep and deliberate crease in the paper that extends forwards along the body to end in a tight point at the front end to form what Eichi supposes is the “nose” of the plane. On the opposite end, the remaining paper has been folded over and divided into two small pointed triangles, which protrude outwards at forty-five degree angles—the plane’s “tail,” certainly.

Those are reasonable assumptions to make when looking at each element individually; but Eichi’s not dense enough to mistake the actual vision behind this design. The angle of those back triangles are too acute; the rear wings of a real airplane protrude outwards nearly perpendicular to the body. And that front end—what he called a “nose”—is far too sharp and pointed; it’d be more accurate to call it a “beak.” And those wings; no airplane that Eichi has ever seen has had wings that curve and bend like that.

It’s not an airplane. It’s a bird.

His first instinct is to pull the covers over himself and press his hands over his ears. Not in fear, nor in self-defense, but in obstinate, willful denial.

His second instinct is to pretend to be asleep. (Playing dead would be even better, but there’s no electrocardiogram for him to unplug to elicit a faulty flatline.)

His third instinct is to reach for his cell phone and text Keito. It’s what he’d want him to do. It’s what he “should” do.

Instead, he retracts his hand and holds the paper bird delicately against his chest.

Then, raising his voice as best he can, he calls out without turning his head.

“... Hibiki-kun?”

There is a soft chuckle from behind him.

“... Your Majesty?” the voice returns playfully.

Eichi doesn’t know what to say—because there’s nothing for him to say. There’s absolutely no logical reason for Hibiki to be here right now.

It doesn’t make any sense… and he’s too worn-out to think about it anymore. Obsessing and overanalyzing hasn’t gotten him anywhere yet—he is beginning to understand that reason has little value when it comes to understanding Hibiki.

He isn’t feeling reasonable today anyway.

“Did… you drop this?” Eichi asks.

A half-second pause followed by another, louder laugh. “Yes, I suppose I did. Thank you very much for retrieving it for me. The wily little fledgling slipped right out of my fingers… ☆”

Eichi gazes down at its featureless little beak. “Well…” he says, “it’s very cute.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. If that’s so, then I’ll happily give it to you for safekeeping. It did fly all this way to see you, after all.”

In the moments of silence that follow, Eichi is half-convinced that Hibiki is about to leave—likely has already left, in fact—having, somehow, accomplished what he set out to do in giving Eichi this inexplicable gift. And then he speaks again.

“... May I come in?”

What is Eichi supposed to say? “No, you can’t”?

“Okay.”

The door clicks shut; detachedly, Eichi wonders how long it had been open—how long he’d been watched without his knowledge.

Then Hibiki steps into view, leaning back casually against the wall to the left of the window right at the very edge of Eichi’s periphery. Curled up on his side like this, Eichi can’t look at him directly without turning his head or sitting up. This strikes him as uncanny—as suspicious—but Eichi doesn’t care to think any further on it. It doesn’t really matter what game Hibiki is trying to play, as the matter has already been settled; Eichi isn’t going to move.

“You’re late for class,” he says to the wall, though he doesn’t actually know what time it is.

“Ah, yes, class…” Hibiki shrugs exaggeratedly. “Well, I figured that, having attended the first day of the new term, my obligations were through for at least the rest of the week.”

Eichi lets out a short exhale through his nose in what is almost a laugh—but it is certainly too soft for Hibiki to hear. Despite himself, he’s amused. After all, he’s seen how Hibiki scored on the entrance exam. (Keito saw it too, but he refused to believe the number hadn’t been forged or manipulated in some way.)

For a brilliant student like him to be so indifferent towards his own education… To willingly skip out on the precious school days that Eichi spent the bulk of his first year yearning for from his hospital bed, his heart charred and crumbling with impotent frustration… He’s envious, he supposes.

But not angry. At least, he shouldn’t be. He has no reason to be—what should he expect to find when he compares himself to someone like Hibiki?

Still, the statement rattles him slightly, and he can feel his tongue loosening with childish bitterness.

“Mm… As president, I should encourage you to take your attendance more seriously… However, as long as I’m stuck in here, you won’t have me to answer to.”

“Fufu, that’s a relief… While the cat’s away, the mice will play ♪” Hibiki retorts.

Eichi hums in muted acknowledgment. Though there certainly won’t be any “playing” under Keito’s regime—the surly stick-in-the-mud that he is, he’s certainly doing everything in his power to ensure that no one on campus steps even a toenail out of line. As someone who’s suffered underneath Keito’s stifling ruthlessness for years, Eichi wonders flippantly for a moment whether, in a good and just world, either of them should be trusted with any amount of power.

Hah. He really can’t blame Hibiki for ditching today after all.

“You know, I saw a friend of yours yesterday.”

Well, there’s no way that’s true.

Skeptical, Eichi holds his tongue and instead only flashes his eyes in Hibiki’s general direction for a moment to show that he’s heard him.

Hibiki nods. “I didn’t say hello and give him your regards, though, as I only saw him from afar while I was looking down from the rooftop. Anyway, the poor thing was sleeping at a table in the garden, so it was probably for the best that I didn’t disturb him…” He taps his chin. “Hmm, what was his name again… ?”

“Oh… Ritsu-kun.” Friend is maybe a bit of an overstatement… but out of everyone left in Yumenosaki, he’s the probably closest thing Eichi has.

The back of his neck grows warm as he’s reminded of that day—his most recent escape from the hospital. It had probably been over a month by now; likely longer, but Eichi’s perception of time had been nearly non-existent for the first couple weeks of his hospitalization.

He was the one Eichi ran to. The garden—the tea club—Ritsu—was the only destination Eichi’s delirious mind could latch onto.

His memory of that day is distant and foggy, feeling farther and farther away the more he tries to grasp at it, but back then, hadn’t he also found Ritsu sitting alone in the garden…?

Eichi can’t recall what happened after. But… they spoke briefly, didn’t they? He thinks he remembers Ritsu panicking and calling for help... Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking—another self-indulgent fantasy.

But the memory of Ritsu’s downcast face, alone at their old table, still remains clear in his mind. He’d looked so small, and so exhausted.

“Was—he alone?” Eichi finds himself asking.

“Yes. I probably should have texted Rei; he would have been thrilled for the chance to go dote on his cute and defenseless little brother~”

Eichi’s mouth crooks up into a half-smile. The Sakumas… He’s glad to know that some things haven’t changed. “Ha. It’s good you didn’t. Ritsu-kun would have hated that.”

Hibiki chuckles. “Yes, I suppose so. Some people are more discerning about whom they receive attention from, it seems. And sometimes it can be embarrassing to receive affection from one’s family members—or so I hear.”

Eichi’s forehead scrunches with mild confusion. Is Hibiki testing his knowledge—his relationship with Ritsu? But he can’t resist clarifying; Ritsu wouldn’t tolerate such a misunderstanding, after all. “It’s more than that, as I understand it. Although they’re brothers, it seems that Ritsu-kun and Sakuma-kun have a strained relationship.”

“Really? So that’s how the little Sakuma feels… I haven’t interacted with him much at all, so I wouldn’t have known.”

… Isn’t he close with Sakuma? Eichi figured that they would have talked about something like that... He must be reading Hibiki wrong; he’s surely fibbing, for whatever reason.

There’s something different about him, though. The way he’s speaking… It’s as though he doesn’t have an agenda today. Of course, Hibiki always speaks with such ease and casualness already, but today his manner is more subdued… He seems patient and unhurried, as though he really is just socializing with a classmate. (Not that Eichi has much experience to compare it to.)

He’ll probably tell Keito that his fatigue and foul mood today wore down his cognitive abilities and self-control, giving his id complete control over his body. Maybe that’s the truth; or maybe Eichi is in full possession of all of his faculties right now—and acting unreasonably out of his own free will. Either way, it’s a convenient excuse for why the following words leave his mouth without a second thought.

“You don’t seem like your usual self today,” Eichi says.

There is a beat of silence, and then Hibiki breaks into a grin. “Ohoh, is that so? You’re quite perceptive! Yes, you’re right, of course.” He pauses, and when he continues, his words sound just slightly strained—or maybe Eichi really is disoriented.

“Well, it must be my natural instinct as an improvisational actor—’acting is reacting,’ you know?” Another pause. “That is to say… You appear fatigued today, so I naturally tempered my disposition as well.”

“I see,” Eichi says. So… he’s being considerate.

For reasons he can’t comprehend, the thought strikes him like an icicle in the chest, and he reflexively hunches his shoulders and lets out a few scattered, breathless coughs into his fist. As his torso shudders with the effort, the bird tumbles out of the limp fingers of his free hand and glides to the floor.

“Ah,” Hibiki says, his posture straightening with apparent concern. “Are you alright? ... Should I go inform a nurse—or fetch anything for you?”

Eichi manages a tight smile and shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’m fine…” He swallows dryly. “And don’t worry about abiding by my disposition… I’d rather you didn’t, frankly. You’re free to behave however you like.”

Hibiki’s brow furrows for a brief second before his face quickly relaxes once again. “Alright. Thank you for your permission. Then, that being the case, I will take a seat.”

In two big strides, he closes the gap between himself and Keito’s chair and gracefully sits down.

He and Eichi face each other. Curled as he is on the edge of the bed, they’re even closer than they were when Hibiki sat here nearly a week ago.

A thought comes to him: This is the closest we have ever been to one another.

Except it’s not true. They’ve been closer than this; they’ve touched, even. At least, Hibiki had touched him—had caught him, when Eichi collapsed on stage.

He wonders why it is, then, that their positions now feel even more intimate. Maybe it’s because, positioned as he is, Eichi has nowhere to look but at Hibiki.

… Even this up close, he cannot find a single flaw in his appearance.

It really is unfair how attractive he is... Though Eichi has spent the entirety of his conscious life reviling and rejecting even the abstract concept of a higher power, it’s disconcertingly easy for him to believe that God exists when looking at a face as perfect as Hibiki’s.

If there is a God, he’d surely blessed Hibiki at birth—Eichi is as certain of this as he is certain that the very same God had cursed him.

A curious smile begins to grow on Hibiki’s face.

Eichi must have been staring at him for too long… But he doesn’t look away. He should—he could, even; he knows now that he is capable of keeping his eyes to himself even when in close, tantalizing proximity to Hibiki Wataru—and yet he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to.

You’ll lose your eyesight if you stare directly into the sun for too long. But Eichi has lived in the darkness for too long; a moment of glorious beauty is worth the damage he’ll suffer later.

He doesn’t have anywhere else to look, anyway. Hibiki is right in front of him—and Eichi’s not getting out of bed today. There’s really nowhere to run… ♪

“So the Emperor is human, too,” Hibiki says.

“Huh?” Eichi asks, convinced for a moment that the other had been reading his mind.

Hibiki smiles wider, flashing his flawless teeth. “Please don’t take offense at my observation, but—Fufufu ♪ Your hair is rather messy~”

Eichi’s cheeks burn. “Oh… Well, that’s only natural. I’ve been in bed all day.”

Of course, he’s been in bed every day for the past month, so it’s not much of an excuse. He hasn’t showered, not to mention washed his hair, in weeks, his hygiene entirely contingent on sponge baths and wet wipes. Still, he takes care of his appearance as best he can and, although his hair is starting to get a little shaggy, he keeps it otherwise clean and tidy with daily combings.

But he didn’t comb his hair this morning—so he can only imagine how disheveled it must look right now.

“Yes, and it would be unreasonable of me to expect any different. As I said, I didn’t mean any offense; you should be concerned with recuperation, not your appearance. This is simply a novel sight for me… It’s charming, peeking beneath someone’s veneer.”

Eichi feels as though he should be insulted. But maybe he’s too worn down today; instead, he smiles a little.

“Veneer… I suppose that’s an appropriate word for someone like me.” He exhales quietly. “You, on the other hand, are no facade… You’re the real thing.”

Eichi’s not sure whether he’s putting himself down or complimenting Hibiki. The distinction between his internal thoughts and spoken words is blurring; he’s speaking from the heart now. This is dangerous.

He should text Keito.

“I am always very well-groomed, yes... But, if you can believe it, Hibiki Wataru is a human, too. I also have to wash and brush my hair daily to keep it this tidy… Likely much more meticulously than the average person! My hair isn’t only long, but willful as well; you could say that it has a mind of its own, fufu ☆”

Eichi chuckles. “Yes—I’m sure you must take great care to cultivate your looks. When it comes to physical appearance, as with everything else, you’re truly unrivaled, Hibiki-kun.”

Hibiki exhales an audible breath.

Right. Eichi isn’t a complete idiot; he knows that he’s said something he shouldn’t have. But he’s already done something he shouldn’t have—he promised Keito that he wouldn’t interact with Hibiki anymore. He’s already in trouble.

It’s a blatant logical fallacy to use one infraction to justify further indiscretions.

He “should” stop talking now and ask him to leave.

He “should” grab his phone and message Keito.

He “should” take a single moment to consider the ramifications of continuing to speak his mind so freely with his former—his current?—enemy.

He doesn’t care. He wants Hibiki Wataru.

And anyway, today is a special occasion.

“But you don’t need me to tell you that. You know that already, don’t you? It’s an objective fact, after all.”

Hibiki’s eyes crinkle with the ghost of a smile. “... It pains me to admit this, but I’m afraid I’m not as intelligent as you assume me to be. I must ask you to elaborate.”

Eichi shrugs slightly—but the casual gesture is undermined by the rising speed and passion of his speech.

“It’s basic science and mathematics: your physical features are, objectively, perfect.”

When Hibiki says nothing, Eichi takes it as an invitation to continue.

“You see, extensive research has been conducted on how the universal constant of the golden ratio applies to human attractiveness; it’s something entertainment producers often consider when scouting new talent, so I’m somewhat familiar with it. I’ll hire a statistician to perform an analysis of your features in particular if you’re interested, but they’d only be confirming what we already innately recognize as human beings. Physical attractiveness is, to some degree, subjective—but it is also instinctual.

“Looks, of course, are only one of the multitude of appeals an idol must possess if they wish to be successful… but they are absolutely essential if one wants to be a true star. History has proven this true; you could apply the golden ratio to any of the faces of present and past superstars.”

Hibiki is still staring at him. Caught up in the momentum of his rant—in the high of the most passion he’s felt about anything in days—Eichi once again can only interpret this as silent encouragement. He goes on.

“You are simultaneously a perfect conglomerate of all of the most attractive features of Japan’s greatest idols—Sagami Jin’s stature, Hidaka Seiya’s jawline, that Akehoshi’s breathtaking smile—and yet a completely unique, distinct, and instantly recognizable individual. Greater than the sum of your parts.

“You say you’re a human, but you’re not—at least, not if you’re an idol. It doesn’t matter if those are your natural features, if your hair is a wig or if your attractive cheekbones are contoured with makeup rather than your bone structure. Your body could be entirely artificial, but it doesn’t change anything... Not to your fans, that is. What they see is the same Hibiki Wataru, the perfect, dazzling idol they love and adore.”

… That’s right. Eichi internally chastises himself for his thoughts earlier. He’d been completely wrong; of course Hibiki’s perfection doesn’t prove the existence of God… God could never create someone as spectacular as him. Even if he had been blessed by a higher power at birth, the fact is that Hibiki Wataru created himself.

That’s just what Eichi’s always loved about him—what he loves about all idols… All true idols, at least.

“In fact, it only heightens your appeal. Idols are supposed to be ideal—and ideals can only be achieved through unfathomably painstaking hard work… Where so many have failed, you, Hibiki-kun, have achieved true authenticity. As I said: you’re the real thing.”

It’s only once he finishes speaking and finally takes a moment to catch his breath that Eichi notices that Hibiki’s smile has completely faded, even from his eyes. His face, even more so than usual, is completely unreadable.

“... You seem to have put a bit of thought into this,” he finally says, his voice low. “It’s as though you’ve gotten idols down to a science.”

Eichi chuckles uneasily, his sensibility and self-consciousness only now catching up to him. Even so, he cannot resist elaborating just a bit more on the subject he loves more intensely than anything else in the entire world.

“Not exactly; a concept as immaculate as idols could never be reduced to mere numbers. There will always be that it factor… That’s what makes idols so special. They cannot be reproduced so easily; at least, not until we understand what it is that feeds that spark that made the super idols of the past burn so brightly.”

Hibiki cocks his head. “And if you were able to do that? To ‘reproduce’ idols—‘spark’ and all? What would you do next?”

It’s as though he can read his mind. Eichi’s eyes dart downwards—he nearly gave himself away.

“... I got distracted. I’m sorry. My only intention was to recognize your effort and skill.”

Hibiki’s lips curl into a small smirk. “Well now, don’t look so remorseful. To tell the truth, I’m deeply curious about this philosophy you’ve developed…” He lets out a light chuckle, which seeps into his voice and makes his following words rattle with a lilting cadence. “That being said, if you’re inclined to compliment my beauty some more, who am I to stop you?”

This finally manages to snap Eichi out of it. That is what he’d just been doing, isn’t it?

He cannot help but run his mouth—even to save his own life. When will he learn to shut up? Keito would have killed him if he’d heard that little speech he just gave… He’ll probably kill him anyway.

There had been a time where everything was going according to plan. Where Eichi had been acting appropriately—according to their script… Their story was unfolding perfectly; Keito, Tsumugi, Hiyori, Nagisa, the Five, they were all behaving exactly as they should. Up until that final live, they had been absolutely unstoppable.

Eichi had ruined it—he’d failed all of them that day. And he still hasn’t learned his lesson. Why the hell can’t he keep his mouth shut around Hibiki?

“You’re right,” Eichi replies. “That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have—”

“Hmm?” Hibiki interrupts. “That’s not what I said at all! It seems that we keep miscommunicating; you really should get your hearing checked, Your Majesty. Yes, it’s essential for a singer to have a well-tuned inner ear, but you mustn’t neglect the health of your outer ear either!”

Eichi’s cheeks pinken, and he is soothed out of his self-chastisement as easily as wading into a heated indoor pool. Hibiki is here; he’ll have more than enough time to hate himself later. He must make the most of it while they’re together—before he’s gone.

“Hah, yes, I understand. My ears really are fine…” A ridiculous thought comes to him, and he makes no effort to thwart it in the millisecond it takes to reach his mouth. “Well, excluding their length, and their furriness…”

Hibiki lets out a choked, startled laugh. “What’s that—? ♪”

Eichi presses his lips together to suppress his own giggle—though it’s more at his own expense than at his joke. At least it was his intention to sound like an idiot this time; he needs to hurry past that guileless monologue of his as swiftly as possible, even if it means making an even bigger fool of himself.

“You keep calling me ‘Your Majesty,’ and now you’re talking about my ears; it reminded me of that old story about King Midas… I’m not sure if you’ve heard it. It goes something like—”

“King Midas has donkey ears~” Hibiki cuts in, nodding eagerly. “That’s what the hairdresser yells at the end, correct? And then the king’s hidden shame is exposed to the rest of the world. Of course, of course. Very clever.” He laughs again, more softly this time. “Well, rest assured, I promise to keep your secret close to my chest, Your Highness.” He winks.

Eichi smiles back sheepishly.

Hibiki snaps his fingers as though he’s suddenly remembered something important. “And, ah, speaking of unusually long ears! It’s a good thing we’re in a hospital, as I’ve been having a slight medical issue myself… Perhaps you can help me?”

He holds his hand up to the right side of his head, angling his palm so that Eichi can clearly see him pinch the skin of his upper ear between his thumb and index finger, and then, just like magic, slowly begins to stretch it outwards.

A few centimeters, an inch, two inches… Within a couple seconds, his skin has already stretched beyond the realms of what is humanly possible. The texture and sound reminds Eichi of rubber—like the squeaking of a balloon as it is twisted into the caricature of an animal.

“Oh!” Eichi gasps softly, his eyes widening. “That’s…” He doesn’t continue, utterly captivated by the display. It should be disturbing—in any other circumstance, with any other performer, it would be—but when it comes to Hibiki, everything is delightful.

Eichi can’t suppress a small giggle.

After he has stretched it nearly a foot away from his head, Hibiki’s brow furrows and lips purse in stoic concentration. Now, rather than steadily pulling the skin of his ear, he begins to gently yank. With each jerk, his eyebrows twitch with the apparent strain. Then, after a few tugs, he clenches his hand into a fist and then pulls his arm back in one final yank—

And returns with a bouquet of seven pale blue hydrangeas.

“Ah, now, that feels sooo much better… ☆” Hibiki sighs. “I’ve already got quite the headache from carrying these around all day, so would it trouble you to take them into your care instead?”

Once again: what is Eichi supposed to say? “No”? He would never forgive himself. The very least he can do is respect Hibiki’s honor as a performer.

“Alright,” Eichi says. “Thank you very much… They’re lovely.”

With a courteous nod, Hibiki leans over and places the bouquet on the bedside table.

More flowers. Eichi can’t say he didn’t see it coming this time. He’s received a flower of some sort every time Hibiki has visited. He had even given Eichi a few seconds to anticipate the reveal.

But his heart still swells with awe; at the trick, and at the gift.

And yet another out of season flower. These should be unnecessarily expensive, shouldn’t they? And they appear so fresh and vibrant, too… Could they be artificial?

Eichi truly can’t tell. And he doesn’t care very much; either way, they truly are beautiful.

Hmm. Perhaps it only appears so because hydrangea blossoms are rather large flowers already, but isn’t this bouquet… bigger than normal? It’s nearly larger than Hibiki’s head—artificial or not, this bouquet is impressive and grand, and had certainly been assembled with caring and meticulous hands.

He doesn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve any of the flowers, but—but this is something else entirely. Rather than a compulsory gift for a sick classmate, it strikes Eichi as the sort of present you’d only give someone for a truly special occasion—

… There’s no way.

“So,” Eichi begins, doing everything in his power to keep his voice light and steady. “As to the reason you came today... Hibiki-kun, did you actually—” He cuts himself off, too embarrassed to complete the question.

“Hm? What’s that?”

“It’s...” Eichi trails off and then shakes his head, offering an apologetic small smile.No… No, he can’t do it. Even if he were sure that his hunch was correct, it’s still too humiliating to ask outright. “It’s nothing. Excuse me.”

“Hohoh, you won’t evade me that easily, Your Majesty! ☆ The ‘actual’ reason I’m here today—that’s what you want to know?”

Eichi doesn’t react; but apparently the conflicted look in his eyes is enough to satisfy Hibiki.

“Well, because you were kind enough to unburden me of these flowers, I’ll repay you in kind and tell you the truth… I’d like to make a deal with you.”

Head spinning with intrigue and anxiety, Eichi fights the urge to sit up straight to stop the flow of blood rushing to his brain. “A deal…” he says calmly. “You mentioned this before. You wanted to know what it is that I want from you.”

“Hmmhmm, close! I fear perhaps a bit of nuance was lost in your succinct summation, though… May I recap the situation? ☆ You have continuously expressed interest in doing something, anything, for me, right? Whatever it is I want from you is mine to take, you said? ♪”

It takes Eichi a moment to realize that this is a question. “Yes…” he says, not without hesitation.

“Excellent ☆ And I replied that I do not accept charity… Hoooowever, if there was something that I could offer you in exchange for this ‘anything’ you want to give me… I would be more than willing to arrange a trade.”

“Right…” Eichi cautiously agrees. “That’s how I remember the conversation as well.”

“Oh, that’s lovely to hear! The Emperor gets by just fine with his donkey ears, I see ♪ Now, after I said that, you objected that there is nothing that you want from me…” He shakes his head woefully. “Those are harsh words for an entertainer to hear… but I do not hold them against you! It’s difficult for us to conceptualize our desires out of thin air, isn’t it? Sometimes we only discover what it is we want when it is placed right beneath our nose—and, at other times, not even then.”

Hibiki glances at him pointedly for a half-second—but Eichi, too caught up in his apprehension of whatever Hibiki is building up to, does not even think to second-guess his meaning.

“And so, in an effort to remedy your indecision and ease your reluctance, please allow Hibiki Wataru to make His Majesty the Emperor an offer… A starting bid, if you prefer. Will that be alright with you?”

“... A-Alright,” Eichi says, a half-second before he realizes that he’s been coaxed into agreeing to something he does not fully comprehend.

“Wonderful ♪ Then I’ll be brief: I would like to entertain you.”

Eichi eyes him silently for a few moments in anticipation of further information. When Hibiki stares back at him with the same patient expectation on his own face, Eichi realizes that, once again, he is being prompted to speak.

“... Will you elaborate?” he asks, far too meekly.

Hibiki’s eyes narrow with what could be pleasure or mischief. “Fufu, certainly ♪ You’re going to be here for another couple of months, correct? Then you could surely use for some entertainment. That right hand of yours won’t suffice—no, no, not at all. In fact, I’m certain that his oppressive presence alone siphons nearly all of the life and joy out of this room—fufufu, before he even opens his mouth! You’re in desperate need of someone to bring some much-needed energy to balance out his overwhelming gloom.”

Eichi blinks, still not understanding. Right hand—he’s talking about Keito… But his mind only lingers on that point long enough for him to make that connection before he snaps back to his initial question.

“What do you mean? Entertainment... ?”

“Well, I mean exactly what I said! Entertainment! ☆ I can provide His Majesty with a dictionary definition of the word if he likes, but I will not elaborate much further than that. You see, here’s another trade secret: a great deal of the allure of magic stems from its ability to mystify and surprise. Hibiki Wataru values the enjoyment of his audience above all else, so it goes against my ethics as a magician to reveal what tricks I plan on executing in advance! I hope that you will respect my wishes on this! ☆”

Hibiki has said so many words since, but Eichi’s mind is still fixated on his first sentence. He desperately grabs at the little information he retained from his last statement and tries to incorporate it into his understanding of the situation. “So… You—you want to perform magic for me?”

“Of course! If that’s what His Majesty would like, then Hibiki Wataru will happily meet his expectations ☆”

“You phrase that as though that’s not what you originally meant…” Eichi’s lips purse into a slight frown as he thinks. “Besides performing magic tricks, how else would you ‘entertain’ me?”

Hibiki shakes his head with the same taunting grin a pet owner might have when dangling an alluring new toy just out of reach. “As I said, I’d really prefer not to get into specifics… But I am ‘the greatest idol in the world,’ aren’t I? ♪ You’ll just have to place your faith in my abilities.”

“I... can’t say that I’m satisfied with that answer.”

“Is satisfaction really all you’re after?” Hibiki watches him silently for a moment as though giving Eichi a chance to respond before he continues. “Let me answer your question with another: In your current situation... What, exactly, do you have to lose?”

It’s perhaps the single worst question he could have asked him.

Or—the best question, that is, as it firmly centers Eichi back in reality:

It doesn’t matter what the specifics of what Hibiki is offering are; he cannot afford to interact with him anymore.

Their story is finished. Any further communications could only jeopardize what he and Keito have worked so hard to achieve.

There is absolutely nothing to be gained by associating with Hibiki Wataru.

Hibiki is right; Eichi doesn’t have anything to lose… But he didn’t start this revolution simply for his own sake. If Eichi really, truly cares about the future of this industry above all else—if he really isn’t an inherently selfish, short-sighted, cruel, hopeless, irredeemable shell of human being—then the answer should be easy.

He has nothing to lose—except everything.

To ensure that nothing gets in the way of the future he and Keito dreamed of, then there’s no way that Eichi and Hibiki could ever be—

“But but but!” Hibiki suddenly exclaims, breaking Eichi out of his concentration. “It’s too morbid to frame the situation in terms of ‘loss’ and ‘gain,’ right? We should leave thinking like that to the adults—as children, it is our right and our duty to settle things not with logic, but with whimsy! ☆”

As Hibiki nods his head along with his words to emphasize his point, Eichi almost feels as though he is being hypnotized.

“So how about this? Let’s make a game of it and leave the decision up to fate! Tell me, Emperor... Heads or tails? ♪”

“Wh—what?”

“You’re familiar with magic tricks, aren’t you? Then surely you’ve encountered a coin toss at some point in your life, haven’t you?”

With that, Hibiki snaps his fingers and slides a thin silver coin from behind his thumb.

Eichi squints and leans forward slightly to get a closer look. “What kind of a coin is that... ?”

Hibiki smiles and, balancing the coin on his thumbnail, extends his arm so Eichi can make out the details. “It’s an American quarter! On one side is a man’s face…” He flicks it up in the air and effortlessly catches it once again on the back of his thumb. “And on the other is an eagle. You see?” Another flip. “‘Heads’...” Another flip. “Or ‘tails’! ☆ Sooo? Which is it?”

A US coin? What a peculiar thing to have at the ready like that… It truly is almost as though he can summon exactly what he needs straight out of thin air.

“Hmm…” Eichi muses aloud, his curiosity piqued despite everything. “Assuming that there’s an absolutely equal possibility that the coin will land on either side—that there’s no strategic choice to possibly make here...”

He looks at the eagle on Hibiki’s thumb, its giant wings spread proudly at either side of its body. Like the wings of an angel.

“I’ll choose tails, then.”

“... Oh? Very well, then. Your word is law, after all: and so, your side shall be ‘tails,’ and mine shall be ‘heads’!”

“My ‘side’... ? What exactly will this coin flip decide?”

“Well, in a sense... Everything! You still seem uncertain about my offer, so why not allow luck to choose for you? ☆ Since I was the one who proposed the idea, then ‘heads’ will be in favor of the arrangement; and so naturally, ‘tails’ will be against. Then, whatever side the coin lands on—whatever choice is made for us—we will be obligated to obey, as only witless fools would dare to defy the behest of fate!”

Eichi frowns.

