The Mask or the Man? (Kohaku, Kuroda, Meliaya, Shu, Marisa)

“Two more tomatoes with soup,” the Mihama girl up front calls back into the school kitchen. Volunteer students shuffle back and forth between stations. Kohaku stands firm at the sandwich station, slicing tomatoes to go on the next batch. Moving at speed, he lays the thick-cut tomatoes out in a meticulously planned array of works in progress, sprinkles furikake seasoning on them, and pops another batch of milk bread into the toaster.

Behind him, Marisa ladles soup from a massive pot into blue plastic bowls. Zipping around the kitchen like a coked up puppy dog, Shu snags completed sandwiches and pairs them on trays with the bowls, then delivers them out to Mihama. “Almost out of trays. I’m going to bus tables,” Shu calls, sliding out the kitchen door into the cafeteria, currently open to the ample underprivileged population of Kageoka. Kohaku gives him a silent thumbs up and shifts gears to plating, taking the ‘Prez’s’ place passing the two new orders to Meliaya.

“Thanks! Here you go, Yamada-sama,” stretching to lean over the counter on her stepping stool, the smaller girl hands an exhausted-looking man and his wife the tray. He bows and accepts it formally, great embarrassment plain across his face. In his mind, the dishonor of needing handouts must feel like a stain on the soul. Kohaku still remembers his grandfather’s words to that effect, speaking of their family’s times in poverty.

There’s a knock at the fire exit door. “I’ll get it,” Kohaku quietly says as he leaves Meliaya’s station. He can see the familiar face of Takaishi Kuroda through the thin, reinforced window. Kohaku pushes it open and lets the larger student inside. Kuroda is hauling a large box of fresh carrots and potatoes.

“Hey,” he says simply. “I brought a donation. Where should I put it?”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. Over here,” with a tilt of his head, Kohaku leads him into the pantry. There’s still a slight limp in Kuroda’s step, he avoids resting his weight on the foot that was injured.

As they shuffle things around to make room, Meliaya’s voice can be heard from outside. “One vegetarian egg salad!”

Perking up, Kohaku leans out of the doorway and barks, “Marisa!” his voice sounds harsher than it is. He rarely bothers with honorifics. “It’s Sugita’s order, his is on the top left of the prep area! Grab it!”

“Vegetarian… egg… salad?” the girl springs over and grabs it, looking it over. “That sounds awful.”

“It’s not,” offense prickles at the back of Kohaku’s tongue. “I made it myself.”

“Alright! Well, if you made it I’ll believe you!” she calls back over her shoulder, delivering the tray to the counter. When Kohaku turns around, he notices Kuroda looking at him strangely, but pays it no mind. They slide the fresh vegetables into a spot where they can be used tomorrow.

Escorting Kuroda back to the door, Kohaku goes to shut it, but a foot stops him. “Hey,” the larger boy cuts in, “Can we talk after school?”

“I guess.”

Nodding his head, apparently not put off by the curt answer, Kuroda slides his foot out of the way. “I’ll be in the garden for a while yet.”

“Alright,” Kohaku closes the door and pivots back into the kitchen. Though he maintains outward calm, his mind is aflame with thought. Did Kuroda recognize me somehow? Nai wa… this could be troublesome.




Wiping the sweat of the kitchen off his brow, Kohaku tosses his apron onto a rack and finally steps out into the afternoon air. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he walks casually around the school building, out towards the front where Kuroda’s garden is proudly maintained. It’s called a community garden, but Kuroda’s usually the one taking charge of maintaining it, so it might as well be his.

Sure enough, he’s squatted down pulling some weeds when Kohaku’ arrives. “Hey. You wanted to see me.”

“Ah,” yanking up another unwanted pest by the roots, Kuroda tosses it into a bucket and turns, clapping the dirt off of his gardening gloves. “You sound busy, so I will make it quick.” Kuroda lowers his head in a bow. “Arigatou gozaimasita.”

Staring obtusely, Kohaku probes, “For what?”

“You helped me, the other day, when I was being accosted. And if not for you, I may have been overwhelmed… in the Idea World,” he says it in a hushed voice, but Kohaku still turns to cast his eyes around at who might be listening. Grabbing a wooden stool resting nearby, Kohaku brushes off a thin layer of dirt and sits down.

“What gave me away?”

Perhaps offput by the deadly serious voice, Kuroda busies himself rubbing some more dirt from the rubber grip of his gloves. “Your voice sounded familiar. I wasn’t sure, until I heard you giving commands in the kitchen.” Kohaku mentally kicks himself for the slip. “It looks like you’ve healed.”

