Life is Perfect Chapter 2: Spilling Indian, a mai hime fanfic

I own nothing but a soul and warm cup of fucking good Kape Barako…ahh! Filipino grown coffee is the best! Mai HIME belongs to the evil bastards at Sunrise. Oh, and Matalim is mine and mine alone.

Dedication: To Kieli; remover of my doubts; fuel of my writer ego. Maraming Salamat for everything. You are, without a doubt, amongst Bathala's greatest creations.

I could not resist the urge to rewrite it. I felt that I made them look TOO poor in the previous chapter and indeed, I DID. SO I hope this makes up. No, no happy endings. Another day in the life of Kuga and Fujino AS COLLEGE STUDENTS.

SPILLING INDIAN INK ON CREATIVE WRITING CLASS

To love the unreachable, the untouchable, the strange, the eccentric, the bitter, the cold, the unloving, the unmoving, the vengeful, the ethereal was to love without regret, without remorse, loyally, faithfully, perpetually, foolishly, passionately, religiously, and unconditionally.

And the more that she was out of sight, the lesser she appeared before her, the more unfathomable and unattainable she grew; the more romantically, the more loyally, the more the more the more the MORE she fell in love with her.

Her hair was Indian ink spilling on a thin pale sheet of paper. Her face was a painting.

She closed her eyes and wallowed into the abyss of her hair; drowning her senses in the darkness of the raven tresses while the scent of her delicate femininity entwined with the fragrance of the rose flavored shampoo ascended into her nostrils and exploded in her head like with a loud:

"SHIZURU!"

Her eyes fluttered open. She was still surrounded by black.

There was struggling.

"Why must you always sneak up on me?!

She did not have a proper sensible reply. So she simply smiled her ever perfect, charming smile. She was never romantic. And due to this, Shizuru often had her doubts. 'Do you dream of me? Do you still adore me? Are you still mine?' She kept all of this to herself though. For she did not want to start a ruckus and since she did not have any empirical evidence (she preferred calling it empirical, being a man of science and logic) to prove her thesis.

But of course, doubt is as natural as the existence of any other emotion. And try as she may, it refused to leave her head.

"Miss Fujino, your head seems to be up in space today."

The common distraction: a voice that tells you your name. She turned her head to her right; towards that occupied little cubicle.

"This is very strange…" The same voice. The same person. And she was staring at the person who had a sly expression on her face – the sharp features, the brown south-east Asian skin, the eagle eyes. She stared at the black orbs that that stared at her crimson ones. A sigh. 'haayy…' she shook her head inwardly and returned to her proper, usual, cogent self.

"I-I'm sorry Matalim-han, I was thinking about my thesis." She responded with a gentle nod.

"Arya…Lost in that stuff again? There's more to life than academics. Think about that crap for a few more hours and I assure you, you'll go NUTS." Matalim was straightening her red sarong. Shizuru adored this co-teacher for her eccentricity. Whenever she spoke to Matalim, she felt as if she was talking with a strange character from a history book. The woman was unique in every aspect: the pure Filipino look; untouched by centuries of colonialism, the foreign accent that rivaled her own, and that roquish, devil may cry attitude.

"Matalim sensei is being cruel."

"No I'm not…think of me as Socrates and your Plato. And Plato, I philosophize that the goodness that man possesses is not measured by his academic standing, instead it is his ability to function properly despite the tediousness of his scholarly tasks. Now go eat that shit and come back at 3:00 when your Political theory class starts, alright?"

"How about you?" She asked.

"Me? I'm going out for lunch. Jesus Christ…5'1 and standing at 90 pounds. I need to eat more Shizuru." Matalim stood up and adjusted the small round glasses on her face with her index finger.

FWAP. A gentle gust of wind. Falling white petals filled with writings.

"Arya…Clumsy, clumsy me…" And Matalim bent down to pick up the papers scattered all over the white, marble floors of the faculty room. Shizuru stood up from her seat and knelt next to her co-teacher. She began to pick up the papers; her long finger nails scratching the ground as she did so. Her eyes scanned the short works of prose. She skimmed through the names and the courses of the students as she picked all. Of. Them. Up. One. By. One.

