WhIP

by footfungus

nederlands verhalen over mijn otp

188. Lucky 32-39

Chapter 32: Story Might Take a While

Summary:

Not-Quite-Keiko comes to a realization, then does what needs to be done.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

She didn't even let me order something first. Kagome darted from the awning of the café and tangled her fingers in my sweater the minute she spotted me walking up the street. Eager anxiety had her bouncing in place like the cartoon tiger I'd named her after.

"So?" she demanded. "Yusuke, Yusuke, tell me about Yusuke! I want every last detail you've got, dammit, and I know you've got a lot of them squirreled away in that brain of yours!"

I grabbed Kagome's wrists and eased my hands into hers. She stared with apprehensive excitement, jiggling with energy her small body couldn't quite contain. It had been over a month since we'd last seen each other, though, so I suppose that's par for the course.

"You should sit down," I said. "This story might take a while."

Two weeks prior to meeting Kagome at the café, I ran into a fire to save my best friend's life, only for him to save mine, instead. That night I had a dream. As soon as I woke up the morning after the dream in which Yusuke asked me to kiss him, I walked to Atsuko's new place. She wasn't there (of course she wasn't) but Yusuke had been set up in his bed by his nurses. They gave me a key to the place—they knew me well enough by now to trust me with one, even more than they trusted the ne'er-do-well Atsuko—and left soon after. Not much to do for a coma patient, after all.

I waited until the door shut behind them to check out Yusuke.

True to the anime, his face wasn't glowing. Neither were his arms where they lay atop the covers. Part of me wondered if I should go to school and act like I didn't believe the dream, to stick with the anime, but…I didn't have the energy to pretend. I just didn't. Running to him at the last minute like Keiko had, with mere seconds to spare, felt far too risky for my tastes. Frankly, it sounded exhausting and superfluous. Best expedite this process and speed things up a bit, thank you.

I untucked the sheets from the foot of the bed and peered at my best friend's feet.

Golden and glowing like paper lanterns.

Yup.

This was happening.

I sat back on my heels, hands braced atop the mattress.

Even as contented warmth flooded my chest, a cold knot filled my gut like arctic water.

I hadn't expected this so soon after the fire. I mean, I knew he came back shortly after sacrificing the egg to save Keiko, but the next day? Koenma sure did work quickly. Must've fast-tracked this process somehow, or maybe he skipped Spirit World bureaucracy altogether. Special treatment for the potential Spirit Detective didn't seem too outlandish.

But still. I thought I'd have more time to prepare for this—for kissing my best friend.

My best friend, who was fourteen years old.

Who was a child.

What did that make me, then? A forty-year-old cougar? A pedophile? Heaving fucking forbid…

I walked to the head of the bed and ran a hand over Yusuke's forehead. The heart monitor and breathing machine peeped and whistled, keeping his body running even as his spirit ran amok elsewhere. Or maybe his spirit floated close to me right now, in the apartment, observing as I wondered what to do.

"Wondering what to do" sounds like I debated bringing him back to life—which of course wasn't the case. Of course I was going to bring him back. I'd never leave Yusuke dead.

But…

There were a lot of "buts."

The physical act of kissing didn't bother me—not in a broad sense. I'd had to make out with people on stage in my old life when I acted in plays. Kissing someone didn't mean you liked them, and I'd had practice keeping my emotions out of the physical act of kissing. Kissing only held as much emotion as you put into it. A chaste peck on the mouth? I could handle it.

I could handle it when it was other adults, I mean. And so could those other adults. Adults were mature enough (by and large) to recognize a necessary, staged kiss when the saw one.

But Yusuke wasn't an adult. He was a child.

Could he handle it, I wondered?

In the anime, the kiss fundamentally changed Yusuke and Keiko's relationship. If I kissed him, would he imprint on me like an irritable baby duckling? Would he want to begin that will-they-won't-they romantic dance many fans found so engaging? Would I be obligated to date him, even though the thought of dating a teenager (any teenager, not just Yusuke) squicked me out in an absolutely disgusting way?

And if I did kiss him, and he did fall for me, and I did somehow get over my squick long enough to reciprocate his feelings (though of course that would never happen)…did that mean I had to be with him?

But what if my heart wasn't there?

Rejecting him could ruin our friendship. Could I risk that when I'd come to rely on him so much?

"Well, buddy," I murmured to the comatose boy. "You put me in a bit of a pickle, didn't you?"

Right then, right there in that moment, with teenage bodies and teenage brains and Yusuke's immature personality…the thought of being with him romantically didn't sit right. It felt wrong. He was a child. I was an adult. These were the facts, immutable and inconvenient. Give him another decade to mature, and maybe we could talk about dating. Maybe. If I could come to see him as an adult after knowing him since childhood, of course.

Time. I needed time to figure this out.

Too bad time was the one thing Yusuke didn't have.

"Oh god," I muttered. My lips screwed up. "I really have to kiss you, don't I?"

He didn't answer. I put my head in my hands.

This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair at all.

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, my mind was made up. Once Yusuke got to be an adult instead of an unruly kid (in, like, a minimum of a decade), maybe we could revisit the chance of something more than friendship, but as of that specific moment…I couldn't date a child. I couldn't fall in love with a child. I just wasn't capable of that.

I could offer him a kiss: chaste, practical, and necessary. But that was all.

And lucky for me, I didn't have to do it alone.

Said Kagome, "You know, I've had the same thoughts about Inuyasha." Her nose wrinkled. "Well. Sort of."

It was the first time she'd interrupted my story about bringing Yusuke back to life—surprising considering Kagome's chatty nature. I pursed my lips and asked, "What do you mean?"

Kagome sat back in her chair with a frown. "Well, your worries about the age difference don't really apply. Inuyasha even older than my combined ages. So that's not an issue." She met my eyes, anguish showing in the lines of her knit brow. "But do I have to fall in love with him like Kagome did?"

She didn't need to explain. Her eyes said it all: we were doomed to loving whom Keiko and Kagome loved? Did we have a choice? Were we allowed to follow our own hearts, our own destinies?

Because I didn't have answers, I told her: "I wish I knew."

We sat in silence for a time. Eventually she sighed, slumping in her seat like a deflated balloon.

"You know, I never saw the whole anime," she said, "but I think I remember hearing that Kagome and Inuyasha's relationship was part of what destroyed the Jewel. So for the good of everyone, do I have to…?"

The question lingered on the thin, wintry air. I started to speak—though to say what, I'm uncertain—but Kagome shook her head. She shook her head like a dog and slapped her hands flat atop the café table between us. Dark eyes shined bright with irate determination.

"You know what?" she said. "Never mind! I hate thinking about stuff like that! Just not fun, no ma'am." She sat back and waved, shooing the questions away like buzzing flies. "Enough of my belly-aching. Go on. What happened next?"

My lips quirked.

"What happened next is, I found reinforcements."

Kuwabara, at his core, is a somewhat predictable soul—at least insofar as his hobbies go. I leaned my elbow atop an arcade game, coaxed my lips into a lazy smile and said, "Mornin', Kuwabara. Fancy meeting you here."

Caught in the middle of a rally car race, he did at least two double-takes before realizing he knew the person looming over his video game. The big guy yelped like a puppy who'd been stepped on and leapt from his chair. Onscreen, his Porsche 911 Turbo crashed against a wall in a shower of pixelated sparks.

"Jumpin' Jehosephat, Keiko, you scared the bejeezus outta me!" he said with a finger pointed in my direction. The finger dropped when he frowned and blinked. "Wait. What the heck are you doing here?" Horror lit his eyes. "Hold on one minute. It's a school day! Are you playing a hooky?!"

"Yeah. But don't look so scandalized—you're playing hooky, too."

"Yeah, but I'm a delinquent. You're a model student." He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. "You should go back to school right now. I mean it!"

"You and what army?" I quipped. I slung my body around the machine and plopped into the driving chair. "Anyway. So what's the occasion?"

He frowned. "Occasion for what?"

"For skipping school."

He stared. Then his cheeks turned the shade of a fire engine, or thereabouts.

"What, a guy's gotta have an occasion to skip?" he said, voice a tad higher than normal. "Can't just skip 'cause I felt like it? Why's there gotta be a reason, huh?"

I shrugged. "I mean. I guess there doesn't have to be a reason."

"Darn tootin' there doesn't." He turned up his nose, proud to have won the argument—or so he thought. "I just felt like playin' some games today, that's all."

I traced my hand around the edge of the game's plastic steering wheel.

"So you skipping today," I said, "doesn't have anything to do with the weird dream you had last night?"

It was almost cartoonish, the way Kuwabara's expression turned from blank to shocked to disturbed in the span of a few seconds. I'd struck the nerve I'd been aiming for, judging by this range of reactions. The big guy stared at me with horror-widened eyes and stammered, stuttered, spluttered: "How did you—I mean, why do you—I mean, I didn't have any dreams, I don't know what you're—"

"I know when you're lying," I deadpanned. "You didn't dream of kissing Yusuke because you have a subconscious crush on him, if that's what you're afraid of."

Kuwabara stopped talking. "Wait. How did you know I dreamed—?"

"Because I had the dream, too." I shrugged when his jaw dropped. "Smelled like Yusuke's hair gel again, so I figured he was trying to communicate something. And I figured he'd contact more than just me, so…"

"So this is really happening?" Kuwabara said, filling in the gaps when I trailed off. "Yusuke is going to—?" His cheeks colored again. "If I—if you—if one of us—?"

"Yup," I said, and because Kuwabara still looked so utterly terrified, I tossed my hair with a winning smile. "It's time our favorite sleeping beauty wakes the hell up."

Kagome cackled like a hyena. "Please tell me you got Kuwabara to kiss him!"

I glowered. "You're a pervert, you know that?"

A flippant wink. "Guilty as charged."

"You're also incorrigible."

"And you love it."

"True. And you'll love what happened next."

Kuwabara and I waited in silence at Yusuke's bedside. The golden glow crept up his body, from feet to legs to hips to chest to face, like water rising in a bathtub. Outside the window a few birds chirped. Other than that, silence reigned.

"So…what happens now?" Kuwabara said when even Yusuke's hair started glowing. He hunched in a chair, dread visible in every single pore. "I mean, somebody's gotta do it. But who's gonna…?"

"It's gotta be me, I think," I said. "No telling where Atsuko is. And I wouldn't make you do this, obviously."

Kuwabara sagged, dread giving way to relief. But then he frowned and sat up straighter.

"Sorry, Keiko, but I gotta ask…are you comfortable with this?" he asked.

His concern—his sweet, touching concern—would've made me smile most days. Most days I'd crack a joke and tell him something frivolous, tease him for worrying over me so much.

Today, my breathing merely hitched, and I found myself unable to smile.

No. No, I wasn't comfortable with this. Kissing a child who had a history of being romantically interested in the character I inhabited left a foul taste in my mouth, literally and figuratively. But there was no way I could explain any of this to Kuwabara. I covered my unease by running my hands over my short hair, as though its new length distracted me.

"Yusuke is for sure going to tease me about it until the day we freaking die," I eventually grated out, "so maybe he should stay dead." I leaned over and flicked his forehead, channeling all my uncertain energy into an affectionate scowl. "Hear that, ya big jerk? I do this, you owe me!"

I thought I'd covered well enough, but when I looked up, Kuwabara was still staring at me. A blush crept high and hectic across his sharp cheekbones.

"Keiko. If you. Um." He took a deep breath. "If you really don't want to, I—I—"

"Stop." I put up a hand. "You look like you're gonna be sick."

He pressed his knuckled to his mouth, blush fading into pallor. I laughed. Good ol' Kuwabara. Always looking out for his friends.

"It's OK. Thanks for offering—really, I know that was painful—but it's OK." I looked down at Yusuke and the breathing apparatus covering his face. "Kissing him isn't a big deal."

Kuwabara's nausea faded under the weight of confusion. "It's not?"

"No. It's like giving CPR." Wasn't sure if I said that for my benefit or his. "No big deal."

Kuwabara looked suspicious. "Are you sure?"

I shrugged. "Whatever the case, a kiss is a small price to pay for getting him back."

He paused, eyes widening. Then he looked down at Yusuke's sleeping face.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I guess it is."

We sat in silence for a time, watching Yusuke glow like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Kuwabara seemed lost in thoughts I couldn't quite discern. Eventually I broke the silence with a laugh.

"Once he's back, we're gonna go to karaoke," I declared. "The two of you are gonna fight a lot. I'll kick both your asses and patch you up, we'll study together and—"

"Are you OK?" Kuwabara said.

I stopped. My voice had risen as I spoke, out of my control and cracking with emotion. I took a deep breath.

"Yeah," I said. "I just miss him so much." That was the stone cold truth, for all my reservations about the stupid kiss. "And now he's almost here…it's hard to believe."

"Do you think it'll work?" Kuwabara asked. "The kiss, I mean?"

"God, I hope so." If I kissed Yusuke for nothing, I'd track down Koenma and wring his neck myself. Standing up, I clapped my hands together and moved to Yusuke's side. He was glowing all the way now; the time had come. "OK. No sense beating around the bush. Here I go."

Kuwabara peered at me from between his fingers as I fiddled with Yusuke's respirator and began removing the tube. "Oh, Keiko! I can't watch!"

"Oh, grow up, you big baby," I groused. I fell quiet as I dealt with Yusuke's ventilator the way the nurses had shown me. Once it was removed and I'd wiped stray saliva from Yusuke's chin, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

"I better not be doin' this for nothin', understand?" I murmured in near-inaudible English.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to his.

As far as kisses go, it was as chaste as the kisses I'd given my mother and grandmother when they put me to sleep at night: warm, dry and soft and simple, accompanied by a rush of breath as he exhaled. Nothing to make the heart race.

So why, then, did my heart stammer like a nervous schoolboy when I kissed Yusuke?

And not in a girl-kissing-a-boy way, mind you. The minute I kissed him, something in my chest tightened and then burst, sending a wave of odd heat coursing through my body. I gasped against Yusuke's mouth but the heat ricocheted against my ribs and chased that inhaled breath back out of my lips. I flinched, crashing onto the floor on my ass, because suddenly contact with Yusuke felt like kissing a bowl of poprocks.

Kuwabara appeared at my side in an instant.

"Did it—?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," I said.

We waited a moment, staring at our comatose friend. One moment turned into two, then three.

"Do you think—?" Kuwabara said.

Just then, Yusuke gasped. His spine bowed, chest rising toward the ceiling, and with a pop the golden glow suffusing his body scattered in a burst of glittering sparks (that hadn't in the anime, came my distant observation). It was my turn to gasp as a warm wind blew my hair from my face, but just as suddenly as it appeared, the wind subsided—leaving Yusuke lying on his back, breath churning from his mouth like he'd been running a marathon. His head lolled to the side, covers kicked all askew, mouth agape as he tried to breathe on his own for the first time in months.

Our eyes met.

It was like being thawed after a winter of immobility. I lurched to my knees and threw myself toward his side with a feral screech of his name.

"Yusuke! Yusuke, oh my god, Yusuke!" He tried to sit up, rolling to his side and pushing up with his weak arms. I attempted to ease him back onto the bed but he waved me off, rasping and wheezing and coughing. Eventually I realized he was trying to speak. Just one word, over and over again.

"Water," he was saying. "Water. Water!"

"Oh, I got it! I got it!" Kuwabara yelped. I didn't turn around, but feet pounding on the floor told me he'd run for the kitchen.

Yusuke, meanwhile, flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. His hand trembled when he tried to reach for his hair (it was in his eyes, lacking its usual gel) but the IVs in his arm pinched and made movement impossible. He ground out something that sounded suspiciously like a curse and reached for the tubes.

"No," I said. "No, don't pull those out, here, let me—"

I grasped his arm with one hand and grabbed a gauze pad off the nurse's tray next to his bed. I took out the IVs as quickly as I could, pressing the holes in his skin with the gauze to stem the bleeding.

"Kei—Keiko."

I looked up. Yusuke stared at me through hooded eyes, bleary like he'd just woken from a very long nap (which I suppose he had, in a very literally way). His voice sounding like it had gone through a woodchipper.

"I'm here," I said. My voice cracked; my eyes pricked. "I'm here, honey."

"Y-your hair."

Took a minute for me to realize what he was talking about. I shook my head with a helpless smile. Of all the things for him to ask about…

"It got burned off," I said.

He tried to talk. Collapsed into a coughing fit. Sweat slicked his forehead like morning mist. I fretted—where the hell was that water, Kuwabara?—but soon his coughs quieted. I told him not to talk, but he didn't listen. Yusuke never listened.

"You look…like a boy," Yusuke said—and he smiled that same devil-may-care smile he was famous for. My ire flared at the comment.

"And you look like a money's ass," I retorted—and without warning, the tears took over, because that insult of his was so him, so Yusuke, that my hurt feelings merely felt like home. Tears coursed down my cheeks; I fisted my hands in his shirt and cried into his chest, big heaving sobs of relief and happiness I couldn't quell.

That gentle, teasing insult brought the realization home.

I hadn't fucked up canon.

Yusuke was back.

I'd done it.

I hadn't realized how direly I needed this to happen until it did, and now, I was lost to my own emotions. I cried even harder when a hand touched my boy-short hair in a weak, trembling show of comfort.

"That's my Keiko," Yusuke wheezed. His strained, rusty voice took on a wicked tone. "N-nice kiss, by the way."

I sniffled, pushed away from him, and wiped my eyes on my sleeve. "Shut up."

His grin widened. "…too bad…your breath stinks."

I glared. He laughed. Another coughing fit took over—and this time it didn't end, even after Kuwabara came back with the water. The next hour passed in a blur. We called the doctors, tracked down Atsuko, called my mother, had Yusuke taken to a hospital where his miracle of an awakening could be poked and prodded and pondered by people who didn't understand his recovery couldn't be attributed to natural causes.

His resurrection was supernatural, and from that moment forward, the supernatural would dog his steps like a bloodhound on a hunter's scent.

"So he's back." Kagome looked as excited as I'd felt when Yusuke first woke up, grinning and all but bouncing in her seat. "He's really, really back?"

"Yeah," I said. I couldn't help but smile. "He is."

"But wait." Kagome put a finger to her chin. "That was like…a month ago, right? Before the Winter Holiday and New Years? That was the last time I saw you."

I nodded. "That's right."

"So he's been back for a month." She processed this. "How's he been since he woke up?"

"Pretty OK, I guess. Except for the grumpiness."

"Grumpiness?"

I twisted a napkin between my fingers, thinking of the past month. Yusuke hadn't been the most pleasant company, that was for sure, but I also didn't blame him for it. I'd be in a bad mood, too, if I was in his place. Hell, I had been in his place in my past life before, but that's a story for another time.

"Well…let's just say Yusuke is a free spirit," I said. "He doesn't like being cooped up."

Kagome's brow furrowed. "Why is he cooped up?"

"Same reason anyone who was in a coma for months would be cooped up."

Her brow furrowed more. "Oh?"

I didn't blame her for not predicting what happened. The truth of the matter had surprised me, too. Based on the anime, I hadn't expected what happened next. But this wasn't an anime series. This was real life (albeit a version of real life influenced by an anime series) and logic dictated reality must diverge from fiction…much as Yusuke hated to admit it.

And boy, did he hate to admit it.

I hated to admit it, too, but for reasons quite different from Yusuke's.

Kagome cocked her head to the side. I smiled.

"He's been cooped up lately," I told Kagome, "because he's not quite done with physical therapy."

She looked as surprised as I'd felt the first time I was told Yusuke would need that therapy to regain use of his limbs—as surprised, and as worried. Turns out the anime had done nothing to prepare me for the trial that lay ahead, and the story of Yusuke's resurrection didn't end with our fated kiss.

Like I'd told Kagome before: "This story might take a while."

Notes:

NQK can't get over being 40 when Yusuke is 14. Wanted to make it clear that for her, relationships will have to wait. Not saying they're an impossible pairing, but NQK has anxiety about being a cougar. That's why she has her "no dating" rule so firmly in place.

Going to put a realistic spin on Yusuke's recovery. But no worries. He'll be back, punching the daylights out of his foes, faster than anyone expects. Much faster.

Next time: Yusuke, fairy tales, and Kurama. The YYH plot is about to take off like a rocket.

Chapter 33: Left the Nest

Summary:

NQKagome makes a startling discovery. So does NQKeiko.

Notes:

Warnings: Some medical stuff; beware, if you're squeamish.

Cultural Note: Not-Quite-Keiko uses the Japanese proverb "自業自得" in this chapter. "One's act, one's profit" is basically a way of saying 'you get out of it what you put into it.'

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It looked like a staple gun, sort of, square and made of metal with a rubber handle for gripping. The doctor had me grasp it with my left hand. He instructed me to squeeze, hard. A dial spun to measure pounds per square inch of force exerted by my fingers. Then he asked me to take it in my right hand.

I could barely lift the damn thing, let alone squeeze, but I tried my best. My elbow—suffused in a dull, hot ache since the day I shattered it months prior—panged with a current of electric hurt. Bones inside my elbow creaked like dry hinges.

I hissed between my teeth and stopped squeezing. The doctor noted the PSI with a frown.

"Show me the range of motion in your shoulder and wrist," he said.

I lifted my arm as high as it could go, stopping when my shoulder spasmed. My hand was just about level with my scalp. My wrist hadn't suffered much; I could bend it in all directions, but when he pricked my pinkie and ring finger with a needle, I couldn't feel it. I could barely bend any of my fingers at all. I'd been taking my junior year tests orally. Holding a pen had become impossible.

But I'd learned to apply eyeliner one handed, with my non-dominant left hand. So that was a plus, I guess.

The nerve damage was, in a word, 'extensive.' But that was to be expected after shattering one's elbow. We weren't sure the partial paralysis of my right hand was permanent or not, either. Unable to use my hand, unable to lift my arm higher than my shoulder, my mother had to help me with basic tasks like bathing and getting dressed long after my cast (which I wore for months) was removed. Tasks like writing, driving, and using a computer were distant dreams. Mom had to wash my hair for me in the kitchen sink; I had to learn to not stab myself in the gums when brushing my teeth with my left hand.

Initial surgery had repaired my shattered bones as best it could, but it left behind five metal rods and two screws—a lot of hardware in a rather small joint. More surgery removed some rods. The rest had to stay behind. There wasn't enough bone left to go without. Surgeons told me they'd picked out bone shards with a pair of forceps. I tried not to think about that, though, as the physical therapist measured my elbow's mobility. I couldn't extend the elbow fully. I could only bend it 45 degrees. My elbow had the range of motion of a Barbie's leg.

"Therapy will definitely improve your strength, and it will encourage nerve regrowth," I remember him telling me once the assessment was through. "We need to work on fine motor skills, as well, based on your levels of degeneration."

"OK," I said.

"We start today," he said.

"OK," I said.

My assigned therapist—a woman named Nicole, who wore hot pink scrubs and her hair in a gorgeous, curly, natural crown—started that first session by putting me on the arm bike. It was just like a stationary bike for the legs, only the pedals were positioned in the location of conventional handlebars. Nicole set the resistance settings at zero since it was my first time. She turned the dial on an egg timer and set it atop the contraption, saying, "Five minutes forward, five minutes backward. Get to it, woman!"

That day I only managed a dozen rotations in my five allotted minutes, mostly using my undamaged left arm. Sweat poured off my face, a puddle forming on the jutting leather seat between my thighs. My shoulder and elbow burned like someone had heated them in a forge. My right hand kept slipping off the pedal, sending me face-first against the bike's gearbox, until Nicole wrapped her hand around mine to keep it steady. I could barely grip the pedal hard enough to keep myself attached.

"Just breathe through the pain, honey," Nicole said. Her voice was high, sweet, and encouraging, cutting through the sound of my ragged breathing like a cheerful knife. She sat next to me on a stool, palm lightly supporting my bad elbow, helping me keep it aloft as I pressed and pressed and pressed the stupid pedals in their endless circle. When the timer buzzed she said, "Good job, sweetheart. Now we go backward. Get to it, woman!"

By the time we finished the second round, I was crying. I cried into her shirt cradling my arm, hand and shoulder spasming with white-hot pips of sharp pain. She gave me water and painkiller (though only half of my prescribed Vicodin) and waited until I stopped crying to speak.

"It hurts," she told me, eyes firm yet sympathetic. "I know it hurts. But you gotta keep going if you want to make progress, OK? Now let me show you the other exercises."

The other exercises numbered among the following: holding my arms parallel to the floor for set lengths of time (hands empty, at first, holding dumbbells after a month or two); rolling string onto a stick with arms parallel to the floor (string empty at first, string supporting a weight later on); rolling two metal balls around my hand without letting them touch (they were heavy, and slippery, and it took a very long time for them to stop striking each other with a metallic clang); and the Squeeze.

I hated the arm bike, but I hated the Squeeze even more. It always came last. I spent every session, Mondays and Thursdays for the next year, dreading the moment they sat me at a table, placed my elbow on it, and manually bent my elbow past the point it would naturally go. Nicole had to hold me down by the shoulders while another PT put his full weight on my forearm. My arm wound slowly bend, joint aflame, every micrometer of movement a torturous, creaking labor of unnatural, forced mobility. I could feel the bones moving in my arm, hyperaware of the way the metal moved under my skin, huge bumps showing beneath the thin membrane like horns trying to sprout.

I cried almost every time.

By the time I died and became Keiko, I had only managed to bend my elbow to a 90 degree angle. It was far more than the doctors thought I'd be capable of. 90 degrees was practically a miracle. I'd developed a nice layer of muscle in my arms and chest, but my grip strength remain pitiful. The pain hadn't gotten better with PT, either. My shoulder and elbow screamed with it day and night, shrieking even louder when I strained the limb too much. The constant, creaking pain in my joints followed me till the day I died, when I crashed on the IH 45 between Houston and Dallas, driving home one-handed in the dark.

As I explained to Kagome: Yusuke had been in a coma for months. No matter how good Spirit World was at reviving bodies, his body had been dormant for months. He couldn't just hop out of bed and resume his normal life.

And Yusuke absolutely hated that fact.

He wasn't accustomed to being handled with delicacy. He wasn't accustomed to being told to wait. I don't think I realized just how much of Yusuke's identity depended on his physicality, but seeing him confined to a bed drove home the point nicely. His spirit itched behind his eyes, limbs trembling with urges he couldn't fulfill as he lay feeble in his bed.

Yusuke was his physicality. Yusuke was his athleticism. Take that away, and you were left with a grumpy, snappish, lost little boy—a boy who barely knew who he was, or what he was supposed be.

So basically Yusuke was even more of an ass than usual, these days.

After he woke up, he stayed at the hospital for observation for about three days. Eventually they let him go back to Atsuko's new apartment, a contingent of nurses in tow—only most of them quit within a week. I showed up after school and found one of them storming out, face thunderous and carved from stone.

"That boy is a menace," she snarled.

She didn't give me time to ask what the hell had happened. She just stalked off. So I stalked in, right into Yusuke's room wielding my most withering glare. He sat in his bed against a mound of pillows looking thin and pale, but when he saw me, he sat up.

"What?" he asked, alarmed. His voice still sounded like he'd been smoking a pack a day, raw from disuse and intubation. "What? What'd I do?"

"Want to tell me why that nurse just walked out?"

His lip curled in a sneer. "Isn't it obvious?"

I frowned—and then I noticed the mess on the floor. I walked over and lifted up a serving tray to behold a puddle of clear broth, pureed vegetable, and a broken bowl on the floor.

"I asked for a steak," Yusuke said, as if it excused everything. "And that's the crap she brought me. Literal baby food! How many cut-rate nurses—"

"You had a feeding tube in for months, you idiot," I said. "At first you had to spit into a cup because you couldn't remember how to swallow. Do you really think you're ready for a steak after four days?"

Yusuke opened his mouth to reply. He shut it just as quickly and snatched a paper cup off his bedside table—into which he spat a thin ribbon of saliva. Looked quite embarrassed of the whole thing, not that I blame him.

"See what I mean?" I asked. "You still don't have the hang of it. And I refuse to believe a nurse left because you threw a bowl." Nurses were made of strong stuff. "What did you do? Call her names? Attack her?"

I was not to get an answer today. He set down the cup and settled back into his pillows without a word, glaring at the wall like it had insulted his manhood. I sighed, cleaned up the broken bowl, and fixed him a new dinner in the kitchen. He hadn't moved by the time I returned. I settled the food on a serving tray and put the legs of it on either side of his thighs.

"I know you hate this," I said, "but your physical therapist comes tomorrow. You need to keep up your strength and eat." I'd made a special broth, calorie-rich and recommended by the doctors for patients transitioning away from feeding tubes. "Let me help you sit up, and I'll—"

Brown eyes flashed defiant. "Fuck that."

Took him almost a minute to even sit up. His fingers fumbled around the spoon, still not sure of their fine motor skills after so long at rest, and he lifted a slug of broth to his mouth.

He spilled it all down his pajama shirt.

I think he tried to throw the spoon, then, but it bounced off the bed as if thrown by a toddler. Yusuke stared at it for a moment, eyes disbelieving. Then he slowly leaned back into his pillows. I watched the fight drain out of him inch by inch, bit by bit, eyes losing their sheen as he realized just how weak he'd become.

It was the single most heartbreaking thing I'd seen in Keiko's life.

Yusuke wasn't meant to look like this. And he most certainly wasn't mean to hold that look of defeat in his eye.

"This sucks."

I hadn't meant to speak, but out the words had come. Yusuke looked at me askance and snorted.

"You're telling me?" he said.

"I'm empathizing with you, jackass."

A longsuffering eyeroll. "Like you've ever been in my position."

Very nearly gave myself away, the urge to correct him reared up so strong. I knew exactly what it was like to be in his position: to have someone feed you, help you bathe and dress, cater to your every unwanted whim because you were too weak to take care of it yourself. I understood with the clarity of experience how humiliating, how undignified it felt to lose your ability to care for yourself—and I knew how pride could be a barrier to your own recovery, your own ability to adjust, accept, and embrace your new capabilities. I'd lived Yusuke's truth before. I knew every helpless detail of it. And I knew better than he did what it was like to live with the effects of it for the rest of your life. Yusuke would get better, I was sure of it. I'd lived with chronic pain, with permanent change to my way of life, so don't you dare tell me I don't know what it's like, asshole.

But I couldn't say any of that.

"True," I told him, even though it hurt. "I don't know what it's like, but I have a heart, and an imagination. I can still empathize." I swiped the spoon off the floor and cleaned it before scooping up some broth. "C'mon. Eat."

I held the spoon out, hand underneath it to catch any drips. Yusuke refused to look at the spoon, or me, but then his stomach rumbled. He accepted the broth with grudging tolerance, practically growling under his breath as he allowed me to feed him. Didn't take him long to eat everything. Boy had had a bottomless pit for a stomach even before his coma. I put the spoon in the empty bowl with a small smile and stood up to take it to the kitchen. Hopefully Yusuke would be able to set aside his boundless pride long enough to accept the help he needed to recover. If he didn't—

"I hate you seeing me like this."

He spoke with face turned away; I couldn't see his expression. I sat back down, bowl rattling like a hollowed skull on my lap.

"You've seen me when I'm a blubbering mess," I said, keeping my tone airy. "Consider us even."

His eyes flashed my way. "Keiko—!"

Yusuke stopped talking and took a deep breath. He looked away again.

"I mean it," he said in a softer voice. "I mean it, Keiko. I hate this."

Yusuke didn't need to explain further. I knew what he meant—and more importantly, I knew what he needed. Even if it came at my expense, I knew what my best friend needed.

His ankle radiated heat through the blanket covering it. He looked up when I rest my hand on that joint, surprise and confusion and raw, agonizing hurt waging war in his brown eyes.

"I can stay away if you want," I said.

Those conflicted eyes widened.

"It's no big deal," I said, shrugging. "If you want me to stay away while you recover, I will."

He didn't speak.

"I made a friend at my new school whose mother is dying," by way of explanation. Yusuke's brow furrowed at the apparent non sequitur, but I pressed on. "A lot of people want to help him, but I've noticed that helping him makes them feel better. They're doing it for him, but also for their own benefits." I shrugged again. "I don't want to be that person here. I admit not helping you would make me feel guilty. But my feelings matter less than yours in this scenario."

Yusuke muttered my name, then. I met his eyes with a smile—a warm, supportive smile, judgement-free and nurturing. He probably felt like the world was against him just then. He needed to know that I was on his side.

"Whatever you want, Yusuke," I told him. "If it's for me to stay away, so you don't feel embarrassed, I'll do it. Just let me know."

He searched my face, looking for…hesitation, maybe? I wasn't sure. Eventually his shoulders sagged. This obviously wouldn't be an easy decision for him. I certainly didn't want him to send me away. At the same time, having your best friend watch you in your most vulnerable moment wasn't comfortable. If not having me around helped soothe his wounded pride, and allowed him the freedom to get better, I'd gladly trade proximity for his progression. Gladly. Any day of the damn week.

Yusuke searched my face a moment more. He sighed and shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm sorry, I…I just don't know."

"That's OK. Just keep me posted." I patted his ankle in a casual gesture of comfort. "But if you never want me to see you like this again, you'd better not chase off your physical therapist. That's how you'll get through this. That's how you'll get better."

He screwed up his eyes at me. "What do you mean?"

"Like I said, your physical therapist comes tomorrow," I said. "You can't chase her off like you did the nurses. You'll need her to get better. The harder you work, the faster you'll recover. 'One's act, one's profit,' as the saying goes."

Yusuke started to speak, but he stopped when I stood up and walked to the door. Under its arch I paused. I looked at him over my shoulder. This time I didn't smile.

"Therapy will be hard," I told him. Even though he didn't know my past, my heavy tone rendered him quiet. "Therapy will hurt…but they're called 'growing pains' for a reason. Every exercise will be an uphill climb. You'll want to give up. But you can't." I allowed a smirk to break through. "Not unless you enjoy it when I feed you like a baby."

Yusuke bristled. "I ain't no baby."

I grabbed the spoon and waved it in a circle. "Whoosh! Open wide! Here comes the airplane!"

"Oh, fuck off, Keiko!" Yusuke said. He had to manually lift his middle finger with his opposite hand, but the meaning was clear. "Screw your plane and open wide, 'cause here comes the goddamn bird!"

He dropped the hand and cackled. I laughed, too.

"Screw you, too, Yusuke!" I said through my giggles. "You're the worst!"

Nothing in what he said hurt my feelings. Not that day, at least. In our language, those insults were expressions of affection. I cherished each and every one.

"Funny," Kagome said. She stared into the space between us without seeing it. "In the anime he just hopped out of bed and was back in action like it was nothing."

I shrugged. "Apparently not everything from the anime translated perfectly into real life."

"Hmm. Weird." Sincere worry resonated in her words. "But he's doing better now?"

"Now, yeah. After we found a therapist willing to work with his loud ass, of course." Apparently rumors of Yusuke's temper had resonated throughout our town's small medical community. "His therapist is great, a real trooper. We're lucky to have her. Only person who doesn't balk at Yusuke's foul mouth."

Kagome giggled. "That little firecracker. He's so cute."

"Yeah. He is." Because Yusuke wasn't around to protest, I said: "He's like a baby bird learning to fly again."

The thought was both entertaining and sobering at once: entertaining because picturing him as a small, chirping bird made me laugh, sobering because the thought of what came next sent a worried shiver up my spine.

The sooner Yusuke got better, the sooner he became the Spirit Detective…and the sooner he'd be in danger.

"Uh oh." Kagome's lips twisted in a knowing grimace. "Judging by the look on your face, you're probably thinking of leave-the-nest metaphors and worrying for his safety, right?"

That got a laugh out of me. "You know me too well. But speaking of leaving the nest…"

Yusuke worked at physical therapy harder than anything in his life. Seriously, if the guy put that much effort into school, he'd be at the top of his class. He attacked every exercise with the tenacity he normally preserved for street fights or pissing off Keiko. Sometimes I walked in on him doing his therapist's prescribed stretches on his own time, or snuck up on him while he performed repetitive movements meant to reengage his fine motor skills—like tapping his fingers against his thumb, for instance, one by one in a loop. At first his fingers tapped slowly, unsure of their own motion, but soon they picked up speed, faster and faster until they blurred into one another.

Still: although he attacked his exercises with gusto, the going wasn't easy.

True to what I'd told him, therapy hurt. It didn't hurt as much as mine had, if I had to take a guess (frustration seemed in greater supply than actual pain when it came to Yusuke), but his joints were stiff from disuse and his muscles had atrophied past the point of swift return. At first the therapist made him stretch, working on engaging nerves that had collected dust during their time of inactivity. Yusuke called it "namby pamby yoga bullshit," especially when Tamaguchi-sensei made him perform a watered-down form of meditation she called "conscious corrections."

I'd heard of conscious correction when I took tai-chi classes in my past life. Essentially, Tamaguchi had Yusuke sit very still and concentrate on each of his individual muscles, starting from his scalp and working his way from there down to his toes. The goal was to simply make him aware of his muscles, reconnect body to mind, but to Yusuke it just felt boring. He groused and griped about not being given actual strength training before, during, and after every single session—but when they finally transitioned to strength training, he sang a different tune.

Namely the tune of "shit-goddammit-fucking-hell", to be precise.

Tamaguchi wasn't the type to pull punches. Using weights, elastic straps, stability balls, and good old-fashioned techniques reminiscent of the Squeeze I'd so hated in my old life, she poked and prodded and pounded Yusuke's muscles and nerves until they sang with energy and new life. Yusuke at first was mad she didn't let him "pump iron" (or whatever his macho teenage self called it), but soon his complaints quieted. Tamaguchi worked Yusuke hard, though judiciously, challenging him in ways I don't think even he realized he could be challenged. Yusuke would call a session a breeze immediately after it ended, but the next day he'd be a writhing ball of agonizing soreness.

"I didn't even know I had muscles in my goddamn ass," he said after one particularly grueling leg session, "but fuck it, they hurt."

Tamaguchi was sneaky like that. With her help, Yusuke progressed quickly, resistance training getting more and more difficult with every passing therapy session.

One day, about two weeks after therapy started, Tamaguchi and I crossed paths on the street outside Atsuko's apartment. She carried her usual bag of tricks over her muscular shoulder, grey hair gathered in a braid down her back. We exchanged a few pleasantries, but it didn't take her long to drop social niceties in favor of asking what was on her mind. Not very Japanese of her, but I appreciated her direct nature.

"Maybe you don't know, but I have to ask," she said. "Is he working outside of our sessions?"

"He's doing the exercises you gave him. Why?"

She nodded, considering this a minute. "His muscle recovery is…well." She scowled. "It's spectacular."

"That's great!" I paused as her dour look sank in. "So why do you look like you swallowed a needle?"

Her scowl deepened. "I assume he's doing extra exercises on his own."

For a second I considered saying Yusuke wasn't the type to put extra effort into something so reminiscent of homework, but then again, this was his strength we were talking about. He'd do just about anything to be strong again…maybe even homework.

"I want to deny that he'd do extra work," I said, "but I can't. That sounds exactly like something he'd do."

