Warnings: None
Lucky Child
Chapter 71:
"Life: A Mess"
Like an echo reverberating through the twists of a winding cavern, past promises came back to haunt me—and in their fulfillment another bit of the portrait that was my life became clear.
If by "clear" you mean "a total goddamn mess." Which I do.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Kagome answered the phone on the second ring and listened to my request in silence. "I mean. Sure, I'll stay home," she said when I fell quiet. I let out a sigh of relief, though I drew in a deeper breath when she asked, "But why don't you want me to come to aikido practice, exactly?"
"It's nothing you did, Kagome, I swear. It's just—" The phone's coiled cord bit into my fist as I gripped it a little tighter. "Kurama expressed interest in attending."
"Oh. Oh. Yeah, count me right the hell out, in that case." She knew as well as I did that we best not flirt with fate, gravity in her tone thoroughly appropriate. "So he'll be coming this week?"
"That's the plan." Keeping my voice very carefully casual, I said, "We're getting dinner at his house, first, and then going to the lesson afterward."
For a minute, I thought my plot had worked. "Oh, OK, cool," she said, calm and collected just like I wanted. "That sounds—wait. Wait. Wait a minute." And here she paused. Thought about it. And then her tone dropped low and devious, much to my horror. "At his house?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Kagome."
"At. His. House?"
"Keep it together, Kagome."
"At his place of dwelling?" she said, voice climbing high on that final word.
I heaved a massive sigh. "I see where you're going with this and I am going to cut you off right there and say this is perfectly normal, and not at all—"
"That is so cute!" she squealed.
I threw up my hands. "And there it is."
While Kagome launched into a babbling fountain of questions (and suggestions about what I should wear for the occasion) I sat on my bed and lay back against the decorative pillows at its head. She'd blow off steam for a few minutes before coming back down to earth—but me? I was calm, more or less, which might come as a surprise given my usual temperament.
After the recent incident with Amanuma and my near-breakdown, Kurama and I had resumed our weekly parole meetings like we had before Yukina's rescue mission in the mountains. Sense of normalcy felt good, reestablishing a routine forcing my internal mechanisms back into alignment. Kurama had been very careful to ask me about my mental state in the weeks that followed, encouraging me to vent when I needed it—but I hadn't. Needed much venting, I mean. Truth be told, I'd always thought of myself as a volcano, of sorts. Once I blew my top, the pressure abated and left me more or less fine for a while afterward. I'd been sailing along pretty steadily in recent weeks. Had come as quite a surprise to Kurama, I can tell you that much. After the sorry state of my emotions on top of that fire escape, I think he thought I was a woman made of glass, ready to fracture at the slightest provocation.
Which is probably why he approached the subject of meeting his mother with such hesitance.
He asked while walking me home from a parole meeting at the Lindy-hop venue, where we'd listened to that wonderful swing music played by a live blues band. He knew I'd be in a good mood after that, sweaty and abuzz with endorphins after dancing, lively and invigorated by the cold December air. Few flowers bloomed this time of year, of course, but I could almost smell the Viscaria that had once grown outside the café as we walked home side by side, hands jammed in pockets for warmth, breath puffing into clouds before us.
"Kei," he'd said. "I hate to ask—but I need a favor."
I didn't break stride. "Sure. Anything."
"Would you come to dinner with me this Tuesday?"
He spoke with care, like perhaps he'd rehearsed the words ahead of time, only that didn't make sense. Kurama knew my schedule. He wouldn't make this mistake. Brow lifting, I looked at him askance and said, "Sorry, Kurama. I have my—"
"Aikido lessons. I know." So he hadn't forgotten, then. He smiled, expression colored with the barest tinges of regret and—was that embarrassment, maybe? Hard to tell. "This is a favor in two parts, truth be told."
Something about his hesitance caught my feet, dragged them to a halt at his side. We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and faced each other, a few people behind us grumbling as they were forced to dodge around. Kurama paid them no mind. I tried to do the same.
Kurama said, "I'd like for us to get dinner, and then I'd like to join you for your aikido lesson."
"… oh." It only took me a minute to remember, and to grumble, "I did say I'd take you to one of those at some point, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did." A smile crossed his lips. "And my mother is becoming more and more curious about who I am spending so much of my time with."
"Your mother—oh." I started. "Oh. So this is a 'meet the parents' dinner."
He shrugged, but with the kind of precision one usually reserves for sashimi knife work. "I've met your family. It seems only fair you meet mine."
More of that precise speech, syllables clipped and refined. I shifted from foot to foot. Kurama watched, vigilant, probably looking for a signal I was about to turn tail and run or maybe have a panic attack. Whichever came first.
Instead I just thought about it for a minute, and then I nodded. "Yeah. Yup. That tracks." I took my hands from my pockets and rubbed them together with a resounding smack. "OK, cool. Let's meet Minamino-mom." I paused. Grinned. "Heh. Mina-mama." And then I frowned. "Mi-mama-no? Mama-mino?"
Kurama looked positively mystified. I put a hand to my chin, considered my options, and made a decision.
"Mama-mino, for sure," I said. "That's best. So would you prefer this week or next week or what?" A beat. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
He'd been staring with eyes most buggy; when I called him out, he shoved said eyeballs back into his face (metaphorically speaking) and coughed into a fist. Now it was his turn to shift from foot to foot while I watched, Kurama for once the bug under glass instead of me.
"Given your temperament, I thought there would be some…" Another delicate cough; a shifting of the eyes, a sly pull at the corner of his mouth. "'Resistance' isn't the word."
"Is 'nerves' the word?" I cheerfully supplied.
"I was going to say 'outright and abject panic,' but I suppose 'nerves' does preserve your dignity."
My eyes rolled of their own accord. "Ha ha, very funny. But nope, no nerves."
Kurama frowned, disbelief a black mark between his knit brows, but I just grinned and fell back into stride. He took up his place at my side within a moment, watching as I tucked my hands behind my neck and tangled my fingers in the hair at my nape.
"Honestly? I was wondering when I'd meet her," I said. "So I guess I've already done my worrying, and it was a long time ago." My lips quirked. "Though I am nervous about making a first impression, of course. Your mom's a sweetheart."
His lips quirked, too. "Of course you already know that."
"I didn't even need to cheat," I said, beaming, and in a fit of whimsy I reached up to gently pinch Kurama's cheek. With syrupy sweetness I intoned, "She raised such a sweet boy, didn't she?"
Kurama batted my hand away and rolled his eyes—but I'd like to think he looked pleased at the compliment.
Too bad I was the only person (besides his mom, of course) taking part in the upcoming Tuesday festivities who felt that way about Kurama. In the present, I sighed into the phone hard enough to send feedback puffing down the line. Kagome whined a little at the static; I apologized and kept on talking.
