Warnings: None

Note: "Shoganai" is a very common phrase in Japan, meaning "it can't be helped." You say it when something goes wrong that's outside of your control. Basically it means "best to move on quickly from this, because there's nothing you can do about it."


Lucky Child

Chapter 36:

"Implications Left Unspoken"


I had to tap out before he did, even Keiko's hearty stamina no match for my enthusiasm. We bought drinks and sat on a bench by the fountain in the square. The moon above sat mostly empty, like my cup once I cooled my throat. Neither of us spoke even after catching our breaths. Silence companionable, content in the wake of exhaustion, we sat beside each other and watched the Lindy hoppers.

Kurama didn't have a hair out of place, I noticed. What a jerk. I was sure I looked an awful fright, sweaty and rumpled from the night's activities. He wore his slacks and button-up shirt like they'd been plucked off a catwalk. My high-wasted pants and sweater seemed juvenile in comparison. Sighing, I huddled into the depths of my coat, hiding view of him behind my collar. Keiko was prettier than I'd been in my past life, but even so, I felt oddly insecure next to Minamino.

When he spoke, it startled me. I sat up straighter to cover my reaction.

"Thank you for tonight," he said.

His voice wafted like the scent of the Viscaria. I ducked my chin, smiling.

"You're welcome," I said.

"It was…nice." He appeared to have trouble finding the right word. "I've never done anything quite like that."

Shrugging, I leaned back against the bench and said, "We get by with a little help from our friends."

He looked thoughtful. "Yes. I suppose we do."

The tone of his voice gave me pause. He looked away, toward the café, but I only had eyes for him. He leaned his elbows against his knees, fingers woven loosely together as if to catch any errant words.

"Keiko," he said, and it didn't escape my notice that he used my given name. "What did you mean when you said I make you look like a spring chicken?"

Hadn't been expecting that question, let me tell ya. I'd said that on a whim. Had he thought I was being mean, or something? That's the last thing I wanted!

"Nothing insulting, I swear," I said.

He shook his head. Red-black hair fell over his shoulder, curling against his cheek like a caressing hand.

"I didn't feel insulted," he said. He met my eyes with solemn intensity. "Just curious. You spoke as if…"

He trailed off. I frowned.

"As if what?" I said.

Minamino paused. I waited.

"As if you're older than your age," he eventually said, "and you think me even older than that."

It wasn't the words that started my heart like an engine. No, my heart raced because of his tone. That light inquiry, delicate yet pointed, a scalpel slicing through our dance of innuendo and implications to cut to the meat of what lay between us. I swallowed as his eyes met mine, his gaze unflinching and guarded with a type of apprehension I couldn't put a name to.

I couldn't be sure if he'd meant to ask me for the truth so baldly, or if he'd merely stumbled onto it by chance. He knew something was 'off' about me. Was this a direct question, then, or yet another fishing line tossed into the sea of my mystery?

I started to tell him I hadn't meant anything by it—but I didn't do that. I couldn't. I let my head loll back, scalp resting on the bench's backrest. The moon above burned blue-white, like the spirit energy a certain friend of mine would develop (once he got off bedrest). Lying to Kurama didn't feel right, but telling him I was a soul transplanted into a new body…it just didn't feel like the moment for that. Best take Emily Dickinson's advice and tell all truth—but tell it slant.

Success in circuit lies, she'd say.

"Remember that guy I talked about, who came out of a coma?" I said. Best not to use Yusuke's real name. "Zombie-kun?"

"Yes," Kurama said.

"Well, I've known Zombie-kun since I was 6. And I'm always the one making sure we don't, you know…fall down into a ditch and crack our heads open and die."

Kurama laughed at my phrasing. I turned my head so I could smile at him.

"He was the type to shimmy up drainpipes and make me skip school when I got too stressed. He was always dragging me out to do fun things, and making sure I didn't get too caught up in my grandma ways." I knotted my hands behind my neck and rested an ankle on my opposite knee. "Literally, his nickname for me is 'grandma'. So I guess I do think of myself as older than my age. My parents and my best friend think so, too."

Kurama watched me, still and silent and perceptive. I attempted a casual smile.

"That's what I meant by that comment," I said. "Usually I'm a grandmothering albatross, and he's a canary chirping about sunshine, getting people to have fun." I smirked. "Annoyingly chirpy, sometimes, but I can take it."

Words tangled in my throat, then. I swallowed them down. Kurama waited in silence as I sorted through my thoughts. Yusuke had made me live, in this life. So devoted to the task of making my stolen parents happy, I'd often neglected to be a kid in this new life. Yusuke—with all his posturing, hijinks, and goofs—reminded me to take myself less seriously, and to enjoy the second childhood I'd been given.

Without him, I was relatively certain I'd be too serious for my own good. I wouldn't have had the heart to enjoy this life at all—although before he came around, I'd had no idea that was the case.

Yusuke was the foil that made me aware of my own neuroses, in a way. He was everything I was not, and I was better for the gift of his presence.

But how could I express that to Kurama, and tie it to my explanation, without giving away my past?

"I went through much of my life thinking I was fine alone," I eventually said, recalling how disdainful I used to be of the immature kids I'd suddenly found for my peers in this life. "I was OK without people. I was happy by myself. People were overrated. Connections were overrated. And I think I would've felt that way my whole life had he not come into it and dragged me kicking and screaming on his adventures."

Kurama hummed. He looked at me with furrowed brow and uncertain eyes. I smiled back at him, which only made his uncertainty deepen.

