Work Text:
“Tsukasa-kun,” Rui says, smiling tightly. His hands slam down on Tsukasa’s shoulders, gripping him so tightly that it hurts. They’re both kneeling, which is strange. Tsukasa definitely remembers that he was standing before. “Breathe.”
Tsukasa wants to squawk in pain, but opening his mouth just makes his lungs spasm and flood with air. Huh. So he hadn’t been breathing after all.
As Tsukasa takes in wheezing breaths, Rui nods and squeezes again. “Good.”
He’s not sure how long it’s been since the start of his all-consuming panic and Rui’s subsequent appearance. He’s not sure of a lot of things, actually. The events of the day creep back to him sluggishly—finishing rehearsal, getting notes on his character from Sakaki-san, going to the Sekai to practice and then…
And then…?
Tsukasa frowns. It shouldn’t be a complicated character, is the thing. The show is complex, yes. It’s a subversive coming of age story where a friend group completely falls apart after experiencing a tragedy. At every moment where it feels like the cast is going to band together and overcome the odds, as is typically the case in these types of stories, their personalities clash and their grief overwhelms them, and they shatter apart once again. It’s a deeply emotional script with difficult nuances and a heartbreaking conclusion—but Tsukasa doesn’t have to navigate any of it.
His character is Tanaka, a weak-willed, mild-mannered, generally unremarkable but overall pleasant friend without any particular struggles or hangups or convictions. Tanaka is the impetus of the friend group’s tragedy, a boy who gets hit by a car off stage and dies in the first ten minutes of the show. It’s an unremarkable death, a subversion of this kind of plot. No one else in the cast is secretly in love with Tanaka, he’s not the cornerstone of a big conspiracy, he didn’t have big hopes and dreams that get tragically cut short. He’s just there, and then he dies, and the people who loved him tear themselves apart in their grief and in the face of his utterly mundane death.
When first receiving the role, Tsukasa felt slightly let down. He’s had small roles before, yes, but those needed some kind of motivation. Tanaka’s defining feature is that he has none. Tsukasa received specific notes to be bland, maybe even forgettable—but only while Tanaka is alive.
After Tanaka dies, Tsukasa becomes a ghost.
Tanaka dies off-stage in the first ten minutes of the play. After that, he’s present in every scene, where he quietly sits and watches the unfolding events. He has no lines, the script doesn’t give him any direction or blocking. He’s just… there. Looming over his grief-stricken friends, passively observing their undoing. Some productions have portrayed Tanaka as innocent, almost curious, casting children to play his ghost. Others have given him a more active role, reacting to the events like he’s mute but desperately trying to be heard.
Sakaki has directed Tsukasa to have a presence without emotion. To be felt, but not to feel. To show no emotion, no reaction, no response—but to catch the audience’s eye anyways. To be lingering, just enough, to never really be forgotten.
And that isn’t hard for him. Really, it isn’t. He’s seasoned as a performer now, he’s played all sorts of roles. He’s gotten better at being quiet while still having weight. He doesn’t need to play passionate heroes or scheming villains to make an impact on the audience. He’s been doing pretty well in rehearsals, actually, he hasn’t needed Sakaki to give him a challenge or a task to unlock the secrets of Tanaka as a character.
Practicing in the Sekai had been more about controlling his reactions, keeping a blank expression while observing unfolding events. Being distant, unmovable, empty, and then…
And then…?
“Tsukasa-kun?” That’s Emu, this time. She’s standing over Rui’s shoulder, peering down at him. Her expression is more curious than it is concerned. “Ah! He’s back!”
Back? He’s still sitting where he was before. He’s still kneeling in the grass, trembling under Rui’s grip and Nene’s hand, rubbing circles on his- wait.
“I’m here,” Nene reassures him when twitches slightly, a futile effort to get his body to turn and look at her. “We’re all here.”