“... Your Highness?”

For whatever reason, this petty concern, more than any of the others, is one he feels willing to actually articulate.

“Well... Ah, not to be rude, but—I just don’t believe in luck… or fate, or destiny, or whatever else you call it. There’s such a thing as chance, yes, but it’s human arrogance to project meaning onto what is, essentially, entropy. Whether the coin lands on ‘heads’ or ‘tails’... It’s not fate; it’s not a sign; it’s random... If there were such a thing as ‘fate,’ it would not be a blessing or curse pre-arranged and bestowed upon us by some higher power, but rather something that is determined by each individual themself.”

Hibiki, though he had been listening attentively, appears entirely unaffected by Eichi’s objection. Instead, he merely raises a brow and says, “Then... being in control of your own fate, I suppose you should decide for yourself. You seemed quite thoughtful earlier, so perhaps you’ve already decided? If so, by all means, speak now—and demonstrate for me your free will as a human being!”

He waits in expectant silence for a few seconds… but Eichi does not say a word.

“Hmm… ♪ I’m quite impatient to settle this matter as soon as possible, sooo...”

With the coin balanced between his thumb and index finger, he flicks it into the air and sends it down onto his open palm. Before Eichi can see what side it’s landed on, Hibiki has already slapped his other hand atop his palm, obscuring the coin from view.

“I’ll give you thirty seconds. Think it over, alright? And if you’re still uncertain once half a minute has passed, then I’ll lift my hand and we’ll both see for ourselves!”

“A time limit,” Eichi observes, hoping to disguise the anxiety in his voice with incredulity. “It almost feels as though I’m being threatened.”

“Fufu. If I were to do that, there would have to be a negative consequence for your indecision. But the way I see it, the both of us will win either way, as we will finally have reached a conclusion! See, the—Well, hmm, I should be quiet, shouldn’t I? Teeeen... eleeeeven... Oh, and now twelve seconds have already passed! ☆ We can speak again in seventeen—no, sixteen—no, no, fifteen seconds!—if you’ve made up your mind by then. If not, then chance will make up your mind for you ☆”

Fifteen seconds is nothing. Eichi feels like he’s about to vomit.

But he’s already decided.

Eichi wants to be a good person.

A good person wouldn’t continue playing games like this.

A good person would think about the future—about everything he wants to leave behind—about how much he has left to do, and such little time to do it in.

A good person would listen to his best friend.

“Time’s almost up, Emperor. Would you like me to count down aloud to raise the tension? Fiiive... fouuur... threeee...”

A good person would be able to resist temptation—no matter how alluring it is.

A good person would be able to resist Hibiki Wataru.

“Enough, enough,” Eichi blurts out. “Please—stop counting down like that. It makes me feel like I’m an action hero defusing a bomb…” He takes in a shaky breath.

Hibiki obeys and falls silent, his deep, probing eyes gazing down at him.

Eichi exhales wearily. “Hibiki-kun, if you put me on the spot, then—then… well, anyone would find it incredibly hard to say no.”

“Hmm? ♪ And you count yourself as ‘anyone’? As a piece of advice from one genius to another: forced humility will only serve to alienate your fans. You are not ‘anyone’; you are the almighty Emperor, Tenshouin Eichi of fine! ♪ You can do anything you put your mind to—a fact which you have bravely demonstrated over and over and over again!”

Eichi bites down on the inside of his lip. Does Hibiki know what he’s doing… saying his name like that? His heart pounds in his throat.

“With that in mind, I’m afraid I cannot accept ‘it’s hard to say no’ as an answer… In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s the opposite of an answer! Forgive me, but I know you can do better than that! Fufu, so shall I resume the countdown, then? Tick tick tick ♪ Only another two seconds to go until the bomb goes off...”

“Agh,” Eichi groans, genuine exasperation edging into his voice. “Alright! Yes.”

Hibiki still doesn’t relent, his gaze remaining fixed and discerning on Eichi’s face; but the corners of his mouth lift up ever so slightly, exposing his teeth in the beginnings of a wry grin. “What’s that… ?  ♪” he prompts.

Eichi wants to laugh; then he wants to cry.

“I’d… be glad to receive your entertainment.”

He doesn’t do either; he begins to smile too.

Hibiki’s grin explodes onto his face, and he breaks out into a lively, hypnotic cackle. “Wahaha! ♪ Wonderful! ♪ Yes, yes, fantastic! ♪ Thank you very much for your honesty, Your Majesty! And I do apologize for pressuring you—but, oh, don’t you feel a thousand times better now, having finally reached the truth? I do, for one! Very, very much so, in fact! ☆”

Eichi can’t respond; he fears that, if he opens his mouth, he will be sick.

“Buuuuut ♪ Just for fun, why don’t we check to see what fate—fufufu, or was it entropy?—chose for us!”

With a dramatic wiggle of his fingers, Hibiki raises his hand... only to reveal a completely bare palm. “Oh? Hm, now, I could have sworn that it was right here...”

He looks up at Eichi with concern. “Wherever could it have gone—have you seen it? I don’t suppose it’s gotten stuck in one of your furry ears… ? A button did get trapped there once before, after all!”

Eichi’s hand twitches; perhaps he really has been hypnotized, as he very nearly runs his hand behind his ear to check.

“It’s no use!” Hibiki shakes his head regretfully. “I refuse to leave this room until it is located. Coins are timid little creatures, did you know? Any sudden movements will spook them! But as long as I don’t move from this spot, it’ll surely appear out of hiding sooner or later…”

His eyes narrow, and he eyes Eichi with a mischievous smirk. “So let’s give it at least another hour or so, just to be safe… Does His Majesty think he can tolerate this fool’s company until then?”

The power of suggestion. He’s being brainwashed. That must be why, with every passing second, Eichi’s nausea is becoming harder and harder to distinguish from pure, unadulterated euphoria.

He sits up. For the first time that day, the two of them are at eye level.

“... Well, who am I to disagree with an expert? You’re correct; you’d better not move yet, then.”

☆

Settled in bed that night, Eichi’s eyes are just fluttering closed when something catches his eye. A splash of white on the bedside table.

Squinting into the darkness, it takes his exhausted mind longer than it should to place what it is.

The paper bird. That’s right—he’d dropped it when he was coughing. At some point before he left that afternoon, Hibiki must have retrieved it and set it here.

Hm. That paper… He hadn’t questioned it before, but it really had felt far too thin to be origami paper. It reminded Eichi more of the thin paper of one of Keito’s early childhood sketchbooks—or the cheap printer paper his company used for internal memos.

Huh. The sort of paper much more suited to pencil or ink… Eichi wonders: if he were to unfold it, would there perhaps be something written inside?

… It’d be a shame to, though. At least, not yet. The little thing really is quite cute.

Eichi closes his eyes. His room is slowly filling up with baubles… He never thought that he could take such pleasure in receiving gifts. That must be Hibiki’s magic at work, too… ♪

It’s only once he is falling asleep that he realizes something else: Hibiki’s half of the “deal” went completely unresolved.

The thought only strikes him for a moment before his consciousness begins to fade into oblivion. It’s okay. Eichi will ask him about it another time. There will be a next time, after all. He’s going to see Hibiki Wataru again.

It’s the best birthday present he’s ever received.

Chapter Text

☼ ☼ ☼

“... Eh? Are you sure?”

“Hohoh, absolutely! ☆ I’m not much concerned with cataloging superfluous details like ‘names,’ but this Hibiki Wataru never forgets a face!”

Wataru winks. The Emperor exhales a confused, curious chuckle.

“You’re right to be suspicious, however; young people spread the most slanderous rumors these days! Fortunately, I anticipated your skepticism and, desperate to safeguard the virtue of my credibility in this holy court, proceeded accordingly ☆”

He puts his hand to his heart and bows his head solemnly. “Your Honor, since my testimony alone does not satisfy you, may I please submit exhibit A into evidence?”

Relishing in the Emperor’s captive gaze, Wataru swiftly slips his phone out of his pocket. His heart flutters with anticipatory glee; this reveal will be perfect.

To ensure there would be nary a precious millisecond squandered with awkwardly thumbing through his cluttered home screen to locate his camera roll, he’d pulled up the photo in question before his visit; all he needs to do is swipe open his phone.

One, two, and—

—Oh, dear… It appears he’s missed some messages.

Well, “missed.” His phone, as always, is on silent—it’s basic theater courtesy, after all!—so, even if he hadn’t been entertaining the Emperor, there wasn’t much of a chance of him fielding these texts promptly.

Truthfully, Wataru hasn’t been very eager to be contacted. On the contrary, actually! These days, he does his best to maintain a strict and judicious distance from his cell phone; most of the time, the device functions primarily as a music player and, on occasion, a convenient real-time reference for the upcoming train schedule.

A notification on his lock screen alerts him to the fact that, forty five minutes ago, he’d received two new texts from little Natsume.

Shame torrents down his shoulders. Oh… That’s right. He’d messaged Wataru about a week ago as well, hadn’t he? Wataru had never replied. He’d forgotten—he’d meant to, honestly, but his mind had gone blank, he couldn’t find the words, he didn’t know how to—

Well! ☆ This matter will have to wait! ☆ He’s incredibly busy at the moment, you see! ☆

In the split second before he wills himself to look away, Wataru’s eyes graze across the end of the second text, and he makes out the child’s endearingly strange nickname for him, Master, lovingly rendered in katakana—

He swipes the notification away, unlocks his phone, and leans forward to offer it to the Emperor.

It should be an easy exchange. The Emperor should simply reach out his own hand and take the phone. That’s what teenagers do; they show one another images on their phone. It’s normal. It’s mundane.

And yet the other boy pauses for a long moment, his lips pursed with agitation. Wataru wonders for a moment whether he has just received another text and is unwittingly flashing the notification in the Emperor’s face—but he is not looking at Wataru’s phone.

Wataru follows his gaze down to the Emperor’s lap… His forearm, draped across his thighs… his wrist, propped in the crook between his blanketed legs… his thin fingers wrapped gently around a long thin stem… and, at the peak of the stalk, the crimped azure petals of the morning glory Wataru had bestowed upon him nearly half an hour ago.

Ah. Yes, he believes he understands:

The corner desk chair having been relocated to its proper place for the third time, Wataru is once again sitting at the left of the Emperor’s bedside. It follows, then, that the Emperor’s instinct would be to accept Wataru’s phone with his left—and dominant—hand. However, said hand is currently already hard at work at performing the role of makeshift flower vase…  ♪

Being the exemplary young gentleman that he is, he’s surely concerned with observing some social etiquette about properly respecting gifts… Hm. If he carelessly places the flower beside him on the bed or tosses it onto the side table, he fears Wataru might feel as though his thoughtful present had been slighted—is that the issue?

That being the case, taking the phone with his free hand is the obvious solution… but it’s not that simple, is it? Not only is it not his dominant hand, but there is also the issue of the IV drip attached to the back of his hand… Though Wataru hasn’t a clue whether he merely cannot move it due to the cumbersomeness of the tubing or will not due to the pain of the needle. He hasn’t yet observed the Emperor treating his right hand daintily, but…

Fufu, there is simply so much to observe when it comes to him ♪

Even an interaction as supposedly simple as handing over a cell phone—an exchange that would have been painless, inconsequential, absolutely unremarkable if Rei or Kanata had been in the Emperor’s place—has become an entire ordeal. A silent, three second ordeal, but still!

Aaah, what trouble the Emperor is in! ♪ Wataru supposes he could offer to take the flower from him so his dominant hand is free to accept the phone; that would, in fact, be the kind thing to do.

Oh, but… Wataru is not feeling particularly kind ♪ After all, the Emperor agreed that the two of them would not behave charitably towards one another. Wataru aims to be an obedient fool, so he must not interfere!

He observes with rapt curiosity. Whaaat are you going to do… ?~ ♪

The Emperor does not set the flower aside. He does not accept his phone with his right hand either.

Instead, in one swift motion, he reaches up and neatly tucks the stem of the morning glory behind his ear.

The brilliant violet petals provide a stunning complement to his pale blond hair.

Wataru cannot suppress a delighted grin. How innovative! Such strategy, such cleverness, such grace! It is just what Wataru should have expected from the main character of the Yumenosaki War, the almighty Emperor… ☆

To Wataru’s further surprise, the Emperor then outstretches both arms and accepts his phone into his hands. Resting his elbows on his lap, he cradles the device tenderly in his cupped palms, as though it is something terribly delicate and precious... It reminds Wataru of the way his mother holds his phone whenever he shows her a photo or video, her hands limp underneath the weight, the odd and unnatural shape formed by her cupped palms adorably, perfectly awkward.

Half-expecting the Emperor to carry the resemblance even further by narrowing his eyes and holding the phone inches from his face to better make out the image, Wataru finds himself preemptively offering some indirect instruction. “Please feel free to pinch the screen to zoom in if you like! You may even be able to spot a bit of drool, if your eyes are keen enough ♪”

However, it appears that his coaching was unnecessary; as, only a second later, the Emperor abruptly hiccups out a peal of laughter.

“Oh—Pfft, yes, that is Keito! Ahahaha, wow—Is he really asleep at his desk like that?!”

Wataru chuckles along… but the sentimentality that bloomed in his chest at the thought of his mother has begun to sprout outwards, burrowing its invasive roots into the chambers and valves of his heart. He thinks about the texts. About—

Natsume.

That poor child. He’s been neglecting him terribly this past month… They were all guilty of it during the War, to varying degrees; they kept their distance in the name of “protecting” him, yes, but—in all their painstaking efforts to keep him safe… had they actually done worse by him? Through all of their shielding and patronizing, had they actually deprived the boy of something even more essential than safety?

… Whatever their mistakes then, Wataru is only compounding that grief now by continuing to refuse his efforts at sincere connection. That boy, for whatever reason, imprinted on him so tenaciously. Back then, Wataru had found it affirming; selfishly, he still does—but it also crushes him with a deep guilt.

—Right. He’s still laughing; he and the Emperor are having fun at Mr. Right Hand’s expense.

But, as much as he yearns to, Wataru can’t break himself out of this miserable spell. He’s skilled at avoidance—at repression—but he’s hopeless when actually confronted with the reality of his own emotions.

And so, as a compromise to his stubborn conscience, he splits his mind in two; it’ll be enough to carry him through the conversation until he’s ridden out this ridiculous efflorescence of melancholy.

“Yes! ☆ Look at that innocent little child, sleeping the day away… Quite a bad example he’s setting for the rest of the student body, isn’t he? Ahaha, I could hardly contain my indignation long enough to take this photo!”

Kanata.

Their separation has felt the most natural; honestly, while Wataru has dearly missed his company, he can gladly say that, out of everyone, he is the least conflicted over their recent distance. Really, Wataru is happy for him! Kanata has found a place to belong, and a new role too! He’s a hero now—and heroes are dependable.

Yes, their paths will cross again someday; even if the two of them are never again as close as they once were, Wataru can at least count on that.

“... Wait, this angle—” The Emperor’s brow furrows. “You definitely took this through the window behind the student council president’s desk… But the quality of this photo is so clear, so you couldn’t have taken it from much of a distance… To have taken it from directly behind the window, you’d have to have been standing in midair—”

Shu.

… Well. Eventually, Shu will be alright.

For someone who prides himself as a god of creation, he really is tragically, beautifully human, isn’t he? Wataru hasn’t had to forcefully disengage from him; Shu’s done that all on his own… Though perhaps one could argue that such severe behavior is a “cry for help”... Ah, his poor, dear old friend. Even if Wataru cannot offer him his arm and help him to his feet, maybe there is a way that he can at least help to clear some of the rubble from the fractured path before him.

“Fufu, you said so yourself, didn’t you, Your Highness? That I can fly? ☆ So it really was quite simple~ The most difficult part was stifling my laughter as to not awaken our dear Sleeping Beauty ♪”

Rei.

What is there to say?

They’ve seemed to have an implicit understanding from the very beginning. At least… Rei has always behaved as such. And he’s never once protested—never once spoken out against Wataru’s decision; so that means that he feels the same as he does, doesn’t it? He knows what’s best. At least—he knows how this has to go.

“Fufu, yes, you’re right. How could I forget? Ahah, I can only imagine the look on Keito’s face if he were to awaken to see your shadow hovering over h—O-Oh,” the Emperor says, eyes widening in surprise while he stares at Wataru’s screen.

Moving as calmly as he can manage, Wataru leans over and takes his phone back.

Oh... Kanata is calling him.

Huh. What uncanny timing! ☆

Aha, how embarrassing. In addition to silencing his notifications, it seems he’ll have to put his phone on do not disturb to prevent any meddlesome notifications distracting from future rounds of show-and-tell. He’s quite the fool to not have anticipated this potentiality; these are work hours!

“I’m quite popular today, aren’t I?” Wataru says breezily, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Realizing that this impulsive quip might invite further questions, he rushes to get their conversation back on track. “Excuse me. Please, please, continue. What would Mr. Right Hand do if he were to awaken to such a situation?”

But it’s no use; the Emperor’s face is already shadowed with concern. “Eh, hold on. You’re not going to answer your phone?”

Wataru can’t think of anything else to do, so he decides to play dumb. “Hmm… ? Oh, dear, I’m sorry! Did you want to say hello to Kanata? Ah, what a lousy mistake I made! Well, if you give me a message to pass along to him, then I will gladly do so ☆”

This gets an uncomfortable chuckle out of him. “Ah—no, that’s alright. That’s not what I meant… Hibiki-kun, I don’t mind if you answer your phone here. I’m not holding you hostage or anything, so you can do whatever you like.”

Wataru tuts. “Not so, not so! ♪ We made a deal, didn’t we? I’m here to entertain His Majesty, just as we agreed; and I will do so happily, with an imperishable smile!”

The Emperor frowns. “... Right, about that. As I’ve said a few times already, a deal is contingent on both sides agreeing to an exchange. But I still haven’t given you anything, so it’s really not—”

“Look, look!” Wataru thrusts his palm in the air. “Emperor! I implore you, focus your attention on my right hand this instant!”

“H-Huh? Your—Ah?!” The Emperor gapes in dumbfounded awe. “Hibiki-kun, your hand—You—You have six fingers all of a sudden—!”

There we go ♪

“Well, one must do anything and everything to be able to keep up with Mr. Right Hand! This will surely give me a finger up on the competition, wouldn’t you say?”

The Emperor’s bottom lip twitches in the beginning of a snicker; when Wataru wiggles his sixth finger for emphasis, he breaks out into a full, glorious laugh.

☼

He waits until he is aboard the train home to check his phone:

Kanata only called once and, predictably, did not leave a voicemail.

Wataru’s heart swells with an almost nauseating feeling of nostalgia.

They used to play this fun game of phone tag with one another; Wataru calls Kanata, who does not pick up, and then later on—hours, days, a week later—Kanata calls Wataru, who does not pick up, and so on, and so on, and so on. Once or twice they had spent entire evenings taking turns calling—and not answering—one another. Back and forth, back and forth. Like fetch!

Of course, they’d never discussed this “game” in person, so there is the lingering possibility Kanata really had been trying to get in touch with him with each of those calls—or that each and every one of those phone calls back was a fluke—mistaken redials made by one in a long series of glitching, waterlogged phones…

But Wataru doesn’t think so. Kanata is clever; and, even more than that, he is kind. It’s far more likely that, instead, he recognized how much this silly little ritual meant to him—how reassuring Wataru found it to pester someone with the comforting certainty that the other party will not only not be annoyed, but will pester him in return.

Whenever the two of them actually did need to get in touch, they would leave a voicemail; and the other could reply with a call and voicemail of their own. Simple, right? ☆

Really, Wataru hardly gave a second thought to ignoring his call earlier today. They haven’t played this game in months, but the body does not forget as easily as the mind; it will take some work to unlearn this instinct. They’ll need to learn to use their phones properly now that they are no longer seeing one another everyday.

There’s always texting. That’s the expected mode of communication between children of their age, isn’t it? And yet, Wataru can count the amount of times they’ve actually communicated through text messages on one hand—his five-fingered hand, no less!

But that’s what Wataru has always loved about Kanata; he doesn’t take issue with tedium or convolution. He lives life at his own unique pace, just as all of the Eccentrics do—er… rather, did.

His thumb hovers over the call button… but he swipes away before he loses his better judgment.

Natsume’s messages are just what Wataru feared—one text asking how he has been, followed by another making a carefully nonchalant offer to meet up sometime.

He can’t help but sigh aloud.

Perhaps the four of them should have sat the child down last month and explained things properly; wouldn’t that have saved him a great deal of the heartache he’s enduring right now?

But who knows how that would have gone? They may be the boy’s seniors, but the rest of them are woefully inexperienced when it comes to discussing such difficult topics. Perhaps if Rei were to take the lead—

No. There’s no use dwelling on that now.

What’s past is prologue—what to come in yours and my discharge.

They are not the Eccentrics any longer. They are individuals now; they are humans . Humans whose fates are entirely their own.

Natsume will learn. He will continue to grow, he will forge a new path for himself, and he will move on. This transitional interlude may be difficult, but a new act will surely begin soon.

They cannot coddle the boy any longer; it’s time for him to become an individual too. To ensure that, all Wataru must do is turn a deaf ear to the despairing wails of that lonely child—no matter how much it makes his own stifled lungs ache.

After all, this is all for the best. Wataru knows that. There’s no other way this could have proceeded—this is the only course of action he can take. If it’s not, then… Why isn’t anyone stopping him?

— Anyway! What’s with this needless gloom? Really, what does Wataru have to be sad about? Things are going incredibly well in his personal life! His four best friends may be gone from his life, potentially for good, but! Wataru still has his darling Hokuto to look after ☆ He’ll just have to snuggle his cute junior even closer against his chest to express all of the love and tenderness overflowing from his heart ☆

And then there are his other precious feathered children! Ever since he’s been on his own again, Wataru has had so much free time to devote to their instruction! Oh, Jeanne really is becoming braver and feistier with every passing day ♪

Truly, he nearly has his hands full with all of these promising and unruly offspring of his; it’s a wonder how, on top of everything else, he’d once also managed to find the time to socialize!

But! Most important of all, today’s visit with the Emperor was a resounding success! They’re really getting along well—better than even he could have hoped for!

He is truly fortunate to have been paired with such a devoted scene partner. Their rapport is progressing smoothly; and so quickly, too! It’s astounding, really, considering how it was only two weeks ago that Wataru had waltzed into that dreary hospital room for the very first time.

What will their relationship be like two weeks from now? The thought makes him giddy with excitement. Every single day is a thrill!

Already, Wataru’s life looks so, so very different from how it did a month ago.

He could not be more pleased ☆ Things are proceeding just as they are supposed to.

And so… Wataru can’t waste his time looking back any longer—not for even a moment.

Navigating to the settings app, he disables all phone and text notifications. Then he slips his phone back in his pocket and turns instead to gaze out the train window.

Chapter Text

☆ ☆ ☆

When the nurse comes in with his lunch, Eichi and Hibiki are in the middle of their third round of a card game. Despite the fact that the game has a name and, Hibiki insists, is incredibly popular with people their age, the name had been far too long and extravagant for Eichi to memorize—though not for lack of trying. He’d asked Hibiki to repeat it a couple of times since, but it was as though the title got longer and more nonsensical with each answer… as though Hibiki himself could not fully recall it, and had instead contrived a new name out of whole cloth each time he was prompted.

But Eichi can’t be sure; Hibiki is a genius, after all, and he’s certainly behaved as though he knows this game inside and out. Perhaps Eichi has just been too preoccupied with other matters—namely, with trying to determine how the actual gameplay functions, what the fundamental goal is, and how, exactly, one achieves the winning conditions necessary to end a round. However, after two apparent “landslide victories,” Eichi is beginning to suspect that the rules are largely improvisational and entirely arbitrary.

His disorientation is made exponentially worse by their proximity to one another; as he cannot leave his bed, they’ve had to station their card game on Eichi’s lap desk, necessitating that Hibiki position his chair as close to the bed as possible. Eichi, for his part, scooted himself and his desk to the left-side edge of the mattress so that Hibiki would not have to bend quite as far to reach the playing surface.

Yes, maybe the rules of the game are actually quite simple after all; Eichi prides himself on being a quick study, so unless Hibiki is doing everything in his power to confuse him, Eichi should at least have grasped a rudimentary understanding of the gameplay by now. The issue is, well…

Fifteen minutes ago, Hibiki crossed his left leg over his right knee… and ever since then, his left knee has been resting on the very edge of the bed—only three or so inches from Eichi’s own. If Eichi were to, say, abruptly cough, then the force would surely be enough to close that gap and press their knees together.

Eichi has lived with a chronic cough all his life, but he’s never been so acutely aware of how itchy and dry his throat is until this moment. It’s almost a relief to see the tall glass of water on the lunch tray in the nurse’s hands.

Almost.

In no particular hurry to finish their game and even less of a hurry to force-feed himself another dosage of insipid hospital food, Eichi opens his mouth to instruct her to place it on the side table for later—until he blinks and discovers that the cards in his left hand have suddenly vanished.

Assuming he must have dropped them, he turns away from the nurse to retrieve them—and finds that the several haphazard stacks of cards which had been spread across the lap desk only moments ago have also completely disappeared.

He shoots Hibiki a quick glance; but, of course, he is sitting there, as nonchalantly as ever, in the exact same pose as before. No logical person would ever suspect that he had moved at all.

The nurse, seemingly oblivious to his bewilderment, gently sets the tray on his lap desk.
“Please enjoy, Mr. Tenshouin,” she says with a courteous nod. “I’ll be back in an hour to check on you, okay?”

Eichi eyes his plate. Miso soup again. It takes him only a glance to identify the ingredients: sliced daikon and spinach. For their part, the chefs vary the ingredients of his soups quite often; unfortunately, growing up as a chronically ill child, Eichi has become an unwilling connoisseur of all kinds of soup—with a specialization in miso soup in particular. There is no possible combination of ingredients—at least, of doctor-approved ingredients—that he hasn’t tasted hundreds of times before.

Daikon and spinach is alright. But, given the choice, Eichi would gladly live out the rest of his life without having to take even one more sip of soup of any kind.

Beside the soup, there is a bowl of grilled chicken breast topped with ginger sauce. That will taste alright enough; he’d obviously prefer a much darker meat, but even chicken feels hearty when most of the protein in his diet comes from fish, tofu, and soybeans.

The remaining two bowls contain pickled cucumber salad and white rice. Ho-hum. Sometimes he wonders whether he might even prefer the taste of the greasiest low-class fast food imaginable to anything his medical team deems healthy enough to feed him. Not that anyone will ever let him try so much as a french fry.

“Thank you,” Eichi says. Feeling Hibiki’s eyes on him, he manages a tight smile.

“Yes, yes, thank you! ☆” Hibiki exclaims, clapping his hands; it’s only then that Eichi realizes that he has moved his chair back a couple of feet. After having been so close to him only a minute ago, that small distance suddenly feels oceans away. For a moment, he truly, utterly despises the nurse for her interruption.

“It looks and smells delicious! ♪ Truly, it will be a feast for each and every one of His Majesty’s senses! The Emperor will enjoy this lovingly-cooked meal with all his heart, I assure you!”

Eichi stifles a dry laugh at the nurse’s politely bemused expression. He hates that absurd nickname, yes—but he can manage to find the humor in it every now and then… especially when it comes at someone else’s expense ♪

“... Y-Yes,” she replies slowly. “Our kitchen staff will be glad to hear that. Now, Mr. Tenshouin, unless there is anything else you need—”

“Ah,” Eichi cuts in. “Yes, yes, hold on a moment.” He turns to his left. “Hibiki-kun, would you like something to eat?”

Hibiki cocks his head, but otherwise doesn’t react. If Eichi didn’t know any better, he’d almost believe he was taken aback. But, no, he’s surely just playing with him—teasing, like he always does. Eichi at least understands the basic rules of this game; if he wants to ask Hibiki something, he can leave no room for ambiguity.

He continues, “I can request anything you like, so use your imagination. And if you’re craving something the hospital doesn’t have on hand, I can send someone out to fetch ingredients, so don’t worry about that either. Or, if you’d rather, we can place an order at a restaurant of your choice.”

There’s an upscale bistro a few blocks away; they serve an irresistibly delicious filet mignon topped with a rich red wine sauce and fresh parsley… Looking back at his lunch tray, Eichi makes an expression somewhere between a scowl and a pout. “Truthfully, I’d do the same myself if my diet wasn’t so sternly regulated by my doctors… So, really, it’s no trouble at all.”

However, to Eichi’s surprise, although just moments ago he seemed to have been bursting with energy… Hibiki’s posture has suddenly stiffened, his smile frozen on his face—as though he has just been caught in a gigantic lie and is now at a loss for how to proceed.

But then he laughs, his shoulders rising and falling along almost robotically. “Fufu, how very thoughtful—and how very generous! Your kindness is greatly appreciated; however, there is no need to fret over me! I am not hungry.” He turns around and nods at the nurse over his shoulder as if reaffirming his decision.

Eichi won’t be swayed so easily; without taking his eyes off of Hibiki, he holds his palm up to the nurse, ordering her to stay put. “How can that be? You’ve been here for nearly two hours already… And furthermore, Yumenosaki’s lunch period falls just around this time of day, too, which would surely have some influence on your circadian rhythm. So, really, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be hungry right now.”