She stood up and arranged the papers neatly on top of another; tapping the sides gently until the papers where pressed and piled up against one another like a pack of cards. She fixed her lavender jacket and patted the dust off of her black skirt. 'Ara…something's on my leg.' And she bent down to remove the offending object when suddenly the electric fan blew it into Matalim's face; covering those sharp, pretty features with its white body. And so she had the chance to read the name and catch a glimpse of the short poem written on it by: Kuga, Natsu-

"Drat! Trying to kill me you crazy lifeless bastard?!" And Matalim ungracefully removed the paper off of her face with her right hand.

"What is that, Matalim-han?"

"A poem…a student of mine wrote it for my Creative Writing class during Wednesdays. You'd like to read it? Yes? Well here you are. I find it hilarious though. That girl has never written anything worthy of being regarded as a piece of poetry. This is her best one, I think."

She did not skim it. She read it gently.

And her mind was now paper: Papyrus - Sacred paper to be imprinted with sacred words.

She began to read: The master's brush is being dipped in Indian Ink.

KUGA, Natsuki | Department of Physical Sciences and Mathematics

CW 1 TBA 3:00-4:30 pm; T-F

You are the princess;

And I am the frog.

Kiss me

Gently

And wait;

To find out

That I am

Still a Frog.

And her mouth whispered the words – those sweet, silly, silly, little words into her mind as if it were a chant, a prayer, praise, a psalm! And each word was like a gentle, soothing stroke of the brush! And the Indian Ink melted into the papyrus! Completely binding itself into the paper so that even though the tides, the cruel, cruel, waters of time should seek to destroy, to drench the papyrus in their hellish depths, the ink may be washed away but yet- YET! Tints of it remain on the fabric! And no memory, no amount of time nor distance shall wash away these sweet words and the one who wrote them away from her mind!

"Is this the only paper that you asked your students to submit?" She asked as she tried her best to suppress the giggle that begged to escape her throat.

"No, they've submitted three poems and one very cheesy essay since our first meeting." Matalim replied as she stretched her arms upward.

"Can I read them?"

"Oi…don't mess with my students, Miss Perfect, or I'll kick your ass all the way back to Kyoto."

"Ara. I won't. I was never an evil critic and I certainly will never be one." She laughed.

"Point taken." Matalim chuckled as she searched her typhoon ravaged table for - Aha! Red folder filled to bursting with papers…come to moi!

"Here. Just be sure to return the files to this cabinet after reading them. I left the other poems at home sooooo..yeah, be contented with the essay. Okay? Well I'm off to fill my empty digestive tract. Want anything? A burger? Fries? Fucking Japanese food to content your Japanese diet?"

"Racist. No, ookini, Matalim han." She hugged the folder like a teddy bear and sat back on her rotating chair with poise.

"Chillax." And Matalim skipped outside of the faculty room and walked out into the open halls where the heat of the afternoon sun turned her aircon-chilled skin electric.

'Hiroya Takemura…Tomoyo Takahiro…Ben Zayb…Keiko Serizawa…Ezra Cariaga…mhmmm…Tennoji Shion…Ara! Kuga Natsuki! Here you are my precious, precious love…'

KUGA, Natsuki | Department of Physical Sciences and Mathematics

CW 1 TBA 3:00-4:30 pm; T-F

"Death, Beauty and Rebirth"

Death, as many would call it, is the greatest, the most just, the most powerful equalizer on earth. Many would even argue that it is unbeatable and at the same inevitable and that death is the huge, red, period that ends human life in a flash. And all the decisions made, all the hours wasted cannot be relished and relived, and all the mistakes, no matter how gargantuan or tiny they may be cannot be reversed for as they say, death is DEATH. Death is the period. Blank. The End. The Finale Sayonara and in that split second when the soul is torn from it's mortal coil by the unseen force called death, one can only weep bitter or happy tears and welcome the incoming fate with open arms.

