The New Author and Her Big Brother

It was late April, one full week after GF Bunko’s releases for the month had come out on the market—including Aoba Kasamatsu’s Memories of the Sky. The author’s identity as a seventeen-year-old female author with a cover design similar to Nayuta Kani’s Landscape series had drawn a lot of attention for a debut novel, and sales were decently brisk.

But in a seemingly inverse relationship to this, the reader reviews were less than stellar.

“An inferior rip-off of Nayuta Kani.”

“Disappointed.”

“I couldn’t find a single element that excelled over Nayuta Kani.”

“I don’t get why you’d let someone like this make her debut after winning the same new-author prize Nayuta Kani did.”

“Talk about crass commercialism. Following Nayuta Kani, you can see how bad the publisher wants to make teen-girl authors into a Thing.”

“I feel like my beloved Landscape series has been permanently maimed.”

It was just as her editor, Yamagata, had predicted—in fact, the reviews were even worse than she’d expected.

If you looked strictly at the book itself, independent of anything else, Memories of the Sky was not at all a bad piece of writing. It definitely had the chops to merit the runner-up prize. But the comparison to an incomparable genius like Nayuta Kani must’ve given readers an even more negative impression than it deserved.

This feedback, of course, quickly reached Aoba Kasamatsu, a girl who’d been on the Net for as long as she could remember. At first, she was enraged but kept up a proud front, going on about “mouth-breathing idiots who don’t know how wonderful this is,” but as the vitriol kept pouring in for several days on end, she finally had to face reality. Her talent—her work—was a sham, an imitation, nowhere near the level of the “real thing” Nayuta Kani provided.

So Aoba gloomily looked at the Twitter feed on her phone as she walked toward the Gift Publishing building. She had a meeting with Yamagata today to discuss her next book.

Yamagata had been told to respect Aoba’s wishes when it came to the choice between writing a sequel to Memories of the Sky—sales were good, after all—or coming up with a new novel. But Aoba had trouble deciding. No matter what she picked, she thought, the future might just be full of more online bashing. Maybe it would be best for everyone if she called it a day now…

In the midst of her moping, she had reached the front door. She tried to go inside, but her legs failed her. She flashed back to her behavior over the past little while, and her eyes teared up from shame. That pathetic speech she gave at the awards ceremony. Her rude callout of the older crop of authors. Her confrontational attitude toward her fellow rookie writers. Her open rebellion against her editor…

…No way. I can’t go in.

She just couldn’t face Yamagata, the other editors, and the writers she imagined could be inside.

I apologize, but I caught a cold, so I’ll need to cancel today’s meeting.

Tapping out that text at the entrance, Aoba turned around and walked off.

“Huh? Kasamatsu?”

“?!”

As she staggered to the rail station, staring firmly at the ground, Aoba raised her head at the voice in front of her. It made her shiver. There, wearing a hoodie, was the vaguely androgynous Chihiro Hashima, a grocery bag hanging from one hand. Aoba knew him from the little social event Ui Aioi invited her to last December; he was a year ahead of her in school, and unlike the stern, less-than-lovable Aoba, he was caring, communicative, and bound to be the social center of any class. He was even nice enough to accompany Aoba back to the station that day.

A normal teenage girl might easily have fallen in love with such a kind, attractive young man, but all Aoba felt were pangs of inferiority, along with a twisted sense of superiority—“This guy’s just a normal high school student, but I’m a professional novelist, so I’m better.” Now, however, even the twisted pride that supported Aoba was about to crack in half.

“Coming back from an editorial meeting?”

“…Pretty much.”

The reply to Chihiro’s cheerful question came out awkwardly, she knew.

“…What are you doing here, Hashima?”

“Oh, my brother lives right nearby. I’m about to cook dinner for him.”

My brother.

Chihiro Hashima said he was the younger brother of Itsuki Hashima. She didn’t care one bit about that guy before placing in the New Writers Contest, but after he went on about building a whole new era at the ceremony, she had marched right up to him, said “I’m going to build that new era,” and stormed off.

Then, at the social gathering, she learned that Itsuki and Nayuta Kani were a couple, which interested her enough that she began reading his work. Then she got addicted.

First it was All About My Little Sister, Itsuki’s most popular work, which had earned an anime adaptation for itself later this year. Then it was Sisterly Combat, his other ongoing series. She met Kazuma Akatsuki, the crazed high school student who’d perform any kind of outlandish act for the sake of his sister, and Sieg, the dark knight who fought pitched battles, day and night, for the sister awaiting his return.

Both protagonists drew her in, making her imagine what it’d be like to have big brothers like these. She was the elder sister to two siblings, and her parents both worked, so she was used to taking care of them—thus, for the longest time, she harbored a secret curiosity over what having a caring elder brother was like. Itsuki Hashima’s work very neatly fit right into that secret desire of hers.