"Zombie-kun woke me up, in a way." I smiled more broadly when I realized I was quoting Yu Yu Hakusho's theme song. How fitting. "He brought into the light, just like you said. So I guess that's what I meant, saying you make me look like a spring chicken. I'm more used to being the big, grandma albatross with wide wings, not the…not that little chattering canary telling people to have fun. I got to play Zombie-kun's role tonight, and I guess I saw a little of myself in you. Got to play a little bit at role reversal, and feel like the young one for once." I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly bashful. "Is that weird?"

For a moment I worried he would say yes, and that my words—all of which were true, even if they neglected to mention certain, secret truths—rang false. But Kurama did not immediately react. He searched my face for answers I couldn't give before looking away, down at his laced fingers. Back to being a grandpa, then. I'd noted his old soul the first time we hung out solo, and here it was again. Kurama, the fox unaccustomed to relying on others, who resisted friendship, who resisted help of any kind. Yeah. He needed a canary lie Yusuke…or like me, if I could put aside my grandma-ness long enough to keep him dancing.

The moment dragged into two, then three. Eventually I leaned forward, catching Kurama's eye with a small, regretful smile.

"I hope I'm not pushing boundaries," I said, trying to be delicate, "but I get the feeling you don't have many people like that in your life. Canaries, I mean."

He looked down at his hands again. I could read nothing concrete in his expression.

"You're not wrong," he murmured. "I have one person like that."

I winced. Contemplated asking, then decided against it…but his lips twitched, pulling into a pained grimace for no longer than a moment. Still. It was enough.

"Do you mean your mom?" I asked, but gently.

Another pause.

Then: "No. I was not taking about her."

Our eyes met.

"Thank you, Keiko," he said.

A beat passed, and then my eyes widened.

Oh.

Oh.

So. He meant me.

I was his canary.

This…this, I had not been expecting.

I blinked. My heart stuttered. I curled a lock of hair behind my ear, looking at my shoes as though they'd become the most interesting objects in the world.

"Oh. Well. My pleasure," I managed to mumble. Because I was no good at being mushy, I flexed an arm and covered my embarrassment with goofy gusto. "If you ever feel the misanthropy rising and the call of nihilism in your ear, just gimme a call. I'll chase it off with a stick. Or a Lindy hop. Whichever best fights off the doldrums."

Bravado earned me a warm chuckle, and the tension in the air went slack. Did this mean he'd given up asking pointed questions for the evening? I could only hope. I wasn't ready to tell him who I was—not yet. Not when we could have more fun moments like these, free of demigods and alternate realities and the violation of his privacy.

I liked it simple, like this. Getting to know my favorite characters as friends and peers, no threat of doom or intrigue to muddy the water.

It wasn't meant to last, so I had to cherish it while I could.

"Keiko. May I ask you something?"

I jolted from my reverie, forcing a smile. "Um. Sure. Fire away."

Kurama started to speak. Stopped. Searched my face for a moment, uncertain.

"Are you OK?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Sorry. I'm…not accustomed to speaking so frankly. But I have this feeling—" Another pause, searching and silent. "I can't explain it. I simply feel you might have perspective on a certain matter."

He put too much faith in me. Folding my hands in my lap, I said, "I mean, I can certainly try."

Minamino nodded. He leaned forward again, hands once more interlocked between his knees. Although his voice came no louder than a murmur, I heard his words with crystalline clarity.

"If you could give up something precious to save the life someone you love," he asked, "would you do it?"

He didn't look at me. I did not speak right away.

Kurama…he meant the mirror, of course. He was talking about giving up his life to save his mother. He'd already hinted at his plan a few times in my hearing. That story about the forget-me-nots he'd recited, the one where the son died but the mother moved on...I knew more about his inner turmoil than he knew. Though of course he had no reason to think I was in-the-know about it.

I needed to act very, very casually if I wanted to tread these waters without making waves.

"What?" I asked, affecting wry—but kind—humor. "Does your mom need a kidney?"

His lips pulled at the corners. I figured it was an easy and not-suspicious guess, one anyone would make if they knew about his mom and heard him ask that question. He ran a hand through his hair and sat up straighter, hands mirroring mine as they knotted in his lap.

"No. This is merely hypothetical," he sad (but I knew that was a lie, one told with grace and convincing faux sincerity). His eyes slid to mine, questioning. "What would you do if you could save someone you love from a horrible fate, but it would cost you everything?"

Yup. He was talking about his choice to trade his life for his mom's, for sure. I just wondered why he was asking me about it. We'd only just become friends. The idea that he'd ask me about it was preposterous and—

The memory of his vice cut through my internal monologue.

I have one person like that.

One person.

Just one.

Maybe he wasn't asking because he thought I was a good person to give advice. Maybe he was asking because I was the only person in his life who could.

The thought of it—that this lonely, nigh-suicidal, self-loathing demon had nobody to talk to but me—damn near broke my heart.

The thing was…could I risk being honest with Kurama about this?

He watched me as I thought, cool green eyes tight with emotions I couldn't nail down. I smiled at him. Murmured something about needing a minute to get my thoughts in order. He nodded and looked away, waiting patiently for advice I wasn't convinced I could give him.

Only, what was it Kagome had said?

Weeks earlier, eating frozen yogurt at a café table, I'd told her about my reservations in getting to know Kurama. About accidentally knocking his life astray because I might say the wrong thing. She'd merely rolled her eyes at my worries.

"Kurama is super smart, right?" she'd told me. "I doubt he'd let you throw him off course no matter how much you interfere in his life. He's just too sharp and focused to be led off course."

