Archive of Our Own

I. NOW | 2016

Dear Kiyotaka,

By the time you read this message, I will be dead. I am writing this letter to you because you deserve to understand the situation. I admit that I have committed less-than-amazing actions throughout my lifetime, and some of these actions have limited your emotional growth and negatively impacted your quality of life. 

I would like to say sorry and goodbye. I would also have preferred to lengthen this letter by reminiscing about a shared bonding moment between the two of us but I realize we have none. Nonetheless, I still hope that you will feel something for my passing as I do now. 

I will be killing myself now because I regret everything and deserve to be punished. Think of something deep, because that’s what our relationship could have been. Be sure to attend my funeral; there will be amazing hors d’oeuvres as well as unlimited soft-serve. 

sorry and goodbye.

Ayanokouji Atsuomi

–

POV: HIRATA YOUSUKE

When the letter was first delivered to Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, he was still with his baker’s dozen of girlfriends, with me as an add-on, at Keyaki Mall. There was a limited edition ice cream flavor that everyone was clamoring for – the Dubai-Labubu-Matcha-Ube-Hojicha-Tapioca-Sencha flavor. The air was laced with ecstasy as the girls, especially Kei and Ichinose, jumped up and down as they waited as Kiyotaka waited in line for them. The good mood was then smashed to pieces.

When Kiyotaka first opened the elegant, almost-unassuming letter, he almost appeared to smile. His mouth as a whole was still at a downward curve, yet the little widening of his eyes and the slight twitching at the ends of his lips provided enough evidence to show that he was stimulated. Slowly, he began to shake his head, as if disbelieving what he had just read. And then, most shockingly, he–

“Sorry, I– I need to meet with a faculty member for a brief moment.”

He fucking stuttered. What in the world…?

The mystery only deepened when, after meeting with said faculty member, Kiyotaka shut himself into his dorm room – not just locking the door, as that would mean any one of his harem members could use a copy of the dorm keycard; no, he barricaded the entrance with a massive bookshelf and lofty frozen yogurt machine. 

Kei and Horikita would pound on his door. Shiina and Ichinose tried to lure the boy out with freshly-baked treats. Sakayanagi even flamed his chess skills (while she was evidently worse than him). Kamuro attempted to lockpick the barricade out of the way. The whole of Class D and Class B were concerned, really. I desperately wanted to do for him what he had so graciously done for me in the past, yet to no avail. 

I became rash and aggressive as Ryuen and his goons began to antagonize us. In one particularly nasty occurrence, I had bent metal with his head, leaving him comatose; now the whole second year class of ANHS was in disarray. With no functional leaders and no one willing to step up, special exams were unable to be conducted in a rational and orderly manner.

In other words, without the existence of Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, the rest of us were doomed. Perhaps forever.

Quickly, news spread across the campus:

||BREAKING: Little Known Shūgiin Councillor Ayanokouji Atsuomi Hangs Himself – Mass Hysteria Ensues Across Elites||

And then suddenly, things were making a little more sense. Who wouldn’t grieve like this when hearing of the loss of a loved one? Even if the relationship were strained, one had to have been loved enough to be brought into the world, wouldn’t they? 

It’s like getting your heart torn out, knowing that you could have been there, said something, done something, anything, and then– and then you don’t; the one you loved is gone before you know it. You can cry, and cry and cry but you know it won’t be enough, not even near enough; you can’t help but blame yourself. You try to change, you delude yourself into believing that your actions are accepted by the ghost of him, maybe you can change the outcomes for other people, change the world in his honor. But really, all you’re doing is hurting everyone around you.

Perhaps if I could see his face, I could read his mood a little better; perhaps if I could sit next to him and put a hand lovingly on his shoulder, say the right words– but I’m just trying to assure myself, aren’t I? Obviously, in a perfect world where perfect actions were carried out and perfect people said the perfect things, people would be able to heal from their past wounds, move on while never forgetting it. 

Unfortunately, in a more pessimistic world, these traumas would shape a person for many years. But enough about me–

–

Kiyotaka emerged from his room exactly three days after he received the letter, like fucking Jesus or something. His girlfriends and I were camping anxiously outside of his dorm as we shared campfire stories and s’mores and happy memories. Ichinose was even considering hiring a local shaman to bless him before he unceremoniously kicked his door open.

“Kiyotaka!” “Mou~ Kiyotaka~!!!!!” “My only-ever!” And other similar responses spilled out of our mouths. Composed of our entwined bodies, a mass of arms and legs wrapped around him to enact an inescapable hug.

“Huh? What’s this?” he asked, bewildered.

Smack! Horikita’s palm went across his cheek at the speed of light. “This is for scaring me to death!” She then proceeded to kiss him and began crying.

“Uhm. Okay. Wow.”

I then began to frown. There were no tell-tale signs that he was grieving at all. No eye bags announcing an endless night of crying, no mussed-up hair. In fact, he smelled of lovely apricot. Nice– hold on, not nice at all!

“Sorry, can you guys please give me some space?” His voice remained as steady and monotonous as ever.

Even though the question had been asked to death already, I shyly asked it again. “Are you… alright, Kiyotaka?” 

“Yeah.” As he glanced around and saw a landscape of doubtful faces, he nodded again with more conviction (substituting what would have been a facial expression). “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Th-then why did you shut us all out?!” Ichinose wailed. “We all miss you so, soooo much! Me most of all!”

“No– me!!!” “No!!! MEEE!!!” “Me! Me! Me!” Oh so rapidly, the harem caved in upon itself; after all, the one most devoted and beloved by Ayanokouji Kiyotaka would ultimately be worth the most. The symphony of squawks reached its crescendo within five seconds and died down in a similarly hasty manner, at the realization that their idol and centerpiece was waiting patiently for them to calm down. Some of the girls, such as Mii-chan and Shiina, looked away a little sheepishly; others were too prideful to admit how childish it all was, and another group simply evaporated their feelings away with heated glares. 

When he was ready, Kiyotaka cleared his throat. “I was… overwhelmed by confusion. So I needed some time to think. Sorry if it made any of you panic.”

“No, it’s completely alright!”

“Okay, okay. Again, I apologize for not communicating clearly when I went into isolation. But, may I please have a few more moments to myself?” The comment led to many frowns in the crowd, and I had to admit that I was also a little let down, still unable to unravel the mystery behind the boy’s reactions. Then, to power up his offense, Kiyotaka deepened his frown, which provided a powerful incentive for us to leave.

Except, as I exited the dorms, having just escaped the crowded elevator situation, my phone began to buzz. Ayanokouji Kiyotaka was calling. Huh?

“Hello? Kiyotaka, are you– are you doing well?”

“Yes, I would like to talk to you.”

I knew it was going to be about something mundane, nothing about having a (play)date at Keyaki Mall or jogging together tomorrow morning, yet I was still glad. My heart beat warmly, as it meant I could help out a good friend. A good… friend.

–

Knocking twice on Kiyotaka’s door, I was quickly let inside. The room had returned to a state of array; no speck of dust drifted into the air, not even if the surfaces were disturbed. Obviously, moving without Emperor Kiyotaka’s permission was a cardinal sin!

“Hello, you wanted to talk?”

“Yes, please sit.” Kiyotaka had already prepared some hojicha, setting a neat tray onto the firm bed. Steam drifted slowly, almost languidly and out of breath, from the spout. The boy played with his bangs, messed up from the group hug with his girlies, a little lovingly and there returned the barest of smiles, perhaps because he was remembering the moment, and all the passion and devotion of the people whom he could finally connect with. 

He retrieved a folded piece of paper from his blazer pocket, not a wrinkle in sight. “I thought it would be better if I could talk to someone about…”

“Certainly,” I jutted in, desperate to be as supportive as possible. Then, realizing that I had been too eager, I shrank back and cringed a little. “What, did you want to talk about?”

“There’s a puzzle within the wording; I’m certain there is. Except, for all this time, for all my genius, I’ve been unable to decipher it.”

I-uh… huh? So he wasn’t emotional at all? Not even a little bit? The quick revelation made my brain a bit dizzy, which I masked with a quiet cough. “Not that I’m unhappy about being here, but if you wanted help with decoding puzzles, wouldn’t Ichinose or Shiina be far better candidates? After all, they’re shrewd and highly observant.”

Kiyotaka sighed. There returned that same, painful ghost of a smile. “I love my girlfriends – I really do – but they'll all clamor onto me and attempt to solve it together. Maybe find excuses to fuck one another in the process.” A slight pause. “Despite their preciousness to me, I still value individuality and time for quiet. For now, I just– we’re very good friends, and I’m glad we can be comfortable like this.”