Tamaguchi looked grimly satisfied. "I warned him overexerting himself could set back his recovery, but it seems that fell on deaf ears."

"Stubborn," I corrected. "Stubborn ears. He can hear you just fine. He just doesn't listen."

"He doesn't listen to me," Tamaguchi said, odd emphasis on the last word.

There followed a moment of silence. She stared at me, expectant, until I figured it out.

"…but he listens to me." Seems Tamaguchi could use subtle Japanese implications when it suited her, after all. "I'll talk to him, if you want me to."

"Yes, thank you. That would be ideal."

Indomitable woman though she was, even Tamaguchi didn't fancy confronting Yusuke directly after a session, when he was at his most grumpy.

True to form, Yusuke gnashed his teeth when I asked him if he'd been exerting himself without Tamaguchi's guidance. Face streaked with sweat from his session, he lay on his back on the floor in the living room and glared up at me. Barely had the energy to move, but that glare of his still had teeth.

"That nag," he said. "Always telling me to slow down. Why I oughtta—"

"Maybe she has a point," I interjected.

"Point, schmoint. I hate being cooped up and I wanna be back on the streets, dammit!" He summoned the energy to lash out a hand as if striking an invisible enemy. "So what if I exercise a little more than normal? If it gets me out of here faster, screw Tamaguchi!"

I flopped down near his head, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. I kept my tone mild when I said, "She said your recovery is spectacular."

Yusuke's scowl turned into a grin. "See? It's working! Tell the old broad to lay off!"

"But she said you could overexert and send yourself back a step, if you aren't careful." His grin faded at my matter-of-fact wording. I flicked a finger at his nose; he snapped his teeth at me. "Look. I can't control you, and I won't nag you. But keep in mind your limits, OK? Stop if something starts to hurt worse."

"You worry too much. Almost as much as that naggy therapist." He thrust a fist toward the ceiling. "I'll slow down when I'm dead—hear that, Tamaguchi? And I ain't dying again any time soon!"

His words triggered associations in my head, stopping any pithy replies in their tracks. Yusuke grabbed onto the couch and used it to lever himself upright. He leaned against it and swiped his shirt over his face to mop up the sweat. Then he frowned.

"What?" he said. "What're you looking at me for?"

"You were dead," I said.

Yusuke shifted, not looking at me. "So they tell me."

"Like, really, really dead. Stone cold dead. Deader than the Monty Python parrot."

His brow furrowed. "The what?"

"Never mind." I made a mental note to track down tapes of the Monty Python sketches and educate him at some point. "It's just, Yusuke—what happened while you were gone?"

Yusuke froze.

I mean, I hadn't expected much else. This was his death we were talking about. He was bound to have some complicated (and unprocessed, knowing him) emotions about the whole ordeal. I hadn't had the opportunity to ask about his time as a ghost yet. Had been waiting for him to bring it up, but I couldn't keep the curiosity bottled forever. Sometimes Yusuke needed a nudge to acknowledge his feelings, and that nudge I was more than happy to provide.

Yusuke didn't move for a few seconds. He stared at the floor in front of his outstretched legs without expression, lost in thoughts I couldn't decipher.

"I saw your corpse," I eventually murmured. "I…I touched your hand. It was cold and you were dead. They didn't miss your pulse in the ambulance, like we told the authorities. You actually died."

Yusuke's eyes flickered in my direction. They flickered away just a quickly.

"You died, and you came back," I said.

He took a deep breath and, sounding like a child in a middle school theater class, said: "I don't know what you're talking about, and—"

"I'm not an idiot and I know when you're lying."

He winced at my brusque words. I didn't crack, though, not even when he shot me a look of helplessness—like he was pleading with his eyes for me to let this go.

"I'm not supposed to tell you," he said.

"Why?"

"They told me not to."

"Who's they?"

Annoyance narrowed his eyes. "Just this annoying Spirit World brat who—"

Yusuke stopped. He clapped his hand over his mouth.

"Spirit World," I quoted, a though speaking the word for the first time. I pasted a look of interest across my face. "Like the afterlife?"

He shifted uncomfortably, but he admitted: "Pretty much."

I paused, pretending to think about it and put the pieces together. I already knew the truth, of course, but Yusuke didn't need to know that.

"Somebody in the afterlife helped you come back," I intoned with all the gravity such a discovery should deserve. "Interesting. So there's really an afterlife?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny," he said—but then a grin broke through his awkwardness. "Oh, fuck it. Let's just say even hell couldn't handle me!"

He looked quite proud of himself; my reactionary laughter was completely genuine. "Damn straight, hell couldn't handle you." I leaned toward him. "Why, though? Why did they bring you back?"

Another awkward shift. "I'm really not supposed…aw, to hell with it!" He smacked a fist against the carpet, eyes blazing—because nobody told Yusuke what to do, least of all a toddler brat too big for his britches. "Apparently they thought I was such an asshole, I wouldn't help that kid get out of the way of the car. They didn't prep a place for me in heaven or hell. I had nowhere to go but back to life. So this blue-haired lady who said she was as grim reaper came out of nowhere on an oar and—"

He told me a surprising amount of details, then, from Botan's appearance to Koenma's ordeal to what he spent time doing while he was dead. He didn't tell me about throwing the egg to save me from the fire (he just said Spirit World 'helped' protect me, as well as his body), but for the most part he told me everything. If I looked shocked during his story, it wasn't because I was acting. I was floored he'd tell Keiko all of that, because he sure as shit hadn't told her this much in the anime. Why the change, I wondered? Maybe it was a timing thing. In the anime he'd been recruited as Spirit Detective just after waking up, but now, with all this extra time between his awakening and his recruitment…

Yusuke settled back against couch cushions with a long, dramatic sigh. I'd helped him move onto the couch halfway through his story. I sat next to him while he talked, at one point bringing a glass of water when he started coughing. He closed his eyes a minute, silent, then cracked them open in my direction.

"Damn, I actually feel better," he said. "I haven't had much to do but watch daytime TV so I think about what happened a lot. Fucking annoying, thinking all the time." He smirked. "No wonder you're such a pain."

"Ha ha, very funny," I snarked. "Wow, though. That story…that's a lot to take in."

Even though I knew he had told me the truth, real Keiko—realistic and level-headed—wouldn't likely buy into Yusuke's tall tale right off the bat. Best act just a little disbelieving, at least at first. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at Yusuke with a frown. He frowned back, head drooping atop his tired neck.

"Keiko…do you think it was all a dream?" he asked with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Everything I said, it's crazy. Do you think I just dreamed it?"

Panic—as sudden as it was hot—clenched inside my chest, breath halting with a sputter. Aw, fuck. I hadn't meant to make Yusuke doubt himself!

"Me telling you what I think won't make you feel better," I said, every scrap of willpower funneled into maintaining a calm, self-assured demeanor. "You need to listen to what you think."

"I think it sounds insane," he said. Comical anger had him throwing up his hands. "There were ogres in loin cloths and Spirit World is run by a toddler, Keiko! What the fuck is that supposed to mean!?"

He used anger to cover frustration, doubt—and he'd never admit it, but probably a little fear, too. Fear that his own perception wasn't correct, and that he'd invented the fantastical story that explained so much of his existence. Hurt me to my core to see that doubt in his eyes, concealed though it was by his irate griping. But what could I do to help fix this?

Eventually I settled on: "Let's try the Socratic Method."

He blinked. "The what?"

"…never mind." Philosophy was this overthinker's gig, not his. "How did your body get spared from cremation?"

His eyebrows lifted like rockets off a launch pad. "Um. Do you have amnesia, Keiko? I went inside your dreams and told you to save my body, duh."

I didn't rise to his taunt. "Did I have that dream, and did I do what you asked?"

"Yes to both, but—" He stopped. His eyes widened. "Oh. Oh."

"How did you come back to life?" I asked.

"I went inside your dreams and told you that I was coming back if you—well." He looked away, rubbing the back of his reddened neck. "You know."

"I do know," I said. "Did I do what you asked me to do?"

"Yeah."

"Does that lead you to any conclusions?"

He nodded. "It wasn't a dream."

"My side of the story corroborates yours," I said.

The panic in my chest unclenched when the hesitation in his eyes cleared, clouds of doubt scattered by a logical wind.

"So it was real," he said. He smiled for a second, but then he looked infinitely disturbed. "Holy fucking shit, the afterlife is run by a baby."

His attitude's heel-face-turn reduced me to a fit of giggles, but before I could recover and ask more questions about his time as a ghost, the doorbell rang. Yusuke glared in the direction of the door and sighed.

"Tamaguchi forget one of her torture implements?" he grumbled.

"No idea," I said. "Let me check."

It was Sunday, and Atsuko was out…somewhere. She didn't often leave a note. A nurse wasn't due to arrive for another hour, hence why I'd come over. Somebody had to make sure Yusuke didn't try sneaking off to pick fights before he was ready (he'd tried that once before, though he didn't get too far when his legs cramped up). I peered through the peephole wondering if the nurse was early today, but when I saw the face on the other side of the door, I gasped in surprise.

"Oh, hey Keiko!" Kuwabara said when I opened the door. He wore casual clothes, jeans and a baseball jersey with a jacket over it. Somehow the clothes made him look like less of a punk than usual. "Sorry to come over unannounced. I called your house and your mom said you were here, so…"

He trailed off, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. I made sure to smile when I said: "It's no problem. Are you here to see Yusuke?"

Kuwabara beamed. "Well, technically I was trying to find you, because I have something really really awesome to show you, but then I heard you were here, and—well, two birds with one stone and whatnot. I figured I'd stop by and cheer him up." His sunny grin could melt a glacier. "And boy, Keiko, do I have something that'll cheer him up! He'd have to be dead to not love this!"

"Well, he was dead until recently, so…"

"Ha ha, very funny." He rolled his eyes at my poor joke before pulling something out from behind his back: a cardboard box with holes cut in the top and sides. He handled it with care normally reserved for infants and fine china, big hands gentle and careful around its corners.

"Um," I said (and while I looked doubtful on the outside, inside I had suspicions about what lay inside that box). "That's dubious."

"Trust me, it's amazing," he said. "So is Yusuke awake?"

"Yeah. He's awake. Come with me." I lead him inside and into the living room. "Yusuke, you have a visitor."

He looked over his shoulder with a scowl. "Who the hell would—Kuwabara?!"

Kuwabara lifted a hand as Yusuke's eyes bugged out of his skull. "Sup, Urameshi?"

Yusuke tried to leap off the couch, but he got halfway up and his legs failed. He opted for pointing dramatically in Kuwabara's direction, instead. "What the hell are you doing here?" he yodeled.

"Shh, keep your voice down!" Kuwabara said. "You'll scare her!"

"Scare who?"

"Oh my god," I said. I pointed at the box, allowing excitement to creep into my voice. "Is that—?"

Kuwabara preened, pride glowing in every pore. "Shizuru decided I needed a present when my report card came back. All B's! Except for science. I got an A in science."

My excitement about the box faded, replaced by excitement for his grades—because oh my gosh, Kuwabara making As and Bs? That was huge! I clapped my hands and bounced on my heels. "Kuwabara, that's amazing!"

Yusuke, meanwhile, was less than impressed by Kuwabara's academic prowess. "Will somebody please tell me what's in the damn box?" he hollered.

"Urameshi, stop yelling!" Kuwabara said. "Just gimme a minute, OK? She's shy!"

Well, that confirmed it, didn't it? I watched with my breath held, knuckles pressed to my mouth as Kuwabara put the box on the coffee table. He melted the minute the flaps on top opened, features softening into a sweet, sentimental mess as he reached inside and gently—oh so very gently—lifted a tiny, fuzzy kitten to his chest.

"Meet Eikichi," Kuwabara said in a voice like freshly dried laundry or bread rolls right out of the oven. "Isn't she beautiful?"

I clapped my hands tight over my mouth as the kitten (which fit in the palm of Kuwabara's dinner plate hand) heaved an adorable, tiny yawn and cuddled up to Kuwabara's thumb. Kuwabara beamed at my reaction, but then Yusuke spoke and ruined everything.

"Huh," he said, as unimpressed with the cat as he was Kuwabara's grades. "Didn't figure you for a cat guy."

"What's wrong with cats?!" Kuwabara snapped.

"Nothin', if you're an old spinster."

"Oh my god," I squeaked. "Can…can I hold her?"

Kuwabara turned to me with a gleaming smile. "Yeah, of course! I want to get her nice and socialized."

He handed me Eikichi with instructions on how best to support her body so she'd be comfortable—and truth be told, I needed the pointers. I'd been highly, deathly allergic to cats in my past life, and my current cat hated to be held. Silly, standoffish Sorei. I'd always thought cats and kittens were so adorable, but this was the first time in my forty years of consciousness that I'd gotten to hold a kitten without fear of losing my ability to breathe. Her fur felt like fuzzy velvet against my hands, and when I tucked her under my chin, she rewarded me with a purr like a toy car. I gave a little squeak of delight at that, thumb brushing over her silky ears as I cuddled her close.

"Oh my god," I whispered. "Oh my god."

"Right?" Kuwabara said. "I mean, right?"

"She's so fucking adorable, I want to scream."

"She's the prettiest cat there ever was," Kuwabara said.

"She's the best kitten to ever kitten," I said. My throat ached and my eyes stung, but not from dander allergy. "Ten out of ten, good kitty. I love her. I love her so much. Oh my god."

Kuwabara blinked at me. "…are you crying?"

"No, shut up, you're crying," I said with an obvious sniffle. I turned away, holding the purring cat safe against my chest. "Oh, Eikichi, who's my sweet lovey-lump? Is it you, my precious baby? Is it you?"

She meowed as if responding to my question, and I damn near about keeled over and died from the sheer cuteness.

"Seriously, though," Yusuke said. "Kuwabara, you like cats?"

I turned around in time to see Kuwabara round on Yusuke, lower lip jutting. "What's wrong with cats?"

Yusuke spoke as though it were obvious. "Dogs are manlier, duh."

Kuwabara's face reddened—but then he grinned and gestured at Yusuke's legs. "Says the guy in ducky pajamas!"

Yusuke did a double take at his clothes. He wore a t-shirt and pajama pants…pants that were indeed patterned in little yellow ducks. Boy hadn't been paying much attention to fashion while stuck at home, that's for sure.

"Hey!" he said, face turning a shade of red to rival Kuwabara. "They're comfortable! Ducks are better than kittens, anyway!"

Kuwabara's face turned purple, more or less. "What the—?! You take that back!"

Yusuke lurched to the edge of the couch, fist raised. "Make me!"

"Now, now," I said, still riding the high of my kitten-induced zen. "Settle down, you two."

Both of them ignored me.

"I swear to god, if you weren't such a charity case, I'd tan your hide for insulting cats!" Kuwabara said.

Yusuke rolled his eyes so hard I feared he'd pull a muscle. "Oh, please. Even with this handicap I'd still wipe the floor with you, you son of a—"

"Boys."

Even with a kitten in hand, I managed to sound authoritative. They 'eeped' in unison and leapt away from each other, shooting fearful glances in my direction.

"You're scaring the kitten," I said, and then I winked. "And don't worry, Kuwabara. Yusuke will be back in action soon. You can beat each other black and blue when he gets better."

There followed many promises (or threats; take your pick of terminology) to do just that—and Yusuke delivered. Every time Kuwabara visited, I noticed Yusuke would work a little harder at his lessons, grumbling all the while about needing to get back in action and take back his turf.

"Kuwabara got cocky while I was gone," he told me when I scolded him for overdoing it. "Somebody's gotta put that jackass in his place."

Kuwabara, too, told me he'd been training his hardest in Yusuke's absence. "Gotta be at the top of my game when he gets back, or else it's not a fair fight," he told me when I noticed a bruise on his meaty arm. "I'll beat him fair and square or not at all!"

That was their relationship in a nutshell, I supposed. Even when beating each other to a pulp, or threatening one another, or insulting the other's masculinity, they found ways to drive each other to new heights.

I was good for Yusuke in a lot of ways. I could comfort, and use the Socratic Method to help him draw his own conclusions—but Kuwabara was his bro. And during his recovery, Yusuke needed a brother in arms like Kuwabara at his side.

Kagome appeared completely charmed by Kuwabara and Yusuke's interaction. She giggled into her tea and scones as I told her about the boys' renewed rivalry, fondness etched into her young, open features.

"I bet you feel better about stepping back, knowing Kuwabara is there," she said.

"Well, Yusuke never outright told me to bug off," I said. "I've been giving him space and reading his moods as best I can, but yeah. Knowing he's got Kuwabara there took a load off my shoulders."

"Good to hear. You really do worry too much." Her grin warmed me despite the January cold outside the café. "So it sounds like Yusuke is doing OK?"

"Yeah. To be honest, I think he's almost better." I stirred my tea with a spoon, inhaling steam as it rose warmly from the cup. "Doctors say they've never seen anyone recover from a coma this fast before. They're honestly stumped." Couldn't exactly tell them Spirit World likely had a hand in his swift recovery. "But even so, it's not fast enough for Yusuke's liking."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course it's not."

I chuckled. "Even though he's not strong enough to fight, he'd rather be throwing punches than doing therapy. I caught him trying to climb out a window the other day. I swear, if it weren't for the nurses, he'd have flown the coop a long time ago."

"Do you think he's ready to fly?"

Her question—a serious inquiry at odds with her earlier joking tone—gave me pause. I covered my unease by dipping a biscotti in my tea and taking a bite of the soaked pastry.

"I think…he's just about ready," I eventually said.

"You know the minute he does fly the coop, Spirit World will strike, right?" Kagome said. "I bet you that Botan'll come calling the minute he's ready to become Spirit Detective."

"Yeah. That occurred to me." Much as I wanted to see him realize his destiny, I was still no closer to having any powers myself. Soon weak little Keiko would become a footnote in Yusuke's story. Sighing, I set my tea aside. "But at least this time around, Keiko is in-the-know about things regarding Spirit World."

Kagome nodded. "It's good you got him to tell you about being dead. In the anime he hid everything from Keiko, right?"

"Mm-hmm. Which always felt weird." I waved my spoon around, agitated gesticulation sending drops of tea across the table. "She had those dreams, she saw the fire turn blue, and Keiko isn't stupid—she already had hints about the supernatural existing. Why would Yusuke think she'd freak out if he told her the truth?"

"Wasn't it about secrecy?" Kagome said. "Like, keeping Spirit World secret and stuff?"

"Yeah, that was Botan's reasoning, I think. But even that doesn't make sense. The cat was already out of the bag about the supernatural since Keiko kept having semi-prophetic dreams thanks to Yusuke."

"Yeah, yeah, I agree," Kagome said with an emphatic nod. "And besides. Keeping Keiko in the dark endangered her."

"For real," I said. My thoughts strayed to the pepper spray in my purse, which I planned to use during the Saint Beast arc just as much as my aikido training. "I'm glad Yusuke told this Keiko the truth so early. Saves her—I mean, saves me the trouble of pretending to not know what's going on." I leaned toward Kagome and dramatically whispered, "Acting is exhausting."

Kagome giggled, but then her smile faded into solemn curiosity. "Say. Why do you think he told you the truth, and not the other Keiko?"

I didn't reply right away. I'd been wondering the same thing, but my theories were just that: theories.

"Maybe…maybe he can sense that I'm older, somehow," I said, speech slow as I put my feelings into words for the first time. "Maybe I feel more like a maternal figure to him that the other Keiko. He's always telling me I'm a little old lady on the inside, after all." My smile felt tight even to me. "I consider that a good thing, all things considered about our ages."

Kagome nodded. "That would make sense. I feel like you act older than your physical age, so even if he doesn't have a reason to think you're literally an old soul, maybe it's something he intuits subconsciously."

Relief flooded me. Kagome agreeing with me validated my uncertain emotions; I hadn't realized I needed that validation until she gave it to me.

"Right," I said. "And I counseled him through his doubts about his experience as a ghost, so…I dunno. Maybe he looks at me like a confidante more than he did the other Keiko: a guidance counselor rather than a peer. But that's just conjecture." I allowed a smile to curl my mouth. "Or maybe I'm just more persuasive than Keiko since I know which questions to ask to get answers about Spirit World. I just have an advantage on interrogation."

"Yeah, maybe," Kagome said. She started to speak, but then her eyes widened and she shut her mouth. One finger rose above her head, commanding my attention. "Oh—right. Questions. That reminds me. You've been so busy lately with Yusuke's return, we haven't had time to talk about the fairy tales!"

I winced. "Yeah, I'm so sorry about that. I've been swamped this past month."

"Nah, no worries. Your best friend coming back from the dead is pretty distracting," she said with a generous wink. "You're excused. I haven't had much time, either."

"Good to know," I said. "But really. Sorry I've been AWOL."

Kagome's merry smile faded a little. "Really. It's OK. I'm just glad we got together today, because I think I figured something out—and it's super weird, Eeyore. Like, super weird. And I brought it today to show you."

It wasn't like Kagome to wear a look of such severity. Smiles suited her face more than scowls, but as she reached for her backpack and put it on the table, a scowl is what she wore. A pulse of thin adrenaline zinged down my arms at her odd behavior. When she unzipped her bag and pulled out a slender book, I looked at her and asked: "What's that?"

She didn't reply. She just handed me the book and sat back, eyes intent on my face as I skimmed the gilt title on the book's green cover.

"Oh," I said. "The Unabridged Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, Japanese translation. Nice."

She swallowed. "Check the table of contents."

Shooting her a what-the-hell look, I flipped open the cover and thumbed past the title page. The table of contents availed itself in short order. I skimmed the page with a frown, opening my mouth to ask what I was supposed to be looking for—

But I didn't have to ask. Within two seconds, I noticed.

I noticed, and my blood ran like ice.

"Wait," I said. I flipped the page over to the back, where a few more stories were listed. All in all the table of contents was only a page in a half in length. "Wait just a fucking second. This can't be right."

"That's what I said," Kagome said. "But I found a bunch of other editions, and they all look the same."

The oddity of that struck the breath from my lungs. I scanned the list—that list only a page and a half long—a dozen times. Eventually my eyes came to rest on the title at the top of the page.

The Unabridged Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm.

Unabridged.

And yet—

"It's missing at least half of the Brothers' stories," I said.

Kagome grimaced. "Yeah. I thought maybe I just didn't remember how many there were in our old life, but now that you say it—"

"I took courses on fairy tales in college, Tigger. I know what I'm talking about." I flipped the page back and forth, back and forth, receptive motion as comforting as it was maddening. "You didn't imagine a damn thing. Half—no. About seventy percent of the stories are just gone."

"Yeah," Kagome whispered. "And that's supposed to be the full, unabridged, completed works of the Brothers Grimm."

Puss and Boots. Sleeping Beauty. Rapunzel. Rumpelstiltskin. I saw those included amongst the titles on the page.

But Cinderella? The Frog Prince? Snow White? Hansel and Gretel? I didn't see any of them listed. I didn't see several of the Brothers' hallmark stories—the stories for which they were famous, and the stories for which I'd read them as a kid. And that's saying nothing of the many lesser-known stories absent from this table of missing contents. My pulse beat like a boxer at my throat as I dragged my finger down the list, looking in vain for titles that just weren't there.

What the bloody hell was going on, exactly? And what did this imply about the reality I now called my own?

"What does it mean?" Kagome said. Her wide eyes trained hopeful on my face, as though trying to read answers in the knit of my brow or the purse of my lips. "Mother Goose is the same way. So are the Aesop Fables. I can find them, but they're missing a lot. But for the Brothers Grimm to be missing material? These are where fairy tales came from. These are the originals. And they just aren't there?"

I put the book down, thinking back on all the college courses I took on the subject, turning over my memories like a river tossing a stone.

"Well, the Brothers Grimm aren't where the stories came from," I said.

Kagome's head tilted. "They're not?"

"No. They adapted most of their stories from oral tradition of peasants, or retold the stories of French author Charles Perrault, who in turn retold many stories by Italian author Giambattista Basile. Perrault and Basile predate the Brothers Grimm by centuries. The Brothers added big Christian messages to their stories, too, to please the rulers at the time." I smirked, recalling the older versions of the stories the Grimm's Brothers appropriated. "The Brothers Grimm have a reputation of being super dark, at least compared to Disney and whatnot, but they're sunshine and rainbows compared to Basile and Perrault. Basile and Perrault are fucked up."

"Well, that's all news to me." She pointed at the book in my numb hands. "Even so. Why all the missing stories in this book? It's hella weird that it doesn't at least include Cinderella, right?"

"Could this be a translation error?" I asked. "I wonder if I can order an English volume from the library."

"Already did." She tossed her hair with a beam, proud she'd beat me to the punch. "Librarian said it would take a few weeks to come in, though." At that she dropped her smile and sighed. "Ugh. Waiting. I hate waiting."

I looked at the book. "Me, too."

"And that librarian didn't know much about those stories, either." She huffed, kicking her foot like the impatient kid she was in some ways, and wasn't in others. "Fat load of help she was. You'd think a librarian would know literature, but…"

Thoughts connected and bounced off each other like they'd been caught in a pinball machine. I held up the book and asked, "Hey. Can I borrow this?"

"Uh, sure. But why?"

"You just gave me a great idea, that's why." It was my turn to beam. "If a librarian didn't have answers, then I might as well consult a certain literary genius for his opinion."

I didn't get to talk to Kaito that day, unluckily for me and my burning curiosity. It was Sunday, and I wouldn't see him until I went back to school. I left my meeting with Kagome with her book tucked under my arm and promises to use Kaito as my Literary Google Machine on my lips.

To be honest, it felt good to talk to Kagome about something other than Yusuke. Yusuke consumed the majority of my time and energy these days. Having something of my own to chew on—my own plot, so to speak—reminded me that even though Yusuke's story was on the verge of taking center stage, I still had something to do. I still had something to occupy my time, something personal and not dependent on the Yu Yu Hakusho storyline into which I'd been shoehorned.

Still, though: Much as I liked having my own independent plot, I was very much a part of Yusuke's. After I left Kagome I found myself walking to Atsuko's apartment with a take-out bag in hand. Figured Yusuke might like a lemon tart. Add a little spice to his cooped-up life, you know?

Seems I didn't need to try.

Yusuke had taken care of adding variety to his routine all on his own.

Minute I walked in the door to the apartment, one of the nurses popped up. Eyes wide, hands shaking, she looked at me and said, "Oh, Keiko, thank goodness! Have you seen Yusuke?"

I paused just inside the door, one finger hooked into the back of my shoe as I tried to take them off. I looked up at her and said, "Wait, what?"

"Have you seen Yusuke?" she repeated. Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

"He's not in his room?"

"No, I came in and—where are you going?"

I didn't bother taking off my other shoe. I dropped the lemon tart bag, leapt over the raised platform into the house, and sprinted down the hall to Yusuke's room. All but kicked the door down, his name bubbling on my lips like magma.

Too bad no one was there to hear me.

Yusuke's room was empty.

The baby bird had left the nest.

Notes:

Chapter too long; couldn't squeeze in Kurama. Sorry, guys. Next week. Dissatisfied with this overall but oh well. At least there was a kitten!

The Grimms Brother created very few fairy tales as we know them. Often people credit them as the creators of the fairy tales we know and love today, but that's not the case at all. Check out "Sun, Moon, and Talia" by Basile for a look at one of the earliest renditions of Sleeping Beauty. It makes the Grimm's Brothers' version look like an episode of Barney & Friends.

So, about my arm…that first section is biographical. Hesitated to include it but it's a huge part of my life and felt wrong to leave out, I've come a long way since my PT days. I can drive again (one handed, with my left), and I can wash my own hair most of the time. On bad pain days I still need help with some tasks (buttons and hairbrushes are my enemy) but it's amazing how far I've come. Chronic pain isn't fun, but PT really did help. I need to go back. My nerve damage is spreading again.

It's been a rough week. Family dog (Speck) passed, and that…just hurt. Dogs are very special. Speck was my grandfather's companion and my grandmother died earlier this year, so Grandpa is not doing very well and feels very alone. Worried about him. Your support has meant the world this week.

Chapter 34: One Crisis at a Time

Summary:

Not-Quite-Keiko's best-laid plans go very much awry.

Notes:

1) The first section deals with an oracle from Greek myth. I learned of her in a college course on moral philosophy and wrote the details of her fortune-telling method/the origin of 'horns of a dilemma' as I recalled them, but I'm having trouble finding a source to cite. Even if my details are inaccurate, the point gets across, and it sort of remains true to my character since those are the facts I would've recalled in a world without Google (AKA Keiko's world) or the ability to immediately fact-check myself. Thanks/sorry as needed!

2) Keiko uses the Japanese idiom "猿も木から落ちる" in this chapter, translated as "even monkeys fall from trees." AKA, everybody makes mistakes.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

In ancient Greece, kings consulted oracles for guidance in times of trial. The methods of the oracles were as many and they were inscrutable. Some inhaled smoke from volcanic vents and felt the gods sing in their blood. Others drank broths of hallucinogenic herbs and heard spirits whispering in the dark. Others read the whim of fate in the entrails of slaughtered birds. Still more beheld destiny in cups of curdled blood, flights of high-flying vultures, or scatterings of polished stones.

The oracle of the temple of Minos consulted the gods with the help of a bull. With the dilemma of a king held tight in her head, she ran at a charging bull, animal and oracle barreling headlong at one another down the track of a narrow chute. At the last moment she would place her hands on the bull's head and vault—flying like a scrap of silk on the wind—between its razor horns.

In the exact moment she passed between the horns, the answer to the king's riddle would flash certain inside her mind, a god filling her hollow head when it emptied from terror and adrenaline.

Many young oracles died on the horns of the bull—on the horns of the dilemma they attempted to solve.

That day, staring at Yusuke's empty room, I found myself caught on the horns of a dilemma of my own. Unlike the kings of ancient Greece, I had no oracle to consult for guidance—no oracle but my own logic, leaping figuratively above the head of destiny's charging steer.

Was it happening today?

Was today the day Spirit World recruited Yusuke?

Eikichi had been in Kuwabara's life for two weeks. Yusuke's unprecedented recovery was near its end. I hadn't heard from Kuwabara; Eikichi could very well have been kidnapped. Yusuke could very well be on his unwitting way to them, where he'd spy a lawbreaking demon and catch it even before Botan informed him of the crime.

If today was that day, I shouldn't get in the way.

But if today wasn't that day—

I couldn't risk it. Yusuke couldn't risk his recovery being set back by some wild, reckless desire for a premature fight.

Running over every option in my head, every scrap of information, every last detail I recalled from Yu Yu Hakusho's pages and painted cells, I turned and sprinted out the door.

I have no way of knowing, but I suspect the oracles of Minos would envy my speed that day.

I'd run to four nearby cafes by the time I realized how stupid I was. There was a much easier way of determining Yusuke's fate, and it didn't involve frantic and fruitless searching through the local restaurant scene. Cursing, I located the nearest payphone and dialed Kuwabara. Shizuru answered on the second ring and didn't sound at all surprised to hear from me.

"Yeah, he's upstairs," she said when I asked for her brother. "Doing homework." A rustle as she put her hand over the receiver. "Bro, phone call!"

Kuwabara trundled down the stairs in short order and only sounded a little confused when I asked how Eikichi was doing. "Um, she's fine. Just put her down for a nap a few minutes ago. But why—"

"Oh, her cute little face popped into my head and I wanted to check in, is all," I said, masking my relief with humor. If Eikichi was fine, she hadn't been kidnapped, which meant today was not the day Yusuke got recruited by Spirit World. Good. I still had time.

But if not with Kuwabara, then where the fuck was Yusuke?

To be honest, this was much worse than discovering the Plot had started.

"Are you OK?" Kuwabara said.

Leave it to him to sense my mood even through a phone call. "No, Kuwabara, I'm not. Yusuke flew the coop. We have no idea where he went."

"What?! Why the heck didn't you start with that, Keiko!?" A thud and a curse as Kuwabara probably tried to run for the door. "Where are you? I'll be there in, like, two minutes or whatever! We gotta find 'im!"

More relief flooded me because oh my god, yes please: backup! I gave him directions; we agreed to search the neighborhood from opposite ends and meet up at Yusuke's house if we didn't find him in between. Divide and conquer, as it were. I hung up the phone with heart beating in my mouth, like I'd tried to eat a frog that hadn't yet left its mortal coil.

Part of me wished today was the day Yusuke got recruited. At least then I'd have an inkling as to where he'd gone. I left the phone booth without knowing anything, flying blind as I began my patrol through the neighborhood. No telling where Yusuke had run off to, but—

Wait. Actually, I did have an idea where he might've gone…and it wasn't anywhere inside the nice, picket-fence-and-flowerbeds neighborhood Atsuko had moved to after the fire destroyed her former house.

Steeling myself for graffiti and the leers of strangers, I turned my feet downtown.

I found Yusuke in an alley, in the most dangerous neighborhood he could access without a train pass. Stumbled upon him completely by chance, thank my lucky stars. After fifteen dark alleys and two narrow-misses with men who wanted to "show me a good time" (both of whom now sported black eyes and swollen testicles, thank you very much), I located him standing over the motionless forms of three unconscious dudes. He looked over his shoulder when I accidentally kicked a soda can. For a second I thought he might fly at me and attack, but his eyes widened when the sight of my face sank in.

"K-Keiko?" Yusuke said.

"What, you were expecting Bugs Bunny?" I deadpanned.

"Heh. No." He shrugged—and then he winced. He dropped to a knee with a grunt, hand cupping his ankle. "Shit. Those fuckers hit harder than I thought."

I eyed the men on the ground. "Really? They look pretty skinny to me." They certainly weren't any bigger than punks Yusuke had beat down in days of yore. "You sure you're just, y'know…not ready to actually be fighting again, dumbass?!"

He winced again, though not from pain. "Oh, shut, ya old nag." He stood and stepped toward me, but his leg buckled and he went sprawling. "Aw, hell!"

Couldn't help but roll my eyes. "My point exactly. You've gone and twisted something."

"Yeah, your panties into a bunch, maybe!"

"Charming." I walked to Yusuke, turned my back, and dropped to a knee right there in the dirty alley. "Here."

I didn't need to see his face to know he looked freaked because said, "What the fuck?" and that was all I needed.

Hands by my ankles, I flapped my fingers. "Hop on."

Took a minute for my meaning to click, but when it did Yusuke said, "No. No! No way in hell am I letting you carry me." His utterly aghast tone made me laugh. "Not happening, Keiko!"

I shrugged. "It's either that or you sleep in this alley."

"Oh gee, whaddaya know, this place is looking cozier by the second," he whined. Comedy faded into censure. "You're not carrying me piggyback like some little kid!"

"Fine." I stood, turned, and brushed off the front of my pants. "Kuwabara will do it."

Yusuke—still sitting on the ground—stared up at me with wide eyes. I smirked.

"He's on his way," I said. "If you won't let me carry you, then I guess he'll have to do the honors."

"Like hell he will!" Yusuke snapped. He dragged a hand through his hair with a groan. "Aw man, he'd be even more embarrassing!"

"Is that right?" I inspected my fingernails as though painfully bored by the whole affair. I refused to let my burgeoning smile make an appearance. "So who's it gonna be? Me or Kuwabara?"

Yusuke debated his prospects (for a humorous length of time, I might add) before sighing and throwing up his hands.

"Ugh, fine! You can do it!" He pointed at me, glare sharp. "But if anyone sees this, you're letting me down so I can beat them into amnesia, all right?"

I snorted and sank into another crouch. "Fat chance. Now climb on."

Yusuke, grumbling all the while, wrapped his arms around my neck and climbed inch by inch onto my back. I hooked my arms under his knees and grit my teeth as his full weight settled against my spine. Grunting, I said, "Oof. I thought people lost weight in comas."

"Hey!" he squawked. "It's all muscle!"

"Well, it certainly isn't brain tissue that's weighing you down." I stood up and walked out of the alley, mindful of my steps because taking a tumble with Yusuke on my back would probably hurt. I glanced over my shoulder so he could see the full breadth of my scowl. "Seriously, what were you thinking, running off like that to pick a fight? You're not ready yet, dumbass."

"Those guys on the ground?" Yusuke asked with obvious pride. "Yeah. They'd disagree with your little assessment."

I stopped so I could hop in place, jouncing Yusuke. "Think they'd disagree if they were awake to see this?"

Yusuke grumbled, forehead pressing into my shoulder with a crackle of hair gel. "Hey, don't be mean to an invalid."

"Invalid? Who, you? The backstreet brawler?" I tilted my chin with a hearty 'harrumph'. "I don't feel sorry for you one bit. You brought this on yourself."

"Keiko, c'mon! Cut me some slack!"

"Make me!"

I thought that would be the end of it. I thought wrong. Yusuke didn't react for a second. Then he ripped one of his arms from around my neck and dug his fingers into my ribcage. I squealed and bucked and listed to one side, threatening to abandon Yusuke right there on the street for that indignity. The sound of our squabbles filled the air until the task of carrying Yusuke's heavy ass became too much. I stopped talking and concreated on my breath, on regulating the energy in my body so I didn't lose strength before we reached home.

Eventually, he broke the silence with a tone much softer than before. "Hey, Keiko?" he said.

I hummed in recognition.

"…thanks."

He sounded like he had when we were kids, petulant yet grudgingly grateful when I gave him a popsicle after we'd had a row. I shut my eyes and smiled, though only briefly. Didn't want to run into a pole. Yusuke would never let me live that down.

"Don't mention it," I returned.

He took my command to heart. We didn't speak until we reached the foot of Atsuko's apartment building, where he asked me to put him down. I helped him walk to the building, using a fireman's carry to keep him off his damaged ankle. Good thing, too, because as soon as we started hobbling up the steps toward home, Kuwabara appeared like a jack-in-the-box at the top of the stairs.

"You found him!" he said, eyes like dinner plates. "Keiko, you found him!"

"Yeah, yeah, she's got a nose like a bloodhound," Yusuke grumbled. "Now help me up the goddamn stairs before I—"

"Yusuke!?"

Atsuko appeared, then, wild-eyed and tangle-haired. Clearly she'd been tugging at it in her worry over Yusuke; nervous habit of hers. She shoved Kuwabara aside (he squawked, but didn't protest) and vaulted down the steps two at a time. At the last second she threw herself atop her son, arms tight around his neck as she rubbed her cheek against his crackling hair. Even though she wore a grin wide enough to split her cheeks, tears streamed unchecked down her red face.

"Yusuke, Yusuke, oh, my baby!" Atsuko blubbered. "I was so worried!"

"Jeez, Mom!" Yusuke struggled to break free, pushing her away to absolutely no avail. Woman had a hug like a boa constrictor. "I'm fine, OK? What's with the waterworks?"

She snuffled and let out an enormous wail. "I w-was worried you'd l-left me because I'm such a bad muh, muh, mo-ther! Or that you'd d-died" (she almost choked on the word) "and I'd be all alone, and—"

Yusuke looked thoroughly embarrassed by the situation. He awkwardly patted Atsuko on the back and allowed her to cry into his hair with expression most longsuffering.

"I'm not gonna get killed again, Mom. Jeez," he said. "I just wanted a bit of fresh air, that's all! Can't blame a guy for needing a change of pace, can ya?"

