Warnings: None, aside from this being largely raw and unedited. I'll give it a read tomorrow but I don't feel good and want to sleep UGGGHHH thank you for understanding

Lucky Child

Chapter 111:

"Nice to Meet You / We Meet Again"

"Hey, kid," Shizuru said when I answered her early-morning call. "You need a haircut."

For a minute afterward, I just stared at the phone in disbelief. My parents rattled around in the kitchen as they did their pre-lunch prep; neither of them noticed me rub the back of my neck, fingers carding self-consciously into the long strands tickling my collar. They'd been nagging me about getting a trim for a few weeks now. Between their criticism, the comments of my teachers, and now Shizuru, it was hard to argue with the idea of getting it cut—but how had Shizuru known? Was she really that psychic?

"This Sunday at 10 AM," she continued when I said nothing. "My house. No excuses."

"Sorry, but what makes you think I need—?"

"We're long past your next scheduled trim and you were already looking shaggy back on Hanging Neck Island," she said, tone as curt and cutting as her trimming scissors. "And besides. I'm a good enough stylist to know how fast your hair grows." A beat. "Though if I'm being honest, I saw you looking more than a little bedraggled that night you dropped off Botan."

"Oh," I said. That explained a few things. "So that was you in the window, huh?"

"'Course it was," she said. "So this Sunday at 10? I can squeeze you in."

A tempting offer, but… "Sorry, Shizuru." I twirled my overgrown bangs around a fingertip, eyes locked on the floor. "I don't think going to your place is a good idea right now."

"My brother won't be there, if that's what you're worried about."

I blinked like an owl in surprise. "He won't?"

"No. Said he has plans this weekend. Which means you have no excuses."

"Maybe not, but…"

"This Sunday at 10, kid." A low laugh, wry and dry. "Trust me. You need the cut."

She hung up before I could ask her if this was really such a good idea—but in my heart, I already suspected it was, hard though it may be to admit it. There was something I needed to do at her house, after all. Something I needed to drop off, and if Kuwabara wasn't there, it was probably for the best.

Placing the phone back in its cradle, I padded upstairs on socked feet. I didn't carry a purse to school, but the purse I tended to use on the weekends hung off a peg beside my bedroom door. Into it I placed a white envelope that I retrieved from my desk drawer.

It wasn't big, that envelope. It wasn't packed full, either.

And yet, despite its thin dimensions, it somehow felt as weighty as a heavy, leaden crown

The sign on the front door of the Kuwabara residence said to come inside if you had an appointment. I had an appointment, so I obeyed. True to her word, I saw neither hide nor hair of Kuwabara Kazuma as I crept through their quiet home. All I found was Shizuru cutting a woman's hair in the kitchen, tall black chair positioned in front of the mirror hanging on the wall. Shizuru didn't look up when I came in, and the woman getting her bangs trimmed didn't bother glancing away from her glossy magazine.

"You're early," said Shizuru.

"Sorry about that."

"Not a problem, kid. Just wait in the living room, would ya? Or out back; Dad's out there if you want company." Snip, snip, went her scissors. "Should just be a few minutes."

"Sure."

My stomach dropped when she mentioned her father, but the living room was blessedly empty—but then movement through the windows lining the back wall caught my eye. A tall man with a long black ponytail, a goatee and round, tinted glasses watered plants with a small metal watering can, his back facing me. Too bad psychic powers ran in the Kuwabara family. No sooner had I spotted him than did he turn around, waving at me as a grin curled the corners of his mouth.

My shoulders sank. I sighed. He'd spotted me, and since it would be rude to just ignore him, I steeled myself for the worst and stepped out of the door beside the windows and into the back yard beyond.

Well. To call it a "yard" was generous. The back of the Kuwabara house homed nothing more elaborate then a small courtyard ringed by high privacy fence. Flowers and small fruit trees and a few bushes of hot peppers decorated the space, surrounding the round table and quartet of chairs sitting in the middle of the bricked patio. A cigarette rested on an ashtray upon the table, cherry trailing smoke into the warm spring air.