I nodded. 

“Here–” His fingers began to unfold the paper. “Let me show it to you.”

My breath caught. “H-hold on!” I put my hands out and waved them defensively, as if the thin sliver of paper were a live bomb. “This feels a little, a little taboo–”

“No. I consent.”

“I–” I sighed. “Alright, I’ll take a peek.”

“I’ve been trying Enigma, SIGABA, Voynich– everything. And, right now, all I know is that if I bold certain letters from certain words, they spell out the word ‘PENIS’.”

“Could be important.” 

–

Hours after no avail, Kiyotaka and I decided to eat in his dorm and leave the potentially hidden message to rest. A part of me eventually realized that it was his odd way of expressing his grief; he was in deep, murky denial. Something about he and his father’s cloudy relationship must’ve made it hard to accept that the letter was something out of reality, not just from some cheap, lazy fanfiction scenario.

It was also a painful realization. From the tone and content of the letter, it was evident that the relationship was strained at best. Was it because, for so long, Kiyotaka saw his father as an entity incapable of guilt? Because he couldn’t accept that a previously [__________] man could have just given up like that? Or was he just retarded?

“Hey, maybe there isn’t any big-brained, top-secret message behind it. Maybe your father was just… was just being human,” I suggested, as gently as I could, softening my voice so much toward the end that those words had hardly rendered.

He sighed. “Perchance.”

“Perchance.”

“I suppose it makes sense. I’m a super-genius after all; there’s no cipher I can’t crack,” he said, his shoulder very slightly relaxing, as if he was relieved of something; his hand re-folding the letter and placing it onto his work desk. “It’s just–” he sighed. After taking another sip of his tea, he stood up and looked blandly at the white ceiling, almost removing himself from the awareness of my existence. “It’s just a shame, really. I just don’t understand why. Why the sudden change of heart.”

“Didn’t have the best relationship with him?”

“Ahh,” he nearly-laughed. “Nope. He was always… distant. Always insurmountable; he’s, was, more of a statue to me than anything. Yet this… I seriously don’t understand…”

I let the silence settle. Boy, I was not equipped to deal with emotional baggage. While he had the intelligence and clairvoyance to glimpse through the innermost qualities of anyone and everyone, the ability to play one’s soulstrings to his content, I had nothing but near-sighted vision that could detect slight movement. 

But despite my disabilities, I looked beyond him, toward a scenic, stormy sky viewed from a rooftop, letting myself get a little sentimental. “Sometimes, I think we just wished we would go back and understand. Ask them what we should’ve asked them before they passed,” I murmured.

Then he lit up. “What a great idea.”

“Huh?!”

“Why’re you looking at me like I’m crazy? We could just build a time machine; problem solved.”

Uhm.

What the fuck–

–

Kiyotaka called it Operation Hercules-Borealis. At first, I thought he was just experiencing some kind of brain-altering hysteria caused by grief. Maybe he would wake up the next day, still a little pained, but no where near contemplating the construction of a time machine. On the bright side, however, the handsome boy returned to fooling and fucking around with his girlfriends; maybe he could leave the past behind him. Set himself free. 

Well–

A few days later, he called me back to his room where he displayed an odd thing of metal. Ooooh boy. Additionally dragging Hondou, Ichinose, Albert, and Horikita together in utmost secrecy, he explained whatever bullshit plan he had in mind. It was the weekend, most of the crowd dressed in casual clothing; I, personally, was wearing a modest beige tunic and loose, Hawaiian-print shorts. A white board was pulled out and now was currently filled to the brim with circuit diagrams, constellations, and miniscule yet incredibly elegant calligraphed labels. 

“Horikita, you act as the emf source. Hondou, Ichinose, Albert – you guys will be stepping into this rotating contraption–”

The black-haired girl glanced subtly at me, eyebrows curling in confusion. I could only offer an awkward, slightly sympathetic look back at her.

“No, I’m not crazy–” Kiyotaka reasoned like a madman. 

Horikita shook her head at me. What was that for? It’s not like I had anything to do with this schizophrenia! She then rolled her eyes, which prompted a quick wince from me.

“Suzune, Hirata – are you guys paying attention?”

“Yeah, Horikita-san, are you paying attention???” Ichinose parroted snidely.

The features of an ever-fierce class leader resurfaces; the girl sighs, crossing her arms and shakes her head disbelievingly. “Kiyotaka-kun, are you in the right state of mind?” Surely, such strong words coming from one of Kiyotaka’s first friends would dissuade him (if only slightly).

“Sorry Suzune, I was talking to Hirata.”

“Yes,” I replied hastily, before a catfight could start, smiling saccharinely, “your plan is very cool.” Shifting my eyes toward Horikita, I mumbled, “I think we need to respect other people's expressions of grief.”

“Alright,” she whispered back. Still unconvinced, as per usual.

“Guys, when did I say that I was grieving?”

“Brother.” A powerful voice rumbled, intimidating other potential outbursts to kill themselves early. Ichinose shivered when Albert’s lips moved, as she always appeared to be. “You are autistic,” the almost-man said gently.

“No?”

Perhaps Albert was making a legitimate case. Horikita appeared to also agree. Licking her lips, a future sigh already creeping up on her like a ghost, she asked, “Let’s say, hypothetically, you could time travel into the past. What then?”

“I would stalk him for a few weeks while minimizing disturbances.”

“And…?”

“With that, I would be able to deduce his personality and thus the reason behind his death.”

Ichinose nodded along with him, her large, almost planet-sized boobs bobbing along as they made waves with pinkish silk fabric. Hondou was – wait, he was here? – nevermind, it wasn’t like Hondou was paying any attention to the present moment, instead hypnotized by the two beauties in the room. 

“Then I would return, no problem,” Kiyotaka finished, matter-of-factly. 

While I would recommend therapy to poor Kiyotaka, it was clear that ANHS thrived on psychotic (Ryuen) and sociopathic (Sakayanagi) and sadistic (Sakayanagi again) people trampling on and wielding the lives of others. Honestly, it’s like they were salivating at the concoction of toxicity and trauma that they’d gathered on the island; “ripe for growth”. 

I frowned, trying to be thoughtful. “Let’s say, everything happens as you say it will. Will it make you feel better?” 

“Yep.”

“Horikita-san, are you really going to jeopardize his path to healing?!” The woman in question simply rolled her eyes irritably. “Putrid and pulchritudinous” were what Horikita would use to describe Ichinose to me, and honestly I was beginning to understand why. But she wasn’t the focus, ever, no, we had to pay more attention to Kiyotaka. 

Eventually, the consensus between Ichinose, Horikita, Albert, and I was that we ought to at least play along for him. Just once so his delusions would be shattered enough and so he could finally move on. What a fever dream of a day…

“Horikita, you act as the emf source. Hondou, Ichinose, Albert – you guys will be stepping into this rotating contraption–”

Horikita glared vitriolically at the ground as she awkwardly held two ends of heavy-duty wire. She was told not to wrap all five of her fingers around the uninsulated areas until his signal. Meanwhile, the rest of the co stuffed themselves into what looked like a miniature amusement park spinning ride. 

“This might make you dizzy. The ride will spin for only a few seconds if we are to go back two months. Approximately 3 picoseconds. Now, here–” Kiyotaka muttered. He stilled as I followed the trio into the metal machine rotator of potential-death. “Hirata, where are you going?”

“Sorry, was I not supposed to join them…?”

The boy looked almost annoyed. “No. You stay here and stabilize me.”

Uh…okay? “What if I get sucked into– with you?”

“Then you’d provide good backup. You’re incredibly good with empathy, unlike me, and outside of my girls, you’re the one I’m closest to.” Something warm vibrated in my stomach. (Though I was sure there was more to the decision.) “Alright–” He swiveled back to where Horikita was standing. “Apply five fingers.”

She rolled her eyes, complying when Ichinose’s eyes almost turned red. “Whatever.”

I half-expected nothing to happen, to have to swallow the faint mold of embarrassment clinging to my throat. Except– the metal contraption began to spin. And spin and spin and spin– what the hell? Before I could even grasp the reality of its animation, its coming alive, a great darkness seeped through the room. My limbs stretched toward that mass, distorted, though I felt no pain. Like watching a black hole. There was nothing, except everything – noise, trees, buildings, people, beings of mangled limbs – so basically, nothing. Grasping Kiyotaka’s hand tightly in mine, I impatiently waited for this acid trip to finish. 

