Chapter Text
Originally, our drinking group had seven people, but because of Mayama and Minamoto, it has expanded to nine.
I'm on an outing with Ryouta and Masaya. Worse with horror than Ayato, they've been attached by the hip, attending their shock therapy sessions at the movie theatre. That is, they cry a lot.
They want to impress Touma and Youji, so even though it'll cause misunderstandings, I let their training happen in secret.
They've interpreted it as implicit permission to invite me along. I don't mind it. Though I often go outside alone, to ease escape routes, I enjoy socializing in larger groups. It's interesting to see how individuals interact. Insight on their inner lives. Between the lines, behind the scenes, beneath the stage. 3-10 is the ideal range, including myself. A goukon will usually have 5 men, 5 women.
Additionally, I'm quite fond of 30, a round number, roughly the size of a tour guide group, or a school-sanctioned trip to the beach. How nostalgic. I'd be lying if I said I want to relive the old days of Baseball Club and Broadcasting Club, when I was briefly a color commenter for Takimoto's kendo team, amongst other sports.
The flags didn't stand up until Toujou's confession to Ayato, but I'm not willing to trade away my freedom as a college student.
Ah, there's a certain charm in lecture halls with hundreds of people. And a train station, star-studded with umbrellas. And street food on a cold and hungry night. After all, atmosphere is important. Anonymity in the city, living at my own pace.
It seems I'm fine with anything, as long as it's not a 1v1 situation.
Or when delinquents occupy alleyways where the cats are. That might be divine punishment for cheating on Miiko with strays. My lint roller is a lifesaver.
In a world where men have a low threshold for love, I can't be careless with appearance. Cat fur can spark a conversation, and if it weren't for the consequences, I'd be happy to chat about Mii-chan. His cuteness is a national treasure. His cleverness is second to none.
I'm careful about Miiko's photos, though, since the last thing I need is someone figuring out my address through a spoon's reflection.
Ayato complains that I'm a clumsy cameraman, cutting him out of sight, but I'm protecting him, one cropped picture at a time. Toujou has countless stalkers. I'm concerned about the student council trio. Didn't Ayato mention a bookstore employee during the summer? My cowardly little brother called me to drive him home, claiming that he could've gotten heatstroke.
If only Yanagi was my brother-in-law. His admirers are far fewer, and he wouldn't paint a target on my family's back. Not to say that Toujou doesn't have his credentials.
He captured Ayato, captivated my mother, carried me home when I was drunk, and yet—he is narrow-minded with Misato. Childhood friends never win, unless they were ethereal enough to be confused as a girl, ghost, or a flower spirit. Gap moe, not gap-toothed brats in soldier hats.
Misato tripped into water canals and lisped about his takoyaki machine at home. Mom still calls him Taka-kun. So does the candy store granny on 3rd Street. Her grandson is Henmi, the Valentine's Day guy, childhood friends with Tasuku.
Maybe Toujou and Misato will mellow out in a few years. Teenagers and their rivalries. I'll tolerate their drama for a little longer.
For free entertainment. For friendly blackmail. For Ayato's future happiness. For Toujou's fruitful salary.
It's sudden, but I've been driving this entire time, with Masaya and Ryouta in tow.
To my right, I see a truck destroy itself like an official declaration of a reversible couple, drawing in danger from all directions.
Stop. Reverse. Spin. Return.
I didn't expect to reenact Hollywood after exiting the theatre. The J in J-turn is for Japan. It was invented here, in the heart of Tokyo.
That's a lie. The J in J-turn is for Just Kidding.
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"
"We've already finished the horror movie of the day. You can open your eyes now, Masaya, the world isn't out to hurt you. Not specifically you, anyway."
"Am I collateral damage?!" He's holding onto the handle above the passenger seat. "That was scarier than the mongoose princess eating the snake handmaiden to create poison for the lion prince's assassination!"
If it was Mayama, he'd draw doujinshi of the mongoose princess and snake handmaiden.
Ryouta cheers, clapping his hands. "Again, again~ We dodged that truck by an eyelash~ A baby eyelash~"
"Who cares about babies, I'm not a baby." Accusingly, Masaya jabs at the air, as if the act of breathing is an assault. "You! In case you've forgotten, we don't have nine lives, you catnip-addict. Don't be reckless. I'm too handsome to die in a car accident."
Protagonists can rely on their plot armor, but I have to rely on other sources of protection.
We've deviated from the safest route. Beware of detours.
No plan survives contact with the enemy, or exceptionally dumb friends, for that matter.
"This is why you're Masaya-ate. If you were a samurai, you'd start fights over an accidental brush of sheathes. You're a tornado in a teacup. A granny could put you in her purse like a toy poodle."
