CHAPTER 6

And so, the day of Comiket arrived.

Even if I’m a short, super-cute shota, I can’t bring a guy into the women’s changing room, so I changed while watching a fitting video we took earlier.

Exiting the changing room in everything but the parts meant for outside, Riku, waiting just outside, offered, “Need a hand?” suggesting an escort.

Honestly, my heart skipped a beat. It was that shocking, almost paralyzing. He knows I can navigate crowds alone without most of the bulky gear, since I’m not wearing it yet.

Normally so aloof, pulling a gentlemanly move like that is unfair.

I desperately wanted to cling to his arm, but with armour on my chest and arms, I reluctantly settled for holding hands. Even when I laced our fingers in a lover’s grip, he didn’t pull away like usual, squeezing back gently.

He’s oddly good at escorting for his personality, which bugs me a bit, but with his closeness to Onee-chan, it makes sense. I’ll take it as a perk of being the second person he’s this comfortable with.

“Cold…”

Outside, I tilted my head at Riku, shivering in his coat.

“Really?”

“Why aren’t you cold, Hiyori-san…?”

“…Used to it?”

My body temperature’s higher than most, but maybe it’s because we’re holding hands.

In my heart, there’s no room to feel the cold. My pulse is racing, my chest fluttering. Wearing the costume he made feels like being wrapped up in him.

“Sigh, I love you…” My thoughts slipped out.

He tilted his head, probably lost by the randomness. To me, everything’s connected, though.

A gust of wind made my exposed skin tingle. Today’s high is 8°C, right? Not unbearable, even bare. I once did an eight-hour pool shoot in a bikini at 3°C max in midwinter. Naturally, I got in the water.

For a cosplayer chasing trends, wearing the outfit regardless of release month is almost mandatory. But please, no more winter bikini skins.

Arriving at the park, the crowd was sparse. Nearly two hours post-opening, most attendees were still hunting doujinshi.

With minimal makeup today, I left the changing room quickly, but many cosplayers probably haven’t reached here yet.

I attached the mask with a click. My vision darkened instantly.

A 1mm by 10cm slit in the mask, filtered through black shading material—that’s my view today.

“You okay?”

—I know exactly where he is, as long as our hands stay linked.

“It’s bright outside, so I can kinda see. Faces are barely visible up close, maybe?”

“These masks often have no peepholes in the source. I made it slightly visible, but it’s not Comiket-friendly. Sorry.”

“It’s not blind, so it’s fine. Just don’t go too far.”

I gripped his hand tightly, wanting to hug him, but the gear and eyes around stopped me.

“Got it. You can take it off when not shooting—”

“No, …it’s special, so I’ll keep it.”

I told no one I’d cosplay at Comiket today. No whiteboard with my handle or SNS ID either.

Today, I’m not the 540,000-follower cosplayer Tsukushi Fumu—I’m an anonymous cosplayer.

I can’t show my face too long. In summer, I got recognized pre-cosplay. Just in case, I replaced all my bags and carriers.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous, but with him here, I’ll be fine.

“Wanna prep now?”

“Yup!!”

Lowering a Boston bag big enough for a kid, I pulled out heaps of gear, laying them on the ground. At crowded events, large gear gets disassembled and reassembled in the cosplay area.

“…Alright, looks good.”

After twenty minutes, Riku finished assembling the gear, handing me a scythe.

Not a grim reaper’s ominous scythe, but a sci-fi one, with propulsion ports for dance-like swings.

It’s long and poorly balanced but surprisingly light, swingable one-handed. Swinging a scythe my height with this vision might cause casualties, though.

“Can I move?”

“Sure, I’ll step back.”

“Huh?”

“…Parts flew off during crafting once.”

“Scary! That didn’t happen yesterday, right?”

“Nope. But it’s disassembled once, so… probably fine here.”

Glancing around, no one was within a few meters.

I moved cautiously. The armour clanked, restricting but not immobilizing me. No parts flew off. I could strike most poses.

Despite looking heavy, it’s not feather-light but manageable. He said the materials, fixings, and paint were all chosen for weight reduction.

“Looks good, so let’s shoot. Strike some poses.”

“Got it!”

In the widest park area, one-on-one shooting began.

While being shot, I glanced around. Normally, I’d face the camera, but the mask hides everything but my head’s direction.

Photographers, cosplayers, and curious non-camera attendees peeked at us.

It’s not about shooting skill here. It’s the scene: a guy with a camera photographing a cosplaying girl.

Even if you’re too shy to approach a cosplayer fiddling with their phone, people line up behind someone already shooting.

After a while—see?

Gradually, more camera-wielding guys appeared, likely watching since assembly. Not quite a line, but waiting for their turn.

Noticing, Riku lowered his camera, saying, “Go ahead,” to a nearby guy. The man bowed lightly, and photographers lined up eagerly.

“Shooting okay?”

“Please! I’ll pose randomly!”

No one could identify me from that exchange.

Some skin’s exposed—stomach, back, waist—but the critical face is half-hidden, only nose-down visible. Armour covers my chest, so size isn’t obvious.

With years of cosplay, I can tell what a camera’s aiming for. I noticed immediately.

—It’s different.

The cameras’ focus,

The photographers’ eyes,

The gazes of passing cosplayers and attendees,

They weren’t on my chest or face—they fixated on the gear.

At Comiket, no one cares about costume quality? True. Photographers come for cute or sexy girls, rare cosplays, or memes. As long as the character’s recognizable, perfection’s not expected.

