Warnings: None
Lucky Child
Chapter 22:
"Our Eyes Met"
Kurama and I had the last class of the day in common.
Lucky for me, I'd thrown up every last scrap of my lunch a few class periods prior. If that didn't prepare me for seeing him, nothing would.
I arrived before him. Probably a good thing. Gave me a chance to meet my teacher and get settled before he breezed through the door. His entrance made my empty stomach fold into a pretzel, but I somehow didn't start hyperventilating as Kurama walked in, nodded at the classmates who greeted him, and sat at a desk two rows in front of me. I watched from beneath my bangs as Kurama pulled a book from his bag and began to read.
Our eyes hadn't met. Not even once. He'd walked in like any other high school kid and had been treated no differently from them, too.
…honestly?
I found Kurama decidedly underwhelming.
No fangirls tackled him, for one thing. Nobody greeted him with notable enthusiasm. People were friendly, sure, but nobody gave him googly eyes, and none of the girls in the class approached him for conversation, either. In fact, most of our classmates gave him a wide berth as he quietly read his book. As our peers arrived and greeted each other, standing at certain desks for pre-class conversation, the structure of this group's cliques became obvious.
Obvious in the sense Kurama wasn't a part of any of them.
Like I said: underwhelming.
Hell, even his looks were underwhelming. I'd expected a paragon of human beauty to walk through the door, not…this.
Don't get me wrong. Kurama was a far cry from straight-up ugly. The partially obstructed, surreptitiously-staring-from-underneath-my-bangs impression I got indicated good looks aplenty, for sure. Can't go wrong with silky skin, huge eyes, and refined features, right? Right.
It's just that I'd been expecting a POW of amazingness. A one-two-punch of suck-the-breath-away glory, like in all the fanfics I'd ever read. And that's not what I was seeing.
Mainly because his hair was just wrong.
This Kurama's hair was red, yeah. But he didn't have the flaming red hair from the anime. It was darker, more like garnet in shadow than the hue of a melted Crayola. In fact, Kurama's hair did a pretty good impression of looking like plain black hair, no more unusual than Yusuke or Atsuko's, until the light hit it just so. Only then did Kurama's hair sparkle with ruby pigmentation, vivid highlights coaxed forth by illumination's careful fingers.
Pretty much anyone could achieve the look if they got creative with hair dye. Not that I was an expert. I had never dyed my hair, in this life or my previous.
Still: underwhelming.
…or was this hair color actually accurate not to the anime, but to the manga? Wasn't Kurama's hair black in manga? And what heck color were his eyes in the manga, anyway?
I hadn't gotten close enough to see his eyes.
Something told me they'd be a lot less in-your-face-emerald than fanfics suggested.
When class commenced, I spent the better portion of it trying not to stare at the back of Kurama's head. I fixed my eyes firmly on my desk when he approached the blackboard to answer a practice question.
Despite my efforts, however, I found my wayward gaze drawn back to him over and over again.
It's when you're trying not to look at something that you can't help but stare.
Thankfully, even though I failed to play it cool, Kurama didn't appear to notice me. When the dismissal bell rang, he didn't look my way. He just picked up his books and walked out.
I waited for him to leave the room—breath held tight, lungs bursting—before gathering my things and making my own way home.
My first day at Meiou had not gone as planned. Getting picked on by a teacher, throwing up, the total let-down that was Kurama's appearance and his non-interaction with classmates…nothing had gone according to my meticulously planning, that's for sure. All I wanted to do, at that point, was crawl into a hot bath, followed by a subsequent slither into bed. I walked home with eyes trained on the grubby sidewalk, gritting my teeth as my throat thickened and my eyes pricked.
I would not cry over this.
Nothing that happened today was a big deal, in the long run.
I mean, I'd switched schools in flagrant defiance of canon and I'd pissed off a teacher and barfed in front of everyone and a character I'd been excited to meet didn't know I existed and he totally didn't have the right hair and that wasn't fair at all, and today could've at least gone well considering the possible canon-fuck-ups I might wreak by switching schools, but I mean, small potatoes, right?
This was not worth crying over.
It wasn't.
Dammit, Keiko, pull yourself together—
"Hey, Keiko-chan!"