I winced. Wrong move, buddy.

As soon as Yusuke finished speaking, Atsuko's tears dried up. She stood up and glared at her son, face a looming stormcloud.

"Fresh air?" she demanded. "Fresh air? You left and nearly gave me a hearty attack so you could get some fresh air?!"

Yusuke shrank away from her, toward me, as if expecting me to shield him. "Um, Keiko? Save me?"

"Not on your life," I said.

Atsuko lunged and grabbed Yusuke in a headlock, proceeding to give him the single most painful-looking noogie I have ever witnessed. He yelped and screeched and cursed, but I could barely hear him under the sound of Atsuko's furious tirade.

"Don't you ever worry me like that again, you little shit!" she bellowed. "I didn't bring you into the world so you could run around and give people heart attacks and pick fights and get hit by goddamn cars and—!"

She lapsed back into crying eventually, then yelled some more, then cried even harder. Only when a few curious neighbors poked their heads from their apartment doorways did Atsuko drag Yusuke inside by the ear (he hopped on one foot the whole way behind her) to continue her polemic in private.

Eventually, however, Atsuko's maternal instinct overcame her anger. She cooked dinner (for once), insisting Yusuke eat a double portion to help regain his strength. Although she continued to needle at Yusuke throughout the night, in quiet moments I caught her gazing at him with a soft smile, eyes glimmering with affection she hadn't taken much time to express before his coma.

She knew better now than to underestimate the time they had together.

Even though that dinner came out a little burned, it tasted a whole lot like love.

I stayed at Yusuke's place late that night, then had to stay up even later to do the homework I'd neglected while looking for his sorry ass. I got to school just before they closed the gates, thank my lucky stars, and found Junko waiting by the shoe cubby in the school's foyer. She watched with pursed lips as I exchanged my outdoor shoes for my interior slippers.

"You OK?" I asked as we started for class.

"I'm good," she said. "But listen—I have a weird question."

"Um. OK? Name it."

She took a deep breath—but the bell rang, cutting her off. She cursed and passed a hand through her bangs.

"Ugh, never mind," she said. We'd reached a branch in the hallway; she took one way, and I took another. "I'll see you in class later, OK?"

"…OK," I muttered. How weird. She looked really bothered by something. I watched her disappear around the corner before heading for class—but it turns out I needed to watch where I was going, instead. I turned around and ran smack into Kaito, of all people. He bore my glare with stoic dispassion as I narrowly avoided falling over.

"Not yet awake, Yukimura?" he said. He adjusted his glasses. "You should be aware that I will be late to lunch today."

"Uh—OK?"

He nodded and walked away with no further explanation.

Well. This was a weird start to my day. Taking cues from my friends, I headed for class and tried not to think about Junko and Kaito's odd behaviors…although it was hard. It wasn't like Kaito to give me updates on his schedule (or even break his own routines, natch). Notoriously independent, that guy. And Junko had looked super bothered by something. I hadn't talked to her since the previous week, so what could possibly be up?

But neither of their behaviors bothered more than the realization I'd be eating lunch with Kurama alone. At least part of lunch, anyway. What I wouldn't give for Kuwabara to provide backup again, like he had the night before. I tried very hard not to think about any dire outcomes (of which my brain concocted many) that could result from alone-time with Kurama. Would only stress myself out, and that was not a headspace I wished to occupy when dealing with a certain fox. Instead I meditated on the walk over to lunch, bento in hand, cultivating a calm mind before joining Kurama on the stairwell.

Minamino, I reminded myself.

I was joining mild, polite Minamino on the stairwell, not a demon who could do me harm.

Yeah.

Nothing to fear here, Keiko. Pretty sure foxes could smell fear…

"Hey," I greeted. Minamino sat on the third step, as always, food resting atop his knees. I moved to the window ledge, as always, and began unpacking my meal (leftovers from Atsuko's dinner the night before). "Kaito said he'd be late."

Minamino's green eyes held nothing but gentle curiosity, which I found infinitely freaky. "Ah. Did he say why?"

"Not sure. He was unforthcoming." I sighed and leaned against the window, pane cool at my back. "Wish he'd hurry up and get here…"

When Minamino lifted one thin brow, I realized my complaint was just the littlest bit insulting. I'd basically implied lunch wasn't enjoyable with only Minamino's company. Argh. That already wasn't going well.

"Sorry. It's not you," I said. "I need Kaito's help with something and I don't like waiting."

"I see." He smiled, helpful and open. Suspicious. "Perhaps I can be of assistance."

"Well, it's something in Kaito's very specific wheelhouse," I hedged. "So I don't know if…y'know. You'd even be interested."

"Unless you possess the enviable ability to read minds," came Minamino's dry reply, "I'm afraid we can only determine if I'm interested if you tell me what's troubling you."

He was right, dammit—but maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Minamino had lived a singularly long life. Maybe he was an even better authority on antique literature than Kaito. Although this was Human World literature, so…but then again, maybe some fairy tales had demonic sources. That'd be neat, for sure. But was it smart to involved Kurama in this?

As I thought about it, I hoped my hesitation didn't look too out of place, too knowing or too serious. Minamino studied me, green eyes at brilliant odds with his red-black hair and alabaster skin. Eventually his eyes shut, lashes fluttering dark against his cheek. I cut him off just as his lips moved.

"Sorry. It's just…kind of embarrassing?" I said. He frowned; I shrugged, scratching the back of my neck. "But I guess you did tell me that story one time, so maybe…know anything about fairy tales?"

My line of inquiry surprised him, if the bemused smile was any indication. His eyes glittered with amusement when he said, "Some things. Why?"

"It's…hard to explain." Asking Kurama for information on fairy tales wouldn't reveal anything about my secrets. Not so long as I worded my questions with care. "Basically, I grew up hearing certain fairy tales, and I tried looking for them again but I can't find them. Like, at all." I traced the edge of my open bento, plastic cool and firm under my fingertip. "I'm wondering if I just made them up."

"Interesting," he said. "Which stories in particular, may I ask?"

"Well, there were a lot of them. Mostly European stories like the Brothers Grimm and Aesop's Fables."

"Aesop?" Minamino pronounced the word like it didn't quite fit in his mouth.

"Yeah—you haven't heard of him?"

"Can't say I have."

"Huh." I traced the bento a little harder. The plastic bit into the pad of my finger. "Weird."

Minamino offered me an apologetic smile, but the hollow ache in my throat didn't ease. Part of me sought to pin Minamino's ignorance on his identity as a demon, but while Minamino wasn't exactly human, neither was he completely lacking in curiosity or basic observational skills. Guy had a mind like a sharpened thorn. Perhaps on some level he disdained human culture, but he wasn't the type to forget something once he heard it. He'd had to learn and observe human culture to blend in, after all—so no. He wasn't a stranger to Aesop because he was a stranger to humanity.

If Kurama didn't know Aesop, I'd bet my hat not many other people would know Aesop, either.

Kurama had no way of knowing I'd already come to that conclusion, however. He looked unerringly helpful when he suggested, "Maybe I would recognize a story if you told me one. A title, perhaps?"

He had a point. Maybe further investigation was in order, after all. I told him, "Aesop fables all involve animals. They have a lesson or moral at the end, most of the time." I thought on it a minute. "Some of the more famous ones are the Lion and the Mouse, and the Tortoise and the Hare."

Surely he'd heard of those, right? Those were incredibly famous…so why had his helpful smile turned to a look of soft puzzlement? My mouth dried as I stared at him.

"What about the Boy Who Cried Wolf?" I said. "Or the Fox and the Grapes?"

Minamino's eyes flashed, at that. His back straightened. Kurama appeared in the space between breaths like a predator appearing from the underbrush. My breath caught in my throat—shit. Why had I picked that fable out of all of them? Bad move, bad move. Cover story, Keiko, quick!

"Oh, you have to know the Fox and the Grapes," I said with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. "It's the one where the hungry fox sees some tasty grapes on a vine, but he can't reach them, so he puts on a show saying they're probably sour, anyway. The moral is people often belittle the things they're jealous of, to make themselves feel better. That's where the expression…"

The expression 'sour grapes' fizzled on my tongue—because I'd almost said it in English.

Because the Japanese translation…I didn't know what it was.

And that was really fucking weird, lemme tell ya. I'd been speaking Japanese for fourteen years. I could translate the words 'grapes' and 'sour' no problem, but the literal translation didn't possess the same nuances the English expression held—because, well, as far as I knew, 'sour grapes' just wasn't an expression I'd heard used in this lifetime.

That realization, as sudden as it was striking, rendered me speechless.

'Sour grapes' had been an incredibly common idiom on my old life. Why hadn't that carried over to this new one? This idiom hadn't come up before, but now that I was thinking on it, I couldn't recall a single person ever using the phrase 'sour grapes' in Keiko's lifetime. Aesop, an ancient Greek slave and storyteller, surely existed in this world, right? Why hadn't his work entered common usage?

Was this just…Japan, maybe? Would the expression be used in other cultures, where ancient Greek stories were maybe more common?

What did this mean, if anything? Was I overthinking it?

Just what the fuck was happening here, anyway?

Kurama was frowning at me at that point. I tugged on my bangs, trying to hide my inner turmoil with an awkward smile.

"Sorry," I said. "Had to translate. We get the expression 'sour grapes' from that story."

Kurama nodded, absorbing this—but then his earlier smile, the one of calm apology and regret, reappeared. At least that look of suspicion had eased…

"I've never heard that expression," he said.

I blinked at him like a surprised owl, mouth working around empty air.

"You…you haven't heard that expression before?" I asked.

"Not that I recall," he said.

"How weird." Chin cupped in hand, I stared at the floor and leaned back against the window. The cold pane on my spine grounded me, chasing the cotton of muffling anxiety out of my churning thoughts. OK. So this confirmed, at the very least, that the expression hadn't carried over to Japan in this reality. "How weird."

"Why is it weird, exactly?"

The edge in Kurama's voice skated across my skin, even colder than the wintry window at my back. He stared at me with eyes like carved jade. The edge in them glimmered, intense and penetrating and impossible to ignore. Uh oh. I'd spoken too soon. His suspicions hadn't been allayed at all.

"Um." I fidgeted in place, unable to look away from Kurama's sharp eyes. "Uh…"

My bumbling didn't please him, apparently. He scowled, an menacing look on his delicate features. With silken precision he asked, "Why is it so odd that I don't know the story the Fox and the Grapes?"

I truly hadn't meant to make a pun today, but…even monkeys fall form trees, I guess. You made a mistake, Keiko; now get up and move on. Make more cover. More coincidence to cover my mistake—not that that was hard to do just then. Mentioning that story hadn't been a calculated act.

"I thought that story was really common," I said, because it was the absolute truth and hopefully he could sense my sincerity. "Like, super common. But the expression from that story is mostly said in English, so…sorry." I shook my head and sighed, sagging in my seat, trying to look innocently disheartened. Kurama's sharp scrutiny did not waver; curse my terrible luck. "Really, sorry for dragging you into this. I think I'm just confused."

"You are? That's a change."

I flinched as a new voice echoed in the stairwell, but it merely belonged to Kaito. He stood on the upper landing and stared at us down the bridge of his long nose. I glowered, noting from the corner of my eye that Kurama had put away his dangerous expression—for the time being, anyway. He was back to being Minamino now that we had company.

"There you are," I said to Kaito. "And me being confused is a change from what, exactly?"

He trotted down the steps, sat, and pulled a customary book from his bag. "You've been awfully chipper lately," he said.

My head tilted to one side. "I have?"

"Yes. You have been ever since we came back from winter break," he said, sounding utterly disinterested in that fact. But I knew Kaito wouldn't have brought up that weird observation for no reason. What was he getting at?

Ah, well. Best give him something to chew on. I flipped my hair and smirked.

"Hm. Weird," I said. "Guess I must have had a really good break."

Kaito's lips pursed; he didn't like being baited.

"Well. Anyway." I looked between my two friends and decided it was high time I changed the subject away from Aesop. Best engage Kaito on the subject without an ornery fox present. "We haven't talked about it yet, but how were your winter breaks?"

"Fine." Kaito shrugged, opening his book and holding it so I couldn't read his expression. "I read. It was relaxing."

"Nerd," I said, but with affection. Typical Kaito. "And you, Minamino?"

"I spent the holiday with my mother," he said, tone neutral despite the subject matter. "Though at one point I took a small trip with friends."

I did my best to keep all traces of pity out of my smile (and I did my best not to ask questions about that trip, because maybe it was a scouting mission for to prepare for robbing Spirit World, but Keiko wouldn't know about that, now would she?). I said, "That sounds nice, Minamino."

"It was." He did not seem eager to expound upon his activities, for he turned to Kaito with obvious interest. "What did you read, Kaito?"

"A treatise on literary theory," Kaito said. He thumbed through his book without making eye contact. "But it matters little. I suppose you're wondering why I was late to lunch today."

Minamino and I exchanged a look. Kaito had a self-absorbed streak we'd mutually decided was sort of hilarious to mess with. We shrugged in unison, adopting expressions of mild boredom.

"I hadn't given it much thought," I said.

"Your business if your own, after all," Minamino added.

Minamino and I both ducked our heads, trying to hide our laughter. Kaito finally looked up from his book with a scowl. "Ha. Very funny. But I regret to inform you that it is your business—for Yukimura, at least."

My head jerked up. Kaito smirked.

"After overhearing a bit of gossip," he said, "I had to consult the rumor mill on a certain matter."

"And here I thought you despised teenage melodrama," I muttered, shaking my head. "What exactly did you consult the rumor mill about?"

"Why you've been so cheerful since we came back to school."

I could do little more than stare at him. This whole 'you've been cheerful' thing had come out of nowhere, and why he was so invested in my emotional state boggled the mind.

"And you couldn't just…I dunno, ask me why I was feeling cheerful?" I said.

He shrugged. "I wished to collect all pertinent evidence before hearing an anecdotal account."

"How very logical of you," Minamino interjected, tone arid, "but I agree with Yukimura. If you have a question, asking it would be the most expedient method of obtaining an answer."

"I suppose. But I like being informed." Kaito pinned me with a dead-fish stare. "So tell me, Yukimura. Is it true a certain friend of yours has come back from the dead?"

For a second his words refused to sink in.

When they did, my jaw sank near to the floor.

How the ever-loving fuck had Kaito—?

"I withhold his name for the sake of privacy, of course," Kaito said, with a sidelong glance at Minamino (who was looking utterly shocked at that moment, I must say). He lifted his book when I didn't immediately reply. "I see you need time to order your reaction. I will wait."

Minamino's head snapped in my direction. I met his eyes, still unable to speak. Dimly I knew it was good Kaito hadn't said Yusuke's name, and that because of this maybe Kurama wouldn't connect Yusuke to me when they finally did meet, but beyond that…

"Where the fuck did you hear that rumor?" I grated out.

"The rumor mill," Kaito said, as if it were obvious. "So is it true, then?"

Minamino, a person who loved being in control as he was, didn't enjoy being out of the loop. Brows raised like questions across his forehead, he asked, "Your friend…?"

I took a deep breath and chose my words with care. "Remember that friend of mine who died?"

Green eyes narrowed. "Yes."

"Well…he didn't exactly 'die.' Or rather, he did die, but he…got better?"

I trailed off and took another deep breath. Minamino and Kaito waited with twin expressions, impatience waging war with their desires to interrogate—Kaito to learn the truth behind a rumor, Minamino to hear of the extraordinary.

It occurred to me, in some deep recess of my semi-panicked brain, that perhaps the idea of resurrection would interest Kurama in a particularly noteworthy way. Too bad I was about to disappoint him.

"For a while there we really did think my friend was dead," I intoned, telling the usual cover-story, "but it turns out the paramedics missed his pulse. Right before we stuck him in a cremation oven, someone realized he was breathing. He was in a coma. And he was in that coma until just recently."

Minamino and Kaito stared as they worked through what I'd told them. Eventually Kaito closed his eyes.

"That's unbelievable," he said.

"Yeah." I nodded, looking at Minamino with a smile—a smile of genuine happiness at the memory of Yusuke's return. He responded with a smile of his own, automatic and perhaps a touch uncertain. "Yeah. It is."

"No. I mean I really don't believe it." Kaito's eyes opened, glaring as if he could wring from me some other form of truth. "What kind of incompetent medical personnel—?"

"The kind who are likely paying quite a lot of money to cover the family's emotional damages, I should think," Minamino cut in. His smooth voice held a breath of humor, but underneath I detected a diamond edge. "Yukimura has no reason to lie about this, Kaito."

Mollified, Kaito ducked his chin and grumbled. I shot a look of thanks in Minamino's direction; he nodded in return.

"Yup. Minamino's got it," I said. "My friend's mom bankrolled a new condo off the hospital, in fact." This was true; Atsuko had had no reservations about allowing the hospital to cut her a check for their apparent oversight. Obviously there was no way for her to tell them about Spirit World. "And to answer your question about my apparent good cheer—my friend woke up from his coma just before winter break."

Setting my bento aside, I pulled my knee to my chest, arranging my skirt so I wouldn't accidentally flash Minamino and Kaito my underpants. Although I hadn't noticed being in a better mood lately, it stood to reason that maybe I'd been just a bit more smiley, a bit less anxious now that Yusuke was back and gaining strength. Leave it to Kaito to notice, right? But then again, how was I supposed to be sad in the wake of a goddamn miracle?

"For a long time we weren't sure he ever would wake up again," I said. "It was months of…nothing. No hope, no idea if we'd get him back. We just cared for him and tried not to lose faith. It was agonizing." Chin on knee, eyes downcast, I replayed the moment Yusuke had opened his eyes. My lips couldn't help but curl. "But then he woke up. He's stuck in physical therapy and hating it, but still. He's alive. My best friend is alive." With a cheesy grin I fought down the sudden ache in my throat, the out-of-nowhere pricking in my eyes. "So, yes. I do suppose I've been cheerful lately, Kaito, but I'd like to think I deserved that modicum of Christmas cheer."

Kaito's lips pursed. Minamino smiled—a larger smile than normal. Even a bit of teeth showed behind his otherwise demure lips. Pretty sure it was the biggest smile I'd seen from him yet. It did things to his eyes that made them sparkle. Light from the window struck the ruddy highlights in his hair, the contrast of red and green coaxing the color of his irises into brilliant, jewel-like relief.

"I'm very happy for you, Yukimura," he said. "That's wonderful news."

I ducked my chin, hiding pink cheeks behind my knee. "Thanks, Minamino."

"I am happy for you as well," said Kaito, not wanting to be outdone. "I imagine this comes as great relief to your friend's family."

"It does," I said with a glance at my bento. The charred chicken and overcooked rice inside it bore the telltale signs of Atsuko's loving handiwork. "It's just him and his mom, and man, you should see her. I look like an emotionless robot next to her. She was shattered when he died, just shattered, but now…she's like a different person." Reaching into the bento, I plucked a morsel between my fingers and rested it on my tongue. Even beneath the layer of burn it tasted very much of a mother's love. "It's not just my friend who came back to life. It's like his mom's been reborn, too."

"A parent should never have to bury their child," Kaito said. He spoke low and soft, with gravity I wasn't used to hearing from the sarcastic genius. "No wonder you're cheerful."

"Yeah," I said. "No wonder."

I took another bite of Atsuko's cooking, beaming with cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk—only when I looked to Minamino, the food turned to ash in my mouth.

Today was a day of firsts, it seemed. If earlier I'd seen Kurama's most earnest smile, now I was seeing…I wasn't sure what, and that uncertainty sent a spike deep into my gut. His smile had gone, replaced by brittle silence, eyes like fragile malachite beneath a fringe of ruby bang. A frown ghosted the corners of his mouth; pain, masked only barely by carefully cultivated neutrality, haunted his hollow eyes like specters in the dark.

But why—?

Oh.

Oh, Keiko. You stupid, stupid asshole.

I'd just been talking about mothers, shattered by the deaths of their sons. And if he was planning what I thought he was planning, he was planning on leaving his mother very soon, and—

Sensing me, he lifted his eyes. Between one second and the next an expressionless veil settled over his face, hiding that horrible, broken look from me completely. Still, I knew what I'd seen. I knew that look—and the emotions that had inspired it—had to linger somewhere. I choked down my food and turned to Kaito, clawing desperately for the quickest subject change I was capable of concocting. Probably set some sort of record.

"Anyway," I said. Even though it was incredibly rude, I pointed my chopsticks at Kaito like they were torture implements. Maybe making a fool of myself would distract Kurama, or something, from the storm brewing behind his pretty face. "I repeat: How the fuck did you hear about my friend? I don't like being part of the rumor mill and the family hasn't released information about my friend publicly, so spill it, mister!"

"Easy," Kaito said, without a single trace of shame. "I heard via eavesdropping. I overheard your friend Junko telling a classmate—Amagi, I believe—that she had to speak to you about your friend. She sounded quite confused by the whole affair. But spontaneous resurrection will do that to a person, I imagine."

"OK. And how did she hear about my friend?"

"Apparently certain ne'er-do-wells at this school engaged in fisticuffs with his ghost." Kaito shrugged, smile smug. "Or his twin brother. But logical dictates both of those events are unlikely."

My brow lifted of its own accord. "Oh, and coming back to life is more likely?"

"It is when paired with your reluctance to speak of his death in the first place." Kaito adjusted his glasses, still wearing that smirk. "You were remarkably reluctant to discuss him when we first met. I deduced there must be more to the situation given your reticence to discuss it, although I confess I asked if he had come back to life mostly in jest."

I stared at him. Because if he was telling the truth, did that mean I could have denied that my friend had come back, and Kaito would have believed me? I could've hidden Yusuke's truth just a little longer, had I been more in control of my reactions?

"…you were joking?" I asked.

Kaito's lips pursed. He hefted his book a little higher. "Yes. I am capable of such things, you know."

Unable to process that I'd been played, and unwilling to admit just how badly I'd bungled this conversation, I used my chopsticks to fling a bit of rice at Kaito's smug face. The dollop of concealed starch splatted against his glasses; I raised my arms above my head and yelled, "Touchdown!" Kaito pretended not to notice my theatrics (nor the glob of rice on his spectacles), flipping through his book in a portrait of unflappable nonchalance. Minamino watched his composure with understated admiration.

"Best conserve your energy, Yukimura," Kaito said. "Junko plans a full interrogation when you see her in your final period."

Even though I'd planned on asking Kaito about Aesop, the mention of Junko (and what was sure to be a vexing conversation) chased away any desire I possessed to unravel the mysteries of the universe during that particular lunch period. The inquiries of curious teenage girls filled my plate enough, thank you.

One crisis at a time, Keiko. One crisis at a time.

Minamino followed me down the hall after the lunch bell rang. This in and of itself wasn't unusual. Kaito had class in a different wing than Minamino and I after lunch. Over the past few weeks Kaito had somewhat relaxed his unspoken policy to keep Minamino and I completely apart, and as a result we'd walked together alone on a few separate occasion. Nothing amiss there.

What did feel amiss was when Minamino murmured "thank you" as soon as the stairwell door shut behind Kaito on the landing above. He spoke so softly I barely heard him, voice obscured by the sound of our feet on the steps.

"Hmm?" I said, looking at Minamino askance.

"Thank you," he repeated. "For changing the subject, earlier."

I paused at the bottom of the stairs, hand on the door to the hallway beyond. Minamino stood with hands in his pockets a few feet away, gazing at me with that careful, cultivated detachment I'd come to know expect from him. It was a look he wore when he felt things, and when he did not want people knowing he felt them at all. His mask. His shield. The one I'd seen beyond only for a moment at a time, and only because he'd allowed for me to do so.

Aside from earlier, when I brought up mothers. That look he'd worn…I got the feeling he hadn't meant for me to witness it. It broke my heart to think my words might've caused that look to rear its hurtful head.

"I'm sorry," I said. I hope he knew I meant it. "Talk about insensitive. I brought up moms, and you—ugh, I'm sorry." If I was smiling just then, it was the single most please-kill-me-before-embarrassment-does-the-job smile on record. "I'm kind of the worst, right?"

But Minamino, polite as he was, merely shook his head. "No apology necessary. You were merely expressing your happiness. I hold no grudge for that."

"Still, though. It was insensitive of me."

"No." His firm tone caught me off guard, as did the sudden squaring of his shoulders—Kurama coming out to play. Did he notice when he changed like that, or was it instinctual? Either way, he must have realized that I noticed because he shook his head, softening his expression and lowering his voice. "Please. I need no apology. Your happiness is…uplifting, in a way." I hoped very much that that smile of his was genuine. It warmed my heart like a nip of spiked cider on a cold day. "Do not hold back a smile on my account."

We just looked at each other for a minute. But I'm as awkward as a manatee on roller blades, so I was only able to trade that look with him for a moment. I flipped my hair and pasted on a grin that clowns would envy.

"I can walk around with a massive cheesy grin on my face if that'd help," I said, talking through my teeth to demonstrate my huge, deranged, twitching grin. "Eh? Eh? How's that?"

He chuckled, sound as delicate and delicious as a chocolate wafer—whoa, now, Keiko. Rein in the appreciation. Keep it professional, girlfriend.

"I wouldn't trouble you to go that far," he said, "but I admit, the gesture is appreciated."

"Sure." I let the horrible smile drop. "But, um. You doing OK, lately?" I shook my head and gave a wry laugh before he could reply. "Sorry. That's such a loaded question, I know. I bet that question is super annoying, right? Feel free to ignore it." I held up my hands. "Don't mind me!"

"My father is dead."

Kurama spoke with matter-of-fact dispassion, as though he'd merely revealed his eye color or where he'd been born. I stopped babbling at once. Beyond the stairwell door I heard students talking, unaware of the serious turn in our private conversation. When Kurama didn't say anything more, I swallowed.

"I'm sorry," I said, because there was little else to say.

"Many of the major decisions regarding my mother's treatment have fallen on my shoulders as a result of our current family dynamic," Kurama said, in that same fake blank voice that didn't match the void gathering in his eyes. "She worsened over winter break. I confess my mood, as of late, has not been the most pleasant."

"That's understandable," I said, because that was all I could say, and because it was true.

"Yes. I suppose it is." His chin lowered, eyes hooded as he looked…not at me. He looked Elsewhere. "She's on an overnight hospital stay this evening, in isolation."

"For treatment?"

"Yes. A recent medication compromised her immune system. This should help her recover."

His tone did not waver. No emotion leaked into the caverns of his eyes. Kurama's control over his emotions—it was both impressive and terrifying.

"Makes sense," I said, recalling the time Aunt Lana stayed in isolation after stem cell therapy. "I hope the clean-room helps."

"Me, too," he said.

Neither of us spoke for a time. Our peers beyond the doorway chattered and gossiped like birds on a line. Perhaps some of them discussed Yusuke's apparent ghost. Perhaps a fangirl worried for Shuichi. None of them knew we were there, staring at one another, trading looks on his part vacant, on my part sympathetic.

Shiori was in isolation, and Kurama was a duck: calm above the water, paddling furiously out of sight below the surface. Despite his exacting mask, he must be suffering to be so far away while she battled this new health crisis. He'd sit at home and worry for her, I was sure—

My chest opened up, a black chasm of dread.

The thought of Minamino going home to a dark, empty house, unable to see the mother he so desperately loved, and felt so guilty for breaking, and would feel so guilty for leaving behind…

"I'm sorry for putting this on you," Minamino was saying, apology covering his hollow eyes. "It isn't something I often express."

"Hey. It's OK," I said. "Whenever you want to talk, I'm with you."

"Thank you." He didn't smile, but a certain tension around his eyes eased. "We should get to class."

He reached for the door. I didn't mean to reach for him, but I did. My thumb and forefinger caught the fabric of his sleeve like thorns catching the hem of a coat. His lips parted, surprised, as he glanced toward my roving hand. He looked as surprised as I felt.

"Sorry." I pulled back my errant limb with a mental curse. "Sorry, but—wait a minute. I have an idea. Hear me out?"

His brow knit. "I'm listening."

"Well. Maybe, to get your mind off of things…do you want to go to karaoke with me and a friend of mine tonight?" When his eyes widened I held up my hands and said, "Not the one who was dead, though! The zombie is still on bedrest. This is a different friend. One who is very much a live and definitely not a zombie."

Kuwabara and I had a weekly tradition of eating dinner with my parents before renting a karaoke booth, where we chatted and did homework away from the watchful eyes of family. Since we didn't go to the same school anymore, the routine helped us stay in touch. Tonight was our usual karaoke night. Something told me Kuwabara, with his goofy disposition and friendly demeanor (so long as you weren't a rival punk), might stand a chance of providing Kurama with light, distracting entertainment. Watching Kuwabara belt Megallica songs was truly a sight to behold. And Kuwabara probably wouldn't mind meeting a friend from my new school, either, right? Plus, Kuwabara and Kurama weren't fated to meet till the Saint Beast arc, so what were the chances that their meeting would mess stuff up? In anything, Kurama would just make a new friend. Surely that wasn't a bad thing, right?

Or was I just so desperate to fill that void in Kurama's eyes that I wasn't thinking straight?

Minamino hesitated. "I wouldn't want to impose or inconvenience you," he said. How very Japanese of him. Funny how he'd absorbed that trait of this culture. Surely demons didn't normally worry about such things

"You wouldn't be imposing," I said. "We go all the time. We eat dinner at my parents' restaurant and hang out and do homework in the karaoke booth. But you'd be hearing a whole lot of Megallica, so if metal ain't your thing…"

The clouds in his expression did not scatter. He inhaled a sharp breath, eyes roving across my face. "Yukimura…"

It dawned on me, why he might be hesitating. I snapped my fingers, pointing at him. "Oh. Oh. I totally forgot. I'm sorry! Riling up the fangirls would cause you trouble, and—"

"It's—it's not that." He shook his head, expression strained. "They're friends of yours, it seems. I'm sure they'd understand. I merely—"

He hesitated again. If not the fangirls, then what was he getting at? I waited, frowning as he searched for words, trying on my own to deduce what he might say. But I could no more predict Kurama than I could predict the weather, so of course he beat me to the punch.

"I merely haven't been to karaoke since middle school," he admitted, as though he found the confession embarrassing. "So, my singing voice…"

"Ah." I leaned toward him, nudging him in the ribs with a knowing grin. "You're worried you'll croak like a frog, is that it?"

"Perhaps." And at last he was smiling, for real this time, with a smile that filled his eyes and covered that awful, desperate desolation with cheer. "I haven't accepted a social invitation in a very long time. You surprised me, that's all."

I preened. "I've gotta keep you on your toes somehow, don't I?"

"Yes." The smile softened, warm and…well, maybe almost affectionate. Like perhaps I really had caught him off guard with this overture of friendship, and he liked that feeling just a little. "I suppose you do."

"Well, what do you say?" I swiped my hands through the air, clearing it of expectations. "I promise the karaoke booth will be a judgement free zone."

"If you're certain it wouldn't be an imposition," he said with ponderous, rising determination, "I supposed a distraction…might not go amiss." He bowed, so polite it almost hurt. "Thank you, Yukimura."

I couldn't help but grin. "Awesome. We meet at my house at—"

I wrote the address and time on a scrap of paper from my schoolbag, adding my phone number as an afterthought in case of emergency. He accepted the paper with a chuckle. I practically bounced on my heels as I described directions.

"Oh, and we tend to go in plainclothes, not our uniforms," I said once I finished sketching a rudimentary map on the paper, "but if you're really feeling the magenta vibe today…"

"Thank you." Green eyes glittered with teasing humor. "I'd hate to show up underdressed."

Pretty sure that's not possible, bro. If Kurama could make that magenta uniform look good—which he most certainly did, figure dashing and trim no matter how boxy that stupid coat made everyone else appear—Kurama could look good in anything.

Unless he wore that stupid shoulder strap covered in pockets from the last episodes of the anime. That's where I drew the fashion line. Hopefully he just wore jeans or something, and not one of those anime fashion disasters I used to laugh at on Tumblr…

"Ah, the bell." I pointed up at the ceiling when it rang. "We're late! See you later?"

"Yes." He pushed open the door and waved me through it. "I'll see you soon."

From him, it sounded like a promise—one I admit pleased me a great deal.

"Hey mom—do you mind if I have another plus-one for dinner?"

"Of course not, honey!" she said. She was on break, sitting on a crate in the stockroom with a cold towel around her neck. Dad yelled on the other side of the curtain, running the kitchen with his cheerful, booming voice. "Is Yusuke going to karaoke with you and Kuwabara?"

"Not yet." I leaned against the doorframe, kicking my toe at the ground. "Still on bedrest, especially after this weekend." He's strained some tendons in his calf, badly enough to need crutches for at least a week. "It's a friend from my new school."

"Wonderful! One of the girls?"

"Actually…I need to talk to you about it." I took a deep breath, knowing what I was about to say would dampen my mother's beaming smile. "It's the boy those girls wanted to cook for."

"Oh." Her face fell, as predicted. "The boy whose mother…?"

"Yeah." Neither of us wanted to complete that particular sentence. I soldiered on in spite of the subtext. "His mom has to stay at the hospital for the time being. I wanted to tell you ahead of time so we could steer clear of awkward topics."

She tapped her temple. "Good thinking. I'd hate to step on any rakes!" Mom looked around at the shelves of food and spices; her gusto returned in increments. "Now, let's see…I'll make him a lovely, home cooked meal. Make him feel right at home!"

"Thanks, Mom." I caught her eye and smiled, but I knew the look didn't sit right on my mouth. "Just…I don't think we should overdo it with the Welcome Wagon. He's used to people handling him with kid gloves. Maybe a bit of normalcy…"

"Ah, you're right," she said, nodding. "Normalcy must be in short supply in his household these days."

I sagged with relief. Mom was amazing, but her enthusiasm wasn't always totally apropos. "Yeah. I figured I'd offer him a casual distraction from the whole mom-in-hospital thing. He's always been a loner, at least according to my classmates, but…it just seemed like the right thing to do, you know?"

"I do know." She reached for me, holding my small fingers with her larger, rougher ones. "Don't you worry, Keiko. We'll keep it very casual."

"Great." I squeezed her fingers and gave her a loving peck on the cheek. "I'm going to go take a quick shower."

"Sure thing, sweetheart. See you at dinner!"

The shower felt like heaven. I shampooed my hair, conditioned, and scrubbed until my skin felt raw. Picking an outfit to wear took longer than usual, but this was a special occasion. I wanted to look nice, right? But not like I was trying too hard, either. Kurama shouldn't feel awkward. I wasn't a fangirl, after all, and dressing up to impress people wasn't in my nature, anyhow, but...

He hadn't been out with friends in a long time, he'd said.

He'd been supporting his mother all alone, he'd said.

Clear though it was he needed support during this stage of his life, I was honestly a bit surprised he had accepted my offer. Maybe what I'd said about accepting help sometimes had actually gotten through to him. Or maybe he was still curious about me from all the puns, and this was a chance for him to analyze me outside of school. Whatever the case may be, I was going to treat this the same way: like an outing between friends, to show support as one navigated a difficult time in his life.

No matter what Kurama currently thought about me, he'd come away from this knowing I was first and foremost his friend. That's what mattered.

Plus, it's not like I would be alone in this. I'd have Kuwabara with me. Kurama was getting two friends for the price of one. And since Kuwabara was the best friend a person could ask for, Kurama was getting a damn good deal, if I do say so myself.

Yeah. This was the right thing to do, letting them meet. The reward far outweighed the risk, so far as I was concerned.

I was debating the merits of jeans over dresses when my phone rang atop my desk. I stumbled over the clothes I'd strewn about and nearly fell on my face, but somehow I got the receiver to my ear. Kuwabara's rough voice greeted me a second later.

"Hey, Keiko? It's me."

"Oh, hey man." I wedged the phone between my jaw and my shoulder, holding up a dress in the full length mirror by my closet. "Sup?"

"Um. Nothing good." Worry colored his voice like tacky tar. "Sorry to do this but I gotta bail—it's Eikichi. She's sick and I gotta go take her to the vet."

"Oh my gosh." I dropped the dress, hand covering my mouth. "How sick is she? That's awful! Can I help? I can—"

"No, no, it's fine," he assured me, but his voice cracked, so I knew it really wasn't. "I think she just has a cold or somethin' but I don't want to be too careful, y'know?"

"Of course. She's your baby." In that moment all I felt was worry for the cat, not to mention compassion for my clearly distraught friend. "Tell her I said to get well soon, OK? And give her a nice scratch behind the ears for me?"

"Yeah, sure—thanks." He sounded relieved for some reason. "I'll call you when I know what's up, OK?"

"Good, do that. Best of luck."

"Thanks, Keiko. Bye."

"Yeah, bye."

I hung up, eyes drifting to my window. I unlatched the lock and opened the pane, chirping between my teeth until Sorei swaggered up across the roof tiles. He allowed me to run a thumb across his forehead before deeming that that was quite enough physical contact for one day, thank you. He curled into a ball on my desk and closed his eyes.

"I'm glad you're OK," I told him. "Say a little kitty prayer for Eikichi, would ya?"

Sorei yawned, thoroughly uncaring that my best friend wouldn't be coming tonight on account of his sick cat—

I froze.

Kuwabara…wouldn't be coming to karaoke tonight. Which meant—

"Oh," I said to my empty room. "Oh. Oh. Hoo-boy." I swallowed. "This ain't good."

Sorei didn't care about my plight, obviously. He rolled onto his back and wriggled, crinkling my history homework without a care in the world.

It wasn't like he had to go to karaoke with Kurama alone, or anything like that.

No. Nope. Not Sorei.

Just me.

That enviable task fell squarely on my shoulders—the shoulders of the lucky child who suddenly got the feeling her luck had just run out.

Notes:

Hey gang! Let's rip this band aid off: I am going to take one month's hiatus from this story. I'm trying to finish an original novel and I'm going to use the July run of Camp NaNoWriMo to do it. I can't handle weekly updates of this size while writing a book of my own, but I'm already eager to get back to Lucky Child and won't leave you hanging for long, I promise!

I'll be back with a proper update on August 5th or 6th; see you then!

(Also, I only started this story series about six months ago, but I've already clocked about 200,000 words on this account. A chapter a week for six months is quite a lot, so I think at this point my fingers deserve a break. Lol!)

Chapter 35: Dance With Me

Summary:

NQK takes Kurama out.

Notes:

Note #1: The latest Children of Misfortune omake was so fun that it worked its way into this chapter. Totally didn't intend it, but it fit, and I hope you enjoy!

Note #2: Christmas Eve in Japan is usually thought of as a lover's holiday.

Note #3: The first section is another flashback scene and it's incredibly self-indulgent and honestly you can probably just skip to the first line break. It's no big deal and very skippable.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Margaret walked in the door and smirked. With a sidelong glance at Kelsie, she said, "Saving the world again, are we?"

I shut my laptop's lid at once. Both girls laughed, pulling up seats at the little table by the window where I worked. I'd kept my back to the glass like always. Knowing someone could walk up behind me and read my work over my shoulder gave me the heebie-jeebies. No thanks! I'd write in secret or not at all.

