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Gakushuu gets the phone call around Wednesday afternoon, just after his third class of the day. He was about to head off to his fourth, but now he's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, phone still held up to his ear, the person on the other end having just hung up from him. Time seems to slow around him as the world stills, as he stands amidst the throng of people hustling to get to their destination.
Gakushuu blinks, remembers where he is, and goes to his next class. He stays after a little to talk to his TA, goes to office hours for another one of his classes to prepare for his exam, goes to the gym, and drives to his internship with the tech company. It's late by the time he gets back to his apartment. He nods at his roommates in greeting, roommates who are all far too used to Gakushuu's busy schedule, and his roommates nod back. One of them asks him if he wants the leftovers from dinner, but Gakushuu waves his hand, says he's much too busy to eat now. Then he goes to his room and shuts the door. He gets some of his homework done, works a bit more on his research proposal. Showers. Sits down at his desk in front of his computer. Finally, finally allows himself to think about the phone call that transpired today.
Then, Gakushuu Asano does what he does best: plans.
His father is dead. It is up to him to take care of the rest now.
Gakushuu makes the phone calls, makes the arrangements, and makes the payments over the course of the weekend. He holes himself up in his room as he does so. He ignores phone calls and texts from friends (friends, not minions) as he plans.
When he finally emerges from his room, days later, his roommates ask him where he's been.
“Hey, look, it’s the man, the myth, the legend himself!” One jokes. He does that a lot. He reminds him of Karma in a way, the way he jokes and banters, but also takes academics and his career very seriously. “You’ve finally decided to come out, eh?”
Gakushuu usually isn't one to hibernate in his room unless it's midterms or finals. Gakushuu hesitates. What does he say? Is it appropriate to tell people his father has died, and he has just spent the weekend making the necessary arrangements? He has never been taught the proper etiquette for this situation. . .
His hesitation must show on his face—Gakushuu thought he knew how to school his emotions much better than that—because another one of his roommates' faces twists into concern.
“Gakushuu, you okay?” he asks. He’s always been perceptive, naturally gifted in emotional intelligence in a way that makes Gakushuu a little jealous. The others begin to look concerned, too, as they notice Gakushuu’s silence that has gone on for far too long at this point.
“Gakushuu, you good?”
“Gakushuu, are you all right?”
"My father died," Gakushuu says, in the end, watching as their faces twist into pity, and irritation makes him curl his toes and fingers because it has no outlet.
"Oh, Shuu," one of them says. "I'm—I’m so sorry. . ."
"It's fine," Gakushuu runs his hand through his hair, not really sure how to respond. His roommates assume he wants to be alone after that, so they leave and go out for dinner. Gakushuu stares at the doorway where they've left for a little while, remembers he has a paper he still needs to write, and heads back to his room.
Gakushuu never thought it was fair: how a few simple words from his father could bring his life crashing down.
No matter how well he thought things were going, no matter how well he thought he was doing, a simple, "Is that all?" from the Principal would lead to him spending the next few weeks driving himself into a frenzy in order to prove otherwise. No, that was not all. I'll do more. I'll do better.
Even as an adult, Gakuhou always had that same effect on him. Gakuhou never failed to make him feel like he was in middle school again, still trying to surpass the Principal. It made future interactions between them awkward.
Get away from me, he always wanted to say, because the man who towered over him, eyes glittering madly, centipedes crawling all over his skin still haunted his dreams.
Natural causes, he was told. His father died of natural causes, even if he had been rather young. What an ordinary way to die, for an unordinary man. It’s funny—he'd always seen the principal as someone inhuman, but now he is laid up in a casket somewhere, dead from a perfectly normal, human cause.
The day of the funeral comes. The day of the funeral comes, and Gakushuu doesn't go. It was a bit of a hassle to plan for a funeral you weren't even going to, as he had to constantly clarify this to people. Well, he'd left up the possibility of him going until the last possible second he had to make a decision… and then he didn't go. He wonders at the scandal it will cause, Gakuhou Asano's own son not attending his funeral. Even if Gakuhou had somewhat fallen in prominence these last few years, people will still talk in their own little circles, their own little communities. They always do.
But Gakushuu has cut himself off from that life for a reason. So it doesn't matter to him. That's what he keeps telling himself.
His mother had come back to Japan for the funeral. His mother . Gakushuu hasn’t seen her in years. But he’d heard that she’d gone to the funeral. That she’d done the right thing, he was told with a sneer.
He remembers seeing her contact flash across his phone screen for the first time, a couple of years since he’d left for America, and the way he'd nearly dropped the thing in shock. He actually thought at first, heart leaping into his throat, that his father was calling, and that the words “Principal Asano” were flashing across the screen instead of his mother’s name. Gakushuu still has him saved as “Principal Asano” on his phone. Old habits die hard, he supposed. His friends thought it was weird, both in that his father was saved as Principal and that his mother was saved as her full name, and not father and mother.
He'd just stared at the phone instead of answering, because part of him was convinced this was a scam. Not real. And also, part of him was still reluctant to talk to her, even after all this time. They say time heals all wounds, but sometimes, Gakushuu's not too sure.
He startles again when he hears her voice. For a second, he thinks he’s pressed the “answer call” button, but relaxes when he realizes it is just her voicemail.
“Hi, Gakushuu,” his mother’s voice floats out of the phone, as ethereal and distant as ever. “How are you? I know we haven’t spoken in a while. . .”
An understatement. More as though they hadn’t spoken in years.
“Anyway, I won’t waste your time. I know how busy you are, you and your father are so alike. . .”
Gakushuu’s hands clench into fists almost instinctively.
“Well, I’ve decided to move back to Europe. Back to my home, so I can be closer to my parents. They’re getting older, you see, and I have to take care of them. . . And I miss them. I’m not really sure when I’ll come back. They need me, and, well, this whole thing is so uncertain. . .”
His mother pauses.
“Gakushuu, I know you haven’t visited in a while. But I supposed I should tell you, in case you ever came back and wondered where I was.”
Gakushuu suddenly understands. Reading between the lines has always been a specialty of his, and right now, he understands.
