"Miss Mogami, I can come once a week instead of twice," Kurosaki Ushio said. "That should be more affordable for you."
Kyoko's shoulder, raised to wedge her phone against her ear, tightened. She sat hunkered on the edge of her bed, plastering Band-Aids over the angry red blisters on her foot.
"No, please come on the usual days," she urged. "I don't want to disrupt any more of Kuon's normal life than what's already been disrupted. He loves his piano lessons. I don't need him to tell me to know that."
"Yes, but…" Ushio didn't voice it aloud, but he didn't have to. She knew she was late in paying the hefty tuition fees.
"I'll transfer what's owed to you tonight, I promise," Kyoko assured him. Fortunately, she'd just gotten her pay, so she prayed this should tide things over in the meantime. "Please check your account tonight."
"Well, all right," Ushio acquiesced at last. "But are you sure you're able to afford this in the long run?"
"I will," she vowed. "I have to. I'm determined not to take away the remaining things that are important to him."
A short lull ensued.
"Kuu really struck gold when he married you," Ushio said softly.
Kyoko laughed, but it rang hollow even to her ears. "Are you serious?"
"You can't afford Kuon's piano lessons by yourself, Miss Mogami," he said. "I know it. You know it. So you're probably slaving away somehow to get the money—"
"I'm just working overtime," she interrupted. "It's not a big deal if it means I can pay for his piano lessons."
If only her feet didn't hurt from walking up and down so much all day, she thought. She swivelled around on her bed and reached for another Band-Aid on her dresser, then froze.
Kuon stood in the doorway of her bedroom, watching her.
Her heart seemed to stop altogether.
When exactly had he returned home? It had been two weeks since his thirteenth birthday, and throughout those two weeks he'd gone to the dance studio almost everyday after school. He didn't usually return home that early, which she knew was intentional.
How long had he been standing there? Just how much of the conversation had he heard?
As she sat on the bed, staring back at him, his unfathomable cat-green eyes flickered down to her feet, covered in seething blisters, some of which were obscured by her Band-Aids.
"Miss Mogami?" Ushio spoke in her ear.
"I—" Kyoko opened her mouth, though she wasn't sure whom—Kuon or Ushio—she was about to address.
Whoever it was, she didn't need to wonder anymore. Without saying a word, Kuon pivoted gracefully on his heel and left.
He never came back, even after she'd thanked Ushio for his time and ended the call.
She didn't know what she'd been expecting in the first place anyway. For the past two weeks he'd continued to ignore her, though at least she knew where he was going after school. He even went to the studio on Saturdays (the studio closed on Sunday) to study if it meant staying away from her.
Kyoko had tried to pretend it hadn't hurt.
The next day at work, Ushio called her while she was having lunch.
"Kuon said he didn't want me going over anymore," he said.
Kyoko was dumbstruck. "What?"
"That's what he said," Ushio sighed. "He doesn't want me to teach him anymore."
She'd gone home that night, exhausted, her feet in agony because her stupid work shoes clearly weren't a good fit. But they were relatively new, and money was tight, and she didn't want to splurge on a new pair.
The moment she entered the apartment, she was surprised to find Kuon standing in the living room, dressed in his sleek school blazer, spotless starched white shirt and impeccable tie. He'd obviously been waiting for her. He also had his school bag over his shoulder: the black one with holes, since he had never used the new one she'd bought him.
His expression was its usual apathetic, icy one as he turned his head towards her, his golden halo of hair gleaming in contrast like pure sunshine.
"Tell me, Kyoko," he said pleasantly, but she could sense the dark fury bubbling underneath. "Who do you think you are to me?"
"I'm your… stepmother?" Kyoko said, unsure what he was getting at. She was drained and wanted nothing more than to go to bed, but decided it was probably a good opportunity to question him about the piano lessons. "Kuon—"
"You are not my stepmother," Kuon said coolly. "My father is dead. You are nothing to me. And you are certainly not my benefactor, my guardian angel, or whatever other ill-conceived notions you might have concerning our nonexistent relationship."