At the memory of her words, tension in my shoulders unspooled. Kagome's logical assessment of the situation had brought me relief in that moment, and it brought me similar relief now. The power was in Kurama's hands, not mine. No way could a mere human being like me throw off the game of a thousand-year-old fox demon.

This was Kurama, after all. I could afford to speak frankly.

"I'm a feminist," I said at last. Kurama lifted a brow, uncertain of where the heck I was going with that statement. "As a feminist, I believe in choice and consent. I can't impose my will on anyone else without their consent. So, I guess…"

I dug a nail into the skin around my thumbnail, unable to escape anxious picking in this new life.

"I guess I'd probably ask them what they want. But I wonder, would the person I love want me to give up that precious thing to save them?" I asked. "I can't imagine someone who loves me asking me to make sacrifices for them. I'm not convinced they'd ever give me that choice in the first place."

"What if the person you were saving didn't know you were going to make that sacrifice?" came Kurama's immediate reply. "What if you kept it from them?"

I pointed at my face, deadpan. "Have you seen me? I'm a terrible liar. Face like an open book. I couldn't keep something like that from them if I tried." Dropping the hand, I resumed my anxious picking. My voice came low and slow as realization formed. "I think…I think I'd have to ask myself if my actions could cause them pain, before making a decision." I met his eyes, smile as helpless as it was an attempt at comfort. "I wouldn't want to hurt someone I love, even in the act of saving them. Does that make sense?"

Kurama nodded, though slowly, but he didn't say anything. I tried smiling again.

"Something's on your mind," I said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not yet." His eyes closed, lashes staining pale cheeks. "I'm still thinking."

When I nudged him in the ribs with an elbow, he jumped. I grinned, tipping a wink when his eyes widened.

"You know you can talk about problems with people before you figure out a solution on your own, right?" I teased. "Remember that whole 'asking for support and help' chestnut we talked about with the fangirls?"

"I know," he said, chuckling under his breath. "But not yet. Eventually—" The smile faded, replaced by a grimace that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Sincerity radiated from him when he said, "Thank you for listening."

"You have a funny definition of that word. I did more talking than listening," I joked, but Kurama did not laugh. He only ducked his head, eyes as distant as the moon overhead.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "but I appreciate your efforts nonetheless." He stood. "It's late. We should head back. Let me walk you home."

"If it's quicker for you to leave from here—"

"No. I insist."

He offered a hand, eyes firm. I took the hand, his skin cool and dry and smooth against my own, and let him pull me off the bench.

We walked home in silence, but it was a nice kind of silence. The unusually clear sky overhead brimmed with pale stars to guide our way through quiet city streets. Only once we made it back to my parents' restaurant did we speak.

"You let me know if you need anything, OK?" I said, stopping on the sidewalk to look at Minamino. His lips parted in mild surprise. "You have my number. Use it. I don't care about the hour."

Once again his eyes fluttered shut, chin ducking as he smiled to himself. When his eyes opened, they fastened on something over my shoulder. At that his smile deepened.

"A fitting choice to decorate your door," he said.

I turned. Next to the guardian Ebisu statue to the right of the doorway sat a pot brimming with pale pink flowers. Sweet pea. My mother in my past life had loved them, and had planted them in the beds out front every spring. Alas, I wasn't sure what they meant, or what observation of Kurama's they must fit.

When I looked to Minamino for an answer, I found that he'd already walked away, footsteps silent as a thief's against the pavement.

"See you in school," he called.

"Take care," I replied.

Green flashed over his shoulder—and then he walked around a corner and out of sight.

I went to bed wondering at the implications of those flowers, and what Kurama read in the fall of their petals in the moonlight.


That night, under the light of the near-empty moon, I had a dream—only it was more of a memory, but I wouldn't realize that until I woke up.

Ten years old and grumpy as heck, Yusuke followed along behind me as I trotted up the street toward the movie store. Only because I'd promised him ice cream (which he coveted even on chilly October days like these) did he come willingly on my errand. Joke was on him, though. This was an errand he should want to run.

"I can't believe you're this worked up over a stupid move," he grumbled.

Hadn't I explained this a hundred times already? Eyes rolling, I said, "It's the best movie in the world, Yusuke."

"How do you know if you've never seen it?"

He had a point and looked totally smug about it, dang it. So far as he knew, this movie had just come out. There was no way I could've seen it before. Little did he know it had been my favorite in my past life. He wouldn't look nearly so smug if he knew the truth.

"Whatever." I turned up my nose and stuck out my tongue. "It's going to be great, you'll see."

His turn to roll his eyes. "What's it called again?

"The Princess Bride."

Yusuke made a very impressive stink-face. "Keiko! That sounds girly and gross!" He rounded on his heel and marched back the way we'd come. "I'm going home."

Despite the insult, I was unable to take offense. He sounded just like the kid from the movie, who hated the title of the book and didn't want to give it a chance. And just like that kid, I was confident he'd come around if he could just sit still long enough to watch the damn thing. I was clearly the Grandpa in this scenario; the parallels were too hilarious.

"Pirates are girly and gross?" I called after him.

Yusuke stopped walking. I could practically see his ears perk up. He'd been on a pirate kick recently. If only One Piece had debuted in 1987…

"Sword fights on top of cliffs are girly and gross?" I went on. "Duels to the death with wits are girly and gross? Death by poison is girly and gross? Gigantic, man-eating rats stalking prey through a fire swamp are girly and gross? Battling giants with your bare hands is girly and gross?" With every sentence he turned toward me a little more, and a little more, until he faced me. I crossed my arms and tossed up my chin. "Hmph! If those things are girly and gross, then I want to be the girliest, grossest girl who ever lived!"