Closing his eyes, Kohaku takes a long breath. “… Fukuzawa Kohaku. Nice to formally meet you.”

“Takaishi Kuroda,” an awkward glance is cast at the stool, the only place to sit in the garden. But Kuroda opts to just slump down and sit on the grass, one knee raised to rest his arm on. When Kohaku doesn’t go anywhere, Kuroda attempts to poke the conversation forward, “How did you learn about the Idea World stuff?”

“I’ve known about it since I was a child.”

Raising his eyebrows, Kuroda looks up at him. “Really? Have you had your Idolon that long?”

“No,” the bitter growl creases Kuroda’s forehead, and Kohaku shakes his head. “Tai is one of my oldest friends, but we were only reacquainted not so long ago.” The furrows only grow deeper.

“Friends, with your Idolon?” there’s disbelief in Kuroda’s voice. “Aren’t they a part of you?”

“Sometimes.”

Stewing on the cryptic answer, Kuroda watches Kohaku’s face with a growing intensity. “So mine could be something else? That’s just following me around?”

“You sound almost hopeful. What is your Idolon called, Kuroda?”

Shifting under the overly familiar way of speaking, Kuroda turns from Kohaku’s sharp eyes to look over his garden. “Doesn’t have one.”

“Why not?”

“Because I hate looking at it. It’s-” voice catching, the gardener teeters between saying more, and not. “It’s hideous. It’s the hulking monster everyone thinks I am. So if it’s a part of me, what does that say about me?”

Indignation flares up in Kohaku’s chest. He can feel his knife hand trembling, twitching for something to grab and strike, an instinctive response to the feeling. Laying the other hand over it and squeezing to keep it still, he tames the quiver in his voice, “You shouldn’t say that about your Idolon.” A puzzled look settles on him again. “Your Idolon is one of the most beautiful I’ve witnessed,” Kohaku fails, now, to tame the quivering emotion. “Everything it does for you. Standing between you and the armies of hell, don’t you think it deserves more than scorn and ignorance? How dare you?!”

The sudden outpouring of vicious backlash strikes Kuroda like a slap across the face. “Uh,” he staggers verbally.

An invisible feeling brushes faintly along Kohaku’s arm, a gentle touch from the other side. He pulls himself together. Breathe. He breathes. “I apologize,” regaining composure, Kohaku gets off the stool and translates his restless energy into pacing. “My Idolon is very important to me. When others speak so ill of theirs’, it just tastes foul.”

In spite of the open seat, Kuroda remains on the ground, looking contemplatively at the blades of grass between his legs. “What do you find beautiful about it? Uh, no homo.”

“No homo,” Kohaku confirms before continuing, “Your Idolon is arms, stretched out, clasping hands. It is the bond of camaraderie made manifest, like a sweet barbeque sauce paired with bitter herbs!”

“O…kay?”

“The serious flavor of the bitterness helps the latent strength of the sweetness come out, and it pulls the bitterness forward to help it open up to others,” clenching his fest, Kohaku stands over Kuroda, fuming with intensity. “They help each other become the best versions of themselves, like comrades do! And its tights! You have to look at the tights!” Kohaku jabs his finger down at Kuroda, who leans away.

“…N-no homo still, right?”

“White and blue, Kuroda!" Kohaku barrels right over the murmured comment, "Bright colors, comforting colors. Your Idolon is a face, a wrestler the audience is supposed to cheer for. The face is a role model, someone to aspire to be! They represent the strength to protect what is dear to you!” Slashing his hand through the air, Kohaku throws it to the side. “Your Idolon has come to you to teach you this lesson. To teach you how to become that which protects what is dear to you! Whether it is the expression of your brilliant soul, or a friend from the other side, it deserves so much better than your contempt!”

The wild outpouring has left Kuroda speechless, staring up from the garden dirt. Kohaku pants for air- he’d forgotten to breathe throughout that entire tirade, and by the end his voice had been dwindling and cracking from the strain on his lungs.

“Start by learning its name,” he says, with finality. “It has one, you just don’t know it yet. Once you do, you will begin to understand… and it can begin to teach you your best self.” Turning on his foot, Kohaku marches away from the scene.

The moment his back is turned, Kohaku breaks into a mortified grimace, sweating profusely. Nai wa… why did I lose it like that. So embarrassing.

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Pub: 22 Oct 2025 13:29 UTC

Edit: 22 Oct 2025 13:36 UTC

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