"I'm more worried about Kurama meeting Hideki-sensei than I am about meeting Kurama's mom, to be honest," I said. "Hideki isn't a fan of demons." Understatement of epic proportions, that. "I'm going to have to call and warn him first, make sure he's on good behavior."
"Oh god. Can you imagine, though?" Kagome said, equal parts horrified and entranced. "Those two getting into a knuckle-dust? I'd pay good money to see that fight."
"Well, in that case, want to sit in on the phone call to Hideki?"
An excited squeal preceded her proclamation of, "You bet I do!"
All truth told, I'm not sure if I wanted Kagome to eavesdrop on my conversation with Hideki to soothe her desire to see him fight, or to soothe my own nerves regarding the conversation about to go down—a conversation that did not promise anything pretty. I'd broached the topic of bringing Kurama to a lesson before, back when I was still wearing my cast and Hideki had taught me to throw knives, and he had been… "less than enthusiastic" is a euphemism for "utterly opposed," and I'm going to use it liberally here. He had been less than enthusiastic about the prospect; a near screaming match had transpired, in point of fact, and I had every expectation of a repeat performance of that event as I punched in his number and initiated the Keiko-Kagome-Hideki conference call.
Hideki answered on the second ring, as grumpy as usual. "What?" he said, like I'd interrupted him in the middle of a task of extreme importance and he resented it utterly.
But I didn't let that throw me; he always answered calls this way. "Hideki-sensei? It's me."
A pause. "Yukimura," he said, tone a fraction less hostile this time. "What is it?"
I took a deep breath. "May I bring a guest to this week's lesson?"
I expected the hostility to return with a growl and a snarl—but instead he sighed. He sounded tired, not aggressive, when he muttered, "We talked about this."
"I know."
"And you haven't changed your mind."
"No."
He didn't reply right away. I resisted the urge to peel the phone from my face and stare at it in confusion. Back when I'd asked to bring Kurama to lessons, Hideki had been appalled at the idea of me running around with demons—even demons living human lives. He'd said he trusted me to make my own decisions, yes, but he'd run afoul of too many bloodthirsty demons in his days fighting alongside Kuroko Sanada to trust them, even with me to vouch for them. The idea of associating with one of my demon friends put a foul taste in his mouth, he'd said, and the idea of teaching one fighting techniques it could possibly use on humans made that taste intensify.
… only now he wasn't yelling. He wasn't telling me I was stupid for trusting a demon, or giving me battle tactics and tips on how to handle the demons in my life. He just sat there quiet on the phone line, inscrutable.
I broke first, of course. Of course.
"I'll say what I said before, Hideki-sensei," I said. I squared my shoulders, even though he couldn't see, because the boost in posture injected a measure of confidence into my voice that I figured I could use just then. "This demon friend of mine, he lives as a human. He intends to die as one, too. And it would make me happy if you met him and saw that for yourself."
"… fine."
"Fine?" That time I couldn't resist peeling the phone away and giving it a shocked look, though I crammed at back against my cheek a second later. "Fine?"
"Did I stutter?" Hideki growled.
"N-no. But—"
"Don't be late." He did not try to disguise the sneer in his voice when he said, "And tell your… your friend to dress for the occasion."
The line went dead.
A moment of silence followed.
"… well, that was different," Kagome said.
"I—I really thought I'd have to fight harder on that," I said, staring blankly at the Megallica poster above my bed. "The last time was a bloodbath."
"He had time to think about it since said bloodbath, maybe?" Kagome said.
"Maybe," I said.
But in the days leading up to Tuesday, I couldn't help but wonder if Hideki's easy acquiescence betrayed some hidden motive, and if Kurama's visit to my aikido lessons was a good idea at all.
Hitch the duffel bag a little higher. Hold my Tupperware of tea biscuits a little closer. Deep breath in, deep breath out.
Knock on the door.
Kurama—well, Shuichi lived out in the suburbs, in a two-story house with a bit of a yard out front and a large cherry tree with branches skeletal from the winter season. A cute little house, to be sure, manicured evergreens flanking the front door like guards—and I wondered if in times of peril they might be exactly that, knowing Kurama, but as the sun went down over the tops of neighboring houses and a chill wind stripped past, the front door opened, and I didn't have time to ponder.
"Hi, Shuichi," I said.
His lips twitched at the human name, but he smoothed the expression in a moment. "Hello, Kei." He stepped back. "Please, come in."
The inside of the house was as cute as the outside, all awash in traditional Japanese décor and a cute little entry room complete with a shoe cubby. Beyond lay a Japanese-style living room, featuring a heated kotatsu with quilt, and complete with sliding paper doors and tatami mats. In a nook over in a corner I spotted a small ancestral shrine, incense trailing a single plume of smoke into the air. It smelled of herbs, but also of flowers, floral and pungent but light. A framed portrait of a young man sat at the foot of this shrine; he beamed, thick black hair and glittering black eyes the image of youthful vigor. My eyes caught on it, on the shape of the man's chiseled jaw and the tilt of his long nose. Something in the curve of his smile made me suspect it was Kurama's father, but of course I knew better than to ask.
"Don't be nervous."
I flinched. Kurama had snuck up on me, hovering at my elbow and murmuring nearly in my ear. His hands brushed my shoulders; I shrugged out of my coat, watching as he hung it on a stand near the door. He wore a button-up white shirt and jeans tonight—actual honest to goodness jeans, light wash and with that terrible high waist of the early 90s. Still, he somehow looked good in them, gentle light above the entry hall catching the garnet streaks hiding in his thick hair and coaxing them to brilliance. I flinched again when he caught my eye, a green spark in pale skin speaking of curiosity… and amusement, I think.
"I'm not nervous," I murmured back. I set my duffel bag next to the shoe cubby and tried to straighten my clothes, feeling frumpy next to Kurama's luster. "I'm—"
"You must be Yukimura Keiko."
Shiori stood in the middle of the living room, hands clasped over her stomach, watching me through her dark, liquid eyes like a deer I'd happened upon the middle of some deep woods. Hair worn in a low bun, skin like alabaster, the long neck of a soft swan, she radiated a sense of poise and elegance and gentleness that left me momentarily speechless—as did the odd sense of fragility in the lines of her neck, the curve of her thin fingers, the hollows in her cheeks and the glitter in her eye. She wore a smile, of course, and it touched her eyes and made them so very warm, but I found myself wanting to ask her to sit down, to take it easy. Maybe it was the lack of color in her cheeks, a holdover from her narrowly avoided death and prior illness. Maybe it wasn't. But I was very careful to return her graceful bow with one of my own and try not to show any shock on my face, much though I wanted to take her by the hand and guide her to the nearest chair.