"I don't—"
"You think I'm a fool?" he said softly. "You think you're so kind and self-sacrificing and noble trying to pay for my piano lessons, but in truth, you just want me in your debt. You want me to owe you something so you can hold it over my head—"
"THAT'S NOT TRUE!"
Kuon's eyes widened. She'd never shouted at him before, and the shock in his angelic features was almost gratifying.
"Why is it so hard for you to accept that I'm just doing this because I care?" Kyoko yelled. "I don't have any motives, I just want to help, I just want to—"
"I never asked for you to care!" Kuon was shouting back at her in an uncharacteristic fit of anger, taking her aback. She'd never seen him lose his temper and composure so openly before. "Your care is condescending and disgusting! I hate you!"
She took a step back at the unadulterated loathing in his voice, and then—her kitten heel from her left shoe snapped from the sole.
The world tipped over, and she let out a pained cry, arms flailing as her body toppled backwards.
A surprisingly strong hand whipped out milliseconds later and grabbed her skinny wrist, keeping her from falling onto her behind. The hand pulled her back, and she stumbled, gasping as she righted herself.
Her amber eyes stared into wide malachite ones.
Kuon looked as stunned as she felt, but this time she knew he was more shocked at himself for catching her before she fell.
Then the shutters slammed in those green eyes, and he shoved her hard—savagely, wildly, out of blind frustration.
Kyoko opened her mouth into a soundless scream, but the direction with which he shoved her had been towards the couch, and this time she landed on its spongy surface with such force she could feel the coil springs bounce wheezily under her body. She couldn't help but reel at the strength of the thirteen-year old boy; it truly wasn't fucking fair that there was such a disparity in physical strength between the sexes.
Her broken tan court shoes fell from her blistered feet, rolling in front of Kuon. Even from where Kyoko lay sprawled on the couch she could see the blood stains all over the inside of the shoes.
Kuon looked down at the defiled footwear, and then, without so much as a backwards glance towards her, kicked one of them away. She flinched as it bounced off the wall with an ear-rendering bang, followed by his near noiseless footfalls towards the apartment door.
She lay there on the couch, gasping for air as the door slammed, and suffocating silence followed in its wake.
"That was quite a confrontation," Miss Aki said. She looked stunned.
"I think that day," Kyoko said thoughtfully, thinking back on what felt like ancient history, "what really unsettled Kuon was that… he was unsettled at all."
Miss Aki's brows rose with intrigue. "Would you care to elaborate?"
"Kuon doesn't lose control like that," Kyoko explained. "It doesn't happen often—in fact, I can count on one hand the number of times it happened throughout the years, and I've known him for a decade. Even when he used to hurt me, he was manipulative. Spilling water on me, stealing my things, breaking my mother's brooch and planting it with the pregnant spider in my purse, even trashing my room; all of that was premeditated. They were juvenile, yes, because he was a child, but he never lost his temper like that and directly hurt me before. He likes control too much for that. That day, he wasn't thinking."
"Other times, he was thinking?" Miss Aki asked.
"He had a better idea of the consequences, yes," Kyoko confirmed. "But that day, when he shoved me, he was just angry. He lost it. He didn't think—he just wanted to hurt me."
"You may be right, but not entirely," Miss Aki commented.
Kyoko blinked. "What do you mean?"
"He pushed you to the couch," Miss Aki said. "Not to the floor. Correct?"
Kyoko paused.
"That may be so," she said. "But I still don't believe he was thinking. I think… At that time, his instincts went against truly hurting me. If not, he wouldn't have caught me before I fell."
"So he was beginning to care for you?" Miss Aki inquired.
Kyoko thought about it.
"I'm not sure," she said. "Either that, or if anything happened to me, he would be sent to an orphanage. Kuon's self-preservation instincts have always been extremely well-developed."
