Issei Hyoudou was fuckin' pissed off.
It wasn't like he was the type of guy to go 'Yubelluna was m-my friend first, damnit!' and try to charm her away, but, really now-
"-and then I killed him," Yubelluna explained, idly fanning herself with a yellowing copy of Instrumentality (Alice Japan Vintage '86, Hitomi Kobayashi run). "Because, I mean, it's a disgusting habit."
+1 approval from Matsuda!
+1 approval from Motohama!
-this was too much.
Issei finally worked his mouth free of the gag, looking up at the boys with disgust. "Seriously?"
Matsuda kicked his head a bit. "Shut up Issei."
"Hey, I think she's lining up a joke, make sure you're standing close enough so she can tell you're the one laughing."
"Shut the fuck up, Issei."
He wiggled slightly further, grimacing as the rough concrete scratched at his belly. The paving stones around the fountains in Suwabe Park were uneven rust-red slabs, heavy and discolored; they jutted up against each other, forming an uneven surface that tore at him every time he tried to move. It was a pretty good setup, he'd freely admit. Of course he would; after all, it was his idea. Though, it was supposed to be the goons tied up instead.
He'd been betrayed. Naturally. Damn Yubelluna's incredible good looks; he'd already forgiven her. The goons were free game though. Bastards. He'd get them back for their preemptive revenge.
He'd already freed his hands by pinning the edge of a loop between his body and a stone and slowly pulling it off, but after that, his plan had hit a snag. He couldn't get the leverage for any of the other knots and the goons had their collective weight pressing down on his back. He couldn't move any further. He was stuck. He knew he was stuck. Matsuda knew he was stuck. Yubelluna didn't care. Motohama was distracted (by Yubelluna).
He could not believe this was happening to him. It was unbelievable that Yubelluna wouldn't take his side—weren't they friends? Even if he had forgotten to tell her The Plan—she was definitely supposed to back him up. And the goons—fighting back! Who taught them to fight back?! Issei couldn't fight back. He was notoriously bad at it, actually; stories were told of the time he'd tried to Fight Back and put himself in traction. Evidently, they had no such issues; they'd been holding out on him. Matsuda had even kneed him in the balls. That was just uncalled for. Which was probably the point actually - ah fuck, he kept reminding himself that he totally deserved this. Shit. Fuck. That kind of mindset was just not conducive to plotting vengeance. He couldn't even give 'em the finger. Fucked up, really.
Ergo, all he had left to him was his immense pettiness.
Issei grimaced. "I mean, it's hard to be a stooge when you can't talk to her without trying to hide your hairline-ouh!" He reeled as Matsuda thumped him on the head, reeling slightly.
"Shut the fuck up, Issei."
Issei grumbled as they went immediately back to ogling Yubelluna. This was goddamn embarrassing. At least he'd tried to be discreet. He struggled against the ropes holding him down again, trying to feel for any slack opening up. Motohama shifted his weight slightly in response, and Issei felt the breath whoosh out of his lungs.
Coughing, he stopped moving to catch his breath again. He was beginning to reconsider The Plan; did he really need these two? Honestly, yeah probably, but did he though? They'd rejected his kindness after all. They needed to be punished. Besides, Issei was no bitch. He could go it alone. Probably.
"Heh," Motohama posited, staring at Yubelluna's chest.
"Heh," Matsuda agreed.
In fact, he might be better off. Less people between him and Yubelluna's swaying body. Something to consider. There wasn't a lot of room, but he hunched up a bit so he'd have room to rub his hands together ominously.
That cut off sharply as Matsuda's lead mass on his back suddenly shifted. His hands went limp and he braced himself. Sure enough, the weight lifted off his back, but the sudden relief was sharply offset as a claw grip seized him by the scalp. Issei squealed as his body was lifted a full inch off the uneven flagstones.
Sibilant words crawled up his shoulder and tickled the shell of his ear. "I smell plotting."
"What? Who? Me?" Issei gestured vainly at his bound hands, trying to get his feet under him so his head didn't pop off like a champaign cork. "Little me? Never."
"Surely," Matsuda hissed into his ear, spittle dripping into the shell. He felt his skin crawl up his back in disgust as a little dripped inside. He made goat noises, struggling to get away, but a sharp pain cut him off. Motohama lightly lifted his heel off Issei's pale digits warningly.
"Surely," Matsuda repeated softly, "Surely you weren't considering ditching us."
Motohama leaned into his other ear. Issei felt ill. "You wouldn't dare," He whispered darkly. "You wouldn't dare hang out with an incredibly attractive woman without us, again, would you?"
"You'd never even consider such a thing."
"Never."
"Never," Issei agreed, clawing at the cement, clinging to the crenellation with his bound hands. "I'd never even consider it. How dare you."
He futilely tried to pull away, but virginity had given Matsuda superhuman strength. His hands were steel. His voice was granite. "I can read your fucking weasel mind, Issei." And superpowers, apparently. Issei felt the sharp injustice; his virginity had only given him jock itch. Issei opened his mind to deny the cruel words, feeling somewhat injured as he noticed Motohama nodding quite seriously beside Matsuda, before he felt the painful tightness on his scalp redouble. "Owowowow, man, watch it, I'm gonna end up with less hair than you-"
It tightened sharply. "Good."
"Motherfuckerrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeahhhhhhh! Fuck! It fucking hurts! It hurts man! It-fuck-Yube-"
He stopped, words falling limply as he noticed Yubelluna leaning in with amused eyes.
"...Help?"