I beg to differ, though. For once, I have stared at death face to face. And in those split seconds, what I saw was not darkness. Not the abyss, not the fiery inferno where sinners burned endlessly, and certainly not golden heaven where angels sand choir upon choir rejoicing over the triumph of goodness over evil. No. It was a different kind of paradise or perhaps, the epitome of paradise on earth. In death, I saw beauty that bordered between the etherealness of a goddess and that of all the earth's richness.

And they say that Death is cold. And poets would even compare it to a blade; unfeeling, screaming to taste one's flesh with its bloody point.

But believe me; believe a person who has died and lived again, that death is warm. Warmer than sweet summer days when one awakens to that delicious, dreamy feeling of sheer bliss. In death, I stared into otherworldly ethereal eyes that I have neglected when I awoke underneath the sun's scorching heat and slept under the moon's cold luminosity. And it is in those sheer delicious moments of dying that I witnessed the unfolding of true beauty beneath my arms and felt the warmth of romance's angel wings wrap around me. It is only in death that I felt alive.

And so to death, I am most grateful. For If I never died, then I would never have met the love of my life. Or my life itself. It is only in death that I realized that I had a reason to live. And although I welcomed death with open arms; awaiting for the cold to consume my being. It never occurred. And I died to live. I lived to love.

And it was night.

The empty boxes of takeout food lingered on the kitchen counter; swaying to the tune of Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu. Shizuru was wiping the wooden table clean of all the tid bits of noodles that Natsuki dropped. 'Great lover…Messy eater' She pouted as she turned her head towards the messy eater who was now noisily beating the laptop's keyboard with her furious fingers. The drum beat of the keys was accompanied by several grants and 'No no no! that's not right!'

"What're you doing?" She asked as she walked towards the sink where the red take out boxes swayed to get her attention.

"Homework…" Tip-tap-tack-tackatack…tiiiiicckkkkkk "NO NO NO! that's not right!"

"For what class?" She asked as she grabbed the boxes and threw them into the nearby wastebin.

"Math 17." Tick-tack-a-tack-tack-a- BLAG! She slammed her right fist against the table in frustration. "NO NO NO! That's not right!"

"Ara...how do you fare in the realm of Algebra and Trigonometry?" She washed her hands by the sink; the faucet creating a mini waterfall for her. She made splashy sounds while the faucet hissed like a snake.

"I'm sinking." Natsuki grunted.

"I can help you with that. Come on, show me your assignment." She said as she dried her hands with a clean blue towel.

"NO! Thank you but I can answer it!" Natsuki stood up and used her body to block the lap top's screen.

"You're going to drown so let me save you." Shizuru approached her. Natsuki scanned the cracked walls of their apartment. 'Wow she can really clean up this cesspool of a room…' yesterday the walls were caked with dirt. But Shizuru came home early today and with her trusty cleaning tools: a mop, a few rags and good old soap, the ragged apartment was cleansed of every little dust mite and mud cake that covered its cracked walls. 'Well…at least they're clean now…Oh no! ! I forgot to buy glasses for the win-' "Natsuki!" 'Arghh…baka!'

"Natsuki stop hiding your homework from me." And Shizuru was standing before her with flashing crimson eyes. Natsuki gasped audibly as Shizuru crossed her arms in front of her. Natsuki began to sweat in her grey shirt as she twitched toe after toe and finger after finger in anxiety.

"Kuga-han, be a good little girl for me and show me your – Ooof!" And they were now lying on the sofa with Shizuru struggling vainly underneath Natsuki.

"Natsuki!" She squeeked as Natsuki's warm hands crawled on her spine; raising her blouse as they massaged the tensing muscles underneath the porcelain skin. She felt the coldness of the sofa's velvety skin seep on her bare back. She gasped as a tongue began to lap the sensitive skin on her throat like a dog.

