Title: Trouble
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I do not own La Corda D'oro or any of its characters/places/etc mentioned in this story.
Summary: Nami Amou can't help but stick her nose into everyone's business - she learned long ago that it was useless to try and suppress her curiosity. But when it comes to Azuma Yunoki, answers are not so easily found. Something tells her it's better to just let it go, that it's more trouble than it's worth . . . but since when has that ever stopped her?
"I-if you already have someone, um, I understand, but . . . but if you don't, please consider me!"
Sometimes I wonder how I get myself into these situations.
This is the third time in the last two months I have found myself faced with this conversation. Well, not this specific one, but some variation of the typical melodramatic love confession. Ah, high school romance. Boys and girls in the blossom of youth chasing after one another with racing hearts and nervous hope, experiencing the pure, shiny new feelings of first love.
It's all rubbish.
Which sounds harsh, I know, but really. Most of it's about hormones. And anything that isn't is more about self-discovery than any affection for the other person.
So given my poor view of high school romance, one probably wonders why I am awkwardly hunched and scrunched into the (sadly) familiar confines of the wall cabinet in the second floor science classroom eavesropping on the anxious pair of young lovers.
As previously mentioned, I am wondering that myself.
But then I remember that I, Nami Amou, take my proffession seriously, and while skulking around in cramped spaces like some kind of voyeur might seem like it has absolutely nothing to do with said profession, it really does. Sort of.
Let us first say that I do not plan on writing some lurid exposé on the two, or snapping any candid shots through the little crack where I failed to close the cabinet door on time. I won't say it's because I stick strictly to serious stuff, because I do like to do a . . . human interests piece here and there (or else no one would read the school paper. Actually, I probably wouldn't read the school paper. But in my defense, the school is hardly a hotbed of crime or political action or anything else that makes it into real newspapers, so I can't be blamed for trying to appeal to my target audience, and you can bet my target audience would rather hear about their peers' myriad shenanigans than grimy, germ infested shower corners that gym students conveniently avoid looking in or even consciously registering. But anyways, that's beside the point), but I think people's private lives should stay private unless they wish otherwise. Granted, I have a loose definition of 'private', but even I'm not about to spy on couples in personal moments and then parade the details in print before the entire school. I do, after all, know where to draw the line. Not to mention Journalism is losing it's status as a respectable career, what with smutty tabloids saying anything and everything just to sell a rag, and I am not about to stoop to writing fluffy stories more reminiscent of a soap opera than any relevant goings on in our school community. In addition to taking my profession seriously, I take my dignity seriously.
Of course, this would be more believable if I weren't hiding in a cabinet spying on people which, as much I'm loathe to admit it, is basically what I'm doing.
And then the young lady being confessed to says something interesting.
"Ah, um, I'm so sorry, Fuji-kun . . . but actually, I'm in love with Yunoki-senpai . . ."
This is not unusual. I'm pretty sure at least 80 of Seisou Academy's female population fancy themselves in love with the elite, charming Azuma Yunoki. Upon first meeting him, even I came closer to understanding the concept of swooning.
But there's a reason they only fancy themselves in love with him. He manages everyone around him with eloquent words and graciously commanding smiles, but I don't think I've ever actually heard him say anything meaningful. By which I mean something that doesn't feel as though it's been designed for a specific outcome. Once the conversation is over and he's gone, you have this frustrating feeling like you've totally just been handled. Quite frankly, it offends me. As the person who is supposed to be prying answers out of her subject, I should be doing the handling, not him.
On the one hand, I like that he's always willing to give me a minute to ask questions (it gets tiresome chasing unwilling people down), and he always makes like he's answering them. But on the other hand, it's impossible to pin him down to anything, and once the conversation is over, I realize I don't actually have any answers.
Oh, sure, generic, prettily-worded responses from him I have in plenty. But I haven't got a single statement that tells me anything about who he actually is. You can't corner the man into telling you anything; he's impossible to unnerve or catch off guard or fluster.
Of course, I'm no expert on him. Naturally, as a Person of Great Interest in our school community, I'm well-versed on his background and general activities, but I leave the obsessive analyzing to his fan club and the gossip-mongers.
