I once told myself that I'd never write a fanfic. I once told
myself that I'd never write, period.
But my inner voice lies. LIES, I tell you.
*coughs nervously*
In any case, welcome to insanity. I'll be your hostess as you plunge headlong into a world of grammatical errors and typos. Please ignore the plot bunnies attempting to chew through the floor, they're perfectly harmless. I think.
I'm not up-to-date with Japanese culture, and not even entirely certain of my own, so this shall be a mish-mash of Japanese names, Canadian habits, and general randomness. I would advise you to read the story through once, then again, reading the footnotes. You'd be amazed how many sporadic thoughts leapt about my mind as I was penning this down.
DISCLAIMER: I assure you, if I owned anything more than my computer and my notebook, I would actually have a life.
CHAPTER ONE - - - - - - - - - -
It wasn't the way in which the man insisted on leaning over the great wooden desk to peer directly in to his eyes that made Kai want to reach over and throttle the guy to death. Nor was it the patronizing twinkle in the geriatric freak's lens-obscured orbs that was causing the homicidal twitch in the slate-haired boy's slender fingers.
No, it was the smile. The calm, kind, understanding smile that pulled Mr. Dickenson's generous white moustache upwards in to a gentle arc. Kai suspected that it was there for encouragement. A 'look, my boy, don't cry, I'm here for you,' sort of sentiment.
The bluenette hated him for that.
In all his sixteen years, Kai Hiwatari had hardened himself, his emotions, his very soul and being to a fine, glassy ice: cold and cutting, brutal as a Russian winter. He didn't need pity, or sympathy, or even help. All he required, in fact, all he wanted was solitude, pens and a spiral notebook. And his life, up until now, that is, had actually been that simple.
He woke up, at 6 o'clock AM no less, dressed and was ready to leave for wherever he wished to go in 10 minutes flat, exited his third- floor apartment silently, did his business (school, part-time jobs, avoiding people and so on) and came back, usually at 12 o'clock. AM. Sometimes later. Then he would sleep; prepare himself subconsciously to do it all over again.
His parents were not particularly wealthy, and were thus constantly on the move, racing willy-nilly from work to home to work again, pausing now and then to bid each other and their son a hello, which was usually immediately followed by a goodbye. Kai actually liked it that way. He was independent, fiercely so, and his parents' apparent disregard for their child didn't bother him in the least.
So why, when said mother and father lost their lives in a hit and run car crash, did his world suddenly spin out of orbit, to drift aimlessly about space, too lost to be pulled back into the safety of Earth's gravity? That was a simple enough question, with a simple enough answer: he had accustomed himself to it.
It was ironic, Kai reflected, that he would become so attached to the stability and predictability that his former life had provided, even though it was little more than a most chaotic mess of broken promises and fractured relationships. But then, it was all he had had.
In any case, he was now the surrogate son of Voltaire Hiwatari, the father of his mother, who had conveniently popped in from nowhere to take him in. Kai wondered if anybody up there was laughing hysterically.
Inwardly shifting in annoyance and boredom, Kai attempted to engage his brain into some sort of higher thought pattern by mentally chanted the periodic table. Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron...
His physical body, though, slouched as it was in its black hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans on of the plush chairs that ringed Mr. Dickenson's mahogany desk, showed no such impatience. Proud and stubborn to a fault, the teenager had never been one to show inner emotions, believing them to lead to downfall. Which really wasn't far from the truth where he came from: a gang and druggie frequented neighbourhood where 'mysterious' disappearances were as common as gunshots.
Kai never allowed himself to cry in company. Yes, several (hundred) tears had traced their way down his aquiline nose and cheekbones when the news of his parents' departure from this world had properly sunken in. Yes, he had taken to wearing twin azure shark fins to symbolize his grief (he had always thought, for some reason or another, that it was the shark who cried for the dead, not the crocodile).
But outwardly, all anybody could see was the tall, lean muscled young man with two-toned blue hair (a spiky mess of silvery slate in the front, a darker, smoother navy in the back) and strikingly fiery eyes. Kai Hiwatari: the one who oft drove his teachers insane with his ever-fluctuating marks that would range from 100 to 59.
Kai Hiwatari: the one who would be calm in the infernos of hell. Kai Hiwatari: the dark poet and writer who was as handy with a pen as with his fists.
Kai Hiwatari: abandoned orphan and now junior at Bakuten High.
