WhIP

by footfungus

nederlands verhalen over mijn otp

186. jk pt 2

Yusuke died before I was ready.

But death never waits till you're prepared.

The day after I discovered I was not alone in this world, all I wanted to do was sleep through lunch.

Eimi—the pig-tailed friend of Keiko's from the anime—gave me a pitying look before I pillowed my head on my school bag. We sat in a knot of desks at the back of the class while other students dragged desks together and ate their midday meals. Yusuke was absent today, not that that came as a surprise. He'd been coming to school less and less lately. Since I hadn't seen him over the weekend, I hadn't been able to guilt him into attending. Too busy with Genkai and Kagome, although Yusuke was probably relieved to get me out of his hair…

"So where exactly did you go, again?" Eimi asked.

"Sleep," I groaned. "I want to go to sleep."

"Oh, c'mon, Keiko," said Michiko. She was, as you might recall, the short, bespectacled friend from the anime. "You look like a zombie. Now give us the details!"

I lifted my chin and set it on the bag, staring at my friends with expression most baleful. How the hell was I supposed to explain the events of the past two days to these two? "Oh hey, girls, I trekked into the mountains to talk to a crotchety old spiritualist in pursuit of psychic powers, and then I stayed up half the night talking to my mother about my savior complex, and then I took aikido lessons from a maniac and met a girl from an anime series that existed in another world I used to call home and stayed up all night again. Isn't that interesting?"

Something told me they wouldn't understand, much less approve of my hobbies.

"Look—I was up late studying two nights in a row, that's all." I put my forehead back on my bag. "It's no big deal."

"Uh-huh. Sure," said Michiko.

"You'd tell us if there was a boy, right?" said Eimi.

I sat up. I glared. The girls were not intimidated.

"Because Yuhata from class C said she saw you in the shopping district last night," Eimi said.

"You'd tell us if there was a boy, right?" said Michiko.

"A boy who isn't Yusuke, we mean," said Eimi.

"He doesn't count," said Michiko.

Oh my god. Were they stalking me? Was the entire school invested in my private life? Could a girl not have some privacy, I ask you?!

"People are starting to talk, Keiko," Eimi said. "You're always with Yusuke, and you turned down that upperclassman…"

I winced. A month ago, a ninth grader had asked me out. The guy hadn't taken it well when I said I wasn't interested in dating. Rumors started spreading shortly thereafter: Keiko is frigid; Keiko is stuck up; and, apparently, Keiko is dating the school's resident delinquent, which was so untrue it was almost funny.

The rumors hadn't persisted, thank the fates. Michiko and Eimi had dispatched them like a pair of Yakuza hitmen. Nobody spread rumors about our friend group on their watch. They just wouldn't stand for it. Friends for life, as they'd say. We have to stick together.

Within our friend group, however, asking about those murdered rumors was fair game.

"People think you and Yusuke are together," said Michiko. She held a finger aloft as she made a solemn decree. "You need to go on at least one date, Keiko, preferably with an upperclassman. People are calling you an old maid, or worse—Yusuke's girlfriend!"

Took every ounce of self-control I possessed to not snark at them. I tamped down the urge and plastered on my most patient, warm, Class-Rep-Keiko Smile. It fit my face like a glove made for a child's hand, but I wore it well. I'd had practice.

"Girls, I know you're worried about me, but I'll be fine," I said, with warmth and patience and firm determination. "You know I'm not interested in dating. Yusuke is no exception, I promise."

"I refuse to believe someone as smart as you doesn't date because of their grades," Eimi said. She crossed her arms. "What's the real reason, hmm?"

"Are you and Yusuke secretly dating, after all?" Michiko asked. "Is that it?"

I cradled my head in my hands. These two never gave up when it came to my love life—not that I could blame them. My excuses for turning down dates weren't very good. 'I worry dating will affect my grades' was only plausible for so long, since my grades never dipped below straight As no matter what I did. And asking them to just lay off wouldn't work. These were teenage girls who cared very much about reputation. Perfectly normal for their age, to obsess over stuff like this.

Too bad it wasn't perfectly normal for mine.

They had no idea I was actually closer to 40 than 14. Dating anyone Keiko's age simply felt too pedophilic for comfort. So, nope. No dates for me, much as it drove my friends crazy.

Luckily they didn't get to interrogate me for long. Soon one of our classmates class asked me to help with her English homework. So much for my nap. I tried my best not to yawn while assisting her with her exercises. Grateful for the distraction, really. At least this kept the questions at bay. Wouldn't it be nice if this distraction lasted forever?

Too bad it didn't. When our classmate walked away, my friends picked up right where they left off.

Or they tried too, anyway. Just as Eimi opened her mouth, someone called my name from the classroom doorway. I looked up—

Oh.

What was he doing here?

Kuwabara stood outside, staring at me from the other side of one of the windows overlooking the hallway. He waved when I caught my eye, broad face alight with an eager smile.

He also had a black eye, bruise green at the edges and purple at the heart. Contrasted magnificently with his carroty hair and cerulean uniform. I was almost impressed. That amount of clashing took talent.

Beside me, Eimi and Michiko gave identical, muffled shrieks.

I lurched to my feet as my heart did a handspring. Eimi and Michiko whisper-screamed after me as I stiffly walked toward the door, asking who is that guy and why is his face all messed up, that's so indecent! I ignored them, stalking out the door as basically every eye in the classroom descended on me.

The hallway was nearly deserted, excepting Kuwabara—everyone eating in classrooms or the cafeteria, I guess. He turned to me when I walked up, but his grin faded a little when he saw my face.

Over his shoulder, I saw Eimi and Michiko. Watching. Whispering behind their hands as they stared.

Pretty sure I'd've been a nervous wreck if I'd been in my old body. Luckily Keiko's skin held firm around my spirit, wearing her best Class Representative Smile with aplomb.

Bless you and your nerves of steel, Keiko. Bless you.

"Hello, Kuwabara-san." I performed a polite, shallow bow. His smile faded into uncertainty. "It's good to see you. How are you doing?"

"Oh. Um. I'm fine?" He pointed at the green and purple halo around his eye. "It's not as bad as it looks, if that's what you mean." A bumbling laugh. "Urameshi's given me a lot worse than this before, that's for sure!"

"I imagine he has," I said. "So how can I help you?"

His smile dimmed further.

"I, uh, thought you might like this," he said—and he took a book from under his arm and thrust it toward me. "It's a 'thank you' for the weekend." The boy rubbed the back of his neck when I took the book, pleased. "Hope that's not weird."

"Not weird at all. And thank you." I bowed again. "I'll return it quickly."

His uncertainty shifted into outright confusion.

"Are…are you OK?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," I said, with a beatific smile for good measure. Eimi and Michiko's scrutiny weighed heavy on my shoulders—and then I got an idea. Angling so it wouldn't hurt the object, I let the book slip from my fingers.

"Oops!" I said as it hit the floor. "So sorry!"

Ever the gentleman, Kuwabara stooped to pick up the book. I knelt beside him, ducking below the line of classroom windows.

The second Eimi and Michiko couldn't see me, I dropped my Class-Rep-Keiko act and grabbed Kuwabara's shirt sleeve. He did a cartoonish doubletake between my face and my hand and blurted, "Yukimura!?"

"Hey, um, sorry—just act normal."

"Oh. OK?" Despite his consent, his expression was anything but normal. I'd never seen his narrow eyes so round. "What's wrong?"

"I'll explain later, just not now. After school." I pleaded with both my voice and my eyes, begging him to understand that this was a teenage girl thing and it was stupid and please don't think I'm too weird to be your friend! "Meet me by the back gates after last period?"

"S-sure." Genuine concern softened his stony face. "Really, though. Are you OK?"

"Peachy, just—my friends are nosy." The boy looked utterly mystified. I patted his elbow and tried to look apologetic. "It's dumb. You'll see. I'll explain later."

I plastered my Class-Rep-Keiko Smile back on and stood. Kuwabara followed suit and, with all the wariness of a person trying to feed a snarling dog, handed me the book again. I took it and beamed.

"Sorry for my clumsiness, and thank you very much for the book, Kuwabara-san." I gave him a deeper bow this time. "Please have a nice day!"

Then I turned on my heel and marched back inside.

Kuwabara's voice drifted after me like a misplaced wind.

"Um…you too, Yukimura?"

I didn't dare look back at him through the windows, but I didn't need to. Eimi and Michiko stared at him as he walked away down the hall, heads moving in unison I would've found comical if I wasn't so sure they'd pounce on me as soon as Kuwabara got away.

My predication came true when their heads snapped back to me.

"Who was that?" Eimi demanded.

"Kuwabara," I said as I sat at my desk. I put down the book and picked up my chopsticks, hoping if I began to pointedly eat they'd leave me be.

No such luck.

"What did he want with you?" asked Michiko.

"To thank me.

Eimi said, "What for?"

"Helping him with his homework."

"Right. So why did he have a black eye?" Michiko asked.

"Why does everyone have a black eye around here?" I grumbled. "He ran afoul of Yusuke."

"Is that so."

"Yes."

"And you're sure you're not dating Yusuke?"

I stabbed my chopsticks into my bento. Eimi and Michiko exchanged a look. Then Eimi picked up Kuwabara's book. Her brows lifted.

"Butterflies of South America?" she said.

"Yeah." I lifted a lump of rice to my lips. "You know I enjoy entomology."

The girls looked supremely unconvinced, but they didn't say anything more on the subject...for now. Something told me this wouldn't be the end of it. They'd dig into the rumor mill and confront me with the stuff they learned about Kuwabara before really doubling down on the interrogation.

In their own way, they were trying to protect me. I'm sure I would've appreciated it if I was their age, not a grumpy adult stuck helplessly in middle school.

Class resumed shortly thereafter. When it ended everyone headed for their respective afterschool activities: sports, clubs, and similar. I had duties as the Class Rep to attend to (filing, mostly, which I could do practically in my sleep). Time oozed like molasses, and when I finally got to leave, I all but sprinted to the back gate. Would Kuwabara even be there? I'd been pretty weird to him earlier, so it wouldn't surprise me if—

I couldn't keep from smiling when I saw his copper hair from a distance. He leaned on the gate, chin tucked to his chest as students passed him. Most gave him a wide berth, I noticed, but he didn't acknowledge them aside from a few bold stares to those who looked at him too long.

I was reminded, then, that despite our budding friendship, Kuwabara was still regarded as the second worst punk at this school. No one else thought he was as cuddly as I did.

Kuwabara saw me from the corner of his eye, and lifted a hand in greeting. He didn't smile, which made my heart lurch. I skidded to a stop before him and immediately started babbling. Nerves. Keiko had a steadier constitution than I did, but there were some habits I just couldn't break.

"Wasn't sure if you'd show up!" I said. "Thanks for the book, it looks awesome. Butterflies are cool. And I'm so sorry about earlier. My friends are really weird and they just pry into everything. As soon as you left they started asking who you were, so I played it off because otherwise they'd corner you and ask how you knew me and it would make your social life really, really awkward, trust me. It sucks. Anyway." I held up the book and beamed. "Thanks for this. It looks cool. A few weeks ago I was watching this documentary about Anaea nessus conservation efforts—"

Kuwabara stepped back and lifted a hand, index finger pointing directly at my face.

"There you are!" he declared, like he'd located the lost treasure of Davey Jones. "I knew you were in there somewhere!"

I moved back a step. "What?"

"You're back! It's you." He waved at the school. "Whoever I was talking to at lunch today was a totally different person." Then his face flushed. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at my shoes. "Oh, uh, sorry. It's just…between out here and in there, it's like two different people. I was wondering where the girl I met last week was."

"Ah." I didn't blame him one bit for feeling confused. I gave him an apologetic smile—but not the kind I'd give to people at school. "Today you got to meet Class Rep Keiko. She's polite, helpful, kind, firm, and a teacher's dream." A shrug. "I can't keep that up all the time, I'm afraid. Too exhausting."

"Oh, I don't mind," said Kuwabara. "I think I like this you better, anyway."

He'd spoken without thinking, if his chipper, innocent expression was anything to go by. I bit the inside of my cheek. Oh, shoot. This was just too good. Sly teasing edged my smile as I sidled up and nudged him in the ribs.

"You like me better, huh?" I said.

"Yeah, I—" He stopped. Thought about it. And then he was blinking and sputtering and the color of a fire engine. "H-hey, don't take that the wrong way! I—"

I slapped his back and nearly doubled over laughing. Kuwabara stared like I'd sprouted antlers. The joke sank in a moment later. His jaw dropped.

"Hey! That wasn't funny!" he said.

"Nah. It was actually pretty hilarious." I wiped away a tear. "Sorry. Couldn't resist. I know what you meant." When his scowl didn't fade, I clapped his shoulder. "But hey—as an apology for subjecting you to the polite stylings of Class Rep Keiko as well as my dumb jokes, how about we get you those albums we talked about the other day?"

The scowl evaporated. "Really? Because I was super mad I walked off without getting them last time!"

"Eh, it's OK. Yusuke practically dragged you." I nodded toward the street. "C'mon. Follow me."

The restaurant wasn't too far from the school. Kuwabara and I maintained a steady stream of chatter, mostly about the book he'd given me and the bands I was about to give him, until we walked up to the restaurant. A few customers were exiting through the front doors, so I tugged on Kuwabara's sleeve and bade him follow me around back.

As soon as we entered the alleyway, I saw my father. He sat on an empty vegetable crate near the fence way at the back, hand clenched around a length of pipe he was using to stir something inside a large plastic bucket. The man looked up when we came around the corner.

"Keiko, honey, welcome home!" he said—and then he spotted Kuwabara. His lips thinned at the sight of the Kuwabara's black eye. "Who's your friend?"

"Dad, this is Kuwabara Kazuma. He's a classmate." I nudged Kuwabara forward. "Kuwabara, this is my father."

Kuwabara 'eeped,' face reddening, and dipped into a 90-degree bow. I hid my laugh behind a hand. This guy would eventually stare demons in the face, but right now he was intimidated by my dad.

"It's nice to meet you, Yukimura-san!" Kuwabara said. "Your daughter is very nice!"

A smile slipped across Dad's mouth. "Isn't she, though?"

"Yes! The nicest!"

If there was any way to get on my father's good side, it was to compliment his only daughter. Even seemed to erase the stigma of a black eye. Dad grinned, stood, and walked over so he could clap Kuwabara on the shoulder. Kuwabara looked uncertain until my dad declared, "Bring your family by the restaurant sometime—any friend of Keiko's eats for free!"

"Oh, uh—that's too kind! I couldn't—"

"Nonsense." At age 14 Kuwabara was already taller than my father. I could see Dad was impressed by this as he looked Kuwabara up and down. "You seem like a strapping fellow. Carry Keiko's books sometime and we'll call it an even trade."

"Oh! Um. Yes sir!"

Although watching Kuwabara bumble around my dad was great fun, I was curious about something. I gestured at the bucket. "What're you working on, Dad?"

Dad trotted back toward the bucket, reached behind the crate he'd been sitting on, and dragged out a large plastic box printed with a colorful picture of a concrete Buddha surrounded by a greenery.

"Making an idol for the new restaurant," he said, showing us the box containing the concrete mold. "We're opening a second location next week. New place won't feel like a real restaurant until I pour up a new patron!"

Dad was more concerned with decorating the new restaurant than my mother, funnily enough. Here he went again with more décor. Mom would shake her head and sigh when she found out he planned on adding something else to the new place. We'd been prepping it for months and were just a few days from the grand opening. Seems Dad had forgotten one final touch.

I glanced at the Buddha sitting near the back door, the one that had watched over me all my life. That one sported a mild, serene smile, but this new idol grinned so hard, his cheeks threatened to come detached from his face.

"He's certainly a happy Buddha," I said.

"Buddha?" Dad said, blinking at me in surprise. He tapped the idol on the box. "That's not the Buddha!"

"It's not?"

Dad rolled his eyes. "I didn't read you enough fairy tales as a kid. This is Ebisu—god of fortune and food." He winked. "Perfect god for a ramen shop, don't you think?"

Kuwabara put his hand to his chin and leaned toward the box. Then he pointed at the figure's hands, and the object held within them.

"Why's he carrying a fishing pole if he's the god of fortune and food?" Kuwabara asked.

"Um…good question." Dad laughed, head throwing back. "Looks like I didn't read enough fairy tales, either!"

I giggled. "Nice going, Dad!"

He shooed us inside shortly thereafter, saying we should go study (I guess he assumed that's why Kuwabara was here—I got the feeling that if I'd been so inclined, sneaking a boyfriend or girlfriend into the house would be easy if it was just Dad at home). I showed Kuwabara through the back door, where we removed our shoes before climbing the stairs to the second floor. My bedroom was at the end of the hall. He walked behind me until I opened the door and stepped over the threshold, but as soon as I did I heard him let out a little strangled sound of consternation.

"What?" I said, turning to look at him.

He stood with toes on the threshold, staring into the room with mouth agape. His mouth slammed shut when our eyes met.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"Is it—is it OK for me to be in here?" Kuwabara's voice had climbed at least two octaves. "I mean, is it OK—"

"It's a girl's room, not a minefield," I said. There he went being all needlessly chivalrous again. "Come on in."

When he remained unmoved, I grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged him forward.

"Relax," I chided. "Seriously. It's fine. Nothing will bite you."

After a moment's hesitation, he gingerly sat down at my desk, hands folded carefully on his lap. I suppressed a laugh at his prim posture. Ever the gentleman, despite that carved-from-granite face and tough-guy attitude.

I walked to the foot of my bed, where a short set of shelves houses my collection of CDs and vinyl records. The record player on top of the shelves gleamed with polished brass accents—super retro and awesome-looking. Played music like a dream. Kuwabara let out a low whistle when I lifted the lid.

"That's a nice rig," he said.

"Thanks. It was a birthday present." I knelt and dragged a finger down the spines of my records, arranged neatly by band name. "OK, so what did I say I'd pull?"

"Buddhist heaven," said Kuwabara.

"Nirvana, right." I pulled out their latest and set the record in the player. "And if you're going to listen to In Bloom, you've gotta try—"

As music filled the air, I walked my fingers over my collection and pulled out a few choice records. I described each of them aloud, listing genre and influences, and Kuwabara returned the favor by recommending bands with similar sounds. Soon I found myself with my back to my record collection so I could look at Kuwabara while we talked. He had the most interesting mannerisms, characterized by wild gesticulation and exaggerated facial expressions. I found it hard to do more than just let my favorite anime character wax poetic about his favorite bands. He got especially animated when he talked about Megallica, and about the concert they were supposed to play in town early next year.

"I really, really want tickets," he told me, jaw jutting dangerously close to a pout. "Don't think I'll get to go, though. Dad says I can only go if I start getting better grades." He huffed. "Fat chance of that."

"What are your grades like, anyway?" I asked. Please tell me he scored better than a 7 on most tests.

"I'm good at science and I'm not bad at math," Kuwabara said, eyes drifting away from mine, "but literature and history aren't my best, and man, English is tough. I think I'd be OK with literature and history if I studied, but English…"

"Well if you need help with that, English is my best subject."

His voice pitched high again. "Really?"

"Yes," I said in Japanese—and then I switched over to English, letting my American accent run amok. "Truthfully, I'm actually fluent because I grew up in America. I'm a 40 year old woman from another reality trapped in the body of a middle school anime character. It's confusing and weird but hey, at least I can ace English class without trying."

Kuwabara's eyes opened wider and wider with every word. When I finished, he looked almost awed.

"Wow," he breathed. "You're pretty much fluent, aren't you?"

"Yeah. She is. Keiko likes to show off."

Kuwabara and I flinched at the sound of this new voice, but it was only Yusuke leaning against my doorframe, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his jeans. I slumped, relieved it was him and not someone fluent in my native language, Kuwabara lurched to his feet.

"Urameshi?!" he yelped.

Yusuke lifted one lazy hand, the very portrait of does-not-give-a-damn.

"When did you get here?" I asked from my spot on the floor.

"Why?" Yusuke slunk inside and sat on my bed, leaning nonchalantly against the headboard. "Afraid I saw something I shouldn't?"

My eyes rolled of their own accord. "Ha ha, Yusuke. Very funny."

"Yusuke, what—what are you doing in Keiko's room?"

Yusuke's lips pursed. He looked Kuwabara up and down, slowly assessing the other boy, sizing him up inch by inch—and then he shrugged. Kuwabara scowled.

"Why do you wanna know?" Yusuke said. "Somebody's nosy."

"It's not nice to just barge into a girl's room whenever you want," Kuwabara said. He shot me an apologetic look before leaning toward Yusuke and dramatically whispering, "What if she'd been changing? Huh? What then?"

Yusuke scoffed. "Oh, please. Like I haven't seen that before."

Kuwabara let out a startled "What?!" of shock and horrified surprised. I cursed. I reached out a toe and nudged Kuwabara's calf. He looked down, and the second our eyes met he looked away again, cheeks and ears turning bright pink.

"Yusuke doesn't know how to knock," I explained, glaring at the boy in question. "Asshole skipped that day of kindergarten. It was the same day they taught us basic human decency. He missed both lessons, as you can see."

"Aw, shut up," Yusuke snapped.

"That's not a nice thing to say, Urameshi," Kuwabara said. "Be nice to Keiko!"

"Who died and made you the authority on being nice to Keiko?"

"Nobody, because nobody had to." Kuwabara preened. "I'm better at being nice to her than you are!"

Yusuke sat up and glared. "You only just met her three days ago, asshole!"

I said, "You guys know I can hear you, right?", but neither of them reacted. Great. So I was furniture, then.

"Yeah, I might've just met her, but I'm already nicer to her than you are," Kuwabara said. "So why don't you shut up and—"

Yusuke shot to his feet. "Gimme a break! What are you, some kind of knight in shining armor swooping into save—?"

Kuwabara loomed over Yusuke, glaring at the shorter boy like he was a bug. "Keiko doesn't need saving, like she said last time! I'm just—"

"You're just what, trying to prove you're some white knight so she'll date you?" Yusuke said—and Kuwabara's face turned an alarming shade of scarlet. He pulled away from Yusuke, dinner-plate hands waving in awkward dismissal.