She’s squatting down, her small hand moving gently against his shirt. Her hands tend to be a bit clammy, so there’s no heat to her touch. Still, Tsukasa feels it warm him, just a little bit. It’s the kind of warmness he feels when he drinks hot tea on an empty stomach. Sloshing into the hollow inside him, filling him up with heat.
Which isn’t ideal. He needs to be empty, after all.
I’m okay, Tsukasa says, except he doesn’t. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out except a rattling exhale. Hm. Weird. He frowns and says it again but no, actually, he doesn’t, because his voice still isn’t working. Did someone cut his vocal cords while he was under? Or will his voice be the first thing lost when he inevitably becomes a ghost?
Rui’s expression flickers, his veneer of calm briefly cracking with anguish. “Tsukasa-kun.”
He sounds scared. That’s how Honda, Tanaka’s oldest friend, sounds in the play when she learns that her college entrance exam is on the day of his funeral. Honda knows that Tanaka would want her to go, probably, but he’d also probably like it if she stayed. She tries to imagine what he’d tell her if she asked, acting out her question. Hey, Tanaka-kun, do you need me to stay? If you do, I totally will! Tanaka’s ghost, standing right next to her, doesn’t give her a reply, to which Honda pleads, Tanaka-kun!
That’s how Rui said Tsukasa’s name just now. Unlike Honda, he’s able to look Tsukasa directly in the eye to make his plea. Tsukasa opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.
There’s weight against his back and hesitant arms around his waist. Nene, hugging him from behind. Emu shuffles around Rui’s side and hugs Tsukasa’s head into her tummy, which is a little embarrassing, but Tsukasa doesn’t fight her. Besides, it’s nice, the way that she pets his hair and says, “It’s okay. We’ll be here when you come back, Tsukasa-kun. Right?”
Half-buried in Emu’s shirt, Tsukasa can’t quite see all of Rui’s expression. But he can hear a shaking sigh, and he can tell that it’s one made with relief. “Right,” Rui says, and he lets go of Tsukasa’s shoulders to hold his hand, intertwining their fingers together.
Tsukasa has become experienced with emptiness. Literal emptiness, from when he starved himself to play Rio. He had to fill an empty void to play Nakayama, creating an internal world to ground the character in. He’s embraced the emptiness of Bless’ despair and William’s darkness, drowning in the void of anguish to embody their characters.
But this emptiness—Tanaka’s emptiness—is different. Before, emptiness was a result, the product of other swirling thoughts and feelings and emotions. Hopelessness, spitefulness, cowardice. But Tanaka is a translucent character. Tanaka is nothing. The emptiness is already inherent. Tanaka’s character work isn’t embodiment. It’s blood letting. Tsukasa has to empty himself of, well, himself, to become the ghost that Tanaka has to be.
Maybe he succeeded. That’d explain why he can feel some warmth from Nene’s normally clammy hands, now wrapped around his waist. Tsukasa’s body is dead and cold and leeching the love and warmth of the friends surrounding him. But he’s certainly failing at the second thing that Tanaka needs to be, which is alone. Tanaka isn’t allowed to touch anyone after he dies. He’s not allowed to be with people. How could he? He’s a ghost. Even after the play is over, he’s alone. While the rest of the cast bows together, Tsukasa comes out after they’ve exited the stage and bows alone. They’ve rehearsed the bows a few times and even under the hot stage lights, it always feels terribly cold.
Tsukasa should probably move away, now that he’s thinking about it. It’s undoing all of his hard work—it’s been weeks since he last let anyone touch him. Tanaka’s ghost isn’t allowed to touch his friends, so Tsukasa’s been practicing the art of intangibility himself. Nene’s arms, Rui’s hands, Emu’s stomach, it’s almost too much to bear. It’s overloading his senses, bringing tears of discomfort to his eyes. Dress rehearsal is tomorrow. He’ll be in no state to perform. He’ll fall short of Sakaki’s expectations and sure, he hasn’t been given an explicit challenge this time around, but he knows that it’ll be a failure either way.
