009: Roleplay

"So I saw something weird on the train today," Sota said brightly, dropping his duffel bag at his feet. He tapped his heels against corner of the door, closing it, and toed his shoes off before bounding into the living room in grass stained socks.

Kagome looked up from her seat on the sofa, legs curled beneath while she sat sideways with Buyo in her lap. Both girl and cat regarded the boy.

Sota's hair stuck to his forehead, matted down and slicked with sweat, the back wayward, rumpled, and cowlicked. His cheeks glowed; a healthy flush had taken across the bridge of his nose and highlighted the brown freckles that dotted his cheeks in a summer array.

Buyo gave an inquisitive mrow—maybe. The calico always straddled the line between passing interest and complete apathy.

"Well," Sota amended, fanning the jersey stuck to his front, "I saw someone weird today."

His steps were bowlegged and crossed clumsily like he'd been strapped with lead—a good game, then. Since his grade school best friend had moved away, Sota made the occasional trips out to see him He must have been too sore to care about the sharp edge that he'd just knocked into, but Kagome winced in sympathy regardless.

"Watch the table, Sota," Kagome cautioned, reaching out to steady the water glass that had skittered precariously to the edge. She was just inches short of it, but Buyo was doing his best imitation of an anvil while he purred comfortably on top of her.

Sota pinched the edges of the glass between two fingers, the glass dangling awkwardly and dangerously, pulling it to gulp the rest of its contents while Kagome rolled her eyes—what was it about younger siblings?

Said younger sibling blocked the TV directly, standing in the narrow space between the sofa and coffee table—a declaration of inconvenience. He wouldn't have known that Kagome hadn't been watching the screen for some time now—Buyo's toe beans had been suitable enough entertainment for her restless mind. Her younger sibling waited, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Kagome pursed her lips, scrutinizing the fat cat in her lap as she tapped Buyo's front paws together. "Oh, Buyo, Buyo, Buyo-chan," she sang, deliberately focusing on the feline. "Look at your squishy, squishy mochi. So soft and so swe-eet."

Out of the corner of her vision she could see Sota shift from foot to foot— energy coiled tightly in his sun-kissed, lanky limbs.

The cat let out of a sleepy yawn and Kagome fought back the tingle in the back of her throat that threatened to turn into a yawn. With heavy, drooping regard, she peered up through thick lashes at her impatient brother.

"Okay—well, this guy, right? He was bright red. Wait, let me start over," Sota wrinkled his nose, "So you know the crossover you have to make on the green line?"

She didn't, but Sota hardly gave her time to respond anyway.

"There was this man wearing, like, five layers on the train—full on winter weather stuff."

Buyo placed a paw on Kagome's mouth, and she frowned, moving it away with a jut of her chin. I know where those paws have been, and she wanted nothing to do with them. Mouthing around the incessant appendage, she said, "That is pretty weird, I guess?"

"But I'm not even done yet. The guy was, like, bright red!"

"Because he was hot?"

"No, like—" Sota flailed for a moment, before remembering the glass he still held precariously in his fingers. He set it down quickly. "No like red, like a tomato!"

Kagome could only raise her eyebrows at that. In her mind she imagined a little old man stuffed into a winter coat, cheery red face huffing and puffing in his own heat. But… that probably wasn't what Sota was trying to imagine.

"How was Minami-kun?"

And, like a pivot on the field, Sota visibly brightened as the topic of his best friend came up.

Half an hour later, after he'd exhausted himself of every memorable thing he'd done with Minami, the siblings found themselves halfheartedly watching television together.

Fidgeting with the rim of the glass, Sota kept his gaze steadily on the reality show in front of him. "How was the doctor's?"

There it was.

Kagome breathed in, deeply, exhaling with a rattle that she immediately regretted—it was too sad of a motion, too telling, and she quickly followed with a louder, more exasperated feign of annoyance.

Dark lashes fluttered as she flicked her eyes up to Sota, staring at the beauty mark that adorned the corner of his right eye. It had a twin somewhere along the left side of her own temple, hidden by her bangs. "Shido-sensei was fine."

Sota turned his head away, suddenly interested in the spider plant that had been there since Kagome had been in elementary school. "Did she…" He plucked an errant string on the hem of his shirt. "Any… Any new breakthroughs or, um, findings?"