His mother is not coming back.
He’s not sure how true the line about her parents is, but regardless, he knows that she has no intentions of coming back.
There’s another pause. Gakushuu wonders if she knows he’s listening. Listening, but not answering the phone.
“Goodbye, Gakushuu.”
The call ends.
That was the last time he’d heard from her.
Then, the spring semester ends. Gakushuu has been working himself like mad these past few weeks in order to ensure his schedule would be free. He has no reason not to go. But he still hesitates boarding the plane, hit with one last wave of, are you sure you want to do this, until someone behind him bumps into him and he remembers where he is. And so Gakushuu boards a plane back to Japan, back to the home he left all those years ago.
Gakushuu hopes his decision to remain on the down-low stays that way, but he won't be surprised if people find out one way or another. There are eyes everywhere. There are people, distant relatives, family, that's what they're calling themselves now, that will expect him to make courtesy visits. Or they might show up expecting to be entertained. Well, Gakushuu had long bowed out of that game. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too disappointed.
Gakushuu opens the gate to his old house, hinges squealing and covered in rust. He surveys the overgrown lawn, not maintained, sprawling with weeds. Rotting leaves crunch beneath his feet as he makes his way up the path. It's almost as if no one had lived in this house for years, except Gakushuu knew that wasn't true. Had his father let the property maintainers go?
Gakushuu fishes for the key in his pocket. In all honesty, he is glad he hasn't lost it. He’s kept his dorm room neat and tidy for the sake of himself and his roommate, but once he had his own room, he slowly let himself go. It wasn't horribly messy, but it would have made Gakuhou shout at him.
Gakuhou.
He twists the key in the lock, pushing open the door. The hallway lights are off, and the house is as silent as he remembers it. Except before, there were still people: just people who knew how to keep silent. Now, there is no one.
He flicks on the light switch and toes off his shoes. He makes his way to the kitchen, curious to see if things have changed.
Not really, as it turns out. The Asanos have always been creatures of habit. The cutlery, bowls, plates, and cups are in the exact same places they always have been. So is the fruit bowl, except it's empty. He opens the fridge, expecting to find some moldy food in it, but it's practically empty, save for a few wine bottles.
Gakushuu throws them away.
Gakushuu looks to the corner of the room. He remembers when a dog bowl occasionally rested on the floor, even though they had never once owned a dog.
He's on his hands and knees, in a mockery of a bow. A large hand on his neck, fingers holding him in a firm grip, holding his head down.
“Eat like the dog you are, Asano,” the Principal had told him, cold gaze fixed on his son as both were reminded of his utter failure that day: second place in the cello competition. “Since you seem so incapable of surpassing me, I suppose this is where you belong.”
Gakushuu had clenched his teeth, tried to force his head back, but his face was smashed into the dog food again, and again, and again, as his resentment towards that man grew and grew and grew. . .
There is dust and cobwebs in that corner now. Had Father not hired a housekeeper?
Either way, there wasn’t any food here, so he’d have to buy some.
If he was even planning on staying here, that is. The low churning in his gut and the weight on his chest that was slowly pressing down was telling him to just stay at a hotel. And honestly, he might just listen.
There’s not much else down here, except for one room, but Gakushuu doesn’t want to go in there, so Gakushuu makes his way back to the hallways where he first entered, and climbs the staircase to the second floor. There’s a specific way you can climb the stairs so as to not make a noise. Gakushuu remembers nearly everything without trying, muscle memory kicking in, step to the left on the first step, skip the second step, the third step is fine, step in the middle on the fourth step, hug the railing the rest of the way up . . .
He remembers everything except for the fact that he was supposed to skip the last step: it makes a loud creak that invades and challenges the silence of the house. Gakushuu doesn’t cringe, but his toes curl. Rookie mistake. The principal surely would have caught him by now.
Gakushuu walks down the dim hallway to his room, opens the door, and flicks on the lights.
His room looked the same as he’d left it. It was like he’d never left at all, actually, like the room was somehow immune to the passage of time. Like something kept living here even after he’d left. The sheets looked freshly washed, bed made, the desk neat and uncluttered. But it doesn’t really look like his room, does it? There are no personal items here, there never have been. There are no homework papers scattered across the desk and the floor and the bed like his room back in America. There are no pictures, photo frames, or decorations here, none of the things his roommates had gotten for him as gifts that he’d initially called tacky, yet still hung up and displayed. The walls are plain and bare and dull. There are no knick-knacks that line the empty shelves.
When he stands in his room, Gakushuu does not remember times of playfulness and joy. Instead, he remembers times when he had collapsed at his desk, exhausted from the sheer multitude of problems the principal forced him to complete without giving him food or water, times when he’d nearly passed out in his bed, exhausted from his father pushing him to physical limits he didn’t even know he’d had. He even remembers the time when his father had thrown out all of his toys, all of his posters, all of the things he’d deemed as a distraction. He had been maybe seven or eight. His room had always given him a fragile sense of comfort, because it was his safe haven, but it was a safe haven that Gakuhou could all too easily blow the hinges off of.
“ . . . I don’t want to,” Gakushuu says. Father has always told him to be assertive, but Gakushuu sees the flash of irritation on his father’s face before it smooths out into his typical expression.
“Now, why is that?” His father asks, and to an outsider, the question would seem innocuous. Gakushuu knows better, though. He knows what’s going to happen.
“I like it,” he says, holding his beloved action figure further away from his father, gripping it tighter, feeling the hard, unrelenting plastic beneath his fingers. Instead of getting angry and yanking the toy away from him as Gakushuu feared, his father merely kneels down before him.
“Gakushuu,” his father says, putting a large hand on his shoulder, and Gakushuu forgets his fear for a moment. “Remember what I told you? About the strong and the weak?”
“Yeah,” Gakushuu says, shifting uncomfortably, unsure of where this is going. “You said that the strong rule over the weak.” His father had also said a bunch of other stuff that honestly went over his head at the time. But he wasn’t about to tell his father that.