"No."
+1 approval from Matsuda!
+1 approval from Motohama!
A wave of black despair came over Issei. He could handle balding. He could handle dying. But not like this. Not so the goons could fail to score with Yubelluna. Anything but that.
His legs started flopping about, slamming sharply into the concrete as his body bucked. Matsuda had to lurch forward to hold him, but that put his arms in reach for Issei's gimped hands. He began slapping limply at Matsuda's hands, attempting to bring them up to his mouth where he could gnaw on his traitor fingers. Matsuda, irritated, started slapping back, releasing Issei's head to flail back in an equally pathetic manner. It was quite sad, particularly since he'd had the advantage to begin with. Even Issei felt bad for him.
Not as much as for himself, though.
"I was joking," Issei whined, giving up after realizing his ropes still had no goddamn slack. When they'd get so good at nautical knots? "I'd never ruin the fun, come on man."
"Bullshit."
"Fuck you," Issei squirmed, trying to ease the pressure on his shoulders, "You wouldn't know humor if it rode in on that joke of a bike you own. Pink, isn't it? Dude, it's literally funnier than you'll ever be."
Yubelluna arched a brow and snickered softly into her collar.
+1 approval from Matsuda!
+1 approval from Motohama!
"Are you fucking kidding me? How sad can you be? She's literally making fun of you."
"Shut up Issei."
A drink, a drink, a drink. Issei had wanted to avoid having a drink. He'd wanted to avoid the crowds, he'd wanted to avoid the press and noise and attention, and he wanted to avoid drinking. He knew drinking would be a bad idea. He knew it couldn't end well.
And it didn't. A classmate passing by took a picture of him holding a beer, and put it up on Twitter a few days later. He was suspended for a week and his mother spanked him. He didn't enjoy it, and cried himself to sleep as he realized his doujins had, once again, lied to him. How sad, Issei.
But had it ended there, Issei could have still left peacefully. His night might have been salvaged, with Yubelluna drunk in a ditch and incapable of homicide. Kiba would have returned by then, and this time Issei could explain everything without holding out on him and they could stop Yubelluna. But these things wouldn't happen; their personalities tended to get in the way.
But where had it all gone wrong? Issei didn't know.
Today he'd wanted to relax, and get Yubelluna's mind off Riser's wedding. He'd wanted to gird his loins and Kiba's cooperation and the boys at his back and hopefully some kind of magical dynamite to really, just resolve this whole issue with the building without needing to even step inside.
He never wanted to step inside ever again.
Scary, it was too scary. He was already avoiding alleyways these days, you know? He didn't take the late trains anymore. He ate dinner early, but slept late. He moved around with Motohama and Matsuda, and invited Kiba over, and stayed in well-lit places. He had a rape whistle and a siren, he had pepper spray and a lighter, he had salt, and sugar, and a ziplock of dried goat's blood, and a yew cross with a little Jesus he'd made from stale bread and vinegar, and a blessed steel knife, and seven police-writ fines for repeatedly threatening strange old men if they stood up too quickly (he really needed to pay those off).
But when he looked up, the church was still there. And before he realized it, he'd already left all that behind. Things were spinning out of control. Nothing had gone well, and in the end, maybe he didn't want them to. It was all he could think of. Maybe I wanted this.
In the end, he was ushered on his way, with the slow beating of a steel drum, and a drink. Liquor paved the way, led our protagonist down the aisle arm-in-arm, twirled him about the plaza fountain even now bedecked with broken CDs and rhinestone dinner plates. That hero of the masses, the finest axle grease to be found on the road trip of life, that steadfast friend and loyal wingman; it was the easiest, smoothest company to be found that night, and Issei Hyoudou began and ended his night, with admirable aplomb, drunk in it's warm arms.
"I wish I had a drink right now," Sudeep moaned. He shifted the ice pack on his nose slightly, where it was clearly bent. He spoke with a nasal rasp. "A real drink. I never used to have issues while I was drinking."
"The way you've told it, you never used to have issues at all." Kiba's strained voice floated back to him. "Can't you leave well enough alone?"
Sudeep snorted involuntarily, causing his nose to bubble and pop painfully. He curled up into a shrimp, writhing about and clawing at the sheets.
"Exactly!" Sudeep moaned. His blood had smeared slightly on the pack and frozen, revealing whorls on the manufacturing that rubbed irritatingly against his cheeks as he slapped it back on. He'd avoided hurling it away with force of will; Kiba wouldn't bring him a new one. "I didn't! People used to respect me. People used to know their place."
"How often did you hit on other men's wives, to say that?" Kiba asked, shifting his arms off the balcony railing, to turn back and look at Sudeep with some amazement. "That's some impressive confidence."
"Sudeep only hunts for big game. And always bags his catch."
"That's a bold statement from a man who thought a strong romantic overture was throwing away a woman's engagement ring."
"I offered her a replacement, didn't I?"
"You offered her a condom. A torn condom."
"How else was she going to put it on her finger?" Sudeep shrugged unapologetically, nose audibly bubbling, and rolled over, pulling the thin hotel sheets over his body. "Please, I'm doing a public service here." Involuntarily here, he shivered with cold, a breeze gusting in from the balcony. "I'm showing people a better life, a wilder life." He paused dramatically. "The Sudeep life." And sneezed.
Kiba turned away, to look out at the city below. Behind him, Sudeep was still talking, "-besides, she wasn't that hot anyway."
Kiba sighed, and his faint breath clouded in the chill air.