But still. I can't help myself. I've spent more than a few nights lying awake wondering about him. You can't tell a good, thorough story about an automaton, even a charming one. It's in my nature to want to know all the facts, and with him, it always feels there's something missing, slipping beyond your view. The guy is impossible to get a read on. What is he thinking? What are his motives? How does he see the world?
It's probably an ego thing. No doubt I feel as though he's challenged my investigative prowess and I'm failing by drawing an incomplete picture. I know it's best to let this one go, accept that he is an exception, and forget about it.
But it's hard to when his name pops up everywhere, him being such an important member of the public eye.
Again, though, I'm getting sidetracked, and I need to focus on the task at hand instead of fascinating enigmas whom I will probably never understand.
"Oh . . ."
Poor guy. He sounds crushed. It is kind of hard to compete with Yunoki-senpai, though. Really, the only thing any other guy has going for him is that there is only one of Yunoki-senpai and hundreds of girls hounding him. Basic principles of math clearly state that most of those girls will remain unattached, and it's not a stretch from there to realize if you can't have what you want, you might as well settle for the next best thing.
Of course, there will always be the devoted girls who forgo a relationship in favor of pining. It would appear the object of this boy's affections is one of them.
"I know I'm nowhere near as . . . you know, charming and cool as Yunoki-senpai, but, well, if it doesn't work with him, then maybe you'd reconsider?" His voice doesn't carry much hope.
"I'm sorry, Fuji-kun, but I can't. Even if he doesn't like me back, I still love him. He's just . . . he's perfect. I've known it since the first time I met him!" A rather passionate declaration, in my humble opinion, given she's probably only met him once, if that.
But as I well know, you don't actually have to talk to someone to find out a lot about them.
"I see. Then I'm sorry for wasting your time."
"It's okay . . . um, thanks, though, and I'm sorry . . ." It sounds like she's making some hasty excuse to leave now, but it's hard to hear since her voice went all quiet.
I strain my ears, and sure enough, she's making her escape. The disappointed guy follows suit, except much slower.
I listen. No more sound. Slowly, I nudge the cabinet door open with my foot, wincing when it squeaks.
I sigh in relief. Empty. Finally.
I am just starting to wriggle out of the cabinet to take my leave as well when I make a horrific discovery.
I'm stuck.
Surely it's just a tight squeeze. If I push hard enough, I should be able to make it out in one piece, if slightly bruised.
But no. It's like my shoulders are soldered to the cabinet sides. No matter which why I try to twist or turn or kick or shimmy, I can't get out.
This, I figure, relaxing my struggles, is what comes of spying on people.
The passive resignation does not last long, however, because I realize that there won't be any classes in here for the rest of the day. Meaning unless I start yelling for help, thereby risking getting caught lurking in a cabinet by a whole group of people, I might not be rescued until tomorrow morning.
On the one hand, I don't think my shoulders can take being wedged so tightly between ungiving wooden walls. I'll lose feeling within the next fifteen minutes, I suspect.
But the alternative? I really hate the idea of all those disdainful people looking all smug when they hear I really do do things like hide in cabinets.
Rarely, mind you. But it happens. And while I understand that it's just part of the job, other people think it signifies a tendency to use unsavory methods to gather information.
Which is an argument I don't like getting into. It's simply a matter of differing opinions. It's not like I'm ashamed of what I do.
I just don't want anyone else to know about it, is all.
Sighing, I decide to cease my efforts and just wait, passing the time by imagining all the ways I could punish Kiritani for this. It is, after all, his fault.
Like I said before, I don't do cheap gossip. I might, perhaps, mention it if it is relevant to the main story, but I never spin a piece off of sensational rumors. Knowing that, one wonders what the scene I just witnessed could possibly have to do with any legitimate article I'm writing.
It doesn't.
Just because I have standards doesn't mean other people have the same ones, and well, in this business, you often have to rely on people in order to find out everything you need to complete a piece. And if someone does you a favor, you owe them.
As it happens, I owed Kiritani.
Although, depending on how long I end up stuck in here, he might owe me now.
In any case, Kiritani-san feeds the baser curiosities of the public, and at the moment, he's writing a biographical piece on the newest addition to Seiso Academy. She's beautiful, wealthy, well-bred, and shockingly, not part of the music school (this is unusual because all of those rich kids from good families play some kind of instrument and have since they were practically in the womb. Don't ask me why, it's not like your skills on the piano will help you play the stock market or secure advantageous business alliances, but whatever. It's just how things are, I guess). Add to that that she transferred in so late in the year, just as the concours ended and with it the distraction it provided, and people were starved for something interesting.
