WhIP

by footfungus

nederlands verhalen over mijn otp

187. lucky 24-31

Chapter Text

My bed felt like heaven when I got home.

Too bad I didn't get to stay in it for more than an hour.

Felt like Mom came knocking on my door just as I shut my eyes. "You have a friend downstairs, honey," she said through the wooden panel. "He says he needs to talk to you—seems like a sweet boy." She sounded casual. Too casual. "He says he's met your father before?"

Only one person that could be. I emerged like a grumpy butterfly from my cocoon of blankets and called blearily at the door: "Bleached hair, really tall?"

"So tall," Mom said, voice light and glad for reasons I couldn't fathom. "And so polite! He even brought a gift, I think?"

"Huh. That's weird."

"Weird, but so kind!" I could just picture her teasing smile. "You better come down quick, Keiko, or someone else might steal him away!"

Dragging my body out of bed, a monumental feat, took a few minutes. I hadn't slept long enough to have even just one dream, dammit! Eventually I gathered my exhausted self and trudged down the stairs, where I found Kuwabara waiting for me at the ramen counter eating a bowl of pork-toppedramen. I walked into the restaurant just as he took a sip of steaming broth.

"Good, huh?" said my father. He watched Kuwabara approvingly, grinning as Kuwabara's eyes widened and he hurriedly slurped another spoon of broth. "You gotta come visit more often. I'll make you something new next time!"

"Really? Awesome! Because this sure is great!" Kuwabara said with a full mouth.

"Everything made from scratch," my father said with obvious pride. His eyes slid my way, merry and warm. "Isn't that right, Keiko?"

"Of course." I walked to the bar and slid onto a stool next to Kuwabara, who was suddenly coughing and choking on his soup with a beet-red face. "Could I have a snack?"

"Coming right up, sweetheart."

While Dad made me a simple umeboshi onigiri, I swiveled in my seat and smiled at Kuwabara. The boy had recovered enough to clear his throat. He put down his utensils and hunched, not looking at me.

"Um—I'm sorry. This is awkward," he said, eyes on the floor, "but I need help and I think you might be the best person to talk to, if that's OK?"

"Sure. What's up?"

Turns out, Iwamoto was up—up to no good. Kuwabara told me a very familiar story while picking at his ramen, shamefacedly admitting to fighting too much and getting in trouble with the teachers because of it. Ah, so we were at this part of the Yu Yu Hakusho plot. Good to know. I tried to look surprised by his story, rather than please we'd gotten to this part of the story. Didn't want Kuwabara thinking I was glad he was in trouble…

"First they said they'd expel me if I fought any time during the next week," he said, "but then they upped the ante."

I hummed. "How so?"

"I have to pass an exam week after next, too, and not fight until the day I take it."

"Well, that sucks. Half the fights you get in, you don't actually start—right?"

"Right!" He looked relieved, eyes rolling back in his head as he threw up his hands. "I'm the biggest punk at school, with Urameshi out of commission. These vultures're movin' in on his turf, and that means they're movin' in on me!"

"Bastards," I said.

Kuwabara managed to set aside his horror at my cursing long enough to nod in agreement (he didn't like to hear girls curse, a notion of which I intended to disabuse him). Shortly afterward, his expression darkened. His chin jutted in a pout as he stirred his meal with one idle chopstick.

"Thing is, it's not just me I have to worry about," he said. "If I don't pass this test, my buddy Okubo loses his after school job. So this is about more than just me. It's about his family's wellbeing, and it's my honor as his friend on the line."

Much as I wanted to reach out and grab his hand just then, comfort him with a squeeze and a smile, I held back. Too forward. Luckily Kuwabara kept talking, so I didn't stay tempted for long. He lifted an arm, curling his bicep and flexing as he grinned.

"I'm tough, Keiko," he said. "Not fighting is a cinch. I can let myself get punched on for the next two weeks, no problem! Nobody punches like Urameshi. I can't take the pain." And then he slumped once more, wind gone from his sails. "It's the test I'm worried about."

"Oh, really?" I said. "What subject is it?"

The question was more for the sake of formality than anything. I already knew what subject the test was for, of course. He'd have to pass a science test. Since I'd turned him toward science as a kid, there was no way he'd fail. I hid a smile behind my hand. I'd fixed this plot years ago on a playground, and—

"English," Kuwabara said.

…say what!?

Kuwabara cradled his head in his hands, elbows on either side of his food. "I have to pass an English test, Keiko—and that's my worst subject!"

Oh, fuck. Goddammit and fuck. Of course Iwamoto wouldn't pick a test in Kuwabara's favorite (and most likely best) subject. Of course he wouldn't! I'd shot Kuwabara in the foot, trying to help him out. Just my freaking luck!

Not letting my emotions show on my face proved to be a monumental task. I couldn't keep from scowling, although Dad delivering a warm onigiri at least provided some a distraction. I shoved a bite into my face and chewed, thinking hard. Luckily a solution to Kuwabara's problem came quickly.

"Well, Kuwabara," I said once I swallowed, "I guess it's a good thing you've got a great tutor on your side."

His eyes practically went supernova, they lit up so much. "Aw, Keiko—you mean it?! You'll tutor me?"

"Of course I will." Seemed only logical. I got him into this, however indirectly, so it was up to me to help him get out of it. "I'm fluent, after all. Come over every day after school and I'll make sure you pass that test."

"Really?" Kuwabara said. He put his hands on the stool between his thighs, shoulders by his ears, peering up into my face like an earnest little kid. "You'd study with me every day?"

"Sure. I mean what I say." I jerked a thumb at my chest and inclined my head, grinning. "This is about more than just your grades. It's about your wellbeing, and my honor as your friend on the line."

Kuwabara didn't react to my parroted words for a second. But then he blinked, and ducked his head, and below the fringes of his orange hair I saw his ears turn pink. He spun on his stool, turning his back on me while he rummaged for something in his school bag.

When he turned my way again, he held a small gold box of artisanal wagashi in his dinner-plate hands—traditional and expensive Japanese sweets my parents only purchased on Christmas. Kuwabara held this flat on his palms and bowed to me, offering it up as though to a queen.

"I was going to give you these and then ask if you'd tutor me, but you volunteered before I could," he mumbled. His next word sounded canned, but sincere. "Please accept this inadequate gift as a humble token of my deepest thanks."

From out of nowhere, somebody started laughing. I jumped; Kuwabara 'eeped' and sat up, clutching the wagashi to his chest—but it was just my parents, laughing as they stood behind the counter, leaning on each other as they slapped their thighs and roared.

"You are the cutest boy I have ever seen in my life!" my mother howled.

Kuwabara's blush as automatic as it was atomic.

"I have never heard a politer thank-you in all my years on this green earth!" my father added.

"Oh, um—my sister taught me to say that!" Kuwabara said, holding onto the wagashi a little tighter. "She said I owed Keiko a lot for this, and that I should be extra special sure to thank her properly—"

Mom rounded on me, pointing a spatula at my face from over the counter. "Don't you dare let this one slip through your fingers, daughter of mine," she commanded. "This one is polite, and kind, and he clearly comes from a good family."

"Mo-om," I moaned, face in my hands. "Stop it. You're embarrassing Kuwabara!"

The aforementioned boy rubbed the back of his neck, self-conscious—but he didn't agree with me. He wore the dopiest smile on his red face, that softie.

Was I seeing things, or did the big lug-head look happy about my parents' teasing? Because that was a preposterous notion when they were being so utterly embarrassing.

"Yeah, we're not embarrassing him. We're only saying good things—like how about becoming my son-in-law, hmm?" my dad said. He tipped an exaggerated wink. "Think about it, kid! I've taught Keiko how to make all my most delicious recipes!"

I froze.

Kuwabara's spine straightened to full attention. The box of wagashi crackled in his iron grip.

To my horror, he blushed all the harder.

My jaw dropped to the goddamn floor. I rounded on my parents and glared. "Mom! Dad! Behave!"

But it was far too late to stop them. Kuwabara shoved ramen in his crimson face, my parents howled, and none of my protests ("He came here for English tutoring, not an omiai meeting!") could quiet them. Our only reprieve came when customers walked in, forcing my parents to put on their best business faces and cater to our guest.

As soon as they were distracted, I made Kuwabara shovel down the last of his food and follow me upstairs, out of the reach of my parents and their teasing. We sat at the kotatsu in the living room and began the task of assessing his English prowess.

He could barely look me in the eye while we worked, I noticed.

I tried very hard not to think about what that meant. It was time to focus on teaching him.

Kuwabara, much to my chagrin (and to the contrary delight of my inner fangirl), had scored—you guessed it—a mere 7 pointed on his last English test.

Talk about starting from scratch.

We spent that first evening reviewing his old tests so I could get a feel for his current understanding of English as a whole (spoiler: he didn't understand much). Once armed with a starting point, we prepped flashcards and began drilling the alphabet. He knew the letters, thankfully, and some basic words, but his overall vocabulary and his grasp of grammar were abysmal. Passing this test would take remedial study, that's for sure.

I wanted to talk about our plan of educational attack that night, but soon Kuwabara said he needed to get going—something about making it home before dark. He mumbled that part, so I wasn't sure.

"Want me to walk you home?" I said.

"Oh, no." He shook his head emphatically. "Don't want you getting into trouble."

"Think people might pick on you while you can't fight?" I asked. "Because that's even more reason to bring me along."

He looked positively horrified at that prospect. "Nuh-uh, no way! I'd not letting you get hurt on my account!"

"Hey—I'm offering, and remember how I dodged Yusuke that one time?" I raised my fists and gently swung one at his face, stopping short of touching him. "I've gotten good. Bet I could stand up to anyone who might come at ya."

He swatted my hand away. "I'm sure, but the answer's gotta be no. And besides—the no-fight challenge just started. No one knows I can't fight yet. I'll be fine if I can just avoid people!"

Watching him trot off into the fading twilight, I wondered if spoke the truth. I'd accidentally changed what kind of test he'd take. Hopefully the beatdowns he'd suffer wouldn't get tougher like the test had…

I was still thinking about this when I went indoors and nearly smacked into my mom, but she didn't seem to mind the near-miss collision. "Oh, Keiko, honey—I meant to ask," she said. "Those flowers in the laundry room. Are they yours?"

Oh, shit—Kurama's forget-me-nots. I'd gone home and put them down on the first flat surface. No time to put them in water; I'd felt too tired, and napping came first. Hopefully no one had touched the plants. Didn't want my mother getting eaten by a demonic Venus flytrap…

"Yeah, they're mine," I said. "Sorry, let me go get them and—"

"Did Kuwabara give them to you?"

Mom asked the question innocently enough, but the way she'd blurted the inquiry—as if she just couldn't hold it in any longer—gave her away. I rolled my eyes.

"No, they aren't from him," I said.

"Oh." Mom could not hide her disappointment. Apparently she really liked Kuwabara. "If they aren't from him, where did you get them?"

Oh, shit. I'd been too fatigued to come up with a passable excuse. Clearly I couldn't mention I got them from a boy (telling her about Minamino would only invite more teasing). Crap, crap, come up with a lie, Keiko, c'mon—oh. Wait. I didn't have to lie. Mom has asked where I'd gotten them, not from whom I'd gotten them. Hooray for technicalities…

"Um—there's a greenhouse at Meiou," I said, because it was true. "I got them from there."

"Oh. How nice! Meiou has all the best amenities," Mom said. But then her brow knit. "Why did you want flowers, though?"

"They're for Atsuko." The best lies spring from truth, as they say, and Kurama had instructed me to give these flowers to the bereaved. Who was more bereaved than Atsuko? "I heard forget-me-nots are a sleep aid, and last night she was having nightmares, so I thought…"

Mom's eyes softened. "What a lovely gesture, Keiko. I'm sure she'll appreciate them very much." She touched my arm, pride evident in her warm smile. "I have a cute vase you could give Atsuko, too. Why don't you and I bring her dinner tonight, and deliver those flowers while we're at it?"

A certain risk accompanied giving Atsuko the flowers. Any flowers from Kurama I considered suspicious on principle. However, Kurama's story about a bereaved mother had clearly come from a personal place, especially considering his own mother's condition. Now that I'd had a nap and my head felt clearer, I doubted Kurama had laced the flowers with poison or anything similarly dangerous—not when they had the potential to be given to a grieving mother.

And if these flowers would indeed help someone who was grieving…well. Atsuko deserved them far more than I did.

Kurama and his mother complex. Gotta love it.

"Sure thing, Mom," I said. "Let me call her, warn her we're coming.

Atsuko sounded happy, in her own way, when I called. Only took a few minutes to whip up a hot meal, gather my flowers, and walk to Atsuko's apartment. She greeted us at the door in a pair of blue pajamas that came up short on her long limbs, slender wrists and ankles exposed to the chill night air.

I recognized those PJs: they belonged to Yusuke.

"Good evening, Atsuko," Mom said, bowing.

"We come bearing gifts," I added.

"Heh. You're a couple of regular magi." Atsuko stepped back. "Come on in."

Her apartment, cluttered and dark, smelled of cigarettes and cleaning products. A high-pitched beeping from the back bedroom counted off the pulse of Yusuke's heart. Didn't look any different from the day before…aside from a few extra beer bottles by the couch. Oh, Atsuko…

"Heading to bed?" Mom asked with a look at Atsuko's pajamas. "We can drop this off and—"

"No. Stay a while." Atsuko gestured vaguely at the couch. "Sit."

"I'll go put these in water," I said.

Mom and Atsuko sat together on the couch, unwrapping the food on the coffee table while I ducked into the kitchen to put the flowers in Mom's contributed vase. Atsuko and I were friends, yes, but over the years Atsuko had developed a rapport with my mother of a distinctly different tenor. I was much younger than Atsuko, after all, and Atsuko's family had disowned her. I didn't begrudge her time with a mother figure—especially one as lovely and supportive as mine.

Once I finished arranging the forget-me-nots in the vase, I headed back to the living room. Voices floated low and soft through the archway between the rooms; I paused, just barely out of sight, and listened.

"…if he's coming back," Atsuko's smoky voice intoned. "It's just so unbelievable when he never even moves."

"She dreamed he told her he was alive, and his heart was beating," Mom replied, trying to soothe Atsuko's frustration. "We have to remember that."

Atsuko snorted. "Maybe Yusuke lied."

"Yusuke was many things," Mom said. Beneath her perfectly kind, patient tone ran an undercurrent of steel. "A punk, a fighter…but he wasn't cruel. He'd never give false hope to someone he loved. Not when it counted."

"If you say so," said Atsuko.

I peered around the edge of the arch. Though I could only see their knees from this vantage point, I could tell my mother had put an arm around Atsuko's shoulders. Atsuko pulled a leg to her chest, hands tight in the pantleg of her pajamas, and leaned a bit. Probably putting her head on Mom's shoulder, if I had to guess.

My mother's voice came so soft, I barely made out her words.

"I believe he's coming back," she said. "I believe that with all my heart."

A long, wet sniffling sound.

"I just wish he'd come to me, you know?" Atsuko said. Her voice wavered, smoke turned to cracking, pleading cinders. "Just one dream, like Keiko had. I'd feel better after just one dream."

My heart ached when I heard more sniffling, accompanied by a muffled sob. Poor Atsuko. Stupid Yusuke, not visiting her more often! I'd have to chew him out next time he showed up in my head.

"Oh, honey. I know. I know, sweetie," Mom crooned. "I'm so sorry. So sorry. But it's OK. He'll come home soon. Just let it out…"

Atsuko cried. I stood with my back to the wall in the kitchen, hands tight around the vase of flowers. Eventually the couch creaked beneath the weight of them moving apart.

"Thanks," Atsuko said. Though her voice still sounded thick, her crying had ceased. "Thanks for being here, I mean. I don't have anyone else, and…"

"Atsuko—we might not share blood, but we are family," said my mother. I heard the beatific smile in her voice, felt the warmth of her gaze and the cradling kindness of her hand even though I wasn't the one holding it. "We always will be."

I went back into the room after that. The three of us ate dinner together on the sofa. Mom made me tell them all about Meiou to pass the time. I happily provided a distraction from Atsuko's red-rimmed eyes. She ate quietly, watching me from beneath her bangs. Soon a smile twisted her lips; her sly expression reminded me of happier times, before Yusuke's uncertain death.

"So," she said with an exaggerated waggle of eyebrow. "Meet any cute boys at Meiou?"

"No," I said—but for absolutely no reason, the sight of Atsuko's dark hair reminded me of Amagi's, and the arch of my classmate's neck popped unbidden into my head. My cheeks heated. I curled a lock of hair behind my ear. "Nope. Nobody cute. Not yet."

Atsuko stared at me a minute—and then she rolled her eyes. "Liar liar, pants on fire!" she said in a singsong voice.

"What?! No I'm not!"

"Then why you blushin', girl?" She jabbed her chopsticks at me, grin feral and amused. "C'mon. Spill. Who's the boy?"

I waved my hands as if trying to ward off mosquitoes. "Nobody, nobody, sheesh! The no-dating-until-college rule has not been compromised, I swear!"

Atsuko's brow furrowed. She looked at my mom. "Wait…is Keiko's not allowed to date?"

Mom sighed, exasperated. "Oh, no. She's allowed, all right. She just talks like I made the no-dating rule, when she's the one who made it up! And she's the only one enforcing it, too!" She crossed her arms over her chest and mock-glared at me. "You know I wouldn't get mad if you went on a few dates, right? It's only normal for a girl your age!"

"Mom, I just jumped two grades," I said. "Now more than ever, I have to focus on school!"

"Wow," Atsuko said in disbelief. "Wow, seriously, Keiko?" And then she was laughing, clapping my back with an open hand. "Keiko, you're a gigantic nerd!"

Atsuko's familial resemblance to Yusuke had never been more apparent than in that moment. They had the same laugh, the same jaw, the same eyes that glittered with mirth when they made fun of me. Even though this moment of levity came at my expense, I didn't mind. Any indignities to cheer Atsuko up I would gladly suffer.

I bore their teasing for a few minutes more, but soon Atsuko's eyes began to drift. Mom noticed the same time I did and put a hand on Atsuko's knee.

"Bedtime?" she asked.

Atsuko nodded. "Sorry. Let me help clean up—"

"Nonsense. Keiko and I can do it. You just head on to bed, sweetie."

Atsuko's eyes fluttered shut.

"You're good to me," she said. One eye cracked open, wry. "Hell if I actually deserve it."

Mom swatted her arm. "Oh, hush. Of course you do. Now go to bed."

As Atsuko went to her room to sleep, Mom and I performed a brief sweep of the apartment. We collected empty cans and bottles, put clothes in the hamper, and threw out the moldy food in the fridge. As my mother settled in at the sink to wash Atsuko's mountain of dirty dishes, I snuck a peek at Yusuke's room. The nurses kept it clean enough. The boy himself looked fine—no changes since the last time I'd seen him. I gave his monitors the once-over and adjusted his bedding before smoothing his bangs off his forehead.

"You look more like yourself with your hair slicked back," I murmured as I combed back his hair. "You'd probably bite me if you saw me fussing like this, though." Screwing up my face, I pitched my voice high and whiny, an imitation of Yusuke's imitation of me. "Stop being such a nag, Keiko! You're not my mother, Keiko! Buzz off, Keiko!" My chuckle sounded faint, lost amid humming machines and the creeping dark. "Too bad. For once in your life, you can't run away when I fuss over you. Gotta get while the gettin's good, ya little twerp."

I paused a moment. Brushed a hand over Yusuke's cheeks, hollow in the skeletal light of his heart monitor.

"But no matter how fun it is to mess with you while you sleep," I murmured, "this whole situation sucks. So wake up soon. And maybe throw Atsuko a bone in the meantime. Just one dream, OK? She could use some reassurance." I couldn't help but smile. "Not everyone has the same blind faith in you that I have. They're smarter than me in that regard."

I didn't know if Yusuke could hear me. I had no idea if his ghost hovered overhead. But I hoped my words reached him nonetheless.

I left the room. Mom wasn't nearly done with the dishes yet (and the sink was so tiny she shooed me away, rather than ask for my help) so I checked in on Atsuko. The woman had already fallen asleep. Exhausted from the sleepless night before, I had no doubt. I yawned into my arm as I watched her slumber—but my fatigue took a back seat when her head flopped to one side, dark hair fanning across the pillow in a black tumble.

"Yusuke—no!" she said. Her hands fisted tight in the futon comforter. "Come back. Yusuke—"

She thrashed, sweat slicking the grooves in her brow. Pity rose high and hot in my chest. There were few things in life more gut-wrenching than watching a parent mourn a child, even a child who stood a chance of returning to life. Atsuko was the mother in Kurama's fairytale made flesh, restless with grief over the loss of—

Oh. Right.

I left the room and shut the door behind me. Kurama's flowers sat right where I'd left them on the kitchen counter, petals still clamped tight around hidden stamens. When I picked them up, Mom shot me a glance.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

I held the flowers up a little higher. "Sleep aid, remember?"

Mom nodded. "Right. Good idea. Oh, and once you're done with that, I'd like to sort Atsuko's mail. Would you help me?"

"Of course."

Walking down the darkened hallway to Atsuko's room, I offered up a silent plea—to whatever force in the universe, if any, might be listening—that Kurama's flowers did nothing more outlandish than give Atsuko a decent rest. The blossoms' sweet fragrance crowded my nostrils, soothing and mellow as I gently opened the bedroom door, crossed the room, and placed the flowers on Atsuko's bedside table. The scent filled the air with perfume as I left, threading through every breeze in the enclosed bedroom until I could smell mothing but forget-me-not. Crazy, that these buds could produce so much scent. They'd smell super obnoxious once they bloomed…

Nothing noteworthy happened, of course. I watched from the bedroom doorway, but the plants didn't climb up the walls. The forget-me-nots sat motionless in a shaft of moonlight filtering through the curtains: plain and ordinary flowers, not worth undue attention.

Like I said: Kurama rather underwhelmed me in real life. More's the pity.

Mom called my name, then. I helped her sort the mail spread across the kitchen table in silence. When we finished, we folded the clean laundry sitting in the dryer. Not much to do after that. We'd done all the chores we could, so Mom declared it time to go—but then she paused.

"Actually—wait," she said when I shot her a curious look. "I couldn't find Atsuko's purse, but she needs her checkbook to pay bills. Did you see it when you were in her bedroom?"

"No, I didn't. But I wasn't looking for it, so…"

"Drat. Well, I'll go look, see if I see it. Wait here."

Mom trotted off down the hall to Atsuko's bedroom. She returned after about a minute, purse in hand.

"Found it!" she said. She dug through the bag until she found the checks. "Go put these on the table, please."

I did as told. As Mom and I walked to the front door, she took my arm and squeezed, gentle and affirming.

"Before I forget—those flowers of yours appear to have done the trick," she said, smiling. "They smell amazing, and she's sleeping like a baby! We have to bring her more when those die."

Mom said my name when I pulled my arm away and scurried toward Atsuko's room, but I paid her confusion no heed. I pushed open the door, heart in my mouth, and stared—and at first I didn't see anything other than Atsuko lying still and serene on her side in the middle of the futon. But that in and of itself was actually sort of miraculous, so I stood there with my mouth open, in awe of her quiet form, free of nightmares for the first time in the two weeks since Yusuke had died.

Only after I recovered from that joyed shock did I noticed the forget-me-nots.

Their scent wrapped around me like an embrace. They'd bloomed in the last half hour, golden hearts glistening in the moonlight, color rich and deep against the pale blue petals. Their scent had indeed intensified since they'd bloomed, but I'd been wrong to think they'd smell obnoxious. The scent had somehow softened, matured into a relaxing miasma of appealing aroma I tasted on the back of my tongue. I let the aroma lave against my palate as I stared at the flowers, drinking down a scent that was both brand new and achingly familiar all at once.

I almost didn't notice the fine mist of light swarming off the flowers, flowing like a silver river toward Atsuko's bed. Too easy to mistake for moonlight or a trick of a hopeful eye…but I had seen reiki suffuse Hideki-sensei's hands before. I knew what energy looked like, even if my eyes couldn't discern it clearly.

Illumination as fine as bridal lace drifted off the flowers, tangling like a caress in Atsuko's hair. I held my breath, heart pounding in my chest like a boxer's punch, scared one wrong move or one breath too harsh might blow the mist away.

I needn't have worried, though.

The mist curled around her, and Atsuko breathed Yusuke's name.

In her sleep, she smiled.

It was the first real smile I'd seen on her features since the day her son got killed.

My eyes pricked. I scrubbed a hand over my lids, throat catching on a swallow.

Let this be a lesson to never doubt Kurama, I guess. Just like his fairy tale had promised, these flowers had brought respite to a grieving mother. I didn't know what dreams Atsuko's dreamed, but I didn't need to see them to know they were good. And I didn't need any more proof to know Kurama's flowers had caused those dreams.

When I got home that night, the scent of the forget-me-nots clung to my hair and chased me into sleep. I dreamed of Yusuke. We went to our favorite arcade and played together, laughing and snarking and goofing off—a reconstruction of a happy day we'd shared years ago before, in times less complicated, in times far brighter than the ones we lived now. I woke refreshed, the last trace of the flower's aroma fading from perception under the harsh light of brilliant day.

If I'd dreamed a dream like that—hope-igniting and warm—after brief exposure to the flowers, Atsuko's dreams must have been very sweet indeed.

"Hey there, Minamino. Got a minute?"

He looked at me over the top of his book, brow raised above one glimmering green eye. Around us classmates performed their typical pre-class socializing. It wasn't normal for anyone to ask Kurama to participate. A few students looked our way curiously, unused to seeing either of us engage in pre-lesson chatter, but I ignored them. So did Kurama.

"Yukimura," he said, pleasant and polite (and fake) as always in class. "How are you this morning?"

"Fine," I said. I hefted my schoolbag higher, bracing myself for the fallout of the potentially stupid-ass thing I felt I had to do. "I wanted to say thank you."

His lips pursed. "I can't help but notice, this is two expressions of thanks in as many days. Is this becoming a pattern between us?"

"If you keep giving me flowers, then yeah. Maybe."

At that he smiled, eyes bright behind lowered lashes. A demure look. Oh, don't thank me, I'm just a humble human citizen. He wore that look for the benefit of the people around us, not me. He knew I knew about his social masks. If I'd confronted him privately, would he speak more plainly?

On the subject I intended to broach, something told me he'd still keep secrets. His placating expression all but screamed it.

"Ah," Kurama said, ducking his head with humility appropriate for accepting thanks. "Your thanks are unnecessary. I assure you, the flowers were little more than a mere token—"

"We both know the flowers were more than that."

Kurama blinked. He set his book aside, smiling fading in the wake of my firm and quiet words. I met his verdant gaze head on, not deigning to blink or back down even when his brow furrowed. Wheels turned behind his eyes—dangerous, calculating wheels I feared and admired all at once.

"Thank you, Minamino," said in that same calm voice. I bowed long and low and grateful, smiling when I rose and met his eyes again. "The flowers…well. You'll be happy to hear that they had their intended effect."

Kurama paused.

Delicate as razor wire, he repeated: "'Their intended effect?'"

"Yes," I said, trying not to quake at his careful tenor. "And for that, I offer you my deepest gratitude."

Before he could reply, I turned and marched away. Class began before he could chase me down. When class ended, I ran out the door before he could catch me. But I felt his eyes on my back as I skittered down the hall, away from the fox who hunted my scent.

To hell with caution. To hell with not giving myself away. To hell with all of that.

Kurama had brought peace to a woman who had none.

For that I owed him endless thanks, consequences of those thanks be damned.

chapter 25

Kurama wasted no time, much to my displeasure. The next day at lunch he walked right up to me in the middle of the cafeteria and said, "Yukimura. Would you mind keeping me company over lunch today?"

Thank my lucky stars I'd prepped for something like this. I'd been prepping for interactions with Kurama—no, Minamino (don't mess up the name!) the way I'd been prepping Kuwabara for his English test…namely, with flashcards. I'd prepped an answer for just about anything Minamino might ask, scenario like this included. Yeah, I'm good.

"Sorry," I said, with an appropriately apologetic smile, "but I promised to eat lunch with my friend Kaito."

One brow lifted. "Kaito Yuu?" Minamino asked.

"Yes."

"Ah. I know him from an academic decathlon, but we haven't spoken in some time." He offered me an innocent smile—one I did not trust in the slightest. "It would be nice to reconnect."

Well, fuck this guy right in the earhole.

Minamino had just pulled an insidious social move mastered by my Texan grandmother, back in my old life: the good old Southern Passive-Aggressive Non-Suggestion. And he'd done a flawless job of it, too. He'd told me what he wanted, and was waiting for me to be a nice person and offer to help him get what he wanted. That put all the decision-making on my head. He hadn't asked to be re-introduced to Kaito, but dammit, he certainly expected me to make that happen now that he'd said that's what he wanted.

Basically, if I didn't suggest that he come with me to reconnect with Kaito like he wanted, I'd look like a jerk.

…too bad for Minamino I don't really care if people think I'm a jerk.

"Yeah, Kaito's cool," I said. I turned and waved over my shoulder. "Maybe another day. Bye!"

Much as I wanted to see Minamino's reaction, I didn't linger. I bolted from the cafeteria and all but ran down the hallways, glancing over my shoulder as though I might see a fox slinking around a corner in my wake.

I'd wondered if I'd said too much when I thanked Minamino. I hadn't said anything outright to acknowledge his powers, but perhaps my verbiage had been too loaded. Minamino was smart, after all. Perhaps calling out his mask, even just his social one, had been enough to tip him off, and the flower-thank-you only stirred the pot further. Minamino seeking me out for lunch certainly suggested he considered our business unfinished…

When I found Kaito in our usual spot on the library stairwell, he put down his book and favored me with a confused expression.

"Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?" he said.

"Try a demon," I muttered, hopping onto the window sill so I could unpack my lunch across my lap. "Minamino wanted to eat together."

Kaito's unflappable demeanor flapped, eyes popping wide. "He what?"

"I said, he wanted to eat together."

"Why?"

"Hell if I know." I shrugged. I hid the following lie under a liberal dressing of sarcasm: "I thanked him for helping me with Junko and I think he thinks we're friends now."

"Preposterous." He glared at the pages of his book so intently I feared they might catch fire. "You already have one genius friend. You have no need for another."

"One: Good point, you're enough of a handful as it is. Two: You have no say over my friends list."

"I am under no illusions as to the contrary. You are far too independent for that," he said, not deigning to look up from his book. "I am merely stating a logical fact. You and I possess sufficient intellectual capacity on our own. A third party would only complicated our lunchtime soiree."

"OK. Sure," I said, "but can you really have a soiree in a stairwell?"

He shoved his glasses up his nose—a movement I'd come to realize indicated he'd been thrown off balance, or he was buying himself a moment to think without looking like he needed one. Prideful guy, Kaito.

"Perhaps 'soiree' is too grandiose a word for our lunchtime tête-à-tête," he admitted, and then he sighed. "I long for the day we can take lunch off campus."

"Too bad we have to be in the 12th grade for that."

"Yes. I suppose I must be patient." He settled back against the stairs, book closing around one placemark finger. "Time cannot pass quickly enough. Graduation seems eons away. But once I'm rid of this place…"

He peered off, eyes distant. Oh, the woes of a teenage genius. Despite his intelligence, Kaito didn't know how good he had it—how good it was to just be a kid, devoid of real responsibility. Not that teens don't have very real problems and whatnot, but still. This second life had been rather illuminating when it came to the value of childhood.

"Don't be so quick to grow up," I chided. "Enjoy high school while it lasts. College, too. Adulthood isn't all it's cracked up to be."

Thin brows arched above his narrow eyes. "Watch it, Yukimura. You're younger than me, even if you're up a grade."

Despite the wording, Kaito didn't actually sound offended (Kaito was not so easily bruised). I apologized regardless. "Sorry. Didn't mean to patronize. It's just ironic that kids are the only people who can't see how great being a kid is." I shrugged. "Grass is greener, I guess. Kids want to be adults, but once you reach adulthood, you'd do anything to go back to the playground."

"I do suppose George Bernard Shaw said, 'Youth is such a wonderful thing; what a crime to waste it on children,'" Kaito said. "If the literary greats agree with you, so too must I."

"Forgive me for being pedestrian, but glam metal band Cinderella and singer-songwriter Joni Mitchell agree with me, too," I added. "'You don't know what you got till it's gone,' as they both said. So—"

"Yukimura. Kaito. What a coincidence."

Kaito and I flinched in unison, turning as one up the staircase. Minamino (of course) stood at the top of the stairs holding a bento box in his pale hands. He wore a surprised smile, as though he had happily stumbled upon a box of free kittens and was just so pleased, how wonderful, I must tell my mother about this lovely moment! Or something. I felt a little too freaked to come up with a good metaphor.

When his eyes met mine, I saw the smile didn't quite reach them.

"Fortuitous indeed. I was just talking to Yukimura in the cafeteria, and I mentioned I'd like to reconnect with you," Kurama said. He bowed down at us, mouth still curved and pleasant. "Kaito. You might not remember me. My name is Minamino—"

"I know who you are," Kaito said, deadpan. "What do you want?"

"Merely to say hello and ask after your health." He gestured toward us. "May I sit?"

Kaito's back stiffened, but even he knew better than to be needlessly rude (or maybe he had determined that if he buddied up to Minamino, he could find out his weaknesses and beat him on tests—wouldn't put it past Kaito to calculate those odds). Whatever the case, Kaito eventually muttered: "I suppose."

Minamino's smile widened, warming his eyes just a touch. He trotted down the steps and settled in next to Kaito. I maintained my spot in the window ledge, lunch spread across my lap, and began counting the grains of rice in my onigiri.

I needn't have distracted myself, however. Minamino didn't talk to me. Instead he turned to Kaito and began reminiscing about the academic decathlon they'd competed in the previous year. Kaito replied with short answers, measuring up Minamino's cheerful and polite demeanor with barely masked suspicion. His social masks weren't as developed as present company's, but despite his dislike of Minamino, Kaito managed to keep an impressive veneer of polite distance in place as he fielded Minamino's chipper recollections.