"Good to see you again, Keiko," Kuwabara Sr. said as I shut the door. "Shizuru said you'd be stopping by." He waved at the pitcher and glasses on the table. "There's lemonade if you're thirsty."

"Thanks." I wasn't thirsty, but I made a show of pouring myself some, anyway. Rolling the cool glass between my palms, I forced myself to smile and tried my best not to look like a beached fish. "So… how have you been, lately? Haven't talked to you in a while."

"Just livin' the dream, as always." He aimed his watering can at a bush of bright red peppers, eyes gleaming above his dark glasses. "Happy my kids came back from that tournament you all went galloping off to in one piece."

"Me, too."

"Shizuru said you went with."

"I did. It was…" I searched for the words. Settled upon understatement: "It was quite the experience."

"So she's told me," said Kuwabara Sr. "And it comes as no surprise, given there were demons in the mix."

He didn't say it like an accusation or a "gotcha!" moment. He spoke casually, with no trace of irony or hidden meaning. He didn't even pause in his watering. I watched him tend to the plants in silence, holding the cold lemonade against my neck. I couldn't keep from wondering about how much he knew of the supernatural. Kurama was wary of this man and his lazy smile, but Kuwabara Sr. didn't seem too concerned by the notion of demons existing—and not even by the notion of his children consorting with them. How much had Kuwabara Kazuma and Shizuru told their father about their adventures and their friends, anyway?

I wasn't sure. All I knew is that my train of thought had raised a very important question.

Mustering my courage, I took a sip of lemonade, wetting my lips to say, "Can I ask you something?"

His head bobbed, ponytail shimming in the spring sunshine. "Shoot."

"Were you… covering for me, that night at Minamino Shiori's house?"

He turned one coal-dark eye over his shoulder, brow raised above his glasses. "How do ya figure?"

"She asked why Kuwabara and I were fighting. And you sort changed the subject for me, so I didn't have to answer her." My chin dropped, eyes lingering on the smoking cigarette. "I appreciated that, by the way."

"I figured you would." Kuwabara hummed. "Sounds like a nasty fight."

"How much has Kuwabara told you about it?" I said, not sure if the answer would make me sick or not.

The answer wasn't as painful as expected. "Not much," was all Kuwabara Sr. said with a shrug. "Just that you had a secret, and he thinks you should've told it to him sooner. But Kazuma knows it's not his place to spread your business around to old fogeys like me, so I don't know what that of yours secret is." He chuckled, shaking his head. "From what I hear, though, it's a doozey."

Relieved breath hissed out of my lungs. "You could say that."

He smiled, but he said nothing. He just watered the plants some more. When every plant on the patio glittered with drops of crystalline water, he pulled out the chair across from me with a rattle of metal over brick and sat, picking up his cigarette and taking a long draught. In silence we sat there, surveying the glimmering garden as birds chirped in the branches of the oak tree swaying overhead. The tree must've been in a neighbor's backyard, I thought, but I didn't ask about it. I just drank my lemonade in silence, until Kuwabara Sr. tapped ash into the tray and looked at me over the tops of his tinted spectacles.

"He tells me a lot, y'know," he said.

There was no question about who "he" was, so I said nothing.

"He got his powers from my side of the family," Kuwabara Sr. continued. "Not a lot of people are cool with kids who can see ghosts, so me n' Shizu are the only ones he confides in. Or at least we were, until you and that Urameshi kid came along. And then he made even more friends." Here he smiled, broad and genuine. "Botan, Amagi, even that short guy with the sword who came by the other night."

I nodded. "And has he mentioned anyone named Kurama?"

His glasses slid further down his nose. "You got something more specific you want to ask me, Yukimura?"

He wasn't being rude. His words were not a demand. On the contrary, they were spoken with the air of open invitation and sincere curiosity, all emotions tempered by a slightly knowing smile—like he could guess what I was thinking, almost. But although I suspected he knew far more than Kurama realized, I couldn't do Kurama dirty and truly press this issue. Kurama needed to be the one to confront the eldest Kuwabara, not me.

