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Purple bruises snaked up his arm, and if anyone asked him if he were alright, he would put on his happy, harmless facade, hide his wincing and sheepishly shoo them away. Anger was already threatening to burst out of him, causing his arms to shake, their murderous intent willed back by his mind, and he would plead – don’t see this, don’t see me for who I am.
After a while, when the initial abundance of curiosity, coddling, and care subsided, the boy was left alone. Mostly. The special exam was over. The luxurious facilities on Il Tramonto (what ignoramus chose this name?) were now open and free for use. Oh, did you hear about that massage parlour? Yes, yes, someone would reply saccharinely, I would loooooove to check it out! The water slides fucking rock!!! Ugh. He rubbed at his aching head. There was an upcoming meeting between class leaders, though he had no desire to attend anymore; he needed silence. Space, and silence.
Hiding his wince, he stood up from his position and headed toward a more secluded area. He leaned slightly against the ship railing, favoring his right leg. One step after another, lightly as possible, until he reached a brisk walking pace. A few more people asked if he was okay, to which he painstakingly smiled and denied everything. His scowl would re-emerge moments later in isolation.
Because nothing could physically hurt Yagami Takuya. Not anymore. Not when he’d laboured day and night, consumed in the process of pushing past his limits. His hatred made it worth it; pain meant nothing if he could just make them see – see that he was worth it, that he wasn’t just another failure drowned within the shadow of fucking Ayanokouji Kiyotaka. (Even thinking of its name made his gums bleed.) Superficial injuries, muscle strains, migraines; failure, anger, shame; they’d fused into the fabrics of his being for as long as he could remember. If only he could push a little harder… then it would all go away.
But no. His existence was cursed.
It had done it again. Given the advantage of having Shiba and Tsukishiro on his side, he should’ve won. But he didn’t. He didn’t. He didn’t. For that, his palm slammed right into the reinforced metal railing, receiving a distant, vibrating ache that blossomed into a red splotch.
Takuya sighed again. He had done everything right – manipulated the entire student body, carefully crafted the events that would lead to his confronting Ayanokouji, even smoothed out the wrinkles formed by Ichika – but in the end he’d let it all go. And he would be punished for it.
Sighing, he finally found a place to sit down in peace.
A while later, footsteps approached from behind; Takuya could already tell by their cadence (which was airy and sneaky like a fox’s) the person they belonged to. Stifling a groan and shaping his visage into one of indifference, he prepared to leave, though it was a singular moment’s hesitation that led him to be in the clutches of one vicious girl: Amasawa Ichika.
She leapt toward him like he was the prey being hunted, smile smug and self-confident like always. Careless and playful, like always. There was a hint of raspberry in her breath, haunting her lips, which made him wrinkle his nose. She was sent here for the sole purpose of bringing Ayanokouji back; and now she was squandering precious time, indulging herself like a pig?!
“Yaho~ What’s our master-brooder doing all alone?” she teased, smirking. A leading question, clear as day. She sat down on the same bench and scooched until her body was pressed up right against his own, and even dared to wrap an arm around his shoulder. Takuya didn’t hold back with his venomous gaze. (At least her positioning was purposeful, being considerate of his injuries.)
“What? Needed a break from masturbating to your ‘God’?” he spat.
Ichika only tilted her head and giggled, which made the urge to grit his teeth infinitely larger. “What’s gotten you in such a short fuse?”
He couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Why the hell was she even putting up this farce? Anyone could tell at a glimpse that the irregularity known as Amasawa Ichika was a direct, carefree girl. She would never hold back; that’d just be ‘inauthentic’. Now she was acting like he was a porcelain doll, dancing around the topic and letting the conversation simmer? With a sharp, efficient movement, Takuya removed the arm around his shoulder. “Maybe if you weren’t so distracted, you would know,” he sneered, eyes daring. She would know what they said.
