Disclaimer: Watashi no Fushigi Yuugi? Iya, chigaimasu. Komarimashita nee...
Author's Notes: No, you're not seeing things. This is, indeed, a remake "I'm Him?" Why, you ask? Well. *sits down in big rocking chair and goes into storytelling mode* The first time I began this fic, it was--gasp-choke-surprise--based on me and my life. However, as my life has undergone an immense amount of change since the fic began, plus since I've been looking back on this story and wanting desperately to FIX it, I've decided that an update was in order. I'm going to attempt to stick mostly to the original storyline, but we'll see how it goes. This is the kind of story one tends to write off the top of one's head, so it could really go anywhere. --;; Anyway, if you're a fan of the original and hate what I've done here, don't fear. This is just an experiment, something I've been meaning to do for awhile--but, if it doesn't work, I can easily go back to the original plotline, etc.
For Those Who Have Not Read the Original: This is a reincarnation ficcie, but it's kind of a...uhh...weird one. Read at your own risk. :) Also, I'm posting the first two chapters of this fic simultaneously, simply because they're both written, and when I post them separately...well, they get horribly lonely. T_T
Warnings: There'll be *gasp-sputter* no shounen-ai in this fic, but there will be some swearing and...uhh...Chiriko being a wee bit hyperactive. Consider yourself warned. o.O;;
And, now, because I promised...
Purple Mouse: I'm...talkin to a gumball.
^_~.
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I'm Him?
by Ryuen
~*~
Chapter 1: When Life Gives You Lemons, Skip Class and Get Coffee
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There are some kinds of knowledge that you just don't want. Some examples? Knowledge of an inoperable brain tumor--yes. Knowledge of your cat being run over by a neighbor's lawnmower--yes. Knowledge of the fact that it is morning once again and thus time for you to crawl out of the warmth of your bed and face the world? YES. Oh, God, yes.
So was the problem I found myself faced with on one cheery Monday in late January.
I was having a rather pleasant dream about three random guy friends of mine professing their undying love (a product of the recent Joey/Rachel development on Friends, I was sure), when suddenly, something like a vise latched onto my shoulder and wouldn't let go. Until that moment, I'd been of the opinion that there was no such thing as a ruder awakening than an alarm clock BEH-BEH-BEHing with enough volume to wake the dead...but, as it turns out, I was wrong.
The grip on my shoulder lessened, and I heard the unmistakable sound of my mother's voice, punctuated by a series of get-up hand claps--which I figured was supposed to jar me out of sleep or something, or maybe just let me know that she meant business. And, then, my brain got itself around just what she was SAYING...
I sat bolt upright in bed. "E-Eight-thirty?" I gasped. "But--aaaaggggh!" I cast a murderous glare in the direction of the alarm clock, sitting there looking innocent on the bedside table, and then shoved the blankets back and climbed out of bed.
When one has a nine o'clock class that is a twenty-five minute drive away, it's generally a good idea to get up before eight-thirty--particularly when the professor of said class has the bad habit of publically executing those who dare step into the room after class has begun. Thus, Mom on my heels shrieking something about responsibility and punctuality, I charged through my room, out the door, across the hall, into the bathroom, and slammed the door shut.
Once inside, I leaned my hands against the counter and tried to catch my breath. The thoughts were whirling around inside my head at about eighty miles an hour, and my entire body was shaking from sheer reaction--nothing like being jolted out of sleep and finding you have five minutes to get ready to drag you out of that morning stupor.
I pressed a hand to my forehead, closed my eyes, and tried to think. Okay. Okay. No time for a shower, definitely. No time to iron my khakis, which meant I'd be dragging a pair of crumpled blue jeans out of the laundry pile and wearing those. No time to eat anything, save maybe a breakfast bar or something, but those made me feel vaguely sick anyway, so... All right. I stood up straight, opened my eyes, and regarded myself calmly in the mirror. Itinerary: (1) Wash face, (2) put in contacts, (3) convince hair to stop trying to imitate Chichiri, (4) throw on jeans and random shirt, and (5) imbibe as much caffeine as possible before grabbing coat and books and running out the door.