A 100-yen-per-meter fabric versus a 2000-yen one? Only cosplayers notice. Wrong gear placement or reversed accessories? Most photographers don’t care.

—But that’s within normal bounds.

No otaku could ignore this outrageously unconventional costume.

A character from a game, still inspiring fan art six months post-release. Even non-players recognize her.

In SuperSpark Arcadia, the combat outfit isn’t fabric but hard armour covering the body, called “driven armour” in-game.

My character, Shannon Sendou’s driven armour, features a skirt with vernier propulsion ports. It enables high-speed movement and posture control, wielding a giant scythe with dance-like flair, boasting top-tier motion counts.

In-game, the skirt floats around waist armour, but in reality, most things don’t float without serious effort.

—Yet, somehow, it looks like it does.

I know it’s held by matte-painted umbrella ribs, but from any angle, the fixings don’t show in photos.

Spaced from the body, it sways slightly behind my movements, glossy metal-like parts appearing to float. The wire’s color—chosen to blend in light or dark—ensures it’s nearly invisible.

And that’s not all—

Confirming the gathered gazes, I looked at Riku. Without words, he nodded, understanding.

Reaching inside the skirt, I pressed a button firmly.

“““Ooh…!”””

A whoosh sounded, followed by cheers. The force almost made me yelp.

The button released the fixings, and like an umbrella opening, the vernier skirt spread wide, blue-white light bursting from the ports.

Yes, this absurdly complex structure moves to mimic combat motions and even glows.

Using a one-button folding umbrella frame, it opens and closes. Already over-the-top, but he went all-in on the details.

I struck a pose with the weapon. The stance for my favourite move is seared into my mind, no reference needed.

Holding the scythe low, I glanced at the stunned photographers.

Unnoticed, the line of photographers had grown significantly. That gimmick must be a close-up draw. Even I’d want to see it.

The movable gimmicks aren’t just one. The weapon, other parts—all have tricks to recreate in-game motions. Even official cosplayers couldn’t wear this.

(Wow, what’s this, what’s this, what’s this? Cosplay’s so fun…!)

I’ll never forget today.

 

Kagajo Mashiro, 18.

Due to a late birthday, adult content finally became accessible this winter, my third year of high school. The doujinshi I’d painfully held back on now weighed heavily on my shoulders.

But this is the weight of love. With a tote bag screaming love until its straps nearly snapped, I headed to Bousai Park to meet my friend.

“Shiro-san, you’re so slow!”

“Sorry… I gave in to temptation.”

“Perverted kid!”

“We’re about the same…”

“I’m two years older!”

My fuming friend’s barely 140 cm tall. With my heels boosting me to nearly 170 cm, our perspectives differ greatly.

Today’s a duo cosplay of my favourite yuri couple from an idol game I’ve loved forever.

As a yuri fan, I want to cosplay such characters, but duos often lead to intimate poses, and some avoid that with girls. She’s been my partner for three years, though a bit childish.

When I mentioned wanting those photos, she teased, “Shiro-san, you a lesbian?” “No.” “Got it.” I love yuri but I’m not a lesbian.

“…So many people.”

“Yeah.”

The entrance was crowded, so we moved deeper, spotting a huge gathering—likely a swarm shoot—near the park’s centre.

The moment I glimpsed the cosplayer through the crowd, my feet froze.

“What’s up?”

—I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Not because it’s fun, trendy, or beloved.

I just couldn’t look away.

It’s a cosplayer.

Just a cosplayer—supposedly.

“CG…?”

The words slipped out unconsciously.

The sight was that unreal.

“Huh? What’s there?”

Her voice snapped me back.

“…That swarmed cosplayer.”

“Can’t see! Pick me up!”

“Done acting older?”

“Big sis, carry me!”

“Fine,” I replied, lifting her by the armpits—light. Lighter than my elementary-school cousin, almost. What’s she made of?

The swarmed figure was a female cosplayer in full armour.

“…Wow, incredible,” my friend gasped, and I nodded, unsurprised by her reaction.

“Her face… it’s hidden.”

“…Oh, true.”

“You didn’t notice?”

“Yeah…”

I hadn’t even thought about her face.

Her femininity was clear at a glance.

Not overly exposed, but her waist’s curve and posture—unarmoured parts—confirmed she’s a woman, not a crossdressing man.

Yet, the face, crucial for cosplayers, was mostly hidden by an oddly shaped mask covering above her nose.

I know the character doesn’t always wear a mask; it’s a one-time thing in the story. Why choose that look?

One thing’s certain—she’s stunningly beautiful.

Her body, the sliver of visible face, even from afar, screamed it.

Gorgeous, well-proportioned, and experienced.

Surrounded by dozens of cameras.

With a mask likely blocking most vision.

With armour restricting nearly all movement.

Her limbs moved fluidly, like a motion actor.

She knew exactly how she was seen, where eyes landed.

Opening her stance shifted the swarm.

As if commanding, “Shoot this angle low,” the male photographers moved instinctively.

The swarm thickened as I watched, obscuring her, so I set my friend down.

“Oh, I remember.”

Noticing something, she fiddled with her phone and showed me.

“Huh?”

“It’s Yotsutsuji Mei, look.”

“…Oh.”

Right, I saw a photo of this gear in progress two weeks ago.

Just a torso mannequin, a single still, not a video.

In two weeks, it’s been so refined I didn’t recognize it.

—Yotsutsuji Mei.

A cosplay crafter with over 200,000 followers, likely the most followed non-cosplaying, non-photographing cosplay figure.

Age, gender, location—unknown. Posts only crafting progress or finished works, never interacting with cosplayers, reposting their photos, or sharing personal life.