If only I knew that, despite everything, my actions would be futile in the end. No matter how much I would attempt to save the others around me. No matter how much I would try to escape my destiny of pain and misfortune, my future would forever be inevitable.

–

I don’t know when my crush began. Obviously, at first, Ayanokouji Kiyotaka was that mild-mannered, “gloomy”-bastard-in-the-corner, nonchalant classmate who happened to have won the genetic lottery, being not only incredibly –dare I say– (VERY FUCKING HOT!) handsome, but healthy. By healthy, I mean, healthier than 99.99…9% of the world population, sporting a twelve-pack with lean muscle having colonized every single square inch of his body. And he was so humble too!

Then again, I had my own on-goings. I wasn’t so naive to ignore the lustful and possessive gazes of many of the Class D girls; they were sharp, and would probably pierce through my skin like compass stabs, if physically manifested. There was Karuizawa Kei who needed my protection, and I just couldn’t say no. (Why would I so selfishly pursue my own love life when there was someone in need, someone who was stuck in such a precarious situation?) I did my best to act; sadly even then, I would pretend that the dainty hand, delicately manicured nails gleaming brightly in pink polish, the one I had to hold day in and day out, was without decorum; one that despite its plainness, held insurmountable strength and the agility of someone who had mastered piano and calligraphy. 

Finally, it was when Yamauchi got expelled, when I isolated myself from everyone, when he brightened my skies – when my feelings became undeniable. Before, I could say that it was just a faint delusion, just that I wasn’t truly in love with the girl who was my “girlfriend”. Now I uncovered a layer the enigmatic, stoic boy kept hidden, his darkness swirling around my own, almost providing understanding and kinship to my own past traumas as our little spectral figures, little Dark Passengers, fucked one another. He knew. He saw me; I saw him. He understood. But I also understood that he wasn’t into men. 

So I watched as he began dating Karuizawa Kei, Ichinose Honami shortly after, even taming the ever-prickly Horikita Suzune in the process. Somehow, Sakayanagi Arisu and Shiina Hiyori got into the action. His little harem set up a tent during the second year island exam, and everyone could feel the miniature earthquakes generated from his sheer humping power; their chorus of moans echoed even greater, magnifying the solitude and virginity of 99% of the ANHS male population as they could only sigh in defeat, being forced to hear the unholy act done without stopping. Apparently, Yagami Takuya, a mysterious student attempting to kill Kiyotaka, was so traumatized by their orchestrations that he had run away and exposed himself to the whole wide world. 

So here I am now. Here’s hoping nothing screws up. And that I don’t jinx myself. 

//okayyyy the plot actually starts rolling now; it’s gonna tumble pretty fast actually!

II. THEN | 1994

The darkness faded. Immediately the sensation was that I was, in fact, very cold, so cold that I was freezing; it hurts so much that it’s as if I’d been slapped across the asscheek. There’s some kind of smooth, jazzy music playing from speakers behind me. The atmosphere was dark, grey, sticky, sharp. Is that sake I smell?

Suddenly, I was aware that I was completely naked, somehow having dropped from the ceiling and onto a luckily-empty portion of a bar counter. Kiyotaka, too, was suffering a similar situation beside me. There was a man and woman staring, not completely inebriated, though they’re both holding shots of some kind of rose-colored liquor, crystal clear spherical ice drifting lazily. Aromatic. 

Then I looked closer at the man. The two were both in their twenties, probably fresh out of university or something, but that man’s brown hair and brown eyes, that strong jaw and unbridled sense of ambition behind his eyes. It’s almost– our eyes widened at once.

“What the hell..?” he murmured, slightly slurred. He attempted to observe Kiyotaka with a keen eye, though sobriety had not yet arrived to assist him in the endeavor. “Are you like my long-lost cousin or something…?”

Son. This quandary was so comical that I wanted to laugh, but my lungs were so out of air that I just stared like a naked salmon. There was just no way that Kiyotaka and I were getting out of this without royally fucking up the timeline, right? 

“So, not two months,” Kiyotaka mumbled underneath his breath, almost indecipherable beneath the cacophony of club music. Okay Captain Obvious, I would like to say to him. But it’s really not the time. Though his uncovered abs were a beautiful sight, filling me more than any six-pack of Modelo ever could– hold on, I need to stay focused!

“Uh,” I began floundering for any excuse. “I guess, I guess you two really look alike, eh? Like he said, you guys aren’t actually hidden relatives, right?”

“Who knows?” 

I almost slapped Kiyotaka on the cheek with how helpful his reply was. 

“I’m sorry?” the mysterious man who was probably Kiyotaka’s father laughed hazily. Thank God; it appeared he blanked out during our awkward back-and-forth. There were signs of tension in his hand, clutching his glass a little tightly, and also on his cheeks. I could not tell if it were a product of alcohol, or if there were… what the hell? “Wow… you look–”

The woman, along with the rest of the establishment, didn’t bother with the absurdity. Instead, Papataka’s crimson-haired partner drew him into an elaborate French strangle-kiss as they fell down onto the ground, fucking like two wrestling velociraptors, twirling and kicking as if they were Messi and Ronaldo.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kiyotaka said calmly, undoubtedly unbaffled. (Unflappable as ever, almost to a psychopathic degree, yet I respected his unbreakable resolve.) I could only nod in agreement. We were probably breaking multiple laws by being here.

We eventually stole clothes from two sleeping men sleeping outside the club (only after a little bit of deliberation, okay? We weren’t monsters after all). Glancing outside the window, the silhouette ANHS island loomed like an imposing fortress in the distance. It was a little jarring to see how different the whole place was, although to be expected. Not quite as many lights, none of the corner shops I was used to when walking along such streets in Tokyo, phantasmic laughter and the marionettes of familiar figures hopping, drifting through. Time erases all, how it does. 

Kiyotaka snatched a couple of wallets from pedestrians outside, explaining to me their identities in the future. One man, Takahashi Hito, would become an unremarkable factory worker in the future, having no family, no attachments, conducting pretty mediocre labor. Another – a woman who would spend the rest of her life addicted to drugs, moving from paycheck to paycheck, squandering each and every chance to get better. Ashes, nonentities to posterity.

“Don’t you think someone will notice?” I asked. “Like, I understand that they won’t be all that in the future, but what if this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back? What if this is what drives them to… use drastic measures?” The innocuous first question unleashed the flood of passionate others, seeping out of my lips in rapid succession. “What if they die because of us? What if they get lucky and win the lottery, and, I dunno, turn their life around? What if those funds are what will lead to a cure for cancer in the future?” By the end, I was out of breath, exhausted – why would I not be? – and ashamed. Was I being too nervous? Was I only bringing him down by coming here? 

No. The answer is no. And yet, laughingly, solemn and mirthless as I do it, I wish it were the opposite. 

Kiyotaka is unbothered. “Nah. It’s only a couple of yen.” Point proven – it’s over; I suck. The nonchalant way he’s always struck things down; not that he’s sanctimonious or anything, it’s his unduly candor; has had me on edge. Despite this, my overwrought and infatuative feelings for him remained. 

My tall, gorgeous companion wrapped a chilly arm around my shoulder as we walked through the damp streets. The concrete was cracked as ever. Maybe some things would never change; never will, not that it could. Water caressed my naked little grippers; his hand groped at my chest, covered only by a thin T-Shirt. 

“Listen,” he sighed, “I’m sorry for being insensitive… it’s not my strong suit. There are many theories on the nature of time travel; I understand that the severity of the so-called ‘butterfly effect’ is one that is quite widespread, and I want to respect your anxieties; however, given our current circumstances, we have no choice but to scavenge for resources. I assure you that I’m doing my best to limit our interference.”

“No, I–” It appeared that his time spent surrounded by emotional, heartfelt women had softened his heart. Where was the daunting, sigma bad boy who stood dominantly above me when I was down? “I’m sorry for being so irrational; I just–”

It was apparent that both ran out of tokens, so pats on the back would have to suffice. Admittedly, a scenario like in any other situation would have become a dream-come-true for me, accepted tepidly (and shortly after – embraced enthusiastically). Though this could do. I kept quiet and followed his steps through myriad alleyways.

“Have you ever heard of the Many-Worlds interpretation of the world?” Kiyotaka asked after minutes of silence.

“No. Well, I do know that it’s to do with quantum mechanics, but not much else.”

“Mm-hmm. Well, I’m sure everyone knows about Shrödinger’s cat, and shortly afterward in the 1950s, Hugh Everett’s MWI in relation to the Universe. Everett believed that, for each and every action taking place in our world, the universe would split – the parallel universes would be identical up to that point, however different only in the execution of that action. Perhaps we aren’t truly in our original reality. Perhaps, in that timeline, we were never able to travel back in time. Yet now we are. In this potentially new world, our actions were destined to occur.”