I nodded inwardly. Right, then. Sounded like a plan.
Unfortunately, I ran into a little bit of a problem around...well, step one. I was reaching for the small, oval-shaped dish next to the sink, expecting to pull something solid into my fingers, but all I ran into there was a thin coating of pasty soap slime. Eww. Letting out an irritated little sigh, I dove to the cabinets beneath the counter, flung them open, and peered inside--okay, extra bottle of shampoo, toothpaste-covered razor, half-open bag of Super Long Diaper-Style Pads, spider web, spider web, spider web, bottle of hairspray vintage 1984...and, no soap. Sigh. Okay, then. I straightened, studied myself in the mirror for a moment. Eh, it'd be fine--I could wash it when I got back, right? Right. With that thought, I tugged open the bathroom door, dashed back across the hall to my room, and grabbed a bottle of contact solution and those little circle thingies that hold the contacts. I was just wondering a little groggily if maybe there was some kind of proper name for said thingies when, abruptly, Ted decided to come charging out of his room and--of course--knock into me and send contacts and solution plummetting to the floor.
His hair was a bit wilder than mine, more of a Tasuki look, really--but he mumbled, "Mmsorry, R'ley," as he passed, and I guessed he was a little less awake than I was. Eh, just as well. I looked at my watch as he stumbled down the stairs and found that--despite the fact that I was running back and forth like a madwoman and moving as quickly as humanly possible--I only had about T-minus two minutes and counting before it was time to go. I glanced downward, found that the contacts case--ah! that was it! contacts case!--had managed to sputter open during the fall, and that the key to my beauty and vision was now lying in a sad little puddle on the floor. All right, then, scratch step 2.
Thankfully, I had a bit more luck with my hair than my face or eyes. Of course, given that I was wearing my glasses, which were about two years out of date prescription-wise, it was entirely possible that my hair was a bit worse off than it looked, but at this point, I was slightly beyond caring. It was getting weirdly long, almost to my waist, so I took it into my fingers and plaited it into a quick braid. Some wisps of hair flickered out of the sides near the top, fell over my eyes, but I resisted the urge to beat them into submission. Time was ticking along behind me, after all, and if I didn't hurry, there would be--gasp--no caffeine. And, Lord of all Lords, God of all Gods, Heaven of all Heavens, I was NOT going to go without caffeine for a nine A.M. class on British Literature!
Forty-three seconds later, clad in wrinkly blue jeans, a satiny grey button-up, blue socks, and sneakers, I vaulted across my room, ripped open the door, and made for the stairs. Must...go...faster... Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud, and I was in the entryway, skidding around the corner, dashing past the dining room table, under the fake tree in the corner, through the archway, across the kitchen tile, and FINALLY! The fridge towered above me, beautiful and white and sparkling in the morning sunlight, and--not bothering to pause to read the most recent Fox Trot my mother had taped onto the door--I tugged it open and looked inside--
And felt the bottom drop out of my morning.
My hands began to shake. Milk, water, orange juice, green Gatorade, six-year-old bottle of wine, but... No. Iced. Tea.
No...iced tea.
Mom's voice echoed from upstairs. "Riiiiiiiley! Riley, shouldn't you get going? You're going to be late!"
I managed a little whimpering, "O-Okay, Mom," then closed the fridge door, turned, and stumbled dazedly into the dining room. No iced tea. No caffeine. Hour and a half...British Literature...rambling...so longgggg...room...so warm... Agh, I was doomed.
Swearing I could hear a dirge playing somewhere off in the distance, I shrugged on my coat, grabbed my bookbag, and headed out the door.
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I'd just pulled out onto the main road and was clipping along towards Route 219 when, abruptly, I remembered.