"Man, I could use a real drink." Sudeep smacked his lips tiredly, a half-full bottle of Perrier cradled moodily in his arms. "This French shit just doesn't cut it. Kinda like their women, you know? Just not-"
"Spare me," Kiba interrupted calmly. The deep indents his fingers left in the railing belied the truth behind his mien however, and the faint creaking as he effortlessly pried his fingers from the divots made even Sudeep sit up in wary alarm. "You deserved that broken nose. You're honestly quite fortunate I even accepted this favor." Kiba straightened and wondered aloud, shaking his head in frank amazement. "When did I get so soft?"
"Beats me." Sudeep shrugged. "I mean, I'm pretty confused too. I still haven't gotten an explanation for that-"
But Kiba wasn't listening. He had stopped moving, very nearly overawed with himself. "When did I get so tolerant of hopeless cases?" He marvelled. "Have I actually changed?"
—
"Is that a furby?" Kiba asked, poking at the object that Motohama had piked on a skewer and offered him.
"Actually it's a severed squirrel tail. Quite the catch. Good luck, that is." Issei winked.
—
Kiba sighed, patting at a bit of brown fur poking out from his coat pocket. "Oh, right."
"Sounds like a you problem." Sudeep said, unperturbed. He walked up beside Kiba, casually slinging the ice pack behind him to land soundlessly in the trash. "Look, we're in this together, right? Want a smoke?"
A package tipped towards him, and Kiba pushed it away. "It's too early in the day to perpetuate stereotypes, thanks." He said crossly, staring out at the city slowly winking back to life, one window at a time.
Sudeep shrugged. "Suit yourself. Gonna be a long day."
Kiba side-eyed the pin on Sudeep's chest with some anxiety.
ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS
"What the heck kind of person invites a devil to a rehab center."
Sudeep started snickering, turning away so Kiba couldn't see his face. Kiba felt a twitch develop under his right eye. Sometimes (read: most of the time) he hated these jobs. The things he did for his cute Master boggled the mind, sometimes.
Already exhausted, he turned away and walked back into the master suite, intent on checking his messages - Motohama and Matsuda had been sending him complaints since the previous evening, including three offers to help dispose of Issei's body. Kiba had pointedly refused to learn anything more about what was going on after that. But his phone had started buzzing concerningly often about ten minutes ago, and he was frankly scared to look. But he'd take the distraction at this point. If he had to listen to aimless drivel about women, he'd take it from the ones who didn't, or couldn't, go into detail.
Bro where u at rn, wrd chk kns u hr
Sent 7:44 pm
Kiba slowly raised a brow. He'd need a minute for this one.
Focused on the screen that just lit up with another new, headache-inducing message, he only caught the room's doorbell on the third ring. He looked up, then around; Sudeep was still smoking on the balcony. The bell rang again, and he slowly stood up from his half-slump across the bed. How embarrassing.
"Who is it?" Kiba called out, fixing his wrinkled shirt.
"R-room service…"
There was an oddly plaintive note to the response. That didn't sound like anyone he knew.
Wary, Kiba slowly palmed the seed of a blade, and moved up to the door. Peeking through the peephole revealed a young woman standing on their doormat in a staff outfit, twisting her hands together. She didn't seem to have any weapons on her, but that didn't mean much. No, what actually convinced Kiba that she was probably harmless was the expression of puzzled resignation on her face. He saw that expression in the mirror, sometimes. When he dared look.
He let the seed dissipate before swinging open the door. He stopped halfway, revealing only his side profile as he peeked out.
"Hello," He said politely. She started at his looks, almost taking a half-step back. Somehow, he resisted rolling his eyes as he took her shock with good grace, offering the only potentially non-homicidal human he'd interacted with all day a pleased smile.
"How may I help?"
"This room service request was handed to the concierge from this room. He asked me to check for more details." She straightened, some confidence and a deep-seated irritation returning as she offered him a folded paper. "I'm not sure what it is."
Curious, Kiba flicked open the paper and squinted at the drawing within, dominated as it was by several oily-looking colors.
"Well, it seems to be a penis." Kiba blinked. "Attached to…ah. Yes, I understand."
"Do you."
"Yes," said Kiba, smoothly shifting the blame, "Sudeep did this."
"I did do that," Sudeep admitted casually, also walking back into the room and ambling to the doorway. "In crayon. This hotel's stationery set leaves a lot to be desired."
"We have pens, sir."
Sudeep's eyes widened. "You have pens in this backwater?" He marvelled. "Incredible."
"We also have plumbing," Kiba droned. "Feel free to bathe."
"Who bathes?" Sudeep sniffed. "My natural musk is the most attractive part of me. And my calligraphy. Why wasn't I given pens?"
The maid peeked around Kiba to stare at him with a zoolike fascination. "You ordered the kid's meal for lunch, sir."
"What does that have anything to do with it?" Sudeep frowned. "I can fill in a color-by-numbers with a pen too, you know. It's only a little harder."
"Noted."
"Speaking of noted," Sudeep said smoothly, hooking one finger into Kiba's collar to tug him away and slide into his place. "How about you leave your number, too? Or maybe a little more..."
The maid blinked. Sudeep rolled his eyes and pointed at his drawing.
Her eyes darted down to the paper. She turned red and looked up.
Sudeep clicked his teeth twice. Eagerly.
She bit her lip, and nodded slightly.
"That worked?" Kiba said, "That was it? It's been fifteen seconds."
"Yep."
