Disclaimer:
Mai HIME, all characters and related indica belong to Sunrise. No profit made, no infringement intended.

Author's notes:
I apologize if this little ditty isn't up to my usual standards. The symptoms of stress are basically reading like a checklist for me at the moment, and I'm using this as a therapeutic outlet more than anything else. (Me – draw on personal experience when writing? Pish-posh!)

To those of you I've been corresponding with regularly – I hope you're well, and I'll reply when I can.

Thanks for reading.

Midas

"You can't help everyone all the time, Natsuki."

"I know that," you mutter, and close your eyes at the sharpness in your own voice before sighing. Of all people, Shizuru's the last one you should take your frustrations out on. "Sorry."

There's a rustle of fabric as warm arms slide around you beneath the sheets, and you don't resist as you're tugged into a loose, gentle embrace. Instead, you follow willingly and let your head come to rest on her shoulder; listening to the steady beat of her heart while her hands trace lingering patterns over your cotton-covered back.

It's slow and soothing, Shizuru's heartbeat. Solid and reliable, just like she is, and her presence in your life is probably the one thing holding everything together right now. You focus on that – on her – as much as you can, because it's ever so much nicer to inhale the familiar scent of her skin.

"Sometimes," you muse wryly, "I wish I was stupid."

Shizuru doesn't reply verbally, but you feel her hold on you tighten in understanding, as well as the faint, downwards turn of the corner of her mouth where it's pressed against your forehead. She knows what you mean, of course, because she's been your absolute rock for years, and this definitely isn't the first time the two of you have talked about this.

There is a downside to doing well at everything you're assigned – to having the photographic memory that allows you to learn and absorb at a rate far higher than the average, to the point of being jokingly asked on several, separate occasions if you've ever been diagnosed with some variety of autism. Because sure enough, that quality – that golden touch – becomes known very fast, and the knowledge of it spreads until suddenly you've spent three, seven, fourteen months jumping from one figurative fire to the next, and instead of being left with the sense of accomplishment that you know you should have, all you feel is the frustration of never really finishing anything, of constantly being interrupted by questions because everyone knows you have the answer, and the senseless desolation of something you otherwise genuinely enjoy becoming a steadily more dreaded obligation.

And it sucks, you decide for the Nth time. It sucks, because you like being the one who has all the answers. You like being the figurative chameleon that can really, truly just show up where your help is needed the most, and bring whatever it is back on schedule in a matter of days or hours with little to no advance knowledge of anything.

You used to chuckle at the autism questions, you remember, and feel the prickle behind your eyes again when Shizuru's lips press against your forehead. Now you find yourself fighting to keep a lid on your temper whenever anyone comes near you, and where you used to laugh and joke around, you instead sit with your headphones over your ears and your music turned up to drown out everything else – sometimes with a hood pulled up over your head to further close yourself off from the activity and noise.

It used to be that when someone asked you a question, you felt a distinct pride in having the answer – or at least knowing off the top of your head someone else who did have it. You willingly shared your knowledge with anyone who asked. Now you're giving short, bitten-off replies instead of discussing, and grow progressively more angry that you keep getting these questions when the first thing you did when this started happening to you was to start writing things down and making them readily available.

But everyone is out of your hair sooner when you just tell them the answer, rather than where they can find it themselves.

And now you're crying – great, heaving, violent sobs muffled into the material of Shizuru's nightwear while she rocks you gently, because no matter how fast you run or how many fires you put out, it's never enough. You're never enough. There's always another project needing an extra set of hands, another person wanting a quick answer from a respected source, and beyond and above everything else, that one project on the horizon that you know you can get – the one you actually want so desperately because it might very well be the first step out of this and into the responsibilities you've wanted for years.

The one you might be passed over for, because you're barely holding on as it is. There's a constant gnawing in your guts, a stiffness in your neck and shoulders; your heart is pounding far too fast and even when you're otherwise in a good mood, there's a prickling at the corners of your eyes that threatens to spill over.

You are, in perhaps the truest sense of the phrase, a victim of your own success. Of having, in a less literal way, the Midas Touch.

"Tomorrow," Shizuru murmurs against the crown of your head when the worst has passed, "you're taking this matter to Saatori-san." She presumably feels you take a breath to reply, because the cut-off feels very much like a deliberate one. "You cannot go on like this, Natsuki, and I've listened to you praise that man for months – he treasures you," she emphasises, and pulls back enough to pin you with a direct, ruby-red gaze. "You told me yourself that he knew you were too good to remain under his supervision forever, and that as much as he will regret losing your competency, he wants you to excel."

"I-"

"No." She cuts you off again, albeit gently, with a soft kiss to your mouth. "You can't handle this. Not anymore." There's a faint, sad smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "You've been shouldering far too much for longer than even I thought you could, but no one is strong enough to do what you do for any length of time, and as much as I want to help you, there's only so much I can do." She caresses your cheek, and even in the darkened room, you can sense the pleading in her eyes. "You're putting your very health at risk, Natsuki, moreso the longer this goes on. So tomorrow, you will talk to Saatori-san about this." Pause. "Or I will do so for you, beause that is one thing I can do."

You can't really decide how you should feel about this. You don't want her to have to save you from what is essentially a mess of your own making, but at the same time, you're grateful that she's willing to. On top of that, there's the feeling of failure at being unable to be everything for everyone all the time, fighting against the simple, sensible fact that no one is able to accomplish such as thing. Which you're acutely aware of, because the heart of the entire problem is the fact that you're not an idiot.

You just hate not being good enough. But is your ego worth your health, or – you peer into your lover's warm eyes – or her increasing worries over you?

No.

Never.

Shizuru deserves better than that. So maybe it is time that you stop wondering why she keeps putting up with you, and start focusing on becoming someone who feels like she's worthy of the love in her eyes. Someone who has the time and energy to play a full role in this partnership again.

"Alright," you agree quietly. "I'll talk to Saatori-san tomorrow."

The smile on her face is the most genuinely happy one you've seen in far too long, and the embrace she draws you into – along with the slow, tender kiss – is making your heart skip the occasional beat for much more enjoyable reasons.

"Thank you, Natsuki."

Funny. You definitely feel like you should be the one thanking her.

xXxXx

- END

End notes:
Before anyone wonders – I talked to 'Saatori-san' today. First thing he did was pull me off the hotlines on his authority, and have me switch to a less central seat, where I'll hopefully be a little less easy to think of as 'Ms. Wiki'. We're working on this.

Again, thanks for reading. I'm sorry for essentially venting, but it certainly helped me feel better.