Anyways, that girl happens to be the one that was just in here. According to his sources, whom/whatever those may be, she had agreed to meet someone in here at a certain time, and because he had a test and I am (obviously) a master of stealth, one which is indebted to him, I came in his stead.
And now that I have done my duty, I get to wait in a cabinet, losing feeling in my arms, until someone I can trust not to tell everyone comes in and I am able to solicit their help.
On that note, I decide it's best to reclose the cabinet door. Maybe I'm being an idiot and I'm not in a position to be discriminating, but just in case one of my archenemies shows up, it's best to remain hidden.
I awkwardly wriggle forward, extending my leg and barely managing to hook my shoe under the bottom of the cabinet door, heavily relying on my trapped shoulders for support when I gently tug it back and it swings mostly closed. Readjusting, I sigh in relief at having achieved the desired goal. Closed enough that I am hidden, but not closed all the way. I don't want to be trapped in a dark cabinet on top of everything else, not to mention I need to be able to see who's out there.
I do this not a moment too soon, for shortly after, someone walks in. Somewhat apprehensive, I tilt my head as far against the left side as it'll go and . . .
Huh.
I'm not really sure how I feel about this.
Uneasy, that's for sure, because what are the odds that, of all people to walk in now, it would be the infamous Yunoki-senpai, whose name was uttered not ten minutes ago in this very room?
Low. But not non-existent.
Okay. So I know this guy is supposed to be a gentleman among gentleman. Surely he'd help a girl out of a cabinet and keep it to himself, right?
And yet, despite the preciously short window of time I have to call out for assistance before he conducts his business here and leaves, I hesitate.
I don't know why. I just don't like the idea of being indebted to him. And I especially don't like the idea of someone like him catching me in so undignified a position. I repeat, I am not ashamed of what I do. I work hard, and it gets me results.
But other people don't understand that. People like Azuma Yunoki, who usually get results just by being them. I mean, for someone so dazzling and elegant and, well, poised, to see lil' old me trapped in a glorified cupboard? I can't help but wonder if I'd not rather face the venomous but equally lower-class reactions of my aforementioned archenemies. I suspect somebody like him looks down on me enough as it is, not that he'd ever admit it. Part of that whole CONSTANT COURTESY! thing, like if Harry Potter went to finishing school instead of fighting Voldemort.
So, what to do? The more seconds that tick by, the more I start to panic. I can overthink this all I want, but when it comes right down to it, the possibility of being left in here until tomorrow morning makes me want to kick open the cabinet door wailing, "Saaaveeee meeee!" like some cheap second-rate damsel.
As it happens, the decision is made for me. No sooner have I taken a deep breath and begun a rapidfire list of pros and cons does the door swing open and my vision go white from that damned blinding smile.
You might be thinking, 'a lady oughtn't say such things', but I'm thinking I dropped the ball on that one when I crawled in here.
"What a pleasant coincidence, Amou-san. What brings you here today?"
Like we've just bumped into each other in the goddamned produce aisle. Though his language is a little too polite for discount apples of questionable freshness.
"Erm, yes, what brings me here today . . . ah, well, you see, I had cleaning duties and . . . in a . . . fit of rage . . . I threw the broom in here but since it's so tall it got stuck and I wasn't done cleaning so I had to come in after it but what do you know, I'm too tall as well, haha, so here I am!" Truly, I am brilliant.
Well, maybe not brilliant. But it was the best I could do on such short notice and I am not about to tell him what really happened.
He tilts his head, all innocence.
"Ah, I see. But wherever is the broom?"
Up your ass. I smile wider
"Obviously, I got it out. And when I turned around to leave with it, I slipped and fell back in here, hence the angle, but I hit my head and only just now regained consciousness. Someone must have come in, picked it up off the floor, and put it back in it's place while I was out." I'm clearly not even trying now, but it would be too far on the wrong side of gentlemanliness to point it out. I don't care what he comes up with. I just want out of the cabinet and away from him so I can knock my head against the wall until the mortification goes away.
"How . . . unfortunate." The jerk has the gall to show his amusement.
"It sure is, but now you're here, thank the heavens," I say, all sugary sweetness, since I am at his mercy, after all. "And you can help me out."