The faint idea that the world was not exactly the same sent chills down my spine. Already, there were possibly millions of people, suffering the same ills and issues as I was, identical to my character existing in a single world. And now, at the prospect of infinite parallel worlds, where did I stand?

“You think this is what’s going on?” I asked, jittery. But why should this be?

“Perchance, though there is no guarantee. I’ll take no chances though. Chaos Theory would still be in effect, and I would like our futures to be as similar as possible.” He ended that statement no-doubt daydreaming of his lovely harem.

“Yeah.”

“Or,” Kiyotaka stilled, voice drifting off, his countenance became one of deliberation, “we could attempt to travel back to our original universe, if we are lucky enough. As long as the Horikita bloodline remains, we could be–” The thought was cut off with a sigh and he shook his head. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Travelling back twenty years instead of two months is a horrid calculation, unless…”

“Mmm?” I prodded him to continue.

“Unless we were sent back here, to this date, on purpose. Surely, as a super-genius, I wouldn’t have miscalculated so much without outside interference.” I would call him naively arrogant, but he did make an actual time-machine or universe-travelling machine, so the remark got thrown into the wastebasket. 

For now, the both of us agreed to minimize interference. No saving too many people, because they could all potentially become Hitler and the universe didn’t need that. No injuring or ruining (too many) people’s lives, because they could be the next Bohr or Einstein. 

Whoever interfered with a person of note would have to buy the other a beer. Not the worst bet in the world, or even one proposed between Kiyotaka and I; the warmth remained and I could only shrug.

–

After a few weeks of hunkering down in an abandoned construction site, I was beginning to grow restless. Kiyotaka would disappear for a few hours –searching for his future mother, he said– sometimes bringing back food and more clothes; other times he would scavenge the streets for negligible scrap metal to build a new time machine. He didn’t lock me in the crooked, half-built structure per se; I did; but the claustrophobia and anxieties of messing everything up again stayed with me in my nightmares.

One day, I got up and left. Putting on the most respectable set of (stolen) clothes, so as to make me less homeless, I strolled down the street. The sun was high, its light slapping me like an abusive father; people, young and old, roamed the sidewalks. Some sat to eat their bento while others went to catch the subway. 

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Surely, this was–

It was him. Kiyopapa. His curtain bangs were far neater and more deliberate than his son’s, his jaw and eyes sharper. A tension brewed beneath my hips. Shit. 

“...hi…” I said hesitantly, forcing the word out despite my internal protests.

He simply smiled. “So you weren’t a weird, drunken figment of my imagination after all.”

“I’m very much real, I’m afraid.” I made a show of touching my chest to show the moving of my shirt’s fabric. The greyish cotton was covered in a thick layer of dust and I soon regretted my actions. Surely, I could find an excuse to leave this conversation. “Sorry, but I–”

“So,” Papakouji tilted his head, as if I had never said anything at all, “how did you do it?”

I stilled. It? ‘It’ was such a vague word. How did you travel back in the past? How did you get away with robbing all of those people? What? My shoulders argued that I ought to freeze in place while my legs yearned for movement. What an utterly hilarious predicament. 

Given my silence, the man added, “The day after, there were two large holes on the roof of that bar; but even now, no one knows how they suddenly came to be. So, how did you two get away with it?”

What the…?

“Oh! I… uh…” I looked away, hoping to hide the confusion and utter panic seeping through my features. How the hell was I supposed to explain that? Hell, I didn’t even know Kiyotaka and I had done anything! “I…” I could feel the gaze on my face intensify with each passing moment. “I actually don’t remember too well. Drunk as fuck that night.”

The man chuckled again and I laughed along with him, though there was a decent chance that he didn’t believe me at all. “Must’ve been some strong alcohol.”

“Yeah. I had the worst hangover.” Then I did my best to wince, as if reminiscing. Wasn’t too hard given the current situation. 

“Do you work around here?”

“I-uh, am actually a student,” I stammered.

“Nice. Which college?”

“Online.”

“Which major?”

“Psychology.”

“Mmm.”

Could this man just leave already? Why was he even doing this? I looked at my pretend-watch for a moment before looking apologetically into his eyes. “Sorry, I just remembered that I need to return some CDs, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, no! That’s certainly alright,” he replied. “Sorry for taking up so much of your time. For small talk.” Finally, a thin coat of embarrassment colored his cheeks. “I really shouldn’t have–”

“No, you’re fine. I was just– was just stunned that you even remembered my existence at all, given we’ve only met for, like, thirty seconds before.”

Kiyopapa looked baffled. “Seriously? When two incredibly–” The crimson color crimsoned. “–conventionally attractive naked men fall from the ceiling of your bar without anyone else batting an eye, you’d think it would be something to remember for the rest of your life, don’t you think?”

“Ah… yeah,” I replied sheepishly. 

“Anyway, it was nice talking to you…?”

“Hirata Yousuke.”

“Ayanokouji Atsuomi.” We shook hands. The man walked off, a wrinkle yet to ruin his suit.

–

A low whistle broke my hazy concentration. Did I really just give my name to that guy? The man with a tenuous relationship with the boy I loved? Perhaps he had yet to become the monster that Kiyotaka knew, or he was putting on a front to lure me into some shady business. I had no idea. But none of that mattered – I was careless. Turning around, I flinched when I saw Kiyotaka standing in the shadows of the road intersection.

“Were you listening to our conversation?” I cringed. 

“I was. And, before you say anything, I’m not mad. It just so happened that I returned early from my search today. You’re getting me a beer, though, right?”

The bet was still fresh in my mind. “Yep.” I sighed. “I just want to apologize again–”

“Nope, none of that anymore. I already said that I don’t particularly care.”

“But–”

“The conversation was quite useful, actually. It would be nice if you could encounter him again. The man has taken quite an… interest in both of our existences already.”

Kiyotaka turned around, the signal that I ought to follow him back to base. The ubiquitous dampness of the night was nowhere to be found. Our steps were short. Our newfound shoes were a welcome addition to my little collection of possessions. 

Looking at my friend’s emotionless face, I was abruptly struck with just how unbothered he appeared. He cared so much about his father’s character that he’d traveled back in time to study him. Yet he had done utterly nothing to further his goals, burdened so heavily by the will to find his mother. 

“I don’t understand.”

Kiyotaka kicked idly at an aluminum can. It scraped horridly against the sidewalk. “The nature of my relationship with my father?”

“I suppose. Obviously, you’ve told me before how distant he’s been.”

The boy swallowed. “Our relationship is… complicated.” As is any relationship, I griped within my head. Kiyotaka surely wouldn’t take kindly to that so I remained mute. “I can tell there is a level of… attention he gives me. He has lofty expectations for me, expecting me to be able to dodge bullets and bend metal effortlessly with my hands. But he’s absent all the time. Has been for the entirety of my life; why does he regret everything in the end?”

“A change of heart?”

“A change of heart.” Those words were all but spat out. At least in my own opinion; it was difficult to gauge Kiyotaka’s emotions. “A change of heart when he has remained steadfast and stubborn for the majority of his life.”

“Maybe a time traveler made him regret his actions,” I said jokingly.

“Eh,” Kiyotaka shrugged. “If you knew what he was doing, then you would know how preposterous a ‘redemption’ for him would be.”

“Then tell me what he did.” Just like how you opened me up, forced me to look upon my trauma to let it go; reason through it with your cold, cynical logic – I wanted to say. But he was irrevocably changed, I knew, by the girls he loved.

My companion stared off into the distance. “Eventually, maybe.” Suddenly, his tone shifted higher as he looked me straight in the eye, “What do you think of my father so far?”

“I– right now?” I stuttered. Kiyotaka nodded. “Well, I think he’s an alright guy. Kind of pushy though... Is this a test or something?”

“No. Nothing of the sort.”

With that curt statement, the conversation died. Kiyotaka was an odd fellow. A charming, very handsome, scrumptious, brilliant, odd fellow. Ruminating about his abs for a short moment, my inner monologue returned to the absurdity that was the abs’ owner. It was clear that he had some semblance of care, however I wouldn’t be able to deduce how reasonable the amount was unless I uncovered more of his past. Perhaps it would allow me to empathize with his perplexing, somewhat annoying, actions as of late. 

From the darkness in his pupils, it was clear he had suffered an exorbitant amount of hardship. From neglect? Worse than neglect, certainly. Rape? Hopefully not. 