This face—my actions had nearly killed this face, once, no matter how much Kurama liked to deny it.
Something told me that thought would be hard to get out of my head no matter how effective my first impression turned out to be.
"Thank you for coming, Kei-san," she said (and the combination of nickname and 'san' pulled my lips into a smile). "I'm Minamino Shiori, Shuichi's mother." She walked forward, steps light and short and nearly inaudible on the tatami, hovering like a curious bird at the lip separating the shoe hall from the living room. "It's wonderful to meet you. I've heard so much about you."
I shot Kurama a look of dubiousness, though one tempered with a sidelong smile in Shiori's direction—a joke to set the mood. "All good things, I hope. Never know with this guy."
She blinked, then laughed behind her fingers. A pretty laugh. A movie star laugh. No wonder Kurama's human body was so darn good looking, with a bombshell mom like her. She had the looks of an old-timey Japanese movie star.
"Yes. All good things," she said—and then some of her decorousness dropped. She hesitated, then grabbed my hand and squeezed it, eager smile bringing color to her cheeks at last. "I confess I've been dying to meet you. It's not often Shuichi talks about his friends, but he often talks about you, so I feel I've already met you, and—"
Kurama cleared his throat. Shiori cut herself off, ducking her head with a shy smile.
"I'm sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself." She gestured behind her. "Would you like to sit down? Dinner is almost ready."
"Sure," I said, and as I stepped into the living room I remembered my manners. "Oh—these are for you." Shiori took the Tupperware of tea biscuits, crunchy and sweet, from me with a curious smile. I explained, "They go well with both coffee and tea. I wasn't sure what you preferred, so I thought…"
Her smile, the enthusiastic one from before, returned. "I drink tea. And that was very thoughtful of you, Kei-san. I'm sure they'll be delicious." Another bow. "Thank you."
Aw, yeah. Keiko's baking skills score another victory!
We didn't linger in the living room, instead venturing through one of the paper doors and into a traditional Japanese dining room beyond it, one with a low table and seating cushions set upon more tatami. Shiori was something of a chatterbox, explaining she had inherited the house from a very traditional aunt and that she hadn't had the heart to update the architecture beyond the kitchens and bedrooms.
"The back yard is lovely," she said, gesturing for Kurama and me to sit at the dining table already been festooned with flatware and utensils. "Though this time of year it's rather bare. You'll have to come back in spring. My son has a green thumb; did you know that?"
"I've seen some of his handiwork, yes," I said, trying not to look like a cat with a canary in its mouth (Kurama, of course, looked as innocent as a newborn lamb).
She beamed. "Yes. You'll definitely have to come back in spring." Smoothing the front of her dress, she turned toward a door set on swinging hinges and put her hand against it. "I'll be right back, and we'll eat."
"Mother, would you like me to help—" Kurama said, but Shiori shook her head.
"Nonsense, Shuichi. Sit and visit with your friend. I'll be right back," she said, and she left us alone in the dining room.
"Well," I said once the door finished swinging behind her. "Just so you know your mother is the single most adorable person I have ever met in my entire life."
Kurama stared after her with a fond smile. "She is."
"Think the first impression went OK?"
He turned his smile in my direction. "I do."
"Good." I leaned back on my hands, giving my hair a little toss. "Not that I'm surprised. Parents love me."
Kurama shot me a Look that said he didn't doubt that, though he knew exactly why they loved me (I mean, I was closer to their age than they realized) and my parent-impressing expertise wasn't as impressive as I imagined. We both knew better than to discuss this out loud, of course. Shiori was only a room away, and she reappeared in short order carrying a series of dishes balanced on her thin arms. Kurama all but jumped off his cushion to help her bring them in and set out a veritable feast, and both of them scolded me in hilariously identical tones when I tried to lend a hand, too. Kurama took after his mom far more than he realized, I thought as I watched them set the table, and after a quick "itadakimasu" we dug in.
Conversation began slowly, tentatively, after that, the way it always does in a room full of people who wish to impress each other and put their best feet forward. Kurama wanted his mother to like me; I wanted her to like me; I could tell she wanted me to like her, too. The topics of discussion started with formal, surface-level fare: my favorite classes, where I grew up, my hobbies, things like that. Kurama stayed mostly silent, watching the interplay between myself and his mother like an observer of a tennis match, eyes moving back and forth between us in turns.
"Do you have plans for winter break?" Shiori asked as I took a drink of warm miso soup.
"Tentative," I said. "Most years we have a gathering for New Year's Eve—a small party. We didn't last year" (because Yusuke had been freshly hit by a car at the time) "but we're thinking of hosting again this year."
"That sounds nice," Shiori said, almost wistful.
"It is," I agreed. "It was just family friends for a while, but eventually it expanded to some of my other friends and their parents." I shot Kurama a sidelong look, smile tentative. "I was going to invite your son, actually, and you by extension."
She looked surprised, though I wasn't sure why. "How kind of you!" she said, hand spread across her chest.
"Yes, Kei," Kurama agreed—though he narrowed his eyes at me, probably not too happy I'd just invited his mother somewhere without asking first, but hey, she'd nearly died by my own damn hand and deserved to attend a party if she wanted to, so sue me. "How thoughtful of you."
"Shuichi would love to attend, of course," Shiori said (and at that Kurama's head swung toward her so fast he nearly gave me secondhand whiplash). She demurred, though, ducking her chin when she said, "I have New Year's plans of my own, unfortunately, but I will be there in spirit."
That was news to Kurama, apparently. "You have plans, Mother?" he asked, brow lifting.
"Yes." Her cheeks pinked. "Hatanaka-san is taking me out."
Kurama's eyes widened the barest fraction, but he recovered quickly enough to fill me in. "Hatanaka-san is the man my mother has been seeing lately," he said. He did not meet my eyes, idly fiddling with his chopsticks with one hand.
"Oh." I looked to Shiori with a girl-gimme-the-deets expression. "Cute?"
Her blush deepened. "Very cute."
"Nice." I winked and jerked a thumb at Kurama. "We'll gossip when this one's not around."
Maybe being stuck with a (seemingly) teenage boy for fifteen years had made her eager for female companionship or something, but she looked positively tickled by that suggestion, more than I'd expected. "I look forward to it," she said—and at Kurama's somewhat aghast reaction, like he had not counted on his mother and his best school friend somehow becoming buddies in their own right, she giggled behind her hand. "But enough about me. So tell me, Kei-san. What do your parents do?"
I think Kurama didn't want to give me another opportunity to befriend his mom, because he jumped in on my behalf. "Kei's parents own several restaurants around town, and many food trucks as well," he said, tone almost too smoothly casual to be real.
"Yes, the Yukimura Ramen line," Shiori said. "I've eaten there, actually. The food is delicious."