So indifferent to where their creations end up, clients tag posts with a dedicated hashtag.

They open a reservation form twice yearly, filling in five seconds—a crazy competitive rate.

They craft anything requested: standard costumes, full-body armour, special-effects suits, fantastical dresses—all terrifyingly high-quality.

Recently, they’ve taken corporate commissions, but without a public contact, even big companies fight those five seconds.

A game company once said, “We had all staff try for an official cosplayer costume.” Instantly pegged as Yotsutsuji Mei. They got only two outfits.

“I tried requesting Yotsutsuji Mei once.”

“Same, what a coincidence.”

“Every cosplayer tries at least once.”

“Probably…”

I sighed in response.

I tried once too. The reservation form’s release is a mini-festival in the community.

I didn’t finish inputting, but a red note in the budget section stopped me: “Unrealistic amounts will not be accepted.”

If the offered price is too low, even a timely submission gets rejected.

Some call it a shady blind auction, but no other crafter makes such gear for individuals, so those desperate to pay any price don’t complain.

“…Wanna get closer?”

“Totally!”

Grabbing her camera from the carrier, my friend and I headed to the swarm.

It was too crowded to see the cosplayer clearly.

—But our gender worked in our favor.

“Here, go ahead.”

Noticing us, guys at the back shifted or stepped aside, opening a gap. Gratefully, I slipped in.

Squeezing my camera through, the crowd was about three deep—my height could manage. My tiny friend struggled, but somehow snagged a front-row spot. Someone must’ve yielded.

Then, I noticed something while shooting.

—Sound.

The sound of wind.

Bousai Park, near the sea with few barriers, is windy.

But this wasn’t sea breeze.

The weapon cut the air.

Swinging a nearly 2-meter scythe produced a wind-like sound.

The speed wasn’t that fast, yet the sound carried.

(Made to produce sound? …No way.)

It made no sense. Cosplay’s about photos—sound’s irrelevant.

But what if they crafted it with that much care?

Yotsutsuji Mei makes it plausible.

I’ve seen their gear displayed at events, but this is my first time seeing a cosplayer wear it live.

One crafter’s output is limited, especially with only three years of serious work—probably under 50 pieces.

With demand nationwide, my odds of seeing one in Tokyo aren’t high. I only knew Mei’s craft from online.

What if there’s care only wearers or live viewers notice?

—It’s abnormal.

Refocusing on the camera, the gear and weapon’s size took space, making a large swarm necessary to capture her fully.

Too close, and armour or the scythe would get cut off.

She swung the oversized weapon lightly, but isn’t it heavy? A scythe’s tip-heavy design strains the arm if stopped mid-motion. Yet, her arm froze at perfect angles, giving photographers their shot, as if suspended by strings.

As she posed with the weapon, shutters snapped louder.

Glossy metallic armour moved like electronically controlled arms, the weapon shifting parts with a hum, doubling in size around the blade.

More gimmicks? Unshot poses? Photographers, entranced, didn’t leave, snapping even from the back—where unseen details appeared.

Her cosplay was from SuperSpark Arcadia, an action game from six months ago. Recommended by a junior, I played it.

It’s mostly protagonist-heroine focused, no yuri, so it’s off my radar, but it’s huge in male-oriented circles for fan works and cosplay.

Yotsutsuji Mei posted in-progress shots, but how did someone commission a costume from a game released six months ago, a version not in pre-release PVs, through a form opened over six months ago? That question lingered online, unanswered.

Mei always notes “Corporate commission” for company requests, but this Arcadia outfit, likely their last of the year, had no such note.

So, this woman must be a genuine individual, not a pro cosplayer for marketing—supposedly.

The seed of unease sprouted quickly.

Finishing quickly thanks to a good spot, my friend slipped behind me.

“Kinda curious, but—”

“I’m curious about everything, but what?”

“Who’s this person?”

“…Huh?”

Her voice carried, and the swarm’s photographers gasped, “Huh,” turning to us.

“Whoa… I mean, no sketchbook or anything. Does anyone know her?”

“…Oh.”

Many, including me, looked at the posing cosplayer and realized—

No name was displayed anywhere.

That was the unease.

—Who the hell is she?

Normally, a cosplayer with this big a swarm displays their account on a whiteboard or sketchbook to save time. But there’s nothing.

We’re photographing someone we don’t know.

“An unknown cosplayer making this swarm…?”

Is that possible?

I’ve never seen it. Swarm shoots aren’t that common.

Famous female cosplayers with hundreds of thousands of followers announce their location, slowly gathering fans to form such swarms.

In crowded cosplay areas, small swarms form naturally due to tight spaces, but Bousai Park, Comiket’s largest cosplay area, has ample room. Accidental swarms are rare.

—Supposedly.

“Um… anyone know who she is?”

Asking around, photographers groaned.

“No way she’s corporate, right?” “But this level without corporate backing?” “It’s Yotsutsuji Mei’s work—I saw it in progress.” “An idol? But she’d show her name.” Each speculated, none hitting the mark.

After finishing, I left the swarm and searched “Arcadia” on SNS. Comments, photos, and gimmick videos were spreading, posted about an hour ago when the swarm began.

A swarm lasting an hour without shrinking is wild, but her stamina’s shocking too. Cosplayers seem still, but they’re conscious of angles and poses, freezing for key shots—it’s exhausting.

Doing that in restrictive gear with a giant weapon? The costume’s quality is unreal, but so is the cosplayer. No way she’s an unknown amateur—yet she is.