Hibiki clears his throat. “Ah, well—Your Majesty’s logic is sound when applied to regular humans, certainly, but aren’t you well aware that I am no such thing?” He leans in conspiratorially, cupping a hand to his mouth, but does not lower his voice. “The truth is… in addition to spawning extra limbs and appendages, I can also grow and expand any of my body parts at will! This very morning, I shrunk my stomach down to the size of a jellybean! So it very well may be many months before I need to eat again… ☆”

They maintain steady eye contact for another few seconds. Hibiki’s smile, as usual, is large and insistent. Eichi wants to believe him; he seems entirely confident in his decision… but it doesn’t make sense. He should be hungry; and even if he isn’t hungry somehow, he should conform to common courtesy and accept his offer. This is wrong.

Of course, Hibiki isn’t like other humans, but—but—

Eichi lowers his hand. “Alright then, just as he said. That will be all, thank you.”

He turns and nods firmly at the nurse, who gives him a polite bow in return and then exits the room.

Hibiki is speaking before the door has been fully shut behind her. “You know, if you want to see for yourself, why don’t we organize a field trip to a radiology lab and perform some X-rays? For science ☆ I won’t even wear a protective vest—aren’t you curious about what mutations I might develop when exposed to direct radiation? ♪”

Eichi sighs. “... Nngh, not that I care the slightest bit about such things—but just so you know: It is generally considered impolite to refuse food when it is offered by a host.”

Hibiki’s eyes widen and he nods enthusiastically—as though commiserating about an unfortunate issue completely detached from himself. “Oh, I am well aware! Ah, wasn’t that absolutely disgraceful of me? ♪ It’s been a slow and difficult adjustment, renouncing all of the vulgar and uncivilized habits of my former self… I’ve been living as a monster completely detached from humanity for the past year, you see.”

Only a week ago, Eichi would have taken such a caustic remark as a cue to vaguely apologize and once again offer restitution of some sort… But he is also unlearning former instincts. Instead, Eichi swallows his guilt and keeps his expression even.

“Alright, then I will rephrase: If you are hungry, I would like you to eat. This is far too much food for me anyway, so I’ll need help finishing it. As I said, my diet is strictly monitored, and my doctor will scold me if I don’t finish my meal—and I’ve already received ten lifetimes’ worth of lectures from Keito, so... Will you eat?”

“Yes!” Once again, Hibiki nods eagerly. “—Thaaaat is… ♪ If I was hungry, then, yes, I would accept your offer. However, unfortunately, I am not hungry! So, if I may be so bold as to extrapolate a logical inverse directive from His Majesty’s stated wishes… If I am not hungry, then you do not want me to eat, correct?”

Eichi does not follow most of that; but he at least understands that Hibiki has, in a bafflingly circuitous manner, refused him once again. In an instant, his confusion and vague irritation shifts into a deeply nauseating unease.

Impulsively, he looks away, pursing his lips into a full-on pout. “Hmm. I see. So there is a limit to what you will do to entertain me.”

“... Ah .” Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Hibiki bow his head. “Please be patient with me, Your Highness; I did not realize that this was an order . Of course I will dance to His Majesty’s tune, just as we agreed. What will you have me eat, then?”

Eichi shakes his head vigorously. “Oh… no—ahah, I was kidding. Insisting on getting my way over and over like that… I just now became aware of how much I must resemble a petulant tyrant. So I thought it might lighten the mood to fully embrace the role for a moment.”

Clearly, it failed. Keito, who knows him better than anyone, always recognizes the blatant insincerity of his spoiled brat act, and does not hesitate to berate him for it. It’s a convenient weapon to deploy as a method of deflecting and derailing whenever Keito has seized the upper-hand in a disagreement. In the heat of the moment, Eichi’s psyche must have generalized it as a suitable de-escalation strategy.

However, he’d failed to realize: this joke only actually works when the other person actually believes that Eichi, at his core, is more than just a bratty, entitled child.

Eichi looks back at him, trying his best to make his expression match the earnestness of his words. “You can behave however you like, Hibiki-kun—as I’ve always said. And that extends to doing things for your own sake, you know?”

Just like with that Shinkai phone call he’d refused to answer the other day. It’s ridiculous; almost aggravatingly so. Why would Hibiki put Eichi above not only his real friends but his own physical needs as well?

Hibiki smiles placidly. “Fufu, how exceptionally considerate of you… Then, all of the legends were true! ☆ The Emperor truly is a just and benevolent god! And this lowly fool”—he gestures to himself—“is utterly unworthy to be in your care—no, no, your presence! ”

Eichi grows flustered; though he cannot determine whether emotion burning his cheeks is irritation or embarrassment.

“Nn—Hibiki-kun, there’s no need to flatter me either, now that you and I are—”

Are what?

Eichi panics. Before he can say another word, he raises his chopsticks to his mouth and takes a tiny bite of chicken. Trying to ignore the burn of Hibiki’s eyes on him, he chews delicately for a few moments while his brain races to come up with a satisfactorily noncommittal end to his sentence.

He makes sure to fully swallow his bite before continuing. “... Now that you and I are almost adults. It’s not necessary to spare my feelings like I’m a child or praise me unnecessarily.”

“Ahahahaha! Yes!” Hibiki’s laugh spills out of him like a tipped jar of marbles. “Yes, understood, Emperor! This Hibiki Wataru will only praise you when necessary!”

Eichi nods. “Yes, thank y—”

“Though…” Hibiki interrupts. “It seems that our values do not exactly align on this issue; who am I to determine which of your incredible accolades is ‘praiseworthy’? Being as fragile as I am, I’d very much like to avoid making another error in judgment and risk being chastised again… Soooo perhaps it would be best if you tell me when to praise you? Just give me the order, and I will extol your virtues and triumphs as loudly and extravagantly as you command!”

Eichi chuckles nervously. “Ah… Perhaps it would have been better had I not said anything. It seems I’ve only made the situation more complicated.”

“Nonsense! There is no such thing! It is these ‘complications’ that flavor the broth of our world! These ‘tribulations’ and ‘misunderstandings’ that embroil and temper our raw souls on the grill of life! No, Emperor, on the contrary: the more you say, the better! With every word he speaks, His Majesty serves to make this lowly fool’s existence more appetizing!”

Hibiki pauses as though considering something. “Wait, wait, could it be…? Yes! Yes, this conversation alone has completely filled my stomach!”

Eichi laughs again—in unabashed amusement this time. “I see. This is your way of getting out of accepting food, then. Fufufu, you’re very clever.”

“What a thrill to be so openly praised by His Highness! Thank you, thank you! ☆ I will not test your temper and praise you in return… But I simply must relieve my gratitude in some way or another! I’m practically bursting at the seams! I’m… I’m…”

He freezes and holds up a finger, then heaves forward, clutching his hands over his mouth…

“Achooo oooooooooo —! ☆”

A tremendous burst of pink rose petals spout from his clasped hands and into the air.

Eichi doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t laugh or smile; he doesn’t even blink.

Instead, he simply watches the petals slowly tumble through the stuffy hospital air like cherry blossoms in a spring breeze—completely transfixed.

Most of them scatter across the floor like confetti, or collect into a few small piles at Hibiki’s feet; many others drench his head, his shoulders, his lap; a few, too, flutter onto Eichi’s lap; another on his left hand; and another, he thinks, on the top of his head.

Then, before his eyes, the last lingering petal slowly drifts all the way over to him, wades in mid-air right in front of his face for a long second… and then somersaults down directly into his soup.

They both burst into laughter.

Chapter Text

☼ ☼ ☼

Leaving the house at dawn is a disquieting affair, and Wataru’s ribcage feels tight with vague unease as he slips out of his bedroom window.

Fun things don’t happen in the morning , the woeful child curled up in the cavernous hollow of his chest warns. The sun isn’t even up yet.

He gives the moping voice a pat on the head before shoving him down deeper.

Wataru could never stomach the monotony of rising early at the same time each day to hurriedly clean and dress himself, chug a cup of black tea, and hustle to the train station. Mornings should be devoted to leisure and pleasure.

One of the benefits of child stardom was not having to regularly attend school. The downside was all of the primping and handling and escorting he endured at the hands of countless faceless adults. Rather than at a desk at the back of class, he would spend his morning in a makeup chair, trying his best to keep still while a stylist ruthlessly yanked out the tangles in his hair.

But at least all of that handling came with attention and, if he behaved well enough, praise. Meanwhile, there was never an upside to school. At least, not until last year.

Wataru’s attendance improved a thousand times over in the months after the Emperor scooped him up and placed him in the care of four complete strangers. He still skipped class and left early most days, of course—but he showed up. And, yes, oftentimes he even managed to arrive on campus before the opening bell. School was where his best friends were; why wouldn’t he want to get there as soon as possible?

A person only wakes up early for one of two reasons: to fulfill an obligation or to cause mischief. Wataru supposes he did both back then; as an Eccentric, it was both his duty and his joy to gather with his fellow monsters and invoke chaos.

Today, however, is no obligation. No—Wataru’s only interest is in causing trouble.

Curiously, visiting hours for the VIP wing begin two hours earlier than the rest of the hospital: at 5 AM rather than 7. (Is it because the rich generally have larger families and more friends? That’s the most generous explanation he could conceive.) He’d made note of this during his preliminary research back in December, but hadn’t expected to act on this information—especially not so soon.

Wataru knew that he would be submerging himself in this new part. But he had expected only to shape his life around this role—he did not anticipate how swiftly the role would become his life.

He’s always conceived of himself as a method actor. And yet, as he steps onboard the train alongside all of the morning commuters on their way to work and the uniformed students on their way to school, he doesn’t feel as though he is playing a part. He feels like a regular human who, just like everyone else packed into the train car beside him, has somewhere to go and someone to see.

It’s a quarter to 7 when he reaches his stop—fantastically early in the day for him to be downtown, but likely an unremarkable feat for most. Yes, surely someone far more punctual and overbearing than himself would have arrived long before now.

By the time he has arrived at the lobby entrance, the brilliant golden light of dawn has outstretched its arms across the hospital courtyard, tickling the nape of his neck as his ponytail sways with every joyous step he takes. His stomach flips with a nostalgic giddiness.

It’s as though the elevator ride up to the nineteenth floor gets longer everyday. He should take the stairs one of these days—or scale the building like a spider, just as Mr. Right Hand encouraged. That reminds him! He’ll have to brainstorm some more interesting ways to enter the Emperor’s hospital room; coming in through the door is so passé, isn’t it?

As he steps off of the elevator and rounds the corner into the waiting room, he eagerly readies himself for another round of awkward silence with the receptionist while she goes through the motions of performatively checking his ID and signing him in…

However, when he appears, her chin tilts up from her computer screen for only a second before returning to her task. She doesn’t even nod her head in his direction or half-heartedly wave him in; her indifference is the only acknowledgement he receives.

Wataru is embarrassingly weak to the chill of a cold shoulder, and he must strain his willpower to its absolute limits to resist annoying her into acknowledging him. However, as he silently walks past the reception desk and heads into the hallway, he is struck by that same wave that overcame him as he boarded the train.

Indifference stems from familiarity. (Of course, so do love and hatred. But one can’t be too greedy.) That’s why the receptionist is no longer surprised, suspicious, or even annoyed when she sees Wataru round that corner—she has come to expect him. He’s a regular here.

Fufu. Hibiki Wataru, regular… This life really is full of surprises ☆

The door to the Emperor’s room is ajar. A very good sign; Wataru  slows down, stepping with the balls of his feet to dampen his footsteps.

A few steps further, and he is just able to make out the rumbling of quiet conversation.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes yes yes!

Mr. Right Hand is here, just as he’d anticipated. Using his unrivaled intuition and powers of thorough character analysis, Wataru had been able to surmise that Hasumi visited the hospital early every weekday morning before making his way to Yumenosaki. And it seems today is no exception ♪

Oh, it is just extraordinarily convenient that that boy keeps such a rigid schedule—meddling in his relationship would be far more difficult if he weren’t so predictable!

The three of them haven’t had a scene together yet, and what a tragic shame that is! To his disappointment, Wataru hasn’t seen much of his co-star at all lately. He’s passed Hasumi a handful of times over the past couple of weeks—sometimes even by accident!—but Hasumi, playing tantalizingly hard to get, has brushed him off each time without more than a glare of recognition.

Wataru couldn’t leave things up to chance any longer. It’s just as the Emperor so wisely said: individuals must determine their own fate.

But… he can afford to put fate on hold for a few moments more. This is an irresistible opportunity, after all! What sort of salacious things could these two lovebirds be discussing in private company?

He pauses a few feet outside the door and presses himself casually against the wall. From this vantage point, there is no possible way for him to be seen from inside— however, he is unable to see inside either. Ah, well. His boundless imagination will have to do.

“—from the Himemiyas... Do you want to read it?”

“No, that’s fine. Just be sure to toss the card before you give it away.”

“Tch. ‘Give it away’? I’m not your errand boy.”

“It’s not an errand. It’s a present… for you ♪”

“Why the hell would I want that?”

“Then give it to one of your lackeys… like that kept man of yours—Kiryu-kun. He doesn’t have very much money, right? So he’ll probably appreciate it.”

“Gh—?! Kept man—” Hasumi hisses, as though revving up for a scolding...

Then he simply sighs. “... I’m not going to do that.”

“Huh? Why not? Don’t poor people love presents?”

Wataru’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

“Watch your damn mouth; and wipe that shitty smile off your face, too... Absolutely incorrigible. I swear, one of these days, Eichi, you’re going to face serious consequences for speaking so thoughtlessly—”

Hasumi exhales an unnaturally stunted sigh, and there is a long pause before he speaks again. “... Hm. Are you sure you don’t want to read this? It seems… heartfelt.”

“I’m sure it’s just some generic well wishes they send to any business associates—’Our grief-stricken household is praying for your swift recovery,’ or whatever. Like I said, just throw it away.”

“No, that’s not it. The handwriting is too wobbly and crude… and the sentiments seem to be… quite personal. Eichi, it’s—”

“They probably got one of the children to write it, then, in an attempt to make their bootlicking appear more earnest. That young lady, perhaps, if they’re feeling particularly unabashed… Yes, that must be it; they’ve taken my hospitalization as a catalyst to hasten along this whole unpleasant arrangement.”

Wataru nerves tingle like a sparkler in the tense few seconds between its ignition and its eruption. What are they doing in there? What is he talking about? What did he ask Hasumi to throw away?

He is reaching the end of his fuse. He will not be able to contain himself for very much longer.

“Eichi. What I’m saying is—”

“Ugh, like I said, just throw it away.” The Emperor lets out a light, mocking laugh. “Honestly, Keito, I didn’t think you’d be so easily fooled by such blatant self-serving flattery.”

….. !!!

A third, heavier sigh. “Will you stop being so damn dense and listen to me for once in your—”

….. !!!!!

There’s just no use! Wataru wants to play too!

“Pardon me… ☆” He takes a grand step into the doorway, arms open wide and palms splayed to accentuate his entrance—although it perhaps may look more as though he is offering the room’s occupants a hug. “Am I interrupting? ♪ It’s no matter, for I will enter regardless! Yes, equal measures of pleasure and despair to all, for Hibiki Wataru has arrived… ☆”

To Wataru’s thrill, Hasumi flinches and then curses under his breath.

His shoulders rigid and arms crossed at his chest, Mr. Right Hand stands on the opposite side of the room with his back to the window, the bright sunlight casting his sullen face in shadow. Funnily enough, the pale shadow cast by his own silhouette falls perfectly across the room onto the Emperor’s face, as though he had precisely positioned himself in that very spot in order to keep the sun out of his companion’s eyes while still allowing him to enjoy the pleasant warmth of the sunlight. It’s a nearly offensively obvious symbolic representation of his devotion; Wataru chides himself for not having thought of it first.

The Emperor is in his bed, as always. He’s sat up against the headboard with his legs outstretched, his posture tall yet relaxed in that familiar way he sits whenever he is reading or annotating documents.

But his lap desk isn’t out today; instead, the Emperor’s hands are intertwined casually on his lap, his thumbs gently curled around one another. It must be too early for paperwork—even for an industrious little scion like him.

However, it appears that he and his right hand have been tackling business of some kind. Hasumi’s chair has been pushed to the very edge of the bed, and a clipboard, thickly-packed file folder, and pen and pencil rest in a neat stack on the center cushion. The Emperor and his right hand must have been reviewing some highly classified political documents before they were distracted.

The clear culprit sits quite inconspicuously behind Hasumi on one of the side tables: a giant wicker gift basket. It’s been neatly wrapped in some semi-sheer fabric—Shu would be able to identify it, but all Wataru can tell at first glance is that it is expensive—that has been gathered and tied at the top with a fine pink silk bow. It’s too opaque to make out any of the basket’s contents from this distance, but Wataru feels safe in his assumption that they, too, are prohibitively expensive.

In Hasumi’s hand, he holds the small folded card which must have been attached to the gift originally. Wataru has already forgotten the family name—the Hime-somethings?—but the Emperor had said the senders were business associates… This basket is surely some “get well soon” care package sent from one corporate representative to another to build or strengthen their corporate relationship.

The Emperor sounded entirely unimpressed by the flashy present, though. So this gift basket must be a run-of-the-mill demonstration of good will among the supremely wealthy, then?

“Forgive me for the intrusion, but I thought I heard raised voices, and I hurried as fast as I could to break up any physical altercations! This is a place of healing, you know; as such, any injuries you inflict on one another will be promptly patched up, rendering the entire fight utterly pointless! Instead, I ask that you please contain your quarrel to the verbal arena—sharp words pierce far deeper than blades, and take much longer to heal!”

The Emperor smiles warmly at him. “Ah, hello. I thought you might come this morning.”

Wataru beams. A second affirmation of his naturalization! Hibiki Wataru, the regular… ♪

“Hohoh, and it is that very thought that necessitated my visit, for I will always endeavor to do everything it takes to please my beloved audience!”

The blond chuckles. “Fufu… I’m glad to hear that. See, Keito? There’s no need to get upset. Someone is here to entertain us, so you’d better gather yourself and behave like a good boy.”

Hasumi shoots his companion a sharp glare. “We’re in the middle of something,” he says; and, while he does not take his eyes off of the Emperor, it’s clear from his cold tone that the words are directed at Wataru.

Wataru raises a brow. “Then, is there room for three in the middle? Even if it’s a tight fit, I’m sure I can wiggle in just fine ☆ Or, if Mr. Right Hand is growing weary, allow me to take his place for a while! We’re practically interchangeable, aren’t we?”

Hasumi’s head jerks in his direction. “You’ll be doing no such thing.”

The Emperor laughs, waving his hand as though calling off a trained animal. “Shush, Keito, it’s alright. We can always resume later... I’m not going anywhere, so there’s no hurry.” He turns to Wataru. “We were just discussing some trivial student council business before we got sidetracked. Keito’s far less competent than he pretends to be, so he always comes crying to me for help ♪”

Hasumi clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes.

The Emperor continues, “But I’m sure he can manage on his own for a little while. School starts in nearly an hour, doesn’t it, Keito? You don’t want to be late.”

“Eichi?” Hasumi balks. “You’re kicking me out? For him?”

Oh, dear. Too fast, too fast! The Emperor sorely needs an education in the delicate art of pacing. Wataru loves their alone time as well, but Hasumi is an essential character in their little play!

“Ah, please, by all means: Continue your discussion! I’ll be imperceptibly quiet! It will feel as though I’m nothing but a mere fly—no, no, a gnat on the wall! ☆ I am in no hurry, so just go about your business… ♪”

Hasumi’s scowl sinks into a heavy grimace. “You are interrupting a confidential meeting between the president and vice president of the Yumenosaki student council. If you refuse to leave the premises altogether, then the very least you can do is wait in the reception area until we’re finished.”

Goodness, their business must be important if Hasumi is even willing to compromise with the enemy! Instead of the “Get the hell out” Wataru had been expecting, he had only countered with a stunningly tame “Come back later.” How reasonable; how tolerant… He must be growing familiar with Wataru as well ♪

Don’t you see, Emperor? Hasumi’s feelings matter here, too! A story that lacks conflict is not worth telling! Why don’t we play with him together and see what sort of trouble he’ll make for us?

Wataru pouts, shifting his voice into a pronounced whine. “But it’s soooooo lonely and boring out there…” He bats his eyelids imploringly. “I wanted to spend time with you two!”

Hasumi straightens his glasses. “Don’t forget what I said before, Hibiki: you are teetering on the very edge of expulsion from Yumenosaki’s idol program. And your poor academic performance and abysmal attendance—or lack thereof—in the first three weeks of this school term have only served to worsen your standing. I am—” He clears his throat. “We are the last two people on earth whose patience you should be testing.”

“Keito,” the Emperor says firmly, his face set into a disapproving scowl. “Enough. I am sitting right here, so you do not have my permission to speak for me—and certainly not to make threats under my authority.”

Hasumi stiffens but remains silent.

The Emperor sighs heavily. “I must have been too lenient with you in the past; you’ve become an untrained animal. I won’t tolerate you harassing my guest. You’ll have to learn to behave, because we’re all going to get along from now on.”

He turns to his left. “Right, Wataru?”

… ?

Hasumi’s eyes widen comically huge. “Wata—?” he begins to object, but he only expels the first syllable before his voice stalls into a choke.

So he heard it too… That’s good; such an exaggerated reaction really helps to underscore the gravity of the moment.

Wataru, on the other hand, has not reacted in any noticeable way; he is certain of this because he is viscerally conscious of every millimeter of his anatomy right now. The only body part out of his control is his heart, currently pounding furiously in his chest. But a few minutes of careful deep breathing will take care of it.

He just needs to stick to the script and keep the scene moving. As long as he does that, everything will be okay.

The Emperor seems to feel the same. His eyes have not moved from Wataru’s face since he’d said his name; It’s as though Hasumi hadn’t said anything—as though he isn’t here at all.

Wataru loves attention. He always has. For his entire life, he has relished in whatever he has been given: fleeting or prolonged, discerning or delighted, pleased or furious, hateful or loving—he’s welcomed every crumb tossed his way.

But he wishes the Emperor would stop looking at him like that.

Oh.

Shu… What had been said to him—what he’d seen that day—

Looking back into his placid blue eyes, Wataru thinks he can finally see it: the cold, unforgiving countenance of Yumenosaki’s Emperor.

Giving Wataru a disarmingly easy smile, he continues, “So you’ll have to forgive him. He may speak harshly, but there’s never any actual malice behind his words. Really, Keito’s nothing more than a cute, irritating little dog who spends his days yapping at his own shadow. He’s a nuisance, but he’s my responsibility, so I have to ask that you continue to be patient with him, alright?”

Hasumi inhales a quiet breath. “... Eichi,” he murmurs. A warning—no, a plea.

But—but why? Why isn’t Hasumi fuming? Why isn’t he screaming in the Emperor’s face? Shouldn’t he be upset? This would surely hurt his feelings—it would hurt anyone’s feelings. And Hasumi especially has never been one to let even the most minor insult or transgression slip by unscolded.

Why isn’t he saying anything?

Obviously Wataru can’t say anything. It would ruin things. He doesn’t have a choice; there’s no use even considering what he’d like to say right now. No use even thinking about the matter at all.

That’s why his mind is blank right now—because he’s turned it off on purpose.

He activates his cheek muscles and pulls back his lips to expose his teeth in a jovial smile. Then he unhitches his jaw, tenses his larynx, and speaks.

“There is nothing to forgive! It would be an egregious act of ignorance to attribute malice to the actions of an animal. You cannot really blame a dog for barking or biting when it feels threatened—and certainly not when it is defending its master.”

As expected, this earns a chuckle out of the Emperor. Wataru is relieved; at least, he feels as though he should be relieved. His response had been natural; he’d played along with the Emperor’s mocking humor just as he’d expected him to.

He doesn’t want to make the Emperor upset—not while their relationship is still in its infancy. And Hasumi’s presence here makes their dynamic even more uncertain. This is not the time to rock the boat.

So… Wataru did the right thing by pretending not to notice.

But Hasumi still doesn’t react. The very same incendiary remark would have set his temper ablaze during one of their previous encounters. But now it’s as though someone has dumped a vat of freezing water over his head.

Hasumi’s eyes are still trained on the Emperor’s face, and the Emperor is still gazing pleasantly at Wataru.

Wataru can’t remember why he was so eager to come here this morning.

“His master,” the Emperor repeats, his voice light. “Fufufu, did you hear that, Keito? Cheer up, won’t you? You didn’t do anything wrong, so I’m not mad at you. Why don’t the both of you sit down, and we can—”

Suddenly, Hasumi clears his throat. “Hmph. It is later than I thought. Isara asked to consult with me on a legislative matter before class, and it would reflect poorly on my character if I arrived at the office after him. I’ll be leaving now.”

He picks up his messenger bag from the arm of his chair and secures it over his shoulder. His shoulders angled towards the door, he tilts his chin in the Emperor’s direction—but from this angle, Wataru can’t quite tell if he’s looking him in the eye.

“Be sure to eat your lunch today. If I hear another bad report from your doctor, then I’ll have no choice but to advise the nursing staff to personally spoon feed you your meals. You’re nearly an adult, and you’re healthy enough to feed yourself; this is getting ridiculous.”

The Emperor’s face contorts with petty irritation, and his eyes roll up. “Ugh. Get out of here already, if all you’re going to do is nag me.”

This isn’t right.

This isn’t what Wataru wanted.

The three of them were supposed to have fun together—they were only supposed to bicker and tease and butt heads, not actually—

Stop.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

Right. He’s only upset because Hasumi is upset. Wataru has no personal qualms with playing dirty, of course, but only when all parties have consented—or, failing that, only when he is certain that everyone involved can stomach it.

He can handle anything thrown his way—so, if Hasumi weren’t here, then surely Wataru wouldn’t be feeling like this.

So… it’s fortunate that he’s leaving, isn’t it?

Hasumi doesn’t say another word—nor scoff nor sigh nor click his tongue. Instead, he simply turns and stalks out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Wataru’s gut twists with yearning; though he doesn’t know whether he wishes Hasumi had stayed or that he had left with him.

For some reason, it’s reminiscent of that anxious feeling that stewed in his abdomen whenever one of his grade school teachers asked him to stay behind after class. What followed was either a stoic, disapproving lecture about his disruptive behavior during lessons… or genuine concern over his continued inability to befriend any of his peers.

Both scenarios concluded the same way: with his teacher dabbing his cheeks with a folded tissue after, for some inexplicable reason, he broke into silent tears.

But the Emperor is smiling at him! He’s not going to get scolded, and he’s not going to be pitied. Besides, years of rigorous self-discipline have given him complete control over his tear ducts—Wataru only ever cries on cue.

So all is well. Now that it’s just the two of them left, things can proceed as normal… Phew! ☆

The Emperor spoke last, right? It’s Wataru’s turn, so he needs to say something. Fast.

“You know, I thought he’d never leave!” he exclaims. “It’s just as I said before: that boy’s presence really is a dark cloud in what would otherwise be an impeccably sunny sky! ☆ Though, he was right about one thing, Emperor! You have your health, and that alone is cause for celebration!”

The last trace of bitterness dissolves from the Emperor’s expression. “Ahah, I suppose so. You always know just what to say, huh...” He laughs. “It’s incredible how different the two of you are.”

“And thank the heavens for that! Yes, that is another reason to rejoice! Wahahaha! ☆ I’ll count each and every one of my lucky stars for blessing me with myself! On that subject: did you know that there are over two hundred billion trillion stars in the universe? That’s ten thousand stars per grain of sand on our planet! That’s a lot of counting to do, but gratitude is a virtue! Would you care to count with me? How about I say the odds and His Majesty the evens?”

This isn’t his best work, but he’s laying it on thick in the hopes that, the more jovial he behaves, the less squeamish he will feel.

But there’s something else… It’s still lingering in his mind—that disdainful expression he’d given Hasumi a minute ago. Unlike that cold smile he wore when he called Wataru by name, there was a fascinating warmth coloring his scowl.

Is that the face the Emperor wears when he is annoyed?

Mr. Right Hand had evoked it so easily—without even trying! How often does he get to see it? And what about the Emperor’s former clown? Or his unitmates? Were they given such privilege as well?

That scornful, childish little frown… Wataru wants it for himself—at this moment, still chilled by the shock of his empty smile, he covets it more than anything in the universe.

He’s failed, however; he somehow hasn’t managed to be annoying enough yet. On the contrary, in fact—the Emperor is chuckling again, shaking his head as though he has been soundly defeated.

“Ah, what a shame,” he says brightly. “I was going to spend my morning reviewing the paperwork Keito left me… But now that you’re here, it would be impossible to devote my attention to anything besides you. So shall we do something fun? Perhaps another round of… Er, what was it… ?”

He clears his throat. “‘WOW!! The Ultimate Challenge of Fortune and Strategy ☆ Only One Winner! Only One… Thousand Surprises!!! ♡ Try Your Luck, Pick a Card, and Change Your Fate’… ?”

Impressive… Probably. Wataru doesn’t really remember what any of the ridiculous titles he’d made up were. He hadn’t put much thought into any aspect of that game; it was just a silly idea he came up with on the spot.

When Wataru proposed playing a card game, he’d had something simple like old maid in mind—easy for a sheltered, sickly rich child to pick up. As he sat down to deal the cards, however, the Emperor’s eager, expectant gaze had taken him aback… Those very same round, craving wide eyes his birds give him whenever they hear the unmistakable sound of the opening of a bag of spray millet. He was clearly expecting to be wowed with something new and spectacular; Wataru couldn’t disappoint him with something so predictable. And so this “massively popular” game was born, with its sole purpose being to temporarily appease the insatiable Emperor’s appetite for entertainment.