"Kei helps with their marketing efforts," Kurama said, and did mine eyes deceive me or did I detect a bit of pride? "She's been helping with the family business since she was a child."
Shiori looked impressed. "Is that right?"
"Uh. Yes ma'am." I nodded down at my plate. "The meal is absolutely delicious, by the way. You're a wonderful cook."
"You are, Mother," Kurama said, and at his earnest tone I used every last fiber of my willpower to resist teasing him for being such a little mama's boy. The utterly earnest look in his eye, sincere as a wedding vow, helped somewhat. He reached out and covered her hand with his when he said, "I'm glad you're feeling up to cooking again."
But Shiori just laughed. "You say that like it's a recent development. I've been feeling right as rain for some time now." She hesitated. "Kei-san, you know I was ill for many months last year. Shuichi tells me you came to visit while I was in the hospital, but I wasn't feeling well enough to chat at the time."
At first I thought Kurama had told a lie, but then I realized—nope. Just a stretch of the truth. I'd visited the hospital the night she almost died, the night we used the Mirror to save her. I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and nodded. "Ah. Yes. That's right."
She gave her son a look of heartfelt pride. "My Shuichi stayed by my side the whole time," she said, sandwiching his hand between both of her own, but the tender mother-son moment turned silly when she shot me a sly smile—and I was struck, suddenly, by the similarity of their features, the shape of their mouths and the way they crooked just so when either of them thought of a wry joke. Shiori wore Kurama's most devious crooked smile when she said, "Although it's no wonder he's glad I'm feeling up to cooking again. I'm afraid my Shuichi isn't the best cook."
A grin spread across my mouth. "Oh really now?"
"Yes." She affected a mournful sigh, though her eyes glittered with suppressed mirth. "He can make soup and cook rice, but…"
"Mother," Kurama chided, eyes shifting about the room at a rapid clip.
"… I'm afraid that is where his expertise ends." Her sigh bore the strain of lamentation. "Poor dear."
Hilarious though it was to see Kurama get teased by his mom (and gratifying as it was to learn Shiori had a sense of humor) I couldn't let this slide. Slowly I turned to Kurama, arms crossing over my chest while he fidgeted in his seat. "Well, well, well. You don't say," I said. "So the great Shuichi has a weakness?" The back of my hand touched my forehead as I pretended to faint. "I'm shocked. Shocked, I say!"
"He is quite good at almost everything, isn't he?" said Shiori.
"Honestly, how do you live with him?" I asked in a tone most rueful. "Him and that hair?"
"I do not know where he gets that hair, and what I wouldn't do for even a modicum of that luster," she sighed.
"Not for nothing, but if you let me near the bathroom, I will be spying on whatever conditioner he uses." I leaned my cheek on my hand, staring at him with a dreamy sigh. "Those locks of his."
Kurama, hands clasped tightly around his mug of tea, afforded the wall ahead of him a tight smile. "I am beginning to suspect this dinner was a mistake," he intoned.
"We're complimenting you, dear," Shiori teased.
"Yeah, we're complimenting you, dear," I said. Kurama scoffed at my repetition of the pet name, but I soldiered on. "You think I'd spy on just anyone's conditioner?"
Kurama took a long sip of his drink. "It would be arrogant of me to assume I am the only friend whose selfcare routine you find of interest."
"Have you seen my friends?" I asked. "Or looked in a mirror lately?"
"Your flattery is noted and also futile."
"Taking the identity of your conditioner to the grave, I see."
"I'm allowed my secrets."
"And am I allowed a peek in your medicine cabinet?" When he remained unmoved, I pasted on my best puppy-dog eyes and a pout that could make a toddler proud. "C'mon, Shuichi, I gotta know." But his stoicism didn't crack, so I reached out and flicked the edge of one glossy lock of hair lying on his chest. It swung back into perfect place, of course, pulling a sigh from my beleaguered mouth. "Such bounce. Such shine. You could be a spokesperson for something."
His mouth quirked. "I'm afraid my lips are sealed."
I turned up my nose. "Then I guess I won't share my cooking secrets."
That finally got a rise out of him. He set down his mug and looked at the ceiling, amusement hiding in the tilt of his brow. "Shall I propose a trade, in that case? My conditioner for the secrets of decent cooking?"
"Ooh, tempting." I shot Shiori a wink. "Your son might turn into a decent chef yet, Minamino-san."
I think the joke caught her off-guard, or perhaps the whole exchange with her son had caught her as such, because when I looked at her I found her staring—quite open-mouthed, in fact, though as soon as we made eye contact she tried to cover for it, jumping a little in her seat before smoothing her glossy hair. She had nice hair, for the record. Kurama had inherited much of his good genes from his mother, that's for sure, and she didn't take enough credit.
"That he might," she agreed—but then she bit her lip. "Although, Kei-san, I confess I brought up Shuichi's cooking for a reason. Truly, he isn't hopeless—his meals are always nutritious—but he told me you were the one bringing us dinner when I was ill." She allowed me no time to protest, performing a seated bow at the table, deep and long and low. "Thanks to you, I could rest easy knowing he was being cared for and could focus on his school work. I am in your debt."
It was a wholly unwarranted thanks, one that left me speechless—so of course I looked to Kurama for a hint. He just watched from the side, however, saying nothing and revealing nothing in his expression, features schooled into a mask of nigh expressionless scrutiny trained largely on me. Great. So he was doing his Cryptic Tactician Fox Routine™ and would be absolutely no help whatever. Fantastic. I swallowed and carefully folded my hands atop the table. One of my knuckles popped under my clasping fingers; I eased up the pressure and took a cleansing breath.
"I can't take all the credit, I'm afraid," I said, throat tight.
Shiori looked up from her bow with a curious frown. "Oh?"
"No. I only just started school at Meiou last winter, you see. Other girls at school began the meal preparations before I commenced attending. I joined in when those girls noticed that Shuichi and I had become friends." At that I smiled; Shiori should be thanking Amagi and Junko, not me. "They deserve most of the credit."
Shiori processed this. Kurama sat in silence, waiting. I sat in silence, too, wondering how much he'd left out—how much he'd neglected to tell his mother about Amagi and the others, not to mention why. He'd clearly talked me up before tonight, and without merit. Surely Shiori could see that now that I'd explained.
Or not, apparently. Her expression soon cleared, and she favored me with yet another of her earnest smiles. "Even so. Thank you for your help. It was a difficult time made easier for your efforts."
"Well." I shifted in my seat, not sure how to deflect this compliment I didn't deserve. "You're very welcome, I suppose."
And that was good enough for Shiori. She spent the next few minutes refilling plates and letting us eat, making sure I'd had enough rice and vegetables (there were a lot of them; I think Kurama had tipped her off that I didn't eat much meat) before resuming conversation.