He scowled, skepticism undisguised. "Is all that stuff really in the movie?"

"All of that and more," I promised. "And you know I mean what I say."

Because I'd never broken a promise to Yusuke in his life, that was all it took to convince him. He darted forward, grabbed my hand, and pulled me down the sidewalk.

"Why'd they pick such a stupid title, then?!" he said, desire to see the movie on par with my own, now. "C'mon, Keiko, let's go!"

Too bad fate (or maybe Father Time) had conspired against us that day. The man at the video store (which rented and sold cassettes to the discerning customer) looked at us with brow hefted high, staring over the top of his magazine as if two goblins had suddenly appeared before him. I wanted to make a joke about David Bowie ("We're here for The Princess Bride, not Labyrinth!") but decided against it. No sense antagonizing the guy who held my happiness in his hands.

"Sorry, kids," he told us. "But I haven't heard of that movie."

"B-but—I know it's out in America," I said.

The man's brow rose higher. "America?"

"Wait, it's a gaijin movie?" Yusuke rounded on me, aghast. "Keiko, why didn't you tell me? I hate subtitles! I can't read the kanji!"

"Shut up, Yusuke," I snapped. Pasting on my very best small-child-in-need-of-assistance face, I implored the shopkeeper. "Look, its release date was September 25, 1987. I know it's out." I'd been obsessed enough with the movie that I remembered its release date down to the day. I'd been looking forward to showing Yusuke my favorite movie since I had been born (literally). There's no way I'd forget!

The shopkeeper's expression cleared. "Oh, well, that explains it. If it's still in theaters, we won't have a video copy in stock for a few months yet."

"But it's already a month after the release," I said. I'd delayed my inquiry by one month exactly for a reason. "Is that not enough time?"

"Sorry, kid. Video release takes time, especially for foreign films." I suppose I looked completely devastated (both at the prospect of the movie being delayed, and at the idea I'd made such a horrible miscalculation), because he grabbed a pen and paper and handed them down to me with a conciliatory smile. "But I can put your name down and call you when I get it, if you want."

The pen almost pierced the paper, I wrote my name and number down with such dedicated ferocity—but the call never came.

Over the course of the next six months I must have gone back to that shop two dozen times, and they never had it. They never heard of it. I made friends with the shopkeepers, always buying videos when I came around, but even they couldn't come through for me. My repeated visits played through the fabric of my dream in an unending montage of disappointment and frustration. The man behind the counter—kind and helpful to this lost little child—always promised to look, but he never managed to find the movie I sought. And I didn't have the internet to do my own research into why distribution was taking so damn long.

Eventually Yusuke tired of me dragging him to the video store. He stopped coming as I hunted my White Whale, and told me to get back to him once I found it.

I never did, though. Eventually I grew too busy with school, and searching became a chore. Eventually I forgot to keep up my search.

Eventually I just stopped looking.

It seemed my lucky second life was fated to go without The Princess Bride.


"Hey, Yukimura. Can we have that chat I wanted?"

Junko tapped her foot, standing in front of my desk with arms tightly crossed. I set aside the textbook I'd been reading and smiled at her. Her eyebrow shot up, impressive in its dexterity. I'd run out of the classroom the day before without giving her a chance to talk to me—had been eager to get home and get ready for my outing with Kurama, forgetting that she'd approached me at the shoe lockers earlier that morning. To her it must've looked like I was avoiding the conversation she'd tried to have with me about Yusuke. Time to mend some fences.

"Kaito told me what you wanted to ask yesterday," I said, and before Junko could cut in, I launched into an explanation. Yes, my friend had died. No, he hadn't stayed dead. He was out of a coma and not a ghost, or a twin brother, and yes, those guys had indeed fought Sarayashiki's #1 Punk, Urameshi Yusuke. Junko listened with wide-eyed amazement, too stunned to ask questions as I gave her Yusuke's cover story about incompetent EMTs, comas, and recent recoveries.

"That's crazy," she said when I finished, but only after taking a moment to collect her speechless self. "I mean, it's crazy! I was sure he was dead!"

"To be fair, we all were," I assured her.

But she was not comforted. She ran her hands over her ponytail and swore. "I even started pestering you about it—oh, man, I'm the worst." She stared at me as if trying to detect a lie. "But he's alive?"

"Yup. That's why I got defensive when you asked me about him the first time we met," I said. She lowered her head, embarrassed. "We weren't going public with the coma-thing at the time, and I'm a horrible liar, so…I just sort of snapped at you. Sorry about that."

"You had every right to snap," she said. "I'm the one who should be sorry. You were right. Prying into the death of someone's friend is…"

She trailed off, cheeks reddening. I waved a hand in dismissal.

"It's in the past. Shoganai." Folding my arms on the tabletop, I grinned at her and kicked her shin gently with my toe. "I'm glad you're asking now, though. He's about to come back to school. If you can spread the word that he's not actually dead, it'll save me from having to tell the story ad nauseam later on."

Junko blinked, then matched my grin with one of her own—and the addition of a smart, heel-clicking salute.

"Roger that!" she said with a toss of her bleached ponytail. "I'm on the case!"

"Use your rumor mill powers for good," I solemnly intoned.

"Gossip Girl, to the rescue!" she declared, and she struck a superhero pose.

We laughed—her from the absurdity of it, me from the accidental reference to a TV series that didn't yet exist in this lifetime. Something told me she'd approve of the series, though.

I just hoped she did what she said she would, and cushioned the blow of Yusuke's return so I wouldn't have to do damage control myself.