He’d never expected to revisit it after that day; Wataru himself hadn’t thought back on it at all since then. It was nothing more than a way to pass the time. And yet the Emperor appears so unapologetically sincere in his effort to remember the complete name. Is that actually why he’d kept asking him to repeat the title—to memorize it?

… Cute.

With every deliberately timed inhale and exhale, Wataru feels his body finally relaxing.

“You said before that it should ideally be played with at least a thousand cards,” the Emperor continues, “so I asked a member of my staff to purchase a few dozen extra decks…”

Agh... How much of this adorable naivete is a performance? It’s too much for Wataru to bear! The way the Emperor is looking up at him with that hopeful, shy, innocent little grin…

How often does Hasumi get to see that expression?

It’s becoming easier and easier to push down his displeasure, and he can feel himself beginning to forget whatever it was that upset him in the first place.

He should be grateful; Wataru doesn’t want to be mad. And yet, as he claps his hands together in delight and hurries to fetch the Emperor’s lap desk… he feels unspeakably guilty—as though he is unshackling himself from a weight that, by every right, should have sent him plummeting to the bottom of the ocean.

☼

The time flew by. It was only when the nurse entered with the Emperor’s breakfast that Wataru realizes how engrossed in character he had been. It takes him a solid five seconds to regain his bearings and recall where he was and whom he was with.

The Emperor, that calculating mastermind, managed to beat Wataru in two further rounds of his own game. Boohoo… Shouldn’t his beginner’s luck have run out by now?

However, beginner’s luck—the same “luck” that led the Emperor to his resounding victories last time—has nothing to do with it. Curious to see how the Emperor would react to losing, Wataru had introduced some new rules and clauses during the previous round to sway the game in his favor…

But he seems to have unknowingly created a monster.

To his shock, the Emperor began instructing him on the rules of play—reminding him of rules and techniques that Wataru had forgotten. It was as though he’d spent hours studying a rule book, or had even authored one himself. Wataru may have invented this nonsense game, but the Emperor has truly conquered it.

With a grand sweep of his arm, Wataru brushes the hundreds and hundreds of cards off of the desk and into a tall yet tidy stack on his left palm. As the Emperor dispassionately answers the nurse’s scripted questions about his pains and symptoms, Wataru mindlessly begins cycling through all of the card shuffling tricks in his repertoire.

Fwoop, fwoop, fwoop… The cards flap back and forth from palm to palm, the edges of each and every one grazing his fingertips with a satisfying tingle. With each pass, Wataru grounds himself further and further in the present—and remembers why he had so readily lost himself in their game.

Throughout their hour and a half of spirited playing, the Emperor never repeated Wataru’s first name. He didn’t call him “Hibiki-kun” either; a noticeable change, as he seemed quite fond of slipping his name into conversation as often as possible. It was a curious phenomenon, and he still hadn’t grown accustomed to being addressed so directly.

So to then be called “Wataru” so suddenly and so casually, as though it were as natural as blinking...

It felt like Wataru had been slapped. Yes, the other Eccentrics always enjoyed unabashedly using another’s names, but—

Well—that’s not quite true… at least for him. Things were always different with Natsume, and Wataru could never bring himself to pretend that they weren’t. The others were able to cross that distance, if only in name; he was Natsume to the other three, but always, always Natsume-kun to Wataru.

The remaining four of them, however… From almost the very beginning, they all treated each other as beloved family members, and referred to each other as such.

No surnames, no honorifics, no nicknames. Rei, Kanata, Shu… and Wataru.

His beloved friends. They called him by his name as though they had known him for a lifetime. Like they loved him.

He loved them too.

The Eccentrics are—were—not normal. If Wataru had had more friends—any friends—before his fate was intertwined with theirs, perhaps he would have a better understanding of how these things work… But it feels wrong.

For the Emperor to call him that—to call him Wataru—

After so little time—

After everything that’s happened—

Stop.

He feels eyes on him.

Ah. It seems Wataru had dissociated for a minute there. He slides the cards back into a stack and magics them away into a hidden pocket in his jacket lining. (Most of them, at least. He’s pretty sure some ended up scattering on the floor. He should have brought bigger pockets!)

The Emperor has already started eating. Mr. Right Hand will be thrilled! Before Wataru can say as much aloud, he is compelled into silence by the intense expression on the Emperor’s face.

Oh, no.

“About earlier…” he begins.

Wataru winces internally. This is why he couldn’t allow for any silence—why he couldn’t let himself get distracted with wandering irrelevant thoughts.

He wishes he hadn’t put the cards away. He desperately needs some sort of stimulation right now in order to endure this conversation. Instinctively, he resorts to softly tapping the toe of his right shoe against the floor in rapid two-beat bursts.

Taptap, taptap, taptap… The rhythm is not unlike the throbbing of an anxious heartbeat. He makes sure to maintain his slow, deep breaths.

“I should apologize. What happened was completely inappropriate. I was caught up in the moment; Keito’s irritation was just so amusing, and I wanted to get him back for how awfully he’s treated me lately. I knew that speaking to you so informally would get under his skin, and I couldn’t resist.” The Emperor chuckles lightly. “And—while his reaction was as amusing as I’d hoped… I regret any offense I may have caused you.”

A joke… A way of playfully provoking his friend. That’s all it was?

If so, then it was a colossal failure. Hasumi had reacted, yes, but not in a satisfactory way. Wataru isn’t one to talk—he thoroughly enjoys mockery, and Mr. Right Hand’s hair-trigger temper is too tauntingly easy to set off.

Hasumi hadn’t been angry, though. He’d looked… Disarmed. Distraught.

Defeated.

And yet… The Emperor knows Hasumi very well; far better than Wataru does. Could he really not have known that his childish little play would break his spirit far more than it stoked his ire? He thought that he was far smarter than that.

… Wataru wonders whether or not it was really Hasumi whom the Emperor was trying to get a reaction out of.

Ngh. His palm hurts—oh. He’d somehow clenched his right hand into a tight fist, and his fingernails had begun to dig into his skin. Haha, whoops! ☆

“Well, all’s fair in love and war!” he replies flippantly. “His Majesty is quite the skilled musician; you knew just what strings to pluck, and you played your instrument beautifully. I have much to learn from you.”

The Emperor lets out a short, breathy laugh. “Well, I imagine he’ll give me an insufferably long talking-down about it tomorrow... but it was worth it. He needs to learn to loosen up every once in a while. If he continues on living like this, his heart is going to become even weaker than mine.”

Wataru nods, having nothing to say. He fundamentally agrees; sometimes anger and confrontation are necessary for personal growth.

But… Had the Emperor truly been motivated by concern for his friend? Or is this just another excuse? Who’s to say the Emperor wasn’t doing exactly what he wanted to do? Most anything is forgivable if one is able to rationalize it as an act of love.

“And...” the Emperor continues. “Well, I was thinking... Since Keito will be upset with both of us regardless of what happens…”

Taptap. Taptap. Taptap.

“How would you feel if I continued to call you by your name—by Wataru—from now on?”

Taptap. Taptap. Taptap taptap taptap taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.

“I’d hate myself if I did something you disliked.”

Inhale.

“So I’ll only continue to do so if I have your express permission, of course…”

Exhale.

“So, with that having been said…” The Emperor’s eyes dart away shyly for a second before he looks back at him. His gaze is intense and uncompromising… but the smile that blooms at the corners of his mouth looks nervous.

Inhale…

“What do you think? Would you like me to call you ‘Wataru’ from now on?”

… Exhale.

He opens his mouth and, as though his stomach is a pillow being forcibly shaken of its contents, vomits out a fluttering rush of pleasant, empty words.

“Ah… ! But what I like is unimportant! For you see, Your Highness, this Hibiki Wataru belongs not to himself, but to the entire world! ☆ In truth, a performer has no right to dictate how his audience perceives him! I was put on this earth for one purpose and one purpose alone: to captivate and entertain all of humanity with my natural talents ☆ If someone were to be generous enough to gift me in return with their time and attention, then I could not possibly turn my nose up at any name they choose to call me. Compliments, insults, words of love or hatred alike—I welcome them all! ☆ To refuse anything my audience requests of me would be a sin most unimaginable! I would die—really, really, I would die on the spot if I were to so much as say ‘no’ to someone!”

Wataru is fully prepared to keep going—he would very much like to keep going, because if he is talking then that means that the Emperor is not talking, and surely, if Wataru continues talking for long enough, they will be able to abandon this abhorrent conversation altogether and he can return to being Hibiki-kun, and it will be as though this entire exchange was nothing but a scrapped scene from a terribly crude first draft.

Then the Emperor’s eyelids lower.

“Well, then... If you really have no complaints, then that settles it ♪” His smile overtakes his face. He appears satisfied; he appears happy.

“With that being the case, I’d like to extend a similar offer your way. Now that the two of us are becoming acquainted, I would like it if you called me ‘Eichi’ as well.”

He referred to it as an “offer,” but it’s phrased like an order.

Fortunately, Wataru is still overflowing with meaningless fluff. “How considerate of you—how benevolent! Truly! In fact, such a gesture is so noble that I fear there may be no historical precedent for how I should react! ☆ The Emperor really is unmatched in his kindness! Did you know? In ancient times, it was considered a great affront to refer to a ruler by name under any circumstance—even when alone! And to use a ruler’s first name in his very presence... Ah, well, this is a place of healing, so I’ll spare you the gory details, but trust me: such insults were dealt with swiftly and harshly!”

He pauses for a second, expecting the Emperor to cut in with a comment. But he remains silent this time.

Wataru has no choice but to continue.

“Of course, we are not living in ancient times any longer. Our world is much more civilized now—in some aspects, at least! ☆ However, many of us commoners still remain ever-vigilant in the presence of our betters! While the actions that would have gotten our ancestors jailed or executed may be tolerable now, the notion of committing even the most minor of slights against the upper class strikes a deathly fear in our hearts! It’s a curse, really! Ooooor… would you call it an evolutionary survival skill? ☆”

Another short pause. No luck.

“Class solidarity is very important, of course, but my concerns extend beyond that! I wonder if, in fulfilling your request, I would be inadvertently painting a target on my back? You’ve surely heard of the ‘crabs in a bucket’ phenomenon? Nature can be so cruel… Of course, nature is only ever cruel on accident; humans are uniquely gifted with the capacity to be cruel on purpose! ☆ Even with His Majesty’s most generous permission, I fear I would still not be spared the wrath of those close to him... Mr. Right Hand may be a small yapping dog, but even tiny creatures like crabs and puppies have horribly sharp bites! Your guard dog, while adorable, still has sharp little fangs!”

Finally, the Emperor exhales a light chuckle—but it strikes Wataru as pitying, not amused. “Haha... Yes, yes. Don’t worry; Keito is upset, but he’ll come around eventually. He’ll throw a fit for a while, but that’s nothing new; if it wasn’t this, he would’ve just conjured some other reason to be upset with me. It’s just how he is, and it doesn’t mean anything. Soon enough, he’ll be back to his fretful, cheerless old self... And the three of us will be free to become good friends ♪”

… Is he serious?

“Ugh, but that reminds me... Keito didn’t take that damned basket. Nn, well, Wataru, would you like to open it? I’m not sure what’s inside, but there might be something or other you’d find amusing. One of our business associates sent over a lovely chess set once—so it’s not always just fruits and sweets and flowers… though you’re welcome to take those too, of course.”

A rush of dizzying indignation overcomes him. So… that’s really it? They’re just moving on now? He blinks rapidly, as though the cognitive dissonance fogging his mind is nothing but a film of dryness over his eyes.

He doesn’t want to talk about it. So he should be pleased that the Emperor is changing the subject. He should accept the small mercy and cling to this lifeline he’s been tossed with everything he has.

And yet, stupidly, he is upset. The Emperor said he wanted to know how he felt. Was that a lie?

If not, then why is he giving in so easily?

And Wataru doesn’t want the Emperor’s unwanted gifts. How many times does he have to say it? He doesn’t want to be given anything.

But he’ll go along with it. The Emperor commanded him to open the basket, and so he will. He lives to please.

He undoes the extravagantly-tied bow and unfurls the gossamer wrapping. He doesn’t think; his hands reach for the first thing his eyes land on.

He returns with two fruits in each hand: three shiny red apples and one plump grapefruit.

“Emperor, do you know how to juggle?” he finds himself saying. “It’s an essential life skill—at least, it will be! Just the other day, I read a study which hypothesized that, in a measly twenty-five years in the future, over half of Japan’s workforce will be replaced by circus clowns! So please, do watch closely! ☆”

It only takes a few tosses for him to lose himself once again.

He blabbers on endlessly as he performs. The continuous movements of his hands and his mouth take all of his concentration; it is impossible to think.

He is calm.

After a handful of minutes, in the middle of a one-handed juggling demonstration, he impulsively retrieves something from his back pocket. Though he’d thought the sleight of hand was imperceptible, somehow the Emperor immediately notices when Wataru tosses a tennis-ball sized rafflesia bud into the array of spinning fruits.

He cries out in surprise and then brings his hands together to applaud.

Wataru did bring an actual bouquet today: three lilac branches—two white and one purple—tied together with a silver ribbon. Maybe he’ll drop it somewhere on his way out… hidden between the pages of Mr. Right Hand’s top-secret student council documents, perhaps.

He’d like the Emperor to have it; tradition is important, after all. But he doesn’t want to present it to him.

On the contrary, giving him the dried corpse flower feels in poor taste… So perhaps he will.

The unbloomed bud is dark and dense, its petals having only just begun to peek out from the center before the flower was uprooted and dried. It’s hardly recognizable as a rafflesia; fortunately, it doesn’t stink like one, either.

He’d bought it the other day as an impulse purchase at the local herbal supply shop while picking up his father’s vitamin supplements. He has no idea what its medicinal use could be, although he’s heard of rafflesia soup—a home remedy for a cough, he thinks. He didn’t have any reason to buy it, and he’d actually forgotten it was in his pocket until just now… But, in that moment, the sight of that ugly, sad dried little bud called out to him, and he could not resist.

It probably doesn’t look ugly from a distance, so maybe the Emperor has mistaken it for a plum instead. A sweet, delicious fruit—not the dead husk of an undeveloped corpse flower.

That’s the kind of fantasy Wataru’s tasked himself with showing him: a beautiful dream smokescreening a grotesque reality.

It’s rewarding work. The Emperor’s smile is charming; it’s thrilling . Wataru can hardly fathom how, only a couple of hours ago, he’d wanted to run away.

Later today, as he is sitting alone on the train home, opening his phone to another deluge of missed calls and texts, he’ll remember why.

It’s better to leave too early, leaving one’s audience frustrated and unsatisfied, than linger long enough for one’s story to grow stale.

He doesn’t want to stick around to see the Emperor’s attention wane.

But it hasn’t yet. And do everything he can to hold his eyes and heart captive for a while longer.

And if he has to play “Wataru” from now on, then so be it.

Chapter Text

☆ ☆ ☆

“So, Emperor… ♪ Would you care to play a little game with me?”

Eichi instantly perks up from his papers, his heart fluttering. He doesn’t bother attempting to pacify the keen grin that unfurls across his cheeks; he is unspeakably relieved to be offered a  means of escape from his boredom.

However, the speed with which he jolts up sends a rush of sickening dizziness through his brain.

Ah. He’d been motionless for so long that he’d forgotten. Today is not a good day.

His stomach has been acrid and queasy since last night. He’d slept terribly—the nausea had only heightened his sensitivity to his chronic pain, and he’d only lasted a couple hours of restless tossing and turning before he caved and reached for the remote to summon a nurse. (He has not earned back the privileges of a self-operated analgesic pump.) He hadn’t been lucid enough to form words, but she’d understood; a quick infusion of painkiller was enough to sedate him and send him into a heavy, dreamless stretch of unconsciousness.

He must have slept as stiff as a corpse, however, because he awoke with a miserable migraine localized in his right eye. He certainly would have hissed at Keito if he’d attempted to draw the curtains this morning.

Fortunately, Keito hadn’t visited today.

So the curtains remained closed, and Eichi’s room was dull and dim and dreary. He passed the time straining his eyes in the darkness in a mostly performative attempt to review some student council budgetary provisions—until a sweet, lilting voice called from behind the door: Tenshouin-sama?

And then, in a fantastic burst of yellow freesias, Wataru stood in the wide-open doorway, donning a pale pink nurse’s cap, to present Eichi with what he proclaimed to be his lunch—however, upon closer inspection, all that sat on the tray in his hands was a single cup of jello.

To his surprise, Wataru does not insist that Eichi put away his papers. On the contrary, he simply leaned over, tray balanced on one palm, and organized the scattered documents into a neat stack with his free hand to clear some space on his lap desk.

Then he delicately set the tray down and, with a polite bow, took his place in his chair. Before Eichi could say a word, Wataru had conjured a bundle of documents of his own—judging by the way it was bound, it was almost certainly a manuscript—and, without another word, began to read.

This is how things have been for the past week. That is—they’ve been casual.

Eichi still hasn’t gotten used to it. He can’t parse what sort of game this could be. Of course, while Wataru had been unusually friendly with him from the beginning, he had at least treated every visit as an occasion. Up until this past week, Wataru had always been alert, animated, and attentive. His eyes never left Eichi’s face.

But, lately, their dynamic has shifted. Wataru still marks his arrival with the appropriate flourishes, yes, but the remainder of the ensuing visits have felt altogether unremarkable.

The rapturous anxiety that first overwhelmed him in Wataru’s presence did not fade of its own accord—but was instead forcefully snuffed out by an even greater affliction: tedium. Eichi is still anxious around him; however, with no target nor purpose, that anxiety had nothing to cling to—and no choice but to settle into vague uneasiness.

As he’d stared down at his documents, facts and figures conveying mechanically through his mind—not complex enough to be challenging, not interesting enough to be engaging—Eichi felt Wataru’s presence just outside of his periphery as though he were the sole star burning in the entirety of a vast black sky.

And yet neither one of them said a word.

It’s an absolutely imbecilic thought, but… Eichi can’t shake the suspicion that he is being punished for something.

Or, perhaps… that he has been called on a bluff.

But—no, he’s just being overly sensitive. Keito is the one punishing him, after all. That’s why his visits this past week have been less frequent—and shorter—and emptier. He’s still offended by that minor stunt Eichi pulled, and he’s taking his revenge with this abrupt cold shoulder routine.

Eichi doesn’t know why he expected anything different from Keito.

But Wataru isn’t juvenile like that. He deserves the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this is… what “hanging out” is supposed to feel like?

“Fufu, Wataru, we play games all the time.”

Wataru, seated casually in his chair to Eichi’s left, suddenly stiffens, as though struck. He looks affronted. “All the time?” he murmurs, raising his hand to his heart. “I don’t suppose—we don’t… play too many games, do we?”

The hurt in his tone is disarmingly convincing, and Eichi steels himself not to be shaken by it.

He’s come to learn that, when it comes to his companion’s grandiose displays of emotion, he’s better off proceeding logically—banking on the assumption that his exaggerated shock, misery, or delight is performative. The most logical conclusion is that Wataru is enacting these affectations for Eichi’s benefit; he promised to entertain him, after all—Eichi supposes that such dramatics are another one of his acts.

Of course, Eichi can never be certain of anything when it comes to Wataru… but he feels secure enough in this interpretation to make these judgment calls; he at least prefers it to embarrassing himself by asking for clarification each and every time.

Above all else, Eichi is simply relieved that, after nearly half an hour of silence, Wataru is interested enough to perform for him at all.

Still, courtesy and conscience bid him to clarify. “I’m not complaining, of course. All I meant is: you don’t need to ask. I’ll always play with you. What sort of game do you have in mind?”

Wataru sits up straight, eyes gleaming. “An improvisation game! ☆ I’d like to use His Majesty as a test subject—to assess the viability of this exercise before I use it on my children.”

“Your… children?”

He nods his head eagerly, as though, rather than asking for clarification, Eichi has brought up a fantastic point. “Yes! ☆ My future pupils in the theater club! Being a club leader is quite similar to being a papa, don’t you think?”

Eichi’s brow furrows. Is it really… ? He thought clubs were solely for casual, meaningless socializing.

“Of course, I only have one child now, so you could say that I am in the ‘nesting stage’ ♪ If I am to remain a student next year, then I’ll need to be prepared to properly raise and care for my new clutch of helpless fledglings ☆”

Eichi purses his lips. “A papa, huh… Is that how a club president is meant to operate? I wouldn’t know; Ritsu-kun and I were a club only in name.”

If I am to remain a student next year…

The words clang around inside his skull like a brass bell.

If, if, if…

If? What the hell does that mean? Wataru is attending Yumenosaki because he’s an idol. If he stops, then—Well, what, exactly, would he be doing otherwise?

His stomach churns. Eichi is the only one whose future deserves to be uncertain. Of course, his doctors assure him that he will be able to return to a semi-regular moderate level of physical activity in a few months, as long as he behaves and accepts treatment—but…

Only God knows whether Eichi will actually return to Yumenosaki for his third year.

But Wataru—Hibiki Wataru…

It’s off-putting to even hear him utter the word “if,” much less speak of his own future with such blasé ambiguity—

Gh. His head hurts. He can’t think about this right now. He’s surely just being melodramatic again. Wataru must have just been kidding.

“Anyway, that’s very noble of you. Hehe, I have no issues with being your ‘test subject’ ♪ I’m not an actor, however—so I’m not sure how much help I can be.”

“That’s alright! I’m sure His Highness’s natural acting talents still greatly overshadow the raw mediocrity of the great many overambitious aspirants who have tried and failed to fully devote themselves to the performing arts! ☆ Besides, this is not a true acting exercise; all that is necessary is a quick wit.”

“Oh… How do I know if I have such a thing?”

Wataru’s eyes crinkle with a smile. “Is this your polite way of requesting praise? ‘Without a doubt, the Emperor is the wittiest, cleverest, most handsome man I’ve ever met’—is that how I should answer?”

Eichi blinks. “Huh? No, not at all. I was sincerely asking. But—” At Wataru’s unchanged grin, he frowns in thought. “—Hmm. I see. Your response… You were being facetious, right? You thought my question was ridiculous, so you gave a ridiculous response to mock me.”

Wataru doesn’t respond.

“So, then—you do think that I am clever.”

Wataru’s chuckle rumbles in his throat like a purr. “Fufufu. Correction: I now know that you are! Congratulations, Your Majesty: you passed the first round ☆”

He presses his palms against one another and stiffly taps his fingers together in silent pseudo applause. “And now that you’ve proven yourself qualified, we can begin our game!”

His demeanor reminds Eichi of the cheery, condescending affectation his nannies would adopt in their pitifully flimsy ploys to get him to listen and behave. Of course, this pretension always had the opposite effect; nothing incurs a prideful child’s wrath more than insulting his pride by treating him like a child.

It’s different with Wataru, though. He can treat Eichi however he likes.

“Aha, alright… How does this game work?”

“It’s very simple! ☆ One of us will ask a question, and the other must answer immediately—in one sentence or less. Then he must ask a different question in return; however, this question must clearly relate to the previous one.”

Eichi nods as he processes this information. “I see... That sounds fun. I can see how such an activity could be a worthwhile exercise for young actors. It’s an unconventional way to encourage children to open up to one another while also practicing their quick thinking.” He pauses. “There is a penalty for failing to respond within a certain period of time, I assume?”

Wataru shrugs. “Not necessarily; there are no penalties in this game”—the corners of his eyes pinch in the suggestion of a smile—“unless you’re interested in incorporating a punishment system ♪ But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In keeping with the improvisational spirit of this exercise, I encourage you to respond with the first answer and question that come to mind. It’s more fun that way, right?”

“It sounds dangerous,” Eichi replies.

“That’s where true pleasure is found ♪”

Eichi’s cheeks grow warm. “Alright. It’s a clever idea for a game, Wataru… Though, I have a few further questions. When you say ‘clearly relate,’ how—”

“Whoops!” He wags his finger in playful chastisement. “The line between cleverness and stupidity is far finer than it appears! For the sake of our purposes today, please keep your feet firmly anchored on the appropriate side of the border, Your Majesty!”

Eichi’s brow furrows. “Stupidity? What do you mean… ?”

“Here!” Wataru continues, as though he had not heard him. He snaps his fingers, and Eichi’s lap desk vanishes. As Eichi blinks in astonishment, Wataru continues: “Let’s learn by example! ☆ I’m ready to begin, so: please ask me a question.”

Eichi’s eyebrows pinch together further as his confusion continues to bloat. Fortunately, Wataru, before more than a second or two have passed, continues on: “No wit is required just yet. This is only the first round, so I encourage you to keep things simple. What sort of thing would you ask a regular acquaintance—say, a classmate with whom you were obligated to make small talk with to pass the time?”

“I see,” Eichi replies, nodding. Small talk is easy; he’d been expected to master it from the moment he’d said his first word. However, Wataru’s clarification only serves to stump him further.

Small talk; politesse; hollow niceties—he is an expert at speaking at inexhaustible lengths without saying a single syllable of actual qualitative substance. One makes small talk with a purpose in mind—it can be a helpful strategy in building quick rapport with individuals whose usefulness is singular and temporary. Small talk synthesizes an artificial, transient “bond” that begins and ends with mere familiarity through repetition—this is what an “acquaintanceship” truly is.

One knows where they stand with strangers, enemies, employees under contract, and business partners; acquaintances should be viewed with caution and skepticism.

But that’s surely not what Wataru meant. This scenario—speaking with a classmate to pass the time—does not have a clear purpose. Without further detail, Eichi has no idea what he wants out of this hypothetical individual and, in turn, cannot determine what subject he should be subtly manipulating the conversation towards.

So this cannot be the hidden conceit of this game. No, unless he receives further instruction, Eichi should conceive of “acquaintance” by its dictionary definition: a person with whom one is familiar and friendly, but not quite friends with.

Wataru said that this was supposed to be simple. Eichi will try to keep that in mind as well.

Simple… Okay. This is an improvisation game, so he supposes that it would be unfaithful to overthink his words. And as long as it stays that way—nothing more than a game—then there is no risk in speaking a bit heedlessly.

Aimless small talk. He doesn’t have any experience to draw from, in that case… But stalling any longer than he already has would be more disgraceful than offering a lame answer. Wataru really, really enjoys games; Eichi would embarrass himself with a pitiful loss a thousand times over before disappointing him by refusing to play.

“Er, then…”

Suddenly, his mind is blank; he asks the very first thing that comes to mind.

“How… did you sleep last night?” That’s the sort of thing you’d ask an acquaintance, isn’t it? He’s not confident, but it’s the sort of thing Keito and his nurses ask him, at least.

Fortunately, Wataru’s response is swift and eager. “I slept quite soundly, thank you!” His voice assumes a more exacting tone—this time, he reminds Eichi of one of his many tutors. “Now, since you asked me a question about my night and about sleep, I can frame my question around either subject. Hmm… What time did you wake up this morning?”

Eichi’s question about sleep was transfigured into a question about waking up. He is still following; that is easy and straightforward. The rhythm of this game is much like that of a real conversation—except with clearer, more explicit rules. He likes it.

“Okay, I understand.” Eichi nods once before continuing. “I woke up—”

“Ah, ah!” Wataru tuts. “I’m afraid His Majesty the Emperor has broken the rules; that was more than one sentence!”

Eichi’s expression must betray his frustration, because Wataru forestalls him with a silvery laugh. “Fufu, but that’s alright ♪ This was a warm-up round, so I’ll excuse you this time. I also did not follow the rules in my response—so I am at fault for setting a poor example.” He shakes his head solemnly.

“But, now that we’ve taken a moment to reflect on our missteps, we can begin in earnest. Soooo”—he gestures toward Eichi encouragingly—“go on, try again!”

Eichi clears his dry throat. He can’t overthink his words, but he cannot afford to speak thoughtlessly either. “Well, I woke up at 7:30 AM.” That’s right… The sun was actually up when he opened his eyes this morning. By the time he’d opened his eyes, the pale yellow light of dawn had already crept beneath the curtains and crawled onto the foot of his bed. It was anything but a welcome sight to his migraine-addled brain, but he begrudgingly appreciated the variation in his daily routine.

Yet another reason that Eichi is unquestionably glad Keito hadn’t visited this morning—who in their right mind would willingly choose to visit the hospital before dawn?

Wataru asked about sleep and about the morning, so... “What did you have for breakfast?”

“I did not have breakfast. What is the best meal you have ever eaten?”

Hmm, alright, the best meal he’s—

“Ah—hold on. You haven’t had breakfast? It’s nearly noon; have you not eaten at all today?”

Wataru frowns. “I suppose I did not explain the rules clearly enough… That is my error, so I will not fault you. May we review them again? One person asks a question, and the other must answer immediately—”

“No, no, I understand. I just… Ah, I don’t suppose this is the sort of game that we can put on pause.”

Wataru shakes his head. “Correct. For this exercise is not merely a test of wit, but of endurance!”

“Endurance… So, then, when does this game end? Is there a winner?”

“Yes! ☆ The winner is the person who answers the most questions!”

Wataru pauses expectantly—as if he somehow anticipates that Eichi will be satisfied with such an uncompelling answer.

However, his wry smirk betrays that this isn’t the case; he simply wants Eichi to ask him to elaborate. It’s strange and uncomfortable to be so openly teased and toyed with, but… true to his word, Eichi will never refuse Wataru any of his games. He will not receive more information unless he requests it; and so request he does.

“How does one lose, then?” When Wataru opens his mouth to respond, Eichi, anticipating a way in which his phrasing could lead to a similarly unsatisfactory answer—”The loser is the person who answers the fewest questions!”—hastily adds: “The loser is the person who answers the fewest questions—what determines this imbalance?”

