AN: First section is a flashback.
How had Amari not said anything yet?
Anytime a boy confessed to Amari, my world ground to a steaming halt for her. Didn't matter if I were sleeping, or elbow-deep in open-heart surgery. She'd jostle my shoulder then, "Saffff! I need to tell you what happened!"
When Taejun Song confessed, it was the night before a school exam. Instead of reviewing, I stayed up 'til dawn with her, shushing my giggles with a pillow, while she relayed juicy details. It meant enduring my exam with a headache but it was a sacred matter of sisterly duty. It was the same with Eunjin Khoo, Jisung Liu, and Yoochun Park. (We especially had a good laugh over Yoochun Park, son of skunk-faced, resident gov watchdog Jiyeon Park who lived below us.)
After spying her with Sessue, I readied my heart, but I'd be a good sister. I had even prepared some stock phrases and I'd do my best to smile while I said them: I'm so happy for you Amari! I could tell he liked you. Of course, he'd fall for you.
So imagine my frustration when Amari returned and nothing about Sessue. No all-encompassing demand for my full attention. She merely kicked off her shoes, said, "Dojo's done. Any cornmeal left?" No jostling my shoulder that night. Nothing. All normal energy Amari, that is, until the very next day when it was time to tidy the dojo.
"Does it have to be me today—" I whined.
She used her height to tower over me—so unfair—before she banished me from the flat. "I covered for you yesterday. Go to the dojo!"
Well, I didn't go to the dojo. My reasons were fickle. I followed the plum hue ribbons in the twilight sky eastward to the orchards and blanketed myself in tree shadow.
Why hadn't Amari confided in me yet? Why couldn't I tell my only sister about my feelings when she would've been forthcoming? But she was allowed to be. My liking a boy would burden him, wallahae, humiliate him probably. Sessue's jeering friends would taunt him if they heard. Isn't that hysterical! She likes you, Sessue. You wanna be with that?
Boys like Sessue ended up with sunflowers like Amari, not weeds like me that you rip from your garden. Shout 'Safra, you have low self-esteem' until your throat is raw for all I care. When you're done, admit when no one is listening that you know that's how the world works. But it was ok. I was aware of the cards I was dealt. But if I could change it, I would in a heartbeat. If I could chisel a new Safra from a body of clay, I would be reborn without bipolar. Better skin. A real physique. Darker hair. No pigeon toes either. If everyone must be flawed, because all humans are flawed, then give me different flaws.
"Safra?"
Edging around a tangle of branches, silhouetted in azure, was Sessue.
"May I?" He motioned to space beside me at the base of the tree like it was an empty seat.
I curled my legs under my skirt's navy pleats. My white buttoned shirt glued to my sweaty chest, but my hand hesitated to adjust it, worried the movement could resemble primping.
He made himself compact beside me, one knee up, his view of the rolling orchard the same as mine. His dark trouser thigh hovered near my navy pleats and I was guilty of wanting the slightest accidental touch.
"Sessue, what are you doing here?"
"I want to be here. I should have explained myself a long time ago," he said. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Amari."
Oh geez. Please get it over with. I have stock phrases ready. I'm happy for you two. You make a good match. Of course, you'd fall for her.
Sessue sucked in a breath, resolute and determined, while I could barely breathe. "The apology, the chocolate for Huan, the walks home, the invitation to karaoke, my talking to your sister and finally sorting everything out—"
I braced myself.
"It was all for you."
...What.
I stayed stock-still as he confessed everything. How after the incident at the karaoke parlor for two years he couldn't put me out of his mind no matter how hard he tried. My punch had embarrassed him, but also, most surprising to him, thrilled him. How he was so shocked that someone like that existed in East Gorteau.
"For two years I had to remind myself of what my dad said: We're counting on you, Sessue. You're supposed to study to get into Peijin University so don't you dare screw it up by chasing girls. But then there you were, among the first years...a beautiful teenager."
My heart leaped into my throat, and he continued.
"I started boxing class as an excuse to moon about your neighborhood though I enjoy your father's lessons. The girl who punched me in the face, I understand her a lot more now."
On he went. How he'd invited us to karaoke so he could talk to me but I had left too early for him to wedge himself between me and Amari. Frustrated, he sought Amari's help and she was so thrilled she immediately promised to arrange for a time when he and I could meet alone. And there we were.
"But…" I could almost not hear my own voice. "She said to go to the dojo."
A dry laugh from Sessue, but instead of shrinking as I would have, the blip in the plan and the subsequent embarrassment had emboldened him. Without my noticing, his posture had widened, stealing more space and now his trouser was a hairbreadth from my thigh. His fingers jittered and would point towards mine in my lap, with intention but not quite enough assurance of if it was what I wanted.
