Agrippa
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All Right! Fine! I Will Take You! – Chapter 76
🕑 Added 2023-04-28 07:55:14 +0000 UTCSometimes, anime and manga are relentlessly mocked for unfair reasons.
(Contrast that with when they are relentlessly mocked for fair reasons, a far more common occurrence.)
There are many instances of such a thing happening: from decrying as cliched and stale the stories that gave birth to the very cliches being criticized, to the overreliance on the male gaze in shows that are aimed entirely at males (for, often dual, obvious reasons), and to the wholly unjustified outrage at the perfectly reasonable happenstance of an unremarkable male lead somehow accruing a harem of gorgeous women through unclear means. But one of the, I feel, more unfair criticisms is that of the overly exaggerated emotional displays.
Yes, it feels somewhat incongruous that the famously stoic Japanese culture, one that often cautions to hide one’s feelings to avoid causing trouble for others, would, in its more popular form of entertainment, showcase such blatant and overt emoting as the sweat drop, the nosebleed, the waterfall tears, or that weird thing that only mutants can pull off with their mouths.
You know the one. Something that no cat owner would ever recognize as even remotely feline. The one that looks like a three that fell down and strives to get up.
Or the pizza-beak thing. Yeah, that one’s weird as well.
…
Speaking of weird…
I feel like this informative lecture would fail its faithful students if I didn’t make a side-note here to reference how all this goes doubly so in hentai, that genre so widely acclaimed for its nuanced, subtle portrayals of human emotion, from the dangerously dehydrating ejaculations, to the disheveled expressions that more accurately portray a stroke than an orgasm, to smiles given by well-meaning, somewhat portly men that make young children cry (among other things), but your devoted lecturer trusts that his well-informed, cultured audience can draw the connections and points of similarity by themselves.
Certainly, the crux of the matter is that manga (and anime, when it tries to adapt the original) needs to rely on hyperbole for the same reasons that even Western comics, no matter how much they like to claim otherwise, also feature such unlikely artifacts as Spider-man’s mask’s eyes widening in shock. They are drawn media, and the narrative and characterization must be carried both by text and image.
Tiny, tiny images.
As in, have you seen a compilation volume panel’s size? It’s the stuff that optometrist’s wet dreams are made of.
So, through its decades of history, the genre has accrued a compilation of visual cues that form their own language, a shorthand for the reader to quickly understand what is going on, what the author intends to portray.
And yes, out of context? Devoid of everything that came together so that these little things became meaningful? They are deserving of mockery. But that is missing the point entirely because, when you’re in the flow of the story, when you’re fluent enough in the language conveyed through the sequence of pictures that you seamlessly integrate it without the cynical lens of overanalysis, those cues work.
You will laugh at the old martial arts master sprouting a fountain of blood out of his nostrils with which to paint red an invisible man. You will snicker at the martial artist with no sense of direction sprouting a pulsing vein on his forehead after his genderbending rival flaunts her magical breasts yet again in her latest ploy to pretend to be his fiancée for entirely straightforward, heterosexual reasons. You will get on the edge of your seat when said genderbending martial artist gets confronted by something actually serious,and his face gets shadowed by falling bangs.
You will also ponder what the Hell is wrong with the martial arts world, but that is a topic for another lecture.
But the point is that, overblown and silly as the cues may be when out of the context in which they are meant to work, they can, when played straight, be devastating.
Case in point:
Iroha’s pout.
“That is a terrible idea,” Haruno, possibly the most pout-resistant person in history, states.
Oi, Haruno, in just how many ways are you a once-in-a-generation genius? Don’t you think there should be some limit? A weakness to offset your plethora of powers to engender some sympathy from the audience? A dramatic Achilles’ Heel that could be relentlessly exploited by rock-collecting nerds the world over?
Scratch that. It sounds like a crappy premise for a superheroine NTR doujin. Never mind, then. Proceed with your overpowered ways.
“Her parents already know I exist,” Iroha insists in the face of Haruno’s overpoweredness, hinting to the existence of such an unforeseen weakness or, at least, an offscreen training arc in the middle of the mountains in which my foxiest girlfriend finally attained the ultimate technique of her secret clan of kunoichi kitsune.