“The game can end in one of two ways. You know the first: one player fails to follow the rules. I imagine that such an anticlimactic victory would feel rather shallow, however, so I’d personally prefer to avoid it. Instead, it is my sincere hope that our little match is decided this way: when one player is given a question that they refuse to answer.”

Eichi’s heart pounds. “What sort of question?”

“Fufu. You tell me ♪ There are no other rules to this game! For, you see, our game is actually a test of three virtues: wit, endurance, and bravery! ”

Eichi nods thoughtfully. “Then—the winner will be whoever asks the most invasive and uncomfortable question. What’s to stop me from beginning our match with a difficult question and instantly claiming victory?”

“Nothing is stopping you!” Wataru’s eyes narrow mischievously; he is clearly enjoying himself. “If you are able to present me with a question I will not answer, then, in that case, you will have won fair and square. Unfortunately, then the game would be over—and neither of us will be able to ask the other any more questions.”

Eichi frowns. “What do you mean? We can already ask one another questions whenever we want.”

Wataru smirks. “Ah, yes—that’s true… Hmm.” He taps the pad of his index finger against his lower lip thoughtfully. “Emperor, may I have your permission to introduce an additional rule into our game?” He smiles wider, exposing his teeth. “Perhaps this will make it more of a challenge for you.”

“Well… of course,” Eichi answers immediately—though not without some apprehension. “Like I said, I am happy to play however you’d like.”

“Excellent! ☆ Then, allow me to propose an extra special exclusive bonus rule.” He pauses for a moment, violet eyes gleaming with intensity. “No lying.”

“... What do you mean?”

“You know what lying is, don’t you? If not, I am happy to explain. If it pleases you, I can even illustrate it in the form of a fairy tale! ☆ Like so: Once upon a time, there was a grandmother and a grandfather who, though they loved one another very much, were dreadfully lonely… Until, one miraculous day, they happened—”

“No, no, I understand the rule—but I don’t grasp its purpose. I have no intention of lying to you.” He has no intention of telling the unconditional truth, either—but he will not outright lie.

“I see,” Wataru says, eyeing him. “Then do not think of it as a rule. Instead, consider it a perk! ☆ You will not lie to me; and I, too, will not lie to you.”

Eyes trained on him, Wataru raises his brows meaningfully. Eichi stares back at him.

“... Furthermore, you should know that I am a very competitive man, and I do not enjoy losing—so I have every intention of answering any question posed to me with complete and utter sincerity. Do you understand now?”

… Oh.

Eichi can ask Wataru anything he wants, and Wataru will have to answer with the truth. That truth can only be delivered in the form of a single sentence, but… Wataru is right. This is an invaluable opportunity—one he may never be granted again.

There are, of course, a vast litany of questions that Eichi cannot answer honestly. (And he suspects that “I don’t want to answer that” is not a permissible response.)

All of the questions that come to mind begin with the same word: why?

He cannot hope to predict when—not if—Wataru will spring one such question on him. Wataru is his opponent, after all; Eichi is certain that he has no chance of winning. All he can do is extract as much honesty out of his companion as possible before this golden opportunity is pulled from his grasp.

Wataru’s eyes flick for a millisecond from Eichi’s eyes to his mouth before immediately reestablishing eye contact. It happens so swiftly that Eichi nearly thinks he’d imagined it—until he realizes that he is chewing on the inside of his lower lip.

He’d been so invested in their conversation that he hadn’t noticed. But Wataru had.

“Let’s continue, then,” Eichi says as cheerfully as he can. “It was my turn, wasn’t it?”

Wataru nods, and then cordially tilts his head in Eichi’s direction—permission to go on.

Eichi doesn’t waste any time; he hasn't had the chance to think over Wataru’s question, but his adrenaline is nearing an intolerable level. He speaks bluntly.

“I don’t have very many pleasant memories involving food, but that’s likely because this dietary regime of bland, vitamin-rich slop has anesthetized my taste buds.”

… Hm. Wataru must have known what he was doing when he asked about meals. Did he intentionally fashion this vulnerability, hoping Eichi would strike? He put quite the emphasis on this honesty rule, after all—not to mention introduced this game in the first place.

It doesn’t make any sense, but…. could it be that Wataru wants Eichi to ask him a question he refuses to answer?

Or maybe this is just a convenient excuse. Because Eichi really, really wants to know.

He won’t be too ruthless just yet, however. He was brought up to be a gentleman; he will ease into it.

“Are you hungry?”

Wataru’s expression doesn’t shift—though that doesn’t tell Eichi much. “No,” he says casually. “Are you asking me to dinner? ♪”

He doesn’t smile when he says this, but the playful tone in his voice makes Eichi relatively certain that that was a joke. “It’s far too early in the day for dinner. When was the last time you ate?”

“I’m not sure,” Wataru answers simply. “Brunch, then?”

“I already had breakfast a few hours ago—but I’ll gladly order you anything you like. How can you not be sure?”

“I don’t care to keep track of such things. Would you like me to log my meals for you?”

“No, I wouldn’t wish such a miserable task on even my greatest enemy.”

Ugh. He supposes that there is one singular benefit of having his diet wrested from his control: he doesn’t have to answer to anyone about what he eats. He’d prefer freedom—but there is some paltry comfort to be found in this subjugation.

“So—you do eat meals, then?”

“I’m not sure. How would you classify a meal?”

This feels like a trick question. If he thought less of Wataru, he might even interpret this as a stalling tactic. He feels foolish; but he will not break the rules.

“Food one sits down to eat at a regular time of day—such as breakfast, lunch, or dinner.”

He feels as though it should be against the rules to repeat a question, but he needs an answer. “Do you ever eat meals?”

“Sometimes.” He cocks a brow. “Do you hold this lifestyle in high regard?”

Lifestyle? Eichi had never considered eating square meals to be a personal decision… His diet has never really been his own choice, though; even when, for a time, he was granted some meager freedom to eat what he liked, his frequent blood tests ensured that he got caught whenever he ate more than a single bite of something “unhealthy.” Food has never been a choice for him—certainly not a lifestyle.

“Not personally, but I recognize the value of regimenting one’s diet. Why are you so indifferent to eating?”

“I’m not sure. What is your hypothesis?”

What kinds of questions are these… ?

“I suppose one could say that it is an eccentricity characteristic of an artistic genius…” he ponders absently, more preoccupied with Wataru’s peculiar gameplay strategy. “Is ‘I’m not sure’ a valid answer in this game?”

Wataru grins. “I’m ☆ not ☆ sure ☆” he replies, elongating each syllable with the cadence of a taunt. “What do you think?”

“I find it perplexing… but it’s not against the rules as you’ve laid them out. Is there an issue with my questions, then?”

“No, not at all. Why do you ask?”

What do you think? Why do you ask?

This game was Wataru’s idea. He could have prepared a list of merciless and invasive questions beforehand and steered the game in his own favor. He could have designed a game in which he could interrogate Eichi unrelentingly for as long as he liked. Wataru must be aware that Eichi will not say no to him.

So why isn’t he pushing Eichi back with his own targeted questions? Why is he merely parrying Eichi’s own questions back at him?

Eichi is the only one asking personal questions… and yet he feels far more put on the spot than Wataru appears.

“Your answers have been… deficient. What am I doing wrong?”

“Rest assured: you are performing exquisitely, Your Majesty! ☆” Wataru exclaims. “But, seeing as you are dissatisfied, would you kindly tell me how I may improve upon my performance?”

“I just—would like you to be honest. You… have been, right?”

“Yes, completely. But you haven’t found my honesty to be satisfying, I take it?”

“I’ll be satisfied when I win,” Eichi replies without thinking—but after he says it, he’s not sure whether it’s the truth. “Were you lying earlier, when you said that you dislike to lose?”

A slight pause. “Yes.” Wataru laughs softly, but there is an edge in his voice. “What gave me away?”

“You’re not the sort of person who would willingly submit himself to things he truly dislikes. Why did you lie about that, Wataru?”

Wataru’s right cheek twitches—or maybe the swollen throbbing behind Eichi’s eye has begun to compromise his vision.

“I was eager to hurry things along, and I suspected that such a statement would embolden you. It worked, didn’t it?”

“I would have played regardless,” Eichi answers through gritted teeth as a sickening crest of nausea saturates the inside of his skull. He swallows dryly and unclenches his jaw. “Have—you lied to me before?”

“It depends. How would you define a lie?”

He needs to phrase this carefully; magic, after all, could be argued to be a form of lying. “An intentional verbal misrepresentation of the truth—or of one’s feelings—for the purpose of deception or manipulation. So—have you lied to me?”

“Yes,” Wataru answers instantly. “Does that hurt your feelings?”

Eichi breathes out a humorless laugh. “—Honestly, I’m relieved,” he mutters. “... Aren’t you going to ask me in return?”

Wataru pauses to consider—as though the idea had truly not occurred to him. “Unfortunately, I suspect that none of the infinite answers you could give to that question could outweigh the pleasure I enjoy in pondering it on my own.” He tilts his chin and gazes at Eichi curiously. “You’re quite preoccupied with the notion of returning favors, aren’t you?”

Eichi’s eyes narrow. “I don’t understand. What are you implying, exactly?”

“I thought that it was quite clear.” He leans forward, gaze intently fixed on Eichi’s face. “For instance: did it upset you when I declined to call you by your name?”

Eichi’s jaw clenches so tightly that he nearly bites his tongue in half.

Of course. So that’s his strategy: throw Eichi off of his rhythm with passive, repetitive answers and ease him into an unearned confidence—and recklessness. Then, when Eichi, believing that Wataru was not taking this game seriously, was just beginning to grow complacent… Wataru strikes.

Eichi is such an idiot.

“I was only upset with myself for behaving presumptuously,” he mutters finally.

Eichi braces himself. He can’t back down now; he has to fire back.

“Do you hate being called Wataru?”

“Of course not—it’s my one and only name, after all.” Wataru’s eyes widen with unduly innocent curiosity. “Is there a reason I should dislike my own name?”

“No, your name is beautiful.” He sighs. “What I mean is: Do you hate it when I call you Wataru?”

“I don’t know,” he answers instantly, as though he has had this non-answer prepared. “Do you hate calling me ‘Wataru’?”

“No,” Eichi says simply, and the word feels like both an understatement and a confession. “So—it doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“As I said: I don’t know.” He eyes him. “Should it?”

And now he’s doing it again. Do you? Should it? Eichi won’t let his guard down this time, however.

“—It would be well within your right to be uncomfortable. Would you tell me if you were?”

“Only if I was in some sort of unabashedly contrived situation in which I was compelled to be honest—and if I knew the answer. Why, exactly, are you so concerned with my comfort?”

“Because I want to understand you.” Eichi hesitates. “Are you uncomfortable right now, Wataru?”

Wataru exhales steadily. “... I can’t be certain—but I would not describe myself as comfortable, exactly. Do I appear uncomfortable?”

The opposite of comfort is discomfort; if you are not comfortable, then you must be uncomfortable. That’s how feelings should work, at least. It’s what makes sense.

And yet… he thinks he might understand. Eichi isn’t comfortable right now, either—he is never comfortable around Wataru. However, unlike the tension pounding in his skull and the grief curdling in his chest, this feeling is not unpleasant. Not at all.

Maybe he is uncomfortable; yes, the intensity of this conversation is surely worsening his migraine. Yet, even still, he would rather speak until his lungs are empty—until his oxygen-starved brain strangles him into painless unconsciousness—than end this conversation prematurely.

He wonders if, just maybe, this is what life is supposed to feel like.

“No… but I can never get a proper read on your emotions. You’re quite skilled at reading me, though, aren’t you?”

Wataru waves his hand noncommittally. “Most humans are easy to read once you know what tells to look for—however, I suppose you could say that I am still in the process of studying you.” He catches Eichi’s eye again. “Are you uncomfortable right now?”

It is impossible to answer this with a yes or no—because both are true. So, instead, Eichi opts to tell a different truth.

“Getting to talk to you like this… I’m happy, more than anything.”

These words serve as a reminder to himself as well. Eichi has to make the most of this—before Wataru asks him an impossible question. This conversation has become increasingly personal, but they are still engaging under the pretense of a game—and games are meant to be played.

He cannot hold himself back here. This game has explicitly empowered him to be as ruthless as he wants. And what he wants, more than anything, is answers.

“What about when I saw Shinkai-kun’s name appear on your phone—were you uncomfortable then?”

“The call unsettled me, but not because you saw it. How did it make you feel?”

“It… made me curious. What do you mean by ‘unsettled,’ exactly?”

“It was an unanticipated distraction.” Wataru’s eyes narrow, and a mischievous smirk creeps onto his face. “You understand how it feels to be interrupted in the middle of a scene, don’t you?”

“... I don’t understand, no. A scene?”

Wataru chuckles. “You expressed a similar sentiment back then—that day.” He raises a brow. “Can’t you appreciate the dramatic parallels between those incidents?”

…

Eichi almost groans at the realization. That day, backstage, the two of them… Talking like equals.

No, it wasn’t unfolding the way he’d always wanted—it wasn’t the scenario that starry-eyed boy had fantasized about with his hands and forehead pressed against the television screen—

But—it was real. It wasn’t a dream.

And then Tsumugi appeared and ruined Eichi’s life.

So, there are no parallels to be drawn; the central premises are incompatible. After all—Shinkai is Wataru’s friend.

Eichi clears his throat—though it’s too dry to make much of a sound. “If those situations truly were similar, then I suppose Shinkai-kun must have been calling about something important. Why didn’t you answer?”

“Oh, because he didn’t expect me to. Don’t you find phone calls to be an outdated form of communication, anyway?”

“They’re quite commonplace in my line of work.”

Eichi doesn’t want to talk about phone calls. He is utterly baffled as to what on earth Wataru’s answer could mean, but he cannot waste his time pursuing irrelevant matters. Growing increasingly anxious and suspicious of their plodding rapport, Eichi opts to be direct once again.

“Who else have you been talking to lately, Wataru?”

One… two… nearly three full seconds of silence.

“—Well, I’ve been a bit too preoccupied with professional matters to socialize much,” Wataru answers, the breeziness in his tone undercut by his hesitation. “And yourself?”

“You and Keito are the only people I care to speak to,” he answers carelessly, anxious to hurry along to his own question. “Is that why you ignored Shinkai-kun’s call—because you were ‘preoccupied’ with me?”

Wataru shrugs. “I see no issue with your explanation. And what about your old flame; you haven’t spoken to him?”

Gh—Is he seriously bringing up Tsumugi again? Eichi needs to shut this down immediately.

“I don’t think that he and I will ever speak again, no. What about Sakuma-kun?”

Wataru smiles hollowly. “He’s preoccupied as well. So, he—Aoba-kun—hasn't made any attempts to contact you?”

Eichi scowls. “No, of course not,” he retorts, profoundly, feverishly irritated for reasons beyond his comprehension. “And Sakasaki-kun and Itsuki-kun?”

“Not to worry; they have others looking after them, rendering my companionship unnecessary. So, you’re still concerned with our kind, are you—even though our story has ended?”

Unnecessary… ?

“All of you have your own stories now, so it’s none of my concern any longer. But—Wataru, you… you haven’t maintained your relationships with your fellow Eccentrics?”

One… two… three, four, five…

Wataru is silent for such a considerable pause that Eichi begins to wonder whether he’s about to forfeit their game. Out of any of the questions he’s asked—and that he could ask—Eichi never would have guessed that Wataru would recoil at the subject of the Eccentrics… his best friends. That’s what he called them, right?

They’re the reason why he’s here, right? Above all else… doesn’t his loyalty lie with them?

“No,” Wataru answers, “not really.”

The response hangs in the air for a prolonged second.

“And… the other two?”

Eichi lets out a bitter laugh. Hiyori and Nagisa, huh… He’d managed to pass through the past few days without sparing a single thought to them. Their memory hurts, but only with the short-lived sting of a slap. Altogether, their parting was painless; they all knew that it was illogical to mourn the loss of something that never was.

Yes, the three of them were wise not to have romanticized their partnership—not to have succumbed to alluring, vapid, self-centered delusions about—

Damn it. What the hell is wrong with me?

Wataru must have placed a curse on him—or perhaps it was Sakuma—or that vainglorious child. It’s a more rational explanation than the alternative; because there is no justifiable reason for Eichi to ever, ever, ever, ever, ever think about Tsumugi again.

He does his best to downplay his agitation as mere pettiness. “Well, along with their deepest condolences, the Tomoe Foundation sent an exceedingly generous care package.”

Suddenly, another face comes to mind; well, half a face. The only player that they haven’t acknowledged yet.

“And… Hidaka-kun?”

Wataru chuckles. “Fufu… I have not neglected my duty towards my troublesome pupil.” He smiles broadly, his voice lightening with fondness. “What do you make of him?”

Hidaka Seiya’s son. And his mother is noteworthy as well—a famous stage actor. Eichi hasn’t paid much attention to him. That day should have served as a golden opportunity for him to evaluate Hidaka’s progress… But Eichi’s memory of his performance is blurry and incomplete; his illness had already begun to overpower him by the time their duo’s act began.

The recollection of that all-encompassing, immobilizing exhaustion amplifies the nausea permeating his body. Eichi has to stay conscious; he can’t think about it anymore.

“That boy has quite the pedigree, so he should be able to achieve some degree of success in this industry in its current state—even if through pure nepotism. What is the nature of your relationship?”

Wataru laughs again. “As I said: I am the boy’s teacher ♪ Are you implying that he is untalented?”

“No, not at all”—Eichi blurts out, the consonants slurring together just slightly—“rather, I have not observed him long enough to make an informed assessment of his abilities… Why did you ask him, Wataru, and not one of the others—or all of them?”

“It would have been unforgivably cruel to ask that of them,” Wataru answers solemnly. “And that’s not what you wanted, was it?”

It feels like a trick question.

“It would have been disastrous for fine. So—why didn’t you want that?”

“I’d already made a commitment to your script, and I intended to see it through to the very end. You’re satisfied with how everything worked out… correct?”

Eichi doesn’t know what the truth is—but he cannot possibly allow himself to voice the answer that first comes to mind.

“I would not have acted differently,” he says, after a moment of thought. It’s as much of an answer he can give without actually answering.

“Wataru… What will satisfy you?”

Wataru chuckles dryly. “Worry not; I’m already quite satisfied.” His smile fades, and he leans forward just slightly. “Is that really what you want to ask me, Your Majesty?”

Eichi forces himself to take a breath; even the sensation of air through his nostrils is overstimulating, and his head begins to spin. “I… I’ll rephrase. What can I do to make you forgive me?”

“I’m not sure how to answer that. What sort of response are you expecting?”

Please don’t do this again. Just be honest with me—just this once.

“The truth—like you promised.” Eichi’s eyes narrow. “Are you refusing to answer?”

“No, I will answer; but your question lacks purpose and specificity. Forgive you… for what?”

Gh… He doesn’t have the time or energy to come up with an elegant obfuscation of the truth. All he can do is keep his answer brief and unincriminating.

“For what happened. How can I make it up to you—help you?”

Wataru sighs. “Again, due to the ambiguity of your question, I don’t know what sort of answer I am expected to give. Are you asking because you want to ‘help me’—or because you want me to forgive you?”

Eichi’s tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, and when he speaks, his voice sounds muffled and distant. He’s beginning to fade.

“... Both are true; but I don’t know which is the greater truth. Do you think such a thing is possible—Nn, I mean: Wataru, is there anything I can do?”

“There is very little that a person like you cannot do. So—what are you offering me, Your Majesty?”

“I would do anything for you,” Eichi answers soberly. And then, finally, he asks.

“What do you want from me?”

Wataru presses his lips into a thin smile. Then he exhales; the force of the sigh is enough to make his shoulders, usually held so firm and proud, sag for just a moment.

When he speaks, his smile is gone.

“… I haven’t quite decided yet.”

They stare at each other. The burn of Wataru’s unbridled gaze is immeasurably staggering. Captivating, in the most literal sense—like a fish caught on a hook, sight forced upwards as the ocean surface grows larger and larger. Eichi can’t remember how to move his eyes; he wouldn’t even if he could.

Though his eyes are alight with intensity, Wataru’s face is stoic and unmoving—and when he speaks, his voice is low and grave. “What if I said that I’d accept nothing less than your soul?”

… He’s joking, surely. No—certainly. So… though a feverish chill races down his spine at the weight of those words, Eichi reassures himself that it was a mere cold flash. Those are nothing new; he often experiences them just before vomiting. It’s a simple coincidence—that’s the only reason why Wataru’s answer laced his veins with ice.

So, when Eichi answers, his words are carefully lighthearted—but his sentiment is heartfelt.

“Then I would have a contract drawn and signed within the hour. Eternal repentance and suffering… is that what you’d like from me?”

“No,” Wataru says with a shake of his head, “I wouldn’t wish that on my greatest enemy. Don’t you think that ‘repentance’—just like telephone calls—is an antiquated concept?”

“It’s not old-fashioned to believe that sinners deserve to be punished.” Eichi’s head throbs, and he can’t tell if his vision is beginning to blur or if he is actually swaying with nausea. “Good must always triumph over evil, right?”

“I was led to believe that good had already triumphed in this case.”

A pause; when Eichi can’t make out Wataru’s expression, he realizes that his eyes are closed. He’s doubled over—his clenched fists are pressed tightly over his eyes.

His eyes were open just a moment ago. He doesn’t know when he moved. He doesn’t know how he managed to look away from Wataru.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?”

Eichi doesn’t see how that question connects to the previous one, but he can’t spare even one single cell of his body in fretting over it. “It’ll pass,” he mutters softly, and he hopes Wataru can hear. I haven’t died and gone to hell just yet; so this pain can’t last forever.

With the obstinate, cancerous determination his family has always loathed him for, Eichi drags his face from his hands and wrenches open his eyelids.

Even through the curtain of his drooping bangs, the room seems blindingly bright. He trains his gaze on Wataru’s eyes—anchors himself.

“Wataru… Do you care about me?”

Wataru’s eyelids widen ever-so-slightly.

He looks—

… Scared?

Eichi’s guts clench, and his throat burns with acid.

In the split second he has to react, he reflexively jerks to his right. His muscles cry in pain at the unnatural squeeze of his abdomen, as though someone had taken the top half of his body and harshly twisted it 180 degrees.

The pressure on his gut only serves to hasten the expulsion.

He voids the contents of his stomach onto the floor. It’s the ugliest sound he’s ever heard.

Eichi retches until his throat is sore.

The room is completely still and utterly silent, as though frozen in time.

And then there is a pressure on his back—a weight beside him on the mattress. Under the veil of his bangs, at the edge of his periphery, he can see a knee.

He heaves again.

Humiliated tears pinch the corners of his eyes at the sound of the bile splattering across the linoleum. Eichi retches until there is nothing left to expel.

Another numb stretch of silence.

And then the sound of melodic rattling. A pale pink cup manifests into view beneath his face. His half-empty cup of ice chips from earlier this morning, brought in by the nurse after he’d noticed Eichi’s chapped lips. Most of the contents have melted into lukewarm water by now, but a few small chunks of ice remain.

Oh, right… He should rehydrate. The cup steadily inches closer towards his face, but he can’t tell whether Wataru is trying to coax him into taking it… or if actually plans to raise it all the way to his lips.

He unclenches his stiff left fist and weakly wraps his fingers around the top of the cup. Wataru waits a couple of beats to ensure that Eichi’s grasp is stable enough; his thumb is warm against Eichi’s pinky.

Then he lets go, and Eichi carefully brings the rim of the cup to his mouth. Too mortified to raise his head and potentially expose his face, Eichi instead opts to tilt the cup upwards to exploit the law of gravity. It’s clumsy and awkward; water hits his cheeks and drips down his chin onto his thighs before any makes it into his mouth, but he manages to get a couple sizable swallows before only a few leftover dregs of ice remain.

It does nothing to ease the terrible throbbing behind his right eye, but it’s negligibly soothing to his dry, sour throat.

The two sit in silence for a few moments—perhaps even a minute. Eichi can’t even bear to look at Wataru’s knee; he stares absently at the floor.

Then his stomach churns again.

He lurches forward and hacks out the water. The cup clatters to the ground.

This happens sometimes after he vomits; even though his body needs hydration, the residual nausea compels his system to immediately reject anything he tries to drink. Hydration through an intravenous drip forces his body to retain the water, but it typically doesn’t stop him from dry heaving in a vain, guttural attempt to expel the live-saving substance.

He feels that pressure on his back again. It’s firm but gentle—and warm. A hand.

Tsumugi?

He jerks his head away. He wishes he were dead.

Then the pressure disappears.

The weight on the mattress shifts again; Wataru is standing up.

The room spins. Eichi squeezes his eyes shut and, in a desperate attempt not to completely keel over, thrusts his left arm to the side, fingers hopelessly clutching at the air.

At first, he can’t quite tell what he’s grabbed hold of—but it’s soft, and it easily gives beneath his powerless fingers. He digs his fingers in deeper and holds on for dear life.

There is an eternity in which Wataru does not move. And then, all of a sudden, he does.

Wataru resettles on the mattress beside him and his hand returns, once again, to Eichi’s back. His outstretched elbow lays gently against Eichi’s arm; and Eichi realizes that his fist, too, is pressed against the small of Wataru’s back.

“Okay, I’ll stay,” a low voice murmurs.

… Aha.

Another short stretch of silence, and then: “Would you prefer to lie down?”

Eichi’s lips, stiff and aching, curl into a smile.

“I win,” he murmurs.

There is another pause. And then a weary chuckle sounds beside him.

“Yes,” Wataru agrees. He sounds oddly fatigued. “You certainly did.”

“Haha.” He tries to gloat—but he can’t energize his voice beyond the emptiest monotone.

Eichi feels like a pitiful child… but he’d much rather look like an immature brat by pretending that this was all a last-ditch ploy to win their ridiculous game than acknowledge what just happened. “It’s a hollow victory. I could never beat you playing fair, so more drastic measures were ne—”

The door opens. Eichi groans and looks back down at his vomit.

“Yes, Mr. Tenshouin?” a nurse asks.

Huh? What presumptuous phrasing—as though he’d called them in. Eichi can’t quite put a face to the voice, either; it’s not one of his usual staff here for a routine check-in.

… Ugh. The damned remote control—Wataru must have summoned a nurse.

Face hot with indignant betrayal, he uses his fistful of Wataru’s hair as leverage to pull his shoulders up just enough to gaze at his face.

Staring right back at him, brow raised and eyes glinting—as though daring him to object—Wataru speaks up and greets their visitor without turning his head.

“Mr. Tenshouin found today’s breakfast offering to be unsatisfactory, I’m afraid. He’s decided to return it.”

☆ 

The next twenty minutes pass swiftly enough. While two custodians meticulously clean the mess and disinfect the affected surfaces, Wataru occupies Eichi’s attention with sleight of hand tricks—vanishing coins, levitating pens, and bending spoons (“It’s a poor magician who blames his tools—however, I admit that this trick would be far more impressive if this were metal, not plastic… ♪”).

Eichi, having been handed a fresh cup of water and ordered to slowly sip the contents through a plastic straw, does not speak much. The nurse, taking his silence as a symptom of his nausea, does not press him to speak, and simply double-checks his vitals before leaving. It was a routine vomiting, fortunately—no blood, which means the ordeal is only a mundane nuisance. An overdone spectacle—not interesting enough to warrant real concern.

The on-call doctor advises that they skip lunch today; instead, Eichi will be served his dinner an hour early. Wataru welcomes the news with such disproportionate enthusiasm (“Wow! ☆ I could never have imagined such variety was possible in hospital life! What a breathtaking development! Hmm, Your Majesty, according to your definition, would an ‘early dinner’ even constitute a meal?”) that Eichi had no choice but to smile.

Eichi is on the final sip of his drink by the time the custodians finally leave. He doesn’t have the will to turn and put it on the bedside table, however, so he instead holds the empty cup on his lap and inhales the first deep breath he has taken in hours.

The room is thick with the smell of bleach and citrus-scented disinfectant—Eichi frowns in the direction of the smell.

“—They didn’t open the window,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. He hadn’t thought to mention it; he’d always taken fresh air following nausea for granted. Opening the window was one of the first things Keito did whenever Eichi was sick.

He blinks once, and then Wataru is at the windowsill, sliding the pane open.

A gust of cold winter air hits Eichi, and he winces; Wataru instantly reverses the trajectory, reducing the gap to a few inches.

Thank you, he tries to say.

Instead, he says: “Sorry.”

Wataru cocks his head. “Whatever for?”

“I ruined our game.”

“Not at all! You taught me a winning strategy! Distract the opponent into slipping up and speaking out of turn—I hadn’t even considered such a trick! ☆ I’ll be certain to incorporate it into my strategy next time!”

“Right… It was fun. I hope that your juniors enjoy it.”

No. Eichi’s heart plummets to his stomach—only half an hour ago, the sensation would have been enough to make him vomit. It had completely slipped his mind. He can’t believe he forgot to ask when he’d had the chance… What did Wataru mean by “If I am to remain a student next year”?

Wataru frowns. “... Nn, about that—I’m afraid this exercise may be a bit too advanced for beginners… so I don’t plan on implementing it into my curriculum juuust yet. Fufu, it was your masterful gameplay that convinced me; only professionals should engage in such high-level play.”

“Then… What is ‘next time’?”

“The next time we play, of course!”

“You and I?”

“You and I, I and you, we, us! ☆ There are so many ways to phrase the same thing! With that in mind, it’s no wonder that some people are able to speak and speak and speak without saying anything at all! ♪”

“Uh-huh,” Eichi grunts, refusing to dignify what was certainly a targeted retort at his expense with anything more than a wordless acknowledgment.