"When I didn't find you there," he said. "I thought you'd come here. If I'm honest, that day in the orchard, I only planned to apologize. I thought, Sessue, she hates your guts—"
In spite of the tension, I managed to laugh and it felt so good.
"I thought," he continued. "Apologize to Safra Jung and then leave her alone."
"And yet." I dared. "Here you are."
Oh wallahae, I loved watching embarrassment ripple naked through his features. Judging from the way he looked at me then, perhaps he knew. He didn't rush to defend himself as most would have. A tad braver now, my gentle tease was enough for his larger hand to cover the pair of mine in my lap.
"After that, I couldn't figure out if you were being coy or shy or...that you really hated my guts."
I could have lied and I'll never know why I didn't. "I thought you were interested in Amari."
Confusion unmasked on his face. "Why?"
I wanted to curl into a ball and bury myself in the orchard soil. "I'm used to boys asking me to speak to her on their behalf."
"That was me yesterday," he said. "I was scared… feared she'd remind me of how I acted two years ago and she'd either punch my lights out or laugh at me for the nerve to ask about her little sister. Well, I've never heard anyone laugh so hard in my life."
I didn't mean to laugh but the mental image and her piercing laugh from yesterday just tickled me. Once again, my laugh got him to smile.
"With my head served to her on a plate," he said. "I explained myself, stressed at what the outcome would be but she was thrilled. Wouldn't give me a hint about how you felt. Said she couldn't speak for you. I won't rob her of the chance to tell you herself."
I owed him a confession. That on the day I punched him, I didn't know I was going to love him. For those two years, life was school, making sure Huan's plate was full even if mine wasn't, learning about black markets, not about boys and certainly not about him. There was no love at first sight, but change in my feelings towards from hate to love, so incremental I no longer saw love and hate as polar opposites, but a continuum. Long nights spent hating him and wishing I still did.
His features I took in, his hair slanting to the right, the length of his pale lashes, the amber of his eyes. Meanwhile in me was a whirlwind of clumsy words and their sheer ineloquence would have eased his tension and I needed him close and tense.
Wordless lips belied all I wanted to confess, so I forsook words. I kissed him.
His breath hitched but then his lips conformed to mine with want and sweetness, from kiss to kiss.
By the time we pried apart, the plum blue sky had turned velvety black lit by clusters of stars and it was time to go home.
That night, Amari jostled my shoulder, ready to forego sleep to hear the juicy details, more than enthusiastic to pay a long-overdue favor. "Safffff! Tell me what happened!"
End of flashback.
I emerge, no, more like penguin-waddle (thanks to Killua's butcher shop chop to my neck) into the lobby to hushed murmurs and furtive glances.
A fighter shields his voice with his hand when he says to his companion, "You sure that's Freecs?"
I don't pause because pausing would be too obvious so I slow my pace to catch as much as I can.
"...is what the registrar said. Didn't think much of her at first glance but—"
"She doesn't look like she has ever—" On my periphery, he circles his hands near his abdomen absentmindedly. "You know?"
"She looks too young."
"Cousin maybe then?"
Mutual ahmmms to affirm their theory is sound.
A ring from my pocket. Five missed calls from the real Freecs. Call it sixth sense, but a gut feeling said that his urgent calls probably had more to do with my stealing his surname that morning than anything to do with my siblings and the job. And I'm not in the mood to face the music on that front!
Sorry, Ging. With a guilty conscience, I silence the phone, and the angry number changes to six missed calls. I quickly claim my prize money. I don't even check the amount before tapping the elevator button to travel to Danchou's suite high in the sky, where I'm Safra Jung and not Nanashi Freecs.
"Don't like the food, Safra?" asks Franklin as Shalnark and Feitan reach for what they want while Shalnark relays messages from Uvogin and Nobu who are already on the Southern coast and wrecking ten kinds of hellish havoc.
Don't like it? It's divine. The soy chicken is so juicy I have to dab a napkin to my chin. Each grain of rice is pearly perfection and my soul sobs seeing masses of it, piled mountain-high in the steamer. I still haven't tasted the wagyu beef, crispy duck, beer-braised pork belly, lobster noodles, the various sauteed vegetables, and three kinds of soup.
Yet my stomach tightened into a fist at the sight and aroma of that much food.