"So you said you only recently transferred to Meiou?" she asked.
"That's right."
"Where did you attend before?"
"Sarayashiki Junior High."
She looked impressed again; I felt small and unworthy. "Shuichi mentioned you skipped a grade," she said. "But what prompted the change in schools?"
My hand spasmed around my chopsticks; I took a sharp breath. "Well—um?"
"I'm sorry." Shiori was a sharp one; she read the reaction for what it was, immediately looking to soothe. "I don't mean to pry. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
"Oh, it's fine," I said, just as eager to soothe in return. I snuck a look at Kurama, but he was busy studying the composition of the table and did not meet my eyes. Explaining the reason for my school transfer was never easy, but in the end I figured honesty was best. Looking Shiori in the eye, I said: "About a year ago, a friend of mine was hit by a car and it looked like he died." I held up a hand when she blanched. "He didn't, though. Die, I mean. The hospital just made a mistake and nearly cremated him. Which is arguably worse, in my book, but anyway. Um?"
Shiori's eyes had widened a little bit with every word, round as coins and getting rounder. Kurama looked up from his study of the table, staring at me in shock. Something told me he hadn't expected honesty in this matter, but oh well.
"Well, during all of that I was having a rough time coping and my parents thought a change of pace would do me well, so off to Meiou I went." At that point I took a leaf from Kurama's book, pun intended, and left out the part about nearly punching a teacher in the face at what was basically my adopted brother's funeral. Even so, Shiori looked stricken and quite unsure of how to handle my little anecdote, so I gave her an easy grin and threw out a nervous laugh. "My friend is fine, by the way. He's very, very alive, and the hospital paid quite a lot of money for nearly cremating him, which is… nice, I guess? But, yeah." I spread my hands, helpless. "Friend is alive, I'm at Meiou, and… and it's all good."
That ending sounded lame, even to me; I really needed to work on that story's punchline, turn the anecdote into a joke to cut the awkwardness of the whole affair. But since I hadn't polished that story yet, for a minute Shiori did not reply. Probably didn't even know how. Eventually she managed to say, "That's—well." She swallowed. "That's a very interesting story."
"Kei is a very interesting person," Kurama murmured.
His choice to repeat his mother's specific verbiage was not lost on me, given our history with certain words contained therein. I rubbed my forehead, grimacing. "Telling that story makes me look like a complete freakazoid, huh? Sorry about that."
Once again, Shiori was quick to soothe. "It's all right. Truth be told, I have a miraculous recovery story of my own. I haven't perfected talking about it yet, either, and your friend and I would probably get along." Her smile felt as nourishing as chicken soup as she reached for my empty dinner plate. "Would you care for dessert?"
I was as eager for dessert as I was a change in subject, on my feet and grabbing plates in seconds. "Yes—but please, let me help clean up."
She tittered. "If you're sure…"
Kurama tried to help, too, because he's a mama's boy and I will never not believe that to be true, but Shiori shushed his attempts to be helpful and led me from the dining room and into the kitchen—a surprisingly modern room with marble countertops and a large island, with a lovely range and set of stacked ovens my parents would absolutely salivate over. A cake sat under a glass dome on the island, white and yellow frosting piped evenly, but not perfectly. Likely homemade, if I had to guess. Shiori brought down plates and a large serving knife and carefully cut slices, and then she prepared the kettle for more tea. At the sink she paused, however, hands idle on the faucets as she filled the copper drum with water.
"May I ask?" she said, voice somehow clear over the sound of water striking the hollow metal canister. "How did you and my son become friends?"
I blinked, taken aback. "You mean, he didn't—?"
A bitter smile, one that did not sit well on her lovely features. "He's such a private boy," she murmured. "He doesn't tell me much. You're the first friend he's spoken of at length in… Well." She shook her head. "In a very long time, truth be told."
Shiori paused, a long breath expanding her chest in a slow swell. Maybe I'd suffered enough anxiety in my life to know the look when I saw it, but as she pulled the filled kettle from the sink and carried it to the stove, I read in the lines of her brow and in the coiled tension in her eyes a sense of overwhelming nerves. Her fingers shook around the kettle, almost imperceptibly, but the stove's knob rattled as she engaged the burner and blue flame burst to life beneath the teapot.
"I was stunned when he offered to let me meet you," she said. "It's so unusual for him, and I wondered…"
Shiori trailed off. She wandered away from the stove and back to the cake, idly turning one of the plates this way and that. I caught a whiff of lemon from the dessert, vanilla cutting the acidity with its sweet, round scent. She snuck a glance at me, and then another, trying to smile and failing when our eyes met. The plate clattered on the counter under her hand, porcelain ringing against marble like a tiny silver bell.
Words rang in my chest, too.
"I know I talk a lot, and I babble, and I seem pretty gregarious," I said, not quite knowing where I intended to go with that, "but truthfully, I keep to myself most of the time. Make no mistake: I'm an introvert who happens to be good with people, not an extrovert by any means." My turn to smile, confidence rising as I found my rhythm. "Shuichi and I… we made friends the way most people do, I think. We're a lot alike. So in the end—like recognizes like. And we found each other."
Like recognizes like. That old chestnut, back again. Shiori didn't know the history Kurama and I had with that phrase, but she considered my words with gravity regardless, nodding and rolling her lips together in contemplation. Eventually she hung her head, smile tugging the corners of her mouth.
"I see," she said. "My son—he's not accustomed to being understood. He rarely seems fond of anyone, and yet he speaks warmly of you. And you banter with him, even." At that she looked outright surprised, like perhaps she hadn't realized her son was capable of such a thing. "I am happy he has found someone who understands him."
"Me, too."
Another long look, measuring and fond. "He's always been mature for his age. An old soul, I've always said." Her smile deepened. "I sense much the same from you."
Shiori had absolutely no idea how right she was—how achingly, ironically, unequivocally correct her statement was, although she meant it in no way but metaphor. My heart ached, though I dared not let my smile slip.
Kurama was just in the next room, after all.
"My parents own a restaurant. Well, several," I said. "I've been involved in the business most of my life. I think I grew up a little faster than most as a result."
She nodded, accepting this as truth, but then her smile faltered. "I wonder what made my Shuichi—never mind." Shiori shook her head again. "He's never needed anyone to look out for him. Not even me. And that's why I was so happy when he said he'd made a friend." The lines around her eyes deepened. "He's been acting more his age lately, too."
I smirked. "That would be Yusuke's influence more than mine, I think."
"Yes, he's mentioned a Yusuke," she said, jumping on the name with interest. "Do you know him?"
"That's the friend of mine who nearly got cremated, actually. I grew up with him." I could only giggle at Shiori's surprised expression. "If your son is an old soul, Yusuke is a very, very young one. Like, infantile. But if there's anyone who could get Minamino to relax, it's him. And I think he's done a good job."