The sudden halt of droning syllables from his new principal alerted Kai to potential danger and/or questions. Risking a quick glance up from where his crimson eyes had been affixed to his pale hands, the bluenette noted that Mr. Dickenson had outstretched his hand in greeting. Another swift survey of the small room and Kai realized that his grandfather was prompting him with his eyes to grasp said pudgy appendage. So he did.
If Mr. Dickenson was surprised with the slightly calloused and very firm grip, his smile did not waver in the least to betray his shock. Instead, the white haired man's beam widened impossibly further. "Welcome to Bakuten, my dear boy."
- - - - - - - - - -
"A new kid, huh?" Takao Kinomiya eyed the principal's door with newfound interest. His boyfriend and partner-in-crime peered with equal curiousity at the wooden behemoth that obscured their view. "Dickie said 'my boy' right? That means it's a guy."
"Brilliant deduction, Maxie." The midnight-haired boy paused, then added sotto voce so as to ensure the secretaries wouldn't hear his next comment. "Think he's hot?"
Max Mizuhara's sky-blue eyes widened. "Don't even think about it, Takao!"
Said sophomore grinned, and slung a tanned arm around his love's neck. "Aw, c'mon Maxie. I was only kiddin'..."
The other fifteen-year-old's clever rebuttal was cut short by the ominous click of the door that the two students had previously been examining. Swiftly arranging themselves in a less suspicion-raising position (Takao was still semi-embracing Max), the teenagers watched in interested but uncharacteristic silence as first a stately man dressed in a fine, three-piece suit and then an equally proud but slightly menacing boy with slate-blue hair stepped back into the main office. Following was the portly figure of Mr. Dickenson, who was smiling and waving to the two of them long after they were gone.
Actually, Kai distinctly heard the headmaster's voice as he addressed the teens he had noticed outside the bowler-hat-headed man's office. "Money glued to the floor again, eh, boys?"
- - - - - - - - - -
Leaving 'Dickie' for a third time this month (and it was only March 7) with an amused expression, Max and Takao trouped back into the barfeteria-bound horde that was their fellow sufferers of academia. As they headed towards the table they shared with their friends to eat lunch, Takao suddenly spoke up. "Hey, I was right. He is hot."
The resounding slap and consequent "OW!" broke through even the rather loud conversation Table 7 was having debating whether Lord of the Rings deserved its 11 Oscars.
- - - - - - - - - -
To be continued. Dun dun duuuun... (insert over-exaggerated drums and piano cadence section here)
So? You like?
But my inner voice lies. LIES, I tell you.
*coughs nervously*
In any case, welcome to insanity. I'll be your hostess as you plunge headlong into a world of grammatical errors and typos. Please ignore the plot bunnies attempting to chew through the floor, they're perfectly harmless. I think.
I'm not up-to-date with Japanese culture, and not even entirely certain of my own, so this shall be a mish-mash of Japanese names, Canadian habits, and general randomness. I would advise you to read the story through once, then again, reading the footnotes. You'd be amazed how many sporadic thoughts leapt about my mind as I was penning this down.
DISCLAIMER: I assure you, if I owned anything more than my computer and my notebook, I would actually have a life.
CHAPTER ONE - - - - - - - - - -
It wasn't the way in which the man insisted on leaning over the great wooden desk to peer directly in to his eyes that made Kai want to reach over and throttle the guy to death. Nor was it the patronizing twinkle in the geriatric freak's lens-obscured orbs that was causing the homicidal twitch in the slate-haired boy's slender fingers.
No, it was the smile. The calm, kind, understanding smile that pulled Mr. Dickenson's generous white moustache upwards in to a gentle arc. Kai suspected that it was there for encouragement. A 'look, my boy, don't cry, I'm here for you,' sort of sentiment.
The bluenette hated him for that.
In all his sixteen years, Kai Hiwatari had hardened himself, his emotions, his very soul and being to a fine, glassy ice: cold and cutting, brutal as a Russian winter. He didn't need pity, or sympathy, or even help. All he required, in fact, all he wanted was solitude, pens and a spiral notebook. And his life, up until now, that is, had actually been that simple.
He woke up, at 6 o'clock AM no less, dressed and was ready to leave for wherever he wished to go in 10 minutes flat, exited his third- floor apartment silently, did his business (school, part-time jobs, avoiding people and so on) and came back, usually at 12 o'clock. AM. Sometimes later. Then he would sleep; prepare himself subconsciously to do it all over again.
His parents were not particularly wealthy, and were thus constantly on the move, racing willy-nilly from work to home to work again, pausing now and then to bid each other and their son a hello, which was usually immediately followed by a goodbye. Kai actually liked it that way. He was independent, fiercely so, and his parents' apparent disregard for their child didn't bother him in the least.