Minamino rarely looked at me while they talked. Occasionally his eyes slid my way. Never for more than a moment, though, and only at times when it would've been rude not to acknowledge all people in the room. At those times I ducked my head and counted my rice.

"Are you still competing in academic contests?" Minamino asked Kaito. He had moved up a step, leaning against the all so he could stretch one leg along the stair's length. "I confess I have not, as of late, unless specifically asked by the administration.

"No," Kaito said. "I've specified my interested. Too busy writing papers on literary theory. Speaking of which…"

Kaito set down the drink he's been holding, on the edge of Minamino's step, and reached for his school bag on the floor. Just then Minamino moved his leg as if to adjust position—and his calf collided with the drink. The carton tumbled off the step and onto the stair below, a spray of liquid dotting Kaito's shirt. Kaito made a sound of disgust and yanked his bag far away from the spill. A puddle had threatened to consume his homework.

"Oh—I'm so sorry," Minamino said, rising to his feet. "Let me get paper towels—"

"No. I need to wash this out before it stains, anyway," Kaito said. He stood and walked up the stairs. "Be right back."

My stomach lurched. I hopped off the windowsill. "I'll go with—"

"No need," he called over his shoulder. "One minute."

…and with that he was gone, leaving me alone with Mina—no.

Leaving me alone with Kurama.

I assure you, there is a difference.

Kurama watched me through cool green eyes, smile vanishing the second Kaito disappeared from view. Much as I wanted to avoid making eye contact, I knew I couldn't avoid it forever—which meant I might as well try to get the upper hand. I rounded on Kurama and stared right at him, bold as brass and cold as a glacier.

"J'accuse," I said.

His brow furrowed. "Hmm?"

"It means 'I accuse.'"

He hummed. "And what, precisely, are you accusing me of?"

"Do you really have to ask?" When he offered nothing more helpful than a sunny, synthetic smile, I sighed and said, "Did you follow me here?"

"That is quite an accusation, Yukimura. Did you notice me following you?" he asked—too innocently for comfort.

"No," I had to admit.

"Then it appears you have your answer." His prim response had my teeth gritting. "You left the cafeteria long before I did. Following you would have been difficult, since you had a head start."

The absurdity of that statement raised my hackles. If Kurama wanted to follow someone, he damn well would figure out how. I said, "Yeah, but knowing you, you probably have ways—"

I stopped talking.

Kurama's smile faded.

"Knowing me?" he repeated, silky voice pitched low.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck—

"Never mind," I said.

"No. Tell me." He took one step in my direction, but that was enough to send me backing up until I hit the wall. He did not seem to notice, green eyes locked and loaded on my face, pupils ablaze with energy that lit them up from the inside like thunderheads. "'Knowing me', you said? Need I remind you we met mere days ago? What ways might I have, that you could possibly know about?"

His voice was like thunder and velvet had had an auditory baby, and in spite of the danger I knew he represented, a shiver skated up the length of my spine. I pushed the feeling deep, deep down, though, and tossed my hair as I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Knowing how smart you are, since you're the only person who ever beats Kaito in exams, you could easily find me without following me outright," I said, madly grabbing for the first panicked reason I could grasp (thank you, flashcards!). "Maybe you asked classmates where I eat lunch."

Kurama's stormcloud expression cleared—a little. A summer shower instead of a typhoon.

"I see," he muttered.

I hummed. "You've got a reputation, Minamino. I don't have to know you to know it."

I turned my back on him (which was perhaps a stupid decision in retrospect) and grabbed my onigiri off the windowsill. Better I shoved food in my mouth than keep talking and shove my foot in it—because I had very nearly blurted out that Kurama's fox nose could've tracked my scent and followed me to this spot and oh my god, Keiko, you are such a dumbass! Dead giveaway I knew too much. So glad I came up with the alterative 'ask other students' possibility and the bit about knowing how smart he was thanks to exam scores. Even alluding to the idea of him having powers would be a bridge too far. Thankfully my panicked brain and my flashcards had—

"So tell me," Kurama said, "what do you know about adulthood?"

I flinched at the sound of his voice. I choked down my onigiri (even Dad's brilliant cooking tasted like sandpaper just then) and turned to Kurama, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. "Beg pardon?"

"I overhead." His eyes still stormed, but they didn't crackle with lightning like before. "You cautioned Kaito against growing up too quickly. You were quite authoritative on the matter." His lips quirked, hair tumbling in a glossy wave when his head tipped. "One might suspect you spoke from experience, if not for your youthful features."

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit. Was Kurama really that perceptive, to see the truth in my offhand, overheard comments to Kaito? Or was he just casting desperate fishing lines and hoping for any sort of bite? Too bad for him I was smarter than your average fish. Think, Keiko, think, remember your flashcards—!

"What can I say?" I said with a shrug. "I grew up fast."

"Is that so," he said. He did not sound convinced.

"My parents run a restaurant," I said. Schooling features into my Keiko-at-school mask afforded me confidence; my beatific smile betrayed none of my internal panic. "Was expected to learn the business and help out as soon as I could walk, so…" Another shrug, a helpless smile. "I didn't mean to patronize Kaito. Call my attitude a consequence of coming from a working class family, I guess?"

Kurama didn't say a damn word. He just looked at me—playing that game of initiating an awkward silence so the other person starts to talk, perhaps? For once, I succumbed to his ploy.

"Mom's always telling me to slow down." I rolled my eyes at the notion of a nagging mother—a typical teenage look, one I'd perfected with the aim of blending in. "I was just parroting what she says about kids growing up too fast, that's all."

My answer was perfect, of course. The best lies spring from truth, and everything I said was true. Mom always told me to slow down, be a kid, go on dates, make friends…so, yeah. When paired with my practiced Keiko-smile and nonchalant attitude, my answers were absolutely plausible and perfect.

…so why did Kurama's still look so suspicious of me?

Green eyes traced my face as though looking for answers in the map of my pores. I bore his scrutiny with a bemused smile, trying to affect an air of 'What's this guy's problem?' mixed with 'OK, this guy is weird, but harmless, so let me humor him a minute.'" Kurama didn't appear to notice, of course. He just looked me over the way my dad looked over cuts of meat before purchasing, then eventually lifted his eyes to meet mine.

My smile faltered at the certainty I observed in them.

His lips curled at the corners.

"You have an answer for everything, don't you, Yukimura?" he murmured.

For once in this overthinker's collection of lives, the constant worry, the constant overthinking…all of that melted away.

Inside my head, it was quiet—because the feeling of complete and utter horror had chased all coherent thought right out the fucking window.

Kurama stared at me.

I stared at him.

Neither of us spoke.

Kaito chose that moment to return (I might be an atheist, but I offered up tearful thanks to any and all deities that might've had a hand in that cosmically fortuitous timing). We heard his footfalls in the corridor before we saw him, but in the scant time before he appeared at the top of the stairs, Kurama smoothed his satisfied smile into one of blank, pleasant benevolence. He greeted Kaito smoothly, picking up the conversation right where they'd left off.

Before replying, Kaito spared a moment to shoot a concerned, inquisitive glance at the expression on my face—one I can only assume looked quite dire indeed, if it did anything to reflect the disturbed way I felt inside.

My answers had been perfect.

Maybe they had been too perfect.

Maybe a more natural reaction to Kurama's interrogation would've been to look confused, stutter and stammer, ask him what the hell he was talking about, rather than bust out a response both perfectly calculated and smoothly executed. Was I too good at dodging his questions? Did my preparedness make me look guilty of his suspicions, somehow—or was I just overthinking this, and reading too far into those narrowed eyes and thin lips?

Maybe, just maybe, he was counting on me to overthink things, and trip myself up in the process.

I didn't get my answer that day. The bell rang, forcing us to part ways and head to class. After school I ran home before anyone could speak to me. I took refuge in the absorbing task of tutoring Kuwabara. His goofy smiles and loud laugh soothed my panicked soul. I went to bed that night resolving to avoid Minamino as much as possible. If that meant avoiding Kaito, too, so be it.

I would not get caught by Kurama. I would not put my foot in my mouth again.

…though knowing me (and knowing him), that was a fate inevitable, and a promise made to be broken.

Too bad for me, and despite my best efforts to slip away after class and hide, Kurama found me during lunch every day for the next week. He always made a big production over it, much to my chagrin. If he saw me in the hall he'd call my name in that musical voice of his (it carried way farther than I suspected it could) and say something about how coincidental it was to run into each other in that particular hallway. Students whispered behind their hands as Kurama walked at my side, guiding me like a deranged sheepdog to our lunchtime destination. The antisocial Minamino being social? How novel. Of course people noticed, and talked.

A few times I saw Amagi in the crowd, watching us without whispering with the others. She kept her gaze locked on Kurama and I, fists clenched tight at her side. Every time our eyes met, she'd turn and dart away, lost amid the crowd of gaping onlookers.

Kurama never acknowledged the other student. He walked me from class to my spot with Kaito, all pleasant smiles and polite greetings, then sat with us and chatted over our bento boxes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lucky for me, Kaito is smart—smart enough to see the stricken expression on my face after being left alone with Kurama and know exactly what it meant. I didn't have to say a word for him to realize Kurama made me uncomfortable. He never allowed me to be alone with the fox demon again. A few days later his drink mysteriously spilled a second time, but he pulled a fistful of paper towels from his bag and mopped up the spill on the spot.

Kurama's polite, helpful smile faltered just a smidge at that.

"After last time, I thought it prudent to carry these in case another spill should occur," Kaito said, deadpan eyes meeting Kurama's without flinching. "We seem to be a clumsy group, after all."

Kurama's eyes slid my way for a fraction of a second.

"Yes," he said when he looked back at Kaito. "It seems we are."

Kurama knew better than to bug me after school, I think, or to follow me home. Harassment on school grounds was one thing, but stalking me after hours would be too obvious. He never tried to talk to me after our last class of the day. He would just offer me a polite smile, an obligatory nod, and leave to pursue his personal after-school activities.

One week of lunches later, however, someone else decided they wanted to talk to me.

Kurama had just walked out, and I had just remembered how to breathe for the day, when a shadow fell over my desk. Amagi didn't have this class with me, but somehow she'd materialized in the room mere seconds after the bell rang. I couldn't hide my surprised reaction; she countered it with a tight, brittle smile.

"Keiko-san," she said. "Can I talk with you?"

"Um. Sure?"

"Good. Come with me."

She cut a path through the students in the hall, leading me to a wing of the school I wasn't all that familiar with. She didn't talk to me. Her eyes stayed forward, focused, not deigning to shoot even a sideways glance in my direction. Once we cleared the throng of milling students I said, "What's this about?"

"Just something I need to discuss with you," was all she would say.

Eventually we stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door and tried to wave me inside. I didn't move and instead smiled at her, questioning and pliant, but she didn't smile back. She just waved, indicating I should enter ahead of her.

I did so.

The room was full of girls.

Ten girls, to be precise. They sat on desks, leaned against the chalkboard, stood in whispering knots here and there like clustered, gossiping hens. I recognized most of them from various classes, though I only knew the name of one: Junko, the girl who had tried to pry details about Yusuke's death from me. She didn't talk to me, though. Another girl walked forward, looked me up and down, and clucked her tongue.

"This is her?" the girl asked. She was tall enough to look down her nose at me, which she did with obvious relish.

"Yeah, Hotaru," said Junko. Her long brown ponytail flipped like an annoyed horse tail. "That's her."

Hotaru's lips, coated in a glossy layer of gloss, curled around her gleaming teeth.

"Thought she'd be prettier," she said.

I bristled. I started to tell Hotaru to back off, because I didn't appreciate strangers stepping to me like this, and she did not want to mess with me today.

The words never came.

Behind me, I heard Amagi lock the door.

chapter 26

One week after Thanksgiving, my mother told me Grandmother was dying. She told me through a text message. I was in the middle of a Dungeons & Dragons game when I got it, playing the role of the Dungeon Master.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. My world changed.

"Hi, darling," the text read. "Hope your week is going OK. Wanted to let you know that Grandmother received a bad medical report today and it appears she has lung cancer which appears to have spread. She will go for biopsy I guess in the next few days."

It ended with the phrase: "We are very sad."

Judging by the date stamp, this was the first text Mom had sent me since mid-October.

My friends laughed as one of them rolled a critical failure while attacking a monster. They ate pizza and drank beer, unware of the text I'd just received. I sent my mom a quick response.

"Oh my god," I said.

"What happens now?" I said.

Her reply came fast, phone's vibration inaudible under the laughter of my players: "For now a note is best. She is going to go to doc. in Austin to consult for treatment options. Then we'll know more about what's in store."

She said: "I hope she'll stay with us and get treated at MDA like your Aunt Lana did."

I stared at the phone until someone said my name. My players needed me to resolve an issue about game mechanics. Such is the duty of the Dungeon Master. I put my phone back in my pocket. I pasted on a smile and consulted the Player's Handbook because I didn't know the answer offhand.

Too bad there wasn't a handbook for learning your grandmother was dying.

When my players left, I curled up in my bed and cried.

We'd lost Aunt Lana—Grandmother's younger sister—only four months prior.

How was this fair?

I loved my grandmother. Obvious statement, probably, but it bears saying. She was my world. She was the family matriarch. She was the indomitable Texan matriarch of Czech descent who taught me to make poppyseed kolaches, how to sew, how to curl my hair, how to say "Bless your heart" as sweet as peach pie but still manage to make the words sting. But she hadn't had time to teach me to make chicken fried steak with her recipe yet, or how to make that wild cactus jam she sold each year at the county fair, and now I'd lost my chance—

No. Don't think like that. There would be treatments. Grandmother was 88, but there would be ways to extend her life. There had to be.

More time. That's all I needed. I just needed more time.

Two weeks later, Mom texted me again: "Sorry, darling, but Grandmother has pancreatic cancer. Treatment isn't an option. Hopefully will live six months. Try not to worry."

We had her for one month more.

She lived through one last glittering Christmas, full of goodbyes and tears, and died on January 1st, 2017.

I never learned to make her cactus jam.

If fanfiction taught me anything, it's that fangirls are not to be trusted.

Not that that conclusion should surprise anyone. All the fics I'd ever read had portrayed Kurama's fangirls as vicious, territorial snakes—girls concerned with scoring a hot boyfriend and eliminating competition above all else.

…not that that was their fault, when you got down to it. They didn't write themselves that way. They existed in two dimensions across the realm of fan-work, in so many fandoms, cardboard cutouts of young women who existed to accomplish little more than stand between a canon cutie and an original character's love.

These chicks, though? They were very real. No one was writing them (unless an unseen author pulled the strings somewhere in the multiverse) and they were far more solid than any fictional character.

Which meant I was in very real danger, if these fangirls were anything like the ones that existed in fiction.

Not counting Amagi by the door, the room held ten girls. Hotaru stood in front of me, leering down her nose. Junko stood behind her, leaning against the windows overlooking the schoolyard. Three girls by the chalkboard to my right, three girls by the desks to my left, another by the windows at the back of the classroom, one more way over by the coat closets. Unless any of them had training, a fight with all of them was just barely doable—foolish because of their sheer numbers, of course (training hardly matters when you're vastly outnumbered). I devised a strategy in snap: push Hotaru into Junko, toss a desk at the girls by the board, turn and pile-drive Amagi and run out the door before anyone could recover, and—

Hotaru's eyes narrowed. She laughed through her nose.

"Pigtails?" she said. "Really?"

I ran a hand down one tail on reflex. "My mom likes them."

The tall girl laughed, louder this time. "Mama's little angel, that's you," she sneered.

From behind me Amagi said: "Hotaru. Back off."

I looked over my shoulder. Amagi stood with hands on hips, glaring past me at Hotaru, dark eyes alight with dedicated fire. Her kind face had arranged itself into a stony mask, full lips pressing into a thin white line.

…why the hell was Amagi defending me? Wasn't she the one who brought me into this snake den in the first place?

Hotaru didn't leave me time to ponder. "Whatever, Amagi." She tossed her hair as she looked me over. "This little brat—"

Her hand lifted from her side, reaching for one of my pigtails. I shifted my right foot behind me, placing my weight on it in case I needed to dodge or leap. Given Hotaru's lax stance and off-balance center of gravity, she didn't have martial arts training, but the girl wasn't stupid. She pulled the hand back and frowned when I moved.

"Touch me and you lose the hand," I said.

Hotaru bared her teeth. "Cheeky kouhai. Respect your upperclassman."

"I don't give a damn that you're my senpai. Respect is earned," I said, "and you haven't done anything to earn mine."

Hotaru clearly wasn't accustomed to being disrespected. Her hand lashed out, fisting in the collar of my uniform.

"Why you little—" she said.

She did not complete that statement.

I'm not terribly proud of what I did then. Picking on untrained children wasn't really my style, but much as I had a reputation of nobility to maintain, I also had a reputation of do not fucking mess with me to maintain—and that latter reputation mattered just as much as the former. She grabbed my collar, so I grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm to throw off her balance, and performed a simple leg sweep, guiding Hotaru to the ground by my grip on her wrist. She went down like a sack of potatoes. Soon as her shoulder and hip collided with the floor, I let her go and sunk low in my stance, ready and waiting for the other girls to defend their fallen friend.

There followed a moment of silence.

Hotaru gaped up at me, stunned, lying wide-eyed and short-breathed on the floor.

The other girls reacted first. A series of shrieks ripped through the quiet; three girls rushed to Hotaru's side and another three grabbed at each other, gibbering in fear. Hotaru, of course, started screaming, calling me a bitch and swearing she'd kick my ass. She struggled to sit up with the help of the other girls, pointing an accusatory finger at my face.

Junko, however, started laughing.

The laughter cut through the din like a blade. The other girls quieted at once, staring at Junko like she'd sprouted wings (I stared at her much the same way because what the heck was she laughing about, exactly?)—and then Hotaru slapped her hand against the floor.

"Shut the fuck up, Junko," she spat. She lurched first to her knees and then to her unsteady feet. The girls scattered as she slammed one fist into the opposite hand. "You won't be laughing when I make this bitch bleed."

Junko merely rolled her eyes. "Pretty sure she won't be the one bleeding in five…four…"

Before I could wonder at this ominous countdown, Amagi emerged from behind me. I almost lashed out at her when she invaded my periphery, but just as I started to move, I saw her face. She didn't look at me. She walked right past me, toward Hotaru, dark eyes blazing like hot coals.

"Three…two…" Junko continued.

Amagi walked up to Hotaru. Stopped. Stood feet shoulder-width apart, glaring at Hotaru with ferocity I didn't know Amagi was capable. Hotaru bared her teeth. Amagi's shoulders tensed. Her right hand lifted.

I knew what would happen even before Junko finished her countdown.

"One," Junko said.

Amagi's hand, cobra-like in its speed, connected with Hotaru's face.

The girls all gasped. A few looked away, flinching.

But some of them…they started smiling. Smiles of bolstered confidence, eyes on Amagi as she put her hand to her side and Hotaru stumbled from the force of her slap.

…so the fangirls were attacking their own, now?

What the heck was going on with these people!?

"Hotaru, you should be ashamed of yourself," Amagi said, voice as cold and controlled as a surgeon's knife. She gestured at the room, at the girls in it. "We talked about this. All of us, we talked about it, and we made rules."

Hand on flaming cheek, Hotaru snarled: "That bitch attacked me!"

"Stop calling her that," Amagi snapped. "And she only attacked you because you grabbed her. She was defending herself. You started this, not her!"

"But Amagi—"

"No. You know the rules." Amagi's control slipped, tone quivering with anger. "Grabbing people, name-calling? That is not how we do things! It might've been at first, but not anymore. So shape up, or get out."

Amagi waved at me—no, not at me. She waved at the door behind me. The girls held their breaths as Hotaru looked between Amagi, and me, and the door in turns, weighing options I didn't understand…but soon her eyes lost some of their rage.

"Fine," she huffed. Her baleful gaze held mine for a moment. "Sorry, Yukimura-san."

I didn't reply—mainly because I had no idea how to reply. Too confused. I watched Hotaru stalk off and plop into a seat with my mouth open, rising out of my fighting stance when she reached into her pocket and began examining her enflamed face in a compact mirror.

"You must be confused."

I turned. Amagi's penitent smile made her look older, adding worried lines to her young face.

"I'm so sorry about this," she continued. "I didn't think it would go this way. But if you could just give me a chance to explain…"

"Explain why you dragged me into an empty classroom to be accosted?" I asked. "I'm not sure I want to stick around after such a warm reception, to be honest."

Her cheeks flushed like blooming peonies. "I am so, so sorry about that. It's just—this is a sensitive matter."

"And it's hard to explain without all of us here," Junko piped up. She sat on a desk, legs kicking in the empty space below. "Just sit a spell and we'll explain, OK?" Her bright brown eyes canvassed the room. "Girls, sit. We've got a story to tell."

Obediently, because there appeared to be a pecking order and Junko and Amagi occupied the top of it, the other girls took their seats in a cluster in the center of the room. Some of them whispered as they shot me wary glances. Hotaru ignored me in favor of her pocket mirror. None looked outright hostile anymore, whatever that was worth. Should they turn hostile, my main method of attack would be to take out either of the group's ringleaders and—

Amagi touched my arm. I jumped. Her fingers brushed the elbow of my sleeve softly, as if to soothe.

"If you'd stay a minute," she said, "we'll tell you why we brought you here."

Part of me wanted to pack up and leave, but another part wanted to know what this was about—fangirls fighting each other? Now that I hadn't expected, and Amagi's huge, dark eyes were too pleading (and adorable; ugh, hormones) for me to deny. After a moment's hesitation I picked a desk near the door, back to the wall: a defensive position close to the exit. Amagi gave me an approving nod. She stood between my desk and the knot of girls, the mediator of…whatever this was. Still wasn't quite sure.

"OK," I said as we settled in. "What is this about?"

I saw her answer coming from a mile away: "It's about Minamino Shuichi."

Outwardly, I quirked a brow to indicate confused skepticism, but inside I pumped a triumphant (if not exasperated) first. Bingo, baby. Here it comes. The fangirls I'd read about in a million fics were going to tell me to leave Minamino alone, that he was theirs and I needed to stay away. Hell, I hadn't just read about girls like this. I'd written them, too, into the fics I'd dabbled with back in my old life. They'd probably try to intimidate and blackmail and—wait a minute.

Why was one of the girls crying, all of a sudden?

I stared in abject confusion as a girl near the middle of the pack sniffled. She pressed her face into her sleeve as a single, delicate sob wracked her thin frame. The rest of the girls murmured comforts and hugged her, some of them similarly emotional as they held their crying friend. Junko and Amagi watched with sorrowful eyes, mothers worrying for their children.

"Sorry, sorry," the first crying girl said. "I just get so sad when we have to talk about this."

"It's OK, Kara-san," Amagi said. "You know we understand—"

"What is going on here?"

I didn't mean to say that so harshly, but it came out like the bark of an irate dog. A few girls gasped. Amagi just shut her eyes, lips thinning, and Junko shot me a scathing glance. I paid her no heed.

"You drag me here, ambush me, attack one of your own—and now everyone is crying?" I said. "None of this makes sense. What the hell is going on?"

Amagi and Junko exchanged a look. Then as one they looked at me.

"There's something you should know," Amagi said.

"It's not a secret, not really, but please keep this to yourself if you can," Junko added.

"We aren't embarrassed, but we would prefer privacy," Amagi finished.

I nodded. OK, sure, whatever I had to say to get them to start talking.

The pack of crying girls went very still at that point. Junko sat up straight and crossed her arms over her chest. Even the ornery Hotaru stopped examining her face, in favor of sticking her haughty nose in the air.

Amagi took a deep breath.

"Every single girl in this room has feelings for Minamino Shuichi," she said. I doubted she would've spoken with such solemn gravity if she knew I already suspected that little factoid. "Some of us admire him. Some of us owe him…and a few love him."

Some girls hung their heads. Junko shut her eyes. Hotaru humphed and slumped in her seat, lips drawn in a sullen pout.

"We all care about him in some way or another," Amagi continued. "That is what we have in common."

I pretended to look like this was completely new information, with careful consideration etched into my expression. "So is this like a club, or something?"

"Sort of." Amagi grimaced, all-business-face replacing her solemn one. "We noticed he's been eating with you this week."

"Yes. He has." There was no use denying it.

"Did you push him into it?" Amagi said. "Are you pestering him into eating with you?"

"Of course not." I rolled my eyes. "He invited himself along, not the other way around."

Although I told the truth, the girls didn't look convinced. I suppose that was to be expected. Minamino had a reputation for aloof disinterest in his classmates. The idea of him willingly inserting himself into a classmate's life ran counter to his character. If only they knew the truth…but since I couldn't tell the truth about his demonic nature, the best I could do to gain their belief was tell a different truth.

"You know Kaito Yuu?" I said. "Genius literary nerd? He's my one good friend at this school, and he dislikes Minamino because Minamino's the only person who beats him on exams." I spread my hands in a supplicating gesture. "Why would I invite someone my only friend hates to sit with us at lunch? I wouldn't jeopardize my one friendship like that. Minamino just started showing up at lunch this week, and believe you me, I wish he wouldn't."

Some of their skeptical expressions eased. Amagi, however, looked confused.

"If you're not inviting him," she said, "why is he eating with you?"

Because I didn't trust myself to lie believably, I opted for a twist on the truth: "I think he's just curious about the new girl." I looked at Junko askance. "Lots of people at this school seem interested in the new girl's drama."

Junko grimaced. I suppressed a smirk. Amagi considered my words a moment before pressing on.

"Why were you at the greenhouse last week?" she asked.

"He stood up for me in class. I wanted to thank him."

Amagi's eyes widened. "He stood up for you?"

"Yeah. Junko can vouch for me on that one."

The girl in question blinked her glittery eyelids. "I can?"

"Uh-huh. He called you over when you were in the middle of interrogating me, remember?" She nodded, but when she opened her mouth to speak I cut her off. "He did it on purpose to get you away from me. He saw I was uncomfortable and intervened. He told me so himself."

Junko turned the color of a pickled beet. "Oh."

Ha! Take that, Junko. Think twice before demanding details from the grieving. I didn't let my triumph show on my face, though, instead looking back at Amagi. "I was at the greenhouse to thank him for stepping in. I don't a lot of friends here yet, so…" I shrugged. "I guess it meant a lot."

Amagi's measured stare held mine for a moment.

"Do you have feelings for him?" she said.

Ah. There it was. The question I'd been expecting from the fangirls, no matter how weirdly they behaved. I smoothly replied, "I just met him, so no. I do not have feelings for him."

Her brow lifted. "Some of us met him and knew at once he was someone special."

"I'm not the type to fall for someone at first sight," I replied, tone dry. "That's just not who I am."

Amagi continued to stare, brow still lifted above her lovely eyes. Junko chewed on her lower lip. The rest of the girls murmured to each other. I didn't catch much of what they said, but I heard a few phrases here and there: …telling the truth? Does she really not like…? Why do you think Minamino…

"Look, what's going on here?" I said when Amagi's stare didn't waver. "All of you have feelings for him. I get it. Are you mad he's been eating with me? I'm not competition. Because like I said—"

"We're not mad," Junko interjected.

"We're worried," said Amagi.

I snorted. "Well, I'm fine, and—"

Junko rolled her eyes. "Not about you. About him."

I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of that statement. "Minamino doesn't strike me as the type who needs people worrying about him," I said. "Seems like a pretty capable person, if you ask me, so—"

"Minamino's mother is dying."

I stopped talking at Amagi's bald statement. Junko winced. A few of the other girls hung their heads. One started to cry again. Amagi's all-business-face did not waver, but her voice….

"She got sick months ago," Amagi said. Every word trembled, even if her eyes stayed stone. "It's a progressive illness. At first there was hope she might live, and with experimental treatments her life expectancy has been prolonged…but…"

She didn't need to finish that statement for me to know its ending: despite those treatments, Minamino Shiori was going to die.

I'd been wondering at the state of Kurama's home life, and at the state of his mother's health. Seems I'd finally gotten my answer. While this answer didn't exactly surprise me, it did hurt to hear the truth.

I'd heard it before, after all.

Oblivious to my inner machinations, Amagi pressed on.

"All of us, we used to compete for him," she said. "Letters, presents, whatever we could do to get his attention. There was drama. Friendships suffered for it. He suffered for it." She shook her head, eyes closing. "He constantly had to worry about who he spoke to, so he didn't look like he was playing favorites. He had to be careful of our feelings when he turned us down."

"Looking back," Junko murmured, "we realize the unfair position we put him in."

The girls nodded in agreement. Amagi surveyed the group, meeting every member's eyes one by one, coaxing a small smile of reassurance from each before turning back to me.

"We were deep in competition for him when his mother got sick," she said in that same brittle voice. "He started coming to school late. He lost weight. And we realized the only thing we were accomplishing was adding stress to his life." She shook her head again, a sorrowful smile slipping across her lips. "We realized our feelings didn't matter. Minamino is his own person, and we need to respect that he just doesn't have time to accommodate us anymore. Not when his mother..."

Her mask cracked. Her voice broke. Dark eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Junko slipped off the desk and touched Amagi's shoulder. Amagi breathed deeply before meeting Junko's eyes. They stared at one another for a moment, sharing strength until Amagi could speak again.

"We have no right to add more stress to his life," Amagi said. Her voice held steady. "We all care for him. Because we care for him, we want him to be happy. So we collectively swore to leave him be, and to not pursue him unless he approached us first, or until his mother recovered."

As the girls murmured their agreement, an image of a bento box—huge, too big for one person, left on the porch of the greenhouse—flashed through my head.

"You've been cooking for him," I said.

"Yes," said Amagi. "We cook food for him every day—for him and his mother both, so they can keep up their strength. Anything we can do to make his life easier, we will do." And then her business-face was back, eyes hard and unrelenting. "So you understand, now, why we're concerned about your presence in his life. We're concerned about anyone new causing him trouble."

"Of course," I said, mostly to myself as I pieced together this odd puzzle. "You're his guardians."

Amagi's mouth parted in momentary surprise. Then she inclined her head.

"Yes," she said. "That's right."

Her eyes glimmered with renewed strength after I called her 'guardian'. The last crying girls stopped crying, too, wiping away tears and snot as they sat up straight. Junko muttered 'guardians' under her breath and chuckled, looking pleased and maybe a touch embarrassed at the grandiose label…but she didn't deny it, either. None of them did.

Guardians. These girls, these girls who loved Minamino…I hadn't considered they might do something like this, band together for his sake instead of the sake of their love lives. I'd underestimated them. Shame made my cheeks color. I'd really assumed the worst of these girls, and yet…

"He's lucky to have you in his life," I said to cover my emotions. I scanned the room, smiling. "All of you. A lot of people aren't so lucky to have friends like you."

Junko shrugged. "We don't do that much."

"No, you actually do." My voice rose as the implications of the situation sank home. "You recognized his emotional needs and you support him unconditionally, even to the point of personal sacrifice. That's rare. It reflects highly on all of your characters." Even though some of the girls looked pleased, flushing at my words, I crossed my arms over my chest and firmly stated, "Now, if you bullied people who got close to him, that would reflect poorly on you."

There followed a series of awkward, guilty glances. Amagi cleared her throat. Hotaru very carefully stared at the floor.

I suppressed a giggle. Seemed the fangirls weren't so perfect, after all.

"We…made mistakes, at first," Junko admitted (Hotaru's floor-stare intensified). "Tactical mistakes, I guess. But that caused Minamino trouble, so we made some rules. No more intimidation. Only open dialogue and honesty for us these days."

"Gotcha," I said, not indulging in the amused smile threatening my expression. I stood up and spread my hands again. "Well, you have nothing to fear from me at all. I have no intention of causing him trouble." This time I let the smile break, accompanied by as conspiratorial wink. "If there's a contract, I'll sign it. I'm with you."

Amagi didn't react for a moment. We looked at one another, her eyes wide and astonished, until Junko hopped off the desk behind her. She gestured and the other girls stood, too, in a cacophony of sliding chairs and desks rattling over linoleum title.

"Thank you, Yukimura," Junko said. She folded her hands and bowed. "We appreciate your understanding."

As one, eleven girls bowed to me—even the taciturn Hotaru. I bowed back.

"My parents own a restaurant, by the way," I said when I rose. "I know a lot of recipes. You can use our kitchen to cook for Minamino, if you want."

Amagi practically started glowing. "That would be nice. Thank you."

They let me go after that, with promises to keep me informed, and requests I let them know if learned anything from Minamino himself. I left the room and stood in the hallway for nearly a minute, stunned, because that had not gone the way I'd expected.

Maybe fangirls weren't to be distrusted, after all.

The idea would take some getting used to.

On Sunday I ate lunch with Eimi and Michiko. Once I told them all about my new school and caught up on Sarayashiki Junior High gossip, I boarded a train and made my way to Tokyo.

Kagome waited on the platform, an adorable child in shorts and a baseball jersey bouncing excitedly on her heels. Blended right in with the rest of the civilians milling about the train station. When I trotted over she slipped her small hand into my large one with a squeeze.

"Good trip?" she said.

"Yeah." Sarayashiki was basically a glorified suburb of Tokyo, hence Kagome's easy commute to our weekly aikido lessons. "Didn't take long at all."

"Awesome!" She tugged me forward, skipping along like a giggling mountain goat. "Follow me!"

A few train stops and a walk later, I glimpsed Kagome's family's temple for the first time. Sort of weird to see a full-blown temple like Genkai's in close proximity to the tall, mirror-glass buildings looming on the city's horizon, but that didn't stop it from being gorgeous. The template sat tucked behind an office building and a neighborhood like a forgotten relic of another time. Red arches, sloping roofs, and a tumble of wild greenery marked the temple as something other, alien, mystical—and the gigantic tree looming above it like Jack's giant from fairy tales only drove the point home.

"The go-shinboku," Kagome said when she saw me staring at its leafy crown. She shoved her hands in her pockets, expression fond. "The god tree. Over 500 years old. Inuyasha'll get pinned to it someday. Isn't it great?"

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah. Reminds me of Colorado. Man, I miss home." She eyed me sidelong with a smirk. "But that's not what you came to see, is it?"