“Do you remember what else I told you? I told you that while the strong does indeed dominate the weak, this can be flipped on a moment’s notice.”
Upon seeing Gakushuu’s blank, uncomprehending gaze, Gakuhou sighs.
“Let me put it this way. When you first entered elementary school, you were quiet. No one knew who you were. You were alone. No one noticed you.”
Gakushuu frowns even more. He doesn’t like remembering this.
“Now look at you. All eyes are on you. Everyone respects you. Everyone follows you. You are strong. ”
This is true, and Gakushuu relaxes at the reminder that things are different. He worked super hard, flashing smiles and saying nice things and promises, just like his father told him to, and now he has a bunch of friends. Followers. Minions—that was the word for it.
“But just think, Gakushuu,” his father interrupts his thoughts. “What would happen if they found out their dear leader still played with such childish things? And don’t pretend you don’t know how childish this is.”
His father points to the toy that is clenched tightly in Gakushuu’s hands. Gakushuu remembers how the other kids at school made fun of his classmate for bringing a stuffed animal to class. They made fun of him over and over again, constantly surrounding him and being mean. Gakushuu doesn’t want that to happen to him.
He can’t look his father in the eye anymore.
“I—” he says. They would laugh at him. Mock him. Scorn him. He would be back at the bottom again.
Weak.
Gakushuu looks down at the toy, and then to his father.
“You know what you must do, yes?”
Yes. He doesn’t know if he says it out loud or in his head, but either way, his hand holds the toy out over the wastebin, his fingers grow loose, and the toy is falling to the depths of the garbage can until Gakushuu can’t see it anymore. His heart pounds.
“I’ll throw the rest out for you, okay Gakushuu?”
The words sound like static to his ears, he barely registers them, and he looks to see his father’s glitched out face in front of him.
He doesn’t remember the rest of that afternoon, but he does remember walking into his room and finding it barren of all things except his study materials.
Gakushuu stands, feeling like a foreigner in his own room.
There is no dust at all here. His room is pristine and diligently maintained. Gakushuu takes one last glance at his room, turns the lights off, and shuts the door.
There is another room, another room that even the thought of feels forbidden. A room that is not too far from his, right down the hall.
His father’s room.
Going in as a child would have been unthinkable. His father would have been beyond furious if he had even dared lay a finger on the doorknob without permission. His father’s room was an untouchable place, not for anyone in the house to enter. The only person who had ever been in there was his mother, and then at one point or another, she had moved to the guest room. His father’s room, then, was clearly beyond human comprehension. Even Gakushuu with his will of defiance, did not ever dare to step foot into his father’s private threshold.
Gakushuu hesitates just outside of the door. He’s not sure if what he’s about to do is right. That’s the main reason he hesitates. The other, more private reason that he will never admit to anyone, is that while Gakushuu may not be a child anymore, he still feels old, childhood fear in his bones.
The room is dark, almost pitch-black, so Gakushuu fumbles blindly for the light switch. The artificial light paints the room harshly, dark walls and rugs illuminated unflatteringly. There is a mahogany dresser on one end of the room. Gakushuu looks at it curiously, but there is nothing on it. Meticulously, obsessively kept clean. The large bed stands imposingly on the other end of the room, dark purple covers with dark swirling patterns mixing with the sheer white sheets, the large bed frame menacingly looming over everything to give it a regal, terrifying look. Turning back around, Gakushuu notices something he hadn’t noticed before: the single mirror in the room, the one that hung above the dresser, was perhaps the only thing in the room not kept clean at all. It was dusty, dirty, and in need of a good wipe.
Looking around, Gakushuu notices how there are no pictures or decorations here either. There doesn’t seem to be anything particularly noteworthy about the room. It definitely screamed his father, save for the mirror, but it definitely didn’t seem like the untouchable kingdom of his childhood.
His mother’s room is farther down the hall. It’s really the guest room, but his mother had willingly taken it up. He’d asked her about it once, but she’d only smiled and said that it was her choice. But the room has been abandoned for over a year. When he opens the door and peers inside, it’s as if no one ever lived there at all. The room is bare, no personal belongings, no familiar scent of the perfume his mother likes. Gakushuu had never been in his mother’s room, either. He’d never had a reason to.
Gakushuu gently closes the door behind him and turns around to go back downstairs.
Gakushuu shivers a little as he makes his descent down the stairs. He had forgotten how cold this house could get. No matter how high the heat was turned up in this house, Gakushuu could never feel warm. He feels the remnants of old terrors that crawl on his skin. But mostly, he just feels cold. He supposes that his time in America has made him used to the warmth.
Gakushuu lingers in the doorway. His father had died alone in this cold, empty house.
He will get a hotel room.
That night, he gets a phone call from Ren.
“Gakushuu, how are you?” Ren says amicably, having long switched to using Gakushuu’s first name. Since high school, actually, after Gakushuu had rather awkwardly told him it was okay. Ren gave him a hug that day. They have kept in touch since high school, and they are still friends. Gakushuu knows him well enough to detect that certain strain in his voice. He is worried about Gakushuu. He must have heard the news.
“I’m fine,” Gakushuu says. He can almost see Ren’s frown.
“Gakushuu,” Ren says, a little more quietly, “how are you feeling?”
Feeling? Feeling? Gakushuu was feeling. . . he was feeling . . .
“. . .”
“Gakushuu?”
“I apologize,” Gakushuu says. “I feel. . . fine. I’m not sure. I don’t think I’m feeling much of anything.”
“It’s okay if you don’t know,” Ren says, even though that hadn’t been what Gakushuu had said at all. “But I’m here for you, okay?”
If there’s one thing Gakushuu absolutely abhors, it’s asking for help. If he asks for help, then the person will no doubt lord it over his head, and then he will owe that person something. Gakuhou’s condescending grin that was ever-present in his memories was enough proof. Gakushuu doesn’t want to owe anyone anything.
But friendships don’t work like that. Friendships aren't business transactions or power plays, which is something he'd learned over the years. Sometimes he'd have to remind himself that.