Kaito didn't spare any time for greeting. He looked up from his book when I joined him at lunch and demanded, "Have you see Minamino today?"

"No. I typically don't run into him until lunchtime, anyway," I said as I settled onto the stairwell windowsill. Below stretched the winter-brown lawn, patches of green beginning to emerge as spring sprung. The greenhouse perched at the edge of the lawn like a palace of jade.

"He wasn't in class," Kaito informed me.

"Oh, really?" I peered at the greenhouse, trying to catch a flash of telltale red through its tinted walls. "I wonder if he'll come to lunch."

"Perhaps it's best if he refrains," Kaito said. His book snapped shut between his hands. "I have something to ask you."

"What is it?"

"Are you comfortable around him?"

He spoke without any drama, as though asking a question no more interesting than the daily weather report. My lips pursed.

"Who, Minamino?" I asked.

Kaito scowled. "Obviously."

"Oh. Well, yeah. We're fine. Why?"

"You weren't fine when he first began sitting with us," he said. "That was also obvious."

For a moment I didn't understand, but then I remembered: I once had been afraid of Minamino. I mean, I still was in many important ways, but our relationship had definitely warmed past those first few weeks of chill suspicion. Kaito looked alarmed when I smiled at him, warm and with affection.

"I noticed that you never leave the two of us alone," I said. "Thanks, Kaito. I didn't have to ask or explain. You just saw that I was uncomfortable and took steps to make things better." When he looked away, cheeks coloring, I couldn't help but chuckle. For all the praise of his intellect, I got the feeling he'd never been complimented like this before. "You're a good friend, Kaito. I'm lucky to have you."

"You're welcome." He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger. "It's the least I can do to repay you for our lunchtime banter. But I have to ask: why were you uncomfortable around him?"

"He tried prying into my personal life. My dead friend, you know?" I said with a breezy wave of my hand. Kaito nodded at my explanation, a lie though it mostly was...but a lie that made sense. I certainly couldn't tell him the truth. "And then his fangirls saw us hanging out and started picking on me, and we got tangled up over stupid drama. Misunderstandings and stuff. It's better now, though."

He appeared to agree with that statement, saying, "You have seemed more at ease as of late." Another shove of glasses-up-nose, this time with a sharp jerk of his wrist. "Although I can't say I approve."

I rolled my eyes. "Minamino's not that bad, Kaito."

"I disagree," my bespectacled friend insisted. "He is a thorn in my side."

"Hey." I reached out a foot and shoved at his knee, teasing with a wicked grin. "Don't think I don't see how much you revel in the moments you and Minamino go toe to toe! Having him this close means you can look for weaknesses."

Kaito's lower lip jutted. I laughed.

"Admit it," I said. "Lunch got a lot more interesting when he started sitting with us."

Kaito's irked stared had teeth, but soon he shook his head. "As you know, I hate to concede a point…but you have one."

I beamed. He scowled.

"A small one," he said. With that he resumed reading. "Don't tell Minamino, or I will be forced to enact revenge."

"Heaven forbid," I said—but at the sight of his book, I set aside my joking tone. Squaring my shoulders and resettling myself on the windowsill, I said, "Hey, Kaito. I've been meaning to ask you something."

He looked at me sidelong, not bothering to lower his book.

"I need your literary expertise," I said.

That got his attention. Shutting his book with a snap, he turned to me and said, "I am happy to provide."

"You're happy to show off, you mean." I held up a hand before he could return my snark. "I was at the library looking at myth, folktales, fairy tales—you know. Um." Would he think I was juvenile for reading about such things? Crap! I scrambled to add, "They created archetypes for so many modern stories. It's interesting, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said.

My shoulders sagged, relieved. "OK, good. Do you know a lot about the subject?"

"I wrote two papers for a literary magazine on the subject, both of which were published to acclaim of my academic peers," he stated.

Of course he'd written papers on the subject. I stuck out my tongue. "Show-off! But that's really cool." He preened at my compliment. "I take it you know the Brothers Grimm?"

Kaito scoffed at my (admittedly stupid) question. "Obviously."

"Awesome." I reached for my bag and dug out the book Kagome had lent me: The Unabridged Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. Passing it to Kaito, I told him the lie I'd prepared ahead of time. "A librarian gave me this book and said it was actually missing a lot of stories, even though it says it's complete."

Kaito, in the middle of opening the book to the table of contents, looked up at me with a frown. I fidgeted in my seat. Kaito's frowns—while not as scary as Kurama's—were still a sight to behold.

"She named a few stories called 'Cinderella', 'The Frog Prince', and 'Snow White'," I said. "I was curious and tried to look them up, but I didn't have any luck. Do you know where I could find them?"

For a moment he did not reply. He opened the book to the first few pages and smoothed a hand down its title page. A smile broke through his thunderous expression, but only for a moment. Kaito went back to frowning soon enough.

"I used this compilation while writing my papers," he said, "and I can assure you, it's missing nothing."

He spoke with the matter-of-fact authority with which he described all literary matters—the tone of someone who knows exactly what they're talking about. I blinked at him, mute, until he closed the book and placed it on his knees.

"What?" I managed to blurt.

"It isn't missing any stories," he repeated, tapping the book's green cover with his knuckles. "This is the complete and collected works of the Brothers Grimm. If there are more, then my paper was based on incomplete source material, and my paper was reviewed by top experts in the field. If they didn't ask about missing stories, it stands to reason it's because there are none missing to begin with."

The logic was valid. This was Kaito we were talking about. Of course his logic was valid.

