V1C1 Part2

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2. SECOND TOUCH

Translation Notes

1. Yoshiharu Habu is a professional shogi player who is the only one to hold seven major professional shogi titles at the same time

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“Chika, huh, Kimichika. Yeah, I remember him.”

“Really? If you remember him, Yori-chan, then he must’ve really been here.”

“Haa? You thought he was a ghost? You’re as dumb as ever.”

Laughed at by Yorimichi, Kuroba pouted and said, “I wasn’t,” but he had actually been thinking something similar. He sipped a can of coke with his pouting mouth and snacked on a stick of pocky. The newest issue of the weekly manga magazine was on his lap.

He was half-seriously suspecting if “Chika” was one of those imaginary friends kindergarteners often had, who he made up in his head and was the only one who could see him. He felt relieved that Yorimichi’s testimony proved that he actually existed, but he also felt like he would rather he hadn’t existed than to accept that he grew up into that and became that. His feelings were interminably complicated.

Yorimichi was his cousin three years older than him. Their last names were both Kuroba, and he was Itoko’s older brother. Yorimichi and Itoko’s father was Yuni’s father’s younger brother. The Kuroba family was one of the biggest landowners in the town of Monshiro, and family members related to their grandfather, great-grandfather and their siblings were scattered throughout town. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he would bump into a relative if he walked down the street.

Yorimichi was three years older and a second-year high school student, and needless to say, a minor, but there were many empty beer cans lined up in front of him. However, he supposed it was okay since the person himself said, “You can’t get drunk with just two or three cans of beer. It’s just carbonic acid.” Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, he was plucking the strings of a rather spiky electric guitar with a pick. It wasn’t hooked up to an amp, so the sound didn’t resonate at all and only bounced off the strings a little bit.

However, it was a room in a karaoke box with prefab huts lined in a row located in an excessively spacious parking lot. This type of karaoke box seemed to be old-fashioned nowadays and not popular, and instead it was effectively used as a place to practice for a bandsman like Yorimichi. Well, Yorimichi wasn’t a bandsman or anything like that. Because he wasn’t in a band. He had many interests, but none of them ever amounted to something.

“Hey, Yori-chan, you got shogi lessons from Grandpa, right? So you know Chika too.”

He was supposed to have been determined about becoming a “future Habu” (1), but he hadn’t seen Yorimichi playing shogi or anything in recent years. One of his hobbies that never amounted to anything.

Their grandfather’s hobby was shogi, and the old man who was his shogi friend would often bring along “Chika” to their house. While the two old men with the shogi board between them on the porch made not even the slightest movement, it was a natural course of events for the two kindergarteners, who were bored to tears, to end up playing together. He didn’t know who Chika was or where he came from, and that wasn’t necessary information for him to be a playmate. He lived with his parents in the neighboring Suzumu City and was often left in the care of his mother’s family in Monshiro, apparently…He had only learned those things after Chika had moved.

“Yori-chan, do you know why he moved to Tokyo?”

“What, you don’t remember? His mom died.”

Yorimichi, pressing down on the top part of the guitar’s neck, strummed a low note.

“His mom got sick a lot and was always in and out of hospital, so he was left at his grandparents’ house a lot. But, she died in the end. I remember Gramps going to the funeral. His dad was the one from Tokyo originally. Since he had no reason to be here anymore, he returned to Tokyo with his dad.”

“And now? Why did he come back again?”

“How should I know. Don’t ask me for everything. The guy’s right there, isn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t be having so much trouble if I could ask the guy…”

He wouldn’t ever think of that guy as “Chika” again. He was simply “Haijima.” Chika was someone else who was chopped off at one point. How his heart had danced when he heard Chika was returning—just like how big his expectations were, the resentment that smashed them into smithereens was deep-rooted.

Now February, three weeks had passed since Haijima transferred to their school. During that time, he didn’t exchange a single word with him. Their seats were front and back, so there seemed that there would be something to talk about, but even when they passed around handouts, he didn’t turn around at all and just shoved them over his shoulder. If there was something he didn’t like about Kuroba personally, then he could understand that—no, he couldn’t understand at all because he hadn’t got the slightest idea why—but he was like that with everyone in the class. By the third day of his school transfer, he was wearing headphones when it wasn’t class time. There was no clearer declaration of “Don’t talk to me” than that. Anyone who couldn’t read that couldn’t be a middle school student. At first, there were people who tried to have him blend into the class by talking to him about this and that and hovering over him, but they all quit on that third day. The excitement in class that was heightened by the great event of getting a transfer student had also gone down completely.

“Hey, Yori-chan, am I really uselessly big?”

For some reason, the words Haijima flung at him at the end clung to his ears. He grumbled that, his eyes dropping to the manga magazine without really reading it. Yorimichi let out a vulgar “Aah?”

“You don’t know? Uselessly big means you’re talking about guys like me. In terms of uselessly big, then you’re still just half a man.”

“You don’t need to brag…”

“I mean, it’s annoying how you keep asking questions. You’ve been doing nothing but that.”