Wataru leans back against the wall, just to the right of Keito’s chair, and raises an eyebrow. “Were you lying when you said you enjoyed playing? The game’s over, so there won’t be a penalty.”

Eichi shakes his head. “No. It was fun… I’d like to play again.”

“Excellent. However, I must warn you: your ruse, clever as it was, will not work again! Rest assured—even if His Majesty goes into cardiac arrest during our session, I will dutifully perform CPR in order to ensure that he does not lose consciousness before I can properly seize my victory!”

Eichi can’t suppress a giggle. “Thank you; that’s very reassuring,” he says. “I’ll look forward to it, then. Next time.”

“And on that very subject! I’ve taken up quite a bit of your time today. Let’s conclude our playtime for now and continue tomorrow!”

“Oh…” Eichi says, unable to disguise the disappointment in his voice. “Yes… I understand.”

Wataru pauses. “Your Majesty?” he says, as if responding to an order Eichi hadn’t posed.

Eichi’s not sure what he’s asking, so he says what’s on his mind.

“I’m tired.”

This, for whatever reason, gives Wataru pause. Then there is a flash of color in Eichi’s periphery; he looks down to see that the straw in his cup has been replaced with a single pink tulip.

“Get some rest,” Wataru says without missing a beat.

“Is that what you’re going to do?”

Wataru smiles wryly. “Who knows? ♪”

Eichi huffs.

“Fufu  ♪ You won, remember? You can’t compel the truth out of me any longer. I won’t give you aaany free handouts.”

Eichi narrows his eyes, somehow feeling both playful and austere. “If you won’t tell me, then I won’t let you leave.”

Wataru leans forward, immediately intrigued. “... I see,” he says with a thoughtful nod. “So I’m a prisoner. How scary… ♪” He grins. “And… if I refuse to tell, no matter how much you interrogate and torture me? If I decide that I would rather die than inform you of my afternoon plans?”

Eichi answers without a modicum of humor on his face. “Then—you’ll simply be trapped in this room forever.”

“Oh.” Sounding disappointed, Wataru cocks his head. “That’s all? Then, hmm, I suppose I don’t have any complaints. Electricity, running water, three meals a day—” He cuts himself off with a laugh. “Well, it’s not perfect, but it’s not too bad for ‘forever.’”

Eichi absently strokes the petals of the tulip with his thumb.

“Now, let’s see…” Wataru continues. “There’s only one bathroom, so we should devise a schedule for our showers. I’m afraid that my showers tend to run a bit long—alas, we all must make sacrifices for beauty… Furthermore, the amount we sacrifice is directly proportional to our beauty, so, to maximize my blessings, I’m inclined to spend upwards of three hours washing my hair… ☆ So: would you prefer if I shower in the mornings or evenings?”

Against his will, Eichi breaks into laughter.

“Hey! What’s so funny? This is no laughing matter!” Wataru puts his hands on his hips and stomps his foot indignantly. “And, more importantly: it’s unfair to exclude me from a joke, and if you refuse to share, then I will never forgive you.”

“It’s not funny,” Eichi assures. “It’s just that—there’s no shower in here. Even if there was, they wouldn’t let me use it. I can barely stand.”

Suddenly, Eichi’s lost the humor of the situation; he’s tired again.

“And—I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair.”

“... Huh,” Wataru says.

“What?”

He grins. “Well, now, that just won’t do.”

Chapter Text

☼ ☼ ☼

Rapunzel, Rapunzel… Let down your hair… ☆

It’s interesting to play the prince for once, he supposes. If the casting criteria were purely appearance-based, the two of them could engage in quite a spirited rivalry for the role of the princess—for, while Wataru’s hair is certainly the appropriate length, the Emperor’s is the perfect shade of gold.

It’s horribly old-fashioned to cast on the basis of physical appearance, however. Furthermore, on the matter of circumstance and ability, their casting is superb.

For the Emperor, just like Rapunzel, is trapped all alone in his tower. Bound to his ornate prison cell, he can do nothing but gaze down at the vibrant world from his little window and sigh with mournful yearning as he watches his one precious youth pass him by.

The Emperor also cannot scale the side of a twenty-story building with his bare hands.

And so Wataru carefully, silently climbs, story by story, to meet his princess.

☼

The logistics of sneaking the young master out of his room and across the ward into the private shower stall were daunting, even for Wataru—but the Emperor was confident, and Wataru was enthusiastic.

They were unstoppable at that point.

They’d agreed to rendezvous at 1:40 AM exactly.

A hospital never sleeps, the Emperor explained to him; on the contrary, a significant percentage of life-threatening emergencies occur between dusk and dawn. However, the VIP wing on the nineteenth floor does not operate like a traditional hospital.

“Think of it as a hospice,” he’d said.

Wataru preferred not to; but he understood the Emperor’s meaning. While other wards specialize in the treatment of specific body parts or ailments, this ward distinguishes itself not by what it treats, but by whom it treats.

(If Wataru were the one issuing this briefing, he would have chosen to instead compare the hospital to an airplane, and the VIP wing to first class. But he supposes that even the luxuries of first class—which had an overstimulated ten year-old Wataru bouncing off of the cabin walls for the entirety of his twelve-hour flight—would seem proletarian to the Emperor; it’s difficult to imagine him flying in an aircraft that doesn’t bear the Tenshouin insignia.)

In short, the VIP ward provides long-term, attentive care to wealthy and influential patients as they recover from illness or surgery.

“It was originally designed just for me,” the Emperor added nonchalantly, “but even my parents decided that that was overkill.” Then, to Wataru’s delight, he sighed and rolled his eyes. “At least—that’s what I wish their reasoning was. Actually, they realized that the potential profits and social favor to be gained by opening the ward to other elites was more important than my solitary confinement.”

His words were sharp, but his tone was detached and disinterested—as though this were someone else’s life. What sort of upbringing could create a person like this? As he listened to the Emperor’s petulant explanation, Wataru firmly believed that could read a manuscript detailing every hour of his life and never once lose interest.

He wouldn’t if given the opportunity, however. He’d rather spend that time observing him from up-close.

Anyway. Because the VIP wing’s primary aim is the comfort of its high-paying patients, some adjustments to typical nighttime procedures have been made. Namely, the institution of a “no disruptions” policy following lights out at 10:30 PM. A smaller but still sizable staff of scheduled and on-call doctors and nurses remain on the floor throughout the night; however, sparing an emergency, they usually function more as night watchmen than medical professionals.

In order to monitor the health of their patients without disturbing them, patients are required to wear thin bands around their wrist. (Wataru could not contain his glee when the Emperor revealed the nickname of his personal device, and a few costly minutes of strategizing were lost to teasing and laughter.)

These instruments, roughly the size of a modern fitness watch, measure the wearer’s vitals—heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, rate of breathing, and so on—and synthesize the data into an approximate numerical calculation of one’s overall health. As long as the number stays above a certain, personalized threshold, the patient is able to sleep through the night with their door closed.

The Emperor, as always, is the exception.


“They marked me as a flight risk and instituted this new surveillance regime for a minimum of two months,” he explained in that same distant, clinical tone—as though this set of circumstances were nothing more than an unfortunate inconvenience. “Even though I only managed to escape once this time.”

Wataru nearly sighed with fascination.

“This isn’t an actual escape, though. We’re just going down the hall. It will be easy this time because I have you, Wataru.”

Wataru’s first task was to stay until 5:00 PM, the start of the twilight shift. The Emperor’s plan hinged on the usual nurse—he never learned her name, but he can roughly describe her features—working tonight. She is here five days a week, and the Emperor is a light sleeper; he has become deeply familiar with her patterns.

The head on-site nurse is tasked with checking on this very special patient three times a night. “The visits are supposed to be random, but the timing became consistent after about a week. Humans are vulnerable to routine.”

Once at lights out at 10:30 PM. Again at 1:30 AM. The twilight shift ends at 2:00 AM, at which point a new nurse takes over the night watch until morning. (Wataru barely managed to keep himself from inquiring as to how the Emperor knew the particulars of the hospital shift scheduling, but he didn’t dare interrupt the scene again now that the scene had intensified with the momentum of a developing scheme.)

The ideal window of time to move was within that half hour between the check-in at 1:30 and the arrival of her replacement at 2:00.

“After verifying that I’m still in bed, she’ll sit and read at her station until the end of her shift.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Excluding pagers, the staff aren’t permitted electronic devices. There’s nothing else to do.”

“She could stand vigil outside of your door, Mr. Flight Risk.”

“Fufufu. What a unique nickname. You always say the funniest things, Wataru ♪”

“And if the new nurse checks in on you at the beginning of her shift?”

“They record the check-ins on a sheet. They’ll see that I was in bed half an hour earlier and not disturb me for at least a couple hours. Usually until 4:00 in the morning.”

“You are mistaking humans for machines; they don’t always behave how you expect. What if the new nurse grows concerned for your health—or suspicious that you’ve fled—and decides to check in early?”

The Emperor sneered and flashed his bracelet. “That’s what this is for. The staff isn’t paid nearly enough to care. Really, Wataru, these precautions are an empty formality on my family’s part—an intimidation tactic, nothing more. Everyone here is just working for their paycheck; as long as they do the bare minimum, they’ll be paid, so why put in the unnecessary effort?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Honestly, she’s probably hoping that I’ll sneak out and die in a closet somewhere.”

Wataru had no rebuttal. He found it all quite difficult to accept; he was almost certainly being lied to. But even if the details were fabricated, the heart of the story felt sincere.

In essence: No one here really cares about me.

At the very least an exaggeration, and very likely a lie. And yet—if not the truth, couldn’t it still be true?

All stories are an obfuscation of reality. No, no, to the contrary—reality is composed of stories. And the Emperor is an incomparably compelling storyteller.

Despite himself, Wataru believed him. 1:40 AM it was.

Then came the issue of returning to his room once they were finished. Or—the non-issue, apparently.

“We don’t need a plan. As long as we accomplish our goal, it doesn’t matter if I get caught afterwards. If someone sees me, I’ll just act delirious and confused. They’ll assume I sleepwalked and will escort me back to bed.” He paused to think. “ And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll pretend to faint.”

“I see,” Wataru hummed. “And what about me? In this scenario, should I collapse to the floor as well?”

“Of course not. They won’t catch you.”

“Why do you say that, Your Highness?”

The Emperor grinned. “Because you’re Hibiki Wataru. You can do aaanything ☆”

Wataru decided to believe that, too.

In the end, passing the hours until 5:00 PM was no trouble; they had much planning to do, after all.

The spare composition notebook Hasumi had stashed in the corner desk provided a convenient surface upon which the Emperor could scribble some crude floor plans; before he left, Wataru was instructed to take the notebook home with him to commit the layout to memory. (He didn’t actually need to—they really were just going down the hall—but he still found some pleasure in looking over the Emperor’s scrawled handwriting beneath the dim white lights of the evening train.)

As promised, he was served his dinner an hour early at 4:00 PM, and his eyes began to droop with fatigue only twenty minutes later. He looked hardly conscious by the time Wataru stepped out of the room to return his dinner tray—the perfect pretense to snoop around the nurse’s station. Still, when Wataru came to report back that the nurse he spoke to did, in fact, match the Emperor’s description, his face lit up with roguish delight.

“Let’s proceed with the plan, then ♪”

☼

Despite Mr. Right Hand’s generous invitation, Wataru does not fall to his death trying to scale nineteen stories. Really, the ordeal went by so smoothly and uneventfully that the details of how he managed to do so—and in less than five minutes, at that—are hardly worth relaying.

Perhaps the explanation is best presented in the form of a punchline.

Question: How did Hibiki Wataru climb nineteen stories of a hospital in the dead of night?

Answer: With his hands and feet.

The window is ajar, just as Wataru had left it. (The windows do not, in fact, unlatch from outside; they agreed that a demonstration of his teleportation skills was unnecessary, and that it’d be simpler for him to just climb through.)

A light, chilly breeze prickles his skin as he slips a hand inside the dark room to gently ease the window open wider. A thought passes through his mind: I hope he’s not too cold. Fortunately, the air inside is mild—nearly warm. Central heating really is magic.

Holding tight to the windowsill, he hoists his right leg in first; then his left; and then, sitting on the sill like a swing, he tucks his head inside and hops onto the floor.

There’s a soft inhale of breath to his left. Wataru’s vision hasn’t quite adjusted to the darkness, but he knows exactly where to direct his gaze; he’s spent hours inside this room with his eyes trained to this very spot. If his intuition is correct—and it is—then he should be looking the Emperor directly in the eye.

“... Wataru?”

“Fufu. Pardon me, were you expecting someone else?”

“No—never. You’re the only person on this earth who could enter through a window this high up like it was nothing... Like magic. I can’t quite believe it, honestly…”

It really wasn’t magic. It was simple acrobatics. Er—alright, not simple. He supposes that it was quite an ordeal, actually. Each individual movement was simple, but the act itself was… Dangerous. Careless. Stupid.

Huh. He’d never even properly considered it, but: Wataru really could have died just now. One mistimed jump, one slippery grip, one unstable foothold… That could have been it. Maybe he would have survived—he’s been jumping safely from unfathomable heights for a decade now. But maybe not.

Then a more alarming thought: If Wataru had taken the time to reflect on the recklessness of his actions… would he really have behaved any differently?

He could have died. And for what? For whom?

—No. Disregard that thought. The Emperor’s perspective is far more appealing:

It wasn’t a reckless, senseless stunt. It was magic.

“Thank you, but please save your applause; the show has only begun. And for my next trick… I am going to make Young Master Tenshouin… disappear ☆”

Through the darkness, he can just make out the Emperor’s grin.

Their first obstacle is the matter of getting him into the getaway vehicle.

After unfolding the spare wheelchair stashed in the wardrobe, Wataru begins to roll it across the room to his bedside—only to stop in his tracks when he sees the Emperor push himself off of the edge of the bed and onto his feet.

He is at his side immediately, the chair forgotten.

“I’m fine,” the Emperor hisses brusquely, stiffening at the feather-light touch of Wataru’s hand on his back. “I can stand on my own.”

How curious. It’s exactly the way he reacted earlier that day when Wataru first touched him. Humans really don’t behave the way you expect; wouldn’t someone be happy to be touched by the person they admire?

Wataru doesn’t react in the appropriate manner either. He supposes that he should feel offended, or at least frustrated. I’m only trying to help—isn’t that what a regular person would think in a situation like this?

But he’s not upset. Not in the slightest. All he feels is a peculiar little itch of affection.

“I can do it myself!” The attitude of a rebellious, overconfident toddler.

But belligerent little children have feelings, too. They have desires. They want respect. Who doesn’t? Wataru can sympathize better than most; that lonely little boy in his chest pokes him in reminder.

The Emperor has been bedridden for a month now—of course he wants to stand. Of course he wants to stand on his own.

Still, Wataru cannot leave him unattended while he fetches the chair from across the room. He respects the Emperor’s demand for independence, so Wataru will give him the space to stand on his own; but he will not allow him to fall. They’ll simply have to walk to the chair together.

He removes his hand from his back and offers the Emperor his elbow instead.

A pause—the Emperor eyes him with the skeptical gaze of a skittish little bird in the early stages of hand training.

Then the other boy’s shoulders relax. The fingers of his left hand slip beneath his arm and curl around the crook of his elbow.

He takes a step. His knee wobbles, unaccustomed to the motion.

His right hand shoots up to join his left. The fingers of both of the Emperor’s hands sink into the flesh of Wataru’s upper arm. Astoundingly, the tight squeeze of his dual grasp is almost painful.

And then the Emperor’s balance stabilizes, and his right hand returns to grip his IV stand for support.

Bolstered on both sides, the Emperor shuffles along the floor, step by step, until they finally reach the chair.

Once the Emperor has wrapped both of hands securely around the armrests, Wataru kneels down to offer his shoulders as additional support as the former turns and situates himself in the chair. As he begins to turn his body, the Emperor moves to press his right hand atop his right shoulder; then, fully turning his back to the chair, he transfers his left hand to his left shoulder.

For a moment, it feels as though the Emperor’s entire body weight is concentrated on Wataru’s body. He’s not sure he has ever felt so solid—so grounded—in his life.

And then the weight is gone. The Emperor is seated, with his left arm balanced on the armrest and his right hand wrapped around his IV stand.

He lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m usually not so hopeless at this. I’m just out of practice; for a while, they deemed me well enough to go for short guided walks around the ward, but…” He trails off, swiping away the sentence with a weak swat of his left hand. “Anyway, it’s dark, too.”

Wataru’s amusement at the Emperor’s flagrant attempt to justify his mobility issues—as though, without a proper explanation, Wataru would otherwise judge him for it—is undercut by the mystery of his unfinished sentence.

“But” what? It stings to be on the receiving end of dramatic irony; he needs to be in on the joke, too. What do you know that I don’t?

… Oh, well. Wataru prefers mysteries anyway, right? All he can do is play his part—the narrative is not his to produce. He’s merely a player.

On with the scene.

Rising to his feet, Wataru slides behind the chair and wraps his hands around the push handles above the backrest. “Worry not, Your Majesty! For this Hibiki Wataru will be your legs from now on! Permit me to escort you into a world of dazzling light… ☆”

“Yes,” the Emperor agrees with a giddy little laugh. “My fate is in your hands ♪”

They move at 1:45.

Wataru wheels him to the door. Pause.

Wataru puts his hand on the door handle. Pause.

Wataru turns it. Pause.

Wataru inches the door open. Pause.

Wataru eases the door just wide enough to give clearance to the wheelchair.

Pause.

Wataru peeks out into the hallway. It’s brighter than the Emperor’s room, but not by very much. The fluorescent ceiling lights cast a muted white glow onto the vinyl floor. For the first time, it occurs to Wataru that he is trespassing.

He tightens his grip on the push handles. And kidnapping—of a sort… ♪

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he wheels him into the hallway.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he closes the door, taking care to angle the handle just-so to ensure the latch doesn’t click.

Then, at a brisk, even pace, they glide down the corridor.

All the way to the end of the hallway. Then, after a brief pause to peek around the corner, they turn left and continue on. When designing his map, the Emperor hadn’t been sure how far down this corridor it would be, and he earnestly bemoaned this point of ambiguity in their otherwise airtight scheme. Wataru, however, was not concerned; fortunately, they are adventuring through a modern hospital, not an ancient underground tomb. He simply follows the signage.

The third door to the right is clearly labeled: Patient Bath.

Wataru spots it a moment before his companion does, and he has just started slowing to a stop when the Emperor begins to urgently jab his pointer finger in the direction of the upcoming sign—worried that Wataru might somehow miss it. Or maybe he’s simply eager to feel helpful.

He stops just before they reach the door, and then swiftly steps around the chair to grab the handle. There’s no lock. Wataru doesn’t know why this strikes him as odd.

A gentle twist, a light push, and the door yawns open. Wataru wheels the Emperor inside. He closes the door.

And doesn’t know what to do next.

There is a beat of silence. Then the Emperor lets out a shaky breath of relief.

“Okay, before you turn the lights on, we should put something against the base of the doorway—a towel, right?”

To prevent light from bleeding through the thin gap between the door and the floor. Wataru nods in immediate understanding.

“Yes, yes, certainly,” he chirps, relishing in the security of a direct order.

He quickly scans the dark room. It’s smaller than he anticipated—just slightly larger than a supply closet. From right to left: a cabinet, a toilet, a sink, a corner shower, and another cabinet. Of course, there would be no functional benefit to additional space in a room designed to accommodate a single private shower; however, the practicality of the design is what surprises him.

The Emperor’s room, while sparsely decorated, is considerably large. Wataru had assumed this exorbitant minimalism was an appeal to the sensibilities of this floor’s wealthy clientele—and thus that this design would extend into all of the facilities. But it appears that, even here, aesthetic does not always trump function.

Or… could there be another explanation for the sparseness of the Emperor’s room? Perhaps the inpatient rooms were constructed to be so large with the expectation that patients—or, more realistically, their loved ones—would decorate them themselves.

Nevertheless, the Emperor’s room has remained dull, and generic, and empty. Theater sets aim to communicate as much information as possible through scattered props and facades. And yet, in all of that space, there is no trace of his character—his self.

And perhaps that, in turn, is why each and every flower Wataru has given him—even the white lilies from their very first visit, which have long since darkened and shriveled and died second deaths—has been rehomed to a vase and displayed on every available surface. Even that paper bird still roosts on the bedside table where Wataru had left it two weeks ago.

Not empty at all. On the contrary: the dozens of flower vases scattered across his room would give any audience the impression that its inhabitant is very, very loved.

He fidgets with this line of thought as he fetches a thick plush towel from the rightmost cabinet and then bends down to spread and squeeze it into the shallow recess beneath the door.

Then the lights turn on.

He spins around on his heels, ponytail swinging behind in a wide, leisurely arc, to see the Emperor standing tall and proudly with his thumb and index finger on the lightswitch. In the ten seconds Wataru had turned his back, he’d somehow managed to get out of his chair and silently walk the two or three steps necessary to reach the wall.

Wataru knows better this time. He plants his feet on the ground and stays still.

“Splendid! ☆” he applauds. “As befitting of His Majesty the Emperor! Truly, who else but he could deliver us from shadows and cast our world into light? The radiance illuminating this room is second only to the radiance emanating from every chamber of His Majesty’s heart!”

Tragically, the flamboyance of his lines is dampened by his hushed tone of voice; it’s a bit demoralizing to be constrained to a stage whisper, but he must be a team player and maintain their cover.

Still, he gets the reaction he craved: flustered, the Emperor’s eyes dart to the floor and he breathes out a shy, tiny laugh. However, he is cowed for only a moment, and he immediately straightens his posture and turns to properly assess his surroundings.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s rather small…” He doesn’t sound disappointed, exactly—more so underwhelmed.

To his credit, after all of the hours of anticipation they’d endured, this plain bathroom isn’t much of a bounty—and it would certainly be an unimpressive sight to a young heir whose private bathroom likely rivals the size of a swimming pool.

Fortunately, they came here tonight to do more than see it.

“Yeees, what a shame,” Wataru laments facetiously. He gives a regretful sigh. “Maybe it’s best if we go… There’s no way it could possibly suit our needs.”

The Emperor whirls back to face Wataru, his eyebrows raised and eyes wide with surprise. Then, upon analyzing the other’s face, his expression smoothly morphs into a politely amused smile.

“No, it’s fine,” he objects, his voice light and playful. “I suppose we can make due… right, Wataru? ♪”

Fufu. Truly, the best of both worlds. First, that reflexive, childlike response in the second where his emotions outpace his brain—the very same reaction that made Shu and Natsume so much fun to tease… although their shock was often followed by furious, embarrassed indignation.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the slate is wiped clean, and it’s as though the Emperor has understood his meaning all along—in the way that Rei and Kanata, occasionally startled but rarely ever fazed by his provocations, always seemed to.

But it’s not always like this. Sometimes the Emperor takes longer to read him; sometimes he does so instantly; sometimes he never does. It’s the ideal form of gambling—every prize is a jackpot.

“Yes!” he readily agrees. “Let’s begin, then.”

He turns his attention to the shower.

Much like the room itself, it’s rather unassuming. There is a showerhead on the left wall, and a low shelf mounted on the wall perpendicular. The silver shower rod connects from wall to wall at a rounded ninety degree angle, ensuring that the shower curtain, which currently hangs neatly on the far right end, completely encircles the shower area when unfurled.

Interestingly, there is no custom tiling on the walls or floor; the white paneling and gray acrylic flooring extends seamlessly into the shower area. The only feature that distinguishes this corner of the floor from the rest of the room is the small circular drain.

Perhaps even this private wing must comply with health and safety regulations. Elegant tiling could be harder to sterilize or require more intrusive upkeep, and even the lowest shower pan could be a tripping hazard. Wataru even suspects that this arrangement is sensible enough to meet Hasumi’s standards.

He briefly wonders whether, beneath his strata of rage and condemnation and anxiety, Mr. Right Hand would be jealous to hear about their late night rendezvous. Wataru gets a cruel twinge of satisfaction at the conclusion that, yes, he would.

Because they agreed to keep the goal of their first mission simple, there isn’t much preparation to do; no shampoo or conditioning, no combing or straightening or blow drying. Instead, all the Emperor wants is to enjoy the sensation of warm running water on his long-neglected hair.

That being said, it would be unthinkable for him to stand unaided in the shower. The wheelchair is likely waterproof, but Wataru prefers that they not drench their escape vehicle and run the risk of leaving an incriminating trail of water leading from the shower to the Emperor’s room. He would feel terrible if an innocent bystander were to slip in the darkness and injure themselves, too.

Wataru surveys the room. It’s odd that there isn’t a seat mounted to the wall already, but surely there should be at least a…

Ah, excellent. Just what he had in mind. Just beside the sink, there is a white shower chair. This one is fancier than the one in their bathroom at home, however; the seat and back are a cushioned vinyl, the frame and handrails are a shiny aluminum, and the design of the legs gives the impression that the height is adjustable. Sleek and ergonomic—it’s the sort of boring, practical gift his father would love to receive for his birthday.

Wataru picks up the chair and carries it over to the shower. Rather than place it directly beneath the shower head, he takes care to align the back of the chair with the imagined trajectory of the shower jets. With his back to the showerhead, the Emperor will be able to feel the warm water on the back of his head first; and may slowly ease his neck backwards to let the water hit the rest of his hair.

Pleased with the arrangement, he turns to face the Emperor with a smile—only to find him pursing his lips in thought.

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts,” Wataru says.

He shakes his head. “No, I just…” He frowns deeper. “Wataru, will you rotate the chair the other way?”

Wataru’s brow furrows, unable to conceive of why. “Certainly; I will do anything His Highness demands…” He pauses, fumbling with the dilemma of how he can possibly raise an objection without actually objecting. “Hmm, I wonder… Don’t you suppose that, in such a position, you might subject a far greater area of your body to the running water?”

He cringes a bit at the phrasing. Ngh. It was an unnecessary, irrelevant statement—that must be why he could not express it eloquently. It’s not his place to object to the Emperor’s whims, after all; besides, since when is Wataru opposed to the strange and unconventional?

To his relief, the Emperor is unperturbed by his flubbed line. “I don’t mind,” he replies simply. “I’d like to feel the water on my face, too.”

You don’t mind getting your pajamas soaking wet at 2:00 in the morning?

To his frustration, Wataru cannot empathize with his line of thought. If the Emperor were to sit facing the shower, the water would strike not only his head but also his face, chest, stomach, and legs… Why would he choose to subject himself to all that when a far drier option is at the ready? It is quite disconcerting to feel like the reasonable one here.

… Furthermore, it would also be a bit awkward with his IV stand, wouldn’t it? As his IV is attached to his right hand, the stand would be most comfortable on his right side; however, Wataru is certain that it would be unhygienic to bring the entire device into the shower with him. If the Emperor were to sit with his back to the showerhead, the right side of his body would face the shower curtain, allowing the IV line to run unimpeded beneath the fabric. In the opposite orientation, the Emperor’s right side would face the wall, and the IV line would have to travel a longer and more winding route. That would surely be quite uncomfortable—and can the line even stretch that long? There is also a much greater risk of his injection site getting wet, which would surely pose a—

What am I doing? This isn’t any of his concern. It’s Hasumi’s duty to anguish over his health and comfort; Wataru is only here to grant the Emperor’s wishes. Why does he keep forgetting himself?

“Very well.”

He hoists up the chair in both arms, resting his left hand on the top of the backrest and his right on the armest. Holding it outstretched as though it were a dancing partner, he steps backwards into a graceful box step.

One two three, one two three… on his sixth step, he has done a complete rotation. He puts the chair down correctly this time: facing the showerhead—and, more importantly, nearly a foot further back than it was previously. From this distance, the Emperor will have to hunch forward quite a bit to get his hair wet, but the rest of his body will be spared.

This time, when he turns to face him, the Emperor has a tender smile on his face.

“You have excellent form,” he says. “Fufu… ♪ You wouldn’t be allowed a single moment to yourself at a ball; everyone would want their turn with you.”

“That’s wonderful to hear. My time isn’t my own, anyway; I consider it my life’s purpose to make others happy. Unfortunately, I doubt that someone of my kind would ever be permitted to attend.”

“Nn, I wish you wouldn’t speak of yourself that way.” The Emperor’s face is stoic and firm—a strange contrast to the sentiment in his following lines.

“There’s nowhere you don’t belong, Wataru. Everyone loves you.”

Wataru wonders what kind of reality the Emperor inhabits. This imagined world in which Wataru is an object of mass adoration—the greatest idol in the entire world…

It’s something he’s yearned for, yes. It’s something he’s already achieved, in a sense. He’s already reached a degree of fame and success beyond the reach of most of the world’s performers. He’s received unanimous standing ovations, been lauded by even the harshest critics, smiled and blown kisses at and posed with a lifetime’s worth of eager, bubbling fans.

He knows praise. He knows adoration. These sensations are what make him whole; they are the adhesive that coheres this mask named Hibiki Wataru.

But that feeling of universal, all-encompassing, enraptured love—

That slippery, ephemeral phenomenon that has always loomed in his horizon like a mountainous cloud, so large and magical and true… yet as far as he’s climbed, as long and as hard and as desperately as he’s strived to reach it… whenever he’s certain that he’s finally arrived, that he has, at last, done enough and been enough…

He finds that there was nothing there at all.

Wataru thinks he felt it with them. Or—he almost did. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten, at least. He will be eternally grateful that their story ended when it did—before he fooled himself into believing it was really, truly “real.”

