Death.
Death, in shounen, can be a myriad thing, from a predictable cliffhanger when dealing with settings in which wish-granting dragons are a reasonable substitute for both public healthcare and funerary services to a poignant reminder of the ephemerality of the self when, suddenly and cruelly, editorial cancellation strikes.
But, more often than not, in shounen? In this one genre that has been pivotal in our media studies course?
Death is a power-up.
From having your best friend executed by the villain du jour (damn it, Haruno), to reaching your very limits to the point of seeing a smiling grandpa waving from the other side of a river, death or near death are used again and again as a means to show both the utmost extreme of human experience and a way to signal a passage to what lies beyond those limits.
In shounen, death is rarely the end. It isn't even the beginning. It's, more often than not, a 'to be continued.'
Something that I desperately hope won't be engraved on my tombstone.
"Stop being so overdramatic," Shizu says, rolling her eyes in a way that's the furthest from an unstated and nuanced performance.
"Stop being a danger to society, woman!"
"I've been driving for—"
"Traffic light! Traffic light!" I warn, gripping the safety handle on top of the car's door until each and every groove of the plastic becomes a part of the destiny any fortune teller will ever read in my hand as I struggle to point ahead with a stretched finger so tense that it damn near quivers.
Just, you know, not overdramatically.
"Oh, shit!" she says in a very calm and reassuring manner.
And then, of course, she will follow her calm utterance by slowly bringing down her speed before gently braking as we reach the pedestrian crossing—what the Hell is she doing?!
'I don't know! Ask her!'
"What the Hell are you doing?!" I ask her, but not because I like Brain-chan remaining inside of my cranium or anything.
"It's orange!"
"That's a warning! That's a warning to stop before it goes red!"
"Nobody does that!"
"We're in Japan, the land of law-abiding citizens too meek to revolt against our democracy effectively devolving into a one-party system! We're not in Italy!"
"Oh gods, not another Europhilic lover…"
"Wha—I'm not into Italy like Haruno is into France! Nobody's into Italy like Haruno's into France! Italians aren't into Italy like Haruno's into France! France's too scared to file a restraining order against Haruno, and Italy is consolingly patting her shoulder and telling her it will all be all right in the end before slowly tilting her chin up and soulfully staring into France's eyes like the Napoleonic Wars never happened! And what the Hell are you making me say!"
"Nobody can make you say anything! If they try, you end up ranting about bears or homoerotic, genderbent Axis Powers Hetalia fanfiction!"
"That was an original piece, you Philistine—ah. We crossed already."
Shizu takes a moment to slow down the machine I firmly suspect was an Akira motorbike in a past life and then shoots a glare at me over the divider between our seats.
"If you keep yelling at me, I'm going to make you ride in the back," she warns.
"The back is farther from the imminent collision that lurks in our near future, so you just incentivized me yelling at you like—I don't even know. Like you're hard of hearing. I'm emotionally drained after watching my depressing life flash before my eyes and, thus, finally devoid of witty similes. Sue me."
She, rather than sue me, gasps and dramatically claps her open mouth.
"Eyes on the fucking road!" I calmly and rationally ask her in as polite a manner as I can manage.
"You backseat-drive like a grandma," she mutters as her hands audibly readjust on the leather steering wheel.
"You drive like you're Misato Katsuragi's bustier cousin. Not that I've often and vividly imagined you in a yellow spaghetti strap top, daisy dukes, and a messy ponytail, crawling over my naked body with a naughty smile and a half-empty can of beer dangling from your fingertips, you understand. That's not something I have repeatedly done in the days in which I have slept alone in my room, browsing your pictures on my phone's messages as I pulled a tissue out of the box, you understand. Not at all. This hasn't happened. I, in fact, have only brought it up as a clear example of something that hasn't ever happened. Like, you know, you following the laws of man, God, and traffic. That is how much it hasn't happened."
After my brief, not-at-all-too-detailed and fueled by a brush with existential threats on par with dodging giant laser beams with a classic sports car declaration that is definitely not a rant, silence falls inside Shizu's second-hand yet still too expensive car.
"Hachi?" she says, her eyes firmly on the road ahead for once.
"Yes, dear?" I say in a tone that is not cowed at all by the burning sensation creeping up the sides of my neck and my cheeks right until it reaches the very edge of my hopefully not-too-prominent eyebags.
"Shut up and eat your toast."
"Yes, dear," I say.
And I grab the dropped slice of buttered bread sitting on top of the paper napkin protecting my school uniform and do, in fact, eat my toast.
It's delicious.
It tastes like an excuse not to have a conversation.
━❖━
"So. Misato Katsuragi," she far too indifferently says as she slows down in search of a parking spot once we approach Sobu High.
I, regretfully, stare at my empty hands and the few crumbs on a white paper napkin.
You struggled valiantly, Toast-chan, but, ultimately, your sacrifice was for naught.
"What can I say, I've got a type," I mutter in what hopefully is an inaudible volume.
"A type," she says, looking at both sides of the street for that ever-so-elusive void between cars.