The Bone Eater's Well sat in shadow, hidden from public eye in a little shack near the back of the property. Kagome needed help pushing open the doors ("I hate being ten!" she groused) before she ran inside. The shack looked small from the outside, but inside the floor fell away into a deep shaft. A walkway surrounded the shaft on all sides, platform overlooking the shadows within. Stairs led down into the darkness. I didn't go close to them. Kagome, meanwhile, ran to the railing and leaned over it like a kid peering into an enclosure at the zoo. Her sneaker-clad feet kicked the air behind her butt while she dangled precariously above the well that would, one day, drag her screaming into the Feudal Era.

"Hello!" she called into the pit. Her voice echoed in the void, "'Hello, 'ello, 'lo."

I chafed at my arms, glad I'd worn a cardigan but wishing for a jacket. "Cold in here."

"It always is." Kagome dropped off the railing, only to turn around, hop up, and sit on it. "Grandpa comes in here for a cleansing ritual once a year."

I looked around. Didn't see any cobwebs, leaves, or debris. Huh. Oddly clean for an abandoned well. "Do you spend a lot of time in here?"

"Yeah. But it's too early for anything fun to happy. Bo-oring. Unlike Kurama." She leaned forward atop her perch; my pulse sped up as the wood creaked beneath her weight. "What's been happening, girl? Spill!"

I told her everything: feeling him out in the greenhouse, the flowers, his suspicions, the fangirls. She laughed when I was done, but without any trace of malice.

"See? What have I been telling you?" she said. "Your overthinking got you in trouble!"

"Ha ha, yeah, very funny." I put my back to the wall and slid down its expanse, tangling my fingers in my hair as I put my elbows on my knees. "I feel sick about it. I feel like I'm one wrong word from getting caught. And Kurama is scary. Who knows what he'd do if he finds me out?"

Kagome's sympathetic smile didn't make me feel better. "Yeah. Best not let him find out. What are you gonna do now?"

I let my arms flop, hands dangling loose on my wrists. "Well, I can't give smooth answers, and I'm a bad liar so playing dumb probably won't work…and the last option left to me is risky."

"Risky how?" Kagome said with a lifted brow. "What's the last option?"

I told her.

She stared at me.

Then her jaw dropped. Laughter spilled out. Kagome rocked atop the railing so hard I feared she'd fall in. Her hand slapped her thigh hard enough to bruise.

"Oh my god!" she cackled, eyes watering. She shrieked when she nearly fell backward off the rail, overcorrecting so hard she pitched forward onto the ground. Didn't seem to hurt, though. She rolled around like a kid, slapping the floor and basically screaming with humor. "Oh my fucking god, Eeyore! That's hilarious! I haven't heard anything so funny in my entire life, and I've lived two of them!"

"Hilarious?" I repeated. I watched her roll around with a scowl. "You have a warped sense of humor, you know that?"

"No, really," she said. She sat up, wiping her eyes on the hem of her shirt. "Kurama is such a cool cucumber, but your plan'll drive him nuts." Her cheeks puffed as she tried to hold back laughter. She failed in short order. "Oh my god. That is fucking great! Ha! You're gonna drive him up the goddamn wall! I'd pay money to see Kurama lose his cool!"

Fun as it was to watch Kagome lose her shit, and to watch foul language come from the mouth of a kid, I didn't feel too jovial just then. I waited for Kagome's laughter to subside to giggles before speaking.

"I feel bad, though," I said. "His mom…"

Kagome knew Yu Yu Hakusho well enough to not require elaboration. She winced and sat up with legs crisscrossed, gripping her ankles and hunching like a reprimanded child.

"Oh, right," she said. "His mom. That's so sad." She perked, smile hesitant. "She'll get better though, right? With the mirror?"

"Yeah. But Kurama doesn't know that yet." I mopped my face with a hand. "I mean, I don't think he knows that yet. I don't know how far along in the mirror plan he is. Even if he's planning to save her with the mirror already, I imagine he's still hurting right now just thinking she'll die."

Unbidden, an image of the fangirls crying popped into my head. Amagi's face swam forward.

"We have no right to add more stress to his life," she'd said. "We all care for him. Because we care for him, we want him to be happy."

The fangirls, maligned though they were, cared for Kurama so much—and suddenly my plan to preserve my secrecy seemed cruel. After all, I knew what it was like to wait for a loved one to die. If someone had caused me undue pain while I was already hurting so much, I would've been so upset…

I sighed and leaned my head against the wall. "I don't know. Maybe my plan is too much." When Kagome looked confused I added: "He's grieving, in a sense. Adding stress to that pain seems cruel."

She nodded, eyes toward the ceiling as she considered this. Then she met my gaze with a mischievous smile.

"I mean, you can look at your plan as a source of stress for him," she said, "or you can look at it like…like a helpful distraction for him!"

"A distraction? A distraction from what?"

"From his pain." She leaned forward, smile growing. "Think about it. You're a puzzle for him to solve. Maybe a Keiko-puzzle could distract him from his pain, give him something to think about other than his mother's slow death." She snapped and pointed at me. "Yeah! You could be a distraction from his grief!"

"Or I could be a distraction from his efforts to save her," I countered. "What if he gets too focused on me to come up with the Forlorn Hope plan?"

And besides. He would want to be with Shiori right now. Mirror plan or no, he wouldn't want to spend his mother's final days chasing after a classmate. He would want to be with her the way I'd wanted to be with my grandmother when we learned she was sick—learn all the little things she had yet to teach him, soak up as much of her light as he could be she left.

Or before he left.

Gosh. I'd sort of forgotten the suicidal tinge to Kurama's plan. If he was going to save her at the cost of his own life, he'd surely dedicate himself to spending as much time with her as possible before—

Kagome rocked forward and scrambled toward me on her hands and knees. She braced her arms on my legs and peered up into my face, lying halfway across my lap. Despite her childish body language, her expression was every inch a determined adult's.

"Remember what I told you?" she said, voice low and urgent. "Nothing you do could possibly throw Kurama off his path. He's Kurama. He's too disciplined to let a schoolgirl distract him from his goals." Her mouth curled in a wry smile. "From his pain? Sure. But not his goals."

"I suppose…" I murmured.

Kagome hummed approvingly and moved off my lap with a wink. "C'mon, Eeyore. You gotta keep yourself safe and trust that Kurama can handle himself. Do what you gotta do to keep incognito."

I snorted. "Might be too late for that, but…thanks, Tigger." I smiled and, in spite of myself, felt the confidence radiating from Kagome soak like rain into my soul. "I feel better."

Kagome jerked a thumb at her chest, tossed her hair, and beamed.

"Dontcha worry 'bout a thing, honeybun," she said. "I got you. After all—what are friends for?"

Later that night, Kuwabara and I reached my parents' restaurant at the same time. Call it fate, I guess. We came from different directions down the sidewalk, and when I spotted him coming I broke into a jog. Kuwabara did, too. We skidded to a halt in front of the shop's guardian Ebisu statues wearing identical smiles.

"Hey Keiko!" he said, grinning. "Thanks for helping me today. I really appreciate it!"

"Eh, what are friends for?" I said, parroting Kagome's earlier assurances. I started to ask Kuwabara if he'd brought the right textbooks, the ones I'd told him to bring at our last tutoring session, but something caught my eye. I leaned forward and scowled. "Are those bruises?"

Kuwabara touched the purple halo on his cheek with a wince, but he covered the reaction with his trademark goofy smile. "It's nothin', honest! Just some punks trying to get the upper hand while my hands are tied, that's all."

His jolly tone did little to allay my worries. I put my hands on my hips and glared. "Kuwabara…"

The big guy's hands came up, waving in frantic denial. "It's nothin' I can't handle, Keiko, promise! I'm a tough guy! Whatever these punks dish out, I can take." He grinned and pumped an arm to display his muscles, their bulk straining against the confines of his windbreaker. "And besides. Only one week left till I can fight again! Soon they'll be the ones havin' t' watch their backs, not me!"

"I just worry, is all." I smacked his arm in gentle admonishment. "Try not to get hurt too bad, OK? I need you in one piece."

Kuwabara (that adorable, loveable lunkhead) blushed bright red and mumbled something about his promise as a man to not get himself killed. I couldn't help but smile.

"You and your manly promises," I said. "Anyway. Let's go upstairs and get to work."

We didn't get far, unfortunately. As soon as we walked in the door, one of the servers—a twenty-something woman named Sara—trotted up and grabbed my arm.

"Keiko! Right on time," she said. I muttered for Kuwabara to wait while Sara pulled me aside. "There's a gaijin at table fifteen."

"Really?" I said. I craned my head to see into the restaurant, but table fifteen lay against the back wall of the restaurant, around the other side of the bar and out of sight. "That's rare."

"I know!" Sara ducked her head, bashful. "Sorry, I know you don't normally help out during Sunday dinner hour, but can you handle her? Your English is so good and mine is just awful."

"Sure, sure." I looked over her shoulder and caught Kuwabara's eye. "Hey, change of plans. I have to take care of a few things down here."

His face fell. "Oh. Should we reschedule, or—?"

"No, no, no worries—we can still study," I assured him. Kuwabara's expression cleared at once. "Just not upstairs. I have to wait on a customer for a bit, nothing major." I gestured at nearby tables. "We'll set up in the restaurant. Dad can make you ramen with extra pork cutlet if you want."

"Oh, yeah, that'd be awesome!" He promptly looked embarrassed, kicking a toe at the floor. "I mean, are you sure that's OK?"

"It'll be fine." I grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged him after me. "C'mon."

The busiest area of the restaurant had to be the bar, which overlooked the kitchen and afforded customers a view of their food as it was prepared. I set Kuwabara up in a corner, at one of the tables along the back wall of the dining room, where he'd remain out from underfoot of the servers and other patrons. I glanced toward table fifteen as Kuwabara took his textbooks from his bag. I caught sight of a woman with white hair, but she had her back to me, so I didn't see much else. Hopefully she knew English…

"Be right back," I said after Kuwabara got settled. I trotted to the coatroom outside the kitchen and donned an apron. Sara shot me a thumbs up when I passed her on my way out. I returned the gesture, then slowed my pace to a walk as I approached the gaijin in the corner.

"Hello, ma'am," I said, bowing when I reached her table. My English was flawless, as always. "I apologize if this is forward, but do you speak English?"

The woman had been studying a menu. She put it down when I spoke, gestures deliberate and slow, and shifted in her seat to look at me. Snowy hair crowned a dour face, mouth a slash of no-nonsense displeasure below her grey eyes—eyes peering over the top of a pair of dark sunglasses. Sunglasses indoors? And the sun was setting, too…but never mind that oddity. How old was she? White hair indicated age, and sure, lines rimmed her silvery eyes and irritable scowl, but she could've said she was anything from 40 to 70 and I'd have believed her.

"Yeah, I speak English. And I speak Japanese, too," she said. She smacked the menu with the back of her hand before I could apologize for making assumptions. "The thing is, I can't read a damn word of it. What's good here?"

"I prefer option nine," I said, pointing at the item in question. I maintained my professional smile in spite of her steady, searching stare. "It's very traditional Japanese cuisine. Definitely give it a try if you're visiting the country for the first time."

"Hmmph. Polite, aren't you?" she said. She had a voice like a creaking hinge, or ropes straining under the weight of a boat's vast sails, touched by a musical accent I couldn't name. "I'll get that, then."

"Excellent. And would you like a drink?"

"Coffee."

"I'll bring it right away. Will that be all for now?"

The gaijin inclined her head. "For now."

After another bow and smile I placed her order (not to mention Kuwabara's) at the kitchen window, made a cup of coffee, and brought it to the white-haired woman. She sat in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest and merely grunted at me when I placed the cup before her. When I left her table and slid into a seat across from Kuwabara I muttered, "Grumpy old lady at three o'clock."

He glanced in the appropriate direction. His eyes widened. "Wow. Nice jacket."

"What?"

"Her jacket, it's leather. It's cool."

I hadn't noticed, but he was right—she wore a leather jacket, the kind with snaps at the collar and cuffs. It wasn't a fashionable jacket, but rather a practical, protective choice for a person who rides a motorcycle. Road rash ain't no joke, people, and neither were the scuffed leather boots encasing her leg from toe to knee. I hadn't noticed a motorcycle parked on the street, but if there was one outside right now, it doubtless belonged to the gaijin in the corner.

"She looks tough. Think she's American?" Kuwabara whispered, hand cupped around his mouth.

"I don't know." I leaned my chin on my wrist, replaying her voice in my head. "Her accent is unusual. Greek or Italian, maybe? Not sure."

"Hmm. Don't see many gaijin around here. I'd expect tourists in Tokyo, but here?" He shrugged, pencil poised above his textbook. "Oh well. Hopefully she likes the food."

"Yeah," I said. "Hopefully."

We commenced with the study-session. I glanced at the gaijin every few minutes. She never moved. Her finger traced the rim of her coffee cup in slow circles, but that was it. Apparently she was content to stare at the wall by the kitchen. Huh. Weird lady. I put her out of my head and concentrated on Kuwabara until a bell rang at the food counter. I got up and grabbed the two steaming bowls, delivering the gaijin's first.

"Thanks," she said as I set it before her. Her leather jacket creaked when she reached for chopsticks. "Busy night?"

"Not for me," I said. The bar was full and the tables were at three-quarter capacity; good thing I only had to worry about her and Kuwabara. "But for the others, yes."

"Why's that?"

"Oh, um—I'm the owner's daughter. Special privilege, I guess." I hefted Kuwabara's soup bowl over my shoulder so the steam wouldn't rise into my face. "I only have to wait on your table tonight."

Her expression, baleful and cold, didn't shift when she pointed over her shoulder. "And your friend's table over there, too, it seems."

I chuckled. "Yes. And his, too." I dipped my head. "Enjoy your meal. I'll be back to check on you shortly."

She harrumphed and cracked her chopsticks. Kuwabara almost leapt out of his seat, chortling with glee at the sight of his meal.

"Oh man, this looks amazing!" he said as he tucked in. "Your dad really is the best."

"Yeah. He is."

As I watched Kuwabara eat one of my father's recipes, I thought of my grandmother and the recipes I never got a chance to learn. I wouldn't make that mistake in this life. I wouldn't underestimate my time here. I'd soak up every last bit of my parents' techniques, every chance I could get.

I glanced at the gaijin in the corner. It felt good to speak in English, even if she didn't have a comforting Texan accent like my former family. Gosh, what would it be like to visit Texas in this new life, in this new body? Not for the first time, I wondered if my family existed somewhere in this world, and if maybe I could meet my grandmother again. Finally learn her cactus jam recipe, though somehow I doubted Hiruko sent me to this life to learn to make jam—

My thoughts stopped short.

As soon as I thought of Hiruko's pink hair and ocean eyes, the gaijin twisted in her seat and looked at me.

I looked away, of course, the way anyone would look away when they'd been caught staring. I focused on Kuwabara as we practiced pronunciation, but when I looked the gaijin's way after a minute…

I put my hand on Kuwabara's. He stopped mid-sentence, face flushing.

"Hey," I said. I took my hand back and tilted my head toward table fifteen. "Is she staring at me?"

Kuwabara's blush disappeared. He paused for a second, then 'accidentally' knocked his pencil off the table with his elbow.

"Oops!" he declared before diving under out of his seat. "My bad!"

He lingered under the table for a moment. When he surfaced, he leaned his cheek on his hand—effectively covering his mouth from anyone's view but mine.

"She's staring like a hawk," he whispered, mouth barely moving. "Do you know her or something?"

"Never seen her before in my life." In either of my lives, in fact. I took a deep breath and stood up. "Give me a minute."

The gaijin sat sideways in her seat, arm pillowed along the back of the chair. She didn't look away when I turned and met her gaze head on. She just smiled, lips curling at the corners as I approached. Her glasses sat high on her nose this time. I couldn't see her eyes, but I did not doubt she looked straight at me.

"Does everything taste OK?" I said when I reached her. Though polite, I allowed an edge to creep into my tone—what the fuck you starin' at, lady? "Can I get you anything else?"

"No. And it tastes great." She rapped her knuckles on the table next to her empty bowl. "Good recommendation."

"Happy to hear it. Would you like the check?"

"No need. I remember the price. I'll pay cash."

I watched in silence as she pulled a wad of bills from her jacket pocket. She placed twice the price of the dish on the table, but when I protested, she waved me off.

"Consider it a tip for the great recommendation." A smile twisted below her glasses. "And don't argue. You'll just lose."

"Tipping isn't common in Japan, I'm afraid," I said (it implied the business owners didn't pay their employees enough). "Forgive me for resisting."

"You're forgiven. Thanks for the cultural lesson."

"Of course. Thank you for your patronage." I bowed and turned away. "Have a good night, ma'am."

"Wait."

She sat sideways in her seat, back firm against the wall. Long legs crossed at the ankle as she reached once more into her jacket. I watched in silence as she placed an object on the table and folded her hands atop her thighs.

"Anything to say?" she asked in her peculiar, creaking voice.

She'd placed a pair of scissors next to her empty ramen bowl—at least, I think they were scissors. They weren't like any scissors I'd ever seen. Made of gleaming copper, they'd been forged from a single piece of solid metal, with a twisting figure eight handle that flowed into a pair of flat, pointed blades. Carved runes covered the blades like a colony of marching ants. I didn't recognize the language. The scissors (or were they more like shears?) looked antique, but sturdy and shiny, so maybe a reproduction of an antique? No idea. They resembled a movie prop more than anything.

"Sorry," I said. "Do you want me to cut something for you? Got an itchy tag in your jacket?"

My attempt at a joke fell flat. The woman's gaze remained inscrutable behind her dark glasses, but her lips pulled into a line.

"Hmmph." She tossed her head, hair floating like cobweb around her shoulders. "So he hasn't told you yet."

I scowled. "Who hasn't told me what?"

Her glasses slid down her nose.

Silver eyes speared me where I stood.

"Hiruko hasn't told you to watch out for me," she said.

Utensils clinking. Chairs scraping. Patrons laughing. My dad barking orders in the kitchen.

I heard none of that, just then. Just the sound of my own pulse beating like war drums in my ears.

And the gaijin…she smiled at me. Smiled this big, knowing smile as she pushed her glasses back up her nose, watching me panic and try not to panic all at the same time.

"Who are you?" I said. My dry mouth rendered the words a whisper. "Who—who are you?"

"Someone who knows your name," the gaijin replied. She smirked. "And no, I don't mean 'Yukimura Keiko.' I mean the name you've probably forgotten."

I didn't reply. I couldn't reply. And I think this woman knew that. She chuckled, grabbed the shears off the table, and slipped them back into her breast pocket.

"Don't worry. I'm not here to hurt you," she said. Like an afterthought she added, "Although, Hiruko would probably claim otherwise. But he says a lot of things that aren't true."

It was all I could do to grind out, "I don't understand."

The gaijin snorted, derision audible. "Of course you don't. You're a pawn."

I couldn't help but bristle. Her smirk got…smirkier. Words. They failed me in that moment. But she looked at me like she knew something I didn't, and that made me feel sick to my stomach, and were those black spots in the corners of my vision or was stress just making me hallucinate?

"You're a pawn," the woman repeated, "but from what I've seen, you're the type who'd learn to use that to your advantage. So maybe being a pawn isn't so bad, after all."

She stood up. I stumbled back, barely managing to register how intimidatingly tall she was (six feet, maybe more?) before she slipped past me toward the door.

I stood rooted to the spot for a moment.

Then I turned and dashed after her.

Managed to catch up to the gaijin just as she exited the building. I found her on the stoop, hand atop the head of one of Dad's prized Ebisu statues. She regarded the statue with a scowl, fingernails tap, tap, tapping against stone like a rattling Tommy Gun.

"That brat," she muttered. "He always did have a sick sense of humor."

I blurted, "Who the fuck are you?"

The woman looked over her shoulder. She hooked a finger under her glasses and pulled them down her nose, meeting my eyes with her silver ones. How had I ever mistaken them for grey? They were liquid mercury, dangerous and beautiful.

"I'm Clotho," she said. "Friends call me Cleo."

"Friends," came my hollow repetition.

"Yup." She pointed, finger leveled right at my stunned face. "And believe you me, girl: you want me for a friend."

"Do I?" I said. My voice kicked high-pitched with panic. "Do I really want you for a friend, Cleo?"

"Oh, yes. I'm not your enemy." Her smirk faded into a scowl. "That role belongs to Hiruko."

I had no idea what to make of that. I'd long ago decided Hiruko was too shady to be completely trusted—but he didn't seem like a straight-up enemy. Was he more insidious than his chipper demeanor suggested? Who the hell was this Cleo person? What did she want? How was she involved in my lucky second life?

And the most pressing question of all: Was she right about Hiruko?

She didn't give me time to ask questions, of course. No one ever gives me time to ask questions. She patted the Ebisu statue one more time before shoving her hands into her pockets.

"Consider this a warning," Cleo said. "Don't trust Hiruko. And whatever he says about me, he's lying."

"But—who are you?" I asked, plaintive as a helpless kitten. "Why are you here and what do you—?"

Cleo shoved her glasses up her nose.

"Not yet," she said.

My fists clenched. Anger rose like bubbles from an overheated pot. Go fuck yourself budded on my tongue, insult ready to fire—but before I could say anything, Cleo...well.

She vanished.

Notes:

So Keiko has a plan to handle Kurama, and now we've met the mysterious Cleo, who seems to be Hiruko's enemy. Who can Keiko trust, what does this new player want, and what were those shears/scissors?

Photo of the scissors available on my Tumblr, for those who want a visual aid!

Regarding the fangirl scene: I guess this was my attempt at humanizing Kurama's fabled fangirls/subverting the fangirl trope. Less vicious, more selfless in a teenage-girl-romanticizing-their-unrequired-love sort of way. Not perfect, but they're trying. Hope it's OK there wasn't a huge battle scene but I wanted to try a different spin on the fangirls.

Please follow my new Tumblr page if you'd like. Name: luckystarchild. I have an Ask Me Anything box in case you have questions!

27

Chapter Text

Watching a flesh and blood human being vanish into thin air is fucking terrifying , by the way.

I don't mean because it's scary in any traditional sense. No monsters. No blood. Nothing jumping out at you. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's terrifying because one second it feels like you have a grip on reality, and the next—poof. Gone. You stand there blinking and stuttering with your heart running at a gallop because that woman was standing right there, I saw her, dammit, and now she's gone like she never existed, what if my brain concocted—?

No. Nope. Sara and Kuwabara had both seen Clotho-called-Cleo the gaijin. I didn't make her up. I wasn't seeing things. She'd been real, and in the space between moments, she'd simply disappeared.

Suffice it to say, I freaked the hell out.

Kuwabara called my name when I sprinted inside, but I didn't slow down to talk to him (what the hell could I have even said at that point, anyway?). I pasted on my very best Keiko-smile and said "Be right back!" before ducking out of the dining room and vaulting up the stairs like a champion rodeo pony. Lucky for me Kagome answered when I called her house from my personal phone line. I was in no mood to put on a polite show for her mother, brother, or grandfather, that's for sure.

"Higurashi residence?" she said.

"It's Keiko." My voice sounded like I choked on dry popcorn. "Are you alone?"

"Oh, hey girl! Yeah, I'm alone. What's up?" she said—in English, of course. We always spoke English to each other. "Everything OK?"

"Kagome, something just happened—listen—"

I pressed the heel of my hand against my eye socket, stars sparking in my vision, and told her everything I could about Cleo. I repeated her words verbatim, described her actions down to the gesture, relayed an image of her looks and just…everything. It came out in a babbling stream, a boil of collected anxiety nothing but a verbal avalanche could lance. Kagome listened in silence until I stopped speaking. Only then did she let out a low whistle.

"Girl…" she said.

I waited.

She didn't continue.

"Tigger—say something!" I said. The phone's cold plastic bumped my temple as I shoved it at my ear. "I'm freaking out!"

She paused a moment longer. "What did you say her name was?"

"Clotho, but friends call her Cleo."

"And she was carrying a pair of shears?"

"Scissors, shears, yeah, whatever."

"...how savvy are you about Greek myth, smarty pants?"

"Uh." The distinctive cover of Edith Hamilton's Mythology flashed into my head. "I liked it as a kid. Like, as a kid-kid. So it's been a few decades since..." I shook my head. No time for rambling, Keiko. "Why?"

Kagome took a breath. Cloth rustled against the receiver, like maybe she cradled the handset to her chest.

"The name Clotho," she said. "It belongs to a figure from Greek myth."

I racked my brain. Came up with nothing. "Which figure?"

She sounded like a reluctant kid when she said. "We-ell…don't freak out, OK?"

"Which figure, Tigger?!"

"It's…well, it's the name of one of the Fates."

I didn't reply.

"You know," Kagome said. "Like, the fate-Fates? Three sisters who determine destiny and measure life in twists of thread?"

I didn't reply. I couldn't.

Kagome's voice dropped low. She said: "Eeyore. Don't freak out, but I think you might've met one of the weavers of destiny."

I closed my eyes. Covered my face with one hand.

"Are you serious?" I said.

"Like a heart attack."

…well this was just fucking perfect, wasn't it?

I remembered the Fates. Not their individual names—details escaped me, dulled by time and lack of practicality—but I remembered that three sisters and how they controlled the destinies of all mortals and measured the lengths of their lives in thread (that scene from Disney's Hercules was hard to forget). I remembered that the scissors cut those threads to end mortal lives (though I tried very hard not to think about how close I'd gotten to those shears as they lay just inches away on the restaurant table).

But what did it mean, one of the Fates walking right up to me like that?

How did she know about Hiruko?

And, more importantly: what the fucking hell did she want?

The answer was probably nothing good, knowing my foul luck.

Kagome kept talking when I didn't speak. Her earlier reticence evaporated, words eager and interested. "One of them has a pair of magic scissors that cut the strings of fate, so that explains what those shears might've been. I mean, given her name, it would make sense that those are the Fates' shears, but I know they had, like, three items? One for each Fate? But I don't remember what they are, and—" She paused. "Are you OK over there? You're pretty quiet."

"Oh. I'm peachy. Juuuust peachy." I laughed, humor desperately necessary in the face of this improbability. "We die, we get ripped into another world, we become anime characters, and now a Greek demigod walks into my parents' restaurant wearing a leather jacket. I couldn't be better!"

"Well, to be fair, we can't be sure she was actually a Greek demigod." Kagome hummed, thinking. "I could be wrong about the name. It's been a while since I read about Greek myth, too. Maybe not as long as you, but still a long time. Did they teach you Greek myth in school? They taught it to me in school in my old life, but I didn't learn it in school here. Didn't learn any myths, come to think of it. I wonder if that's a Japanese cultural thing, or—"

"Focus, Tigger."

"Sorry, sorry! Anyway, I can't remember which of the three sisters of fate is named Clotho, or what her role was, or even what the other sisters' names are. And some of those sisters are nicer than others so it would be handy to know which bitch we're dealing with." She swore, colorfully and with vigor. "Dammit, Eeyore! I'd give up a kidney for Wikipedia!"

"I'd chip in a chunk of liver for Google, myself," I dryly concurred.

Kagome paused.

"Is it ethical for us to invent Google?" she asked. "Being a billionaire would be nice. But I don't know how to code. Do you know how to—?"

"We've talked about this, and now is not the time." I got up and paced, walking until my phone's spiral cord stretched to its breaking point, a leashed lap around the edges of my tiny bedroom. "Focus! Greek myth! Fate! Cleo! My fraying nerves!"

"OK, OK, OK!" she said. "Sheesh, just…OK, look. There's no telling what this Cleo lady wanted. Hell, maybe she picked that name to freak you out and she's not a Fate at all." Kagome chuckled a little. "Given how fucked up and mystical our lives are, it's not entirely surprising to meet a character from myth, but the odds of meeting a god are still pretty slim—"

Deadpan, I reminded her: "Koenma and his dad are demigods."

There followed a long, pregnant paused.

"Ah. Right," said Kagome in a small voice. "So maybe meeting a Fate isn't out of the question." I could picture her shaking her head like a disgruntled horse. "Still! There's no way to confirm if that lady really was from Greek myth!"

"What's a character from Greek myth doing in Japan, anyway?" I grumbled. "What am I, suddenly in an episode Saint Seiya?"

"Beats the shit outta me." She breathed a dainty gasp. "Oh god. Do you think the Knights of the Zodiac—?!"

"No. Nope. Nuh-uh." My frantic feet moved faster. "You can stop right there. I don't wanna know!"

Kagome laughed at my tone, but she sobered just as quickly.

"Eeyore, I don't have to be next to you to know you're pacing hard enough to wear a hole in the floor," she said. I flushed, guilty as a cat covered in canary feathers. "Try to keep calm, OK? Don't tear your hair out over this. It's freaky and weird, sure, but we'll get through it just like we've gotten through everything else."

Her tone, soothing and sincere, eased some of the tension building in my neck and shoulders.

"Thanks," I mumbled. I sat heavily on my bed and leaned my forehead against my knees. "I needed someone to say that aloud." I scowled against my legs. "But what do we do in the meantime? I can't just sit here and do nothing. Idle hands are the enemy of anxious people!"

"Distract yourself with tutoring Kuwabara. That's what you were supposed to do tonight, right?"

Oh, shit. I'd completely forgotten—I left the poor guy in the dining room all alone. Kagome laughed when I released a stream of curses.

"That's what I thought," she said. "You go help him study. I'll spearhead the research brigade tonight."

"You will?" I said. "Sorry Charlie, but you ain't got Google and libraries are closed this time of night."

Pride colored her voice. "My grandpa knows everything about Japanese myth and legend. Maybe he knows about other myths, too. I'll ask him what he can tell me about the Fates. Will call when I learn something." She laughed, breezy and bright. "Hell, I'll ask if he knows anything about a guy named Hiruko while I'm at it. What could it hurt?"

"I tried looking up the name Hiruko at the library, but I didn't get any leads." I sat up, tossing my bangs from my eyes. "Again, my kingdom for a Google search."

"Good thing for us my grandpa is the next best thing to a Google search when it comes to this subject. He knows all kinds of weird stuff!" Her voice dropped low. "Seriously, the guy brings home pickled kappa feet sometimes. It's weird. I mean, they're obviously fakes, but still. Man's obsessed with ancient stuff. The older, the better." She dramatically whisper-screamed her next words. "I think he feels at home surrounded by old stuff because he's prehistoric!"

That got me laughing. And as soon as I started laughing, the tense spell broke. It was tough to remain anxious around someone like Kagome. Her relentlessly chipper attitude could not be contained.

"Thanks, Tigger," I told her when the giggles eased. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Suffer and die, probably," came her boisterous reply. "But seriously, no sweat. Happy to help out. I just wish I could meet Hiruko or Fate Lady myself, y'know?" I could hear her pouting through the phone connection. "Why am I so out of the loop?"

"Because your plot hasn't started yet," I said.

Something told me mine was just beginning.

Kuwabara knew something was wrong. Fandom painted him as the group's brainless muscle, but Kuwabara was nothing if not intuitive. The minute I walked into the dining room he started frowning. Like a damn bloodhound, this guy.

"You OK?" he asked when I sat down.

"I'm fine." Sunny Keiko-smile on full blast, I pulled his textbook toward me. "Now, back to where we left off—"

"Why'd you run after the gaijin like that?"

Concerned eyes complimented his worried voice. I softened the smile, trying to look sincere and serene.

"She…she forgot her check." That sounded like a lie even to me. I shook my head. "Doesn't matter. You have a test to study for."

I could tell he wanted to ask more. He stared with his eyes all screwed up, mouth pursed into a pensive bud—but he didn't pry. Probably knew better. Willing to bet Shizuru taught him to respect a woman's privacy; I'd have to thank her if we ever met again.

Might be mean of me to say this, but I breathed a relieved sigh when Kuwabara finally left for the evening. We'd made good headway in his work and I'd done my absolute best to tutor him, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't eager for him to split. My mind desperately wanted to linger on Cleo. I wouldn't let it. I dug into the English textbook with vigor, and when Kuwabara declared his brain had reached full capacity for the night, I sent him home with instructions to read his study material aloud on repeat until we met again.

"Will do, sensei!" he said before walking out the door. "See you tomorrow!"

"Yeah. See you," I replied.

As I watched him walk off into the dark, my shoulders sagged. I went into the dining room and smiled to myself. Finally, I could go upstairs, be by myself, and worry about this Cleo thing without an audience. I hated feeling anxious around people. If I was going to worry, I'd do it in private, thank you very much.

Just then, the doors to the restaurant opened behind me. Luckily Sara was still on the clock and greeted the customers at the hostess station. So glad it wasn't my night to man the floor. I slipped between the tables and headed for the stairs, carefully cataloging each and every Greek myth I could remember as—

"…scary-looking," I heard one of the patrons say.

"Yeah," said the other. "Very scary!"

"Oh, my," Sara said. "What do you think they were up to?"

"Nothing good," said the patron. "They were waiting on the corner and when another boy walked by, they followed him."

"I'm worried they might be mugging people!" said the first customer. "Can we call the police?"

I stopped in my tracks and turned. The two women, auntie-aged and wearing thick coats to combat the chilly winter weather, stared at Sara with plaintive expressions.

"Gosh," said Sara. She put her hand to her mouth. "Yes, yes, let me get you the phone. We should definitely call the police."

She darted off toward the kitchen.

I darted toward the aunties.

"I'm sorry, I overheard," I said. "But the boy they followed—did he come out of this restaurant? Was he wearing jeans and windbreaker? Curly bleached hair? My friend just left here, and—"

As one, the aunties paled.

My stomach plummeted into my ankles.

Without another word, or any thought to strategy, I grabbed my coat and sprinted out the door.

I found them a few blocks away. They hadn't gotten far. Honestly it's sort of miraculous I found them in the dark of a secluded alleyway, a strip of empty space between two buildings, but I didn't have time to ponder what twists of fate allowed me to locate Kuwabara that night.

I'm just glad I got there in time.

I'd been so stupid. So stupid, stupid, stupid to let Kuwabara leave alone late at night when he wasn't allowed to fight. Of course bullies were all over him. Of course other punks wanted to move in on his turf while his hands were tied. Of course they'd stalk him, and ambush him on his way home, and beat him until he couldn't stand.