That’s the way that acting works. That’s what it means to be an actor. You have to suffer, you have to give everything up. How else are you meant to perform?
Tsukasa should tell them this. He should move. But he can’t. He can’t even twitch a muscle. He doesn’t have the energy. He’s limp and lifeless in his friends’ arms. All he can do is breathe, and shake, and let them embrace him.
Rui rubs his thumb over the back of Tsukasa’s knuckles. Emu pats through Tsukasa’s hair. Nene holds him a little tighter and mumbles, “It’s weird when you’re this quiet, y’know.”
Tsukasa doesn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitches upwards, just a little bit.
//
“Tsukasa-kun,” Kaito says, smiling gently. “I think you’re being kind of dumb about this.”
Thankfully, Tsukasa has the breath and body to be able to stammer, “K-Kaito-san?”
Kaito grins unapologetically. “Sorry.” They’re sitting side-by-side on a bench, staring up at the carnival lights against the twilit sky.
It’s just them, although Tsukasa’s friends are nearby. Tsukasa tried to send them home when Kaito asked to speak with him, but they refused to let him go alone. Distantly, Tsukasa can hear some kind of commotion. Shouting and cheering and laughing. It almost makes him smile, but not really. His body still isn’t entirely corporeal. He’s only halfway back to himself.
Either way, he’s completely ruined for the dress rehearsal. Tsukasa blinks, inhaling shakily as the lights start to blur in front of his eyes.
“You’re not ruined,” Kaito tells him, warm but stern.
“But I-“
“You’re not.” Tsukasa’s gaze is pulled away from the sky. Kaito’s hand comes up to his cheek, thumbing a tear away.
Inexplicably, Kaito’s touch is the exact same temperature as Tsukasa’s skin. It’s strange, almost uncomfortable, which is grounding in and of itself.
“Tsukasa-kun,” Kaito starts again, his hand still cupping Tsukasa’s cheek.
Tsukasa blurts, “I have to- this is what it takes for me to-“
“This is one of the ways you can take for this character.” Kaito shifts closer, moving his hand to Tsukasa’s shoulder. His voice is pitched low, but it’s not exactly soothing. He’s talking plainly, like the words he’s saying are nothing more than common sense.
For Tsukasa, they might as well be in another language. “But Sakaki-kun said that Tanaka should be played this way.”
“What way?”
Does Kaito really not remember? He was listening to Sakaki and Tsukasa’s conversation when they were first discussing the role. He must’ve heard Sakaki’s instructions back then; do whatever you think it takes to achieve Tanaka’s overwhelming emptiness.
Tsukasa repeats exactly that. Overwhelming emptiness, to which Kaito tilts his head and asks, “But do you really think that this is the only way-?”
“Yes!” Tsukasa snaps. Kaito’s eyebrows narrow. “It is, Kaito-kun. There might be other methods and techniques but this kind of character work gives me my best performances, so I have to-“
Kaito shakes his head. “They’re not your best,” he says, firmly. Tsukasa’s breath catches. “They’re incredible performances, Tsukasa-kun, and they’re performances you should be proud of. But you have a lifetime of performing ahead of you. You’re not even close to reaching your best.”
What’s happening? Why is Kaito saying these things? Kaito’s the one who’s known Tsukasa the longest, he’s been here from the very start. Shouldn’t he know how much this hurts to hear? How painful it feels to have this undeniable truth thrown in his face, yet again? Of course Tsukasa knows that he’s lacking, that he’s nowhere near the actor that he wants to be, but-
“Tsukasa-kun.” Kaito squeezes his shoulder. His eyes are kind. “How can you know that this is your best if you’ve never tried anything else?”
Tsukasa blinks at him. “What?”
