Disclaimer: All rights belong to Tachibana Higuchi; the poem mentioned in this chapter belongs to its (amazing) rightful owner, E. E. Cummings.


Chapter Four: Parental Criticism, Barren Bedroom


"When did you say the acceptance letters would be sent?"

"Before January fifteenth."

"All of them?"

An exasperated sigh whistled through a pair of lips. "Mom, we've gone over this already."

"Natsume, that is not how you talk to your mother."

The raven-haired teenager glanced up from his physics textbook, seething at his father's bespectacled figure across the dining table. Suppressing another complaint, he muttered, "Alice U is January 15th," he emphasized. "Harvard, Princeton, and Yale early admission should be next month – Columbia too; local college acceptance arrives mid-February.

"I'm sorry dear; I could not catch the last part."

Natsume bit his bottom lip, gripping his textbook; he knew this was coming – it was on a daily basis that they broached this conversation. He knew that his mother purposely – no, deliberately – asked him to repeat said statement. His parents had argued, questioning him time and time again why on earth he would apply to the local county college.

"Natsume?" his father prompted.

"Father," Natsume returned shortly. Inhaling slowly, he repeated, "The local college will release acceptance notifications before, or around January fifteenth." He wanted to add There, happy?

It was only his father's superior gaze that prevented him from doing so.

Somewhere in the room, a vibration indicated either an incoming call or a text message.

Natsume glanced at his own cellphone – No, it wasn't for him; his screen was the same dark reflection of scratches and devious cracks. He looked up in time to see his father shuffle through his own papers and binders before fishing his phone out of the incoherent mess of paperwork and ink pens.

"Hyuuga speaking – Yes, Takahashi Hyuuga," he said flatly. "No – Ye-No, I'm sorry?" Natsume's father nodded into the receiver, noises of disapproval or approval emerging from his throat occasionally. "I see. Call me if you need assistance."

Natsume continued reading his textbook. Right hand holding a yellow highlighter and cap lodged between his lips, he swiftly underlined several words before jotting a few notes in a leather-bound notebook.

Avogadro's law:

Under the same conditions of temperature and pressure, equal volumes of all gases contain equal number of molecules.

In other words, V ÷ n = k is the mathematical equation for Avogadro's law.
V represents the volume of the gas(es)
n is the amount of substance of the gas
k is the variable of a proportionality constant

ideal gas constant has the same value for all gases

It was simple. These pieces of information filed themselves into the multiple compartments of Natsume's brain. But oh, there was so much more. To him, the Ideal Gas Law was but an equation; to him, the Molar Volume was the simplified, bookmarked version of a numerical and variable-filled equation.

"Natsume."

The studying teenager looked up, an unintentional scowl creasing his brows. Distractedly, he said, "Yeah?"

Takahashi Hyuuga nodded. Glancing at his wife whom was currently busy at the stove, he returned his gaze to his son. "Your mother and I," he began, "Have been thinking, wondering. You have been acting up unnecessarily."

Natsume stiffened visibly. What now? he wondered. Allowing his ballpoint pen to fall loosely against his notebook, he looked up, spine ramrod straight. He stared at his father, his heart palpitating in his ribcage as it threatened to suffocate him. His breathing turned shallow, his head faint. Quickly – almost too quickly – his ears plugged themselves and his hearing turned fuzzy. Impossible, no it—

"What is the matter, dear?" his mom had noticed his change in behavior and had come up behind him, brow creased with worry. She placed both hands on his shoulder soothingly, as if she was attempting to coax an answer out of him.

No of course, they couldn't possibly know. No one did. Almost no one knew. He wasn't a toddler anymore; it took more than a few words to coax more than a few words out of his mouth.

Denial – that would be the answer.

He craned his neck and turned around. "Nothing is the matter, mom. You are worried over nothing." Natsume bit the insides of his lip; trembling uncontrollably, he forced himself to reassure his worrying mother – worrying did her no good.

"He is no longer a child. God forbid you treat him like one."

Natsume grit his teeth. Fear replaced itself with an irate heat that only the gradual spreading of a kindled fire could explain. His jaw bone cracked, and he settled for holding his tongue with his teeth in a physical manner. Blood.

"—and he can continue brooding until the end of his days, if that is what he wants. Son," his father said sharply, "has your mind wandered? Are you listening?"

Natsume remained silent. Where his hands lay clenched to his hands were now replaced with limp arms; his eyesight, unfocused stared at his father's figure, who was still sitting across the table in an unnervingly calm voice. Slowly but steadily, insults were hurled at his face.

It's almost as if he knows.

Natsume tuned out. It did not sit well with him, his father's eerily calm demeanor – it was as if his father knew something, knew everything, but not a single muscle in his wicked body gave it away. It was as if his father enjoyed it, when his own son at on the cushion of the wooden chair and the older man taunted his well-kept secret. He felt his mother's protective presence behind him, defensive until the very end.

But this—if this was how his father expected him to give in, to speak, to cave, to say anything he himself wasn't willing to say, then the older was wrong, dead wrong.

This was his secret, and it was up to him when, how, and if he would ever reveal it.


The room was a brilliant white. It was not cozy; it wasn't welcoming; and it wasn't warm, but in a contradicting manner, it did not intend to rebuff any creature from entering, and oddly, it was not at all cold.

The room – it was just, a room.

Wherein bedrooms would often be expected to radiate of warmth and welcome, this was not the case of Natsume's childhood bedchamber.

It was simple, barren, and plain. Not a speck of dust was capable of being seen with the naked eye; not a single item was misplaced; nothing in the sterile room gave off the character's personality and tendencies whatsoever.

It was a room that was designed to be slept and studied in – nothing less, and nothing more.