Saya-ate is also a colloquialism for love rivalry. Ryouta is unconscious of his own genius. Like a color-blind cuttlefish, camouflaged against the sand.
Masaya is a meteorology major. His ideal career is a field reporter who chases severe weather. It meshes well with Takimoto and Akihito, who trained as first responders during the summer.
I ignore their squabbling. Should've let them loose in the backseat. Separating them was an exercise in futility.
"Hmm." My eyes flicker to the mirror, then the road. On the outskirts of the love hotel district. Sakita, Kaji, Takaomi, and Riou are busking. Yamazaki has coerced Kakei to cross-dress. One of Nishinoya's customers, an adult movie director, is recruiting Yashiro.
Mr. Bunny Boy is working hard for his rainy-day fund.
Overall, I try to be nice, and easygoing, and magnanimous. These are essential skills as a member of society. I once took a shortcut to laugh at Hayami. Once. I didn't do it again. That would be petty.
I support Tachi morally kidnapping Kouji.
TPO—Time, Place, Occasion—is not limited to fashion.
The public apology was the lesser evil. If I received a private apology, as I had preferred, people might've painted me as the perpetual victim. They might've used it as an excuse to pick fights. But I'm not the underdog, I'm the most comfortable as Mob Character A. I'll appoint Miiko as mob boss.
Kouji regretted involving me into his ex-girlfriend's cheating affair. Only main characters get away with grudges. I should forget and forgive.
I'm forgetful, according to Ayato, Misato, and Hatano. Halfway to the goal.
Isn't it normal to forget someone I helped eight years ago? Hatano is an intense person. Light moments become heavy, plain observations become public announcements, and bonds become burdened by obligations.
Ideally, I'll spoil a modern-minded woman, not be spoiled by an old-fashioned man.
I love chaos, but not standing at the eye of the storm. I want a steady, selfish story. Something sustainable. I want a sadistic older sister to tell me to shut up.
"Is that Minamoto?" Ryouta sticks out his head. Sticks out his arms, as if he's punching holes in the shoji screen of a haunted house. A click of a button, and he'll be sawed in half by the window. With the mastery of a man who dabbled with a magician's kit in middle school, I slam-dunk the button like Meiji cookies in cream.
"Touma is going to kill you." Masaya is recording Ryouta, his camera trembling from laughter. "Shit, he'll open his chef's suitcase of knives and you'll be horse sashimi. Stalking horse sashimi."
"I don't want to hear that from someone who blindly followed a horse's ass and got slapped."
"What happens in SakuraMaji Land, stays in SakuraMaji Land."
"Sure, sure, you didn't spin like a merry-go-round. Sayuri-san said she'll wear a mosquito net at your funeral. Your death, the birth of a trailblazing fashion trend."
I gradually ease off the gas, the wheels slowing in a gentle stop.
When I reach the red light, I roll down Ryouta's window. No hospitals. It's swarming with handsome volunteers like Aoyagi, the amnesiac high school student who treats Akihito as his role model. Takimoto and Hikari are trying to be happy for their sake.
If they read BL, they'd understand that their hair colors are incompatible. Boy's Love, not Blond Love.
"Why do you know my childhood friend?"
"Youji invited us to a dart bar."
"I can't believe that Hara-chan is best buddies with Sayuri-chan. How did it happen? It wasn't that long ago when she cut her hair."
"Her friend Ririna-san recreated Miiko with darts. I'll send you a picture later. It's a masterpiece."
Akihito was also there. He apologetically abandoned us for his part-time job. Heartless. I don't mention his appearance, because he doesn't deserve Masaya's aggravating presence.
Youji had taped Masaya's mugshot to a target. I listened to the GL couple show off their emotional stability. If only their BL counterparts could be a fraction as sensible. They did the advice. I drank the alcohol.
"She wouldn't go for you."
"Obviously. I wouldn't go for someone else's girl."
Two-thirds of the car are selectively deaf, but Ryouta is determined to make it permanent.
Run away, Minamoto. Run like Mayama, pursued by policemen.
"Hello Mimi! Hey, that old man over there, silvery hair, with the cool earrings! Honor roll student!! Are you alright, you look like you've been living in the library for five years!!!"
"Hello Kitty, it's Hello Kitty. You can't even get your references right. Who would answer that? You're lucky that Minamoto is a nice guy." Nobody has told Masaya that Mimi is her twin sister. I won't be the first. Last time I checked, Takimoto had nearly cracked.
"My car, my rules," I remind them. "Masaya raised a death flag earlier."
If I ever slip, referring to flags in real life, I have an established history of using that vocabulary, so it wouldn't be out of the ordinary. That's the beauty of ambiguity.
"Would it kill you to be a little more expressive? Man, I can't tell if you're joking or not..."