So far as they knew, I never shared my work with anyone until it was done.

"So far as they knew" being the operative portion of that phrase.

"Seriously—you look so intense when you write," Margaret said as she flopped into a chair. "Like a secret agent hacking a satellite or something. And you never stop, either. You're either writing or in class." Her eyes narrowed with comical suspicion. "Is saving the world a full-time job?"

"Yes. Our world is in constant peril, and it can only be saved through the power of story," I said with mock gravity. They'd been teasing me about my Serious Writing Face and ceaseless, obsessive productivity since we moved into the same dorm our freshman year of college. I probably spent more time writing than sleeping each day, and often gave up the latter for the former.

Writing was my outlet, my obsession, and my passion. If that made me a bit…odd, so be it.

"Whatcha working on tonight?" Kelsie asked. She straddled a chair and leaned her chin on the backrest. "Another essay?"

"Sure," I said, but that was a lie.

"What's it about?" Margaret asked.

"Um—not sure. But I'll tell you when I figure it out?"

"Or we'll hear that it got published from our professors, again," Kelsie said. I ducked my head, mumbling that I'd just hadn't wanted to jinx anything and hadn't meant to keep secrets when I submitted my first essay for publication. She reached for my laptop, pretending to grab it. "I wanna see what you're working on!"

My fingers splayed across the laptop in a protective web. Kelsie laughed, but thanks to whatever writing god happened to be watching over me, she and Margaret had a party to get to. No more interrogation, thank my lucky stars. They left me to go get dressed, and to continue my work in peace. Only once they left the townhome we shared did I finally crack the laptop and resume work.

Resume work on my fanfiction, that is.

Nobody on campus knew I wrote fanfiction, and I very much wanted to keep it that way.

Not that I was ashamed that I'd penned just shy of a million words of fanfiction for Yu Yu Hakusho. "Shame" was not the word. It's just that the academic literary community looked at fanfiction as a lesser form of literature. Actually, that's an understatement: they looked at it as a black mark on the face of the written word itself. Writing a million words of fanfic wasn't a badge of honor in the circles I traveled. It was a badge of embarrassment, sure sign that you were an incompetent, child-minded hack who relied on another author's world-building to craft a story. If my professors knew I spent time writing fanfics instead of the nonfiction and personal essay they insisted I focus on (it was my specialty, they said), they'd never look at me favorably again.

And honestly?

I was of the not-so-humble opinion that my professors were full of shit.

My ire knew no limits, so far as this subject was concerned. Fanfiction was far from a useless art form. It was far from a worthless waste of words—and it was far from restricted to the pages of FFnet and Tumblr, as my professors sometimes claimed.

Every episode of TV not written by the series' creators was basically a fanfic made canon by a boardroom of executives. The Iliad, The Odyssey? Those were remixes of oral works—fanfics of legends, made acceptable through time and tradition. Some best-selling books were retellings of older stories, like fairy tales. An entire industry of glorified fanfic centered on expanding the Star Wars universe. Some novels—critical darlings and bestsellers alike—expanded on classic stories that had entered common domain (here's lookin' at you, Grendel and a host of other novels my professors loved).

So, fanfiction, useless? Nah, bro. And that's saying nothing of the void fanfic filled when it came to diversity. You want an LGBT protagonist, or a protagonist of color, or a healthy polyamorous relationship? Good luck finding it in 'real' fiction outside of small niches of often self-published works (big publishers still weren't on board with certain facets of diversity). Most of my LGBT friends—myself included—turned to fanfiction because it was just easier to find ourselves represented in its archives. Hell, I'd been able to find badass protagonists of every diverse stripe online, from characters of color to LGBT characters to characters with disabilities. And should you find yourself without representation, you ask? I'd bet money you could request just about anything on sites like Tumblr and see your need fulfilled in a matter of hours.

Point is, fanfic shouldn't be seen as a red-headed stepchild of greater literature. It serves its purposes, and has existed since the dawn of storytelling.

Try telling that to my professors and peers, however, and you'd get nothing but mockery (and only grudging acknowledgement that I had a point) in return.

I wouldn't even tell my close friends about my illicit little hobby. Better to let them think I was working on (yet another) original novel when I indulged in my fics. Loved them, but my friends were blabbermouths. No way was I letting them in on my little secret. Margaret and Kelsie would never let me live the fanfic down.

Both of them were in the college's creative writing program with me. They'd seen the administration make a big deal of my first big-girl publication in a literary journal. My professors were already putting out feelers to place my other works, which made me all kinds of horrifyingly nervous and distinctly vomitus—like they must be playing a joke on me, because my work didn't feel good enough to publish, and shut up, Anxiety, nobody asked you.

If word got out that I was a more-than-a-little-prolific author of fanfiction…I didn't want to think about it.

Sighing, I got up from my laptop and wandered to the living room window. Below sprawled the Quad, large patch of grass vaguely lit by three stuttering streetlamps. A circle of kids sat on blankets smoking a bowl. I could almost smell the smoke wafting through the mail slot on the front door. The kids on the blanket represented college life at its finest—a place I didn't seem to fit.

I wasn't one for parties, drinking, or drugs. Too much of a homebody. Give me my writing or a good book any day of the week. My roommates had stopped inviting me places months before, instead coming home to regale me with stories of their exploits (in hopes, they often said, I'd use said exploits in an essay). They knew I preferred being at home, alone, plugging away at my keyboard like a spy hacking a satellite.

Or so I told them.

Sometimes a party invite would be nice. Maybe get some of those exploits under my own belt, instead of living them vicariously through my roommates. But I didn't want to cause trouble, so I didn't say anything. My own fault, really. I should've made my wants known, but I was too scared of making social waves.

But maybe that's why I wrote so much fanfiction in the first place. People liked me in the Yu Yu Hakusho fandom, and I didn't have to hide my interests to stay in their good graces. I wrote exactly what I wanted to write, no holds barred. Write a chapter, post it, BOOM, feedback and warm-fuzzy-feelings galore. I'd made friends online who appreciated me, and whom I appreciated in return. My stories were modestly popular, with a growing readership. When anxiety hooked its claws into my creativity, the YYH fandom was there to reassure me that I wasn't a talentless hack, after all. The fandom was there to remind me I was valued, and appreciated, and that my words actually meant something to real, living people. Cool though it was to have an essay published in a literary magazine, I found myself more touched, more honored, more humbled by the feedback given to my fanfiction. Or maybe I was just a junkie for instant gratification.

Either way, just don't tell my professors. They'd call me ungrateful. And perhaps they're right. I can't say for certain.

Putting my back to the potheads, I returned to my laptop. Kurama waited for an OC of mine in my open Word document. The OC was nothing like me, but she was about to go on a date with Kurama, and I was excited to see the pair of them interact after chapters of anticipation.

Given what would happen to me when I went to the world of Yu Yu Hakusho, it seemed my days of writing fanfic had been quite useful indeed—preparing me for a situation no one, least of all my professors, ever saw coming.

A solo outing with Kurama. An outing not lived in a Word document, but in the trappings of real, flesh-and-blood life.

See, professors?

Fanfiction is valuable, after all.

Minamino showed up right on time, because of course he did. I spotted his dark red hair the minute it glimmered in the restaurant doorway. I was on my feet and at his side in seconds.

"My friend cancelled, and I would've called, but then I realized I gave you my number, but I didn't get yours. Are you still comfortable hanging out? You can cancel if you need to."

He lifted a brow, but did not comment on my blunt greeting. "I see no reason to cancel, thank you. And yes, the numbers represent a planning oversight on our part. Is your friend all right?"

"Apparently his cat is sick. And that would sound like an excuse from anyone but him, because he loves that cat." I rolled my eyes, though with affection. "Like seriously. You have never seen a man get that mushy over a cat." I beamed when Minamino chuckled, pleased (though indescribably nervous) that Kuwabara's ditching hadn't deterred our plans. "Anyway. You hungry?"

"Yes, actually. Lead the way."

We ate at the counter overlooking the kitchen, where my parents worked over hot stoves and boiling pots. Conversation—a revolving door of my parents coming to the window, then returning to work, then coming back to us again—was choppy, but Minamino didn't appear at all perturbed by this unusual dinner theater. He introduced himself and thanked both of my parents for their hospitality whenever the chance availed itself. My mother was terribly impressed with Minamino, of course. He greeted her and my father with the politest over-the-counter bow in history, and he immediately paid them compliments on the restaurant—though nothing excessive or overly flattering. Smooth operator, this guy.

Keep your guard up, girl. It'd be so easy to trip up around this wily fox…

My parents acted with similar smoothness, much to my relief. They asked questions about Minamino's grades and his hobbies (which he answered with short, thorough descriptions I swear he prepped ahead of time). Never once did either Mom or Dad ask about his home life. Mom had clearly communicated the whole don't-bring-up-mothers thing to Dad, bless her.

"Your parents are very kind," Minamino murmured when both of them were occupied at work. He lifted a glass of water to his lips. "I see where you get it, now."

I was midway through slurping down a spoonful of noodles when he spoke. He didn't look at me, and I barely heard him over the clatter of the kitchen. Only when I hummed (wide eyed, a cascade of noodles streaming from my mouth like a walrus with a bad orthodontist) did he look my way. At the sight of my expression he nearly spat out his drink, laughing behind a hand after he desperately choked down his water. I slurped up the noodles and dabbed my mouth with a napkin, acting like I hadn't been acting a total goof at all.

"So you think I'm kind?" I asked. I nudged him with my elbow. "And here I thought for sure I came across as the school delinquent."

"Can you not be both?" he asked with Bambi-like innocence.

"Not to my knowledge." I put a hand to my chin. "Though perhaps that old adage 'kill them with kindness' could be taken literally? I could slay someone with a razor-edged greeting card, perhaps?"

Somehow he managed to take a bite of noodle-filled ramen without sacrificing his dignity. "Weaponized pleasantness. If anyone can find a way, it's you."

"Or you," I countered, grinning. "You wield politeness like a sword."

"Like a shield, I should think," he dryly remarked—but our banter cut short when Mom neared. Minamino adopted a winning smile. "I was just saying how kind Keiko-san is, for taking me under her wing."

Mom beamed. "Yes, she's got quite the wingspan at this point."

"My daughter, the albatross!" Dad called from the broiler. He flapped his hands like he was trying to fly. "Collecting ducklings wherever she goes!"

"Dad, that's mildly insulting," I deadpanned. "Does Minamino look like a duckling to you?"

Dad paused, then just honked like a goose. Mom laughed. Minamino chuckled. I got the sense I shouldn't leave the three of them alone, for fear of even more jokes at my expense.

Once Minamino had successfully charmed the pants off my parents, and once we'd eaten all the food my mother insisted on shoving down our throats, we left the restaurant and stood on the sidewalk outside. A breeze, warmest we'd had all year, coasted down the street and ruffled my hair with cool fingers. Rain earlier in the day had cleared the sky of smog, stars and half-full moon burning bright against dark expanse. The sidewalk sported more passersby than usual. People still wore coats, but we'd finally ditched winter hats and scarves for the most part. About time. I hated the cold.

"So usually my friend and I go to karaoke after dinner," I told Minamino, "but since it's not really your thing, we can totally do something else." He looked modestly grateful for this suggestion. I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. "Maybe walk around uptown, see if there's anything going on?"

He inclined his head, eyes skyward. "It is a nice night."

Minamino spoke the truth, and others had had the same revelation. The way uptown drew us through shopping and upscale residential districts, streets lined with cafes and eateries galore. Walking in easy, companionable silence, we witnessed myriad sets of people holding hands. Old couples and young lovers cuddled together over cups of cocoa and steamed buns as they took advantage of the weather. It was a cute sight, and when we reached the uptown square with the (currently inactive) fountain and clock tower, we found it festooned with string lights. Remnants of Christmas decoration, no doubt, though they'd removed the large evergreen that had once stood in the bowl of the defunct fountain. Perhaps all the couples nearby still felt the Christmas spirit, themselves. Jaunty music, replete with tinkling piano and velvety bass, drifted on the air from a source unseen.

It occurred to me that this was the place Yusuke would have told Keiko to save his body, had I not made the need to possess Kuwabara a moot point.

Obviously, I didn't mention this aloud.

Eventually we sat down on a bench beneath the clock tower, people-watching and listening to the music. I hummed along to a familiar tune, a spirited cover of a famous 1940s big-band song quite out of place in small-town Japan. Had I ever heard it before in this life? I couldn't quite recall. Minamino glanced at me and smiled, expression soft and subtle.

"You know it?" he asked.

""In the Mood,"" I said. "Glen Miller, 1940. Spent weeks at the top of the American charts." I tapped my foot in time with the drum, unable to keep my head from bobbing along. It was just so peppy and fun! "Infectious, right?"

He nodded, eyes on my tapping foot. "Perhaps we should have gone to karaoke, after all. You seem to enjoy music."

"I have a weakness for live music," I confessed. "Even if it's not a style I normally like, I'll listen to it live. But I really love this style." Something about the nearby tunes sounded live, not recorded. It had that rich quality you only ever heard coming from a live band. "How about you?"

"I don't listen to many albums," Minamino said, "but I do like live music, like you." He stood up, lithe and fluid and more graceful than I'd been in any lifetime. His eyes glittered, mischievous and verdant. "Want to find the source?"

"Who, me? Never. Twist my arm, why dontcha?" I joked, popping to my feet. I cupped my hands around my ears, listening, then flung out an arm. "That-a-way!"

I trotted off, Minamino following at a more sedate (not to mention dignified) pace. We didn't have far to go, though. An open-air café on the opposite edge of the square, blocked earlier from sight by the fountain's centerpiece, housed the musicians we'd sought. They stood on a stage way at the back of the café, a thick throng of dancing patrons on the patio and restaurant floor blocking the band's name on the bass drum from view. Tables had been pushed to the sides to create a dancefloor. I grinned, walking up to the iron railing and flower pots separating the patio from the street. Sweetness off the flowers, sweat from dancing bodies, and the scent of garlicky Italian food perfumed the evening.

"Found 'em," I remarked as Minamino appeared at my side. I braced my hands on the fence and rested my chin on them with a smile. "In the Mood" ended, giving way to "Are You All Reet" by Cab Calloway—another 1940s hopper. I perked up as a band member approached the mic to croon the lyrics. "Cool. I love this song, too. It's called—"

I paused. My eyes got big. Minamino leaned forward, frowning at me.

"Are you all right?" he asked (ironically, considering the song title).

"Is that—?" I shoved away from the fence, jaw dropping as I recognized what I was seeing. "Oh my gosh—that's Lindy hop!"

Minamino's frown deepened. He followed my gaze to the dancers. "Lindy hop?"

"It's American swing dancing. A style of it, anyway." I knew what a Lindy swing-out looked like, and as I zeroed in on the dancers, I realized they were all dressed in period clothes—a hodgepodge of American attire ranging from the 1920s to the 1950s. I saw victory rolls, beaded flapper dresses, housewife shirtdresses, and ties and suspenders and shoes with spats all mixed together like an anachronistic kaleidoscope. I hadn't seen any of these styles in person in what felt like forever. The people wearing them danced in a fervor, flinging each other about, doing the Charleston with abandon, performing a Texas Twist with aplomb. My hand smacked against the café's railing as I said, "Oh my gosh, is this a local group or what? I had no idea there was a Lindy meet-up in this town! This is awesome!"

Minamino's brow lifted at my excitement; I coughed and tried to rein it in, but I couldn't keep the smile off my face when he asked, "You like this?"

"Oh, yeah!" I gestured at the dancers. "It's a super fun way to socialize and it's great exercise, too, and do you see those dresses? Oh, man. Great excuse to dress up." Minamino looked amused when I hopped from foot to foot in an excited jig. I fired off the names of dance moves on the floor as I spotted them, unable to keep the grin at bay. "This is great. I haven't seen this dance in years. Not since coll—"

I stopped talking. Minamino's smile faded.

"Not since when, did you say?" he asked.

He spoke with odd delicacy, surgical yet hesitant. I curled my hair behind my ear and gripped the railing in both hands. I'd almost said 'college'. He did not need to know that I'd been part of a Lindy group shortly after graduating college, and that swing and blues dancing had been my main source of exercise (not to mention social hour) in my previous adulthood.

Nope.

He most certainly did not need to know any of those things.

"Oh, doesn't matter," I said, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned. I rocked back and forth on my heels, eyes locked on the dancers. "Wow. Look at 'em go. There are some real old hats in there, I can tell." A couple performed a 'round-the-world lift in the corner. The lead kept careful eye on the other dancers, I noticed. "That lead over there has a great sense of special awareness. Thought it's weird they don't outlaw aerials in this group. Injury hazard and all that—um. Anyway."

I bit my lip to keep from babbling. Nervous habit, and Minamino did not need to know I was nervous. I sat unmoving under his gaze, trying my best to wear a Keiko Mask—a feat that didn't come easily outside of school.

Minamino didn't speak for a moment that felt like a year. Eventually he turned his eyes away.

"Do you know how to Lindy hop?" he said, looking at the dancers.

"Yeah." I'd already used enough dance-lingo to give that much away; Minamino would notice if I tried to deny my own interest. "Used to love it. Could never do any crazy aerials like that, but I've been told I'm a decent follow." I leaned my chin on my hands again, wistfulness rising like morning mist at the sight of the joyous dancers. "Always wish I practiced more."

"Where did you learn to dance?" Minamino asked—but I got the sense I was speaking to Kurama, not Minamino, when his green eyes fastened tight on mine. They glittered like sun filtering through trees.

"A club," was my careful answer.

"Through school?" he pressed.

I hummed, hoping he'd take the sound as an affirmative. While I didn't trust myself to lie convincingly, I trusted my voice enough to change the subject. I asked, "What about you? Got any interesting hobbies I should know about?"

Seems my ploy worked, at least as a distraction. Kurama looked away—Minamino one more, hard edges replaced by brittle evasiveness.

"Just the greenhouse, I'm afraid," he said. "I don't have time for much more."

No doubt too busy taking care of his mother to cultivate hobbies, I figured.

But I wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud.

We stood there for a bit, once more lapsing into silence that wasn't as awkward as you might assume. Funny, how silence with Minamino didn't send me back into panicked babbling. It wasn't a heavy enough silence to trigger that. Seemed I'd distracted him enough that he wasn't going to use silence as a pressure-tactic for getting me to talk, as I suspected he might. I looked at him askance and found him staring at the dancers with unseeing eyes, hands gripping the railing, knuckles almost white—

Uh oh.

I'd distracted him with talk of his mom. Judging by the look on his face, he'd gotten lost deep in thoughts of her. That's the opposite of what I'd wanted tonight to be about! Fuck! Say something stupid and goofy, Keiko, and—

He beat me to the punch, though Minamino was never 'goofy.' Just as my panicked thoughts reached a fever pitch, his eyes refocused. He looked down, and something he saw inspired him to break the musical silence.

"Either the proprietor of this café got very lucky with their landscaping," he said, "or they share my interest in gardening."

He nodded at the pots lining the fence. They dripped with five-petaled flowers in shades of pink, purple, and white, with pointed petals and throats dark like they held precious secrets. They looked familiar, like I'd seen them somewhere long ago, but their name escaped me.

The name did not escape Minamino. "Viscaria," he said, gesturing. "Fitting, all things considered."

"Fitting how?"

Minamino's smile—patient, warm, and trained on the flowers at our feet—lost some of its early brittle edge. Ah. Maybe this was the distraction I needed.

"Flowers have meanings," he said, "and Viscaria flowers mean 'May I have this dance'."

My smile came as reflexively as breathing. "Wow, for real? No shit!"

"Indeed." His lips twitched. "'No shit.'"

"Language of flowers, huh." I leaned onto the railing, one hand drifting over it and down to the flowers below. They felt like velvet against my hand. "My grandmother taught me a little of that when I was a kid. Not much, but…"

Though Minamino excelled at hiding his emotions, he didn't bother hiding the look of pleasure in his eyes. "Did she?" he asked, light but eager. "Interesting. I remember you told me she enjoyed flower arranging."

"Yeah. That's right." I picked my words with as much care as my grandmother placed flowers in a vase. "She used to arrange flowers and submit photos to magazines. Had a few featured here and there." Without help of the internet, it was unlikely Minamino could easily fact-check that, so I felt safe enough making references to my other life (though perhaps indulging in nostalgia was foolish of me). "She'd name the arrangements based on the meanings of the flowers in them. We used to play guessing-games about arrangement themes, and she'd quiz me about what all the flowers meant."

Minamino listened to me talk with rapt attention, smiling and nodding and even chuckling as I described some of Grandmother's more noteworthy arrangements and their (at times) mystifying names. Every year for Christmas she'd always give me a Natural Beauty calendar (though I didn't tell Minamino the name of the calendar), which featured photos of flower arrangements that fit the month or season. Her work had appeared in a few of these. We'd always flip through and find hers with her on Christmas morning. She said she looked forward to that every year. We'd even done it the last Christmas she'd been with us, five days before the cancer—

I stopped talking.

Minamino watched me, brow furrowing, as I passed a hand over my face and sighed. I suspected he was far too polite to interrogate my parents about my dead grandmother (especially now that I'd blurted something about her illness), but even so, I felt I'd handed out enough information for one night regardless. Best stop before I got emotional.

"She sounds like a wonderful person," Minamino murmured when the silence dragged on too long.

"She was," I said. I put my forehead on my arms, taking a second to compose myself before standing back up. I scanned the café in front of us and forced a sunny smile. Minamino's brow lifted. "Now, let's see. Think I can make Grandmother proud?"

He looked at the café, question written into the lines of his mouth. A few women wore flowers in their hair, but typical flowers like roses. Nothing interesting. A few men wore flowers on their lapels. More flowers sat in cups on the tables that had been pushed aside to make a dance floor, but they were just—

"Him," I said, jutting my chin at the café's bar. A man sat on one of the bar stools, sipping a coffee in his tailored grey suit—but every few seconds he'd glance at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He adjusted his tie and patted his hair, smirking with pleasure at his own appearance. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that man is wearing quite the fitting flower on his lapel."

Minamino's chin dipped toward his chest, eyes closing as he chuckled. The white narcissus blossoms, indicating ego and vanity, trembled against the man's chest as he puffed it out and posed in the mirror.

"Indeed," Minamino said. He inclined his head toward the left-hand side of the patio. "And that couple ought to mind the flowers decorating their table."

I looked and found two young people, eyes locked as they discussed something in low, heated voices. As if on cue, one of them stood up and stomped off, leaving behind both their date and the cup of purple blooms sitting on their table.

"Hyacinths, but I don't remember what they mean," I admitted.

"Ah." He looked oddly disappointed, which hurt more than I wanted to admit. So much for making Grandma proud. "They're the flower of apology."

"The irony abounds," I said. I turned my back on the café, elbows on the iron fence so I could gaze at Minamino. "So, clearly I have my grandmother to blame, but what got you into flowers?"

He shrugged. "It's an old interest."

"You don't say," I said.

He wore no expression whatsoever. "Lifelong, I'm afraid."

I quirked a brow at his vague reply. "No interesting origin story I should know about? No plant-life epiphany?"

"Afraid not. I'm really quite dull." Minamino smiled with apology I didn't believe, but he changed the subject before I could express my skepticism. "And you? You never did elucidate."

"About what?"

"Where you learned Lindy hop." He leaned toward me, hair backlit by the string lights above our heads. The strands shone like illuminated blood; his eyes cut like tossed seaglass, and I realized Kurama had returned to me. "A club, you said?"

I swallowed down my nerves. "Yup."

He moved almost imperceptibly closer. "What kind?"

My reply was little more than a hollow whisper. "A dance club."

He took another step closer. I could smell him, suddenly, that scent of loamy earth and mint and flowers as intimidating as his proximity.

"You," he breathed, "are being evasive."

It took every last ounce of my nerve to take enough breath to say, "Am I?"

"Yes."

I pushed off the fence, putting my back to him so I could take a deep breath and try to quell the rapid beating of my heart. When I turned I found him staring, shrewd like the fox he'd once been—and still was.

Remember that, Keiko.

Always remember what Minamino is.

Past tense does not apply here.

"I learned to Lindy hop at a dance club at school," I said, every word as deliberate as a hammer on a nail. I met his eyes with bold assurance, grin cocky as I dipped a little curtsy. "There. Ta-da! How's that for evasive?"

But my show of insouciance didn't dent his scrutiny. He strode toward me, hand outstretched; I stepped back on reflex, cocky grin fading into alarm. Kurama stopped. He looked briefly at his hand before shoving it into the pocket of his slacks.

"What have you to hide, Yukimura?" he muttered. The intensity of his expression sent a shiver up my back.

"Right now?" I said. I put my grin back on, scrambling for something to say to divert the situation. "Right now I'm hiding amusement, mostly." When he frowned, I spread my hands. "My mom is always telling me I'm too serious for my own good. And Zombie-kun always says I've got the soul of a grandma. However…" I leveled an accusatory finger at his face. "You make me look like a spring chicken."

He blinked at the finger. I sighed and rolled my eyes.

"Y'know what?" I said. I darted close, spun, and looped my arm through his so I could tug him down the sidewalk (he gasped when I did it, clearly not expecting this from me). "C'mon, Minamino."

He fell into step beside me. "Where are we going?"

"To live a little, duh!" He dug in his heels when he realized I was dragging him inside the café. I let go of his arm and planted my hands on my hips. "Oh, c'mon. Don't be a spoilsport."

Minamino eyed the café with expression most dubious. "What sport am I spoiling, exactly?"

"The sport of dance, obviously."

Feeling daring for reasons I could not articulate, I plucked a bunch of Viscaria from the nearest pot, presenting it to Kurama with a dramatic, flourishing bow.

I let the flower speak my intentions for me.

There was absolutely no way he hadn't seen this coming—or so I thought—and that made the surprise on his face all the more hilarious. With another eye-roll I tucked the Viscaria into his front pocket, grabbed his hand, and tugged him indoors. He allowed this ignominy until we neared the bar, at which point he dragged me back with firm expression.

"I don't know how to—" he said.

"Excuses!" I said, raising my voice to combat the music. I pointed over his shoulder. "And the flowers here aren't abiding excuses. See that?"

He looked. Above the bar hung copper pots and pans, rustic and charming, interspersed with the occasional bunch of dried herbs. Minamino scowled when he saw to which one I referred.

"That's garlic," he said.

"And you know what that means in the langue of flowers, right?" I said.

He paused. His mouth worked, fighting back both denial and a startled smile. Eventually he admitted, "It means strength and courage."

"Damn right it means strength and courage!" I declared. "The strength to live a little and the courage to dance your amateur ass off in a room full of professionals."

Amused, he countered my logic. "But only the blossoms mean strength, not the bulbs currently hanging from—"

I cut him off. "'Only the blossoms, not the bulbs,'" I said, voice pitched low in obvious mockery. I flapped my hand like a mouth next to my face. "Blah blah blah, grandpa! Move your ass!"

There was no denying my enthusiasm at this point. Looking a perilous combination of stunned, amused, self-conscious, and apprehensive, he followed me to the edge of the dance floor, only to once again stop cold in my wake.

"I'm afraid I don't know what I'm supposed—" he said.

"You're supposed to have fun! Just do whatever and stop thinking so much!" I launched into an exaggerated version of the chicken dance mixed with an exuberant, bouncing Charleston. "See? I'm an albatross!"

He stared at me.

He stared at me, and then Minamino Shuichi—Kurama, the legendary bandit kitsune—threw back his head and laughed.

He had a lovely laugh. Silky and smooth and velvety and lush, like it came from deep inside and had been waiting for a reason to express itself for a good, long while. It curled my toes inside my shoes and set off my smile like a bomb. I'd never heard him laugh like this, but—it was wonderful.

It was wonderful, and I wanted to hear it again. The realization was as striking as the laugh and just as pleasant. I reached for Kurama and took his hand, noting with delight that he let me pull him onto the dance floor without complaint.

He didn't know the steps to Lindy hop. I barely remembered them, myself. But for the next half hour, we danced, and danced, and danced until my feet burned sore and my throat hurt from laughing.

The pain was a small price to pay, to share a moment like this with him.

Notes:

This is part 1 of their outing. Part 2 next week.

And, we're back a week early! Missed y'all. Couldn't stay away. Working on novel went more slowly than expected, but it's ongoing, and I'll be chipping away at it daily until it's done. You regularly-scheduled updates will now resume.

Sorry for the first chunk of this chapter. I have FEELINGS about fanfiction and academia I needed to establish, for reasons, and stuff about my compulsion to write stories, for other reasons. The YYH fandom means a lot to me.

Lindy hop is a great dance style that I love very much, but I tried not to weigh y'all down with too much terminology while still explaining what it is. Hope it makes sense!

There will be more Kurama next chapter. It'll be more serious, less fun. I wanted to end my hiatus with something…fun and fluffy, I guess? Because we're going to be leaving "fun and fluffy" behind soon, for the most part.

Related: The Artifacts of Darkness Arc is looming.

Chapter 36: Implications Left Unspoken

Summary:

NQK has a very bad day.

Notes:

Note: "Shoganai" is a very common phrase in Japan, meaning "it can't be helped." You say it when something goes wrong that's outside of your control. Basically it means "best to move on quickly from this, because there's nothing you can do about it."

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

I had to tap out before he did, even Keiko's hearty stamina no match for my enthusiasm. We bought drinks and sat on a bench by the fountain in the square. The moon above was half empty, like my cup once I cooled my throat. Neither of us spoke even after catching our breaths. Silence companionable, content in the wake of exhaustion, we sat beside each other and watched the Lindy hoppers.

Kurama didn't have a hair out of place, I noticed. What a jerk. I was sure I looked an awful fright, sweaty and rumpled from the night's activities. He wore his slacks and button-up shirt like they'd been plucked off a catwalk. My high-wasted pants and sweater seemed juvenile in comparison. Sighing, I huddled into the depths of my coat, hiding view of him behind my collar. Keiko was prettier than I'd been in my past life, but even so, I felt oddly insecure next to Minamino.

When he spoke, it startled me. I sat up straighter to cover my reaction.

"Thank you for tonight," he said.

His voice wafted like the scent of the Viscaria. I ducked my chin, smiling.

"You're welcome," I said.

"It was…nice." He appeared to have trouble finding the right word. "I've never done anything quite like that."

Shrugging, I leaned back against the bench and said, "We get by with a little help from our friends."

He looked thoughtful. "Yes. I suppose we do."

The tone of his voice gave me pause. He looked away, toward the café, but I only had eyes for him. He leaned his elbows against his knees, fingers woven loosely together as if to catch any errant words.

"Keiko," he said, and it didn't escape my notice that he used my given name. "What did you mean when you said I make you look like a spring chicken?"

Hadn't been expecting that question, let me tell ya. I'd said that on a whim. Had he thought I was being mean, or something? That's the last thing I wanted!

"Nothing insulting, I swear," I said.

He shook his head. Red-black hair fell over his shoulder, curling against his cheek like a caressing hand.

"I didn't feel insulted," he said. He met my eyes with solemn intensity. "Just curious. You spoke as if…"

He trailed off. I frowned.

"As if what?" I said.

Minamino paused. I waited.

"As if you're older than your age," he eventually said, "and you think me even older than that."

It wasn't the words that started my heart like an engine. No, my heart raced because of his tone. That light inquiry, delicate yet pointed, a scalpel slicing through our dance of innuendo and implications to cut to the meat of what lay between us. I swallowed as his eyes met mine, his gaze unflinching and guarded with a type of apprehension I couldn't put a name to.

I couldn't be sure if he'd meant to ask me for the truth so baldly, or if he'd merely stumbled onto it by chance. He knew something was 'off' about me. Was this a direct question, then, or yet another fishing line tossed into the sea of my mystery?

I started to tell him I hadn't meant anything by it—but I didn't do that. I couldn't. I let my head loll back, scalp resting on the bench's backrest. The moon above burned blue-white, like the spirit energy a certain friend of mine would develop (once he got off bedrest). Lying to Kurama didn't feel right, but telling him I was a soul transplanted into a new body…it just didn't feel like the moment for that. Best take Emily Dickinson's advice and tell all truth—but tell it slant.

Success in circuit lies, she'd say.

"Remember that guy I talked about, who came out of a coma?" I said. Best not to use Yusuke's real name. "Zombie-kun?"

"Yes," Kurama said.

"Well, I've known Zombie-kun since I was 6. And I'm always the one making sure we don't, you know…fall down into a ditch and crack our heads open and die."

Kurama laughed at my phrasing. I turned my head so I could smile at him.

"He was the type to shimmy up drainpipes and make me skip school when I got too stressed. He was always dragging me out to do fun things, and making sure I didn't get too caught up in my grandma ways." I knotted my hands behind my neck and rested an ankle on my opposite knee. "Literally, his nickname for me is 'grandma'. So I guess I do think of myself as older than my age. My parents and my best friend think so, too."

Kurama watched me, still and silent and perceptive. I attempted a casual smile.

"That's what I meant by that comment," I said. "Usually I'm a grandmothering albatross, and he's a canary chirping about sunshine, getting people to have fun." I smirked. "Annoyingly chirpy, sometimes, but I can take it."

Words tangled in my throat, then. I swallowed them down. Kurama waited in silence as I sorted through my thoughts. Yusuke had made me live, in this life. So devoted to the task of making my stolen parents happy, I'd often neglected to be a kid in this new life. Yusuke—with all his posturing, hijinks, and goofs—reminded me to take myself less seriously, and to enjoy the second childhood I'd been given.

Without him, I was relatively certain I'd be too serious for my own good. I wouldn't have had the heart to enjoy this life at all—although before he came around, I'd had no idea that was the case.

Yusuke was the foil that made me aware of my own neuroses, in a way. He was everything I was not, and I was better for the gift of his presence.

But how could I express that to Kurama, and tie it to my explanation, without giving away my past?

"I went through much of my life thinking I was fine alone," I eventually said, recalling how disdainful I used to be of the immature kids I'd suddenly found for my peers in this life. "I was OK without people. I was happy by myself. People were overrated. Connections were overrated. And I think I would've felt that way my whole life had he not come into it and dragged me kicking and screaming on his adventures."

Kurama hummed. He looked at me with furrowed brow and uncertain eyes. I smiled back at him, which only made his uncertainty deepen.

"Zombie-kun woke me up, in a way." I smiled more broadly when I realized I was quoting Yu Yu Hakusho's theme song. How fitting. "He brought into the light, just like you said. So I guess that's what I meant, saying you make me look like a spring chicken. I'm more used to being the big, grandma albatross with wide wings, not the…not that little chattering canary telling people to have fun. I got to play Zombie-kun's role tonight, and I guess I saw a little of myself in you. Got to play a little bit at role reversal, and feel like the young one for once." I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly bashful. "Is that weird?"

For a moment I worried he would say yes, and that my words—all of which were true, even if they neglected to mention certain, secret truths—rang false. But Kurama did not immediately react. He searched my face for answers I couldn't give before looking away, down at his laced fingers. Back to being a grandpa, then. I'd noted his old soul the first time we hung out solo, and here it was again. Kurama, the fox unaccustomed to relying on others, who resisted friendship, who resisted help of any kind. Yeah. He needed a canary lie Yusuke…or like me, if I could put aside my grandma-ness long enough to keep him dancing.

The moment dragged into two, then three. Eventually I leaned forward, catching Kurama's eye with a small, regretful smile.

"I hope I'm not pushing boundaries," I said, trying to be delicate, "but I get the feeling you don't have many people like that in your life. Canaries, I mean."

He looked down at his hands again. I could read nothing concrete in his expression.

"You're not wrong," he murmured. "I have one person like that."

I winced. Contemplated asking, then decided against it…but his lips twitched, pulling into a pained grimace for no longer than a moment. Still. It was enough.

"Do you mean your mom?" I asked, but gently.

Another pause.

Then: "No. I was not taking about her."

Our eyes met.

"Thank you, Keiko," he said.

A beat passed, and then my eyes widened.

Oh.

Oh.

So. He meant me.

I was his canary.

This…this, I had not been expecting.

I blinked. My heart stuttered. I curled a lock of hair behind my ear, looking at my shoes as though they'd become the most interesting objects in the world.

"Oh. Well. My pleasure," I managed to mumble. Because I was no good at being mushy, I flexed an arm and covered my embarrassment with goofy gusto. "If you ever feel the misanthropy rising and the call of nihilism in your ear, just gimme a call. I'll chase it off with a stick. Or a Lindy hop. Whichever best fights off the doldrums."

Bravado earned me a warm chuckle, and the tension in the air went slack. Did this mean he'd given up asking pointed questions for the evening? I could only hope. I wasn't ready to tell him who I was—not yet. Not when we could have more fun moments like these, free of demigods and alternate realities and the violation of his privacy.

I liked it simple, like this. Getting to know my favorite characters as friends and peers, no threat of doom or intrigue to muddy the water.

It wasn't meant to last, so I had to cherish it while I could.

"Keiko. May I ask you something?"

I jolted from my reverie, forcing a smile. "Um. Sure. Fire away."

Kurama started to speak. Stopped. Searched my face for a moment, uncertain.

"Are you OK?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Sorry. I'm…not accustomed to speaking so frankly. But I have this feeling—" Another pause, searching and silent. "I can't explain it. I simply feel you might have perspective on a certain matter."

He put too much faith in me. Folding my hands in my lap, I said, "I mean, I can certainly try."

Minamino nodded. He leaned forward again, hands once more interlocked between his knees. Although his voice came no louder than a murmur, I heard his words with crystalline clarity.

"If you could give up something precious to save the life someone you love," he asked, "would you do it?"

He didn't look at me. I did not speak right away.

Kurama…he meant the mirror, of course. He was talking about giving up his life to save his mother. He'd already hinted at his plan a few times in my hearing. That story about the forget-me-nots he'd recited, the one where the son died but the mother moved on...I knew more about his inner turmoil than he knew. Though of course he had no reason to think I was in-the-know about it.

I needed to act very, very casually if I wanted to tread these waters without making waves.

"What?" I asked, affecting wry—but kind—humor. "Does your mom need a kidney?"

His lips pulled at the corners. I figured it was an easy and not-suspicious guess, one anyone would make if they knew about his mom and heard him ask that question. He ran a hand through his hair and sat up straighter, hands mirroring mine as they knotted in his lap.

"No. This is merely hypothetical," he sad (but I knew that was a lie, one told with grace and convincing faux sincerity). His eyes slid to mine, questioning. "What would you do if you could save someone you love from a horrible fate, but it would cost you everything?"

Yup. He was talking about his choice to trade his life for his mom's, for sure. I just wondered why he was asking me about it. We'd only just become friends. The idea that he'd ask me about it was preposterous and—

The memory of his vice cut through my internal monologue.

I have one person like that.

One person.

Just one.

Maybe he wasn't asking because he thought I was a good person to give advice. Maybe he was asking because I was the only person in his life who could.

The thought of it—that this lonely, nigh-suicidal, self-loathing demon had nobody to talk to but me—damn near broke my heart.

The thing was…could I risk being honest with Kurama about this?