Despite knowing all those things to be true, the sight of Kuwabara getting the shit kicked out of him still knocked the breath from my chest like a battering ram.

Three punks, our age or maybe a touch older, lobbied kicks and punches into Kuwabara's sides, back, arms, and head. He lay on the ground in a ball, backpack clutched to his chest, protecting his face as best he could, but his efforts accomplished little. In the fitful light of the streetlamp at the alley's mouth I saw dark liquid sluice across his chin—bloody nose, probably, or worse.

It didn't matter.

It didn't matter in what manner they'd hurt him, nor to what degree.

It didn't matter, because they were going to pay.

The moment I saw that blood, my vision tunneled. My breath returned. The next thing I knew I was sprinting headlong into the fray, conscious thought taking flight on adrenaline's wide wings.

I caught the first punk from behind. Swift kick to the back of the knee, elbow strike to the neck as he fell, then a shove to the shoulder that sent him careening into the hard ground—only, whoops, I'd misjudged the width of this alley. I heard the satisfying crack of his nose as it collided with the brick wall comprising the alley's edge, watching with triumph as he slid to the ground and lay very, very still.

The two other punks noticed me at that point (obviously). They yelled something, eyes wide and teeth bared. I didn't hear them. Eyes on the prize, Keiko. I sank into a ready-stance as one of the punks pulled back a fist and lobbed it at me. He moved like a rolling boulder, predictable and sluggish. I traced the path of his trajectory in the air before he'd even finished throwing the punch.

Countering came easy: Quick side-step. Spin. Get behind him. Chop to the neck, another kick to the knee, and solid strike with my foot to the back of his head. He fell flat on his face. The fall did half the work for me. Pretty sure he'd have a concussion, forehead colliding with the ground the way it did.

(Dimly I realized how slow he was compared to Hideki, Kagome, Ezakiya. But that was for another time.)

The last guy said something. Once more I didn't hear. Kuwabara coughed on the ground, saying my name in panicked fear, but I paid him no mind—not now, not yet. I spun around as the last punk leapt over Kuwabara and came at me with arms spread, trying for a grapple, but Hideki-sensei had taught me better than to fall for that. I grabbed his wrist and twisted, letting his own momentum carry him past me even as I manipulated his arm and dragged it up behind his back. He yelped at the pain, but I just buried my free hand deep into his hair (over-gelled and sticky), shoved a foot into his hamstring, and slammed him to the ground—the weight of his body crushing his free arm. I put my foot on the back of his knee and put all my weight on it for good measure to keep him pinned. One yank and I'd tear the arm from the socket or rip out his hair. He knelt before me with whimpers of pain, and to my satisfaction I felt the fight drain out of him.

He knew who was in control here.

Seems fruits of my lessons with Hideki had shown themselves at last.

Keeping my grip on the last conscious punk, I said, "Tell me. Do you like stories?"

"Fucking psycho bitch," he managed to grind out.

I yanked on his hair. He quieted.

"I love stories," I said. "How about I tell you my favorite, hmm?"

"K-Keiko," Kuwabara said.

I looked over my shoulder. He'd managed to rise to his knees, staring at me with mouth wide open.

"You OK?" I asked.

He didn't reply. His mouth just clicked shut.

I looked down at the punk. I said, "Once upon a time, there was a little girl."

"Ugh," he said.

I yanked his am so hard his shoulder creaked, back of his hand nearly brushing the back of his neck. He yelped and fell silent.

"The little girl didn't have many friends," I said, "but one day, she met a little boy. His name was Urameshi Yusuke, and he became her very best friend in the entire world."

The moment I mentioned Yusuke's name, the punk gasped. I couldn't help but smirk.

"Yusuke taught the little girl everything he knew about ass kicking," I said, "and they were very, very happy. And then one day she met another boy, and he became her very best friend, too."

I leaned in close to the punk's ear. Did my best not to gag at the smell of his hair gel.

"Spoiler," I whispered. "I'm the little girl, and the guy whose ass you just tried to kick? That's Kuwabara, and he's my other very best friend."

The punk whimpered, then, but not from pain.

"Anyway," I said. "Everything was happy and amazing in this little girl's life, until one day Urameshi Yusuke died. The little girl was very upset that she lost one of her very best friends." I knotted my fingers harder in his hair. "So you might imagine that she became violently protective of the very best friend she still had left."

One of the unconscious punks moaned, but a quick glance confirmed he wasn't in any state to move just yet. Good. I had another minute to intimidate the crap out of this asshole.

"There's a moral to this story, in case you were wondering," I said. I leaned in close to his ear again. "It's that if you touch a single hair on Kuwabara Kazuma's head, I will bring down every last scrap of Urameshi Yusuke's ass-kicking techniques on your sorry ass. Do I make myself clear?"

The punk grizzled something, but I couldn't make out the words. I yanked his head back so hard his neck creaked beneath my fingers.

"Touch him, you die," I growled. "Get it?"

"I—I get it," the punk groaned.

"Say 'yes ma'am', asshole."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Like you mean it, dickweasel."

"Y-yes, ma'am!"

"Good." I let the word purr, a promise I didn't need to repeat. I shoved him hard into the ground, pressing his face into the pavement so I could growl in his ear, "Now get the hell out of my sight."

When I let him go, he scrambled up and sprinted from the alley—remembering at the last second to come back for his friends. He shot me one furtive glance but otherwise did his very best not to make eye contact before vanishing into the night.

Good.

Let them be afraid. No one was going to hurt Kuwabara on my watch. No one. I'd sooner die (again) than let—

"Keiko?"

…oh no.

Turning around took willpower. Much as I stood by my actions, I wasn't sure I wanted to see Kuwabara's reaction to them. Heat lit my cheeks from within as I slowly faced him, peering at him from under my bangs because holy shit, he'd never seen me like this before, had he? Was he going to run in the opposite direction now? In the anime he'd seemed fond of demure, sweet chicks like Yukina, but here I was beating the tar out of punks twice my size—

In the indirect glare of the nearest streetlamp, the whites of his eyes gleamed like bone.

"Keiko," he said, voice rasping with shock. "You—"

"I'm sorry," I blurted before he could go too far. Before he could react with disgust. Before he could condemn me for what I'd done. "I'm sorry, I should've asked before stepping in. I should've—"

"Keiko—I'm your best friend?"

I stopped. He stared. A moment passed, quiet and uncertain.

"You just saw me beat the shit out of three people at once," I murmured, "and that's what you're wondering about?"

Even in that dim alleyway I saw Kuwabara flush. He kicked at the ground with a toe, sniffing loudly through his bloody nose. But was that embarrassment I saw in his expression, or regret?

Again I thought: Oh no.

"Oh—oh, Kuwabara, I'm so sorry," I repeated, this time for different reasons. When his brow furrowed I clarified. "I shouldn't have called you my best friend without asking first." I ducked my head, hands held up in supplication, because I'd for sure freaked him out by coming on too strong. The thought of my favorite character (no, my favorite person) treating me awkwardly was scarier than any street punk. "You don't have to say it back or anything. I won't do it again. I know you have Okubo and the others, and it was presumptuous of me to—"

"I don't mind."

I looked at him. Kuwabara stared at me without blinking, eyes lit up with—not a smile. Not really. Just an odd sort of warmth, like coming home to a warm meal when you expected nothing more welcoming than a cold, empty house.

"I don't mind," he said, voice soft. "You can call me that as much as you like."

My mouth opened and shut like a beached fish. "R-really?" I stammered.

"Yeah. Because, um…"

Kuwabara stopped talking. He looked at his feet, hand rubbing the back of his broad neck.

"I don't mind because you're sort of my best friend, too," he announced. "I know we haven't known each other for very long, but, uh…" He breathed deeply, eyes still downcast, words coming like he admitted something both embarrassing and pleasant all at once. "It's just—I care about you a lot, OK?"

And just like that, my eyes watered and my throat got all thick and I had to blot my cheeks with the sleeve of my jacket. Part of me questioned if this was real, if he was just saying I was his best friend because I'd said it first and he felt obligated—but this was Kuwabara. He wouldn't lie to me. And to have the friendship of a guy like him…I knew I should be grateful.

Kuwabara would never let his friends down. He'd never let them get hurt. He'd never abandon them, or betray them, or treat them badly.

I could ask for no better friend than him.

"I care about you a lot, too," I said. He returned my warm smile with a mortified blush. "Thanks, Kuwabara. I'm a lucky girl, indeed."

Kuwabara cast his eyes skyward, mouth screwed up in a cross between a smile and a grimace—like he tried to cover enthusiasm with manufactured reluctance. His eyes roved across the alley, touching on literally everything but me until they locked on something near the wall where one of the punks got his face smashed. He lurched past me, as stiff-legged as a mannequin, and swiped an object off the ground.

"It's because I care that I have to yell at you now!" he declared, waving that object in my face—a shoe left behind in haste by one of the fallen punks. "Keiko, what were you thinking, taking on those guys like that? You coulda gotten hurt!"

"So could you!" I retorted. "If I hadn't stepped in, you'd be a stain on the pavement!"

He spoke with maddening sincerity. "I'd rather be a pavement stain than see you get beat up, dummy."

"Rude! Shouldn't you be thanking your savior, not berating her?"

"Hey, I don't need saving!" He crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed. "I coulda taken whatever they dished out!"

"I know you could," I said, "but that doesn't mean you should. Not if I'm around to do something about it."

His smile faded at my serious tone. "Keiko—"

I didn't let him finish, because just then inspiration struck. Devious, devious inspiration. Suppressing a smirk, I put my hands behind my back, jutted my lower lip, and kicked a toe at the ground.

"Kuwabara," I said, "aren't you even the littlest bit impressed by what I did?" I allowed my lower lip to quiver, my eyes to widen, taking advantage of my earlier emotion and still-lingering tears. "I've been taking fighting lessons. Am I not good enough yet?"

Kuwabara blinked. I let my lip reach critical quiver before burying my face in my hands. Kuwabara yelped. I hoped my stifled laughter looked like sobs as I peered at my best friend through spread fingers.

"What?!" Kuwabara said. He leapt back and just as quickly leapt forward again, hands waving because he clearly had no idea what to do with them when faced with an emotional girl. Fights he could handle, but my emotions? Ha! As if. He babbled compliments like bullets: "No, Keiko, don't cry! You were amazing! You were great! I had no idea you could fight like that! Dodge Urameshi, sure, but wow—you took down all of them, and so fast, and they're so much bigger than you! You're the best girl fighter in the whole city, no, the country, at least the best I've ever seen, and—"

Fuck, he was adorable. My laughter could not be contained. I wrenched my hands from my face and cackled. Kuwabara stared like I'd sprouted antlers, then leapt back and pointed an accusatory finger right at my face.

"Hey—you big faker!" he all but shrieked. "You weren't crying at all, were you?"

"Nope!" I socked him on the arm and chortled like a certain Wicked Witch. "Now who's the dummy?"

"Why I oughtta—"

He tried to give me a noogie, then, in one of the first unprompted displays of physical affection he'd ever had the courage to give me. Reminded me of Yusuke's odd reminders of care, in a way. Typical teenage boy, baldly expressing care one moment before hiding it under bravado the next. I let Kuwabara put me in the gentlest headlock of my life and ruffle my hair before slipping out of his warm, strong arms—arms that made me feel safe, somehow, even though I'd been the one doing the protecting tonight.

Too bad that feeling of protection didn't last.

A trio of street punks waited for me outside my school the next day—and judging by the looks on their faces, they intended nothing good.

28

Just as I spotted the punks I'd mauled the night before, the three boys spotted me. I braced my feet shoulder-width apart and tightened my hand around the strap of my bookbag. The punks and I exchanged a long, silent look as other Meiou students swarmed past us and into the gates.

Even though I took a moment to calculate attack strategy and escape routes, I didn't feel overly threatened by these boys. They wore identical dark blue uniforms; I didn't recognize the school. One had a dark crew cut, a strong jaw, and narrow eyes. The other two wore bleached pompadours like Kuwabara; the first had a round face, and the second a pointed chin. All three eyed me with fidgety intensity—mice watching a napping cat.

My face itched. I reached up to scratch it.

The boys flinched.

Well, now. I fought to suppress a smirk. They outnumbered, me, sure, but it was clear my beating from the night before had scared them. No way would these boys attack me with so many people—wait.

As one, the boys bowed low from the waist.

…the fuck?

As one they chorused, "We're sorry!"

Their ringing voices (it was amazing how loud they were with their diaphragms all compressed) startled a few of my classmates. I just blinked.

"We're sorry for last night!" they said in a rehearsed series of statements. "We won't go near Kuwabara again, we promise. We are very sorry!"

"Erm," I said. "OK?"

Mindful of the stares these three idiots were attracting, I walked past them through the gate onto school grounds. In my periphery I saw them straighten up from their bows. I promptly put my back to them. I didn't give a shit about these boys. Whatever. Thanks for the apologies, I'm glad you won't pick on Kuwabara, but—

The sound of footsteps made me stop.

The trio had fallen into step behind me. They stood like ducklings following their mother, hands in their pockets, staring and fidgeting. None wore Meiou uniforms—a fact made painfully obvious since they were the only boys in the crowded schoolyard not wearing that Garish Meiou Pink. Pretty sure the school had that shit patented.

"…the heck do you think you're doing?" I said.

"Do you need anything?" the one with the crewcut asked.

"…excuse me?"

"We could carry your books," said one bleach-haired boy.

"Run errands," offered the other.

Crewcut extended a hand. "Let me take your bag—"

I clutched the bag to my chest and stepped back. The boys tensed. The students watching them tensed, too—oh man. So many eyes on me all of a sudden. So many people watching the non-Meiou students, wondering what the heck was up, wondering why the new girl was standing in the yard with them and—

"You can't be here," I blurted.

The boys frowned.

"You—you don't even go here!" I said, sweat beading as I felt the weight of watching eyes. "You don't even go to this school!"

More fidgeting. "If you tell the administration we're your bodyguards—" Crewcut said.

Well, shit. That old chestnut. This explained a few things. I'd have laughed if I didn't feel so painfully self-conscious.

"No." I shook my head, emphatic. "No no no no no." I pointed at the gate, channeling my past life's very best boardroom stare. "Out! Out with you!"

"But—"

"Nope!" I surged forward, grabbed their arms, spun them and began pushing them bodily toward the gate. "Nope, no, I do not need bodyguards, I will not be the boss of your gang—"

One of them gasped. "How'd you know that's what we wanted?!"

"Let's just say I watch too much anime," I said. "Now out, out, out—"

We didn't get very far, too bad for me and my desire to fly under the radar at school. Amidst a crowd of murmuring onlookers I shepherded the boys in their sore-thumb uniforms toward the gate, but before I could push them over the edge…

"Masaru-kun!?"

On the sidewalk stood a girl in a Meiou uniform. I didn't know her name. Nevertheless, she stared between the Crewcut boy (whom I presumed was Masaru) and myself with wide eyes.

"Masaru-kun, what are you doing?" she asked. Her eyes blazed an accusation. "And who is she?"

"Naoko-chan," said Crewcut. "I was going to tell you after school, but—" Here he gestured at me. His voice contained undue reverence when he said: "She beat us. In a fight. All three of us at once."

Naoko's jaw dropped. "You told me you'd quit fighting!"

Masaru's face spasmed like he'd bit a lemon. "I'm sorry. But we thought about it all last night, and we decided—we have to repay the trouble we caused Yukimura-san." He sank into another dramatic, ninety-degree bow. "I will not be able to go on dates with you for a while! I am sorry!"

Naoko stood there for a second.

Then she burst into tears. Loud, wet, hiccupping tears that got precisely everyone and their mother in a five mile radius to stop what they were doing and stare at Naoko, and me, and Naoko's (now ex) boyfriend like we were actors in a movie.

A particularly stagy movie. One I had not auditioned to play a role in, thank you very much.

"Um." I took a step backward, edging away from the scene. "This seems like a personal issue the two of you should work through in private, so I'm just gonna—"

Naoko's eyes darted my way as I spoke. "You bitch!" she screeched, hiccups vanished into rage. "You think you can just steal my boyfriend? How dare you! You'll be sorry, just you wait!"

Aw, fuck, teenage drama incoming! I held up my hands. "Wait, no, I—"

Naoko wasn't having my excuses, of course. She'd decided I was the enemy and that was the whole story, thanks, no more information needed. I tried very hard to develop powers and turn myself invisible as she shrieked an indignant rant at Masaru and myself. Masaru yelped apologies and promises to see her again once his 'debt' was paid. All I could do was stand there, stunned and stammering. All I wanted to do was sink into the concrete and disappear. Christ, I hadn't asked for this! Maybe I should've let them beat up Kuwabara, after all—

"Yukimura-san." One of the other boys appeared at my elbow as Naoko yelled her fury. "Can I carry your—?"

"No, you fucking can't take my bag!" I snapped. "Leave me alone!"

Before Naoko could register her enemy had fled, and before the other two boys could see their would-be-boss had sprinted away, I darted past the gates and booked it for the relative safety of the school.

Something told me running away from my problems wasn't the answer, however. Not two seconds after I'd gotten inside, pasted on my best Keiko Face, and put my outdoor shoes in my locker, Junko appeared at my elbow. Ironic, really. I used to think she was the girl to fear at this school. She jerked her head toward the outside doors.

"What was that about?" she asked.

Should I tell her, I wondered? I wore a face of dedicated composure, because several people who'd seen the spectacle at the gates had come in to stare at me. What was I, a sideshow circus act? Junko at least looked at me with understated concern instead of morbid fascination. Maybe it was time to make friends…

"Apparently beating people up is considered flirting in this country, or something," I remarked.

She frowned. "What?"

I told her the short version: Those guys beat up a friend, so I bet them up, they wanted me to be the boss of their gang, and one of their girlfriends had taken exception to that. Junko chuckled under her breath when I finished talking.

"This is sort of hilarious," she said.

"No. No it isn't. It's awful." I shook my head and sighed. "Why me? I just want to fly under the radar!"

She snorted. "Fat chance of that."

"Hm?"

"You had a reputation even before this happened, and you're sure as hell gonna have a bigger one now."

"Wait—I have a reputation?" I asked. "Since when?" I hadn't stepped out of line at this school aside from that one incident with the teacher on my first day. So when had—?

"Remember when I was asking you about your friend Urameshi? Everyone knew about him, and that a friend of his was transferring here." She shrugged when my eyes widened. "The rumor mill never stops running. When you first got here, a bunch of students wondered if you'd be as bad a punk as him."

Oh. Well, this explained a few things: the stares in the hallway, the fact that the only person who'd sit with me at lunch was the intellectual recluse Kaito, Junko's questions on my first day at Meiou…maybe even why Kurama's fangirls were so scared I might be bothering him.

I asked, "Is that why I've had such trouble making friends here?"

"Probably." She nudged my arm. "C'mon. Bell's about to ring."

Junko walked me to my class before making her way to hers. We hadn't had time to bond or anything, but her frank attitude and plain speaking would doubtless grow on me if she kept it up. I thought about her during class, barely paying attention to the lecture. I'd been getting coffee with my friends from my old school on the weekends, but making a few more female friends wouldn't go amiss. How could I go about deepening my friendship with Kurama's Fangirl Gang? Hopefully Naoko didn't get in the way somehow. Speaking of which, how should I go about dismantling that debacle? Something told me it would take more than a stern talking-to to get those boys to back off. But what…?

I flinched when the teacher said my name, then the names of a few other students. She said, "All of you come work these problems at the chalkboard."

Yay, algebra. Sarcasm. I didn't allow annoyance to show on my face as I stood up. Admittedly I dawdled a bit, mind still fixed on my other problems, but after taking a moment to gather myself I stepped out from behind my desk and waked toward—

Pain burst like a dull firework across my shin.

I nearly went down. Thankfully Hideki-sensei's teachings kicked in; I threw my weight to the side and slammed a hand onto one of my classmate's desks, just barely getting my feet back under me in time to avoid a faceplant. The sound of my slapping hand rang in my ears, force radiating hotly through my palm and elbow as I froze in place. The rest of the class froze, too.

Then, quietly—somebody snickered.

I looked toward the sound.

One row back, a smirking girl with a high ponytail dragged her foot under her desk.

…had she just fucking tripped me?

Didn't have time to wonder. The teacher surged forward at that point, helping me to my feet and asking if I was OK. Other students showed similar concern, standing up and offering to help me to the nurse. Clearly none of them had seen my would-be tripper. I avoided looking at her as the teacher fussed.

I'd bet money that she and Naoko were buddies of some sort. Best not rat her out. Payback would only escalate the situation.

Not that the situation needed my help to escalate.

When I got to my next class and saw the words "home wrecking bitch" scrawled across my desk, my certainty increased.

A few girls giggled when I walked into that particular classroom. They turned their faces away when I glanced at them, but it was pretty obvious they'd had something to do with it. I didn't spare them a second look, however. I refused to give them the satisfaction of gaining my attention—because clearly that's what they wanted. They wanted to intimidate me: perhaps on Naoko's behalf, perhaps at her behest. They wanted me to know people were watching, and waiting, and feeling less than sympathetic for Yukimura Keiko.

"Feeling less than sympathetic" is a euphemism for "feeling outright hatred", by the way.

I got tripped again in my third class.

I found more graffiti in my fourth.

Naoko worked fast, it seemed.

Lunch, as you might imagine, felt like a reprieve. I scurried from the classroom before the bell even finished ringing and all but ran down the hall toward the stairwell where Kaito waited. Once I got away from the crowds I slowed down and paced myself.

Much as I wanted to get away from the preying girl-gang, I knew seeing Kurama today was tantamount to throwing myself out of the frying pan and into the fire. The green-eyed, secretive, formerly-fox fire that could hurt me more thoroughly than any number of dramatic teenage girls.

Today I would put my Kagome-approved plan into action.

It was possible that would be the last thing I ever did.

I tried very hard not to think about that. Don't be dramatic, Keiko.

Before I entered the stairwell, I crouched down and meditated. Breathe deeply, clear the mind, calm the body. Focus on the physiological sensations of calmness—steady heart, even breathing—and hold tight to them. Give anxiety no quarter. Minamino was Minamino and no one else. The name 'Kurama' meant nothing. Minamino was Minamino was Mina-freakin'-mino. My plan relied on believing this, or at least fostering momentary amnesia regarding his past. Hell, my life probably relied on this, not to mention my acting skills.

Ugh, Keiko. Try not to think about that.

I kept meditating. Only once I felt sufficiently centered did I open the stairwell door.

Minamino (he was just Minamino, I reminded myself) favored me with a pleasant smile as I walked up the stairs and took my customary spot on the stairwell windowsill. In contrast, Kaito shot me a withering look over the top of his glasses as I pulled out my bento.

"You're late," he said.

"A woman is never late," I airily replied. I paused, working through a rapid Japanese translation in my head before speaking. "Nor is she early. She arrives precisely when she means to."

"Tolkien," Minamino said. "I didn't know you were a fan of fantasy."

I laughed. "Wow. You got that quote even through a language barrier?"

Kaito rolled his eyes. "Of course he did."

"Well, that was the correct phrasing of the quote in Japanese, aside from creative adjustments to accommodate your gender," Minamino said—as though admitting something mildly incriminating.

"Oh. It was?" I said. "I translated on the fly. I've only read it in English."

"I confess the same," said Kaito. "I haven't read it in Japanese, I'm afraid."

"Then the two of you have me outclassed," Minamino said with wry amusement. When Kaito quirked a brow, Minamino clarified. "I've only read the Japanese translation."

I counted myself lucky, that Kaito spoke next and drew Minamino's attention—because just then I froze.

I saw my shot, glaring like dawn off water.

Now was the time to act.

"Really?" Kaito said, brows almost level with his hairline. "You haven't read it in English?"

"Afraid not. My oral English skills are far superior to my reading skills." Minamino shrugged, hair glimmering in strands of garnet and inky black. "I find the constant phonetics tiresome and prefer the more pictographic attributes of written Japanese, though of course I can read English when I must."

I didn't take a deep breath. I didn't gird myself. I forced the anxiety away and spoke naturally, normally, casually. Thank you meditation for the borrowed calm.

"Interesting," I said.

Minamino turned my way. "Oh? What is?"

"Just…I didn't expect that," I said. When he looked confused I smiled. I shrugged. I waved a hand, off-the-cuff and teasing. "You know. It's weird you're not better at English when you're such a demon at tests."

I spoke with no notable inflection. No emphasis on the word 'demon'. No knowing smile. No ironic smirk. No wink. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Still: the effect was instantaneous.

Kurama—because he was Kurama now, not Minamino, transition as obvious as it was sudden—went utterly, completely still the second the word 'demon' left my mouth. Green eyes darkened like the clouds of an oncoming storm. His weight shifted in my direction, subtle indication I'd gotten his attention. At his sides his hands curled into hard fists.

…all according to plan.

Now for Phase Two.

I didn't allow myself the luxury of observing his reaction beyond that initial shift. I smiled and immediately changed the subject. Toying with my bento box on my lap, I said, "I prefer reading in English, myself. Don't know why. It's my best subject."

"And here I thought that would be literature," Kaito said, "given your propensity for nuanced critique."

I smiled at him. "I'd rank literature as my second-best subject, tied with biology. In fact—"

Kurama's eyes stayed on me as I spoke, weightier even than the combined stares of my peers' when they watched my feud with Naoko. I poured every last ounce of my willpower into acting naturally, into maintaining an air of casual, indifferent ignorance. I acted like I hadn't done what I'd just done. I acted like I had no idea the mistake I'd just made.

Or rather, I acted like I had no idea I'd just made a very stupid (not to mention dangerous) pun.

Because that was my plan, you see.

Puns.

Puns were my plan. Puns, and the dumber the better. Because no sane person would taunt someone like Kurama with something as low-brow as a pun—especially not one about his past life. And Kurama knew I was smart. He knew I was too smart to ever do something as stupid as this.

…well.

Surprise, I guess.

Stupidity—not to mention a heaping helping of pig-headed gall—was to be my shield.

I chattered on with Kaito for a few minutes more about our favorite subjects. Sinking into conversation—rife with our practiced brand of banter and Kaito's dry humor—provided familiar comfort. Kurama watched, eyes on me, but soon the tension in his shoulders eased a bit. Probably because I hadn't made any more puns, intentional or otherwise. Perhaps he'd written it off as a slip of the tongue. An unwitting pun made by an unwitting party. Because I wasn't stupid, and therefore the only possible conclusion he could come to was that I made that pun accidentally.

Little did he know I was counting on that big brain of his to come to that conclusion.

I knew full well the pitfalls of overthinking. Now it was Kurama's turn.

"Anyway," Kaito was saying. "For film class we're required to see a movie in theaters. Alas, I detest most modern cinema." He shoved his glasses up his nose with a derisive sniff. "We have traded literary merit for explosions and nudity."

"So you prefer the classics?" Minamino asked (he was Minamino again, pleasant-smiled and cheeky instead of terrifying).

"Of course. Although finding theaters that show them can be a trial." Kaito eyed me sidelong. "And you, Yukimura? Classic or modern cinema? Please note that your answer will greatly impact my opinion of your taste and intellect."

"Heaven forbid you think badly of me," I said with exaggerated concern. "Personally? I think being snobbish is a waste of time. I love the classics as much as anybody, but some modern movies can be fun."

Kaito chuffed. Minamino gave a chiding chuckle.

"Ah, Kaito," Minamino said, "has her answer offended your sensibilities?"

"Depends on which modern movies she prefers," he solemnly intoned. Then he looked pained. "Just—tell me you are not a connoisseur of the chick flick. Please."

Legally Blonde crossed my mind, but that movie hadn't come out in this timeline. "Maybe I just haven't found the right one yet."

Kaito shook his head. "Careful. If you're too open-minded, your brain could fall out your ear."

"And if you're too close-minded, you could lose out on a wonderful new experience," I shot back. I glanced at Minamino. "Tie-breaker?"

He smiled with contrite reluctance. "Sorry, Yukimura. But I prefer the classics as well."

"Of course you do," I said with a dramatic sigh. "You're an old soul, after all."

Minamino's smile faded. Another veiled reference to his true nature, though not quite as elegant a pun as previous—seems he'd spotted it regardless, that wily fox. I held his gaze for a second, then shook my head and tutted.

"You and Kaito are peas in a pod," I said. "Why do I even hang out with you old fogies?"

"Old fogies?" Kaito repeated. "I'm insulted. I assure you, I am full of youthful vigor." He looked at Minamino askance. "I trust you take umbrage with her words, as well?"

"We've already achieved the unthinkable and agreed once today," Minamino teased—but his eyes held an edge, calculating and cold. "Perhaps once is enough."

"Oh, stop with the stoic act," I said. I drew myself up and declared, "My insult are cutting, barbed and poisonous! It's understandable if you feel insulted. In fact, it's only natural!"

Minamino tittered skeptically. My jaw dropped—but only to cover a sly smile. I nudged his knee with my toe as he took a delicate bite of onigiri.

"Are you not human, Minamino?" I said, quoting The Merchant of Venice with theatric panache. "Do you not bleed?"

I wish I had the verbiage to explain how satisfying it is to see Kurama choke on a rice ball. Alas, I possess no such verbiage. I watched with amused concern as Kaito pounded Kurama on the back. When his airway cleared, Kurama glared. I don't have the verbiage to describe that, either, but let's just say that if I hadn't entered a calm, meditative head-space before enacting my plan, I'd have probably crapped myself.

Kaito quoted Shakespeare like I had. "'If you poison us, do we not die?'" he said. The boy pursed his lips, looking oddly pleased. "Seems Minamino's human, after all."

Kurama went still, like he had earlier, only this time he stared at Kaito with that glare that could cut glass. I mentally cheered. Yes, Kaito, yes—make unknowing puns! Further confuse the fox! Now it wasn't just me who looked innocently suspicious.

Kurama studied Kaito for a moment. Kaito stared back with a bored expression, clearly waiting for Kurama's reply. Kurama cleared his throat with a grimace.

"Seems I am susceptible to choking, at the very least," Kurama said, velvet voice roughened from his cough. That voice get even rougher when he looked first at Kaito, and then at me, through hooded emerald eyes. "Now…just what are you two playing at, exactly?"

A loaded question…and I was the only one who knew it. Kaito frowned, confusion evident. I mirrored the look. Kaito made for great camouflage.

"Does friendly banter require ulterior motive, suddenly?" Kaito asked. "Interesting. I was not aware."

"Yeah—we're just teasing you." I nudged Kurama's knee again. "Sorry. Didn't mean to offend."

Kurama's lips thinned as he observed my apologetic smile. For a moment I thought he'd say something else—dig deeper, press for what we knew about his past life, interrogate and question—but then he looked away.

"Apologies," he murmured. "I'm afraid I'm out of practice. It's been some time since I've spent lunch hour with my peers."

A quick lie to cover that he'd just suspected Kaito and me of knowing about his past. The falsehood would fool anybody who wasn't already looking for it. Kaito nodded, buying the lie outright.

"Yes, you are always tucked away in that greenhouse," Kaito said. "Speaking of which, Minamino. I could use your expertise. I was reading a mystery novel in which a tincture of hemlock was used—"

Kurama relaxed as Kaito picked his brain about a plot device's plausibility. From my vantage point I observed Kurama's rigid posture loosen, his eyes quell their fire, and his fists uncurl. He was Minamino again in short order, bearing the brunt of Kaito's questions with quiet enthusiasm (I think he was happy to get to talk about plants with someone). Their conversation lasted until the bell rang.

Minamino only lasted until the bell rang, too.

Kaito made a habit of walking me from lunch to my next class. We'd never spoken about it, and he'd never asked for information, but I got the sense he did so to keep me from being alone with Kurama. Guy was too smart to not read the signs during our first lunch with Minamino, and he was too good a friend to not act on those signs' implications.

Too bad today he had to use the bathroom.

The moment Kaito trotted away toward the toilets, Minamino disappeared—leaving me alone with Kurama. It was easy to tell when the shift occurred. His eyes flashed in a way I couldn't ignore when he said my name. I stopped, brow knit in silent question as we traded a long gaze in the empty stairwell. Somewhere in the distance I heard feet and voices as students made their way to their next classes, but here, we were very much alone.

Time for Phase Three of Operation PUNishment.

"Hmm?" I said when the silence stretched thin. "What's wrong?"

He stood with his hands in his pockets, posture lazy—but I knew enough to fear whatever he might be hiding in said pockets. Or should I be more afraid if he started messing with his seed-storing hair? Whatever. He was scary either way in spite of his porcelain complexion, heart-shaped face, and full lips.

I was lucky I'd been looking at his lips when he next spoke, because if I hadn't been, I wouldn't have heard him talk.

Kurama was distractingly pretty. But now was not the time to wonder if his hair felt as soft as it looked.

"Yukimura," he said. My name sounded like a purr, somehow, although his eyes held no softness whatsoever. His next words came as carefully-measured as coffin dimensions. "Am I correct in thinking you know something about…?"

He trailed off, eyes knowing, like he expected me to fill in the gaps and admit to something unspoken.

Perfect. Phase Three was going according to plan.

I mimicked Kaito's earlier, confused frown. "Do I know about what, exactly?"

Kurama stared at me hard enough to burn holes in my uniform sweater. I shot him a what-the-hell-is-your-problem scowl.

"Do I know about what?" I repeated.

Kurama opened his mouth.

Then he closed it.

I saw the war in his eyes, and I freaking loved it. He couldn't interrogate me without giving himself away, without mentioning his past directly, but he couldn't let my puns go unexplained, either. And I highly doubted someone as tactful and secret-keeping as Kurama would ever use a demonic plant-trick on a student unless he had concrete proof doing so was absolutely necessary. Kurama balanced on the knife-edge of an unresolved question, a catch 22 of inquiry, with no way to gain answers from me without giving up answers of his own.

We played a game of 'chicken,' in a sense.

A partially demonic, pun-reliant game of chicken.

Only question was who would break first, and be the first to admit they knew too much.