“They do,” Shizu says, staring down at the marble table of the Italian restaurant-slash-café where we’re already pretty sure the waiting staff is more fascinated than disturbed by our endearing dynamics. “Oh gods, they do…” she continues, almost breathless, as she rubs wide circles on her temples with the tips of her fingers, her elbows rudely set on the white stone slab streaked with gray veins that is just reflective enough for her to meet the horrified gaze of her mirrored self.
I discreetly pat her back while studiously avoiding my own reflection’s gaze.
For reasons.
‘You need to acknowledge that Minami—’
For reasons that are not to be discussed.
“This was unplanned,” Haruno says with a reasonable tone that is the first and only indication that she’s about to lie through her teeth. “Shizuk—Shizu was feeling emotional and made a rash, impulsive decision. That is done. But now we can manage the situation and gradually introduce the situation, starting with the most socially acceptable of her lovers—”
“You. Are. A woman,” Iroha growls in a way that is more Komachi-like than foxlike.
That is: with actual menace.
“And it only took two foursomes for you to notice. Progress,” Haruno tells her with a studiously clipped tone as she raises her cup of cappuccino to her lips and takes a quick sip that all my genius detective training under her guidance tells me is just a way for her to disguise her reaction to what will be said in answer to that.
…
Fine.
Challenge accepted.
“I’m pretty sure Iroha was well aware of your gender beforehand, Haruno. Something about wanting to lick your legs and climb you like a cat’s jungle,” I say.
To Haruno’s minutely arched eyebrow as her cup goes suspiciously still.
And to Iroha, on my left side, directly opposite the still despairing Shizu, dramatically gasping at me as she clutches her chest and leans back against her chair’s black, metallic mesh.
“Senpai! How dare you! I told you that in confidence! Please, stop spreading all the detailed fantasies you and I shared about what we would do with Haruno after getting our hands on those glossy, black leather restraints—”
“As if you would get me into bondage gear.” Haruno, tone Yukinoshita cold, punctuates the statement with the click of her white porcelain cup being forcefully set back on its saucer.
“I never said who the leather was for,” Iroha purrs, leaning forward in a way that has her back arched at just the right angle for her chest to stick out and over her own glass of soda with grapes.
Yes, soda with actual grapes. It’s weird. I don’t know where she got the idea from.
At least it’s not wine.
Haruno meets Iroha’s gaze without a single reaction.
Other than the blush slowly crawling up her ears.
“This is your fault,” she says, turning to stare straight at me. “You gave her an opening to exploit. I’d never have fallen for this if you two weren’t ganging up on me.”
“You were being mean to my girlfriend. What did you expect?” I say.
Her eyes narrow.
“I am your girlfriend,” she says.
“And I’ll be as mean to you as you want me to as soon as we agree on a safe word,” I answer.
Oh, would you look at that? Her ears just got redder.
“This,” Shizu mutters. “This is what I will be introducing my parents to. This is what the police report will describe.”
“On behalf of Haruno, I’m offended that you believe there would be any evidence left for the police to find,” I chide my rude, insensitive girlfriend.
“He’s right. I’m incredibly offended,” she says, her right hand affectedly lying over her sweater-clad chest. A sweater that is not a virgin-killer by mere virtue of there no longer being any virgins, technical or otherwise, left at this table. “You can make it up to me by introducing me to your parents—”
“You two still need to make things up to me for leaving me out of the loop,” Iroha, gallantly displaying the bravery instilled in her by a lifetime of training, says, daring to interrupt Haruno.
Haruno, acknowledging the stated challenge, slowly turns to her with a leisurely raised eyebrow and a single, stretched forefinger pressed to the side of her jaw.
Her eyes narrow, overtly displaying that she just noticed a slip.
Namely, the use of the number two rather than three.
Iroha tries to keep her face impassive.
To pass the slip as irrelevant.
Fails.
And Haruno turns toward me, the clearly innocent man who has nothing to do with their clash, and stares until I have to wet suddenly dry lips.
“You moron,” she unfairly states.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reflexively answer, trusting in the ancient defense passed down from father to son.
“I’m talking about you consoling Iroha here. With your cock,” she counters with the elder offense passed down from horrors beyond the stars to shapes recognizable by the human mind.
“You tried to console me at a love hotel,” Shizu parries at the last moment, her words a shield for me to hide behind.