"Does that even count as a pick up line?" Kiba wondered, "How on earth did that work? You sent her manager an effigy of your penis. We should be evicted." Kiba suddenly noticed that she had nails that seemed to be several inches long. He chose not to comment, considering where those nails were wandering.
Sudeep cast an irritated look back, hands busy. "You have no appreciation for love," he sniffed, "or charm." He seemed to be struggling with something, but eventually gave up and started fiddling with the maid's shirt.
"There's no justice in this world." Kiba mused, as the maid seemed to find Sudeep's ass quite pinchable, if his yelps were anything to go by. "To think; there are people who find that impossible. Poor Issei. I don't know if it's easy or hard to be as hopeless as him."
"I dunno this Issei guy," Sudeep said, "but probably, pretty hard. Oof, gentler please - like, a lifelong commitment to being hopeless and making bad decisions. Like - ohchrist - watching porn. Who even does that?"
It was a sad day that one of the worst people he had to interact with was making a point he might even agree with. This was probably a bad sign.
"It's just embarrassing," Sudeep said, "I mean-"
Ripppppppp
The maid, likely tired of the chatter, gripped Sudeep by the hips, and tore his pants clean off. They must've been pretty tight; Sudeep went ashy-white.
"Hm," He said calmly, speaking an octave higher, "I kind of thought I'd have a bit more time before we hit this point."
Something clattered to the floor. "Now," said the maid grimly, "get on all fours, and wear the ballgag."
Sudeep went, impossibly, even paler. Kiba pretended to be dead, and slowly edged towards the balcony. If he threw himself off, at the very least, he'd get some privacy.
"Now oink, piggy," floated to him from the room.
If he was really lucky, the fall would just kill him.
It was late, on Friday night, and The Plan (v1) was in operation.
Issei Hyoudou had so far avoided moving even an inch closer to the Church. It was a cerebral sort of thing, ducking responsibility like that, but he'd made the smartest decision of the night, and baited Yubelluna into walking down Serebryakova Street—infamous for containing 47 breweries in approximately as much land as the Diet Building, making it both the nation's largest (il)legal fire hazard next to an oil spill in a dry rice paddy, and also the world's only known location where even rats could develop acute liver failure.
After, like an hour after, Yubelluna had finally conceded and allowed Issei to drag her away, which played perfectly into part two of The Plan. But while he might oblige, the night's intended ultimate culmination lingered in his thoughts.
He'd had a flash of stark belief, a bolt from the blue, the first time Yubelluna had asked him about the church: if she went there, someone would die. It seemed so obvious, like keys falling or water flowing. Someone would die. Maybe him. Maybe her.
He didn't want that. He liked her.
But could he stop her? He'd tried, but he'd only held out for a week before caving. And after the first time, it was easier and easier to simply be pulled along by her force of will.
And so he'd planned. And plotted. And schemed—oh, yes he'd schemed. He'd come up with The Plan. Issei was only a cute little human, and for all her bluster, Yubelluna would not—could not—stick by him to protect him. Unless she had to. Unless she was drunk. And—and hey, if she got so wasted she couldn't stand, then who was Issei to complain about the reprieve? But there was little chance of that. Issei knew for a fact that Devils could hold their alcohol better (source: live testing on Kiba). She couldn't ditch him, then. She'd stick by him, protect him—
Dark hair and a smile to die for—
Ah, there went his liver again. Issei felt himself panting lightly, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. The fear was cramping his guts. Yubelluna was walking behind him, swaying slightly, but trucking along all the same. She was barely tipsy! She'd indulged in more Kraken than Captain Nemo!
At this point, he'd resigned himself to only be able to distract her for so long; she'd get him to lead her to the church eventually. Sooner, and more sober than he'd hoped for. He had no doubt she'd make it too; he'd seen her choke down entire multi-course meals when she was depressed, and still have a go at the silverware. That took a dedicated sort of person. And tonight of all nights, Yubelluna was at peak performance - she was inches from either snapping or crying. Dangerously unstable. It made him so anxious, his own liver started hurting. How long did he still have?
He began to measure everything in churches. The karaoke bar was four churches up, one left. The corner store was a church and vestibule away. Yubelluna stood a confessional behind him. Kuoh Central Plaza was six churches and a chancel over.
Say.
"Say," he said, "Remember how you wanted a good time?"
"I thought we were going to karaoke?" Asked Yubelluna dully, eyes slightly glazed.
"New plan."
"Is it a better idea than Karaoke?"
"Sure," said Issei. "Well, actually it kinda depends on the person? Maybe not for me, but that's mostly because Iie-san always gives me candy and a nice view of her rear while we rent karaoke rooms."
Issei felt the threat of death cross his mind (and back) like a marlin may feel a shark graze its rear.
"But you'd love the new plan, absolutely," said Issei. "In fact, Karaoke, it's shit. Overrated garbage. New plan time."
So long, suckers, he wished the goons a fond farewell. Issei's going on ahead.
And that plan began with a drink; he'd decided that just now. This time, for him. So he'd lied about doing this sober; what of it? Who could blame him for being scared? He swore to himself, he'd definitely handle this alone.
Picture: the scene is at Kuoh Central Plaza, three blocks to the right of city hall, two down from the library, slightly to the diagonal of the mayor's house and shifted over with change. The full name is the Central St. Saori Seto Municipal Memorial Plaza, a 360 meter production with seven fountains, a small lake, and a burgeoning population of six thousand extremely elderly homeless squatters and associated arthritic vagrants. Police don't enter this part of town. They leave it be.