"And you've helped too, I think," Shiori said.
"Maybe." A happy shrug, bouncing and dismissive. "But as they say, it takes a village."
I wasn't sure I understood her smile, then, pitying as it was, nor why she put her hand on my shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short. You've done more than you know," she said—and then she pulled her hand away as the kettle whistle blew. She reminded me of Kurama again when she donned a flawless mask of good humor, earlier anxiety hidden beneath a cheerful chirp of, "Well, this cake looks delicious, doesn't it? Let's eat!"
The transition between her moods left me dumbstruck—but Kurama had learned from the best, I guess.
Or had Shiori learned that little mask-donning trick from Kurama?
If the former, Kurama had taken the technique and perfected it, because Shiori's cheer didn't last long. We took the cake back to the dining room and tucked in, resuming conversation over tea and dessert, but Shiori only asked me a few questions more before lapsing into silence. Kurama noticed, catching my eye with a frown, but I could do little more than frown back.
Frown, and worry.
Had I said something wrong when we talked in the kitchen?
I bolted my cake fast as a result, and then I did what I did best: I chattered. I chattered long and loud, filling the silence over cake with story after story, just random factoids and observations so we wouldn't sit there in awkward quiet. My parents were testing new menu items, I was excited to start taking German classes come the start of the new semester—and I was almost out of material when, thank my lucky stars, the phone rang in the kitchen. Shiori got up to answer it at once, and as Kurama and I had before, we waited until the door swung shut behind her before speaking.
"What's up with your mom?" I asked Kurama, voice low as I leaned over the table.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied.
We traded a long look, urgent but impotent, before the door swung open again.
"Shuichi? It's that classmate of yours, Kaito," Shiori said.
I gave Kurama a deadpan stare. "You and Kaito are on phone terms now?"
Kurama did not look pleased to be on said terms with Kaito. "He's been hounding me for my opinion on a certain paper. One I have no intention of reading." With a flex of lithe muscle he stood. "Be right back."
"Tell him hi for me!"
"No." A wry smirk. "Then he'll want your opinion on the paper, too."
Shiori watched Kurama go while I muttered and rolled my eyes, and once more she proved that no matter where Kurama had come from, he was very much like his mother. As soon as the door stopped swinging behind him, she practically flew to the dining table and sat back down on her cushion, hands braced on either side of her empty dessert plate.
"Kei-san," she said. "While he's gone, may I—oh, look at me." Shiori sat back in her seat, cupping her cheek in her hand, staring at her lap as she shook her head. "Every time he's out of earshot, I accost you. I'm like a schoolgirl fishing for gossip about my own son."
"Hey. I don't mind," I said on reflex. At her relieved look I added, "He's a private person. I don't blame you for trying to get the inside scoop."
And with that, the floodgates opened. She braced herself on the table again, leaning toward me across it, eyes supplicating as they bored into my own. "Keiko—my son. Do you think—?" Once more she shook her head at herself, vocalizing under her breath. "It's silly of me to ask. But… is he happy?" Her eyes flashed, vulnerable but intent. "He would never tell me if he wasn't. Ever since I got sick, he's been perfect—so perfect. But he's a teenager. Teenagers aren't supposed to be perfect." She bit something back. Reconsidered. Added: "I hope you don't take offense to that."
"Oh, I'm a mess," I said. "No offense taken at all."
She laughed, almost in spite of herself. "Good, good. I just… I worry." And the anguish in her gaze returned. "I worry if something was wrong, he wouldn't say anything. So please, tell me. Is he happy?" Words spilled from her lips in a torrent of justification, an attempt to persuade herself as much as she tried to persuade me. "He has friends now. He's doing well in school. But sometimes I catch him staring into space, and… I just don't know sometimes." Her knuckles pressed against her mouth for a moment, until they turned white. "He's so difficult to read, so secretive. I want to respect his space, but…" She searched my face. "Is he…?"
Is he happy?
That's all she wanted to know.
Not if he was a fox demon. Not if he was actually older than he looked. Not if he had secrets, which she clearly suspected he did. All Shiori wanted, in all the world, was to know if her strange, distant son was happy—and she didn't think she could ask him herself, for whatever reason.
This was the reason for her anxiety, her sudden depression, her distance. She was worried, and she didn't see a way out of her worry until that phone rang and she found herself alone with me, a stranger.
A stranger who'd nearly killed her, once, though she didn't know it.
I knew it wasn't necessarily my business to get involved here, nor to become Shiori's confidante and spy when it came to her son. But the look in her eye, and the way her hand reached blindly across the table as if to capture my own, as if to seek comfort from my fingers—in the way she pulled her hand back at the last second as if she feared she'd overstepped—
My heart broke, and I owed her. I reached out and took Shiori's hand. She gasped a little, startled at the contact, but I held on tight.
"I'm nosey," I said. "If he's not happy, he won't be able to hide it for long. I promise."
The desperation in her face softened. "I admit that's comforting." But then it returned, darker than before. "I admit, there are days when if I didn't know better, I'd say he's…" She looked away. "It doesn't matter."
"No," I said, holding her hand a little tighter. "What is it?"
She hesitated—but like water from a weary dam, the words poured forth. "There are days I think he's seen more than any child his age could," she said, and in her eyes shone the light of great relief even as they swam with sudden tears. "It's the look in his eye—that far-off stare. My father would wear it before his death, when he thought I couldn't see. When he remembered long ago, and forgot the here and now." Air trembled in her swanlike neck. "I know I'm being fanciful, but…"
"You're not," I said, throat turning thick, myself. "You're being honest. And those aren't the same thing."
She required a moment to compose herself, then. From in the kitchen I heard the murmur of Kurama's voice, soft and low as he spoke with our classmate. Shiori blotted her eyes on her sleeve and corrected her posture, squeezing my fingers. They were cold, at least at first, but soon they warmed a little.
"I'm glad for you, Kei," she said. "I'm sure Shuichi is, too."
"Well, he ought to be." I opted for a show of comical bravado and tossed my hair, smirking smugly for her benefit. "Not to brag or anything, but I'm pretty great."
My audacity knocked her for a loop, but she recovered and laughed from deep in her gut—a pretty sound, as pretty as her earlier tinkling giggle. I grinned wider.
"My name might mean 'lucky child,' but c'mon. Let's be real," I continued with more overwrought self-assurance. "He's the lucky on in this scenario. Not to mention all the friends of mine I've introduced to Shuichi are pretty great, too, so." A wink, conspiratorial and full of it. "That boy of yours hit the jackpot."
"Lucky boy, indeed," Shiori said through her laughter. "He's in good hands, I can tell."