Then, I realized that I had walked past our little hideout. I was alone.

–

“Why didn’t you tap me on the shoulder or something?!”

“I thought you were heading to get me my beer. God knows I need one.”

–

Throughout the course of several more weeks, I “stumbled” into Ayanokouji Atsuomi several times. Within those times, I accepted his invites to eat or hang out, at Kiyotaka’s insistence of course. (Really, Kiyotaka, is this part of some wide-reaching machination, or are you just too pussy to take my place?) We would then talk more about our daily lives. 

It was hilarious to find out that we were both lying. Through Kiyotaka’s stalking, Atsuomi was revealed to be a political servant to Naoe, opponent to future Prime Minister Kijima. He would seduce, beg, grovel, or pull a perfect dogeza in front of his opponents in order for them to do his bidding. While we chatted, he said that he was part of the local government. I made up the story that I was a poor orphaned man who self-studied at the local library and online. Neither of us questioned the others’ shoddy stories. 

What was truly intriguing, though, was the stories of his love life. He had been trying to find his one-and-only-ever since high school. (At least his parents wanted him to.) He’d dated a feral brunette who became too clingy his second year, then a pink-haired girl who had too many self-esteem issues so he just dumped her. Eventually, his parents set him up with a blonde-haired girl, Karuizawa, who stayed with Atsuomi the longest – two years – before they got into arguments. He’d left because it became a “toxic, loveless relationship”; his parents disowned him shortly after. 

Hagakure, the red-haired girl at the bar, was his fifth relationship since then. Though something was always missing, no matter how perfect the girl. I could relate an awful lot to that. 

Whenever I glimpsed Kiyotaka in the background, whether he was perusing a menu or someone who was a tireless flirt to the workers there, I began to blush. What the hell was he thinking? What the hell was I thinking when I supported his time machine scheme? But I wanted to make him happy, and we were stuck together anyway; no use in antagonizing the one real friend I have. 

On the seventh or eighth encounter with Atsuomi, we went to Sakura Dikusu – a comfy bar tucked at the edge of downtown Tokyo. Kiyotaka forged my ID. This wouldn’t be my first tango with alcohol, but I was very concerned with how unbothered the people were with letting a clearly-underage male sit at the bar and order drinks. 

“I would like a Haku Lychee Martini,” Atsuomi said to the bartender, who was currently smoking and vaping simultaneously. The bartender then nodded toward me.

“I would like a uh– a Dikusu-Kura Especial?” I spluttered. Another nod. 

The older man waited for the tattooed lady to busy herself before turning to me. Our routine meetings had led to relaxed creases of familiarity upon his face. Smiling slightly, he asked, “How’s life been?” 

Whenever he did this, all I can think about is how Kiyotaka could have been like this. Was his numbness a result of Atsuomi’s actions then? Kiyotaka’s smiles were beautiful, one-of-a-kind, yet only a facsimile of true, unadulterated happiness. 

Clearing my throat, I replied, “It’s been, alright. A few mishaps and issues with the latest unit, but overall okay. How about you?”

“Yeah. Same,” he chuckled. Knowing of his recent (successful) attempts to seduce the Democratic president, Bill Clinton, the words are given greater meaning. A sudden roar breaks our little domain and we both glance to our right. “Which team do you think is going to win?”

“Brazil, obviously.”

“How much are you willing to bet?”

“Oh come on,” I scoffed, though without venom, “why does everything need to be a bet?”

The man bellowed. Oh, how I wish Kiyotaka could laugh like that. “Bets make things fun.”

As if one cue, the drinks we’d ordered earlier were slammed unceremoniously onto the lacquered wood. The unblemished sphere of an ice cube was a delight, yet given the size of it… how much alcohol was actually in the glass? I almost felt ripped off. This so-called “especial” drink was quite expensive; I’m sure the hapless chap I stole the money from would want to fist me if they saw what I purchased. 

The rambunctious crowd booed when Italy scored a goal. I was inclined to join in. Taking a sip of my opaque liquor, I felt a warm burn sprint down my throat. Like hand sanitizer, it scorched my insides, though the faintest aftertaste of peace was left behind. Atsuomi, too, sipped in. 

“Hirata-kun.”

“Mmm???” God, I was a lightweight. Was Kiyotaka one of the bartenders? No way. No way. He wouldn’t be chugging vodka like that. He wouldn’t.

The alcohol was giving my mind something of a massage as conversation spilled out of my mouth. Atsuomi’s words bounced like bounces against my ears.

“Are you gonna watch Forrest Gump when it comes out?” he asked, voice smoother than the table. Oh how I wanted someone like him to spill everything down my parched throat. 

“Dump?,” I laughed. “Oh yeah.”

“Ar yo gon to wotch Shawshck Red when?”

“Ye.”

“Ar o gna wh Fr wh t o?”

“D? H ye.”

“000101011110 Etu?”

“H ye Al dk e 0011010.”

Yeah, that was how the conversation went, if transcribed into words. The intense aroma of our cocktails floated stickily around us. I felt happy, still sharp, but my body was no longer at my behest. Slowly, tranquilly, our heads began to tilt. Who thought of building such structures atop our necks anyway?! Give them a break! Give them scaffolding or give me bread!

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

The Titanic has hit the iceberg. Oh. No.

Just like that, our noses collided.

Immediately, a flash of anger churned through me, burning through the alcohol content within my blood. How dare this man touch me like this! Then shame cooled me down. Atsuomi was none the wiser about my devious lying. 

“Oh dear, I must–” It seemed that the collision woke him up too. He stood up to bow ninety-degrees, and like Kiyotaka had described – it was absolutely perfect, down to each and every minute detail. “I must apologize!”

“No, it’s–” Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was our proximity. Or Atsuomi’s face. But the realization hit me like a four-hundred tonne wrecking ball.

“You’re gay…” I breathed.

The man’s face went pale with horror. “What the fuck?! I’m not a f**. I assure you, I’m not! How dare you!”

Bitterness churned within me. Of course; this was the 1990s, not yet as progressive as the future. Why wouldn’t he be ashamed? The present, his vaguely formed past; everything was fitting into place. Desperately, I aimed to rectify my blunt statement. 

“You like men, so what? That doesn’t make you a f**!”

His anger only compounded. “That’s the literal definition of the word!!”

“Well I don’t care about your sexual preferences!”

The conversations, shouts, and sex from the bar assaulted the both of us with full force. For a single moment, Atsuomi almost considered my statement, his eyes still hazy but thoughtful. It didn’t last long. His features twisted again.

“Bullshit!”

“Well…” Comforting grown men felt far more different (and difficult) compared to comforting teenagers who worshipped me. Especially given my wasted internal system at the moment. “Well…” I stammered, calling out to the heavens to give me an adequate rebuttal. “Well… I don’t care! Maybe you think I do, because, whatever, but I truly don’t!”

The twenty-something, drunken man laughed bitterly. 

“I like males too, okay?” I conceded. “You-” Where the hell was Kiyotaka? He’d better not hear this. “Y-y-you recall the other naked guy that other night, right?” A blush blitzkrieged through my cheeks. “I love him, okay? I am fucking in love with him!” The man remained silent. “See?” My hands flew wildly, as if I could command his opinion with my grandiose gestures. “I don’t care. The people who do should fucking die!”

“So you do,” he said quietly. He was oddly domestic about it. 

“I do.”

The intimate moment lasted only briefly. We both screamed our lungs out when Brazil inevitably scored again. Lost in the haze of a drunken hour, I could only hope that my future self wouldn’t regret these reckless actions. 

My head began to hurt. Fuck, why did I admit it out loud? Why, why, why?

–

“Hey Hirata-kun? Can I call you Yousuke?”

“Sure, Atsuomi.”

“I would like to say that…” He licked his lips, fiddling uncharacteristically with his fingers. His suit and overall state looked worse for wear. Eyebags heavier than usual; cuffs more wrinkled; hair amess, wrecked ostensibly by a tornado. “Thank you.” A ‘thank-you’ to the highest level.

Oh. Now there was no doubt he was going to discuss that. My declarations to him had affected him far greater than I could have imagined, though it wasn’t a horrible thing; when wielding this context, everything about his demeanor made sense: he was bursting at the seams. He needed to let it all out before he could convince himself that he wasn’t. 

I waited silently for him to gather his courage. We were insignificant first-time visitors at a corner cafe. People chatting, students scribbling, the sun screaming. Really, there was nobody else who could give a fuck about us. But the them would always matter. And once Atsuomi opened his mouth, there would be no going back.