A quick search found no cosplayers announcing an Arcadia combat outfit. You’d brag about getting that gear made.

“Wanna shoot ours now?”

“…Yeah.”

No point pondering—it’ll spread online eventually.

After shooting each other, a photographer asked for a duo shoot. As we posed, a countdown echoed, like at Comiket’s opening, followed by loud applause. The swarm must’ve disbanded.

Big swarms can last hours, draining the cosplayer, so they must forcibly end it.

As the crowd scattered, my friend asked, “Wanna check it out?” I nodded, “Sure,” and we pushed against the flow.

Up close, the swarm was gone, but many lingered—photographers for contacts, even women without cameras, maybe from agencies.

A cosplayer making this swarm, possibly unknown? Professionals would jump at her.

The line was longer than expected, so as I debated joining, someone familiar caught my eye.

“…Huh?”

“What’s up?”

“No, uh…”

A bit away from the mystery cosplayer—

My high school junior, Higashiura Riku.

Unbelievably short for a high schooler. He’s self-conscious about it, though he jokes.

Cute, baby-faced, popular with older women, but aloof, never initiating conversation. Even at lunch, he barely responds to clubmates besides me.

His demeanour, unusual for a high school boy, isn’t from inexperience with girls but from constant teasing by a very close older sister.

Shivering in a warm coat, he stood with a Boston bag big enough to hold him.

“Sorry, stepping away.”

“Okay!”

Leaving my friend, I approached—

“Hey.”

Noticing me, Higashiura-kun turned, raising a hand.

A question mark crossed his face, then, “Oh,” as he recognized me. First time seeing me in cosplay, but knowing my face, it’s no surprise.

With my heels, he looked smaller than usual.

He was watching the mystery cosplayer. No camera now, but maybe he was in the swarm.

He recommended Arcadia. With a favourite game and a cosplayer of this level, staring’s understandable.

“Senpai, right?”

“Yup, your senpai.”

“Uh, sorry, don’t know your handle. What should I call you?”

“Senpai’s fine, kouhai.”

He always calls me that. What should I call him? Usual’s fine.

We knew we’d both be at Comiket but never planned to meet, so this is our first encounter here. He doesn’t cosplay—his older sister does.

“Got it. …What’s that, Hachi-roku or something…?”

“That’s a car. Q-Nana. Here with Onee-chan?”

“No, today—”

He glanced at the mystery cosplayer, still drawing a line post-shoot.

So, he came to see her—then, the next moment.

She looked our way, gasping, “Huh!?” audible from a distance.

Bowing to the line, she shouted, “Sorry, later!” and jogged over, grabbing Riku’s shoulder.

“Rikkun, who’s that!?”

“School senpai. Okay to keep them waiting?”

“Fine, fine, they’re strangers anyway!”

“Got it.”

A familiar voice. She yanked off her mask, saying, “Move.”

“…Huh?”

Seeing her face, I gasped.

—I knew her well.

“M-Miyoshi-san…?”

“Huh?”

—Miyoshi Hiyori.

A third-year in my commercial high school’s part-time program, and—

My friend.

Tilting her head, Miyoshi-san stared at me, gasped, “Oh,” and ducked behind Riku, crouching.

She’s hiding, but her gear’s too big, and with Riku’s small frame, she’s barely covered.

“W-Wrong person!”

Then why hide?

“…It’s really Miyoshi-san.”

“No it’s not.”

Quick denial. I sighed, glancing at Riku.

“Senpai, you know her?”

“Rikkun!?”

“Like I said before, the ghost member in our club.”

“Oh… that was Hiyori-san?”

“No, no! Different Hiyori-san!”

“Not many like you exist.”

“True.”

“Like me!?”

This is endless. I opened my messaging app. My unchanged phone had our chat history, so I sent a sticker.

A ding came from Riku’s pocket. He silently pulled out a phone and handed it to her. He was holding it for her.

“See, told you.”

“…”

She clammed up.

“What’s your relationship with Miyoshi-san?”

“Uh… hard to say, but—”

Riku glanced around, ensuring no one was close, then whispered.

“The weird person Onee-chan brought home.”

“Oh…”

Got it.

Weird, huh? Sure. She was in the club for two months, with a unique vibe—bold at home, shy elsewhere.

“Rikkun!? What’re you telling her!?”

“That we have a weirdo at home.”

“Wrap it in some tact!”

“That was tactful…”

I chuckled at his sighed response. I’d never seen him this friendly.

As a full-time student, I rarely met part-timers. I only knew she was still enrolled from the club roster.

Riku mentioned she’s part-time, so she can enter school during the day. Connected unexpectedly.

“Hey, Miyoshi-san.”

“W-What, stranger…?”

“If you keep that up…”

I pulled Riku’s hand, hugging him.

“I’ll take him. Okay?”

—I declared it. From Riku’s stories, I know she’s into him, though she denies it.

“Wait!!”

She stepped forward. Yup, the Miyoshi-san I know.

No full makeup under the mask, just light cosmetics. Still recognizable after two years. Her natural beauty could pass for an undercover idol.

Cosplayers split into two types: those cute with makeup, and those cute without.

Miyoshi-san’s the latter. Despite her “winner” looks, she was truant, barely attending middle or even elementary school.

I never asked why. Felt it wasn’t my place, and I trusted she’d share if she wanted.

“…You owe me an explanation.”

I believed she’d tell me, at least—me alone.

Like that day two years ago.

 

“Hey, Kagajo-san, heard about the part-time granny?”