All the better, for the lights in this part of town come on slowly. Always in number, late, late at night. And always in color.
The first flare of the night was held delicately by a two-toned man with an infectious grin and seven false piercings on his lip, and it cast him in a ghostly green light. He held it low where it played over his shoulders and face, tight to his chest, before thrusting it up to the sky, revealing the writhing mass of shadow behind him. It churned like the waves in response, violently shifting in place. Face after face turned to the sky, bathed in the acid halo, a pale crest in the moonlight.
Distantly, a bell tolled seven times, and the second flare went up. Then the third, then the fourth. Then the tide came in, a tidal wave of smoky illumination breached the dark sea. Light after light erupted into the night sky. Red, blue, orange, yellow, more signals than an airport, more lights than the stars high above, to reveal a crowd of thousands shifting and pressing into one another, wave after wave cresting the distant horizon below.
Because they were dancing, of course. They slammed their feet into the ground. They clapped and bobbed and kicked their feet. They thundered like the wind and storm and the plaza rattled like a drum.
A tree went up in flames as a flare got too close. Some of the homeless moved closer, a couple with sticks to cook potatoes. They cast hungry shadows, stretching lean over the crowd. The potatoes went for three-hundred yen a stick. Sold out in minutes.
More and more lights came on. Headlights and lanterns, torches and bics and flashlights, until the whole place was lit like noonday. Fires were made and crowds formed around them, and a rich scent of cooking food erupted, as for the small price of a cut, the homeless would cook it all for you.
It may surprise you, these homeless. They're behind everything, after all.
In Kuoh, the homeless are as fresh and clean as babes, and nearly as well-fed. They're expert grillers and talented comedians and experienced survivalists. They're trained fighters and experts in all manners of love advice. They can fortune-tell, handle a baptism, rig a sail, make a speech, process a wedding, bake a cake, chart a map, clean a room, categorize a sock drawer, measure a seam, stitch a braid, tie a knot, mix incense, dance wildly, midwife, tree-stand, lifeguard, swim, paint, sculpt, and trim. Any one of them could survive a nuclear winter with ease (and indeed, may be the only ones to do so). They were more political than the mayor, and knew the alleys better than the strays. Even the homeless, they say, live well in Kuoh.
This party is for them. All the rest simply join in.
For a period of two-and-a-half hours, until the first lights sail high over Tokyo Disneyland, Kuoh City is the happiest place on earth.
"It's bright," Raynare whispered, all but pressing her face to the dusty window glass.
The lights from far below Kuoh shone even into the tiny room at the very top of the Church On The Hill. It was enough to illuminate the dark room, and cast harsh shadows down Raynare's face. Her face grew waxen in the dull werelight, twisted as it was in pain, and slick with sweat besides.
"Maybe they're happy?" Asia timidly offered from behind her, strain obvious in her voice. Raynare stirred as Asia shifted and trod upon a silken feather. She barely felt it. It failed to draw her attention away, and that was perhaps a sign that should have worried her. Kokab-Lord Kokabiel had warned her to report unnatural symptoms.
But she hadn't. Why was that? She hadn't reported her eyes slowly growing blurry. The tingling in the tips of her fingers. The ache in her lower back.
Asia hadn't either. But she thought she knew why that was the case. And the bliss that knowledge gave her was one she'd take to the grave. Raynare didn't know - but she wished. She truly wished, from the bottom of her heart, that Asia Argento wished death upon her. That, at least, she'd left her mark somewhere. That she was the only person Asia Argento hated.
She didn't turn around, to see the droplets hanging off Asia's lashes, but even if she had, she wouldn't be able to see what lay at the depths of those deep pools of blue. No one could, anymore.
"Maybe," Raynare said softly.
"Jazzman!" Came the cry, three men deep in the crowd. "Jazzman, play some music!"
"I'm makin' dinner!" The Jazzman hollered back, gruff and testy, oil-spattered clothing shimmering in the can-fire he had a whole roasted racoon strung up over. The little red panda struggled on the spit as the elderly man refocused, chuckingly throatily, licking his lips.
"Jazzman, we'll buy it all!"
A grin sliced across his face, and if you saw it you'd know he was waiting for those words.
Like lightning, he leapt to his feet! His guitar jumped into his hands, red panda flying into the crowd with a yowl, and his fingers were already dancing. Bum bum bum, badadadum, the guitar thrummed beneath his quick plucks, the deep bassline sending shoulders a-jump. People were tapping their feet, tap-tapta-tap, shuffling to the throaty beat. The melody followed, coins falling into his hat, ting-ting-ting, a hi-hat beat. The beat found new life, badadadadam, his fingers dancing across the wooden heart of his bass.
He had the crowd dancing, this jazzman did, so he whipped his coat aside to send it home, revealing a sax strapped to his chest that wailed to the night sky.
The crowd roared in that quiet undertone that crowds have, that still make it impossible to hear anything. Even the passerby couldn't escape. People among them were dancing, the subdued shoulder-shuffle of people that needed to be somewhere, but decided to enjoy the way for a bit. Others were more vocal in their appreciation. Still, the great tide of humanity pressed on, and among the eddies where people spilled into the square to slow and enjoy the music, Issei and his lovely guest found themselves. Issei felt his pulse jump, and even the little panda beneath his arm wasn't struggling anymore.
It was a good night, Issei thought. It was a good night for fun.
But he couldn't dance, not because the red panda still tried to wiggle free from his grip, but because he was still a little self-conscious of his ungainly two-step.