So why, when said mother and father lost their lives in a hit and run car crash, did his world suddenly spin out of orbit, to drift aimlessly about space, too lost to be pulled back into the safety of Earth's gravity? That was a simple enough question, with a simple enough answer: he had accustomed himself to it.
It was ironic, Kai reflected, that he would become so attached to the stability and predictability that his former life had provided, even though it was little more than a most chaotic mess of broken promises and fractured relationships. But then, it was all he had had.
In any case, he was now the surrogate son of Voltaire Hiwatari, the father of his mother, who had conveniently popped in from nowhere to take him in. Kai wondered if anybody up there was laughing hysterically.
Inwardly shifting in annoyance and boredom, Kai attempted to engage his brain into some sort of higher thought pattern by mentally chanted the periodic table. Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron...
His physical body, though, slouched as it was in its black hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans on of the plush chairs that ringed Mr. Dickenson's mahogany desk, showed no such impatience. Proud and stubborn to a fault, the teenager had never been one to show inner emotions, believing them to lead to downfall. Which really wasn't far from the truth where he came from: a gang and druggie frequented neighbourhood where 'mysterious' disappearances were as common as gunshots.
Kai never allowed himself to cry in company. Yes, several (hundred) tears had traced their way down his aquiline nose and cheekbones when the news of his parents' departure from this world had properly sunken in. Yes, he had taken to wearing twin azure shark fins to symbolize his grief (he had always thought, for some reason or another, that it was the shark who cried for the dead, not the crocodile).
But outwardly, all anybody could see was the tall, lean muscled young man with two-toned blue hair (a spiky mess of silvery slate in the front, a darker, smoother navy in the back) and strikingly fiery eyes. Kai Hiwatari: the one who oft drove his teachers insane with his ever-fluctuating marks that would range from 100 to 59.
Kai Hiwatari: the one who would be calm in the infernos of hell. Kai Hiwatari: the dark poet and writer who was as handy with a pen as with his fists.
Kai Hiwatari: abandoned orphan and now junior at Bakuten High.
The sudden halt of droning syllables from his new principal alerted Kai to potential danger and/or questions. Risking a quick glance up from where his crimson eyes had been affixed to his pale hands, the bluenette noted that Mr. Dickenson had outstretched his hand in greeting. Another swift survey of the small room and Kai realized that his grandfather was prompting him with his eyes to grasp said pudgy appendage. So he did.
If Mr. Dickenson was surprised with the slightly calloused and very firm grip, his smile did not waver in the least to betray his shock. Instead, the white haired man's beam widened impossibly further. "Welcome to Bakuten, my dear boy."
- - - - - - - - - -
"A new kid, huh?" Takao Kinomiya eyed the principal's door with newfound interest. His boyfriend and partner-in-crime peered with equal curiousity at the wooden behemoth that obscured their view. "Dickie said 'my boy' right? That means it's a guy."
"Brilliant deduction, Maxie." The midnight-haired boy paused, then added sotto voce so as to ensure the secretaries wouldn't hear his next comment. "Think he's hot?"
Max Mizuhara's sky-blue eyes widened. "Don't even think about it, Takao!"
Said sophomore grinned, and slung a tanned arm around his love's neck. "Aw, c'mon Maxie. I was only kiddin'..."
The other fifteen-year-old's clever rebuttal was cut short by the ominous click of the door that the two students had previously been examining. Swiftly arranging themselves in a less suspicion-raising position (Takao was still semi-embracing Max), the teenagers watched in interested but uncharacteristic silence as first a stately man dressed in a fine, three-piece suit and then an equally proud but slightly menacing boy with slate-blue hair stepped back into the main office. Following was the portly figure of Mr. Dickenson, who was smiling and waving to the two of them long after they were gone.
Actually, Kai distinctly heard the headmaster's voice as he addressed the teens he had noticed outside the bowler-hat-headed man's office. "Money glued to the floor again, eh, boys?"
- - - - - - - - - -
Leaving 'Dickie' for a third time this month (and it was only March 7) with an amused expression, Max and Takao trouped back into the barfeteria-bound horde that was their fellow sufferers of academia. As they headed towards the table they shared with their friends to eat lunch, Takao suddenly spoke up. "Hey, I was right. He is hot."
The resounding slap and consequent "OW!" broke through even the rather loud conversation Table 7 was having debating whether Lord of the Rings deserved its 11 Oscars.
- - - - - - - - - -
To be continued. Dun dun duuuun... (insert over-exaggerated drums and piano cadence section here)
So? You like?