“You were right,” he said. “I-I… think it makes sense. I apologize for, what happened.”

“No problem.”

The server arrived with our drinks. Taking advantage of the upset, Atsuomi began chugging his like no tomorrow. Surely his tongue and throat were suffering severe burns. 

The cup was placed onto the table with a heady thump. “Yousuke?”

I paused my own sipping, looking directly into his eyes, humming to let him know I heard him. He blushed a little, looking so childlike and so much like Kiyotaka that I had to remind myself how uncouth our relationship truly was. “You were right,” he said again. “But, how were you able to discover that you were… like this?”

“Well… it happened in high school when I met, him, you know who he is. He charmed me then and there, and suddenly, things were too obvious to be ignored. My family, fortunately, was accommodating toward my circumstances.”

“I can’t believe that you’re so… carefree,” he said wistfully. 

Because we were from different times, and it should’ve stayed that way. Fucking hell…

But I held his hand. “Feeling different is honestly quite relatable. I was also… a little ashamed of myself when I first realized. Except, gradually, I realized that nothing about me was truly changed. I was still the optimist of the friend group, someone who was eager to get things done. In the end, I’d only discovered something that could unlock my happiness, y’know?”

“Mm.” 

His shoulders dropped slightly. The ghost of a smile was on his lips. My mind was quick to weave the disjointed fabrics of his past together. Atsuomi would no longer be pressured to pursue fruitless relationships; he would eventually realize the toxicity of his parents. In my fantasy, maybe he would find a man in the future. Perhaps further his political career, or something.

“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite you to a party,” he said, gentle voice breaking through my thoughts.

I almost choked on my coffee. Since when did we become such close friends? I mean, I would be much more comfortable if Atsuomi were a couple younger than he currently was. Kiyotaka said our closeness was a good thing, so he could collect more data or some shit. Damn, this was weird. 

“I would, uhm…” What would Kiyotaka want me to do? “I would be happy to attend. However, would it be possible if I could also… uhm… bring someone with me?” I grimaced at the end.

The young man sitting across from men gave me a knowing smile. “Sure. I’ll tell the organizers about him.”

When Atsuomi made his way hastily out of the café, mentioning a pressing meeting with superiors, I waited for Kiyotaka to approach my table. From the corner of my eye during the previous hangout, I saw him look through the newspaper while digging at a tri-layered Tiramisu. Surely, he would have winced with all the sensitive topics being discussed, but he didn’t. Boy was I nervous.

The waitress came back with the receipt just before Kiyotaka reached my side. He was going to holler out at me as if we were long-lost childhood friends. Then I would laugh, reference the 2001 Space Odyssey movie or something, and take his hand. Sometimes I wish it was real, that the two of us weren’t fooling around, potentially messing up the timeline, and that Kiyotaka was actually gay. 

“One hell of a conversation, wasn’t it?” he noted casually as we exited the café, bells jingling. Despite Kiyotaka’s previous reassurances, a familiar sense of unease crept up my neck.

I nodded meekly, then said, “Our relationship progressed way faster than I expected… That’s not a bad thing, right?”

“The contrary, actually.”

Another vague answer; I could only sigh. “Listen, Kiyotaka–” My hands balled into fists instinctively. “I still don’t understand what’s going on with you. I don’t mean to be invasive or anything, but if you want me to go around and dazzle-up your dad, you’ve got to give something.” An exhale, though I continued quickly before I could be interrupted, “I get that you must feel awkward talking to your dad, that your relationship is strained beyond strained. But the issue is between you and him. Not me.”

Kiyotaka scanned his periphery – some young adults smoking in the corner, some old lady walking her dog. “I–”

“Please just tell me the truth.”

For the second or third time in my life, I found the insurmountable boy sagging. He glanced to the left, then back to the right, then back to the left, huffing, coming to a slow equilibrium. “Okay. Nevertheless, could you describe my father to me one last time?”

“Kiyotaka– seriously – no. I won’t do it before you tell me.”

He simply pouted, slowing down his steps. Was he trying to contain my outburst by prolonging our segue in the public eye? God, he was so childish. Did he learn the tactic from Ichinose? 

Seeing my frustration, he simply said “Sorry.”

I kept my facade of complacency; we were in public and I didn’t want to make a scene after all, but– who did Kiyotaka think I was? Some kind of tool? Some kind of loyal, dumbass Husky who would follow orders without question as he hid in the closets, watching his dad fuck his way through the Sangiin? Was I obligated to comply simply because he saved me from the darkness once?

A relationship goes both ways. I deserved to know more.

“You,” I said, a snarly undertone betraying my faux calm. Another deep breath was needed. “You appear as someone so far detached from emotion that it ceases to show on your face. Maybe you yourself believe that you’re incapable of truly feeling. That you don’t feel anything about your father except ‘curiosity’, whatever the fuck that means.”

“I don’t,” he said dully.

“You fucking dumbass! Everybody knows that’s bullshit!” At that moment, I truly didn’t care about anyone watching. Consequences be damned – I had to get through to this idiot! I stamped my foot on the ground, cracking it, fractures snaking and branching like a lightning strike. The nearby wall, grazed by my passing elbow, attained a matching scar. 

Kiyotaka locked his jaw, previous quanta of emotion erased from his face. 

“What?!” I screamed again. “Aren’t you some kind of genius?!” Where was that eloquent, no-nonsense Kiyotaka from that fateful day? “Since when did you become this– this tsundere, emotionally-underbaked, mother-seeking motherfucker?!” My vocal chords roared at the friction. “Too much of a scaredy-cat that you set me up as a proxy between your father?”

“You’re wrong.”

“Oh yeah?! Then tell me where I’m wrong! Is that too fucking much to ask?!”

The boy shook his head, curtain bangs swaying in the wind. But they were getting slick and shiny now from weeks without showering. “You’re not in the right state of mind, Hirata.”

“And whose fault is that?” I bit back.

Our homely, rundown building peeked through the fog. And suddenly, I was so fucking exhausted. With Kiyotaka… and myself. Why the hell did things turn out this way? Kiyotaka was walking silently beside me now, unwilling to extend the conversation or to reason. And he was… unaffected. (Appeared to be.)

Breath in. Breath out. Up. Down. Sorrow encroached upon my previous fatigue and my cheeks flushed. My crush on Kiyotaka, I’d realized, had led me to become some kind of devoted slave. I only saw him as that idealized, bad-ass figure who could effortlessly talk people out of trouble; an infallible mastermind who could do no wrong. Now, when he was acting human, I got angry; angry because he couldn’t see me as such. God, I was a hypocrite.

“I’m sorry,” I finally said, breaking the silence.

He nodded. “I had always been meaning to tell you more. Sorry for making things so difficult. But, your assessment of my father remains largely unchanged, correct?”

Whatever bile arose was overpowered by the pressing, overwhelming shame within me. “Yes.”

The broken, rusted door to our new home was giving its salutation a couple hundred meters ahead of us. By now, there was no one around except the occasional nonentity and drug addict. “Then,” Kiyotaka said, voice measured, “let me begin my– largely upsetting tale.” 

He turned to me. “Have you ever heard of the White Room?”

–

Kiyotaka’s voice was steady as he recounted his past. He went on to detail the combat regimen, his old acquaintance, Yuki, who had been locked away in a mental institution since her expulsion. There was yet another slew of anecdotes on the suicide attempts and the abuse. His isolation, the brief encounters with his father, the numbness. 

“–Fortunately, it had to shut down for a year, in 2014, and…”

“You sought refuge in ANHS.”

The fork I had been holding in my hand was a scrunched-up ball of metal by the time Kiyotaka finished. 

I was cold. Cold, burning cold. Like my body had been tossed into the depths of Hell, then dragged back, drowned in a vat of freezing water. For a staggering, pregnant moment, I felt my face cracking. Tears, cold tears.

“I’m–” My voice was raw. It was loud, tearing apart the tasteful, delicate silence that ought to have been in place. But like an idiot I couldn’t help myself. “I… get it. And I’m sorry.”

“Is that your favorite word? ‘Sorry’?” My head was down, and even if it wasn’t, my vision would have been clouded by my tears. They sat like iridescent pearls upon my lower lashes, warping the shadows of the floor into waves. Though I didn’t need sight to know that Kiyotaka was smiling. Or attempting to.

“Aren’t you– aren’t you even fazed, a little bit, by anything you just told me?” I still felt contaminated by it; God, I really needed to go to a sentō. My eyes were probably a mess of anger and sadness as I said, “Kiyotaka… I’m sorry if my being cordial with your d- father hurt you in any way. Truly.”