Eating lunch in the classroom with a handicraft clubmate, I got hit with that out of nowhere. Granny? Part-time means Miyoshi Hiyori, the club’s only part-time student.

“Granny… Miyoshi-san? She’s not even 20.”

“Really? She’s got some secret account, like 100,000 followers. Creepy, right?”

My chopsticks froze.

“Oh… where’d you hear that?”

“Last Friday after we left, she forgot her phone in the clubroom. The screen kept lighting up with notifications, and a senpai checked it—some racy account. That’s a secret account, right?”

“…Privacy-wise, is that okay?”

“She left it, her fault, no?”

“Maybe, but peeking…”

Who’s at fault aside, I was worried.

Miyoshi-san’s… unique. Same year, but she’s part-time, I’m full-time, three years older.

When asked why she joined the club despite no obligation, she shyly said, “To make friends…”

She wasn’t assertive, quietly reading sewing books or knitting during club. The constant sewing machine noise made chatting tough.

Maybe due to her age, other members kept their distance, but not me.

Noticing her bag’s keychain from my favourite idol game, we swapped contacts, learned we’re both cosplayers, and planned a duo cosplay someday.

A secret account—if true, is it okay for others to judge? I didn’t know then, so I messaged her, worried.

—Messages read, no replies.

She never returned to the clubroom since.

“Everyone can say what they want, but I think of you as a friend.”

I thought that last message would reach her.

But she—

 

The silence between them chilled the already cold park air.

I don’t know the details, but it feels like estranged friends bumping into each other.

The cosplay world’s smaller than you’d think. I once shipped a commission, and the client, seeing my phone number, called, asking, “Are you Minami-san’s brother!?” Stop spreading rumors about me. The industry’s too tight.

I sighed. Hiyori-san’s like this, but Mashiro-senpai seems clumsy too. That face looks like it attracts girls, yet…

They’re stuck because they’re involved. As an outsider, I’ll step in.

“I don’t know what happened, but I’m annoyed, so let me say something.”

Both looked shocked, as if my interruption was unthinkable.

“I won’t ask who’s at fault. Probably both, so apologize.”

“I-I’m the one at fault…”

“Apologize? You…”

“The vibe was great, and now it’s a funeral. What’s with this?”

“You were hyped by that!?”

“…Yeah.”

Obviously, I signaled wordlessly.

Seeing my work worn up close is rare, except with Onee-chan.

I worried if a nameless, faceless costume could draw a swarm, but the plan worked. Yet, now, this mood.

“Uh, Rikkun, listen—”

“No interest in your fight’s backstory. Too biased.”

“…”

“You’re mad, Mashiro-senpai, and Hiyori-san wants to justify herself, right?”

“…I’m not mad.”

“That face…”

“Seems about right, so let’s end this. Apologize, both.”

I clapped, urging them. They still looked unconvinced.

Long-standing grudges don’t vanish with a quick talk, or the world would be more peaceful.

But it’s not. People fight on SNS, post long rants, and if one side stays silent, the uninformed mob swings the hammer of justice.

I avoid online interactions to steer clear of that ugliness. I wanted to live free of it.

I didn’t want them—these two—to fight like that.

“Hiyori-san, say what you did wrong clearly.”

“W-Wrong? I—”

“No excuses.”

“…”

She shut her mouth, looking away.

Where’s her usual boldness? She’s so meek it’s like I’m the bad guy, though I’m the offended one.

“…I’ll praise you properly later.”

She looked up, staring.

“…Really?”

“Really.”

“For real, for real?”

“Yes, really.”

Sighing, she nodded, “Okay,” returning to her usual self, facing Mashiro-senpai.

“Sorry for not replying. I got scared I’d be bullied in high school again and ran without a word. Sorry.”

Bowing, she didn’t look as pained as her words, like a weight lifted, waiting for Mashiro-senpai’s response.

“Now, Mashiro-senpai.”

“…You’re pushier than I thought. Getting heated over someone who likes you?”

“If you keep joking while she’s sincerely apologizing, I won’t talk to you till graduation.”

“…Sorry.”

I threw out a random condition, but she apologized, so whatever. What kind of deal is that? Why’d she agree?

“I didn’t consider how Miyoshi-san had to escape and felt betrayed despite believing in her. Sorry.”

Bowing sincerely, she looked slightly dissatisfied, unlike Hiyori-san.

“Senpai.”

“What?”

“Anything else to say?”

“…”

“You might not get another chance. Talking about this later would be awkward.”

“…Right. Let’s say it now.”

Back to her cryptic, scheming expression, she suddenly hugged my arm.

“Huh?”

“You, Miyoshi-san… don’t even know my relationship with Higashiura-kun, do you?”

“…What?”

Hiyori-san looked between my arm and Mashiro-senpai’s face, trying to cut in but stopped by a raised hand.

“What’re you doing!?”

“What’s your intent? This is too random.”

“I’ve got something to say.”

My arm caught in her chest, I thought, (Probably fake.)

She’s not the type to look slimmer clothed, so it’s likely padding for the character. The feel’s obviously different from the real thing.

What’s with multiple half-naked women pressing their chests on a high school boy?

“Look, Miyoshi-san. Has Higashiura-kun ever mentioned me?”

“…Maybe not.”

She muttered gravely.

Really? But lunch chats with senpai are trivial, not worth reporting to Hiyori-san.

I recall her asking, “Who do you eat lunch with?” and me saying, “With a senpai in the clubroom.” No further questions, so I didn’t mention the club or senpai. Maybe she assumed the engineering club?

“We’ve even kissed—”

She touched my lips, so I swatted her hand. What’s she saying?