He was eighteen years old, fresh off of the plane and just settled into his new life at a new school in a new country. Him and his father had had one, last, big fight before Gakushuu finally stormed off, yelling about how his flight was going to leave in an hour and he was going to be late. He heard the door slam in response, and thought, Well, that was that. Gakuhou hadn’t wanted him to leave, digging into all of his insecurities, anything to latch his claws on to Gakushuu and make him stay. But Gakushuu had been planning this for months, preparing this for years, and his attempt to thwart his plans only added insult to injury.
But finally, after all this time, here he was, eighteen years old in America with a drive to succeed that he still wasn't entirely sure belonged to him or his father.
It was stupid, but he had still been thinking about the fight when he had taken his first test of the semester. Maybe that was why he had gotten the grade he had. Or maybe it was simply that transitionary period people talked about, and not even Gakushuu Asano was immune to it. Or maybe it was a one-off sort of thing. Either way, a red 98 was circled on the test, an ugly blight on the pristine white paper.
“Failure again, Asano?” His father stands in the doorway of his room. He is glad his roommate is out. “That simply will not do. What will you do to rectify this?”
Gakushuu stays stubbornly silent.
“Unless you are telling me. . .” his father walks closer to him and smirks. “. . . you can’t?”
His father chuckles, amusement and mockery in his gaze.
“You will never be able to remain strong like this, Asano. You will be usurped if you don’t remain on your toes.”
His father places a hand on his shoulder.
“You know where things will end if you don’t succeed, Asano.”
Yes. Failure meant that he was not strong. Failure meant he was weak. Failure meant death. If he could not even beat his peers, how could he possibly beat his father. . .?
Screams.
The cracking of bone.
Bloodstains that will never be washed away.
Suddenly, there is a knock at the door.
“Gakushuu?” his roommate stands in the doorway, looking at him curiously. “Who were you talking to?”
Gakushuu breathes. In. Out.
“No one.”
Maybe he should feel happy. The person who has haunted him since childhood is gone. Even after he moved to America, sometimes he could still hear his father's voice, berating him for something minor. He still occasionally hears screams and the cracking of bone. He still occasionally sees bloodstains on the floor, bloodstains that are so ingrained that no matter how hard he scrubs, he can't get rid of them. Vision stained red forever.
It was worse in high school, back when they still lived under the same roof, and the man he saw was not always his own hallucination. He never told his father, but sometimes he would be unable to distinguish between the man himself and the figment of his imagination.
So maybe he should be relieved. Except he can't be relieved, because what has changed? He will still get nightmares. He will still have awful memories. Nothing about that has changed.
That morning, after showering and getting ready, he goes back to the house.
There is still one room that he hasn’t looked in: his father’s study.
Gakushuu stands outside the door, not unlike those numerous times as a child where he stood outside to present his latest exam score, or waited with his heart in his throat for his father’s punishment. Gakushuu swallows. Rests his hand on the doorknob.
Then, he stills. Takes a deep breath. Relaxes. He is not there anymore. There is no need to be afraid. There is no need to be afraid, but his heart still pounds, part in fear and part in excitement and thrill of the possibility of being caught. Of being caught and getting away with it, even though now, there is no one here to catch him. He has never been allowed in here without permission, after all.
He tries the doorknob, but is met with resistance. It must be locked. Frowning, Gakushuu looks a little closer. There is a keyhole in the doorknob. So obviously, there must be a key.
He’s been in Japan for nearly a week when he gets a text from an old friend. They decide to meet up at the old campus. When Gakushuu gets there, the area is more run down, more faded than he remembers. Gakushuu doesn’t have to wait long before he sees a shock of red hair, still as eye-catching as ever, around the corner.
“Karma,” Gakushuu says in greeting.
“Gakushuu,” Karma smirks in response. He comes closer to stand next to Gakushuu in front of the old main campus building. “You know, I heard they were gonna tear this place down.”
“Good riddance.”
Karma looks slightly surprised, before laughing out loud.
“Always thought this place was too stuffy, anyway. Take a walk with me.” Karma points up the mountain.
“Sure.”
“By the way, your Japanese sounds a little funny now. Does this mean you’ve turned into an American?”
“ My Japanese is as flawless as ever. You, on the other hand, seem to need a bit of a refresher on the subject, even though you’ve lived here your whole life.”
“Sure, sure. Hey, do you know the American anthem? You’re an American now, right? Will you sing it for me?”
“I have no qualms about pushing you off of this mountain, Karma.”
They eventually make it to the top. Gakushuu looks at the E-class building. It looks untouched by time. And not as run-down as it should be. Gakushuu looks at Karma questioningly.
“Me and the rest of 3-E recently came here and fixed the place up a little.” He says. They sit down on the steps. Karma has a faraway look in his eyes, the look that Gakushuu himself gets whenever he’s reminiscing about something. He supposed this place harbored a lot of memories for Karma.
The old 3-E building didn’t hold many personal memories for him. Rather, it stood as a symbol. It had weathered the testament of time, much better than the main campus building. 3-E was able to come back to this building and reminisce about the good times they shared together. Meanwhile, Gakushuu’s classmates couldn’t get far enough away from the main building. He supposed memories of getting brainwashed weren’t exactly pleasant and not for reminiscing. Korosensei’s influence remained, while Gakuhou’s had crumbled away. Korosensei’s teaching ideology, the will of 3-E, in the end, had proven to be stronger than his father’s. While Gakushuu had never personally met the old octopus, his presence had left a tangible impact on everyone’s life, even from beyond the grave.
This place probably held a lot of personal memories for his father, though. It was the place of his old cram school, where he had tutored three beloved students. One of them committed suicide, and then everything changed.
That was what Gakuhou told him, at least. That was the reason he did all this, Gakuhou insisted. Now that he is a little older, he wonders if something else had happened before that. Gakuhou's worldview had to have been a little cracked before having it be completely shattered. And it rarely took just one bad day for someone to snap. Gakuhou had never told him much about his childhood, and Gakushuu had never asked.
What would Gakuhou say if he could see him now? Would he want Gakushuu to mourn him? Would he even care? If Gakuhou could see him now, see where he was and where he was headed, would he be proud? Was Gakuhou ever proud of him?