“For a long time now, you’ve exclusively used method acting to approach your serious roles.” Kaito pauses and then scoffs, a sound that Tsukasa didn’t even know vocaloids could make, before adding, “Or this weird technique that you’ve been calling method acting. Which it isn’t. Stanislavski would be rolling over in his grave if he heard the things Sakaki was telling you.”
“I-I’m sorry?” Tsukasa splutters.
“Don’t be, it’s not your fault that no one around you has been teaching you right.” Kaito is still smiling, which only makes Tsukasa feel even more insane. “That includes me. How could I have let you starve yourself? That’s not an acting technique. That’s just being stupid.”
“Stu-!?” Maybe Tsukasa is dead, or dying, and he’s hallucinating this entire conversation. If that’s what’s happening, then he’s closer to Tanaka than he thought he was.
Kaito waves him off. “But anyways. All the serious acting that you’ve been doing, Tsukasa-kun, has been under two directors. Rui-kun, who is learning in the exact same way that you are, and Sakaki, who has a very specific vision for his works.
“Most directors don’t want an actor who live and breathe their characters every single day of a production, especially not at the expense of their own health. Some might even find that your immersive approach to character work is disruptive. What if they want you to play off of your scene partners instead of focusing on authenticity? What if you’re playing a character who can’t be played authentically, who needs to be inexplicable and inconsistent?”
Tsukasa gawks at Kaito, at his steady scolding that is somehow still so kind. “But Sakaki-san…”
“Is someone you’ll outgrow.” Kaito says it like it’s a prophecy. Like it’s something he knows will happen. “Which is why you shouldn’t destroy yourself for Sakaki-san’s expectations. How are you supposed to be a star if you burn yourself out so soon?”
A rollercoaster rushes past, the rumbling of the tracks rattling through Tsukasa’s teeth. He knows that there is… he can’t call it truth, because it doesn’t feel right for him to accept this as a truth. It’s too self-serving. It feels like cowardice, letting his Sekai convince him to give up and run away from Sakaki’s expectations.
But at the same time, “I haven’t been method acting?”
There’s a moment where Kaito doesn’t move, save for the slightest fighting of his grip on Tsukasa’s shoulder. Then, his eyes soften, and he says, “Stanislavski is the father of method acting. He never said that actors have to fully live as these characters off-stage the way that you have.”
Tsukasa blinks. “Huh.”
“He experimented with it himself, and had some of his performers do it as well. But his system never included the full-time embodiment that Sakaki has encouraged you to pursue. In fact, if you study the work of the people who formalized Stanislavski’s system into what we call method acting like Strasberg and Adler, they outright state that it’s not part of the method approach.”
“But…” Tsukasa trails off, biting his lip, only continuing when Kaito nods at him encouragingly. “I just- what about re-living? Experiencing what the character experienced, like how I starved for Rio. T-That’s part of method acting, right?”
“It is. But that’s just one part of acting.” Kaito’s hand leaves Tsukasa’s shoulder. To Tsukasa’s surprise, its absence doesn’t leave him cold. He still feels warm. Still feels… whole. “And besides, after today, I think you’re perfectly prepared to re-live the emptiness for tomorrow’s dress rehearsal, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose-“
“Which means you don’t have to stay empty all the way until tomorrow, right?” Kaito is still smiling. Tsukasa didn’t know that Kaito could smile so scarily.
“R-Right…”
“Good!” Kaito claps his hands together and stands. He holds out a palm, helping Tsukasa to his feet. His eyes are steady and sure and proud. “Then I think that you’re more than prepared, Tsukasa-kun.”
Tsukasa hesitates. He doesn’t want to be so pathetic, but still, he asks, “Do you really think so?”
“Yes.” The answer comes immediately. “For this role, and every role that comes after it.”
Tsukasa’s throat closes with emotion. He hopes that at least one of his silly speeches to Saki was able to inspire at least half as much hope as Kaito has inspired in him. “…okay,” he eventually agrees.
It’s only when Kaito’s pulled him into a hug, Tsukasa’s face pressed into the lapel of his jacket, that he realizes that he’s managed the tiniest of smiles.