"Gomen sensei…but Kuga-han feels a little…naughtier than usual…" Natsuki breathed hungrily into her ear as her right hand traveled from the back, on her abdomen and up, up into the moist valley between her breasts; feeling the beating heart sheathed by the ribs.

"Ikezu…" And they were kissing gently. And then passionately – savagely as if they were to devour each other's beings. And the Indian Ink spilled all over Shizuru's face as she lunged forward to caress the erect nipples of her love with her tongue. The white bed sheets were a canvas – they were the artwork; making love with such fervor, with such passion that the moon seemed to glow furiously for them as it shone above like a silver disk.

"Shi-Shizuru! S-stop!" Natsuki was panting aloud; the Indian Ink was now spilled on the white canvas: forming swirl over swirl, pattern over pattern as Shizuru trusted her fingers into her gently; stroking the slick, burning walls of her womanhood as it probed her gently; soothingly – like an artist creating a work of art! Indian Ink on canvas!

"What…were you doing…Natsuki?" Shizuru asked in a seductive tone as she probed the searing crevice with three fingers slowly.

"M-math…Ah! Ahh Shizuru Please stop! Ahh! I-I can't…Ah!" Natsuki arched her back and allowed the Indian Ink to create more intricate patterns on the canvas. Art Noveau

"Liar…"

"N-no..please…Ahh! Shi-Shi..zu…ru...aahh!" The thrusting was faster, harder, more pleasurable! And Natsuki scrunched her eyes as she took in each and every pleasurable sensation that coursed through out her body: the mouth suckling on her breasts, the hand that roamed and massaged her buttocks, the hand that entered her – that filled her empty, pulsating core.

"Natsuki…Natsuki…Natsuki…" She was closer, nearing the edge! The finality! The reality! The crescendo! The completion of the work of art! The Elysian Fields of ecstac-

"NATSUKI KUGA!!!!"

The same voice. The same person. And she was staring at her with a sly expression on her face – the sharp features, the brown south-east Asian skin, the eagle eyes. She stared at black orbs that that stared at her viridian ones.

And she was no longer in bed and it was no longer night! No! A thousand times no! She was in her classroom: room 204, 2nd floor, GAB Building! And it was morning: exactly 10:00 a.m and the sun shone brightly over the heavens like an angry god so they had turned the airconditioner into high cool. And she slumped into her seat like a snail; allowing the memories – the sweet, lustful memories of last night to pass by.

"MISS KUGA! Harharhar! Avast lass! Prepare to be sent down into the depths of Davey Jones' locker!" Matalim was waving a pen in front of Natsuki like a rapier and the strange young professor stood as if she were fencing with Natsuki.

"Matalim sen-"

"Arr!! I asked ye a question lass and yet ye still keeps em' mouth shut like no ones askin'!" BLAG! She punched the blackboard.

'I hate pirate-talk day…' Natsuki's eyes rolled in annoyance. "Sorry sensei but could you please repeat the question?"

"Ay-ya-ya! Miss Kuga! What program are you enrolled in?" Matalim asked with an impish smile on her face.

"Biochemistry, sensei." Natsuki replied sheepishly; the huskiness of her voice remained but the tone was soft and apologetic.

"Well I was never good in math and technical crappity crap Kuga san. But Christ, don't you need a fairly good attention span in order to pass your majors?" Matalim asked with a raised eyebrow. 'This is soo….highschool…' Natsuki slurred to herself as her mind was clouded with thoughts of Shizuru and doves and their likeness to feminine napkins.

"Ahoy now garrly!!! answer yer cap'n or I'll make ya walk…" WHAP! Matalim slapped the table loudly with her right hand "- zeh Plank!" She continued with a growl as she extended her left hand and pointed to the door.

"Hai, sensei."

But Matalim just shook her head. Natsuki was simply glad to have the whole lecture over.