"Do you ever wonder what your old teacher thinks of you?" Gakushuu asks.
"Sure," Karma says. "But I know he'd be proud of me."
He says it with such ease, such certainty, that Gakushuu is almost envious.
"He—" Here, Karma hesitates. "He was a good teacher."
It's a rare bout of sincerity from him.
"I've never had a better teacher," Gakushuu says.
"He was more than your teacher though, wasn't he?" Karma asks.
Gakushuu doesn't answer. He stands and stares at the entrance to the building. Karma stands as well.
"So, your old man kicked the bucket," Karma says, never one to shy away from unpleasant topics, even now. "You okay?"
“Yes,” Gakushuu says, because that’s what he’s been telling everyone.
“Right,” Karma says, unimpressed. “I hate to break it to you, but your poker face isn’t as good as you think it is. You’re not okay at all.”
"You don't know how I feel," Gakushuu retorts. "Maybe I'm glad he's gone." He knows it's a lie as soon as he says it, and judging from the expression on the other's face, he knows it's a lie, too.
Eager to end the conversation, Gakushuu steps inside the building. According to his father, Gakushuu has technically been inside of the old building, not that Gakushuu remembers. Gakushuu does remember how vividly Gakuhou spoke of his time teaching: times of tailoring personalized lesson plans, times when he brought baby Gakushuu into class and the class fawned over him, times when he oversaw each and every one of his students and ensured their personal success. Gakuhou’s eyes would gain a spark that they never had when Gakushuu grew up as he spoke of a time that sounded so impossible and so far away that it was easy to forget that it was real.
The floorboards creak underneath his feet as Gakushuu walks further inside, and Gakushuu hears the tell-tale footsteps of Karma following him curiously. Gakushuu looks around the room. Rows and rows of desks. A chalkboard. A desk. None of it is familiar to him, but he can imagine his father standing in this room, teaching. He would probably be standing at his desk, no, he would probably want to stand right in front of the students’ desks so as to not look so impersonal, so distant. He would teach and the students would laugh and then they would break for lunch and they would continue their studies and then it was time to go home so he would pack up his things, his mountains of papers he probably left scattered on his desk, his bag, and then he would be off.
If his father had a key to his locked study, his personal sanctuary, Gakuhou would probably leave it in the place he felt safe in. A place untouched by time. Not his house, but—
“—when you guys renovated this place, you didn’t touch the furniture, did you?”
Karma shakes his head no.
Gakushuu purposefully walks towards the desk and opens the bottom drawer. There sits a small brass key.
Gakushuu straightens, key in hand, and inexplicably meets discerning molten eyes that have not said a word. Gakushuu pockets the key, and they both walk out of the classroom, leaving old ghosts behind.
As they both make their way down the mountain, Karma fills the silence (mostly by making jabs at him), thankfully not asking anything about the key or its significance. Gakushuu doesn’t trust himself to speak coherently about his father at all.
“Look, I’m just saying,” Karma says when they reach the bottom of the mountain, “that you gotta deal with this. No doing that thing where you completely ignore your emotions and try to power through it.”
“I could be telling you the same thing.”
“My father isn’t the one who died.”
Gakushuu winces.
“. . . Fine. This is a little insulting coming from you, though. We both have the emotional intelligence of a brick wall.”
“Ehhh? My emotional intelligence is at least higher than yours.”
“That’s not really saying much, but okay.”
“Wow, Asano let me win the argument! He must really be feeling awful.”
“Shut it,” Gakushuu says, but without any real heat. Karma laughs, and they both part ways.
The Karma he knew in middle school would never have done this. Heck, he didn't think the Karma he knew in high school would have done this either. Maybe Gakushuu's not the only one who's grown up a little.
Instead of going back to his hotel, he goes back to his old house. The key remains in his pocket. When he gets there, he doesn’t head straight for the study. He waits. Tells himself that he’ll try it in a bit. He goes to the kitchen and sits at the table.
He looks around derisively. No wonder he had been so eager to leave all those years.
Gakushuu doesn’t remember much of his childhood. He prefers not to dwell on it, preferring to focus on what was ahead of him. He doesn’t remember if there was ever a time when Gakuhou was a normal parent, doesn’t remember if there was a time when Gakuhou played with him, hugged him, or praised him. He doesn’t remember the “turning point” his father described so frequently, the day his old student died. He just remembers the cold of his house, the absence of touch, and the lack of light.
Then there were the days when Gakuhou would simply ignore him. He remembers days when he would beg and cry for his father to speak to him, to just look at him, but would hardly get a glance in his direction. When Gakushuu asked him about it, years later, Gakuhou had told him that it was to teach him a lesson, just as Gakuhou usually responded when Gakushuu asked him about these things. This time, the more specific answer was that it was to teach him the importance of independence and not relying on others. To stand strong on your own. That asking for help, leaning on others, falling to rely on one’s own strength was weak. It was a lesson that Gakushuu learned well. It was a lesson that took Gakushuu years to unlearn. It was a lesson he was still trying to unlearn, even to this day.
Their interactions didn't change much throughout middle school, although Gakushuu often liked to pretend that it did. The principal wasn't ignoring him, he was ignoring the principal, never mind the fact that all it took was the principal opening his mouth, his shoulders shifting, eyes flickering, for Gakushuu to snap to attention. His father’s mere presence commanded whatever room he was in, in board meetings, conferences, the breakfast table, as all would immediately glance his way and defer to him.
His last year of middle school: that was when things truly changed.
Throughout the year, Gakushuu was a firsthand witness to his father’s rapid decline as his methods were disproven by E-Class time and time again, the way his gaze grew more and more manic, smiles more and more strained, methods more and more drastic.
Blood. Screams. The cracking of bone. The groans of his friends. Mindless utterances. The way they swept past him as if their time together meant nothing. Pain in his cheek and aches in his side from slamming against the wall.
