Self-improvement.
Self-improvement is a personal attack, a way to keep the struggling masses not only outside the circle of those who have "won" at life, of those who have a group of friends, a girlfriend, and jobs that are something more than endlessly pouring in work, sweat, and tears so that an uncaring boss can take the credit, but to make them feel guilty about it and have them throw time and money away needlessly. Are you bad at making friends? Maybe you should work on your self-esteem; here, take a self-help book titled 'How to get rich writing things gullible idiots will buy.' Are you frustrated at the endless drain of joy of your nine-to-five (plus extras)? How about taking a class when you finally manage to get out of the office with this wonderful life coach I've heard so much about? Do you feel unattractive? You should work out more; go get a gym membership, or buy some stupid dumbbells—they come in a moronic plastic suitcase!
This amounts to a multi-billion yen industry that revolves around everything going wrong in your life being your fault alone and no one else's, and that's something that can only be solved by expediently changing who you are. But where does that leave self-acceptance? Aren't we supposed to find and cherish our unique, true selves? Aren't we supposed to be happy with who we are rather than trying to fit into a mold? Then what if my true self is that of a couch potato only fit to endlessly vegetate with my videogames and light novels that are barely a step above actual porn? How can I reconcile my true self with what society tells us is self-improvement? I can't! I shouldn't! Just even thinking about it is a betrayal of my more deeply held values, one which will make the order of the cosmos itself reestablish its pillars by punishing my deviance from my intended path!
"Brother, stop thinking something cringy and answer the question."
See? Evidence!
"You are making Komachi angry. You wouldn't like Komachi when she is angry."
"That is a lie! Your big brother will always like Komachi, no matter whether she's angry, slightly miffed, or frustrated at still being single when she becomes an eighty-year-old pure maiden."
"…"
"I am going to guess that didn't earn me a lot of Hachiman points."
"Wow, how insightful. It's like you have more mental capacity than an amoeba. Keep it up, brother."
"Please forgive your older brother's exuberance, Komachi-sama; he's only worried you'll never meet someone worthy of your affections."
"And meanwhile I am just worried you will never meet someone who will put up with your affections. So. Who. Is. She."
Once again, I look at the traitorous dumbbells' suitcase, parked on the floor right beside Komachi's side of the couch, with as much resentment as I can gather (which is a lot—it is a skill honed through life-long practice, after all). Yes, it is because of you, and you alone, that my little sister is now subjecting me to an interrogation about my sex life.
Indeed, the drive to self-improvement can only end in divine punishment. Very petty, annoying, and humiliating divine punishment.
Hachiman Hikigaya, truly, you were ever closer to divinity than you realized.
"Stop running away into your dumb inner monologue and answer the question, brother, or Komachi is going to be very upset with you," she says, with a radiant smile that would be the envy of yanderes everywhere.
… Uh, I don't remember ever reading anything with a yandere little sister. Weird, those character archetypes seem to meld really well, what with the little sister's endless devotion to her brother masking the emptiness and void of her life whenever they are apart. I can already see the plot outline: the younger sister would get involved in his romantic life, befriending all the female characters somehow inexplicably gravitating around him, in a desperate hope to feel included if ever something sparks between them. She wouldn't care about who would win the harem race, just wanting to somehow be there, present, cheering each girl on and giving them chances to try and romance her big brother while she does her best to still be close to him by, for instance, having a whole plot point dedicated to her devotedly studying for the entrance exams to his high school. Then, when she has assured a place by his side for the next year, one of the girls finally takes the lead, and she is forcefully shown that being somehow involved is not enough, that she needs more, that her big brother is being stolen from her by the devious, mature wiles of his Christmas Cake teacher and…
"Uh… Komachi, your very caring older brother thinks it's too dangerous for you to keep cooking meals. You shouldn't be handling knives. Or anything sharp. In fact, your devoted older brother will from now on cut your food for you and feed you so you don't risk hurting yourself, ever. How does that sound?"
"… It sounds like you are being gross. Very gross. Extremely gross. Hachiman levels gross."
"How is 'Hachiman' higher than 'extremely?!'"
"Komachi's brother always outdoes himself. Tee-hee." Damn it, why can she pull off that biting the tip of her tongue while smiling thing? When I try, I—
Oh. Hachiman levels gross. I get it.
"That's just too cruel, Komachi. Your poor brother's heart has been pierced by your merciless barbs. I will now retreat to my bedroom to heal in solitude."
"You are going to stop it with the 'your brother' crap, sit up straight, and answer the goddamn question."
"… Are you sure you don't want me to make you some tea? Perhaps a nice shoulder massage to help you relax? Your brother is worried about how stressed you—gack!"
On the one hand, it is nice that my little sister still feels close enough to me to playfully sit on my lap despite her age. On the other, I kind of need air to live.
"Hachiman, I am going to relax my fingers just a tiny smidge so that you can breathe. If the first words out of your mouth aren't a name and surname, I will start strangling you again. I don't know if I will stop. Do you understand me, brother?"
I frantically nod as much as her thin (yet surprisingly steady) forearms under my chin allow me to, and she, as promised, lets me once again enjoy the sweet taste of life-giving air. So I stare into my adorably murderous little sister's eyes, who currently looks like an extremely pissed-off kitten.
And keep staring.
And staring.
Staring, ing, ing. I am staaaaring. Staaaaaaring.
"Gah!" she 'gahs,' presumably in frustration, for some unfathomable reason. "Will you spill already!"