//
Much to his humiliation, Emu decides to text Saki behind his back and have her come and take him back home. He wants to yell at her, and Rui because that jerk definitely enabled this, and also Nene because for as much as she understands his embarrassment, that doesn’t stop her from laughing at him. Unfortunately, Saki cheerfully drags him off before he can chew his treacherous friends out.
They mostly travel in silence. It should be uncomfortable for them, given how loud they usually are, but it’s not. Saki leans on his shoulder and gives him an earbud, playing some upbeat pop-rock song on her phone. “Is this yours?” Tsukasa asks.
“No, but we’ll be doing something in this genre next,” she hums, and that’s all they say until they arrive in their neighbourhood.
It’s dark out. It’s a much later hour than the one Tsukasa wanted to arrive home at, given their upcoming dress rehearsal. Their footsteps echo down the streets, until Saki breaks the silence and says, “I’m surprised you let me lean on you in the subway.”
“Huh?” Tsukasa blinks, and then he grimaces. “Oh.” Saki was… not very pleased with him when he said that she wasn’t allowed to hug him for the next few weeks. They’re a tactile pair of siblings. They both love physical affection. Tsukasa has been starved for everyone’s touch, but he’s definitely missed hers the most.
Quietly, he slips his hand into hers. She startles a little, and then flushes with embarrassment—the last time they walked home while holding hands, they were kids, and Saki was terrified that Tsukasa was going to bolt into the middle of the streets like some kind of overly excited dog—but then she beams up at him and squeezes his hand back.
“Thanks!” she says, which makes Tsukasa laugh. “Hey, I mean it!”
“I know,” Tsukasa grins back. “It’s just funny thing to say.”
Saki just hums, swinging their arms playfully. Tsukasa finds himself studying her. The star-shaped pimple patch on her cheek and chin, the strands of hair falling out of her messy bun, the softness in her eyes as she studies the night sky.
He hadn’t auditioned for Tanaka. He actually wanted to audition for Honda. Partly because they were doing gender blind casting, and Tsukasa wanted to challenge a female role. But also because he thought he could relate to Honda’s grief the most. She was Tanaka’s oldest friend, practically his sister. Tsukasa knew that if he thought about Saki, about what he would’ve done if his greatest fear became true and he lost her, that he’d have been able to excel in her role.
He’s still not sure why Sakaki cast him as Tanaka. There were much better suited actors for the part. But when Sakaki called Tsukasa’s name, he did so with… expectation? Challenge? Demand? Anticipation? Tsukasa can’t quite remember the tone, but it was one that made him sweat.
“Did I miss a pimple?” Tsukasa blinks and finds Saki frowning back at him, worried. “Ah, I thought I got all of them!”
He smiles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, you did. Those are cute patches by the way.”
“Thanks!” Her eyes twinkle. “They reminded me of you!”
Tsukasa’s breath punches out of him. His mind spins through moments and memories: Kaito scolding him for his incorrect technique, his friends embracing him now, and then a memory of when they embraced him after his performance as William. Rui pleading with him to abandon this method only for Tsukasa to walk away, and then all the trouble he had with achieving that performance of William, of telling Saki not to talk to him, of being home alone and scared and eight years old and screaming out into the silence that Saki was someone that he-
“Onii-chan?”
They’ve stopped walking. Tsukasa’s feet are stuck to the ground. He’s squeezing Saki’s hand so tightly, tight enough that it has to be hurting her, but he tries to let go and she doesn’t let him.
“Saki,” he croaks, before she can call his name again. He doesn’t look at her or her wide-eyed concern. Not because of cowardice, but because he knows that he doesn’t deserve it.
He deserves the memory of his sister in her hospital bed, tubes up her nose and an IV in her arm, limp and still and almost lifeless, as he asks her, “Would you… would you hate me if I hated you to become a star?”