“Rikkun!?”

“Didn’t happen.”

“What’s this relationship called?”

“Rikkun!? What’s going on!? Tell me!!”

“…Just senpai and kouhai.”

“Senpai and kouhai don’t feel this close!? Or… do they?”

“No clue.”

Since enrolling, I’ve only talked to engineering club senpais besides Mashiro-senpai, and those talks don’t spark—different genres. They’re into national robot anime; I’m not.

“…Rikkun.”

Resolved, Hiyori-san grabbed my other arm, her armour’s edges jabbing painfully.

“What?”

“Can I kiss you too?”

“No.”

“Why!? Mashiro can!?”

“No one can.”

“What about Umi-san!?”

“…No one.”

“Was that a weird pause?”

“Look, Miyoshi-san, why not return to the line? They’re still waiting.”

“In this situation!?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay just close enough for you to see but too far to intervene.”

“That’s not reassuring! I don’t know what Mashiro’ll do—let Rikkun go!”

“No way.”

“Why!?”

“You’re not the only one after him.”

Hiyori-san froze, mouth agape.

“…For real?”

“For real.”

“What’re you talking about?”

They seemed to share an understanding. Tilting my head, they smiled faintly, nodding at each other. Don’t bond over something unrelated to the apology.

Most of the greeting line had dispersed, judging the talk would drag, but a few remained. Mashiro-senpai beckoned them, and they approached, maintaining the line.

“Later, then.”

“Wait, Mashiro!? Later, okay, later!? Don’t take Rikkun away, got it!? Absolutely not!”

“Alright, alright.”

I know Hiyori-san’s not the type to ignore a waiting line in this situation. Glancing back at me as I’m pulled away, she returned to the queue.

At a distance where I could see but not hear, I yanked my hand free with a sigh.

“…Uh, Senpai.”

“What’s up?”

“…Stop using me to patch things up.”

“Sorry.”

Probably just trying to lighten the heavy mood.

Sure, with that attitude, Hiyori-san would react like that. They haven’t known each other long, but she read her well.

Well, same goes for me. I’ve shared lunch with Senpai for nearly two years, but it’s only been half a year since meeting Hiyori-san.

“…It was a joke, okay?”

“Sigh…”

Which part? The kiss bit? Yeah, calling an indirect kiss a “kiss” is a stretch. It’s just sharing or swapping lunch sides.

“By the way, Miyoshi-san’s costume… did someone make it for her?”

I’m asked while watching Hiyori-san take a business card from a suited woman. I posted a progress shot online once, but it was so last-minute I didn’t update after, I recalled.

“Oh, that? I made it.”

“…Huh?”

“I get it’s hard to believe, and I’m not asking you to.”

“No, wait, that… Higashiura-kun, you make your sister’s costumes, right?”

“I make others too.”

“But that one, Yotsutsuji Mei posted photos of it—”

Senpai, unusually flustered, waved her hands, so I cut in.

“That’s me.”

“…Got it.”

So she knew the name. It never came up in our chats, but she probably didn’t expect Yotsutsuji Mei to be a high schooler. I got a similar reaction when a client, a friend of Onee-chan’s, found out by chance.

It’s my fifth year taking personal commissions. When Onee-chan joined her company, her cosplay time dropped, leaving me free.

Demand wasn’t huge at first, so I didn’t get many requests. But a costume for a pro cosplayer with hundreds of thousands of followers, through Onee-chan’s connection, went viral, and requests flooded in.

That person still commissions regularly, winning the reservation war without special treatment—impressive. I’d like to meet properly someday, but no chance yet.

Onee-chan openly says her costumes are made by her brother, but not that I’m Yotsutsuji Mei. I started crafting before this alias, so it’s natural.

“Senpai, shopping?”

It’s not a talk for crowded places, so I shifted topics. She looked like she wanted to say something but nodded. We’ll meet in the clubroom until graduation, so I’ll answer then if asked.

Her tote bag bulged with doujinshi. She mentioned going to doujin events without cosplaying. I rarely attend or buy doujinshi alone.

“My birthday’s in December, you know.”

“…That explains it.”

“Yup.”

Got it, makes sense.

Third-year high schoolers can access adult content. She must’ve gone wild shopping. Onee-chan did that too. Stop leaving adult doujinshi and cosplay ROMs on the table.

 

After a bit, Miyoshi-san returned from greetings.

We talked about the years we missed.

Just a short time, feeling insufficient.

—Because,

Because I thought if we didn’t, our connection would end.

My ways to meet Miyoshi-san are limited.

Even at the same school, we didn’t meet for two years. Full-time and part-time schedules are worlds apart.

Without mutual effort, our bond’s too thin to last.

Even with Higashiura-kun between us, it’s separate.

He’s not one to mediate. Earlier, he was genuinely annoyed. His usual tone carried clear anger.

If I tried using him to meet, he’d likely say, “Meet without me,” in his cold tone. Imagining it gives me chills.

So, though I wanted to talk more, I said, “My friend’s waiting, let’s catch up later,” and left.

Our reunion was thanks to him—Higashiura Riku.

He connected us.

Only he could break Miyoshi Hiyori’s hard shell.

—Because I couldn’t.

A same-sex friend couldn’t do it.

Trying too hard to crack it from outside likely made her retreat further.

She needed someone she’d choose to open up for.

For her, that was Higashiura Riku.

For me, my precious kouhai.

(…I’m glad.)

Muttering to myself, I returned to my friend.

She’d been watching, maybe, and patted my shoulder, saying, “Dunno what happened, but good for you.”