"Damn it," I curse my lack of sensory-inhibiting powers.
"You've got a type. A type that, somehow, encompasses Iroha, Haruno, and me."
"Yup. This means that my type is youthful, vivacious wo—girls. Aren't you happy at fitting that description?"
There's a red light up ahead.
This, for once since we departed in a rush from her apartment, means that she slowly brings her car to a stop and looks straight at me.
Curse you, laws of man, God, and traffic. Curse you all.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" she says, two fingertips loudly tapping on the leather wheel.
"Absolutely nothing. Also, I clearly don't have a type, and, if I did, it would be diverse and esoteric enough that no ready conclusions could be inferred from it."
"Misato. Katsuragi."
"I mean, it could be worse. The nurse from High School of the Dead is also named Hiratsuka, you know? Would you rather I compared you to a busty, airheaded school employee—"
"Misato Katsuragi. A traumatized alcoholic who uses sex as a coping mechanism and has a quasi-incestuous relationship with the teenage boy she takes guardianship of."
"… She isn't a smoker?"
Her eyes, for some unfathomable reason, narrow.
Thankfully, before she can bring up Misato's military training and penchant for ludicrous violence, the car behind us honks.
Thank you, road rage. You have, for once, saved me from marital rage. Which, in my case, is likely to be far more lethal.
So the former Akira bike moves forward, slowly speeding up as Shizu looks straight ahead, and—fuck.
"Oh, would you look at that," she says with a sharp, cold grin. "There's a spot right here."
And, of course, because she's Shizu and doing pointlessly cool things is her trademark, she slides right into the vacant space in a single, smooth maneuver that she only course-corrects by minutely backing off from the red van in front of us.
I don't dare let go of the safety grip.
"So, anything you would care to comment on, dear?" she says.
I wet my dry lips, turn to fully face her, and…
"You look gorgeous," I honestly say.
"Tha—wha—flattery won't get you anywhere!"
"You look gorgeous. We just made love, your hair's still wet from our shared, rushed shower, part of me is likely still inside of you, and you haven't had the time to do anything other than throw your clothes on. And you still look gorgeous."
"Stop—I was—"
I grab her chin and, as naturally as ever, allow my voice to lower and the seals to further fray.
"She's a fictional character. Yes, she's the epitome of the sexy, mature lady with a traumatic past, and that, coupled with her penchant for driving like she was trying to call out attention to her actual death wish, made me think of you. Because you're attractive, incredibly so, and you've been hurt, as is plain to see. And you're caring and protective, and maybe have some habits that you could do without, so, yes, there are parallels, but do you want to know what's the most startling thing about Misato Katsuragi, Shizu?"
"Wh… What?" she says in a slow, tiny voice as she looks up into my eyes.
"That I barely noticed her until I fell for you," I say.
And then I dive down and take her lips, tasting her as thoroughly as I did in a teacher's room once, pushing her until she's caught between the door to her car and my body, the safety belt pressing across my torso barely doing anything to restrain me when I hold her, drag her to me, force her to feel me.
She moans, melting between my arms, and…
And I don't even think about anything other than the woman I love half-heartedly patting my chest so I will let her go.
It won't be the first time this morning that I haven't listened to her.
━❖━
"All night?" Iroha scandalously asks me as soon as I step into our shared place of learning and school gossip.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I reflexively say as I grab her wrist and drag her away from the few students still walking in at this hour and to the closest set of stairs.
"You've got eyebags…" she mutters with what, when I turn to look at her, turns out to be a pleased half-smile, honey eyes fixed on my fingers around her arm, and a pink flush on her cheeks.
…
Damn it.
So, yes, that's obvious. That's a foregone conclusion. Something we all knew was about to happen:
As soon as we turn around the corner to the stairs, I push her against the shadowed wall, slam my hand by the side of her face, and kiss her breathless.
And I only stop once I realize that she's tugging my belt off.
━❖━
"I don't see what's the big deal," she says with a huff that may be a protest at us walking up the stairs at a quick enough pace that I may even get to class in time.
"You're the Student Council president," I say without throwing my hands up. Mostly because one of them is still firmly grasping her wrist, and I don't think an asymmetric hand throw would fit my stringent aesthetic values.
"I mean, what's power for if not to abuse it?"
"Iroha? Sweetie? Dear? Love of my life?"
"Yes?"
"Please, never go into politics."
"Fuck me cross-eyed, and I may consider it."
"I—rain check?" I say with not a croak in my throat nor a tightness in my pants.
"So you and Shizu can start the day having sex, and I have to wait until your schedule's free? How is that any fair?"
"First of all, since when have you cared about fairness in any way whatsoever—"
"I do when it affects me—"
"And second, I never said I had sex with Shizu. Today. I never said I had sex with Shizu today."
"You've got eyebags. What do you expect me to believe happened that had you miss that much sleep?"
I, very carefully, avoid even thinking about the actual answer lest she takes it as justification to enact alcohol-related plans and then, like a good boyfriend who would never dare to gaslight his girlfriend, tell her the truth and nothing but the truth:
"Exercising."