She sat there on the couch, shaking and trembling like a leaf, her breathing escaping her lips in ragged gasps. Her hair had come loose from the ballerina bun she habitually wore to work, and she felt cold sweat ooze from her pores. Her blouse was heavily crumpled and her work trousers were beginning to sag around her waist from weight loss.
For once, Kyoko didn't care where Kuon had gone. She didn't care!
She was done. She was fucking done. He could go wherever he wanted. To the dance studio, to another country vast oceans away, to the fucking pits of hell—she didn't care.
She got up from the couch barefooted, and limped to her bedroom. Flinging the door open, she threw her bedraggled form onto her bed and lay there, shutting her eyes against her lumpy pillow. She wanted to cry, but for some reason, the wretched tears wouldn't come—wouldn't give her the catharsis she needed.
Despite the raging turmoil in her head, Kyoko soon fell asleep, glad that it was a Friday.
When she came to the following morning, she felt much better. The storm had ebbed in her chest; it was like her system had been reset. She stumbled out of her room with her feet as sore as ever, inhaling the gentle sunlight spilling through the windows, and stopped at Kuon's bedroom door.
She hesitated. Almost a full minute passed whilst she warred with herself, and at last, she sucked in her breath and thumped the wood with a jerky sweep of her fist.
No response.
He was ignoring her, wasn't he? She bit her lip.
"Kuon?" she called. "I'd like to talk."
The silence dragged, dense and heavy, like a stifling sheet over her shrinking lungs.
Unable to help herself, she twisted the doorknob with a raucous clack, bracing her muscles for another vitriolic outburst behind the walls.
The silence remained.
She frowned. Shaking her head, she pushed open the door in a single swift motion, her heart in her mouth.
The room was utterly empty, his bed neatly made. She had no idea if he'd come home last night and gone out again today.
No longer numb with shock, she felt the panic rush back through her veins. Kyoko grabbed her phone from her threadbare purse, about to call Takarada.
A single text message filled her notification bar, but it wasn't, as she'd foolishly hoped, from Kuon. It was from the dance instructor, who had written a mere three words.
He's with me.
She slumped in relief. Somehow Takarada had known that they'd had a fight; she wondered if Kuon had ended up staying the night at the dance studio or in Takarada's home.
No—she rejected the possibility a second later. She doubted Kyon would let slip to anyone that he was having issues at home. He was too proud for that, which meant Takarada must've been discerning enough to pick up on Kuon's mood. Whatever the case, she was grateful for the instructor's hospitality. But the studio obviously couldn't be a solution forever, and she needed to consider the next step going forward—what did she plan to do with Kuon now?
Would sending him off to the orphanage be better than this, after all? At this point, they were destroying the other, and she shut her eyes, taking a steadying breath.
A bath, she decided. For now, that was all she could make up her mind on. She wanted—needed—one pronto.
She spent the next hour brushing her teeth before taking a long, thorough hot bath, shampooing her greasy hair until she felt human again. Once done, she re-bandaged her feet, making a mental note to buy a new pair of work shoes this weekend now that her current ones were spoiled.
Kyoko didn't know what to do now, and she roamed around the kitchen with her cup of instant coffee, looking around at the fancy steel appliances that Kuu owned. She made another mental note to try to sell some of them—they had to be worth a small fortune, and God knew they needed whatever financial aid they could get.
Then her eyes fell upon the baking oven, and she didn't know why, but inspiration struck.
Maybe the sale could wait.
She looked up baking recipes online, and went through those for dark chocolate muffins. She had no idea if Kuon had eaten the one she'd gotten him for his birthday since she'd never seen it again, but she could guess he hadn't.
But if she was going to bake something, she wanted it to be something Kuon might eat. Dark chocolate muffins were sweet but with a deliciously bitter note, which bode well for him since he disliked anything too saccharine.
She paused.