I looked up. Kuwabara stood on the sidewalk in front of my parents' restaurant, waving, face lit from within by a gigantic, eager grin. As soon as our eyes met he trotted over, schoolbag slung casually over one shoulder.
"How was your first day?" Kuwabara said. "Did you make any new friends? Is the cafeteria yucky? I sure hope it wasn't yucky! And I hope it's OK I stopped by, I just wanted—"
He frowned, eyes scanning my face. "Hey, are you OK?"
No. The answer was no, that I wasn't OK. I wasn't OK at all.
I tried to say as much aloud. I looked Kuwabara in his anxious eye and opened my mouth to tell him I was fine, no worries, how was your day?
I opened my mouth to say that.
Instead, I burst into tears.
Kuwabara graciously allowed me the use of his shirtfront for the better part of ten minutes, awkwardly, right there on the sidewalk. He patted my back and once or twice even touched my hair a little, which felt nice, but soon I realized people were staring and I pulled away. It was one thing for me to embarrass myself, but I'd be damned if I embarrassed Kuwabara.
"Thanks," I said, sniffing. I hated the feeling of crying, but tears bore a certain practical utility. Crying equalized my emotions, allowing me to lance my swelling feelings and think clearly again. Hopefully Kuwabara understood. "Needed to get that out before I saw my mom. Don't want her to worry about me."
"Uh, sure. Yeah." He shoved his hands in his pockets, face resembling that of a worried puppy, rocky voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "What the hell happened to make you cry like that, Keiko?" His expression darkened, a wolf instead of a puppy. "Hold on. Do I need to beat sense into anybody? 'Cuz I will." And then he was a worried puppy again. "You know I'd do that for you, Keiko, right?"
I knew. I definitely knew, and I loved this guy so much for it. I smiled and dabbed my eyes with my sleeve, unable to keep from smiling.
"You're the best, Kuwabara." I was pleased to note the words made him smile, too, bashfully and adorably. Ugh, this guy. My favorite character for a reason. "But we can't talk here. Karaoke? I'll pay."
The karaoke joint, around the corner readily accepted my money (and Kuwabara's; he would not allow me to shoulder the cost alone). We played Megallica on low volume and munched on a plate of sushi in silence. Kuwabara shot me a few concerned looks, but the boy didn't press for details. I think he knew better. Maybe Shizuru had taught him good dealing-with-girls manners; I don't know.
Eventually I worked up the nerve to speak. Obviously I couldn't tell him about Kurama and my associated disappointments, nor could I tell him about my worries over canon and the school-switch—but there was plenty else to vent about. Hamaguchi and his connection to Iwamoto, for starters. And I swapped the timeline of when I'd thrown up so it made more sense in conjunction with the Hamaguchi altercation. Kuwabara looked progressively more pissed off as I explained that little exchange.
"That bastard," he said when I was through. "Iwamoto, that bastard! First he makes you leave Sarayashiki, then he poisons your new school before you can even start, and then his crony makes you so upset you throw up? Who the hell does he think he is?!"
"God, apparently," I remarked. "He certainly seems determined to send me to hell."
"Well, I won't have it!" Kuwabara stood up, pacing around the small karaoke booth like a caged animal. "Next time I see his ugly mug, I'm gonna—"
I latched onto his sleeve when he passed close to my chair. "You're gonna do nothin'," I said.
The anger in his eyes glowed molten. "But Keiko—"
"I will not have you getting kicked out, too! Not because of me. Do you understand? I'm not worth that!"
"Of course you are!" Kuwabara rumbled, face scarlet. "You're—"
He bit back whatever he'd been about to say, cheeks coloring. He passed his hands through his hair with a scowl. I let go of his sleeve; he sat heavily in his chair again, eyes on the dark floor.
"Look. You standing up for me—that makes me happy. So thank you," I said, trying to keep my tone gentle. Kuwabara looked momentarily pleased by this. He didn't look as pleased by what I said next. "But the thing is, I can handle whatever Iwamoto might try to throw at me. He's too far away to have real power over me. You, though, he can fuck with. I don't want you to do anything that could jeopardize your future. Not on my account, OK?" I cracked a wry smile when I caught Kuwabara's malcontented eye. "And besides. Since when have I ever needed a white knight to come rescue me?"
