COTE : Oh No, I've Become the Substitute

Mashima Tomonari clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out at the two figures walking away hand in hand beneath the harsh, glaring sunlight. For some inexplicable reason, a wave of sentiment welled up within his heart.

That girl—if he remembered correctly—was supposed to be one of Class C's key combat assets. To think they had already grown this close...

And another thing...

Mashima, dressed in his crisp, pressed suit, felt his expression abruptly darken. A strange, peculiar sensation arose unbidden from the very depths of his heart.

It was like a young man in his twenties—single since birth, still living at home, gaming and surfing the web every day—suddenly spotting, from the curb of the street, a freshly-dismissed elementary school kid, walking right past him, holding a girl's hand in each of his own.

Even though he himself wasn't that bad off—this feeling—it was as though an arrow had pierced his heart, or as though he'd been cast into the water, unable to breathe...

Forget it.

After drawing a deep breath and slowly exhaling, Mashima straightened his clothes and puffed out his chest, striving to maintain the dignity and composure befitting a teacher.

His own student was handsome—true. But he himself wasn't without his own merits, was he?

The reason mature men possessed a distinctive, unique charm was precisely because of qualities like breadth of vision, magnanimity, and life experience—things that youths simply did not possess. Wasn't that why they appeared so capable and dependable?

A man was like a fine wine—requiring the sedimentation of years to brew a unique, distinctive flavor.

His thoughts reaching this point, his originally bent, stooped spine seemed to be infused with renewed vigor. He straightened his back once more, raised his head, puffed out his chest, and stared straight ahead.

As an outstanding educator of the new era, to have his state of mind disturbed by his own students—this was truly unbecoming.

The droning of the cicadas in the treetops grew more clamorous and grating. The dappled spots of light beneath the shade of the trees slowly shifted with the passage of time.

Twenty minutes later.

Amidst the rustling whisper of the sea breeze brushing through the leaves, Mashima silently shut his mouth and stared in silence at the student who had gone and come back again.

"Hey there..."

Fuyuji Mikage's expression was perfectly normal. With one hand, he held Yamamura Miki's small hand. The other hand rose in a lazy, casual wave of greeting—as casual and nonchalant as asking whether he'd eaten yet.

Beside him, Yamamura Miki stood with both legs pressed neatly together in proper, upright posture. Her head was deeply, profoundly lowered, as though on the verge of burying itself in her chest. But merely from the exposed portions—those cheeks, flushed so red they seemed about to drip blood, and the way she hid her body behind Fuyuji—one could tell just how mortified and embarrassed this shy, bashful girl was at this very moment.

After a long, prolonged silence, Mashima opened his mouth. His voice carried a bone-deep, unprecedented exhaustion.

"Why is it always you? Is there really no one else in our Class A?"

"What kind of talk is that?" Fuyuji immediately arched an eyebrow and launched a counter-offensive, turning the accusation back around. "Where's your fairness and impartiality? Where's your identity as Captain Dragonfly? And you call yourself a progressive educator of the new era? It seems you're nothing more than an old antique abandoned by the times. Before long, there won't be a single vessel left in this era capable of carrying you."

"..."

An old antique?

Was it that I'm too conservative, or that you're far too rebellious and heaven-defying?

"What happened to your face?" Mashima keenly observed a crescent-moon-shaped red mark on Fuyuji's neck. Moreover, the complexion of his face seemed somewhat different from just moments ago.

"Oh, it's nothing." Fuyuji raised a hand and touched the bite mark on his neck. Without a change in expression, he spoke. "Just lost a fight with the little cat back home. A man must be magnanimous."

"Pfft..."

The moment the words fell, Yamamura, behind him, felt her shoulders gently quiver. She buried her head even deeper against Fuyuji's back, covering her mouth as she stifled her giggles.

Mashima stared blankly at Fuyuji. His originally straightened spine stooped and hunched, bit by bit...

Did you have any idea—what those three sentences of yours—did to a man nearing thirty, still cooped up teaching at Advanced Nurturing High?

And this man still had to go to work. His daily routine consisted of watching this profoundly abstract student, step by step, grow even more abstract.

"Hurry up. Announce the results."

Spotting out of the corner of his eye that students were already running back with their target items, Fuyuji handed over the slip of paper and urged him further.

"No matter what, it's still best to be mindful of this sort of thing at Advanced Nurturing High. You are, after all, still students." Mashima listlessly accepted the slip of paper, performing his final duty as a teacher. Although, in a certain sense, he didn't exactly have the qualifications to say so either.

The smooth, flowing, seamless little combo that Fuyuji and Morishita Ai had unleashed upon him had directly emptied out all the corporate-wage-slave energy he had accumulated. Right now, all he wanted was to finish work as quickly as possible, pull his little blanket over himself, and enjoy the slumber of a baby.

[A Person I Admire]

Sweeping a casual, cursory glance over Fuyuji, then another over Yamamura Miki, Mashima waved his hand with limp, lifeless exhaustion.

"Pass."

All he could say was—for the Scavenger Race, with its questions carrying such an immense degree of subjective interpretation, as long as one could convince the referee and make a plausible argument, it was sufficient.

In a certain sense, Fuyuji was indeed a universally applicable answer—precisely because he was far too abstract.

"Thanks." Fuyuji said.

"Don't let me see you again in a moment."

"Oi, oi. Don't be so stingy. You're the referee, after all..."

"Hurry up and go. Please, hurry up and go." Mashima issued the eviction order. He felt that his blood pressure was running a bit high today. In the future, he might need to keep some blood-pressure medication on hand in the office ahead of time.

"Fine..." Fuyuji shrugged and, with crisp, clean decisiveness, turned around and pulled Yamamura back with him.

"Thank you, Mashima-sensei. Goodbye, Sensei."

A voice as faint as a mosquito's whine slipped hesitantly from Yamamura's lips. She swiftly bent at the waist in Mashima's direction, hastily offered a perfunctory bow, and then followed step by step behind Fuyuji, walking together toward the Class A camp.

Standing alone and desolate at the lottery-drawing station, allowing the sea breeze to tousle the hair across his forehead, Mashima once again gazed out at the two figures receding into the distance. A sudden, dawning clarity arose within his chest.

So it turned out—even fine wine, if left too long, would eventually evaporate.

...

Before they had even returned to the Class A camp, Fuyuji—still holding Yamamura's hand—felt the corner of his mouth twitch. From afar, he spotted a tiny figure sitting in perfect, proper seiza within the tent.

Morishita Ai had both knees pressed neatly together. Her ankles, clad in blue-and-white ankle socks, were tucked beneath her rear. Her upper body was ramrod straight. Her gaze was fixed directly ahead. Beside her lay a tree branch, scavenged from who-knew-where. Her expression was so grave and solemn she seemed like a samurai about to march into battle.

"You're back?" A cold, indifferent tone emerged from those water-pink lips.

Fuyuji drew a deep breath and strode into the tent. "I'm back."

"Shall we continue?" Morishita slowly grasped the tree branch beside her.

"We continue."

"Then die, boyfriend-kun!"

Morishita exploded upward from the ground and lunged at Fuyuji, tree branch in hand, attacking with ferocious intensity. Fuyuji—who had anticipated this all along—sidestepped to dodge a single strike, then spun around and began running circles around Yamamura.

One chasing, one fleeing—the two of them performed a comic duet within the tent.

"'A person who is unlike anyone else'—aside from the one-and-only Morishita-sama, who else could that possibly be?! My utterly unromantic boyfriend—actually didn't come looking for me?!"

"I already told you—Shiina was closer! I just swept my eyes over and spotted her immediately. Don't you think, Ai, that compared to how different we are, the ways we're alike are actually more numerous?"

"Please do not speak nonsense. Clearly, it's boyfriend-kun who resembles me more."

"See, you just admitted it."

"Did I? When did I admit it? At what hour, what minute, what second? Please state it precisely, boyfriend-kun."

...

Trapped in the middle, Miki looked left at this one, then right at that one. Very quickly, her eyes grew dizzy and spiraled into spinning circles.

The tent flap was yanked open with a sharp whoosh. Kamuro Masumi, binding strap in hand, strode into the tent. Her gaze swept across the scene of utter pandemonium—chickens squawking and dogs leaping—and she pursed her lips with an expression of unsurprised familiarity. At the opportune moment, she spoke up.

"Alright. It's about time for us to take the field. Go get ready first."

Fuyuji, running at the front, screeched to a sudden halt and instantly reached out, pulling Morishita into his embrace.

"That fast?"

"Are you an idiot?" Kamuro rolled her eyes. "The Four-Way Tug-of-War is decided in one minute."

The Four-Way Tug-of-War—a very peculiar form of tug-of-war. The four classes pulled outward from four different directions simultaneously. The last member of each team to be the first to grab the flag in their own direction would claim victory. If no winner could be decided within one minute, the team closest to their flag would win.

However, for this match, Katsuragi Kohei had employed a sacrificial pawn strategy. In order to conserve the stamina of the students with the best physical ability for the final, highest-scoring event—the 1200-meter mixed relay—he had chosen to field the next-tier students to wear down the stamina of the other classes' students.

"Alright."

Having spoken, Fuyuji looked down at Morishita, still huffing and struggling intermittently in his embrace. "Remember to cheer for me in a bit."

"If you don't get first place—come back and obediently listen to whatever Morishita-sama says."

Morishita planted her hands on her hips and rapped the tree branch against Fuyuji's head.

"Then if I do get first place, does Morishita-sama have to listen to what I say?"

"In your dreams!"

...

Once again standing upon the red rubber track, Fuyuji silently turned his head and looked at the referee beside him, who had lowered his head and let out a sigh.

"Sadistic Teacher. How is it you again? Just how many scenes do you have to rush to today?"

"That's what I'd like to ask you. Why is it always you?"

Mashima stared at Fuyuji in silence and let out a despairing sigh.

Every single time he laid eyes on this student today, it made him feel that being born human was truly, deeply, profoundly sumimasen.

"Then do your best."

Faintly detecting the doubled, redoubled aura of the corporate wage slave emanating from Mashima, Fuyuji decisively terminated the topic. He was still young. He didn't want to contract the wage-slave affliction at such a tender age.

Roughly sweeping his gaze over the participating students from the other classes, the only one he recognized was Hirata Yosuke.

Judging by that stiff, rigid expression on his face, he had probably only stepped forward as a substitute because his class had simply run out of students.

Truly noble, Hirata-san.

Fuyuji once again voiced this sentiment from the very depths of his heart.

Just then, a lithe, vigorous leg stretched over and pressed flush against Fuyuji's own. Turning his head, he saw Kamuro Masumi extend a red binding strap toward him with practiced, consummate ease.

"What are you standing there dazed for? Hurry up!"

"Oh, oh. Right away."

Fuyuji tactfully accepted the binding strap and maintained his half-crouched posture. Bit by bit, he wound the strap around his own leg and Kamuro's.

Hooking the crimson binding strap, he gently looped it around her slender, delicate ankle bone. Kamuro's skin was as fine and exquisite as the finest white porcelain, a faint, pale pink flush blooming wherever the strap glided past.

As Fuyuji's movements caused the strap to tighten slightly, her toes curled restlessly within her pure white ankle socks.

"Done." Fuyuji rose back to his feet and clapped his hands together.

Immediately after, a slender, fair hand was extended before Fuyuji, slowly unfurling. Raising his head, he saw that Kamuro had turned her head away and was gazing into the distance. The shells of her ears had quietly been dyed pink.

"Don't overthink it. I just don't like losing. And I don't want all our previous efforts to go to waste, that's all."

"..."

Their bound-together calves trembled faintly. A warm, tender sensation transmitted through the thin fabric of their athletic clothes. Fuyuji smiled and enveloped Kamuro's hand.

"Alright. Then—Masumi, let's go together in a moment!"

Before long, upon the silent, still track—

"On your marks— Ready—" The starting pistol rose high.

Bang—!

The gunshot tore through the air, exploding across the sky above the track.

Almost at the very instant of the gunshot, Fuyuji and Kamuro simultaneously shot forward. Their very first step had already seized half a body-length's advantage. The crimson binding strap stretched taut in the fierce, howling wind, tracing the sleek, powerful, bursting contours of both their calves.

"Ho!" An eruption of startled exclamations burst forth from the stands in response.

The sea breeze rushed headlong toward them, tousling the stray locks of hair across Fuyuji's forehead, and lifting the high ponytail Kamuro had specially tied up for this occasion.

In the span of just a few breaths, they had already left the other groups—still adjusting their strides, stumbling and staggering—far, far behind. They were out in front, utterly alone.

Feeling the late-summer breeze brushing against their faces, the scenery on both sides of the track continuously retreated backward. The long, drawn-out dividing line of the track stretched endlessly beneath their feet, then curved and bent at the far end.

"Bro—turn left."

"Got it. Shut up."

One on the inner lane, one on the outer. Their stride lengths were different, yet their speed was astonishingly synchronized. In the blink of an eye, they had rounded the curve.

On the track not far away, two figures from Class D—one tall, one short—stood beside the track, watching the pair's performance with unblinking, riveted attention.

"See? I told you my judgment was spot-on. Those two are definitely a couple, aren't they?" Matsushita Chiaki lifted her chin and spoke with absolute, unwavering conviction.

Although she had no idea why Sakayanagi-san had been incessantly questioning her judgment ever since returning that day—facts spoke louder than words.

Sakayanagi Arisu rapped her cane once. Her usual elegant, refined smile froze solid on her face. She felt as though she had been deceived by some utterly repulsive, off-putting man—yet she was unwilling to admit it.

"One must not speak in absolutes, Chiaki-san. It's possible that it was simply that individual's exceptional physical coordination at work. As for why their hands were clasped together—that was merely a necessity of the three-legged race. And regarding Masumi-san's flushed cheeks—there is a very high probability that it was simply accelerated blood circulation accompanying physical exertion..."

"Sakayanagi-san, your mouth is truly as stubborn as ever."

"In any case—I do not acknowledge it! A man who would do that sort of thing to a lady—impossible! Absolutely impossible!"

"That sort of thing?"

"It's nothing, Matsushita-san. You misheard."

...

Gazing at the finish line, now so close at hand, Fuyuji—who had been plotting this for a long time—turned his head as he ran and looked at Kamuro. The corner of his mouth split open.

"Bro—are you ready?"

"Ha?" Kamuro turned her head. "Ready for wha—"

Before the words had even finished, Fuyuji's palm shot out with lightning speed and pulled her entire body toward him. In an instant, the two who had originally been running shoulder-to-shoulder were now pressed together even more tightly and intimately.

"I'm taking her with me today! Let's see who's got the guts to stop me!"

"Fuyuji Mikage—you bastard! The moment we get back, I'm killing you!"

Amidst the deafening, earth-shaking cheers of the spectators, two tightly, inseparably linked figures—like an arrow loosed from its bowstring, carrying an unstoppable, all-conquering momentum—fiercely, fearlessly crashed through the finish line, leaving behind the lingering, grinding echo of Kamuro Masumi's voice, clenching her teeth in fury, reverberating endlessly across the red rubber track.

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