'Hey,' I communicate, with the power of expressive staring, 'the deal was that my first words would be a name and surname. You said nothing about me keeping quiet.'
If I am interpreting her scarlet flush and teeth-gnashing correctly, she gets the message. Just another proof of the unbreakable bond between loving siblings who are definitely blood-related and don't live even in the vague neighborhood of the Oreimo setting.
That ending was gross. Hachiman levels gross.
"Broooother…" she starts roaring. And then my phone chimes in my pocket.
In horror, knowing what is coming, I look at my pants as if they too have betrayed me to the punishment of the merciless heavens for daring try to step above my station as a couch potato. They have only been more incriminating whenever I have had to suddenly stand after recklessly staring for far too long at Yuigahama's Yuigahamas. A hard-earned lesson, it has been, that I still fail to apply from time to time.
And then my phone chimes again.
Daring to hope against hope, I turn to look from my pocket to Komachi's caring, soft, merciful features. Surely, she wouldn't violate her dear older brother's privacy so—
And then we are grappling on the sofa as my sister, for reasons that I assure you are pure and wholesome, tries her damnedest to get her hands in my pants.
Why did I tempt the Heavens by mentioning the accursed Oreimo? Have I learned nothing?
Inevitably, as my training arc has yet to be completed and the author needed a scene to establish my base level of strength before showing my spectacular improvement after the hellish ordeals, Komachi wins our struggle and ends up straddling my prone form on the sofa, my phone held aloft like some kind of trophy from a barbarian's trial by fire.
Uh. She kinda looks like… Yeah, I think she could pull off a cosplay as that tomboyish amazon from Danmachi.
Must exterminate any otakus that may come up to her with the idea. Sorry, Zaimokuza, nothing personal.
Of course, right as Komachi is ending her victorious cry, the phone chimes for a third, accursed time, which means she's staring right at the screen when the notification comes up and so she can easily read the name of the only woman I know who barrages me with messages if I don't answer in a matter of seconds.
Shizu, we need to have a talk about boundaries. And insecurities. And Iroha's voyeuristic fetish.
Dammit, Brain!
I don't know what the message says, but, going by Komachi's expression widening in horror, I can only guess it's not about my latest dissertation trying to pass as finished homework for science class. Seriously, I am a man of letters; trying to get men to like sciences when they don't care to is just sexual discrimination. I am a victim of the oppressive patriarchy, I tell you!
And now I have the theme for my social sciences class homework…
"Brother, are you having an illicit affair with your teacher?" Komachi asks, as the light starts fading from her eyes, and her characteristically upbeat tone is leveled like a historical site ready to be developed into a residential district where people will be regularly assaulted by the spirits of the indigenous tribe.
As a responsible older brother, I give her the answer she needs to be reassured and not the slightest bit traumatized.
I whistle.
For some strange reason, she starts screaming as she strangles me once again. Truly, women are a mystery.
"Will you talk to me and stop acting like a dumbass harem protagonist!"
Komachi, you are not making any sense; I can't very well answer you while you strangle me (a slight price to pay). Also, stop using anime tropes to describe real-life people. It's an unsettling habit, and makes you look gross and disconnected from reality.
Tee-hee.
"Fine. Be that way," and now she looks at me like she did when I snapped at her and—oh gods, am I stuck in a sitcom where I keep repeating the same mistakes without learning anything from my previous character arc? Is that the true punishment from the Heavens? Am I a moron?
The answer to at least one of those questions is 'yes,' by the way.
"Promise not to tell mom?" I capitulate.
She looks at me for a moment before shock and anger give way to smugness. Sasuga, Komachi, you have played your brother like a fiddle.
"Not dad?"
"If dad ever believed I was getting it on with an older, attractive woman, he would outright buy me a bachelor pad."
"You are [what?!"]
Oh. It looks like that third text may not have been that incriminating, after all.
"Tee-hee?"
Going by Komachi's unamused look, I may need a slightly more verbal explanation. Where's that vaunted unspoken understanding between siblings now?
"So, you see, when an underage man and a slightly desperate unmarried woman love each other very much—"
"Ah! Gross! Extremely gross! Hachiman levels gross!"
"That's [not] what she said."
"Gack!" She jumps off me—finally!—and starts making gagging sounds. Which… I understand, really. In her place, I wouldn't be handling this much better.
Except I would have already gone for the knife and/or castrating scissors, so, objectively, I would be handling it much better.
I wait for a bit to see whether further conversation is possible (or advisable) before I decide to make a discreet retreat to the safety of my bedroom. Of course, that's when she grabs my shirt's collar with an iron-grasp. Make up your mind, Komachi.
And my phone chimes again. Without looking at the screen, I silence it.
Really, I don't feel like noting it keeps chiming every few seconds. Shizu can wait.
… This moment will come back to haunt me, won't it?
"So," she says, wiping her mouth with her sleeve and giving me a look that's only slightly marred by the kind of trauma one expects from war veterans going through a flashback, "Ms. Hiratsuka won the race?"
"If I find out you were taking bets, I am going to be very upset. Also, I want my percentage of the profits."
"That would be highly unethical."
"I am glad you at least respect your brother's privacy that much."
"No, I mean that we would be accused of cheating if you profited off the results."
"… I am not sure I should have lent you my Ranma collection, after all."
For a moment, it looks like she's trying to come up with further banter, before she sighs and drops down on the sofa next to me, her head thrown back over the backrest.
"Why didn't you want to tell me?"