"I could."
My smile falters, and I grow uneasy.
" . . . What does that mean?"
He leans closer, and I involuntary shrink into the ironlike vice of the cabinet.
"Well, if you're going to lie, I think it's alright if I do, as well. So perhaps I'll just say I wasn't here, and could not help you out. After all, you're in no position to argue."
And he's not talking about my position in the cabinet. He knows I wouldn't even dare tell anyone he refused to help me out of a cabinet, because then I'd also have to get myself out of the hot mess of trying to explain how I came to be in that cabinet, and to top that off, Azuma Yunoki is renowned for being a gentleman. Who would believe it?
I feel a little too nervous about my vulnerability here to be indignant.
"Ah . . . heh, um, you're not really going to leave me here, right?"
"Why not?" I swallow. I can tell he's laughing at me, for sure, but there's something cold about his eyes. Something that's not usually there, and brave adventuress though I am, it's making me uneasy.
"B-because . . ." Honestly? There isn't a single good reason that comes to mind why he should help me out.
He is apparently thinking the same thing.
"I have nothing to gain from it, and I have nothing to lose from it, do I? Unless you can provide an as yet unknown incentive?" He knows very well I can't.
"Well, ah, no, but surely-" He simply straightens up, gives me a mocking smile. If it were my feet stuck instead of my shoulders I would be very tempted to hit him right now. I am truly worried. He really might not let me out!
"I'm sorry. I was never here, remember? Though if I had been, you might have wanted to consider that no one has classroom duty at lunchtime."
He is right, of course. Though that means I can flag down whoever is on classroom duty after school, I still dread being stuck here all day.
"Ah, well, okay, but-"
He shuts the cabinet door - which, frankly, I find unnecessarily vindictive of him - and I hear his footsteps fade into silence.
I wait, heart pounding in the darkness. He's kidding, right? He always does seem privately amused at one thing or another, so it makes sense that he'd have a thing for mischief. He will come back, though. Surely, he'll come back.
He doesn't.
"Oh, god, it hurts," I moan as Kiritani massages my shoulders. He's been trying to look appropriately contrite ever since I stormed into the news room after being released by a couple of baffled first years, ripe with indignation (I was, that is, not the first years) and ready to get whatever I could out of this. As I mayhap should have taken into account earlier, the second floor science room is a confession hotspot (it always being out of use for the latter half of the day), and so I was only in there another forty-five minutes or so. Nonetheless, it was a deeply unpleasant forty-five minutes and I may never regain full feeling in either my arms or my dignity.
Anyways, back to Kiritani trying to look sorry - he's failing . He doesn't look sorry at all. Well, maybe a little, now that I've basically declared him my slaveboy for the next six forevers without time off, but other than that, I can tell he's trying not to laugh, the jerk.
"It is kind of funny," he ventures carefully. Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one in the cabinet hiding for a story he's not even writing.
Weirdly, I'm not even that angry at Kiritani, despite this being all his fault. The one I'm most furious with is none other than Azuma Yunoki. I mean, critically acclaimed gentleman, universally adored and heralded as practically godlike, and he leaves me there. I'm torn between my anger and my shock. Part of me wonders if he might not have been an imposter, wreaking havoc and mischief across the school in an effort to incriminate the perfect Azuma Yunoki.
I grimace. It's more likely he's actually a girl and suffering from PMS than it is that someone's impersonating him. The former might seem more ridiculous to you, but personally, I've wondered about that for a long time. He's so pretty. In fact, he probably even smells like a girl, because I'm sure I caught a trace of strawberry shampoo wafting my way. He's certainly more effeminate than I am.
Not that that bothers me. What I lack in beauty I more than make up for in intelligence.
Maybe. I did get myself stuck in a cabinet.
"It is most certainly not funny. It's incidents like this that threaten the respectability of our profession." I haven't told Kiritani about Yunoki, and I don't plan to. It wouldn't make any difference, except Kiritani would never believe anything I ever told him from this point on.
No, as he is probably used to, Yunoki holds all the cards. I have no choice but to grit my teeth and let it go.
But I can't help but wonder, as Kiritani rolls his eyes and I send him to fetch me some peach juice as punishment for his insolence, when have I ever been able to do that?
Never. And it is this very thing that always gets me into trouble.