He watched me as I thought, cool green eyes tight with emotions I couldn't nail down. I smiled at him. Murmured something about needing a minute to get my thoughts in order. He nodded and looked away, waiting patiently for advice I wasn't convinced I could give him.

Only, what was it Kagome had said?

Weeks earlier, eating frozen yogurt at a café table, I'd told her about my reservations in getting to know Kurama. About accidentally knocking his life astray because I might say the wrong thing. She'd merely rolled her eyes at my worries.

"Kurama is super smart, right?" she'd told me. "I doubt he'd let you throw him off course no matter how much you interfere in his life. He's just too sharp and focused to be led off course."

At the memory of her words, tension in my shoulders unspooled. Kagome's logical assessment of the situation had brought me relief in that moment, and it brought me similar relief now. The power was in Kurama's hands, not mine. No way could a mere human being like me throw off the game of a thousand-year-old fox demon.

This was Kurama, after all. I could afford to speak frankly.

"I'm a feminist," I said at last. Kurama lifted a brow, uncertain of where the heck I was going with that statement. "As a feminist, I believe in choice and consent. I can't impose my will on anyone else without their consent. So, I guess…"

I dug a nail into the skin around my thumbnail, unable to escape anxious picking in this new life.

"I guess I'd probably ask them what they want. But I wonder, would the person I love want me to give up that precious thing to save them?" I asked. "I can't imagine someone who loves me asking me to make sacrifices for them. I'm not convinced they'd ever give me that choice in the first place."

"What if the person you were saving didn't know you were going to make that sacrifice?" came Kurama's immediate reply. "What if you kept it from them?"

I pointed at my face, deadpan. "Have you seen me? I'm a terrible liar. Face like an open book. I couldn't keep something like that from them if I tried." Dropping the hand, I resumed my anxious picking. My voice came low and slow as realization formed. "I think…I think I'd have to ask myself if my actions could cause them pain, before making a decision." I met his eyes, smile as helpless as it was an attempt at comfort. "I wouldn't want to hurt someone I love, even in the act of saving them. Does that make sense?"

Kurama nodded, though slowly, but he didn't say anything. I tried smiling again.

"Something's on your mind," I said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not yet." His eyes closed, lashes staining pale cheeks. "I'm still thinking."

When I nudged him in the ribs with an elbow, he jumped. I grinned, tipping a wink when his eyes widened.

"You know you can talk about problems with people before you figure out a solution on your own, right?" I teased. "Remember that whole 'asking for support and help' chestnut we talked about with the fangirls?"

"I know," he said, chuckling under his breath. "But not yet. Eventually—" The smile faded, replaced by a grimace that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Sincerity radiated from him when he said, "Thank you for listening."

"You have a funny definition of that word. I did more talking than listening," I joked, but Kurama did not laugh. He only ducked his head, eyes as distant as the moon overhead.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "but I appreciate your efforts nonetheless." He stood. "It's late. We should head back. Let me walk you home."

"If it's quicker for you to leave from here—"

"No. I insist."

He offered a hand, eyes firm. I took the hand, his skin cool and dry and smooth against my own, and let him pull me off the bench.

We walked home in silence, but it was a nice kind of silence. The unusually clear sky overhead brimmed with pale stars to guide our way through quiet city streets. Only once we made it back to my parents' restaurant did we speak.

"You let me know if you need anything, OK?" I said, stopping on the sidewalk to look at Minamino. His lips parted in mild surprise. "You have my number. Use it. I don't care about the hour."

Once again his eyes fluttered shut, chin ducking as he smiled to himself. When his eyes opened, they fastened on something over my shoulder. At that his smile deepened.

"A fitting choice to decorate your door," he said.

I turned. Next to the guardian Ebisu statue to the right of the doorway sat a pot brimming with pale pink flowers. Sweet pea. My mother in my past life had loved them, and had planted them in the beds out front every spring. Alas, I wasn't sure what they meant, or what observation of Kurama's they must fit.

When I looked to Minamino for an answer, I found that he'd already walked away, footsteps silent as a thief's against the pavement.

"See you in school," he called.

"Take care," I replied.

Green flashed over his shoulder—and then he walked around a corner and out of sight.

I went to bed wondering at the implications of those flowers, and what Kurama read in the fall of their petals in the moonlight.

That night, under the light of the half-empty moon, I had a dream—only it was more of a memory, but I wouldn't realize that until I woke up.

Ten years old and grumpy as heck, Yusuke followed along behind me as I trotted up the street toward the movie store. Only because I'd promised him ice cream (which he coveted even on chilly October days like these) did he come willingly on my errand. Joke was on him, though. This was an errand he should want to run.

"I can't believe you're this worked up over a stupid move," he grumbled.

Hadn't I explained this a hundred times already? Eyes rolling, I said, "It's the best movie in the world, Yusuke."

"How do you know if you've never seen it?"

He had a point and looked totally smug about it, dang it. So far as he knew, this movie had just come out. There was no way I could've seen it before. Little did he know it had been my favorite in my past life. He wouldn't look nearly so smug if he knew the truth.

"Whatever." I turned up my nose and stuck out my tongue. "It's going to be great, you'll see."

His turn to roll his eyes. "What's it called again?

"The Princess Bride."

Yusuke made a very impressive stink-face. "Keiko! That sounds girly and gross!" He rounded on his heel and marched back the way we'd come. "I'm going home."

Despite the insult, I was unable to take offense. He sounded just like the kid from the movie, who hated the title of the book and didn't want to give it a chance. And just like that kid, I was confident he'd come around if he could just sit still long enough to watch the damn thing. I was clearly the Grandpa in this scenario; the parallels were too hilarious.

"Pirates are girly and gross?" I called after him.

Yusuke stopped walking. I could practically see his ears perk up. He'd been on a pirate kick recently. If only One Piece had debuted in 1987…

"Sword fights on top of cliffs are girly and gross?" I went on. "Duels to the death with wits are girly and gross? Death by poison is girly and gross? Gigantic, man-eating rats stalking prey through a fire swamp are girly and gross? Battling giants with your bare hands is girly and gross?" With every sentence he turned toward me a little more, and a little more, until he faced me. I crossed my arms and tossed up my chin. "Hmph! If those things are girly and gross, then I want to be the girliest, grossest girl who ever lived!"

He scowled, skepticism undisguised. "Is all that stuff really in the movie?"

"All of that and more," I promised. "And you know I mean what I say."

Because I'd never broken a promise to Yusuke in his life, that was all it took to convince him. He darted forward, grabbed my hand, and pulled me down the sidewalk.

"Why'd they pick such a stupid title, then?!" he said, desire to see the movie on par with my own, now. "C'mon, Keiko, let's go!"

Too bad fate (or maybe Father Time) had conspired against us that day. The man at the video store (which rented and sold cassettes to the discerning customer) looked at us with brow hefted high, staring over the top of his magazine as if two goblins had suddenly appeared before him. I wanted to make a joke about David Bowie ("We're here for The Princess Bride, not Labyrinth!") but decided against it. No sense antagonizing the guy who held my happiness in his hands.

"Sorry, kids," he told us. "But I haven't heard of that movie."

"B-but—I know it's out in America," I said.

The man's brow rose higher. "America?"

"Wait, it's a gaijin movie?" Yusuke rounded on me, aghast. "Keiko, why didn't you tell me? I hate subtitles! I can't read the kanji!"

"Shut up, Yusuke," I snapped. Pasting on my very best small-child-in-need-of-assistance face, I implored the shopkeeper. "Look, its release date was September 25, 1987. I know it's out." I'd been obsessed enough with the movie that I remembered its release date down to the day. I'd been looking forward to showing Yusuke my favorite movie since I had been born (literally). There's no way I'd forget!

The shopkeeper's expression cleared. "Oh, well, that explains it. If it's still in theaters, we won't have a video copy in stock for a few months yet."

"But it's already a month after the release," I said. I'd delayed my inquiry by one month exactly for a reason. "Is that not enough time?"

"Sorry, kid. Video release takes time, especially for foreign films." I suppose I looked completely devastated (both at the prospect of the movie being delayed, and at the idea I'd made such a horrible miscalculation), because he grabbed a pen and paper and handed them down to me with a conciliatory smile. "But I can put your name down and call you when I get it, if you want."

The pen almost pierced the paper, I wrote my name and number down with such dedicated ferocity—but the call never came.

Over the course of the next six months I must have gone back to that shop two dozen times, and they never had it. They never heard of it. I made friends with the shopkeepers, always buying videos when I came around, but even they couldn't come through for me. My repeated visits played through the fabric of my dream in an unending montage of disappointment and frustration. The man behind the counter—kind and helpful to this lost little child—always promised to look, but he never managed to find the movie I sought. And I didn't have the internet to do my own research into why distribution was taking so damn long.

Eventually Yusuke tired of me dragging him to the video store. He stopped coming as I hunted my White Whale, and told me to get back to him once I found it.

I never did, though. Eventually I grew too busy with school, and searching became a chore. Eventually I forgot to keep up my search.

Eventually I just stopped looking.

It seemed my lucky second life was fated to go without The Princess Bride.

"Hey, Yukimura. Can we have that chat I wanted?"

Junko tapped her foot, standing in front of my desk with arms tightly crossed. I set aside the textbook I'd been reading and smiled at her. Her eyebrow shot up, impressive in its dexterity. I'd run out of the classroom the day before without giving her a chance to talk to me—had been eager to get home and get ready for my outing with Kurama, forgetting that she'd approached me at the shoe lockers earlier that morning. To her it must've looked like I was avoiding the conversation she'd tried to have with me about Yusuke. Time to mend some fences.

"Kaito told me what you wanted to ask yesterday," I said, and before Junko could cut in, I launched into an explanation. Yes, my friend had died. No, he hadn't stayed dead. He was out of a coma and not a ghost, or a twin brother, and yes, those guys had indeed fought Sarayashiki's #1 Punk, Urameshi Yusuke. Junko listened with wide-eyed amazement, too stunned to ask questions as I gave her Yusuke's cover story about incompetent EMTs, comas, and recent recoveries.

"That's crazy," she said when I finished, but only after taking a moment to collect her speechless self. "I mean, it's crazy! I was sure he was dead!"

"To be fair, we all were," I assured her.

But she was not comforted. She ran her hands over her ponytail and swore. "I even started pestering you about it—oh, man, I'm the worst." She stared at me as if trying to detect a lie. "But he's alive?"

"Yup. That's why I got defensive when you asked me about him the first time we met," I said. She lowered her head, embarrassed. "We weren't going public with the coma-thing at the time, and I'm a horrible liar, so…I just sort of snapped at you. Sorry about that."

"You had every right to snap," she said. "I'm the one who should be sorry. You were right. Prying into the death of someone's friend is…"

She trailed off, cheeks reddening. I waved a hand in dismissal.

"It's in the past. Shoganai." Folding my arms on the tabletop, I grinned at her and kicked her shin gently with my toe. "I'm glad you're asking now, though. He's about to come back to school. If you can spread the word that he's not actually dead, it'll save me from having to tell the story ad nauseam later on."

Junko blinked, then matched my grin with one of her own—and the addition of a smart, heel-clicking salute.

"Roger that!" she said with a toss of her bleached ponytail. "I'm on the case!"

"Use your rumor mill powers for good," I solemnly intoned.

"Gossip Girl, to the rescue!" she declared, and she struck a superhero pose.

We laughed—her from the absurdity of it, me from the accidental reference to a TV series that didn't yet exist in this lifetime. Something told me she'd approve of the series, though.

I just hoped she did what she said she would, and cushioned the blow of Yusuke's return so I wouldn't have to do damage control myself.

Kaito didn't spare any time for greeting. He looked up from his book when I joined him at lunch and demanded, "Have you see Minamino today?"

"No. I typically don't run into him until lunchtime, anyway," I said as I settled onto the stairwell windowsill. Below stretched the winter-brown lawn, patches of green beginning to emerge as spring sprung. The greenhouse perched at the edge of the lawn like a palace of jade.

"He wasn't in class," Kaito informed me.

"Oh, really?" I peered at the greenhouse, trying to catch a flash of telltale red through its tinted walls. "I wonder if he'll come to lunch."

"Perhaps it's best if he refrains," Kaito said. His book snapped shut between his hands. "I have something to ask you."

"What is it?"

"Are you comfortable around him?"

He spoke without any drama, as though asking a question no more interesting than the daily weather report. My lips pursed.

"Who, Minamino?" I asked.

Kaito scowled. "Obviously."

"Oh. Well, yeah. We're fine. Why?"

"You weren't fine when he first began sitting with us," he said. "That was also obvious."

For a moment I didn't understand, but then I remembered: I once had been afraid of Minamino. I mean, I still was in many important ways, but our relationship had definitely warmed past those first few weeks of chill suspicion. Kaito looked alarmed when I smiled at him, warm and with affection.

"I noticed that you never leave the two of us alone," I said. "Thanks, Kaito. I didn't have to ask or explain. You just saw that I was uncomfortable and took steps to make things better." When he looked away, cheeks coloring, I couldn't help but chuckle. For all the praise of his intellect, I got the feeling he'd never been complimented like this before. "You're a good friend, Kaito. I'm lucky to have you."

"You're welcome." He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger. "It's the least I can do to repay you for our lunchtime banter. But I have to ask: why were you uncomfortable around him?"

"He tried prying into my personal life. My dead friend, you know?" I said with a breezy wave of my hand. Kaito nodded at my explanation, a lie though it mostly was...but a lie that made sense. I certainly couldn't tell him the truth. "And then his fangirls saw us hanging out and started picking on me, and we got tangled up over stupid drama. Misunderstandings and stuff. It's better now, though."

He appeared to agree with that statement, saying, "You have seemed more at ease as of late." Another shove of glasses-up-nose, this time with a sharp jerk of his wrist. "Although I can't say I approve."

I rolled my eyes. "Minamino's not that bad, Kaito."

"I disagree," my bespectacled friend insisted. "He is a thorn in my side."

"Hey." I reached out a foot and shoved at his knee, teasing with a wicked grin. "Don't think I don't see how much you revel in the moments you and Minamino go toe to toe! Having him this close means you can look for weaknesses."

Kaito's lower lip jutted. I laughed.

"Admit it," I said. "Lunch got a lot more interesting when he started sitting with us."

Kaito's irked stared had teeth, but soon he shook his head. "As you know, I hate to concede a point…but you have one."

I beamed. He scowled.

"A small one," he said. With that he resumed reading. "Don't tell Minamino, or I will be forced to enact revenge."

"Heaven forbid," I said—but at the sight of his book, I set aside my joking tone. Squaring my shoulders and resettling myself on the windowsill, I said, "Hey, Kaito. I've been meaning to ask you something."

He looked at me sidelong, not bothering to lower his book.

"I need your literary expertise," I said.

That got his attention. Shutting his book with a snap, he turned to me and said, "I am happy to provide."

"You're happy to show off, you mean." I held up a hand before he could return my snark. "I was at the library looking at myth, folktales, fairy tales—you know. Um." Would he think I was juvenile for reading about such things? Crap! I scrambled to add, "They created archetypes for so many modern stories. It's interesting, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said.

My shoulders sagged, relieved. "OK, good. Do you know a lot about the subject?"

"I wrote two papers for a literary magazine on the subject, both of which were published to acclaim of my academic peers," he stated.

Of course he'd written papers on the subject. I stuck out my tongue. "Show-off! But that's really cool." He preened at my compliment. "I take it you know the Brothers Grimm?"

Kaito scoffed at my (admittedly stupid) question. "Obviously."

"Awesome." I reached for my bag and dug out the book Kagome had lent me: The Unabridged Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. Passing it to Kaito, I told him the lie I'd prepared ahead of time. "A librarian gave me this book and said it was actually missing a lot of stories, even though it says it's complete."

Kaito, in the middle of opening the book to the table of contents, looked up at me with a frown. I fidgeted in my seat. Kaito's frowns—while not as scary as Kurama's—were still a sight to behold.

"She named a few stories called 'Cinderella', 'The Frog Prince', and 'Snow White'," I said. "I was curious and tried to look them up, but I didn't have any luck. Do you know where I could find them?"

For a moment he did not reply. He opened the book to the first few pages and smoothed a hand down its title page. A smile broke through his thunderous expression, but only for a moment. Kaito went back to frowning soon enough.

"I used this compilation while writing my papers," he said, "and I can assure you, it's missing nothing."

He spoke with the matter-of-fact authority with which he described all literary matters—the tone of someone who knows exactly what they're talking about. I blinked at him, mute, until he closed the book and placed it on his knees.

"What?" I managed to blurt.

"It isn't missing any stories," he repeated, tapping the book's green cover with his knuckles. "This is the complete and collected works of the Brothers Grimm. If there are more, then my paper was based on incomplete source material, and my paper was reviewed by top experts in the field. If they didn't ask about missing stories, it stands to reason it's because there are none missing to begin with."

The logic was valid. This was Kaito we were talking about. Of course his logic was valid.

But valid though it was, it still did not make the logic sound. It still did not make it make sense.

There was no way stories as famous as 'Cinderella' didn't exist in this world…right?

"I'm…the librarian said—" I said, clinging desperately to my fabricated story. I felt capable of little else in that moment. "She said there were more—"

Kaito's dark eyes flashed almost amber when the light caught them. Voice like a winter wind, he said, "That librarian doesn't deserve her title, or her job, if she told you that lie."

I stared at him. He stared at me. Eventually he dropped our gaze and sighed.

"Yukimura," he said. "I value your company because you are well-versed in literature. I'm surprised at you, believing a lie like that one. I should think you did your research long before now on this subject." His lips thinned into a white line of irritated displeasure—displeasure aimed solely at me. "It is infinitely rare to find someone interested in literature, the most underappreciated of all the arts. I have never met anyone my age with an interest in discussing the finer points of literary theory like you do. Do not disappoint me by revealing you're more uneducated than I've been led to believe."

I frowned at that. Was Kaito—proud and protective of his status as a unique genius—puffing up his interest in literature as something…counter-culture, almost? But English and literature degrees were super common. I'd been to college with hundreds of kids pursuing them. I would know.

"It's not that rare to find someone who likes Lit," I said. I leaned forward and grabbed the book off his lap, feeling oddly defensive in spite of myself. "Sorry. I guess I should've done my own research rather than ask you for help."

If he heard the barbs in my tone, he didn't indicate as such. He simply stared as I idly flipped through the book's yellowed pages.

"Yukimura," he said. "Just how interested in literature are you?"

I looked at him and frowned.

"Is it a passing interest?" he asked. "From your passionate style of debate, I assumed you were invested."

I didn't appreciate the judgmental tone in his voice. "I am invested," I said. I didn't get a creative writing degree for nothing. "Literature is my favorite subject."

"Then you should know just how underappreciated a study literature is in this era," Kaito said, voice creeping up in his register. "You should be painfully aware of that."

I gaped. "What do you—?"

He cut me off. "How many literary PHD programs exist in this country?" he asked, tone climbing ever higher. "How many MFAs? How many undergrad courses?"

"I—I don't know."

"Then perhaps," he said, "you should find out."

I'd never heard him talk like that before—with so much emotion, barely-restrained and thrumming, held in check by the last vestiges of his willpower. He looked surprised, himself. Kaito slumped in his spot on the stairs, adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat as he calmed down.

But why the hell had he just gotten so angry?

"OK. Sorry, Kaito." I held up my hands in an I-give-up gesture. "I guess I just haven't been looking at colleges yet. I don't know what I want to major in yet, so…"

He just shook his head. "No. The apologies are mine." A rueful smile curled his mouth. "I forget not everyone is as single-minded in their passions as myself."

I nodded, accepting his apology. He stood up and wandered to the other half of the window, leaving against it to stare onto the lawn below. I shifted to face him, thigh resting on the sill.

"Story. Plot. The written word." He closed his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. "It speaks to me, as it seems to speak to so few these days. The decline of cinema. The decreasing output of novels. The decreasing quality, originality of novels." A sigh, deep and defeated, passed his lips. "If only we had the Greats back. What a pity, that they wrote so little in their time."

I stared at him, processing, reading the subtext. What was he even talking about?

Maybe if I asked…

"Who is your favorite among the Greats?" I said.

"James Joyce." An immediate reply, followed by a wry smile and a shrug. "If only he'd written more than Ulysses, the literary world would doubtless be a richer place."

His wording stopped me cold.

'If only he'd written more than Ulysses.'

"That's…his only work?" I grated out.

"Of course." He cracked one narrow eye, glowering. "You should know that, Yukimura."

"Yeah." I swallowed, thoughts running amok inside my. "Yeah, I probably should." When the thoughts ran too fast and too rampant, I hopped off the windowsill and shoved my bento into my backpack. "Sorry, Kaito. I need to go. Thanks for talking to me."

"If I ask where you're going, I assume you will not answer," he called after me.

"Obviously," I threw over my shoulder. I hopped down a few steps before turning back, pausing so I could say, "Oh. But, Kaito?"

He hadn't moved from the window. "Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of The Princess Bride? Either the movie or the book?"

"No," he said, brow knitting. "I haven't."

I turned from him.

I muttered, "That's what I thought."

That's what I thought—but I had no fucking idea what it meant to be right.

In the library that day, I learned more than I wanted to know. Much more.

In this world, James Joyce wrote Ulysses. He did not write the Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. So far as I could tell, that book simply did not exist. His collection Dubliners also did not exist, and neither did Finnegans Wake—acclaimed books I'd studied in my old life, but ones I had not sought out in this world.

Why would I need to seek them out here when I'd already read them in my old life?

That day during lunch, I didn't just research James Joyce.

"Too bad the Greats wrote so little," Kaito had said.

Greats.

Plural.

Jules Verne wrote 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Nothing Else. No Journey to the Center of the Earth. No Around the World in Eighty Days. No From the Earth to the Moon.

H.G. Wells wrote The Invisible Man. No War of the Worlds, though. No The Time Machine, either.

As for Dostoyevsky, the Russian-pain-in-my-ass I'd had to study in three separate classes in college? I couldn't find him at all. War and Peace, Notes From the Underground…stories never written.

Jane Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice.

That was it.

I looked for every author I could think of, all the literary giants who had written novels worth writing about. I saw the same trend repeated over and over again: they wrote one book, maybe two, but the vast body of their work did not exist. Myriad writers wrote one work, and never anything else—stories absent from the world like teeth fallen from gaping gums.

The question of why this was the case was disturbing, to say the least.

But even more disturbing was the question of how the hell I hadn't noticed.

How had I not seen this before?

I sat in one of the library study rooms with my head in my hands that day, surrounded by the complete works—the incomplete works—of authors I had once idolized. Their untold stories galloped through my head like racing horses, pounding against the inside of my skull as if to break free of its bone cage.

As a kid in this life, I hadn't sought out the books I'd read in my old life. They were old news. I'd already read them. I hadn't felt the need to read them again. What was the point of rehashing any more than my absolutely favorite works (most of which existed, oddly enough)? In this new life of mine, I'd been much more intent on applying myself to new experiences. I was hungry for new information, new stimulation, newskills. I focused on Japanese literature because it was so new, and I was too unfamiliar with it to recognize if anything was missing from its catalogue—and besides.

I was living a story in this life. I was living an epic adventure, replete with magic and mystery.

What need did I have for novels when I was living a novel-worthy story of my own?

And I'd only been able to hang out with kids, in this new life. When they didn't recognize my literary references, I wrote it off as a product of their youth. My parents weren't big readers, either. It made sense that they didn't understand many of my references. And it wasn't like I talked much to my teachers. With them, I stuck to the syllabus. I stuck to the works they taught us—the works, few as they seemed to be, that existed in this world.

And I hadn't thought to broaden my horizons, because I assumed I knew what lay beyond them.

I assumed—and I'd been fucking wrong.

I'd taken for granted my knowledge of this new world, and put so much stock in knowledge of my previous world that I hadn't noted key differences in this one.

And that meant I hadn't seen the signs, even when they were right in front of me.

When the bell rang and I had to leave the library, I went to class preoccupied. I didn't pay any attention to the lecture. I stared out the window as the teacher droned on and on about something not nearly as important as this world's missing literature. Honestly, I felt sick to my stomach.

How had I been so stupid?

How had I been so oblivious?

How had I been so blind?

Apparently I wasn't good at covering my internal turmoil. Eventually my teacher called my name. I hadn't heard what he'd asked. Still, I rose to my feet, as was customary, and asked him to repeat the question.

My teacher narrowed his eyes. "Are you OK, Yukimura?"

No. No, I wasn't. But there was no way to explain that. I said, "Sorry. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You look pale."

I swallowed down bile, eyes sliding away from him and toward the window. "I'm fine. Could you please repeat—?"

I stopped talking.

A floor below, a flash of garnet caught the wintry sun as it moved across the courtyard. Familiarity struck through me like lightning. Without thinking I snatched my bookbag off the desk and started for the door.

Thinking about him felt much better than thinking about the cadre of missing stories.

"Yukimura-san?!" my teacher said.

"Sorry." My voice was a strangled grunt. "I need the bathroom."

Apparently my pale face and uncertain emotions were convincing, because my teacher let me go without further questioning. Must have assumed I was headed for the nurse. Instead I ran downstairs at a full sprint, into the courtyard in front of the school, wondering why the hell Minamino had decided to come to school so late in the day.

Too bad I never got to ask him.

By the time I made it to the school gates, Minamino—my one distraction from today's horrible revelation—had already disappeared.

"Keiko, honey, you're home early," Mom said as I walked into the restaurant dining room. For a second her face in the kitchen window looked happy at this prospect, but then her eyes alit on my feet. She frowned. "Are those your indoor shoes?"

I looked down. She was correct: I was wearing my indoor shoes from school. In my mad dash to see Minamino, I'd forgotten to exchange them for my outdoor shoes. Whoops. Stress had gotten to me. The walk home had passed in a numb blur—and I knew what that meant. I was on the verge of a panic attack, when I got numb like this. But I hadn't had one of those in this life, yet, so hopefully…

"You goose," Mom scolded.

"Albatross," came Dad's correction from the kitchen.

"Right, right, albatross," Mom said. At this hour, we occupied the brief lull between lunch and dinner rushes. She came out of the kitchen and walked toward me, concern etched into her features. "What's gotten into you, forgetting your shoes like that?"

"Sorry, Mom." My voice came out in a stressed rasp. "I wasn't feeling well and just came home."

Alarmed, she put her wrist to my head. She hummed. "No fever, but you look pale. Go rest." She squeezed my shoulder and smiled. "I'll call the school. Don't worry, honey."

"Thanks."

Grateful she didn't pry, I went to my room, curled up in my comforter, and threw myself across my bed. I didn't sleep, though. I watched the hands of the clock on my desk tick around the object's face, second by second, millimeter by millimeter. With every click I felt the knot in my chest coil tighter and tighter.

How had I been so stupid?

How had I not noticed?

And what did missing stories imply about the world in which I lived?

I lay in the same spot for two hours, sixteen minutes, and forty four seconds. I watched every second of that time elapse, haze of numbing anxiety rendering me incapable of movement. The questions ran through my head like a stuck record. Only when my phone rang did I flinch from my self-loathing stupor and sit up. Probably Kuwabara or Kagome, if I had to bet. Oh. Right. Kagome. Hopefully it was her. She should know about this. Maybe we could talk this through, and she could help me figure this out.

"Hello?" I said, wishing with all my might to hear her chipper voice on the tinny phone line.

"Yukimura?" said an altogether different voice. "It's Minamino."

I hesitated, doing my best to banish my disappointment. "Oh, hey. What's up?"

"…were you asleep?"

"No." My voice was just hoarse from anxiety-induced catatonia, that's all. I injected as much chipper sunshine into my tone as I could. "Just doing homework. Speaking of which, I missed you in school today. Do you need me to bring you any homework, or—?"

"Did you find them?"

I stopped. He'd spoken with the tightness of new braces, pained and stinging and deliberate—and I had no idea why.

"Find what?" I asked.

Minamino didn't answer. He stayed quiet. I could practically see him staring blankly at the floor through the phone.

"Brooding silence," I observed. "That bodes."

"Sorry." A sigh rattled through the phone. "Thank you very much for the invitation last night. I had a good evening."

"Me, too." A sense of warm happiness cut through my numb core. "Do you want to go out again, soon, maybe see if karaoke—?"

"I appreciate your generosity, but I won't be able to accept any such invitations in future."

For a second I thought I hadn't heard him right.

"Beg pardon?" I said.

"My schedule will be busy in the coming weeks, so I will have no time for a social life." Tone brusque, impersonal, and polite, he spoke to me as though we weren't friends—just classmates organizing our schedules, full on Minamino-at-school levels of impersonal civility. "I will not be able to attend lunch with you anymore, either. I apologize for this. Please understand."

"Wait." Numbness crept back in, drop by agonizing drop. "What are you—?"

"I'll leave you to your evening. Thank you again, and goodb—"

"Wait, dammit!"

He shut up when I snapped at him. I took two deep breaths, feeling my pulse take flight in my wrists like fluttering birds.

"Are you OK?" I asked, because surely something had to be very, very wrong to make him say such horrible things. "Did something happen?"

"Everything is fine," Minamino said, voice still tight.

My throat thickened. "Did—did I do something wrong?"

A pause. Then, softly: "You did nothing of the sort."

He sounded like a teacher placating a student—not like my friend at all. I couldn't keep the hurt from my voice. "I don't believe you." Surely I must have done something wrong, if he was saying we couldn't hang out anymore. "I don't believe—"

Another sigh. "Everything is fine, Yukimura-san."

"Well, you're not acting fine." Hurt gave way to frustration; I waved my free hand in the air, agitated. "And what the hell was I supposed to find, exactly? And why—?"

"I'm sorry, Yukimura-san," he cut in. It sounded like he meant it, too, velvet voice rasping with apology and the first display of real emotion I'd heard from him all night. "Thank you. Goodnight."

"Minamino!" I cried, desperate. "Minamino, wait—!"

But he had already hung up.

I went to school the next morning intent on interrogating Minamino about that phone call.

Before I got the chance, however, I found the gift he'd left for me.

Junko was with me when I found it. She whistled, low and slow through her teeth, as I opened up my shoe locker and beheld what lay inside.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," she said as I removed the bouquet. I didn't react to her teasing tone. Newsprint crackled against my palms as I held the object in my hands. "What kinds of flowers are those?"

I recognized two of the three flowers in the bundle: the crepe-like flowers with red-edged petals fading into white centers, and pale pink roses on long stems, soft petals hooding their yellow hearts.

"These are striped carnations and tea roses," I said, touching the relevant flowers. The final blossoms—twisting petals sitting upright and pointed atop their stems like curious rabbit ears—I didn't recognize. "Not sure about the last."

"Well, they sure are pretty," Junko said. "Who do you think they're from?"

"No idea," I said.

But that was a lie.

It was obvious these had been left for me by Kurama—and knowing him, they meant far more than a mere token of affection.

I had to wait until lunch—every second an axe of anxiety in my back—to head to the library and find a book detailing the language of flowers. Although it took a few moments to puzzle out their Japanese names, soon I found the meanings of the flowers he'd given me, and I learned their implications left unspoken.

The flowers tumbled from my hands when I realized the truth of this bouquet. My fingers pressed painfully tight into my lips, a cry of dread escaping in spite of my efforts to keep silent. I nearly dropped the book, too, but somehow held fast with trembling fingers.

Striped carnations meant, "I am sorry I can't be with you."

The tea roses meant, "I will always remember."

And the last flower—the flower I had not recognized at first—spoke the most damning word of all.

The cyclamens, with petals the color of crimson luck…the cyclamens meant "goodbye."

The numbness building in my chest—that horrible, pain-crackling nothing I'd been staving off since the night before—imploded when I beheld that word, typed in start black lettering on the page of an unfeeling book.

The panic attack hit me like a cresting wave.

I just couldn't outrun it any longer.

Notes:

And thus, the language of flowers has turned from a source of humor to a source of hurt. He was always going to make that phone call, but I saw the opportunity to salt the wound with those flowers and ran with it. Forgive me!

Kurama is a tough guy to write. On the one hand, I want him to open up. On the other, he's a very guarded person. Toyed with removing that conversation about saving a loved one, but he doesn't know that Keiko knows his plan about the Mirror. He thinks she's in the dark, and is therefore safe to talk to so long as he does so in a roundabout, 'metaphorical' way.

It seems those moments of vulnerability were just not meant to last, though. But why the sudden heel-face-turn? More on that soon.

And what the heck is up with all those missing stories? More on that soon, too.

Also: In a new world, I really don't think I'd spend time re-reading books I'd read in my past life (aside from my very favorites, which NQK notes all exist for some reason). I would definitely prioritize new experiences, and thus not realize what's missing. Hopefully that make sense! Could be super relative to my perspective, though.

BTW, I am terrible about replying to reviews, and I know some of you don't even WANT replies at all (this based on anonymous comments via Tumblr) so I hesitate to send one to everyone. If you want a reply, put an asterisk somewhere in your review and I'll be sure to reply. Figure that might be the best way to gauge if I should reply, aside from when people ask super specific questions that obviously require a response! Maybe I'm just overthinking, though…

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING A PART OF THIS STORY!

Chapter 37: On the Precipice

Summary:

NQKeiko waits, and gets to witness her favorite fashion disaster firsthand.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Yusuke wore his ducky pajamas, apparently unconcerned about his image (despite, or maybe in pointed spite of, the fact Kuwabara had mocked those pajamas a few weeks prior). He lay in bed surrounded by empty chip packets and empty bowls of soup, the very portrait of indolent laziness. I walked in without a word and began collecting the garbage in a trash bag. Sound effects from the TV—the distorted clatter of a sword, the blip of flaring magic—grated on the inside of my skull, but I tried not to let my discomfort show. My brain still hurt, twitchy and jumpy after the adrenaline of my earlier panic attack.

Yusuke glanced up when I walked in, but only long enough to say in the wheedling tone he reserved for teasing, "Nice uniform, Keiko."

He'd hoped I'd turn the same crimson shade as my skirt, no doubt. No such luck. I glared at him, but I said nothing. That wasn't like me. Normally I snarked right back when he made pervy comments regarding my uniform.

Apparently my uncharacteristic silence did not escape his notice. He pressed the pause button on his game; thankfully the noises ceased. "What's eating you?" he griped.

"Nothing." I shoved an empty soda can into the bag with a jerk of my elbow. "Does your physical therapist approve of junk food?"

"Did something happen at school?" Yusuke countered. He crossed his arms, staring pointedly at the trash bag. "You're nagging. And you're angry-cleaning."

More like anxiety cleaning. Nothing like the illusion of productivity to ease the nerves. I didn't tell Yusuke that, though. I picked at the room without looking at him, without saying a word in my defense. There just wasn't anything I could say. Eventually he sighed and picked up the game controller again.

"Fine," he said. "Whatever. Not like it matters to me."

I cleaned in silence while he played the latest edition of Dragon Quest. Eventually I picked up all of the remaining trash. I folded laundry after that, then put dirty clothes into the wash. Suddenly there was nothing else for me to do. After wandering aimlessly in search of busy work, I sat on the floor below Yusuke's perch on his bed, knees to my chest, forehead pressed against their bony bulk.

The panic attack had hit like a freight train, weight of Kurama's rejection mixing in an antagonizing swirl with my uncertainty regarding the missing fiction. Too many straws, and this camel's back had bent under the strain. I'd run to the nearest study room in the library and locked myself inside so I could breathe through the worst of the anxiety. Picturing a fractal snowflake folding and unfolding in time with my breath, it took most of lunch to calm my galloping heart and screaming worry. The folding fractal was an old coping technique, taught to me by my former therapist. I was just grateful I hadn't forgotten its geometric lines, and that its soothing bloom had soothed me again in this life. Too bad there hadn't been an icebox around so I could trigger the mammalian diving reflex, or a handy paper bag to aid my breathing. Those things had always helped me before I was Keiko. Instead I walked through school on eggshells, numb and fragile in the wake of emotions too intense to house in Keiko's small, unprepared body.

"Why'd you come over?"

I started when Yusuke spoke, but settled after a moment of careful breathing. "No reason," I said.

Yusuke snorted. "Bullshit."

He shifted atop the bed, and then he was sitting next to me on the floor with elbows on his bent knees. The fluid motion (and lack of wincing as he moved) caught my eye.

"How's therapy?" I asked, uncurling my legs.

"Fine," he grunted. His eyes remained fixed on the TV as he battled a squad of high-experience metal slimes. "Doc says I'm almost done."

"That's good news."

"Yeah. I'll be back to kicking ass in no time."

"Though that means you'll have to go back to school in no time, too."

Yusuke blinked, looked at me, and jabbed the pause button. I offered him a sympathetic smile. He flopped onto his side and yanked a blanket off the bed, rolling himself into it like a bean in a pale blue burrito.

"Ugh." His voice, muffled by the blanket, was little more than an annoyed whimper. "Can I just stay home and play Dragon Quest, instead?"

"Not unless you want to repeat middle school until you're 35," I reasoned. "Best get it over with and graduate on time."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he mumbled. He pulled the blanket around himself even tighter. "Stupid school. Stupid teachers. Stupid therapist!"

Although the impulse to tease him rose strong, shrugging off my anxious feelings proved impossible. I curled my knees tight to my chest again. If Yusuke was going back to school soon, he'd become the Spirit Detective soon. That meant the Artifacts case was coming.

And that very neatly explained Kurama's behavior today, of course. But how long until Yusuke went back? How long until the case really took off?

I could think of only one way to tell for sure. I'd double, triple check when I got home tonight. Hopefully my hunch bore out. Hopefully—

"Hey, Keiko?"

I looked up with a grunt. Yusuke peered out of the blanket, cloth haloing his face like he'd become a Russian grandmother. His eyes and the set of his jaw held stubborn challenge.

"So…what the hell is wrong, exactly?" he asked.

Yusuke wasn't much of a thinker. Not one for strategy or philosophy, this guy. Still, he could tell when I was upset. He had a natural way of reading people that I admired. I wasn't half as perceptive half the time when it came to people. After eight years of friendship, there was no hiding my anxiety from him. The cleaning alone had been a dead giveaway.

"Just some stuff at school," I said, hedging. "Nothing you can do."

Reluctantly (super reluctantly, looking like a boy tasked with poking a sleeping bear), he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Because he hated discussing emotions, and because I had secrets to keep, I spared us both the agony of a heart-to-heart and shook my head. Yusuke scowled.

"So, you came over to angry-clean and…not talk about it?" he said.

I glared at him. "You'll just make fun of me if I do. No, thanks!"

"Oh, c'mon. Maybe I won't."

"Fat chance."

"Hey. I might surprise you." When I didn't react, he gestured at the TV with obvious impatience. "Just spill it already. I've got slimes to slay!"

I didn't reply. He sighed.

"Look," Yusuke said. "You wouldn't have come over here if you didn't want to talk, right?"

I hated to admit he had a point, but he did have one. A small one, as Kaito would say. I'd run straight here after school—as soon as I could after my anxiety attack—because being with Yusuke…well, it was comforting. I'd come here for the comfort of a familiar face that wouldn't ask too many questions—but now that he'd started asked them, there went my grand plan to seek comfort without repercussions.