Was there any point to this?
But what then was the point of staying here, idling away in his absence?
Ignoring the burning ache in her chest, Kyoko opened the fridge and grabbed a stick of butter and a carton of milk. She bent down, continuing her search for the ingredients from the recipe. Just as she hoped, there was that dark chocolate bar she'd kept in there for a late night snack. Bless Kuu, she thought, since he had all the equipment she needed, even paper muffin holders. As a professional chef, she knew he dabbled in baking occasionally, but he'd told Kyoko that Kuon disliked most pastries, so he'd baked mostly for his coworkers and friends.
The hours bled into the afternoon by the time she was done, her bronze hair sweaty from exertion and the sweltering heat of the oven. It was the most ambitious project she had ever undertaken considering she had never baked before, and she'd followed the steps in the recipe religiously, though she had a gut feeling she might have somehow messed up here and there.
As she took the metal tray out of the oven and stared at the freshly baked brown muffins, she debated sampling one. They looked fine, just slightly misshapen, and the warm, heady aroma of rich chocolate saturated the air.
She almost took one until an expected brainwave struck her.
Removing Kuu's big puppy-themed oven mitts, she went to the cabinet and took out a huge Tupperware container, and began carefully placing the hot muffins into it. Several minutes later she had stuffed the majority of the muffins into the entire container, and she went to her room to change into a tee and jeans.
Kyoko had only been to the studio—Takarada's Dance Academy—once before, and she had to search up Google Maps for directions before she set off. It was nearer than she'd expected; only three bus stops away.
Fifteen minutes later, she was alighting the bus and panning the deserted street on her right, marked by empty wooden benches and street lamps. In between shophouses was a moderately-sized three-storey building with the title "Takarada's Dance Academy" stencilled in scarlet block letters on a sign overhanging the main glass doors. Upon going in, she found herself in an air-conditioned lobby with a plump receptionist sitting behind a counter, blowing gum boredly as she typed away.
Kyoko hurried across the tigerwood floor, her bandaged feet encased in comfortable sandals.
"Excuse me," she said to the receptionist. "I'm here to pass something to, um, Kuon. And the other dancers in his class, I guess."
Kuon was clearly well-known enough here for the receptionist to recognise his name immediately.
"Kuon doesn't technically have a class," the receptionist said. "He comes and goes as he pleases to practise with Murasame. Easily the best dancer we have here, he is. Who are you exactly?"
"I'm, um, Kyoko," Kyoko replied. "I'm his—"
"Oh." The receptionist looked surprised. "So you're the famous Kyoko."
Kyoko stared at her. "You know me?"
The receptionist chortled. Middle-aged and stout, she sported cat glasses and frizzy bleached blonde hair that looked like the result of an overdone perm.
"You're the only person in the world that can make Hizuri Kuon lose his composure like that," she said, blowing another bubble. "Cool as a cucumber that boy has always been growing up, but with you, I've never seen him coming in looking so agitated as he does sometimes. Takarada told me about it. But why are you here?"
"Um," Kyoko said, not knowing how to process the information. "I'm here to deliver some muffins." She took the gigantic Tupperware container out of the tote bag she'd brought. "Could you pass this to Kuon and his friends?"
"Sure." The receptionist took the box from her, arching her eyebrows—which were shaped like sperm as she'd completely shaved her original ones off and drawn on new ones—at what was inside. "Not to rain on your parade, dear, but Kuon doesn't like sweets."
"They're dark chocolate muffins," Kyoko explained. "They shouldn't be too sweet."
"Uh-huh," the receptionist said. "You sure you don't want to go and see him? I reckon he's studying for his exams inside the lounge right now."
"No, it's okay," Kyoko declined. The last thing she wanted was to trespass upon his remaining sanctuary. "Just pass this to him, please. Thank you very much."