"What?! No! Keiko and I are just friends!"

"Really?" Yusuke said, arms crossing over his chest. "If that's the truth, then why are you calling her by her first name?"

I blinked at that. Kuwabara sputtered. I hadn't noticed Kuwabara had started calling me by my given name instead of my family name…but Yusuke had? Normally I was the observant one…

"Did you even ask her if you were allowed to do that?" Yusuke said, taking advantage of the awkward silence. "Even I know Miss Manners would say calling a girl by her first name is disrespectful. Wanna rethink that white knight status? Huh?"

"Well, no, I just—" He turned to me, eyes downcast. "Sorry, Yukimura, I should've asked—wait. What are you doing?"

While they were distracted, I'd stood up and walked toward the door. The pair of them had been too wrapped up in insulting each other to notice. Grabbing my purse from a peg by the door, I looked over my shoulder at them and shrugged.

"I'm getting out of here," I said.

"What?" Yusuke said.

"Why?" said Kuwabara.

"Well, since the two of you are apparently about to make out with each other, I thought I'd be nice and give you some privacy." I turned my back and marched out the door with a chipper, "Bye, lovebirds!"

I was halfway down the stairs by the time they finished processing what I'd said. I knew they'd finished processing because I heard twin, horrified yodels cut the air behind me. Smirking, I hit the bottom of the stairs and turned around. Soon footsteps pounded the floor and the boys appeared at the top of the stairs, pushing and shoving as each tried to get down the steps first. An elbow to Kuwabara's face declared Yusuke the winner—but then Kuwabara lost his balance, and the dingbats fell down the steps in a tangle of limbs.

I regarded the moaning mound of teenage boy at my feet a moment.

"Wow, full-on cuddling," I deadpanned. "I didn't know you two were so attached."

They immediately squawked and pulled apart. I threw back my head and laugh.

"That's not funny, Keiko!" Yusuke said, scrambling to his feet.

"Yeah, you shouldn't make jokes like that!" Kuwabara said.

"Nothing wrong with being gay," I said. "And now look. The two of you just agreed on something!"

Yusuke and Kuwabara exchanged a look of horror, then as one shoved their hands in their pockets and slouched, scowling with their backs to each other. I laughed again.

"C'mon," I said. "Let's get out of here."

They followed me in sullen silence to a nearby karaoke joint, where we rented a small booth and spent the next few hours screaming Megallica songs in each other's ears. Kuwabara and Yusuke fought for the microphone more often than not, until Yusuke stole another mic from the booth next door so they could have a proper battle. Turns out Yusuke was tone deaf, and Kuwabara had a voice like a personified boulder. Keiko's crystalline soprano floated above their deeper tones like a bird riding the fringes of a gale.

Watching the two of them fight for the mic, and steal food from each other when we ordered chicken wings, I found myself wondering if Yusuke and Kuwabara could've been friends sooner in life. Seemed like they were having fun, despite the insults and punches and glares. Yusuke had been getting moodier and moodier as of late. This was the first time I'd seen him smile so much in months.

"Wouldn't it be nice, if this could last forever," I said during a lull between songs.

Kuwabara looked curious. Yusuke scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"Oh—nothing." I curled a lock of hair behind my ear—and suddenly I felt shy, like I was looking at Yusuke and Kuwabara for the first time, and we didn't know each other, and I didn't love the two of them more than I could say. "Just that I'm having a good time. Middle school will be over soon. We have to make nights like this last."

Yusuke snorted and called me a sap. Kuwabara nodded, earnestly, but I wasn't sure he actually understood just how much I wanted this moment of light in a dark karaoke booth to last forever.

Too bad 'forever' just isn't meant to be.

Two weeks later, Yusuke died—and everything changed, completely.

next chapter

Chapter Text

I felt Yusuke's death in my bones the way birds sense changes in the weather.

Takanaka called his name over the loudspeaker when I showed up that morning, and I felt it. No denial, no doubt, no uncertainty. Takanaka called his name—and I knew.

Then Takanaka asked me to look for Yusuke. I found him on the roof. We performed the lines of a script Yusuke didn't know existed, and when Yusuke flipped my skirt, my slap held no passion.

I slapped because I was supposed to. Because that's what the script decreed, not because my heart was in it. But today I was glad to follow my much-maligned script. Today, I was content to play the role of Keiko. Today, I didn't want to make choices.

Not if it meant risking Yusuke's eventual return.

When Yusuke left the roof, he didn't know it would be a much longer goodbye than he anticipated. I knew, though. I stood on the roof until I saw Yusuke in his green uniform cross the yard, a diminutive grasshopper so many stories before. My body chilled as Yusuke stalked off the school grounds, Takanaka barking at his heels, and disappeared into the streets beyond.

The streets where he'd meet his death.

I'd play my role in his death perfectly. I'd chased him from the school grounds and into the arms of death with aplomb. Every line delivered on cue. Every beat, every pause, played right on schedule.

Déjà vu. That's the only way I can describe it.

After school, I went to Yusuke's house.

"No, sorry," I told Atsuko, "I don't know where Yusuke is."

But that was mostly a lie.

Atsuko didn't seem to notice, if I was acting weird. She just shrugged, called her son a lazy brat, and turned on her usual soap opera. I sat in silence while she yelled at the TV characters. Let her have this moment of relaxation. Let her, for one last hour, remain blissfully unaware that her son was dead. That her life as she knew it was about to a screeching end.

It occurred to me, in a moment of surreal clarity, that I was witnessing the last happy moment of Atsuko's life.

The last happy moment she'd have for a while, anyway.

When the doorbell rang, I knew there would be a police officer on the other side. I knew what he'd say. Because I was prepared, I had the strength to support Atsuko when her knees gave out. I caught her before she fell, her face a pale mask of disbelief and burgeoning grief. I heard her heart break as she gasped her only, dead child's name.

Arms around her trembling shoulders, I watched Atsuko's world end.

I didn't cry over Yusuke's death. There was too much to do.

Atsuko was in no shape to plan a funeral. I somehow persuaded the police officer into calling my mother, and I held Atsuko's sobbing body until my mother could get there and provide backup. We took turns holding Atsuko, stroking her hair and murmuring comforts, as we called funeral and cremation services and arranged Yusuke's tsuya—his wake.

I made careful note of the name of the crematorium. Yusuke's body wasn't getting burnt to a crisp on my watch.

We decided to hold the wake at the funeral parlor, in a traditional, ten-tatami house surrounded by gardens and koi ponds. Seemed easier than holding it at Atsuko's small apartment. They delivered Yusuke in a simple casket only a few hours after Atsuko claimed the body. My mother accompanied her to the morgue. She wouldn't let me come along for that process, not that I minded. The process of identifying and claiming Yusuke's body had turned Atsuko into a shell of her former, vivacious self.

I'd already seen her world end. I didn't need to see her spirit die, too.

The casket was placed with the head facing north, per Buddhist custom, and decorated with a photo I'd taken of Yusuke some months prior. Incense and offerings sat atop the simple wooden box. Yusuke would've scoffed; the offerings were too simple, generic, plain for his wild personality. We tried dressing Atsuko in black kimono, garment supplied by the funeral parlor, but the woman wouldn't cooperate. She either stared into space like the stone Ebisu outside our restaurant or sobbed behind the curtain of her hair. We placed her on a cushion near the casket where people could pay their respects…not that many did.

At first the only visitors were professional mourners, praying in corners in their black kimono like crow demons from legend. Calling them 'professional mourners' wasn't exactly accurate. They were just funeral parlor employees, paid to help the tsuya run smoothly, but I couldn't help but wonder if their sad faces and murmured prayers were also part of the funeral package. When other people began arriving and diluted the number of dark-dressed demons, I felt a little more at ease. Tension in my shoulders unknotted as kids from school started to arrive, and as adults I recognized (people like Atsuko's landlord and hairdresser) followed close behind.

"Keiko—are you OK?"

I jumped. Mom touched my shoulder, brown eyes rimmed with red. We stood on the porch around the side of the house next to a small rock garden. The sun sank below the horizon behind her, red like gilded blood.

"I'm fine," I murmured.

"You haven't looked at Yusuke—"

Her voice caught on his name. She swallowed, eyes brimming, but she stayed the tears with the force of her iron will.

"You haven't viewed the body," she said. "Do you want to pay your respects?"

Truthfully? No way. No way in hell did I want to see that body, no matter how well it had been prettied up by a mortician. I wouldn't see Yusuke for weeks. Maybe months. I wanted to remember his snark, his smirk, his sneer, not the pallor of death sitting waxy on his features.

I'd seen enough bodies in my old life to know that looking at his dead face would corrupt my memory of his living one. I'd made that mistake too many times to risk it now.

"I'm fine," I told my mother. "I'll do it when everyone else leaves."

"Keiko…" She pulled close, hand light between my shoulders. "Honey…you haven't even cried yet. Are you sure you're OK?"

I tried to look like I was holding back tears, make a show of how brave I was by staying strong—but I knew it wasn't a convincing act. I'd been hoping Mom wouldn't notice my lack of tears. Was I not performing the role of Keiko well enough? She'd been a wreck at the funeral, and here I was analyzing foreign mourning customs—

"It's OK to cry," my mother said. Her eyes searched my face. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know. I just…it hasn't hit me yet. That's all."

My excuse sounded lame, even to me. Mom's pitying smile was as warm as it was sad.

"Always taking care of others," she said. "You did well today, supporting Atsuko. But you're allowed to grieve, too." She spotted something over my shoulder and lifted a hand. "Oh, good. Your father's here."

I turned just after Dad walked through the gate and into the garden courtyard outside the funerary house. He hadn't had time to change after work. He just wore a dark suit jacket over his cooking uniform. We stood out of the way, behind a group of people, so he didn't see us. He made a beeline for Atsuko. My father knelt on the floor before her, head touching the tatami. She didn't react. It was like she didn't see him, eyes glazed and distant, even when he sat up and spoke to her directly.

"Your son enriched my daughter's life," Dad said. His gruff voice sounded even rougher than usual. "He was a good young man. I'll be naming a new menu item after him. It's a small honor, unworthy of his life, but I hope it brings you comfort." Again he bowed. "Thank you for your son, Atsuko. I had hoped he'd work in my restaurant someday."

Atsuko did not reply. But her vacant eyes brimmed with new tears.

Mom ushered Dad over shortly thereafter. He stood on the porch with us and wrapped me in a tight hug.

"I'm so sorry, Keiko," he said into my hair.

"It's OK." I forced a smile when he let me go. "Dumbass got hit by a car."

Mom tittered at my irreverence, but Dad just nodded. "That he did. Saving a kid from traffic, I heard."

"Yeah."

I'd never witnessed my dad cry. Too much of a manly-man, I guess. Right then, though, was the closest I'd ever seen him come. His breath rattled through his red nose as he said, "Yusuke was rough around the edges, but he had a heart of gold—"

Nearby, around the corner by the front of the house, someone laughed. Dad's words stopped cold. Mom scowled.

"You'd think they'd be more somber at a person's tsuya," she said.

"None of these people were Yusuke's friends." Mom and Dad looked at me. "He didn't have many. They're probably here for extra credit."

Mom's mouth opened. Snapped shut again. "Keiko, I'm surprised at you! What a terrible thing to say!"

"It's true, though," came my heated reply. "And I'm not going to lie about him. Not now. Yusuke wouldn't want me lying about him. Not at his funeral."

Her ire cooled. "He was always a direct boy," she relented.

"Still," Dad said, glancing at the nearest group of people (kids from my school, all smiling, all casual in their blue uniforms). "They could at least pretend to be sad."

My family quieted. The nearby kids spoke at a normal volume, like they weren't at a funeral at all. I recognized most of them as from another class. Why were they even here?

Their words drifted to me in a quiet moment.

"—total thug," one of them said. "Beat someone up for their lunch money, is what I heard."

"Why would they even allow delinquents like him at our school?" said another.

I tensed. By my side, Mom gasped. Dad's hand weighed heavy on my shoulder.

I knew they'd insult Yusuke. I'd seen the anime. I knew people hated him. The anime made that very clear. But to hear these insults with my own ears, after knowing Yusuke since I was a child, after he became the closest person to me in the whole world, after he'd become a real person instead of a painted image on cellophane—

"Honestly? He probably pushed the kid intro traffic and tripped," one of my classmates said. "I don't believe for a second that he was trying to save anybody."

I lurched toward the speaker, vision flashing red. Mom let out a muffled shriek. Luckily Dad's arms went around me before I could move more than a step, because otherwise I'm pretty sure I'd be in jail for murder.

"Keiko, stop!" he said in my ear.

"How dare they!?" I growled. I struggled against his grip, eyes locked on the oblivious kids as they laughed. "How dare—!"

"URAMESHI!"

I froze mid-struggle at the sound of my best friend's name. The group I'd been two seconds away from slaughtering quieted at once. Every head in the room turned as a young man in blue, flanked by three other men in uniforms, hurtled into the house at a full sprint.

It was Kuwabara, of course. Ranting and raving about Yusuke's betrayal, about being left behind, calling Yusuke a coward who didn't want to fight anymore. Tears cascaded down his cheeks as he screeched and clawed and fought his way toward the casket. The only things that kept him from ripping open Yusuke's coffins were the restraining hands of his friends.

Dad's voice in my ear made me jump. "Is that that boy from the other day?"

I swallowed down a lump. "Yeah. Is it."

Dad let me go. I started to go inside, to talk to Kuwabara, but the stunned crowd didn't let me through in time. His friends dragged him off mere moments later, leaving me standing in the middle of the courtyard feeling cold. Dad and Mom appeared at my side soon after. Mom's face was ashen, like a ghost risen from the grave.

"Do you know his number?" she asked. "He was so upset. You could call and check on him when you get home."

Somehow, I hadn't gotten Kuwabara's number yet. I was so dumb. I shook my head. Mom gave me a pitying smile.

"Ah, well," she said. "You'll see him at school when you go back." Her hand on my arm radiated soft heat, comforting and warm. "Go pay your respects, Keiko. I think it's time you went home."

I shook my head. "I want to stay and help till the end."

"No, Yukimura," said a low, nasal voice. "Go home and rest. Our top student need not trouble herself over something like this."

My eyes fluttered shut. I didn't need to look to know who was speaking. And I didn't need to see him to know he was up to no good.

Dad, though? He hadn't met Iwamoto yet. He faced my teacher with a frown, then dipped an uncertain bow. Iwamoto's lips curled into a polite smile, but behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes burned icy cold.

I'd avoided Iwamoto as much as I could during my tenure at Sarayashiki Junior High. I'd seen enough of his jerk-ass ways in the anime to last a lifetime. Didn't need to see more in real life. Still, I'd encountered him enough times (mostly when defending Yusuke) to know that the anime had gotten his characterization down pat. He hated Yusuke, and if it hadn't been for Takanaka, I'm sure Yusuke would've been expelled long ago.

His cold eyes danced when they met mine. Guy could barely suppress his glee over Yusuke's death, and the body was still warm.

"Ah. So you must be Yukimura's father," he said to Dad. "Your daughter is an excellent student. She'll be even better now that Urameshi's gone."

Dad froze. Mom froze, too. Breath hitched high and painful in my throat.

"Surely you agree?" Iwamoto said. "Keiko was always looking out for that miscreant." His lips stretched into a grotesque smile. "With him out of the picture, she can concentrate on getting into a good high school."

My blood screamed inside me, heating like magma under the earth. Dad didn't react, though.

"That 'miscreant' was a good friend of our family," he said. How he kept his voice so steady, I would never know. "We mourn him, today."

"Mourn?" Iwamoto said. He chuckled like oil striking water. "If we're being honest, for your daughter's sake, you should be celebrating." He spread his hands, gesture of supplication belied by his sneer. "That boy was a roach infecting our star pupil. Surely you understand—"

We never got to figure out what we should understand about the death of a teenage boy, because I'd had enough.

"You are a teacher," I ground out, vision turning crimson. Iwamoto's eyes went wide. "At least pretend to act like one."

Her hand was on my arm in an instant. "Keiko," Mom snapped.

"One of your students has died, and you say we should celebrate?" My voice rose with every syllable. "You are a teacher! You should be ashamed of the way you're talking right now, and in front of your student's friends and family, no less. How dare you speak this way?"

Iwamoto didn't back down from my bold stare. His lip curled back over his teeth. "How dare you speak to a teacher this way," he corrected. "I can say whatever I want, especially about a worthless little punk like—"

And with that, I launched directly at the man with fist held high.

I didn't get to hit him, sadly. Dad stepped in too soon. But Iwamoto did fall on his ass with a shriek, like a little kid frightened by a boogeyman, gibbering as my father wrapped an arm around my waist and hauled me away. The crowd was staring but I barely saw them, and I only vaguely registered that Atsuko had started sobbing into her hands.

"Shut up!" I roared as I struggled against Dad's grip. "Don't you fucking talk about Yusuke like that, you ignorant, sadistic—"

Iwamoto listened to my tirade with his mouth open—but then his composure returned. He stood up, hand slicking over his hair before he adjusted his glasses.

"Well, well, well," he said. His quiet, razor words cut through my tirade, silencing me mid-word. "Looks like the cockroach infected our star pupil, after all."

"Shut up," I growled.

"Keiko, calm down," Dad said.

"I always knew he'd rot you from the inside," Iwamoto continued. "That boy was trash, and now look at you. You're no better than—"

"That's enough."

I didn't say that. Neither did Dad. Instead, Mom strode up to Iwamoto and levered a finger at his face. I'd never seen her eyes blaze like that, like they cupped the very core of the earth inside their spheres.

"That boy was a close family friend of ours," she said, voice low and dangerous, "and you will not speak of him in that manner. Nor will you speak to our daughter like that." She bared her teeth. Iwamoto bared his right back, but my glorious lioness of a mother did not back down. "Like you said—she's your star pupil, a credit to your school. I will not tolerate a teacher speaking to her this way."

"And neither will I, for that matter."

I sagged in my father's arms when Takanaka emerged from the crowd. The one shining beacon of sanity and goodness at my middle school, arrived at last. My mother had met him a few times, and clearly she recognized him when he approached her, but she did not lower her guard until he bowed to her in clear deference. Only then did she relax.

"Yukimura-san," he said, and I was pleased to note his voice held a current of barely-restrained, quivering anger. "I apologize on Iwamoto's behalf. He forgot his role is to serve these children, not insult them." When he straightened, he shot Iwamoto a look so scathing, the other teacher physically recoiled. "Rest assured a report of his contemptible behavior will be delivered to the proper authorities in our school system."

"Thank you," my mother said, "but any apologies should be levered at Urameshi Atsuko, not at me."

The kind man's face fell. The same heartbreak in Atsuko's eyes filled his own.

I was beginning to know that look very well, it seemed.

"Of course," Takanaka said. "His mother has my deepest sympathies."

Mom sniffed. She drew herself up.

"Well," she said, head held high. "I'm glad to know at least one teacher at my daughter's school in an honorable person."

I heard Iwamoto's teeth grinding from across the room.

Before Takanaka went to pay his respects to Atsuko, he dragged Iwamoto from the house. The man glared at me when he passed—and in his eyes I could tell I'd joined Yusuke on his list of despised students.

I tried not to think about that, though.

I let my father guide me home, but when I crawled into bed, the escape of sleep would not come.

Perhaps it was a good thing I couldn't sleep. If I'd slept, I might not have heard the rocks tapping against my window. Instead I got up, gave the sleeping Sorei an illicit pat, and peered through the pane.

Kuwabara stood on the street below. He waved when he saw me. Even from this distance, I could tell he'd been crying.

I put on a coat and grabbed my keys.

We didn't say much when I joined him on the street. We just looked at one another, silent, tired faces skeletal beneath the harsh streetlamp. Then I moved forward. Kuwabara made a strangled sound in his throat when I put my arms around my waist and leaned my cheek against his chest—but he didn't pull away, either.

"Shut up and hug me," I muttered.

Kuwabara obliged, stiff and awkward at first, but soon he relaxed with a shuddered sigh. He gave good hugs, once he got used to the idea of touching a girl, chin atop my head and hands firm against my shoulders. He smelled like aftershave, the kind teenage boys think makes them smell like an adult. To me it only reinforced how young Kuwabara was—youth I had somehow forgotten to consider as of late.

I needed that hug. But something told me he needed it, too, even if he'd never say as much aloud.

Eventually I pulled away. He shoved his hands in his pockets. Eyes fixed on the sidewalk, we walked aimlessly into the dark, quiet in the company of another person who could understand a pain unspeakable. The moon hung above us, bloated like a rotting corpse.

"This sucks," Kuwabara muttered as we passed moonlit houses.

"It really does," I replied.

A little while later, I found myself standing with Kuwabara outside Atsuko's apartment complex. When I stopped walking, startled by where my wandering feet had taken us, Kuwabara touched my elbow. He frowned. I pointed at Yusuke's apartment.

Kuwabara followed my point. Saw the mailbox, and the name written on it. His eyes widened.

"Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to come this way." I ducked my chin. "Wait here a minute?"

He didn't mind. He sat on the curb while I went inside. I found Atsuko on the couch, passed out, hand loose around a nearly empty liquor bottle.

"Oh, honey," I murmured. I took the bottle and covered her with a blanket, kissing her tear-stained face. "I am so sorry."

She hiccupped in her sleep. Around her, remnants of Yusuke dotted the house like debris from a car crash. Shoes here. A shirt discarded over there. Bottle of hair gel on the bathroom sink. I wandered from room to room, gathering reminders of him in a plastic bag.

Atsuko didn't need to see these things when she woke up. I stashed the memories under the sink.

She didn't need to drink more, either. I collected all the liquor I could find and poured it down the drain—but when I found a cold six-pack in the fridge, I hesitated.

It was the same brand Yusuke had stolen, that time we drank together on my roof.