But what had my therapist always said? That bottling up emotions would only make the anxiety worse? Maybe I should talk it out (in veiled terms), after all.

Only one way to find out if that was a good idea.

"Look, it's just…a friend of mine sort of dumped me today," I admitted.

Yusuke frowned, sitting up with the blanket still clutched around his face. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Like, he told me we can't hang out anymore, ever." I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Just came out of the blue, that's all. And it sucks."

Yusuke didn't respond. He eyed me sidelong, lips pursed, before cracking a devious smile.

He very casually asked, "He, huh?"

I grabbed a pillow off the bed and whacked him with it; Yusuke chortled, stealing the pillow and pretending to cuddle with it, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

"It's not like that," I protested, grabbing at the pillow so I could hit him again. "It's nothing!"

"Sure it is," he said, throwing the pillow back at me. "You don't angry-clean over nothings."

"See?" Another good whack with the pillow, right in his smug face. "You're making fun of me!"

Spitting pillowcase, he said, "Got you to smile, didn't it?"

I bit down my reaction. He grinned when I looked taken aback at his unexpectedly kind words, pleased he'd managed to surprise me, after all. Tossing his head (his head, not his hair; even at home where no one would see him, the vain jerk gelled his hair into a helmet), he said, "Look, I'm sure he'll come around. And if he doesn't, he's an idiot. You're the best friend a guy could have. It's his loss, and you'd be better off without him, and you'd better not chase after him, you hear me?"

Yusuke looked utterly serious at that last statement. Not like him at all. His sudden turn in demeanor rendered me quiet. The boy searched my face for a moment, then spoke in softer, gentler tones at odds with his earlier ferocity.

"For real, though," he said. "What kind of friend would make you chase after them?" He reached for his game controller with a derisive snort. "Friends are supposed to be there for you. Leave the games for Dragon Quest."

Dragon Quest's peppy music resumed. His character's sword clinked harmlessly off the hide of a tough metal slime, but his eyes drifted askance, toward me. Gauging my reaction, no doubt.

"Yeah," I said. "You're right."

With a triumphant grin, Yusuke began battling the metal slimes in earnest. "Damn right, I'm right!" A brief hesitation, and then he held the controller toward me. "Wanna have a turn?"

I took it, aware that this gesture of generosity was a rare as it was generous. "Yeah. Sure."

Yusuke, despite his moment of surprising wisdom and unexpected kindness, did as expected and back-seat-gamed the entire night. My anxiety abated bit by bit as we squabbled over the game's strategy, and by the time I went home, the knots in my shoulders had eased somewhat.

When I called Kagome to report my findings regarding the missing stories, however, the knots returned.

I got the feeling they were there to stay, at least until the Artifacts case came to a close.

Ezakiya went down with a horrible, retching grunt when I drove my knee into his stomach. Before I could pin him, Hideki-sensei jumped into the fray. With a twist and flick of his wrist my teacher sent me sprawling to the mat. Probably a good thing. I'd been about to send and elbow into Eza's jaw—a strike not part of real aikido, but rather one born of aggression, pure and simple. Instead I lay there on the practice mat, panting, eyes closed as sweat rolled off my forehead and over my temples and my heart slowed its frantic pace.

"That's enough, Yukimura," Hideki growled.

The mat dipped at my side. Kagome knelt next to me, large eyes even larger with worry.

"What's gotten into you?" she said. "You're firing on all cylinders!"

"Sorry." The word came out a sullen grunt. While it had felt good to spar with the larger Ezakiya—whose tree-trunk body could take hits for days—my limbs felt like jelly when I sat up. "Bad week."

"A bad week is no excuse for illegal strikes on your comrades," Hideki observed from across the room. He kept a hand on Eza's shoulder; the large boy stood bent from the waist, trying to regain his lost breath. "Class dismissed. We'll resume next week, when you're ready to act like less of an animal."

I winced under Hideki's glare, but I did not argue. I just apologized to Ezakiya for the flurries of furious strikes I'd levied against him all night, bowed to Hideki-sensei (who ignored me), and followed Kagome out of the warehouse toward Uptown.

Uptown. The place Kurama and I had gone right before he left that bouquet in my locker the week before.

Kagome saw something in my expression when we walked into the square and I spotted the café where we'd watched the Lindy hoppers. "You OK?" she asked, slipping her small hand into mine. "Something's up, I can tell."

I shook my head and squeezed her hand. "Not here." Because apparently I'm a masochist, I nodded toward the Lindy café. "Let's eat there."

No Lindy hoppers occupied the café that night, thankfully. I couldn't stand a waking flashback just then. Once we settled in with food and drinks, I told Kagome everything I hadn't been willing to talk about on the phone: my night with Kurama, the bouquet, the phone call. She whistled through her teeth when I fell silent.

"Man, I knew you seemed more aggressive than usual tonight," she said. Tonight we'd had our first lesson with Hideki since Kurama's phone call; our previous session, ill-timed, had come the day before the fiasco went down. "At last week's lesson you were pretty normal, but tonight…"

"I took out some frustration on Eza," I admitted.

"I'll say you did. You were a machine tonight. I've never seen you fight like that." She paused. "Truth be told, I'm not sure I liked it."

I didn't reply right away and took a bite of my food (spaghetti; turns out this café was Italian, which explained the garlic hanging above the bar). My ferocity had surprised even me, but the minute Eza and I started sparring after Hideki's lesson on throwing opponents, I'd launched at him like a harpy diving in for the kill. Adrenaline on high, punches and kicks rained down on him in a heated volley. Eza was strong, but slow, and hadn't been able to dodge much. He'd been a sitting duck. Thank my lucky stars he could take a hit…

"So why do you think Kurama gave you that bouquet?" Kagome said.

My words came clipped and precise. "He's putting distance between himself and others before he kills himself to save his mom, I suspect."

And wasn't that just like him? Such a martyr. Such a patronizing jackass, making decisions for others without asking them first. What kind of self-sacrificing, self-aggrandizing—?

I stabbed my fork (this place used Western utensils) into my spaghetti and gave it a vicious twirl.

"It won't be long before that happens, after all," I grumbled. "The whole killing himself bit, I mean."

She frowned. "But Yusuke isn't back in school yet, right?"

"Right."

"And the Artifacts case won't start until he goes back. Doesn't it happen on his very first day? Iwamoto accuses him of stealing, and Koenma teaches him the Spirit Gun, and that's when the big case starts." Her head tilted to one side, curious. "How do you know when that'll happen?"

Mouth full of noodles, I replied by lifting a hand and pointing at the sky. Kagome looked up, lips coming together in a pout.

"What's that mean?" she said.

I swallowed and patted my lips with a napkin. "The moon. It's my guide."

The Mirror of Darkness only worked on the full moon. Right now it was about half full and waxing—giving me one week until it reached its full phase. One week before Kurama would use the Mirror.

One week before Kurama planned to die.

Not that he'd actually die, of course. Yusuke would intervene, and Kurama would be fine.

Even knowing that, though, it was still really depressing to think Kurama was planning on killing himself to save his mom, and that he was intentionally pushing friends away in the process…but I tried not to think about that. Focus on the fate schedule, instead, Keiko.

Here's how the timeline broke down, so far as I could tell: Today was Wednesday. If Yusuke went back to school this coming Monday, the moon would be full next Wednesday, a week from today. That gave Yusuke time to go back to school and get accused of stealing on Monday, get beaten up by Gouki that night, defeat Gouki on Tuesday, and bungle Kurama's attempt at martyrdom on Wednesday.

Provided everything went according to plan, of course.

Provided Kurama stole the treasures sometime in the next four days.

And provided Yusuke got recruited by Botan sometime in the next four days.

Oi. I'd basically made a schedule for destiny. Talk about anal retentive…

"Wow," Kagome said, staring at the celestial body above with her mouth open. "Wow. Smart, Eeyore! It's like you have a cheat code, or a road map, or something!"

"Maybe." Another stab into my food. Another bite of spaghetti, sauce rich and acidic. "From here on out, I'll be glued to the moon. I bought a lunar calendar just for this." It sat on my desk at home, mocking me with fate unfolded.

"Smart again!" Kagome chirped. She cupped her chin, eyes narrowing. "But what makes you think Kurama will strike in the next week, instead of waiting for next month?"

Good question. Truth be told, I didn't have concrete proof this month was the month. I was reading signs and signals like an auger reading prophecy in the flights of birds. Whether or not I read true signs and signals only time would tell.

"I don't feel like Kurama would've distanced himself from me too far in advance," I said. Kurama and I had gone out (and he'd dumped me as a friend) only one week prior, when the moon was dark and new. "We were just getting to be friends. I think maybe he got news, learned something that will help him break in—maybe even the same night we went out dancing. I think that was the catalyst for this change in behavior."

I hoped that was the catalyst, at least. What else could it be? His goodbye was so specific, it felt like he knew the end was nigh. Surely he had his eye on the moon, too.

"I think they're about to act, to break into the vault and steal the treasures," I continued. "He'll use the Mirror the first chance he gets. His mom is deteriorating, from what I hear, so he knows he has to act fast. I really doubt he'd wait another month in light of that."

The fangirls had been a wonderful resource this past week. Junko and Amagi (and even Hotaru) noticed that he wasn't sitting with me at lunch, and of course they'd asked why. They hadn't seemed surprised at all when I describe Kurama's curt phone call. Hotaru's cousin was a nurse at the hospital where Shiori was staying, and—in complete, but handy, violation of nurse-patient confidentiality—kept Hotaru informed of Shiori's status. Her time in isolation hadn't gone well, it seemed, and the doctors were getting desperate.

Which explained Minamino's sunken cheeks and hooded eyes whenever I glimpsed him in the hallways during this week apart. It explained his dulled hair, sallow skin, and glassy eyes as he avoided looking my way during class.

It explained why every day I saw him sitting alone in the greenhouse, a red-haired shadow on the wall, biding his time in grieving, desperate solitude.

All I wanted was to yell at him. Tell him to stop being an ass and just let someone in, let someone talk to him, let someone care for him as he walked willingly into the arms of death.

Instead I hung back. I gave him space. I ducked into classrooms when I saw him coming, and let him walk alone.

I hated myself for it. But I knew he'd resent it if I did anything more.

When he lived through this, I didn't want him resenting me.

"We stand on the precipice of the plot," I told Kagome. "It's the cliché calm before the storm. I think Kurama tried to evacuate me from the strike zone before this hurricane of his makes landfall."

She considered this, nodding and slurping up a strand of fettucine. "Yeah, that seems like something he'd do."

"Totally. Now all I can do is wait for the puzzle pieces to fall in line." I couldn't help but groan. "Too bad I fucking hate waiting."

She nodded, sympathetic. "I know. I'm sorry you're having to deal with it on top of everything. You're stressed enough as it is."

"We're stressed enough as it is," I amended.

Kagome's shoulders slumped. She dropped her fork and leaned her forehead on her tiny hand.

"True," she muttered. "This whole missing-story-thing is the worst."

The missing stories I'd managed to convey to her on the phone (apparently I was only at a loss for words when it came to Kurama). We sat in silence for a time, trying in our heads to explain the unexplainable. Neither of us could make head or tail of what it all meant. In the past week we'd both done more research into authors we'd loved in our past lives. Both of us reached the same conclusions. Stories were simply missing in this world—and it didn't end with books.

The Princess Bride had been the first clue. Once I suspected that that movie had gone the way of those missing stories, I began searching for other missing films. Although I wasn't familiar enough with Japanese cinema to see any differences in it, Disney's archives had been gutted. Many films I'd loved in the past I just couldn't find, from classics to pulp fiction to major movies of the 1980s. Kagome led the charge on that research since she was more of a movie buff than I was, and she confirmed it. Cinema had been just as gutted as literature.

No wonder Kaito said cinema was declining. He'd told me that months ago, and I just hadn't been aware enough to hear him. I hadn't wanted to hear him.

"What do you think it means?" Kagome asked.

"I wish I knew." I set down my fork, head cupped in my cold hands. "I feel like an idiot."

"Don't. Don't do that to yourself." She shook her head, chiding me. "I didn't see this coming, either."

Kagome felt the same way I did in this new life, prioritizing new adventure over old routine. She further reasoned that we'd both been raised in very Japanese households, neither of our families importing much by way of foreign media into our homes—and we weren't familiar enough with Japanese history to see the signs more immediate to our lives.

Still. I couldn't help but blame myself for my obliviousness.

"Yeah, but…looking back, there were signs," I said. "Yusuke used to drag me to the movies as a kid all the time, and I always hated it. I always thought the movies were dumb 80s movies with bad special effects."

"Same here," Kagome said. "I thought I'd been spoiled by special effects from our time."

"Yeah. But maybe it's more than that."

She frowned. I took a deep breath. I hadn't yet articulated this suspicion to her (hadn't wanted to get too deep into it over the phone) and it unsettled my stomach as though I'd eaten bad spaghetti.

"Maybe it's just that there aren't as many good movies being made," I said. "Stories build on top of each other over time, influencing and affecting others in a gigantic web. But with so many classics missing from literature, maybe storytelling as an art just…didn't develop right. And what if that affects music, movies, and books, as well as people's desire to write them?"

I'd done as Kaito said and researched college programs.

There were four undergrad literature programs in the whole of Japan. I could find just two masters programs.

I could find just one that offered a PhD.

No wonder Kaito bristled when I called literature a common interest.

Kagome's face fell more and more as I spoke, until she looked pale and uncomfortable and altogether stricken. I attempted to smile. The attempt failed.

"Some songs I loved in my past life I can't find here," I said, thinking of my incomplete Johnny Cash collection in my room at home. "I always thought they were just rare tracks, hard to track down in Japan, but...what if not as many good stories are being told, and those songs suffered for it?" I put my head back in my hands, rubbing at the ache gathering in my temples. "I don't know. Maybe I've overthinking it."

"No. I think you're right." Kagome regarded me with a tense, guarded expression, but one of dawning understanding. "I feel the same. I always thought I was just used to modern American movies and better special effects, and that's why I didn't like movies here, but…what if those missing stories hurt the way we tell stories in this world?" She leaned forward. "What if movies now just aren't as good?"

"Stories are part of humanity, though." My throat felt thick, gummy, like I'd swallowed a rotten peach. "Part of the human condition. We relate through story. All nations and peoples have storytelling traditions—so why are stories so much less important here? Why are they so much less developed?"

Kagome blinked at me. Then, with an enormous sigh, she pushed aside her plate and flopped dramatically onto the table, black hair falling in a silky tumble across the glass surface.

"My brain hurts," she moaned. The girl peered over her arms at me, hopeful. "Think you could talk to Hiruko about all this? He might have some answers."

Mention of the scheming demigod intensified the roiling in my stomach. That little shit. Kagome was right, of course. Doubtless he knew something. But there was just one problem.

"I've never been able to summon him." I shrugged, resigned. "It's a very one-way relationship. But I'll try, because you're right. If anyone knows anything, it's that little bastard."

"Good." She nodded, determined on my behalf. "Maybe he'll talk to you."

"Yeah." I picked my fork back up, even though my stomach rebelled at the thought of taking another bite. "Maybe he will."

But I had my doubts.

The following Friday, Kuwabara sat on my bed with his legs crisscrossed, hands placed firmly on his knees. I straddled my chair and rested my chin on my hands. He didn't look at me. He glanced at my record player, then at my feet, and then at my desk in an unending loop, awkward like an ice-skating bumblebee.

"So, what's up?" I said when the silence thickened. "You sounded upset on the phone."

His eyes met mind for half a second before darting away again. "Yeah, I'm—" He sighed, hand cupping face. "Look, I need your advice on something, but you can't freak out, OK?"

"OK." It helped that I had a very good idea of what this was about. Hand over heart, I solemnly swore, "I promise to not freak out, on my honor as Yukimura Keiko."

That mollified him. He took a deep breath, and—words slow with care and worry—told me everything.

It was as I suspected. He'd let Eikichi out into the yard behind his house for a bit of sunshine, and had run inside for a camera when she began attacking a dandelion ("Way too cute; I'd be crazy not to take a photo!" he said). He knew it was irresponsible to leave her by herself, but it was only for a moment, and she was too tiny to hop the fence.

Still: When he came back, Eikichi was gone.

He looked all day and all night for his darling kitten. Of course he did. This was Kuwabara we were talking about. He looked high, he looked low, and with defeat he went home to mourn her—and that's when he found the note.

"We have your cat," the note told him. "We have her, and unless you want her pelt nailed to your door, you'll do what we tell you to do."

Just as I suspected.

He'd been doing favors for the kidnapping thugs all week, and while he would not divulge the nature of those failures, he performed each and every one of them hoping and praying that they were feeding his poor cat and not mistreating her. He was meeting them on Saturday, he told me. One final favor, they said, and he'd have his cat returned to him.

I closed my eyes when he mentioned Saturday. That was tomorrow. Which meant Yusuke would sneak out tomorrow, and that he'd meet Botan, and rescue the cat from the thugs.

I'd been right about the full moon, and about standing on the precipice of the plot.

One day more, Keiko. You only had to wait one day more before fate morphed from conjecture to reality.

Kuwabara lapsed into silence. I put aside my musings. This problem was very real to him right now. It wouldn't do for me to act dismissive. He had no idea that it would turn out OK in the end. He needed comfort, and the support of a friend—not a distracted Keiko who minimized his feelings.

"You're being blackmailed," I said.

"Yeah." His grim nod spoke volumes. "That's about the gist of it."

"Did you tell your dad, your sister?"

"No. They think Eikichi's at the vet." Kuwabara looked vaguely ill, suddenly. "But Shizuru's gotta know somethin's up; I can't hide jack from her."

"Yeah. Probably." That was Shizuru, all right. I leaned toward him, making sure to look sufficiently concerned. "Kuwabara, I'm so sorry this is happening. What are you going to do?"

He shifted atop my bed, sheets stretching beneath his great weight. With a helpless little shrug of his broad shoulders, he said, "I dunno."

The words were out of my mouth on reflex. "I can help you if—"

He was shaking his head before I could even finish. "No, Keiko. Absolutely not. These guys are bad news, movin' in on Urameshi's turf while he's out sick. No way am I risking you in all this."

"Then why come to me for help?" I said.

Kuwabara started, blinking like a shocked owl. It occurred to me that I'd almost quoted Yusuke, sort of, when I went to him for comfort but refused his offer of counsel. Talk about a role reversal. I was doing those a lot these days.

He didn't respond right away, not that I blame him. My friend picked at the cuff of his jeans without looking at me. Then, eventually, his eyes met mine. In them I read frustration, desperation—and fear. I wasn't accustomed to that look from my brave Kuwabara.

"I guess I just wanted advice. Someone to talk to. Y'know?" he said.

And I did know. I knew exactly what he meant, and honestly, it was better to just give him advice rather than rush into the fray. Although every part of me wanted to help Kuwabara, I had to balance that desire with practicality. This moment in the plot was crucial. Kuwabara's kidnapped cat would lead Yusuke to becoming Spirit Detective. I mean, Botan would probably recruit Yusuke no matter what, but still. Best not get involved and perhaps screw up something this vitally important.

Best just sit on the sidelines like the good like side character I was…and wait.

Ugh.

I hated waiting!

"You know that I'm always here for you," I said, covering my displeasure with a helpful smile. "I'll try my best to help in whatever way I can."

He smiled back, but that same look of desperate frustration chased the good cheer away.

"Does it make me a bad person, if I do something bad to do something good?" he asked.

I worked out what he meant at once. "You mean if you follow their orders to save Eikichi, and they ask you to do something bad to do it?" When he nodded, I shook my head and spoke with firm assurance. "No. It does not make you a bad person. Sometimes people have to make hard choices, that's all."

But Kuwabara remained unconvinced. "But what if they want me to do something really bad?" His voice dropped to a hesitant whisper. "Like, what if they ask me to hurt someone?"

Seeing Kuwabara—the bold, confident, brave Kuwabara—doubt himself set my teeth to gritting. This was not the Kuwabara I preferred. Damn those punks, making him question himself! He was a good, wonderful person, no matter how much of a punk he might be. But what could I say to make him stop doubting that fundamental truth of his sterling character? I hated how dull his eyes had gotten, how defeated his posture. I needed my Kuwabara back, stat.

"Do you know what consequentialism is?" I asked.

Kuwabara shook his head.

"It's a type of moral philosophy," I said, concocting a hasty (and probably flawed) summary on the fly. "Basically, it states that the outcome of your actions matters most—that the consequences of your actions matter more than the actions themselves." I held out my hands, lifting them up and down as though weighing produce at the grocery store. "If you do something a little wrong, but you save your cat in the process, you can justify those actions. The good consequence outweighs the bad action. You've balanced the scales of right and wrong, sort of."

"Oh." He perked up, eyes regaining a touch of their usual spark. "I think I get it."

"But it's not a perfect moral philosophy," I cautioned. "It has its problems. Not all consequences can justify all actions." When he looked confused, I clarified. "Maybe you could justify stealing something small to save Eikichi. But you can't justify killing a person to save her. The scales wouldn't balance."

I'd picked the wrong metaphor, apparently, because Kuwabara looked utterly alarmed, eyes now bugging from his skull. "You don't think they'll ask me to kill somebody, do you?!" he yelped.

"Oh, no! No way!" I flapped my hands to ward off pesky philosophical flies. "It was just an example, promise! Philosophy is all about the hypotheticals!"

"I'll say. Hypotheticals and heart attacks." Kuwabara crossed his arms over his chest with a hearty harrumph. "One of which you nearly just gave me, I might add!"

"Sorry, sorry! It's just, morality isn't black and white. It's grey." I looked at my feet, where they kicked at the air below my chair. I murmured, "It's a thousand different degrees of grey, dark or light relative to where you cast a shadow. There are as many approaches to morality as there are routes to get to school in the morning." But because that line of thinking wasn't helpful to Kuwabara, I lifted my eyes and met his with a supportive smile. He smiled back, uncertain, but his expression cleared when I said, "You're a good person, Kuwabara. You're an ethical person. You're a kind person. Just do what you think is right. If there's a line you can't cross, don't cross it. I'm sure you'll be amazing."

Although his cheeks colored and he began rubbing the back of his wide neck, flushed with pleased embarrassment, he still looked uncertain. "But what if I—?"

"But nothing." I would not allow Kuwabara to doubt how amazing he was. I sat up straight and glared at him; he 'eeped', scooting back on my bed until his shoulders hit the wall. "And don't you dare be afraid to ask for help. The minute you need me, I'm here. I trust you to handle this. But I trust you'll know when you're out of your depth, and that you'll call me when you need to. "I softened my voice and smiled. "I'm serious. Just call me, OK?"

Kuwabara—expression less worried now, eyes less tight, jaw less clenched—nodded. Relief flooded me when he smiled, kind and warm and grateful and the Kuwabara I adored so much.

"Yeah. OK. Thanks, Keiko." He looked like he meant it. "For having my back, I mean."

I grinned and said, "Always." And I meant that, too.

I walked him out of my home shortly afterward, waving as I watched him walk down the street to prepare for the day to come. When he disappeared around the end of the street, I dropped my hand and stared after him in silence.

He was leaving me to meet destiny. I was sure of it.

Kuwabara remained blissfully unaware of the larger stakes, the larger fates at play. He thought only of his cat and pacifying the bullies who had kidnapped her. I smiled, wistful and regretful, at that thought. Soon his world would turn from kidnapped kittens to life-and-death Dark Tournaments, demons and devils snapping at his heels as the wheels of destiny turned.

Like I'd told Kagome: this was indeed the calm before the storm. Kuwabara had just confirmed it.

All I had to do now…was wait.

But like I'd said before: Ugh.

The phone only rang once before I answered—not that I gave it a chance to ring more. I'd been pacing around my room all Saturday afternoon, eyeing the handset (and occasionally screaming into a pillow when the pain of waiting grew too intense). Now I mashed the handset to my jaw so hard I felt it clack against my teeth through my cheek. I winced, eyes watering, and gasped out a desperate hello.

"Keiko—Yusuke showed up!"

Kuwabara sounded utterly bamboozled, and that was exactly what I'd wanted to hear. Right on fucking time, thank my lucky stars! It took quite a bit of acting skill to smother my triumphant reaction and sound confused, saying, "He what?"

Excited and freaked and enthusiastic, Kuwabara told the story with babbling abandon. "I was with that asshole who took my cat, and he was about to hurt Eikichi because I didn't want to punch my friends—you were right, I found the line I couldn't cross—and then Urameshi was there! He swooped in and punched 'em out and then he ran off!" At that his voice lowered with suspicion. "You didn't send him, did you?"

"Nope." And that was the honest truth, so long as I didn't mention the machinations of providence. "I kept my promise. I didn't tell anybody." And I nearly chewed my own arm off with anticipation in the process, but Kuwabara didn't need to know that.

He believed me, not that there were any lies to find. Sounding more than a little impressed, he said, "Well then I really got lucky today, because any later and Eikichi would've been a shish kabob!"

"Fate intervened, I'd guess."

"I'll say," he said, unaware of my wry irony. His voice dropped, hushed with uncertainty. "But Keiko—something weird happened."

"Like what?" I asked.

He hesitated. "Um…remember how I told you about the Tickle Feeling? Those weird dreams I get? And the ghosts?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh, OK. Good!" Why he thought I'd forget was beyond me, but he sounded relieved nonetheless. "The guy who took Eikichi. Well—he looked weird."

I frowned into the phone, sitting on my bed with the handset's curling cord stretched between my desk and my mattress. I absently began winding its length around my palm. "Weird, how?"

"He had these weird things sticking out of his—oh, never mind. It sounds stupid." Kuwabara cursed under his breath. "I was probably just seeing things. I was stressed, and—"

"Kuwabara." He stopped babbling at my firm tone. "Tell me."

There followed a long pause.

"He…he had horns," Kuwabara whispered, as though admitting a dark secret. "But after Urameshi got to him, he didn't have them anymore."

Oh. So Kuwabara had been able to see the demon possessing the guy who'd stolen his cat, huh? The anime certainly hadn't hinted at that—but this made sense. He was far more spiritually aware than Yusuke according to canon. It would be odder for him to not see the horns.

"Oh, gosh, that's super weird," I said, trying to sound concerned. "Why do you think he had horns?"

"To be honest, I feel like my powers…they're getting strange." I heard him swallow down palpable, painful nerves even through the phone. "I've been having more and more bad dreams, more and more Tickle Feelings. It's like my powers are in overdrives and it's driving me nuts."

Sitting up a little straighter, I wrapped the phone's spiral chord around my hand a little tighter. The plastic bit into my skin, narrowing my focus on Kuwabara's words. So his psychic powers were growing? Another thing I didn't remember from the anime—oh, wait. That had been why he'd visited Genkai, right? Because he needed help with his abilities. I'd forgotten for a moment. Perhaps spotting the horns was another prophetic moment, hinting at what lay ahead.

So. Hinting at even more waiting I'd have to do.

Double ugh.

"I'm so sorry, Kuwabara," I said. "That really sounds like it sucks. I'm here if you want to talk it out." My feelings weren't as important as his just then, I reminded myself. I pulled the phone cord tighter around my knuckles. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not really. But when you see Urameshi, can you tell him to call me? He ran off before I could talk to 'im. I wanted to ask about that guy, see if he saw the horns, too. 'Cuz Okubo and the guys didn't see 'em at all and I'd kind of like to know if I'm, you know…crazy." He chortled like boulders rolling down a hill. "Though Urameshi is about as observant as a rock, so maybe he's not the person to ask!"

I cackled, too. "Yeah, probably not! But I'll go look for him, anyway." My lips twisted, humor as painful as the cord around my hand. "Should probably check and see if he got hurt playing the hero, anyway."

"Good idea." I heard a faint meow, and then the telltale sounds of Kuwabara cooing at his baby girl. "Well, I gotta take Eikichi to the vet. Make sure those jerks didn't do anything weird to her."

"I'm so glad you got her back, Kuwabara."

"Me, too. But I'm never letting her outside again, that's for sure! Talk later?"

"Of course."

We hung up. My hand relaxed, cord around it going slack. My skin had pebbled and purpled with loss of circulation, spiral leaving imprints in Keiko's delicate hand.

Finally.

Finally, we were getting somewhere…soon, anyway.

I grabbed my coat and went to find Yusuke—because at least like this, I could do something besides sit on my ass like the secondary character I was.

Cool night air lapped at my cheeks as I sat on the steps leading up to Atsuko's apartment. Yusuke hadn't been in any of his usual haunts. Maybe Botan had dragged him somewhere. Unsure, I waited, idly reading a comic book by the light of the staircase's fitful light until Yusuke rounded the corner down the street. I stood up, shoved my book into my jacket pocket, and planted my hands on my hips.

"And where, exactly, have you been?" I said.

Yusuke—who had been walking with hands in the pockets of his ridiculous green windbreaker—backpedaled, nearly falling on his ass with shock.

"Jesus Christ, Keiko!" he snapped. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"I've been doing that a lot lately," I remarked.

Yusuke muttered, kicking a toe at the ground. I tried to keep a smile at bay when I saw Yusuke's outfit: mom jeans, lime windbreaker, white kicks, a yellow sweater vest, and a red plaid shirt. His most terrible outfit from the anime, and my unabashed favorite of all his dubious fashion choices. Ah, the joys of seeing your favorite fashion disaster firsthand...

"Where have you been?" I demanded, smothering my glee with a glower. "You snuck out again."

He only shrugged, but his feet shuffled against the pavement—dead giveaway he was hiding something. He said, "Just couldn't stand being cooped up, that's all."

"Yeah, well, Atsuko's wearing a hole through the floor upstairs. She freaked when she realized you'd run off."

Green-clad shoulders slumped, arms dangling limp from their sockets. Expression longsuffering, Yusuke moaned, "Aw, man. Can't believe she noticed. Last night she was on a bender; I thought for sure she'd be too hungover to care!"

"You know how quickly she can overcome a hangover." I hopped off the steps and walked past him down the sidewalk; Yusuke turned and followed on reflex, rendering my command a moot point. "Come with me, Yusuke."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

Judging by the suspicious glint in his eye, he expected a different destination than the corner store a few streets over, and he most definitely didn't expect me to buy us packaged ice cream from the freeze in the corner. We sat on the curb to eat like we had when we were kids, but unlike when we were kids, Yusuke eyed his frozen treat with skepticism.

"…what's this about?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Just wanted to relive old times."

He didn't appear to understand, not that I blamed him. He didn't know how drastically our lives would change in the coming months—his life in particular. But he wasn't the type to question my motives, so he began to devour his ice cream cone with gusto. After all, I'd paid for it. He had little to complain about so far as he was concerned. We ate in silence, Yusuke blissfully unware that I was savoring more than just the ice cream in my hand. I committed the moment to memory, carving his clothes, the taste of the food, the smell of the wind and the sputtering street light above into the fabric of my recollections.

I doubted we'd get such a moment again.

Yusuke finished his ice cream before I did. He crumpled the wrapper and tossed it at a nearby trash can, throwing up his arms and crowing when it bounced off the rim and into the basket. He settled back onto the curb, legs stretched into the street in front of him, and soon the smile faded.

My moment had come, it seemed.

"What happened today?" I asked.

He flinched, turning his face away (but not fast enough; I saw the dark look cross his features). He said, "What makes you think anything happened?"

"I talked to Kuwabara." That got his attention in short order; he looked my way in shock, jaw dropped and eyes wide. "About what you did, and about what you saw."

Yusuke wouldn't give up his secrets so easily, however. He pasted on an aloof, casual expression, playing it cool even though I could see right through him.

"Oh?" he said with hilariously artificial nonchalance. "And what would that be?"

I was in no mood for fucking around. I deadpanned, "The boy with the horns, of course."

Yusuke's charade dropped, along with his jaw. "He—he saw that?" he stammered. "Kuwabara, he saw—?"

I shrugged. "Looks like Kuwabara is more observant than you think."

For a second I thought Yusuke might agree. He started to talk, but stopped, and the next thing I knew he'd donned that unconvincing blasé expression again, this time with disdain and denial all rolled into one.

"Or just more delusional," he said, turning up his nose. "I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't see nothin'."

I leaned toward him. Yusuke flinched, practically sweating as we came nose to nose and I glared right into his eyes. The boy fidgeted beneath my look, unable to keep his poker face intact under the weight of my scrutiny.

"You look constipated," I observed. "You wouldn't look constipated over nothing."

He scowled, realizing I'd quoted back at him what he'd said the week before. "Ha ha, very funny. You got me, Keiko." He scooted back an inch, running his hand through his hair with a sigh. "Look. I just don't want you getting involved, that's all."

Kuwabara had told me the same thing. What was with all of us repeating and quoting each other? I tossed my hair and scowled. "I don't need protection, Yusuke. I'm a big girl, and I can handle the truth."

"I dunno about that," he grumbled. "I had a weird day."

"You promised you'd never lie to me, Yusuke."

My words—soft and intense—cut right through his bravado. He looked up and met my eyes, swallowing what was certain to be a rather large lump of apprehension.

"I guess I did," he agreed.

"And you already told me about Spirit World, the grim reaper, coming back to life," I reminded him. "Does this boy with the horns have something to do with all of that?"

"It's—aw, hell." He swore, colorful and loud, before hopping to his feet and rounding on me. "Remember that chick I told you about, Botan? Well, to recap, she's the grim reaper, and—"

He paced while he talked, a caged tiger without an outlet for his boundless, lashing energy. Hands waving, volume flying up and down, he acted out the day's events down to the dialogue (his impressions of Botan, Kuwabara, and Koenma, by the way, were as accurate as they were hilarious, though I tried my best not to laugh). According to Yusuke, he'd stumbled upon Kuwabara by chance, noticed the guy with the horns, and had followed Kuwabara to an empty lot because he'd been so curious. Then he'd helped save the cat, had punched out the thug, and watched a tiny little horned man with blue skin climb out of the kid's unconscious mouth.

I made sure to look thoroughly shocked at that part.

"And suddenly Botan was there, wearing that stupid fortune teller outfit from earlier!" Yusuke said. "The next thing I know, Koenma's big dumb toddler face was floating in the sky and calling me a Spirit Detective—whatever that's supposed to mean." At that he stomped a foot and faced me, squatting down to eye level. "Am I crazy, Keiko?" he asked, eyes as wild as they were desperate. "Demons, reapers, detectives—this is nuts, right?"

"You're not crazy," I assured him, patting his arm. I kept my voice measured and soothing, trying to assuage his high-alert nerves. "You defied death and came back to life, Yusuke. In light of that, demons and reapers seem par for the course."

He deflated, head hanging between his knees.

"OK," he said, breathing deep and long. "OK. OK, good. So I'm not nuts." He tossed his head back and glared at the sky. "Hear that, toddler bitch? I'm not nuts!"

His brazen attitude reduced me to giggles. Digging my elbow into his ribs, I teased, "You're destined for a different kind of life, Yusuke, that's for damn sure."

Yusuke looked less than pleased by this. One fist lifted aggressively toward the sky. "Figures! All I want is to skip class, beat up jerks, and stick it to the man. So why'd the man have to pick me to be his errand boy, huh?!"

"Don't you mean why'd the baby pick you to be his errand boy?"

He blinked, then gnashed his teeth as the joke struck home. "Oh, shut up, Keiko! That just makes it worse!"

"Well, just look at it this way: If Spirit World keeps giving you cases like the one they did today, it seems you'll be fighting a lot in the days to come." I winked at him. "That's one part of your grand life plan that can commence on schedule, right?"

"Hey, yeah. That is a perk!" he said, sitting up a little straighter. His pleased expression turned quite sly, eyes gleaming with untold mischief. "And with them at my back I can't get in trouble for fighting, now can I?"

"Oh, god," I intoned with overstated horror. "I've created a monster."

Yusuke's eyes narrowed. "Is that a pun? Like monster, demon…"

Took me a minute to catch on, but when I did, I slapped my knee and chortled in Yusuke's face.

"Oh, ha!" I said. "Pun not intended, but wow! I'm brilliant!"

"No, you're annoying." He popped off the curb like a jack atop a spring and extended a hand. "C'mon. Let's go see my mom. I gotta face the music."

Pleased at his apparent show of responsibility and helpfulness, I reached for him. I should've know better, though. Yusuke retracted the hand just as I tried to grab it, cackling maniacally when I nearly fell on my face. There commenced a game of chase, in which I herded him back to his mother's apartment through the empty nighttime streets. Atsuko waited at the top of the stairs; when she saw us, she let out a hideous shriek. Yusuke muttered an expletive, skidding to a halt as Atsuko bounded down the stairs in our direction. Between one second and the next she caught Yusuke in an impressive frog-choke.

"Yusuke, you little shit!" she yelled in his ear. "You had me worried sick!" While he squirmed and hollered in protest, Atsuko smiled at me over his head. "Thanks for bringing him back, Keiko. You're a gem." She glared down at her son, eyes like daggers. "Unlike the child I birthed! What were you thinking, Yusuke, running off like that?"

Face a comical shade of puce, Yusuke managed to choke out the words, "I'm fine, Mom! Jeez! But I won't be if you strangle me to death!"

Atsuko ignored the last part of his statement. "Fine?" she repeated. "You're fine? Well, your physical therapist agrees with you! Clearly if you're fine enough to be sneaking out, you're fine enough to go back to school!"

Yusuke went outright violet, then, yelping a smothered "What?!" into his mother's armpit.

"That's right," Atsuko declared. "I talked to the principal and she's willing to take you back on Monday." When Yusuke protested, her arm tightened around his neck. Even I feared Atsuko's glare just then. "And don't you dare complain, mister, because I had to call in a favor to get you your spot back. You should be thanking me for wasting a favor on you!"

I giggled, remembering the big black vans from the manga, and the subsequent implication Atsuko had called in a favor from the Yakuza to get Yusuke back into school—but as Atsuko dragged Yusuke up the stairs, my smile faded.

I'd been right, I realized.

The moon tonight was three quarters full. Yusuke would return to school on Monday. Kurama would use the Mirror on Wednesday, when the moon reached its bright peak.

We stood on the precipice of the Artifacts of Darkness case—Yusuke's first foray into the supernatural that would soon claim his life for its own.

We were there, or just about.

The wait was almost over.

Before the wait could end, however, I got an unexpected call.

For all the waiting I'd done that weekend, and for all the waiting I'd done for phone calls in particular, this call I did not expect. Amagi had never called me before. I almost didn't recognize her voice over the phone when I answered it early Sunday morning, still groggy. I hadn't quite made it out of bed after my late night with Yusuke on Saturday.

"Keiko, I'm so sorry," she said, "but it's an emergency."

Any and all traces of sleep vanished at the sound of her worried voice. I sat up in a tumble of sheets and shook my head, hair flying about like a mad genius's. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I was just up cooking—you know, for Minamino?—and—"

I suppressed a sigh, passing a hand down my face. Ugh. Not him.

