Warnings: None

Note #1: The latest Children of Misfortune omake was so fun that it worked its way into this chapter. Totally didn't intend it, but it fit, and I hope you enjoy!

Note #2: Christmas Eve in Japan is usually thought of as a lover's holiday.

Note #3: The first section is another flashback scene and it's incredibly self-indulgent and honestly you can probably just skip to the first line break. It's no big deal and very skippable.


Lucky Child

Chapter 35:

"Dance With Me"


Margaret walked in the door and smirked. With a sidelong glance at Kelsie, she said, "Saving the world again, are we?"

I shut my laptop's lid at once. Both girls laughed, pulling up seats at the little table by the window where I worked. I'd kept my back to the glass like always. Knowing someone could walk up behind me and read my work over my shoulder gave me the heebie-jeebies. No thanks! I'd write in secret or not at all.

So far as they knew, I never shared my work with anyone until it was done.

"So far as they knew" being the operative portion of that phrase.

"Seriously—you look so intense when you write," Margaret said as she flopped into a chair. "Like a secret agent hacking a satellite or something. And you never stop, either. You're either writing or in class." Her eyes narrowed with comical suspicion. "Is saving the world a full-time job?"

"Yes. Our world is in constant peril, and it can only be saved through the power of story," I said with mock gravity. They'd been teasing me about my Serious Writing Face and ceaseless, obsessive productivity since we moved into the same dorm our freshman year of college. I probably spent more time writing than sleeping each day, and often gave up the latter for the former.

Writing was my outlet, my obsession, and my passion. If that made me a bit…odd, so be it.

"Whatcha working on tonight?" Kelsie asked. She straddled a chair and leaned her chin on the backrest. "Another essay?"

"Sure," I said, but that was a lie.

"What's it about?" Margaret asked.

"Um—not sure. But I'll tell you when I figure it out?"

"Or we'll hear that it got published from our professors, again," Kelsie said. I ducked my head, mumbling that I'd just hadn't wanted to jinx anything and hadn't meant to keep secrets when I submitted my first essay for publication. She reached for my laptop, pretending to grab it. "I wanna see what you're working on!"

My fingers splayed across the laptop in a protective web. Kelsie laughed, but thanks to whatever writing god happened to be watching over me, she and Margaret had a party to get to. No more interrogation, thank my lucky stars. They left me to go get dressed, and to continue my work in peace. Only once they left the townhome we shared did I finally crack the laptop and resume work.

Resume work on my fanfiction, that is.

Nobody on campus knew I wrote fanfiction, and I very much wanted to keep it that way.

Not that I was ashamed that I'd penned just shy of a million words of fanfiction for Yu Yu Hakusho. "Shame" was not the word. It's just that the academic literary community looked at fanfiction as a lesser form of literature. Actually, that's an understatement: they looked at it as a black mark on the face of the written word itself. Writing a million words of fanfic wasn't a badge of honor in the circles I traveled. It was a badge of embarrassment, sure sign that you were an incompetent, child-minded hack who relied on another author's world-building to craft a story. If my professors knew I spent time writing fanfics instead of the nonfiction and personal essay they insisted I focus on (it was my specialty, they said), they'd never look at me favorably again.

And honestly?

I was of the not-so-humble opinion that my professors were full of shit.

My ire knew no limits, so far as this subject was concerned. Fanfiction was far from a useless art form. It was far from a worthless waste of words—and it was far from restricted to the pages of FFnet and Tumblr, as my professors sometimes claimed.

Every episode of TV not written by the series' creators was basically a fanfic made canon by a boardroom of executives. The Iliad, The Odyssey? Those were remixes of oral works—fanfics of legends, made acceptable through time and tradition. Some best-selling books were retellings of older stories, like fairy tales. An entire industry of glorified fanfic centered on expanding the Star Wars universe. Some novels—critical darlings and bestsellers alike—expanded on classic stories that had entered common domain (here's lookin' at you, Grendel and a host of other novels my professors loved).