"That he is. And I'm not—ah." It felt like the cheesiest thing in the world to say, but I took a deep breath and said it anyway, even if it made heat rise just a little in my cheeks. Looking at my hand clasped around Shiori's, I said: "These hands aren't letting go, I guess you might say."
In return, I felt her fingers lace tighter around my own.
"I appreciate that," she said.
We sat in silence for a moment—a moment that stretched to two, then three, and then Kurama came back through the kitchen door. We pulled our hands apart, but his green eyes missed nothing and fastened intent upon my face. I just grinned, though, sunny and without guile.
"Everything settled?" I said.
"Yes." Sly amusement curled his lips. "He thinks I've read that paper."
"How'd you manage that?"
"I let him talk first. He enjoys doing so, after all."
I eyed Shiori. "He tell you much about Kaito yet?"
"No," she said.
"Oh." I geared up for a comedy routine. "Well, allow me!"
By the time I was finished with my impression of our grumpy, literature-obsessed friend, Shiori was in stitches—and when we left for the night's aikido lesson, the last thing I saw as we walked out the door was a smile on her face, illuminating her dark eyes and alabaster skin like moonlight on still water.
I only hoped that tranquility might last longer than this night, and perhaps our talk, short though it had been, would bring her comfort less ephemeral.
"So your mom is pretty great."
Kurama nodded, not breaking stride as we walked down the road and away from his house. Lights burned in the windows at our back; doubtless Shiori watched our progress down the street from one of them, but neither of us turned to look. We had a lesson to get to, and Hideki-sensei did not approve of tardiness—not that I thought we'd be late. The wintry air put a quickness in the step, burning at my cheeks and chasing me back indoors.
"She is," Kurama agreed. "I'm glad you think so."
"Mm-hmm. Think she liked me?"
"I do. You were charming."
I fist-pumped, mimicked a crowd going wild with my voice, but Kurama only smiled for a moment at my antics. A look of determination settled across his features, undeniable as the cold chilling my bare nape.
"May I ask—did my mother have much to say while I was gone?" he said.
And of course he asked. I'd called myself nosey, but gotta-know-it-all Kurama took the cake. I shoved my hands in my pockets and nodded. "She did."
He look satisfied. "I had a feeling she would ask questions if I left the two of you alone."
I frowned at him, at that 'told you so' expression on his face. "Well, she cares for you. That's natural for a mom."
"Of course." That too-casual sound crept into his voice again. "What did you talk about?"
"Oh. You know." I shrugged, enjoying having the power for once. "This and that."
Only Kurama didn't seem nearly as excited by my acquisition of leverage. "Kei," he said, my name full of warning in his mouth.
"She expressed herself. I validated her feelings," I said with another shrug. "She asked questions. I answered them in ways that would bring her comfort."
"Spare me no detail," he deadpanned—and wow, sarcasm from him? That was unusual. Dry humor, sure; detached understatement, whatever; but outright sarcasm? That wasn't normal. So why—?
Oh.
My feet stilled beneath me, pulling me to a halt on the empty suburban sidewalk.
"Is that why you brought me to dinner?" I said.
He stopped, too, brow climbing high. "Beg pardon?"
Despite the question in his face, I saw guilt, there, too—mostly admission of it. "It is. Wow." My jaw dropped. "The two of you really are related."
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothing. Just—" I started walking again. "You're your mother's son, that's for sure."
Kurama fell into step beside me. "I failed to inherit Shiori's better qualities, I'm afraid."
"Disagree. But I get the sense you'll be stubborn about accepting compliments, so I'll just say you definitely inherited her indirect streak."
"I don't follow."
Once more I stopped, this time with an annoyed huff and a pronounced scowl. "You said you thought she'd ask me questions about you. Did you let us be alone together on purpose?"
"I could not predict Kaito calling," he said, as though I were not particularly bright for making that suggestion.
But I knew Kurama too well. "That's not a 'no,'" I observed.
"Are you suggesting I somehow planned his call?" Kurama said, guileless as a spring day.
"Sure. Dodge my question." I'd never get a straight answer out of him; he knew it, I knew it, and we both knew we could verbally spar until we were blue in the face and this was pointless—and indignation rose up hot in my belly, both at the memory of Shiori's desperate face and at Kurama's mild mask. Stepping back, I spread my arms wide and dipped a frilly bow. "Well, then: Allow me to cut right to it." And with that I looked him dead in the goddamn eye. "You'd much rather play a game of social chess with your own mother than ask her outright what she thinks of you. Instead you sent me to be your spy. And she waited till you left the room to give me the third degree, rather than just talk to you directly herself." I looked him up and down with a low, appraising whistle. "You're quite the pair, I gotta say."
Kurama bore my analysis with composure, though a subtle twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed him. "Perhaps we're more alike than I thought," he murmured when I was through, "but I didn't invite you here tonight merely to use you as my spy. I wanted you to meet her." He stepped toward me when I scoffed, gaze focused. "Sincerely, Kei. You are both important to me."
"Yeah. Well." I shifted my weight a few times, swiping my hand over my mouth and avoiding his gaze—trying not to smile all the while. Damn jerk and his sweet talk. With a sigh I finally admitted, "That makes me feel a little better… but you did suspect I'd get you some dirt on her, didn't you."
It wasn't a question and I didn't bother phrasing it as such. Kurama knew better than to deny it, too, so he just smiled. "Maybe a little," he said.
I slugged his shoulder, triumphant. "Knew it. OK, then." I took a deep breath. Told him: "She suspects you're not happy."
Kurama stilled.
Whatever he'd expected me to say, that wasn't it.
"Your mother thinks you're a study in contrast, really," I continued. "She understands you're a private person, but she wishes you'd let her in. She said it's not often you're understood, and it worries her. She said you behave too perfectly for a teenager, and that that behavior doesn't make sense."
Kurama's feet moved under him, squaring up as though he meant to launch forward, or perhaps flee backward into the night. I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure if I should keep going or quit while I was ahead—but the urgency in his eyes did not leave room for hesitation.
"She said sometimes you carry a look in your eye that reminds her of her father, when he was an old man, when he looked back on the past and forgot to live in the present," I said, soft as the cold night breeze rustling Kurama's hair. "She called you an old soul, not knowing how right she is. Your mother is confused by you—and yet, Kurama, she understands you better than she realizes. And this confuses her even more."
Kurama didn't move when I finished. I didn't move, either. I waited for him to react, for him to pass a hand down his face and cover his eyes. "I see," he said from behind that barrier, where I could not reach him, even though he stood no more than an arm's mere length away.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"… I don't know," he admitted.