I absconded with that six-pack when I left the house. Something told me Atsuko wouldn't miss it. Kuwabara lifted an eyebrow at the beer, but he didn't question when I asked him to follow me into the night's cloying dark. He dogged my steps as we navigated the streets, following them to the edge of the neighborhood, where houses gave way to drainage ditches and warehouse lots.

One drainage ditch in particular called me. I guided Kuwabara to the top of the bridge crossing it, then pointed over the edge. You couldn't see the grassy bayou below, but I knew it was there. I half expected to see Yusuke's ghost standing in the bayou when the clouds skirted away from the moon and bathed the ditch in light—but no one was there. Not even a ghost. The only things that filled this place were my memories.

"That's where I met Yusuke," I told Kuwabara.

We sat on the bridge's rail. I told him the story of chasing of bullies away from a dirty, skinny kid in a baseball cap—the story of how I met my best friend. I told him about feeding Yusuke, clothing him, letting him stay with my family like the son my parents had never had. Kuwabara, in turn, told me of the first rumor he'd heard of Sarayashiki's number one punk, and how he'd challenged Yusuke to a fight that same day.

"Kicked my ass six ways from Sunday," he said as we gazed into the dark. "Didn't walk straight for a week. But I came back for another fight. And another. And he never turned me away. Not once. I'm only as good a fighter as I am because he kept beating me up. I owe him, forever." He swiped a finger under his running nose. "Do you think we were friends?"

"Yeah," I said. "You were, in your own way."

I pulled a can of beer from the plastic rings. It was still cold. Kuwabara held it like he didn't know what to do with it, watching as I pulled off two more cans and popped the tabs. Then I held up both beers. After a nod from me, Kuwabara held his aloft.

"To Yusuke," I said.

Understanding dawned. He lifted his can higher. Kuwabara said, "To the biggest, baddest punk at school."

"To my best friend," I said.

"To the guy who made me a better fighter," Kuwabara said.

"To the guy who made me a better person," I said.

As one, Kuwabara and I chorused: "To Yusuke."

As we tipped back our beers, I tilted the third over the edge of the bridge and poured it out into the dark, onto the spot where I'd met Yusuke all those years before.

He couldn't taste the beer, where he was—but hopefully, he knew what I meant by offering it to him.

Something told me he'd approve. Beer was certainly better than the oranges and incense that had adorned his casket at the tsuya.

When we drank our beers to the drags, Kuwabara crushed the cans between his hands. I served up another round. We sipped in silence, hunched like gargoyles on the bridge rail, elbows on knees. Kuwabara put his head in his hand.

"I don't get it," he whispered. "Yesterday we were fighting. How could he be—" Kuwabara couldn't finish that sentence. He couldn't say the word 'death' aloud. He sighed and settled on, "How did this happen?"

"Easy," I said. "Yusuke was an idiot."

Warning colored his expression. "Hey, there."

"It's true, though. He was god's perfect idiot, and he died because he was stupid." I sat up and glared at the ditch, at the image of his young face playing in my memory. I raised my voice. "You hear that, Yusuke? You're an idiot. An absolute, unforgivable idiot. And you're selfish. How dare you leave me all alone with people like Iwamoto? How dare you? I need you if I'm going to deal with these assholes, you asshole!"

"Keiko," Kuwabara said, eyes as round as coins, but I didn't stop. Beer made my blood buzz like TV static. I saw red again, anger and sadness turning my vision scarlet.

"And another thing, you enormous moron," I shouted. "My parents are fucking shattered by this. You were like a son to them! And don't even get me started on what your selfish, reckless behavior did to Atsuko! Don't get me started on what you're doing to me, either, because dammit—"

My arm lashed. My can of beer flew into the dark. Something wet splattered against my cheeks—flecks of foaming booze, fizzing and cold.

I knew Yusuke was coming back. I knew it. But right there, on that bridge, the yawning dark below held no promises of Yusuke's return. It only held mystery and uncertainty, as perilous as the dark pit beneath my feet.

Had my actions today affected his return?

Had I played the role of Keiko well enough today?

Was Yusuke ever going to—

"Keiko."

"What?"

Kuwabara flinched—but then he leaned toward me. His mouth worked. When he spoke my name, his tone was infinitely gentle.

"Keiko," he said. "You're crying."

"What?" I touched my cheek. "No I'm not—oh. Oh."

My fingers came away wet, but not with beer. Kuwabara dug a tissue from a pocket and dabbed at my cheeks, a desperate attempt by a teenage boy to be helpful in the face of a crying woman. I swatted him away, but I muttered a thank you and wiped my tears on my sleeve.

Crying at last. All I needed was a beer to loosen me up.

Seemed like maybe I could play the role of Keiko effectively, after all.

As I looked at the moon, and the clouds casting silvery shadows on Kuwabara's sharp face, I hoped Yusuke's ghost hovered close enough to see the tears on mine.

Mom let me take the next day off from school—she was taking the day off, herself, so it was only fair. She declined to say why she was spending time away from the restaurant so close to our second location's grand opening, but I didn't press her for details. Didn't have the energy. I spent the majority of the day in bed, listening to the chatter of customers on the floor below.

Their lives went on, as always. Yusuke's death didn't affect them. That was slightly comforting.

Dad asked if I wanted to help in the kitchen, given Mom was absent, but I declined. Instead I played Yusuke's favorite band on repeat, and prayed that night I'd dream of his return.

In the anime, Yusuke told Keiko to save his body via dream. If Yusuke was coming back, he'd tell me to save his body from cremation—the cremation that was scheduled for tomorrow.

He had to tell me, and soon. Tonight. Or he wasn't coming back at all.

But that was a possibility I could not bear to consider.

I wiled the day away alone. Not long after the restaurant closed for the night, I heard my mother come home. I didn't get up to greet her. She and Dad discussed something in low voices down the hall, and then they knocked on my door.

"Keiko, honey—come eat dinner," Dad said.

"Meet us in the living room in ten minutes," said my mother. She kept her tone soft, compassionate, but firm. Something was up. "Are you OK?"

"Fine," I said—but I was suspicious.

I put on real clothes and went to my parents. Dad fixed me a simple dinner and set it on the kotatsu in the middle of the room. He sat across from me as I sat down to eat, but just as I raised a bite to my lips, my mom came in. In her arms she carried a long, flat box tied with a red ribbon.

She and Dad exchanged a Look.

I put down my chopsticks.

"OK," I said. "What's going on?"

Mom didn't reply. She set the box on the table and took a seat beside my father. He patted her back, and they exchanged another look—this one of shared dedication, bolstering themselves for whatever they were about to say.

I'd seen them prepare to act as a united front before, in full parental mode…and it rarely ended well for me. My stomach lurched. Thank god I hadn't started eating yet, because I'd probably feel nauseated if I had.

Dad cleared his throat. Mom put a steadying hand on his knee.

"Keiko, the business has been doing so well lately—" Dad said.

"In no small part thanks to your help," Mom interjected.

"—that we can afford to make some changes around here. We can start giving you things we couldn't always give you," Dad said.

Um. OK. That didn't sound so bad…so why had my skin started to crawl?

Mom nodded. "We've been looking into this for a while, ever since our finances improved. And we actually submitted the paperwork months ago, but held off finalizing things until the new school year. And then yesterday, seeing the way that teacher spoke to you, and the way your classmates treated Yusuke—"

She looked at Dad, anxious for backup. Dad smiled.

"Well, honey—we don't think Sarayashiki is the right school for you anymore." He gestured at the box. "We've enrolled you in a new school. A private school."

If I hadn't been sitting on the floor already, I would've fallen to my knees.

As it stands, I just sat there.

Unmoving.

Unfeeling.

Unbelieving.

Because what the hell had this man just said to me?

"Look, Keiko. I know it's a shock, but the school we picked is so much better than Sarayashiki," Mom said. Her eyes pleaded with me to get excited, but that was impossible just then. "We used the testing you did for cram school applications—you know, the IQ testing?—and they even want you to skip a grade."

Vaguely, through a fog, I recalled the cram school applications she was talking about, conducted the previous summer.

She'd used those test results—to switch my school?

"Isn't it exciting?" Dad said. He slapped the table, trying to force a reaction from me. "Earth to Keiko. Aren't you happy? You'll get to attend college that much faster!"

I didn't react. I had no idea how to react. Mom didn't like that. Mom grabbed the box. Shoved it into my numb hands.

"Look," she demanded. "Your new uniform. Isn't it pretty?"

Unable to process—unable to do anything more than what she asked of me—I yanked the ribbon with all the enthusiasm of a programmed robot.

I lifted the lid.

Mom and Dad's excuses, explanations, ineffectual arguments faded into nothing.

All I could comprehend was the brilliant scarlet of the Meiou High School uniform, folded like a funerary shroud upon my lap.

Red. The color of luck in Japan.

Even through my veil of shock, this lucky child sensed the unlucky irony

next chapter

Chapter Text

Yusuke didn't smile. He appeared before me with a face like solemn thunder, hands jammed into the pockets of his school uniform, and stared —silent like a deserted grave. I gasped, startled by his appearance, but he made no move to comfort me. Eyes gleamed hollow in his round face.

"Iwamoto was right," he said. "I did infect you."

This was a dream. I knew it was a dream. I'd fallen asleep like falling into death, slipping into the black void of shock after my parents' revelation—that I was to switch schools, to Kurama's school—and then Yusuke had appeared. This had to be a dream. I'd expected to dream of Yusuke tonight. He was supposed to tell me to save his body from the funeral pyre.

But he looked so sad.

If he was coming back to life, he should look happy.

He should look happy…right?

Even dreaming, I felt adrenaline pump inside my veins. My dream-mouth dried. I struggled to breathe like a beached fish.

"Yusuke," I gasped. "Yusuke—!"

"I infected you," Yusuke continued in that same, solemn voice—and then he punched my arm and started grinning like he'd won an Olympic gold medal. "I infected you with ass-kicking awesomeness!"

Yusuke's preferred Olympic sport? Being a total dick-weasel, apparently.

While Yusuke crowed about how freakin' cool I was for trying to beat up a teacher on his behalf, I marched over and bopped him on the head. He yelped. He ran. I chased him around the landscape of my dreams until I got him in a headlock, burying my fingers into his gelled hair (weird, his ghost wore hair gel, but of course it did) so I could give him a noogie. That lasted all of a minute before the headlock turned into a hug, and we just sat there, arms around each other, me sniveling into his dream-self neck as I breathed myself down from a panic attack.

No matter how smug he looked—no matter how many tricks he pulled—I was happy as hell to see him.

Eventually I calmed enough to pull away, to look at something other than Yusuke's mischievous face. The sky burned bubblegum pink above, spattered with stars suspended in ribbons of celestial, luminous purple. Green hills dotted with crimson poppies rolled into the distance, like the fields surrounding Dorothy's fabled Emerald City.

Yusuke made a face. "Pink? Flowers? You're such a girl."

"You say that like it's an insult." I flapped a hand at him. "I should be screaming at you right now. But I can't."

Yusuke frowned. "Oh yeah?"

"You saved a kid. You might be a moron, but at least you're a good one." I shook my head, twisting the fabric of my dream-pajamas in both hands. "Still. I should be ripping you a new one. What you did—"

"Oh, can it, you big nag," Yusuke groused. "I heard the lecture already."

My turn to frown. "What?"

"You and Kuwabara. On the bridge?" He crossed his arms and turned from me, smirking, nose tipped toward the bubblegum sky. "Yeah, Keiko. Don't think I didn't see all of that. You two gettin' all cozy the minute I'm gone? What m' I, chopped liver?" He shook his head, disapproving. "Body's not even cold and you get yourself a boyfriend. No respect." My best friend cackled. "Too bad your boyfriend's ugly!"

I slugged his shoulder, ignoring his indignant yelp. "I'm not dating Kuwabara."

"Whatever you say," he said. I was about to punch him again when his hands dropped. Devious accusation turned to earnestness in the time it took to blink. "Look, Keiko, I—"

He stopped short. His mouth worked, but no words came out. He turned away, cursing under his breath while he dragged a hand through his hair—

I grabbed his sleeve. Yusuke looked at my hand as if he'd never seen a human hand before.

"What is it, Yusuke?" I said.

His eyes met mine. Then they slid sideways, toward the Oz-green hills.

"I'm glad you're not alone," Yusuke mumbled. My mouth parted with surprise. "Much as I hate the bastard, Kuwabara is a good guy." His lips curled. "An idiot, but a good one."

Fingers tightened on his arm. Gently, I said, "Just like you."

He shuddered. "God, I hope not." A sheepish chuckle accompanied flushing cheeks. "Anyway. If there's anybody you could go through this with…I guess I'm glad it's him. Because things are about to get weird."

My heart stammered like an embarrassed schoolboy.

"Weird?" I repeated.

"Yeah. And trust me, Keiko. When shit hits the fan, you're gonna need all the help you can get."

"What do you mean?"

Yusuke paused. I didn't dare press him to keep talking, despite my mounting impatience. I hated being kept in suspense like this.

Was he coming back to life, or wasn't he?

The balloon of dread inside me sputtered when his eyes met mine. In them I saw determination—not the look of someone who was about to say goodbye for the last time.

"What I'm about to say is unbelievable," Yusuke said, "but you have to trust me. Can you do that, Keiko?"

Not daring to speak, I nodded. Yusuke blew out a breath, cheeks puffing like an overstuffed squirrel.

"I'm…well, I'm not dead," he said. His nose crinkled. "Well, I am dead. But I won't be soon. My body won't be, anyway. I won't be in my body, but I'll—oh, fuck it, I'm not making sense. The long and short of it is that I'm coming back to life. So, yeah. That's what's up."

I shut my eyes.

Relief flooded like a moonlit tide, suffusing the shores of my anxiety with calm—but I refused to let that show on my face. I refused to let Yusuke see that I'd been waiting and hoping and begging the universe for this.

I refused, because it was time for payback.

I opened my eyes. I quirked a brow.

"Really?" I said, in my very best I-do-not-believe-you voice. "You're coming back to life, huh?"

Yusuke nodded, pleased. Then he saw the look on my face. His brow furrowed.

"Yeah. I am. So why aren't you happy?" he said. Confusion turned to alarm. "Do you not actually want me to come back?" Alarm turned to outright horror. He leapt back, pointing between my eyes. "No way! Were the tears an act for Kuwabara?"

I couldn't contain my laughter. I doubled over, hands on knees, while Yusuke blinked at me in indignant surprise.

"No, stupid," I chortled. "It wasn't an act for Kuwabara."

"OK. So why—"

"I'm not acting happy because you're saying totally unbelievable things, that's all."

He gaped like a fish. Then his lip jutted in an annoyance.

"Hey. You can trust me," he said.

"Oh really?" I countered. "Says the guy who put purple hair dye in my shampoo last summer?"

One hand scratched the back of his neck. Nervous shuffling and shifty eyes accompanied a low, guilt-ridden laugh. I tried very hard not to show how amused I was. Yusuke was just adorable when he went on the defensive.

"That's what I thought." It was my turn to cross my arms and stick up my nose. "In light of that, you'll forgive me if I don't just believe you right off the bat."

Pout turned pleading. "Oh, c'mon, Keiko, don't be like this," he wheedled.

"Be like what?" I asked with fake sweetness.

"Be like, you know…"

"What, a hard-ass?" I interjected when he faltered. "Maybe you shouldn't have been such a liar, if you wanted me to trust you."

"Ugh, fine!" He threw up his hands before placing one firm on each hip. "Fine, Keiko. What do I have to do to prove I'm serious to you?"

I blinked. Yusuke's eyes locked on mine, as firm and immovable as concrete. I said nothing. He said nothing, clearly waiting for me to speak.

Wow. Was he serious? He'd just let me name some sort of test? Anything I could come up with?

"Come on, Keiko," he said when I didn't reply quickly enough. "Name it and I'll do it. Whatever will prove I'm real to you."

Whatever, hmm? Now that presented quite a broad range of possibilities.

But what could I possibly do to embarrass him?

"Hmm…" I made a show of putting my hand on my chin and wracking my brain. "Let's see…you could possess a little old lady and kiss Kuwabara, maybe."

Yusuke didn't react. Then he paled. He paled so much that any ghost metaphors I might care to use would be both completely fitting and unforgivably cliché. Soon the pale complexion gave way to enraged red, however, and Yusuke skittered away from me on stumbling feet.

"Why would you even suggest that?" Yusuke said, octave skyrocketing, eyes horrified, hands shaking. "I thought I had the dirty mind around here, not you!"

Another giggle-fit consumed me. This time I had to sit down. Yusuke sputtered, watching me as I slapped my thigh and tried desperately to breathe.

Too easy. Messing with him was too damn easy.

Man. I'd miss the hell out of him, waiting for his return.

"God, Yusuke—you're so dumb," I managed to say through a curtain of raining laughter. "I'm kidding. You don't have to prove anything to me."

His jaw clacked shut. Warily, he said, "I don't?"

"Of course not. I was messing with you, shithead. Calm down."

He eyed me sidelong, like I might ask him to kiss Kuwabara again. I offered a conciliatory smile. Time for jokes was over.

"I'd never doubt something as serious as you coming back to me," I said, and his cagey side-eye vanished. The air between us thickened, charge with invisible static. "If there's any chance at all to get you back, I'm taking it. I'd do anything to bring you back to life—anything, Yusuke."

He drew in a sharp breath. Our eyes met.

"That's a promise," I said. "I swear on my life, I'll bring you back to me."

Our eyes held a moment more. Then Yusuke looked down, face and ears flushing under the weight of my determination.

He looked so much younger, then. Like that kid I'd met under the bridge all those years before.

No way in hell would I mess up Yusuke's resurrection. Over my dead body—not to mention his.

"Anyway," I said, tone breezy to dispel the tension. "I'll run by you apartment tomorrow. See if your body really is alive." I stood and brushed off the front of my dream-pajamas. "What happens then?"

Yusuke's blush faded, now that we had something practical to talk about. "I have to go through an 'ordeal' to come back," he said, with air quotes around the word 'ordeal' (he pitched his voice high and nasally when he said it, too—an imitation of Koenma?). Yusuke heaved a sigh. "I don't know what it is yet, though."

I nodded, pretending to absorb this like it was completely new information, which of course it was not. "Interesting. Do you think you'll make it through the ordeal?"

He shrugged. I glared.

"You pessimist," I chided. "Call me crazy, but I believe when I wake up tomorrow, I'll find your heart beating." A shrug—a manufactured one, characterized by helpless doubt. Couldn't look too accepting so soon. Might seem suspicious. "Or maybe I'm delusional. Maybe I want you back so badly, I'm making all this up. Maybe checking on your body is just delusion, and when I find you dead, it'll just shatter me again."

Another sharp breath. He stepped toward me, urgency evident in his tight shoulders. "Keiko—"

"Delusional or not, either way, I'll find out tomorrow," I said with another shrug. "I will check." I allowed myself a mischievous wink. "Maybe I'll even take Kuwabara with me. Bet you'd love that."

Yusuke scowled. "Hell no. The fewer people who see my corpse, the better. I want to be remembered as a badass, not a zombie. Kuwabara would never let me live that down."

True. Kuwabara wouldn't. I started to say so, but as Kuwabara's name formed on my tongue, I faltered.

Kuwabara.

We'd exchanged numbers on the bridge that night. We'd promised to catch up at school, maybe eat lunch and talk about Yusuke if we felt the need to vent. He'd called my house when I didn't come to school today, but I hadn't answered. He was so sweet, checking up on me, but I hadn't had the heart to talk to him just then.

Hadn't had the heart, because I knew I'd have to break the news of my new school to him.

Call me cowardly, but I didn't want to heap that drama onto him. Not so soon after Yusuke's death. Kuwabara thought I'd be there with him, suffering alongside. But now…

"You OK?"

Yusuke watched me, head cocked just barely to one side. I sighed.

"I'm fine," I said. "Just…you've been watching me, right? As a ghost?"

"Yeah."

"So you know my parents are sending me to another school?"

"I saw," Yusuke said. His cheeks flushed again. "Not that I was spying! I was waiting for you to fall asleep so I could talk to you, that's all, and…" He shook his head. "Whatever, yeah, I heard. They're sending you to…what was it? Mimo?"

"Meiou," I corrected. "Sucks, right?"

Yusuke grimaced. "Actually, no. It doesn't suck. Meiou will be better for you."

"What?!"

Of all the things he could've said, that was not what I'd predicted. He shrugged, gesturing at me with one hand.

"You're too smart for Sarayashiki," he said. "I've always said so. Hell, you only went there to take care of me."

I winced. "You know that's not true."

"Oh, shut up," he grumbled. "I'm the liar here, remember?"

Little did he know I'd told more lies than there were stars in this dreamland sky. But I said nothing, and waited for him to continue.

"Even if I hadn't died, your parents would've done this eventually, now that they have money to send you to a private school," he said. "Seeing how Iwamoto acted, I can't blame them for switching you." He cracked a grin. "Hell, even my mom wondered why you were sticking around Sarayashiki, and she's as observant as a rock. But I knew the reason. You were only there to take care of me." His grin widened, impish. "Looks like my death wasn't a waste, after all. Not if it gave you a better shot in life. It's high time you went somewhere that deserves you."

I started to tell him to shut up, to not talk about his death that way—but his eyes glimmered, a wounded animal staring into the face of death, and I realized this was his way of making sense of things. His way of justifying what happened to him. His way of coping.

A lump of raw emotion clogged my throat.

He'd never said something so genuinely kind about me before.

For all his bluster, for all his bravado, for all his teenage-boy-bullshit—Yusuke was telling me he cared.

I cast my eyes to the poppy-covered ground.

"Maybe Meiou will be good for me," I said, voice thick, "but when you come back, I won't be—"

"Be there to clean up my messes?" he cut in. Yusuke shrugged again. "Maybe it's time I start taking care of those on my own." A sly chuckle. "And besides. You couldn't stay at Sarayashiki even if you wanted to."

"Hmm?"

"Iwamoto wanted to expel you."

Took a minute for that to sink in.

When it did I shrieked, "He what?!"