But valid though it was, it still did not make the logic sound. It still did not make it make sense.

There was no way stories as famous as 'Cinderella' didn't exist in this world…right?

"I'm…the librarian said—" I said, clinging desperately to my fabricated story. I felt capable of little else in that moment. "She said there were more—"

Kaito's dark eyes flashed almost amber when the light caught them. Voice like a winter wind, he said, "That librarian doesn't deserve her title, or her job, if she told you that lie."

I stared at him. He stared at me. Eventually he dropped our gaze and sighed.

"Yukimura," he said. "I value your company because you are well-versed in literature. I'm surprised at you, believing a lie like that one. I should think you did your research long before now on this subject." His lips thinned into a white line of irritated displeasure—displeasure aimed solely at me. "It is infinitely rare to find someone interested in literature, the most underappreciated of all the arts. I have never met anyone my age with an interest in discussing the finer points of literary theory like you do. Do not disappoint me by revealing you're more uneducated than I've been led to believe."

I frowned at that. Was Kaito—proud and protective of his status as a unique genius—puffing up his interest in literature as something…counter-culture, almost? But English and literature degrees were super common. I'd been to college with hundreds of kids pursuing them. I would know.

"It's not that rare to find someone who likes Lit," I said. I leaned forward and grabbed the book off his lap, feeling oddly defensive in spite of myself. "Sorry. I guess I should've done my own research rather than ask you for help."

If he heard the barbs in my tone, he didn't indicate as such. He simply stared as I idly flipped through the book's yellowed pages.

"Yukimura," he said. "Just how interested in literature are you?"

I looked at him and frowned.

"Is it a passing interest?" he asked. "From your passionate style of debate, I assumed you were invested."

I didn't appreciate the judgmental tone in his voice. "I am invested," I said. I didn't get a creative writing degree for nothing. "Literature is my favorite subject."

"Then you should know just how underappreciated a study literature is in this era," Kaito said, voice creeping up in his register. "You should be painfully aware of that."

I gaped. "What do you—?"

He cut me off. "How many literary PHD programs exist in this country?" he asked, tone climbing ever higher. "How many MFAs? How many undergrad courses?"

"I—I don't know."

"Then perhaps," he said, "you should find out."

I'd never heard him talk like that before—with so much emotion, barely-restrained and thrumming, held in check by the last vestiges of his willpower. He looked surprised, himself. Kaito slumped in his spot on the stairs, adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat as he calmed down.

But why the hell had he just gotten so angry?

"OK. Sorry, Kaito." I held up my hands in an I-give-up gesture. "I guess I just haven't been looking at colleges yet. I don't know what I want to major in yet, so…"

He just shook his head. "No. The apologies are mine." A rueful smile curled his mouth. "I forget not everyone is as single-minded in their passions as myself."

I nodded, accepting his apology. He stood up and wandered to the other half of the window, leaning against it to stare onto the lawn below. I shifted to face him, thigh resting on the sill.

"Story. Plot. The written word." He closed his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. "It speaks to me, as it seems to speak to so few these days. The decline of cinema. The decreasing output of novels. The decreasing quality, originality of novels." A sigh, deep and defeated, passed his lips. "If only we had the Greats back. What a pity, that they wrote so little in their time."

I stared at him, processing, reading the subtext. What was he even talking about?

Maybe if I asked…

"Who is your favorite among the Greats?" I said.

"James Joyce." An immediate reply, followed by a wry smile and a shrug. "If only he'd written more than Ulysses, the literary world would doubtless be a richer place."

His wording stopped me cold.

'If only he'd written more than Ulysses.'

"That's…his only work?" I grated out.

"Of course." He cracked one narrow eye, glowering. "You should know that, Yukimura."

"Yeah." I swallowed, thoughts running amok inside me. "Yeah, I probably should." When the thoughts ran too fast and too rampant, I hopped off the windowsill and shoved my bento into my backpack. "Sorry, Kaito. I need to go. Thanks for talking to me."

"If I ask where you're going, I assume you will not answer," he called after me.

"Obviously," I threw over my shoulder. I hopped down a few steps before turning back, pausing so I could say, "Oh. But, Kaito?"

He hadn't moved from the window. "Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of The Princess Bride? Either the movie or the book?"

"No," he said, brow knitting. "I haven't."

I turned from him.

I muttered, "That's what I thought."

That's what I thought—but I had no fucking idea what it meant to be right.


In the library that day, I learned more than I wanted to know. Much more.

In this world, James Joyce wrote Ulysses. He did not write Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. So far as I could tell, that book simply did not exist. His collection Dubliners also did not exist, and neither did Finnegans Wake—acclaimed books I'd studied in my old life, but ones I had not sought out in this world.

Why would I need to seek them out here when I'd already read them in my old life?

That day during lunch, I didn't just research James Joyce.

"Too bad the Greats wrote so little," Kaito had said.

Greats.

Plural.

Jules Verne wrote 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Nothing else. No Journey to the Center of the Earth. No Around the World in Eighty Days. No From the Earth to the Moon.

H.G. Wells wrote The Invisible Man. No War of the Worlds, though. No The Time Machine, either.

As for Dostoyevsky, the Russian-pain-in-my-ass I'd had to study in three separate classes in college? I couldn't find him at all. War and Peace, Notes From the Underground…stories never written.

Jane Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice.

That was it.

I looked for every author I could think of, all the literary giants who had written novels worth writing about. I saw the same trend repeated over and over again: they wrote one book, maybe two, but the vast body of their work did not exist. Myriad writers wrote one work, and never anything else—stories absent from the world like teeth fallen from gaping gums.