But to the tumultuous clash of feelings that lay dormant under the whiteness of the room, there was much to be told, much to be said, and much to be discovered.

Natsume himself sat at the foot of his waist-height bedstead. Legs bent at the knees, he remained motionless, a pen dangling from between his fingers. He shoved the book off his lap, too distracted to make sense of the endless text on the pages. As it slid with a thud onto the bedspread, he heaved himself into a standing position and walked to a drawer.

Fingering a thin sheet of paper, he held the piece of material as if it were gossamer before sitting himself on the floor. He could bear the softness of the snow-white comforter no longer.

He held in his hands a short, simple poem. It was deliciously masterful, written with poise, and yet the words were adeptly framed in substantially veiled fragility. In his brief, peaceful conversations with his father – even mother – he would allude to E.E. Cummings's easily understood i carry your heart with me.

Unlike Cummings however, Natsume had no heart to carry – in a metaphoric sense or a physical sense. Against all rules of science, he understood why, but simultaneously, the solution to this equation baffled him beyond words.

It would be an impossible feat, to voice himself to his parents; it irked him, just the thought of communicating the impossible with his traditional, stern father.

"You should get a girlfriend," he would say.

"You need to work harder; Harvard does not accept laziness," he would scold.

"Brains may help you, but they won't magically do your work for you," he would discipline.

What Natsume's father expected him to with a girlfriend perplexed him. It wasn't that he did not like girls; it wasn't that he held a grudge against the female race — heck, his relationship with Mikan said all it needed to say on that matter — But most girls, how would one put it? They were, different; they were something of a mystifying creature trapped in their own world of things.

Feminine creatures merely failed to suit his tastes. He wasn't attracted to them. There it is, he thought wryly. Females, girls and women alike, did not interest him beyond a simple friendship; and with the exception of Mikan, they never have.

It seemed so trivial, so unimportant, that it seemed that he was making a big deal over nothing.

And yet, here he was, his sweat pant bottom against the wooden floor of thread-bare bedroom, his back against equally vapid drawers.

And so, this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. This was his favorite line from the said poem of Cummings. The wonder – it was his own personality, his own beliefs, his own body that troubled him far greater than he could have wished.

A duck ringtone broke through his endless trail of thoughts. Startled out of his trance-like state, he placed his sheet of paper on the floor. Reaching for his cellphone in his pocket, he swiped right and held the receiver to his ear.

"Mikan," he greeted tiredly.

"Hey," she responded. "Bad time?"

"You can't expect it to be a bad time if it's anything involving you, you know?" Despite himself, Natsume laughed quietly.

"You make us sound like a cheesy old couple." She sneezed. Somewhere in the background, Natsume heard the brunette's mother's voice. The receiver muffled for a few seconds and seemed as if Mikan called a reply. "Sorry about that," she apologized.

He waved it off, running a weary hand through his entangled hair. "Don't worry about. So, what's up?"

"I'm bored, and Mom is watching world breaking news on the TV - she wants me to watch with her, but I don't care for such matters," she said lowly. "And I have these terrible cramps. I swear to god, they are killing me," she hissed.

"I have chocolate," he offered. It would be nice to have some company.

"I will be there in fifteen," she promised over the phone. With a click, she had hung up.

Natsume shook his head, ghost smile upon his lips. He glanced at his bright screen. 9:37 p.m.

His parents had gone out. Following a lengthy phone call, several hushed profanities, and one malevolent scowl, Mr. and Mrs. Hyuuga had bustled out the door in their respective coats and scarves. Laptop under an arm and leather purse in the other, his mother had given him a quick peck on the cheek, murmured "Love you," and hustled out the door to her husband's ushering.

Natsume's phone rang again.

Taking his sweet time in answering upon seeing the caller, he said lazily, "Yes, your majesty?"

Breathlessly, Mikan said, "Are your parents home?"

"No, why?" he asked, brow furrowed.

It sounded as if she was running now. "I'm almost at your house. I need to tell you something."

"That something isn't a second declaration of your period?" he joked poorly. When he was met with the rushing of wind, he amended, "Hey, why are you running?"

"Something's happened, I just learned – about five minutes ago," she susurrated with bated breath. "Mom made me- Have you heard anything from Luca recently?"

Natsume, utterly confused, stared at his phone, "Not in the past week, no."

"Oh God, oh G- Just open your door, 'kay?"

"Coming, coming," he muttered, tightening his sweat pant strings. Rubbing his muddled eyes, he hung up and stepped through his bedroom door, dashing down the stairs. Throwing the entrance door open, he was met with a ruddy-faced brunette with a frosted nose; in the freezing weather, she was clad in nothing but a hoodie and a pair of jeans.

She pushed past him, frantic as she clenched and unclenched her frozen hands. Panting, she opened and closed her mouth, fear ablaze in her eyes.

What happened? What is going on?

Natsume, still utterly clueless, shook her shoulders. "Breath. In, out. In, out. That's it." He gripped his friend's shoulders and nodded in approval as she greedily gulped in air.

Mikan stepped back from his grip. "Paris," she choked out. "It's been attacked. Terrorists, suicide bombers. A lot of people died." Her body shook as she bit her lip.

Not able to register what she had said, Natsume nodded slowly. Paris?

"And for all I know," Natsume could easily tell she was attempting to suppress the bile rising in her throat as her voice rose into a shaky crescendo, "something could have happened to Luca."


A/N: I'd be very thankful for reviews regarding what you think of the plot so far, what can be better and whatnot, etc. Grant this straggling teenager (me) several early Christmas presents please? Thank you very much!

Snarky Holophrasis
November 20th, 2015