Yusuke stuffed his fingers in his ears. "Jeez, Keiko! Pretty sure they can hear you in the next prefecture!"

"Sorry, sorry—but what the hell do you mean, he wanted to expel me?!"

"I mean that he got another slimeball teacher to vouch for what you did at the funeral. They asked the schoolboard to kick you out."

I gaped. The idea that Iwamoto would stoop to that level was…well, not surprising considering his character, but it sure as hell was ballsy of that cowardly rat. Yusuke pinched his nose shut and contorted his jaw—an uncanny impression of Iwamoto both in expression and tone.

"'Keiko has hidden violent tendencies that belie her position on the student counsel and she must be expelled immediately, for the good of the student body!'" he quoted. He let his nose go and made a disgusted face. "Bastard lied through his teeth. Would've punched him if I still had fists."

"Defending my honor?" I teased.

"Shut up. I didn't do anything," he grumbled. "Your mom, on the other hand..."

My mom? She hadn't mentioned anything about an expulsion—just that she'd enrolled me at Meiou. Still wasn't sure how I felt about her just yet. I'd fallen asleep before I could do any real processing about my change in schools. All I could think about was being distanced from Yusuke. If I wasn't there, in his face, would he forget about me? Out of sight, out of mind? He certainly seemed the type…

I'd have to work so much harder to not be forgotten on the sidelines, if I wasn't in Yusuke's immediate presence. Keiko was already such a background player. Would being sent to Meiou condemn her to obscurity for good?

Had my mother condemned my second life to insignificance?

And more pressing…would I be able to forgive her for that?

She hadn't even asked me if I wanted to switch schools. Shouldn't that be my decision, not hers?

Yusuke had no idea about any of that, of course. His eyes lit up; he bounced on his heels, grinning at me like he was about to recount the events of a particularly exciting boxing match.

"Man, Keiko. You should've seen your mom," Yusuke said. "She was on fire. I can see where you get it."

"Is that right," I said.

"Oh yeah. She marched into Sarayashiki and demanded to see the principal. Guy almost pissed his pants. They were about to file for your expulsion—Takanaka tipped her off, by the way, really saved your ass—but it was your mom who pushed the transfer to Meiou right on time. Wouldn't take 'no' for an answer and did everything she could to take Iwamoto down in the process." He put his hands behind his head, lips pursing. "Probably won't stick. Iwamoto's a slippery weasel. But in the end, your mom saved you and damn near took him down, too. At the very least she saved your squeaky clean record. It's something."

"How do you even know about—?" I stopped and shook my head at my own stupidity. "Right. Ghost. You were spying."

He didn't bother denying it. "When I saw her leave the restaurant on a warpath, I couldn't not follow. And watching her ream Iwamoto was priceless. Being dead has its perks."

Yusuke seemed pleased by my mother's actions. I'd had a temper in my old life, for sure, but maybe part of my temper in this life came from my determined warrior of a mom. I'd been prepared to resent my mother for this change in canon. I knew that most of this was my fault—earning my parents money for private school, getting mad at Yusuke's tsuya and jeopardizing my place at Sarayashiki—but I'd still been ready to hold a grudge if my role in canon drifted astray.

Without my mother, though, the quality of my life in this world—the life that I would continue to live after the events of Yu Yu Hakusho came to a close—would have been threatened.

I'd forgotten I needed to worry about more than just Yu Yu Hakusho.

Sure. I was a character in this world.

Today Mom reminded me I was also a human being living in it.

Seems mother knew best, after all.

I guess I stared at the ground, stuck inside my own reflection, for a bit too long. Yusuke drew close, leaning in to scowl at my face. "Earth to Keiko. You in there?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." I tucked hair behind my ears. "Just have to thank my mother, apparently."

"Damn straight. She had your back today." His teeth gleamed like a tiger's maw. "Don't let her work go to waste, you hear me? Grab Meiou by the balls. Make it your bitch."

I snorted. "Eloquent as always, Yusuke."

"Yup." His expression darkened. "And don't you dare get caught up in your head."

"Get caught up in my—?"

"Every time something big happens, you do the same thing." He swirled a finger around his ear, inadvertently using the American Sign Language word for 'crazy'. "I've seen it a hundred times. You get caught up in your head and over-analyze everything. That big brain of yours isn't always a good thing, y'know?"

He knew me far too well. I'd done a poor job acting as Keiko, it seemed. I sighed and shook my head, lips trembling with a suppressed smile.

Yusuke looped an arm around my neck. I knotted my fingers through his. Even in the scenery of a dream, his body felt warm and comforting against mine.

"Even if we don't go to the same school, you'll still see me around once I come back," he said in my ear. "So stop looking like the world's about to end. OK?"

"…sure."

"...I know that dramatic pause. What's wrong?"

"Honestly?" I grabbed his hand and extricated myself from the hug. Although my next words were true, they weren't the real answer to his question. "Just dreading telling Kuwabara I'm going to switch schools, is all."

Yusuke threw his head back. "Ha! Yeah, he'll probably cry. That conversation's gonna suck!"

I glowered. "Not funny, Yusuke."

"Are you kidding? It's hilarious! He's totally got a crush on you!"

Call me dense, but I couldn't tell if he was kidding or serious. His laughter sounded the same whether he was making fun of me, or just having fun. I shoved my hands into my pajama pockets and hunched, trying not to look like a kid being picked last at dodgeball.

I mean, Kuwabara was amazing. He was my favorite. But we'd only just met. Sure, we were close already, and we connected on a lot of levels, but that didn't mean—

"Anyway," Yusuke said, "just tell him the truth. Rip the Band-Aid off. You don't have to go to the same school to be friends."

Ah. Looked like Yusuke was kidding about the crush thing. I put my hand to my forehead. "I guess I worry you'll both forget me if I'm out of sight, out of mind."

Yusuke rolled his eyes so hard, I feared they'd pop out of his head.

"Fat chance of that," he said. "With your loud mouth, there's no chance you'd let us forget."

Leave it to Yusuke to remind me of my own tenacity. "True," I said, and then I shoved his shoulder with an open palm. "Speaking of loud mouths. How long till I get to yell at you again? How long should your resurrection take?"

He looked annoyed, staring up at the pink sky with a scowl.

"Not sure," Yusuke said. "They're being vague and it sucks. But I'll let you know."

I started to pretend to act like I didn't know what he meant ('Who is being vague?') but then his eyes narrowed as he stared off into the distance of my dreamscape—sensing something beyond the scope of my perception. His hand drifted toward me, landing on my shoulder with an absent squeeze.

"I've gotta go," he said.

My stomach lurched. "So soon?"

Eyes slid my way, sardonic. "What? Will you miss me?"

Much as Yusuke knew me, I knew him, too. He expected me to deny his blithe accusation. He expected me to play coy, to tell him to shut up and stop being stupid.

Instead, I said, "Yeah. I will. I'll miss the shit out of you, every day, until you come back to me."

Yusuke recoiled, hand coming off my shoulder—but then our gazes collided like comets hurtling through space. I felt sincerity burning inside me. I just hoped Yusuke could see it.

Slowly, he put the hand back on my collarbone.

"Don't get mushy on me, now," he muttered.

That time, I played to his expectations. I grinned and said, "Fuck off."

It was like something out of a movie, when his knuckles chucked my chin. I think the motion even surprised him. His eyes widened, but then they softened above the curve of his reluctant smile.

"That's my girl," he said.

Yusuke turned away.

"See ya round," he said.

I didn't have time to say goodbye.

Between one moment and the next, Yusuke disappeared.

Between that moment and another, Hiruko took his place.

It happened so quickly, I wondered if I was seeing things. But then the kid kicked at the poppy-covered ground with the toe of his wooden sandal, and I knew it was him, after all.

"Hiruko," I intoned. "We have to stop meeting like this."

Eyes like the sea at high tide slid upward, meeting mine with faux innocence. He asked, "Oh?"

"Yeah. It's annoying. I can't call you, but you can show up whenever? Hardly seems fair."

His eternal smile widened. "Life isn't fair. Anyone who says differently is selling something."

"Don't quote my favorite movie at me," I said.

Said Hiruko: "You could just let Yusuke get cremated, you know."

For a second I thought I'd misheard him. He spoke with marked nonchalance, like he'd commented on mere weather as opposed to the fate of my best friend. As such, it took me a minute to find the gumption to reply.

"Excuse me?" I said.

A tired eye-roll. Hiruko began, "I said—"

"No. I heard what you said. I'm wondering why you said it."

The pink-haired brat spoke like he was trying to explain something obvious to a child. "Yusuke dying—I mean dying for real—would be a huge broken rule." His head tilted, but I didn't believe his guiltless smile for a single goddamn second. "Wouldn't you like to be the next Spirit Detective?

My response was as heartfelt as it was immediate: "Fuck no."

"Such a fast answer," Hiruko said, laughing. "But are you sure? You seemed so intent on awakening supernatural abilities in yourself."

"Of course I want abilities. Who in their right mind wouldn't want them, if they were transported to a world where being psychic was possible?" I countered. That logic seemed pretty freaking obvious, at least to me. Enough people had written self-insertion fanfic in my home world for me to know this must be the case. "But that desire doesn't mean I want to…to usurp Yusuke's story to get those powers."

Hiruko looked genuinely surprised to hear that—and this time, I believed him. "You don't?" he asked.

"No! I want my own narrative, not someone else's," I said.

"Funny." His smiled reminded me of a shark. "You've been content to play the part of Keiko these past few days, without alteration."

…he had a point, dammit. Playing her role had felt comforting indeed. But Hiruko seemed to be neglecting one important factor.

"I only acted the part of Keiko to protect Yusuke," I said. "Let's call recent circumstance extenuating."

"Oh. So you admit you've grown attached to him, eh?" he said. Hiruko didn't look upset by that, but something about his smile tightened. My gut clenched in response. "Interesting."

It was then my turn to use a supercilious tone of voice. "Whatever you say. But I think switching schools is a pretty big alteration when it comes to Keiko's storyline."

"Perhaps it is," Hiruko relented. His smiled amped up a few watts, but in that moment I felt like he stopped addressing me. It was more like he was looking at me than talking with me. "You're more aggressive than the other Keiko. More ambitious, too. That aggression and that ambition are to blame for your new predicament, regarding your education." He chuckled, hands crossing in front of his archaic crimson robe. "Funny how a shift in personality alone changed your fate."

"Stop talking about me like I'm a science project."

Pink hair fell across his eyes. "Sorry. But you are a project of mine."

"Care to elaborate?" I said—and just then I felt particularly bold. "Kagome and I would just love to know more about you."

Hiruko's smile froze.

It thawed just as quickly, though. The boy tutted, shoving his hands out of sight and into his sleeves. I waited for him to speak, but when his eyes drifted across the magenta sky and field of encroaching crimson poppies, I realized he didn't intend to reply at all.

"Of course not," I said with an exasperated sigh. "You're going to be as annoyingly cryptic as always."

Hiruko shrugged. He bent, plucked a poppy from the ground, and tucked it behind his ear. I rolled my eyes when he looked to me for wide-eyed approval.

"Look," I said. "I'm not going to let Yusuke die. Screw your broken rules and your puppy-dog eyes. On this matter, I'm following the script. I have a role to play, and I'll be damned if I neglect it on your account." I couldn't disguise the venom in my voice when I added, "Hope that's OK, despite what you might've hoped?"

Hiruko considered me for a moment. Indigo eyes raked the aubergine sky.

"For now, I suppose its fine," the boy eventually said—and then lid obscured eye in a conspiratorial wink. "But I have faith you'll stray again soon."

I wanted to tell him to go screw himself.

Hiruko ended the dream before I could form the words.

The purple and pink sky faded, replaced by the grey ceiling of my darkened bedroom.

When the sun rose in shades of lilac and gold, I walked to the funeral parlor to pay Yusuke one final visit.

I found his body breathing.

As I called for help through shrieking lungs, I hoped Hiruko could hear me.

Little bastard deserved to know Yusuke was coming back, and that I would play my role in his resurrection perfectly

next chapter

Chapter Text

Metallic beeping pulsed steady through the stillness. A whoosh of displaced air punctuated the rhythmic beat. Listen hard enough and you could hear the subtle drip of the IV line feeding fluids into Yusuke's arm.

Kuwabara stared at Yusuke's motionless, silent body without speaking.

Eventually he backed up until he hit the wall. He slid down it until he sat, knees to his chest, staring at the comatose body of our once-dead friend through eyes unseeing.

Gently, I asked, "Are you OK?"

Kuwabara's eyes focused. "Oh. Um." He looked at me for helpless reassurance. "I think I'm in shock?"

"Probably," I said. I slid down the wall next to him. "I'll give you a minute."

I'd found Yusuke the day before. His body had been rushed to the nearest hospital for evaluation, Atsuko delightedly screaming and fist-pumping next to me in the back of the ambulance (I wish I had a photo of the EMTs' startled faces). Ten hours of testing later, we were told the EMTs at the scene of Yusuke's car accident had somehow missed Yusuke's subtle heartbeat, and that if we hadn't found him when we did, he'd likely have died in the next few days—if cremation didn't get him first, of course.

Now he lay in the back bedroom at Atsuko's apartment, hooked up to a heart monitor, feeding tube, and breathing apparatus. An IV provided fluids. Nurses came by every few hours to check on him (not to mention change his catheter, which I'm sure Yusuke found embarrassing) but otherwise, there was little to do but sit at his side and wait.

Not that the doctors advocated waiting for him to wake up. They could barely detect brain activity. It was likely he'd never wake up, they said. We shouldn't put too much stock in hope.

They didn't know what I knew, though.

At my side, Kuwabara shifted. He reached toward Yusuke's shoulder, then stopped.

"So many tubes," he said, voice vibrating with nerves beneath the beat of the heart monitor.

"They're necessary," I said. "But yeah. Scary-looking, huh?"

Kuwabara nodded. You could barely see Yusuke's face beneath the plastic ventilator mask. At first I'd been shocked by the sight of all the tubes and medical equipment, just like Kuwabara, but for entirely different reasons than my carrot-topped friend. Yusuke had slept without assistance in the anime. In this world, he needed artificial support. I had no idea why this change had occurred, but honestly, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Even in stasis, you needed fluids and nutrients. I felt safer with him hooked up like this, even if the ventilator looked creepy.

"So he didn't die?" Kuwabara said. "The doctors just…missed his heartbeat?"

"No," I said. "He died."

Kuwabara's brow lifted.

"He died, and he came back."

I told Kuwabara everything about my contact with Yusuke's ghost, just like I'd told Atsuko when we were waiting on Yusuke's tests at the hospital (she'd believed me right off the bat, no questions asked—love that woman). Kuwabara listened without comment, eyes widening with every word.

"So he's coming back for good," he said when I fell quiet. "Not just in a coma forever?"

"Seems that way."

"You're not scared you're wrong?"

"No."

I wasn't scared I was wrong about Yusuke's intention to return—messing up Yusuke's resurrection through my rogue actions is what scared me. But Kuwabara didn't need to know that. He put his hand on his chin and glowered at Yusuke's body.

"You dreamed he was alive. So you went to his body, and it was alive just like you dreamed." His mouth parted, eyes roving over Yusuke as he thought this through. "Huh. I guess that proves your dream was real."

"Seems that way," I repeated.

"Do you often have prophetic dreams?"

Kuwabara looked oddly hopefully when he asked that. His face fell when I shook my head.

"No," I said. "Pretty sure Yusuke's ghost made this happen. I think I was talking directly to him, rather than having any sort of precognitive episode."

His nose scrunched. "Pre-cog…?"

"Seeing the future."

"Ooooh."

"Yeah. This was all Yusuke, not me." I toyed with the toe of my sock, picking at the seam. "He told me he'd be back soon. He has an ordeal to complete, and then we'll have him home again."

"Good thing he wasn't autopsied," Kuwabara muttered.

"Yeah. The guy really lucked out."

In truth, Yusuke's luck could be attributed to a quirk of Japanese culture. Turns out autopsy rates were relatively low in Japan, especially if cause of death was already obvious. Car accidents, as it turns out, are pretty fucking obvious. Yusuke should've been the child named after luck, not me.

"Anyway," I said. "At first I thought I was just dreaming. I thought it was all just wishful thinking…but then I checked, and here he was. Breathing. Heart beating."

I couldn't help but smile at Kuwabara, internally reliving the moment I'd gone down to the funeral home and asked to see my friend's body. The workers hadn't wanted to let me in to see Yusuke, but I put on an Oscar-worthy performance of a grieving girlfriend and managed to score entry.

Contrary to my earlier act, the joy I experienced when I felt Yusuke's pulse flutter beneath my fingertips was wholly genuine. I think Atsuko so readily believed my news when I called her because I sounded so perfectly sincere. Same with my parents. They hadn't asked single question when I called. They just shut down the restaurant, chased out all the patrons, and came running to the hospital. Good ol' Mom and Dad. They'd volunteered to personally help care for Yusuke's body before I suggested we hire in-home nurses, instead. Hospital would foot the bill, I bet. They owed us for nearly killing Yusuke, after all, and would want to avoid a lawsuit…not to mention Atsuko's Yakuza contacts.

She'd never admitted outright to having them, but the big black vans around the hospital that day spoke volumes.

Kuwabara regarded me with gravity. "So he's really coming back?"

"Yeah, Kuwabara." My grin threatened to split my cheeks in half. "He is."

Kuwabara didn't react for a second. Then he sniffed, put a hand over his face, and lurched to his feet.

"Gotta pee," he said.

There was no disguising how thick his words sounded, just as there was no disguising his red-rimmed eyes when he returned from the bathroom.

His heart-melting grin told me that any tears he'd cried were borne of joy.

"So—did he say how long this ordeal of his would take?" he asked, plopping back down on the floor next to me.

"Nope."

"Hmmph!" Kuwabara crossed his legs and gripped his ankles with both hands, nose turning up. "He probably knows, that big old liar."

"Really? How do you figure?"

"He probably knows how long it'll take, but he didn't tell you so he could get the jump on me when he gets back! He's just scared to face me like a real man!" Kuwabara declared. He bent over Yusuke and shook his fist. "Hear that, Urameshi? I know your plan and I won't be caught off guard! Even if you jump me in the middle of class, I'll kick your ass!"

Kuwabara's aggressive scowl barely hid his burgeoning smile. I concealed a smile of my own behind my hair, listening as Kuwabara berated Yusuke for being a tricky son of a bitch. Typical teenage guy, hiding happiness behind hostility and insults. It was honestly adorable. They'd never tell each other to their faces that they admired and respected each other, but it was painfully obvious to me. Man, I was so glad to have Kuwabara by my side in all this. He—

"Hey, Keiko?"

I jerked up, tucking hair behind my ear. "Hmm?"

"When are you coming back to school?" he asked.

I couldn't help but stiffen at his question. I hadn't gone back to Sarayashiki since Yusuke died—mostly because I didn't actually go there anymore. Still hadn't told Kuwabara. He'd stopped by a few times and we'd talked on the phone every day since Yusuke passed, but the moment to tell him had never…well, it never felt right. So I'd kept quiet, for fear of the conversation going really, really wrong.

Bad policy. I knew better than to drag this out. I needed to be blunt.

Well, then. Now seemed as good a time as any.

Just as I drew in a breath to answer, however, Atsuko swaggered into the room. Kuwabara leapt to his feet and bowed, thanking her for letting him visit, but she didn't appear to hear. She only had eyes for Yusuke—happy, glittering eyes that had regained all the piss and vinegar she was famous for, spark rekindled in the presence of her resurrected spitfire son.

"Hey, kids!" she chirped, kneeling next to Yusuke so she could pinch his cheek. "How's my baby boy doing today? Strong and silent as always, I see!"

"His vitals look good," I said.

Kuwabara and Atsuko raised an eyebrow in unison.

"Since when have you been able to read medical equipment?" Atsuko asked.

"I had the nurses explain a few things last time they were here," I said. "Just how to monitor his breathing and heart. Nothing complicated. But they promised they'd show me how to insert an IV next time, so I'll be able to help out and—"

Atsuko started laughing before I could finish.

"You're a chronic over-achiever. What the hell do you see in my boy, anyway?" Atsuko said through her chortles. "Don't waste so much time around here. You've got a life to live, right?" She glanced at her watch. "And aren't you meeting a friend of yours…now-ish?"

When I first arrived at Atsuko's that afternoon, I told her I'd be getting dinner with a friend after I revealed Yusuke's not-corpse to Kuwabara…but surely I hadn't been in here for that long. Right? I thought I had another hour to get to—

I looked at my watch.

My eyes promptly bugged out of my face.

"Oh, shit!" I bolted to my feet at a near sprint, doubling back when I realized I'd forgotten my purse. I dipped hasty bows at both Atsuko and Kuwabara. "Sorry, but I've gotta go!"

"Uh. No problem?" Kuwabara said.

"Come back tomorrow, Keiko!" Atsuko said. When Kuwabara stood and bowed, she grinned at him. "And you too, Kuwabara. It's about time my Yusuke started making more friends, even if he's not awake to enjoy them."

Kuwabara snickered at that. Then his hesitant, oddly hopeful eyes slid my way. "See you tomorrow here, Yukimura?"

"Sure, sure." I waved over my shoulder, unwilling to wait for Kuwabara to put on his shoes and walk with me because I was late, dammit, and the next train was set to leave ASAP. "Bye!"

Hurried through I was, I noted with satisfaction that Kuwabara stayed behind and talked to Atsuko. I heard their voices through the window when I ran down the porch, their words lapping at the glass like waves on the shore.

I wasn't alone in taking care of Yusuke, thanks to Kuwabara.

Neither, it seemed, was I alone in caring for Atsuko, once more thanks to him.

All the more reason I needed to be careful about how I told him about Meiou.

Turns out losing Kuwabara was one of the things that scared me most.

I glared at her while she laughed, her small face the color of a ripe cherry, little fist banging against her knee.

I said, "It's not funny."

"Au contraire, mon bon ami," Kagome said. "It's hilarious. You're going to Meiou!" Her cackle reminded me of a sadistic parakeet. "Looks like you really fucked yourself over, making your parents wealthy. Not to mention punching a teacher."