He sank down in his seat with a comedic frown.
"Never, I guess," he mumbled.
"That's right. I kick ass."
"Yeah." He looked at me, ghost of a smile flanking the frown. "You do, now that you mention it."
Even though, after a little more cajoling, I coaxed a promise to not risk his own status at Sarayashiki from Kuwabara, something told me this wouldn't be the last time we'd have this conversation. Kuwabara was too protective, too much of a knight in shining armor to ever give up on protecting someone he cared about. That's what made Kuwabara Kuwabara, after all.
I just prayed our canon-defying friendship didn't hurt him somehow.
Kagome was just as disappointed as I was, that Kurama's hair was so dark and no fangirls mobbed him after class. I called her that night—and every night thereafter, more or less—and gave her all the details. Gotta admit, it was nice feeling validated in that regard. Good old Kagome. I needed her around in the coming weeks, to listen to me vent as I made a study of my fox demon classmate.
Every day for the next week, I kept a careful eye on Kurama. Observed nothing out of the ordinary, much to my chagrin. He was quiet in class, didn't engage with the other kids, and acted unfailingly polite and pleasant whenever anyone chose to speak to him.
I use the word 'acted' intentionally.
I know the look of a faker when I see one. I'd seen my bogus Keiko-at-school-smile in the mirror enough times to recognize similar affectations in others.
The other kids didn't notice his manners were a facade, of course. They didn't notice that Kurama only wore his agreeable smile when speaking with them. They didn't see that as soon as they turned their backs, the smile vanished. They didn't see the distant expression that replaced the smile, nor the longsuffering patience that hardened his mouth into a brittle line.
I noticed, though.
After a week, I was practically Kurama's stalker.
Or rather, I would've been his stalker if he wasn't so damn slippery.
I never managed to catch a glimpse of him during lunch hour. No idea where he ate every day. It certainly wasn't in the stairwell with Kaito and I, that's for sure.
Speaking of which: the day after we met, Kaito walked up to me when I'd gotten midway to the cafeteria during lunch hour. He didn't bother with a greeting. He called my name, marched over when I stopped walking, and handed me a book sans any form of preamble whatsoever. Amagi-san and the other girls I'd been walking with watched this interaction with their mouths open.
"Have you read this?" he said as I took the book.
I scanned the cover with a raised brow. The Mind's I by Douglas Hofstadter. I'd written a series of papers on it in college. Fascinating stuff, but criminally dry if you weren't into philosophy of mind the way I'd been.
"Theory of consciousness interests you, Kaito?" I said.
"Only in regard to how it may be applied to the concept of perceptive relativism in literature." Despite his slouched posture and hands jammed deep in pockets, he looked pleased. "Come with me. We're discussing the applications over lunch."
My brow shot up. "It's cute, how you think you can order me around like that."
Kaito rolled his eyes. "Fine. Would you please discuss the applications over lunch with me?"
I tapped my chin, pretending to think about it.
Kaito sighed. "Yukimura. I exist in an intellectual vacuum. Take pity on me. I only pray you might provide a measure of academic respite."
"Well, when you put it that way—sure. But I need to buy something to eat first."
Amagi and company were more than happy to let me go with Kaito, murmuring behind their hands as I went to commune with a fellow nerd (not that Kaito left me much choice in the matter). Kaito dogged my steps as I bought food (and scanned the room for Kurama), then insisted I follow him to his favorite lunch spot: a nook halfway up the stairwell in the back portion of the school library.
The nook had a window, which provided a good view of the school grounds. It overlooked the baseball diamond, the athletics shed, and a green glass building that appeared far more expensive than anything Sarayashiki's budget could afford.
"The greenhouse," Kaito told me when I asked about it. "Botany club's headquarters. Not worth troubling yourself over, believe me."
He pursed his lips when he said that last bit, voice dry and oddly insistent. I remembered that Kaito didn't exactly care for Kurama—not according to the anime, at least. Kaito resented that Kurama beat him on exams and held quite the little grudge against the fox.
Was Kaito's disdain for the greenhouse and the botany club evidence that Kurama frequented that building, perhaps?