Ten-page paper. Mary Wollstonecraft, Vindication on the Rights of Women--analyze and critique, and suggest possible ironies between the content of the piece and Wollstonecraft's life experiences. Due date: today, first thing, immediately, NOW. Status? Three pages written, none printed out. Fate? Doomed.
Gah. I pulled off the edge of the road, brought the dusty little Beretta to a stop, and did a quick, breathless evaluation. All right. My face and hair were both greasy, my glasses were smudgy, I had -no- caffeine in my system, I was going to be late, there was a paper due I hadn't finished, and--to top it all off--it looked like I was almost out of gas. Thoughts on the subject? Hmm. Option 1: Go to class, be screamed at for being late, screamed at for forgetting paper, then run out of gas on the way back and have to push the Beretta the rest of the way home. Option 2: Skip class, claim deathly illness, get gas, get caffeine, and live to fight another day.
I nodded. Sounded like a plan.
I was feeling somewhat more at ease as I pulled back onto the road, so I flicked on the radio. Ted had it preset on some scary heavy metal/rap station, but luckily all I was forced to hear of that was a frightening little "Wehyerrrel, wehyyyyerelll" sound accompanied by a less-than-steady synthesized drum beat, and then I was off and running with the dial spinning in my hand. After a few seconds, I settled on a Classic Rock station, shifted into neutral, and coasted my way down the hill to freedom.
---
"But, I'm the oooonly one who'll walk across the fiiiiiiire for youuuuuu! And, I'm the ooooonly one who'll drown in my desiiiiiiiire for youuuu!"
I was getting kind of scarily into singing along with Melissa Etheridge when, thankfully, I caught a glimpse of the coffee shop up ahead, jutting out of a block of discount shops, and flicked on my turn signal. The shop itself was one I'd only been to a couple times in the past, mostly with high school friends after dances and football games and stuff, but the coffee was decent and the radio played music I could stand to listen to--plus it was close by--so I figured I'd give it a shot. When it comes to caffeine, I'm not all that picky, but having drunk 7-11 coffee during a moment of early morning weakness a few weeks earlier, I'd come to be a bit more cautious about such things. Thus, I approached the coffee shop with narrowed eyes and as alert a mind as I could manage.
Upon stepping inside, I saw they'd done a bit of rennovating since I'd been in last. The counter was, instead of being against the far back wall, in the very middle of the room, and the tables and chairs had been arranged in a kind of circular pattern around it. There were a bunch of those metal poles with ropes stretched across them to keep people in a respectable line, but since it was pretty empty right now, I ducked underneath them (one of the benefits of being what we call "petite") and made my way to the counter. Also, I noticed that they'd stuck a jukebox next to the door and hung a wide variety of bizarre, abstract paintings on the walls, but neither were--thankfully--obnoxious enough to make my brain explode.
And, then, suddenly, I was at the counter and standing in front of a good-looking guy with a blue polo shirt on, and all other thoughts melted out of my mind.
"Hi," the guy said cheerfully, "what can I get you?"
Large iced mocha, no whipped cream. Large iced mocha, no whipped cream.
And, yet, for some reason, I couldn't force the words to come out of my mouth. There they were, written in big bold letters in my mind, and my brain was pointing at them with bright flashing arrows, but the words just weren't coming. Ack! Speak! I glanced at the guy a little helplessly, taking in his long, silky brown hair, his broad shoulders, his concerned frown and slightly-narrowed eyes--like liquid amber, I found myself thinking... And, just as I was starting to wonder why the jukebox had suddenly gone quiet, the edges of my vision started to go dark, and I knew with a scary kind of certainty that I was going to pass out.
My breath was loud in my ears, whooshing like a giant wind tunnel, and I had the vague impression of my head being several times lighter than it was supposed to be, like I was floating away or something...and, then, my knees buckled beneath me, and everything went black.