Her brother used words like stuff and jeez, and, for all the times that Kagome had been gone from home, she could still recall the bazillion and one times Sota had used gross…so words like breakthrough or findings sounded like unfamiliar sounds in his mouth.

Carefully, Kagome shrugged a shoulder—a non-gesture that gave away nothing. "Just the usual."

As always, the shrug said. Look how well I'm doing. How relaxed and comfortable I am at talking about going to therapy. I'm definitely, the shrug touted, adjusting well.

Sota exhaled.

"I'm gonna go and see if mom needs help," he said, standing up abruptly. Kagome didn't turn to look, but she could imagine the tips of his ears—red. Sota had never been a good actor, even as kids he'd buckled under the lightest pokes of confrontation. Of course probing his sister's mental welfare would be harder than lying about stray candy wrappers.

Still, Kagome thought, deliberately choosing to ignore her brother's hasty exit, thanks for trying, Sota.

Their voices dipped to quiet murmurs, too low for Kagome to discern from the living room. Even if she couldn't hear, the topic was obvious enough.

He's trying, she reminded herself. They both were—Sota played mediator for Mama, reporting as best he could his own interpretations of Kagome's moods and behaviors for the day. Mama tried, too, and Grandpa when he could leave his room.

She seems fine today, Kagome imagined him saying, quietly, to Mama, who would be bent over the sink. If she wore her dishwashing gloves, they would be dripping into the sink, stilled. Two dark heads nearly touching—Sota would have to dip down, no longer the shortest member of the family since his sudden growth spurt. She was playing with Buyo, it didn't look like she was in a bad mood today.

Buyo's ears twitched, and Kagome blinked. If anyone walked in at this moment, it would have been too obvious what she'd been doing—maybe. How long had her hand been hovering above the cat, so still? How long had she been staring off into space, listening, while her expression remained distant?

She reached over, turning the volume on the television set up, enough for the canned audience laughter to interrupt the murmuring from the kitchen.

"Ah! Buyo-chan," Kagome said, her voice loud in her own ears. It felt like listening to a familiar song on the radio in another room, but the lyrics and melody had been forgotten. "Isn't that fascinating?"

From across the room, an audience ooh'd and aah'd appreciatively at a contestant. A man was on screen with a child, while a big metronome stood in the back of the stage. In the corner an ongoing full-front camera tracked an observing individual's reactions. If pressed, she wouldn't have been able to even name the celebrity guests, the theme, or even the name of the show. She could tell the celebrities were popular, from their coiffed hair to the dozens of fans that were pressed to the barricades holding banners. None of their faces rung a bell.

Her eyes slid away to the floor for a moment, and somewhere between a second and eternity, the audience on screen broke out into great applause. The child on stage bent forward, her black fringe hiding her face. A man leapt up on stage and led her away, her steps measured like a living marionette.

Marionette.

Doll.

Puppet.

Marionette. Doll. Puppet. Doll. Puppet. Puppet. Monster. Demon. Demon. Danger. Danger. DANGER.

It was a second too late to catch what her mind had latched and dragged from the dark recesses. It didn't matter that the television was glowing and filled with bright colors – suddenly Kagome's field of vision was filled with nothing but tight wires and a wooden doll, spinning in mid-air. Miasma so thick it could fill the air, burning her lungs. Making it hard to breath. Breath.

Her breath stuttered, while her fingers curled tightly into the patterned cushions of the sofa.

Focus. The scratchy, woven texture of the cushion. The tickling sensation of Buyo's stray strands that floated about in the room. Sota slamming the fridge shut. Mama's voice.

Kagome!

Mama's voice. Mama's black hair, brown eyes. Black hair. Brown eyes.

Black hair. Brown eyes. Black hair. Brown eyes. Black hair. Red eyes.

(Kagome! Stay back!

-Fox fire!)

Seconds, and then the sound of dishes clinking once more in the kitchen, hushed whispers nearly indecipherable from cacophony that spewed from the screen. Someone laughed, and it was followed by the percussive beat of a jaunty drum solo.