Just not, you know, the whole truth.
"I am sure you and Shizu both exercised. A lot," she says with unfair accusation thick in her tone.
So I, again, wet my lips and, as soon as we reach the next landing, push her against the wall, my hand once again by the side of her face, her eyes looking at me as they slowly open from her narrow side glare into an expectant, almost fretful expectation of…
…
Why do I do this to myself?
'Because you have internalized beliefs that lead you to think that every good thing that happens in your life will soon be followed by some kind of cosmic retribution, so you unconsciously act to punish yourself beforehand in the desperate hope of ameliorating the karma about to hit you.'
Thank you, Brain-chan, for that unexpected insight into what a traditional religious upbringing, no matter how lax, can do to a young man's psyche, but I was thinking about this very thing that I'm doing right now. You know, specifically.
'Ah, that's because you're a sap.'
How dare you, I firmly rebuke the voice inside of my head.
And then, slowly, languidly, kiss Iroha with all the tenderness I can muster.
Her free hand tangles in my hair, dragging me down into a gasping mouth with pink lips, and our chests push against one another, her softness meeting the muscles still burning from the actual exercise I went through earlier. Her leg slides around mine, surrounding me, claiming me, offering herself with the same gesture that she demands I reciprocate. That I claim the girl telling me she's mine.
Gods, I love her so much…
"I…" I try to speak, leaning my forehead against hers, our breathing mingling in scalding air turned into a ball of turbulence between us. "I did exercise. Shizu thinks I should get a routine."
"A routine," she says, the look of wonder turning into a single arched eyebrow and a mismatched, mischievous grin.
"I may have added to Shizu's planned exercises."
"Of course. Because you always have to go above and beyond for… us."
The hand in my hair drifts down, her soft warmth on my cheek, and I close my eyes as I nuzzle against it.
"I do," I tell her.
"I know," she answers.
And, just like that, her lips are once again on mine.
But it's her pushing. The girl below me standing on her tiptoes to reach her taller boyfriend.
Iroha kissing me.
And I couldn't even begin to think of a better way to start off my school day.
━❖━
Shizuka
My car seat is, once again, in the horizontal position after I've dropped Hachi off at school.
… That sounds far worse than I thought it would. Or better. I don't even know anymore.
But the truth is that I'm just resting my eyes, my arm draped over them as I let time pass by, too tired to drive home and get back in bed like maybe I should.
It's not like I've got better plans for the day, is it?
Not while unemployed and unenrolled. Not while the only thing that will mark any kind of steady routine in my day will be… Hachiman Hikigaya.
…
I'm doomed.
As the stark, merciless thought balloons in my head and I flinch like it was me who just had her first hangover, I'm somewhat relieved by my phone ringing and forcing me to deal with the merciless world beyond the comforting darkness of my suit's sleeve.
Then I look at the screen, see Haruno's name, and quietly swear.
"Yes?" I say with as few inflectional cues as I can manage—
"So, did you manage not to have sex this morning?"
Damn it.
"I resent the implication," I say. Mostly because I do. The implication being that I can be read like a book by somebody who's not even face-to-face with me.
But she, rather than press the advantage and recklessly mock me… giggles.
It's… a pretty giggle. Airy. Lighthearted. All the things one would think that Haruno can only pretend at.
But she isn't pretending.
And just that makes my heart soar.
So I join her. I laugh. We laugh, together, and sometimes one of us tries to say something, but the laughter interrupts, and we go back to this wordless back and forth, with my laugh and my girlfriend's giggles bouncing inside my car, filling the thought of the day ahead with something other than aimless monotony and waiting.
"I love you," I manage to say after too many years of not saying it to her, not even inside of my head.
"I love you," she answers, her smile clear to hear in the carefree, bright tone.
And then laughter is replaced by a warm silence, and…
And I just lie here, my arm not on top of my eyes but by my side, on top of the divider that Hachi is so prone to cross, the ceiling of my car looking precisely as it did the day that I called Dad to tell him that I had one boyfriend and two girlfriends.
It has… It hasn't been long. But it's been a journey. One that is far from done, even if it feels like we are getting there. That each of us is getting something we couldn't have hoped for at the start.
If I was a certain surly malcontent, I would put it in terms of a quest. I would pointlessly criticize the banalest of details of whatever show caught his attention to draw parallels from. Mock Naruto's screeching, Black Clover's worse screaming, Nanatsu no Taizai's ridiculous reveals, Love Hina's escalation into shounen battles… It wouldn't matter.
What would matter would be the underlying message. The analogy established not with surface, ridiculous details, but with what's conveyed through them. With the genuine message that…
That we all aspire to something more. Something else.
And that, sometimes, even if not always or even often…
We reach it.
"What are you doing for lunch?" I say.
"I was thinking about taking my girlfriend to a little Italian café with a gossipy waitress," she says.
And I smile the kind of smile that a protagonist would in the final frame of the last episode.
━❖━⧫━❖━
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