Clouds are only real from far away; the closer you get, the less they exist.

And yet. It’s that very same enigma as before.

Everyone loves you.

Somehow, when the Emperor says it, it sounds simple. And it sounds true.

He’d like to become an actor great enough to sell a lie like that.

“—How very kind of you to say that… Thank you.”

In comparison, his words sound so pitiful and dull. Wataru should have retorted with a witty bit of wordplay in an effort to minimize the sincerity of the moment and further the scene along. But, still fixated on the Emperor’s shining praise, he stumbles and loses his place in the script. His mind is blank, and all he has is this naked gratitude.

However, at this point, even the most untactful segue would do; anything is preferable to the raw shame burning his chest.

“Now, Your Highness, there is not a moment to waste! We may have reached our destination, but we’ve yet to realize our goal! We could be caught at any moment, you know? So, without any further ado, allow this Hibiki Wataru to finish furnishing the royal chambers!”

Wataru steps out of the shower and turns his attention to the faucet. In keeping with the theme of the rest of the room, the controls are simple and straightforward; all Wataru has to do is turn the central valve, and water instantly cascades out of the showerhead.

Careful not to get his own hair wet, he fiddles with the temperature knobs, aiming for a soothing but not overpowering heat. Incredibly, it only takes a few seconds for the water to warm up; this small convenience dazzles him. It must be boring to be wealthy. Waiting is half the fun.

When Wataru turns around, he finds that the Emperor has somehow moved again! This time, he walked the few feet across the room towards one of the cabinets to retrieve… a hand towel? Propping his right elbow on the edge of the sink, he appears to be clumsily attempting to wrap the towel around his left hand…

“Oh,” the Emperor sheepishly says a moment later, noticing Wataru’s gaze on him. “It—would be annoying if my IV became dislodged, and the nurses always notice whenever I reattach it myself… So I thought I could keep it dry this way.”

Wataru basks in the proud vindication that rolls over him. He was right not to concern himself with the Emperor’s safety; he is more than capable of looking after himself, as he has demonstrated throughout this excursion, and he obviously values his own health. Hasumi really is overbearing.

Yes, yes, that explains it. Wataru’s disquiet earlier was nothing but a symptom of his devotion to his role. His role—and no one else’s. And, just like Wataru, Hasumi has his own part to play; Wataru will happily take inspiration from his character, but he has no intention to emulate it. It’s poor sportsmanship to vie for a role that is already filled—especially when an even more desirable one currently sits vacant.

Wataru tuts and strides over to assist. “It’s not my place to offer advice to someone of your high standing… However, if you’ll forgive my impudence: The greatest rulers know when to delegate. It’s no use burdening yourself with such a menial task”—he wraps the towel once around the back of his hand and then loops the ends into a loose but secure knot—“when your devoted servants would love nothing more than to assist you.”

Aha. A golden opportunity to regain some of his footing.

“Though I suppose I really am speaking out of turn—you have no qualms with passing off dirty work to others. Isn’t that so?”

But, though Wataru is sure that his delivery is impeccable, the line itself feels contrived. As though he’s inserting tension into the scene for its own sake. There should be tension in this scene already; this line should have felt natural and earned. But instead, it sounds so… weak.

The Emperor, once again, is not fazed. Rather, he actually looks somewhat pleased. “... You always see right through me,” he says, smiling faintly.

All Wataru can do is smile back.

The Emperor takes his hand out of Wataru’s and turns to the shower. He sighs contentedly. “I can feel the warmth already… ♪ How pleasant.” He looks at the ground and pauses. “Oh, but the floor is so wet. Wataru, what if you—”

“Yes, yes! Leave it to me!” Wataru acts before he can finish his sentence. He grabs a towel from the cabinet and spreads it on the floor at the border of the shower. Water instantly begins to soak into the thick fabric—but it will still provide a bit more traction than the textured acrylic flooring.

The Emperor chuckles. “Fufu. You read my mind ♪ Aha, there’s really no need for me to delegate when I have someone who will act on my behalf without orders.”

Wataru shakes his head. “Not so! Not at all. This was solely for my own satisfaction; I wanted to mark this occasion with the flourish it deserves, so I simply couldn’t resist rolling out the red carpet… ☆ This carpet happens to be white, but the two of us are more than capable of using our imagination, aren’t we?”

He doesn’t offer the Emperor his arm this time. It’s not necessary; he is fully capable of standing on his own! Instead, Wataru assists by gently lifting his IV stand and, careful to keep pace with the Emperor’s slow and steady steps, placing it onto the far edge damp towel. This time, the Emperor uses the stand, not Wataru’s shoulder, for leverage as he steps into the shower and carefully seats himself in the chair.

Wataru’s prediction of the shower trajectory was accurate: water splashes the Emperor’s toes and barely mists his knees, but not nearly enough to dampen the fabric of his pajama bottoms. This small act of consideration surely won’t do them any harm so long as neither of them calls attention to it.

“Thank you,” the Emperor says. “I’ll call out to you when I’m done, Wataru.”

Fufu. Spoken like a well-behaved little prince.

“Be sure to wash behind your ears,” Wataru quips. He pulls the shower curtain closed.

And, once again, he finds himself at a loss. He’s not sure how exactly he’s meant to pass the time, but he certainly cannot just stand here on the other side of the curtain until he is finished. That’s what Hasumi would do.

So, crossing to the other side of the small room to put as much distance between himself and the Emperor as possible, Wataru hoists himself up onto the sink and leans back against the mirror. Pressing one knee up to his chest, he lets his other leg dangle off of the edge, gently swaying it back and forth to regulate his energy. It’s an understatement to say that he is still wide awake; he feels like he could run a marathon.

Curious about what time it is, Wataru reaches to check his phone—but he thinks better of it. Instead, he rolls a quarter from his sleeve and, with the hand opposite his leg, twirls it between his fingers in time with the swaying.

Checking the time would drag him back to reality; it would break the spell and turn him back into sea foam. He feels as though he has been in this small, windowless room for hours—and yet it already feels as though this adventure will end far too soon.

It’s not over yet, though. Whatever time it is, the moon certainly hasn’t crawled back into the earth just yet. There is still time for sinners and monsters to play.

… Hm. Rei must be awake now, too—if he’s still in the country, that is.

Huh. Wataru hasn’t the slightest idea where in the world his dear, cherished, irreplaceable friend is. The realization passes over him like a faint winter breeze; it chills him to the bone for a single moment, but leaves nothing more than an unpleasant ache when it’s gone.

Of course he wouldn’t know where Rei is. Wataru hasn’t seen him much this past month.

That is: he hasn’t seen him at all. Not that he’s been looking.

But—he misses him. He misses him so much.

What am I doing, Rei?

The shower continues to thunder. The towel at the edge of the curtain is now completely soaked. Over his shoulder, the mirror clouds with steaming condensation.

Wataru is suddenly certain that he is alone in here. It’s as though he has somehow lost his object permanence; he cannot see nor hear the Emperor, so he surely must have disappeared.

What’s going to happen to me?

He can’t be alone.

Are you laughing at me, Rei?

I hope you are. I hope that you can find some pleasure in this ridiculous situation I’ve cast myself in. I don’t mind if it’s at my expense, of course; what else is a clown for? I’ll happily laugh along with you, too. You were always the most fun to laugh with.

Of course, any other emotion would do. I don’t mind if you hate me, either.

But you’re above that, aren’t you? You choose not to hate. Whereas I—

The coin feels dewy between his fingers. The air in the room has begun to thicken with condensation. Wataru rubs his thumb along the reverse, caressing the moisture off of the eagle’s feathers.

I hope you don’t look down on me. Hatred, anger, ridicule—I’ll gladly accept all of it. But if you were to pity me, Rei…

With tiny, mindless gestures, Wataru continues rubbing the pad of his thumb along the eagle’s face, as though stroking the head of a beloved pet or child.

Well, you understand. I don’t need to say it.

You see everything. You know everything… I get by just fine with my tricks and illusions, but you—you actually, truly understand things.

That’s why we all look to you. It’s why we all depend on you.

Wataru flips over to Washington’s face. Balancing the coin on his thumbnail, he flicks it in the air.

… But that’s no gift. It’s a horrible burden, isn’t it?

He tilts his head back and leans forward to catch it on the tip of his nose, then rolls it down to his right palm once again.

He reminds me of you in that way.

… Ahaha. Megane-kun certainly has a type, doesn’t he?

There is the unmistakable squeak of rubber pads against the wet acrylic floor.

“Your Majesty…?” Wataru asks in the same knowing but indulgent tone with which he calls after a misbehaving dove.

“Yes, I’m fine,” comes his hasty reply.

He definitely moved the chair closer. So he wanted to get soaked all along, then; that explains why he asked Wataru to reorient the chair. It explains very little else.

An attempt at a baptism, maybe.

Or to drown himself.

He said he’s fine.

Wataru closes his fist around the quarter; when he opens it, it’s vanished.

So, what do you think, Rei?

Is this still a story worth pursuing?

Another series of squeaks.

“Emperor?” Wataru beckons again.

A heavy sigh—or perhaps it is merely the echo of water striking plastic.

… You’d take offense at the question and refuse to answer.

Because you’re going to continue watching no matter what, aren’t you?

Wataru should check on him.

Take a seat in the audience for now, old friend. You’ve earned your rest.

Allow this sad clown to entertain you during this brief interlude.

Don’t you want to see what will happen next?

Wataru hops off of the sink and instantly comes to his senses.

He’s speaking to the ghost of someone very much alive. Rei is not dead, and he’s certainly not a god. He’s not watching over him; he has no idea where in the world Wataru is either.

But it is simpler to speak to a ghost than a human—especially a ghost of one’s own design. Especially a ghost that cannot argue. No, better yet, a ghost that only encourages. Much like Hamlet and the dead king, who comes to him first to foment his quest for revenge, and returns only to embolden him after a misstep. An advisor; a cheerleader; a confidante; a friend.

Hamlet, mad or sane, believed his ghost was real. Or perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps, absolutely lucid, he consciously conjured his memory as an ephemeral manifestation of his ideals.

But questions of the prince’s madness never interested Wataru much. After all, the realness of the visions did not matter to Hamlet; real or false, it was the only way he could speak to his deceased father.

The question, then, is not whether the ghost was real, but why Hamlet needed him.

And why, being as essential as he is to the narrative, he unceremoniously vanishes from the plot in the middle of the play.

Ah, but now I’ve gone and mixed my metaphors.

“Your Majesty?”

There is only the muffled sound of running water.

“Pardon me, but I am going to pull back the curtain now, alright?”

Just as expected, the Emperor has repositioned the chair directly beneath the stream of water. He is drenched.

He is slumped forward, his head sagging halfway to his knees—much in the same way he sat after his earlier fit of illness. The back of his white hospital pajamas are entirely drenched in water; the wrinkled fabric, nearly translucent, clings to his form like a second skin.

His fine golden hair, carefully positioned in the middle of the waterflow, has darkened to a near-bronze. Most of the water slides over his neck and down his back, but a runoff stream diverts down his face to soak into his soggy bangs, which hang in a thick clump parallel to his forehead, and steadily drip, drop by drop, onto the shower floor.

Wataru thinks of Kanata. In the bathtub. In the fountain. In the ocean.

His heart surges with fondness.

That thought and this sensation occur at the same moment—but they come from two opposing poles in his consciousness.

“Oh, dear,” he says. “If you were that eager for a bath, I would have brought a bathing suit.”

There is no response.

Wataru shuts off the water. The small bathroom suddenly feels cavernous in the ensuing quiet.

Drip, drip, drip. The Emperor stares at the floor.

“I have to tell you something,” he mutters without moving.

“Alright,” Wataru answers instantly.

There is a stretch of silence.

“It’s ending.” He shakes his head. “No, it’s—it’s over.”

“... Pardon?”

“Don’t you understand?” His voice is lifeless. “You’re the one who asked—it’s the reason you’re here.”

“Ah... You’re referring to my request for a new script.”

“Yes. My answer is the same as it was that day… but perhaps you’ll believe me now. Now that you’ve truly seen me for what I am.”

Wataru bristles; he can’t help but take offense at the implication that he has wasted his time—as though this past month has been nothing but a poor investment. Don’t speak so ill of yourself. Or of me.

“If this was all there was to see,” he says soberly, “I would have left long ago.”

The Emperor’s shoulders raise as he inhales a breath, as if about to object… but instead he merely sighs, his head sagging lower with the motion.

Wataru is beginning to grow agitated. This outing was supposed to be fun, was’t it? Isn’t that why he came all this way? He doesn’t want to feel like this. He refuses to.

“If it’s as you say… If it’s over… Then why am I still here? Without a narrative to follow, I have no reason to exist, you know. And yet, here I am, sharing a scene with you—the protagonist.”

The Emperor smiles humorlessly. “You’re like me. You’re too stubborn to die.”

“Your Majesty. If you’re still alive—if we’re still alive, the story can’t be over.”

“Then it’s ending. You and I—whatever this is… We’re merely prolonging the inevitable.”

“Then let us prolong it!” Wataru exclaims, forgetting himself in his desperation. “Even if it must end eventually, why should ‘eventually’ be now? Can’t we continue? Let us loop this dissatisfying ending again and again until our grooves wear out! Let us be the stars of our own absurdist, meaningless tragicomedy! Tenshouin Eichi and Hibiki Wataru are Dead. You must admit it has a certain ring to it. Life in a box is better than no life at all, don’t you think? Here.” He conjures the quarter once again. “Heads or tails?”

The Emperor presses his lips together. “I wish I knew enough to play along with you. Whatever it is you’re referencing—I’m absolutely ignorant of it.”

Wataru heaves a sigh. “... No, the fault is mine. Forgive me. All I speak is nonsense, and I have never told the truth a single time in my life. It’s my deepest character flaw.”

The Emperor’s shoulders tremble. Is he shivering? Or crying?

Wataru curses himself. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say.

“Ah—hmm, perhaps I’ve gotten it twisted. Yes, that’s it—I had the order all wrong. For, in truth, we both have something in common with King Midas! You, Emperor, inherited his fetching donkey ears… And, as for me: everything I touch turns to gold.”

The Emperor stills.

“That is to say: I am not capable of producing anything on my own. All I can do is transform anything that is true and genuine and unique into a beautiful, immaterial lie.”

“That’s what I do, too,” the Emperor murmurs.

Wataru shakes his head. “Not so. Not at all. Everything you touch, my Emperor, becomes real.”

He’s certain that that was the right thing to say. But the Emperor is still unmoved.

“But at far too high of a cost,” he objects with a feeble shake of his head. “All I’ve ever done is force my will onto others, and take what isn’t mine. I don’t deserve any of it. I’m a terrible person—and I have no business being alive.”

Well. This is where any remotely kind and well-meaning would surely object and offer reassurance. Even a complete stranger wouldn’t let such worrisome statements go unchallenged. No human would be able to hear someone wish death upon themself and remain silent.

But—what is there to say? In a battle of wills, the Emperor will undoubtedly prevail. Wataru cannot change his mind; he cannot persuade him to feel something he doesn’t want to. He can’t convince him to live.

So, he offers all that he is capable of offering: someone else’s words.

“Naught’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.”

It feels empty and pitiful and inadequate.

Perhaps the following line would have been more appropriate: 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

It doesn’t matter. The Emperor doesn’t react. Maybe he wasn’t listening. But it’s more likely that he is dissatisfied with Wataru’s response. Who wouldn’t be? Anything else would have sufficed. 

Maybe Wataru was wrong. Maybe this was his one and only chance to change the Emperor’s mind.

He—Aoba. What would he have said? Maybe if Wataru says it in his voice, it won’t sound false and incomplete. Maybe it will finally sound real.

I’m glad you’re still alive, Eichi-kun.

What a gift to be able to speak so truly.

Wataru can’t say that. But even if he is incapable of properly serving the protagonist, he can at least serve the narrative.

“... Well, alive or otherwise, you’re nearly soaked to the bone. If it’s all going to end regardless, I say it’s better it ends warm and dry. Do you object?”

There are a few long seconds of still silence. And then the Emperor shakes his head, scattering a few drops of water with the motion.

Wataru rises and once again walks to the cabinet. This is all becoming rather tedious, and it would be unforgivably repetitive if he had to return here yet again. So he opts to scoop up all of the remaining towels in his arms, pressing the thick stack beneath his chin to ensure its stability.

He thinks he feels the heat of eyes on his back, but when he turns around, the Emperor is still staring at the floor.

Wataru feels deeply uneasy. If he liked, he could snap his fingers and disappear in a puff of smoke, leaving behind nothing but the scattered towels on the damp floor like a final farewell offering.

Instead, he leans over and delicately drapes a thick towel around his shoulders.

The Emperor doesn’t acknowledge the act. But he doesn’t flinch either.

So he continues. Next, he grabs a smaller towel and, laying it atop his head, lightly tousles his hair through the fabric. He massages his scalp like this for perhaps half a minute. Or it could have been forever.

When he removes the towel, he and the Emperor lock eyes.

Without the necessary force, his hair is nowhere close to dry—but it’s not soaking wet anymore, either.

The Emperor reaches up to clutch the towel around his shoulders closer. Then, as if this simple act was enough to unravel him, he hunches forward again to rattle out a series of shaking coughs. With each convulsion, his bangs swing and slap against his eyes.

When his coughing fit is through, Wataru leans over and dabs at his bangs with the towel. The thick golden lock is a little drier now, but still soggy enough to stick against his forehead and obscure his right eye.

That must be uncomfortable, huh, Eichi-kun? Don’t worry. I’ll help you, so hold still, okay?

He’s only met Aoba once, so Wataru’s character profile is unquestionably crude and presumptuous. He doesn’t know him. But he knows who he was to the Emperor.

With Aoba’s gentle, steady hand, Wataru brushes the Emperor’s bangs out of his eyes. With Aoba’s tender, sensitive touch, Wataru tucks the stray lock of hair behind his ear. Then, before Wataru’s arm pulls away, Aoba’s fingertips linger for half a second on the cool, fragile skin.

The Emperor gazes into his eyes. Wataru wonders who he sees staring back at him.

And then, as soon as Wataru removes his hand, the Emperor’s bangs slide out from behind his ear and smack him wetly in the cheek once again.

Of course. Shame on him for presuming it would be that simple. Acting is not embodying an individual—it is becoming an ideal.

Forgive me. Intimacy is against my nature. But I will try harder to remake myself.

Aoba’s method didn’t work. Fortunately, a true clown always keeps an arsenal of tricks up his sleeve.

Wataru reaches behind his own head to wrap his hand around the base of his ponytail; then, in one quick tug, he slides his hair band down the length of his hair, releasing a wreath of silvery blue down his back.

He gets onto his knees and leans forward even further, tresses of hair sweeping across his shoulders to frame either side of his face. With the delicacy with which he handles the fragile primary flight feathers of a dove’s wing, he gathers all of the dripping locks of the Emperor’s bangs in one hand… and then swiftly loops his hair tie around them.

Ahahaha. The Emperor looks very silly with this tiny, wet ponytail hanging a few inches in front of his forehead, with his lips parted slightly and his baby blue eyes opened wide, watching him with the innocent astonishment of a little boy.

It’s cute.

“What?” Wataru asks, affection soaking into his tone.

“Your hair…” the Emperor says.

“Hm? Yes… Longer than you imagined, is it?”

The Emperor hums—though it’s unclear whether it is in response to Wataru’s question.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “I always loved when you wore it down like that.”

Wataru swallows a breath. He feels… exposed. Why are you looking at me like that?

He plays it off. “... Oh. Of course. I wore my hair down for Sleeping Beauty. My apologies; I had wrongly assumed that you were too preoccupied at that time to spare us even a glance.”

The Emperor shakes his head again. A droplet lands on Wataru’s cheek.

“Before,” he says simply.

Wataru nods once. He can feel his heartbeat in every pore of his body.

“I was surprised when I saw you at school, with your hair tied up… But—of course it looked lovely in that style, too. It only took a bit of getting used to… Any style suits you, after all.”

He nods again, and then forces himself to say something. “Spoken like a devoted fan,” he retorts, hoping to prompt further elaboration out of him.

“Yes,” is all he receives in reply.

Please, just tell me. How long have you known me?

But he could never ask. It’s too revealing—too embarrassing. In asking, he’d be admitting to his own ignorance; he’d be giving the Emperor the upper hand.

The upper hand in what? He cannot trace this line of thought back to its source; it feels as though he is strategizing for a game he’s forgotten the aim of—a game that never had any rules at all.

Wataru wishes he could just ask. He wishes he knew how.

At once, two thoughts come to him.

The first:

I think that it would take a very, very long time to truly get to know you.

And the second:

Are you really dying?

… Oh, right.

The lock on the shower room door—or, the lack thereof. He knows what bothered him about it.

There was no reason for there to be a lock. This is a patient amenity, after all. So why was he expecting to see one?

The two of them aren’t doing anything wrong. The Emperor only wanted to use the shower.

Why in the world was it necessary, then, to go through all of this effort to sneak in?

His mind grasps for an answer. But nothing comes.

Perhaps there is no satisfactory explanation. Perhaps the Emperor himself does not know.

Perhaps it is the same reason why he decided to shower with all of his clothes on.

Wataru came here to have fun; it was inexcusably careless to presume that his companion’s aim was the same.

“I’m cold, Wataru,” the Emperor says suddenly.

Then, out of nowhere, he giggles. “This was a very stupid idea, wasn’t it?”

Wataru smiles fondly. He shakes his head. “Only if we get caught.”

☼

Their journey back was just as swift and uneventful as their escape.

By the time Wataru managed to coax him back up, he’d gone from soaked to a mere damp. The Emperor refused to take any towels back to his room—“Wataru, that’s incriminating evidence”—so Wataru shoved all of them in the laundry bin beneath the sink before they left. The perfect crime.

It seemed unpleasant—and unhealthy—for the Emperor to get back into bed in his wet clothes, so Wataru wondered aloud whether there was any spare clothing stored away—but the Emperor dismissed the idea. “I’m almost entirely dry now,” he assured.

But, five minutes later, he’s still shivering.

Wataru tries another approach. “If you don’t change your clothing, the leftover water might soak into your bedsheets. A nurse would certainly spot that, right? Wouldn’t it be such a tragedy if you were to get caught after such an impeccable execution of our plot?”

Again, the Emperor shakes his head. “I’ll just—s-say I had a fever. If you cover me with enough blankets, we can raise my temperature enough to register the spike on Eichi-kun. There sh-should be quite a few in the cupboard.”

Despite the impenetrable logic of His Majesty’s plan, Wataru opts not to deliberately inflict this cold, sick teenager with a fever. Instead, he acquiesces; he assists the Emperor in climbing into bed, and lays the covers over his cold, trembling form.

As he folds up and returns the wheelchair to the cupboard, he once again feels the steady pressure of eyes on his back. He turns around and searches for his face in the darkness.

“Wataru,” comes his small voice.

“Yes?”

“It’s late.”

“That’s true. It will be dawn in a few short hours.”

“Then—you’re tired too, aren’t you? If you’d like, you can—”

Please, don’t ask me to stay.

“... That is—I can call you a car.”

The trains run infrequently at this time of night; Wataru will probably have to wait at the station for a while. But that’s fine. He would rather walk all the way home than accept anything adjacent to a monetary gift from the Emperor.

However, by the time his feet touch the ground, he’s already begun to doubt himself.

It would have undermined the integrity of the narrative if he’d stayed the night. It would be an unearned and illogical character choice.

Of course, that’s not what made him freeze in fear when it seemed that the Emperor was about to ask. Wataru wasn’t afraid of being asked to stay.

He was afraid of the answer he knew he would give.

It’s appropriate that he left. It’s correct.

And yet—was he really supposed to? Was he allowed to?

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

Wataru had said it himself—only hours ago. Had he not already sealed his fate? Like Persephone, who, after eating a just single pomegranate seed of the Underworld, was bound to that realm for eternity.

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to go.

By the time he finally arrives home, the sky underlit with the pale indigo of the dawn of a new day, he’ll have talked himself out of this delusional line of thought.

But right now, as he takes a brief glance over his shoulder, and—knowing full well that there is no chance that the boy on the nineteenth floor, wet and shivering in his bed, can see him—raises his hand in a silent goodbye, Wataru is struck, once again, with two simultaneous thoughts.

The first:

I’m doomed.

The second:

I’ll see you tomorrow.

Chapter Text

☆ ☆ ☆

“Don’t tell me to calm down. You compromised your fragile immune system, nearly gave yourself hypertension, and put your body at serious risk of developing a bacterial infection! Over a damned shower?! You are truly beyond hope. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Ugh. You’re blowing this out of proportion… and you’re making a fool of yourself. I was only a little wet, that’s all. The shivering made my blood pressure rise a bit, but I was never in danger .”

“You could have been. You simply got lucky this time. Don’t mistake fortune for vindication.”

“It’s not luck. Infections or high blood pressure could never kill me in this place. This is the most prestigious hospital in the country; my family name is bound to its reputation. Our stock value would plummet if my body succumbed to something so ordinary.”

“Stop speaking so coldly about your own life. You sound like a naive brat.”

“No, I don’t. Really, Keito—it’s not a big deal.” He purses his lips. “... And, you know, I never would have had to resort to this if anyone here actually treated me like a human being. Wataru is the only one who—”

“ Ngh. And stop bringing him up. If you want to be treated like an adult, you have to take responsibility—not pass the blame onto your newest plaything.”

Eichi rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “I didn’t say anything about blame. I was only trying to get you to understand my feelings. But I should’ve known better; you never listen to me.”

“If only that were true. Over this past decade, I’ve endured enough suffering for ten lifetimes—and each and every miserable millisecond has come as a direct consequence of my listening to you. If I were smart, I would do what I should have done years ago and shut you up for good.”

“... Is that so?” Eichi tries to keep his voice even—but he can’t keep the thrilled smile off of his face. He cannot believe how terribly he’s missed the sound of Keito’s fury. “Well, fortunately, I have other playthings. You have always been free to leave at any time, you know.”

“You think I came all this way for your sake?” He scoffs. “Even if all of the actual work has fallen onto my shoulders, your title is not entirely empty. There’s some paperwork that requires your signature, Mr. President .”

“Ugh. If coming is such a bother, just sign it for me. No one will know the difference.”

“I cannot afford to cut corners on this matter; the situation is far too critical. If anything goes wrong, there is a considerable chance that this entire process will be investigated.”

Eichi’s brow furrows. “Keito, what are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. We may have formally executed him, but we were negligent in our funeral preparations; I never read that bastard his final rites. He has continued to harass and distress the student body for nearly a month now. I have made every effort to subdue him… and yet, no matter how hard I try, I’ve been unable to exorcise his ghost from the premises. A spiritual approach is futile—more substantial methods are necessary.”

He throws a stack of papers onto the bed. “This is a proposal to have a series of military explosives detonated beneath the auditorium. If all goes according to plan, that dingy theater will be his final resting place; and we can construct a stage befitting this new era upon its ashes. I have the bomb techs on standby; all that’s necessary is your signature.”

Eichi coughs out a surprised laugh. “Aw, and you were doing so well.”

Wataru’s face, scrunched with implacable sternness, immediately relaxes. “Oh! But I was certain I was speaking in character… Where did I go wrong? Hmm, was it perhaps when I called myself ‘that bastard’? Tell me, Your Highness, what term of endearment does Mr. Right Hand refer to me by behind closed doors?”

Eichi chuckles and shakes his head. “No, no, not that. The likeness was incredible—both your words and voice. It was as though Keito’s vengeful spirit had possessed you… ♪”

His mimicry really was astounding. There’s just no denying it: Wataru is the most talented person to ever have been born. With him here, Eichi doesn’t need anyone else—not when he has someone with the ability to become anyone.

Still… Eichi would give anything to see Wataru perform this impression in front of Keito; he would hate it.

“It was the explosives. Keito would never damage physical property just to kill one single person. It’s not economic, and there are too many liabilities involved.” He hums with thought. “But… Poison gas, perhaps… And anyway, if Keito were to kill anyone himself, it’d be me. He’s too soft to follow through with anyone else; but if it were me, it would definitely be a crime of passion. I know he could do it ♪”

Wataru sighs remorsefully. “Some people have all the luck, I suppose… Well, that last bit aside, was our performance an accurate reenactment of how the conversation actually unfolded?”

As Wataru speaks, a small, fond smile blooms on Eichi’s face. It takes him a moment to process his words; he is distracted by the soothing pitch of his voice. It was nice to play around, but it’s getting late in the day—he’s glad to be able to talk to Wataru again before visiting hours are over. No voice in the world holds a candle to the original.

“No… I wish it had been that much fun. Keito always insists on butting into matters that I am fully capable of handling on my own, and yet he never cares when I actually need—”

No. Eichi shakes his head resolutely. Grow up.

“Anyway. The whole ordeal was just a minor nuisance to him, it seems. Above anything else, he was upset that I broke the rules and inconvenienced the staff.”

In the end, the Eichi-kun Gauge had gone off only fifteen minutes after Wataru had left. Fortuitous timing; Eichi would have been humiliated if Wataru had witnessed the emergency team bursting through the door and swarming his bed with a thousand groping limbs.

“Hmm…” Wataru tilts his head to the side. “That doesn’t sound very in character, either. He’s always seemed quite preoccupied with your health.”

“My health—not me.” He shoos the idea away with a flick of his gloriously untethered right hand.