"—and our stove caught fire!" she said. I gasped in spite of myself. "My parents are out of town and I'm here with my brother, so—"

"Are you OK?" I asked. Keiko's helpful, responsible brain was already thinking of a place Amagi could sleep, and who to call for repairs. "Do you need help? I can get my parents—"

"Oh, no, it's fine. I called my aunt. She's going to handle things, but now I have to watch my brother." Her voice nearly broke. "I'm so sorry, Keiko, but I don't think I can cook Minamino dinner! Could you take over today and bring it to him? I can give you his address."

For a second I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. I'd forgotten the more dedicated fangirls took Minamino dinner on the weekend—and that Amagi was one of those girls.

And now she expected me to be one, too?

And so soon after Kurama had told me to buzz off?

I had no idea what to say, what to feel. Clearly I couldn't take him food. Clearly I shouldn't take him food. Clearly I should stay away from him, not go near him, just fucking wait until after the Mirror incident—

Amagi took a deep breath.

"Please," she croaked, voice trembling. "Please, Keiko. Help."

I opened my mouth to say no. Instead, an image of her dark hair, her long neck, her liquid eyes played through my head—only in this image, her eyes filled with shimmering tears. My heart softened, and to my horror, so did my resolve.

Damn my weakness for crying women. Damn it all to hell and back!

I took a deep breath of my own, and—knowing this was a bad idea, but knowing I didn't have the power to say no—spoke.

"OK," I heard myself say. "Give me the address."

So much for waiting, I guess.

Notes:

My ex-girlfriend used to fake tears sometimes, and even when she was obviously playing, I became a useless pushover. Had to work that in somehow! XD

Nearly there, folks. Yusuke is Spirit Detective. The Artifacts case is upon us. Figured Keiko's painful wait for destiny to sort itself out mirrors the readers' likely impatience, as well, hence the theme of waiting in this chapter.

But now she has to take Kurama dinner. Yikes. I considered skipping this scene, but it's basically the last opportunity to have a nice bit of fun (read: drama) with him before the plot kicks into high gear.

My greatest struggle with this fic is NQK's desire to be involved in the plot, but balance that with her desire to have the plot happen on schedule (the important bits like Yusuke becoming the Spirit Detective, at least). I considered getting her involved in the incident of Eikichi's kidnapping, but I just didn't feel like she'd make lasting changes. Why waste time and words on that when I know we're really itching for the Artifacts case, where changes with impact will happen? Hope my logic makes sense!

Chapter 38: Word Vomit

Summary:

In which NQKeiko experiences word vomit in an inconveniently metaphorical way, and a friend experiences word vomit in a disturbingly literal way.

Notes:

Warnings: Some suggestive content in the first section. Vomiting and blood (at the same time) in the third section.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Naomi, fingers warm and lingering, traced a path from my sternum to my bellybutton. My diaphragm hitched; her head jostled on my shoulder, drawing one of her devious giggles.

"Tickles," I said.

She did it again, chin digging into my chest, but I didn't mind. I moved my hand across her bare back in wide circles, just happy she was here. Even my crackling plastic dorm mattress felt comfortable just then.

"I knew this would happen," she said.

I craned my head to look down at her, painfully aware I'd probably just created half a dozen double chins for myself. One of Naomi's dark box braids slipped off her head, landing across my nearest breast. She didn't bother to gather it back up with the rest. The radiator in the corner of my dorm room hummed, keeping the January winter outside at bay. Her body pressed soft against my side was warmer, though.

"First day in McDonald's class," she said. "Zing. Sparks. I just knew"

"I mean, the fact that I couldn't stop staring at you probably helped," I said.

"True. But we've been dancing around each other for months."

She pushed off of me, sitting up on her elbows to look around, body precariously balanced on the edge of the narrow mattress. Somehow her false eyelashes hadn't come off in the events (the, um, rather athletic events) of the past hour. She looked like a model, frankly. But more importantly, she was smart. And kind. And wonderful. Her parents where from Ethiopia, she'd grown up in Britain, and she spoke three languages. Infinitely out of my monolingual, plain-girl-from-backwoods-Texas league. How I'd managed to catch her eye I couldn't say.

"Gotta say, though," she said, eyeing the posters crowning and lining my lofted bed, "I didn't think we'd have an audience like this."

My eyes fluttered shut, cheeks heating with embarrassment. This was the first time she'd been in my room, completely unexpected, months of flirtation and long glances and wondering finally come to a pleasant conclusion. She'd had a boyfriend at the start of the school year, after all. Nothing more tragic than falling for a straight girl. The kiss she'd laid on me in the basement of Sigma Nu had tasted like Blue Moon beer and gasped surprise.

This was the first time she'd been in my room, and all of my Yu Yu Hakusho posters were staring at us.

I'd been too distracted when we stumbled in, shedding clothes, to worry about my nerdiness showing (not when I had so much else, stretch marks and small breasts and cellulite, showing at the time to worry about), but anxiety flared bright and hot just then. Hiei, Kurama, Kuwabara, Yusuke—staring at us while we hooked up. If only Yusuke was real and could see through those painted eyes. I could only begin to fathom the perverted comments he'd make, if he was real.

Oh, Christ. She must think I'm the biggest nerd on the planet. My room was papered with YYH swag. I had figurines, posters, trading cards mounted in frames, even a doll of Hiei on my bed. And now here she was, lying next to me in my bed, dark and glorious eyes cataloging every last scrap of my nerdy hobby with a bemused smile. When she gathered the Hiei doll into her chest, nestling him right between her breasts, my cheeks went volcanic.

"So, it's a cartoon?" she asked.

"Um. Anime."

"So, a Japanese cartoon."

"Yeah. Ever seen one?"

"Nope." Naomi paused; her eyes brightened. "Oh. Yeah, I've seen that Spirited Away movie, actually." She smiled, encouraging and warm, the delicate golden hoop in her nose sparkling. "It was good. Really good."

"Yeah. Hayao Miyazaki is the best director. Only anime to win an Academy Award, which is cool Anime is criminally underrepresented in the international awards circuit, but recently directors like Miyazaki have been changing the game. It's just a shame that an art form like—"

Oh my god, was I nervous-babbling about anime? So embarrassing. I fidgeted and sat up, leaning against the cold cinderblock wall, feet jutting off the edge of the bed. I pulled a blanket across my lap; Naomi immediately plopped her head onto my thighs, toying with a strand of my long hair with her glossy pink nails.

"So," she said, gesturing with her free hand at the posters. "What's that one called?"

"Um. Yu Yu Hakusho."

"What's it about?"

Was she humoring me? Was I boring her? Wondering, I gave her a brief description of my absolute favorite work of fiction: punk dies saving a kid, right in episode one, and then gets brought back to life by Spirit World. She cackled when I recited the intro to the first episode.

"One hell of an opener," she said. "It sounds pretty cool."

It's awkward, how much her acceptance thrilled me.

Her finger traced the edge of a poster. "So these are the main characters?

"Yeah." I pointed at them one by one, somewhat at ease now that I'd earned her approval. "Kuwabara, Yusuke, Kurama, Hiei."

"Got a favorite?"

"Kuwabara. Or Hiei. They're my top two," came my instantaneous reply. But then I felt those painted eyes on me and a tiny bit of guilt gnawed at my heart like a vicious guinea pig. "But Kurama's cool, and Yusuke is just adorable. They're all great."

Her nose crinkled again, amused. "So they're all your favorite."

"It's hard to pick," I admitted. "They're my boys."

Naomi blinked at me. My face flushed. Oh, god, the weirdly affectionate emphasis I'd placed on that last word—

"I'm sorry I didn't take the posters down sooner," I blurted. "I meant to, before anything like this—"

"No." She shook her head, skull rocking against my thighs. "I like that you're passionate. And my roommate has exclusively decorated her side of the room with Harry Potter, so it's not like I don't get it. People bond with certain series that speak to them." Her eyes slid to the poster above my head, searching. "Can I ask why this series, though?"

"I guess it was just there for me in a dark place." I hesitated, but decided to tell her anyway. "When I was 14, I only had one friend. He died in a skiing accident."

Her full lips parted. "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry."

"Thanks. It happened about this time of year, not that it matters." I shook my head, trying not to think too hard about Jeffrey, or the anniversary of his death only three days away. That was a story for another day, another time. Keep it light, girl. Don't ruin the afterglow so soon. "He liked this show, too. We bonded over it. So when times got rough, my boys were there for me. Just gave me courage and support, you know?"

Naomi smiled, not telling me to shut up, not teasing me for an attachment to fictional characters. My roommates hadn't been so kind. Kelsie and Margaret made snide remarks about the posters all the time—not to my face, but behind my back. They weren't as quiet as they thought they were, when they gossiped in the bathroom together. I'd thought about taking the posters down and eventually decided to leave them up, mostly out of spite.

But Naomi didn't mind.

Man. I'd really lucked out with her, hadn't I?

"This one, Yusuke?" I said, pointing at the poster at the head of my bed renewed enthusiasm. "He's a dumbass punk who'd die for his friends. Never fails to make me laugh, cheer me up."

I moved my finger to the short figure in black at Yusuke's side. "And Hiei gets prickly, but I think he's lonely on the inside. He doesn't show how he feels much, and always seems strong on the outside, but inside he depends on his friends. Reminds me to depend on them, too, when I get too introverted."

Next I gestured at the red-haired boy on Yusuke's left. "Kurama's a bit of a puzzle. He's older than he looks, and very serious, but I think his friends got him to loosen up. They taught him to trust. Sometimes I need to be better at that, too."

Last, I pointed at the tall boy at the back, with his goofy smile and poofy hair. "And Kuwabara…he's the kindest person there is, with so much heart. He never gives up and never backs down, and would die for the people he cares for." I let the hand drop, smiling at my boys, fictional though they were. "That guy gives me a lot of courage. They all do, in their own ways."

Like a lot of things that night, it was almost embarrassing how much Yu Yu Hakusho meant to me. It was almost impossible to describe how affectionate I felt toward the boys, how much I looked forward to writing and reading about them, how badly I needed reminders of them in my life. Pathological, basically. Obsession, more or less. I'd never found words to convey just how deeply I bonded with Yu Yu Hakusho—words that didn't make me sound like a nutcase, that is. Hell, I'd said my favorite characters out loud and then felt guilty for not naming the others. Clearly my feelings for them all ran deep.

But hey. Naomi was right. Other people loved Harry Potter much the same way I loved Yu Yu Hakusho, with loving ferocity and encyclopedic knowledge of canon and obsessions with collecting memorabilia. What was the difference between my obsession with Yu Yu Hakusho, really, and an obsession with Harry Potter, aside from the series' respective popularity levels?

"You talk about them like you know them."

I jumped, momentarily forgetting where I was, who I was with. Naomi giggled on my lap.

"Oh. Um. Sorry for ranting," I said. "I know I get really emotional about—"

But she shook her head again. "Don't apologize. It's not a bad thing. You're passionate. I like the sound of them, and I like you, so…" She shrugged, lowering her lashes with a coy smile. "Rant away."

Mouth suddenly very, very dry, I said, "I like you, too."

Naomi giggled. "As much as Kuwadara?"

"Kuwabara." I leaned down to kiss her, to thank her. "And you're getting there."

We didn't talk about Yu Yu Hakusho much more that night. Too busy, too caught up in exploring each other for the first time, after eons of guessing games. But later she asked to watch the show with me, and even when we broke up many months later, she didn't use my attachment against me. She never made fun of my love for my boys—not ever, not once.

It's odd, how much that tiny gesture meant to me.

Others haven't been so kind.

I hadn't played Ding-Dong-Ditch since my childhood with Yusuke, and I'd never planned to play that game again as an adult—but here I was, physical age 14, cumulative age 40, standing on the sidewalk in front of Minamino's house, preparing to do just that.

Minamino lived in a small house, brick, with white shutters and a green front door. The modest home had a second level, no doubt to allow for maximum space in this cramped suburb. Although the houses next door pressed almost wall-to-wall with their neighbors, all had a bit of yard out front. Half of Minamino's postage stamp yard boasted some of the most well-tended flowers I'd ever seen (because this was Minamino's house, and anything less would have been severely disappointing). A cherry tree with thick branches occupied the other half of the yard. It was too early in the season for cherry blossoms, of course.

Much too early for cherry blossoms.

And yet, as twilight fell around me, I beheld a riot of blossoms so magnificent, they put the city's best-kept trees in front of City Hall to absolute shame.

The perfume surrounded me in a sweet cloud as I stood there, staring at the tree and the house in turns. Doubtless the flowering tree was Kurama's doing. Did he want to view it one last time before he died? Maybe he'd looked at it with his mother, crafting a lovely memory for Shiori before he abandoned her for good.

Just speculation, but speculation I felt confident making.

Eventually I took a deep, perfumed breath and scurried up the sidewalk, beneath the limbs of the tree and the petals falling gently from them. A few caught in my hair, dusting my shoulders with pink, but I didn't brush them away. I had a job to do. No delays, Keiko. Just put down the bento, ring the bell, and run like fucking hell.

Too bad it didn't work out like that.

My parents named me with a sense of irony, no doubt.

Identifying the location of the doorbell before I even stepped foot on the porch, I walked up and set the bento right in the middle of the welcome mat (patterned with roses in the corners, because of course it fucking was). I rang the bell with a jab of frantic finger and turned to leave, barely even pausing in my steps. Smooth. Very smooth, indeed.

But not smooth enough.

I'd only gotten ten feet away when I heard the door open at my back.

"Yukimura?" he said.

I stopped, heart leaping into my mouth. I heard another click as the door shut. Had he gone inside? Hopefully he'd gone inside. Hopefully he didn't try to talk to me. He'd certainly made no effort to talk to me since he'd dumped me over a phone call.

Slowly, head turning in fractions, I looked over my shoulder.

Minamino stood on the porch, arms crossed, green eyes hooded and dark.

Words leapt into my mouth, nestling next to my beating heart.

"Amagi's oven caught fire so she called me in a panic and asked me to bring you dinner and I didn't come here to pester you, I swear."

One dark red brow lifted at my vomited words. Green eyes lowered, down to the bento sitting at his feet. The brow resettled as his skepticism faded.

"I see," he said. He bent at the waist, scooping up the bento and tucking it beneath an arm. With a low bow he said, "Thank you. Good night."

"Have a productive day off from school last week?"

For the second time that day, the words were out of my mouth before I gave them permission to leave. Minamino didn't look perturbed. In fact, he wore the same bland expression he'd pasted on every time our eyes met during the past week: bored, polite, distant, but with an undercurrent of do-not-touch-me standoffishness that kept the fangirls at bay.

Me, though?

It just made me angry—angry that he'd shut me out. Angry that even now he was keeping me at arm's length, mere days before he intended to die. Angry that our friendship apparently meant so little to him, he wouldn't let his walls down even long enough to tell me a proper, in-person goodbye.

I knew he'd shut me out to protect me. That was the most logical reason for his actions. It was a reason that made sense. But my heart felt differently than my head, coals of simmering annoyance fanned into flames of anger thanks to the kindling of his placid expression.

Not that I'd let any of my emotions show on my face. I matched his look bland smile for bland smile, holding the air of strangers between us like a shield.

Voice a pleasant murmur, he asked, "Why do you ask?"

"No reason." I smiled at him, chipper and bright. "I just hope your stolen time was fruitful, that's all."

That veiled reference got a reaction out of him at last, green eyes flying open. My name left his mouth in a gasp. "Yukimura—!"

But I was already turning, walking away with a spring in my step. Ha! Served him right, getting knocked off balance. Payback for the bouquet.

"Bye!" I said over my shoulder. "See you in school!"

Kurama—because I was definitely dealing with him now—didn't let me get far. I'd taken a scant four steps when I felt his hand close on my arm, tight as a vice and getting only tighter. He yanked me to a halt so hard my shoulder wrenched, flash of pain like lightning on a hot night. Kurama loomed over me with every inch of his taller height, glaring with white teeth bared. My heart stuttered and I gasped on reflex, trying to pull away.

He would not let go.

In a distant, lucid part of my brain, I realized I was dealing with a fox—not a high school boy, not a demon in human skin—a fox who'd scented prey and intended to taste blood.

And I was the hapless rabbit he'd scented on the trail.

"One day," he said, tone growling lower and sharper than I'd ever heard it, "one day we will stop dancing around each other, Yukimura." He pulled me closer; I could smell him, evergreen and mint and sweet earth, a scent I would've found pleasant in any scenario save this one. "One day, you will be honest with me."

I should've run, probably. I should've screamed, and run, and never looked back, because his teeth looked sharp all of a sudden and why-oh-why was I waring my red hoodie of all things tonight? He was as fox, almost a wolf, and the allegory was too clear to ignore.

Like I said: I should have run.

I didn't.

Instead—because I have no preservation instinct whatsoever—I glared right back at him, baring my dull human teeth like they were as impressive as his own.

"Oh really?" I said, feigning overstated surprise. "I will be honest with you? And when, exactly, will that be? Because as far as I'm aware, you're like a toy in a fucking happy meal!"

His lips closed over his teeth as he blinked, pulling away so he could gain a holistic view of my face. "I'm like a what?" he said.

"Like a toy in a happy meal," I repeated. I leaned toward him, smile surely deranged. "Available for a limited time."

Another veiled reference, one he was too smart not to understand. His lips pulled back once more as he closed this distance between us, a game of tug-of-war that used my arm as rope.

"What are you implying, Yukimura?" he asked, tone dangerous despite its silk.

"Nothing." I said. "Nothing at all."

His smile chilled me. "We both know that's a lie."

"Maybe so. But I don't owe you honesty." And suddenly I wasn't angry anymore—just sad, ache in my throat rising hot and sharp. "It's not like we're friends."

My voice cracked on that last word.

Once more—but for entirely different reasons—Kurama's eyes widened. His hand loosened around my arm. I pulled away, rubbing at where he'd grabbed me. He didn't say anything for a second. Kurama chewed on empty air, staring at me and my suddenly watering eyes.

It wasn't often I saw the fox uncertain, but now…he looked at a loss for words.

Maybe I should help him out.

"A friend wouldn't push me away like this," I said, hating how gummy my voice sounded, hating the burgeoning tears pricking at my eyes. "A friend wouldn't tell me goodbye with a bouquet."

"Keiko." My name, my given name, sounded foreign in his mouth. "Keiko, I—"

"No. Save it." I turned from him, scouring my face with the end of my red sleeve. When I scrubbed away the unshed tears, I turned back, face as resolute as I could make it. Time to say goodbye and just walk away, Keiko. You've said far more than you intended, and enough was enough.

But when I saw the look on Kurama's face, the words building on my tongue fell to ruin.

"I'm sorry," Kurama said.

I'd seen many of Kurama's faces. Some I'd seen for the first time that night. Just then I saw yet another new expression. Haggard, lean, his follow cheeks looked like chasms in the fire of the dying sun, eyes crystalline with the most brittle expression I had ever witnessed on a living creature. His smile, sad and frail, embowed with apology and regret, looked like an open wound.

"Perhaps I don't know how to treat friends," he murmured. "I confess I haven't made many in this life." His head inclined, smile softened to a gash half-healed. "Regardless. I am grateful to have counted you among that number."

We held each other's gazes until my eyes stung, and I had to blink back tears.

"You, too." I hated the way my voice cracked again, marking me the emotional sap I was. I shoved a hand into the pocket of my hoodie and pulled out an object that lay within. "I made this when I was a bit more level-headed. I wasn't sure if I should leave it, and today decided I wasn't going to give it to you, after all…but whatever." I thrust the thing toward him. "Here. For you."

Kurama stepped toward me, movements delicate, as if approaching a skittish deer. The bits of glued-together paper I'd cut from magazines—tied around the middle with a little red ribbon— crackled lightly beneath his fingers. He pulled the papers toward him, studying.

He closed his eyes.

"Look. Sorry I yelled," I said, voice as gruff as Kuwabara's. "I'm just frustrated, but I'll respect your wishes."

He swallowed. I saw his throat move even in the fading light. Above him, the sakura tree shed blossoms on the cool wind. A few dusted Kurama's hair like falling snow. A single petal landed on the object in his hand, crowning the fake flowers with their living counterpart—sort of.

The bouquet I'd crafted from photographs of flowers (since, unlike Kurama, I can't grow plants out of season) didn't depict sakura blossoms. Rather, it depicted chrysanthemum, azaleas, and bells of Ireland. I'd debated throwing an anemone in there, but at the last second had decided that flower felt too dramatic.

No matter which flowers I'd left out, however, Kurama knew what these flowers meant.

The look on his face said everything in his heart, the way those flowers said everything in mine.

"Thank you for this," he said, slipping the paper bouquet into his jacket. His eyes, when they opened, had regained their crystalline fragility. "Thank you, Keiko."

I nodded, shoving my hands into my now-empty pocket. My index finger dug into my thumb's cuticle, picking and tearing and grinding the flesh there as anxiety took hold.

This was the last I'd see of him, for…I wasn't sure how long. Spirit World would take him into custody after the Mirror incident. He didn't know that, though. He thought this was our final goodbye. He planned to die in just two days. For our own reasons, we drank each other down, just staring in silence as darkness fell, privately bidding one another farewell, neither willing to speak the words aloud—Kurama unwilling to ask any more questions about the nature of his odd new friend.

It was too late for him to get answers from me. What good were those answers, anyway, if he intended to die so soon?

I think he'd realized the futility of his search, at last.

"You're welcome," I said, but only once I memorized the fall of his hair and the line of his jaw. I inclined my head, not bothering to smile. "I'll see you around, Minamino."

His reply—a tight smile, sadness hidden beneath polite façade—didn't confirm my statement. He had no intention of seeing me around.

"Take care, Yukimura," he said.

It hurt to look at him anymore, so I didn't. I spun on my heel and marched off down the sidewalk, keeping my eyes locked forward—only the last light of the setting sun glinted off something as I neared the corner of his house, drawing my attention like a lodestone draws metal.

I saw a window on the side of the house, and through it an IV stand. No IV bag adorned it, but I knew what the metal stand looked like. I'd seen Yusuke's, and Aunt Lana's, enough times to know. So was that Shiori's room, then?

No, Keiko. No use wondering. Keep walking. One foot in front of the other, just move, and—

My eyes drifted lower, beneath the window.

I stopped walking.

Slowly, I turned to face the house.

Like the sakura tree, forget-me-nots weren't supposed to bloom this time of year. Against all odds, and thicket of them edged the side of Kurama's home, filling the entire gap between Kurama's house and his neighbor's with pale blue blossoms.

Pale blue blossoms, and rich green leaves.

Rich green leaves the precise color of Kurama's eyes—mirroring his the way the flowers mirrored the eyes of the dead boy in the story he'd told me so many weeks before.

"Once upon a time," Kurama had said in the warm greenhouse, "a mother lost her child. The mother grieved for weeks, refusing food and water. Her child's spirit watched in anguish as his mother faded away. One night, when the mother's grieving reached its peak, the child shed tears for his mother. He wept at her side, begging her with words unheard to eat, drink, and set aside her heartache.

"The next morning, when the sun rose, the mother woke. All around her forget-me-nots had sprung…an unending field of blue, the color of her child's eyes."

"She carried the blossoms with her as she pieced her life together, in memory of her child. And she lived happily ever after."

I replayed his fairy tale in my head on repeat, watching the flowers swaying beneath his mother's window. I watched them, and I remembered Atsuko's serene smile as the forget-me-nots on her bed invaded her dreams, turning them sweet with the memory of her departed son.

Kurama, the fox, was prepping for his death—but not only for that. He was prepping for his mother's grief, as well. He'd planted his magical plants beneath her window to give her good dreams of her dead son, once he left her. Once he gave his life for her in his gigantic, proud gesture of martyred repayment.

All at once, my heart hung heavy in my chest, weighted down by sadness and anger and disbelief.

Had he learned nothing during his time as a human?

"What's wrong?"

He appeared at my side on feet as quiet as a true fox's. I didn't look at him, though. I took a deep breath, smelling sakura, evergreen, mint—and now, as the wind picked up, the sweet, sweet smell of forget-me-nots.

"You know what's wrong," I breathed.

He shifted on his feet, uncertain once more. "What are you—?"

This time, I looked at him. I looked at his beautiful green eyes, unable to hide the melancholy in my own.

For the first time, I didn't bother to hide behind innuendo or puns.

For the first time, I told him how I felt.

"Do you really think those flowers will heal her, when you're gone?" I asked. "Do you really think flowers are enough?"

Once again, Kurama didn't—or couldn't—answer. And in my heart, I could not help but pity him.

Did he really think so little of himself?

I knew he hated how he'd treated his mother, before he learned to love her. I knew he blamed himself for her broken spirit and her subsequent illness. I knew he carried the weight of her impending demise on his shoulders.

Even so…how could he possibly think mere flowers could make up for his absence in his mother's life—in anyone's life? Didn't he know he was worth so much more than that?

Did he truly despise himself that much?

"I'll see you around, Minamino." I heard the words as if at a great distance. "Enjoy your dinner."

He didn't stop me when I left. I looked back when I reached the end of the block. He stood stock still, staring at the forget-me-nots through eyes unseeing.

I left him there, in the fading twilight, hoping I had cooked his dinner properly, and that the flavors tasted of comfort.

So far as he knew, it was one of the last meals he'd ever eat.

I walked home in the dark, barely paying attention to other pedestrians as I tried very, very hard not to cry. Kurama's apparent self-loathing weighed heavy on my heart; I couldn't help the resulting sniffles. When I entered the alley behind my parents' restaurant, something finally caught my attention. I tensed at movement in the dark shadows behind the dumpster—but it was only Cleo, black-clad figure stepping gaunt into the dim light above the nearby back door. My finger relaxed on the trigger of my pepper spray. Had reached for it since I was so close to home, where my mother surely didn't want me using any aikido moves.

"Hello, Keiko," Cleo said. Her hands moved in her pockets, restless. "Nice night."

I didn't bother with a greeting. "What are you doing here?"

Even at night she wore her dark sunglasses, rendering her expression inscrutable. "I'm here to see you. On your terms."

The proclamation rendered me momentarily speechless. Her chin, tucked down near the collar of her leather jacket, jutted in an obstinate pout. Seemed she meant what she said, for once. Refreshing.

"OK," I said. "Let's take a walk."

"How 'bout a ride?" she countered.

Her motorcycle waited on the curb in front of the restaurant—how had I not seen it when I walked up? Or did Cleo summon it, somehow, the same way she seemed to appear with no warning? I wasn't sure, and she did not reveal her secrets when she handed me a spare helmet and told me to put it on. My heartrate kicked up when I straddled the bike at her behest. I'd shattered my elbow in my past life on a similar vehicle, after all. Some post-traumatic stressors defy even death. Luckily Keiko's nerves held firm despite the beating of my heart.

Her thin, reedy waist and knobbly spine stayed firm beneath my grip as she engaged the engine, disengaged the brake, and kicked the bike into gear. She piloted the heavy, growling bike with ease, apparently unperturbed by the wind, cold and biting at higher speeds. Neither of us spoke as she drove; she only chuckled once when she took a corner at an angle and my arms tensed around her middle. Keiko's nerves weren't infallible, after all.

Cleo took us out of the city and then above it, into the hills to the north of Sarayashiki—the same hills and roads, I suspected, Sensui's goons would travel when they eventually kidnapped Kuwabara. Continue up those hills and you'd find yourself in the mountains, on your way to Genkai's compound beyond the horizon. Cleo opened up the throttle when she hit these mostly deserted roads, flying down switchbacks and accelerating around corners (corners bordered by sheer drops over cliffs, guard rails as thin as candy floss) like a rally racer.

Eventually we came to a stop at the end of a switchback, a drop-off diving deep into the darkness below, area illuminated by a sputtering floodlight atop a pole. Cleo parked in a shallow median by the guard rail, bike mere feet away from plunging into the depthless shadows. For all the terror of that sheer drop, however, she'd chosen a beautiful spot. The city of Sarayashiki sprawled below, all lights and glitter and sleeping streets. Beyond that, on the horizon, lay the sprawl of Tokyo itself, horizon illuminated as though the city were the rising sun.

"I like it up here," Cleo said. "Bird's eye view of humanity."

I didn't say anything. She harrumphed, then waked to the guard rail and swung one long leg over it. Cleo settled atop the narrow metal strip, feet inches from the cliff, staring over the city like a watchful gargoyle on the edge of a cathedral battlement.

"All that potential," she murmured. "All those stories, being lived and experienced in a million different ways. So close you could touch it, but forever beyond your reach."

I got the sense she wasn't speaking for my benefit. Too bad I didn't have the patience to abide her rambling. Steeling myself for the truth, I asked, "Are you really one of the Fates?"

She didn't reply for a moment, or move. Then her hand tightened into a fist atop the rail at her side.

"Yes," she said.

A simple response, straightforward and clear. I appreciated that, even though it summoned more questions than it answered. I chewed on her reply for a moment before saying, "And is Hiruko really the god Ebisu from Japanese legend?"

"Yes," she repeated.

One more mystery solved. Which led me to the question, "Why did Hiruko bring me here?"

Cleo's shoulder-length hair tossed as a wind stripped by. She did not turn around or fix the errant strands, however. She merely said, "I'm not sure."

"Don't lie to me," I said, but there was no aggression in my words. I kept my tone as simple as her own, movements purposefully languid as I joined her on the guard rail (although I kept my feet firmly on the least dangerous side of it, thank you, yawning darkness a gaping maw at my back that set my spine to tingling).

"I'm not lying." Cleo's silvery eyes met mine over the top of her sunglasses. "I'm not actually sure why he brought you here."

Although I detected no deception in her words, I couldn't give up that easily. I said, "Then what are your theories? You can at least tell me those, right?"

Cleo shut her eyes, grimacing. Her voice sounded like a surgeon's instrument, sharp but delicate. "There are things I can't tell you, Keiko."

"Can't, or won't?" I pressed.

"Can't."

"You liar!" Her eyes popped wide, surprised at my spitting words. My earlier placidity had vanished, all my Kurama-induced frustration boiling to the surface at once. "You said this meeting was on my terms. Mine. Not yours!"

Cleo heaved a sigh. "It is on your terms—"

"No," I snapped. "If you won't answer my questions, then this is not on my terms. I want to know what's happening, what Hiruko wants, what his goal is, how he did all of this, how—"

"Keiko!" It was Cleo's turn to snap. She shifted to face me, teeth visibly clenched in her narrow jaw. "I am trying. I am! But—Hiruko, he's a lost soul. He's looking for his place. But the specifics, I just don't know." She shook her head, voice lowering when I didn't fight her. "Hiruko came to us. We tried to help him. But he couldn't be…satisfied." Cleo took a deep breath, something catching in her throat. "We…couldn't do what he asked. So, he took—he took—"

Cleo opened her mouth, presumably to keep speaking—but no words came out. Her speech had become more and more labored as she'd gone on, ever word more gravelly than the last until she couldn't talk at all. Now she stared, trying to speak, face growing pale as she lifted a hand and cupped the column of her white throat.

"He—took—" she said.

And then she was on her feet, leaping over the guard rail onto solid ground, where she collapsed to her knees. Her back heaved and arched as she wretched onto the asphalt, and despite my distaste for Cleo, I found myself at her side, hand on her heaving back as she tried to vomit. Nothing like seeing someone vomit to get you to care about them.

Only, when she finally managed to throw up, what came up wasn't the remnant of some half-digested meal.

Cleo vomited up a fountain of bright blood. It caught the ends of her hair, staining them and the skin around her mouth deep red.

"Oh my god," I said, lurching away from her. "Oh my god, Cleo!"

She lifted a hand and waved at me, blood running down her chin like she'd been eating juicy watermelon, eyes telling me to stay back—and then she had to wretch again. Another font of blood poured from her open mouth.

Something solid fell to the pavement with a clatter.

That thing appeared to be the culprit of this…attack, of Cleo's. She stopped heaving as soon as it came up. Fingers as delicate as a doctor's forceps, Cleo reached into the puddle of blood and plucked the object up. She cleaned it with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket, frowning irritably at the thing as if it had personally insulted her.

It was a stone, I realized. A smooth, black stone, oval, the size of a child's fist.

"I'm sorry, Keiko." Cleo's voice rasped, thick with blood and mucus. "I'm sorry, but I tried." Silver eyes slid my way, pleading. "You understand that, don't you?"

It didn't take me long to work out what she was implying. After all, it was pretty obvious.

"You…you literally can't talk about it," I said. "I mean, you literally can't. Can you?" I swallowed down my rising nausea as wind blew the scent of blood my way. "Maybe it's magic. I don't know. But whatever it is, you're barred, or cursed, or somehow prevented from telling me everything, aren't you? And if you try, you throw up blood and stones."

Cleo chuckled. "Perceptive."

"There was a podcast I used to listen to, where secrets sounded like static in the ears of those not meant to hear them." My wry smile probably didn't reach my eyes. "I'm less perceptive than I am I'm genre-savvy."

That drew forth another of Cleo's dead-leaf laughs. "And here I thought you didn't believe you were in a story."

"I didn't believe I'm in a fanfiction," I corrected. "A story, maybe. This is certainly feeling more like a story every day." I gestured at the blood but tried very hard not to look at it. "Demigods, fates, and magical anti-truth curses and whatnot…"

Cleo (who had been wiping blood from her mouth) grimaced. "It's less a curse than it is…" She searched for words, finding them only once the blood had been blotted away. "Let's just say there are some secrets mortal flesh cannot entertain. Some things are just too big."

Another veiled implication, but one I made short work of. I asked, "Borrowing a body, are we?"

"Something like that." She looked over the cliff at the city again. Once more, her words did not sound meant for me, though this time they were not guarded by blood and pebbles. "Moral flesh has its limitations. And its joys."

Lights from the city reflected in her sunglasses, stars on a dark sky. Oddly, I read longing in her expression—longing and pride, neither of which made sense to me. I joined her at the railing to share in her lofty view.

"Thank you for trying to talk to me," I said.

She shook her head, chuffing. "Don't thank me. I didn't tell you enough. Not nearly enough to warrant thanks."

"Still," I insisted. "You tried. I've tried to tell a lot of stories and failed. There's no shame in that."

My thoughts drifted to the mountain of unfinished stories I'd written, and left behind, in my old life—not to mention the efforts I'd made in this life to complete them. These stories I kept under my mattress in bound journals, alongside the journals where I'd penned my remembered details of Yu Yu Hakusho. I'd never gotten far into those works-in-progress. Like Cleo had said: I was living in a story, or a story-like world. My former imagined worlds didn't seem so urgent, now that I lived in a fictional universe of my very own.

"My child…you were not meant to be here."

Cleo stared in my direction, eyes obscured by her dark glasses. I frowned. I didn't like how I couldn't read her, couldn't see what she was thinking in the lines of her face or the gleam of her eye.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"This world. This place." She gestured at the city, with its myriad people and stories and plots, independent of mine yet still important. "It was not meant…it was not meant to be. And it is flawed because of this."

Sensing a theme, I asked, "Does this have anything to do with the missing stories?"

She seemed pleased, if the curl of her lip meant anything. "So you've seen it. You've seen this incomplete facsimile of a universe." Cleo ran her age-spotted hands through her bloody hair and laughed. "Hiruko was a lousy student."

Maybe because she spoke offhand, her words were allowed to enter the world. Or maybe that just wasn't a secret too large for her skin. Intrigued, sensing answers, I said, "He was your student?"

"Yes." Her feet moved, carrying her close to me. "He was so lost, Keiko. We pitied him. We tried—" Cleo swallowed, throat catching again. It sounded like hiccups, when she strayed too close to the truth. "We tried to give him a place—to teach him, and to help him, and—"

One more, her words tangled in her throat. This time I didn't run when she fell to her knees and coughed blood onto the pavement. I held back her hair, instead, murmuring comforts until the stone forced its way up her throat and fell to the ground. This truth, too, she cleaned and stowed in her jacket pocket, tucking it from sight like a magpie hoarding treasure.

"Thank you," she ground out once she recovered enough to speak. "Keiko—"

"Don't," I said. The word surprised even me, but Cleo was trying, even if I didn't have all the answers yet. "You've done enough."

"I'm sorry." She looked like she meant it, with eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. Her hand trembled when she passed it through her pink-tipped hair. "I'll…I'll ty again. Another time."

"OK. Sure." My smiled looked as brittle as Cleo's eyes, I was certain. "I'll chew on this a while, see if I can piece things together. Take some of the work out for you."

"Thanks. Appreciate it." She grimaced, then, face contorting with pain and reluctance. Her shoulders slumped further, shrinking inside the shell of her leather jacket. "Sorry, Keiko. But I have to go."

"Wait until I'm not watching." When she frowned at my request, I said, "Your whole Harry Potter Apparating act gives me the wiggins."

"But—" She gestured at her motorbike. "I can—"

"It's OK. You're in no shape to drive." It was a long walk back, but the cold nearly-spring air would do wonders to clear my head. I certainly had a lot to think about. I did my best thinking alone. "I'll find my own way home."

Cleo nodded. Her glasses glinted in the light of the lamp, pools of cosmic dark that saw more than I could fathom.

"I've left a shortcut for you," she said. She lifted a finger like a flag on a fraying wire. "Walk down the hill a ways. You'll see it."

Strength failing, she sat heavily on the guard rail, but she did not vanish into the ether. Respecting my wishes to not see her pull her little disappearing act, probably. Badass that she was still standing despite the amount of blood she'd barfed, also probably. Cleo was made of stern stuff. Bidding her a muttered goodbye, I turned and walked down the sloping road, intending to disappear behind the bend in the switchback much the same way she might disappear into thin air.

"Keiko—a warning."

The lights from the city lit her from behind, casting her cobweb hair into a silver halo and her dark jacket into an oil slick silhouette. Fatigue limned her like a shroud. I did not know what it took for her to be here, talking to me, but I suspected every moment had its cost.

"You matter," she said, "but less than you think. The friends you make here—the characters you regard as canon—they are the ones you need to protect. Not yourself."

She was preaching to the choir, little did she know. I nodded. "OK."

"Not that I had to tell you that." Her teeth glimmered like bullets beneath the cold street lamp. "You'd protect them all on your own, wouldn't you?"

"I love them." The words were as simple as they were true. "I love all of them. Even the ones I haven't met yet."

"I can tell. Your love of stories shows. And that love is written on your bones in ways you can't even imagine." Her head lolled, elbows resting sharply on her knees. Cleo's voice carried on the wind, audible, but only barely. "Take care, Keiko. I'll see you soon."

Taking her at her word, I left her where she sat. I did not ask Cleo anything else that night.

Halfway down the path toward the next switchback, I found a bicycle leaning sedate against the guard rail. I rode it home in the dark, the bloated moon my guide down the winding mountain road.

I fell into bed, and into a dreamless sleep, with more questions than I had answers—but the feeling I had finally found the path toward the certainty, even if it was paved with the spit up stones of Cleo's unspoken truths.

A tuft of errant hair jutted off the back of Yusuke's head. He spoke through a hearty yawn as I trotted out the back door of my parents' restaurant.

"Morning," he said. "Remind me again why school starts so goddamn early?"

"To torture us." We fell into step, side by side on the way to Yusuke's first day back. "And to prepare us for life as productive, sleep-deprived adults—AKA, compliant cogs in the machine of society."