As Gakushuu waited for him by the car, he half-expected his father not to come back, so fed-up with his losses that he did something completely and utterly stupid . . . He learned later, not from Gakuhou, but from Karma, that his worries hadn’t been unfounded because the principal had nearly blown himself up, and would have succeeded, too, had it not been for Koro-sensei.
How had his father gotten to that point, when he was so frustrated and consumed by loss that he would be so willing to kill himself over it? Didn’t he know there were people waiting for him at home? Who still thought of him? Why push so hard for a dead boy, a ghost who could no longer respond? Gakushuu had been furious when he learned of it.
Gakuhou was a smart man, correct in many ways, but also wrong about so, so many other things. And he was wrong in this way: it’s never one thing that makes you want to die. It’s a slow, gradual process, and most times, you don’t even realize what’s happening until you can’t even lift yourself out of bed, and all the things that once made you happy don’t seem to work like they used to. Gakushuu knows. Gakuhou wasn’t to blame for Ikeda’s suicide, and he was a fool for believing so. It wasn’t Ikeda’s death, necessarily, that caused his father’s decline, but most likely a multitude of things. But Gakushuu had never said anything, because Gakuhou never listened.
Something changed after Gakuhou’s last stand. He had it in his head, all of a sudden, that they needed to become a family. Gakushuu would bet that it was the octopus that instilled this change in Gakuhou, judging from the way Karma spoke of him. The way that the octopus apparently preached love and reconciliation, and that people could always change. Karma used to say things like that, and then look unsure of the words that came out of his mouth, like they were not his own. And that’s because they probably weren’t.
And so Gakuhou had done what he always did: blazed ahead and forged a future without consulting anyone about it. Now he wanted to be a family? But they hadn’t been a family in years. For the first time in years, there were “family dinners” at the table where mother had started to join occasionally, but eventually said that she would take her meals in her room. They just felt constricting, a game of constantly watching his father’s face for its every shift, every change, because they all knew Gakuhou’s moods could change at the drop of a hat. That was probably why mother had given up trying to join them. It was tiring. She was allowed to say no, but Gakushuu never felt like he could. He was not an adult yet, after all. He was incapable of asserting his own autonomy until then.
The first time Gakuhou tried to be a "normal" parent, Gakushuu had only ended up convinced that this was one of Gakuhou's elaborate ploys—perhaps once Gakushuu let his guard down, Gakuhou would laugh in his face for being so weak and gullible and falling for it. He could practically feel the humiliation and the shame.
Turns out Gakuhou had actually tried to be sincere. That was kind of awkward. It's funny when he thinks about it now, but when he tried to recount the story to his friends at MIT, all he'd gotten were confused, pitying looks and a "That's kind of sad, Gakushuu." So maybe it wasn't that funny at all.
Gakuhou trying to be involved in his life was insulting to him. How dare he try to be a parent now when he hadn’t been one for his whole entire life? It was suffocating, uncomfortable, and unbearable. Gakuhou never acknowledged what he did. He just changed overnight and expected everyone to change with him. For him.
Then, there were the constant relapses. Gakuhou would apologize over and over again every time he got too close and was too threatening and was too loud, promising he would never do it again, and then for a while, everything was fine, but then it would happen again. And again. And again.
In all of the years Gakushuu spent there, he’s never seen Gakuhou go to a therapist.
“I’m not weak,” he had scoffed. “I don’t need one.”
Gakushuu had looked uneasy. His mother wasn’t even in the room.
Gakushuu’s emotions were constantly being toyed with, and the worst part was that Gakuhou hadn’t even been trying to toy with them.
MIT was the school he had dreamed of going to for years, ever since he was a child and knew what university meant (which was pretty early). His father never said he couldn’t go, but Gakushuu knew he had been hoping that he would stay in Japan. Whether purposeful or not, Gakuhou frequently tried to guilt-trip and manipulate him to stay.
Gakushuu told himself he would go back home when the holidays came around. Then, the holidays came around and Gakushuu couldn’t bring himself to go back. Gakuhou never contacted him once, not since he left. It was startlingly easy to stay away.
Gakushuu would like to say that everyone was understanding in his decision, but in all honesty, not everyone was. Some people were more understanding than others. Some people didn’t understand at all. These were the people that implied he was selfish and ungrateful, because once a parent has taken care of his child, it is the child’s responsibility to care for the parent. But what if the parent didn’t take care of the child? What then? And what if the parent seemed so hypercompetent in everything that the mere notion of the parent “needing” the child to take care of him seemed ridiculous? What then? No one could provide him with the answers.
And the worst part had been that there had been no one there to tell him if he had done the right thing. No one to give him a pat on the back and give him validation. He would forever think about his decision, laying awake at night wondering if it was the right one, what would have happened if he had stayed. But thinking about staying makes his gut churn and he can't, and it seems that Asano Gakushuu is a coward at the end of it all.
"You gonna leave?" Karma asked.
"I don't know," Gakushuu had said. "I don't want to leave my father alone." Even if his mother had still lived with them, that distant look in her eyes told him that she wasn't actually there. He was all his father had left.
"Jeez," Karma had said, rubbing his neck. "You're as good as ever. I wouldn't care if my parents died in a ditch somewhere, honestly."
But while the two of them can say such definitive statements so easily, it will never be enough to cover the whole truth. Gakushuu can see it in Karma's eyes, that reluctant love for his family that is mirrored in his own, that he still cares, just a little bit, despite his bravado. And Gakushuu may not want to leave his father alone, but he's not even sure if he's enough to make his father stay. And an even deeper truth lies beneath the surface: Gakushuu does want to leave. He's already looked at numerous flight options, board options, all the logistics. He's already been accepted into MIT. Up until now, Gakushuu has framed his acceptance as something he is still thinking about.
"Tokyo University is a very good school after all," he had told people, but everyone knew that for what Gakushuu wanted to study, MIT was near unbeatable.
What he doesn't tell people is that part of what made MIT so alluring is the fact that it's not here, and that he would get to leave this place behind if he went.
He thinks Karma knows, and vehemently hopes Karma doesn't call him out on it, because the last thing he needs right now is his rival calling him a coward.