"Almost punching a teacher.

"Don't be pedantic, missy." She stopped laughing long enough to point at me, grinning. "You've only got yourself to blame, Eeyore. You and your internalized guilt and lingering anxiety disorder." Her composure shattered; fist battered knee again. "Oh man. Little Miss Thinker, undone by her big brain. Never thought I'd see the day! Ha!"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," I grumbled. "I'm the worst. Are you done mocking me yet?"

She was not done. Far from it. By the time she ordered a second cup of frozen yogurt, Kagome was still chuckling at my expense. Eventually she calmed down, thoughtfully picking at her mango custard and gumballs with a spoon.

"How bad a change do you think this is, anyway?" she asked. "Like, how much will switching schools change Yu Yu Hakusho canon?"

"Honestly? I don't know."

Honestly? Not knowing scared the shit out of me. I'd suffered many sleepless nights worrying about this, trying to discern and predict all possible variables wrought by this change, but results slipped through my fingers like water through a sieve. Mom and Dad thought my reluctance to change schools was just because I didn't want to leave my friends behind, alongside embarrassment at my near-miss expulsion. Little did they know my truth was far stranger than their inadvertent fiction.

"Keiko was at the school all during the Saint Beast arc when those zombie-guys attacked her, so that's something I'll have to deal with," I said. "That's the biggest thing, though—the biggest I can remember, at least." I ticked off the next few comments on my fingers. "I can think of three other times the school mattered. The first time she met Botan, it was on the roof of the school. She saw the Rescue Yukina video tape in Yusuke's hand at the school. And I think she was shown at the school during the Sensui arc, too." I put the fingers down and massaged my temples. "But those were small moments. Easily accounted for. What scares me is the possibility those missed moments might add up to something huge."

Kagome tapped her chin, thinking. "So…butterfly flaps its wings and causes a broken-canon tornado?"

"Exactly." Relief felt even more refreshing than my green tea yogurt; Kagome understood me. Awesome. So happy we found each other. "And with Minamino being so close by…"

Her lips pursed. "Minamino?"

"Oh. I mean Kurama." Kagome's eyes lightened as understanding dawned. "I'm training myself to use his human name so I don't slip up and give myself away if I meet him."

"Good idea, smarty pants," she said—but then she pointed her spoon at me, glob of mango splattering the table. "Wait. 'If' you meet him?" She crossed her arms and glared. "Let me guess. You're worried associating with Minamino too early will change things about canon, aren't you?"

Kagome and I had only hung out a few times, mostly before our weekly lessons with Hideki-sensei, but she already knew me pretty well. I nodded in affirmation.

She looked mildly alarmed by my response. "Holy shit. You're not gonna not meet him, are you?"

"I don't know." The words felt like a long-kept confession, private and maybe a little shameful. "I mean, I want to meet him. I really, really want to. I just worry it'll change things. He and Keiko barely exchanged two words in the anime."

Hell, I remembered one scene during the Dark Tournament where Keiko had asked Shizuru if Kurama was human. She hadn't used his name; she just called him 'that boy'. Did anime-Keiko even know Kurama's name?

"They weren't friends in the anime," I said. "Would being friends, or even classmates, be too big a change?"

Kagome took a comically large bite of yogurt. Her eyes widened. She groaned and cradled her head in her hands.

"Brain freeze?" I asked.

"Fucking brain freeze!" she concurred.

I laughed. She glared, but then her look turned thoughtful.

"If you want to meet him, then you should," she said.

My hands tightened. "But what if—?"

"Hypotheticals!" Kagome declared. "Eeyore and her constant hypotheticals! Just take life as it comes and stop worrying, for once!"

"Easier said than done," I muttered. "I might not get panic attacks in this body, but I'm still anxious."

I hadn't been formally diagnosed with an anxiety disorder as Keiko, but as the years went on I realized very little about the way my brain worked had changed when I entered her body. I was still incapable of not agonizing over things most people would say aren't worth my time. I was still sleepless at night, wrapped up in paranoia and anxiety.

"Telling someone like me not to worry is like telling someone with a broken limb to just stop having a broken limb," I said. "It's not possible. Worrying is how I'm wired."

Kagome grimaced. She set her yogurt aside—and for a minute there she looked a lot older than 10.

"Shit," she said, all sincerity and severity now. "I'm sorry if I dismissed your feelings."

I swirled my yogurt absently. "It's OK."

"No, I should know better. My husband had obsessive compulsive disorder. I know better than to tell someone to just get over their emotions." Her somber look brightened. "But tell you what. Maybe this will help: Kurama is super smart, right? I doubt he'd let you throw him off course no matter how much you interfere in his life."

"That's…actually a great point."

No way could someone like me ever change the fox demon's fate—not if he had a goal in mind. He was just too sharp and focused to be led off course. Kagome's logical assessment of the situation had me heaving a relived sighed, because suddenly the power was in Kurama's hands, not mine. That diffusion of responsibility was like a balm to my worrywart soul.

"Thank you. I feel better, actually," I told her. "Probably won't stop worrying, but at least you took the edge off."

"You're welcome," she said. "Speaking of feeling better. Must be a relief to know Yusuke is coming back, huh? You've been worried about that, too."

"I'll say. The next big plot point is the fire where Keiko's hair burns off, I think." I fingered a pigtail and mimed cutting it off; I hated this hairstyle. "Gotta be on the lookout for that. I'm ready for a haircut."

She frowned. "Is that really what comes next? What about that time Yusuke possessed Kuwabara?"

"Yusuke did that because Keiko didn't believe he'd come back to life when he talked to her in a dream," I said. "I believed him in the dream, so there's no need for that storyline." My shrug felt like a declaration of defeat. "I'm honestly sad about it. Seeing Yusuke in Kuwabara's body would've been hilarious. But it's probably for the best."

"Really? Why's that?" Kagome asked.

"I'd rather cut out as much needless drama as I can. The possession episode didn't have much impact on the overall story, so cutting it just saves me the anxiety of saving Yusuke's body from cremation in the nick of time."

She started to nod, but then Kagome froze. Her hand slacked around her spoon. It tumbled from her grip and into her orange yogurt with a splat.

"Oh, shit!" she said, eyes as round as the gumballs in her dessert. "I just thought of something!"

I stared at her. "Are you OK?"

"Oh, I'm fine—but whatever you do, don't mention my name to Kurama!"

"…OK?"

"Just—if you feel the need to mention me, or if he were to ever see us together, make up a name for me." She looked utterly serious, as if asking for a life-or-death favor instead of something so small (small if not weird, but whatever). "Like…a name like 'Sakura' or something. As generic a name as you can think up!"

"OK," I said. "But why?"

She crossed her arms and winked. "You're not the only one of us who likes to overthink everything."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning just like you, I also want to cut needless drama." She jammed her spoon into her ice cream, very impolitely—it looked like one of the food offerings on Yusuke's casket. "I had a dream the other night that Kurama appeared in the Feudal Era. He and Sesshomaru had a pillow fight in their underwear." Her eyes rolled back like she'd tasted something sweet. "Super hot."

Yogurt almost came out my nose. Kagome didn't appear to notice.

"It got me thinking," she continued. "Both Inuyasha and Yu Yu Hakusho have demons. In this universe, both animes appear to exist at the same time. So maybe…"

"Demons from Yu Yu Hakusho, like Yoko Kurama, might've existed in the Feudal Era," I said.

The notion had occurred to me before, though I hadn't given it much thought—mainly because I didn't see it affecting me. Keiko never travelled to Feudal Japan. Obviously Kagome had more reason to ponder these questions than I did. But why did Kagome want to keep her name from Kurama?

Kagome seemed please by my deduction. "Exactly! And as your school-switch so clearly showed us, things about our plots are changing. So maybe there will be a bigger crossover than just the two of us meeting each other and seeing fuzzy tabloid shots of Sailor V in the paper." She leaned her cheek on her hand, staring into space with a pout. "Maybe I'll meet Kurama when I finally go back to the past. The thing is, if we meet now when he's Shuichi, and he recognizes me, it'll give away whether or not our shows cross over."

She had a point. If Shuichi reacted to her face or name in the here-and-now, it would give away if she met him in the Feudal Era—

Wait. She didn't want to know ahead of time if she'd meet him? Knowing information like that ahead of time would be like striking gold, as far as I was concerned. Anything that helped me gain control, I'd welcome. So why did Kagome not want to know details about her life in advance?

As if answering my unspoken question, Kagome said, "I don't want to know about any changes before I've had a chance to experience them myself." She seemed almost excited, bouncing a little in her seat. "I want it to be a surprise!"

I processed Kagome's subtext.

My jaw promptly dropped.

I said: "You…you want to avoid meeting Minamino in this era to avoid spoilers?"

Her grin was like sunshine bottled. "Yup!"

There was no stopping me: I cradled my head in my hands and groaned.

"This isn't a fanfiction, Tigger," I said.

"You sure about that, Eeyore?" Kagome chirped with maddening sincerity.

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure. This is real life."

"Is it though, Eeyore?" she implored. "Is. It. Though?"

"We are not fictional." I sat up, glared, and thrust out my bare arm. A quote from The Bard rolled ready off my tongue. "'If you cut me, do I not bleed?' We're fucking real!"

She turned up her nose. "Character in fanfics bleed. I mean, on paper. But still."

"Oh my god. This is not a fanfic." I spoke slowly, trying to disabuse her of the ridiculous notion we starred in some pathetic fanboy's lame fantasies, because that was ludicrous and oh my god please kill me now. "We are living real lives. There are no spoilers in real life."

Her stubborn eyes were like diamonds, unyielding and aglow.

"Maybe there are spoilers," she said, "when real life happens inside a gigantic fanfiction crossover universe."

"We are not in a fanfic!" I snarled. Kagome leaned away, holding up her hands in wide-eyed surrender. I flashed her a sheepish look and tried very hard to compose myself. "Sorry. It's just, this whole thing is way too stupid to ever be a fanfic. No one would even read it! It's too weird!"

That got a smile out of her. "Yeah, it is pretty farfetched," she said—and her resolute look returned. "But like it or not, I don't want spoilers. Time travel is funky enough as it is without Kurama recognizing me too soon."

Hate to admit it, but she made sense. I'd not want to screw up time travel, either. I slumped back in my seat with a sigh, worry defeated once again by cold logic.

"Fine," I relented. "If it makes you happy, your name is 'Sakura' as far as Minamino is concerned."

Her charming grin all but lit up the night. "You're the best! And sorry to cut this short, but we should probably get going."

For the second time that day, I checked my watch and bolted to my feet. "Ah, damn! He'll make us run extra laps if we're tardy!"

Kagome hadn't thought of that, apparently. She shrieked an expletive before pouring the rest of her yogurt down her throat while I gathered up my things. Then—Kagome sprinting, me jogging to accommodate her short legs—we ran together to Hideki-sensei's warehouse dojo.

I'd been attending lessons once a week since the day I met Kagome, and Hideki had not lied to us: that first lesson had just been a warm-up. The two boys who seemed unsure at the end of the first lesson hadn't returned for a third once they experienced the sheer, brutal torture of the second. It became apparent, quickly, that Hideki had been pulling punches that first lesson.

Like. He'd been pulling punches a lot.

Each lesson followed roughly the same format. We were made to run laps until we dropped, then meditate, then go over forms and learn new katas before sparring with Hideki until none of us could stand.

And I mean it—we sparred until black spots stained the corners of our vision, breath like a knives in our ribs, every limb quivering like jelly in an earthquake. Hideki's ghostly dodging ability had turned into viper-swift strikes and grapples of steel. The man never seemed to tire, like the Energizer Bunny if it had been raised in a hidden ninja village that specialized in being sadistic and torturous. I came away with skin like a patchwork quilt of bruises, every joint creaking when I fell into bed, fireworks of pain sparking through my battered body.

I kept going back, though.

Hoping to gain an edge, I hit the gym and lifted weights on my own time. I ran miles every morning before school. I practiced katas every chance I got. And although I never managed to hit Hideki, or even keep him from kicking my ass, I kept going back to lessons.

Every session felt like it unlocked something in my brain: a little piece of dexterity, or strength, or raw insight. Nothing about my previous formal training could possibly compare.

I would not waste the opportunity to learn from this man, no matter how badly his punches hurt.

When Kagome and I arrived that night, Hideki-sensei and our other classmate, Ezakiya, were already there. Hideki looked as bored as ever, even when he barked at us to start running sprints up and down the length of the warehouse. Usually the sprints cleared my head, making the meditation that followed come easily, but tonight I couldn't focus. I couldn't prevent stray thoughts from flitting through my consciousness, cracking it like air bubbles in a concrete expanding during winter frost. My strikes during the sparring session lacked passion or motivation. I clung to the fringes of the fight, letting scrappy Kagome and strong Ezakiya take point while I brought up the rear in our assault on the untouchable Hideki.

Were we in a fanfic?

I dodged behind Ezakiya when Hideki sent him sprawling.

No. That's stupid. Don't think about that.

Kagome screeched and threw herself at Hideki, but the man flipped her with a lazy twist of his shoulder.

Don't think about that. Think about something fun. Kuwabara?

Ezakiya roared as he charged our sensei, but Hideki parried and forced Ezakiya to the ground.

No, not Kuwabara. You'll feel guilty. You still haven't told him about Meiou—

Grey eyes flashed like steel in my direction. Hideki's arm cut a path through the air before Ezakiya even hit the mat.

The next thing I knew, Hideki smashed my sternum with the flat of his palm.

I reeled backward and came down hard on my knee. Something inside it twisted and popped, but I barely registered the pain because something in my chest had popped, too. I went down with a gasp, curling in on myself as I tried to breathe. It felt like a train had hit me. Each gasp sent a spider's web of agony across my ribs.

Silence followed. Then Hideki's impassive voice drifted through the air.

"That's enough for tonight, I think."

I shut my eyes, dimly registering when Kagome ran to my side, snapping at Ezakiya to come and help me sit. I let them haul me up without opening my eyes.

When a shadow crossed my face, however, my lids lifted just a crack.

Hideki knelt in front of me. His eyes moved from Ezakiya to Kagome.

"Both of you," he murmured, "go home."

"But Keiko and I walk to the train together," Kagome protested.

The barest hint of a scowl twisted Hideki's lips. "Then wait for her outside."

No one argued with Hideki. It was tough to argue with a man that strong. Ezakiya gave my shoulder a supportive squeeze while I wheezed, and Kagome muttered that she'd wait for me, but both of them left, as requested.

Was it just me, or did Hideki look annoyed once the door fell shut behind them?

"You were distracted," he said. Sounded almost like an accusation. "You were in your head again. I told you to stop that."

"I know." My words rasped, sandpaper over taffeta. "Sorry."

"Apologize to yourself. You're the only person you hurt." He looked at my chest, then at the knees I'd pulled up to it. "Hold still."

He lifted his hands and placed them over my left knee—the knee that had earlier popped. The knee, now that Hideki drew attention to it, burning like a star inside my skin. A gash in my leggings showed a bruise purpling below my patella. Hideki spread his hands around the joint, fingers light atop my skin.

His hands began to glow.

"I spoke to Genkai," Hideki said. "She says you're in-the-know about reiki."

He was right. Too bad affirming words were impossible to form just then. A tingling coolness, soda on a hot day, suffused my knee in raw, soothing sensation, accompanying a dandelion glow so faint I could've written it off as a trick of the eye. I knew better than that, though. I knew what I was looking at, and I would've gasped in awe if I was able. As it stands, I just sat there, staring, trying to breathe as Hideki showed me the first example of reiki manipulation I'd ever seen in this world. The Spirit Wave hardly counted—I'd been unconscious when Genkai used it.

The experience ended all too soon. When he pulled his hands away, the purple bruise had faded to angry red.

The pain had dissipated entirely.

"I think I cracked your sternum," Hideki said, shifting. "Sorry in advance."

He held his hand over my chest, but not touching me. Probably out of a sense of decorum? I wasn't sure. But the white light felt just as soothing as before, even if he didn't make direct contact. Soon the searing pain in my chest faded to a dull throb.

When he removed his hand, my breath returned to me in a heady, bracing rush. I gulped it down like I was dying of thirst.

"Tell me," Hideki said when I breathed normally at last. "Why were you so in your head today?"

Question knocked me off balance. I started to tell him there was no reason, mostly because I didn't think he actually wanted to know (he was a grown man; what did he care for the gossip of a seemingly normal teenager?) but something in his deadpan expression stopped me.

I got the feeling Hideki didn't ask questions unless he actually wanted to know the answer. Just didn't seem the type for smalltalk, my sensei.

"My best friend died a few days ago," I said, "but night before last I had a dream he was coming back, and when I checked the body yesterday, I found a heartbeat."

Hideki did not react. But I thought that maybe, just maybe, his eyes widened a fraction of a fraction.

"He's in a coma," I said. "And on the day of his funeral, my parents told me I'm switching schools. Apparently I got expelled, because at the funeral I almost punched an asshole teacher when he insulted my dead friend. My not-dead friend. Whatever." I shrugged. "It'll all work out eventually, but right now it's tough to keep a clear head. Lots of things keeping me up at night. I'm not the best at dealing with uncertainty. Makes me feel powerless, and I don't like that feeling." I smiled, attempting to look chipper. "But in the end, I apologize for losing focus. That's on me."

Hideki stayed very still for a moment. Then he blinked, slowly, twice.

"At least you have a decent excuse," he murmured.

I shrugged. He shook his head, stood, and offered me a hand. I took it.

"Are you meditating much?" he said as he helped me to my feet.

"At home, yeah. Mostly to deal with stress."

"Good. You need all the help you can get with stress."

Did he mean that as an insult? It sounded a bit like an insult. Hard to tell with him, though. I started to ask, but then he pointed between my eyes, tracing a path from my head to my toes.

"Meditate, but focus on the flow of energy in your body," he said. "Try to slow and speed your heart if you're able. Concentrate on breathing, and on feeling how energy connects your body's many systems." He shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched. "I can't promise you'll be able to do it, and certainly not on your first attempt—but if you're ever able to control your body, it'll be a step."

"A step toward?"

A near-imperceptible smile colored his blank expression

Hideki said, "Toward your goal."

My breathing hitched, but not from pain. Genkai must've told him about my wish. Why else would he have shown me his powers, given me this advice?

But why hadn't he shown me before now?

Maybe I had to earn it. Maybe I did something tonight that earned it.

I doubted he'd tell me, even if I guessed.

I bowed. "Thank you, sensei. I'll do my best."

He harrumphed and spun on his heel.

"Of course you will," he said as he walked away. "Ice that knee when you get home, and you can skip running tomorrow. Yes, I know you've been training outside of lessons." He held up a single finger. "But only skip one day. I'll know if you skip more."

I suppressed a startled laugh. "Yes, sensei."

His hand extended toward the doorknob. I turned away, looking for my shoes—

"Yukimura."

I spun. Hideki stared over his shoulder at me. If he didn't have such a blank face, I might've said he looked…troubled, maybe. But I couldn't be sure.

"When you find yourself at your lowest point," he said, voice carrying despite its softness, "no matter how badly fear might hold you, you must push through. Fear is a liar. Do not listen to what fear might tell you about yourself."

I didn't say anything. Hideki slouched even further, spine a curving question mark.

"When we have failed, we are given the opportunity to discover our truest strengths. We are given the opportunity to discover our truest selves." He turned his back on me once more. "Do not disservice yourself by heeding the words of fear. They are not as important as your own."

With that cryptic message, sensei walked out of the warehouse.

I stood in the dim room for nearly a minute before the door creaked open and Kagome slunk inside. She frowned as she trotted across the space, looking me up and down.

"What did he want?" she asked.

"Not much," I said. My words sounded distant, like someone else was speaking. "Just to fix my knee." I smiled at her. "He's got powers."

Kagome nodded sagely, un-phased as usual. "Ah. Neat."

"Yeah. He fixed my knee, and then he gave me some advice. Sort of. I think that was his version of a pep-talk, actually." I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. "Anyway. Walk to the station?"

The train station was only a few minutes away. I put Kagome on her train, then boarded my own and journeyed home.

Kuwabara answered the phone on the third ring, when I called him.

He took the news of my transfer better than I'd hoped.

"I mean, I'm sad," he said, sounding like a puppy who'd just been put in a kennel, "but this just means we gotta study together a lot to keep in touch, that's all! And we'll have to go to the Megallica concert together, and—"

I couldn't keep my heart from soaring.

Kuwabara wouldn't forget me. He was too caring for that, no matter which school I attended. Hideki had been right, it seemed. I didn't need to listen to fear—not where Kuwabara was concerned, at least.

Kurama, though?

The fox demon wasn't like Kuwabara. He possessed a terrifying capacity for cold indifference, the kind of which warm Kuwabara would never be capable.

Ask me to compile a list of what scares me in this world, and Kurama's cold, logical wrath ranks pretty damn high.

As far as I was concerned, my anxiety disorder wasn't even part of that particular terror equation

next chapter

I learned three things on my first day at Meiou.

The first was that I couldn't outrun my past forever.

The second was that my reputation preceded me.

The third was that I only had two classes with Kurama—and he would not be the first familiar-faced friend I'd make at my new school.

Meiou eschewed traditional Japanese high school format (in which students were taught all subjects in their homeroom) in favor of an oddly American grade system. We all had homerooms based on our grade, but we travelled from class to class between periods and were taught different subjects in different rooms. This allowed students to pick and choose classes from different grade levels, based on their personal preferences and proficiencies.

Meiou insisted they place me in a 10th grade homeroom, but I was taking math class with mostly 9th graders. English I took with 11th graders. Science I took with 10th graders. And on, and on—you get the idea. Since Kurama was wicked smart, I was certain he took classes above his actual grade level, meaning we could have classes in common no matter what grades we were in.

Kurama was in the 9th grade, if my memory of the anime served. Sure enough, I showed up on my first day and didn't see him in my homeroom. Neither did I see him in math class, or English class, or my chosen elective. I kept an eye out throughout the day, forcing my best Keiko-at-school smile as students and teachers showed me the lay of the land—but try though I might, I couldn't focus on factoids about my new school.

What would I do when I saw Kurama?

I'd play it cool, obviously. Pretend like I didn't know his name. Let myself be introduced to him, not force an interaction like some rabid fangirl (OK, I am a fangirl, but I most certainly wouldn't act like a rabid one...not at first, anyway).

I could see it now. I'd see Kurama from across the room, but I'd avert my eyes so he wouldn't think I'd been expecting him. Then I'd surreptitiously observe him, of course, calmly comparing him to his anime counterpart without being obvious about it. And finally, I'd don my very best Keiko-at-school face when someone introduced us. Probably throw in a look of surprise when someone called my name in order to get my attention for that introduction, for good measure.

'Minamino, was it?' I imagined myself saying as Kurama and I exchanged bows. It goes without saying I'd keep my tone polite, yet friendly. I'd smile and say, 'It's nice to meet you. Thank you for looking out for me at this new school.'

And we'd walk away from the conversation like nothing of significance had taken place.

Smooth, Keiko. Very smooth.

I wouldn't stare at him, obviously. I wouldn't make any overt attempts to be near him (he'd pick up on that right away). I'd never make the mistake of calling him 'Kurama' if I could help it, nor would I ever let on that I knew things about his past. And I'd negotiate my way into his life with subtlety, of course.

'I'm new here,' I'd tell him. 'Think you could show me around?'

Or was that too forward? Maybe I should go with—

I'd scripted my first meeting with Kurama in my head a dozen different ways by the time lunch rolled around. Preoccupied by introduction tactics, I allowed my class rep to show me to the cafeteria, where we ate together with other girls from our class. They all seemed nice enough, though I listened to them talk about the school with only half an ear.

I was too busy scanning the crowd for a shock of brilliant red hair to really focus.

"So you used to go to Sarayashiki?" my class rep, Amagi-san, asked.

"Oh. Um." Her head blocked the door to the cafeteria; I shifted so I could see it. "That's right."

Another classmate asked, "What made you decide to transfer?"

I paused, eyes roving across the milling students. "My parents made the choice."

She exchanged a look with Amagi. I hardly noticed. I was too busy staring out the cafeteria windows, hoping for a glimpse of red amongst the trees lining the school yard.

"Well. I hope you like it here," Amagi said.

Her voice didn't hold much warmth, like she was reading from a script. It occurred to me I'd been less than congenial just now. I drew my focus back to her and smiled my sunniest Keiko-at-school smile.

"Me, too," I said. "Thank you so much for showing me around today. I appreciate it very much. If you don't mine me asking, are there any teachers I should look out for?"

They took the bait. Amagi and company happily took the reins of the conversation and addressed my question, allowing me to continue my scrutiny of the cafeteria. I piped in on occasion and tried to look interested as they described the school; luckily they seemed more than content to leave the conversation one-sided.

In retrospect, I fear I came across as aloof since I didn't answer their questions about myself very thoroughly, but that was something I'd worry about another day.

Frustratingly, I saw neither hide nor crimson hair of Kurama during lunch. Maybe he ate outdoors, communed with plants or something, whatever. Tempted to inquire about him (surely he had a reputation at this school, right?), I rationalized that there was no way for me to ask after Kurama when I hadn't even seem him yet. I didn't want to be obvious about this. Didn't want to look like I was stalking him or something. We hadn't met yet, after all.

Best be patient, Keiko. And at least try to breathe…

History class, which I took with mostly 10th graders, came after lunch. The room was just about full, all but a few desks occupied by the time I arrived. I sat in my newly-assigned seat (two rows back, near the middle) and resigned myself to yet another Kurama-free hour. Luckily my teacher wanted to chat, which distracted me from my burgeoning disappointment.

Where the fuck was the damn fox hiding, anyway?

No, don't think about it. Grades. Focus on your grades. Your grades haven't ceased to matter, Keiko. Concentrate. What was the teacher saying?

"Welcome to class, Yukimura-san," my teacher said. She set a folder on my desk and tapped it with a finger. "We only just started the term, but you'll need to make up a few assignments nonetheless. I've included them here."

"Thank you very much," I said.

"There is also a list of required reading," my teacher explained. "I expect you to complete it by—"

Somehow, despite my teacher's proximity and the chatter of my classmates, I heard the classroom door creak open.

A flash of red appeared in the corner of my vision.

The girls at my school all wore red uniforms. The boys wore a weird pink-purple shade.

Despite this assortment of warm colors, the second I saw this particular flash of red appear…I knew.

I knew.

I kept my eyes locked on my teacher's face. I didn't turn as the red smudge in my periphery walked behind me and out of sight. I carefully maintained a neutral expression, spine erect but relaxed, as I heard a chair rattled and slide across the floor. I did not react as, below the murmur of other students' conversations, a schoolbag hit the flat of a desk with a thump.

There's no describing how I knew, from nothing more distinct than a smudge, that Kurama had sat down somewhere behind me.

Certainty crackled across my awareness like electricity, biting and undeniable.

Kurama was here.

I could feel it.

"Yukimura—are you all right?"

My teacher's brows threatened to merge with her hairline. I blinked. "Hmm?"

"You're quite pale." Real concern darkened her expression. "Are you feeling well?"

I opened my mouth to tell her I was fine—but when I did, the world pulled back into focus.

What I felt, then, I did not like.

I did not like it at all.

It was as if, during the process of focusing so exclusively on Kurama, I'd gone out-of-body.

It was as if, when I'd gotten wrapped up in monitoring Kurama, I'd lost my connection to my physical form.

Now, though, my teacher's words yanked me back into my physical shell like a fish on the end of a line.

Sensation washed across my awareness in a heady tsunami rush.

Saliva flooded my mouth. When I tried to swallow, my throat tangled, breath catching and stopping midway down my neck. Pulse beat against my veins like moths in a jar. Spots danced in my periphery like inverted fireflies. My body warmed over, sweat misting across my face and back, but then my skin frosted as the sweat evaporated. My head threatened to detach from my neck and float away into the sky. When I tried to breathe, tried to breathe deep to calm my racing heart, my chest did nothing but hitch. My throat clenched around the breath fighting against my lungs, body wracking with chill I could not control, hands slick and cold and throat suddenly on fire—

Oh no.

It had been 14 years since the last time this happened, but I knew what was coming.

Good thing Amagi showed me the locations of the bathrooms before class.

I barely made it to a toilet before puking up every last crumb of my lunch.

So much for playing it cool.

I stayed at the nurse for the rest of history class, per my teacher's instructions. The nurse let me go when I explained the incident was merely a product of nerves about my first day. I threw up all the time when I got nervous, I said—and that was mostly true, if you were talking about my past life. I'd always thrown up in my past life when I got nervous. Seems that habit had finally caught up to me in this one.

I made it to my next class—foreign literature—just as the bell rang. The teacher placed me on the first row near the window after giving me a textbook, telling me which page to turn to, and briefly explaining the course syllabus. Would've preferred the back of the class, but whatever. At least I had a good view.

A good view to look at while I tuned out the lecture and thought about how fucking stupid I was.

Of course my nerves overtook me. How had I not seen that coming? Of course I threw up at the barest sight of Kurama. I'd been a fool to think I could evade all physical symptoms of my anxiety disorder in this life. Keiko possessed a certain serenity my old self had not, but even that serenity wasn't impervious to my nerves—especially when meeting one of the Yu Yu Hakusho characters mostly like to see me for what I was. Who I was? Whatever. The point was that—

"—participate, Yukimura?"

I jerked my chin off my hand. My teacher—a tall man with a thin face and oval glasses, surname Hamaguchi—regarded me with a cool expression over the top of a textbook.

"I'm sorry," I said, cheeks flushing in spite of myself. "It's my first day—"

"Stand up when you speak to me."

My classmates murmured. Cheeks on fire, I slid out from behind my desk.

"I apologize," I said. "As I was saying, it's my first day—"

"I'm afraid I'm not one for excuses," he said, neatly brushing my words aside. My mouth fell wide open. "Now tell me. Do you or do you not agree with the Marxist interpretation of Romeo and Juliet we've been discussing all class?" His lips curled. "Or did you not pay enough attention to form an opinion?"

I glanced at my syllabus, lying face up on the corner of my desk. My eyes narrowed. Apparently reading some sort of literary article about Marxism in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet had been last night's homework—homework this teacher knew full well I probably hadn't completed, given I'd only just enrolled at this school.

Was he trying to embarrass me or something?

But why?

Oh, well. Too bad for him, two could play at this game.

"Actually, I prefer a sociological approach when analyzing this particular play," I said, in top Keiko-at-school-being-perfect form. "I believe this play functions as a cautionary tale, of sorts, applicable to—"

My teacher rolled his eyes. "Oh. So you're one of those girls."

I blinked at him, words dying on my tongue, because excuse me?

"I see it every year," he said in a simpering tone I really, really didn't like. "You think denying this play's romantic elements will make you seem…what's the word? Mature?" He pushed his glasses up his nose with a smirk. "Most young women find the play romantic. Not you, though. You're not like the others girls, or so you wish to seem. You'll write off our protagonists as idiotic children, as though you somehow know better than they do, but I'm afraid criticizing other teenagers does not make you an adult."

A few people gasped.

I couldn't move.

Why the hell was he coming after me like this?

And with such harebrained, dramatic accusations, to boot?

"Attempts to make yourself seem better than your peers will not work on me, I'm afraid," Hamaguchi said with mocking sympathy. "You insult your classmates, putting on airs like that."

My classmates tittered. I could do nothing more articulate than stare at him.

I'd only just gotten here. Why was this teacher laying into me like this—and with such unrestricted venom?

As if answering my unspoken question, Hamaguchi said, "I'm friends with certain teachers at your previous school. I know all about you, Yukimura. Don't think you can get away with slacking on my watch."

Oh, for fuck's sake—this guy must be friends with Iwamoto. Of all the goddamn luck!

"I do not intend to slack off, sir," I managed to grind out. "And your assessment of my thoughts on Romeo and Juliet is incorrect. My criticism of the text does not place fault on Romeo and Juliet themselves, but rather their parents."

Hamaguchi opened his mouth. I did not let him cut me off.

"If you'll reference the opening stanza of the play," I said. "Lines 4, 9, and 10 in particular."

Hamaguchi (not to mention the rest of the class) reached for their books.

I did not touch mine.

Instead, I rattled off the passage rote—first in English, then in Japanese.

Hamaguchi looked quite alarmed by this, I was pleased to note.

I said:

"Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows

Do with their death bury their parents' strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

And the continuance of their parents' rage,

Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,

Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;

The which if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."

By the time I finished, the room had gone quite silent.

"As is plain to see, this passage indicates that the rivalry between the Capulets and the Montagues was of such antiquity, their descendants did not know from whence their familial enmity sprang," I said. "If the origin of the grudge mattered, it would have been mentioned. Thus, the tension between families is nothing more noteworthy than a mere tradition of hatred, lacking any practical value whatsoever…aside from influencing their children to commit suicide, of course."

Hamaguchi's face had turned an alarming shade of puce. Around me, my classmates had begun to murmur. I paid no attention to what they said.

"All told, this means Romeo and Juliet can function as an allegorical critique of social prejudice," I continued. "Racism, sexism, homophobia—all of these prejudices are based on outdated and invalid assumptions. It is the role of parents, teachers, and other influencing members of society to critically examine tradition, not merely adhere to it blindly, and determine what traditions spring from harmful notions of outdated prejudice. Authority figures must excise what is no longer moral or ethical in favor of ethical social progress."

Hamaguchi's hands hung limp at his sides. His eye bulged so far I feared they'd touch the backs of his eyeglasses.

"Had the heads of the Montagues and the Capulets been more aware of their duty to place value on morals over outdated traditions, like grudges against other families," I said, "the deaths of Romeo and Juliet might have been avoided." I smiled, trying to look helpful rather than combative (and you better believe I was feeling combative just then). "So, no. I place no fault on Romeo and Juliet themselves. I place blame entirely on the shoulders of their elders."

I sat down.

A graveyard hush fell over the classroom. My teacher chewed on air. Good. Hopefully now he'd leave me alone, so I could lay low. Play it cool, Keiko.

Behind me, someone began to chuckle.

The chuckling brought Hamaguchi out of his trance. He shoved his glasses up his nose and sniffed.

"Do you find something amusing, Kaito?" my teacher said.

The chuckling ceased.

"Yes," said a dry, amused voice. "You. I find you amusing, Hamaguchi-sensei."

Hamaguchi said something in response.

I barely heard him. I was too busy staring at the wall, mouth abruptly dry.

That voice—

I knew that voice!

Three desks behind mine, at the very back of the class, sat a boy with curly black hair, freckles, and thin glasses limning his narrow eyes with cool silver—cool silver that seemed warm in comparison to his cold stare. He regarded Hamaguchi over the glasses' bridge, wearing a look of such imperious disdain even I shrank into myself.

"You tried so desperately to put words in her mouth," the boy said. He sat with arms and legs crossed, tapping his fingers on one bicep. A smirk curled his thin lips. "Too bad it didn't work."

Hamaguchi's cheeks colored. "Mind your manners, Kaito."

He shoved his glasses up his nose with a finger. "My apologies." Cold eyes slid my way—at which point they warmed a little. "While I have the floor, allow me to express my admiration for your analysis, Yukimura-san. It's unconventional. I find that refreshing."

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded. But then: "However—"

He promptly launched into a speech. A long, complicated speech dissecting every last hole and flaw in my interpretation of Shakespeare's play, picking apart every tiny detail of what I'd said with laser-like precision and unflinchingly critical aim. He talked for a good five minutes before falling silent. He sat back in his seat when he was through and stared at me, head cocking the barest bit to one side.

"Any response?" he said.

A tracery of mocking irony adorned his tone like an understated necklace.

Every face in the classroom swung in my direction, shocked and wondering and expectant.

Part of me knew I should probably just nod, thank him, and sit down.

But I think we all know by now that that's just not my style.

"I understand your points, and agree with some of them," I said. "However, I think you're neglecting to take certain contextual factors into consideration, especially regarding the time period in which—"

And with that, I delivered my own speech, picking apart his points with just as much ferocity as he'd picked apart my own, leaning on every last scrap of literary theory I recalled from my previous life's college education. I went on for nearly as long as he did, vaguely aware that the entire class stared at me with their mouths agape. Here I was, the new girl, challenging this school's resident literary genius.

Because that's what Kaito was, I recalled out of nowhere. He was a published author of literary criticism, whose Taboo territory ability would revolve around words and language—a psychic reflection of the focus of his superior intellect.

Well. Crap.

I'd just gotten into a pissing contest with a genius.

Just my fucking luck.

Deciding not to dwell on my poor decisions of the day, I pressed on until there was nothing left to pick apart. Eventually I fell quiet, took a deep breath, and blasted Kaito with the sunniest smile I could muster.

"Any response?" I said.

All the faces in the classroom swung in Kaito's direction, like this was some sort of godforsaken tennis match or something.

Kaito's lips curled.

"Of course," he said.

You'd better believe we were still going at it by the time the bell rang.

It came as a surprise when Hamaguchi let me go without lecturing me for disrupting class.

It came as an ever greater surprise when Kaito approached me in the hallway.

"In case you didn't catch it," he said, "the name's Kaito. Kaito Yuu."

He looked bored, but also maybe expectant, when he held out a hand. Hesitantly, I took it. He approached the American-style shake with ease. Up close, I couldn't help but notice his pale skin, the silky texture of his curling hair, the light tint to his narrow eyes. Was he half Japanese? I wasn't sure.

"I'm Yukimura Keiko," I said.

"I know," he said. His nasal voice, low and biting, held an edge of dark humor. "I don't know why you got kicked out of your last school, but I can't say I'm sorry about it."

His phrasing, 'kicked out,' gave me pause. How did he know that? My expulsion wasn't public knowledge…right?

He kept talking. I'd wonder about this later.

"You're the first person to match wits with me in the field of literature in quite some time," he said. "I look forward to debating you again, if you find the prospect agreeable."

"Sure," I said.

"Good." His teeth glinted between his lips. "Have you read anything by Hegel?"

"Uh…the philosopher?"

He rolled his eyes as though scolding me. "Yes."

"Oh. Well then. Yes, I have. Why?"

Kaito's eyes glittered, and he launched into an impassioned verbal dissertation about the role of the Hegelian dialectic method of interpretation in literature, right there in the crowded hallway.

And that's how Kaito and I became friends.

It was a good thing, too—because later that day I learned I'd need all the friends I could get at my new school

next chapter

Chapter Text

Kurama and I had the last class of the day in common.

Lucky for me, I'd thrown up every last scrap of my lunch a few class periods prior. If that didn't prepare me for seeing him, nothing would.

I arrived before him. Probably a good thing. Gave me a chance to meet my teacher and get settled before he breezed through the door. His entrance made my empty stomach fold into a pretzel, but I somehow didn't start hyperventilating as Kurama walked in, nodded at the classmates who greeted him, and sat at a desk two rows in front of me. I watched from beneath my bangs as Kurama pulled a book from his bag and began to read.

Our eyes hadn't met. Not even once. He'd walked in like any other high school kid and had been treated no differently from them, too.

…honestly?

I found Kurama decidedly underwhelming.

No fangirls tackled him, for one thing. Nobody greeted him with notable enthusiasm. People were friendly, sure, but nobody gave him googly eyes, and none of the girls in the class approached him for conversation, either. In fact, most of our classmates gave him a wide berth as he quietly read his book. As our peers arrived and greeted each other, standing at certain desks for pre-class conversation, the structure of this group's cliques became obvious.

Obvious in the sense Kurama wasn't a part of any of them.

Like I said: underwhelming.

Hell, even his looks were underwhelming. I'd expected a paragon of human beauty to walk through the door, not…this.

Don't get me wrong. Kurama was a far cry from straight-up ugly. The partially obstructed, surreptitiously-staring-from-underneath-my-bangs impression I got indicated good looks aplenty, for sure. Can't go wrong with silky skin, huge eyes, and refined features, right? Right.

It's just that I'd been expecting a POW of amazingness. A one-two-punch of suck-the-breath-away glory, like in all the fanfics I'd ever read. And that's not what I was seeing.

Mainly because his hair was just wrong.

This Kurama's hair was red, yeah. But he didn't have the flaming red hair from the anime. It was darker, more like garnet in shadow than the hue of a melted Crayola. In fact, Kurama's hair did a pretty good impression of looking like plain black hair, no more unusual than Yusuke or Atsuko's, until the light hit it just so. Only then did Kurama's hair sparkle with ruby pigmentation, vivid highlights coaxed forth by illumination's careful fingers.

Pretty much anyone could achieve the look if they got creative with hair dye. Not that I was an expert. I had never dyed my hair, in this life or my previous.

Still: underwhelming.

…or was this hair color actually accurate not to the anime, but to the manga? Wasn't Kurama's hair black in manga? And what heck color were his eyes in the manga, anyway?

I hadn't gotten close enough to see his eyes.

Something told me they'd be a lot less in-your-face-emerald than fanfics suggested.

When class commenced, I spent the better portion of it trying not to stare at the back of Kurama's head. I fixed my eyes firmly on my desk when he approached the blackboard to answer a practice question.

Despite my efforts, however, I found my wayward gaze drawn back to him over and over again.

It's when you're trying not to look at something that you can't help but stare.

Thankfully, even though I failed to play it cool, Kurama didn't appear to notice me. When the dismissal bell rang, he didn't look my way. He just picked up his books and walked out.

I waited for him to leave the room—breath held tight, lungs bursting—before gathering my things and making my own way home.

My first day at Meiou had not gone as planned. Getting picked on by a teacher, throwing up, the total let-down that was Kurama's appearance and his non-interaction with classmates…nothing had gone according to my meticulously planning, that's for sure. All I wanted to do, at that point, was crawl into a hot bath, followed by a subsequent slither into bed. I walked home with eyes trained on the grubby sidewalk, gritting my teeth as my throat thickened and my eyes pricked.

I would not cry over this.

Nothing that happened today was a big deal, in the long run.

I mean, I'd switched schools in flagrant defiance of canon and I'd pissed off a teacher and barfed in front of everyone and a character I'd been excited to meet didn't know I existed and he totally didn't have the right hair and that wasn't fair at all, and today could've at least gone well considering the possible canon-fuck-ups I might wreak by switching schools, but I mean, small potatoes, right?

This was not worth crying over.

It wasn't.

Dammit, Keiko, pull yourself together—

"Hey, Keiko-chan!"

I looked up. Kuwabara stood on the sidewalk in front of my parents' restaurant, waving, face lit from within by a gigantic, eager grin. As soon as our eyes met he trotted over, schoolbag slung casually over one shoulder.

"How was your first day?" Kuwabara said. "Did you make any new friends? Is the cafeteria yucky? I sure hope it wasn't yucky! And I hope it's OK I stopped by, I just wanted—"

He frowned, eyes scanning my face. "Hey, are you OK?"

No. The answer was no, that I wasn't OK. I wasn't OK at all.

I tried to say as much aloud. I looked Kuwabara in his anxious eye and opened my mouth to tell him I was fine, no worries, how was your day?

I opened my mouth to say that.

Instead, I burst into tears.

Kuwabara graciously allowed me the use of his shirtfront for the better part of ten minutes, awkwardly, right there on the sidewalk. He patted my back and once or twice even touched my hair a little, which felt nice, but soon I realized people were staring and I pulled away. It was one thing for me to embarrass myself, but I'd be damned if I embarrassed Kuwabara.

"Thanks," I said, sniffing. I hated the feeling of crying, but tears bore a certain practical utility. Crying equalized my emotions, allowing me to lance my swelling feelings and think clearly again. Hopefully Kuwabara understood. "Needed to get that out before I saw my mom. Don't want her to worry about me."

"Uh, sure. Yeah." He shoved his hands in his pockets, face resembling that of a worried puppy, rocky voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "What the hell happened to make you cry like that, Keiko?" His expression darkened, a wolf instead of a puppy. "Hold on. Do I need to beat sense into anybody? 'Cuz I will." And then he was a worried puppy again. "You know I'd do that for you, Keiko, right?"

I knew. I definitely knew, and I loved this guy so much for it. I smiled and dabbed my eyes with my sleeve, unable to keep from smiling.

"You're the best, Kuwabara." I was pleased to note the words made him smile, too, bashfully and adorably. Ugh, this guy. My favorite character for a reason. "But we can't talk here. Karaoke? I'll pay."

The karaoke joint, around the corner readily accepted my money (and Kuwabara's; he would not allow me to shoulder the cost alone). We played Megallica on low volume and munched on a plate of sushi in silence. Kuwabara shot me a few concerned looks, but the boy didn't press for details. I think he knew better. Maybe Shizuru had taught him good dealing-with-girls manners; I don't know.

Eventually I worked up the nerve to speak. Obviously I couldn't tell him about Kurama and my associated disappointments, nor could I tell him about my worries over canon and the school-switch—but there was plenty else to vent about. Hamaguchi and his connection to Iwamoto, for starters. And I swapped the timeline of when I'd thrown up so it made more sense in conjunction with the Hamaguchi altercation. Kuwabara looked progressively more pissed off as I explained that little exchange.

"That bastard," he said when I was through. "Iwamoto, that bastard! First he makes you leave Sarayashiki, then he poisons your new school before you can even start, and then his crony makes you so upset you throw up? Who the hell does he think he is?!"

"God, apparently," I remarked. "He certainly seems determined to send me to hell."

"Well, I won't have it!" Kuwabara stood up, pacing around the small karaoke booth like a caged animal. "Next time I see his ugly mug, I'm gonna—"

I latched onto his sleeve when he passed close to my chair. "You're gonna do nothin'," I said.

The anger in his eyes glowed molten. "But Keiko—"

"I will not have you getting kicked out, too! Not because of me. Do you understand? I'm not worth that!"

"Of course you are!" Kuwabara rumbled, face scarlet. "You're—"

He bit back whatever he'd been about to say, cheeks coloring. He passed his hands through his hair with a scowl. I let go of his sleeve; he sat heavily in his chair again, eyes on the dark floor.

"Look. You standing up for me—that makes me happy. So thank you," I said, trying to keep my tone gentle. Kuwabara looked momentarily pleased by this. He didn't look as pleased by what I said next. "But the thing is, I can handle whatever Iwamoto might try to throw at me. He's too far away to have real power over me. You, though, he can fuck with. I don't want you to do anything that could jeopardize your future. Not on my account, OK?" I cracked a wry smile when I caught Kuwabara's malcontented eye. "And besides. Since when have I ever needed a white knight to come rescue me?"

He sank down in his seat with a comedic frown.

"Never, I guess," he mumbled.

"That's right. I kick ass."

"Yeah." He looked at me, ghost of a smile flanking the frown. "You do, now that you mention it."

Even though, after a little more cajoling, I coaxed a promise to not risk his own status at Sarayashiki from Kuwabara, something told me this wouldn't be the last time we'd have this conversation. Kuwabara was too protective, too much of a knight in shining armor to ever give up on protecting someone he cared about. That's what made Kuwabara Kuwabara, after all.

I just prayed our canon-defying friendship didn't hurt him somehow.

Kagome was just as disappointed as I was, that Kurama's hair was so dark and no fangirls mobbed him after class. I called her that night—and every night thereafter, more or less—and gave her all the details. Gotta admit, it was nice feeling validated in that regard. Good old Kagome. I needed her around in the coming weeks, to listen to me vent as I made a study of my fox demon classmate.

Every day for the next week, I kept a careful eye on Kurama. Observed nothing out of the ordinary, much to my chagrin. He was quiet in class, didn't engage with the other kids, and acted unfailingly polite and pleasant whenever anyone chose to speak to him.

I use the word 'acted' intentionally.

I know the look of a faker when I see one. I'd seen my bogus Keiko-at-school-smile in the mirror enough times to recognize similar affectations in others.

The other kids didn't notice his manners were a facade, of course. They didn't notice that Kurama only wore his agreeable smile when speaking with them. They didn't see that as soon as they turned their backs, the smile vanished. They didn't see the distant expression that replaced the smile, nor the longsuffering patience that hardened his mouth into a brittle line.

I noticed, though.

After a week, I was practically Kurama's stalker.

Or rather, I would've been his stalker if he wasn't so damn slippery.

I never managed to catch a glimpse of him during lunch hour. No idea where he ate every day. It certainly wasn't in the stairwell with Kaito and I, that's for sure.

Speaking of which: the day after we met, Kaito walked up to me when I'd gotten midway to the cafeteria during lunch hour. He didn't bother with a greeting. He called my name, marched over when I stopped walking, and handed me a book sans any form of preamble whatsoever. Amagi-san and the other girls I'd been walking with watched this interaction with their mouths open.

"Have you read this?" he said as I took the book.

I scanned the cover with a raised brow. The Mind's I by Douglas Hofstadter. I'd written a series of papers on it in college. Fascinating stuff, but criminally dry if you weren't into philosophy of mind the way I'd been.

"Theory of consciousness interests you, Kaito?" I said.

"Only in regard to how it may be applied to the concept of perceptive relativism in literature." Despite his slouched posture and hands jammed deep in pockets, he looked pleased. "Come with me. We're discussing the applications over lunch."

My brow shot up. "It's cute, how you think you can order me around like that."

Kaito rolled his eyes. "Fine. Would you please discuss the applications over lunch with me?"

I tapped my chin, pretending to think about it.

Kaito sighed. "Yukimura. I exist in an intellectual vacuum. Take pity on me. I only pray you might provide a measure of academic respite."

"Well, when you put it that way—sure. But I need to buy something to eat first."

Amagi and company were more than happy to let me go with Kaito, murmuring behind their hands as I went to commune with a fellow nerd (not that Kaito left me much choice in the matter). Kaito dogged my steps as I bought food (and scanned the room for Kurama), then insisted I follow him to his favorite lunch spot: a nook halfway up the stairwell in the back portion of the school library.

The nook had a window, which provided a good view of the school grounds. It overlooked the baseball diamond, the athletics shed, and a green glass building that appeared far more expensive than anything Sarayashiki's budget could afford.

"The greenhouse," Kaito told me when I asked about it. "Botany club's headquarters. Not worth troubling yourself over, believe me."

He pursed his lips when he said that last bit, voice dry and oddly insistent. I remembered that Kaito didn't exactly care for Kurama—not according to the anime, at least. Kaito resented that Kurama beat him on exams and held quite the little grudge against the fox.

Was Kaito's disdain for the greenhouse and the botany club evidence that Kurama frequented that building, perhaps?

Certainly seemed like the kind of place a guy who stored plants in his hair would fancy. But what the hell do I know.

There was no way to get answers without asking awkward questions. I still hadn't met Kurama. Asking about him would be suspicious—and I didn't want to risk upsetting Kaito, if his rivalry with Kurama did indeed mirror that of the anime. I filed my suspicions away for another day, keeping one eye on the greenhouse while Kaito regaled me with his theories on literary solipsism.

I ate with him every day thereafter, too, watching for a flash of telltale red-black hair amid the glowing greenhouse below.

Kurama sat behind me in history class. But in biology, our last class of the day, he sat in front of me. This made for my most productive observation period, as you might imagine. I tuned out the lecture in favor of staring at the back of Kurama's head, wishing I could read his mind and wondering how I might someday get introduced. The fact that it hadn't happened after a solid week weighed heavy on my anxiety.

What if I just wasn't fated to meet Kurama before Keiko was supposed to?

No. That was stupid. Fate did not define me. And he was sitting five feet away, dammit! I should just walk up to him and say 'hi' sometime. Take the initiative. Take fate into my own hands. Stop being passive and lock eyes with destiny.

…but walking up to him was so forward! I had to have a good reason to approach, I rationalized. Otherwise he might guess I had an ulterior motive.

Or maybe he'd assume I had a crush on him. Why else would a teenage girl approach a cute classmate out of the blue?

At that thought, I had to put my head in my hands. I'd died at 26. I was now 14. There was no way I could justify my forty-year-old self ever dating a teenager. The thought alone repulsed me.

…although, Kurama was technically older than 14. He was in my boat in terms of not looking one's age. Of all the characters in Yu Yu Hakusho, he was the one I could most easily justify dating, and—

Nope. NOPE.

STOP IT, KEIKO.

You have way too much on your plate to consider romance—not even in the abstract, worry-about-everything way you're infamous for.

I set the thoughts aside, hypothetical though they were, and tuned back in to class. Midway through the day's lecture on cell division, however, there came a knock on the classroom door. The principal needed to talk to our teacher for a minute—something about an assembly in a few days.

"Everyone, discuss how to identify phases of cellular reproduction while I'm gone," our sensei said before leaving. "Be right back!"

No one did as she asked, of course. Instead, everyone launched into casual conversation. Cat's away, mice'll play. I flipped to the appropriate page in my textbooks, dutifully reviewing information I'd already memorized just like the real Keiko probably would have. Suited me better than idly chatting with the other kids in the class. No use getting close to them when I was mentally so much older. We'd have nothing in common, anyway.

That's what I told myself, at least.

Aside from Kaito, I hadn't managed to make any friends at Meiou yet. Amagi-san only invited me to lunch because I was the new girl and she was class rep. Was my lack of friends due to some deficit of my character, or—

"Hey, um. You just transferred here, right?"

I looked up, jolted from my reverie by an unfamiliar voice. Two girls and one boy stood around my desk, hemming me in against the wall at my back. I put down my book and folded my hands in my lap, smiling my very best Keiko-at-school smile. Maybe this was an opportunity to make friends, at last.

"Yes," I said, all pleasantness and sun. "My name is Yukimura Keiko. And you are?"

The boy said he name was Takashi; the girls were Haruka and Junko. They exchanged a look after we finished our respective introductions—a look of bolstered courage, fidgety nerves, and barely-masked curiosity.

Uh oh.

This interaction didn't feel quite so casual, all of a sudden.

Haruka licked her lips before speaking. "We were just wondering if you were friends with…you know." She leaned in close, a barely-there apology on her face, and whispered: "We were wondering if you were friends with that boy."

"The one who died," Junko added.

Her words took a minute to register. "I'm—I'm sorry?"

"There was this guy, this punk at Sarayashiki who died in an accident," Takashi said with a shrug. He didn't bother to look at all reticent. "We want to hear what happened."

My blood ran cold.

They…wanted to hear what happened?

Junko crossed her arms over her chest. "There's a rumor going around that a friend of his transferred here. We wanted to know if that was you. Do you know how the car—"

I knew where she was going with that question. I knew, and I would not allow it. Yusuke's death (even though it hadn't stuck) was not going to be the center of their morbid fantasies. Not on my watch. His resurrection and coma weren't public, but still. My temper rose in a hot and spitting surge, oil overheating in an unattended fryer. Somehow I choked down the impulse to glare (though only barely), instead arranging my features into a mask of neutral indifference.

"Let's say I was this person's friend," I said, tone cool. "If I was, I'd be grieving. In light of that, do you think asking me about him to my face is appropriate?"

Haruka's cheeks colored. "Hey, we didn't mean anything by it. We're just trying to get to the bottom of—"

"Of a rumor," I cut in. "You're trying to get to the bottom of a rumor involving the death of a child."

The trio looked stricken. I picked up my book. Opened it. No idea to what page. I was only going to pretend to read, anyway.

"Your questions are insensitive, inappropriate and rude," I said, eyes not focusing on anything at all. "If you'll excuse me—"

Before I pulled my eyes down to my book, I saw Junko's mouth open, her gaze narrow and intense. She was going to fight me on this, I could feel it. I hid my face behind my textbook and held my breath, hoping she'd reconsider, hoping she wouldn't pry, because this subject was not—

"Junko-san?"

He had a voice like a cool wind in swaying trees, or calm water over river stones—soothing and melodic and soft.

My head snapped up.

Kurama stood a few desks away. He smiled an affable, supplicating smile I hadn't seen him wear before.

He wasn't looking at me. For this I felt grateful. My stomach had started tap dancing at the mere sound of his voice. If he'd been looking at me directly—

"Oh. Here there, Minamino," Junko said. She looked confused by his interruption, although she hid it well. "What's up?"

"I was wondering if you had your notes from the last lecture," Kurama said in his cool-water voice. An apologetic shrug, palms up. "I seem to have misplaced mine, and with the test on Friday—"

Junko's mouth formed an O of understanding. "Let me get you mine. You can keep them for—"

Junko walked away. With her went her two friends, who spared me one final glance of disdain before taking their seats. Strength in numbers, I guess. They didn't have the courage to grill me without Junko around.

Not that I could think about that just then. That realization would come later.

In that moment, I was far too distracted by Kurama for any other thoughts.

As the trio walked away, and as Junko opened her school bag to find her notes, Kurama looked at me over the top of her stooped back.

Our eyes met.

Not that that was a big deal or anything. Eye contact wasn't special in and of itself.

It's just that when I looked at Kurama, and when he looked at me, I found I couldn't move. I couldn't move because Kurama's eyes were more than just eyes, more than just amalgamations of various tissues that performed the function of seeing.

Windows to the soul.

As we looked at each other, the cliché popped unbidden into my head—and it fit. It fit because in the tight lines around his eyes, I read a pattern of subtle irritation. In their gleam I discerned the edge of calculated action. Beneath their pleasant veneer I saw wheels turn, spokes spin, gears grind, in a way that belied and contradicted the smile ghosting across his mouth.

The smile didn't touch those eyes of his.

And then he looked away, and I was left with nothing but the sense he'd done what he'd done on purpose—that no one with eyes like that would ever do anything randomly, without intention, without control.

Had Kurama…helped me, just now?

Somehow, despite my lack of evidence, I found myself convinced he'd called Junko's name on purpose. And that if you looked through his notebook, you'd find the notes from last chapter tucked away in a place no one but Kurama would think to look.

Our teacher came back into the room shortly thereafter. Kurama did not deign to look at me again—not when the bell rang, not when we walked out of the room, not when he passed by me in the shoe locker hall.

I didn't need him to look at me again, though. I knew what I'd seen. Kurama had helped me today, for reasons I did not yet understand.

I walked toward Atsuko's house for one of my many weekly visits staring at the ground, thinking of his actions, his words, his eyes. Somewhere along the way, a realization hit me—something I hadn't had the chance to appreciate in the scant moment Kurama and I had shared. Something that, now that I remembered it, I would never be able to forget.

I'd guessed wrong, I realized.

Kurama's eyes were very, very green indeed.

I ran into one of Yusuke's caregivers when I arrived at Atsuko's apartment. She pulled me aside and said, "Keiko-chan, look after Atsuko tonight. She's in a bad way."

The nurse didn't have to say anything else. I knew I'd find Atsuko drunk and crying even before I went inside and found her on the kitchen floor. When I walked in, our eyes met. Only one thought had time to flit across my brain before she spoke.

This would be a long night.

"Keiko," Atsuko hiccupped. Her arms stretched out. "Oh, Keiko!"

I held her, right there on the kitchen floor, for almost an hour. I stroked her hair and assured her Yusuke was coming back, just like he promised. His resurrection was real. She'd have her son back eventually. She just had to be patient. She just had to trust Yusuke. It would all be OK. She'd see that, soon.

Atsuko had good days: days where she bounced chipper around the house, sunny and smiling and centered.

And then there were days like this, when doubt crept in on the heels of heavy drink.

Not that I blamed her. We hadn't had any word from Yusuke in weeks—not since the original dream about him waking up. I'd been the one to witness the dream, not her. Her trust in Yusuke wasn't built on the bedrock foundation of firsthand experience. That was a foundation only I possessed.

Atsuko had nothing but blind faith—faith in a boy she hadn't even been able to trust to go to school each day when he was alive.

No wonder she had a hard time believing he'd come back. Not when breaking promises was his specialty.

I stayed with Atsuko that night, lying next to her on a firm futon while she thrashed. I stared at the ceiling, eyes burning, as she muttered Yusuke's name in her sleep. Nightmares gripped her. Tears coursed down her slumbering cheeks. She woke in cold sweats, scrambling for my hand, crying into my neck as she sank back into the depths of restless darkness.

I spent the night alternating between a fitful doze and a state of almost meditative worry. I turned the day over in my mind, the faces of Kurama and Atsuko and Kaito and Junko bleeding into one another, over and over again until the moments blurred into an unrecognizable strip of anxiety.

And then my weary brain was just too tired to think. So I didn't try to anymore.

I just lay there—not awake, not asleep, but as close to death as any living person could come.

When the light of dawn slunk across the ceiling, I cooked Atsuko breakfast, washed Yusuke's unfeeling face, and headed to school in the same uniform I'd worn the day before.

I ironed it, though, so it didn't appear rumpled.

I needed to look my best today.

I'd stared at the ceiling all night, listening to Atsuko cry. Fate held her in its merciless grip. She had no power to change her fate. She spent her nights sobbing, helpless and desperate for any modicum of control she could cling to. That's why she drank. She wanted to feel in control, and drinking helped her get there.

Why should I not take control, when I had such accessible means to do so?

Why should I be miserable, like Atsuko, when I had the power not to be?

Letting fate have its way seemed like a waste.

Maybe this was fatigue talking. Maybe this was a night of staring at the ceiling talking. Maybe I wouldn't have come to this conclusion if I didn't feel so exhausted—but as the sun rose, I realized I was both tired, and tired of passively waiting around. A sleepless night had quieted the voices of anxiety inside me. My brain was just too drained to host any voices but those of my own cold rationality.

There was no reason not to talk to Kurama, my sleepless night had taught me—so I'd talk to him.

And I would do it today

next chaptet

Chapter Text

Kaito looked me over as I trotted up the stairs toward him. When I skidded to a halt on the stairwell landing, he set aside his book, folded his hands, and placed his elbows on his knees. Light from the landing window caught his glasses, theatrically obscuring his gaze from view.

He said, "Are you unaware that you look like hell, or are the bags beneath your eyes an intentional aesthetic choice?"

I glared, flopping on the step next to him. "Shut up."

"Sorry, but silence is not in my nature."

"If that was an apology, it stunk."

"I'll work on my delivery."

"Or you could do me one better and tell me about Minamino Shuichi."

Fatigue had too tight a grip on me to allow for delicacy. My brazen, out of the blue request managed to catch Kaito off-guard. He blinked in stunned silence before shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He used his middle finger. I suspected this was not by accident.

"Come now, Yukimura," Kaito said. "Don't tell me you've become one of Minamino's groupies."

He pronounced the word with noticeable distaste. I frowned, partially because I didn't like the accusation and partially because, what groupies? I hadn't seen any groupies in my time stalking…um, observing Kurama. What did Kaito know that I did not?

"Pity. I pegged you as too smart to fall into such a trap," Kaito continued. "I might become a very bad friend after learning this about you. I do not take being proven wrong well. Sore loser, I'm afraid. It's one of my few flaws."

I couldn't suppress a snort. "And I suppose humility is one of your strong suits, in that case?"

"Of course. I am the paragon of the humble genius."

"Whatever you say, Kaito." His dry sarcasm would normally get me laughing, but my heavy eyes and muddled thoughts didn't leave much room for humor. "And no. I'm not a groupie. I've got too much pride to ever place myself at someone else's beck and call."

Kaito believed me, judging by his satisfied smirk. "As I suspected. I'm rarely wrong."

"Yeah, yeah, you're beyond compare." I leaned back on my elbows, shoulder blades against the stair above us. I stretched out my legs and crossed them at the ankle. "Some of my classmates tried to pry into my business yesterday. Minamino stood up for me. I'd like to thank him. Any idea where he hangs out?"

Kaito didn't answer my question. He merely replied with one of his own. "What business, pray tell?"

"None of yours, that's for certain."

Kaito was not phased. "Is it about your friend who died?"

I lurched off the step, eyes practically bugging out of my head. "How do you know about that?"

"I might not participate in the rumor mill, but that does not mean I am ignorant as to its machinations." He picked up his book, holding it open before his face. "You have my condolences, for the record."

I ducked my head and mumbled my thanks. I didn't like lying to people about Yusuke's return to life (albeit one lived in a coma), but Atsuko insisted we not make his resurrection public. Didn't want people swarming the miracle boy, asking too many questions about his return. Eventually I might tell Kaito, but after just a week of friendship, it didn't feel like the time.

"And in answer to your dubious inquiry…Minamino spends much of his free time on campus in the greenhouse." Without putting down his book, Kaito lifted a hand over his head and pointed out the window. "I believe I indicated as to its whereabouts earlier this week, as you may recall."

"I remember." Just as I suspected, natch. "Anything I should know about him, lest I make a babbling fool of myself?"

Kaito licked a thumb and turned a page of his book. At first I thought he intended to ignore me, but as I looked at him—studying his profile, his upturned nose, freckles, fluffy hair—I realized his eyes behind their corrective glasses did not focus on the pages before him. He stared without seeing, thoughts elsewhere.

His voice, when he spoke, held infinite, heavy gravity.

"Shuichi Minamino," he said, "is my nemesis."

Even with his deadpan delivery, it took me a minute to realize he wasn't joking.

"That's…a strong word," I said.

"Yes."

"Seems a little dramatic, don't you think?"

"As I despise melodrama," Kaito informed me, "I assure you I chose that particular descriptor with care."

"OK. I believe you. But what exactly makes him your nemesis?"

He eyed me askance, lips pursed. "Minamino routinely bests me on placement exams." Kaito spoke with obvious effort, uncomfortable admitting his own defeat. "Not in literature, of course. No one outranks me on the literary portion of exams. But in math and science I am afraid he possesses an edge." He licked his thumb again, turning a page he hadn't read. "Unhappy consequence of so thoroughly applying my intellect to one subject."

"Jack of all trades, master of none, is oftentimes better than master of one," I said, in English. Felt good to speak my native tongue for once.

Kaito frowned. "I follow the grammar, but the meaning eludes me. Translation?"