Part of the reason she was passing it to him was knowing he would have to eat it in front of his friends. He could hardly throw the muffins away with others present. Kuon cared too much for the image he'd cultivated, and he would eat every bite if it meant maintaining the mask he wore during most social situations.
In a way, Kyoko thought with a smile, this was revenge.
A pathetic form of revenge, but still, it was something.
She left and got herself a sandwich from a deli nearby as a late lunch, then caught the bus home to wash up and clean the mess she'd made in the kitchen. As she stacked the tray and bowls to dry and wiped her hands on the rumpled dishcloth, she thought of how neatly made Kuon's bed was, his comforter folded atop his pillows.
Her own bed wasn't even that neat.
Unexpectedly, she let out a soft laugh as she panned the oven where she'd made the chocolate muffins. Revenge was sweet, she thought… with no pun intended.
Suddenly feeling claustrophobic inside the barren apartment, Kyoko left for the park downstairs. She sank tiredly onto a bench next to a tall willow tree and gazed up at the sunset, where the all-encompassing backdrop of sky shimmered in mesmerising hues of orange and magenta.
A diffident meow caught her attention, and she looked down.
Sprawled on the needle-littered earth beside the bench was a ginger kitten, its head cocked as it peered up at her with large pools of emeralds for eyes. It looked so young—barely a month old—Kyoko couldn't believe it was alone and separated from its mother.
"Hello," Kyoko said, rising from the bench and crouching next to the creature. "Where's your Mommy?"
She reached out and gently rubbed the kitten's head, and it mewled again. Sliding her hand down she tenderly scratched its underbelly, and it purred louder, its paws clinging to her hand. It was so young that it hadn't learnt to retract its claws yet, and the razor-sharp tips cut into her hand, igniting scarlet lines across her skin.
Ignoring the twinges of pain, Kyoko continued petting its ginger underbelly.
"You really are a fool, aren't you?"
Tensing, she looked up.
Kuon stood before her, but for once, he was not in his school uniform. He wore a dress shirt and long trousers, and carried his frayed black school bag.
She followed the direction of his gaze, towards the red lines all over her hand. As she watched, a tiny bead of blood formed from one line.
"Do you always persist in caring for things that make you bleed?"
For once, Kyoko thought there was less contempt behind his question. In fact, he sounded almost curious, in a flat, detached sort of way.
It was still a loaded question.
"I guess I do," she said softly.
"Your muffins were disgusting," he said calmly. "You added too little sugar and too much flour. Everyone was gagging."
Kyoko stared at him in shock, and then burst out into giggles. "Really? Shit. Oh, God."
He said nothing in response to her unexpected show of mirth.
She let go of the kitten, and scrutinised her hand, the numbness growing in her belly.
"It's true," Kyoko said. "All the people I love tend to hurt me."
All of them came with barbed wire. Her mother, for her neglect. Her father, an alcoholic.
Even Sho had hurt her. Kanae knew better than to ever mention it, but they all knew what—or rather, who—Sho had been doing in Kyoko's bed a few months before their wedding.
And of course, there was Kuon.
Yet Kyoko loved them all the same.
"Except your father," Kyoko said quietly. "He was the only person that never hurt me. Never. He was the kindest person I'd ever met."
It was true. Out of all the people she'd loved, Kuu had been the kindest. The gentlest. The sweetest.
And he'd been there to help heal her hurt.
Because he'd been hurt too. It was always Kuu and Kyoko, both constantly giving and both constantly hurt.
Kyoko stared down at her hand, where a scalding droplet of water had landed on her knuckles. For a wild second she thought it was raining, but then she realised—the kaleidoscopic sky was clear.
She looked up, stupefied, and saw that Kuon looked just as stunned. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked into a sob.
"God, I miss him," Kyoko wept, a distant part of her shaken by the wretchedness in her voice. "I miss him so much."
Unable to take it anymore as a new wave of hot tears spilled down her cheeks, she stood up abruptly, not looking at him.
Then she fled.
:tbc: