――――――― In the basin of Kyoto, even at night, the humid and stifling heat assaulted me and Kumiko.
Right now, we had come to the Agata Festival, where soft, swaying bonbori lanterns glowed gently.
It was a traditional and historic festival in the old capital of Kyoto.
On this day alone, the Kitauji High School Brass Band—which boasted a practice volume comparable to that of powerhouse schools—had a shortened club activity.
The students were looking forward to it.
—of course, even the teachers!
I walked while holding hands with Kumiko.
Our fingers were intertwined, our elbows linked as we walked.
Staying close together, I could feel Kumiko’s body heat through my hand and arm—her womanly warmth, which was warmer than a man’s.
Kumiko was wearing a yukata with a yellow base sprinkled with floral patterns, cinched with a red obi, and her hair was tied up in an updo.
The slightly childish look was also adorable.
Her petite, delicate frame was accentuated beautifully by the yukata — small, soft B-cup breasts that sat perkily under the fabric, a slim waist, and gently flared hips.
Her fair skin glowed under the lantern light, and the exposed nape of her neck looked irresistibly erotic.
I always think this, but kimono and yukata are the epitome of fetish fuel.
A garment that makes a woman’s nape look erotic—there aren’t many like that when you look across the world.
On top of that, it’s convenient when doing it.
Even if it gets disheveled, it’s easy to fix, and for both men and women, a yukata can be opened from the front for immediate sex.
The obi is also like a bundle of fetishes.
No matter how much the rest of the clothing falls into disarray, the obi alone remains properly tied in place.
I even end up thinking ridiculous things like, “Maybe yukata were originally designed exclusively for clothed sex,” because they’re so easy to put on and take off, and above all, they’re incredibly erotic.
Kumiko and I were playing with water yo-yos made of rubber that we bought at a festival stall, making them splash and pop as we walked.
I was thinking pointless thoughts like, “What’s the official name for these things anyway?” as we strolled along.
Our destination was the summit of the local mountain, Daikichi Mountain, after leaving the main festival street.
It seemed Kumiko had made a promise to perform with Kousaka there.
Even though I’m her boyfriend, for some reason I was tagging along.
Kumiko apparently felt uneasy about letting me go home alone.
She said something about not wanting me to get hit on by girls.
I felt happy that she was being jealous.
While suppressing my own arousal, I thought that having sex on Daikichi Mountain might be nice too.
――I had been thinking about Kousaka Reina.
In recent years, she had joined the otherwise average brass band for some reason and quickly became the top ace on trumpet.
She competed daily with Kaori-senpai for the regular trumpet spot, their rivalry fierce.
When she first joined, I had practiced with her a bit on the hill beside the school, so I knew a little about her.
Of course, not as much as Kumiko did.
――She seemed to understand what life was really about more than anyone.
――She understood the importance of what you piled up yourself.
A musical instrument is all about balance.
It depends on the player, and it also depends on the instrument itself.
Guitars are especially like that.
American-made ones are considered high-end, but sometimes Chinese-made ones are more carefully crafted.
――Though the wood is a different story.
I had learned the hard way that a guitar is useless if its balance isn’t right.
I tried various guitars: American brand-name models, custom orders from mid-tier Japanese manufacturers, big-name manufacturer collaboration models from games, and guitars around 50,000 yen, but in the end, I settled on a handmade domestic guitar from a small workshop.
Even though it was an electric guitar, it sounded amazing even without plugging it in.
The body and neck resonated beautifully even in that unplugged state, and I was deeply impressed.
The most important part of a guitar—the section that doesn’t go through the pickups—sounded that good.
When I plugged it into a classic vacuum tube amp and played a single stroke during the test, tears came to my eyes.
It was truly enlightening.
I felt like the veil had been lifted on what a musical instrument really was.
And such high-level guitars have their balance destroyed just by changing the strings.
That’s how wonderful yet delicate a real instrument is.
Kousaka had extremely high awareness as a performer and worked harder than anyone.
When I practiced beside her (trying not to get in her way), it felt incredibly good.
Sometimes our eyes would meet, as if we were conscious of each other, but it wasn’t a soft or gentle look—it was a sharp, piercing gaze that seemed to say, ‘I’ve done more practice in the same amount of time than you, haven’t I?’ It wasn’t meant as sarcasm; it was a pure, competitive look from someone who had joined in April just like me, yet was already matching my effort with the sheer amount of practice she could put in during that short time.
――Of course, she never said it out loud.
I also worked desperately hard.
During the so-called “Parley meetings,” while others wasted their time pointlessly, I threw myself into practice.
My favorite author once said that effort is something you should at least try.
This is my own theory, but even if it doesn’t work out after trying, maybe that’s just how it is.
Still, effort is something you have to make.