And… well, there are multiple reasons. Panic, embarrassment, fear…
"I… don't know. It's… it all started yesterday, you know? So it's still fresh, and there's the whole mess with Yuigahama and Yukinoshita…"
"And Iroha?"
"… Have you met her?"
"Not yet, but, from what Yui and Yukino say…"
"Right… Iroha is… kind of involved."
My words are followed up by the kind of silence that screams for a "go" katakana sound effect to be plastered all over the panel and Komachi looks at me like she's deciding whether she just had a religious revelation or is in dire need of a merciful lobotomy. All in all, this is going much better than I expected.
"And what does… 'involved' mean?"
I sigh and bury my face in my hands.
"She… caught Shizu and I doing… things. And she liked it. She's asked me to watch other times."
Komachi gulps.
"And… And Sizuka knows about this?"
I groan. Loudly.
"I told her."
"And you are [alive?"] Oh, wow, Komachi sounds awed. And it only took me recklessly investing my whole lifetime supply of luck with the opposite sex.
Totally worth it.
"She's… agreed."
"You are shitting me."
"Komachi!"
"Sorry! Komachi is—screw that! My brother is pounding his Christmas Cake teacher so hard his junior turned voyeur-stalker for him! If that's not an excuse for swearing, I don't know what is!"
"I am [not] 'pounding' Shizu!" [Yet].
"[What?!"]
"We… oral only, so far."
Another silence. This one is the kind where a tumbleweed starts rolling in the foreground.
"And… Iroha… Oral…"
"Yeah." I say, once again through my protective fingers that allow me to pretend the world doesn't exist and I am having an imaginary conversation I shouldn't be embarrassed about.
Ganbare, Fingers, your hard work is vital to my survival.
"Any... Anyone else knows?"
Oh gods, you had to ask, didn't you?
"Haruno Yukinoshita."
I hear something shifting and I manage to force myself to peek through my fingers. This perilous maneuver allows me to see my little sister hugging her knees on the end of the sofa furthest from me, staring at me in open-mouthed horror.
"You… Haruno… What?!"
"I… she kinda helped bring us together?"
"Why?!"
"Komachi, if I knew why Haruno Yukinoshita does [anything,] I would probably be working as a paranormal investigator who uses deductive reasoning to fake psychic powers."
"Yeah, sounds about right."
"Though she may have had a crush on Shizu."
Now she is just looking at me with a blank stare. I think I broke my sister.
See? This is how you properly mindbreak someone, fat bastards everywhere. No need for all that netorare crap.
"Explain."
"I…" I swallow, hard, and lift my head high. Because a man should stare death in the eyes, or something equally stupid Zaimokuza would say in these circumstances. "She called when I was in Shizu's apartment, and… she ended up… Camera… Well, when we finished, she had a long talk with Shizu. I think they talked about their past, and I gave them a bit of privacy, so…"
Yes, still dead-eyed. It seems I have achieved my life-long ambition to make her unable to ever have sex with a man. Yay.
"Are you an exhibitionist now, brother? Does Komachi need to worry about you prancing around the house without a towel?"
"… I may—"
"If you answer that question in any way it implies I wasn't joking, I don't know what your loving sister may do, [brother]."
"Right." And I shut up. Just to be safe.
This time the silence is the kind that stretches for far too long, and you get the urge to look at your wrist even though every civilized human being who isn't trying to show off the money he inherited from his parents stopped wearing wristwatches years ago. I still check the skin on the back of my left wrist, in case it gives me some vital information.
It doesn't. How disappointing.
"So," Komachi tries to start again, for some reason not giving up on this dialog tree where every option leads to sanity loss. Komachi, don't play any horror games, your brother knows you will be awful at them. "So, do you have any idea about what you are doing?"
"I… I promised Haruno—" she starts shivering at the name. Understandable. "I promised her I wouldn't give up on Shizuka and that I would take care of Yukinoshita."
And now my sister looks at me with something other than horror, awe, or the death of her innocence. How refreshing.
"It looks like a hard promise to keep."
Don't make a joke about being hard, don't make a joke about being hard—
"Those are the only ones worth keeping."
Success!
"Then… do you mind me asking for another?"
And I look at my sister. My extremely uncomfortable sister, who nonetheless has pushed herself through this whole ordeal in what I recognize is a mix of uncalled-for nosiness and legitimate worry for her useless brother. And nod at her with a tentative smile. Because what else can Hachiman Hikigaya do when Komachi Hikigaya asks him for something?
"Promise you will also take care of Yui?"
I don't even need to think about it.
"That was always the plan, Komachi."
And she smiles at me, in that way she does when she's actually proud of her hopeless big brother because she has always seen him in a way other people hadn't. Not until this year. Not until I met all these wonderful girls who were able to…
And I don't know why, but there's… are my cheeks wet? There's no reason for me to—
"A last request, brother," she says as she embraces me, her hand softly patting my head, "promise me… You will be happy. Promise me you will do what's best for you, and you won't do anything stupid to put their happiness above yours. Promise me you will take care of them without sacrificing yourself. Please. Please make this promise to your selfish little sister?"
I mumble something against her shoulder, something that may be agreement or may not, because that would be a hard promise to keep, and those are worth keeping, but I also—
"Shush, it's all right; you don't need to answer right now. Komachi understands." And she just keeps hugging me as memories of the last year, of all the things I gained and those I am about to throw away, keep going through my mind.
And, as I cling to my soft, warm, caring younger sister, I could swear I hear her mutter, "That should have earned me a lot of Komachi points."
It has. Of course it has.
Sasuga, Komachi.
