Agrippa
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All right! Fine! I will take you! – Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2021-08-27 02:36:15 +0000 UTCSelf-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 notwhat 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 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.