“…what?” Saki replies, genuinely confused. “That question makes no sense, onii-chan.”
Tsukasa swallows thickly. “Sometimes, for specific roles, I teach myself to feel the same things that the character feels.” It’s an oversimplification of the technique. Kaito might even call it a bastardization. “If I had a role where I had to teach myself to hate you, and I actively tried to despise you-“
“Of course I’d hate it!” Saki snaps. Tsukasa’s head snaps up, but she doesn’t look upset. She looks almost insulted. “Why would I want to be hated by my brother?”
Guilt curdles like sour milk in Tsukasa’s stomach. He honestly thinks that he could be sick. “I’m so-“
“But even worse, I hate the idea of you teaching yourself to hate me!” She’s the one crushing Tsukasa’s hand now. “You’re not that kind of person, onii-chan. And I know that’s literally the point of acting, being someone that you’re not, but still. Still!” She throws her hands in the air, and also Tsukasa’s hand, because she doesn’t loosen her grip in the slightest. “I’d honestly want you to give a sucky performance than go through all that for a good one!”
“Really?” Tsukasa asks. It’s a useless question, because he knows Saki better than anyone else in the world. He knows that everything she just said was completely and utterly honest. But it still escapes him, small and insecure.
Saki pouts, upset at his uncertainty. “Duh.” She finally loosens her grip on his hand, only to tighten it again for a quick, comforting squeeze. “C’mon. How’d you feel if I tried hating you for lyrical inspiration?”
The very thought makes Tsukasa’s heart clench. He clutches his chest, gasping dramatically and crying out, “S-Saki…? My beloved sister? H-Hating me!?”
It’s way too loud for this time of night. Saki doesn’t try to shush him. She just laughs, bright and loud, the same way she would in her hospital bed for his performances. Emboldened, Tsukasa pretends to swoon into her, wailing, “Oh, how it pains me so!”
“Ack, onii-chan!” Saki shrieks, giggling and shoving him off. “Stop it!”
“You must hate me already, to reject me so!”
“You’re being too loud-!”
She tries to stumble away from his attack range, but she also doesn’t let go of his hand, so she’s really just dragging him along. Their rhythm is clumsy, practically tripping over themselves as they barrel down the street, giggling like children all the way home.
Inside she practically throws him at their parents, insisting that he hug them. He does, much to their delighted confusion, and then Saki joins in. She gives him another hug before bed, tight enough to make him wheeze, with more strength than anyone thought she could have.
“You started being silly, so I wasn’t able to say it before, but I want to say it now.” She mumbles it into his shirt, against his shoulder. Tsukasa hums an acknowledgement and pats her head. He can hear her smile in her voice when she says, “I said I’d prefer a sucky performance, but none of your performances can suck.”
“I mean…” Tsukasa starts, laughing when she sways him silent. “Ow! Okay, okay, I’ll let you finish.”
She pulls back, looking up at him with bright, certain eyes. “You’re my genius brother.” There’s not an inch of doubt in her voice. “You’ll always find a way to give the best performance ever.”
Tanaka feels entirely out of reach now. If someone told him to get into character, he’d fail. Tsukasa’s heart is so, so full. “Saki,” he grins down at her, ruffling her hair one last time. “You’re my favourite fan.”
She laughs. “I’d better be!”
For the first time in a very, very long time, Tsukasa’s sleep is completely and utterly dreamless.
//
Nene’s already waiting outside the theatre when Tsukasa arrives for dress rehearsal the next day. “Oh!” she starts, lifting a hand in greeting before freezing in place. She starts to lower it. “Sorry, Tsukasa-kun..”
He smiles at her, gentle and grateful. “It’s okay. Good morning Nene.”
She blinks once, and then her entire face blossoms with relief. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She’s probably the least tactile person that Tsukasa knows, but he doesn’t find himself too surprised when she gives him a quick side hug. It’s really quick, hardly a moment before she’s stepping back, a slight flush to her cheeks, mumbling, “F-Forget that happened.”