It was true that Yorimichi might be a model of uselessly big. He was over 185 centimeters tall. He didn’t know if it was the genes of the Kuroba family or something, but looking over his relatives, they were generally pretty tall. However, Yorimichi wasn’t just stout vertically, but also horizontally, so he didn’t seem suited for volleyball. He had a physique that was better suited for rugby or judo. But despite his wide variety of interests, he didn’t think he had ever been into sports. If he had to choose, he would say riding his motorcycle…could sluggishly riding a 125cc that was little more than a moped be called a sport?

Prrrrr, prrr…. The phone extension line next to the door started buzzing. “Oh. Five minutes already?” Yorimichi said, raising his face from the guitar. “Yuni, another thirty minutes.”

“We’re still not going home yet?”

I’m getting really bored over here. When he reluctantly got up, Yorimichi’s phone on the table also started vibrating along, and the two jumped slightly. “Geh,” Yorimichi made a blatantly disgusted face as soon as he looked at the LCD display.

While Yorimichi answered his phone, Kuroba answered the phone line.

“It’s been five minutes!”

“Um, another thirty!”

“An extension, eh. Thank you very much!”

As they were having a sluggish exchange, Yorimichi’s hand reached out and disconnected the receiver.

“No extension after all. We’re going home.”

He retracted his earlier statement and returned the receiver to the wall.

“A return order?”

“Not for me, for you. Here.”

“Yuni?” From the phone pressed against his ear, he could hear Itoko’s voice. “I got a call from auntie. It’s already dinnertime. It’s been five minutes, right? Finish up and go home.”

“Huh? How did you know?”

“I know everything you guys are doing.”

Horrified, he looked at Yorimichi, who shrugged. Even though he never said anything to his family or Itoko, she was able to see that he was trying to extend the time he spent together with Yorimichi and in the karaoke booth. The combination play of his mother and cousin was terrifying.

“You shouldn’t be paying for things. Let Yorimichi do it. Don’t hang out with him too much. If you hang around with trash, you’ll become trash.”

After mercilessly saying scathing things about her own brother, she hung up.

“What did my dear little sister want?”

“She told you to pay.”

“You scraped my bike the other day. Pay up, Yuni.”

Well, I knew this would happen. The fact that Yorimichi made him come along with him at every opportunity was, when it came down to it, extortion. Yorimichi’s father was the second son, and Yuni’s father was the eldest. Yorimichi was older, but Yuni had the heir’s blood, so according to the high schoolers and university students Yorimichi often hung around with, he was the “head house’s young master.”

He knew he was being sponged off of, and he wasn’t really complaining about that. Yorimichi, who had played with him since he was a baby, was an easygoing companion he could talk about anything with, he could read and watch certain types of manga and videos he could never watch at home as much as he pleased if he went to Yorimichi’s room, and, well, he was free anyways.

As usual, Kuroba paid the bill at the reception desk in the outbuilding, and during that time, Yorimichi shoved the empty cans and cigarette butts into a plastic bag to destroy the evidence, and they met up in the parking lot afterwards.

Yorimichi rolled up the back of his down jacket, which looked cold, and kicked his heel at the ground.

“Whoa, it’s freezing.”

His voice rang through the empty parking lot loudly.

The snowscape that emerged in the blue cellophane-covered twilight looked like the face of a hateful ghost. It was a rare snowless night, but the temperature dropped steadily when the sun went down. The snow was plowed in the parking lot, but the snow that had been trampled on and hardened during the day had frozen, and there was no doubt that one would end up with bruises on one’s buttocks after slipping. The air was stiff and freezing. It felt like he was walking while cutting up his face on sheets of thin ice.

He had no idea what kind of naming sense he went by, but Yorimichi mounted his beloved steed, his 125cc that he named the Komashi-gou, and picked up a helmet.

“Here.”

Instead of wearing it himself, he threw it over to him. Just like always, Kuroba carried Yorimichi’s guitar case, put on the helmet and sat astride the tandem seat. In addition to being uselessly big, Yorimichi’s down jacket made his back bulge out and blocked his vision so that he could barely see ahead.

The rear wheel spun out and the bike started running, scraping the ice. It was terribly dangerous, and he put his chin on the shoulder of his down jacket, which was blocking his view, and warned, “Hey, that scared me! Drive safely!” Yorimichi answered, “I got this, I got this.” He turned around to say that, so he was driving completely distractedly now.

As soon as he said that, sure enough…

“Yori-chan, a person!”

A pedestrian appeared from behind the giant sign of “Karaoke Box Monshiro.” It was a blind spot, so he only noticed them when they were right before his eyes. The pedestrian also didn’t seem to notice the bike approaching and turned around in surprise when the headlights illuminated him. The headphones on their head and the lens of their glasses reflected the light in white. Wait, what—!?

Yorimichi braked suddenly, but the Komashi-gou skidded sideways and closed in on the pedestrian. The tire got caught in the gutter and Kuroba was thrown from the tandem seat. His back slid on the frozen snow, finally stopping when the back of his head hit something.