The girl’s smile dimmed. “Alright. If you want me to put it bluntly – you should have known.” Oh, not this again. As if reading his microexpression, she quickly interjected, “You can’t deny it anymore. Ayanokouji Kiyotaka will always perform better than us.”
‘Ayanokouji Kiyotaka a year ago was far superior to you.’
‘Ayanokouji Kiyotaka a year ago was far superior to you.’
‘Ayanokouji Kiyotaka a year ago was far superior to you.’
“Yeah, yeah. ‘Cut from a different cloth’, I know.” Takuya couldn’t help but feel petulant in the vicinity of this damned girl. Coupled with his bruised ego, his irritance was a concoction to behold. “But to give up just because of that assertion? That’s so incredibly weak. You slack off, never reaching your complete potential simply because someone else is superior to you; instead of using challenges as a source for growth, you cave in.”
Ichika sighed – something she did so rarely. “I understand that you’re exhausted, but I never expected you to be so disingenuous.”
‘Ayanokouji Kiyotaka a year ago was far superior to you.’
Takuya rolled his eyes again. He couldn’t care less about the relevancy of his thesis, not when the instructors’ words were reverberating around his head. Then the infuriating scepter of its face appeared within his mindscape, devoid of all emotion; oh how he wanted to tear at it, imbed his nails, puncture that pale skin, and confirm for himself that the face was made of weak, porous human flesh. Would it even cry out? Could it even do that? Could it? Could it?
“Yagami, you’re making that smile again,” Ichika said, voice finally drained of all that magnified friskiness.
Suddenly, the boy felt the stiffness in his cheekbones and relaxed his face. His signature congenial grin was placed back on. He tilted his head in a demure manner as he replied, “Right. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s my fault for stating it in such a manner. But things are different now; I know you realize that.” Ichika said it so confidently, as if she weren’t still tied intrinsically to the White Room, forever under the watchful surveillance of its agents.
For years, perhaps since the reveal of Ayanokouji Kiyotaka’s existence, Ichika and he had been arguing back and forth and back and forth on their diverging mindsets. Takuya thought her foolish for calling it a God; Ichika thought him foolish for chasing after something ‘impossible’. Then the discussion became about philosophical ideologies and the meaning of their existences.
(He was confident that the girl only did well on the logic and rhetorical response units because of him. She refused to bend to the whims of the White Room, but would fight sleep to prove herself superior to him? Bah. Hypocrite, he thought giddily when that particular bout ended.)
“Why are you so desperate to assert your superiority over him? Why do you let yourself get riled up by the instructors’ words? Hurt yourself like that?” Ichika said to break the silence, seemingly reading his eyes. “They don’t care.”
“Daring words for someone who’ll surely be punished the moment she returns. I don’t need your pity, Amasawa,” he laughs despite himself. “We’re fundamentally different: you’re a hedonist, and I’m-“
“Chasing the ‘platonic conception’ of yourself.” The girl put up air quotes and faux-cringed. “I know.” Takuya could tell by her gaze how she too was brought back to all of their previous scuffles; her dirty yellow eyes drifted away from him on the bench, toward the horizon.
“We’re– you’re replaceable to them,” she finally spat.
Takuya didn’t like the visceral shriveling of something within his body. He eyed the cameras warily. Visual only, no audio. Anyone with a brain would understand what she was saying, however.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah. And you’re pathetic for falling for it,” Ichika jabbed back.
He rolled his eyes for the third time. “They’re probably moving you from ‘shock therapy’ to the isolation hall after this.”
The girl just shrugged, smirking a little; her playfulness returned. “And I’ll still be better than you. Why are you so annoyed about my trying raspberry desserts anyway? Punishing yourself for nothing at all; you’re so pathetic.” Ichika laughed again then left.
For a moment, Takuya was alone again, staring at the boundless sea; it was gleaming under the waning light. He turned away.
Maybe he would get himself some raspberry ice cream to prove Amasawa Ichika wrong.