Tsukasa grins at her but just says, “Sure.”
He gets a proper hug from Emu; she might’ve been more gentle about it if he let her do her own thing, but at the sight of her running up to excitedly greet them, Tsukasa couldn’t help but beam and open his arms. That prompted her to break into a full-on sprint and tackle him to the ground, giddily laughing into his chest while he lay there and groaned in pain.
“You’re better!” she cheers while he tries to catch his breath. “Tsukasa-kun is Tsukasa-kun again!”
“I am,” Tsukasa wheezes. He can hear Nene’s stifled laughter, but she’s not the one he sees when he opens his eyes. “Woah, Rui!?”
“Indeed!” Rui beams, leaning over them both. He reaches down and lifts a still-giggling Emu off and to the side, before holding out a hand to pull Tsukasa to his feet.
Tsukasa gratefully accepts the hand, and is even more grateful to accept the hug. “Jeez, everyone’s so affectionate today.”
Rui just smiles, pulling back out of the hug to hold Tsukasa by the shoulders, exactly where he held Tsukasa yesterday. He scans Tsukasa’s face, his smile fading slightly as he steps into his role as director—then it brightens again. Eyes shining and mouth soft with his smile, Rui says, “Welcome home, Tsukasa-kun.”
That makes Tsukasa burst into laughter. “I’m home? I guess? What a weird thing to say!”
He’s still laughing when the three of them corral him into the building to get ready for rehearsal.
Sakaki hears it. He doesn’t seem very pleased at the sound. Tsukasa’s heart clenches a bit, and his laughter quickly dies, but he doesn’t flinch away. Still, he’s grateful at the way his friends get a little closer, bunching protectively around him when Sakaki approaches.
“Tsukasa-kun,” Sakaki greets cordially. His eyes sweep over Tsukasa sharply, and then his mouth puckers. “Do you feel prepared for today’s rehearsal? It’s the very last chance you have to perform without an audience’s expectations.”
Emu bristles in front of him, but Tsukasa just nods and says, “I do, Sakaki-san. Thank you.”
Sakaki frowns, but lets them go.
Tsukasa asks to be alone when they’re backstage, scoffing at his friends’ concern and reassuring them that yes, he knows what he’s doing and no, he doesn’t need an escort. When he’s finally shaken off their persistent concern, he finds a quiet corner and pulls out his phone.
“Kaito-san,” he whispers. The screen flickers as Kaito’s hologram stands on its surface. “Good morning. Thank you for yesterday.”
Kaito smiles back up at him. “Good morning to you too, Tsukasa-kun. Do you feel ready for rehearsal?”
Tsukasa’s smile wanes a little, and then it crumples into a grimace. “Not at all,” he groans, which makes Kaito erupt into laughter. “Do you know how hard it is to rework a character the night before dress? Why’d you convince me to do that?”
“Me? I did no such thing!” Kaito winks cheekily, which makes Tsukasa snort. But of course, because he’s Kaito, he says, “However, I can help you with any last minute work you need now.”
Tsukasa nods. “I know you mentioned Stanislavski, but Tanaka’s a unique character, so I don’t think focusing on his motivation would work. But in terms of re-living…”
Kaito sits down and crosses his legs as Tsukasa talks, readying himself to give a reply.
They don’t get a lot of time to talk. Tsukasa gets called for make-up soon enough, but he thanks Kaito all the same. A text from Saki comes in as he rushes back into the green room, something with a lot of exclamation points that he barely glances at, but it’s enough. He grins and puts his phone away.
He spends the rest of his time backstage quietly, but not silently. He speaks when spoken to, but doesn’t start conversations. He doesn’t approach anyone, but he happily lets Emu sit next to him and lean on his arm. He doesn’t really react to her rambling, one-sided conversation about what she’s been learning in her business courses, but Emu doesn’t seem to mind. She knows that he’s just getting into character.