Ever since Memories of the Sky’s launch and subsequent thrashing, Aoba was no longer able to read back through her beloved Landscape series. Instead she had been reading through Itsuki Hashima’s works. Only when she did, marveling at the thrilling tales of heroic big brothers, did her more painful feelings melt away.

“H-hey, um…!”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I could meet with Itsuki Hashima?”

She wanted to apologize for her crassness. She was a pale imitation, she knew, and she wanted to say sorry for opening her big mouth. She shook as she made the request.

“Um, I’m sure it’ll be fine, but let me check with him first.” Chihiro, looking a bit puzzled, took out his phone.

Hey, is it okay if I bring Aoba Kasamatsu over?

The message from Chihiro made Itsuki wince a little.

That bratty new author, huh…?

He knew she had participated in the social outing Haruto organized, but he didn’t expect her to ask to stop by. What would she want from him? He was never that good with suddenly meeting up with someone he wasn’t friends with in the first place, but this was a rookie novelist who all but declared war on him at the ceremony. Maybe she’d start mouthing off at him again.

Then again, though, maybe she wasn’t coming over for author-related reasons. Maybe she and Chihiro had struck up a relationship or something, and they were going to break the news to him now…but Itsuki had no idea how to deal with that, either.

Should I ask him what she wants first…? No, then it’ll sound like I’m afraid of this teenage writer. As a veteran, and as Chihiro’s big brother, I need to act more confidently.

As his brain ran around in circles like this, he opted to just send the blunt message Sure to Chihiro.

Before very long, as Itsuki waited nervously at his place, Chihiro and Aoba Kasamatsu came in.

“Ha-ha-ha!” he declared. “How nice of you to come in, you impertinent novelist upstart. I’m not going to run from you, and I’m not going to hide!” Itsuki sat at the kotatsu, arms crossed and chest puffed out. He was trying his best to act bold. Instead, he was acting like a middle schooler.

Aoba sat across from him. “…Ah…um, good to see you again…Mr. Hashima…” With that awkward greeting, she bowed her head. “…I apologize that I acted so rude to you at the ceremony…”

“Huh. Oh, uh…?” Itsuki was bewildered. This was a completely different girl from the one he saw last year. “…Is something up? You’re not acting as cringey…er, I mean, as energetic as you did before.”

Tears began to form in Aoba’s eyes. “My book finally came out. About a week ago, finally.”

“…Oh right, you were due out April.”

He had been too busy to buy many books lately, but he still kept an eye on new GF Bunko releases.

“…Everyone hates it.”

“Ohhh…”

Now it made sense to Itsuki. If an author was all depressed after their book came out, there could be two reasons: bad initial sales or the readers were tearing it apart.

“…I talked so big at the awards ceremony…but I’m just a talentless writer who couldn’t see who she really was. I’m just an imitation, an inferior copy… I don’t have any of the real talent Nayuta Kani does.”

The halting confessional made Itsuki recall his own past—back to around five years ago, when Sister of the Apocalypse, his first work, went on sale.

“Everything about this novel is gross.”

“A pile of garbage, packed with the delusions of an obvious virgin.”

“The characters are all so insane that I can’t empathize with any of them.”

“I know this is supposed to be written in Japanese, but I don’t understand a single thing in it, and I’m not sure I want to.”

“This is nothing you’d ever recommend. If the author wanted to masturbate, he should do it on his own time!”

“I question the good sense of Sekigahara for recommending this one.”

And so on…

There were likely worse things said about it, but recalling them just pissed off Itsuki, so he forced them from his mind. Either way, though, despite the small cadre of passionate fans he gained with his debut, it was essentially a perfect storm of criticism. His father blurting out “You wrote this?” to his face didn’t help their relationship much, either.

…Come to think of it, back then, Itsuki was in his second year of high school. Just like Aoba right now. It was like seeing his past self in his apartment—and given the way she was challenging herself to be the next Nayuta Kani, that genius with God-given talent, she overlapped with his current self as well.

“So, Aoba Kasamatsu, what will you do now?”

Resisting the urge to throw more passion into his voice, Itsuki tried to remain calm as he spoke.

“What will I do…?” Aoba looked up, confused.

“Your debut novel got trashed, and your feelings are hurt. The next thing for you to think about is: Am I gonna keep writing novels, or am I gonna quit? That’s all.”

“…I don’t have any talent. I’m just an imitation who looked up to Nayuta Kani. I don’t have any right to keep writing—”

“I’m not talking about your right, or your talent, or anything like that!”

The sharpness in Itsuki’s voice visibly startled Aoba.

“Do you want to keep writing novels?” he continued, dropping his tone. “Or not? Which is it?”