"Kuwabara isn't the only one who knows he shouldn't go spilling other people's secrets," I eventually settled on saying. "I'll take your reaction as a 'no.'"

He regarded me in silence for a moment. Then he smiled again, just as genuine as before. "You're a good egg, Yukimura. But you misjudged me." He leaned across the table to whisper, "To answer the question I see burning behind your eyes, I know that his friend Kurama and that boy named Shuichi are one and the same."

My heart stuttered, and so did my mouth. "H-how did you…?"

"Now, don't go giving me too much credit. Wasn't big, as far as leaps of logic go," he said, almost—but not quite—laughing all the while. "Kuwabara kept telling me about this new friend of his, Kurama—the pretty, not-quite-a-demon-boy with red hair who kept getting a little closer to you than he liked?" He chuckled when my face burned. "And then that New Year's Party rolled around, and there was a boy with red hair, a pretty face, energy not quite a human's or a demon's, who clearly had a thing for you… whose mother kept calling him Shuichi." He tapped the side of his nose, conspiracy in expression. "I've been around the block enough to spot an alias when I see one."

"Shit," I murmured.

"I've kept my mouth shut, of course," he continued as if he hadn't heard me. "That thing about Kazuma not spilling other people's secrets? He gets that from me, too. Whatever's up with Shuichi, Kurama, whatever he calls himself… that's not a silence I can break." Kuwabara Sr.'s smile faded as he stubbed out his cigarette. "Especially when it comes to Shiori."

It wasn't lost on me, the whispered way he'd spoken her name. His gruff voice had softened, sharp rocks smoothing into river-rounded pebbles, volume dipping into the register of intimacy. He hadn't used an honorific for her, either. He'd called her by her first name, and her first name only. It wasn't lost on me, what these things indicated.

"So you are dating her," I said.

He grinned and tapped the side of his nose again. "Lemme guess. Kurama knows."

"Yeah," I admitted.

"And Kurama isn't happy about it."

"Also yeah."

Kuwabara Sr. sighed. Rising from his chair, he slipped a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket before sitting down again. A lighter appeared from his shirt pocket, and when he raised it to his face and flicked the catch, flame turned his eyes nearly gold.

"Honestly?" said Kuwabara Sr. as he lit his cigarette. "I don't blame him."

For a second, I thought I'd hallucinated. But when Kuwabara said nothing else, I shook myself and said, "Wait. You don't?"

"No. Any new man in a mother's life invites suspicion. That's natural." He winked, so quick I almost missed it. "And when he knows that my eyes are sharp enough to spot his inhuman traits… well, that just makes it worse for him. He tries to hide it, and he's a good actor, but he can't help but give me the cold shoulder whenever I drop by." Taking a long drag, Kuwabara Sr. said, "I feel bad for him, if we're being completely honest."

"I do, too." Setting aside my glass of lemonade, I couldn't keep from leaning across the table, hands gripping the purse resting on my knees. "What are you going to do about it?"

His broad brow knit. "What do you mean?"

"What are you going to do about him? About Kurama?" I pressed. "About how he feels? And about you and Shiori?"

Kuwabara Sr. didn't react as I expected. He just burst into laughter, leaning his elbow on the table so he could place his face into his hand. His laughter didn't last long, and it didn't seem like he'd been laughing at my expense. Rather, he looked at me with real amusement and affection when he straightened up again, lifting his cigarette to his mouth with a smile.

"What am I gonna do, huh?" he mused. "That's easy, kid." Another of his winks. "I'm not gonna do a damn thing."

"Wait, what?"

"Shuichi doesn't like me," he said, seemingly unbothered in the slightest. "I can't change that. I can only show him, over time, that I value Shiori. I can only prove to him that I want her to be happy, and that I think I'm the man for that job." He shrugged. "He'll see that or he won't. All I can do is do right by her, and eventually he'll come around."