Thus, the drink. Cups were everywhere of course, Yubelluna had long since collected a small stack, but Issei was nervous. He'd never been here. He was scared. He'd never felt well-placed in a crowd, and this was the largest crowd in Kuoh.
"Bottoms up," he said mechanically, and let it all go.
Memories are such fragile things. Maybe I'm being sentimental, but I can't help but be drawn into what's left of Issei's memories. I'm here to substitute after all; I'm the pinch hitter, now that the bases are loaded, and the cleanup just struck out.
Issei's memories are fragmented. Broken and in pieces. He retains only some of what happened that night, but perhaps that's a good thing. He isn't used to that kind of happiness after all. For example, he had a conversation with Yubelluna at some point after 8:30; it went something like this:
"-so dad was like 'u goin anywhere tomorrow' and I was like 'it's 4 pm and this Matsuda c*nt is busy or smth so i dunno' and he was like 'aii cuz your cousin invited us to see her baby again tomorrow in Mie' and i was like 'shit bro why not i guess there's no reason he wouldn't be free on sunday it's just like an eight hour drive away right-'"
"No."
"-it basically is give or take like five hours but bro I totally get what you mean, so then I was like 'but actually fuck that lmao' but then my aunt happened to hit me up right then and she was like 'we have so much fucking pizza here u wont even believe it, i might die under the weight of all this pizza will someone not save me' and I was like 'damn bitch guess someone gotta be the hero' so yeah that's totally what happened."
End transcript.
Solo drinking, in the end, never ends well. Truly, a shame. All he can remember are flashes.
Entering the square at 7:06.
The lights going up.
The music beginning.
Noise. Noise. Noise.
People dancing.
Free beer.
Yubelluna, following him through the crowd.
Drinking.
Laughing.
Splashing people with the fountain water.
Yubelluna punching someone.
A fight.
Running away. Pushing through the crowd. Sweat, heat, a damp pressure as they ran.
Yubelluna holding his hand, dragging him along. She was laughing. He can remember the sight, but the sound is lost to time.
Dancing on the edge of the crowd. A massive group forming.
Food. Spiced racks of something. Even cat might've tasted pretty good then.
Lying down, full, staring up at the stars.
Yubelluna pointing at constellations of the night sky.
She cried, Issei would recall later. All he saw was her red eyes, but he knew. But he never asked, because he wasn't who she'd hoped to be at her side, and in the end, even slightly eclipsing the image of Riser in her heart would be a burden too heavy for a virgin like him. So he looked away with a particularly gormless look and pretended not to see. And that may even have been the right thing to do, because she was smiling again soon enough, and she even danced.
Yes, she danced. And that's where Issei's memories of the longest night of his life begin. With her awful, awful dancing. She'd never been taught, and she couldn't move to a rhythm to save her life. If she hadn't been beautiful, it would have been embarrassing, but as it was it likely came off as charming.
Issei, equally terrible, was shunned instead. Not even a boo. How sad, Issei.
The noise continued to escalate outside, but deep inside a karaoke bar, with layer after layer of soundproof walling, only the barest edge of the roar cut through.
"God," Motohama said, sitting on an ugly velour couch holding a microphone, "this is kinda pathetic, isn't it?"
"A little," Matsuda agreed. He bounced a popcorn kernel off Motohama's head.
"I can't believe that bastard ditched us." Motohama continued.
"Nuh, bro."
"It's unbelievable. He fucking stood us up. We were gonna have a karaoke party, and he stood us up. We rented the room an' everything."
"Too true. The bastard." Matsuda yawned slightly. "Bought cup ramen and cheap beer an' everything. What else do you need to drown your sorrows?"
They went silent for a minute.
"I can't even blame him," Motohama admitted.
"Same." Matsuda bounced another kernel off Motohama's head.
Motohama swiped at it absently, thousand-yard stare directed out the window where he could see Issei pointing and laughing at him. He swore he could see it. "So what now," He muttered.
Matsuda thought for a second, popping a kernel into his mouth for once. "Disneyland."
"Disneyland?" Motohama scoffed. "What are you, my granny? Who the fuck drowns their sorrows at Disneyland other than children and cat ladies?"
"That seems aggressively sexist," said Matsuda, slightly hurt, "NEETs can like Disneyland too. It's colorful and nice. Also, the wind from the coasters blows up skirts real easy."
"Bullshit," Motohama scoffed. "There's a hundred better places for panty shots, and all those girls are there with their dates anyway. It would just be depressing, and then we'd get beat up. You're just fishing for a hot woman, I bet."
Matsuda shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," Motohama said self-righteously, "Not yet anyway. We're not hopeless, so fucking give up on Disneyland and we can look for actual chicks. The librarian said 'ohhh you're so nice Motohama-chan, so responsible', an' she's barely thirty, that's how charming I am. Guaranteed success, man."
"Was it for paying that late fee? For, uh, what was it - 'Cannibal Women in the Silicone Jungle of Dildos'?"
"Yeah."
"Whoa, she didn't even smack you around for that, I should go talk to her too."
"Fuck off. I saw her first."
"Yeh but she saw you borrowing porn, so I definitely have a better shot."
"None of us have a shot, she's married."
"You asked, didn't you."
"She was nice about it!"
"Damn, you suck. Why don't you just go back to playing in the sandbox dude. Go make a fucking anthill or something."
"Fuck you, man."
There was another period of righteous silence, longer and more awkward than the last.
Matsuda broke first. "I can't-"
"-can't?"