“I honestly didn’t expect how much you would be able to affect him,” Kiyotaka said, shrugging. I mopped the greasy bangs out of my forehead and rubbed my eyes, ridding them of most of my tears. There he sat, there was a carpet now instead of the dirt, with another one of his microexpressions. This time a slight widening of his eyes. And a frown. “But, really, talking to him about his homosexuality was a stupid move.”

My chest tightened defensively. “Stupid? Being compassionate for another human being is stupid? You purposefully kept your father’s future sins close to your chest.” Probably so he could remove my bias, or something. Sighing bitterly, his reaction to the secret I held closely to my chest would forever be unknown to me. (Was he pretending I never said it? Or did he know all along?) Bitter ire stewed in my chest. I continued again. “While his repressed homosexuality cannot excuse his transgressions, you cannot, under the proper context, call me stupid. And, in the end, it revealed to me–” To us. “–so much more about him! He’s gotten far closer, far more comfortable since then! Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Kiyotaka nodded. If I didn’t know better, I would assume he had a penchant for riling people up. “While you indeed present valid points, you forget to consider another, far more important item: if my father truly breaks free, embraces homosexuality, what becomes of me?”

My chest lurches. It’s as if my heart had skipped a beat; I want to sprint forward yet am jolted back; choked. 

“You–” I tried to form an argument. “What– then what was the– our chat about the Many-Worlds Interpretation even about? How can we even confirm that we’re in the same universe? How do we know if– if this will actually destroy you? You’re… you’re still here despite everything. That has to–”

“All speculation. Some believe that, one day, we will develop quantum computers powerful enough to detect the faint disruptions, signalling an alternate universe. Yet there is no definitive, proven theory behind time travel. Would two versions of me be allowed to coexist at the same time? Do I only exist because I am currently committed to reverting my father back to his default habits? Who knows?”

“What-ifs take us nowhere,” I implored, swallowing, though I was already considering the potential dangers of what could be.

“You’re right. But would you hinge your entire existence on a series of simple what-ifs? If I’m incorrect, then the worst outcome would be a future akin to our previous timeline. However, if I’m correct, then…”

Silence.

“I reveal this to you today because I believe you deserve to know the motives behind my actions. You’ve done so much for me, both now and then. But know that I am resolute in my path.” He waited for me to nod, and despite its inevitable futility, I wanted still to change his mind. Just a little. Like a gust of wind against a bullet; what once could be a fatal wound would instead be impermanent. “Coincidentally, the day my father contacted you, I found the location of Mika – the woman who birthed me.”

I winced, measuring my words. “So… you’re attempting to justify locking her into an unfulfilling relationship? Or perhaps, artificially inseminating her?”

“They’re both what you’d categorize as horrible people. Ambition burns through my father stronger than any other desire – his greatest love. Greed flows through Mika just the same. Mika’s profession would never allow her pregnancy, nor would she; she would abort me thoughtlessly without the right compensation.”

‘A prostitute. She took the money and left. I didn’t learn of who she was until my father’s death. She left to fulfill her fantasies with a man named Kiyotaka.’

“I’m not asking you for much,” Kiyotaka continued. “You just need to stop hanging out with my father; I know how uncomfortable you get during your conversations with him.” Because you were listening. 

I wanted to scream at him, because even if he’s not actively pursuing anything, (he most certainly will in the future, my traitorous thoughts whispered) allowing something so wrong to happen, when he had complete power to prevent it, was wholly disgusting. 

But I understood. (Maybe he wanted me to understand. Maybe he framed his backstory in a deliberate way.) How could he think differently, when the need to survive was ingrained into him from his very birth? He needed to win; nothing else mattered. His father had decreed it. Fuck, why the fuck was the Ayanokouji bloodline so fucked up? 

“Are you alright?”

Kiyotaka was so selfish. And, what the hell was I doing here? I needed to comfort him, and yet, nothing I could think of would have the slightest chance of dissuading him. Nothing was good enough. Perhaps in a perfect universe, Kiyotaka wouldn’t have felt the need to travel back in time to get closure. (Curiosity my ass.) He would’ve been able to move on. Maybe his harem would’ve changed him.

As if reading my thoughts, the boy sighed. “Do you believe I’m a horrible human being?”

“No,” I answered immediately. “I–” Hesitation. I couldn’t classify Kiyotaka as a bad person. Not after what he did for me, not after seeing him spending time with his friends, his lovers. Was I being too much of a bleeding heart? The same with Atsuomi. Mika, if I was optimistic enough. All of them were capable of being good, or at least socially good, but somewhere along the way they would become irredeemable. Finally, I said, more firmly this time, “No. No, you aren’t.”

At least not yet.

“I’m not going to force anything at the party. We’ll have fun. Some free alcohol would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” I nodded. 

And, for the first noticeable time in my life, I found that I no longer loved Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.

–

A party on a luxury cruise should’ve been something out of a dream. Music was blasting so loudly on the upper deck that I could feel the vibrations within my ears and chest. Kiyotaka and I had scrounged together (stolen) two dress suits, of which we were currently wearing. My own suit, dark navy and slightly creased, had shoulders too broad and sleeves slightly too long. My similarly dark pants acted as mops-in-training as I paced back and forth across the lower deck.

Being together with Kiyotaka felt taboo. I wanted to run free, lose myself within the adrenaline and ecstasy of others, the spicy friction of bodies upon bodies vibing to song. Despite this, it felt dangerous to let Kiyotaka out of my sight. Sure, he said he wouldn’t do anything here, but– my gut knew. Any day, any moment now, he would begin whispering poison into that man’s ears; he would turn. But Atsuomi was already entangled in suspicious business by now. Who’s to say he wasn’t putting on a friendly facade for me? 

Shaking the headache away, I gripped the metal railing for support. Hopefully not denting it too severely. 

The stairs to the heart of the party were dark, steep, and ominous. Even the heart-pounding, high-intensity music was distorted into something desolate and terrifying. Okay Hirata, you can do this. Footsteps so quiet that I could only hear them if I deluded myself, I ascended, step by step. Until–

“““Happy Birthday Donald!”””

It was a declaration in English, though luckily I was proficient enough to understand what was being said. Who was Donald? And why were there Americans? Unless… politicians? Oomphf. Now I was really out of my depth. 

You need to keep an eye on Kiyotaka, remember? Idiot.

Speak of the devil and he would arrive. With a nonchalant pat on the back, I swivelled around to see the gorgeous, hollow face of my ‘plus-one’. He held out a flute of champagne and nodded toward the crowd of conspicuous foreigners. “That’s Trump. 怎么这么巧？I suppose we’re attending a belated birthday celebration of his,” he chuckled. After I took the offering from him, he used his freed hand to point toward a couple of middle-aged men fucking on the ground. “Clinton. Bush.” Then to two men chatting on the side. “Naoe. Epstein.”

Some of the names were vaguely familiar. Scanning the deck on my own, I spotted Atsuomi and a couple of men his age drinking and discussing cordially at the bar. Sparse groups of younger attendees were distributed throughout. Hardly anyone was dancing. Overall, this ‘party’ was an equal mix of old and young men, decorated with eager young women, who glowed and enchanted like oases amid a desert. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was soaked with alcohol.

The middle-aged orange man blew out his candles and then kissed his probably-wife.

“Are you going to drink that?” Kiyotaka’s voice snapped me back to the present.

I stared. Blinked. Blinked again. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but ask, “Were– are you being honest with me?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

The song changed into a rap track. Still, no one was dancing, or chanting. What a sad party. “Can you… dance with me?” Now that I wasn’t actively trying to see emotion in his face, there was no indication of change. The red, green, blue lights flickered and illuminated his jaw in aesthetic angles. “I get it if you don’t want to,” I amended quickly. 

He shrugged. “Sure.”

If we were stuck together, he wouldn’t be able to do anything. Yes; that was it. 

We each took a sip of the fizzy, exquisite alcohol, perhaps shipped directly from the French province itself, and placed our glassware onto a cluttered table. Edges blurred, my heart beat to the footsteps around me. Hand in calloused hand, they burned. (Were mine squeezing his? Were his squeezing mine?) My heavy feet rained onto the deck, a slow, half-remembered tango carving its path to promised treasure. But Kiyotaka had a different idea; his arms raged against my own and pulled and dragged like winds of the Southern Ocean. Astoundingly, we were equal in strength.