So, fanfiction, useless? Nah, bro. And that's saying nothing of the void fanfic filled when it came to diversity. You want an LGBT protagonist, or a protagonist of color, or a healthy polyamorous relationship? Good luck finding it in 'real' fiction outside of small niches of often self-published works (big publishers still weren't on board with certain facets of diversity). Most of my LGBT friends—myself included—turned to fanfiction because it was just easier to find ourselves represented in its archives. Hell, I'd been able to find badass protagonists of every diverse stripe online, from characters of color to LGBT characters to characters with disabilities. And should you find yourself without representation, you ask? I'd bet money you could request just about anything on sites like Tumblr and see your need fulfilled in a matter of hours.

Point is, fanfic shouldn't be seen as a red-headed stepchild of greater literature. It serves its purposes, and has existed since the dawn of storytelling.

Try telling that to my professors and peers, however, and you'd get nothing but mockery (and only grudging acknowledgement that I had a point) in return.

I wouldn't even tell my close friends about my illicit little hobby. Better to let them think I was working on (yet another) original novel when I indulged in my fics. Loved them, but my friends were blabbermouths. No way was I letting them in on my little secret. Margaret and Kelsie would never let me live the fanfic down.

Both of them were in the college's creative writing program with me. They'd seen the administration make a big deal of my first big-girl publication in a literary journal. My professors were already putting out feelers to place my other works, which made me all kinds of horrifyingly nervous and distinctly vomitus—like they must be playing a joke on me, because my work didn't feel good enough to publish, and shut up, Anxiety, nobody asked you.

If word got out that I was a more-than-a-little-prolific author of fanfiction…I didn't want to think about it.

Sighing, I got up from my laptop and wandered to the living room window. Below sprawled the Quad, large patch of grass vaguely lit by three stuttering streetlamps. A circle of kids sat on blankets smoking a bowl. I could almost smell the smoke wafting through the mail slot on the front door. The kids on the blanket represented college life at its finest—a place I didn't seem to fit.

I wasn't one for parties, drinking, or drugs. Too much of a homebody. Give me my writing or a good book any day of the week. My roommates had stopped inviting me places months before, instead coming home to regale me with stories of their exploits (in hopes, they often said, I'd use said exploits in an essay). They knew I preferred being at home, alone, plugging away at my keyboard like a spy hacking a satellite.

Or so I told them.

Sometimes a party invite would be nice. Maybe get some of those exploits under my own belt, instead of living them vicariously through my roommates. But I didn't want to cause trouble, so I didn't say anything. My own fault, really. I should've made my wants known, but I was too scared of making social waves.

But maybe that's why I wrote so much fanfiction in the first place. People liked me in the Yu Yu Hakusho fandom, and I didn't have to hide my interests to stay in their good graces. I wrote exactly what I wanted to write, no holds barred. Write a chapter, post it, BOOM, feedback and warm-fuzzy-feelings galore. I'd made friends online who appreciated me, and whom I appreciated in return. My stories were modestly popular, with a growing readership. When anxiety hooked its claws into my creativity, the YYH fandom was there to reassure me that I wasn't a talentless hack, after all. The fandom was there to remind me I was valued, and appreciated, and that my words actually meant something to real, living people. Cool though it was to have an essay published in a literary magazine, I found myself more touched, more honored, more humbled by the feedback given to my fanfiction. Or maybe I was just a junkie for instant gratification.

Either way, just don't tell my professors. They'd call me ungrateful. And perhaps they're right. I can't say for certain.

Putting my back to the potheads, I returned to my laptop. Kurama waited for an OC of mine in my open Word document. The OC was nothing like me, but she was about to go on a date with Kurama, and I was excited to see the pair of them interact after chapters of anticipation.