Certainly seemed like the kind of place a guy who stored plants in his hair would fancy. But what the hell do I know.
There was no way to get answers without asking awkward questions. I still hadn't met Kurama. Asking about him would be suspicious—and I didn't want to risk upsetting Kaito, if his rivalry with Kurama did indeed mirror that of the anime. I filed my suspicions away for another day, keeping one eye on the greenhouse while Kaito regaled me with his theories on literary solipsism.
I ate with him every day thereafter, too, watching for a flash of telltale red-black hair amid the glowing greenhouse below.
Kurama sat behind me in history class. But in biology, our last class of the day, he sat in front of me. This made for my most productive observation period, as you might imagine. I tuned out the lecture in favor of staring at the back of Kurama's head, wishing I could read his mind and wondering how I might someday get introduced. The fact that it hadn't happened after a solid week weighed heavy on my anxiety.
What if I just wasn't fated to meet Kurama before Keiko was supposed to?
No. That was stupid. Fate did not define me. And he was sitting five feet away, dammit! I should just walk up to him and say 'hi' sometime. Take the initiative. Take fate into my own hands. Stop being passive and lock eyes with destiny.
…but walking up to him was so forward! I had to have a good reason to approach, I rationalized. Otherwise he might guess I had an ulterior motive.
Or maybe he'd assume I had a crush on him. Why else would a teenage girl approach a cute classmate out of the blue?
At that thought, I had to put my head in my hands. I'd died at 26. I was now 14. There was no way I could justify my forty-year-old self ever dating a teenager. The thought alone repulsed me.
…although, Kurama was technically older than 14. He was in my boat in terms of not looking one's age. Of all the characters in Yu Yu Hakusho, he was the one I could most easily justify dating, and—
Nope. NOPE.
STOP IT, KEIKO.
You have way too much on your plate to consider romance—not even in the abstract, worry-about-everything way you're infamous for.
I set the thoughts aside, hypothetical though they were, and tuned back in to class. Midway through the day's lecture on cell division, however, there came a knock on the classroom door. The principal needed to talk to our teacher for a minute—something about an assembly in a few days.
"Everyone, discuss how to identify phases of cellular reproduction while I'm gone," our sensei said before leaving. "Be right back!"
No one did as she asked, of course. Instead, everyone launched into casual conversation. Cat's away, mice'll play. I flipped to the appropriate page in my textbooks, dutifully reviewing information I'd already memorized just like the real Keiko probably would have. Suited me better than idly chatting with the other kids in the class. No use getting close to them when I was mentally so much older. We'd have nothing in common, anyway.
That's what I told myself, at least.
Aside from Kaito, I hadn't managed to make any friends at Meiou yet. Amagi-san only invited me to lunch because I was the new girl and she was class rep. Was my lack of friends due to some deficit of my character, or—
"Hey, um. You just transferred here, right?"
I looked up, jolted from my reverie by an unfamiliar voice. Two girls and one boy stood around my desk, hemming me in against the wall at my back. I put down my book and folded my hands in my lap, smiling my very best Keiko-at-school smile. Maybe this was an opportunity to make friends, at last.
"Yes," I said, all pleasantness and sun. "My name is Yukimura Keiko. And you are?"
The boy said he name was Takashi; the girls were Haruka and Junko. They exchanged a look after we finished our respective introductions—a look of bolstered courage, fidgety nerves, and barely-masked curiosity.
Uh oh.
This interaction didn't feel quite so casual, all of a sudden.
Haruka licked her lips before speaking. "We were just wondering if you were friends with…you know." She leaned in close, a barely-there apology on her face, and whispered: "We were wondering if you were friends with that boy."
"The one who died," Junko added.
Her words took a minute to register. "I'm—I'm sorry?"
"There was this guy, this punk at Sarayashiki who died in an accident," Takashi said with a shrug. He didn't bother to look at all reticent. "We want to hear what happened."
My blood ran cold.
They…wanted to hear what happened?