"Wow, Keiko. You got a bit anarchist while I was gone." He sounded almost impressed; I just laughed.

"Maybe." I eyed him askance as we walked out of the alley and onto the sidewalk proper. "You feeling OK about going back?"

Yusuke's glower could melt bricks. "Since when have I ever felt OK about school?"

"True." My lips curled, mischievous. "At least you don't have to wear bright pink."

"Uh. Pink?" When my smile grew, maniacal and mysterious, he put a bit of creeped-out distance between us. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Wait and see."

Yusuke had called late the night before, shortly after I made it home from my rendezvous with Cleo, and had asked to walk to school together the next morning…sort of. He wanted to walk me to school. I almost called him a gentleman before realizing he had to have some ulterior motive or another—most likely he didn't want me walking him to school so he could play hooky, make his escape without me dragging him bodily to class. Whatever. Frankly, I was willing to tolerate his chicanery no matter his motives so long as it meant getting to see a friendly face.

The events of the night before had me rattled, I confess. Kurama and Cleo, and the drama associated with each, left me feeling numb. One final walk to school with Yusuke (ironic considering it was also the first walk to school with Yusuke in quite some time) wouldn't go amiss.

Something told me I should savor this walk. Who knew when we'd get a chance at another, once the shit hit the fan?

As we navigated the early commuter crowds and made our final approach to Meiou, Yusuke stopped dead in his tracks. The school gate loomed before us. Surely in his eyes it looked like the gate of a prison, even if he didn't go to the same school as me anymore, and this particular prison was not his own.

"Oh my fucking god," Yusuke said, bulging eyes fixed on the students as they filed in the gates. "Oh—oh my god."

I nodded, hands flapping. "Oh my god, right?!"

"It's…it's magenta." He tracked the boys as they walked past, aghast, appalled, astounded at the horrible color they all wore. "Who the hell thought magenta was a good idea?"

"Nice use of color language," I observed. With a prim smile I smoothed the front of my crimson skirt. "I lucked out. Red's my color."

But Yusuke was too transfixed at the horror before him to pay attention. "So bright," he said. "So girly." He pulled an impressive stink-face. "So…gross!"

"Yeah. I much prefer the girls' uniform."

"Heck, I'd prefer wearing the girls' uniform over that garbage."

"Makes you grateful for Sarayashiki's uniforms, doesn't it?" I nudged him slyly in the ribs. "One might think it could almost inspire you to wear the right color uniform, for once."

He shrugged, shoulders of his green summer uniform wrinkling. "Ha. Over my dead body."

I stared at him. Took a minute, but soon Yusuke realized what he'd done. He smacked his cheek with an exaggerated groan.

"Oh damn," he said. "Even I'm making puns now."

I gave his head a sympathetic pat. "The jokes write themselves."

Yusuke's eyes flashed; he started to say something, waving away my hand like a dog rejecting an unwanted ear-scratching, but then he fell silent. His eyes trained over my shoulder like a sniper's scope.

"Can you believe this?" he muttered, too low for anyone else to hear. "Not even at my school and they're already staring!"

I snuck a glance over my shoulder. Two boys and a girl, all wearing garish Meiou fashion, openly stared in Yusuke's direction. I paid them no mind and stuck my nose high in the air.

"Well, of course they are," I said, tone comically lofty. "Word travels fast when there's a zombie invasion afoot."

Yusuke cracked a wicked smile before slouching, hooking his hands into claws, and shuffling past me at the staring students. One foot dragged behind him in an exaggerated limp.

"Brains!" he groaned at my classmates. "Braaaains!" He couldn't keep the aggressive smile off his face. "Don't make me bite you. You'll get infected!"

As one, my classmates eeped, faces paling as they stepped away from Yusuke's zombie impression. I stepped between them and Yusuke, hand coming up to ward my friend off.

"Play nice," I said to him. Turning to my classmates, I pasted on a chipper smile and cheerily intoned, "Sorry about him. He's adjusting to being human. You know. Since he was dead recently."

Watching my classmates shriek and run off was intensely satisfying, I've gotta say. Yusuke hooked an arm around my neck with a crow of devious delight.

"You're evil!" he said.

"Learned from the best." I grabbed his wrist, keeping his arm around me so he couldn't get away. I pinned him with a stare as I asked, "You sure you don't want me to walk you to school?"

"Nah." He twisted, unlooping his arm and stepping out of range. "Gotta face the music like a man."

"Or just ditch me so you can play hooky."

Immediately his expression became casual. Too casual. Looking hurt, he said, "It's almost like you think I'm some sort of delinquent, Keiko."

"Almost," I said, agreeably. My tone skewed stern. "Go to school, Yusuke, you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Putting his back to me, he walked away. His hand rose over his head in farewell. "Karaoke later?"

"Sure. Meet you at my parents' after class!"

"Right. See ya!"

I watched him go knowing it was unlikely we'd get to hit up karaoke later. There was no telling if he'd actually go to school or not, of course, though I hoped he'd at least give his first day back a proper shot...but why was I even worried? If all things went as planned, he'd end up skipping school today to track down Gouki. Skipping school was an inevitability. But if he could at least make it to class on time, maybe the hooky would be excused…

He wasn't the only one playing hooky, I soon learned, or the only canon character with mysterious whereabouts.

Kurama wasn't in school, either. My stomach dropped into my heels when I saw his empty desk.

"So I was right," I said, words slipping free of their own volition.

"Hmm?" Junko said at my side.

"Oh, um. Nothing," I said. I hooked an arm through hers and pulled her past the empty seat. "Nothing at all."

I spent class staring at Kurama's desk and gnawing absently on the end of a pen. No doubt Kurama was in Spirit World, robbing it blind of its hidden treasures with the help of Hiei and Gouki. And no doubt soon Koenma would summon Yusuke from school to begin his first mission as the Spirit Detective.

The stars—or the full moon, rather—had at last aligned.

The Artifacts of Darkness Arc had begun.

Notes:

We're here.

Very excited for the next few chapters. The events within have been clear in my head since the beginning. So glad we've come this far. Next week gets exciting!

Keiko's paper bouquet made me laugh. She can't grow exotic flowers in winter, so paper versions would have to do. Also, translation: The azaleas meant "take care of yourself for me." The chrysanthemums meant "you are a wonderful friend." The bells of Ireland meant "good luck." The unused anemones meant "betrayal."

You are all beyond wonderful and kind, and I'm so grateful for the support you left this week. MAJOR SUPER AWESOME THANKS!

Chapter 39: Tell Me a Story

Summary:

NQKeiko tells, and is told, a story.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The next day—Tuesday, one day before Kurama intended to use the Mirror—I attended class like usual.

Of course, today was anything but usual…especially for Minamino.

He didn't know that yet, though.

I didn't see him before school, of course. I didn't seek him out. Truth be told, I wasn't even sure he'd come to school that day, or if Yusuke's Unexpected Scheme was going to fall flat in Minamino's absence. Only after lunch did I catch glimpse of Minamino's rubicund hair, strands gleaming bloody in the light streaming in the classroom windows.

When I walked in, he sat reading at his desk—ignoring me, clearly. I ignored him right back and sat down at my own, even though we were the first two there and snubbing him would normally be considered rude.

It's not like he greeted me, either—his eyes merely flickered in my direction before darting away again, back to his book. So much for civility, not that it mattered. I was too nervous to talk to him. Too scared I'd give everything away.

Distance was definitely best, especially now that I knew The Scheme was on.

The classroom soon filled; the teacher began her lecture on cellular division. I barely heard a word, though. Was too busy looking out the window, trying to affect a bored, I'm-just-daydreaming stare—but that was a ruse covering the laser of my focus. I stared at the school gate below so hard, I feared the thing might catch fire. Nothing absent or daydreamy about me today. No fucking way. But it would be just like him to be late and mess this whole thing up. I glanced fervently at my watch, sneaking peeks at it beneath my desk so the teacher wouldn't see.

Luckily it didn't take long for him to appear. Good thing, too, because I was about to chew my own arm off with impatience. When I saw him I sat up straighter, pulse lurching in my throat like a rickety rollercoaster.

Two stories below, green jumpsuit clashing horribly with the brick pavement, Yusuke had appeared beyond the slats of the gate.

I'd told him which window I'd be sitting in. His dark gaze raked the side of the building, connecting with mine as though drawn there by a tractor beam. Yusuke smirked; I smiled back, then gave him a nod.

Yeah, the nod said. He's here.

Yusuke's smirk morphed into an outright grin; he covered the expression by running his hands over his gelled hair. He did his best to smooth the smirk into a look of haughty confidence before returning my nod, shoving his hands in his pockets, and walking out of sight behind the wall encompassing our secluded private school.

I knew where he was going, of course.

Minamino, however, had no idea what was coming.

I didn't dare sneak a glance at the fox, even though I wanted to. I merely waited, agonizing seconds turning into agonizing minutes, until I wanted to jump up and run screaming from the room.

Lucky for me, Yusuke was a fast worker. It didn't take long for the assistant principal to show up at the door to the classroom. Our teacher stopped talking when the door rattled open and the principal scanned the room.

Her eyes, of course, alit on Minamino.

"Minamino, come with me, please," she said.

Because everyone else was doing it, I looked at Minamino at long last. Would've seemed suspicious if I didn't. Even though I knew his mother wouldn't die today, the bolt of panic striking through his verdant eyes made my heart hurt. He didn't spare me a glance as he gathered his things and walked from the room, eyes tight and hard like he meant to fight the world and win.

After his disappeared, I sagged in my seat with a relieved sigh.

All had gone according to plan. So far, at least.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The day before, Monday, started off uncertain.

It definitely didn't end that way.

Despite telling Junko to spread the word of Yusuke's return, I spent most of the breaks between classes assuring my peers that yes, Yusuke was alive. No, he was no a zombie. No, he hadn't actually died—the medics had made a mistake. Yusuke had been in a coma. No, his brush with death hadn't made him a better person overnight. Why would you even ask that?

When rain fell that afternoon, the accompanying thunder mirrored my darkening mood.

To keep up appearances, I went home directly after school and helped out in the restaurant. Yusuke, as predicted, did not make an appearance. Recovering after his first altercation with Gouki, no doubt.

Or was there any doubt?

Had everything gone as canon predicated, or had Kurama—given the conversation we'd had the day before—changed his fate, somehow, and acted beyond the scope of expectation?

Only one way to find out.

Because the alternative was worrying myself into an anxious mess (which would do no one any good), and because the only consequence I could see was Keiko becoming more aware of her best friend's activities, I put on my raincoat and trekked to Atsuko's apartment once the restaurant closed.

To my surprise, neither Yusuke nor Atsuko answered when I rang the bell. An unexpected party opened the door and stared at me, eyes wide, mouth parted, fingers of one delicate hand pressing at her open lips. The girl looked more than a little horrified to see me, not that I blamed her. Meeting me tonight definitely hadn't been part of the plan—especially not for the grim reaper who thought she had a handle on fate.

Well. Surprise, I guess?

"Oh," said Botan. She looked me up and down, eyes growing progressively wider. "Oh! Um—?"

"Botan, right?" I said.

Her eyes went even wider still, if such a thing were possible. "Y-yes, I'm—" But then her eyes narrowed; she leaned toward me, comically suspicious. "Wait. How did you—?"

"Blue hair, bubbly personality, pretty face." I shrugged, smiling. "Your type isn't exactly a dime a dozen."

And that was no exaggeration. Botan was without a doubt one of the prettiest people I'd seen in this life—in a way I admit was almost unsettling. Pores tiny in her alabaster complexion, powder blue hair glossy and thick as it tumbled over her slender collarbone, Botan's facial features had the wide-eyes, full-lipped, delicate look of a high fashion model, or a famous cosplayer who hadn't yet changed out of her wig and rich magenta contacts (which, despite their color, suited her as naturally as breathing). Even without mascara her lashes threatened to brush her eyebrows. She wore plain, high-waisted jeans and a sweater, but when she moved the clothes draped her body as if they'd been made for her. Perhaps they had. Perhaps Spirit World had a good tailor tucked away somewhere.

Truth be told, the grim reaper looked like a photoshopped doll come to gorgeous, perfect life. The kind of girl I'd have become a stumbling mess in front of in my old life—the kind of girl I doubtless would've had a crush on for her looks alone.

Luckily Keiko's nerves were steadier than mine. Although the shock of Botan's looks certainly struck me, I didn't find myself a babbling idiot, either. Good. I couldn't afford to break down just then.

Botan looked at first shocked, and then pleased by my earlier statement. "Yusuke said I was pretty?" she asked, amazed.

"Of course," I said—and, feeling playful, I tipped the grim reaper a rather flirty wink. "And he was right, if I'm allowed to say so. You're gorgeous."

Ivory cheeks flushing, Botan waved a dismissive hand and laughed, a charmingly embellished "oh ho ho!" Even though she didn't have a British accent (this wasn't the English dub of the anime, after all) her inflection sounded appropriately poised, formal, and sophisticated. Very Botan. I liked the sound of her voice at once.

"Oh, stop it!" she said, playfully shoving my shoulder. "You charmer, you!"

"Yup. Charmer. That's me!" I dipped a bow with a touch of Western flourish. "I'm Keiko, by the way. But I figure you already know that."

"Well, yes," Botan admitted—and then her pleased smile melted, as dramatic as a popsicle liquefying under a blowtorch. She stepped toward me, apartment door falling shut at her back. "But Keiko, you can't be here right now! Yusuke, he's—"

"If he's hurt, then this is exactly where I need to be."

"I understand the sentiment, but— "And then she stopped talking. I think my words caught her quite off guard, if her fluttering eyelashes and gasp of surprise were any indication. "Wait. What makes you think he's hurt?"

"We planned to go to karaoke tonight. It's not like him to ditch me without calling." (I'd disabused him of that bad behavior years before.) "With this new Spirit Detective gig, it wasn't hard to put two and two together." Botan's jaw dropped. I smiled. "Something happened on a case, didn't it?"

Botan stared at me for a second.

She then let out an enormous shriek of rage, pivoting on her foot and kicking in the door before she marched inside.

"Yusuke, you little—" Botan screeched. "What, precisely, did you tell Keiko?!"

I almost laughed out loud. Botan was just as spirited in this life as she'd been in the anime, flipping between comical rage and charming, bubbly dramatics at the drop of a hat. I followed her into the house, locked the door behind us, and trotted down the hall to Yusuke's bedroom.

Yusuke lay on his bed, front of his pajamas clutched tight in Botan's slender hands. She was shaking him, of course, kneeling on the mattress at his side as she pried him from the grip of sleep. Bandages adorned his cheeks and peeked from the top of his shirt, I noticed. Seemed he'd fought Gouki today, after all.

Good. Right on schedule.

"Wake up!" Botan hollered. "Wake up, Yusuke! I have a bone to pick with you!"

His eyes finally fluttered open. "Wh-what—?"

"You told Keiko!" Botan said. "I expressly told you to keep Keiko out of it, Yusuke, but you told her anyway!" She gave him another hearty shake. "Yusuke, how could you?! Koenma will be furious!"

"Hey, ouch, watch it!" Tired of being shaken like a ragdoll, Yusuke wormed out of Botan's hold and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His knees buckled when he tried to stand, however, so he flopped back down and glared at the woman next to him. "I didn't survive getting pile-drived by an ogre so you could kill me all over again, dammit!" The boy fell quiet, blinking in sudden realization. In a very small voice, Yusuke said, "Oh, damn. I was pile-drived by an ogre." He looked down, touching the bandage on his cheek. "Well, that explains why I feel like I got hit by a car."

"Really?" I said. "Another car?"

Yusuke's eyes jerked up, meeting mine with a panicked gleam. "K-Keiko!?"

"Yes, Keiko! And that's the problem!" Botan said. Her arm flung out in my direction. "She can't be here, Yusuke! And for heaven's sake, you can't talk about ogres in front of her!"

"Oh, can it, Botan!" Yusuke groused. Botan started to argue, but he held up a hand and ticked off numbers on his fingers. "I talked to her in dreams, she saw the fire turn blue when I saved her, she helped me come back to life, and she's definitely smart enough to realize when I'm hiding shit from her. She's clearly clued in about the whole spirts and magic crap, so what's the big deal with knowing about demons, too?!"

Even I felt surprised by Yusuke's well-formed outburst. I mean, his logic was sound, and Botan's inability to speak just then indicated she felt the same way. After everything Keiko had seen during Yusuke's resurrection period, it was ludicrous to think Keiko didn't have at least some inkling that the supernatural existed. What was the point of pretending none of it was real when she had firsthand evidence to the contrary?

That had always bothered me about the manga. Keiko wasn't a dumbass. There was no way she could forget everything she experienced, but in the beginning, Botan and Yusuke acted like Keiko had no idea the supernatural existed. They'd kept things from her for an unbearable amount of time, endangering her very life in the process.

Clearly this version of Yusuke had a different opinion about what Keiko should and should not know about his role as Spirit Detective. For that I felt immeasurably glad.

"And besides," he continued. "It's not like Keiko is helpless. She can fight." His smiled was as proud as it was peeved. "Even I can't hit her when she puts her mind to dodging. At least if she knows what's up, she can protect herself if anything ever came after her." Yusuke crossed his arms over his chest, shoving his nose resolutely in the air. "Keeping her out of it is pointless, so I ain't gonna do it."

Botan considered this, mouth screwing up as she mulled it over. She shook her head. "But Yusuke, Spirit World's secrets aren't supposed to be heard by mortals. You are an exception. You can't just drag everyone you care about into Spirit World affairs!"

"That's exactly why I have to drag her in, Botan—because keeping somebody I care about in the dark would be dangerous." He looked at me, apparently not at all perturbed that he'd just said he cared for me out loud. Too distracted to realize he was being embarrassing, no doubt. Yusuke certainly looked serious just then. "You should've seen it, Keiko. Big red ogre with horns and teeth, sucking kids' souls with this Orb thingy. Demons are a thing, apparently, and they're gross." He tapped the bottom of his fist again his knee, eyes widening. "Oh. Right! My first big case started! There was a big break-in in a Spirit World vault, and now I've gotta track down these criminals who stole some treasures, and—"

Botan's magenta eyes nearly bugged out of her skull. Grabbing his collar again, she shrieked a furious, "Yusuke!"

"Botan," I said. "It's OK."

Midway through shaking the teeth out of Yusuke's skull, Botan looked up. Yusuke took advantage of this distraction and wriggled from her grip again, scooting away across the bed until he hit the wall. I offered Botan a sincere smile and placed a hand over my heart. While the gesture felt dramatic, something told me the reaper would appreciate the sentiment behind it.

"I won't get involved," I assured the reaper. "I will not tell anyone about Yusuke's role as Spirit Detective, or about—what did you call them? Demons?"

"Yeah," Yusuke said, playing beautifully into my feigned ignorance. "Apparently there's a whole world full of 'em somewhere. I don't have all the details yet, but they're a nasty bunch."

"Well, I will definitely need the rest of those details soon, because you just talked about another literal world and a race of literal supernatural monsters in the same breath, and that's some big-ass shit right there," I said (Botan looked positively green just then), "but in the meantime, Botan, I just want to say that I won't mess this up for anyone, I promise. I'm a great secret-keeper. The secrets of Spirit World are safe with me—certainly safer than the treasures in that busted vault of yours."

Yusuke snickered at my jab at Spirit World. Botan's angry grimace diminished somewhat, but she still looked uncertain. Lucky for me, Yusuke is a great character witness.

"Keiko always means what she says," Yusuke piped up. Botan shot him a sharp look. "She never breaks promises. We can trust her not to blab, I swear."

Teeth worrying her lower lip, Botan looked at Yusuke. She looked at me. She looked back and forth, ponytail whipping behind her head, teeth gouging deep into her pink mouth, hands coming together in her lap so she could pick nervously at a cuticle.

"Oh, this is not adhering to protocol," she muttered. "Koenma will be furious!"

I suggested, "You can always blame this on Yusuke's big mouth."

Yusuke nodded. "Yeah, you can always—hey, wait a second!" He turned to me and raised a fist. "Watch it!"

"You watch it," I shot back. "You're the one who got the shit kicked out of him today."

"I could've taken that ogre!"

"The evidence," I said, with a pointed look at the bandage on his cheek, "suggests otherwise."

Yusuke slapped a hand over the bandage, which agitated the cut or bruise beneath. He flipped back on the bed and rolled across it, groaning in pain—and then Botan's laugh puffed into the air like the fluff of a startled dandelion.

"You two are quite the odd couple," she said, as if discovering something delightful. Her eyes rolled skyward, helpless and resigned. "Oh, I know I'm going to regret this, but—welcome aboard, Keiko!" A conspiratorial smile crossed her lips as she rolled to her feet, extended a hand toward me, and offered up a chipper wink. "Knowing Yusuke, he needs all the help he can get from smart, sassy ladies like ourselves!"

Oh my god, she was adorable. I took her hand and shook it, unable to keep the smile off my face. "You said it, Botan."

Yusuke—who had fought hard for this alliance—suddenly looked uncomfortable. Eyeing us with obvious suspicion, he asked, "Why do I feel like introducing the two of you was a terrible idea?"

"Because it was," I deadpanned. "You just signed your death warrant."

"Yes, Yusuke, your death warrant," Botan agreed. "Soon we'll be giving you makeovers!"

We commenced with giggling at Yusuke's expense. He sulked.

"Oh, man. This sucks," he said.

"You brought it on yourself," I told him.

"Don't make me regret bringing you in, grandma!" he said—but then his combative look turned solemn. "Keiko, since you're here—you're smart. Smarter than me, though don't let that go to your head. What's your take on this Gouki guy?"

"No idea yet, since you haven't told me anything about him," I lied. Sitting on the chair by the door, I said, "Tell me a story, Yusuke."

Content to sit back and play the role of ignorant newcomer, I let Botan and Yusuke spin the tale of demons, Spirit World, the vault, and the thieves who'd breached its walls. Watching the pair snark and bicker as they recounted the facts was honestly more entertaining than hearing the facts themselves. As far as I could tell, nothing about the Artifacts plot had changed in this rendition of Yu Yu Hakusho. The ogre Gouki, the mysterious Kurama, and the cutthroat Hiei had stolen the Orb of Baast, the Forlorn Hope, and the Shadow Sword, then absconded with the treasures to Human World. Gouki had been actively stealing the souls of children since earlier today. I acted appropriately stunned by the revelation of Demon World (and appropriately neutral when I heard the names of the demons), of course, but Yusuke and Botan barely noticed. They were far too wrapped up in their retelling to judge my acting ability.

"So kids started collapsing and it wasn't hard to find the demons," Yusuke said. "Hiei and Kurama ran, but Gouki stuck around, and we fought. He almost got me but Botan chased him off and brought me back here." At that he grimaced. "And from what Botan tells me, I can't afford to mess up again. Those kids' souls'll get digested unless I beat the guy, and fast. But after today, I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to beat him. My Spirit Gun barely made a dent."

"About that, Yusuke," Botan said. She lifted a finger. On it gleamed a golden ring with a thick band and small tines extending over her knuckle. "I have something that might just help."

It was the Concentration Ring, naturally, to turn up the volume on Yusuke's Spirit Gun—only once he used it, he'd be down for the count. He put the ring on his finger and stared, grim lines etched into the skin between his eyes.

"Thanks," he said. "But that Gouki thing has stone skin. Even with this, how am I supposed to beat him?"

Botan—who had looked quite triumphant at the revelation of the Ring—slumped slightly. I cleared my throat. Yusuke looked at me with hope in his eyes. Keiko to the rescue, he clearly thought.

"I'm not sure, Yusuke," I said (I hated watching his hope pop like a punctured balloon, but I couldn't spoon-feed him all the answers if I wanted him to grow and develop the way he was meant to). "All I can say is that you should try looking at it from a different angle. Try looking at the problem from the inside out. It's amazing what new perspective can do when you're trying to solve a problem."

Yusuke considered this, gazing at the ring on his finger in silence. Despite the ache in my chest demanding I tell him what to do, 'inside out' was the only clue I felt safe enough giving him—but something told me I needn't have given it to him at all. Despite his claim that I was smarter than him, Yusuke was intuitive in ways few rivaled. He didn't need my help defeating the demon Gouki. Yusuke could do that all on his own merit.

"I'll think about it," he said. He clenched his fist, looking up with determined eyes. "Maybe I'll have to improvise. Who knows? But whatever happens, I'm going to track that demon down tomorrow." His fist clenched a little tighter, muscles quivering in his taut forearms. "I'm going to fight him, and I'm going to win."

"That's the spirit, Yusuke!" Botan said, smacking his back with her open hand. "But while we're making plans, tell me: What do you plan to do about the other two?"

Yusuke frowned. "The other two what?"

"Why, the other two demons, of course!" The grim reaper looked utterly appalled. "Surely you haven't forgotten about them already?!"

Yusuke flushed. As he babbled something about Botan being an enormous nag, Botan reached into her shirt once more and produced a manila folder (one that could not have fit in there given the way the garment outlined her chest so thoroughly, but that's neither here nor there; I wasn't staring, no way, who, me?).

"Here, Mister Lazy," Botan said. "This is the complete dossier on the demons, the treasures, and your recovery timeline. I suggest you study it!"

Yusuke took the folder with a grumble, shoving it under his pillow and out of sight—where it would doubtless remain, and remain unread, knowing Yusuke.

"Sorry, Botan," I said, "but you'd be better off asking a puppy to study. Yusuke isn't the studious type."

Botan's crestfallen look (followed swiftly by her kitten-like rage at Yusuke) made me laugh. I carried that laughter with me when I left that night and trudged through the rain toward home.

Botan didn't know it, but she had no reason to worry.

Yusuke would recover the treasures just fine. I had every faith in him.

Not two seconds after I got home that night, and only a moment after the bedroom door shut behind me, my phone rang. I lurched across the room to grab it before it woke my sleeping parents. "Hello?" I hissed into the received.

"Hey, Keiko?" came Kuwabara's gravelly voice—a voice that sounded even rougher than usual. "It's, uh. It's me."

Yeah, it was him—but why? The clock on my desk proclaimed midnight was fast approaching. Voice low, I said, "Are you OK? It's late."

"Oh, were you asleep already? I can call back tomorrow, or—"

"Nah, I was awake." I sat on my bed and reached for the lamp on the bedside table. "You usually don't call so late, that's all."

Kuwabara said nothing.

I waited a beat.

More nothing.

"So…what's up?" I asked.

"Um." He paused. Something rattled, maybe his breath or a sheet of paper. "Could you just…talk, for a little while?"

"Uh, sure?" What an odd request. "What would you like to talk about?"

He drew in a breath. "No, no, not like—not like us talking." Another long pause, and then his voice came harsher than before. Raspier, sort of, like he was trying really hard not to sound winded after running for miles. "Can you just talk?" he asked.

"Oh. Um." I stood, walking until the phone's cord stretched to its full length and back again. "Sure. But why?"

"I—I can't say."

It wasn't like Kuwabara to stammer and stutter like this—not with that agitated tremor in his voice, nor the crack at the end signaling unspoken anxiety. My fingers clenched the phone a little tighter.

"Kuwabara," I said. "What's wrong?"

The words came out like they'd sprung from a lanced boil. "Nothin', Keiko, nothin'. I just need you to talk, OK?!"

My feet stopped pacing. Kuwabara gasped, falling silent in the wake of his own outburst. It also wasn't like him to raise his voice at me, nor was it like him to snarl as if I'd said something mortally offensive. Normally so gentle, so kind, this out-of-nowhere aggression rendered me silent.

We sat on the phone together for nearly a minute. I watched the hands go around my clock, marking the time as it passed between us.

"Sorry," Kuwabara blurted. "I'm…stressed. But I'm fine. And I'm sorry." His voice cracked again, wheedling and small. "Can you just talk to me? Please?"

While saying "please" was in character for the polite Kuwabara, I still felt unsettled. Clearly something was wrong with him. Why was he lying to me? Or did it even matter? Nagging wouldn't get him to talk to me. Best just do what he asked and trust he'd come to me if he really needed help.

"Say no more," I said, affecting a breezy tone of voice. My pacing resumed, though, betraying my mounting nerves. "What are friends for but to talk on command?" Tension struck through me like an awl through a pierced ear. "But, um…let's see. What should I talk about?"

"Anything," Kuwabara grunted.

"Well…" Wracking my brain produced only one option; it was getting late, after all, and I was too tired to be creative. "I could tell you a story, if you'd like. Maybe in English, test your knowledge?"

"That's—that's fine," he said. Now he sounded positively strangled. "Just talk."

Because I could quote all the funniest parts from both the book and the movie (and because it had been on my mind recently), it should come as no surprise that The Princess Bride began to pour out of my mouth. At first Kuwabara listened to the tale of Buttercup and Westley in sphinxlike silence, but when I got to the part where Westley died, he let out a small gasp.

"That's awful," he said. "They were so happy."

"They were very happy," I assured him, "so it should bring you no comfort that Buttercup eventually found herself to be married…to a man she did not love."

My heart soared when Kuwabara sounded appropriately appalled by this, grateful that he didn't reject the romantic parts of the story the way Yusuke probably would. He reacted to everything with shock, appreciation, or horror where appropriate, laughing out loud when I got to the parts with Fezzik, Inigo, and Vizzini. Sometimes he asked for translations in Japanese, but I used simple English so he could follow as easily as possible (Kuwabara was getting good at English, but he wasn't that good yet). He fell into an apprehensive hush when I told him about the screeching eels, the Cliffs of Insanity, the tale of the Six Fingered Man and Inigo's quest for revenge. He outright cheered during the mysterious Man in Black's duels with the sword-fighting Spaniard and the jolly giant Fezzik—because those parts were badass, and why wouldn't he get invested? This story truly had something for everyone.

I confess I got really, embarrassingly into my storytelling. It helped that I'd mimicked all the actors' voices and acted out scenes from the film approximately ten billion times, which made the Battle of Wits between Vizzini and the Man in Black particularly amusing. Kuwabara ate up Vizzini's convoluted logic about the iocane powder's placement in the goblets, and he made a noise of muffled horror as the Man in Black fell for Vizzini's obvious trickery when Vizzini exclaimed, "What in the world could that be?!" and swapped the cups when the Man's back was turned.

"That lying cheat!" Kuwabara said.

"Yes," I agreed—and then I launched into the Sicilian's monologue, after the men drank and the mastermind revealed his dastardly plot.

"'You only think I guessed wrong!" I crowed in a terrible imitation of Billy Crystal's reedy voice. "That's what's so funny! I switched the poison when your back was turned! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders—the most famous of which is 'never get into a land war in Asia'—but only slightly less well-known is this: 'Never go in against a Sicilian, when death is on the line!' Ha! Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha—!"

Because the moment required it, I threw back my head and laughed like an absolute loon—but just before I could dramatically fall silent and describe the Sicilian's sudden death to Kuwabara, the door to my room burst open. I shrieked and jumped two feet in the air as my mother marched in, hair tucked under the blue mushroom of a sleeping cap, and glared as ferociously as one of my story's screeching eels.

"Keiko, honey?!" she said. "What are you doing awake at this hour?"

"Mom! Sorry!" I said, trying to collect myself (Kuwabara definitely said something into the phone; I pressed my hand over the receiver to muffle his deep voice). "Was I too loud?"

"Yes, Keiko, you were indeed too loud," she said with a roll of her sleepy eyes. "What in the world are you doing?"

"Just…just on the phone, is all!" I said, pointing at it with an awkward laugh.

"Well, you'd better hang up and get some sleep. It's very late!"

"You're right, Mom, I'm so sorry."

"Uh huh. Sure." She turned away, hand on her forehead. "I don't want to know…"

I waited until she left the room to lift the phone to my ear. "Did you hear that, Kuwabara?"

"Yeah." He sounded like Droopy Dog when he lamented, "You have to go?

"Looks like it." I'd never been given a curfew because I'd proven myself trustworthy enough not to need one, and I didn't want that changing now (not when the Plot was here and sneaking out had become a more distinct possibility). "I'm sorry."

"It's OK. I knew you'd have to go eventually." Nothing could hide the morose resignation in his rocky voice. "I'm just sad you didn't even get to finish the story."

Laughing, I said, "Leaving you with quite a cliffhanger, I am. A veritable Cliffs of Insanity moment, huh?"

"Yeah. But I don't mind. It'll make the rest even better." He paused for a second, and then with earnestness apparent told me, "Thanks, Keiko."

His somber attitude made my breath hitch "Did I…did I help?" I asked. "With whatever it is that's bothering you?"

"Yeah. You did." While he sounded calmer than when he called, he still radiated melancholy; I hated that I didn't know why. "Call you tomorrow? Maybe hear the ending?"

"Of course." I thought about prying. Decided against it. "Night."

"Night."

He hung up first. Moving through syrup, I set the phone in its cradle.

What in the world had that been about?

I confess I worried more over Kuwabara's odd behavior than I did the plot of Yu Yu Hakusho that night—because only one of those things could be explained by canon.

Mom's voice sounded as uncertain as it did muffled when she spoke through the bathroom door the next morning, Tuesday.

"Keiko, honey?" she said. "Yusuke's here. Were you supposed to walk with him today?"

No, we were not. We had made no plans to do so the night before. I pulled the toothbrush from my mouth and spat into the sink. A glance at my watch told me it was barely 6:30 AM—far earlier than Yusuke liked to get out of bed, and long before we would meet each other for a morning commute. In fact, I'd gotten up earlier than usual despite my late conversation with Kuwabara, unable to sleep due to sheer restlessness. But what had driven Yusuke from his cozy bed at this hour?

"No?" I said. "Did he say what he wants?"

"Sorry, I didn't ask. He's by the back door. Should I tell him to wait for you?"

"Yeah, two minutes!"

As her feet padded away down the hall, I entered panicked-preparation-mode, scrambling for my hairbrush and the tie of my school uniform as I tripped my way back to my room to dress. Luckily I didn't wear makeup in this life, same as my old one, so that didn't factor into my morning routine. I managed to make it downstairs in the two minutes I'd quoted, even if my hair still stuck up a little in the back.

"Yusuke, it's early," I said when I went outside and saw him lounging against the alley's wall. "What's up? Beat Gouki already?"

He looked around as if scanning for eavesdroppers. "Shhh, keep your voice down!" he said. "And no, not yet, but it's on my To Do List." The boy shook his gelled-up head. "Look, I really need to talk to you."

"Something to do with the case?"

Another glance around the deserted alley. "Not here. Wanna get breakfast? I know a crepe place." His eyes bored into mine, accusing. "You love crepes."

"True." I pretended to consider the offer even though I'd already made up my mind to take it. "Your treat?"

"…sure."

"…I'll bring my wallet, anyway." Yusuke's delayed answer did not bode well for that promise.

In a surprising show of foresight, Yusuke had indeed chosen a spot for breakfast just a block and a half from my house. The sun had barely risen, but he still insisted we sit on the brick patio away from the rest of the patrons (they stayed wisely indoors, away from the misty morning chill). I ordered banana and chocolate crepes; Yusuke didn't order anything. Another surprise from his this morning. Normally he ate everything in sight. Now, however, he sat in his seat with hands jammed in his pockets, slouched over and jiggling one of his knees up and down, up and down. So he was anxious about something, then. Interesting.

Once the server brought my food, I unwrapped my utensils and tucked in. "Now can you tell me what this is about?" I said when the server was gone.

Yusuke shifted in his seat, still jiggling that restless leg. "So…you know that file Botan left me? The one about the case?"

I lifted a brow as I lifted a fork to my mouth. "Don't tell me you actually read it."

"Honestly, I was chucking it in the garbage," he admitted. "But a page fell out, and things just clicked."

I frowned. "Things? What things?"

Yusuke took a deep breath. "Don't freak out, OK?"

I put down my fork. "Well. That bodes."

"I'm serious. You are not allowed to freak out."

"You know that's the worst thing to say to someone before telling them something freaky, right?" I said. "You know that it basically guarantees a freak out, right?"

"Keiko. Please."

My snarky comebacks died at once. It was not often Yusuke said 'please,' nor did he often wear the expression of grim intention he donned just then. He swallowed, sitting up straighter so he could pull the manila folder from the night before out of his jacket.

"I have a favor to ask," Yusuke said.

I did not like the look in his eyes. I did not like it, not one bit. But Yusuke might feed off my unease, so I pushed the feeling aside and kept my tone neutral when I spoke. No sense spooking Yusuke at this crucial point in the timeline—but what the heck was he so worked up about?

I hid it well, but my heart began to beat a hurried tattoo against my ribs.

"You want my help? That's rare," I said. "But sure. What is it?"

He took a deep breath, eyes closing. His knee stilled beneath the table. My heart beat a little faster. Clearly he was prepping himself for something. Something big. But what could—?

Yusuke opened his eyes and said, "I need you to introduce me to someone at your school."

And with that, my heart near 'bout stopped.

Because it was obvious were he was going with this, now wasn't it?

I didn't know how he figured it out, and I didn't know why this change had happened—but it was obvious what Yusuke was about to say.

And I had no idea if I was prepared to hear him out.

"Oh?" I said. Somehow my voice held steady. "And why is that?"

His leg resumed its frantic bouncing. "It's…well…"

"Yusuke." I leaned toward him, banana crepe forgotten. "Tell me."

My best friend took another deep, bracing breath, cheeks puffed out and eyes closed tight. When his eyes opened, they held the plea from earlier: Don't freak out, OK?

Wishful thinking, on his part. But I didn't tell him that.

"One of the perps—one of the demons who broke into Spirit World," Yusuke said. "Well…"

My patience frayed when he stalled again. "Yusuke."

The boy shook his head. For a moment I thought he might not have the wherewithal to speak the truth aloud—but then he found the words at last, and when he spoke them, he confirmed my budding fears.

"It's just…well, Keiko," Yusuke said.

He leaned toward me, eyes intent on my face.

"I think one of the demons goes to Meiou," he said—and then he waited for me to freak out.

Notes:

I live in southeast Texas, and here in about thirty minutes Hurricane Harvey is going to slam into my city…hence this chapter's early posting. Gotta get it up before the power goes out and internet dies. Wish me luck! Will let y'all know if I end up going for an unexpected swim. ;)

Loved this chapter's ending too much to keep going. But how did Detective Yusuke figure out there's a demon at NQKeiko's school? We'll see! Guessing most of you will be able to guess. :P Also, yay for Botan making her debut! But what's up with Kuwabara?

Side note: In the manga and anime, Yusuke was confused when Kurama's mother called him "Shuichi" and was similarly confused that Kurama had a human mom. This leads me to believe Spirit World did NOT know of Kurama's secret human identity, and somehow only knew him by his demon name (probably because the case arose too quickly for them to do proper research). If they'd known about Kurama, I think they would have told Yusuke about it ahead of time. His surprise at Kurama's human name said a lot of about Spirit World's incompetence.

I know people are anxious for Hiei, so let me just say we're very, very close to his introduction in the story. Stay tuned!

Big ol' honkin' thanks to all who read last week! You are my heroes and you should all be wearing capes to signal your hero status.