Given what would happen to me when I went to the world of Yu Yu Hakusho, it seemed my days of writing fanfic had been quite useful indeed—preparing me for a situation no one, least of all my professors, ever saw coming.

A solo outing with Kurama. An outing not lived in a Word document, but in the trappings of real, flesh-and-blood life.

See, professors?

Fanfiction is valuable, after all.


Minamino showed up right on time, because of course he did. I spotted his dark red hair the minute it glimmered in the restaurant doorway. I was on my feet and at his side in seconds.

"My friend cancelled, and I would've called, but then I realized I gave you my number, but I didn't get yours. Are you still comfortable hanging out? You can cancel if you need to."

He lifted a brow, but did not comment on my blunt greeting. "I see no reason to cancel, thank you. And yes, the numbers represent a planning oversight on our part. Is your friend all right?"

"Apparently his cat is sick. And that would sound like an excuse from anyone but him, because he loves that cat." I rolled my eyes, though with affection. "Like seriously. You have never seen a man get that mushy over a cat." I beamed when Minamino chuckled, pleased (though indescribably nervous) that Kuwabara's ditching hadn't deterred our plans. "Anyway. You hungry?"

"Yes, actually. Lead the way."

We ate at the counter overlooking the kitchen, where my parents worked over hot stoves and boiling pots. Conversation—a revolving door of my parents coming to the window, then returning to work, then coming back to us again—was choppy, but Minamino didn't appear at all perturbed by this unusual dinner theater. He introduced himself and thanked both of my parents for their hospitality whenever the chance availed itself. My mother was terribly impressed with Minamino, of course. He greeted her and my father with the politest over-the-counter bow in history, and he immediately paid them compliments on the restaurant—though nothing excessive or overly flattering. Smooth operator, this guy.

Keep your guard up, girl. It'd be so easy to trip up around this wily fox…

My parents acted with similar smoothness, much to my relief. They asked questions about Minamino's grades and his hobbies (which he answered with short, thorough descriptions I swear he prepped ahead of time). Never once did either Mom or Dad ask about his home life. Mom had clearly communicated the whole don't-bring-up-mothers thing to Dad, bless her.

"Your parents are very kind," Minamino murmured when both of them were occupied at work. He lifted a glass of water to his lips. "I see where you get it, now."

I was midway through slurping down a spoonful of noodles when he spoke. He didn't look at me, and I barely heard him over the clatter of the kitchen. Only when I hummed (wide eyed, a cascade of noodles streaming from my mouth like a walrus with a bad orthodontist) did he look my way. At the sight of my expression he nearly spat out his drink, laughing behind a hand after he desperately choked down his water. I slurped up the noodles and dabbed my mouth with a napkin, acting like I hadn't been acting a total goof at all.

"So you think I'm kind?" I asked. I nudged him with my elbow. "And here I thought for sure I came across as the school delinquent."

"Can you not be both?" he asked with Bambi-like innocence.

"Not to my knowledge." I put a hand to my chin. "Though perhaps that old adage 'kill them with kindness' could be taken literally? I could slay someone with a razor-edged greeting card, perhaps?"

Somehow he managed to take a bite of noodle-filled ramen without sacrificing his dignity. "Weaponized pleasantness. If anyone can find a way, it's you."

"Or you," I countered, grinning. "You wield politeness like a sword."

"Like a shield, I should think," he dryly remarked—but our banter cut short when Mom neared. Minamino adopted a winning smile. "I was just saying how kind Keiko-san is, for taking me under her wing."

Mom beamed. "Yes, she's got quite the wingspan at this point."

"My daughter, the albatross!" Dad called from the broiler. He flapped his hands like he was trying to fly. "Collecting ducklings wherever she goes!"

"Dad, that's mildly insulting," I deadpanned. "Does Minamino look like a duckling to you?"

Dad paused, then just honked like a goose. Mom laughed. Minamino chuckled. I got the sense I shouldn't leave the three of them alone, for fear of even more jokes at my expense.