“Yeah.”

Replying softly, I walked far enough that they were out of sight.

**

“Ahh… this is nice…”

Soaking in a lukewarm jet bath, I gazed at Tokyo’s bright skyline, unusual for late December. Is that lit-up tower Tokyo Tower or Skytree?

I’m in that mysterious C-shaped building always looming behind Comiket’s waiting line.

Despite years at Comiket, I didn’t know it was a hotel—a super-luxury one with a top-floor spa and pool.

The authentic spa, unlike anything hotel-like, warmed my winter-chilled body to the core.

Next to me, facing the jets and making childish “Awa-wa-wa…” noises, was Umi-san, who invited me here.

Looking at her, I almost feel average. Weird, I’m pretty big myself…

Living with her, most people would seem flat-chested. Can’t help it.

“Umi-san, do you always come here during Comiket?”

“Unless work’s crazy.”

“…Should I get a membership? It’s members-only, right?”

“You sure? My membership cost about 8 million yen.”

“Wait, where’d that money come from!?”

“Wanna say company expenses, but it’s personal. Paid off in five years, though. Glad I bought it—useful for times like this.”

“Wow…”

She works at a black company, right? Weekdays, she stays at hotels near work, rarely home. Weekends, she’s back but seldom stays two full days. Never having a corporate job, I don’t know how wild that is.

“Something happen today?”

“…It’s a bit long, but can you listen?”

“Sure. Naughty story?”

“No, no!! Well, I’d like to get to that eventually, but it’s kinda heavy—”

“Alright, leave it to your big sis. …Hard to talk to Rikkun about this, right?”

Nodding, I started talking slowly.

About becoming a shut-in for trivial reasons, unable to leave home.

How cosplay made me a bit brighter, leading me to attend high school.

Joining a club to make friends but failing to fit in, awkwardly leaving after my secret account was exposed.

Disappearing without telling my new friend.

That friend being Rikkun’s close senpai.

—And today, reuniting after two years and finally apologizing.

Umi-san, listening silently, let out an “Oh.”

“Rikkun mentioned her—his lunch buddy, right?”

“Lunch!?”

“Says she shares sides a lot. A cosplayer, kinda cool type? He doesn’t say much.”

I forgot since she was in a girly cosplay today, but she had that prince-of-the-girls’-school vibe.

Popular in the club, always surrounded, so shy me only talked via messaging apps.

“…Is that Rikkun’s type?”

“Dunno. She’s the only one he really talks to at school, so he’s kinda dependent, but not romantic, I think. Still…”

“Still?”

“Being someone’s one-and-only is a big deal.”

I stood from the bath, splashing water. Umi-san laughed.

“But she’s a third-year, graduating soon, right? No need to worry.”

“…Two years eating lunch together—would you stop talking just because she graduates?”

“I haven’t seen my middle school classmates since graduation.”

“That’s… family issues, right?”

Due to complex, tragic circumstances, the Higashiura siblings didn’t grow up normally. General logic doesn’t apply.

I’m a ten-year shut-in with a kindergarten-level education, so I’m hardly normal either.

“It’ll work out.”

“Will it…?”

“She’s just a lunch buddy, right? Living together gives you way more points.”

“Maybe, but…”

“Worried Rikkun might get taken?”

Dipping my face in the water to hide embarrassment, I nodded, bubbling.

“You’re fine.”

“…Really? Think I’ve got a shot?”

“Totally.”

“For real, for real?”

“Yup, but… you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Looking up, Umi-san said:

“Rikkun’s January commissions are way fewer than usual.”

“…Huh?”

“Last month’s usually chill, but still.”

So, that means—

“What’s he planning to do with that time? He saves money, doesn’t spend it. Crafting’s more a hobby than money-making.”

“…”

“Thanks for getting close to my brother.”

“Yes,” I nodded faintly.

Am I his special someone?

—Can I be?

“Rikkun’s the type to draw lines, right? So blunt, he barely bonds. Senpai-san’s the closest to breaking that wall, but…”

My face heated. Maybe the water, but still.

I’m happy, truly.

“You’re good, Hiyori-san.”

“Really? …Might take him from you.”

“Try if you can.”

Her confident grin made me feel outmatched.

But I’ve got an edge—not blood-related! …Yet, for these siblings, that doesn’t seem a downside. Normally, blood ties block romance or physical stuff, but…

A high schooler bathing with his much-older sister? I’m an only child, so I don’t get it…

My advantages over Umi-san: slightly younger, more time together. Wait, that’s it?

With Mashiro, I think I can compete. We’re even, maybe.

“Um, you and Rikkun aren’t… not blood-related, right?”

“Nope, same parents, real brother.”

“Right…”

“Weird distance?”

“…It’s weird, right?”

I added a question mark, unsure if my sense is off, but Umi-san laughed, turning to me.

Wow, huge! I’m buoyant, but hers are a whole head bigger… I wanna touch…

“…I know.”

Her expression softened, voice low.

Not her usual self. Resigned, gently smiling.

—I knew instantly, this was her true self.

Acting bright to keep from breaking.

I understand. I’ve felt it too.

“It wasn’t always like this.”

“…”

“Opposite, actually. As kids, we barely talked. But after that incident, seeing Rikkun down alone—”

I could imagine it.

Resignation wasn’t just hers.

—Both of them felt it.

“Like, maternal instinct? It kicked in.”

“That’s definitely not maternal instinct!”

“Huh? Don’t you wanna give him your chest?”

“I do, but!!”

She lifted hers, and I couldn’t help retorting. Not words for a serious mood. But—her usual face returned.