***
When I finally recover enough to fake being a functional human being who is not at all completely out of his depth, I retire to my bedroom to face what I hope to be my latest challenge of the day.
Looking at how many messages I have in my phone.
Twenty-eight. Wow. How restrained of you, Ms. Hiratsuka.
['Hi, I just wanted to wish you good night.'
'Also, to remind you to do the stretches I taught you before going to bed.'
'It really helps with muscle soreness. Otherwise, you will be feeling like a pincushion tomorrow morning.'
'Seriously, it really helps.'
'Also, I am sorry if I forced you to do too much, I guess I just was a bit too enthusiastic.'
'When you said you wanted to exercise for me, I..'
'None of my boyfriends have ever…'
'And, look, about what happened with Haruno, I am sorry I talked so long with her, but that conversation had been long coming.'
'Oh gods, I can't believe I just let you go right after… and I didn't even take care of you after…'
'Are you mad that I didn't, you know, "help" you?'
'I should have! I didn't even think about it, I am so selfish, no wonder you are mad at me!'
'Please, Hachi, answer, I don't…'
'I am sorry, I am so clingy, I shouldn't bother you so much. Good night.'
'Hey, are you really mad?'
'I can make it up to you, I swear, just let me try to… I don't know, I will come up with something!']
Those are the fifteen first messages. Three more have arrived while I read them. They mostly consist of a series of undecipherable emojis and a gif of a sad panda cuddling a tire.
…
I am at once oddly flattered, disturbed, terrified at her increasingly obvious yandere tendencies, and morbidly curious about what will happen if I let her stew till tomorrow.
Nah. Curiosity killed the careless harem protagonist. Or a kitchen knife, in one of the endings.
So, with all the swift decisiveness I am known for (since about twenty-four hours ago, my brief lapse with Komachi non-withstanding), I compose an answer that should take care of this problem before it becomes an [actual] problem.
['Shizu, relax; I was just talking with Komachi and couldn't answer the phone. I am not mad, I completely understand Haruno's situation took priority, and you don't need to make anything up to me (though I obviously won't complain if you come up with something you want to do—I am not that stupid). I thought we had already agreed your ex-boyfriends were morons with zero taste in women, there's no need to keep bringing trash up, so I will now go do those stretches if you are so sure they will spare me further agony. I can't wait till I see you tomorrow. Good night.']
And sent. Yes, this should do.
…
On second thought…
['Also, from now on, if you send me more than three messages before I answer you, I will expect the fourth one to be a naked picture. This is just to train your impulse control, and not at all because of any ulterior motive. I hope you understand this is for your own good and won't directly benefit me in any way whatsoever.']
Perfect.
I start stretching my arms using my doorframe to keep my hand in place as I twist my body and—
[Ding.]
I… I shouldn't stop doing this right this moment. The message will still be there when I finish.
[Ding].
Seriously, I just need to count to thirty. It's not that long.
[Ding.]
Focus on your breathing and let go of worldly desires. Attachment is the path to suffering and—[ow]. Damn, what's the point of saving me pain tomorrow by causing me pain right now? This isn't logical at all.
[Ding.]
That's… The fourth ding.
…
Screw it, I am only human.
With barely restrained speed, I jump on top of my bed to grab my phone from where I had let it tempt me with its siren call. As swiftly as a teenage girl fishing for likes, I open the last unread message and—
Oh.
Oh, wow.
In my screen, a blushing Shizu is posing in front of the mirror, dressed once again in her sporty attire, lifting her very flattering sports bra over her right breast—
The next picture shows her taking the shot over her shoulder; her beautiful, round, perky derriere framed by her lowered shorts digging right under her cheeks features prominently—
The next one has her clothes in place, but she's biting her lip as her hand is shoved right into her shorts and—
The last one is just a shot of her flushed face, lips partly opened and eyes unfocused, almost glassy, and she has taken the time to add 'Miss you so much' in red, cursive letters.
I stare. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
And I grab a pack of tissues. Because those stretches can wait until I take care of more [pressing] business.
***
When I wake up the next morning, after having gone to bed much later than I planned to due to… being far too enthusiastic, there's only one thing that goes through my head.
Stretching is [fucking useless.]
Argh.
==================
This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/all-right-fine-ill-take-you-oregairu.15676/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 82 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).
Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Brain-chan's intrusions into Hachiman's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance
Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!
As I dropped the phone I had just used to masturbate to the image of Hachiman tenderizing Shizuka's vagina beside my head on the sofa I was lying on, a single thought ran through my head:
[Yukino is going to kill me.]
Right now, I was staying at the little brat's flat while she found herself back home. Or, more likely, while she vacillated over what she should do and what did others expect her to do and if there was even a difference between the two notions.
My adorable little sister could be downright insufferable when she tried to act all high and mighty while barely disguising the utter and total lack of self-determination that lay right in the middle of most of her problems. So, as the one who had had to suffer her moods the most over the last few years, I felt justified in the spark of schadenfreude at knowing that I would have to clean her sofa off the results of me masturbating over the sexual escapades of the boy she thought she liked. It wasn't fair, it was cruel; some may even say it was monstrous.
But I remembered…
One of my first memories, one of the first things that I knew for a fact I did by myself rather than live through, was of me playing checkers with my little, adorable, clumsy, chubby Yukino. Houtarou, our acceptably eccentric uncle, had brought the western game home when I was little and played with me for a while. I had enjoyed it, so, when Yukino was the same age I had been at the time, I remember explaining the rules to her and letting her make the first move.