“I wasn’t at your school, running the risk of being discovered by—really?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, this time averting my eyes, trying to come up with a variation on my technique that works in modern times, seeing as the ancient scriptures may need some adjusting.
She kicks my shin.
Ouch.
“It… It was just a classmate,” Iroha tries to defend me. Or herself.
Most likely herself.
Shizu, her back symbolically against the restaurant’s corner, stares at each of her gathered lovers sitting by this little round table that may be slightly too small for our group, yet was the most secluded one in which to hold our impromptu gathering that, for reasons that should be self-evident, we couldn’t hold at either my place, Iroha’s house, Yukino’s apartment, or Shizu’s.
… I’m still going to get Haruno to deduce whose apartment owner I need to subject to the poignant, persuasive argument that is arson.
If, you know, she doesn’t come up with something more horrifically fitting.
“What classmate?” Shizu finally asks, her tone suddenly serious rather than hilariously despairing.
Iroha looks at me.
I look at Iroha.
She kicks my shin.
… Ouch.
“Minami Sagami. She’s Zaimokuza’s girlfriend—” I start to say, just this once relenting in front of the blatant pressures of gender inequality.
“Oh, thank everything,” Shizu rudely interrupts, deflating until her head rests on her folded arms that act as a very convenient, worthy of emulation, way for her not to make contact with an entirely too judgmental reflection.
‘Your reflection isn’t judging you. Your reflection can’t judge you. I am judging you.’
Don’t be silly, Brain-chan. Everybody knows that mirrors are witchcraft.
‘You failed that particular physical sciences test.’
Because they can’t handle the truth!
“Can somebody explain who is Zaimokuza and why having his girlfriend catch you in the toilet isn’t—not the toilet? Wait, not the rooftop either? Where the Hell were you two maniacs having sex?” Haruno asks, the question somewhat shifting as she incredulously looks from Iroha to me.
I lick my lips. Look at Iroha.
And, as soon as my pants’ leg even rustles, I turn back to Haruno.
“Zaimokuza is my oldest… ugh…”
“You oldest ugh?”
“Friend. He’s my oldest friend, but he’s about as socially aware as an overexcited puppy, hasn’t grown out of his chuuni phase, is stuck, for some reason, on him being the reincarnation of Yoshiteru Ashikaga and me the incarnation of his guardian deity, and insists on loudly calling me the Lord of Battle, Harems, and Battle Harems,” I say without, somehow, bursting into flames.
Haruno looks at me.
Blinks.
Oh. There go those flames. All over my cheeks.
“He’s coming to the wedding,” she says.
“The what?” I, understandably, ask.
“The wedding. Weddings. Whatever it is that ends up happening. I don’t even care if this is your wedding to somebody not currently sitting at this table. He’s going there, he will be your best man, and he will give a speech,” she says, her grin widening with every word that pours out to the cadence of a mad god’s laugh.
“This is you getting revenge for earlier, isn’t it?” I say, resorting to our shared language of spite.
“You know me so well,” she purrs, her shoeless, stocking-clad foot slowly gliding up the inside of my right leg.
“Battle harems?” Iroha asks, looking between the two of us and, somehow, missing the chance to record me about to have public sex for the second time in a day.
You’re losing your touch, dear. At this rate, I’ll have to retrain you.
… Stupid sexy Iroha with stupid, sexy, unpractical leather outfits.
“It’s a manga thing,” Shizu helpfully points out as she raises her head from its dark solace above her arms. “It’s when a harem show and a battle shounen end up having a borderline hentai baby.”
I look at her, admiring her expertise in the field of otakusplaining, and pondering whether I can afford to get her as a guest lecturer.
And what ethical concerns that may rouse among my academically-minded peers, seeing as I’m currently in a relationship with her.
Such a scandal. Maybe I should cautiously discard the idea.
And, you know, just keep having foursomes with my high school teacher. Yes, that surely won’t get me in hot water with the administration.
“… That sounds disturbingly gross,” Iroha blasphemously comments.
“I don’t know, I think it has a certain appeal,” Haruno idly says as her eyes burn right through me and her limber toes start playing along the inside of my thigh.
“You’re just saying that because you’re a martial artist,” Iroha says, rolling her eyes at the girl sitting to her left.