Once Minamino had successfully charmed the pants off my parents, and once we'd eaten all the food my mother insisted on shoving down our throats, we left the restaurant and stood on the sidewalk outside. A breeze, warmest we'd had all year, coasted down the street and ruffled my hair with cool fingers. Rain earlier in the day had cleared the sky of smog, stars and near-empty, sickle moon burning bright against dark expanse. The sidewalk sported more passersby than usual. People still wore coats, but we'd finally ditched winter hats and scarves for the most part. About time. I hated the cold.

"So usually my friend and I go to karaoke after dinner," I told Minamino, "but since it's not really your thing, we can totally do something else." He looked modestly grateful for this suggestion. I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. "Maybe walk around uptown, see if there's anything going on?"

He inclined his head, eyes skyward. "It is a nice night."

Minamino spoke the truth, and others had had the same revelation. The way uptown drew us through shopping and upscale residential districts, streets lined with cafes and eateries galore. Walking in easy, companionable silence, we witnessed myriad sets of people holding hands. Old couples and young lovers cuddled together over cups of cocoa and steamed buns as they took advantage of the weather. It was a cute sight, and when we reached the uptown square with the (currently inactive) fountain and clock tower, we found it festooned with string lights. Remnants of Christmas decoration, no doubt, though they'd removed the large evergreen that had once stood in the bowl of the defunct fountain. Perhaps all the couples nearby still felt the Christmas spirit, themselves. Jaunty music, replete with tinkling piano and velvety bass, drifted on the air from a source unseen.

It occurred to me that this was the place Yusuke would have told Keiko to save his body, had I not made the need to possess Kuwabara a moot point.

Obviously, I didn't mention this aloud.

Eventually we sat down on a bench beneath the clock tower, people-watching and listening to the music. I hummed along to a familiar tune, a spirited cover of a famous 1940s big-band song quite out of place in small-town Japan. Had I ever heard it before in this life? I couldn't quite recall. Minamino glanced at me and smiled, expression soft and subtle.

"You know it?" he asked.

""In the Mood,"" I said. "Glen Miller, 1940. Spent weeks at the top of the American charts." I tapped my foot in time with the drum, unable to keep my head from bobbing along. It was just so peppy and fun! "Infectious, right?"

He nodded, eyes on my tapping foot. "Perhaps we should have gone to karaoke, after all. You seem to enjoy music."

"I have a weakness for live music," I confessed. "Even if it's not a style I normally like, I'll listen to it live. But I really love this style." Something about the nearby tunes sounded live, not recorded. It had that rich quality you only ever heard coming from a live band. "How about you?"

"I don't listen to many albums," Minamino said, "but I do like live music, like you." He stood up, lithe and fluid and more graceful than I'd been in any lifetime. His eyes glittered, mischievous and verdant. "Want to find the source?"

"Who, me? Never. Twist my arm, why dontcha?" I joked, popping to my feet. I cupped my hands around my ears, listening, then flung out an arm. "That-a-way!"

I trotted off, Minamino following at a more sedate (not to mention dignified) pace. We didn't have far to go, though. An open-air café on the opposite edge of the square, blocked earlier from sight by the fountain's centerpiece, housed the musicians we'd sought. They stood on a stage way at the back of the café, a thick throng of dancing patrons on the patio and restaurant floor blocking the band's name on the bass drum from view. Tables had been pushed to the sides to create a dancefloor. I grinned, walking up to the iron railing and flower pots separating the patio from the street. Sweetness off the flowers, sweat from dancing bodies, and the scent of garlicky Italian food perfumed the evening.

"Found 'em," I remarked as Minamino appeared at my side. I braced my hands on the fence and rested my chin on them with a smile. "In the Mood" ended, giving way to "Are You All Reet" by Cab Calloway—another 1940s hopper. I perked up as a band member approached the mic to croon the lyrics. "Cool. I love this song, too. It's called—"

I paused. My eyes got big. Minamino leaned forward, frowning at me.