“Then it’s maternal.”

“Maternal, huh…”

No, I totally get it. He’d hate it, though.

Guys love breasts, I heard, but his reaction worries me. Getting huge ones pressed on him by a sister who adores him, and he casually says “Annoying” or “Heavy”? What high school boy does that?

If I mimic Umi-san, he’d flee or recoil.

Changing in front of him? “What’s wrong with your ethics?” Naked apron? “It’s winter. Know seasons?” It’s thrilling, but I want more blush, some reaction.

During measurements or forced spicy shoots, he seemed aware briefly, but snapped back to normal. I want daily heart-pounding moments.

“Don’t hold back, Hiyori-san.”

“…I’m trying to be considerate, you know.”

Not just with him, but you too.

“You see how I am—pushy, but he goes along.”

“…Like sneaking into his bed?”

Hesitantly asking, she nodded solemnly.

Wait, she’s done it!? No, no way… right? Scary to confirm… What’s their relationship!? How far!?

“Worried? Wanna help?”

“Like… his first time?”

“That’s what you think?”

“It’s not!?”

“…Secret.”

“Wait, that’s super important to me!!”

Laughing, Umi-san left the jet bath, and I hurried after.

Then sauna, cold bath, and finally a massage—expert hands melted my body.

I avoid massages—don’t know what to say, and men scare me—but this luxury hotel had a young female therapist, chatting only when wanted, purely comfortable. I nearly dozed off.

I’d come again, but the price, with options, was 100,000 yen for two. Different world. I tried paying, but they refused, so I’ll repay with housework.

“Sorry for being late!”

Lingering, it was past 8 p.m. when we finished the massage.

Hungry, I returned to the room to find Riku on the bed, using a laptop.

“I ate room service. Go out if you want.”

Glancing at me, he returned to the screen—then jolted upright.

“Forgot Hiyori-san was here?”

Umi-san teased, and he blushed slightly, turning away.

Not looking at naughty pics, just embarrassed to be caught slacking. He’s usually composed at home.

—But I saw it.

Not his rare slacking—

Before the spa, he was in a warm coat, but he’d bathed. Now in oversized hotel nightwear, alone.

No undershirt,

The wide-open neckline of the nightwear,

A faint pink, fruit-like nib visible, caught by my 1.7 vision.

I had things to say—about Mashiro, today—but,

—My rationality gauge shattered instantly.

 

Suddenly, Hiyori-san dove onto the bed, pinning me, her face closing in. I stopped her just in time—

“What…!? Why’re you suddenly in heat!?”

“Tch, too much! Too sexy!!”

“What!? Are you insane!?”

Her face neared, too strong. Onee-chan, stop laughing and help! Your brother’s chastity’s at stake!

“Why’s it bad!? You do it with Umi-san, right!? It doesn’t diminish!!”

“…!!”

“Huh?”

Her strength faltered. I pushed her off, crawling off the bed.

“Y-You’re… doing it?”

“…Accident.”

I looked away.

Caring for a blackout-drunk bra-con sister… accidents happen.

Sober, I can’t outmuscle her bigger frame, and drunk, her strength and reason limits are off. It’s human versus bear.

Onee-chan smirked smugly behind. At least she’s sober now, just from the bath.

She avoids alcohol before shoots or events to avoid bloating. Keep that rationality and stop attacking your brother drunk.

Since Hiyori-san moved in, she hasn’t come home blackout drunk. “Can’t eat Hiyori’s food if I pass out!” she said. My chastity’s safe. Never drink again.

“U-Umi-san?”

“Yup.”

“H-How far…?”

Whispered something, Hiyori-san’s face flared red. What’d she say?

“…O-Onee-chan?”

Still red, they whispered and nodded. Seems they settled something.

“No big deal, right? Guys don’t lose anything.”

“Not okay at all.”

“Seriously, Rikkun, that was too much. Even not with Hiyori-san, it’d look like you’re asking for it.”

“What!?”

“Like seducing in a classroom at dusk, half-dressed.”

“No idea what that metaphor means!”

Sure, I looked sloppy, but I’m tired. Standing in the cold drains you, and I carried heavy bags while tagging along with Hiyori-san’s circle visits post-shoot.

Distracted by Onee-chan creeping closer, Hiyori-san, crawling on the bed, grabbed my hand, pinning me again.

Struggling, Onee-chan joined, both holding me down.

Two bigger opponents, too strong one-on-one. I could only move my neck.

“Don’t resist!”

“S-Someone…”

“No use calling. No one hears anything next door.”

Worst info right now.

“Relax, Rikkun. Whatever happens, we won’t resist.”

“Yup, relax. We’ll never ask you to take responsibility!”

“Nothing’s relaxing!!”

Why are the restrainers saying that?

“So cute, Rikkun… Wanna eat you up.”

“S-Stop, really.”

Onee-chan, not like during shoots or drunk, her face slightly flushed from the bath, licked my neck. Ticklish unease gave me goosebumps.

“Umi-san, no monopolizing!”

“Right, right.”

“I belong to myself…!?”

“No!”

“Nope?”

“Why!?”

“For now, you’re mine and Hiyori-san’s.”

“Don’t transfer my human rights!”

“So, Rikkun, don’t hold back, okay?”

“Yup, don’t hold back. Do whatever you want with us.”

“It’s not holding back, it’s outright refusal!!”

Some unknown agreement made, they eyed me like predators.

“For now, we’re—”

““Your personal big sisters.””

Being jerked around by their whims,

—I hate that deep down; I don’t entirely mind