“Ow…”

Half-opening his eyes and looking around, he saw a guardrail post behind his head. It seemed that he had slid all the way to the edge of the sidewalk. The headlights of the Komashi-gou appeared from a distance away.

“Oi, Kuroba!”

There was a figure running to the middle of the backlight together with the shout. When they came close and crouched down, he heard the heavy sound and a bag hit the ground. A jersey-clad knee was on the snow. A dark red schoolbag with an unknown school emblem. It was the enamel sports bag that he wore diagonally over his shoulder that made that heavy noise.

Huh, he called me Kuroba just now, he thought about that in a corner of his mind as he slowly got up.

“Ah, I’m okay. I don’t think I’m hurt.”

He loosened the strap of his helmet that was digging into his chin. The ground being slippery and frozen was actually a blessing in disguise, because there was minimal damage despite being blown away spectacularly. The helmet and the guitar case on his back helped a lot.

“Are you okay? You didn’t get hit, right, Chi…” The voice called out “Kuroba.” He didn’t know if he forgot he used to call him by his first name or he purposely didn’t call him that. “…Haijima,” he said, matching him.

“What…were you doing this late? You don’t look like you went home.”

He asked, unable to look him in the face as he stood up and (pretended to) check over the guitar case. His eyes suddenly went to the hands of Haijima, who was standing up as well and pushed his square-shaped enamel bag behind his back. His right hand gripping his bag strap in front of his chest and his left hand holding down his headphones on his head both had white tape around their fingers.

“Yeah. Club activities.”

Haijima answered simply.

“It’s posted to the front of the gym. I knew it when I saw it.”

“Oh, what was it, that table?”

The table that allotted the days each sports club could use the gym was posted on the bulletin board in front of the gym. Things like which club used the stage side and which club used the equipment room side on which day. He had completely forgotten that their club also had a set practice day. He was surprised. However…

“…You practiced by yourself?”

Including himself of course, but he was sure that none of the other members were aware of their practice days. It’s been three weeks since he transferred here, but since when did he…? He didn’t talk to anyone in class, making a defense shell with his headphones and usually disappeared from the classroom at dismissal before anyone knew. I thought he didn’t stay in school much, but he actually doesn’t go home at all and goes straight to the gym, remaining there until it gets dark and the roads freeze over, in this season when daylight is short…?

He didn’t understand it. That was his honest impression.

Yorimichi mounted his bike and advanced slowly. His side mirror on one side was bent, but the Komashi-gou seemed more or less fine.

“Is the guitar damaged, Yuni?”

“Dunno. See for yourself.”

“If it is, you gotta compensate for it. And the repair fee for Komashi-gou.”

“What!? But you were the one who fell over!?”

“And you were the one who’s responsible for the guitar.”

“Your argument’s all over the place!”

“Hey, you’re Chika, aren’t you? The shrimp’s all grown up. About as much as Yuni did, eh? You’re not hurt, are you? You understand, I just fell over on my own and didn’t do anything to you. I used to look after you in the past, you know.”

In the second half, his voice took on a threatening quality. Haijima knitted his brows and glared at Yorimichi.

“He’s Yori-chan. You remember, right? My cousin who used to go to Grandpa’s place to play shogi.”

Kuroba cut in to try to mediate between the two of them.

“I remember. So what?”

He was made speechless at the way he cut off the conversation.

Haijima took his eyes off Yorimichi, as though saying that he wasn’t worth making eye contact with. Those eyes suddenly found something and turned upwards. He was looking up at the “stupidly big” old signboard of Karaoke Box Monshiro that was forlornly illuminated by a fluorescent light that was about to go out.

“Kuroba.”

Haijima called out to him with a cold look at the signboard. Even though he wasn’t being shouted at, Kuroba steeled his mind in spite of himself.

“You’re into some boring stuff, huh.”

Saying it over his shoulder, Haijima put on his headphones again, turned his back without seeing his reaction and walked away. His bulging enamel bag, perhaps packed with his school uniform and gym shoes, and lanky back sank into the other side of the pale evening gloom.

“What’s with him. Really makes me sick.”

Yorimichi badmouthed with his mouth twisted.

“He’s standoffish like that at school too.”

“Keh, did he get all bitter and sulky like that ‘cause his mom died?”

“Yori-chan, that’s too…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Let’s go home. I’m starving. I had a disgusting meal today.”

After giving a hard knock to the top of Kuroba’s head through the helmet, he took the helmet and guitar case away from him.

“You, walk home.”

“Wha, why? I’m hungry too, and if I walk I’ll freeze to death before I get home.”

“He’s walking. It won’t be funny at all if I fall again.”

“You fall when you fall, it doesn’t matter if there’s one person or two.”

“That’s why I should just fall by myself. I’m going to the bike shop tomorrow, so bring the money.”

Letting his engine roar crudely, the Komashi-gou pitilessly started running.

Something came flying from the other side of the tail lamps that were becoming more and more distant. It drew a parabola in the night sky, and he jumped to catch it with a “Wah!” It was the bare minimum of charity—a warm disposable pocket warmer.

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