A shudder, a jolt. The cold, numbing sensation of being slipped back into a sleeve too small, and she was back.

She was back.

Back.

Kagome had become uncomfortably good at analyzing crime scenes - even without a crime present, she found herself rewinding like a broken VCR every interaction she had since this morning; replaying them through the lens of her family members, re-ordering and re-structuring the stage to see it all play out from new angles.

It was always an out-of-body experience—imagining a running mental commentary for her behaviors and habits.

She wouldn't watch the show if it aired on public access, but Kagome was permanently stuck on subscription despite the low ratings.

"Wow, Mama!" Sota's carried from the kitchen, loud, crystal clear. It was overly pronounced in a tinny way that spoke to years of receiving inanimate non-speaking roles in school plays. "Cold soba sounds great for dinner."

(Did it?

Two would mechanically eat and one would pluck at their plate.)

Kagome turned towards the television in time to see the camera cut to the audience, their faces smiling as they clapped for the display. Reaching for the remote, she raised it to click.

Darkness swallowed the screen, and then nothing.

Her own reflection stared back at her, mouth turned downwards and brows furrowed, unconvinced—a one eighty degree difference from the rosy-cheeked, smiling faces that had filled the screen from top to bottom.

"That's five, ten—" Yusuke paused, fishing in his pocket for another coin before he dropped it in the tray. "Fifteen."

The woman nodded, folding the top flap of the paper sack down in a neat, crisp line. "Thank you, sir. Please wait a moment."

Kurama gazed about the store. Despite Yusuke's show of acquiescence, the spirit consultant's posture gave it away: he was practically vibrating with impatience, as eager as Kurama to figure things out. Rough manners meant he kept his mouth shut, shuffling rough sneakers back and forth, as the old woman took her time.

"Is this for anyone special?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend." At twenty-six, Yusuke had grown comfortable with his place with Keiko. Considering how long they'd been together, girlfriend might have been too informal a role. Kurama suspected, though he was hardly an expert in the ongoings of the Yukimura household, the aging Yukimura-san and his wife were waiting for a more permanent, adult relationship status.

How long Yusuke could continue playing the dutiful boyfriend had become its own unspoken ticking clock, though Kurama was in no position to speak on relationships considering the unread matchmaking folders his mother always managed to "accidentally" leave behind on her visits.

"How lovely," the old woman sighed. She paused, tilting her head to consider Yusuke, her milky eyes squinting through the tiny frames resting on the bridge of her nose. "Does she like these sorts of things?"

"Oh, um, yeah. Well-"

Ah. The bane of Yusuke's existence: small talk. Kurama suppressed a chuckle, eyes drifting to take in the other display of yosegi-style boxes and ornaments.

The jingle of the door opening broke the silence and Yusuke's fumbling attempt to not say fuck in front of an old bitty, two elderly women entering. Like so many times before, Kurama could tell the moment their eyes landed on him – or, rather, his unnatural coloring. With some pursed lips they gave him a polite nod of acknowledgement, which he returned. He bit back a smile, choosing to tuck his mischief into the corner of his mouth as he deliberately pretended not to hear their obvious thoughts: what a miscreant this young man was, with that hair!

His eyes slide away from them politely; looking upwards as he once again, like he would for the rest of his life, excuse the ignorance of humans.

Kurama froze.

Oh.

Well, now.

(His thoughts cursed, vehemently, for a moment. What an amateur mistake to forget something so obvious when one is on the hunt: your surroundings!)

Yusuke frowned, looking at the redhead quizzically. Kurama caught his eye, and Yusuke watched as that green gaze traveled away from him to look pointedly upwards behind. Turning, Yusuke followed suit, feeling his eyebrows rising in surprise.

Nestled between the tiny little bells that chimed with each new customer was a pristine omamori—a perfect replica of the one in Yusuke's pocket.

12/29/2020.

Oof. Um. So did anyone else's spirit just leave the planet for 2020 and only now just came back? I'll try to get another chapter posted before new year. If not, the singular reason I'm still posting is for the dear, wonderful readers (new and old) who are still reviewing and hanging on from 2018. The reviews, which I still read, every one, mean so much, and are so very, very lovely.

Next time on somewhere I have never traveled:

"Oh. It's you."