She looked seriously at the board until she finally picked a piece and pushed it. Straight forward.
"No, Yuki, you need to do it diagonally, see? Like this." I moved my own piece in a diagonal line and smiled at her, expecting her to correct her mistake. She nodded in that ever so serious way she still does up to this day, and moved a piece diagonally. The same one I just had.
"No, no, those are mine, you need to move the white ones. See? Those are yours, the black ones are mine." And she looked up at me and pouted, as if offended I didn't let her play with my pieces. So, trying to be a good older sister, I took the board and turned it around.
"Don't worry, it doesn't matter. You can have the black ones, I will just play the white side, okay?" I smiled at her, and my little sister smiled at me. I started feeling relieved at having solved the problem, when she grabbed a black piece and then a white one, and started putting them one over the other. And this was the first time I experienced dread.
I gave up on playing checkers and just made cheerful noises at my still roundish sister until I heard the main door open and mother's clacking steps at the entrance. I told Yukino to stay put, and I went to give my mother the grave news.
"Mom… Mom, there's something wrong with Yukino."
What follows in my memory is a blur of movement as she ran and did all those things young, proper mothers are supposed to do if one of their children may be in danger. I remember watching in anguish until mother took me to another room and sat me on her lap so I could tell her, in my own words, what the actual problem was.
So I told her. I told her I tried to play with Yukino like uncle Houtarou played with me, and that Yukino just didn't understand, even though I had been so patient and careful. That something that was supposed to let us have fun together as sisters had just shown me how Yukino wasn't at all able to do what I had done at her age, even though I had checked the photo albums to make sure she wasn't too young before I tried, so something [must] be wrong, because I had done everything right, and yet, Yukino, my little sister…
And then I was crying as my mother cradled me in her arms, rocking me back and forth until I calmed down. And when the tears ran out and I was too tired to keep the sadness in my face, when someone may have thought I had calmed down, mother explained it to me.
There was nothing wrong with Yukino. She was a normal child, no, a very bright child, it was just that I… wasn't.
I had always known I was smarter than kids my own age, it hadn't taken much to figure that out, but my sister… I had always hoped…
And my next memory is standing by the doorframe, watching as Yukino played with the black and white pieces of this game I no longer found fun on the floor, and thinking:
[How dull.]
Shizuka, you just had to leave me a melancholy mess again, didn't you?
Suddenly feeling restless, I get up from the couch (and I can't help an amused smirk at the wet spot I leave behind) to go to the kitchen, where I open the small cupboard I have appropriated and filled with alcohol. Because I can't get drunk, not really, but I can enjoy faking it.
As a proper Japanese family heiress, I should take the bottle of sake and enjoy sipping it from a sakazuki under the moonlight.
As a proper me, I take out the bottle of Pinot Noir. I am in the mood for something soft on the palate.
I go back to the sofa (and switch cushions) and let my head fall over the backrest as I stare at the ceiling while the bottle of Burgundy breathes. It may be an affectation, many people say it is unnecessary, but it also allows the wine to chill in the ice bucket I have prepared. Because letting wine breathe may be an affectation, but drinking it overly warm is the province of those that don't know that "room temperature" doesn't mean "warm." And that wine cellars tend to be much colder than modern homes.
Like Yurika.
Yurika was sophisticated, popular. The girl everyone either wanted to be or be with. Any other time and place, she would have ruled Sobu High School with a silk-clad iron fist. But Yurika was my age.
"I can't believe he still hasn't asked you out," I remember telling her, carefully omitting that Masanobu, the star of the soccer team (and wasn't that a stereotype that only needed blond hair to completely fit the mold), had already tried to ask me out already, and only my outright evasion had frustrated his attempts so far.
"I know! I mean, [look] at me." And I did. Despite her boastfulness, Yurika resembled much more a classical Japanese beauty than I did: slender of frame and immaculate, pale skin that almost seemed iridescent against her straight, ink-black hair. But she was a nouveau riche trying too hard to fit in whenever she visited me. I almost pitied her clumsy attempts.
I can't remember every single word we exchanged, because what I remembered was playing a game. Was this the right answer to seem mischievous without crossing the line into cruelty? Was this flattery timid enough to come across as shy admiration? Was friendship something you could fake until you made it?
But, even as I played that game with a bit more skill than young Yukino playing checkers, all that I could think was, once again, 'How dull.'
Until the day Yurika had been crying on my shoulder after she had finally gathered her courage to be rejected by Masanobu (that worthless fake), and I did what the rules of the game bid me do: I gently smiled, I patted her back soothingly, and cared for her like a small, distressed pet during a fireworks festival. Because I never meant any harm for Yurika, even if she frustrated me with her insincere adulation, with her empty admiration, with…
It was painful, to feel put on a pedestal even as I tried to play at normalcy, and a part of me resented her, but another had invested so much in trying to connect with her, trying to lower myself to her level of vapid gossip and uninteresting blabber, that I couldn't stand to see her hurt. Not my friend. Not like this.
But something was wrong about my play, because even as I felt offended on her behalf, I couldn't stop myself from letting out what I really thought about Masanobu, about good looks that were only skin thin, about his fake, vacuous platitudes, that made it so plain to see the boy wouldn't recognize a deep thought if it were handed to him by the Bodidharma himself, no matter how much he played at being the intellectual of our class with all those pretentious books he always liked to show off even if their spines were suspiciously unwrinkled.
And I lost the game.