Life with the Troupe is a rollercoaster of juxtapositions and obscenities, I know that, but today for no reason, I'm at moral odds with the grandiosity of it all. Here we sit in the intimidating beauty of Danchou's penthouse: 15k sq ft, with sweeping views of the river, with luxury amenities and world-class chefs at our beck and call. Shal babbled into a phone and food, enough to feed ten, arrived on three trolleys. And most of it will rot in the trash.
As someone raised in a bastardized Marxist ethno-autocracy, in a world where a billion people live on less than 5 jenni a day, I feel like I'm committing a crime.
I know Gortese fasting rules. The hunger cajoling you to eat more is the struggle. The struggle is the purpose, the intention, and the tradition. The tales of ancient Gortese monks, wrapped in orange frock, who fasted seemed pious and wise. When I do it, it feels wasteful. Vain, even.
At my silence, Shalnark absentmindedly says, "Hmmm, you can order them to make you something else?"
"Sorry." I roll my shoulders. "The food is great. I'm not used to eating this much meat."
"What's normal in East Gorteau?" asks Franklin.
I shrug. "Maybe twice a year. Ground pork on the Dear Leader's birthday. Dried squid on the Grand Marshal's birthday. I lived near the coast so sometimes we had clams. Like most people."
They pan to one another.
"Even in Meteor City," says Feitan, his voice reaching for something...was that pity? "There were always pigeons to eat."
I set my chopsticks down, my stomach the size of a walnut.
A metallic clink! of Franklin's hand when he affectionately cups my crown. "You haven't told us about your matches yet."
I relay the events of the day—tumbling out of bed at six am, winning the crowd at my preliminary, Paba trying to suss out my Nen, Phinks stealing my prize money, my matches. I'm most excited to tell them about Killua but they don't share my amazement…
"You used your Nen on a kid?" hisses Feitan.
"He was no ordinary kid!"
"Announcing you're a Nen user...in these treacherous parts..." tuts Shalnark.
"You made it to the 100th floor," says Franklin. "But you shouldn't have exposed yourself like that."
"Aih, Phinks will not be pleased," sighs Shalnark.
And there goes the wind in my sails. "Where the hell is Phinks anyway?"
Ding! goes the elevator and in walks the bespoken devil in a cloud of smoke, brows furrowed, looking slightly more irritated than usual, if that were even possible.
"Where d'ya go?" asks Franklin.
Phinks surveys the styrofoam containers then crosses his arms and snits with indignance and gahhh, I'm already rolling my eyes. "Where she should have been," he says.
Smoke curls around Feitan's naked face and he bats it away with a single wave of his bone-white hand.
"Enlighten me," I say so ineffectually, Shalnark chuckles.
"Your old man's match. You should be studying how he fights."
I snort. "The man taught me how to fight. My style is his style."
Phinks' turn to snort. "Your styles are as different as chalk and cheese. Not even that. More like chalk and martian cheese."
"That makes no sense!"
"Neither does your style."
I pan to the other Spiders, hoping for some mutual exasperation: a sheepish Shalnark, scratching his head, a downcast gaze from Franklin, don't drag me into your squabble, and a measuring expression with subtleties I can't read on Feitan, even on his naked face.
"Fine," I say. "I'll watch his next match."
"You won't have time," says Phinks, between inhales from the stick dangling from his lips. "You'll be training."
"Training in what?" I ask, furiously fanning my hand against the gray smoke.
"Your weakest point yet."
"You've said that about everything—"
"Your speed," says Phinks. "You've made strides in strength through Enhancement, very puny strides—"
"Almost gave me a compliment."
"But in terms of speed," he says. "You could race with a dead tortoise and still lose."
My eyes roll at the high ceiling and I don't bother panning to the others for solidarity.
"How fast is your dad?" asks Phinks.
"Probably faster than a dead tortoise."
"I'm serious."
"Me too!" I say, served with a thick slice of sarcasm.
"Ugh," Franklin sighs under his breath.
"Hmm, he kinda deserves it. Hmmm, now which dish should I try next?" says Shalnark, pinching his chopsticks to decide between lobster noodles and duck.
"You watched his match—you tell me!" I say.
"Do you know or are you just withholding information like you always do?" says Phinks.
"Franklin, pass the rice," says Shalnark in the background.
"The chicken is juicy," says Franklin.
"Succulent!"
"He's…fast," I say. Paba always seemed supernatural growing up. I thought all dads were supposed to be that way. How I could never land a punch on him. "Probably very fast."
"You know his Nen ability?" asks Phinks.
"Sorta."
"Sorta? The hell does that mean?"