That's not what happens, though.
"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to leave," Karma says casually, hands behind his head.
“Really?” Gakushuu can’t help but blurt out.
“Well, yeah,” Karma shifts awkwardly, because this conversation is veering dangerously close to sincerity territory, and Karma didn’t do sincere. He didn’t, okay? “I get it.”
“Oh,” Gakushuu looks down.
Karma flicks his forehead.
He remembers functions where older ladies and gentlemen would tell him not to waste his youth, that these were the best years of his life. Gakushuu would always politely nod and agree, but deep down inside, he couldn't wait to grow up. Being a child meant being powerless. His father would always treat his youth as if it was something to be held against him, that his lack of experience meant that he didn’t know how the world worked at all, that’s why you need to listen to me, Gakushuu. . .
And when he did become an adult, he decided that he would never want to go back to being a child. There was a certain autonomy that came with being an adult, and he decided he liked that. The freedom to do what he wanted, the freedom to make his own decisions. . . Why would he want to give up something like that?
In the present, Gakushuu takes the key out of his pocket and holds it gently in his hand. He fits the key in the keyhole (a perfect fit), and twists.
Gakushuu hasn’t been in Gakuhou’s study in years. It’s smaller than Gakushuu remembers. Plainer, too: less extravagantly furnished than Gakuhou’s bedroom and old office at Kunugigaoka. Bookshelves line the walls. A gray carpet rests on the floor. In the middle of the room is a modest-looking desk and chair. There is a window on the wall behind the desk that is collecting dust, as if it hasn’t been opened in years. When Gakushuu turns the lights on, the room is enveloped in a warm, gentle light.
Gakushuu looks at the bookshelves, expecting to see all of Gakuhou’s achievements and accomplishments there. What he sees instead are several philosophical works, names he recognizes because he has also read their works, classic novels, and cookbooks. And—Gakushuu has to blink at what else he sees—not Gakuhou’s trophies, but his own. All of his achievements on display. Gakushuu had always figured Gakuhou had thrown them away or chucked them in the basement, not kept them and put them on display. He must have done it sometime after he’d left, because Gakushuu doesn’t remember his father’s study looking like this at all.
Gakushuu observes the rows and rows of trophies and certificates he’s earned over the span of his life. It’s quite a lot. It’s more than what most people would have in their entire lives.
But it still wasn’t enough, was it?
What would have been enough for Gakuhou?
Gakushuu turns away. He can’t stand to look at them anymore.
Gakuhou’s desk is still overridden with papers and folders and pens. Had the old man spent his last days working? Gakushuu couldn’t say he was surprised. As he maneuvers around the desk, his foot kicks something. He looks down to see what it is: a basketball.
It’s not new. It’s colors are dull and faded. It is worn and overused; it hardly bounces when he tries to.
That’s right. His father’s old student used to play basketball, right? Was that why Gakuhou kept one? As a reminder?
His father and Ikeda played basketball together, Gakuhou had said fondly. Gakushuu just remembers a basketball being thrown in his face.
There is a framed picture on the old principal’s desk. Frowning, Gakushuu takes a closer look.
It’s of him, the principal, and his mother, except they are all much younger. Gakushuu looks like he is a toddler in the picture. His father’s hair is a little lighter. His mother’s eyes are much brighter.
They are happy.
His mother has an arm wrapped around Gakuhou’s arm lovingly, and he, in turn, has an arm around her waist. Gakushuu hadn’t seen them so much as touch in years. Gakuhou holds Gakushuu in his other arm. They look like a normal, happy family in this picture.
Gakuhou the family man. Wasn’t that funny?
Gakushuu didn’t know much about his family beyond Gakuhou and his mother. Gakuhou and his family presumably cut ties long ago. Gakuhou’s mother left her family in Europe to be with Gakuhou. Neither side of the family ever called, texted, or sent anything. His whole life, it had been just them. No one else.
There’s another framed picture on the desk. It’s of Gakuhou and three children. Gakuhou, once again, looks young in this photo. One of the boys has black hair with neat-looking bangs, gray eyes framed in glasses. Nakai. The girl in the photo has dark hair styled in pigtails, dark colored eyes squinting in happiness as she throws up a peace sign. Mori. Another boy has brown, spiked hair, pink eyes sparkling as he strikes a goofy pose. Ikeda. Gakuhou has his arms wrapped around all of them as he smiles at the camera.
His touch seems so casual. It’s almost like he’s hugging them. Gakushuu can't really remember his father ever hugging him. It just wasn't something either of them did. And Gakushuu was fine with it, honestly. He couldn't imagine being the touchy-feely type of family anyway. In fact, when it comes to touch, all Gakushuu can really remember is the way his father’s hand burned on his shoulder uncomfortably. But sometimes he catches himself staring. At lovers, friends, family, and the casual ways they would touch one another. Like they never even thought twice about it. Gakushuu could never do that. Every move, every point of contact would have to be carefully thought out before he ever initiated. With Gakuhou. With anyone, really. And Gakushuu is fine with that too.
But sometimes.
Sometimes he'll look at others, the way people will lean casually into another's embrace, the way people naturally position themselves for a hug, the seemingly instinctive lifting of arms and initiation of affection and wonder what that would be like.
There is a plastic storage container in the corner of the room. It’s easy to miss, and Gakushuu almost does, but he sees it standing unobtrusively in the corner of his eye. It’s crammed haphazardly in the corner near the window, as if it didn’t want to be seen, yet couldn’t bear to be thrown away. Gakushuu figures that it would probably be his father’s important work documents and papers. Gakushuu opens the lid and braces himself for lines and lines of legal text. Instead, he pulls out an old, crinkled crayon drawing.
There is a tall brown stick figure standing next to a smaller magenta stick figure. Both have meager dots for eyes and crooked smiles. There is a poorly drawn tree towards the right of the figures. There is some strangely drawn figure in the sky—no, wait, that’s supposed to be a bird. At least this person didn’t forget the sun, which happily shines in crudely drawn yellow and orange crayon and is also wearing a bright smile. Gakushuu turns it over. There his name is, sloppily written in the same magenta as the figure that is meant to represent him.