It was the single most 'zen' response he could've given me, and it struck me completely dumb. I stared with my mouth open as he poured a glass of lemonade and took a sip, giving a satisfied smack of the lips at the sharp, tart taste. True, he had no idea at the extent of Kurama's dislike for him, but… was he really so chill about all of this? Really?

"And if he doesn't come around?" I eventually managed to say. "What then?"

"Then I'll keep trying," Kuwabara Sr. said with another shrug.

"And if Shuichi tries his best to break you and Shiori up?"

Kuwabara Sr. laughed. "He might be a demon, but he's still a teenager."

"You really shouldn't underestimate him like that."

Yet again, he winked. "And you shouldn't underestimate me. Or my feelings for Shiori, for that matter."

Maybe it was the easy way he said it, or maybe it was his overall chill personality, but the part of me screaming 'danger' fell quiet at the sound of his calm declaration. "You really like her, huh?" I said, leaning back in my seat at last. "You really, really, like her."

Kuwabara Sr. gave a solemn nod. "My wife died when the kids were still pretty young. Did you know that?"

"I did. Kuwabara told me."

"Did he tell you I haven't dated since her death?" He shook his head. "Not seriously, anyway. Never felt inclined. But there's something about Shiori." A smile erased years from his face, even as it deepened the lines around his eyes. "A kindness, and a hidden strength. I can't take my eyes off her."

I meant it when I said, "That's lovely, Kuwabara-san."

He grinned. "Then put in a good word for me with Shuichi, eh?"

"I'll try. But I'm afraid I can't make any promises."

He didn't seem saddened by that lack of certainty. He just hummed and took a puff on his cigarette, tapping ash into the tray as an absent smile played around his mouth. I watched him without speaking, sipping lemonade until my glass ran dry. More out of habit than anything, I refilled my cup and drank some more, wondering if I should warn him about Kurama's plans to derail Kuwabara and Shiori's relationship. Granted, I had no details about those plans, so warning him wouldn't be easy, but—

"Yukimura," Kuwabara said, cutting off my train of thought. "That bracelet of yours…"

For a second, I didn't know what he was talking about—but then it hit me. I raised my hand, the Beautiful Suzuka's gift of red cord and white stone falling an inch or two down my arm. "This?" I asked, running my fingers over it. "What about it?"

"Can I see it?" he asked. "You don't need to take it off."

I held out my arm, bracelet shifting against my wrist. I forgot I was wearing it most of the time. It wasn't the lightest bracelet I'd ever worn, but the stone always felt warm—the exact temperature as my skin, really. It faded out of focus most of the time, but I felt very aware of its presence as Kuwabara Sr. reached out to brush his fingertips across the ring of stone entwined in the red cord. He didn't touch it for long, hand withdrawing after a few scant moments.

"Interesting," he said, still staring at it. "Where'd you say you got this?"

"It was gift from a friend." I put my arm under the table. "A demon friend, specifically."

He hummed. "Thought so. It's got a… a tang to it." He lifted his glass of lemonade. "Like lemon juice in the back of your throat, but deeper. Slower. Darker. Like tectonic plates moving underground."

My breathing hitched. "Is that bad?"

"No. But it's not good, either. It just is." He trailed off, eyes staring into a distance I couldn't quite comprehend. "An ancient energy, almost. Like it comes from the silent bones of a sleeping earth. No motives. Just depth."

A shiver cascaded down my back despite the warm spring sunshine. Kuwabara Sr. didn't say anything else. He just kept staring into that intangible elsewhere, reading the lines of a book only he could see. I started to ask what it was about my bracelet that had drawn his eye, but before I could ask, the door to the house creaked open. Shizuru stuck her head out, pretty face characteristically dour.

"Ready for ya in here, kid." She looked at her dad and smiled, a tiny curl of lip. "Thanks for keeping her company, Pops."

"That's what I'm here for." He gave me a small, two-fingered salute as I stood. "Nice to see you again, Yukimura. Remember to put that good word in for me, eh?"

"You, too," I said, bowing (because it was polite). "And yes, of course."

