The Main Theme

Haruto Fuwa had a sister seven years his younger. She was just as pretty, refined-looking, and stylish as her brother, but unlike the easygoing Haruto, she had a sharp, stinging personality. Many were the times a boy attempted to confess his love to her, only to be humiliated by a long string of merciless, heartbreaking insults.

As a younger child, she had hung around Haruto like a dog with its master, constantly fawning over her big bro. Now they didn’t even make eye contact in public.

“You’re so late, Bro!” she whined at Haruto the moment he stepped inside. “You promised you’d help me with homework tonight! What’re you gonna do if they yell at me in school tomorrow?”

Haruto sighed and rolled his eyes. “Ah, cram it,” he said in a tone he’d never use with anyone else. “Meeting ran long.”

“Liar! You were drinking with your friends again! You tweeted about it and everything!”

“Who invited you to look at my Twitter, you ass?”

Haruto clicked his tongue, exasperated. His sister was talking about that appeal to gay sensibilities he’d sent from Itsuki’s apartment. Having a member of the family catch it was a tad embarrassing for him.

“…Look, it’s late, all right? Let’s just get this homework done and go to bed,” he said, changing the subject. “Like, are you really stupid enough that you can’t do this by yourself?”

“I’m not stupid! I could handle all of this if I really wanted to, but I don’t want to waste my valuable time on it! That’s why I’m having you help me! You should be thankful, you douche!”

“What the hell, man…?” Haruto wearily droned at the irrational abuse hurled his way as he smoothly motored his way through a sheet of math problems. She was probably right when she said she could handle this if she wanted to; her test scores were among the best in her grade.

If she wanted to, he reminded himself as he wrapped everything up in ten minutes or so.

“Okay, I’m off,” he said. His sister stopped him before he could reach his room.

“W-wait a minute! I got some pudding in the fridge, so I’ll let you eat that as your reward.”

“No thanks. I’m just gonna wash up and go to sleep.”

“I wanna eat it, too! Just wait a minute!”

“You’re gonna get fat if you eat that stuff after midnight,” Haruto whispered to himself as his sister jumped out of the room, a tad red-faced. She was back before long, and soon they were staring into each other’s respective pudding cups.

“Hey, uh, Bro?”

“Mm.”

“Y’know, I keep reading your books, and they’re still the most boring things I’ve ever seen. I’ve probably read your new one, like, a hundred times, and I have no idea what anybody sees in it.”

“Huh,” Haruto said bluntly. He had heard all of this before.

The reply made his sister puff her cheeks up in anger. “There’s just nothing attractive about the female lead at all! All that stupid ‘fateful encounter’ stuff is so twenty years ago, too… It’s better if the main heroine is closer to the other guy than that. You can get an affinity for her that way, you know?”

“…Closer, huh…? Like, childhood friends? As if that’s not a tired old trope.”

“What? What are you, stupid? A childhood friend’s just gonna be another random stranger to you.”

“So what d’you want me to write, then?”

“I don’t know, dummy! That’s your job! Oh, and I saw your interview in the anime magazine that came out today, Bro. It was so gross.”

“I’m not gross!”

Haruto had read the interview himself. He hadn’t said anything problematic in it, and while he didn’t like to pat himself on the back, he thought the photo they’d printed flattered him a fair bit.

“You are. You tried to act like some total stud way too much. And that angle in the picture—like, did you ask for that? You aren’t some pop idol, Bro. You seriously thought you’d look cool from that angle? Ugh, you’re disgusting!”

“Will you just shut up?!”

Haruto’s face was reddening as she drove in the point repeatedly.

“You should just, like, put on a bald wig and some pancake makeup. That’d suit you way better, you clown!”

“No, dummy! If I do that, I’ll lose all the female fans I’ve finally started attracting!”

“Bro, you know nobody but a bunch of pale virgin boys reads your stuff! Which is great for you! At least you don’t have to worry about other fangirls following you!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Even for male-oriented stories, attracting a female audience is one of the biggest keys to success in this—ow!”

She punched him in the arm.

“You’re being ridiculous! Ugh, forget it! Just get out of here!”

“Whoa, I haven’t finished my pudding—”

“I’ll finish it!”

“You’re gonna get fat if you do that! Or maybe you should!”

“Shut up, you bastard! Just die!”

Haruto, stripped of his half-eaten pudding and punched in the arm, was forced out of the room.

“I hope you turn into a pig!!”

He shouted through the door as he glumly went into his own bedroom.

“Yeesh,” he sighed as he took his computer out of his backpack, hoping to handle a little more work before bedtime. “Maybe I oughta rent a place somewhere, too.”

Haruto had been living in the same house, his family’s house, for all twenty-two years of his life. He had considered leaving the roost twice—once when he was accepted into college, once when he made his pro writing debut—but his sister was dead set against it both times. His parents sided with her, so he caved.

No, he believed wholeheartedly, there’s nothing good about a little sister.

If Itsuki was around to see this, he’d probably scream “That’s the whole joy of it!!!” and melt into a puddle of pure envy. But Haruto was too much of a realist—too convinced that his flesh and blood hated him too much to fit any of the brother-obsessed or tsundere hot-and-cold archetypes of little-sister fiction.

Even if he noticed the truth—that his sister was, in fact, both of those things—it wouldn’t have changed much with him. Because even more than a little sister that would’ve pushed all of Itsuki’s buttons, Haruto Fuwa craved raw, natural talent.

Talent, money, social status, prestige, looks, character, dreams, hopes, acceptance, tranquility, a friend, a lover, a sister.

Whatever a person wants the most, they’ll always find it belonging to someone close to them—and despite how much that person desires what they lack, the other possessing it will often see it as all but worthless.

Someone actually possessing what they want in life is nothing short of miraculous. But the rarity of such miracles is the bountiful well from which most forms of tragedy and comedy are born.

And this world—this tale—pretty much unfolds that way from start to finish.