“…Sniff…” Aoba was starting to audibly sob now. “…Hnhh… B-but… But it’s not…sniff…worth… There’s just no point in…fff…”

“I’m not talking about whether it’s worth anything!” Itsuki snapped back. “I don’t know how bad your novel’s getting slammed, but what do you think about it? Do you like it, or do you hate it? Do you care about what happens? Do you love it? Because that’s really the only important thing.”

Five years ago, Itsuki had struggled with society’s response to his own work. He’d managed to win a new-author prize, but maybe he had no talent at all—maybe, he agonized, there was no way he could be anyone’s protagonist. But he still wanted to write. The encouragement of his editor, Toki, and fellow prizewinner, Haruto, played a role in that, but in the end, he really loved the stuff he was writing. No matter what anyone said to him, he just couldn’t get himself to hate his novels.

“…I—I…” Aoba Kasamatsu struggled to get an answer out. “I…hnhh… I like writing…novels… Mng…! My novels are…fun…! Sniff… I… I…! I love my novel…! Nngh…nnnngh…!”

Itsuki gave her a kind grin. It was just like gazing at his past self. “Then keep on writing. You don’t need talent, or permission, or worth, or meaning, or anything! …Besides, what’s so bad about being an inferior copy? If you keep on writing, you might surpass the real thing someday… And wouldn’t that be cool? An imitation surpassing the real thing? Like the hero of a story.”

Itsuki was speaking to himself as much as Aoba. But she looked up at him—and this salvation he was offering. After all this time spent being told by readers and her own editor that she’s a sham, her heart had been frozen solid—and now Itsuki’s words had gently melted the ice away.

“…It’s okay to write if I don’t have any talent? Even if I’m inferior or an imitation…? I can still write novels?”

“Of course you can!”

Itsuki’s own resolve was present in that declaration, delivered as strongly as he could. Aoba sat there, shedding big tears as she sobbed.

After that meeting, the three of them decided to have dinner together. As they ate, Aoba revealed that she became a fan of Itsuki’s after reading his work—a fact that sent him sky-high.

“Well, well! Yeah, even a guy like me thinks that the protagonists in my stories are all cool like that! If you want to make a charming sister shine even brighter, she needs a charming elder brother to frame her!”

“You’re right! I think the readers can really see how a heroine shines when she’s depicted through the loving eyes of the protagonist!”

“Ha-ha-ha! Exactly! It’s a really simple technique but an advanced one, and not too many readers notice it. You’re a smart young lady!”

“Hee-hee-hee…”

Aoba shyly snickered at Itsuki’s compliment. The sharpness was gone from her speech; now that she was sincerely laughing, she was far more approachable.

In good spirits, Itsuki helped himself to some beer. It only added to his nervous energy. “To hell with all those haters! Who do they think they are, telling me to go jerk off by myself? What do you think you’re doing with those Amazon reviews then, huh? It’s like whacking it in public in front of the bookstore! Nobody wants to see that shit! Listen, newbie! If you boil it down, all creative endeavors are essentially the author jerking off! And when you’re professional writer, tons of people would pay good money to go see! When I whack it, it’s worth paying a premium for! And someday, I’m gonna invent amazing new techniques that’re gonna wow people all over the world!”

“And—and I’ll masturbate, too, Mr. Hashima! Like my life depends on it!” Aoba, whose rebellious tone at the ceremony clashed against the ass-spanking perversity of the speeches, was now following in lockstep with Itsuki, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah! Show me how good you can beat it!”

“You bet! I’ll try my best to be as good as you at it!”

“Ugh! Can you guys stop shouting about masturbation, please?!”

The yelling from a bright-red Chihiro fell on deaf ears.

“Uh, um, Mr. Hashima!”

“Hmm? What is it, newbie?”

“Getting to talk to you today has really opened my eyes! Do you mind if I call you my master?!”

Itsuki looked at the dead serious Aoba, thinking a bit. “No! You can’t!”

“Aw…”

“Don’t call me your master! You need to call me Big Bro!”

It was the raving of someone completely drunk—but to Aoba, who always idolized the idea of a big brother, it was joyous news.

“Yes! Yes, Big Bro!”

“Wh-whoa, Kasamatsu! What are you saying?! Also, stop acting stupid around her, Itsuki!” Chihiro was panicking.

“Heh-heh… Big Bro… Nothing echoes more beautifully in my mind…”

“I hope you’ll keep offering me help, Big Bro!”

“Yeah! That’s it! More! Say it again!”

“Big Bro! Big Bro! Big Bro!”

“Weh-heh-heh-heh-heh…”

Itsuki grinned widely, completely rapt, as Aoba parroted out the words. It put Chihiro in a pouty, sullen mood.

“Nngh… You’re such a massive idiot, Big Bro…”