The wash cloth hadn’t done much to protect the injection site after all—not that Eichi had expected it to—and the contaminated needle was expeditiously removed upon its discovery. Rather than replace it, his medical team decided to detach his IV; for the past several days, all of his countless injections have been delivered by hand.

Because of his unstable condition, his doctor explained that it will be necessary to administer his medication manually for the foreseeable future (whatever that means). He’d given some feeble excuse about ensuring that he receives the precise dosage at a controlled rate of injection and blah blah blah, but Eichi knows the truth: it’s a punishment. Or a perk of the job—what nurse wouldn’t take pleasure in stabbing him?

Having his right hand free has been an unequaled luxury; the muted satisfaction he feels as he runs his fingertips over the splotchy bruise staining his pale skin is a sickening testament to how tiny his world has become.

It’s not like this detachment has heightened his mobility, though. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. He hasn’t been taken on a fitness walk in ages—not even down the hall and back. And, just to make certain that he does not attempt to bathe himself again, his door is secured with the newly-installed chain latch every night.

Of course, it would be child’s play for a genius like Wataru to enter the floor through a different window and unlatch Eichi’s door from the hallway… but why should that matter? By all accounts, Eichi’s rendezvous was a one-man operation.

“Keito” was wrong—Eichi didn’t incriminate his accomplice in his crime. He accepted all of the blame, just like an adult should.

“It’s not about me at all. It’s about obligation. He acts like we’re still children—like it’s still his burden to look after me.”

Wataru remains unconvinced. “I wonder… Is that really how he views your relationship?”

“Why are you defending him?” Eichi asks sharply. “He always thinks the worst of you; you don’t owe him the benefit of the doubt.”

Raising his voice was a mistake. He derails into a burst of wheezing coughs.

He hasn’t been well. Of course, Eichi has never been well; but it feels different this time.

It’s over.

There’s not much else to say. All he can do now is wait.

“I apologize for displeasing you, Your Highness. I only thought it would be a shame if his motivations were misinterpreted. It is my privilege as a fool to observe situations as an impartial witness; I mistakenly presumed that my perspective would be of use.”

“An impartial witness,” Eichi echos bitterly under his breath.

“You are correct, however,” Wataru continues, as though he had not heard. “I hold no loyalty to him. You know him far better than I, after all.”

Eichi almost laughs. Is that how their relationship appears?

Maybe it was true, once. Maybe this is how intimacy is supposed to feel. Perhaps understanding and intimacy share a negative correlation; the better you know someone, the farther away they become.

Eichi’s thoughts flash to that night—Wataru, with his hair down, framing his perfect face like the folded wings of an angel. He was so close. He looked so real.

But when he appeared the next day, Wataru’s hair was pulled back in a high ponytail like always. His old hair tie now rests in the bedside drawer alongside the bunny pin and the yellow chrysanthemum—which, having proven to be plastic after all, remains suspended in time in an eternal bloom. The precious paper bird, like a dragon from Western mythology, guards the stash from its perch atop the nightstand.

“Understanding doesn’t always follow familiarity. I’ve been in Keito’s life for many years—it doesn’t mean we know each other.”

“Is that how he sees it?”

Eichi bristles with irritation. “How should I know? He never tells me anything. And he never, ever listens to me. Maybe he thinks he knows what’s best for me, but…”

His anger deflates only seconds after it swelled; hot shame fills the cavity left behind. What an ungrateful brat. It’s no wonder Keito finally decided to give up on him; the only mystery is why he chose to stay as long as he did.

“At the risk of coming to Mr. Right Hand’s defense once again… Perhaps his obstinance isn’t purely to blame in this case. After all, the two of you are both human beings; inscrutability is what sets mankind apart from all other species.”

“You always talk about humans as though they’re some sort of alien lifeform.”

“Quite the contrary; I am the alien. I am a great admirer of your kind, Your Highness; I’d like to learn as much about your nature and customs as I can before I return to my true home on the moon.”

“I see.” He chuckles. “Then I hope you are pleased with what you discover, Princess. Humans can be ugly and cruel, but don’t be discouraged—humanity itself will always remain beautiful.”

“I’ve come to appreciate the beauty in all things—even ugliness and cruelty.”

Eichi feels Wataru’s eyes on him, but, lying flat on his back in bed, he continues staring fixedly at the ceiling.

“Although,” Wataru continues after a few long moments, “with human beings as fascinatingly complex as they are, I’ve begun to wonder… Is it possible to ever truly ‘know’ someone?”

Eichi gives a muted hum in response—permission to continue.

“Emperor, do you suppose that any two people—even if they were to spend every single day of their lives in one another’s company—could be capable of really, honestly knowing one another? On their death bed, mere seconds before they mutually pass on into the afterlife, would they be able to gaze into one another’s eyes and instantly know, without a whit of doubt in their minds, what the other is thinking?”

“Well, the answer wouldn’t matter at that point,” Eichi says coolly. “In this scenario, they’d be dead a second or two later, right? There is no afterlife for them to pass into, so once the both of them die, the question itself would lose meaning as well. They’d disappear completely; whether or not they ‘knew’ each other would be irrelevant to the rest of the world.”

“That’s quite a cynical answer.”

“It’s not cynical. It’s just reality. It’s not wrong to believe in lofty ideals like love and faith, but it’s self-centered to assume that such ideals exist outside of one’s own mind. What they knew or didn’t know only mattered to them, and perhaps those whose lives they influenced… But even if that data could be preserved and accessed after an individual’s death, it would be hollow. Every person is their own universe; when the individual dies, so does that universe.”

A sky full of shining stars—the floodlights illuminating a grand arena… All burning out in unison.

And then darkness.

“What if there were a person—as fantastical of a conception as they may seem—that did care?”

Eichi blinks his eyes open.

“What if there were someone to whom it mattered deeply whether or not those two people knew one another? What if there were a person whose interest in the subjective universes of other human beings did not fade with their death?”

“Hmm. Like a historian, right?” Eichi nods in understanding. “Well, that’s different. Historians are scientists, not psychics. They only study actions and consequences.”

“Even so, considerable insight can be gleaned from the study of action and consequences,” Wataru says without missing a beat. “You know, quite a few historians firmly believe that William Shakespeare was homosexual.”

Impulsively, Eichi’s eyes dart to Wataru’s face. He’s greeted with a satisfied grin.

Eichi tries to play it off. “Shakespeare,” he repeats. “You’re quite interested in his work, right?”

“Very much so,” Wataru answers with an eager nod of his head. “And not only his work—his life! Ah, wouldn’t it be incredible if one of the greatest male writers in human history—well, assuming he was male, and a singular person at that—was attracted to other men?”

Eichi shrugs. “There’s no way of knowing that now. I assume that any legitimate evidence proving it would have been discovered long ago.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s not interesting to consider and discuss.”

“For what purpose?”

“For the sake of enriching one’s own subjective universe.”

Eichi sighs. “... I suppose I can’t argue with that. So that’s what you mean: you care about the thoughts and emotions that existed solely in Shakespeare’s mind.”

“Well, he is one example. There are many individuals whom I take interest in.”

“... Huh.” Eichi bites his lip in thought. “It’s arrogant to say so, but I wonder if one day people will ask the same questions about me. What if Tenshouin Eichi was secretly homosexual?”

As though his facial muscles are connected by the same set of strings, Wataru’s eyes narrow as his grin widens. “On the contrary; you are being far too humble in your assumption that people have not already begun to wonder such things.”

Eichi’s cheeks burn—and, with a nonchalant stretch of his neck, he carefully redirects his gaze back to the ceiling. “... Well, either way. It’s another trick question. Regardless of their wealth or status, in this society, an individual loses all of their notoriety the instant they deviate from what is acceptable. People only care to ask such questions about Shakespeare because he never publicly expressed his sexuality. If he had, he wouldn’t be a person deemed worthy of remembering; there would not be a historical figure named Shakespeare at all.”

From the corner of his eye, Eichi watches Wataru frown.

“You’re going to call me cynical again.”

Wataru shakes his head. “I’m tempted to. But what do I know? If reality truly is as you present it, then I have no rebuttal… Though I find it very unpleasant.”

“Yes, I agree. But it’s not enough for us to simply acknowledge that unpleasantness; if one does not act on their convictions, then an enlightened mind is no different from an ignorant one. Perhaps reality will change someday… if someone feels strongly enough to change it by their own hand.”

“There is no shortage of strong feelings in this world.“

“... You’re right. The world is populated by human beings; if passion were all that were necessary to change the world, then chaos would be the only constant. Reality, unfixed and elusive, would amount to nothing more than a meaningless dream. It takes will—it takes power to truly remake reality. And even then… some dreams remain impossible to achieve.”

“Fufu. Now, now, why limit our discussion to matters of ‘possible’ or ‘impossible’? You couldn’t have forgotten who I am, could you? I am Hibiki Wataru! You said it yourself, my Emperor: I can do anything.”

So he hadn’t mistaken it the other night. Now he’s gone and said it again: My Emperor.

It’s heartening, Eichi supposes, to discover that, even in this state, he can still feel embarrassed.

He doesn’t want to feel heartened, though.

Eichi digs his fingernails, perpetually blunt from weekly nail trims, into his palms; they are too dull to hurt, but the strain of his clenched fingers is sweet enough. His lips pressed into an impatient frown, he turns to glare at Wataru.

“What the hell are you still doing here, then?”

Wataru’s voice is calm and gentle. “I’m here to entertain you, of course.”

“In exchange for a ‘new script’?”

“If His Majesty recalls, there was no exchange specified in our contract. You wished for me to entertain you, and I accepted.”

“That’s a lie,” Eichi snaps.

Wataru raises his brows, but does not object.

“You used the word trade.” He digs his nails deeper, but there is still no pain—only numb pressure. “My entertainment was your half of the bargain; but you never clarified what mine was.”

Wataru’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Didn’t I… ?”

He’s still trying to be playful—even though Eichi’s acting like a brat. It’s far more grace than he deserves. He won’t accept it.

“If it’s my soul you’re after, then I’m afraid you’re too late. I entrusted it to Keito a very long time ago.”

Wataru’s expression does not change; and then, out of nowhere, he smiles widely. “... Of course. When all is said and done, what could possibly compare to young love? The promises made in childhood are often the only vows adults feel bound to keep. Megane-kun was wise to ask for your right hand while you were still in the bliss of your youth.”

“The bliss of—?” Eichi can’t help but scoff out a disdainful laugh. “Ah—you’re kidding, aren’t you? Of course that’s not what I meant. We did make a promise when we were children, but it wasn’t something as trifling as an engagement.”

The memory is nearly enough to unravel him. That serious, stubborn, crass little boy, placing his hand atop Eichi’s, and then, lips pinched into a grimace of grave sincerity, giving him a firm little nod.

Yeah. I’ll always look after you, no matter what.

Eichi’s hands relax.

“Keito swore that, when I die, he’d send my soul into the next world.”

Oh. He recognizes the inconsistency of his words immediately: he’d said only minutes ago that he has no faith in the existence of any such afterlife.

But Wataru, who undoubtedly must have noticed the contradiction, does not say a word.

“... So, you see,” Eichi continues, his voice slow and quiet, “it’s not mine to give.”

The two of them sit with those words. Just long enough for Eichi to wonder whether they have finally said all they need to say to one another—whether Wataru has finally heard enough.

And then Wataru shrugs. “Well. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

It feels like a trick question. Confused and apprehensive, Eichi can only nod.

“Then your soul remains in your possession… So I still have a chance—correct?”

Eichi stiffens. “A chance?”

“To plead my case—before Mr. Right Hand nor Death can claim you first.”

“Wataru—”

“Your Majesty,” he interrupts firmly. “What is your impossible dream?”

Eichi shrinks beneath the sobriety of Wataru’s gaze. “Wataru, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And even then, some dreams remain impossible to achieve.”

With the uncanniness of a ventriloquist’s dummy, Eichi’s voice comes out of Wataru’s mouth. It’s a bit different than how he sounds to his own ears, but Eichi has heard his voice in enough recordings to recognize it at the very first syllable.

“Whoa—” he exclaims. “No way, that’s—?”

“You were speaking from experience,” Wataru interrupts again, dismissing his awe. “I don’t need to ‘know’ you to know that; it is the only perspective any of us can speak from. You must have one of your own—you wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”

Wataru leans in. His face is devoid of humor; his eyes are almost cold. Eichi holds his breath.

“So, Emperor, I’ll ask again: what is your impossible dream?”

Eichi’s mind races; but he cannot think of a single thing to say. “What’s yours?”

Of course, he knows better than to expect an answer.

But then, instead of ignoring or deflecting, Wataru pauses. He blinks three times in quick succession. His eyes dart to the floor. A tiny crease forms between his eyebrows.

Then he looks back up at Eichi.

“A destination,” he answers, unblinking.

Eichi stares blankly. “I don’t understand.”

Wataru laughs without smiling. “Neither do I. That’s what makes it impossible, isn’t it?”

And then Eichi is overcome with certainty. Soon enough, none of this will matter. He doesn’t know when he’ll die; but he knows it will be soon. It has to be.

That must be what Wataru meant that day—when they’d made their arrangement.

In your current situation... What, exactly, do you have to lose?

Eichi finally understands. Wataru was right all along. There’s no reason to lie—not to him.

“—Wataru, I've always wanted…”

He wants to look away. He forces himself to maintain his gaze.

“I have—I had… Ngh. It’s always been a dream of mine... to be with you.”

“... Go on.”

Eichi frowns. “Nn—Don’t you already understand? You can read me better than anyone… But I suppose that’s why you asked me in the first place. You wanted to force me to say it.”

He exhales; to his astonishment, his voice doesn’t waver. “Wataru, what I want—what I wanted... was you.”

They stare at one another. Time doesn’t move.

“You. Hibiki Wataru. I’ve always, always, always wanted to reach you—to stand at your side… as an equal, and a companion.”

The only indication that Wataru has heard him is the slightest narrowing of his eyes. “And then?”

“... Huh?”

“Well, what comes next? After you’ve reached my side… What happens?”

The words might as well have come from Wataru’s mouth; Eichi has no control over what he says next. “And then we live a life together—where it's only the two of us... Only you; only me.”

Once again, Wataru is unaffected. More than that, he is unmoving—Eichi cannot distinguish whether or not he is even breathing.

An amendment is necessary; Eichi swallows back the emotion chafing his throat. “But it’s impossible—I recognized that and I outgrew it. I’m not a child anymore, and I’ve accepted reality. It was a selfish, pitiful, impossible dream.”

“Every dream is selfish,” Wataru says suddenly. Eichi has never heard him speak so quietly—so gently. “At least, the ones worth granting.”

“You don’t need to patronize me, Wataru. Like I said, I’ve—”

“Then patronize me. Let Hibiki Wataru grant your wish—if only for tonight.”

There it is again—that flash of embarrassment. It’s not heartening this time, however; it’s terrifying.

“My Emperor…” Wataru continues. “Are you able to stand?”

Not really.

“Yes.”

“Then, please, indulge me. Will you close your eyes?”

He acts before he answers, and his eyelids fall over his vision. “Yes,” he says redundantly, staring into darkness.

“One moment.”

It is closer to five moments. The only tell that Wataru has moved at all is the brief rattling squeak of plastic against linoleum. There is a click, and the overhead light goes out. The darkness deepens.

And then his voice sounds again in front of him.

“Your Highness. Can I touch you?”

Eichi shivers.

“Yes.”

“Keep your eyes closed.”

That’s the only warning he gets.

And then Eichi is in the air.

His body seems to understand before his mind does, and as soon as those two steady arms slip beneath his body—one under his knees and another around his waist—he falls limp. (A rare show of compliance to being handled, as dozens upon dozens of nannies and nurses and servants would attest.)

His forehead bumps against something sturdy and soft, and then his mind catapults upward to rejoin his body. In that half-second of disoriented panic, Eichi, desperate for support, flings his arms around Wataru’s shoulders and presses his face into his neck.

He’s so warm.

When he comes to his senses a second later, Eichi wills himself to loosen his grip—but just slightly.

As he does so, however, Wataru’s arms immediately tighten around his legs and waist—as if worried Eichi planned on letting go completely.

Angel-sama.

They’re outside. They’re in the sky.

He trembles again. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter.

Will you actually take me this time?

When I opened my eyes on Christmas morning, I was so angry. I didn’t understand.

It would have been so easy—so painless.

All you had to do was let go of my hand.

I couldn’t ask for anything more than that... Falling into an eternal dream.

Wasn’t that why you came to my window that night?

He wishes he were simply delusional.

It would be convenient to blame these delirious thoughts on his sickness. It would be far less shameful than the alternative—that Eichi is willfully indulging in this fantastical, selfish delusion.

But, unfortunately, he has not begun to lose his lucidity yet; for better or worse, his consciousness is always the last to fall.

This is just make-believe. He knows that. But it’s easier to accept than reality—easier to lie to himself than acknowledge whose arms are actually cradling him.

Looking down at the city, at all of those tiny, distant little lives… I was free.

Free of pain and hatred and guilt—free of sensation altogether…

Apart from the pressure of your hand in mine.

And then I was happy.

Even when you didn’t give me an answer—even when you simply smiled and looked away, as if you hadn’t heard me at all… As if you feared the truth would be too much for me to bear, even then…

I was happy.

He sighs out a chuckle into his skin.

Do you know what I thought, just before I awoke?

“Ahaha. Keito will be jealous…

But I’m glad it’s you. It’s better this way.”

Eichi knows it isn’t quite time yet. But, as he breathes in this perfect moment, safe and warm and weightless in Wataru’s arms… he truly cannot fathom a more pleasant way to go.

And then he is upright, and his feet are on the ground once again.

Huh. Wataru must have been carrying him somewhere while he’d been daydreaming. Eichi doesn’t know how far he’d walked or where they are, but he obediently keeps his eyes closed. He won’t deny Wataru the pleasure of surprising him.

Wataru’s hand is solid and steady on the small of his back as he eases Eichi onto his feet. Following suit, Eichi lets his arms fall from Wataru’s shoulders and back to his sides. Though his head rolls with the vertigo of standing upright for the first time in days, he braces his heels against the floor and steels his spine.

Wataru’s weight shifts, but the hand on his back does not budge. There is another short series of plastic rattles, and then a heavy whoosh from above.

“Alright,” Wataru murmurs. “Please. Open your eyes.”

Eichi obeys.

… But he doesn’t see anything. Or, rather—he sees one thing.

Wataru’s eyes. And then his, as his pupils dilate, more of his features emerge from the darkness: his cheeks; his smile; his long silver hair, unfurled like peacock feathers down his back.

Oh—he must have let his hair down when Eichi’s eyes were closed. He’s gorgeous.

Anxious to get his bearings, Eichi looks to his side. Wherever they are, it is small and dark. Even if he were able to walk unsupported, he could not take more than a step in any direction. They are completely surrounded by walls—but they don’t look like the stark rigid walls of his hospital room. They are… softer?

Mindlessly, he reaches out to poke at one of the walls with a finger, and finds that it flexes easily beneath the tentative pressure. It feels like cloth—or paper, perhaps? But, then… How is it standing up?

He looks up in search of a clue—but the ceiling, too, hangs disconcertingly close. It looks soft, too, but the material appears denser.

If it weren’t for the plain, inexpensive fabric surrounding them, Eichi might believe that they’ve been locked in his coffin. It’s fortunate he’s not claustrophobic; perhaps he might be, if he’d had a hundred fewer MRIs in his childhood.

Instead, as he takes in their close quarters, his heart pounds with raw excitement. It’s like they’re trapped in here.

“Where are we… ?” he whispers.

He can hear the smile in Wataru’s voice.

“Together.”

“Huh? No, I mean… Where did you take me? Are we even in the hospital?”

“Shh.” The palm on his back pushes him ever-so-slightly closer. Their knees touch.

“Look, my Emperor. It's just the two of us. Don’t you see? At this very moment, there is no one else in the world... Only me; only you.”

Eichi’s impossible dream.

It’s real. It really is just the two of them—alone in this dark, silent, narrow space.

A lightless stadium. A night sky completely devoid of stars.

“Wataru…” he murmurs.

Why are you doing this to me?

The corners of his eyes prickle with frustrated tears.

If he blinks, they’ll certainly spill over; it’s only a matter of time. The two of them are still, miraculously, the same height—standing as close as they are, Wataru will certainly notice the instant he begins to cry. Maybe he can already tell.

This isn’t what I meant at all. How does Wataru not understand that?

Is he really this cruel—to gloat like this by dangling this twisted parody of his dream in front of his eyes… with the gentlest, warmest expression on his beautiful face?

Perhaps he thinks he is being kind. Maybe Eichi really is just hopelessly cynical.

There are two possible interpretations, then: Wataru is cruel, or Wataru is stupid. To accept either as truth would be akin to blasphemy.

Eichi’s vision blurs with nausea and tears.

He lets his head fall into the crook of Wataru’s neck. He breathes him in.

He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

“Are you alright?”

He nods once.

“Shall I fetch you a chair?”

He shakes his head.

“... Shall I pick you up again?”

“No. I have to be standing,” Eichi mutters. “If I’m not… this will stop being my dream, won’t it?”

Wataru’s free arm circles around the other side of Eichi’s waist. “Your reasoning is as sound as ever. It would be a terrible loss if this dream ended so soon after it’s begun.” He tightens his embrace; their chests touch. “Then, for the time being, this Hibiki Wataru will make certain that you remain upright.”

Eichi’s eyes well up and spill over.

“You’re leaving,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

“I am?”

“After this school year… You’re leaving Yumenosaki. Isn’t that what you said before?”

Wataru pauses. “... I was speaking only hypothetically. There is no way of knowing what the future holds; as of now, I have no plans to leave or to stay.”

That’s another lie.

Eichi wishes he had the will to be indignant—furious. But he feels only a miserable, frail bitterness.

“If that’s the case, then you should be in class—you should be with your friends. Why are you wasting your time with me?”

“I have not wasted even a single second I’ve spent here.”

Eichi’s throat tightens. He starts to choke out a sob; it comes out as a whimpered cough.

“You always have the perfect response… It’s almost infuriating. You really are magical.”

Wataru laughs—as though Eichi isn’t crying. “If His Majesty believes so, then it must be true.”

Like a kitten demanding attention, Eichi presses his forehead into Wataru’s skin.

… Huh. This has happened before. Wataru held him in his arms just like this—kept him upright.

Eichi should’ve died then, too.

“Then… take me away… Get me out of here.”

Wataru’s chest falls as he lets out a sharp exhale. “... What?”

“You can help me escape. I know you can—you have already.”

Eichi pulls back, cheeks still shiny with tears, to look him in the eye. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met; you’ll definitely be able to break me out—and take me somewhere my family can never find me. I know it’ll work this time if it’s you.”

“—Your Highness...”

“Ngh. I hate it when you call me that,” he snaps. “It’s embarrassing. Can’t you just say my name?”

Wataru is silent.

Eichi would have preferred being shoved to the floor and kicked.

That was his answer. He should give up right now; Eichi will only humiliate himself further if he continues to plead his case.

But he can’t stop. He can’t get himself to calm down.

“It’s excitement you’re after, isn’t it? New experiences? That’s why you’re still here—so do this with me, Wataru. I swear that I’ll go along with whatever plan you devise, no matter what.”

Nothing.

“Or—or we can collaborate on a plan! I’m not a genius like you, but I can assist with logistics. At the very least, I’ll be able to produce some resources—blueprints, staff schedules… explosives!”

Nothing.

“The sky is the limit, really. I’ll pay for any damage we incur, of course, so if you want to rent a wrecking ball and break through the wall, I’ll find us one within the hour. All you have to do is say the word.”

Nothing at all.

Eichi’s chest tightens with anxious frustration. He wasn’t serious about the wrecking ball, of course—well, for the most part. He’d mainly thrown the idea out in the hopes that it would get him to play along. Then, just like last time… if the two of them jokingly brainstorm for long enough, maybe he’ll eventually come around to the idea.

“... Say something, Wataru.”

This finally rouses him. Wataru’s cheeks upturn into an empty smile.

“Apologies. To be perfectly honest, you caught me off guard. Try as I might, I could not think of a single appropriate response—and so I chose silence instead.”

“What about an inappropriate response?”

Wataru chuckles. “I can offer many of those. If I thought you weren’t so serious, it would be my pleasure to conceptualize the ultimate heist. But—such a thing would be irresponsible.”

“It’s strange to hear you, of all people, say something like that.”

“Yes... It’s very out of character, isn’t it. I’m sorry. It’s painful for me to disappoint you like this.”

“Then don’t... Help me, Wataru. Please. I can’t die in that room.”

Wataru looks away.

Eichi’s voice pitches with desperation. “Think of how exciting it will be—a story you’ll be able to tell for the rest of your life! Once I’m dead, you’re free to make up as many details as you like to make it even more exciting; although I’d never contradict you while I’m alive, anyway.”

Wataru’s brow furrows. “That’s not—”

Hearing the strain in his tone, Eichi cuts him off. “Don’t say no. Think about it, okay? I was the one who took some convincing in the beginning, so now it’s my turn to convince you. Just... don’t say no.”

He forces himself to laugh. “I’m the Emperor, after all… So you have to do what I say, right?”

Wataru, too musters a quiet laugh. “How clever. It would be unbearably painful to have to turn down such a direct order.”

“I don’t want you to be in pain, Wataru.”

“That is very gracious of you, my Emperor.”

He finally looks up to return Eichi’s gaze. His eyes are wide and miserable.

“If that’s so... Then, please. Don’t ask me that again.”

Eichi’s lower lip wobbles—but he maintains his composure. He clenches his teeth. He does not cry.

“... Alright. It was a stupid idea anyway. I—shouldn’t have said anything.” He sucks in a sniffle through his nose; it’s preferable to risking a sob by opening his mouth. “I guess that it’s... too easy to forget sometimes.”

“Forget?”

“That we’re—that you and I... that we don’t—”

He doesn’t plan to finish—he doesn’t know how to finish—but Wataru completes the statement for him.

“We don’t know each other.”

The confirmation of this fundamental truth is nothing less than salvation. Eichi opens his mouth and inhales a deep breath.

“Yes… We don’t. I’m sorry. I forgot for a moment. I… swear that I won’t again.”

Wataru watches him silently for a few moments.

“I see,” he says soberly. “That’s why you’re unhappy—that’s why I couldn’t grant your wish.”

“I am happy,” Eichi objects. He doesn’t know why he says it. But he somehow means it. “I’m always happy when I’m with you… Because you’re magic. And I know that—I know it’s all magic. It’s fake, and you don’t owe me anything. It’s just that—I think, maybe, I really believed in it.”

Eichi laughs, shaking his head. “I really am still a child—just like Keito always says.”

“He’s a child too,” Wataru says. “As am I. We all are, for one more year at least... There’s no need to hurry and grow up so soon.”

Eichi’s stomach tightens with grief. Tsumugi .

He sets his jaw. “I have no choice. If I don’t grow up now, I’ll never have the chance.”

“You speak with such certainty about the future—both yours and mine. Are you clairvoyant?”

Eichi huffs. “No. You’re right; nothing in this life is certain. But that’s why I can’t afford to waste any time.” He sighs. “I’m… sorry.”

Wataru frowns. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for.”

“I… I don’t know either. I suppose ‘everything’ is a useless and cowardly answer, right? And it’d be even more idiotic to expect you to say ‘I forgive you’ in response.”

“Anything His Majesty asks of me,” Wataru answers smoothly.

Eichi tries to smile. The perfect answer. What more could he possibly wish for?

“Yes... Thank you, Wataru. Let’s go back to the way things were. I promise to play along appropriately from now on.”

“... Your Highness. I fear that perhaps we have greatly misunderstood one another. What I—”

Eichi cuts him off with an emphatic shake of his head. “Let’s table this for tonight, alright? It’s late. I’m exhausted.”

“Of course,” Wataru replies eagerly. “Shall I escort you back to bed? All you have to do is close your eyes, and—”

Eichi shakes his head again, too rapidly this time; his vision swirls. “N-No, no, no. That’s okay. I can just…”

He can’t stand another second in here. He needs to get out.

In a frenzy, he lunges to the left and slams his palms against one of the papery walls. Plastic squeals against the floor, and the surface swerves outward like a revolving door.

Startled by the ease of his escape, Eichi stumbles forward—but, unable to regain his balance, all he can do is flail his arms outward in an attempt to break his fall as he begins hurtling to the floor.

But then, rather than the cold, hard floor, his hands meet something soft and springy.

He is, somehow, still standing. His downturned chin is hanging parallel to his chest—his shoulder blades, bearing the strain of his inverted posture, are pinched backwards in a crushing squeeze—the erratic quivering of his fanned knees is nearly enough to knock him off of the balls of his feet—but he is standing.

He flexes his fingers into the cloth as his eyes adjust to the paler darkness and hangs his head even lower. The sensation is unmistakable.

He’s still in his hospital room.

But… how… ?

And then the door opens. The lights turn on.

“Mr. Tenshouin!” a nurse cries.

Then she is beside him. Her cool fingers nimbly lift his right arm and drape it over her shoulder; with a sturdy arm around his side, she hoists him up and eases him into bed.

“What happened?” she asks Wataru.

Eichi watches him curiously. He looks pale and scared.

Behind him, Eichi sees that the folding privacy screen, which usually sits in the far corner, has been moved into the center of the room and arranged into a haphazard circle. One of the blankets from the cupboard hangs atop the structure like a makeshift roof.

They never left his room. All along, they had only been a few feet from his bed.

It wasn’t a dream. Just ordinary, empty, unappealing reality.

Eichi closes his eyes. He stops paying attention after that.