Because Yurika at first laughed, eager to hear anything that made her unrequited crush unappealing and undesirable, but then… Then my complaints and insults hit far too close to home, and I could see it in her eyes, the moment she realized she wasn't that different from Masanobu, and that every dart I had thrown in his direction may as well have been aimed at her.
There weren't any fireworks, any explosive bursts of emotion or dramatic overreactions. She still let herself be comforted, and she thanked me afterward. But Yurika stopped coming by the Yukinoshita household shortly after, and it hurt, but I was also relieved at no longer having to put up with her clumsy attempts at graceful etiquette, and, in the end, once again, those two damned words. Unbidden. Unwanted. Familiar.
[How dull.]
They say drinking wine is an experience for all the senses. The taste, the aroma, even the texture on your palate play a part in it. Personally, when I am feeling moody, what I enjoy the most is the sight: the play of shifting light through ruby as I swirl it in my glass, the caustic network cutting through its shadow in scarlet… It has a mesmerizing, soothing quality. Sometimes, I think I could more easily get drunk on this than on the alcohol.
The taste is not bad by any means, of course. Not when it has such a price tag attached. A sip and a slight aspiration through wet, barely open lips makes the aroma bloom inside me, a burning touch that only leaves fragrance rather than embers, and I let myself savor the aftertaste. What would be proper for me to mutter now? A hint of oak and a strong aftertaste of red fruits?
As if I care about what's proper. No. As if I still cared.
And I remember her.
Yurika and I had exchanged our polite, fakely cordial greetings of the day, and I had retired to my seat to read a book with a leather jacket when I caught my homeroom teacher staring at me. I hadn't paid much mind to her yet. I thought she was amusing, a Japanese language teacher running around with a labcoat as if she felt the need to proclaim to everyone who listened that she was working as something she had never actually prepared for, and still doing a better job of it than most of the other staff. I smiled at her, and she frowned.
"Yukinoshita, could you come by during the lunch period?"
I froze. I had never been in trouble, and here I was, in the first trimester of my first year of high school, already being called out by my homeroom teacher. The rest of the class had fallen to silence and I caught Yurika's barely disguised glee at my predicament before I mumbled a polite acceptance. Ms. Hiratsuka's frown seemed to deepen, but she nodded and proceeded to do the roll call.
And lunch came, and I was in the staff room, facing a woman wearing what no longer seemed an amusing ensemble that wouldn't have been out of place in a yakuza movie, not with the way she languidly reclined on her seat as she took a drag of her cigarette.
"Relax, Yukinoshita, you are not in trouble."
And I let my shoulders fall as I faked accepting her words, and she shot me a glare at that.
"Let me take that back: you are in trouble, but not with me."
I didn't have to fake my confusion.
"Look, I know things are hard for you, but you are going about this in the worst way possible."
"I don't know what you are talking about, Ms. Hiratsuka."
She seemed about to chew on the cigarette filter before she caught herself.
"No, of course you don't." And she sighed, rubbing at her temple with her free hand. "Sorry for springing this on you, and you would be right to tell me to mind my own business… except you never would, would you?"
"I… would never be so rude to a teacher." And there was a bitterness at the admission that I didn't know the cause of. Not back then.
"No. You would. The actual you."
"The actual me? Is this a self-help speech?" And I bit back what I thought of those, and she barked a laugh that confused me.
"You could say that. Look, you will have to forgive me if I am blunt, but being roundabout about this will only make it harder for you: it's not because you are too smart."
And, for the first time in my life, somebody said something to me that I knew, absolutely, for certain, I would be unable to understand if they didn't explain.
"Wha…" I couldn't even finish the question.
"It may have started like that, and I am not saying there won't always be a trace of it with any of your relationships, because you [are] damn smart, kid. But that's not what's keeping you apart from them."
"Then… Then what is?" I asked, not knowing if I wanted to finally be able to win the game or… or something else. More.
"Yourself."
"That doesn't help. That makes it worse."
She paused to take another breath of purple smoke, and she let it out in slow, lazy whorls.
"Yes and no. Because you can't be less smart than you are, Yukinoshita, you never will, but you sure as hell can change the way you let it affect you."
There was more. More conversation, more words, but that line? That was the line that started it all. The line that gave me hope.
I stopped covering my books with fake jackets, stopped laughing at things I didn't find funny, stopped answering empty platitudes with the same coin. It took time, months, but one day I found myself letting go of a sarcastic quip in the middle of a group conversation and people laughed at it. With it.
They may not have understood everything I meant by it, every single reference and layer of meaning, but that wasn't my fault. It was no one's fault. It just was.
And I owed it to Ms. Hiratsuka.
The wine bottle has lost a third of its contents to my musings, and I am already feeling the slight, pleasant buoyancy of my senses delaying the coming of the world to my self. This is the stage where people let go of their inhibitions, where tongues are looser, where consequences fade into a distant future. This is the stage where I watch them and slur my speech that tiny bit that doesn't seem out of place, where I blink deliberately and giggle at inappropriate comments. It is its own kind of fun, being the observer, but it is also a stark reminder.
I fill my cup yet again, and I roll the stem between graceful, steady fingers.
And I remember the day I knocked on the staff room's door, only to find a harried Ms. Hiratasuka despairing over unmarked tests.
She always was that mix of maturity and childishness, of wisdom and foolishness, that I couldn't help but laugh at with my newfound freedom. I teased her from time to time, and she always played along, letting me probe the limits of… But I am getting ahead of myself.
"I see you are getting along better with your classmates," she said, after deciding that procrastinating was perfectly in character for her, even more so if she had the excuse of guiding one of her wayward students.