"I think he's a Transmuter or uses a Transmuter ability. But I've never seen him use it. It's hard to explain. Do you ever inhale plain oxygen?" I say, waving my hand furiously at the rancid smoke that seemed to purposefully zig-zag around my nose.
"Pft," says Phinks, directing his cigarette hand under the table. "Disregarding your dad, you're not even fast enough to participate in the heist. You'll need to learn."
Dread as I remember the hundreds of floors I'd have to travel again and the distance between here and training is as far as the moon. "Do I have to learn a new concept today? I'm exhausted."
"Pft! Remember what I said? If you listen to exactly what I say you may have a chance?"
"Why do you care more than I do?"
His mouth opens ready to let me have it, words on the tip of his snake tongue but with restraint rare for Phinks, he sucks in a breath and withdraws. "No—" he says, his mouth corner curling slightly in self-righteousness. "Nevermind."
Because I'm predictable and must bite the bait. "What were you about to say?"
"You always do this. I should know by now that you need someone to dangle a carrot in front of your eyes."
An ember of irritation smolders in my gut, but I let it cool because I know he's trying to get a rise out of me.
"I don't carry any carrots in this jacket," Phinks reaches into his breast pocket, something hidden between the folds of his fingers. "But this is at least one karat, right?"
Gold, delicate in his rough fingers, twinkles in fading daylight. You son of an asshole, Phinks.
My first instinct is to hurtle towards it before the thought could even gell, Franklin's cannon barrel hand weighs heavy on my collar.
"How about a speed challenge?" says Phinks. "Snatch your precious gold back and it's yours."
"Why you decide?" says Feitan with a whipping inflection at you, and how rare of a sight it is to see his whole face glower in consternation.
I pan between them. Is Feitan not in on this scheme? Franklin stiffens beside me and Shalnark conspicuously places his Spider token on the table at the ready.
"You're trying to trick me," I say to Phinks who still hasn't answered Feitan.
"No tricks," says Phinks, his expression earnest for a change. "Only speed. Out chase me and it's yours."
"That's it?"
"You abide by one rule," says Phinks. "You can't use your explosive nen. Only speed."
Wait a second. It's not straightforward at all. I slump back into the seat of my chair. "You know I'm going to fail."
"This is the easiest way of getting back your keepsake, but have it your way then."
"Fine!" I cry before I see the gold disappear in his breast-pocket. "So you're going to train me?"
As Phinks opens his mouth to confirm, Feitan's sibilant voice interrupts. "He's not, I am."
I swivel to Franklin and Shalnark-are you two seeing this? Is Feitan actually allying with me?
Even Phinks is perturbed. "Don't think I don't see what you're trying to do, Fei."
"What's he trying to do?" I whisper to Franklin and the spliced lines on his face deepen.
"As if I know," says Franklin.
Phinks blows another puff of smoke, careless about it colliding with Feitan. "But if you insist, go ahead—" Feitan narrows his eyes as he masks his mouth with his skull collar—"Teach her how to steal her gold back."
Phinks keeps us in the city proper. Paved track, manicured grass, trim trees, sidewalks, storm drains, pond with quacking ducks. Blondie with my keepsake meanders through the trees while Feitan and I are on the brick-red track, communicating in our Mandarin-Gortese pidgin.
"What was Phinks talking about?" I ask. "What are you trying to do?"
"Trying to get you your gold back," he says.
"You lie like a rug. You are thieves, why should I trust either of you?
"You sold that moral high ground in Yorknew for 5 million jenni."
"Bite me, Feitan!"
"He go behind my back. For that, I help you."
"Show me."
It's cliche to compare him to the wind, but Feitan is a tropical typhoon gust when he launches off his feet.
Feitan shows me his 100m dash and I don't know the world record offhand, but Feitan could beat it running backward. He could run it three or four times, fetch a coffee and still cross the finish line before the other runners. I can only render phantom fragments of his lightning-fast motion before I drench my eyes with enhanced Nen.
"HOW did you do that?" I ask though I'm aware the answer is vaguely Nen or I'm Feitan so that means I'm cool and you're not. "Your feet didn't touch the ground. You rode on a gale of wind. Like you've negotiated a deal with gravity and when you're running, you defy physics, you get to be weightless. You get to fly."
If my gushing affects him, Feitan doesn't show it. Not least not in his eyes or brows. Who knows what's going on under that skull collar.
"You should have been an Olympian," I say, earning a sound from him that I'm not sure is a snorted laugh or a snorted ire. I'm not done yet. I open my palm to the sky, his name in lights on a billboard. "Feitan—gold medalist. Pride of his country. Apple of his parent's eye."
"You're talking to an orphan."