Although he did not speak, Kurama's eyes blazed like a forest catching fire. I took a step back on reflex. Fear fit all of the masks I could possibly wear in this moment. Fear was fitting. Fitting, and believable.

"Uh…you're acting weird right now, you know that?" I said.

Kurama's lips tilted, smile tight. "Am I?"

"Yeah. Like, really fucking weird." I lifted a thumb over my shoulder. "I'm super uncomfortable being alone with you when you're looking at me like that, so if you don't mind, I'm just gonna…?"

I didn't wait for permission. I snatched my bento off the windowsill and turned away, heading toward the stairs to the next floor.

"Yukimura."

I paused with my foot on the top step. Looked over my shoulder.

Kurama had become Minamino again. I saw it in the fall of his hair and the twist of his beautiful lips.

"I'm sorry," he said. This time his smile looked languid, not tight—but his brittle eyes told a different story. A story of suspicion, and tension, and unwilling uncertainty. "It seems I made an erroneous assumption. Can we, perhaps, forget that exchange occurred?"

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling for a moment, the portrait of an internal debate.

"Whatever, weirdo," I said. I turned from him and scurried up the steps. "See you tomorrow."

"Yes." His voice floated after me, full of promise I don't think he realized I could recognize. "I'll be seeing you."

Took every pounce of my willpower not to sprint away, just then.

Judging by Minamino's eyes and the tenor of those parting words, he'd given up today's battle. But he had no intention of losing the war.

Kurama never lost the war.

In spite of my fear, an electric thrill streaked through me when I muttered, "Let the games begin."

29

Dr Pepper was the drink of choice for us fourth graders.

They didn't serve it in the cafeteria. We ran around the back of the gym when teachers weren't looking and bought bottles from a vending machine. Usually took a team of kids to pull it off: one to keep watch, another to distract the teachers, the last to make the soda run. My classmates would spend recess pulling this scheme, then surreptitiously sip their ill-gotten gains beneath the jungle gym. Those bottles looked like war badges—testament to bravery, status, popularity.

Unluckily, I didn't have any friends to team up with. I asked my mother to buy Dr Pepper so I could bring it to school. She said no, because it would rot my teeth (my baby teeth, I argued, but it was no use). I was doomed to a Dr Pepper-free existence. I spent recess reading at a picnic table, hot Texas sun gleaming off the pages until my eyes smarted, watching as the other kids worked together to earn their prize.

When Ashley—popular, daughter of our teacher—asked me to be the runner in a Dr Pepper grab, I leapt at the chance.

It wasn't often I was asked to play with others, let alone someone like Ashley.

I was the runner. Ashley fell down and pretended to cry, and when the teachers ran to her, accomplice Christina gave me a nod. I sprinted around the side of the gym like a demon chased me, then fed coins into the vending machine with sweaty fingers. I hid the bottles under my shirt, cold condensation slicking my belly, and waited until Christina started singing a Backstreet Boys song. The signal to sneak back. Perfect.

I brought the bottles to them behind the jungle gym. Christina and Ashley each took one and crowed their delight. I opened my own bottle, careful to tap down the carbonation before twisting the cap. I started to drink, smiling, because I was about to enjoy the soda with two girls who maybe, just maybe, might be my friends after all—

Ashley waited until I put the bottle to my lips before striking. She lifted her hand and slapped the bottom of the bottle like she was spiking a volleyball. I wrenched back, pain firing across my face as Dr Pepper cascaded down my shirtfront.

I tasted blood and soda.

The girls ran off laughing.

Stunned, I reached up.

My front tooth fell apart between my fingers, shards of bone mixed with bright red blood and brown Dr Pepper.

That night, my mother asked how I'd lost my front tooth. She's been wondering when it would fall out. I was late to lose my baby teeth.

"Ashley hit me," I told her.

"Don't say such awful things," my mother scolded.

Ashley's mother was her friend.

I lost three teeth to Ashley's "game". She lurked around corners for the next six months and slapped any drink that neared my mouth. Eventually I stopped drinking at school altogether. My mother watched me guzzle juice and water after school with a smile

She mused over the rate at which I was losing my baby teeth.

I said nothing, to no one—and when I finally smashed Ashley's drink in her face, a desperate attempt to get her to stop, I was suspended from school for a week.

When I came back, Ashley stopped smashing things into my teeth.

She cut my ponytail off with a pair of scissors, instead. But no one saw her do it.

"Bitch."

"Tramp."

"Skank."

Before the start of our last class of the day, I discovered more graffiti on my desk. Junko appeared beside me just as I started to rub the words from my desk with a wet paper towel. I tried to cover the ballpoint writing, but she grabbed my wrist before I could blot the insults from existence. She stared at the words. Read them aloud, one by one. Her brow furrowed above her perfect mascara and precise eyeliner.

"Naoko," she said, as though the name alone explained it all.

"It's fine," I said.

"You call that 'fine'?" She shook her head, ponytail flying. "You didn't even do anything wrong. What a drama queen."

I made sure not to look toward the front of the class, where two girls sniggered in our direction behind their hands. "It'll die down in a day or two, once they get bored."

Junko raised a brow. "You sure about that?"

I wasn't sure. But I wasn't about to admit as much to Junko. I pasted on a cheery smile and made an excuse: flippant, dismissive, and breezy. Then I changed the subject. "We're on for tomorrow night, by the way. My mom said she'd help out. I'll have a friend there for a tutoring session but he shouldn't get in the way."

My ploy worked. Her eyes brightened, concern for my wellbeing forgotten for just a moment.

"Oh, good," she said. "The girls are looking forward to it. Actually—"

She shut up when Minamino entered in the room. Junko, like most of the fangirls, had an uncanny Minamino-sense. We exchanged a knowing nod before she walked off for her desk. I began scrubbing at mine in earnest. Didn't want to spend class staring at graffiti.

Apparently Minamino didn't want me to, either. A pale hand holding a tissue joined mine in scrubbing. When I looked up, Minamino wore a tight frown. For a second I wondered if he was going to interrogate me about my lunchtime puns again—but no.

"Who did this?" he murmured.

I ducked my chin. "Doesn't matter."

"I disagree." His hair swept across his jaw when he inclined his head like an imperious king. "Although I trust you to take care of yourself, I warn you, I will intervene if I sense the situation drifting out of hand."

He spoke with calm assurance—assurance that surprised me. We'd been sitting together at lunch, sure. And I'd been giving him tidbits of intrigue to chew on pretty much since we met, yeah. But that statement, it seemed almost like…friendship, I guess? Like he was watching out for me. But we weren't close enough for that, were we?

"Sorry to be blunt, but what do you care?"

The words just sort of slipped out, but I didn't mind. Kurama hummed, frown edging a hair closer to a smile.

"I confess I've found my lunch hour…interesting, as of late," he said. "Would be shame if that came to an end so soon."

'Interesting.'

Was this a veiled way of acknowledging, despite his earlier apology, that he suspected me of knowing too much? Or was he merely saying he enjoyed eating lunch with company?

I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I just smiled at him, and watched as under our hands the foul words on my desk disappeared.

Kuwabara sensed something was wrong the minute we sat down to study that night. "OK Keiko, I know you too well to miss that look in your eye. Spill! What the heck's buggin' ya?"

He slurped down a bowl of ramen as I explained, in halting terms, what had transpired at the school that morning. Guy practically choked when I told him about the punks and Naoko's revenge.

"Aw, man—I knew something bad was gonna come of all this!" he yelped. "Darn it, Keiko, this is why I didn't want you getting involved! Street punks might be jerks, but they've got codes. Somebody beats you in a fight, you owe them, or work for them, or whatever."

"And now they want me to be the boss of their gang. What an anime cliché." I ran a hand over my hair and cursed. "Honestly, they're the least of my worries. I can take being followed by them. I'll just kick their asses again if they get weird. It's Naoko I'm worried about."

"I mean, couldn't you just kick her ass, too?" Kuwabara said. I could tell he was trying to be helpful. "That's the best way to deal with bullies. Show them you won't stand for their crap, they back down."

He was right, in a way, but his solution wasn't that simple. Fight back, things could escalate, and I could get in trouble. It wasn't as simple as throwing one punch and expecting the problem to disappear—especially when I had Keiko's reputation to worry about.

Not to mention I'd suffered worse than a defaced desk in my past life. This was nothing. I'd withstood bullying far more dangerous for years. I could handle this. And I could do it without jeopardizing my record.

"The thing is, I just got kicked out of my old school for fighting," I said. Kuwabara grimaced. "And I learned today that people at my school know I was friends with Yusuke. They expected me to be as bad a punk as him when I joined Meiou."

Kuwabara's eyes widened. "Gosh, really?"

"Yeah. So if I beat up Naoko, I'm playing into that reputation. And Meiou might kick me out if they think I'm dangerous." I sighed dramatically. "Naoko isn't stupid enough to pull pranks on me and leave evidence. I can't report her to the school without proof. Waiting it out might be my only option."

Kuwabara hummed. He leaned back in his seat, put down his chopsticks, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I hate that you got caught up in this," he said. His dark eyes narrowed, all traces of my loveable goofball friend vanishing under the weight of concern. "I have half a mind to march down there and put an end to it, myself."

"I thought it was against your code to pick on girls," I teased, but Kuwabara didn't lighten up.

"It's not," he said, "but for you, I'd make an exception." He leaned forward, jaw jutting, eyes intent on my face. "The minute things get bad, you call me. Ya hear that? If I've gotta walk ya to and from school for a year to keep those guys away, I'll do it."

I believed him. I touched his hand and smiled my thanks. He turned bright red, of course, and looked away muttering about his duty as a man to protect his friends. Seemed glad when I changed the subject and we started studying for his English test. He only had a few more days to go, and we needed to make the most of these cram sessions. Couldn't risk Okubo losing his job. Another thing Kuwabara's honor dictated he mustn't allow to occur. Kuwabara had vowed to put the drama with Iwamoto to bed, and gosh darn it, he'd do it no matter what!

I just hoped that by the time the test rolled around, I'd have found a way to put my own drama to bed, too.

The smell had leaked into the courtyard. I knew even before opening my locker that Naoko had done something to my indoor shoes. Sure enough, I found my shoes filled with pickled fish and rotten milk.

Like the day before, Junko appeared at my elbow. Fury radiated off her like heat from a lamp, threatening to burn even me as she helped put my shoes in a garbage bag and take the refuse to the trash furnace behind the school.

"Those bitches," she hissed.

"It'll die down," I said. "I can't imagine they'd go farther than this."

She bared her teeth so hard, her lipstick smudged them with a line of pretty pink. "How can you be so calm about this? They ruined your shoes!"

I shrugged. "I'll get new ones."

"But Keiko—you gotta retaliate!"

"Why?" I said, tone cool. "And play into my delinquent reputation?"

Junko fell quiet, helping me shove the ruined shoes and garbage into the furnace chute without speaking. Winter had arrived without much fanfare, warm weather bleeding into cool days and cold nights so slowly, I'd barely noticed the change in season. But when a chill wind stripped by I remembered how cold a Sarayashiki winter could be, and reminded myself to buy Yusuke a winter coat.

In the manga, he'd remained asleep through Christmas, when he helped a fixated ghost move into the next life.

Still a ways to go before he returned, per my calculations. Still a month or two before my favorite delinquent came back to me.

Speaking of which…

After we dumped everything into the furnace, I turned to Junko. She had trouble meeting my eyes. Idly I wondered if she felt guilty for spreading the reputation that now held me back, but I put the question aside. It hardly mattered. What was done was done.

"I can't risk retaliating, if it means getting in trouble." I offered her a collected smile, to show her I wasn't worried (funny—of all the things I should be worrying about, this wasn't actually that high on the list). "I've already been kicked out of one school this year. I risk that happening again."

She stared at me a second. She repeated: "You can't risk it."

"Yeah," I said.

"You can't risk it." Her odd emphasis stuck in my head like a catchy tune, but I felt less than amused when her lips pulled into a smirk. "Right. I get it."

"Um…I don't think I like the look in your eye."

"Oh, trust me. You like it," she said with a wink. "Naoko, however, won't."

Oh god. "Junko…what are you planning?"

"Nothing," she said, far too innocently for comfort. She skipped around me with another wink and a broad smile. "See you in class!"

"Naoko!" I called after her—but she didn't slow down, and disappeared around a corner.

Kaito sat alone in the stairwell at lunchtime. He looked up at me with a scowl. "Minamino?"

"Not with me," I said. "I figured he beat me here."

"Hmmph." He hefted his book higher in front of his nose, then lowered it just as swiftly. "Perhaps he will spare us the burden of his entirely too perfect presence."

"Perhaps," I said. I walked to the window ledge and set my bento on it. My eyes drifted across the lawn below the window, grass brown and brittle beneath the watery winter sun. The greenhouse at the edge of the school grounds gleamed like jade. "It's not like him to be late." And after his comment the day before about enjoying lunch hour with company, it felt odd that he hadn't shown up. "Do you think he came to school today, or—oh."

A flash of red caught the light, glittering like garnet before disappearing into the greenhouse below.

Well. That explained it. But what was Minamino doing down there during—?

Behind the tinted glass panels of the greenhouse, something moved. A dark shape, a silhouette, tall and lean: Minamino, probably. It cast a shadow over the glass as it moved…and then another shape appeared beside it.

A short shape.

A short, dark silhouette of someone much smaller than Kurama.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh my fucking god, don't tell me…!

"Hey Kaito—wait here," I said.

He muttered something about being unceremoniously abandoned, but I ignored him and trotted down the steps to the landing on the first floor. I pushed through the door at the bottom and walked outside, onto the school's back lawn, and jogged across the dying grass toward the greenhouse. It occurred to me that I might be doing something incredibly, unpardonably stupid, but I wasn't worried. There was no way Kurama would let me see anything he didn't want me seeing. And no way would he allow a mere human to take him by surprise. There would be no accidentally stumbling upon a meeting between criminals—

—but there was absolutely no way I could pass up this chance, either.

Because what if—?

The greenhouse door swung open beneath my hand, silent on oiled hinges. A wash of warm, humid air sluiced across my face. I tried not to think about how badly my hair might frizz as I stepped inside.

"Minamino?" I called.

He stepped out from behind a tower of ferns. All traces of red had vanished from his mane, washed out by the filtered green light above. He held a large bento box wrapped in a kerchief in one hand. The kerchief's color lost itself in the green gloom, but even so, I recognized Amagi's handiwork when I saw it. Had he just come down here to get his lunch?

No. I hadn't imagined that other figure. That short, dark shape that maybe, just maybe…

"There you are," I said. I peered past him, but I saw no one standing amid the rows of potted plants at his back. "I thought I saw you come in here."

"What sharp eyes you have," he said, cool and pleasant as a spring day.

"All the better to see you with." I gestured at the plants. "What're you up to?"

He replied smoothly, without any trace of hesitation. "Merely enjoying a moment of solitude during a hectic school day, is all."

I studied him. He wore a polite smile, warm yet mechanical. But I'd seen that other figure in here with him, and I knew those cold green eyes far too well to get taken in by Kurama's would-be deception. Sly fox, sure, but not when you knew how to read his tracks through the forest.

"Solitude," I said. "Right."

He blinked, innocent and yet totally untrustworthy. "Why, Yukimura. You sound skeptical of me."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Though I cannot fathom what I've done to earn your distrust."

His stare chipped at me like hail. Maybe I'd said too much. If short-dark-figure was who I thought it was, I might be stepping over a line. Time for a cover story. I made a show of looking under the nearest table, pushing aside a hanging tapestry of vines as though expecting someone to pop out from behind them.

"So there aren't any fangirls hiding in here with you?" I said. I nodded at his bento. "That's Amagi's handkerchief."

I'd expected a smooth reply. Maybe a knowing glance, or a comedic quip about his own popularity.

I was not prepared to see Kurama freeze and look away, hands cupping the bento with self-consciousness I'd never before seen from the self-possessed fox. I watched with puzzled interest as he cleared his throat and shuffled his polished shoes awkwardly against the concrete floor. Seemed he was only human and got awkward sometimes, too.

After a spell of prolonged quiet he said, "Ah. No. She's…not here."

He didn't say anything else. He looked embarrassed, though I couldn't figure out why. It was just lunch. Maybe his demon pride made accepting favors difficult?

Though I somewhat enjoyed seeing Kurama thrown off-kilter, his refusal to meet my eyes didn't gratify me. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "You coming upstairs for lunch or what?"

The awkwardness cleared immediately. "Yes," he said. "But I'm afraid I'll be delayed. Some plants need attending to, and I will be busy after school, so lunch provides my only opportunity."

"Right," I said. I turned for the door. "See ya up there, I guess."

He nodded, eyes expectant. Before I walked out, however, I put my hand on the door and looked at him over my shoulder.

Couldn't let an opp-PUN-tunity pass. Ha ha.

Sorry.

"Don't worry," I said with a conspiratorial smile, "I won't tell anyone you're down here."

He looked uncertain. "While I appreciate your discretion, it's no secret that I spend much of my time—"

"I'll let you steal another moment of solitude in peace." I pushed the door open and waved over my head. "Ciao!"

Kurama didn't have time to react to that one. I was out the door and running in an instant.

Kurama looked somewhat troubled when he finally joined Kaito and me for the midday meal, but he didn't address my thief-related pun. We parted ways for class with congenial goodbyes and no hidden meanings, and when I saw him later in class, he merely afforded me a polite nod before sitting at his desk.

…were my puns not working? Maybe he really was buying that they were too stupid to be made on purpose, and had decided I was making them on accident, and therefore I wasn't an interesting puzzle, after all.

Damn. I wanted the game to go on longer than a few days!

I sulked for the remainder of my classes, until last period. I beat Minamino there. Man, he was normally so punctual—was this a sign of brewing trouble? Of his descent into the Artifacts of Darkness Case from Yu Yu Hakusho? That shadow in the greenhouse boded as such…

As I set my school bag on my desk, I paused my pondering to note a conspicuous lack of graffiti on the desk's surface. Interesting. I dragged my finger across the smooth plane and smiled. Perhaps ignoring the situation had worked, after all.

"Did you hear?"

"About what?"

"About what happened to that Naoko girl!"

I froze, finger stuck to a faint tracery of blue writing I hadn't quite managed to scrub away the day before. Fearing I'd draw attention, I turned my head in increments until I saw the speakers from the corner of my eye. Two girls and a guy, standing a few desks away, spoke to each other in hushed voices.

"Someone cut out the back of her skirt during PE, when it was in her locker!" one said.

"Oh my gosh!" The other girl put her hand over her mouth. "When?"

"Just last period."

"She walked down the hallway with her butt hanging out!" said the boy. "Practically the whole school saw!"

He looked both mortified and just a little pleased by the aforementioned events, that asshole. I didn't like Naoko, but I didn't like the thought of her getting leered at, either.

"Oh my gosh. Poor girl."

"And that's not all," the boy said. "Akemi, Chiyo, and Momoko had all their skirts torn, too!"

The first girl's eyes widened. "Aren't those Naoko's friends?"

"Yeah. That's why they're not in class today. They had to go home and get clothes!"

I remained very carefully neutral as I looked around the room below my fringe of bangs. Sure enough, the girls who had defaced my desk the day before weren't present. But who had—?

"How awful!" said the second girl. She echoed my internal monologue when she asked, "I wonder who did that to them?"

"Beats me."

"But it was clearly someone who didn't like them very much," said the guy.

My skin crawled, but thankfully none of them so much as glanced in my direction. It wouldn't be illogical to suspect me, but it seemed word of my (one-sided) feud with Naoko hadn't spread too far. I put my back to them and sat at my desk, holding a book up to cover my face. Don't look awkward, don't look awkward, don't—

"Hey, girl!"

My desk shifted as Junko settled her weight atop it. A well-manicured finger hooked over the top of my book and gently pulled it down. I don't think she'd been expecting my dead-fish expression, however, because she pulled back and looked at me like I was wearing clown makeup.

"Junko," I intoned.

"Hmm?" She inspected her nails. "Keiko?"

"What period do you have PE?"

Her innocent expression reminded me, quite uncannily, of a certain crafty fox demon. "Why do you ask?"

My dead-fish stare intensified. "Junko…"

She giggled. Her index finger rapped against my book's hard cover.

"Let's just say you've got friends all over this school," she said—and she winked, miming a pair of scissors with her fingers.

Class started before I could demand she explain herself, but something told me the sly-smile Junko wouldn't give up her secrets so easily. She seemed to be enjoying herself far too much for that.

Took me most of class, but I decided not to ask Junko too many questions about the how, the when, and the why of what she had done to Junko and her friends. Like my grandmother used to say: Don't look a gift horse in the mouth unless you want a face full of horse spit.

I appreciate her twist on that old idiom. I let it play in my head, recalling her warm, warbling voice as I tuned out the day's lecture. When class ended I offered Junko a peacemaker's smile. Behind her, the other students filed out of the classroom, eager to leave school for the day. I caught Minamino's eye over her shoulder; he nodded in my direction but said nothing as he left the room to pursue his own ends.

Maybe he was off to meet a certain fire demon.

Much as I wanted to know for sure, I couldn't follow him. I already had after-school plans.

"Hey." Junko jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm gonna run and grab Amagi and the others."

"They meeting in the empty classroom?" I asked—the same classroom where we'd had our first fangirl confrontation. Apparently it functioned as the de facto boardroom of Minamino's fangirls.

"Yup." Junko glanced at my desk "Still working?"

"Unfortunately." We'd been asked to write a short essay during class, but I'd been distracted thinking of Junko's skirt-tearing and still needed to pen a conclusion. "I can meet you over there if you want."

"Sure. See you soon!"

She trotted out of the room, last of the students to leave aside from me. Much as I felt anxiety about the coming evening (I wasn't accustomed to hanging out with so many girls at once) it promised to be fun. I smiled to myself as I wrote the final paragraph of my essay. When I finished and handed my paper to the teacher, she grinned.

"You're in a good mood," she said.

"I'm hanging out with friends after school," I said, basically beaming.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" She looked like she meant it, oddly enough. "It's nice to see you making friends."

Yeah, it was. Friends who stood up for me, even in dubious ways, were worth their weight in gold. But were they actually friends? My smile faded as I left the room and walked down the hall toward the meeting room. Perhaps I was overthinking this. If Junko really had stood up for me, that pointed toward friendship. But I couldn't shake the illogical thought that maybe, just maybe, the other shoe would drop. She'd turn on me after an overture of comradery. Knock out my tooth as I took a sip of Dr Pepper, as it were. But that was silly, and—

"You bitch."

I stopped walking.

Naoko stepped around a corner. She wore sweatpants and her uniform shirt—and on her face a ferocious scowl.

"How dare you do that to me?" she growled. She took two steps forward; I stood my ground, feet squaring under my body, hands fisting at my sides. "How dare you cut my—"

"Back off," I barked when she came just within striking distance. She halted at my harsh words, eyes popping wide. "I didn't do anything to you."

"Oh, please. Spare me. Who else would do this to me?" She sneered, lips curling around her straight, white teeth. "It's not like you have friends."

My face—which I'd arranged into lines of firm, do-not-fuck-with-me gravitas—spasmed, beyond my control as she unknowingly pressed a sore spot I had only just been irritating. She grinned as I faltered. She ran a hand through her bleached hair, smug satisfaction turning her dark eyes bright.

"Oh, that's right," she said. "I know all about you. You transferred here because you got kicked out of your old school for punching a teacher."

I did what I always did when I felt awkward: I fell back on humor. I'm only human, after all.

"Technically, I withdrew," I said. "And technically, I didn't punch him." When she frowned I added, "Oh, I tried to punch him. But someone intervened, you see. Which is a pity because I'm certain he'd have come out the other side of my fist better-looking, and they wouldn't have wanted me gone if that had happened, because I'd have done them a favor. So it's their loss, really."

My word-vomit, flippant monologue rendered her speechless for just a moment. Then she shook her head and made a wordless sound of mounting frustration.

"Whatever!" Naoko spat. "I know you're behind this! I checked your schedule. You eat lunch the same period I have PE." Naoko looked quite satisfied by her detective skills; maybe she should change her name to Nancy, as in Drew. "So during lunch you could have—"

"Sorry to blow a hole in your theory," someone interjected, "but that's impossible."

Relief flooded me like a sip of cool water at the sound of Minamino's voice. He appeared at my side as quietly as…well, a fox on fallen leaves, to call a spade a spade. He didn't look at me, though. He stared at Naoko with disdain he did not care to conceal, green eyes as edged as nettle strands.

"She was with me during lunch," he continued. "I can vouch for her whereabouts. I suggest you keep scurrilous accusations to yourself.

"Minamino!" Naoko said, surprise draining some of the malice from her features. "What are you—?"

"Naoko-san," he cut in. "I suggest you leave."

Pink lips curled, malice returning as quickly as it had dissipated. "Why should I?"

Minamino—no. Kurama's reply came simple, quiet, and as weighty as a stone.

He said: "Because you're outnumbered."

Kurama was no liar, of course.

Only a moment later, the cavalry arrived.

They marched around the corner, then. Every last fangirl, from Amagi to Junko to even the taciturn Hotaru, strode down the corridor and hemmed Naoko in, glaring at her as they caught her like a rabbit in a trap between themselves and the fox demon at my side. She gasped, spinning in a circle as she realized the situation—and then Hotaru grinned.

"Nice pants," she said, simpering and not at all sincere. "Pity about your skirt."

"Yes," Amagi agreed. Her lovely oval face held nothing but cold disdain. "A pity."

"Pity about what's gonna happen to your ass if you go anywhere near Keiko again," Hotaru finished. Her hip cocked, hand resting on it with indolent nonchalance. "Think this was bad? This was nothing."

It dawned on Naoko at last. "It was you!" she said, pointing at the gaggle of girls. "You did this to me, and to my friends!"

She was right, of course. Achingly, painfully, glaringly correct. But the girls weren't about to admit as much outright. They looked between each other and exchanged an unspoken agreement—one to keep mum, I was sure. Strength in numbers, and in plausible deniability.

"Prove it," one of them said.

"Yeah," said another.

"Go on."

"Prove we did anything to you."

"And which one of us, exactly, is supposed to have wrong you?" Amagi said.

"Yeah, which one?"

"Who are you accusing, exactly?"

Naoko's jaw dropped as the barrage of questions struck home. There were too many people here, too many taking credit, to accuse them all. She sputtered and stammered, then eventually pointed at me over her shoulder.

"She stole my boyfriend!" she said, as if that explained everything.

"No, I didn't," I said. When she looked at me, I held her gaze with the firmest, yet most patient and placid, look I could muster. I didn't let myself look angry. Anger might read as deception. "I beat him up and now he's following me around. It's part of his honor code, or something. He has one, right?"

I saw the 'yes' in her eyes, even though she didn't speak. I shook my head and sighed.

"Look—I don't want him," I said. "If you want him back so badly, go kick his teeth in. Trust me, he seems into it."

(At my side, Kurama breathed the daintiest of snorts. I ignored him.)

Naoko didn't react for a moment. She just stared at me. Emotions flickered across her face, complicated and perhaps contradictory. Then her mouth worked, and the barest beginning of a sentence slipped free.

"I…" she said, and she felt silent. Uncertain. Unsure. Her passion drained before us, water from a broken sieve.

Amagi appeared to run out of patience at that point. She stepped out of the crowd of girls and touched Naoko's shoulder.

"Naoko," she said. "Let me make something clear for you." Her eyes blazed bright and clear, allowing no room for argument. "You are not the only girl in school who has friends to fight on her behalf. Do you understand?"

I sucked in a breath.

Friends.

Call me dramatic, for treasuring that word the way I did. But never in my life had anyone fought for me quite like this.

Naoko didn't reply. I saw the defeat in her face, then, and hope the girls would back off their intimidation tactics—but they didn't appear to get the memo.

"Just think," Junko said. "If we got to your skirts the way we allegedly did, what else could we do?"

Naoko looked very much alarmed. Hotaru tossed her hair.

"Go get your boyfriend back and leave Yukimura the freaking hell alone," she said. She flapped her hands as if warding off an annoying pigeon. "Now shoo. Don't bother us anymore."

For a moment it seemed Naoko wouldn't take Hotaru's sage advice. She stood in the hallway, staring at Amagi, and me, and the others for far longer than anyone should when they were so outnumbered—but then her head dropped.

"Fine," she said. "Whatever."

And with that…she left. As soon as she rounded the corner, the fangirls started high-fiving and giggling. Some even started forward to talk to me, eyes alight with mischief and triumph—but then all of them, almost as one, went quiet.

Their eyes fixed on Minamino.

Oh god.

This…was about to get awkward, wasn't it?

Lucky for me, Amagi took the wheel at that point. Good ol' Amagi. Pretty and poised. She took a few steps toward me, expression composed and serious. Not at all giddy like you'd expect of a fabled fangirl.

"Minamino-san," she said. Her eyes scanned me before returning to the boy she so admired. "Thank you for looking after our friend."

"It was nothing," he smoothly said.

"We value your efforts, regardless." Her head tilted, frown tightening her full lips. "We hope you've been well, lately?"

An unspoken question lingered in her words. A subtle urgency, a light emphasis I understood more through instinct than logic. She was, in a veiled way, asking about his mother, or at least his health in relation to that situation. And Minamino appeared to understand.

"Yes." His throat moved when he paused and swallowed. "Thank you, as well. For…"

He trailed off—and for the second time that day, I witnessed Kurama looking…awkward. His eyes dropped to the floor. He took a deep breath. But he didn't start speaking again, and only smiled a small, tight smile as he regarded the floorboards with off-putting interest.

Amagi appeared to understand.

"Yes," she said. "Say no more. Girls…?"

As one, every single young woman in Amagi's retinue clasped their hands and bowed in Minamino's direction. He bowed back, a jerky bend at the waist, and said nothing as the girls straightened up and turned away. Some shot him looks of ill-concealed longing, but Amagi spotted this and touched their arms in subtle warning. Amagi herded them down the hallway like a sheepdog. I started to follow on reflex.

Because this…was my pack, I supposed. Found through unconventional means, forged in spite of misconception and miscommunication.

My pack. My people.

My friends.

"Yukimura."

I'd been so caught up in following the girls—the girls who were my friends—that I'd quite forgotten about Kurama. I stopped walking when he murmured my name. He stood with hands in pockets, lips pursed, but despite the cool arrangement of his features, tension pulled his shoulders taut.

"I was not aware you were friends with…them," he said once the girls were out of sight. He spoke with razor delicacy. "You recognizes Amagi's lunch, and I wondered, but…"

"It's a new friendship." The words sent a tumble of pleasure through my chest. "And I have you to thank for it."

Green eyes narrowed. "In what manner?"

It was my turn to choose my words with care. "They thought we were dating," I said, "and they took exception to that."

One of his eyebrows lifted, almost imperceptibly. "Interesting. What gave them that idea?"

"You stalking me at lunch, mostly." I laughed when surprise parted his lips. "Don't worry. I set them straight."

"How so?"

"I…told them you aren't interested in me in a romantic capacity," I eventually informed him.

His eyes gleamed in a way that defied description. "Is that so."

"Yes."

"And they believed you?"

His phrasing—lightly skeptical, obviously intrigued—gave me pause. I said, "As far as I know, there are no reasons for them not to believe me." Then I smiled, sly and joking. "Unless there's something you aren't telling me? Hmm?"

Damn fox didn't miss a beat. Voice like silk, he said: "Do you think there's something I'm not telling you?"

"Well, you do follow me around a lot." I opted for raw logic undercut with a teasing grin. "And I definitely wasn't the one who initiated our little lunchtime tête-à-tête."

"Ah." His amused smirk made my toes curl, my cheeks heat—uh oh. Bad sign. Curb your hormones, girl. "Perhaps I'm pining for you, and you don't even realize it."

Once more, I covered my sudden nerves with humor. Because if I didn't, I was pretty sure I'd blush like a radish and make a stammering fool of myself.

Gosh, Kurama was pretty. His red-dark hair curled around the line of his jaw, falling to trace his throat and shoulders, highlighting hard muscle hiding under his bright uniform—

Oh god, no. Stop. Focus, Keiko.

"Oh, yes," I said, words laced with liberal sarcasm—and a spontaneous pun. "You stare at me from across the classroom and think, 'Maybe, in another life…'"

I clasped my hands under my chin and gazed wistfully into the distance, painfully aware of Kurama staring at me like I'd just pointed a gun at him. I shot him a confused look and let my hands drop.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I said. "Is there rice on my face?"

He stared a moment longer. Then he seemed to shake himself, as if out of a trance.

"No. Sorry," he murmured. No trace of his earlier levity remained, replaced instead by intense, soft scrutiny. "I admit I'm looking for a mask. But I don't believe you're wearing one right now."

My pulse sputtered. "Astute of you to notice."

Because I wasn't wearing a mask, just then. Dancing around Kurama felt dangerous and thrilling—but it was fun. I didn't need to wear a mask so much as merely choose my words with care. I guess Kurama could sense that lack of deception. Good for me, I reckon.

"Anyway." I ran hand over my pigtail, toying with the end of it between two fingers. "Apparently those girls have been feeding you without much variety. They're coming to my place tonight for a cooking lesson."

I think he'd been on the verge of asking about my relationship with them, because his eyes cleared at my words. He said, "Right. Your parents own a restaurant."

My correction came automatic and prideful: "Two restaurants and a fleet of food trucks."

"Sorry. Two restaurants and a fleet of food trucks," he amended, tone placating. He hesitated a moment. "Those girls. Did they tell you about—?"

He stopped, words almost catching in his throat. He didn't need to speak for me to know what he meant to say. Did the girls tell you about my mother? For a private person such as him, the question felt only natural.

"Yeah. They did," I admitted. "I'm sorry."

Green eyes fluttered shut. A spasm of pain—barely visible yet unmistakable—cast his ethereal features into raw relief.

"Don't be." I sensed he'd said these words before, a script he repeated often. "It's not your fault that—"

"I'm not sorry as in apology. I'm sorry as in sorrow."

He stopped talking. We traded a long look, silent but not empty. My voice came soft when I spoke next.

"Cooking lessons are the least I can do," I said.

He spoke stiffly: "I do hope you don't go out of your way on my account."