As we spun and wrestled, I was eternally grateful for the ebb in my visual capabilities; Kiyotaka’s face appeared no different to the faraway lights strung all over the cruise ship. I saw him smiling, eyes soft and full of warmth. I saw him whisk me away to a pub where younger, freer folk unleashed their spirits. Then I grew drowsy, spinning like an unwieldy animatronic. 

“Looks like you need rest.” A calm voice bloomed in my ear. It was a ticklish sensation. 

The battle of attrition was lost and I was set down onto a vacant bar stool.

“Hors d’oeuvres and unlimited soft serve!!” someone else was hollering in the deepest recesses of my consciousness. 

“Hors d’oeuvres and unlimited soft serve!!”

“Hors d’oeuvres and unlimited soft serve!!”

–

…

…

…

I awoke with a jolt.  Where? When? What– why?! My careless elbow knocked a glass or two down the bar table, shattering into beautiful fireworks of diamond and pearl colors. Not that anyone cared. Apparently, being a time-traveled entity gifted you the talent of being overlooked. 

“The soft-serve machine is truly a wonder!” some bartender or server said. “You ought to try it out!” His giggle was viscous and slurred, like waiting for honey to drip down. 

I clutched my head; it felt concussed, if the buzzing and distant pain was anything to go by. Then– “FUCK!” I screamed. Pain flared again from the back right side of my head. So, a migraine. Just perfect. “Did you– did you see a young guy with brown hair and curtain-bangs go anywhere?” I grabbed onto the man’s burly arms – which was an invasion of his private space but I couldn’t care less.

“Uhh… huhuh… no? I think you need to calm down, sir. All you politicians need to loosen up sometimes.”

I was afraid another glass or two was shattered as I made my way around the deck. The night was getting old; the sky pitch black and all nihilistic, seeking to drown everything, all sound all life all hopes for tomorrow. Gazing into the void, I found that my own solitude was screaming back at me. Because who else did I have? It was just me and Ki– Ayanokouji. And now, he was gone with the wind, doing whatever devilish things, rewriting the cycle of suffering he’d endured in his youth.

Was his being so intrinsically tied to the White Room that his existence couldn’t exist without it? Or was he so blinded by bitterness and bias that couldn’t conceive another way through? Absent-mindedly, I nursed another flute of champagne. 

The party was depressing; I’d lost anyway; so I left early. Down the damp alleyways into the darkness. Humming to myself a little song I’d been obsessed with in junior high, something born so far in the future (would I even recognize it now?) that it must’ve broken a cosmic rule in the universe playbook. 

Whatever.

I stumbled half-blindly, slamming into utility poles, yelling, crazed. So what if I was kind? So what if I did my best to improve someone else’s life?! To fucking hell with anyone else who wants me to do otherwise!

Fine, if that bastard wants to ruin his life, ruin the lives of so many fucking other kids, then so be it!

I don’t care.

I don’t care!

I don’t care!

I don’t care!

I kicked open the door to our abandoned hideout, full of the artificial confidence that came with a woozy head. But– there were no signs of life, no indication of any occupation – nothing. There was no carpet. None of the clothes we’d heartily scavenged for in the wider city. No makeshift toilet. Nothing. 

He was gone, disappeared as if he were always an illusion. 

III. AGAIN | 1997

POV: THIRD PERSON

“Did you find anything?” 

The gentle words came out like a plea, more of an exhale, the tone of someone who’d resigned themselves to disappoint. It had been a long time since the man had found anything of worth. He would sit in his apartment, having recently found a job to pay for it, and spend his money on drinks. Actually, he wasn’t all that weak to alcohol; why could he recall the times when he had been downed by a single drink? At first, he would vehemently deny malicious intervention; yet with each passing day, his feelings for his old ‘friend’ grew ever the more negative. 

“Did you find anything?” he would ask. Though not always. Some of the men he’d hired would end up mysteriously gone. Paid off, or perhaps killed off and rotting in the depths of forgotten, desolate nowheres. Even when they returned, there would be nothing of note. ‘No, I couldn’t find him.’ ‘Actually, a man told me he’d died recently in a car crash; I couldn’t confirm anything.’

This time, there truly was something. The man set two photos onto the glass coffee table. A little blurry, but honestly anything at all was a miracle. He squinted, making out three figures, dressed in fitted suits and luxurious suitcases in hand, in the process of descending the staircase from a private plane. Two of them were young, looking remarkably similar, as if they were twins. The third was older. Fuzzy silhouettes of three other conspirators were at the plane’s door. 

He swallowed. “Did you… did you know where they came from?”

“If my analysis was accurate, they just returned from Tel Aviv, sir.”

Finally, a lead after years of silence. Though he wasn’t sure if he was prepared to face his old friend– or ‘friends’. What in the world were they doing in Israel? A familiar wave of bile rushes up his body as he waved the investigator to leave.

Idiot! He was supposed to keep an eye on Kiyotaka; he was supposed to help a friend change his heart. But maybe it was inevitable; time-travel was shady business, maybe his efforts would keep being futile even if Kiyotaka was reigned in. He found himself laughing, solemn and mirthless, wishing that the opposite were true. And– and Atsuomi. Why did he have to feel such things?

He wasn’t supposed to. They were from different times, and it should’ve stayed that way. 

–

If only I knew that, despite everything, my actions would be futile in the end. No matter how much I would attempt to save the others around me. No matter how much I would try to escape my destiny of pain and misfortune, my future would forever be inevitable.

III. AGAIN | 1999

Ayanokouji Atsuomi found himself rereading a newspaper from months ago. 

||BREAKING: Unidentified Body Found In Shakuji River – Suspected To Be A Journalist||

There was speak of a man snooping too close, talking to expelled White Room subjects and connecting too many dots. Tsukishiro had sent an entire squadron of trained assassins to defeat the astoundingly mighty man. Dirty-blonde and muscled, the journalist was quite the difficult target. 

Why was he thinking of him now? Was it because the journalist’s name happened to be ‘Yousuke’?

How unfaithful he was, thinking of another man as his dear wife was giving birth in the room adjacent to him. Maybe in another reality, his filthy passions would have triumphed over ambition. Maybe he wouldn’t need to waste all that money breeding a child with a whore. (In the end, he knew he would prioritize political power over everything. There was no question. People didn’t want some kind of f***** contrarian; they’d only resist and repress his speech. Twist his words and slap a false label on his back. He refused to be chained.)

Now, his new child, Kiyotaka, would come into the world. The ideal, average child to be put into the White Room program. Atsuomi couldn’t help but sneer at that name in disgust. Kiyotaka, the mysterious man who appeared one day, cuddled up to Naoe on that cruise, implemented and blueprinted the White Room. They shared similar ideals, of course, but that wasn’t enough to scrape the slimy, rusty, metallic grime off of that young man’s being. And now, Kiyotaka, that mysterious host Mika had been infatuated with. The one she wished to name her newborn after.

Finally, the child. He already hated the boy. Irrationally so, nothing could ever be a fetus’ fault, not a hapless crying baby child. Regardless, Atsuomi felt the urge to alter the White Room curriculum for the Fourth Generation. Progress had been stagnating, and progressing so slowly would mean that nothing impressive would be produced until many years later. How far could the limits of humanity be stretched? 

Before long, the doctor opened the door. There was the cloying, high-pitched creaming of a child.

A thud. Atsuomi’s associate, Kiyotaka, had been approaching the room in a steady gait. However, suddenly, the younger man’s chest began to seize up; he crumpled to the floor with labored gasps. Medics rushed to his side, but it was too late. The man died, efficiently. Limbs limp, heart stopped. Like the purging of some kind of prohibited spirit. 

Atsuomi could only shake his head. A miniscule, petulant part of himself believed that in another universe, he would have never met this infuriating, unfeeling colleague. Where did everything go wrong? (The party. The Party.) But those thoughts were covered as quickly as they’d arrived. 

(In the future, Atsuomi would realise that they never truly went away.)

–

So I watched as he began dating Karuizawa Kei, Ichinose Honami shortly after, even taming the ever-prickly Horikita Suzune in the process. Somehow, Sakayanagi Arisu and Shiina Hiyori got into the action. His little harem set up a tent during the second year island exam, and everyone could feel the miniature earthquakes generated from his sheer humping power; their chorus of moans echoed even greater, magnifying the solitude and virginity of 99% of the ANHS male population as they could only sigh in defeat, being forced to hear the unholy act done without stopping. Apparently, Yagami Takuya, a mysterious student attempting to kill Kiyotaka, was so traumatized by their orchestrations that he had run away and exposed himself to the whole wide world. 

So here I am now. Here’s hoping nothing screws up. And that I don’t jinx myself.