"Now…let's get down to business! Everyone! I want to read a one page paper from you! Make it look like a letter! And-"

'Oh come on! Another paper?!' 'This isn't our only subject sensei!' 'Four papers in a week! Give us a break captain!' The whole class chimed in; their voices ringing in Matalim's ears like little bells.

"HOY! SILENCE! Shake a leg you lazy runts! We don't have any exams in this class! Every activity that I assign you with is a take home activity so stop whining! Oi! Satoshi! Stop complaining! You owe me two more reaction papers!" She fixed her black sarong as she made her way back towards the teacher's table.

"ONE PAGE LETTER TO ANYONE! Write anything that you like! You can bullshit the person, scribble something nonsensical, you can confess your love to whoever it is – I don't care! JUST MAKE IT CREATIVE! That's FINAL! First draft is to be submitted TOMORROW! Do we have an accord?! EVERYONE WALK THE PLANK!"

KUGA, Natsuki | Department of Physical Sciences and Mathematics

CW 1 TBA 3:00-4:30 pm; T-F

Dear S;

Everyday, I arise to the tune of your sweet voice; basking in the afterglow of yesterday's precious moments as if I spent a night in heaven and fell back into earth with you – you are, of course, an angel, and I clung to your wings and took you down on my fall.

You make breakfast as if it were your daily task. You never let me cook. I don't know how to anyway. But it still is very sweet of you. You make the best fried eggs in the world – proof that your hands are indeed, Magical.

I remember when we first met in the gardens. Your voice, the forever poignant melody that it is, touched my heart upon the first note – "Pretty Flowers". "Are not" – this is the chorus. "To be picked" the instrumental. Your smile was of course, the crescendo – the one that completely set my heart on fire.

...

Another sheet of papyrus. Another sacred text. And if only she were alone: sitting by herself on the bench, then she would have giggled aloud! then she would have kissed and hugged the paper!

"Fucking weird letter."

"Ara…but it is very romantic." Shizuru smiled. Matalim simply shook her head.

"That doesn't change the fact that it's weird."

With a small hop, Matalim stood up from her seat and began to twist her trunk. The bones sounded like snapping twigs and she stretched her arms forward with a contented sigh. She spun on her sandals to face the glowing vendo machine beside her; smiling at it sarcastically as if it were an enemy.

"I'm buying myself a can of Soda. Do you have rootbeer here? Shit. I hate DIET colas. I need to gain weight! Ahoy vendo machine! Awaken, awaken at the voice of thy commander!"

"Matalim-sensei…you are weirder than this piece of prose." Shizuru laughed as she tucked the loose ends of her skirt underneath her legs.

"No. I'm thirsty." Matalim slumped back into her seat and covered her eyes with her arms dramatically; just as dying characters do in Shakespearean plays.

"Oh myself!" She cried aloud; her low voice echoing through the somber halls.

"Ara! what was that?" Shizuru asked with a puzzled look on her face.

"I don't believe in god so I can't say Oh my God! I only believe in myself…" Matalim wrapped her arms around her thin body and cried out again "Oh Myself!"

"Matalim-han, there is another vendo machine downstairs. I think it sells rootbeer." Matalim stood up and began to walk towards the stairs.

"Watch my things. Don't steal them."

"Of course, Matalim-han." And she smiled at the paper.

"Back! I got you your favorite booze." Matalim said as she waved at Shizuru.

"You shouldn't have, Matalim-han." Shizuru replied as she covered her mouth with her handkerchief: a very polite and graceful gesture indeed!

"You owe me fifty yen, sweetheart."

"Ara…I should've known better." And they both laughed. With a skip and a spin, Matalim was sitting beside Shizuru again.

"Kidding. Anyway, here's your tea. Drink up before it goes hot." And with a wink, she handed the can of iced tea to Shizuru.

"Matalim-han. Just for the fun of it, I've answered Kuga-han's letter."

"Whoa! Rock en'roll matey. Lemme see that…" THWMP! Fzzzttt! The rootbeer fizzed from the can and Matalim immediately covered the frothy opening with her mouth.