"I… I guess I am. Something's still missing, but at least it's not me." And she smiled. Warm. Soft. So caring it hurt.
"That's not a line I would have expected from you a month ago."
"Maybe you aren't that good at reading people, then," I answered with a cheeky grin. I was still unused to them, but they felt right in a way proper, and measured smiles never had.
"Careful, brat, the disciple has yet to surpass the master." And we both chuckled. And there wasn't anything missing.
We talked a bit more and ended up going to the roof to chat while she smoked her way through half a pack. I didn't like the bitter smell, but I liked her profile as she let smoke trail from her lips while she leaned her elbows on the low wall and the wind played with her long hair and her fluttering coat. Ms. Hiratsuka had always had a cinematographic quality to her, as if her natural habitat would have been a silver screen with a Vangelis song playing in the background. And I didn't know it back then, but it seems far too obvious now what it was that I felt as I kept looking at the way the orange sky tinted her glowing silhouette.
And then the conversation shifted and she told me what I was missing. The piece I lacked to complete my playset.
"Something genuine."
I looked at her, my lack of understanding still novel, and she elaborated.
"You are special, Haruno, but it's not special that you are." She gestured at the students leaving through the gates with her cigarette. "Each of them, each of you, is unique, has circumstances that set you apart. Maybe one of them works at the family diner to help a widowed mother make it through the month, maybe one of them is struggling with her studies, because she absolutely needs to get into that certain university where he is waiting for her, and maybe there's one who is trying to be as bright and cheerful as people think he is, because he cannot see how to fit any other way. All of you have stories, unique stories, that set you apart, but some learn how to reach across that distance."
She quieted down for a moment, as if remembering something.
"You have already managed that first step, Haruno, to stop hiding who you are, to offer what only Yukinoshita Haruno can, and the rest… The rest is not always up to you. You need to find someone who offers something that you want even as they reach for what you allow them to grasp. And that something, for someone like you, who can see through appearances, who knows that most people wear a mask, that something must be genuine."
I was mesmerized as the shifting clouds played the setting sun across her white skin and white coat, as the wind made colors deepen and brighten with each ripple. I was mesmerized by Ms. Hiratsuka's twilight figure.
I reached a tentative hand to grasp the sleeve of the arm that terminated in a glowing ember and purple, drifting whorls, and looked into dark, soft, warm eyes.
"Can I call you Shizuka?" I said, my voice trembling for maybe the first time since I told mother there was something wrong with Yukino.
"Of course, Haruno," she answered, as she cupped my face with a tender hand.
And I cried in her arms.
Half a bottle of wine should be enough to make me lightheaded and uninhibited. To make me giggle at the stupidest jokes and cry at any painful memory. My eyes are dry, maybe a bit too dry after unblinkingly staring into the pool of ruby twirling over my hand for too long.
Years passed. I was the formidable Yukinoshita scion who effortlessly took on every challenge a school could throw at me, to the quiet pride of the matriarch of my clan, the adulation of masses of students I found far too dull to concern myself with, and the ribbing of a teacher who took her job far too seriously and far too lightly. And I only enjoyed one of those three things.
I didn't hide myself, not anymore. At least, not in the way I had used to. I didn't conceal my wit in mild words nor my superiority in mediocre conversation, but I still played my game. I refined my maneuvers, my strategies, so that the mask only came on when I meant it to, when it served a purpose. Mostly, it was to hide disdain.
I couldn't help it, I was proud. Always had been, because that had allowed me to survive my separation, to point at something and proclaim to myself 'See? This is why. Because they are beneath you.' And so pain had mixed with pride, which had made it at least a bit more tolerable. Until I had found someone who understood, who reached for what I had to offer with a hand that had something I desperately wanted.
I wasn't nice, at the time, there was far too much bitterness, far too much rancor—and mother's expectations, knowing my future was already decided, didn't help matters. But I was, up to a point… genuine. And I had someone to be genuine with.
And so came graduation. And I swore to her I would keep in touch, even as Shizuka chided me about spending far too much time with a woman who was not as young as I was (because heavens forbid she even used the word 'older').
And I did.
I went to college to get that degree mother wanted me to adorn my future office with, and got drunk with friends that perhaps weren't as dull as my classmates had been, maybe because people in college are smarter or maybe because they were finally growing up to the point where they could finally start to catch up, but there was always that spark they lacked, always that thing that still kept me apart and made me resort to my mask far more often than I had meant to.
And mother kept dragging me to gatherings of heirs, to further calcify what remained fluid of my future, and they were all so [dull.]
So I lost my virginity.
It wasn't a big deal. My friends had invited me to a mixer where I faked being as drunk as them till a cute guy who had a fiancée and wouldn't bother me a week after the fact decided to chivalrously escort me to a taxi and then dragged me to a love hotel. I almost laughed at him, but I had a mask to uphold.
The act itself was a bit disappointing. No fireworks behind my eyelids, no masterful playing with my body teaching me things about myself I had yet to learn. Just… release. Meaningless, fun, and, up to a point, satisfying release. Now I knew what the big deal was, and I found I didn't care much for it. Not with all the complications it entailed.
And the boy was promptly discarded. And Shizuka wasn't.
Now that I was of age, we met for drinks far more regularly than she could afford. It turned out my idolized teacher was even more of a mess than she had let on through our early friendship, but even as my rosy glasses finally dropped after the umpteenth time she started ranting about the latest scummy guy who had somehow talked his way into her apartment (among other things) only to turn out to be a predictable disappointment, I didn't find my fondness decreasing. Shizuka was fallible, scatterbrained, prone to trusting far too quickly and to rash decisions that she ended up regretting. Shizuka was not a perfect, gallant figure who only offered sage advice as she helped a young girl mend herself into a semblance of a functional person before it was too late. Shizuka was human.