"Are you all right?" he asked (ironically, considering the song title).

"Is that—?" I shoved away from the fence, jaw dropping as I recognized what I was seeing. "Oh my gosh—that's Lindy hop!"

Minamino's frown deepened. He followed my gaze to the dancers. "Lindy hop?"

"It's American swing dancing. A style of it, anyway." I knew what a Lindy swing-out looked like, and as I zeroed in on the dancers, I realized they were all dressed in period clothes—a hodgepodge of American attire ranging from the 1920s to the 1950s. I saw victory rolls, beaded flapper dresses, housewife shirtdresses, and ties and suspenders and shoes with spats all mixed together like an anachronistic kaleidoscope. I hadn't seen any of these styles in person in what felt like forever. The people wearing them danced in a fervor, flinging each other about, doing the Charleston with abandon, performing a Texas Twist with aplomb. My hand smacked against the café's railing as I said, "Oh my gosh, is this a local group or what? I had no idea there was a Lindy meet-up in this town! This is awesome!"

Minamino's brow lifted at my excitement; I coughed and tried to rein it in, but I couldn't keep the smile off my face when he asked, "You like this?"

"Oh, yeah!" I gestured at the dancers. "It's a super fun way to socialize and it's great exercise, too, and do you see those dresses? Oh, man. Great excuse to dress up." Minamino looked amused when I hopped from foot to foot in an excited jig. I fired off the names of dance moves on the floor as I spotted them, unable to keep the grin at bay. "This is great. I haven't seen this dance in years. Not since coll—"

I stopped talking. Minamino's smile faded.

"Not since when, did you say?" he asked.

He spoke with odd delicacy, surgical yet hesitant. I curled my hair behind my ear and gripped the railing in both hands. I'd almost said 'college'. He did not need to know that I'd been part of a Lindy group shortly after graduating college, and that swing and blues dancing had been my main source of exercise (not to mention social hour) in my previous adulthood.

Nope.

He most certainly did not need to know any of those things.

"Oh, doesn't matter," I said, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned. I rocked back and forth on my heels, eyes locked on the dancers. "Wow. Look at 'em go. There are some real old hats in there, I can tell." A couple performed a 'round-the-world lift in the corner. The lead kept careful eye on the other dancers, I noticed. "That lead over there has a great sense of special awareness. Thought it's weird they don't outlaw aerials in this group. Injury hazard and all that—um. Anyway."

I bit my lip to keep from babbling. Nervous habit, and Minamino did not need to know I was nervous. I sat unmoving under his gaze, trying my best to wear a Keiko Mask—a feat that didn't come easily outside of school.

Minamino didn't speak for a moment that felt like a year. Eventually he turned his eyes away.

"Do you know how to Lindy hop?" he said, looking at the dancers.

"Yeah." I'd already used enough dance-lingo to give that much away; Minamino would notice if I tried to deny my own interest. "Used to love it. Could never do any crazy aerials like that, but I've been told I'm a decent follow." I leaned my chin on my hands again, wistfulness rising like morning mist at the sight of the joyous dancers. "Always wish I practiced more."

"Where did you learn to dance?" Minamino asked—but I got the sense I was speaking to Kurama, not Minamino, when his green eyes fastened tight on mine. They glittered like sun filtering through trees.

"A club," was my careful answer.

"Through school?" he pressed.

I hummed, hoping he'd take the sound as an affirmative. While I didn't trust myself to lie convincingly, I trusted my voice enough to change the subject. I asked, "What about you? Got any interesting hobbies I should know about?"

Seems my ploy worked, at least as a distraction. Kurama looked away—Minamino one more, hard edges replaced by brittle evasiveness.

"Just the greenhouse, I'm afraid," he said. "I don't have time for much more."

No doubt too busy taking care of his mother to cultivate hobbies, I figured.

