I took the first-year duo (Taira-chan and Hirosue) and moved to the first-floor lounge. Here, we wouldn't be in the direct path of Azuma returning to the classroom.
“Senpai, um, um, I’m so sorry...!”
“How long are you going to keep crying...?”
According to what I gathered from the sobbing Taira-chan and Hirosue.
First, Taira-chan wanted to hear Hirosue's opinion on the Seishun Rebellion results that came out yesterday, so she visited Hirosue's class during lunch break. (She said, “I just couldn't accept it myself...!”)
Since someone from amane might pass by, they decided to look for a place where no one would go.
Then, they peeked into the broadcasting room—our school's broadcasting room serves as a studio—and it looked like no one was there, so they thought they’d talk there. But when they entered, Azuma and I were actually there, and Azuma was clearly crying.
Seeing the tears of her master, Azuma, Taira-chan's emotions overflowed.
As a result, her legs gave out, and just as Hirosue was trying to pull her outside saying, “Hey, you idiot...!” I came out.
...Or so it seems.
“We didn't hear everything clearly, but, but... it was the first time I'd seen Master like that...!”
“I’m not blaming you. We should have talked somewhere else too.”
I also hadn't expected Azuma to be that distraught.
“That's, that's, not, it...”
“Takuto-san...”
Beside the sobbing Taira-chan, Hirosue looked at me with a solemn expression.
Right, there was something I had to say to Hirosue.
“Hirosue—IRIA, congratulations on passing the listener voting.”
Airi Hirosue—the genius loner bedroom musician, IRIA—had naturally passed the listener voting and was set to proceed to the live selection.
“...Thanks.”
She widened her eyes as if taken aback.
Normally, she might have said something like, “Well, obviously? I can't imagine anyone failing,” but it seems she has enough sense not to say that to me, someone who did fail.
“amane... it was close, wasn't it?”
“I don't know if it was close or not.”
Neither she nor we really know if it was 'easily' or 'barely.'
However, there's almost no doubt that IRIA passed as the overwhelming top choice.
After all, her music has 40 million views.
That's exactly why I was curious.
“Hirosue, I want to hear it.”
The opinion of IRIA, which Taira-chan had also been trying to secretly hear.
“The reason amane didn't pass wasn't because of SNS, was it?”
“I'm not exactly a judge, you know?”
“But you're the one who rose to fame solely through the web. If anything, you understand how to fight with indie recordings better than the judges.”
“...This is strictly my opinion, though.”
Hirosue seemed to sense my seriousness. After that disclaimer, she began to share her view.
Even the sobbing Taira-chan seemed to feel she had to listen to this, looking toward Hirosue while still sniffing. Her lower lip was practically pouting out.
“Naturally, SNS is important. But, let's see. In my opinion... as Takuto-san says, that wasn't the biggest reason.”
“Yeah.”
I nodded, prompting her to continue.
“Because if a song is truly going to be a hit, the person who hears it will play it for whoever is next to them. Then that person plays it for someone else, and it spreads. Everyone starts from zero fans at the very beginning.”
“I guess so...”
As I thought, it wasn't the fault of the era or the trends; it was our responsibility for not being able to overturn them.
“I think that song is undoubtedly good. Even for me, with our brief acquaintance, your resolve and feelings came through so clearly it almost hurt.”
“I bet.”
“You're confident, aren't you?”
“Of course. It was our everything.”
“Hmm?”
Hirosue narrowed her eyes as if she’d found the culprit.
“...Takuto-san, you're checking your answers, aren't you?”
Thinking she’d caught me, I continued.
“...That's exactly the reason we lost, isn't it?”
“Sigh...”
Hirosue let out an exasperated sigh.
“Um, um, I, well, I can't follow this at all, but what does that mean...? We lost because we gave it our all...?”
“It's not because you gave it your all. It's because it was amane's everything.”
“Hmm...?”
“...Again, this is just my opinion, but that song is too personal.”
I knew it.
Our song was too much our own song.
“Your lives themselves became the song.”
“Yeah, that's right.”
“That's why the live performance was probably amazing. The heat would have been there. I think the people who came to see it felt something incredible from your expressions and everything else. ...But a recording is different. When people who know nothing about your faces, names, or ages listen to it, they probably didn't know what you were talking about.”
“Are you saying that was a flaw...?”
“I don't think it's a flaw. But regardless, isn't it possible that's the reason it didn't 'go viral'?”
“I guess so...”
The answer-checking was complete, and I felt the strength leave my body.
In other words, it was like being forced to listen to only the monologue at the climax of a movie; they could understand it, but they couldn't empathize with it.
'...But, for today, you packed in a big firework that you can never use again, didn't you?'
'If so, there's less chance you can do it with the same intensity at the next live. In that case, Butter is much more reliable. Their skill isn't something temporary.'
That was surely the same point Daikoku-san had made after the performance at the live house.
“There is one thing, though.”
Hirosue—the genius loner bedroom musician, IRIA—confided with a serious look.
“A way to turn a personal song into everyone's song.”