And she was genuine.
And so I kissed her.
Her rant had ended at the same time as the last bottle of beer, and we had been silently walking through Chiba Port Park. The chill of the night had made it natural for us to huddle closer till she ended up covering me with half her coat, and I turned to see her silhouette glowing with moonlight, the silver light so apt, so perfect for her and her alone, that I found myself reaching up before I knew what I was doing. What I was going to do.
Maybe, for the first time in my life, I had been drunk.
Her taste carried tobacco, beer, and far too many salty snacks. Her lips were dry and her clothes smelled like she tasted, but I didn't care, because it was her, only her, that mattered, and everything else was forgotten in that perfect moment where I finally did understand what it actually was that made sex appealing, what it was that could maybe bring me far more than satisfying release. And my tongue danced with hers as my arms draped around her neck and my body molded to her own, my soft curves against her contained ones. And I finally understood what it was that young Haruno had really asked Shizuka on that rooftop three years back.
And so did Shizuka. And her palms reached up to my shoulders and gently, softly, lovingly, broke my heart.
"You don't want this," she told me, and, for the first time since we met, I knew Shizuka Hiratsuka was lying to me.
"I do. I had… I didn't know, but I have wanted this for so long, I have wanted this so much. Shizuka, please." I had never begged before. Never have since then. It was useless, after all.
"Haruno," she reached up, and her fingers trailed down my hair until her tender palm cradled my face once more, "you have a future. A family to make. A woman can't be by your side."
"I don't want it. Not at this cost. Not if it means I don't have you."
And she looked into my eyes. And maybe she believed me, but I think she didn't.
"But I do."
And that was it, wasn't it? Shizuka Hiratsuka wanted a family, and I couldn't give it to her. Not the way she had dreamed about, with a doting husband and father of her children. But that was the second time she lied to me.
Because she did want that, she always had, but the real reason, the one I could see behind a façade she had never before worn in front of me, was that she didn't think it was right. She thought she would be taking advantage of me, her former student she had helped grow out of her shell into an actual, quasi-healthy individual.
And she was a woman who, more than anything else, wanted to always do the right thing. And I wasn't right, so she wouldn't do me.
I guess wine does make me a bit crass, after all.
We talked long into the night before we separated at the station. As the train carried me away and I stared at her white coat trembling with the passage of the vehicle, as I looked at the mask covering Shizuka Hiratsuka, the two words came unbidden after having rested so long.
How dull.
We still meet for drinks, still have fun, still play around at the batting cages from time to time. But it's never been the same, it's always felt like there's that tiny bit of distance that shouldn't be there, and I don't know if it's because Shizuka's wary of me or because I am disappointed in her, but it hurts, and sometimes I will pretend I didn't see her message me because I don't know how to answer, even if Haruno Yukinoshita is precisely the kind of woman who never wants for the right word.
And then we met Hachiman.
He's… hilarious, actually. A wrecking ball in any social field he deigns step in, and he marches forward without any of my subtlety, but…
["It's not because you are too smart."]
And she was right. Because he isn't. He's maybe as bright as Yukino, but… But he approaches things, understands things, in just that way that I can see myself doing. And he's clumsy, inexperienced, the proverbial bull in a china shop, except that he tends to break precisely what he means to, and I can see how my Yukino is finally getting a clue about how to be a real girl, something I haven't managed after years of telling her that not being the heir and being able to choose her own [future is a good thing!]
I am so damn tempted to stain the damn sofa with what's left in my cup…
But maybe he's far too much like me, because he fell for Shizuka just like my younger self did.
And maybe he isn't, or maybe he's profiting off my experience, because he's dragging her toward what she wants.
And I don't know whether to smile at having triumphed over that particular hurdle or do something far more undignified at not having managed it when it was my turn to try.
So I lay back, only half a cup of wine left and a now dry spot where I rest my legs, and take my phone. On the screen, I can see the recording of Shizuka's face as she is pleasured by her lover, because I have erased what comes after. Our conversation.
"It won't last."
"How can you say that? After what he just did?"
"Haruno, he's young, full of hormones. Sooner or later he will realize he's making a mistake and leave me for one of the other girls orbiting around him. It will be better for him when he does."
"I don't care about what's better, and neither should you."
"Then what should I care about?"
"What's genuine."
And I almost cry at the words, and she doesn't say anything more, letting the silence stretch while I try to make it so my voice stops being so raw with emotion after the best sexual experience of my life and the latest pang of betrayal from my teacher and friend.
"I am sorry, Haruno." And she is, but for all the wrong reasons.
There are more words, but I feel too petulant to remember them. I have erased that part of the video for a reason.
So I let the video of what should have been a happy, triumphant memory show me their faces: Shizuka's vulnerability, Hachiman's determination, their… their love.
And I drop the phone, barely stopping myself from doing the same with my cup, and stare at the ceiling.
"How dull," I say.
But I don't believe it.
==================
This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/all-right-fine-ill-take-you-oregairu.15676/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 82 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).
Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Brain-chan's intrusions into Hachiman's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance
Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!
Paragraph comment
Paragraph comment feature is now on the Web! Move mouse over any paragraph and click the icon to add your comment.
Also, you can always turn it off/on in Settings.
GOT IT