"Hahaha! Awesome work, chum! It's as if you know this kid intimately!" She laughed aloud; almost spewing all the rootbeer out with her amusing laughter.

"Ara…yes…it's as if were intimately close…" And Shizuru took a sip from her tea; allowing the cold liquid to sooth her drying throat.

Dearest N;

"Light of my life! Fire of my loins!" A line I've learnt from a European book. It suits you completely, dearest N, light of my life, fire of my loins! Every morning I wake you up – your hair spilling on the white pillows of our bed like dark, flowing Indian Ink, your face a goddess' façade, your body: forever the perfect work of art, and I sing "good morning" and "wake up" just to catch your attention, for you are always and forever the heavy sleeper and the restless dreamer.

Is it I that you dream of? I do wonder sometimes of what it is that goes through your head. You always seem so farfetched, so lost in thought and space. Am I in that space that you send yourself to whenever you ponder your time away? Please do tell me, N. I certainly would like to know.

I often reminisce on that faithful day to. You were alone; crushing helpless flowers. And I could not resist the urge to stop you. Plus, it was that one moment in which I had the time to introduce myself to you. I still remember that bewildered look on your face – like an angel pulled out of innocence.

Dearest N, when you fell from heaven you did not pull me down. You fluttered into the abyss and pulled me out of hell.

Matalim folded the paper and tucked it neatly in her pants' pocket. Natsuki stared at the board with wide eyes as her toes and fingers twitched involuntarily. Her palms grew slick with cold sweat. Indian Ink was a mess; swirls turned to grungy whirls and steady, fluid brushstrokes reduced to quick splats. She did not care to comb it with her hands.

"So, does anyone else have any questions? Hmm? I'll be glad to answer them no matter how idiotic they are. Anyone?" Matalim smiled at the crowd.

"Well that sums it all up. Pass your Position Papers on Friday – no BUTS! I've already extended the deadline so all of you ZIP IT! The final and edited draft of your letters is to be submitted on Wednesday so I expect all of you to make it as nice as the letter that I just read. Clear? Clear as mud? Alright, lads and lasses, walk the plank!"

And little by little, the students left the room until it was but an empty void of cement and white paint, of black boards that were mind-bogglingly color green and of chalk dust that spilled into the wind like pixie dust.

"See you next meeting, Miss Kuga." And Matalim exited the room; her sandals making tapping noises on the floor like heavy fingers typing on a keyboard. And she swaggered; whistling an ancient South East Asian anthem as she disappeared into the dark halls of the building: her form reduced to a silhouette, the silhouette reduced to a dot, the dot reduced to nothingness as she turned by a corner and all that was left of her was the echo of her whistling and her constant mutters of "salidumay diwa."

And Natsuki's mind was now the Papyrus: dirty with scribbles; dirty with hasty strokes of brushes dipped in Indian Ink. Imprinted there forever – for all eternity! Where the tides of time can never wash it away into forgetfulness! And she exited the halls, left the high cooling air conditioner and went out – out into the open halls where the heat of the afternoon sun turned her aircon-chilled skin electric.

And tonight she would be back home - home to that dainty little apartment with it's glassless windows. And she would surely climb up, up, up those creaky weather beaten stairs again. And tomorrow - work, work, work. Make a living until you die! And she would be greeted with the gentle Kyoto accented "welcome home!" - the same voice. The same person. The same ragged little apartment.

And Life is Perfect

*Arya – Matalim is from the southern Philippines and like in Japan, the southerners tend to have an accent. Arya means: Come on! Forward! Move! Go!

*salidumay diwa - Filipino, Ancient: Chant meaning Hallelujah or Amen

*EDIT:

*sounds of gongs* ten-ten-ten!

Anyways, this is Kampilan. Bid farewell to this story after a few days since I will be seperating it from this story. But it will stay here, as a part of "Life is Perfect" UNTIL my writer's block is over. Blame Machiavelli, Hobbes and Rosseau since they are sucking my wits out. SIGNING OUT! HARYA!