"We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come."
—Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
--𝕽𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙--
Ayanokōji Kiyotaka let out a low, involuntary groan as he stirred in bed. He had been awake for over an hour, but his body refused to move up until now.
It was baffling. Sleep paralysis didn't work like this.
And there was no reason for him to experience it either.
He hadn't stayed up late. He hadn't eaten anything suspect. No disruptions to circadian rhythm, no skipped meals, no markers of physiological fatigue. His routine had been executed to perfection.
And yet, he found himself in this situation.
At least, he could now move a finger. Small mercies.
Then, his skull suddenly throbbed. Harsher than what textbooks taught him.
If he had to describe it... actually, he couldn't. He never had a headache before.
But pain wasn't new. What was new... was having no reason for it.
So this... this was strange.
He swung his legs over the bed and sat forward, elbows on thighs, fingers pressed to his temples. It did nothing to ease the pressure.
At least, there was no fever. Just that weight behind his eyes... and the images.
Names. Voices. Laughter. Rooms he'd never entered. Street corners he couldn't place. Conversations he never had.
And sex—an overwhelming amount of it. Flashes of skin, scent, heat. The friction of bodies, the nuance of reactions, the way desire translated into movement.
Kiyotaka blinked. Are dreams usually this detailed? What a weird dream.
That was the only explanation. Because if they weren't dreams—if they were memories—then he had a bigger problem.
He got up from bed and poured himself a glass of water. Perhaps, hydration would bring about clarity.
It didn't.
So he poured himself another one and sat on the lonesome chair in his dorm room. An hour wasn't enough to process all the images he saw.
Dreams still seemed the most rational explanation. But even then, a REM-phase hallucination wouldn't account for this level of detail. Nor the chronological layering—some of the memories even referenced each other.
It was like receiving the first film reel of an unreleased movie.
But they couldn't be memories either.
He hadn't lived those days. He hadn't befriended those people. And the idea that they came from some parallel timeline or future life was idiotic.
That would require believing in the supernatural.
And he didn't.
Kiyotaka sighed. He tried, minutes ago, to figure out what happened. He couldn't. And so, he had come with the simple resolution of accepting the images as they were.
It was easier to accept the irrational output of a rational mind than to believe in a Sci-Fi plot.
What? Was his future so bleak he had to be sent back in time to save himself? That was ridiculous.
...Then his mind strayed again to a particular scene. The lewd sounds, flesh pounding flesh, the mesmerizing sight, the pink— sometimes blonde— hair.
Kiyotaka poured himself another glass. That was the third.
Perhaps it was natural for those memories to repeat over and over. After all, he was at that age where males were supposed to be at the peak of their sexual curiosity.
But seriously... were dreams supposed to be that vivid? And that eventful?
Sighing, he redirected his mind away from the more physical memories.
And wished he hadn't.
"Manipulation... is fun?" he said aloud, frowning faintly at the sound of his own voice.
What's supposed to be enjoyable about it?
He ran the logic twice, then a third time:
Uncertainty is fun. Games are fun because the outcome is in doubt.
His own schemes, by design, removed uncertainty. Every move forecasted the next, every variable was already bracketed.
Therefore, his manipulation couldn't be fun; at most, it was just like watching a simulation run exactly as expected.
If there was any satisfaction, it came only from being correct.
Kiyotaka poured his fourth glass of water that morning. Then, he returned to his chair.
He ran the probability again. It definitely was a dream.
Because there was no way he'd think of something like that.
But maybe... just maybe...
Kiyotaka chided himself for even entertaining the thought.
First, he'd need these memories to unfold as it did.
Then, he'll think of what to do next.
Standing up, Kiyotaka glanced at the clock.
7:10 AM.
He entered the bathroom, satisfied. Now, that was something that didn't align with the original timeline.
End of Prologue
Closing Note:
The premise of this fanfic is quite straightforward: What if you woke up knowing exactly how your future would unfold?
Well... Kiyotaka chooses the third option.
I had a few things already in mind for this one. Had Volume 1 already written in full. But this prologue would suffice for now. Feedbacks and suggestion may change how I approach this volume and the ones right after... so... give me some.
And no GetoWasRight, I won't write you marrying Chabashira.