What a very Japanese thing to say, asking for someone not to inconvenience themselves on your behalf. Kurama had adapted to human culture pretty well, after all. I smiled at him, enjoying this little discovery.

"I won't," I said.

Kurama's hands came out of his pockets. Something I said agitated him. His lips pursed, brows lowering above narrow eyes.

"I did not ask for their help," he said. "I did not ask for them to cook for my family. I did not—"

Pieces clicked together like engine parts while he spoke. Certainty rumbled in my chest. His awkward looks when asked about the bento. His reaction to my cooking lessons. These protests, unnecessary and repetitive—

"Does being cared for make you feel uncomfortable?"

Kurama stopped talking.

Ah.

So that was it, then.

"Those girls cook for your family because they care about you," I said as gently as I could. "They want to support you."

His head rose, regal and resolute. "I did not ask for—"

"Oh, I know you didn't ask for their help," I said. He fell quiet, uncertainty painting his features. "Sitting on their asses and watching you take care of your mother alone would make them feel bad. In some ways, they're caring for themselves as much as they're caring for you, when they make you food."

Kurama's eyes widened—and internally, I realized that maybe he hadn't adjusted so well to being human, after all. Judging by his shock and doubt, Kurama hadn't come to this conclusion on his own…and it was a very easy conclusion to come to. Offering to help, helping when it wasn't even necessary, was human nature when someone was dying. People wanted to help because not offering to help made them feel like a bad person. Sure, they wanted to care for the person in question. But that's not all there was to it.

Did some aspects of human nature still elude Kurama, after all these years spent in human skin?

"If you have trouble accepting help," I said in the spirit of helpfulness, "think of it in reverse. You're making them feel better by accepting their generosity and care."

He admitted the truth like coaxing a snarl from his hair. "I…I hadn't thought of it that way."

"I figured," I said.

"But I still do not require their assistance," he repeated. "I can handle my mother's illness on my own."

His insistence grated on me, opening up trails of thought I hadn't trekked before. Kurama acted bound and determined to reject help, to reject care. But why?

Was he simply not accustomed to accepting help?

It made sense, when I thought about it. I couldn't imagine demons spent much time altruistically helping each other. He probably wasn't familiar to being cared for, for placing even one small part of his wellbeing in the hands of another (he'd rejected his mother's care as a child, after all). It more than likely rankled his demonic pride, to have a gaggle of weak human women catering to his needs. He hadn't asked for the help. Far as Kurama was concerned, he probably didn't think he needed it.

Call me patronizing, but I knew better than that.

If your mother is dying, you need support—even if you don't feel like that's true.

We stood in silence for a time, just sizing each other up. My brain conjured images as I watched him stand there: Aunt Lana in her bed, fireworks popping in the night, face contorting as she screamed in pain. My grandmother on the couch in her last days, unable to walk, resigned to a fate she'd watched her sister die from mere months prior. My best friend's mother, a waxy yellow skeleton, crying as cancer ate her from the inside out.

I thought of my father, my best friend, myself—crying. Clinging to each other. Needing desperately to be supported even as we watched over someone whose suffering eclipsed ours like rising moons.

The silence wore thin after a while. Words bubbled in my breast like water in a heated pot.

"It can be difficult to remember, when someone you love is suffering," I said, slow and searching and deliberate, "that you are suffering, too."

Kurama frowned. I smiled. My lips trembled the merest nanometer.

"When we juxtapose our pain with the pain of another, and judge their pain as greater, we run the risk of discounting our own needs," I said. "We forget that we, too, could use support sometimes. That we could use some help."

He interpreted the need for support with weakness, that demon. I could tell because he barely managed to suppress a sneer when he said, "I'm handling my mother's illness, thank you."

"I don't doubt that," I said.

"I appreciate Amagi's help," he continued. "I do. But the thought of involving others…"

He trailed off, discomfort with the notion obvious—and yet his eyes reflected a spark of pain. I took a deep breath.

Kurama might be a demon, but he was still human. More human than he knew.

Perhaps more human than he liked to admit.

"I'm not going to say anything you don't already know," I said. "But sometimes, I think a reminder doesn't hurt."

He quirked a confused brow.

"The next time someone's care makes you feel uncomfortable, I'm giving you permission to accept it," I said. I met his eyes with urgency and sincerity; taken aback, his eyes widened. "You're allowed to ask for help and support. You're allowed to need to be cared for. Even if you're caring for someone who has it worse than you do, you deserve support."

I might've raised my voice a little on those last words. Luckily Kurama took it in stride. He ducked his chin, chuckling while he briefly shut his eyes.

"I wasn't expecting a pep-talk today," he murmured.

"I wasn't expecting to give one, but here we are."

"Yes." He looked at me as if I were a particularly challenging puzzle. "Here we are."

While I enjoyed knowing Kurama still thought of me as a mystery, I didn't like being alone with him when he looked at me like that. I gestured down the hallway with a polite smile—the first polite mask I'd worn that afternoon with him.

"I should go," I said. "They're waiting for me."

"Ah. Yes." And then his mask returned, as well, polite and cool and perfunctory. "I apologize for keeping you."

"It's fine. See you tomorrow?"

"Yes. See you tomorrow."

Breaking eye contact felt like breaking a bone. I turned and walked away, cognizant of the eyes fixed on my retreating back—and then Kurama spoke.

"Yukimura."

My name on his lips sounded like a cool wind. I stopped. Looked at him over my shoulder. He hadn't moved from his spot, nor had he taken his eyes off me. A lock of hair brushed his cheek, red-black silk contrasting with his flawless porcelain skin.

"Why is it so important to you," he said, "to tell me I deserve support?"

For a moment I didn't know what to say…but when in doubt, I make jokes. I looked at him and smiled. The pun came as readily as breathing.

"You're only human, after all," I said. "But maybe sometimes, you need a reminder of that."

I will carry the memory of his stunned face with me until my dying day.

Notes:

Another life. Stealing time. You're human, after all. The puns keep rolling in.

PLEASE FOLLOW "CHILDREN OF MISFORTUNE." Soon I'll be posting a bonus chapter that's in Kurama's POV. Might feature a cameo of a certain grumpy fire demon…but my lips are sealed!

SUPER PISSED. Wrote a lot of nice lines during editing, computer died, I LOST THEM ALL. Sorry if this seems bare. I'm just mad and want to get this out there and out of the way.

Wow, didn't expect this to turn into a Kurama character study, but the story ran away with me.

The punks-want-Keiko-to-be-their-leader storyline gets put fully to bed next chapter, and then we're in Yusuke Returns to Life territory. At last

chapter 30

My mother walked down the line of girls crammed in our small personal kitchen with a critical eye—the eye she only adopted during the preparation of food, or when she felt like styling my hair. Food was serious business in our household. She looked at their handiwork as they chopped, fried, diced, and sautéed a variety of dishes, offering comments and critiques to anyone in need.

Every now and again she'd glance at the three boys standing near the edge of the kitchen. They stood in silence, watching events with uncertain expressions and questioning eyes.

When I invited the Punk Trio to get dinner with me, I don't think they expected an audience of at least ten other girls. They stood in the corner like awkward penguins as my mother and I gave instructions on how to make her famous tsunomono. Once I noticed the boys had arrived (sent upstairs from the main restaurant by my father, no doubt) I disentangled myself from the tightly-packed group and walked their way. They gave me hesitant bows as I blotted my hands on my apron.

"Not what you expected when I told you we had dinner plans, was it?" I joked.

The boys—whose names, I'd learned, were Masaru, Tadashi, and Shinji—exchanged a look.

"Not really," Masaru eventually said. He scanned the girls with a frown. "What are you doing?"

In lieu of an answer, I snagged a bundle of carrots, leeks, and cucumbers off the counter and asked them to follow me into the living room. Once I sat the boys at the kotatsu, I brought cutting boards and paring knives from the kitchen and placed them on the table.

"Do you know what 'julienne' means?" I asked.

Three heads shook.

"Like this." I julienned a section of carrot into thin, even slices. "Do that to the carrots and the cucumber. And then chop the leeks like this." Another demonstration of the preferred technique. "Got it?"

"Yes ma'am," they chorused.

Once they got to work (and once I determined they weren't totally inept at cutting vegetables) I went back into the kitchen. The girls hurriedly turned away from the door when I entered, pretending that they hadn't just been craning their heads to stare at the unexpected visitors. Amagi frowned at me as she stirred a simmering pot of soup.

"Keiko, who are those boys?" she asked.

"The one chopping the carrots is Naoko's boyfriend."

Alarm crossed Amagi's pretty face. "What are they doing here?"

"Learning a lesson in humility."

The last time I'd seen the boys—a quick run-in earlier that morning, in fact—I'd told them to meet me at my parents' restaurant for dinner…only I hadn't planned on eating with them, exactly. I meant for them to observe tonight's cooking lesson, and maybe (just maybe) observation plus a stern lecture would get them off my back.

We'd see soon enough. I had a plan. I just wasn't sure yet if it would work.

"I have it all planned out," I said when I caught Amagi staring, dark and lovely eyes narrow with concern. I nudged her arm with my wrist as I stirred a bowl of eggs (ugh, why did I notice how soft her skin was? This pointless crush was getting out of hand). "Stop worrying. You'll see."

Though her eyes retained their concerned color, she didn't complain. She just kept stirring, and let out a charming little 'eep' when Junko wriggled between us and accidentally planted an elbow in Amagi's ribs. Junko ignored her (even though Amagi's glare sent a chill up my back) and pointed one well-manicured finger at my workspace.

"Hey, what are you making?" she asked. "It's different from ours."

While the rest of the girls made roasted chicken, baked fish, or salads, my workspace contained eggs, rice, grilled fish, and some assorted veggies. I hummed, stirring my bowl of eggs a little faster.

"This is a special breakfast for a friend of mine," I said. I added a pinch of salt from a bowl on the counter, then a dash of pepper. "He has a big test tomorrow and needs a decent start to his day. This will be part of an omelet. I'm going to add fish for more protein and veggies for vitamins, and a fruit salad so he can have something sweet. He liked sweets a lot, but what I'm really excited to make are poppy seed kolaches. They're Czech, and they're really good, but I don't know if he'll like them. Sometimes it seems like he doesn't like foods with weird textures, and if he's not used to poppy seed, he might not—"

Junko and Amagi listened to me talk about the consistency of poppy seed paste and Kuwabara's dietary preferences in silence. When they traded a sidelong glance, I shut up.

"What?" I said. "Sorry. Did I just nerd out over food?"

Amagi delicately cleared her throat. "It's—it's not that."

"…then what?"

"It's just, you look really happy. And you were smiling while cooking earlier," said Junko.

Cooking was fun; what was wrong with smiling? I tilted my head to the side, brow knit. Amagi and Junko looked at each other again, and then Amagi sighed.

"You look happy when you talk about him," Amagi said.

Junko leaned her elbow on the counter, then leaned her cheek on her hand with an exaggerated waggle of eyebrow. "So…who's the guy, hmm?"

Oh, well wasn't that lovely. They were shipping me with Kuwabara and they hadn't even met him. Not that I minded, exactly. Kuwabara was a fantastic person and would make a great boyfriend to just about anyone. He also happened to be the exact opposite of Kurama in terms of both looks and temperament—so the exact opposite of my friends' "type," so to speak. Would they be so keen on shipping us if they met him, I wondered?

Not that it mattered. Soon Kuwabara would meet Yukina, and he'd probably not have much time for me anymore. Though the thought of him getting into that adorable canon ship made me smile (Kuwabara in love was a wonderful, happy Kuwabara), it would suck if my best friend in this world stopped wanting to hang out with me as much. He'd never be a bad friend to me, of course, but…

He was my favorite character.

Who wouldn't smile, getting to cook for their favorite character?

I would treasure every minute I got with my favorite character, especially the ones before he became distracted by romance. Call me territorial—jealous, even—but I'd guard and treasure moments like these like a dragon hoarding gold. I would not be embarrassed out of cooking for him no matter how many weird looks I got!

"He'll be here in an hour for a study session if you want to meet him," I said, choosing to leave Junko's suggestion of romance unacknowledged. "His name is Kuwabara. He's my best friend, so you'll probably meet him sooner or later, anyway."

Junko's eyes widened. "Oh! He'd the guy those boys beat up!"

"Yup."

"So he's the one who got you into the Naoko mess."

"No." The word came out firm and maybe a little sharp; I gentled my tone with an apologetic smile. "No. I got myself into that mess all on my own."

Junko pursed her lips. "I mean…if you say so."

We got back to work. Soon, after Mom determined everyone had performed to her satisfaction, we finished making our various dishes and moved into the living room. Mom stood at the front of the room and beamed.

"You all did a wonderful job cooking, so now it's time to taste-test," she said. "Take note of which flavors complement each other. When crafting a meal, you need to pay attention to the overall flavor of the dish. Individual components matter, but if they don't work together, your flavors might fall flat or cancel each other out." Her smile blossomed into a grin. "Though in the end, cooking with love and affection matters more. So keep up the good work no matter what!"

She guided us through all the dishes one by one, giving us little tastes and explaining the flavor profiles of each. The girls ate it up (literally and figuratively) but the three punks listened to us talk from the sidelines wearing bewildered expressions—especially when the girls started discussing Minamino's tastes.

"There are rarely leftovers of vegetables, but sometimes he doesn't finish the meat," one girl fretted.

"And he seems to like fish more than chicken or pork," said another.

"But is that him eating the fish, or his mother eating it? We don't quite know what he gives to his mother and what he eats himself."

"Radishes are the one vegetable he maybe dislikes. The last time I made—"

I took pity on them at that point and caught Masaru's eye. He and the others followed me into the kitchen, where they looked quite relieved to be put on dish-washing duty. I left them with their arms submerged in water and rejoined the girls in the living room. I kept one ear on the clinking dishes and another on the conversation at hand, hope the guys were paying attention to us at least in some small measure (my plan depended on it).

A few minutes into our discussion, however, it became clear the punks were not, in fact, listening to us talk.

My mom was the first to notice. She paused mid-sentence and looked at the kitchen doorway with a frown. A few other girls stopped talking, too, heads cocking to the side as they listened to the sounds drifting from the other room.

Someone was singing.

Three someones, in fact. Three male voices wove together in a simple yet solid harmony, and below that came a rhythmic clinking noise like someone banging a spoon against a pot. I recognized the lyrics from a popular rock song, as did some of the girls if their impressed expressions told me anything.

Amagi, who sat next to me, leaned in close so she could whisper in my ear.

"Did you know they could sing like that?"

No. No, I did not know the boys who's kicked the tar out of Kuwabara could carve a rhythm out of dishware and sing like a barber shop trio. I pushed away from the kotatsu and got up, watching the boys where they stood by the sink. They didn't notice me. Their hands still moved, sure, washing dishes like they'd been told, but they kept singing as they worked—keeping time with a song, in a way. Shinji (the shortest of the group, with gangster hair and lean features) lead the singing with a powerful baritone grip on the melody while the others complemented his voices with their own higher and lower tones.

Did they realize they sounded that good, and that they'd managed to find voices that fit each other's so neatly?

Their song came to an end right as they finished drying the last of the dishes. A smattering of appreciative applause at my back had them jerking to attention. Clearly they hadn't realized we could hear them, music coming naturally and spontaneously as they worked.

"Can you three come with me?" I said.

We went to the alley behind the restaurant. Not the cleanest or brightest place, but it was the most private one I could think of. We settled atop empty shipping crates as I handed them rice balls and passed around a basket of fried shrimp. They eyed me as they ate, clearly wondering what tonight had been about. Wariness showed on their faces like paint on a white dress.

"Thanks for your help tonight," I said when they polished off the last of the shrimp. "You guys can sing, by the way."

Masaru's chest puffed. "We're in a band."

"We're gonna be the next Megallica!" said Tadashi (Shinji nodded along in silence—for the best singer of the bunch, he did the least amount of talking).

But Masaru sighed. "Yukimura, you probably think that's impossible, right?"

"Not at all."

That took them by surprise. Each of them gaped at me—unused to being taken seriously, I guessed. The plight of every teenage musician when they first got started.

"I love Megallica," I said. All three of them looked elated to learn that factoid. "I think it's awesome that you have big goals. A lot of people never learn what they want to do in life, and if you've found your calling this early, you should go for it with everything you've got."

Seems I'd struck gold. They grinned, beaming like I'd just told them they'd won the lottery. Sometimes, at this age, all you needed was a single vote of confidence to get yourself inspired. Hopefully I'd done something helpful just now.

I asked, "What's the band called?"

As suddenly as they'd perked up, the three of them deflated.

"Uh…we don't know yet," said Masaru.

"We haven't exactly been able to play a gig yet," came Tadashi's evasive clarification.

"We're too young for most places."

"Yeah, bars won't let us in."

"Well, let me know when you put out your first record, because I'll buy it," I said.

Even Shinji thanked me when I said that, half bowing in his seat before lapsing into a shy, pleased silence. I made sure to smile at each of them.

"Anyway," I said. "I'm sure you're wondering why I invited you here tonight." I waved a hand at the upper floor of the restaurant. "Do you know what those girls were doing in there?"

They shifted atop their crates. "No."

"They're learning to cook," I said, "for the boy they like."

For a second they didn't react—but then Shinji's eyes narrowed.

"The boy?" he asked. "Singular?"

Sharp guy, apparently, even if he didn't talk much. I nodded. "They all like the same guy. And don't go talking about it in front of them, but…his mother is dying."

None of them quite knew how to react to that. They stared at me in horrified silence until Masaru muttered, "That's awful."

"Yeah. It is. But those girls, they cook to make his life a little easier," I explained. "Every day they leave him a meal in his locker. They don't talk to him, or get in his way, or ask for attention. They just do what needs to be done and leave it at that. They respect his time and they know he wants to spend it with his mother, not them."

I stared pointedly at each of them, one by one. One by one, they hung their heads.

OK. Good. Seemed they were starting to get it.

"You have a code, right?" I said. "That's why you've been hanging around me. Because you have a code, and I beat you in a fight…"

They all nodded. Said Masaru, "Right. We have a code. We're men, aren't we?"

"Kuwabara has a code, too. So I get it." I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees. "You admire me because I beat you in a fight. And I get wanting to honor the people you admire. But the thing is, I spend my time making food for people. I study. And I watch out for my friends." I shrugged. "I don't want to head up a gang, I'm sorry to say. It's just not in me. So if you really admire me—in whatever way, because of your code—I hope you also respect me enough to abide by my wishes."

The three of them sat in silence for a time. Shinji, voice low and melodic, broke that silence first.

"We respect you," he said.

The other two seemed to take their cue from his words, uncertain expressions gaining new solidity.

"We respect you enough to know we caused you trouble, when we beat up Kuwabara," Masaru said. "We want to make up for that."

"But how do we do that without helping you out, and being around you and doing stuff for you?" Tadashi asked. "'Cause that's how the code works. You mess with someone, and they beat you, you pay them back."

They wore identical looks of confusion and trepidation. A few small stray ends clicked into place, then. Their code dictated they had to make up for the trouble they caused me—and whether or not I wanted their help didn't matter. This was a matter of conscience for them. They'd feel badly if they didn't do something for me.

Ironically, it was Kurama and the fangirls (whose meals comforted the girls who made them) all over again.

"Tell you what," I said after a moment's contemplation. "At some point, when your band is big and you're too famous for this town, I'll call you for a favor. How's that sound?" I winked at them, watching in satisfaction as their eyes slowly lit up from within. "That should make up for any inconvenience you think you've caused me, right?"

Shinji nodded. "It should."

"Provided we can make it big," Masaru grumbled.

"This just means you have to make it big," I said. "You just promised me a favor, and if I can't collect, the debt remains unpaid."

Masaru and Shinji nodded gravely. We all jumped when Tadashi lurched to his feet.

"That's right!" he exclaimed. "Now we've gotta make it as a band!"

"We've gotta focus on our music," Masaru agreed.

"Yeah—so cool it with the fighting if you can," I said, tone mild. The boys looked away, guilty. "Go make music instead. From what I heard, you're good at it. If anyone has a shot at making it, it's you three."

"OK," said Masaru. He stood up, too. "OK, it's a promise."

Shinji also stood. He bowed at the waist, hands stiff at his sides. The other boys followed suit.

"We will work hard in your honor to become the next Megallica," Shinji solemnly intoned. "Thank you, Yukimura-san."

"Thank you, Yukimura-san!" said the other two.

"You're welcome." I rose to my feet, walked past them, and stood with my back to them in the restaurant doorway. Over my shoulder I barked, "Now beat it! I don't want to see your faces until they're plastered on a billboard, got it?"

"Billboard faces!" Masaru said. "Got it!"

"We won't disappoint you!" said Tadashi.

"Thank you," Shinji said—but quietly, as if he didn't expect me to hear.

I didn't look at them, listening instead as I heard their feet travel away from me and out of the alley. Couldn't help but smile to myself, of course. I remembered being a kid with big dreams, and I remembered needing a word of encouragement in order to summon the courage to follow them. Maybe they really would become the next Megallica. No harm in dreaming. And if maybe, just maybe, my words got them to quit fighting and focus on their music—

"They gone?"

I flinched, but it was only my father moving around the corner of the alley. I stepped out of the doorframe and glared at him.

"You scared me!" I accused. "What were you doing over there—lurking?"

"Of course I was," he said with an exasperated roll of his eyes. "Those boys looked like trouble."

"Funny. They dress a lot like Kuwabara, but you approve of him."

"True. But Kuwabara is a special boy."

"Special how?"

"He's a good, good boy, that's how," Dad said, like it should be obvious. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about." He reached into the front of his chef's jacket and pulled out a small object, which he passed my way. "I have a present for you. Here."

A small canister, black and unremarkable, hung from a small key ring—but I'd had something like it in my past life. I knew what it was, especially when I pressed a button on the side and a cap popped off the top, revealing a trigger like that of a squirt gun.

"Pepper spray?" I asked. "What's this for?"

"Your mom doesn't like it when you fight," Dad said, not bothering to be anything but blunt. "Maybe use that instead of your fists, the next time you make some punks owe you a debt. OK, honey?"

I blinked at him—and then I laughed, resting the heel of my hand against my forehead.

"OK, OK, sure," I said though my giggles. "Thanks, Dad."

"Don't mention it." He turned to head inside, then shot me a mischievous wink. "And start hiding your workout clothes better, huh? Your mom thinks you quit the dojo, but those sweaty clothes of yours tell a different story!"

I only laughed harder as Dad skipped inside with a merry whistle.

Leave it to him to call me out in a way that made me laugh.

Kuwabara's jaw dropped when he saw me standing by the gate of Sarayashiki Junior High the next morning. Some other students shot me wondering looks, too, but I paid them no mind and waved a hand above my head. "Hey there, Kuwabara!"

"Keiko!?" he yelped, scampering over. "What are you doing here?"

"Just coming by to wish you good luck before your test," I said. I reached into my bag and pulled out a cloth-wrapped stack of bento boxes, which I presented with a flourish. "Here. Consider this your good luck charm."

Kuwabara blinked at the bento, then pointed an uncertain finger at himself. "Is...is that for me?" he asked.

"You bet your sweet ass it's for you," I said. I giggled when my crass wording made Kuwabara's face turn a brilliant shade of cherry. "It's brunch! Your test isn't until fourth period, right?"

"R-right."

"Good. You'd better eat beforehand so you don't get distracted with hunger. I made it with brain foods to help you remember things. And I made some for your friends, too." I mock-glared, raising a fist that looked more comical than threatening. "So you'd better share, OK?"

Giant hands gentle, Kuwabara reached for the bento. He cradled it against his chest with an awed look, caught halfway between gratitude and wonderment.

"Keiko—thank you," he said. His typical growling voice had gone a little softer, narrow eyes warm with happy disbelief. "I don't know what to say."

The corner of my mouth hitched. "Say you'll kick ass on this test and show Iwamoto who's boss."

He looked askance, feet shuffling atop the placement. He said, "I mean…I'll try…"

I blinked at him, realized he'd just doubted himself, then placed a hand over my heart when I determined such a thing to be completely unacceptable.

"What's this?" I said with faux offense. "Why, Kuwabara! I'm insulted!"

It was his turn to blink. "Huh?"

"You've been studying with an amazing tutor for a week, and you still have doubts about your abilities?"

Panic flashed across his craggy face when he realized he'd accidentally insulted me in the act of doubting himself. "N-no, Keiko, you were amazing!" he yelped. "Best teacher in the world! I didn't mean—"

I laughed, slugging him playfully in the arm. "Oh my gosh, I'm kidding!"

"O-oh." A bashful glance at the ground. "Sorry."

Frowning, I leaned forward, inserting myself into his line of sight.

"Hey," I said. "You know you've got this test in the bag, right?"

He shot me a furtive look.

"…I like hearing you say it," he mumbled.

"OK. Sure." Nothing wrong with needing a bit of validation from time to time. "But you're the one who needs to say it. You're the one who needs to believe it."

"I mean. I guess?"

"Hmph." I planted my hands on my hips, chin jutting out. "Well, Kuwabara. I think there's only one way to fix this, and that's for you to repeat after me. So please say: I got this."

The big guy looked mildly embarrassed, mumbling under his breath, "I got this."

"I'm amazing."

"…I'm amazing."

"I kick English's butt like it's a soccer ball wearing a 'kick me' sign."

"I kick English's butt—but, oh man, Keiko, do I?" he said, and at that point his mumbled words pitched into a mini-screech of desperate confusion. "Do I actually kick butt at this? Because I'm so nervous! What if I don't do well? What if I fail? What will Okubo—!?"

Clearly Kuwabara wasn't expecting me to grab him by the cheeks and drag him down to my level, so I could butt my forehead against his and glare at him dead in the eye, but that's exactly what I did. I wasn't expecting to do that, either, to be honest. I grabbed him on a whim, but when I got close enough to see the doubt in his eyes (the doubt partially obscured by comically terrified awkwardness at being so close to a girl) I knew I'd made the right choice.

It was time for a pep talk. And not the gentle kind.

"Now you listen here, and you listen good," I all but growled. "You're going to do great. You got that? You're going to be amazing."

Kuwabara grumbled something about not being so sure, but I squeezed his cheeks a little tighter.

"You're smart," I told him. "You're so smart. You went from knowing nothing but the English curse words to being able to ace a test in a week. That's amazing. And you should be so proud of yourself."

I wasn't flattering him, either. He'd come to me utterly hopeless: vocabulary minuscule, pronunciation garbled, grasp of grammar nonexistent. He still wasn't fluent, or even conversational, but through sheer stubbornness he managed to cram a small dictionary into his head in just one week. He memorized all the grammar formulas I threw at him with frantic gusto. The kid could really retain information, when given proper incentive. Kuwabara was a beast when he applied himself.

"You're smart, and now you're applying yourself, and that just doubles how competent you are." I let my glare—my aggressively encouraging glare—go supernova. "If you apply that big fucking brain of yours and don't lose your nerve like a big ol' chicken, this test won't stand a snowball's chance in Hell at high noon of beating you. You got that, you punk? You got this."

Maybe my confidence was bleeding onto him, but as I held him there, his big face warm in my small hands, a fire lit behind his eyes. A smile of bared teeth creased his mouth. His forehead butted back against mine, hockey players slamming helmets in the locker room to rile themselves up before a game.

"Yeah." He pushed me; I pushed back, an inverse tug-of-war. "Yeah. Yeah! That's right. I got this! I got this test in the bag!"

"Fuck yeah, you do!" I shoved him away and pointed dramatically up at the school, not giving a rat's ass that my former classmates were staring—because Kuwabara had finally started to grin, the expression I most liked to see on his big beautiful face, and the people staring could go kick rocks with open-toed shoes. "You're gonna fucking murder this test. Now go kick ass and save Okubo's butt!"

"Roger that!" He threw a fist into the air and bellowed, "I have a promise as a man to fulfill, and gosh darn it, I won't let Okubo down!"

"That's the spirit!" I hopped in place, hyping him up before pushing him bodily through the gate. "Now get going!"

"Yeah!" He ran halfway across the yard before tossing over his shoulder, "Thanks, Keiko! You're the best!"

"No," I said as I watched him go. "Pretty sure that's you."

Hopefully he'd learn that for himself once he aced that test.

Although I had visited the Higurashi Shrine before, I had never met Kagome's grandfather. He wore the traditional robes of a Shinto priest (every single day, Kagome claimed with pronounced exasperation). Short and beady-eyed, with a scraggly mustache and an old-fashioned topknot, he looked like a relic of times long passed, resurrected to tend the ancient shrine and protect it from the encroaching modernism of Tokyo.

He also really, really fucking liked to talk about old crap, too.

We had to follow old Jii-chan around the shrine or an hour, listening to him rant about the history of that torii arch and that ancient tree until he finally grew too tired to walk any more. We sat by a dusty well at the edge of the property—a normal well with a cute little roof over it, from which he drew a bucket of clear water. The day was cold but the cool water still tasted lovely.

"Now," he said, settling onto the brown grass at the well's stone foot. "Kagome tells me you're doing research for a little story you're writing together, eh?"

"Yes, sir." Kagome had prepped me on the cover story before I came over today. "I appreciate your help very much."

"Yes, yes," he said, running a hand down the mustache strands trailing across his chest. Black eyes glittered with humor. "Though I must say, I didn't realize you'd be so much older than my granddaughter. You met in Hideki's aikido class, you said?"

"That's correct."

"Keiko is really cool, Jii-chan," Kagome chirped. She lay on her belly on the grass, toying with a stick with nimble fingers. Shadows from a tree overhead dappled her pale skin grey. "And we have a cool idea for a story. We both like writing. We're going to take a bunch of mythology and mash it up and—"

She prattled on for a time in a very Kagome sort of way, one thought bleeding into the next in a confusing mélange of topics nigh unfollowable. I wasn't sure if she did it on purpose as a sort of diversionary tactic or not, but that's how it played out. Jii-chan cleared his throat and shoved his hands inside his sleeves.

"Yes, yes, Kagome, that is very interesting," he said in a comically dismissive fashion. "Now, you said you wanted to research two gods in particular?"

"Yes. Though one of them is Greek."

"Ah. Can't say I know much about Greek myth, I'm afraid, though I'll do my best to be of service. Which deity are you after?"

"Clotho. One of the three Fates."

"The Fates!" he repeated with a bark of laughter. "Now them I know about. Though they're called the Moirai in Greek." He stroked his mustache, eyes distant. "Yes, yes. Atropos, Lachesis, and Clotho. Cloth was the youngest, of course, and spun the thread of life on her spindle. Next came Lachesis, who measured life's thread with her measuring stick. And then the eldest, Atropos, who cut the thread of life with her shears."

Kagome and I exchanged a look at that, while I tried not to appear confused. Clotho had held a pair of scissors—but they belonged to a different sister? That didn't seem quite right.

"The abhorrent shears, they were called," Jii-chan continued. "They could cut even a god's life in half. Fearsome weapons. The Moirai were feared even by the Olympic pantheon, as I recall."

Well, wasn't that just fantastic? A creature feared even by the gods was involved in this—maybe. Still had no proof Cleo was who she said she was, even if she had a pair of antique scissors and could vanish on command.

I pushed the thoughts aside. "Is there anything more you can tell me about Clotho in particular?" I asked.

Jii-chan frowned, looking up at the roof covering the well. "Clotho? Hmm. I believe she was knowing as the decision-maker of the Moirai. Sort of their leader, in a sense, who chose when people were born and when people would die. But that's about all I know."

Kagome and I exchanged another look.

The Fate who decided when someone was born, huh?

Had she had something to do with our situation in this strange new world? Hiruko claimed responsibility for our predicaments, but it sounded like Cleo might be better suited.

Jii-chan didn't leave me time to ponder much more. His hand descended onto his knee with a smack.

"Now. What other thing did you want to ask me about?" he said.

"Well, I came across a name while reading," I said. This was a lie, of course, but I couldn't exactly tell this man about the kid who visited me in my dreams. "I tried looking for more information but couldn't find much. So I don't know if the name is from myth, or another source."

"Hmmph." He pursed his lips. "What's the name?"

"Hiruko."

Jii-chan didn't immediately react. He blinked at me for a second, like I'd just announced I was going to join clown school—and then he threw back his head and laughed. Kagome's eyebrows lifted. She sat up, pouting at her grandfather until he calmed down enough to speak.

"Now there's a name I haven't heard in a long time!" he chortled. "Well, no wonder you didn't have any luck with your research. Hardly anyone uses that name anymore. That book you were reading must've been even older than I am!"

"So—you know it?" Kagome said. She rolled to her knees, eyes bright. "Well, don't just sit there laughing like a hyena! Tell us who that name belongs to!"

Jii-chan chuckled for another minute, then looked at me.

"Kagome said your parents own a ramen restaurant, is that correct?" he asked.

I frowned at the non sequitur. "Yes. Why?"

"Then I reckon you know exactly who Hiruko is." He grinned, slapping his knee again. "Not too many Japanese restaurants go without a lucky Ebisu statue."

I found myself unable to speak for a second.

"E…Ebisu?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. The god of luck and fortune. We probably have a statue of him around here somewhere, in fact." He stroked his mustached thoughtfully. "Big belly, laughing, holding a fishing hook…yes. There's a statue of him near the Bone Eater's Well, in fact, to ward off any ill omens that might come forth."

Kagome sat up at that. I saw her look at me from the corner of my eye.

I didn't look back. I couldn't—because just then, I couldn't move.

Ebisu.

My eyes unfocused as memory came rushing in: Kuwabara at my side, my father standing in the alleyway behind the restaurant, packing wet concrete into a plastic container. "Making an idol for the new restaurant," he'd said, showing us the mold he poured. "We're opening a second location next week. New place won't feel like a real restaurant until I pour up a new patron!"

There was another idol in that alley—another concrete statue right by the back door. It had watched over me all my life, eyes kind slits set above enormous, smiling cheeks and gleaming teeth. He held a fishing pole in one hand and raised the other in greeting. I'd put a garland of flowers around his neck during Golden Week every year since I could walk. I'd patted his head when I came home at night, and I'd offered him a half-hearted prayer before every test at school at my mother's bidding.