"I can't-"
"-you can't-"
"I can't fucking believe-"
"I can't believe Issei's on a date right no-"
"Don't fucking talk about it-"
"-it's happening! Right now-"
"-how the fuck did he-"
"-that rat bastard-"
"-that son of a bitch-"
"-that no-good motherfucker-"
On and on the eruption of complaints vomited forth, both boys growing redder and louder in their proclamations, fingers curling and slamming into tables. They jumped up and paced the room, denouncing their comrade, criticizing him, castigating him, calling even his name and presence as a fellow NEET itself into question-
And then they stopped. Again. They flopped back down and watched the trailer song again.
Matsuda had a stupid expression on his face, this time. Someone clever would've recognized it as trouble.
"I'm kinda angry. I think I'm just gonna jerk it," Matsuda said out loud.
Like so.
"Here?" Motohama turned to him. "Right now?"
"Ya bro."
"Sure, I guess. Just seems sudden."
"I dunno man, I just can't think of anything."
"Cuz you're not a creative guy."
"Fuck you. You think of something."
Motohama pondered for a few minutes, and admitted that he couldn't think of anything either. Matsuda thumped the couch victoriously.
10 minutes later, they were watching Mayumi Takeda on screen, and somehow felt even more discontent tha before.
"Man, this is still pretty sad."
"Feels weird without a third guy, probably," Matsuda theorized. "We should invite Kiba next time."
Yubelluna noticed something worrying amidst the celebrations.
Naturally, it was Issei. Now, she didn't really tend to pay attention to him, but in this case, he had a particularly stupid expression in his face, and as she'd learned, his stupid expressions tended to conceal dangerous thoughts.
"I was just thinking," said Issei, "that I deserve minions."
Like so.
"Deserve."
"Yeah," said Issei.
Two hazy faces drifted up from the murk, a bubble of memory lazily floating atop the mire of inconsequential people Yubelluna was constantly exposed to. These two, however, were a deep pull even for that.
"Mo-san...and Ma-san?"
"Uohh, that's all you remembered? You met them yesterday, you know? They might cry if they heard that."
Whatever.
"But yeah, them!" Issei thumped his chest. "They should worship and revere me, cater to my every need, and generally treat me as a superior being."
Gross.
"Why?" She asked.
"I want to be pandered to," Issei said. "I've been expressing opinions all my life, constantly, and I've noticed that they've been stealing them. Borrowing my opinions without my consent. Using my ideas. I think it's about time I got some kickback for that."
And then he kept talking, and despite herself, Yubelluna was hooked.
"You see," said Issei, "I've come to the conclusion that I'm just better than them. They're side characters in my life. I'm the one with the cool friends, after all, and they just introduce me to really bad '80's porn actresses…"
"…when NisiOisiN asked something like 'hey, didn't you think, once, that you might have been the protagonist of a story', I was the only one in class who said 'all the time' with confidence. Really, when you think about it, doesn't that prove…"
"…he's living with one downstairs to him now, and all he does is just ask if she has copies of her old tapes. It's really weird that he asked her to dress in her old service outfit even though she's like eighty, isn't it…."
"…found a used condom in the park and refused to find out who's it was, like he was too good for peeping on public sex all of a sudden…"
Hazily, Yubelluna recalled that Riser said a while ago that she could kill him if she wanted. Was it too late for that now? She could still kill him right?
"Nobody's too good to be a voyeur, right?!" Issei roared.
The crowd around them, who had gathered without Yubelluna noticing, pumped their fists and roared back, "NO!"
Yeah, it was probably too late. Yubelluna sighed.
"Jan-jan-jalalala-jan-jan!" Sang Matsuda with the television.
"Bro," Motohama groaned, "Kamen Assrider is like, so '90's. They still have perms dude, this is embarrassing."
"No one can be too old for Kamen Assrider."
"Can too."
"Can not."
"You really are scared of that church." Yubelluna had the audacity to pout. "You'll be safe with me."
Issei couldn't help but be charmed by her lovely bow lips. So charmed, he almost believed her, despite knowing that not only was he not safe, but that she had absolutely zero intention of sticking with him.
"I'm not scared," Issei lied in a high falsetto, "I just - numbers are good, right?"
Yubelluna turned to Issei, smiling slightly. "You know, by the sound of it, you could just ask them for help. It sounds more like you're scared to operate without them."
"Them?!" Issei spat. "Who'd rely on them?!"
Yubelluna crossed her legs smoothly, and placed her elbow in the crook of her leg. She was smiling slightly. "I wonder-"
Matsuda's head bobbed. "-ywah? Sorry, repeat?"
"What the fuck's up with Issei anyway?"
"He has been kinda weird lately, huh."
"Yeah…" Motohama said, momentarily distracted as Matsuda rammed his pinky into his ear, down to the second joint, "…uh…he's…been weird…"
The pinkie worked its way deeper into his ear, until eventually it must've connected a circuit somewhere because he replied, "Guilt, probably?"
Both boys paused to think about that, before roaring with laughter.
"They're fucking useless!" Issei cried, sweeping his hand out and nearly bitch-slapping a drunk. "Utterly useless!"
Yubelluna's lips curved up. "Oh-but aren't they similar to you?"
"Don't insult me like that." Issei sniffed. "I'm so much better."
"Oh?"
"Classier at least, right?"
Motohama and Matsuda hopped up on the couch victoriously, jumping up and down while grunting and hooting like gorillas.
"Guilt!" Motohama grunted, beating at his chest. "Big guilt!"