He waved as the door shut behind us and Shizuru and I disappeared into the cooler interior of the house. The styling chair in the kitchen had been cleaned of snipped hair, but before she bade me sit in that seat, she led me to a different chair in the home's utility room. This one leaned back over a sink, where she washed my hair with the nimble fingers that made her the only stylist I'd ever want to see (her head massages are killer). Once we'd washed my unkempt locks, she sat me in the styling seat, commenting along the way that it was a good thing I'd come to see her because my head was a mess. She set about shaving my neck and shaping up my hairline without further commentary, deftly trimming my bangs and evening out the way my hair fell over my ears. I closed my eyes while she worked, enjoying the feel of her cool hands as they brushed against my neck.

"You doing OK, kid?" she asked eventually.

"Yeah, sure." I cracked an eye so I could look at her in the mirror on the wall in front of us. "You?"

"I'm fine. But I didn't just have my whole life laid out like a picnic blanket for the world to see and poke at, either."

"Right. That." So that's what she'd meant. Great. Pasting on a smile I didn't quite feel inside, I said, "It hasn't all been bad. Most of the group has come to terms with it."

She huffed, a laugh devoid of amusement. "Everyone but my brother, you mean."

"Right. Him." A deep breath filled my lungs with balloon fullness. "Has he said anything to you, or…?"

"Sorry, kid, but no. He hasn't talked me about you at all." Her jaw clenched, scissors flying beside my face with dangerous speed, but I did not flinch. "Not that I haven't tried, I should add. I've yelled at him enough that you'd think he'd crack and spill his guts, but nothin' doin'. He just stares at me like a rock, or he walks away."

I frowned. "What have you yelled at him about?"

Shizuru didn't answer right away. She thought about it in silence, snip-snip-snip of her scissors loud in the still kitchen.

"Once I figured out that you weren't secretly a serial killer or something," Shizuru said at last, "I took a look back at everything. At everything you went through with him, and at everything he's said about you over the years. At what I've noticed, and at what my dad's noticed since you waltzed into his life. And what it all comes down to is that I think you're a good influence on him."

My eyes widened. "You do?"

"You're the only reason his grades aren't in the toilet. That book from Volcano Girl changed his life. Meeting you as Keiko changed it again," she explained, not pausing the haircut even for a second. "It brought him feelings of acceptance, of belonging for the first time outside the family."

Her fingers stilled for just a second.

"You might've noticed that I'm not the warmest person," she said, voice low and hushed in my ear. "After Mom died, Dad had to work twice as much to keep us afloat, so I was the only one around." She breathed deeply, gently, purposefully. "Acceptance meant more to him that you know."

Her fingers moved again, scissors snipping once again.

"I don't think learning about your past changes the good you've done for him," Shizuru said, matter-of-fact and simple. "I've tried to tell him that. To talk sense into that thick skull, but he doesn't want to hear it. The wound is too raw, the blood not yet dry. He's moody, withdrawn, sullen. And that's all a shame, because given everything happening with his powers, I think talking to you would be good for him. But he won't admit it."

My pulse quickened. "His powers?"

"Don't front me." She glowered at the mirror. "I can tell that you already know."

I looked appropriately sheepish. "They're not working, right?"

"Yup. Can't so much as summon a Spirit Butterknife, let alone a Spirit Sword."

"Right on schedule," I muttered.

"Interesting." Shizuru's lips curled, but she wasn't smiling. "Any idea what his little problem is all about?"

"It's… recalibration." I chose my words with care, unwillingly to say too much. "If everything I know about your brother holds true, his powers will return soon enough—and they'll be an evolution of what they were before. These growing pains are a good thing, basically." I looked down, straightening back up when Shizuru tutted about messing up her workspace. "But maybe we shouldn't tell him that."

"My lips are sealed." She tapped her scissors against my shoulder. "But in the meantime, what do you think—"

To our left, a door in the utility room opened with a groan, only to slam shut again. "Hey sis, are you still cutting—oh."