Rehearsal starts with a short speech by Sakaki. It’s not inspiring, just reminders about the notes they’ve been given over rehearsal week. His eyes linger on Tsukasa for a moment, calculating and cold, before moving on. Tsukasa exhales through clenched teeth, and doesn’t let it linger.
The show begins. Tsukasa plays Tanaka in life—meek, diminutive, easy to overlook. He steps offstage and waits in the wings. He thinks about yesterday. About the coldness. The emptiness. The nothingness that he was. He feels his skin cool, his breath slow.
In the wings, Tsukasa lets himself die without letting a drop of blood hit the floor.
There’s no real cue. He’s meant to quietly appear at some point in the scene, standing in the shadows where the audience can kind of see him, creeping closer and closer into the light as his friends break down with the news that he’s gone.
Tsukasa does it exactly as he’s rehearsed it. He finds his mark and steps forward slowly, carefully, syncopated against the rhythm of the growing argument. As it escalates into shouting, screaming, wild accusations of the most hurtful things a group of friends can think of, he comes into the light and just… looks at them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tsukasa catches Sakaki leaning forward in his chair. He doesn’t react to that either. Tanaka wouldn’t, so Tsukasa doesn’t.
Because Tsukasa isn’t Tanaka. Tanaka is dead, and Tsukasa isn’t. He doesn’t know what it means to be dead. Similarly, Tanaka doesn’t know what it means to be empty. Tanaka was never empty. He was unimpressive and plain, but he was alive. He was full of his friends’ love. Their love will only continue to overflow over the course of the play as they collapse under the weight of their grief.
Tsukasa doesn’t know what it’s like to be dead. But he’s been six years old, sitting on the steps when he should be in bed, listening to his mother cry into his father’s arms because of how guilty she feels for leaving him at home. He’s been ten years old, standing in the hall while his sister sobs his name through a treatment that she didn’t want him to see. He’s been sixteen and seventeen years old, overhearing his friends having a hushed conversation about the bags beneath his eyes and the unsteadiness to his steps.
It’s an uncomfortable feeling—hearing someone grieve you, beg for you, long for you. Especially when you know you shouldn’t have. It doesn’t feel like there’s a right way to react. Oftentimes, it feels better not to react at all. Tanaka, the polite boy that he was, probably felt horribly guilty about the whole thing. More reactive staging would capture his character better, Tsukasa quietly thinks. Sakaki might’ve missed the mark this time around.
But it’s the staging that Tsukasa’s been given, so he follows it. He plays Tanaka passively. Not reacting, not responding, not trying to fill the space. But still looking. Still witnessing everyone he loves fall apart in his absence. Silently. Uncomfortably. Guiltily.
Honda’s actress stands centre stage and asks, “Hey, Tanaka-kun, do you need me to stay? If you do, I totally will!” She’s a more senior actor. She delivers the line desperately, laughing through it like she’s scrambling for a punchline that isn’t there.
Tsukasa stands next to her and studies her face. He thinks about Saki under the streetlight. He doesn’t smile. But he knows, he knows that his eyes are softening.
“Tanaka-kun!” Honda’s actress chokes out. Tsukasa swallows words that he’s not allowed to speak, and walks to his next mark.
The play finishes, but they run through the bows as well. Tsukasa waits in the wings while the cast holds hands and smiles at each other. Their faces are streaked with the make-up that they’ve cried off, but they’re jovial and bright as they bow. They exit. Tsukasa waits for a beat, breathes in, and then walks on stage as well, smiling bright and true.
He comes to center stage, looks Sakaki in the eyes, and sweeps his arms out as he bows.
Even before he’s straightened, he hears Sakaki grunt out a begrudging, “Good work, Tsukasa-kun.”
When Tsukasa lifts his head, he’s certain that his smile is stretching from ear to ear. “Thank you, sir!” he shouts, way too loud, his happiness threatening to overflow and flood the stage.