It’s an ugly drawing, really. He must have made this when he was quite young. Gakushuu doesn’t remember drawing this at all. It definitely wouldn’t have earned any awards in any art competitions.
And yet his father kept it.
Intrigued, Gakushuu digs further into the contents of the box. More art projects Gakushuu has no recollection of making. Clumsily crafted holiday and birthday cards. A father’s day mug. Photos, too. Lots and lots of photos. Of many people he doesn’t recognize, but bears resemblance to his father. His father and his mother, together. His father’s wedding album. Photos of Gakushuu, too, as a child. Photos of Gakuhou’s old cram school students. Postcards. Thank you notes. Letters and envelopes from senders that Gakushuu doesn’t recognize, but have names such as his father’s last name or his mother’s maiden name and the names of his old students.
He kept it all. Gakushuu wonders if the principal ever spent time rifling through these memories and memorabilia. Wonders why he never threw them away.
But as inhuman as Gakuhou pretended to be, he was a man, first and foremost. The principal could throw these things away and not feel a thing. But Gakuhou, the man, more than the teacher, the father, could not bear to. So the sides of him had to compromise.
Gakushuu picks up the crayon drawing of him and his father from the ground. Silly, stupid, sentimental. That’s what this picture is. That's what this box is. That’s what his father is.
Was.
That’s what his father was .
He’s gone now.
The realization hits him like a pole toppling over, and he is slammed into the ground, disorientation crashing into him. He’s gone. The principal is gone. His teacher is gone. His father is gone. They are all gone. Gakuhou is gone, but it seems that his impact will never leave Gakushuu because he clenches the stupid drawing with his fist and throws it on the ground. He sees its crumpled form with blurry vision, something warm and wet leaking from his eyes because he’s crying over this stupid fool of a man because of course, of course, his father could never tell him that he cherished any of these things. His father always had words to spare, but could never tell him what was important. His father was in no shortage of verbiage to spout in his books, his autobiographies, his justifications, his mad ravings of why he did what he did, why he raised Gakushuu the way he did, why he created and implemented and school system the way he did, why he allowed a super creature to teach at a middle school, but he talked about or did the important things.
He never did the important things like teaching him how to pick himself back up after a fall. How to get back on your feet after you fail. How to ask others for help.
How to be weak.
He taught Gakushuu how to be strong, but that strength was fragile and all-too easily shattered, and Gakushuu had to pick up his broken shards all by himself.
Gakuhou never told him that he loved him. Not once did Gakushuu ever remember Gakuhou telling him that. Not on the day he first left Gakuhou overnight for a school trip, not on the day of Gakushuu’s high school graduation, and not the day he left for America. He understood back then, and understands now. They are not that type of family. But—
I love you.
Those words would have been nice to hear. Gakuhou never needed to go on tangents and monologues about the reasonings behind his worldly philosophies. Gakushuu never cared about any of that, had made that perfectly clear, because he was a teenager-soon-to-be-an-adult, and he could figure out what he wanted to believe for himself. He just needed to know that his father had his back. Supported him. Loved him.
But Gakushuu could never be sure, so he left.
They weren’t that type of family, and probably never would be. But it would have been nice.
Gakushuu cries, not because his father died, but because of all that has happened and all that could never be.
A small, purple envelope falls off of the underside of the lid when Gakushuu picks it up to put back on the box. His heart sinks and swells all at once in eager anticipation and fearful dread, because he sees that familiar, elegant handwriting that composes his name. In the end, Gakuhou’s final words to him are not a long monologue as he feared, but three simple words.
I love you.
Gakushuu never thought it was fair: how a few simple words from his father could bring his life crashing down.
It’s nearly time to go. Gakushuu has cleared the house out. Sold the furniture and threw the rest away, save for one box that sits quietly in a storage warehouse because Gakushuu doesn’t have room to take it with him to America. That’s the excuse he will give, even though no one asks. Arrangements have been made. Someone has bought the house already. The move-in date is next week. Gakushuu has cleaned the interior of the house through and through. Gakushuu weeded the lawn, fixed up the garden, planted new grass where there were patches of it missing. Now, it looks immaculate. The house, both inside and out, is spotless. Perfect.
Standing in front of his newly replaced gate, Gakushuu takes one final look at the house, because that’s what it will be. Gakushuu has no real reason to come back to Japan now.
For a long time, Gakushuu had been very angry with his father. It made him do a lot of stupid things. Gakushuu was still a little angry with him, even now.
Did he forgive his father? Gakushuu didn’t know. What did forgiveness mean, anyhow? That it was okay that his father had done all of those things to him? Because that wasn’t true.
But whenever he thought about his father, his childhood, his pain, the anger and bitterness and resentment he felt towards his father, the familiar sensations that always consumed him, sent him into a rage, a spiral of work harder, work harder, work harder was fading. It wasn’t gone, not completely, and Gakushuu suspected it never would be. But he has flashes of peace, and these flashes mean more to him than anything else.
He was happy with himself and where he was going, happy with the person he was becoming. And that had nothing to do with his father.
He didn’t want to keep holding on to his rage. Not when it was holding him back.
Gakushuu turns away, fully intending to leave and cement his decision. No turning back. That would be the strong thing to do. But the weak part of him, the one he is slowly learning to embrace, tells him to turn around, one last time. So he does, and permits himself one last look at the house he was raised in, the house he called home and will always be home, no matter how hard he tries to deny it.
It’s the house of his memories, perfect in every way. He tastes nostalgia and bitterness and melancholy on his tongue—a goodbye in every sense of the word. He wishes he could have told his father that, too. Not the words “I love you.” But “goodbye.”
Just “goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” he says quietly, and he leaves the word for the wind to carry off to its recipient. Maybe Gakuhou was too cowardly to say what he wanted, but Gakushuu wasn’t.
He wouldn’t be, he decided, and the storm that has left his heart ragged and battered for years and years finally quells, for at least a moment. A moment’s enough. It’s all he needs to keep moving forward.