The question of why this was the case was disturbing, to say the least.

But even more disturbing was the question of how the hell I hadn't noticed.

How had I not seen this before?

I sat in one of the library study rooms with my head in my hands that day, surrounded by the complete works—the incomplete works—of authors I had once idolized. Their untold stories galloped through my head like racing horses, pounding against the inside of my skull as if to break free of its bone cage.

As a kid in this life, I hadn't sought out the books I'd read in my old life. They were old news. I'd already read them. I hadn't felt the need to read them again. What was the point of rehashing any more than my absolute favorite works (most of which existed, oddly enough)? In this new life of mine, I'd been much more intent on applying myself to new experiences. I was hungry for new information, new stimulation, new skills. I focused on Japanese literature because it was so new, and I was too unfamiliar with it to recognize if anything was missing from its catalogue—and besides.

I was living a story in this life. I was living an epic adventure, replete with magic and mystery.

What need did I have for novels when I was living a novel-worthy story of my own?

And I'd only been able to hang out with kids, in this new life. When they didn't recognize my literary references, I wrote it off as a product of their youth. My parents weren't big readers, either. It made sense that they didn't understand many of my references. And it wasn't like I talked much to my teachers. With them, I stuck to the syllabus. I stuck to the works they taught us—the works, few as they seemed to be, that existed in this world.

And I hadn't thought to broaden my horizons, because I assumed I knew what lay beyond them.

I assumed—and I'd been fucking wrong.

I'd taken for granted my knowledge of this new world, and put so much stock in knowledge of my previous world that I hadn't noted key differences in this one.

And that meant I hadn't seen the signs, even when they were right in front of me.

When the bell rang and I had to leave the library, I went to class preoccupied. I didn't pay any attention to the lecture. I stared out the window as the teacher droned on and on about something not nearly as important as this world's missing literature. Honestly, I felt sick to my stomach.

How had I been so stupid?

How had I been so oblivious?

How had I been so blind?

Apparently I wasn't good at covering my internal turmoil. Eventually my teacher called my name. I hadn't heard what he'd asked. Still, I rose to my feet, as was customary, and asked him to repeat the question.

My teacher narrowed his eyes. "Are you OK, Yukimura?"

No. No, I wasn't. But there was no way to explain that. I said, "Sorry. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You look pale."

I swallowed down bile, eyes sliding away from him and toward the window. "I'm fine. Could you please repeat—?"

I stopped talking.

A floor below, a flash of garnet caught the wintry sun as it moved across the courtyard. Familiarity struck through me like lightning. Without thinking I snatched my bookbag off the desk and started for the door.

Thinking about him felt much better than thinking about the cadre of missing stories.

"Yukimura-san?!" my teacher said.

"Sorry." My voice was a strangled grunt. "I need the bathroom."

Apparently my pale face and uncertain emotions were convincing, because my teacher let me go without further questioning. Must have assumed I was headed for the nurse. Instead I ran downstairs at a full sprint, into the courtyard in front of the school, wondering why the hell Minamino had decided to come to school so late in the day.

Too bad I never got to ask him.

By the time I made it to the school gates, Minamino—my one distraction from today's horrible revelation—had already disappeared.


"Keiko, honey, you're home early," Mom said as I walked into the restaurant dining room. For a second her face in the kitchen window looked happy at this prospect, but then her eyes alit on my feet. She frowned. "Are those your indoor shoes?"

I looked down. She was correct: I was wearing my indoor shoes from school. In my mad dash to see Minamino, I'd forgotten to exchange them for my outdoor shoes. Whoops. Stress had gotten to me. The walk home had passed in a numb blur—and I knew what that meant. I was on the verge of a panic attack, when I got numb like this. But I hadn't had one of those in this life, yet, so hopefully…

"You goose," Mom scolded.

"Albatross," came Dad's correction from the kitchen.

"Right, right, albatross," Mom said. At this hour, we occupied the brief lull between lunch and dinner rushes. She came out of the kitchen and walked toward me, concern etched into her features. "What's gotten into you, forgetting your shoes like that?"

"Sorry, Mom." My voice came out in a stressed rasp. "I wasn't feeling well and just came home."

Alarmed, she put her wrist to my head. She hummed. "No fever, but you look pale. Go rest." She squeezed my shoulder and smiled. "I'll call the school. Don't worry, honey."

"Thanks."

Grateful she didn't pry, I went to my room, curled up in my comforter, and threw myself across my bed. I didn't sleep, though. I watched the hands of the clock on my desk tick around the object's face, second by second, millimeter by millimeter. With every click I felt the knot in my chest coil tighter and tighter.

How had I been so stupid?

How had I not noticed?

And what did missing stories imply about the world in which I lived?

I lay in the same spot for two hours, sixteen minutes, and forty four seconds. I watched every second of that time elapse, haze of numbing anxiety rendering me incapable of movement. The questions ran through my head like a stuck record. Only when my phone rang did I flinch from my self-loathing stupor and sit up. Probably Kuwabara or Kagome, if I had to bet. Oh. Right. Kagome. Hopefully it was her. She should know about this. Maybe we could talk this through, and she could help me figure this out.

"Hello?" I said, wishing with all my might to hear her chipper voice on the tinny phone line.

"Yukimura?" said an altogether different voice. "It's Minamino."

I hesitated, doing my best to banish my disappointment. "Oh, hey. What's up?"

"…were you asleep?"

"No." My voice was just hoarse from anxiety-induced catatonia, that's all. I injected as much chipper sunshine into my tone as I could. "Just doing homework. Speaking of which, I missed you in school today. Do you need me to bring you any homework, or—?"