“First of all, you most certainly aren’t about to complain about what Haruno’s flexibility training does for you. Second, ninjas also are martial artists—”
“Senpai, I’m about to get mad.”
“How amusing,” says the only woman here likely to spout that line.
“Can we get back to the subject of—” Shizu starts to say.
“Nope,” three voices unanimously answer her.
She lifts her head. Blearily looks at us.
Promptly drops it right back over black sleeves.
And my two non-currently freaking out girlfriends and I proceed to keep pretending that everything is all right and we’re just bantering back and forth.
***
The waitress who keeps smiling wider every time she comes by to ask us if we need anything else, even when unprompted, and is just clearly fishing out for a good tip rather than enjoying the show, returns to the long-suffering man wiping glasses behind the bar top.
And we all stare at one another.
“Okay,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Okay?” Haruno asks. Entirely unnecessary, but prompting me to explain to the non-detectives among us.
I sigh.
Her bare foot is idly caressing me just above my right ankle, drawing small circles with the tip of her big toe that are meant to be more comforting than arousing.
Because she’s Haruno, and even her shows of support need at least a small layer of subterfuge.
“Yes. We… We have had enough time to decompress. We should talk now.”
Shizu, by my side, licks her lips, her eyes once again resting on white marble.
So I grasp her left hand and wait until she looks at me.
“I love you. We love you. You’re none of the stupid things you keep thinking you are. It was me that chased you. It was Iroha that forced herself into the relationship and burned down your plans to get me to be with somebody else. It was Haruno who set things in motion and jumped in before the train had a chance to crash. If you’re guilty of anything, it’s of being such a wonderful person that all three of us fell in love with you.”
Her steel eyes crumble, and I catch a glimpse of the silver beneath.
“Hachi…” she breathes out, making my heart race in an entirely different way than Haruno did earlier.
“You’re not going to throw your life away because of us. You’re going to lie, accept Inoue’s deal, and keep things discreet until Iroha and I graduate.”
“I don’t want to hear that from the man who just got caught creampieing Iroha,” she says, breaking the solemn mood with her blatantly irrelevant quibbles.
“Then you’ll hear it from me,” Haruno says, grabbing her other hand, tenderly lacing her fingers through Shizu’s in a way that gives lie to the harsh tone. “As you’ve kept hearing me throughout the entire day I’ve spent with you rather than going to class. As you’ll keep hearing every single minute we spend together until you cave in, listen to reason, and do what’s best for you.”
“I…” Iroha’s eyes drift over the linked hands until, at the same time, Haruno and I grab hers. Her eyes open wide before a heartbreaking smile blooms on her as she just stares down at the table. At us holding her. And then she looks up. “I’ve been lying most of my life. For petty reasons. Stupid reasons. I’ve had to hide how I feel or what I think since I was a little girl. If I have to do it for something important? For us? That isn’t an issue. That will never be an issue.”
I squeeze her fingers between mine, and she looks at me in that way she does when there are no masks between us.
“That is disturbing, incredibly unhealthy, and something we will have to deal with at some point. But thank you,” Shizu says.
“I don’t think it’s that unusual?” Haruno quips with a fake, confused flutter of her eyelids.
… I hope.
“Of course you wouldn’t…” Shizu answers, playing along.
I hope.
“You’re impossible,” Iroha mutters.
“I most certainly am. And I’m adding your mother to a list of people that keeps growing by the day,” Haruno answers, her tone going from airy to something quite a bit heavier.
“Please, don’t. Mom is just… damaged.”
I look at the three wonderful women sitting around this round piece of grey-streaked marble with a black rim of lacquered iron.
At four pairs of linked hands.
At eyes that go from luminous honey, to glimmering silver, to stormy lavender.
At them.
Us.
“Aren’t we all?” I ask.
There’re some giggles. A huff from Shizu’s side. A tug on my left hand.
There are many things left unsaid. Plenty to argue about. To discuss.
But, in this moment, in this brief lull in the chaos that is our shared life, I feel that, once again…
Words are not enough.
But this, what we have, what we hold…
It is.
It will always be.
And I’ll do anything to protect it.
Comments
Agrippa
The Continuing Adventures of Waitress-chan and Security-kun could be a nice spin-off...
DC2008
That waitress is going to be able to write an awesome book someday. If she isn’t already maintaining a blog