But I wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud.

We stood there for a bit, once more lapsing into silence that wasn't as awkward as you might assume. Funny, how silence with Minamino didn't send me back into panicked babbling. It wasn't a heavy enough silence to trigger that. Seemed I'd distracted him enough that he wasn't going to use silence as a pressure-tactic for getting me to talk, as I suspected he might. I looked at him askance and found him staring at the dancers with unseeing eyes, hands gripping the railing, knuckles almost white—

Uh oh.

I'd distracted him with talk of his mom. Judging by the look on his face, he'd gotten lost deep in thoughts of her. That's the opposite of what I'd wanted tonight to be about! Fuck! Say something stupid and goofy, Keiko, and—

He beat me to the punch, though Minamino was never 'goofy.' Just as my panicked thoughts reached a fever pitch, his eyes refocused. He looked down, and something he saw inspired him to break the musical silence.

"Either the proprietor of this café got very lucky with their landscaping," he said, "or they share my interest in gardening."

He nodded at the pots lining the fence. They dripped with five-petaled flowers in shades of pink, purple, and white, with pointed petals and throats dark like they held precious secrets. They looked familiar, like I'd seen them somewhere long ago, but their name escaped me.

The name did not escape Minamino. "Viscaria," he said, gesturing. "Fitting, all things considered."

"Fitting how?"

Minamino's smile—patient, warm, and trained on the flowers at our feet—lost some of its early brittle edge. Ah. Maybe this was the distraction I needed.

"Flowers have meanings," he said, "and Viscaria flowers mean 'May I have this dance'."

My smile came as reflexively as breathing. "Wow, for real? No shit!"

"Indeed." His lips twitched. "'No shit.'"

"Language of flowers, huh." I leaned onto the railing, one hand drifting over it and down to the flowers below. They felt like velvet against my hand. "My grandmother taught me a little of that when I was a kid. Not much, but…"

Though Minamino excelled at hiding his emotions, he didn't bother hiding the look of pleasure in his eyes. "Did she?" he asked, light but eager. "Interesting. I remember you told me she enjoyed flower arranging."

"Yeah. That's right." I picked my words with as much care as my grandmother placed flowers in a vase. "She used to arrange flowers and submit photos to magazines. Had a few featured here and there." Without help of the internet, it was unlikely Minamino could easily fact-check that, so I felt safe enough making references to my other life (though perhaps indulging in nostalgia was foolish of me). "She'd name the arrangements based on the meanings of the flowers in them. We used to play guessing-games about arrangement themes, and she'd quiz me about what all the flowers meant."

Minamino listened to me talk with rapt attention, smiling and nodding and even chuckling as I described some of Grandmother's more noteworthy arrangements and their (at times) mystifying names. Every year for Christmas she'd always give me a Natural Beauty calendar (though I didn't tell Minamino the name of the calendar), which featured photos of flower arrangements that fit the month or season. Her work had appeared in a few of these. We'd always flip through and find hers with her on Christmas morning. She said she looked forward to that every year. We'd even done it the last Christmas she'd been with us, five days before the cancer—

I stopped talking.

Minamino watched me, brow furrowing, as I passed a hand over my face and sighed. I suspected he was far too polite to interrogate my parents about my dead grandmother (especially now that I'd blurted something about her illness), but even so, I felt I'd handed out enough information for one night regardless. Best stop before I got emotional.

"She sounds like a wonderful person," Minamino murmured when the silence dragged on too long.

"She was," I said. I put my forehead on my arms, taking a second to compose myself before standing back up. I scanned the café in front of us and forced a sunny smile. Minamino's brow lifted. "Now, let's see. Think I can make Grandmother proud?"