"Small-dick, big guilt!" Matsuda hooted, slamming his hands on the worn cushion. .
They both stopped jumping for a moment of somber silence. "Very small dick."
—before howling with laughter.
Yubelluna shrugged. "I guess."
They stopped making noise, snapping into a sudden silence arms falling limply to their sides and laughter cutting like a switch.
"Well." Matsuda stretched, sighing. "He's finally fuckin' doing something at least. Remember—"
—
Thursday, 7:52 pm (yesterday)
"Dude," Matsuda whispered to Motohama as Issei ran home, screaming about making plans. "Was he crying?"
"Yep." Motohama popped the 'p'. He slid a small camera out of his inner jacket pocket, where it had been aimed at the opposite couch. "Got pictures. Gonna sell 'em to the swim team for ¥600 each."
"Fucked up." He offered a closed fist to bump. "60/40?"
"70/30."
"Bastard."
—
"— ah, nevermind. I just depressed myself. What a seriously sad bastard."
"We know where he's going though. Guess we better chase him."
"He's just hopeless without us."
Motohama groaned. "Coulda used Kiba as backup."
Matsuda scratched at his scalp. "Where the fuck is he? He hasn't replied to texts."
"Hello, my name is Sudeep."
"""""""Hi Sudeep."""""""
"Hi Sudeep," Muttered Kiba, visibly shrinking down into his seat.
"Hello Sudeep." A young lady, no taller than five feet, clasped her hands warmly at the front of the room. "Please, why don't you tell us about yourself?"
"I hate nature," Sudeep replied. The deep bags under his eyes contrasted the lightness of his tone. "It's a problem. Really, it is. With that in mind-" he reached behind his back, slowly drawing out his Redhawk as sharp gasps and quiet cries erupted around him. "-say, do any of you know any microartists? Ones predisposed to philanthropic ventures or, say, aiding wildlife? Small wildlife. Actually, is anyone here part of a wildlife conservation at all? I'd like to have a word..."
Kiba slumped in his seat and continued sliding down, accepting the stings of pain as he prayed to God to strike him down. In his pocket, his phone comtinued silently buzzing.
"Probably something stupid," Motohama sighed. "Guess we'd better-?"
"Yeah?"
"For sure."
"Alright."
They bumped knuckles and zipped up in harmony.
There was no cake. There were no presents. There was no planning, structure or guide. But it was a party. It was no more or less the preamble to a night of unremitting violence for certain members of Kuoh Town, so in that sense, what guests there were had long arrived.
But for Issei, that mere preamble was the most important part of the night. After all, he had no experience with violence. But a broken heart? Oh dear, if Issei Hyoudou claimed to be the number two most experienced heartbroken virgin, not a man or woman alive would claim to be number one. This was Issei Hyoudou's fight.
So then, what do you give a girl that has seen luxury all her life?
The answer is obviously not a party. Presents for a day of effectively mourning/forgetfulness was right out. Nor is the answer something childish, like 'something humble'. Men, please don't be fooled, your rich girlfriend doesn't actually think the cheap takeout is charming. Optimistically, she just likes you enough that it feels acceptable. Please be bolder.
The answer Issei came up with was such: show her something she hadn't seen before. Kiba had said something, like 'devils live apart from the world' before. So there was a very good chance that she had never, ever, never, experienced a mosh pit.
He was smarter than he appeared at times, this Issei-chan. It was the right answer for Yubelluna, and no one else. Yes.
It was the right answer for Yubelluna.
Issei sighed and leaned back, as he watched Yubelluna slug a beer and hurl the bottle at a statue. The crowd spanned the breadth of his vision and the light of their passage ground even the stars to darkness. It was loud. No, it was deafening. He couldn't make out a form in the mob, only limb after limb. Yubelluna was in there, somewhere, drowning her sorrows. Riser's getting engaged, right about now, she'd said, an' I won't be there. I won't see a goddamn minute of it. The most important event in devildom all year and here she'd paused for an ominous second before continuing with so far, and I'm missing it all.
She'd sounded a little pleased at that. It only took most of a bottle of J&B. Or seven.
He yawned and levered himself off the edge, feeling the first traces of drowsiness tug at his eyelids.
He felt rather content that he hadn't completely fucked it up; this was his first date after all. Sorta.
Rum-tum-tss
The sound of a steel drum.
Issei perked his ears up and turned around; it had been nearby. The fountain was slightly wet, so as he stood, a clear imprint of his ass was left on the concrete. He politely splashed some water over it, so there would be nowhere comfortable for someone to sit, and started walking around the fountain.
The one he'd chosen to sit at was large, and a massive amount of mist sprayed off of it all the time. It tasted vaguely salty. It left the ground somewhat slick, as the large paving stones were revealed to be quite smooth underfoot. He moved carefully around the fountain, listening to the drums grow louder, but he once more found his footing unstable, and reached out to steady himself.
His hand found a coat. Not at shoulder height, as he'd been expecting. But merely waist. His hand tightened on coarse fabric, and reflexively, he tugged it down a bit.
The warm form stilled, and slowly turned. Issei swallowed, but his eyes slowly moved despite his frantic prayers, trailing up to meet the steel-grey eyes of a very familiar man that he'd once seen in a run-down church. He'd had a gun, then.
Issei was willing to bet that this man still had that gun. In fact, he knew this man still had that gun.
Don't say anything hissed his brain, just shut the fuck up and pretend you don't know him.
"I sure hope you're just happy to see me," said his mouth.
You're fucked.