My cheeks inflame.
Another gritty brush with reality, the same I had with Omokage when he told me about his younger sister. I know the Phantom Troupe members hadn't popped out of the Meteor City dusty bowl like daisies. They were birthed by parents, had childhoods, could have had siblings elder and younger. I know that but each reminder jolts me.
"You weren't born in Meteor City, were you?" I ask.
"You figure?" he says.
"The way you talk suggests you came from somewhere...else."
"Like you?"
Accusation edges in his voice but it is true. "Why?" he asks. I sense no Nen yet I swear the ends of his hair begin to rise like porcupine quills.
I'm a nosy cat about to be killed. "Curious is all. I don't mean to offend."
"You knew your old man left?"
Feitan doesn't want to answer my questions so he steers the spotlight on me. I get it. "Oh I knew he defected, but I didn't go looking for him."
"I thought you orphan." When Pakunoda had delved into my family memories, Paba had been absent, so they might have assumed he had died.
Months ago, wearing Feitan's boxing gloves in the cathedral, while I still didn't know their names, while they were still deciding what to do with me, I would have never told them this. But now the unbidden truth flows freely.
"Paku told you I ended up in a labor prison camp, but she never told you why. She couldn't have because my memories didn't tell her."
No outward change in his frowning brows but I know Feitan is listening.
"When Paba defected, I was the collateral damage. What kind of a dad would abandon his kid like that? I got a life sentence and for what? So he can have a luxury flat and lobster noodles. He might not be dead, but sometimes I wish he was." A token of my truth I give to Feitan as a sorry for my broaching the subject.
"Why?" asks Feitan.
"You and the others deserve to know the truth if we're going to detour for three-days at Heaven's Arena. Plus, Feitan, in our respective cultures we're supposed to bow to our parents. I figured you would understand best."
"You want him dead?" Not a question but an offer with bloodlust juicy in his swelling eyes and sibilant tone. If I were a bigger fan of homicide, I'd be touched.
I shake my head. "I can handle him on my own."
Stillness settles between us, right when I fret, I've said too much, Feitan finally speaks, "Mother spoke Mandarin. Father I don't know what he spoke."
Never did I imagine that the Spider who threatened me with 'farewell to arms' would share in few words I can relate. Thank you, Feitan.
"So how are you gonna teach me to run like you?" I ask after an appropriate amount of time had passed.
"I don't."
"Wha?"
"Not yet. Not enough time. You don't need long distance to catch him."
The needle ends of his deep green hair sway in Phinks' direction, whom I've noticed, refuses to relax or sit down even as he pretends to ignore us, idly gazing upward into the trees.
"All you need is misdirection," he says, conjuring mental images of magicians, illusionists. "A plan of attack for starters—"
"I already have a plan." Because I rarely see Feitan's face I focus so much on his eyes, and now they widen the slightest with intrigue. Before he can ask I say, "But first, show me how to float!"
I clap my palms and earn a genuine eye-roll from Feitan.
AN: I promised a cameo but it's going into the next chapter because 1) I realized it wouldn't fit here 2) Shoving it here would have weakened the cameo and cameo-character deserves better. If I don't change my mind, play my cards right, there will be a few more cameos... There's a theme to this arc and they're perfect catalysts for developing it and what is fanfic for if we can't collab with our fav characters? To those who were excited about Killua, he's not going away just yet ;)
Oops, a chance to get her keepsake back. YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT ABOUT IT DIDN'T YOU?
Poor Sessue, two Jung girls laughing at him, but he gets the girl and Saf gets the boy. It's not the last flashback. This arc pertains to their story though the connection isn't clear yet. I hope I didn't portray Safra as too dense because I've have been in her shoes, disbelieving a boy liked me. I did so much mental gymnastics I could have been an Olympic gymnast. Speaking of the Jung girls, do yourself a favor and check out LinIsSleepy's artwork of Safra and her siblings! deviantartdotcom maoissleepy/art/The-Jung-Siblings-832003455 T_T
It's no small thing to say the world has changed since my last update. I hope you and your loved ones stay safe and healthy during Covid-19. I hope this update was entertaining and helps even a little during this time. I'm under lockdown so I'm going to update this weekend.
These peeps, who reviewed since the last update, love you to pieces: Bisque-ware, albany. sr, Bioyoshi, LinIsSleepy, cleansingcream18, xxANIES, WormwoodSand, Auryanne, StandUpKeepMovingForward, The-Killer40513, AwkwardBlackCat, Sparky the Pixel, wanderer097, Luminaaa, and Convoluted Compassion!