He looked at the café, question written into the lines of his mouth. A few women wore flowers in their hair, but typical flowers like roses. Nothing interesting. A few men wore flowers on their lapels. More flowers sat in cups on the tables that had been pushed aside to make a dance floor, but they were just—

"Him," I said, jutting my chin at the café's bar. A man sat on one of the bar stools, sipping a coffee in his tailored grey suit—but every few seconds he'd glance at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He adjusted his tie and patted his hair, smirking with pleasure at his own appearance. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that man is wearing quite the fitting flower on his lapel."

Minamino's chin dipped toward his chest, eyes closing as he chuckled. The white narcissus blossoms, indicating ego and vanity, trembled against the man's chest as he puffed it out and posed in the mirror.

"Indeed," Minamino said. He inclined his head toward the left-hand side of the patio. "And that couple ought to mind the flowers decorating their table."

I looked and found two young people, eyes locked as they discussed something in low, heated voices. As if on cue, one of them stood up and stomped off, leaving behind both their date and the cup of purple blooms sitting on their table.

"Hyacinths, but I don't remember what they mean," I admitted.

"Ah." He looked oddly disappointed, which hurt more than I wanted to admit. So much for making Grandma proud. "They're the flower of apology."

"The irony abounds," I said. I turned my back on the café, elbows on the iron fence so I could gaze at Minamino. "So, clearly I have my grandmother to blame, but what got you into flowers?"

He shrugged. "It's an old interest."

"You don't say," I said.

He wore no expression whatsoever. "Lifelong, I'm afraid."

I quirked a brow at his vague reply. "No interesting origin story I should know about? No plant-life epiphany?"

"Afraid not. I'm really quite dull." Minamino smiled with apology I didn't believe, but he changed the subject before I could express my skepticism. "And you? You never did elucidate."

"About what?"

"Where you learned Lindy hop." He leaned toward me, hair backlit by the string lights above our heads. The strands shone like illuminated blood; his eyes cut like tossed seaglass, and I realized Kurama had returned to me. "A club, you said?"

I swallowed down my nerves. "Yup."

He moved almost imperceptibly closer. "What kind?"

My reply was little more than a hollow whisper. "A dance club."

He took another step closer. I could smell him, suddenly, that scent of loamy earth and mint and flowers as intimidating as his proximity.

"You," he breathed, "are being evasive."

It took every last ounce of my nerve to take enough breath to say, "Am I?"

"Yes."

I pushed off the fence, putting my back to him so I could take a deep breath and try to quell the rapid beating of my heart. When I turned I found him staring, shrewd like the fox he'd once been—and still was.

Remember that, Keiko.

Always remember what Minamino is.

Past tense does not apply here.

"I learned to Lindy hop at a dance club at school," I said, every word as deliberate as a hammer on a nail. I met his eyes with bold assurance, grin cocky as I dipped a little curtsy. "There. Ta-da! How's that for evasive?"

But my show of insouciance didn't dent his scrutiny. He strode toward me, hand outstretched; I stepped back on reflex, cocky grin fading into alarm. Kurama stopped. He looked briefly at his hand before shoving it into the pocket of his slacks.

"What have you to hide, Yukimura?" he muttered. The intensity of his expression sent a shiver up my back.

"Right now?" I said. I put my grin back on, scrambling for something to say to divert the situation. "Right now I'm hiding amusement, mostly." When he frowned, I spread my hands. "My mom is always telling me I'm too serious for my own good. And Zombie-kun always says I've got the soul of a grandma. However…" I leveled an accusatory finger at his face. "You make me look like a spring chicken."

He blinked at the finger. I sighed and rolled my eyes.

"Y'know what?" I said. I darted close, spun, and looped my arm through his so I could tug him down the sidewalk (he gasped when I did it, clearly not expecting this from me). "C'mon, Minamino."

He fell into step beside me. "Where are we going?"

"To live a little, duh!" He dug in his heels when he realized I was dragging him inside the café. I let go of his arm and planted my hands on my hips. "Oh, c'mon. Don't be a spoilsport."