"Just an idiomatic version of what you posited. You specialized your interests to the point of neglecting others. That gave Minamino an overall edge, no matter how slight."

"Ah." He closed his book with a clap and handed it to me. "If you would turn to page 394. We have more important things to discuss than my nemesis."

"Nemesis, nemesis. You talk like you think you're a super villain." I laughed, nudging Kaito in the shoulder with my elbow. "Does Minamino wear a cape when you two battle it out over exams?"

"Ha. Very funny. And no. He wears a polite smile. I assure you that that is infinitely more infuriating than any cape."

He didn't look amused at his own joke, for once. Whoops. Because I was such a good friend, I stopped teasing Kaito (for the time being), and listened as he explained his latest theory regarding the intersection of solipsism and literary analysis.

…it was way less boring than it sounds, I promise.

Light hit the greenhouse at an angle, illuminating the glass structure from within. It looked like it had been carved from jade, colorful panes of glass cupping the darker of the plants inside, shielding them from the crisp day beyond the crystalline walls.

Sort of magical looking, if we're being honest.

Exactly the kind of place I'd imagine a kitsune disguised as a teenage boy to hang out after school during club period, if you want to get specific.

Hot air and distinct humidity suffused my face when I pushed open the door. While the greenhouse was not large, tall cases of succulents, troughs of seedlings, and mazes of hanging pots obscured my view of all but the nearest plants. It smelled of earth and damp, of growing things pushing their roots deep into dark soil. Olive light filtered in from overhead. The air held a luminous, thick quality, like I moved through thin water instead of heavy air.

I took a deep breath, shut my eyes, and smiled.

A greenhouse like this had kept my original grandmother's favorite orchids alive in wintertime. I'd spent many hours in the greenhouse with her, wrapping pots in old socks when the weather dropped into the 20s. She rewarded me with hot cocoa and cookies for my efforts, chafing my small, chilly fingers with her withered hands—

"May I help you?"

I opened my eyes.

Kurama—Minamino, I reminded myself—had stepped out of the heart of the greenhouse on silent feet, a dryad observing an interloper in a sacred forest. The green atmosphere erased the red pigments in his hair, turned his magenta uniform a shade of muddy brown, but his eyes…

His eyes glowed like chips of razor seaglass, in this light.

My own eyes hurt. I squeezed my lids together, moistening dry irises.

"I'm sorry to intrude," I said, "but your name is Minamino, right?"

"Yes." A polite, if not hollow, smile. "And you are?"

"Yukimura Keiko." I bowed at him, as was customary upon introduction. "We're in the same history and biology classes."

"Ah," he said, returning my gesture. "I thought you looked familiar. It's nice to meet you." Despite the apparent recognition, his not-smile and even-toned speech did not warm up. "What brings you to the greenhouse?"

I took a deep breath of comforting, humid air.

"I wanted to thank you," I said. "For yesterday."

Kurama reacted by frowning—but the expression came a split second longer than seemed natural. A split second most people wouldn't notice, I was certain, but one I could not miss.

I'd had too much practice faking smiles to miss that telltale delay.

"I'm sorry," Kurama said, "but I don't know what you mean."

If it had been anyone but him, I'd have sworn he was telling the truth. He sounded so earnest. Like he really, really didn't know what I meant, and was trying very, very hard to understand, because that's what polite people did, and gosh golly gee, he was so confused by me!

Too bad this wasn't anyone but Kurama.

"Yesterday in history class," I said. "Junko-san started grilling me. You distracted her."

Green eyes widened one astonished fraction. He nodded as though at last remembering the incident, that big faker. I bowed again, lower this time.

"Thank you for distracting her," I said, staring at his polished shoes. "I appreciate your actions."

By the time I straightened up, Kurama already wore an apologetic smile.

"I'm afraid you've misunderstood," he said, voice tinged with precisely-measured regret. "I spoke to Junko simply because I wanted to borrow her notes."

Damn, he was good. He looked totally sincere. "Is that right?"

"Yes."

When he did not elaborate—just looked at me with that same reticent expression, damn him—I crossed my arms over my chest. "So you distracted her at that exact moment, because…?"

"I confess I wanted her notes because she has the most legible penmanship in the class," he said, as though admitting something mildly embarrassing. It was his turn to bow. Hair fell over his shoulder in a glossy wave. "I apologize for misleading you. Whatever ulterior motive you ascribed to my actions, I assure you it doesn't apply."

"…uh huh." I breathed a snort through my nose. "Well. OK, I guess? Whatever. Just…thanks."

"I really don't deserve thanks," Kurama insisted. "My timing was mere coincidence. I didn't do anything." He spared me one last bow, still wearing that infuriatingly regretful expression—like he'd just had to tell a delusional child there was no Santa, sorry to burst your bubble. "If you'll excuse me…"

He turned to go. Vanished around the side of a trellis of creeping vines.

Call it exhausted bravado. Overtired overconfidence. Fatigued swagger, audacity born of an insomnia-caused loss of my faculties—whatever.

I waited a beat. I gently sat on the edge of a long trough of blooming irises, because my legs were tired.

I spoke.

"So does the plausible-deniability act work on anybody, or just on idiot teens?" I called into the greenhouse. "Because I'm afraid I'm neither."

For a second, nothing happened.

And then Kurama stepped around the edge of a trellis. His earlier smile had vanished. Now he wore a thin-mouthed grimace, eyes wary and alert as he looked me over. He studied me more thoroughly than he had before, I noticed. Like he'd actually noticed me at long last, or had realized whatever earlier assumptions he'd made about my character weren't valid, and must be readdressed.

Something, anyway.

Despite the increase in my heartrate, and the cold sweat beading on my cheek under the chill of his stare, I had to fight back a yawn.

Maybe this had been a bad idea, after all. How could I hope to keep up with him when my eyes felt so damn heavy?

"I'm afraid," Kurama said after a moment's exchanged glance, "I don't know what you mean."

"How's your English?" I said.

One thin brow arched. "It's decent."

"Good." I shifted on my perch, hands digging into the trough's rough wooden slats. "Ever hear the saying 'You can't play a player'?"

That brow arched further. "I'm afraid not."

"Well, add it to your repertoire." I tossed my bangs out of my eyes and attempted a laissez faire smile. "Your polite, top-of-the-class schoolboy act might have everyone else fooled, but you'll find I'm not so easily duped."

He took one, slow step toward me.

My heart beat a little faster. My fatigue abated just a smidge.

He said: "Oh?"

I hummed an affirmative. I wasn't capable of much else.

"So you accuse me of being dishonest," he said with his cool, musical voice. He sounded amused—but wary. "I can't fathom why."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Be that way. Keep on denying it. But I know what I saw."

His head tilted to one side, almost imperceptibly. "And what do you believe you saw, precisely?"

"I saw a person who never does anything accidentally, accidentally help someone in trouble."

Kurama did not blink at my accusation. "And how, exactly, do you know I'm that kind of person?"

"Occam's Razor. Intuition." I pointed two fingers at my eyes, then pointed them at him. "Like recognizes like. So don't bother playing."

At first Kurama held his wary expression—but slowly, bit by bit, the look dissolved into amusement. Amusement with a razor's edge, yeah, a hair-trigger breath away from turning savage, tension coiled behind his eyes like a jack-in-the-box spring…but still. His full lips curled into a smile.

"All right." He spread his hands, palms up. "You've caught me. I did help you on purpose."

I smirked; finally, I'd worn him down. "There. See how easy that was?"

"You're very forward, Yukimura-san," he said. Did he sound bemusedly impressed, or was that the fatigue talking? "I suspected as much after yesterday, but now…"

Kurama moved to stand across from me. He leaned back, half-sitting on the planter box opposite mine. He crossed his arms over his chest and placed one ankle atop the other—a perfect mirror of my current position.

…interesting.

I'd studied this in psychology class. Mirroring a person while having a conversation made them subconsciously approve of you, want to help you, want to please you.

Had Kurama just mirrored me on purpose, to curry my subconscious favor? I wouldn't put it past the fox to know manipulation tactics like that, and to use them to his advantage.

Before the silence could stretch too long—and to cover the fact I'd been psychoanalyzing Kurama's actions—I tossed my hair and smirked. "Those girls from class would probably say I'm so forward because I hang out with too many delinquents. And they're not wrong."

"I see. But may I ask—how did you know I was helping you?" His eyes narrowed, expression terrifyingly contemplative (a thinking Kurama was a dangerous Kurama). "I thought I was being appropriately subtle."

Although he smiled at me, once more I saw the smile did not approach his eyes. He had phrased his inquiry politely enough, but I knew my answer would determine much of his opinion about me: whether or not I was a threat, an ally, or maybe just an eccentric classmate.

I wasn't sure which one I'd prefer.

"Like I said," I said. "You can't play a player. Like recognizes like and all that." I shrugged. "I do enough of my own faking to recognize another creature just like me."

His polite smile faded.

"Just like you?" he repeated.

"Yup," I said. I waved, indicating him head to toe. "We both wear a mask at school, if not for different reasons."

He started to say something, eyes narrowing above his open mouth, but calling the two of us alike already toed the line of saying far too much. Time to show him I didn't mean we were both old souls trapped in young bodies, nooooo, not us. Time to show him I just meant we were both fakers in school. That's all. Of course that's all. I rolled to my feet, dusted the back of my skirt, and bowed again—and I pasted on my most brilliant class-rep-Keiko smile.

"Thank you very much for taking care of me yesterday, Minamino-san," I chirped, sunny and sincere. "I appreciate your efforts and will repay you in kind when I am able."

Kurama looked at me a moment, brow knit—but then his mouth curved.

"I see," he said. He looked almost impressed. "Perhaps this is a rather crass compliment, but your societal mask is nigh flawless."

I let the smile drop, grinning for real this time. "Thanks. I've worked hard on it. Just don't go telling anyone I'm a liar, OK?"

"Only if you afford me the same courtesy," came his smooth reply.

"But of course." I jerked a thumb at the door. "Anyway. I'll get out of your hair. I just wanted to say thanks and introduce myself." I glanced up at the rafters and downed another lung full of warm, earthy air. When I looked at him, I smiled my real smile—the one from my past, right corner of my mouth a hair higher than the left. "Take care, Minamino. See ya 'round."

He stood, too, but before I could reach the door and make my exit, he called my name. When I turned, he dipped yet another bow—the lowest I'd yet seen.

"I apologize," he said, voice softer than before, "but I confess I overheard Junko-san. Your friend died recently, correct?"

I inclined my head. "Correct."

When he stood, sadness adorned his features. It looked real. But with him it was hard to tell.

"I imagine it has been difficult for you, lately, to lose a friend and switch schools in such a short amount of time," he said.

He had no idea my friend wasn't actually dead, of course, but he was right—switching schools wasn't fun. I opened my mouth to say as much, but as I did, a yawn surged up. My eyes squeezed up so tight they started to water.

Kurama was smiling when I finally opened my eyes—a pitying smile, but an understanding one. I think? Hard to be sure. Must, take, nap…

"I don't mean to be rude," he said, "but you look tired. Have you and members of the deceased's family been sleeping well?"

I snorted. "What, the bags under my eyes aren't obvious?" I pointed at them, grimacing. "I have it on good authority I look like I've been in a prizefight."

Kurama chuckled—a melodic sound, velvet made audible. Oooh, boy. Now that was a laugh to weaken your knees. That said, I did my best to look unmoved.

"I didn't want to make assumptions," he said, "but I do suppose your condition is rather obvious. Apologies. I will, in future, be more direct with you. That seems to be your style." He held up a hand. "Wait here a moment?"

"Sure."

Kurama turned to a nearby plater box. He lifted a pair of pruning shears from a crate below the box and snipped at a plant dripping with sprigs of blue flowers, blossoms still clamped tight in new buds. Once he assembled a small bouquet, he wrapped it in a bit of newspaper and twine from the crate, fingertips ghosting over the petals in a lingering caress. Eyes like living emeralds glittered with the colors of the forest made flesh.

"I apologize if this is forward," Kurama said as he handed me the bouquet, "but if I may, I'd like for you to have these."

I froze.

Because honestly? I didn't want those flowers.

Allow me to reiterate: I did not want to fucking touch, smell, or get within ten feet of any and all plants that had been in, around, or adjacent to the immediate presence of Kurama, the plant-manipulating fox demon.

Allow me to further clarify: I didn't want that.

Keiko, however?

Keiko was a normal teenage girl. Keiko was a normal teenage girl who, supposedly, had no knowledge of demons, let alone Kurama's predilection for plants that could eat your fucking face with gigantic plant-y teeth.

I didn't want those flowers…but what I wanted didn't matter, when Keiko had no reason not to take them.

Still…oh my god. My heart beat like a whisk in cake batter. No. Nope. Please, don't make me—

Kurama frowned. He held the flowers out a little farther.

"I assure you, these flowers do not represent a declaration of romance, if that is the reason for your hesitation."

Well thank god Kurama came up with that excuse for me, because I sure as hell was too tired and freaked to come up with one myself. I tried to look like he'd caught me red-handed (easy enough just then) and gingerly took the flowers. Was super careful to keep my fingers away from the greenery, of course, but despite my efforts to keeps fingers firmly on newspaper, the jostled blossoms released a familiar scent. I held my breath, but too late. The scent wafted from the closed buds on an unseen breeze, sweet and delicate and familiar.

Kurama said, "In English, they are called—"

"Forget-me-nots," I grated out.

Kurama looked pleased. "Correct. Do you like flowers?"

I shifted the bouquet under my arm, moving it as far away from my face as I could. When the scent of the flowers abated, I let myself relax.

"My grandmother was an ikebana champion," I said—and this was sort of true. My grandmother in my past life had arranged flowers at state fairs, winning awards and earning catalogue features many times. "She used to give seminars on wildflowers, and always scattered seeds in winter." Despite how uncomfy I felt, I smiled at the memory of days spent in her greenhouse, labelling plants and hearing their stories. "She taught me their names and meanings."

"I see." Something moved behind his eyes before he smiled. "Then you must know the legend of the forget-me-not."

I frowned. "Can't say I do."

Kurama's lips ached.

He said, "Well, that won't do at all, now will it?"

Kurama, despite his pretty face, looked like any average teen—but in that moment I could believe he was an older person trapped inside a younger body.

Specifically, I could believe he was a little old man on the inside, excited to tell a young whippersnapper a story long forgotten by today's youths. Kurama eerily resembled my past-life-dad just then, when Dad wanted to tell me one of his favorite fishing stories (the kind in which the fish got bigger with each retelling).

"May I tell you the tale?" Kurama asked.

"Um. Sure."

Kurama nodded. He took a deep breath.

Oh god. He was really going to tell me a fucking fairy tale, wasn't he?

Given he began his story with "mukashi mukashi," the Japanese equivalent of "once upon a time", I realized pretty quickly the answer was "yes."

"Once upon a time," Kurama said, "a mother lost her child."

My internal, screaming jokes dried up at once.

"The mother grieved for weeks, refusing food and water," Kurama continued. He spoke softly, as steady and vital as a heartbeat. "Her child's spirit watched in anguish as his mother faded away. One night, when the mother's grieving reached its peak, the child shed tears for his mother. He wept at her side, begging her with words unheard to eat, drink, and set aside her heartache."

Kurama reached out a slender, silk-skinned hand. I held my breath as his fingertips brushed the edges of the forget-me-nots. The hue of the flowers brought out the color of the veins in his wrist, lapis set amidst smooth ivory.

He didn't look at me. He only had eyes—distant, emerald eyes brimming with emotions I suspected honored his own mother—for the flowers.

"The next morning, when the sun rose," Kurama murmured, "the mother woke. All around her forget-me-nots had sprung…an unending field of blue, the color of her child's eyes."

His eyes moved to my face, but he didn't see me.

"Their color comforted her, reminding her of the child she had lost," he said. "She carried the blossoms with her as she pieced her life together, in memory of her child. And she lived happily ever after."

We stood in silence for a time. Soon his hand dropped to his side again.

"Forget-me-nots were born of the desire to comfort and console," Kurama said. His eyes actually saw me, this time. "Place these flowers near the bedside of the bereaved, and they will ease a weary heart."

"That's a terrible story."

Kurama blinked, mouth opening with surprise. I resisted the urge to clap a hand over my mouth and instead waved a frantic, apologetic hand.

"Sorry, sorry!" I said. "It's just—her kid's still dead no matter how many flowers he gave her. It's sad no matter how pretty it sounds."

"Yes," Kurama countered, "but the ending is hopeful. The mother lived, and set aside her grief knowing her child lived on in some small way."

Remind me to introduce you to Atsuko.

I wanted to say that. Really, I did. There was no setting aside the grief of losing a child, no matter how many reminders of their life you received. I'd known parents of dead children in this life, and in my past. Their wounds healed, over the years. They grew accustomed to the void left by their missing child…but grief never, ever stopped. Not really.

I bit back the words, though.

Something told me Kurama had already made his choice, to sacrifice his life to save his mother's. His little fairy tale seemed way too allegorical for comfort.

"Well, even if you have a point," I eventually said, "that story sounds made up."

A reply as logical as it was silky: "Aren't all stories made up, at some point?"

"Sure. But yours sounds made up, like, as of two seconds ago."

That got a full-throated laugh out of him, an explosion of downy feathers as opposed to subtle velvet. Damn, he looked pretty with his head thrown back like that, eyes squeezed to glittering crescents in his flawless skin. Even behind Keiko's lovely face I felt self-conscious.

Eventually Kurama's laughter abated. With faux regret he said, "I suppose my skills as an orator leave something to be desired. But that matters little. The scent of forget-me-nots is a sleep aid, one I believe will benefit you."

Not for the first time, I wished for Google and a smartphone to fact-check his assertion. Instead I swallowed my skepticism and said thanks. Kurama seemed pleased, nodding and smiling at my willingness to accept his gift.

"It's nothing. Just a small token." He gestured at the greenhouse behind him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I have duties to attend to."

"Oh. Sure." I waved, turning to the door. "See you in class."

"Of course." He opened the door, ushering me out with a benign smile. "Be well, Yukimura-san. I hope the flowers help."

Knowing him, I'm sure they'd do something.

The way back to the main school building wasn't long, but the way I trudged down the sidewalk, you'd think the greenhouse lay a million miles away. It didn't, of course. It was all of a hundred feet from Meiou proper.

Too bad each step felt like a marathon.

Although the autumn weather, cool and bracing, revived me once I stepped outside the hothouse, my mood didn't lift along with my fatigue.

Kurama's fairy tale had been so dark.

Mothers and sons, death and grief, comfort and consolation…I'd never heard a story like that associated with the forget-me-not, and it aligned far too closely with Kurama's own situation to be anything but his own creation.

Was he rationalizing his decision, making up a story like that?

Was he comforting himself, creating a story with that outcome?

I had no idea how sick his mother was. Certainly she was ill, but how ill? How long did she have until the Mirror incident? And how would I find out the truth, short of asking Kurama outright? That would be way too forward, even for me. So how—?

"Yukimura? What are you doing here?"

I careened to a halt on the sidewalk, nearly losing balance in my insomnia-addled delirium. Took two seconds to orient myself and find the person who'd called my name.

About ten feet away, just outside the still-swinging door into the school, stood Amagi-san—my class rep, who hadn't talked to me since the first time I ditched her for Kaito at lunch.

Oops. I needed to apologize, didn't I?

"School is out for the day, and you haven't signed up for a club yet," Amagi said, looking me over through narrow eyes. "What are you still doing on school grounds?"

"Oh, um," I said. "Checking out—the botany club?" Oh, good, my blurted words made sense. I nodded vigorously. "The botany club. Yeah. It seems cool. I might join!"

Amagi-san frowned. "Really?"

"Yup. Mm-hmm. Love me some plants."

Her frown persisted, creasing furrows in her pale brow. Sunlight caught the teak highlights in her short black hair, illuminating her smooth skin and the curve of her ivory neck—oh. Amagi was sure pretty, wasn't she? Big dark eyes, full lips, oval face. Why hadn't I noticed that before?

"Gosh, what conditioner do you use?" I burst out. Amagi's eyes widened. I gasped. "Sorry, sorry. Your hair just looks so soft."

She blushed a pretty peony pink, hand coming up to touch her hair—but to do so, she had to juggle the object she carried over to one hand. Not an easy feat, considering it was a gigantic bento box wrapped in an oversized handkerchief. She handled it like it had been filled to the brim. There must have been at least three standard lunchboxes in there (enough to even feed Yusuke when he was going through growth spurts, by my estimates).

"Thank you," Amagi said when she recovered from my barrage of compliments. "I'll…I'll write down the brand for you, I suppose."

"Wonderful." I bowed as low as I could. "Thank you for all of your help, Amagi-san. I'm tired and delirious and rambling, so please excuse me. I need to go to bed so I can stop embarrassing myself. Ha!"

Amagi had no idea how to handle my exhausted exuberance, if her skeeved-out face indicated anything. She said something about it being nice to see me before walking past (and giving me a wide berth while she did it).

Whew. Crisis averted. Time to go home and go to bed. I sighed and trudged down the sidewalk again, heading like a defective bullet train toward the school.

I almost didn't look back before walking inside. On a whim, however, I glanced over my shoulder at the greenhouse for one last look at Kurama's hideaway.

That's when I saw something…odd.

Amagi stood on the greenhouse steps. She didn't go inside. She stared at the door for a moment, quiet and still, before bending and setting the bento she carried on the porch.

And with that, Amagi turned and marched in my direction.

My sleep-deprived, running-on-Paleolithic-instinct, fight-or-flight lizard brain reacted before my conscious mind made a decision. I jerked indoors like I'd been pulled by a stage hook and pelted pell-mell down the hallway toward the shoe lockers.

I'd had enough weirdness for one day, thank you. I'd deal with Amagi's mysterious bento when I wasn't carrying an armful of potentially demonic plants. Now it was naptime. Glorious, glorious naptime, reward for a death-and-dismemberment-free Kurama confrontation.

Call me simple, but sometimes, it's the little things in life