It was Kuwabara, because of course it was Kuwabara—and he did not look happy to see me. He wore a white baseball jersey and jeans, hair styled in its usual carroty pompadour, and he stared in my direction with the expression of a deer facing down a semi-truck in the path of its glaring headlights. I empathized with that expression. The mirror on the wall informed me that I wore the exact same one as I stared at Kuwabara with my mouth open in horror. Panicked blood beat against my wrists and neck as I contemplated the logistics of hurling myself out the nearest fucking window, but before I could successfully defenestrate myself, Kuwabara's face flushed. He dropped his backpack to the floor and stalked past without a word or another look in my direction, gait as swift as it was stiff, robotic and awkward and uncomfortable.

Although he didn't look at me again, I caught a glimpse of his face as he stalked by. He walked with head down, a grimace on his thin lips, chiseled jaw set as hard as concrete—and with a bright red face that could put a tomato to shame. I reached for my purse on reflex when he neared, but he flew by and vanished into the rest of the house before I could do anything or even say a word.

Slowly, I let me purse drop to the floor again, staring after him the way he'd gone. Although my panicked pulse began to slow after he left, the uneasiness in my chest didn't abate at all.

He hadn't looked angry when he saw. Not really, anyway. More like shocked, and then… embarrassed, maybe? The flush on his glass-sharp cheekbones had looked like an outright blush, but surely I was mistaken.

But the reason behind Kuwabara's flushed cheeks was the least of my worries. Shizuru stared at me in silence in the mirror, and when I found her looking at me, I swallowed.

"Did you plan this?" I asked in my calmest, coldest voice. "Him coming home and me being here?"

"Kid, if I'd known he'd be home early, I never would've invited you over," she retorted—but when she saw the resulting look of pain on my face, she swore. "Sorry, kid. Really, I am. Didn't mean for this to happen, I swear."

I believed her, even though it didn't make me feel all that much better. It was all I could do to stare at the floor in silence as Shizuru hesitantly resumed my haircut, flicking at the ends of my bangs with scissors only half as sharp as the sting invading the column of my throat.

"Don't give up on him just yet, huh?" Shizuru muttered after a few minutes. "Give it time. He'll come around."

I swallowed. Said: "I hope you're right." Reached for my purse to distract myself from the disquiet rising hot and heady in my chest. "Hey, Shizuru?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Can you give this to Kuwabara when you see him next?"

I pulled out and handed her the envelope. Frowning, she tucked her scissors into the apron tied around her waist, thumbing the envelope open so she could peer inside. She looked at its content for only a second before letting the envelope fall shut again.

"Sorry, Keiko, but I can't play messenger on this one." She returned the envelope. "That's something you need to do in person."

I wanted to protest. I wanted to shove the envelope into her hands and run.

Instead, I only said, "I was afraid you'd say that," and I let her finish cutting my hair without resistance.

Later that afternoon, I found myself sitting at a teashop in Mushiyori City—the same teashop, in fact, where I'd spotted Amanuma the last time we'd seen each other. And not at all coincidentally, I was waiting at that teashop for that same game-loving boy.

Not that I was waiting there so he could join me for tea, of course. It was just a nice spot to wait for him, Yusuke and Kaito to show up for an afternoon at the arcade. We'd made plans earlier that week over the phone, but because Shizuru's haircut hadn't taken very long, I'd decided to head over to Mushiyori and spend some time getting to know that city a little better. I couldn't forget that it would be the site of our next big battle, and even if I just sat at a teashop for a few hours, the act still counted as reconnaissance… or at least that's what I told myself as I ordered a cinnamon roll and some good black tea.

Just going to a café to sit and relax, after all, wasn't acceptable. There was too much at stake in the next Yu Yu Hakusho story arc, even if the stakes in our version of it hadn't been defined just yet.

Too bad the café wasn't exactly helpful in crafting a vigilant mindset. I hadn't had the head to appreciate it during my first visit, but on this visit I couldn't keep from noticing the deliciously complex smell of the baked goods, the aroma of coffee and tea, and the picturesque décor on the walls. For dine-in, the café used only antique china teacups, each one with a different pattern just as beautiful as the next. Mine bore freesia blossoms that day, and as I sat on the patio to enjoy the balmy spring weather, I privately decided that this was my preferred Mushiyori café. Plus, the cherry tree on the patio wasn't blooming anymore, sakura-viewing season having finally come to an end. That meant fewer tourists gawking and snapping photos, so even though the café was packed and I managed to grab the last empty table, it was still quite peaceful.

