The Summer Hikaru Died

Episode 7

The Summer Hikaru Died excels in its subtleties. There's nothing outwardly untoward about Yoshiki and Hikaru playing hooky, but we feel a foreboding inevitability creeping up on them all the same. Amusingly, once I caught onto Yoshiki's intentions, my brain likened their excursion to the way one might take their dog out to do all of his favorite things before putting him down. It wouldn't be the first time Yoshiki compared Hikaru to an unruly pet.

Tellingly, Yoshiki believes he has to shoulder all of the blame for Hikaru's misbehavior. His chronic self-loathing doesn't allow for anything else, despite the facts of Hikaru's agency, age, and inhumanity. While Hikaru may have turned defensive last week, he ultimately regretted the momentary lapse of reason that led him to almost kill Asako. We can confirm that he openly seeks Yoshiki's forgiveness this week. Yoshiki, however, jumped to a conclusion and solution of catastrophic proportions. That fits his character.

It also fits that Yoshiki expected Hikaru to kill him. He calls his mom and sister to say goodbye before taking Hikaru to his room, so he anticipated that he would fail. In that case, he stabs Hikaru as an indirect means of stabbing himself. Society keeps telling him that he's a sinner for continuing to mix himself with this creature, and he's afraid that he's been marked forever, like the bruise that remains on his wrist. It's another layer on the show's metaphor for homophobia, which Yoshiki continues to internalize. He doesn't think he or Hikaru should exist.

Hikaru, however, isn't weighed down by human society in the same way Yoshiki is. When Yoshiki stabs him, he perceives it in much simpler terms: his friend tried to hurt him, and that means his friend is hurting. That isn't to say Hikaru has a one-track mind. Amidst the swirl of emotions, he voices one of the deeper motivations behind his infatuation with Yoshiki. He acted out the part of a friend to fulfill Hikaru's dying wish, but the crush he developed on Yoshiki goes beyond that original directive. That affection is proof that he's more than just a Hikaru doppelganger. If he can come to spontaneously love someone else, that means he must have his own soul and own desires. Conversely, if his relationship with Yoshiki falls apart, that means Hikaru has nothing. He's just another shadow haunting the mountains.

Ultimately, Hikaru's neediness and Yoshiki's self-loathing combine with gruesome beauty in the episode's climax, as Hikaru rips out a piece of himself and hands it to Yoshiki. It's a huge and visceral moment that uses the visual language of horror to speak the truth inside these boys' hearts. It's also not exactly subtle, which you could argue contradicts my opening sentence to this review. However, I think this gesture contains a surprising amount of nuance in how you might read it. You could interpret it as unhealthy codependence, with both Hikaru and Yoshiki now completely reliant on the other. By contrast, the narrative might be arguing that all healthy relationships require mutual sacrifice—that we all must take the plunge and share our “fruit of fate,” to put it in Penguindrum terms. Or you may simply enjoy the toxic BL vibes. I don't think there's a “wrong” way to go here. If anything, that lack of certainty behooves their relationship as a vector for complex themes and drama. Real relationships are byzantine amalgams and endless works in progress, too.

One neat detail—and shout out to Theozilla on Bluesky for pointing this out to me—is the identity of the bone that Hikaru tears out of his chest. It's the end of the sternum, which is called the xiphoid process. The kicker is that “xiphoid” means “swordlike” in Greek (referring to the pointed shape), so that adds an edge (literally) to Hikaru's supplicative gesture. He's disarming himself. Taken another way, he's returning the “favor” of Yoshiki's kitchen knife, but doing so as a peacekeeping gesture—extending the handle to him, not the blade. I love how blunt (again, literally) that is. Furthermore, it means I get to compare that scene to Utena alongside Penguindrum, so I'm in my element.

Elsewhere, school life continues as normal, and we finally get the payoff to all of the choir practice I highlighted in my prior review. These school scenes, by and large, reinforce a sense of normalcy in the village, and the absence of Yoshiki and Hikaru dials that aspect up. It's telling that the ensemble only finally comes together when neither boy is present. Hikaru doesn't belong, and the village doesn't want him there, as the elders seek outside help to exorcise him. Yoshiki, however, being queer in a different yet analogous way, shares Hikaru's fate. He can't survive there. This is a two-way street, too, because we hear him and Hikaru sing the same song as a beautiful, if haunting, duet over the end credits. For a fleeting moment, everything and everyone are in their right place.

The adaptation shines throughout the choir piece as well. It's a lull before the storm, but no less foreboding for it. I especially like the bleak gut punch of showing us Yoshiki's dad as he shares a tender father-son moment—just not with Yoshiki. He does tell his coworker a bit about his son, but it's hard to know if he's acknowledging the usual difficulties of raising a teenager, or if he knows that Yoshiki is “different.”

In the end, a collage of frightening imagery punctuates Yoshiki's vow to figure out what Hikaru is. Despite their reconciliation, The Summer Hikaru Died knows that this is not and cannot be an easygoing romance. Yoshiki has blood on his hands now, and Hikaru's past may likely unearth rivers of the same. If we look at it another way, by teaching Hikaru to be more like a human, Yoshiki may, intentionally or not, become even more like Hikaru.

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The Summer Hikaru Died is currently streaming on Netflix.