That idol was an old friend. A lifelong companion. A fixture since the day I found myself awake in a new world.

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

But Dad had corrected me

"Buddha?" Dad said. "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?"

Perfect god for a ramen shop, don't you think?

My chest felt hollow, like I might drift away on the wind like dandelion seed.

Jii-chan kept speaking, oblivious.

"Hiruko's story started off a sad one, as I recall," he said. "How much do you know of Shinto creation myth, hmm?"

"Not much," I murmured. I wasn't capable of saying more.

"Ah. I see." Jii-chan sighed, shaking his head. "Kids these days have no appreciation for the old things, for stories, for tales! Why, when I was your age—"

"Oh, can it, Gramps," Kagome groused. She braced her hands on his leg, peering into his face with a scowl. "Just tell us the story, why dontcha?"

"Oh, all right, all right," he said, waving her off. He settled into his seat, hands stowed in the sleeves of his robe, and spoke with the measured patience of someone who had told his story many time.

"Mukashi, mukashi," he said (the traditional Japanese introduction to a fairy tale). "Long ago, there lived the god and goddess of creation, Izanami and Izanagi."

Kagome said, "Just skip to the part about Hiruko!"

"Don't rush me, child!" Jii-chan fired back. "The pair wished to conceive a child together, and so, they married. However, their marriage ceremony was botched. During the ceremony they exchanged words, which is forbidden. And so their firstborn son was born marred, flawed—or, more specifically, he was born without bones."

"Without bones!" Kagome repeated with a gasp. "That's weird!"

"Weird, and not at all what they wanted in a child," Jii-chan agreed. "But gods aren't accustomed to being disappointed. Not wishing to acknowledge their son, they crafted a boat of reeds and set him adrift on the ocean, likely in the hope he'd die."

Kagome gasped again. I sat up a little straighter.

"Before they did, they gave him a name," Jii-chan said.

"Hiruko," I guessed.

"Yes," he said, "and to add insult to injury, they spelled his name with the characters for 'leech' and 'child.'" He tilted his head back, gazing at the awning above with a sorrowful expression. "They abandoned their boneless leech child in a boat, and pushed him out to sea to die. Can't exactly say they're model parents, but gods aren't known for behaving in ways we modern folks approve of."

He spoke the truth. I remembered Greek myth in particular brimming with gods behaving badly. Casting your child into the ocean because he didn't measure up to your standards was low even for unscrupulous gods, in my book. Poor guy. He hadn't asked for a life like that, and yet…

Don't pity him just yet, Keiko. He had still used you, even if his story was a sad one.

"Wait—but he's the god of luck, I thought," Kagome said. "How'd he go from boneless on a boat to famous god of fortune?"

Jii-chan chuckled. "I suppose he just got lucky, when you get down to it. Legend has it that he washed up on the shore and was taken in by the Ainu people, on the island we used to call Honshu. He grew bones, grew strong, and eventually grew to become the patron god of the people who took him in." Jii-chan's eyes lit up as his enthusiasm for the story grew. "The Ainu were fisherman. At first only fishermen worshipped Hiruko, but eventually his reputation grew, and worship of him spread from fisherman to merchants. Eventually he became the god of fortune...probably because he got so lucky, surviving an ordeal like what his parents put him through. Somewhere along the way, he started going by the name 'Ebisu.'"

I murmured, "I would, too, if my given name was 'leech child.'"

"You and me both," said Kagome.

"Yes, I suppose you have a point," Jii-chan admitted. "Now he's living large, as far as gods go. Can't find a restaurant or kitchen without a shrine to him inside it these days." He slapped his hands together. "Now, what else can I help you with? I can tell you more stories about this shrine, if you'd like!"

There wasn't a good way to say 'no', so we resumed the tour of the shrine and let Jii-chan have his fun. Eventually Kagome made up some excuse or another (I think she said we needed to go work on this 'story' we were supposedly writing) and managed to get us away from Jii-chan.

We went to the only private place we could think of: The Bone Eater's Well.

The doors had barely shut behind us, and Kagome had barely managed to turn on an electric lantern, before I started ranting.

"That snake," I hissed, pacing the length of the walkway above the well. "That snake! I can't believe he's been so close all this time! He's been right there, right on my goddamn porch, just watching—"

Kagome listened, eyes growing wider and wider with every detail I revealed. Multiple Ebisu statues adorned my parents' home and restaurant, but somehow I had missed out on learning Ebisu's real name. Years of proximity, years of clues, uninvestigated and undiscovered. I wanted to tear my hair out just then—but luckily Kagome's cheerful calm cut through my haze of anger.

"Hey, it's not your fault!" she said, tiny fists shoved resolutely against her hips. "You heard Jii-chan. Not many people know Ebisu's real name anymore."

"Still—I should've learned it in school," I said. "They taught us Greek myth in school. They should've taught us Japanese myth here in Japan, right?"

As soon as the words left my mouth, I frowned.

Kagome did, too.

We stood there in silence for a moment, each lost to our own thoughts. I assume Kagome's mirrored mine, because soon she raised her eyes and voiced exactly what I'd been thinking.

"Why didn't we learn about Japanese myth in school?" she said.

And she was right. Much as I racked my brain, much as I turned over all the memories I had about growing up in Japan, I couldn't recall a single incident in which I'd been taught Shinto or Buddhist myth. My parents had taken me to a temple on New Year's a few times, and they made me pray to (what I'd thought was) the Buddha statue when I needed to take a test…but my bedtimes were bereft of Japanese fairy tales. At least the ones involving gods or goddesses. I knew some luck and funeral rituals, some wedding rituals, and similar…but the actual tales behind the traditions I knew very little about.

Why the hell was that?

Why hadn't I leaned about these things before, or even gotten curious enough to look them up for myself? Curiosity was my middle name!

"I mean, I'm literally in elementary school right now," Kagome continued, tone uncharacteristically worried. "I don't think we've ever had a unit covering myth or fairy tales. Jii-chan will tell me some stories, but my mom doesn't even talk about them. And I don't recall my friends ever talking about them, either."

"Same here," I said.

"In my old life, legends and fairy tales were all over the place. Hell, I taught them to my kindergarteners. You know, Aesop's Fables and Grimm's Brothers stuff?" She looked at me with odd hope, like she hoped I'd tell her she was wrong. "But here, nobody talks about that stuff. Like, nobody-nobody. I don't remember a single person telling me about Cinderella even once, and that right there's some cross-cultural shit."

She was right—more right than she knew.

"In college," I said, words slow and searching, "I took courses on fairy tale study and analysis."

Kagome rolled her eyes. "Of course you did."

"Shut up." I shook my head, composing myself so I didn't freak out. "Tales exist in all cultures—and sometimes the same story will take place in multiple cultures, but before those places had any record of contact."

"Wow. Really? That sounds weird."

"Yeah. There are versions of Cinderella in almost all cultures." I ticked them off on my fingers "Chinese, German, Russian, Native American…and even Japanese." I met her eyes, a worried mirror of my own. "If fairy tales are so pervasive, why didn't we hear them growing up?"

Neither of us spoke.

Kagome blurted: "This is weird."

"Weird on more than one level," I concurred. "Weird because why didn't we never heard those stories…and weird because, why didn't we notice we hadn't heard them before now?"

In any other scenario, I would've found it funny that Kagome started pacing in an odd mimicry of my usual nervous habit. Just then, however, I saw nothing humorous in it at all.

"Well, I dunno about you, but I'm freaked," she said. "Freaked. Freaked. Like real freaky-freaked. It's one thing to not hear those stories, but it's another not to notice not hearing them. Why didn't we—"

Lucky for her nerves, I'd already concocted a quick working theory.

"Maybe since we already knew those stories, we weren't looking for them," I suggested. "Not being taught or told those stories didn't feel unnatural. We didn't need to be taught. They were already in our personal story repertoires, so why seek them out? That's why we didn't notice their absence."

"Maybe?" Kagome said. Her voice climbed into a higher register than usual. "Maybe that's it? Maybe? I dunno, Keiko! But something about this just seems off.

Kagome normally did the reassuring in our relationship, but for once the responsibility rested on my shoulders. I reached out and hooked an arm through hers. She met my comforting smile with a surprised smile of her own. To my satisfaction, her pacing feet ceased to move.

"I haven't had a chance to go to the library since I first met Cleo," I said. "I'm going to go right now and pull every book on fairy tales and myth I can find. I'm sure something will come up that'll help us figure this out. So don't sweat it, OK?" I winked at her. "Never did ask if you're a Doctor Who fan, but as the good Doctor might say, books are the best weapons in the world."

"Tennant was my favorite," she said, response almost automatic. She shook her head, eyes clearing of their panic. "I'll do the same at my school library. See what I can dig up. Because this is weird, Keiko, in ways I can't put my finger on—and that ambiguity just makes the weirdness worse."

She was right, of course.

But to keep her calm—not to mention to keep myself calm—I didn't agree aloud.

"You just had to go and ask questions, didn't you?"

"Why hello, Hiruko," I replied. "So nice to see you."

He wore a smile more teeth than good humor, pink hair mussed like he'd just woken from a deep sleep. Somehow it didn't surprised me to see him in my dreams that night. Learning his true identity, after all, seemed like a kind of broken rule even he might not find palatable. I hadn't had a chance to hit the library after seeing Kagome—Mom had asked me to help in the restaurant before I got the chance—but I got the feeling I'd already heard enough about Hiruko to rustle his jimmies.

"You couldn't leave well enough alone," he said. He stood with feet apart, head ducked as if he might try to ram me in the gut with his bubblegum skull. "You just couldn't stem that damnable curiosity of yours, could you?"

"What, you don't like having your past pried into?" I asked with faux innocence. "Interesting. You really don't like that I know who you really are, do you?"

"You know nothing about who I am," he snarled.

I shrugged. "I know some things, Leech Child."

"Don't you ever call me that again, you insignificant little—!"

I jerked back as though bitten by a dog. He'd never snapped at me quite like that before, and even Hiruko seemed taken aback by his tone. He blinked, mouth working around air, before turning away from me and clearing his throat.

"Would you prefer Ebisu over Hiruko?" I asked—but gently. Not with malice, or derision, or sarcasm. I asked with sincerity, because…well. I actually wanted to know, believe it or not. "Just tell me, and I will."

I of all people knew the importance of honoring one's name.

Hiruko, inch by inch, turned around again. Suspicion turned his eyes brackish.

"I wish you hadn't found out," he said, voice raspy with emotions I couldn't identify. "I wish…"

He lapsed into silence. I shrugged.

"For what it's worth, I think what your parents did to you was shitty," I said. "No one asks to be born. It's stupid to punish a child for something they couldn't control."

His eyes hardened with glacial chill. "Heed your own advice, lucky child." He tossed his hair with a harsh laugh. "Feh! Lucky child? More like guilty child. Still stressing over taking the real Keiko's place, even if it's not your fault? How pointless!"

I didn't rise to his bait. Voice even, I said, "You're lashing out at me right now. But I didn't do anything to you." Another shrug. "Not tonight, at least."

I half expected him to fight me—but he didn't. Hiruko's shoulders sagged as though weighted by a boat's heavy anchor.

"I know," he admitted. "It's just…"

Whatever he meant to say, he couldn't say it. I waited, but he didn't speak.

Guess it was up to me to take the initiative.

"What do you want, Hiruko?" I eventually asked. His head jerked, like he'd forgotten I was even there. "What's your goal? Why did you do this to me, to Kagome?"

He shifted atop his wooden sandals. "That's my secret."

"It's not fair to drag me into this and keep me in the dark," I said. Emotion broke through my calm veneer like a whale breaching the surface of the sea. "Like I said—no one asks to be born, and most certainly not into someone else's body. And nobody wants to be a subplot in someone else's story."

His eternal smile—the smile of the god of luck and fortune—faltered. "A subplot?"

"Yes. A subplot. Yu Yu Hakusho is about Yusuke, not Keiko." I gestured at myself, at my dream body, at the character I inhabited as well as the person housed inside her. "All this, my life…it's overshadowed by Yusuke. My choices don't matter as much whenever he comes near. The least you can do is tell me why you've suddenly given Keiko the chance to become a bigger player." When he did not reply, and merely stared with his oceanic eyes, I heaved a sigh. "Can you at least tell me what your goal is? Or tell me what you want me to do in this world?"

His throat worked as he swallowed. "Like I said—I want you to break the rules."

That old chestnut.

That old broken record.

What a fucking joke.

I was tired of this. Frustrated, angry, disgusted—but more than that, I was tired. Tired of being jerked around and fed evasive lines. Tires of equivocation. Tired of being used. Tired of asking questions that would never receive an answer.

I shut my eyes and said: "No."

"…no?" Hiruko repeated.

"You heard me. No." I opened my eyes and glared. "You want me to break the rules? Well, sorry Charlie, but fuck that. I won't do it. Not until you do something for me in exchange." I raised a finger and leveled it right between Hiruko's smug eyes. "I'm going to follow the script to the letter and not break a single goddamn rule unless you give me the answers I want."

Took Hiruko a minute to realize what was happening. His jaw dropped.

"Wait. Are you blackmailing me?" he said.

"Blackmail is such an ugly word," I said...and then I winked at him. "I prefer 'extortion'!"

Hiruko's jaw dropped again. Then his eyes narrowed, mouth clacking shut as his teeth collided.

"Lucky Child," he said, glowering. "More like Licentious Child."

"Is that a yes?" came my prim response. "Will you agree to my terms?"

He swore, colorfully for a child—only he wasn't really a child at all, was he? I watched as he stomped in a circle, swearing swears I notated for future use, and wondered just why he'd taken this particular form. Was it an illusion, or did he actually look like this? The portly statues at the restaurant did not resemble this pink-haired kid, that's for sure.

But no matter. I had bigger questions at the moment…but maybe I was barking up the wrong pink-haired tree. Time for a new tactic.

"Ugh. You know what?" I said, throwing up my hands with exaggerated frustration. "Forget the deal. Maybe I'll just ask someone else for answers."

Hiruko stopped swearing and looked at me, alarmed.

"Maybe I'll just ask Clotho. Or Cleo, as she called herself." I smirked. "She seemed to know a whole lot about you, that's for sure."

I'd hoped to get a rise out of Hiruko, name-dropping Clotho like that. Maybe I'd glean something from his reaction, or at least determine Hiruko's attitude toward the potential sister of Fate.

But Hiruko didn't react.

Instead, Hiruko froze. He stared at me with wide eyes, as still as though he'd been replaced by a wax simulacrum. Hard to read anything in a block of granite, and that's basically what Hiruko had become.

Too bad he couldn't remain a statue forever. His mask soon cracked when he bit his lip—and in his eyes I saw a spark of something bright and hot.

"You…you talked to Clotho?" he whispered.

He sounded shell-shocked. I frowned. "You mean you didn't know? I assumed you saw that."

The spark in his eye caught fire, then—and it flamed into searing fear.

"No—oh," Hiruko said. "Oh no." His smile portrayed panic, maniacal and pleading. "This is bad. This is really, really bad—"

I didn't need to ask why.

Two seconds late, I found out.

As always, Hiruko and I stood in a formless void. Shadows stretched in all directions below us, giving the illusion of ground where perhaps there was none. Behind Hiruko sprawled endless, featureless grey, a vast expanse of shapelessness that hurt to look at for too long. Eyes unfocused with nothing to focus on. The void appeared to ripple and pulse, like it might coalesce into a shape and lurch right at you if you stared for a second too long.

You can imagine, then, that when a black slash struck across the void, it was kind of hard to miss. One second empty grey pulsed at the cores of my eyes, and then a thin black line drew my vision the way a gunshot draws the ear. It almost hurt to look at, and then the black widened, bloomed into a dark flower of open space, and from it swam color and light on a backdrop of swirling, burning stars—

The color coalesced into Cleo, leather jacket and boots and sunglasses and all. She stepped from the black and became solid, and then the black behind her disappeared.

"Hello, Hiruko," she said with a toss of her cobweb hair. "Did you really think you could run from me forever?"

Hiruko let out a strangled 'eep' before darting behind me, where he crouched into my side like he thought I'd protect him. When I took a dramatic step away, hands held up in a 'what the hell' gesture, he stuck out his tongue.

"You little thief," Cleo continued. Her leather jacket flapped like wings of some dark beast as she strode toward him. Reaching into her jacket she said, "Give back what you took, or so help me…"

The scissors—copper, gleaming, ancient—appeared in her hand. Hiruko's eyes widened; his mouth curled in a pleased smirk. I don't know if his sudden confidence was merely playacted bravado or true self-assurance, but he stepped forward and peered at the scissors as though he weren't actually afraid of them at all.

"Oh, ho!" he chortled. "So Atropos finally learned to share, I see? Siblings have such trouble learning to share." A wink at Cleo, conspiratorial and overstated. "I would know."

"Can it, brat," Cleo snapped. She grasped the scissors by the hilt, holding them in front of her body the way fencers hold a foil. "And these scissors aren't all she shared."

The scissors—no, the abhorred shears, I reminded myself—gleamed like they'd caught fire. The glare intensified like a star burning its last hurrah, shooting from the base of the shears in a long, thin arc. I shielded my eyes with a curse.

When the light faded, and I could look again, the scissors had lengthened into a sword: a thin-bladed rapier. A seam down the length of the blade that meant it could still probably function like scissors if Cleo—Cloth, I reminded myself, because at this point I think I believed her true identity—needed them to function as such.

Hiruko took a step back when he saw the sword.

This time, it was Cleo who smirked.

"That's right. I mean business." She hefted the sword higher. "Now give it back. Give back what you took from us, Hiruko."

Hiruko placed a finger on his chin as if thinking. Crystalline blue eyes rolled toward the ceiling in contemplation.

"Hmm. Let me think," he said—and then his eyes snapped to Cleo in a spark of blue fire. "How about 'no'?"

The finger on his chin shifted toward his ear. With a tug and a twist he pulled the earring free—and from it spilled a thousand strands of fishing wire.

My father in my past life had been an avid fisherman. I couldn't count the time I'd been made to untangle fishing wire, strands cutting viciously into my soft fingers until the clear line stained pink with my blood. I knew at once the material when I saw it—but it behaved in ways I'd never seen.

I wasn't sure where this wire came from, to be honest. I certainly hadn't seen any on Hiruko's person before he took the hook from his ear. Connected to the base of the hook in a shining knot of clear threads, strands of gleaming wire rippled and twisted across Hiruko's skin, through his hair, around his limbs, spreading outward in a flowing tangle of thread until the air around him gleamed like it had been filled with spider's web. He swung the hook through the air like a bell, twirling in place as he lashed the hook like the handle of a bullwhip. Shimmering, gossamer threads wove into a loose-weave tapestry, a complex cage of fibers cupping him like a cradle, and when Hiruko finally stilled, he stood in the center of a gossamer hurricane. The threads drifted on winds unseen and unfelt, buoyed aloft by forces I couldn't name.

"Shit," Cleo said, eloquently.

"I'm having too much fun to stop just yet," Hiruko chirped. He gestured with his free hand at the maelstrom of fishing wire. "What do you think, Clotho? Do you like my handiwork?"

"You," she said, but she stopped. The sword dropped to her side; grey eyes gleamed silver with cold horror. "What have you done to it?"

Hiruko pouted. "Meanie. I've only made some minor adjustments." He smiled with patronizing pity. "Your work is lovely, but it needed a fresh eye. Even you can admit that, right?"

Her hand tightened around the sword. "Fuck you, Hiruko. We trusted you, and this is how you repay us?"

He tittered. "Oh. So ungrateful. Oh well. I suppose even geniuses will have their critics." His eyes slid my way, then, with another pitying smile. "Sorry, Keiko. I'll commit to your little bargain another night."

He held up his free hand—and when I saw that familiar gesture, something inside me snapped. I rolled my eyes, tilted my head so far back I almost fell over, and took a deep breath.

"Goddammit and fuck!" I bellowed.

Neither godling nor Fate had anticipated that reaction, it seemed. Both of them gasped and stared at me like I'd grown antlers. I threw up my hands and stomped in place, unable to contain my agitation.

"Really?" I said, words all a-drip with acerbity. "Really, Hiruko? Again? You're just gonna banish me as soon as it gets good? Banish me from my own dream? Again? Because it's getting old." I threw up my hands again, with shaking, angry vigor. "You could at least try to come up with something fresh, but no! But no! You'll just make me wake up and that's that, you unoriginal troll!"

Hiruko blinked in abject surprise. Cleo laughed, loud and barking.

"He's an ass, isn't he?" she said.

"Oh, like you're any better!" I snapped, and now it was Cleo blinking at me. "Remember how I just got to asking the good stuff, and you just disappeared when I started talking? The two of you are no different as far as I'm concerned. Both of you are annoying." I shooed them like they were nothing more noteworthy than bumbling pigeons blocking my way on a sidewalk. "So go on! Go play your little war games, fight your little fights, scheme your little schemes—but please. Do me the courtesy of doing it in someone else's head, because I'm done! I'm out! I'm sick and tired of this bullshit and you both suck!"

"Keiko—" Hiruko said.

"Nope! No! Nuh-uh!" I wagged a finger at him—my middle one. "Don't you 'Keiko' me. I'm done being your little plaything, so get up and get out of my goddamn head!"

Cleo stepped toward me. She said "Keiko" with comforting urgency, the way my old life's grandfather would try to gentle a panicked horse. "Keiko, Keiko, please—"

"Oh, shove it up your ass, Cleo," I snarled. "I'm in no mood to be placated. You know as well as I do that 'Keiko' isn't even my name, and neither of you are my friends."

And with that—I made myself wake up.

Not entirely sure how I did it. One minute I beheld Cloe and Hiruko in my dreams, and the next they both looked stunned and maybe a bit horrified, and the next I jolted awake in my bed. Moonlight streamed in the window like bolts of soft, rippling cloth.

I lay in my bed that night and wondered what the hell I was supposed to do now. I'd have to talk to Kagome. I'd have to go to the library like I'd promised, do my research—but first I'd organize my questions. I reached beneath my mattress and pulled out one of my many dozen notebooks. Inside of it I wrote everything I'd learned from Jii-chan, and every question that came to mind after tonight's ordeal.

How are Hiruko and Cleo connected?

What did Hiruko steal from Cleo?

Is Cleo friend or foe?

And what is Hiruko's final goal?

When sleep claimed me again, my dreams remained empty, save for echoes of the questions I'd asked in the waking world. I resolved to address them as soon as I could and put this mystery to bed before it drove me up the wall.

Too bad for me, I didn't get enough time to explore my questions fully.

Before I could get to the bottom of the mystery of the godling and the Fate, Yusuke returned to life. He came back like a freight train, momentum unstoppable—even when set against the obstacles of all my plans and subplots.

Notes:

Well, this chapter got WAY out of hand and went on longer than expected, but I needed to cram in a bunch of loose ends before Yusuke's return next chapter, so here we are. Be warned: scenes that feel like "filler" might become important later on.

Can anyone find the Futurama quote in here?

The Kurama oneshot I promised last week is almost finished. Also expect another Kurama deleted scene that was supposed to go in this chapter but didn't fit

chapter 31

Despite my occasional flair for the dramatic, the spotlight doesn't appeal to me. I get too nervous to stand in its hot light—nervous and sweaty.

A few weeks after learning the truth of Hiruko's origin, and after a very eventful weekend, when I went to school I kept my head down and did my very best to blend into the wall. Amagi and Junko weren't fooled and jumped on me the minute they saw me, despite my efforts to remain invisible, but Kaito reacted in a markedly different fashion. He looked up from his book when I arrived for lunch and said, "You're late."

No other reaction. No commentary, no widening of the eyes, no questions.

When Minamino arrived a minute later, he stopped midway through 'hello' and stared.

"What?" I touched the back of my cold neck. "Cat got your tongue?"

He immediately schooled his features into a less curious expression. Still, I could see the questions brimming behind his mild façade.

"Apologies," he said in that rich silken voice of his, "but—your hair?"

I touched my neck again, conscious of every little breeze brushing my bare nape. Sometimes I reached up to grab my hair, pull and twist it between my fingers to cope with stress, but in those moments I tangled my fingers in nothing but my shirtfront.

"Yeah," I said, running my hands over my short, thick locks. "I got a little trim."

Minamino lifted a brow at my bland understatement. Kaito merely lowered his book and peered at me, lips pressing into a confused line.

"Is your hair shorter?" he asked.

Minamino's brow rose even higher. "She cut off more than a foot of hair, by my estimations."

Another searching look in my direction. Kaito shrugged and raised his book again.

"Oh," he said. "I hadn't noticed."

"Kaito—her hair was even longer than mine." Minamino stared at our bespectacled friend in utter disbelief. "How could you not notice?"

Unamused eyes appeared over the top of Kaito's book.

"I suppose I was distracted by the bandages on her chest and arm," he said. "Those seemed slightly more important than a haircut, by my humble estimation."

Ugh—how had he noticed? I thought my winter uniform concealed the bandages. I tugged my collar and my sleeve to cover any edges peeking from my clothing, wincing as adhesive tugged my sensitive skin, but Minamino—more like Kurama, given the intensity of his stare—swung his eyes in my direction before I could completely hide the evidence.

"Of course," he intoned. "I noticed them as well. I merely thought I'd begin with the most obvious change to Yukimura's appearance."

I met his stare with insouciance and a shrug.

"Rough weekend," I said, in lieu of a real explanation.

"Yes. I can see that," Kurama said, in lieu of a sardonic what-the-hell-aren't-you-telling-me.

"I'd ask if you went through a bad breakup," Kaito cut in, "but the bandages suggest a more harrowing story…unless, of course, there is someone Minamino and I might be compelled to murder on your behalf."

"I don't know if I should be creeped out or touched, that you basically just offered to kill any abusive boyfriends in my life," I said, because…aww! How cute, in a totally weird way! Even Kurama looked oddly in tune with Kaito's logic, offering me a disarmingly innocent smile. I chose to ignore that; thinking of how the fox might enact revenge (even on someone who deserved it) chilled me to the bone. "But why would you assume I went through a breakup because I cut my hair?"

"It is my understanding that women often cut their hair when they go through an abrupt life change," Kaito said. "Breakups are the cliché example of an impetus for this behavior. But as I said, the bandages suggest an alternative explanation." He licked a thumb and turned the page of his book, though I don't believe for a second he'd actually read anything. "Furthermore, I have it on good authority that you do not date under any circumstances, reducing the likelihood of a breakup to zero."

Kurama frowned at me, then. I rolled my eyes.

"Leave it to you to turn my new haircut into a chance to show off your deductive skills," I carped. Walking past Kurama and Kaito, I plopped down on the window sill and reached to adjust—shit, no pigtails. This would take some getting used to.

Kurama watched me with expression shrewd and searching. "If not a breakup, may I ask what prompted this change?"

Careful to only touch the edges, I traced a finger over the bandages on my arm.

"It's a long story," I said.

"Then it's a good thing we have all lunch," came Kurama's silken reply.

One look at his charming, hard-eyed smile told me I couldn't avoid telling them the truth about what happened.

…most of the truth, anyway.

The city watch vans circled my neighborhood like buzzards, announcing that despite the cold weather, dry conditions had led to multiple fires in the area. Residents should be on high alert for sparks catching on dry debris, and to keep their eyes peeled for arsonists. Two fires lit that afternoon appeared to be the handiwork of a firebug; don't let your home fall victim next!

As soon as I heard the messages, I knew. I knew the way I'd known Yusuke would die, when I heard his name over the loudspeaker at Sarayashiki.

I knew that today, I would have to run into a fire to save Yusuke's life.

And I had to do it, too. Yusuke had to throw that egg to save my life. If he didn't, the beast within would eat him alive, and he'd never come back to life.

Risking my life, then, meant saving his.

…only did it count as risking my life when I knew he'd come to my rescue and save it?

But did I know he'd save it?

Maybe, if I'd changed too much about our relationship…maybe he wouldn't throw that egg. Maybe the fire would consume me as Yusuke fell prey to the call of self-preservation. But that was impossible, right?

…right?

Packing up my things and leaving his body comatose in the house felt wrong, but I had to do it to give the arsonist the chance to set that fire. I left the house when I heard the vans and wandered to the shopping district, prattling an excuse about going shopping to benefit any prying (not to mention ghostly) ears. Tried to look casual in case Botan was watching, of course—a difficult feat when questions of fate, love, bonds, and destiny ran through my head like a roadrunner on crack. I played it cool while I shopped, keeping my eyes on the sky as I searched for a column of smoke in the direction of Yusuke's house.

The moment I saw a ribbon of black stain blue, I turned tail and dashed back the way I'd come.

Even though I knew Yusuke would save me (right?) I still had to steel my nerves before dumping a bucket of water over my head and charging toward the house. I had to do this, I had to do this, I had to do this, I had to! The mantra screamed inside my head as I fought the crowd, pushing through them toward the front door. A few people tried to stop me, of course. I rounded on them with a snarl, recycling a line of Keiko's dialogue so I could call them cowards—and I meant it, too, in that moment. I told them someone was inside, but they still grabbed at my clothes and tried to hold me back.

"My best friend is in there!" I screeched at them, wrenching myself away. "Don't you fucking touch me!"

Despite my big words, fear gnawed my gut like a hungry coyote. How had Keiko done this without the knowledge Yusuke would save her? How could she have been that selfless, that brave? My whole body shook like a taut bowstring as I tore myself from the grasps of strangers, but I tried not to think about how dangerous this was as I turned to face the flames.

I had to save Yusuke.

I had to.

But how could I, when I was so afraid? My limbs quaked with every step, with every movement—but, no. Don't think of it that way.

I had to think of these limbs as Keiko's, not my own.

Right now, I couldn't afford to be myself. I couldn't afford to listen to anxiety, to the voice of fear shouting deafening condemnations in my skull. I had to put myself aside and just let go, give in to being Keiko—strong, brave, indomitable Yukimura Keiko. A woman far braver than my past self had ever been. I had to stop thinking of myself, right now, and simply fulfill Keiko's destiny.

Yusuke's life depended on it. It depended on me letting go of my ego and becoming a woman I was not.

Somehow, against all odds, against my own sense of self-preservation both physical and spiritual…in the wake of that realization, my shaking ceased.

My fear abated, and I plunged headlong into the conflagration.

My newfound determination didn't dull the pain of crashing into a burning building, unfortunately. A gout of flame spouted from the door when I pushed it open; my eyes watered, nose streaming from the smell of burning hair and wood. I tugged my sweater over my mouth and nose and pushed my way inside, picking past the burning couch and coffee table, dodging debris when it fell from the smoldering ceiling. I relied mostly on memory of the house because the heat—the pulsating, suffocating heat—made seeing almost impossible. Breath came in hot gasps as I trekked through the burning wreckage and burst through the door into Yusuke's room, air filling my lungs like boiling water poured into pitiful, thin balloons.

I shut the door behind me. It was hot in here, but nothing had caught fire (yet). I sucked down a great gulp of smoke-free air and ran to Yusuke. Offering silent thanks to Yusuke's caregivers and their tutelage, I removed his IVs and feeding tube and strapped his catheter bag to his leg (no way was I touching Yusuke's dick, emergency or no emergency). I just hoped and prayed that whatever magic had brought him back to life would sustain him though the ordeal to come. Just hang in a little longer, Yusuke, just hang in there…

I took off my soaked cardigan and wrapped it around his thin frame to protect him from the fire. Then I wrapped him in a blanket, hefted him over my shoulder, and kicked open the bedroom door.

The fire surged forward like a living, hungry beast, licking against the arm I threw up with a lash of searing pain. I screamed and stumbled back, but sparks had ignited the bed behind me.

No way through but forward, Keiko.

Get moving before you get killed.

The carpet—cheap and made mostly of plastic, I guessed—had melted more than burned. It stuck tackily to the bottoms of my shoes as I slogged through the house, sucking at my feet like quicksand. I yelped when we reached the middle of the living room and a ceiling tile fell on top of us. I thrust out my arm, screaming yet again as fire seared my skin. When I felt embers trickle down the collar of my shirt I tried to let out another scream—only this time smoke clogged my lungs. I choked, coughed, spat out black saliva as my hair started to smolder. My knees weakened as my vision swam, lack of oxygen turning my impaired vision even blurrier. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream, oh Yusuke, where are you? I couldn't smell anything but smoke—

This is where I die, I thought in an adrenaline-fueled burst of clarity.

But then, in the scant space between seconds, something changed.

One second I thought, briefly, that I might actually die here. One second, I could only smell choking, suffocating smoke. The next, an acrid chemical tang undercut the scent—a familiar smell. One I'd been smelling for years. One that my heart identified before my brain could catch up. I relaxed the second I smelled it, lips curling in a comforted smile as it wafted like a cool breeze across my face. It smelled like home and safety, a warm hand and an open heart.

I opened my eyes

The fire had turned blue.

Out of nowhere, a cool wind sprang up, zephyr spiraling past me and into the fire like a spear thrown by steady hand. The fire rippled and shifted, a whirlpool of empty space opening amidst the flames in a tunnel leading—

The front door.

The front door lay at the other end, unobstructed by flames at last.

And then, I was not alone.

Kuwabara ran through the door a moment later, with a scream of my name so desperate for a second I thought he might be in pain. I screeched his name in return, handing over Yusuke's comatose body so he could carry it from the house. We stumbled out together, my hand clasped tight in his, and collapsed on the ground near the edge of the property in a heap. I lay there panting, clearing smoke from my lungs with vicious, bone-shaking coughs. Eventually I wretched, stomach heaving as the last inhaled bits of ash and cinder forcefully left my body. Kuwabara patted my back and murmured comforts until I could speak. Fresh, cold winter air bit at my face like snapping teeth.

"Yusuke," I rasped, vision still full of soot. "Is he—?"

"He's fine, I think," Kuwabara said. He looked around, at the crowd staring at us and the firemen rushing toward the house. "But Keiko, it's not safe—"

He didn't have to say more. Yusuke had died, and as far as the public knew, we were carrying the corpse of a dead boy. I nodded and stood up. Kuwabara joined me, Yusuke slung across his back like a sack of potatoes.

"I know where we can take him," Kuwabara said. He grabbed my hand. "C'mon. Follow me."