Peaceful—but I couldn't quite bring myself to enjoy it.

It wasn't because of the tea, or the ambiance, or the cinnamon roll. It wasn't even because of my book, lent to me by Kaito earlier that week. All of these things were good, and on any other day I'd likely have sunk into a post-cinnamon-roll state of bliss as I read to myself… but that day, my leg kept jiggling, knee bouncing up and down and down and up over and over again. My other foot tapped the pavement in a rushed tattoo. Every time the ladies at the next table laughed, I flinched, restlessly thumbing the pages of my book with each of their loud giggles. I wasn't sure why they bothered me so much, and I had begun to debate the merits of abandoning my hard-won table when a loud voice rang out, startling me into a gasp.

"Well, well, well," the voice declared—in highly accented English, of all things. "We meet again!"

Not but a few feet away stood a gaijin—a familiar gaijin. Tall and lithe, with sandy hair streaked through with grey, smartly dressed in a bowler hat and a tweed coat with patches sewn onto the elbows, the gaijin's mustache wiggled when he smiled, eyes a brilliant tawny color above his thin cheeks. He smiled gamely as he carried a tray of tea and pastries in his hands, shiny shoes clicking against the cobblestone patio as he neared my half-empty table.

"Fancy meeting you here," the Englishman declared. "I dare say you must make a habit of patronizing this establishment, hmm?"

I laughed, unable to help it. "This is actually just my second time. How about you?"

"My third!" he said, with relish. "Best black tea I've been able to find in this neighborhood. I simply cannot subsist on matcha alone, delicious though it most assuredly is. The English are famed for their love of tea—but perhaps you know that already." His face fell into an expression of remorse. "Apologies for the intrusion, madam, but would you mind if I joined you on this fine afternoon? Places for repose are in short supply, I am afraid."

Ah, right; the patio was packed. Because it felt impolite to refuse, I stood and gave him a quick bow, gesturing for him to take the chair across from me. He set down his tray with a grateful smile before removing his hat with a flourish and stripping out of his jacket with similar grace. Unfolding his cloth napkin with a snap, he primly arranged it across his legs before reaching for his teapot, pouring rich black tea into his teacup alongside a long and wistful sigh.

"We aren't the only ones who enjoy this café's selection of tea, judging by the size of the crowd," he said, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the entire patio was staring at the bombastic and boisterous foreigner. "Infinite thanks for abiding my unexpected presence at your table. Since we are to become acquainted through the whim of necessity," (he gave me a seated, western-style bow, with a frilly wave of one hand) "I shall inform you that my name is Byron."

"Byron?" I repeated.

"Byron Knight, to be precise. And if I may be so bold as to presume an introduction of your name, miss…?"

"Yukimura." I bowed back like any Japanese person. "Keiko Yukimura."

"Ah, Keiko." He repeated the name with a huge smile. "I confess I have no idea what your lovely name means, but I am assured that most Japanese names have a meaning of some sort."

"Most do, but it depends on the kanji," I explained. "You can write my name a half dozen ways, and they may all sound the same when spoken, but their meanings differ."

"How remarkable," he said without a trace of irony. "I confess the intricacies of the Japanese language elude me, long though I've tarried here on dull business it would bore you to hear about. I'm chuffed, simply chuffed to hear English spoken once again, and at great length!" He broke his scone in half and dipped it briefly into his tea. "Do tell me about yourself, that I might hear a little more?"

I couldn't help but giggle. "I'm afraid I'd have no idea what to say."

Byron scoffed, though he undercut the action with a wink. "You Japanese. Always so humble and gracious. It's maddening at times, but I confess it reminds me of home in some ways."