We stood there for a long time—a long enough time for my watch to beep an alarm, the "get up and go" alarm meant to warn me I was running late. Kurama let his hand drop; I slipped my arm through his, pulling myself into his side as I guided him down the sidewalk. At first he stiffened under my touch, but after a moment he relaxed and I sank a little closer, hand curling around the breadth of his bicep. Our breath mingled in a cloud before us, a ghost preceding our steps through the evening dark.
"Do you ever imagine what it would be like to tell her?" I murmured.
Kurama did not have to ask me what I meant. "No," he replied. But then: "Yes." And then he sighed, breath heavy with emotions I could not name. "I don't know what that kind of world would look like."
"Me neither." We came to a stop at a crosswalk; my temple rested briefly against his shoulder. "But I bet it would be nice."
His reply was almost inaudible. "I'm not so sure."
"She loves you."
The numbers on the crosswalk counter flashed down, descending toward zero one by one. The lit up in red, each flash illuminating the highlights in Kurama's hair. I saw because when I said that, he pulled back, staring at me with mouth parted, stunned. I sighed. Ran my free hand through my hair and cursed.
"Yeah, yeah. People in Japan don't say it much, I know," I grumbled, "but I'm an uncouth American at heart, and I'm going to tell it to you straight. Your mother loves you—and she'll love you no matter the origin of your soul."
The uncertainty in his eyes quieted. "It's not that simple."
"I know," I relented. "It's not that simple—and yet, it is." It was hard not to think of my own parents waiting for me at home at the ramen shop, unware of the truth of my own nature. "You should be honest with the people you care about. I know keeping secrets might keep her safe, but it might bring her some comfort to know that you're…" I stopped. Took a breath. "That she's…"
Words failed me, but Kurama did not look confused. The resignation in his eyes said he understood—understood me completely, words left unspoken no barrier to our shared comprehension.
Like recognizes like, I'd said to him once.
Like recognizes like, I'd repeated to his mother.
And now, a third time, like recognized like in a moment of silence, when words could do nothing but obscure.
The wordless weight of what I meant lingered heavy between us. Eventually the crosswalk timer beeped. Kurama looped his arm through mine again, tugging me once more against his side.
"I was rambling," I muttered. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he muttered back. I heard the smile in his voice, even if I didn't look up to see it. "Our lives are complicated, aren't they?"
"We're teenagers," I said. "Our lives are supposed to be a mess."
Somewhere, out there in the dark, I got the feeling Shiori would be happy about that.
We changed our clothes in the train station bathrooms—or at least I did. Kurama stuck to his jeans and button-up, eyeing my spandex workout pants and gi shirt with approval while I eyed his ensemble with outright skepticism. "Think you can move in those pants?" I asked, with a pointed glance at their form-fitting contours, but he just laughed and said not to worry about him. Fuckin' mom jeans, but OK, it's your funeral, I'll save my worry.
Hard not to worry, though, when a cantankerous, demon-hating sensei of mine waited in the wings to criticize everything Kurama did wrong, small or large or anything in between, but oh well!
When we reached the warehouse distract housing Hideki's makeshift dojo, I told Kurama to wait outside a minute, which he did without complaint (he needed to tie his shoe, anyway, a handy excuse in case of listening ears). I'd warned him about Hideki well ahead of time; Kurama knew of his prejudice regarding demons. "You need not worry on my account; I can handle him, and myself," he'd assured me in his soothing, silken voice, but I wasn't taking any chances. Taking a deep breath, I stood under the flickering floodlight illuminating the warehouse door and steeled myself before hauling it open with a clatter, striding in intent on finding my sensei and telling him on no uncertain terms to be-freaking-have himself, or else.
Hideki beat me to the punch.
I saw him coming at once, walking toward me like a drill sergeant just as soon as the door shut behind my back. I opened my mouth to greet him (and to greet Ezakiya warming up in the corner) but he was on me in moments, hand firm on my elbow to steer me into the nearest corner behind a row of practice dummies, most of whom were missing limbs, patchwork and broken. I whined something about being manhandled but Hideki shushed me as we cloistered away in the shadows like a couple of wannabe ninjas.
"I thought you said your friend was a demon," he said, rounding on me like a scarecrow cursed into gangly life.
"Uh. He is." I looked my teacher up and down, at his wild grey hair and thin, drawn face and thunderous black eyes. "Why—?"
"He's good at hiding it," Hideki grunted. "Too good. I didn't sense him at all." He leaned toward me, narrow eyes wide for effect. "At. All."
"I mean. Yeah? He's very skilled, I guess?" I leaned backward and away, thoroughly put off by Hideki's intensity and proximity and wait just a goddamn second. I put up a finger, mouth working around air as I put the pieces together. "Wait, wait, hold up. My friend is still outside."
Hideki scowled. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about my demon friend," I said, whispering the last words through my clenched teeth. "I left him outside and was coming in to warn you he was here, but if you can't sense him, how did you know he was even here?"
Hideki stared at me like I'd sprouted tentacles from my nose. "Yukimura, your friend isn't outside. He's in here." And with that he leveled a single wiry finger over my shoulder. "Unless you don't know that boy over there?"
Nonplussed, I stared at him.
Flabbergasted, I turned around.
That's when I spotted him.
And that's about the same time he spotted me, too.
He stood in the center of the training mat doing stretches, clad in a school gym uniform in lieu of a martial arts uniform. He wore no shoes, and his short blonde hair glittered in the fitful lighting of the dingy warehouse. Blue eyes lit up bright when they spotted me; one hand raised in greeting, and when his voice called my name across the dojo's cavernous interior, my stomach dropped into the pits of my hollow heels.
"Sorry I didn't call first, Captain," Minato said, "but I was hoping your offer of an aikido lesson still stood."
I didn't—couldn't—say anything.
Behind me, with a shriek of rusted hinges, Kurama opened the warehouse door.
NOTES:
Some of you thought meeting Mom might be Kurama's request; kudos to y'all!
Not feeling great today. Hope you liked this. Many heartfelt thanks to those who took the time to leave a comment last week. This chapter is for you: Scattered Kaleidoscope, C S Stars, Miss Ideophobia, Laina Inverse, MyMidnightShadow, buzzk97, TW2000, Eden Mae, Blaze1662001, Viviene001, Just 2 Dream of You, Speckled One, Guest Starring As, tsaurn, xenocanaan, Kaiya Azure, Marian, DiCuore Alissa, Lady Ellesmere, zubhanwc3, rikku92, shen0, AnimePleaseGood, MetroNeko, Raylita, KannaKyomu, yofa, almostNEET, ahyeon, KhaleesiRenee, Music of Madness, Sabo-Writer-Princess, OTrizy, Yakiitori, heater, Tay, KitsuneWho, RedPanda923, and guests.
(Also huge thanks to all those who went and read my Cowboy Bebop fic, which I mentioned last chapter. I bawled. Review replies forthcoming.)