Junko crossed her arms over her chest. "There's a rumor going around that a friend of his transferred here. We wanted to know if that was you. Do you know how the car—"
I knew where she was going with that question. I knew, and I would not allow it. Yusuke's death (even though it hadn't stuck) was not going to be the center of their morbid fantasies. Not on my watch. His resurrection and coma weren't public, but still. My temper rose in a hot and spitting surge, oil overheating in an unattended fryer. Somehow I choked down the impulse to glare (though only barely), instead arranging my features into a mask of neutral indifference.
"Let's say I was this person's friend," I said, tone cool. "If I was, I'd be grieving. In light of that, do you think asking me about him to my face is appropriate?"
Haruka's cheeks colored. "Hey, we didn't mean anything by it. We're just trying to get to the bottom of—"
"Of a rumor," I cut in. "You're trying to get to the bottom of a rumor involving the death of a child."
The trio looked stricken. I picked up my book. Opened it. No idea to what page. I was only going to pretend to read, anyway.
"Your questions are insensitive, inappropriate and rude," I said, eyes not focusing on anything at all. "If you'll excuse me—"
Before I pulled my eyes down to my book, I saw Junko's mouth open, her gaze narrow and intense. She was going to fight me on this, I could feel it. I hid my face behind my textbook and held my breath, hoping she'd reconsider, hoping she wouldn't pry, because this subject was not—
"Junko-san?"
He had a voice like a cool wind in swaying trees, or calm water over river stones—soothing and melodic and soft.
My head snapped up.
Kurama stood a few desks away. He smiled an affable, supplicating smile I hadn't seen him wear before.
He wasn't looking at me. For this I felt grateful. My stomach had started tap dancing at the mere sound of his voice. If he'd been looking at me directly—
"Oh. Here there, Minamino," Junko said. She looked confused by his interruption, although she hid it well. "What's up?"
"I was wondering if you had your notes from the last lecture," Kurama said in his cool-water voice. An apologetic shrug, palms up. "I seem to have misplaced mine, and with the test on Friday—"
Junko's mouth formed an O of understanding. "Let me get you mine. You can keep them for—"
Junko walked away. With her went her two friends, who spared me one final glance of disdain before taking their seats. Strength in numbers, I guess. They didn't have the courage to grill me without Junko around.
Not that I could think about that just then. That realization would come later.
In that moment, I was far too distracted by Kurama for any other thoughts.
As the trio walked away, and as Junko opened her school bag to find her notes, Kurama looked at me over the top of her stooped back.
Our eyes met.
Not that that was a big deal or anything. Eye contact wasn't special in and of itself.
It's just that when I looked at Kurama, and when he looked at me, I found I couldn't move. I couldn't move because Kurama's eyes were more than just eyes, more than just amalgamations of various tissues that performed the function of seeing.
Windows to the soul.
As we looked at each other, the cliché popped unbidden into my head—and it fit. It fit because in the tight lines around his eyes, I read a pattern of subtle irritation. In their gleam I discerned the edge of calculated action. Beneath their pleasant veneer I saw wheels turn, spokes spin, gears grind, in a way that belied and contradicted the smile ghosting across his mouth.
The smile didn't touch those eyes of his.
And then he looked away, and I was left with nothing but the sense he'd done what he'd done on purpose—that no one with eyes like that would ever do anything randomly, without intention, without control.
Had Kurama…helped me, just now?
Somehow, despite my lack of evidence, I found myself convinced he'd called Junko's name on purpose. And that if you looked through his notebook, you'd find the notes from last chapter tucked away in a place no one but Kurama would think to look.
Our teacher came back into the room shortly thereafter. Kurama did not deign to look at me again—not when the bell rang, not when we walked out of the room, not when he passed by me in the shoe locker hall.
I didn't need him to look at me again, though. I knew what I'd seen. Kurama had helped me today, for reasons I did not yet understand.
I walked toward Atsuko's house for one of my many weekly visits staring at the ground, thinking of his actions, his words, his eyes. Somewhere along the way, a realization hit me—something I hadn't had the chance to appreciate in the scant moment Kurama and I had shared. Something that, now that I remembered it, I would never be able to forget.
I'd guessed wrong, I realized.
Kurama's eyes were very, very green indeed.
I ran into one of Yusuke's caregivers when I arrived at Atsuko's apartment. She pulled me aside and said, "Keiko-chan, look after Atsuko tonight. She's in a bad way."