Eyes sooty and stinging, mouth full of grit, body thrumming with energy—I didn't question Kuwabara. I grabbed his hand back and ran after him up the street.

If I trusted anyone to take care of Yusuke—and of me—it was Kuwabara.

After a few minutes of lung-wrenching running, we stood in front of Kuwabara's house. Bigger than expected, two stories loomed above us behind a bit of yard out front. Kuwabara trotted right up the front steps, but I hung back and stared at the flowerbeds by the porch. Kuwabara glanced at me over his shoulder.

"Right," he said. "You've never been to my house." He beckoned me with an impatient wave. "Nobody'll bite ya! Let's get Yusuke inside. C'mon!"

Despite his assurances, I had my doubts…because inside I knew I'd likely encounter Shizuru. No telling how that reunion would go. Did she even remember me? We'd met years ago, after all. Maybe she'd be suspicious of the same girl from the playground worming into her brother's life so many years later, and—

No. Now was not the time. My worries were less important than Yusuke's health. We needed to get Yusuke examined by his doctor, and to do that I needed a phone, so I had no choice but to follow Kuwabara inside.

We found Shizuru in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke out the window above the sink. Her hair had grown to the length in the anime, but she still rocked dapper menswear, same as she had as an unimpressed teen girl. The minute she saw us she dropped her cigarette in the drain and turned on the sink to drown the embers—and thank god for that, because when I smelled that smoke, my stomach clenched with sudden nausea. Shizuru looked at the bundle in Kuwabara's arms and lifted one well-plucked eyebrow.

"Wow, baby bro," she said. "You making friends with dead people now?"

"Shut up, Shizuru, this is an emergency!" he said. He took Yusuke through the kitchen and into the living room beyond. "Keiko, should we call Atsuko?"

"No telling where she is, but I've got Yusuke's doctor's number memorized." I looked at Shizuru and bowed. "Hello. I'm sorry to barge in, but can I use your phone? It really is an emergency."

She studied me a second, sizing me up like a piece of brisket at the market. Apparently I passed muster because she tossed me the handset of the cordless phone on the wall without a word. I dialed the number of Yusuke's doctor and hurriedly told the nurse what had happened. She gasped when I mentioned the fire, but I didn't pause to give her the juicy details. Yusuke needed his doctor, now.

"We'll send an ambulance immediately," she said, "but where should we send it—?"

Something touched my shoulder. I flinched, but it was only Shizuru handing me a piece of paper between two fingers. I recognized it as a phone bill and for a minute I had no idea why she'd handed it to me—but then, oh, that was their address at the top of the letter. Perfect. I shot Shizuru a thankful look as I read the address to the nurse.

The next ten minutes passed in a flurry of activity. I called my mother and told her what happened, and what was happening now, and asked her to track down Atsuko, or at least go to the hospital and wait for Yusuke to show up. I promised to meet her there as soon as I could. Then I checked Yusuke's vitals. He seemed to be breathing OK on his own; his pulse beat faint but steady under my fingertips. So far so good. We arranged him on the living room couch where hopefully he'd be comfortable—and when that was done, my strength failed me. I sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs and put my head in my hands.

It was done.

It was done.

Yusuke had survived the fire. He'd sacrificed the egg to save my life.

All according to plan. No rules broken.

Suck it, Hiruko!

Kuwabara's big, gentle hand descended on my shoulder. I tangled my fingers in his, squeezing to acknowledge him and provide comfort in return. I heard a siren in the distance, far but getting closer.

"I think they're almost here," he murmured.

And so they were. I had only a moment to rest before they pounded on the door and whisked Yusuke away. I started to follow, to get into the ambulance with him, but the paramedics shook their heads.

"Only family can ride in the back," they said.

"He's basically my brother," I snarled, trying to get my leg over the back bumper, but Kuwabara dragged me off before I could do anything stupid. We watched in silence in the middle of the street as they took Yusuke away with a blare of strident sirens.

And then those sirens faded, and we were alone.

"Well. Time to go, then," I said. Before I could run after the ambulance like Forest-Gump-determination, Kuwabara caught me by the arm.

"Keiko—take a minute to breathe, OK?" he said. His dark eyes glittered with concern, blocky brow furrowed as he searched my face. I didn't move when he swiped a thumb across my cheek. "Geez. You're covered in dirt!"

I touched my face. I expected my fingers to come away sooty, but they were already stained black. I stared at them in disbelief before scrubbing a hand over my face. Mealy dirt rubbed hard into my skin. Oh god. What did I even look like right now? I spread my arms and looked down at my clothes—oh. My shirt had been yellow earlier. Now it was brown and black and ruined. I lifted my collar to my nose and inhaled, but I couldn't smell anything but the scent of pervasive smoke.

"Do…do I smell like an ashtray?" I asked.

Kuwabara looked away—but he nodded.

"Oh." I paused. "Um. I guess I'll go home and—"

"Sorry. But you're not going anywhere."

Shizuru stood on the porch. She'd lit up another cigarette, watching us the way a cat watches a bird through a window.

"Not while you look like that, anyway," she said. She jerked her head toward the door. "C'mon. You can shower here, borrow my clothes. And we'll fix your hair while we're at it."

I frowned. "My hair—?"

I grabbed at my chest where my pigtails normally lay, but my fingers encountered only one pigtail. I patted my head and neck, gingerly searching for my hair, eyes widening when I found only one tail where there had once been two. I lifted my eyes to Kuwabara's and gaped at him.

"My hair?" I repeated.

His cheeks colored. "Um. It's—it doesn't look bad, honest!"

"Liar," Shizuru said, sparing no time for niceties. "She looks like hell."

Kuwabara stammered something about tact; Shizuru laughed. Without a word I walked up the steps and went indoors. Shizuru showed me to the bathroom upstairs without speaking. Only when I stepped past the door did she say, "I can wash those clothes if you want, but I'm pretty sure they're ruined."

"You…you can just throw them out," I said.

"Sure." She grabbed the doorknob. "I'll bring you new clothes once you're in the shower."

"OK."

She left me alone…alone except for my reflection, staring at me from the mirror above the sink. I barely recognized myself at first. Huge, dark eyes stared out of a face covered in ash. Though a pigtail hung down from the right side of my head, the left bore only a ragged fringe of ruined hair. Must've gotten burned off when that debris fell on me.

My mom had really liked my hair.

I'd always considered pigtails juvenile, but my mom was going to pitch a fit when she saw this. People would be able to hear her scolding in the next prefecture when she found out I'd run into a burning building.

For no reason whatsoever, my eyes pricked with tears.

Half of the water that cleaned my face, I suspected, came not from the shower I eventually took, but came rather from the fountain of my eyes—eyes that wept with grief for my hair, and the aftermath of peril, but mostly from the feeling of stark, intense relief bubbling painful inside my chest.

Yusuke had sacrificed the egg.

Yusuke was coming back to life.

I hadn't fucked up canon, after all.

All told, I came out of the fire ordeal with only minimal injuries. My chest and forearm both sported slick, red, bubbling burns, which I made very sure not to scrub or agitate as I washed my ruined hair and soaped my overheated flesh. They only hurt when I touched them, thank my lucky stars. When the water stopped running black, and when I'd scrubbed the last of the soot from my skin, I dressed in a pair of women's running shorts and a man's soft t-shirt. The neckline hung low off one shoulder, keeping the burn on my chest exposed and away from chafing cloth.

"You OK in there?"

I jumped, but it was just Shizuru with gauze and ointment. I dressed my wounds under her watchful eye (conscious all the while that I was two inches away from flashing a boob in this oversized shirt). She held up a hand when I made to leave the room.

"Wait," she said.

She left, then retuned bearing a chair, a sheet, and a small, zippered black bag of dubious purpose. I eyed the bag with a raised brow.

"I'm not letting you leave with your hair like that," she said.

"Oh, right. Your brother mentioned you're a beautician." I smiled. "Are you any good?"

"Kid, count yourself lucky I'm not charging for this. My haircuts are worth gold." Shizuru thrust the chair toward me. "Sit."

Shizuru cut my hair for me right there, sheet draped around my shoulders to catch spare clippings. She murmured she was sorry to see such pretty hair get burned to a crisp, but I just shrugged.

"About time I updated my look," I said. "Pigtails are pretty 'young.'"

"Yeah. And you've been wearing them for, what…five years now?"

I met her eyes in the mirror above my head. Even if she hadn't been holding a pair of very sharp scissors next to my ear, the cold, hard look she shot me would've chilled my bones regardless. As it stands, I took a deep breath and tried very hard not to look like I was about to throw up. Certainly felt like I might toss my cookies at any moment. My pulse fluttered beneath my burned skin like moths trapped under tissue paper.

"You wore them the first time we met," she continued. Shizuru ran a lock of my hair between her fingers, then sheared it with a precise snip. "On that playground. You remember, right?" A long, measured, searing stare. "And don't try to play me. I'm not my brother and I won't fall for it."

Of course she wouldn't fall for it. This was Shizuru. When it came to the preservation of my secrets, I counted her among the three most dangerous threats in this world alongside Kurama and Genkai.

Of course she recognized me.

Of course she remembered.

I'd been a fool to think she wouldn't. She'd just been waiting to bring it up until Kuwabara left the room. I'd jumped the gun, thinking I'd escaped her eagle eyes. Too distracted by Yusuke to read the signs, I guess.

"Yes," I said. Better to admit the truth than play a game with someone like Shizuru. Wearing a mask would do no good here. I met her eyes with candor. "I remember."

"Thought so." She smirked, but fondly. "Too bad my baby brother doesn't remember you."

"Well, we were a lot younger then," I said. "And you were older than us. So your memory is probably clearer."

She hummed, acknowledging my point. Her hands touched my scalp with firm delicacy. For a few minutes she cut my hair in silence. I closed my eyes.

"Was wondering when I'd see you again," she said. "So what's your deal? You stalking Kazuma or something?"

Shizuru didn't sound particularly worried, which I counted as a small victory on my part. I resisted the urge to shake my head and said, "No. Your brother and I went to the same school until recently, by chance."

She hummed again. "I heard you got kicked out."

Took a fair bit of willpower not to look uncomfortable beneath her intense scrutiny. "Yeah."

She didn't reply for a minute, concentrating on my haircut. She didn't look at me when she spoke. I guess she knew I hung on every word.

"Our family has a tendency to attract weird bullshit," she said. "We sense things. Call it intuition. I don't get anything bad from you…but you're an odd one. So I'm assuming you're sort of like us. Maybe you attract weird bullshit, too."

I couldn't help but wince. "Yeah. You could say that."

"You planning on dragging my brother into that bullshit?"

Although she spoke with casual indifference, a threat unspoken lurked beneath her calm exterior. Hurt my baby brother and you die. Shizuru didn't need to say it. I heard her loud and clear.

"I would never, ever hurt your brother," I said. "He's the best friend I have."

The scissors paused in their snipping.

"You mean that?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered, instantaneously and firm. "I mean what I say."

"I remember you saying that to me before. At least you're consistent." She scowled. "Whatever your deal is, it's clear you didn't meet my brother and become friends with him by chance. Not after all these years, and not after what you said on that playground."

"I…didn't plan on being his friend." And that was the honest truth. "It just sort of happened."

She didn't react—but then she shook her head.

"Hmmph. I believe you." She looked troubled by her own admission, eyes downcast as she trimmed my hair. Soon her lips curled in a subtle smile. "Kazuma's been talking about his new friend Keiko for months now. We've been teasing him about getting a girlfriend. Was wondering when he'd bring her by. I got a nagging feeling she'd be interesting, but…I didn't expect you."

I shrugged, smile apologetic and cheesy—'yeah, I'm here, oops!' Shizuru chuckled, a low caress of throaty humor.

"Is my baby brother aware that his best friend is Volcano Girl," she asked, "or was he too busy gloating that he'd made friends with a pretty girl to notice?"

At first I only registered the compliment, ears heating under my shortening hair (hey, Shizuru was super pretty and I'd had a bit of crush on her even before seeing her in real life). Then the first part of her comment sank in. I sat up a little straighter. "Volcano Girl?"

Shizuru's eyebrows rose. "He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Ask him." She put down the scissors and ran her fingers through my hair, lifting the roots from the base of my scalp—it felt nice, and she stopped too quickly. "All done."

When I looked in the mirror, I didn't really look like myself anymore—well. I didn't really look like Keiko, I mean. In my old life I'd always worn my hair long. At one point it had fallen to my hips. Keiko's long hairstyle (even when worn in those despised pigtails) had felt like a callback to my previous existence. Long brown hair comforted me, as it was the one physical commonality Keiko and I possessed.

Short hair, barely brushing the collar of my borrowed t-shirt, felt and looked as foreign as waking up in a new body…OK, maybe not quite that foreign. Still felt pretty weird, though. Luckily Shizuru appeared to know what she was doing. She'd layered the bangs and side pieces to frame Keiko's delicate features, highlighting the curve of her jaw and cheekbone with silky curls. I wasn't accustomed to the hairstyle, but even I had to admit this 'do suited Keiko better than the previous.

Caught between the shock of change and feelings of appreciation, I said, "It's nice."

Shizuru's glower could melt stone. "It's fucking perfect."

"Yeah. Sorry. You're right," I amended. "It blows the pigtails out of the water."

Leaning toward the mirror, I tugged at my bangs, experimenting with their fall. When I felt eyes on me I looked up and found Shizuru staring, a frown etched lightly across her mouth. I met her stare and quirked a brow.

"Um…is something wrong?" I asked when she didn't say anything.

Shizuru flinched like I'd startled her from a deep sleep, though she covered with a laugh at her own expense. A smile haunted the corners of her mouth when she said, "Like I said a long time ago—you're not what you seem. Trying to put my finger on how." She tossed her hair. "Anyway. Like I said last time, don't hurt my baby bro."

Her earlier undercurrent of unspoken threat had faded, thank my lucky stars. Still, best not tempt fate. I nodded and said, "I care about your brother very much. I'd never let him get hurt."

Shizuru's small smile faded into solemn, contemplative examination. We stared into each other's eyes via the mirror for a quiet moment, until she ducked her head. Her smile returned, head shaking as though she'd heard a really bad joke.

"I believe you mean that," she murmured. Then she looked over her shoulder toward the bathroom door and barked, "Kazuma!"

Her voice echoed in the tiled bathroom like a gunshot. Immediately Kuwabara yelped from somewhere far off in the house; two seconds later his huge feet pounded up the stairs.

"Yeah, sis?" he said from the other side of the door.

Shizuru glided over and pushed the door open, free hand waving in my direction. "Walk your friend home."

"Oh, sure." He looked past her at me—and then his mouth fell open. He shut it just as quickly, though. "Oh. Um. A-are you ready to go already, Keiko?"

"Yeah. I need to get to the hospital soon. Atusko'll need backup." I patted my hair like someone in an infomercial and batted my eyelashes. "And I gotta show Mom my new 'do!"

Kuwabara didn't react. He stood there with knees knocked, hands awkward and stiff by his sides, eyes on me, face turning pink. Shizuru rolled her eyes and elbowed him in the ribs—hard. I heard the thud of the impact from across the room.

"Yee-ouch!" Kuwabara said, jumping back a step. "What the heck was that for?"

Shizuru pinned him with a dead-eyed glare. "Tell the lady she looks nice, dumbass."

His eyes widened. "Oh!" And then he stared at the floor, face thoroughly reddened. "You look—very pretty, Keiko!"

Damn near thought his head would explode when he ground out the compliment, voice like rocks caught in a vacuum cleaner. I just laughed and stood up.

"Thanks," I said. I bowed low, conscious of the stinging skin beneath my bandages, of how light my head felt without all that hair to weigh it down. Bowing felt different than before, but not in a bad way. "And thank you, Shizuru, for allowing me the privilege of experiencing your hospitality."

She huffed. "Where'd Kuwabara meet you, charm school?" She turned and waved over her shoulder in clear, uncaring dismissal. "Anyway. Beat it, both of you. I need a nap. Too much excitement for one day, that's for sure..."

No arguing with Shizuru. Both Kuwabara and I knew better than to disturb her when she requested space for a nap. We exchanged a look, put our fingers over our lips at the same time, and tiptoed out of the house like mice avoiding the wrath of a certain sharp-eyed cat.

Only took me a minute to realize Kuwabara had something on his mind. His shifty eyes, grunt-like-a-caveman responses, and shuffling feet gave him away. Kuwabara couldn't hide anything from me. I knew better than to press, though. I waited, idly chatting about the day's events, letting him work through what to say without any pressure. We'd walked halfway to my house before he finally found the words he'd been looking for.

Those words apparently started with: "Um. So."

I smiled, warm and supportive. "What is it?"

"Um. The fire." He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wandering anywhere but my direction. "I was wondering…I tried to get in, to go after you, but I couldn't get past the door." He didn't seem to notice my shocked expression—he'd tried to go in after me? He'd tried to save me? Wow. Good ol' Kuwabara. He continued, "I touched the door but it was too hot to open. It didn't seem like I'd gotten there in time to help. But then I felt this weird…"

He stopped talking, shooting me a sidelong look of question, trepidation, and uncertainty. I stopped walking, glancing up and down the quiet residential street. No one nearby. Good. We could talk freely. Our only audience—aside from a certain ghost and his blue-haired companion, perhaps—was the houses lining the street, windows glinting golden in the afternoon sun.

"Yusuke saved me," I said.

Kuwabara blinked. "Yusuke…?"

"The fire…you saw it. It was blue, right?"

"Yeah." His shoulders sagged, tension draining from his eyes. "It was blue. So you saw it, too."

I hummed. "Yeah. I'd gotten burned really badly, and I had to shut my eyes against the smoke, but then…I smelled something." I smiled at that memory, even though I'd likely have nightmares of fire and smoke when I went to bed that night. "When I opened my eyes, the fire was blue, and a path to the door had cleared."

Kuwabara frowned. "What did you smell?"

"Uh…it smelled like Yusuke's hair gel." Admitting so made my ears heat a little, but I pushed the feeling of tender vulnerability aside. "I think he did something to save my life."

Kuwabara didn't speak. He just stared, face smoothing as his thoughts consumed him. I reached out and tangled my fingers in his sleeve.

"I had that dream, remember?" I said. "That he was coming back? And then this happened." I stepped close to him, voice low, urgent, and heartfelt. "Yusuke is out there. He's trying to come home—and he'll make it. I believe in him."

I thought Kuwabara would react with emotion, like he had when he first learned Yusuke had come back to life and intended to return. Instead he surprised me. He put his hand over mine and squeezed, meeting my eyes with an urgent expression of his own.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked.

I blinked. That…had come out of nowhere. The short answer was 'yes,' but only in this life and in this world. I hadn't believed in ghosts (or any supernatural phenomenon, period) in my past life. No evidence suggested its existence, so I just didn't believe.

Truth be told, in this world I hadn't yet reconciled my atheism with the supernatural shenanigans of Yu Yu Hakusho. I still considered myself an atheist, even though I knew an afterlife of some sort existed and that demigods like Koenma walked the Spirit World. It's just that despite the existence of some 'supernatural' occurrences, nothing in Yu Yu Hakusho had ever pointed to the idea of a supreme being existing. Ghosts, souls, and demons existed here, but that didn't mean a supreme being did. Koenma and his father were as flawed as any human being. They didn't fit the bill of a true god. Thus, my atheism continued.

Ghosts, however? Evidence pointed to something that fit the traditional definition of a ghost. Evidence made room in my beliefs for the supernatural. Ipso facto…

"I didn't used to believe in them," I said, because I felt I should be honest. "But now, after everything I've seen since Yusuke died…"

That slightly noncommittal answer appeared to be enough for Kuwabara. He gripped my hand tighter, mouth pulling into a thin line. Light shined through his hair. It looked like spun amber in this context, coaxing ruddy highlights from the depths of his dark, narrow eyes. In a few years he'd grow into those ridiculous cheekbones and rugged jaw, I suspected. Maybe Shizuru's teasing about him getting a girlfriend wasn't too preposterous, after all.

"Keiko. There's…something I need to tell you," he said.

I frowned. "What is it?"

"You…you're probably wondering how I knew to come by Yusuke's house when I did, right?" he said.

I hadn't been wondering—because I knew from seeing the anime that Botan and the Tickle Feeling had led him there. Now that he mentioned it, it would be logical for Keiko to wonder, because Kuwabara's presence was more than a little coincidental. I pasted on my best puzzled expression, as though the thought hadn't occurred to me until he mentioned it. I fancied even Sir Patrick Stewart would approve of my acting ability just then.

"I've been so distracted," I said. "Now that you mention it, how did you know to come by?"

He took a deep breath—and when he resettled his hand on mine, I noticed that it shook. Not dramatically, just a light tremor resonating through the length of his fingers. He licked his lips and swallowed before looking me dead in the eye.

Was Kuwabara…nervous? But what did he have to be nervous about?

"This is gonna sound crazy," he said, "but just let me talk and get it all out before writing me off as some nutjob, OK?

"I'd never do that to you," I assured him. "But OK."

"OK." Another deep breath, this time a shuddering breath that rattled in his barrel chest like nails in a jar. "Well, ya see, Keiko…I'm kind of psychic."

He told me everything, then—everything I already knew from the anime and manga, but he spoke as if revealing a secret he'd been hiding all his life, confession a popping balloon under the pressure of a sharp needle. The Tickle Feeling, seeing ghosts in his dreams, being followed by specters, phantom hands on his neck in the dark, cold whispers sending shivers down his back. He'd been experiencing it since he was a kid. People hadn't always believed him. People had mocked him for an over-active imagination and being a scaredy-cat when he didn't like being alone in the dark.

His bravado, his need to fight, his desire to be strong had all developed out of his need to protect himself, he said.

He'd gotten behind in schoolwork when concentrating became hard, and studying alone in his room at night had become impossible, he said.

"For years I've been coping however I can, but lately, the weird stuff has kicked into overdrive," he said, barely sparing time to breathe. "I'm sensing things I never sensed before. It's honestly getting ridiculous, and I just wish it would stop, y'know?" He looked exhausted just talking about it. "Sleeping is hard. Ghosts hover in my ear saying horrible things and—" He stopped, cheeks sallow, and shook his head. "Not the point. The point is I couldn't lie to you about it anymore. Since you seem chill with the whole supernatural thing, I just thought…I just thought since we're best friends, I should be honest with you. And I hope you're OK with that."

He stopped talking like a car hitting a brick wall. His chest rose and fell with near-panicked breath, eyes shining with hope and doubt and fear and supplication all at once. When I grasped his arm, the look changed. He looked at my hand like it might belong to one of the ghosts that haunted his nightly rest. My heart beat in my mouth like a drum.

"Oh, Kuwabara," I said. "I'm so sorry you've been going through that."

His chest visibly hitched. "You mean you believe me?"

"Of course I do." I offered him an empathetic smile. "You'd never lie to me, ever. And besides: My childhood friend died and came back to life and communicates with me in dreams. You seeing ghosts is not outside the realm of possibility."

"Oh," he said. His head tilted back, face toward the wintry blue sky. "Oh, thank god."

I squeezed his arm a little tighter. "Are you OK?"

He didn't look at me right away. Kuwabara blinked up at the sky until he composed himself. I didn't say a word. Take all the time you need, honey.

"It's just—no one ever believes me aside from my sister, but she doesn't count," he said, voice thick with suppressed emotion. "I don't tell people about this. They already think I'm a delinquent. But a freak on top of that?" He shook his head, eyes closing. "Okubo and the rest know about the Tickle Feeling, but even they don't know the worst of it." He tried to smile. Mostly failed. "I guess I was just afraid you'd think I'm a freak or something."

For all my forethought, planning, and knowledge of Yu Yu Hakusho...in that moment, I had no idea what to say.

It had never occurred to me that Kuwabara might not feel comfortable talking about his powers—but now that I thought about it, he'd never directly referenced them in my hearing. I hadn't considered that he might not reveal them to me until we become close, or that he might try to hide them…but this behavior made sense. The supernatural existed here, but common people didn't seem to realize it. And hell, late in the anime he'd actually tried hiding his abilities from his college classmates. There was a precedent for Kuwabara's secrecy, and I'd been too distracted by my own inside knowledge to even notice.

This confession of his was…was a sign of trust, really. A sign that he believed I wouldn't reject him, or be scared of him, or mock him like so many others.

A sign he thought I'd believe him.

I knew what that was like, needing to be believed. Needing to feel like you weren't alone, and someone was there for you.

"I'd never think you were a freak," I said when words availed themselves. I swallowed and tried to think of something clever, something empathetic, something that would wipe the haunted look from his carved features. "I wish you'd told me earlier. I could've…made you dreamcatcher or something, to keep the bad ghosts away."

He laughed at my terrible suggestion, so that was nice. At least I hadn't stepped on a rake and offended him somehow. Still, he laughed way harder than he should've. I cocked my head to the side and scowled.

"What?" I said. "Do dreamcatchers not actually work?"

"No," he chortled. "I tried making one and it didn't do nothin'. But I probably did it wrong."

"Maybe we could get a book from the library and try again."

His eyed lit up like fireworks, warming me to my core.

"Yeah," he said, "we should!"

We walked to my parents' house chattering about his experiences with the supernatural, small though they were at this early stage in his life. When he dropped me off on my front porch, his smile could've powered an entire city block. He looked at me with gratitude I couldn't fathom and promised to stop by soon. He missed studying with me, he said. It had been fun, and he wanted to keep getting better at English even though he'd passed Iwamoto's test so many weeks before.

He wanted to tell me more about the ghosts, he said, and maybe go to the library and learn more about them, now that he wasn't alone.

Kaito and Minamino stared at me for a few seconds. Kaito pushed his glasses up his nose with one deliberate finger.

"So you ran into a burning building to save...your cat," he said.

"Yup." I flipped my short hair with exaggerated conceit. "I'm a hero."

"No," he deadpanned. "You're a liar."

"But she's only lying about part of something," said Minamino (more like Kurama, given the look in his bright eye). "She's telling some truth, but not all."

I did my best not to shrink beneath his perceptive gaze. To recognize that I'd told him the truth about some things (like running into a fire) but to know I'd fudged others (like the identity of whom I'd saved)? That took skill. Kurama basically had superpowers, and not even the plant-based kind I already knew about.

Speaking of powers—what were the odds he'd ever tell me about his supernatural abilities like Kuwabara had? What would it take for me to get a confession like that? From Kuwabara the confession had been a sign of trust, but I got the feeling Kurama would not willingly tell anyone the truth of his demonic nature.

Not that I wanted him to. Our game of pun-based "chicken" was too much fun to give up, even if coming clean would simplify my life.

"Why, Minamino," Kaito said. "I didn't know you were such a psychology buff, to recognize deceit with such alacrity."

Kurama did not take his eyes off me when he murmured, "It's a hobby."

"Your other hobby appears to be prying into my personal life," I groused. I threw my hands into the air and rolled my eyes. "I ran into a burning building to save a beloved pet. What's so hard to believe about that?"

Good luck trying to find a lie in that, Kurama. I was responsible for feeding Yusuke. That basically made him my pet, didn't it?

Kurama and Kaito both still looked suspicious, but the bell rang and afforded me a reprieve from their incessant questions. Kaito, as per his custom, made sure to walk with me to a fork in the hallway and then accompany Minamino to class—still dutifully keeping Kurama and I away from each other when he could manage it, bless him.

Too bad for Kaito, Kurama and I had the last class of the day together. The redhead rapped his knuckles on my desk as soon as I slid into it and said, "Yukimura. Can you accompany me to the greenhouse after school?"

I eyed him with withering suspicion. "What, you wanna harvest my kidneys and feed it to a Venus flytrap or something?"

He coughed. "As their name purports, Venus flytraps eat flies, not kidneys."

"Yeah, I know." I patted my hair like I starred in a shampoo commercial. "But have you seen my fashion sense lately? It's pretty fly."

Kurama heaved a delicate, tired sigh at my (innocent, this time) pun. "I suppose. So can you make it?"

"Sure, sure." I stuck out my tongue when he walked away, muttering, "Sorry my puns bug you."

Of course, I spent the rest of class wondering just what the hell he wanted, puns fleeing in the shadow of looming panic. After class he approached my desk with a polite smile, then escorted me to the greenhouse without saying anything revelatory whatsoever (that boy could fill the silence with idle, diversionary smalltalk like his life depended on it). By the time we entered the greenhouse's damp heat, I still had no idea what he wanted from me, and I didn't like that one bit.

I stopped just inside the door and planted my hands on my hips. "OK, mister. What did you want to get me in here for, anyway?"

I didn't like his charming smile one bit, either. "I have a present for you," he said.

My response was as immediate as it was emphatic: "I do not accept carnivorous plants."

So was his: "And I don't grow them."

My eyes narrowed. "Why don't I believe you?"

His eyes did, too. "What are you implying?"

Ah, yes. Our game of "chicken" was still on. We stared each other for a prolonged minute, assessing each other, wondering where the line between knowing too much and revealing too much lay. Eventually I sighed and thrust out my hands, fingers curling in a grabby-hands gesture.

"Never mind," I said. "Now gimme."

He lifted a brow. "So demanding."

"Nothing like a brush with death to make a girl appreciate random gifts." More grabby hands. "Well, don't leave me in suspense. Where's my present?"

He snorted, eyes closing, lips curving. The smile did something subtle to his features, lifting and lightening them in a way that highlighted the line of his jaw and the tilt of his eye. He looked…peaceful, when he smiled. It eased a tightness I hadn't realized lingered at the edges of his mouth.

It revealed a handsomeness that, at times, I was too pun-panicked to notice.

Kurama turned away and reached beneath a table covered in flowering plants. From it he pulled a small pot. In the center of it sprouted a small succulent plant, long triangular fronds covered in spikes, green flesh dotted here and there with milky white spots.

"This is—" he said.

"Aloe vera!" I interjected. For a second I hesitated (this was a plant from Kurama, after all) but then I took the pot from him with a smile. No reason the real Keiko wouldn't take this when its intention was so obvious, and no reason for Not Quite Keiko not to take it when his previously gifted plants had proved harmless. "Thank you! For my burns, right?"

"Right." He looked oddly impressed with me, for some reason. "You've used it before?"

"Oh, all the time. Put it on all kinds of bumps and scrapes as a kid." I eyed the little plant with fondness, burned flesh itching and stinging now that I was thinking about it. "It grew out back of my Grandma's house. She would always take cuttings and put them on sunburns."

"Interesting." Kurama studied me a moment. "It doesn't grow wild in Japan."

Uh oh. Shit. Leave it to a reference to my past to give me away. Ironic, really, when that's what I hoped to do to Kurama with all my puns.

"Well," I covered. "It wasn't wild. She planted it there." I changed the subject by bowing, pot held carefully upright. "Anyway. Thanks! I'll pop a cutting in the fridge for a bit and use it as a treatment on my burns tonight."

My lie seemed to satisfy the fox, although I confess it was hard to tell for sure. He smiled and said, "I hope you recover in short order. And oh, Yukimura?"

I paused midway to the door. "Hmm?"

"Your new haircut." A long pause, followed by a very stiff: "It…suits you."

I stared at him. He didn't move. In fact, he looked rather uncomfortable all of a sudden—like complimenting me hadn't been part of his original plan, and he didn't yet know how to handle his own actions.

Still. I'd never heard a compliment so forced before.

"Wow," I deadpanned. "What an effusive commendation. Such a ringing endorsement of my new hair. I brim with confidence in the wake of your approval."

That produced another of those light-bringing smile of his. "Apologies. Allow me to amend my statement." His eyes glittered like leaves fallen in a clear mountain stream. "It looks lovely on you, Yukimura-san."

I might've been older than I looked, but even I wasn't immune to the effects of a compliment from someone as attractive as Kurama. I covered the hitch in my breathing and the blush in my cheeks by sticking out my tongue—and concocting a rather daring pun, if I do say so myself.

"You're just happy to have the longest hair in the group again, you silver-haired bastard—sorry." I waved an apologetic hand, gosh-golly-gee, how silly of me to confuse that idiom. "Meant to say silver-tongued. Consider that a slip of mine."

He shook his head, still smiling—but the dangerous edge I expected to see in his eye stayed dull, unfocused, and distant. Huh. How weird.

"Of course it was." He turned toward the depths of the greenhouse. "See you tomorrow, Yukimura. And please. Avoid any more burning buildings, if you can."

"Will do, captain." I saluted. "See you tomorrow."

I left the greenhouse that day feeling proud of my pun. By the time I reached home, however, I'd begun to wonder why it hadn't elicited more of a reaction from the suspicious, taciturn fox. It had been the most in-your-face pun to date, by my reckoning, but he had merely smiled when I said it. That was weird, right?

Too bad I didn't have time to ponder what might be happening behind the scenes, to account for his distracted response. The restaurant was in full swing when I got home, and between running tables and finishing homework (not to mention talking with Atsuko on the phone about her move to a new apartment) I didn't have a moment's respite before falling into bed.

Not even my dreams gave me a moment to wonder, to think, to deliberate.

That night Yusuke took center stage in my dreams—and on that imagined stage, he glowed the color gold and asked me to kiss him back to life.

Notes:

In manga canon, Keiko meets Shizuru after the fire. Shizuru, a beautician in manga canon, trimmed Keiko's burnt hair. I wanted to explore how that meeting might have gone down, even if this is NQK and not Real!Keiko. Yay for exploring the unexplored!

Kuwabara hides his gifts in late manga chapters (from his college peers, mostly), so I expanded on that concept here. I doubt he'd broadcast his abilities to anyone but his close friends. That's why in a very early chapter he asked if Keiko had prophetic dreams, and why he looked disappointed when she said no. He was hoping he'd found a buddy.

Also, that put at the end was very bold. But there's a reason Kurama didn't react.

Also-also: Two new Kurama scenes have been added to Children of Misfortune (one from Kurama's POV, one a deleted scene of banter between him and NQK; Hiei appears in the former).

Also-also-also: the first chapter of a new story is up. It's Not Quite Keiko and Not Quite Kagome travelling to the past together, way before Kagome's canon should start. Will explore the reality of NQKagome's situation. Check it out if you're curious! Will be a short fic but I hope you like it.