Chapter IV - This Joke Isn't Funny Anymore (II)

The bell for lunch couldn't come soon enough. The classroom erupted into a frenzy of hungry teenagers when it finally rang. Desks were pushed together, bento boxes appeared, and chopsticks clattered against plastic. The scent of convenience store pan and homemade onigiri filled the air. I stood, gathering my things. I didn't have much of an appetite, but I needed air. And I needed to find her—Minazuki-san. The earbud still lay abandoned by her empty desk. I picked it up, surprising myself with the gesture.

Why did I care? Why should I notice what no one else had?

Because she saved me.

But she hadn't. Not really. A stranger's voice in the darkness had given me a moment's reprieve, nothing more nor less. The fact that the voice seemed to belong to the scarlet-haired delinquent who'd once broken Midou's wrist and given me a painful lesson on the consequences of trying to approach her... that was merely a coincidence. Irrelevant.

Wasn't it?

I slipped the earbud into my pocket and headed for the door. Midou's rancid laughter echoed behind me.

"—heard she sleeps with university guys for money. That's why she can afford those shoes~"

Laughter followed. His crew hung on his every word, basking in the reflected glory of his cruelty.

"Probably why she got kicked out of whatever fancy European school," he continued. "Bet she—"

I kept walking; I couldn’t help the guilt burning my throat. Not because I believed him. But because I was doing nothing to stop him. In my defense, neither was anyone else.

The hallway offered no relief. Students streamed past, some heading to the cafeteria, others to the courtyard. A few clustered at the shoe lockers, checking for love letters or challenges. Second-years ranked somewhere in the middle of Amane's unspoken hierarchy—above the wide-eyed first-years, below the college-bound third-years with their air of studied superiority.

I needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere I could breathe.

And I had a hunch where exactly she'd be.

***

I couldn't do it.

My thumb traced the earbud's smooth plastic curve. I imagined myself climbing the stairs to the roof, potentially finding her there with smoke curling from her lips with her eyes narrowing at the sight of me. What would I even say?

"I think you dropped this."

"I heard you singing."

"Your voice saved my life."

Such an act required bravery I didn't possess.

So I ran.

Unfortunately, I couldn't do so in a literal sense. Class reps don't sprint through hallways, even when their lungs feel like they're filling with concrete. I walked at a measured pace, nodding at teachers, sidestepping first-years, and maintaining the carefully constructed illusion that Kagami Shouma was a functional human being instead of a hollow shell wearing a school uniform. My feet carried me where they always did when reality became too heavy: the old wing, third floor, end of the hall—past the sign reading "Authorized Personnel Only," through the door with peeling paint, and into the one place at Amane Private Academy where I could exhale without counting seconds.

The Old Music Room.

Or, as the construction-paper sign on the door proclaimed in glittering characters:

"FOUR SYMBOLS CLUB — CHAMBER OF CELESTIAL HARMONY"

(And in smaller letters beneath: "Non-club members will be smitten by divine retribution ☆")

I slid the door open and stepped into chaos.

Party store streamers hung from the ceiling. There were a variety of them such as red, blue, white, and black, crossing in elaborate patterns like a spider's web designed by a mathematician on heroin. Posters randomly covered the walls. Some were constellations, others were mythological beasts, and I think one was from... an eroge? The only thing that seemed at least moderately well constructed was the desk formation, as desks had been pushed together to form a center "command table," covered with hand-drawn maps, figurines, and what appeared to be a half-eaten melon bread.

And in the middle of it all, standing on a chair with his arms outstretched like a conductor before an orchestra, was Nanahara Akise.

"Behold! The Genbu returns to his sacred ground! The Black Tortoise of the North graces us with his mighty presence!"

"...It's just me, Akise," I sighed, closing the door behind me.

He leapt from the chair with surprising grace, landing in a crouch before straightening into a theatrical bow. As usual, he had decorated his uniform blazer with pins ranging from dragons, crystals, and stars; his tie hung loosely around his neck like an afterthought.

"'Just me,' he says," Akise scoffed, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. "As if Kagami Shouma, bearer of the Shell of Wisdom, could ever be 'just' anything!"

Despite everything—the weight in my chest, the forms in my bag, the earbud burning a hole in my pocket—I felt my lips curve into something resembling a smile.

This was Akise's gift. He could pull smiles from the void like magicians pulled rabbits from hats.

Unlike me, he did it honestly, earnestly, and without sacrificing his value as a human being.

"What are you even doing?" I asked, dropping my bag beside the old upright piano that dominated one corner of the room. It was "functional" in the same way a rusted bicycle was "rideable."

"Preparing for our renaissance! After the tragic betrayal of our fallen members—"

"They graduated, dude. They didn't betray anything."

"—our glorious Four Symbols Club has been reduced to but two valiant souls!" He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "But fear not, for I have devised a strategy of such brilliance that new disciples shall flock to our banner!"

He pointed to a large poster board propped against the wall. It featured elaborate illustrations of four mythological creatures—a black tortoise, a white tiger, a vermilion bird, and an azure dragon—surrounding what appeared to be a magical circle filled with pseudo-Latin text.

"The Cultural Festival! Our moment of rebirth!"

I felt like I aged five years in five seconds.

"Akise, the Student Council has been on our asses about club activities since the inception of the club. They want it gon—"

"Let them try, and I'll have to unseal my [Right Hand of Amatsumikaboshi]!" Akise grinned, reaching into his bag and pulling out two bento boxes. He tossed one to me. "My mother made extra again. She worries you're not eating enough."

His mother had been "making extra" for years. We both knew it was deliberate; it was her way of feeding the too-thin boy whose own parent couldn't be bothered.

I accepted the bento with a nod of thanks.

"So, what's with the face?" Akise said, dropping into the chair across from me and breaking his chopsticks apart.

"What face?"

"That face." He pointed his chopsticks at me accusingly. "The one that says you've been calculating terminal velocities again."

I stiffened.

Sometimes I forgot how perceptive Akise was beneath all the theatrics.

After all, he'd been the one to find me after my first attempt two years ago back in the last year of junior high.

They were pills from my father's medicine cabinet, not enough to do real damage. He'd never told anyone, but he's watched me like a hawk ever since.

"I'm fine."

"And I'm the Crowned Emperor of the Seven Hells. Try again." He rolled his eyes.

I could only pick up a piece of omelet and chew silently. It was delicious, as always. I could never understand how his mother's food tasted so good. Was it some special spice? Some secret technique?

"Just... Arisato-senpai being Arisato-senpai. Class rep stuff."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what about the Italian Siren?"

I nearly choked. "The what?"

"Minazuki." Akise's eyes mischievously grinned. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed her, oh shell-bearer. I've seen you looking."

"I haven't been looking." A shitty lie.

"Sure, sure. And I haven't been working on the greatest light novel series of our generation. Speaking of which—" He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick stack of papers, thrusting them toward me. "Volume three, chapters five through eight. I need feedback by tomorrow."

"I haven't finished volume two yet!"

"Blasphemy! How can you sleep at night knowing Azrael's quest for the Seventh Runic Crystal hangs in narrative limbo? I'm wounded, Shou-chan! Emotionally devastated!"

"I've been busy."

"Too busy for literary genius? Next you'll tell me you're too busy for breathing. Or blinking."

He paused.

"Or living."

I met his gaze. 

There was an unspoken understanding there.