The nurse didn't have to say anything else. I knew I'd find Atsuko drunk and crying even before I went inside and found her on the kitchen floor. When I walked in, our eyes met. Only one thought had time to flit across my brain before she spoke.
This would be a long night.
"Keiko," Atsuko hiccupped. Her arms stretched out. "Oh, Keiko!"
I held her, right there on the kitchen floor, for almost an hour. I stroked her hair and assured her Yusuke was coming back, just like he promised. His resurrection was real. She'd have her son back eventually. She just had to be patient. She just had to trust Yusuke. It would all be OK. She'd see that, soon.
Atsuko had good days: days where she bounced chipper around the house, sunny and smiling and centered.
And then there were days like this, when doubt crept in on the heels of heavy drink.
Not that I blamed her. We hadn't had any word from Yusuke in weeks—not since the original dream about him waking up. I'd been the one to witness the dream, not her. Her trust in Yusuke wasn't built on the bedrock foundation of firsthand experience. That was a foundation only I possessed.
Atsuko had nothing but blind faith—faith in a boy she hadn't even been able to trust to go to school each day when he was alive.
No wonder she had a hard time believing he'd come back. Not when breaking promises was his specialty.
I stayed with Atsuko that night, lying next to her on a firm futon while she thrashed. I stared at the ceiling, eyes burning, as she muttered Yusuke's name in her sleep. Nightmares gripped her. Tears coursed down her slumbering cheeks. She woke in cold sweats, scrambling for my hand, crying into my neck as she sank back into the depths of restless darkness.
I spent the night alternating between a fitful doze and a state of almost meditative worry. I turned the day over in my mind, the faces of Kurama and Atsuko and Kaito and Junko bleeding into one another, over and over again until the moments blurred into an unrecognizable strip of anxiety.
And then my weary brain was just too tired to think. So I didn't try to anymore.
I just lay there—not awake, not asleep, but as close to death as any living person could come.
When the light of dawn slunk across the ceiling, I cooked Atsuko breakfast, washed Yusuke's unfeeling face, and headed to school in the same uniform I'd worn the day before.
I ironed it, though, so it didn't appear rumpled.
I needed to look my best today.
I'd stared at the ceiling all night, listening to Atsuko cry. Fate held her in its merciless grip. She had no power to change her fate. She spent her nights sobbing, helpless and desperate for any modicum of control she could cling to. That's why she drank. She wanted to feel in control, and drinking helped her get there.
Why should I not take control, when I had such accessible means to do so?
Why should I be miserable, like Atsuko, when I had the power not to be?
Letting fate have its way seemed like a waste.
Maybe this was fatigue talking. Maybe this was a night of staring at the ceiling talking. Maybe I wouldn't have come to this conclusion if I didn't feel so exhausted—but as the sun rose, I realized I was both tired, and tired of passively waiting around. A sleepless night had quieted the voices of anxiety inside me. My brain was just too drained to host any voices but those of my own cold rationality.
There was no reason not to talk to Kurama, my sleepless night had taught me—so I'd talk to him.
And I would do it today.
NOTES
Sometimes I get insomnia. After a night when I can't sleep, I've found my anxiety voices are often much quieter (almost the same sort of quiet I experience when I take anxiety medication). Brain just doesn't have the processing power to worry after a sleepless night. Wanted to incorporate that into this story. It feels terrible to not sleep, but sometimes it's all that helps me overcome anxiety. I'll occasionally not sleep to force an anxiety reset, of sorts. It's not healthy. But it's me.
So next chapter she's going to talk to Kurama. Thanks for the courage, insomnia!
Hope no one is mad about Kurama's hair. Went for manga/anime happy medium.
Also, I now have Twitter. Username CharterOfStars. Follow for updates and random rants. Thanks!
Speaking of thanks. YOU GUYS ROCK: reebajee, xenocaanan, DarkDust27, Kaiya Azure, Lady Hummingbird, Shaded Eclipse, rya-fire1, FireDancerNix, DiCuoreAllison, Maester Ta, Marian, Miqila, SanguineSky, Leahcar-Soutaichou, Marieeula24, Yunrii, Guest, Zero, and buzzk97!