Minamino eyed the café with expression most dubious. "What sport am I spoiling, exactly?"

"The sport of dance, obviously."

Feeling daring for reasons I could not articulate, I plucked a bunch of Viscaria from the nearest pot, presenting it to Kurama with a dramatic, flourishing bow.

I let the flower speak my intentions for me.

There was absolutely no way he hadn't seen this coming—or so I thought—and that made the surprise on his face all the more hilarious. With another eye-roll I tucked the Viscaria into his front pocket, grabbed his hand, and tugged him indoors. He allowed this ignominy until we neared the bar, at which point he dragged me back with firm expression.

"I don't know how to—" he said.

"Excuses!" I said, raising my voice to combat the music. I pointed over his shoulder. "And the flowers here aren't abiding excuses. See that?"

He looked. Above the bar hung copper pots and pans, rustic and charming, interspersed with the occasional bunch of dried herbs. Minamino scowled when he saw to which one I referred.

"That's garlic," he said.

"And you know what that means in the langue of flowers, right?" I said.

He paused. His mouth worked, fighting back both denial and a startled smile. Eventually he admitted, "It means strength and courage."

"Damn right it means strength and courage!" I declared. "The strength to live a little and the courage to dance your amateur ass off in a room full of professionals."

Amused, he countered my logic. "But only the blossoms mean strength, not the bulbs currently hanging from—"

I cut him off. "'Only the blossoms, not the bulbs,'" I said, voice pitched low in obvious mockery. I flapped my hand like a mouth next to my face. "Blah blah blah, grandpa! Move your ass!"

There was no denying my enthusiasm at this point. Looking a perilous combination of stunned, amused, self-conscious, and apprehensive, he followed me to the edge of the dance floor, only to once again stop cold in my wake.

"I'm afraid I don't know what I'm supposed—" he said.

"You're supposed to have fun! Just do whatever and stop thinking so much!" I launched into an exaggerated version of the chicken dance mixed with an exuberant, bouncing Charleston. "See? I'm an albatross!"

He stared at me.

He stared at me, and then Minamino Shuichi—Kurama, the legendary bandit kitsune—threw back his head and laughed.

He had a lovely laugh. Silky and smooth and velvety and lush, like it came from deep inside and had been waiting for a reason to express itself for a good, long while. It curled my toes inside my shoes and set off my smile like a bomb. I'd never heard him laugh like this, but—it was wonderful.

It was wonderful, and I wanted to hear it again. The realization was as striking as the laugh and just as pleasant. I reached for Kurama and took his hand, noting with delight that he let me pull him onto the dance floor without complaint.

He didn't know the steps to Lindy hop. I barely remembered them, myself. But for the next half hour, we danced, and danced, and danced until my feet burned sore and my throat hurt from laughing.

The pain was a small price to pay, to share a moment like this with him.


NOTES:

MANY THANKS to those who reviewed during my month's hiatus! Was so delighted to hear from all of you. You made my month off glorious and lovely, and I can't thank you enough for the kind words: EdenMae, tatewaki2000, Counting Sinful Stars, Fire Dancer Nix, Melissa Fairy, Mein Benutzername, McMousie, Leahcar-Soutaichou, Night of the Lost, DiCuoreAllison, Miqila, xenocanaan, Lady Hummingbird, Marian, wennifer-lynn, ahyeon, SunnyStormCloud, bellet022, spac3mom, Guest (x2), Yunrii, fernandfeather, Yakiitori, CrystalVixen93, Lady Armaffi, sousie, rezgurnk, Archaeological, A, SirisDerp, Cassjo, musiquerner, Alicec, Kaiya Azure, Kaylamarie517, Freaky Shannon-igans, MysticWolf71891, Jjj, britneycase3, bornfromlaughter, Raylita, Totidem Verdis, Yuki468, The Shay-Shay, chinchilla donut, HereAfter, o-dragon, Saria19, DWF, general zargon, and racnor!