To be alive is an incredible privilege.
Or, at least, so I thought.
At this exact moment in time, all I wanted to do was die.
TEN
Homurahara is a fairly normal school, all things considered. It has the I-put-a-couple-cubes-together design of most modern Japanese schools, and the teenagers who attend it are so generic you wouldn't be able to pick them out of a crowd.
Life in Fuyuki, the city where Homurahara is located, is about as exciting as watching paint dry. There was a huge fire that made national news ten years ago, and a rash of kidnappings and murders before that, but ever since then things have just been quiet.
I was six years old when the fire happened. I remember seeing the devastation on the news, not quite comprehending what it meant even as my parents gasped in horror and bowed their heads in respect for the dead.
And now, here I am. A boring sixteen-year-old hormone-riddled teen with delusions of grandeur. I would make a good actor simply because I could wind up actually believing half the lines the director would have me say, though my lack of defining features would probably land me a role like Random Stromtrooper #43 who gets cut down by the badass antagonist with a red lightstick.
"Oi, chuuni, quit daydreaming and get back to work. These bags of rice won't haul themselves, you know?"
A meaty hand lightly bopped me on the head, and I went back to doing my job- that is, working as a kitchen assistant for the esteemed- ahem ahem- diner Oukaden.
"And I can tell you're thinking shit about my lady again, boy! Quit it!"
Ow.
Being a high schooler with a shortage of pocket money and usable skills, turning to manual labor for a part-time job was the only logical course of action.
(Not that I'd imagined manual labor would be the only thing I'd be doing when I'd signed up for the job. Delusions of grandeur, remember?)
The one spot of good luck in all of this was that I'd found a diner run by a half-Japanese, half-French man named Yuugo Braun. Why was his ethnicity important, you ask? That's because I'm not Japanese- not ethnically, anyway- but Korean.
You'd think that with all the stereotyping about East Asians all looking the same most people wouldn't be able to tell the difference, but they can. And when they notice, which they inevitably do, they make their displeasure clear.
That's not to say that Japanese people being polite isn't a fabrication. Strangers are nice enough, but students and teachers who know who I am-
They're absolutely disgusting.
But that's enough whining about the flaws inherent in the Japanese mentality. I'm sure the tales of Jaemin the kitchen assistant are more interesting than Jaemin the socially oppressed minority, no?
Working under a rather eccentric man who loved his restaurant to bits had its perks. One of them was that he managed the place alone, so while my official title was 'kitchen assistant' I was really just whatever the job called for. While Mr. Braun cooked, I'd man the counter and wait the tables. Sometimes I'd even get to watch over the gas range while he dealt with a problematic customer.
It didn't matter in the long run, anyway. What did were the yen bills in my pocket, adding a comfortable presence that was normally filled by my phone.
I hummed a joyful little melody as I walked down the street, headed towards the shopping district to blow my hard-earned money on trifles. It was then that I saw a familiar head of red hair, and I raised a hand in greeting.
"Hey, Emiya. Done with your after-school duties?"
Shirou turned to face me and smiled. "Ah, it's you, Jaemin-san. Yes, I just got out. Is there anything you need from me?""
Poor kid. So used to being relied on for help and favors that it doesn't even occur to him that someone who talks to him might not need his help.
Somehow, during my time in Fuyuki, I'd made friends- not really, maybe acquaintances?- with Emiya Shirou, the 'fake janitor' of the school, dubbed thusly due to his knack with repairing broken things around the school. Add onto that his altruistic nature, and you've got yourself a workhorse that's too nice to speak out against opportunists.
I'd first met Shirou during middle school. We hadn't talked much, but I always liked to think he was at least a little grateful to me for warding off that annoying, entitled, seaweed-headed brat. When we got into high school, though, he opened up a little more, and now we've reached the stage where we can have casual conversations. Ah, is this what they mean by 'belonging to a social circle'? I'm honestly shocked!
(Though how much of Shirou's kindness towards me is him being him and how much is him pitying the ostracized kid is up for debate. He probably didn't have it much better- red hair is pretty damn uncommon, though it's not the strangest color I've seen.)
It's a rare occurrence, meeting Shirou on the street like this. He lives in Miyama, after all, and I live in Shinto, which is literally the other side of the city. That and Homurahara being right in between means that we typically head off in opposite directions as soon as school ends.
"What brings you this far from your house?"
Shirou did the head-scratching thing that really shouldn't work to convey sheepish amusement (and yet it somehow does), looking off to the side. "Truth is, I needed to get the groceries. Ms. Fujimura's going to eat me out of my house at this rate..."
I could only nod in sympathy. Fujimura Taiga's appetite is legendary, and there's a secondary reason she's called 'tiger', after all.
After that, a sort of awkward silence fell between us as we walked, maintaining a respectful distance between us until I went right and he went left. There was no bye-byes or see-you-laters, just a silent sort of understanding that a farewell would be unnecessarily awkward.
Still, it was remarkable. I'd been paid for my work, I'd met one of the few people at Homurahara I actually knew, and I had the rest of the day off.
Today was a good day.
AN: Welcome to Gesaeki, a F/SN SI where absolutely nothing goes wrong. How could it? After all, the SI's mere presence has derailed enough trains that canon is irrevocably ruined.
Prepare for fluff and happiness, because the only route there is is the happy one. Everyone gets to live, and everyone gets to be happy. Except Shinji. Fuck that guy.