Masaya clunks his head against the dashboard. Like a mystery novel, his movement opens the hidden compartment. One of the cat-patterned blankets, tied up in climbing rope, tumbles onto the floor. Robotically, he tucks it back where it belongs.
In a rare show of consideration, Ryouta clips on his seatbelt. Safety first. "Do you think that Minamoto heard me? I can't call him by name. The girls will chase him."
He definitely did. The voice of my heart is diminished when I'm driving.
"With the way you talk about women, I'd think they were a mythical species from Touma's UMA magazines," I say. "They're not monsters." The reason why Touma reads them is related to his dreams of extraterrestrial cuisine.
"We could make it a quiz tournament. What is Ryouta describing? Worse than charades, riddles, and escape rooms combined." Masaya wiggles his eyebrows. Twin worms gleefully gorging on garden compost. If Youji was a crow, he'd fly away with Masaya's eyebrows. Ca-caw, ca-caw.
"Sounds like a drinking game." I give the green light to Masaya's idea. Perfect timing. The traffic light agrees.
"Can you persuade Mayama to host it at his house?" Masaya asks. "Or we could meet my place. Or Ryouta's dorm. Akihito's the RA, he can pull some strings."
"Don't annoy him into abusing his authority as a resident assistant."
"I vote against your apartment. It's always messy. Despite your peerless image at school, you're a slob and a slag. If Youji-jiji says so, then it must be true."
The nickname comes from the time Ryouta watched over Youji's cross-dressing nephew. In an attempt to bond with him, Ryouta showed pictures of himself and the guys in Halloween nurse costumes. Now Yamazaki has a young fanboy. I've seen them in the cat café.
"I'm not a slag." Masaya doesn't deny being a slob. "If you had your way, we'd be stuck with Touma's living room, and his family restaurant below him."
Two hours. I cleaned with Miiko for two hours. Youji and Masaya couldn't come up with a single lie.
Minamoto didn't run. I didn't think he would, but I tried. Mayama is buried behind a bush. Short-range sniper. He has those obnoxious opera binoculars. Did his normal binoculars break? It's depressing that I described them as normal.
"Tomonami!"
Ryouta is the type to have nicknames for everyone except his lover.
Masaya nods his approval. "Turn his name backwards, and it sounds like tomonai for companion. It's cute. Cuter than mine."
"Careful, your competitive streak is showing." I laugh. It's a little much. Cultivating cuteness is more common in men than women think. The main difference is that men try to be cool. As if they're above it all.
"Am I cuter than Minamoto?"
"You're both very cute."
Even though it shouldn't have been possible for Mayama to hear me, his mouthful of leaves is proof that he did.
Protagonists like Masaya and Ryouta have donated their hearing to fujoshi and fudanshi.
I pause. Mayama has popped out from his hiding place. Pro-tip: always expect pedestrians to be stupid. One of these days, he'll transmigrate into his manga, meddling with Saruta and Inuo.
"Is spring in the air?" Mayama asks in autumn, while he's dressed for winter.
It's a testament to Ryouta's familiarity that he doesn't flinch from Mayama's abruptness. Masaya flinches, an aftereffect from the horror movie.
"Masaya has this." Ryouta holds up his pinky, the sign for girlfriend, or in Masaya's case, boyfriend. Surprisingly gender neutral. Then again, I shouldn't be surprised.
Takimoto, Akihito, Masaya, and Youji know about the relationship between Ryouta and Touma, but they're clueless to the other couples within the group. Touma has tunnel vision. Ryouta is a wild card. He's uncannily sharp at times. I could be wrong, though.
"Besides, it isn't up to societal expectations to decide whether something is romantic or not."
His wisdom is only surpassed by children. I'll hang it up on my refrigerator. Couldn't have said it better. Flags are self-fulfilling prophecies. If you're pessimistic, they'll happen. If you're optimistic, they might not happen.
"That's what Prof. Yoshito said." To cap his profound statement, Ryouta strokes his chin, pretending to be an old sage. Mayama can lend him an off-color beard, if he's so inclined.
Oh, it was Matsuo's professor. I spoke too soon.
"For example, if I asked Masaya if he could kiss him, he'd answer no." Ryouta is diving straight into clichés. He continues, "If I asked Minamoto—I mean, Tomonami—"
"No," Minamoto interrupts, much to Mayama's dismay.
"It's been fun, but I'm not risking a fine." I press on the gas pedal, patiently maneuvering around Mayama, who hasn't moved. Leaving him at the mercy of the driver behind me. He probably won't be hit. Probably.
Through the mirror, Minamoto pulls Mayama to safety.
The rest of the ride is standard.
I drop Ryouta off at his dorm, then Masaya at Youji's apartment.
Other than Masaya's death grip on the grab handle, there were no deaths, so I'll consider today as a success.