"Did you find them?"

I stopped. He'd spoken with the tightness of new braces, pained and stinging and deliberate—and I had no idea why.

"Find what?" I asked.

Minamino didn't answer. He stayed quiet. I could practically see him staring blankly at the floor through the phone.

"Brooding silence," I observed. "That bodes."

"Sorry." A sigh rattled through the phone. "Thank you very much for the invitation last night. I had a good evening."

"Me, too." A sense of warm happiness cut through my numb core. "Do you want to go out again, soon, maybe see if karaoke—?"

"I appreciate your generosity, but I won't be able to accept any such invitations in future."

For a second I thought I hadn't heard him right.

"Beg pardon?" I said.

"My schedule will be busy in the coming weeks, so I will have no time for a social life." Tone brusque, cool, and polite, he spoke to me as though we weren't friends—just classmates organizing our schedules, full on Minamino-at-school levels of impersonal civility. "I will not be able to attend lunch with you anymore, either. I apologize for this. Please understand."

"Wait." Numbness crept back in, drop by agonizing drop. "What are you—?"

"I'll leave you to your evening. Thank you again, and goodb—"

"Wait, dammit!"

He shut up when I snapped at him. I took two deep breaths, feeling my pulse take flight in my wrists like fluttering birds.

"Are you OK?" I asked, because surely something had to be very, very wrong to make him say such horrible things. "Did something happen?"

"Everything is fine," Minamino said, voice still tight.

My throat thickened. "Did—did I do something wrong?"

A pause. Then, softly: "You did nothing of the sort."

He sounded like a teacher placating a student—not like my friend at all. I couldn't keep the hurt from my voice. "I don't believe you." Surely I must have done something wrong, if he was saying we couldn't hang out anymore. "I don't believe—"

Another sigh. "Everything is fine, Yukimura-san."

"Well, you're not acting fine." Hurt gave way to frustration; I waved my free hand in the air, agitated. "And what the hell was I supposed to find, exactly? And why—?"

"I'm sorry, Yukimura-san," he cut in. It sounded like he meant it, too, velvet voice rasping with apology in the first display of real emotion I'd heard from him all night. "Thank you. Goodnight."

"Minamino!" I cried, desperate. "Minamino, wait—!"

But he had already hung up.


I went to school the next morning intent on interrogating Minamino about that phone call.

Before I got the chance, however, I found the gift he'd left for me.

Junko was with me when I found it. She whistled, low and slow through her teeth, as I opened up my shoe locker and beheld what lay inside.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," she said as I removed the bouquet. I didn't react to her teasing tone. Newsprint crackled against my palms as I held the object in my hands. "What kinds of flowers are those?"

I recognized two of the three flowers in the bundle: the crepe-like flowers with red-edged petals fading into white centers, and pale pink roses on long stems, soft petals hooding their yellow hearts.

"These are striped carnations and tea roses," I said, touching the relevant flowers. The final blossoms—twisting petals sitting upright and pointed atop their stems like curious rabbit ears—I didn't recognize. "Not sure about the last."

"Well, they sure are pretty," Junko said. "Who do you think they're from?"

"No idea," I said.

But that was a lie.

It was obvious these had been left for me by Kurama—and knowing him, they meant far more than a mere token of affection.

I had to wait until lunch—every second an axe of anxiety in my back—to head to the library and find a book detailing the language of flowers. Although it took a few moments to puzzle out their Japanese names, soon I found the meanings of the flowers he'd given me, and I learned their implications left unspoken.

The flowers tumbled from my hands when I realized the truth of this bouquet. My fingers pressed painfully tight into my lips, a cry of dread escaping in spite of my efforts to keep silent. I nearly dropped the book, too, but somehow held fast with trembling fingers.

Striped carnations meant, "I am sorry I can't be with you."

The tea roses meant, "I will always remember."

And the last flower—the flower I had not recognized at first—spoke the most damning word of all.

The cyclamens, with petals the color of crimson luck…the cyclamens meant "goodbye."

The numbness building in my chest—that horrible, pain-crackling nothing I'd been staving off since the night before—imploded when I beheld that word, typed in stark black lettering on the page of an unfeeling book.

The panic attack hit me like a crashing wave.

I just couldn't outrun it any longer.


NOTES:

In a new world, I really don't think I'd spend time re-reading books I'd read in my past life (aside from my very favorites, which NQK notes all exist for some reason). I would definitely prioritize new experiences, and thus not realize what's missing. Hopefully that make sense! Could be super relative to my perspective, though.

SO MANY HECKIN' THANKS, y'all! My return to this story was made super fantastic by your words of encouragement. You ROCK, and I'm so excited to continue this story with you. Many thanks to: xenocanaan, Counting Sinful Stars, tatewaki2000, BringOnTheChaos95, Yakiitori, rezgurnk, general zargon, EmmieSauce, wennifer-lynn, CrystalVixen93, Maester Ta, Guest (x6), Mr Jengablock, Freak Shannon-igans, Saria19, girlalmightys, RedPanda923, MelissaFairy, reebajee, buzzk97, FireDancerNix, TerrorTwinEpicness, WhoAmI2Judge07, LittleWesties9, DiCuoreAllison, Marian, ballet022, Miqila, La Femme Absurde, Corralinne, AkaMizu-chan, MikoSlave, delypanda, Yunrii, sousie, KaiyaAzure, Kaylamarie517, 2000kate, ahyeon, o-dragon, rikku92, FreshToDeath, EternalWanderer, and HereAfter!