He prattled on at length, scarcely needing any help from me to keep the conversation afloat—not that I found his endless stream of chatter off-putting. Quite the contrary: I rather enjoyed hearing him talk, because while my English-speaking reminded him of home, so too did his entire persona remind me of a life that had been lost. This nostalgia came to a head when he pulled a wooden pipe from his jacket and politely asked if he could smoke. The rich scent of pipe tobacco reminded me so thoroughly of my uncle Harris, I wasn't sure if it was the smoke or tears that soon stung the back of my throat.

"So you said business brought you to Japan?" I asked when Byron paused to puff at his pipe.

"Indeed," he said, tobacco-darkened teeth clenched around the pipe's long stem. "Frightful stuff, the world of business. Avoid growing up for as long as you can in order to avoid it." He lowered the pipe to take a sip of tea, pinky held far out; his cup, I noticed, bore a pattern of scarlet rhododendrons. Smacking his lips, he passed his napkin over his mustache as he professed, "Ah, youth. So wasted on the young. You have no way of knowing, dear, but it will be over in a flash and you must take advantage whilst you still can!"

Almost unbidden, a spot of poetry rolled off my tongue: "'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast / but the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past."

And Byron was delighted, as I suspected he might be. "Lord Byron for this Byron, eh?" he said with a bright and merry laugh. "Clever girl!"

"Sorry, but I'm not a velociraptor."

"And now, my dear, I am afraid you've lost me." But he didn't appear at all perturbed by my two-years-too-early reference to Jurassic Park. In fact, he just smiled even more broadly and said, "Though quite the fascinating creature, the velociraptor. Preliminary research suggests it might have possessed feathers. Feathers! Can you imagine, an overgrown chicken as an apex predator? The nerve of whatever deity hath wrought the world, to craft a creature thus…"

We chattered on for a while about everything and nothing, long past the point when our pots of tea ran dry. It was endlessly nice to hear him speak in an accent so nostalgic for me, familiarity a balm on my nervous heart. But like all good things, our conversation came to an end soon enough. Byron folded his napkin stowed his pipe away, shrugging back into his jacket before reaching for his hat.

"Leaving so soon?" I asked.

"I am afraid so, dear girl. Duty calls." He donned his hat with the same panache he'd used to remove it, tipping its brim in my direction. "But I dare say I shall bump into you again before my time in this country ends."

"I'll be sure to stop by again sometime," I told him. "Probably on a Sunday."

"I will count the minutes until then, dear Keiko." Another of Byron's very frilly bows, a dandy from a black-and-white movie come to life. "Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good bye till it be morrow!"

A laugh bubbled from my chest at the unexpected Shakespeare, but the fancy-footed Englishman was already halfway across the patio, walking away with a jaunty spring in his shiny-shoed step. He paid exactly zero heed to the people staring at him as he sauntered indoors, and as I watched him leave, I realized how much I'd enjoyed our conversation. It was nice to make a new friend outside the world of the supernatural (however unorthodox this fancy gaijin might've been).

In fact, I'd enjoyed his company far more than I'd realized—because only once my leg started doing its nervous bouncing again did I realize my leg had ceased to move while Byron and I spoke.

Staring at my agitated knee, I hoped that I'd see him again someday. Talking to him had been an unexpected reprieve. Though I had to wonder what my other friends would say if they saw me talking to a fancy gaijin in a bowler hat, and—

A flash of gold—

—a bright blue gleam—

—a familiar face—

—and the next thing I knew I had snatched up my purse and leapt over the railing keeping the café patio separated from the sidewalk so I could pelt after him, the owner of the familiar face I'd spotted walking down the sidewalk across the road.

What was it about that patio and me spotting my friends from afar, huh?

Notice to wonder; I had a friend to catch. People on the café patio gasped at my exit, but I ignored them as I darted and weaved through the crowd upon the sidewalk, keeping abreast of my friend across the road until we hit the corner. There I had to wait on the crosswalk to change, but once it did I ran across the road in hot pursuit. Part of me wondered if I had imagined seeing that friend of mine in this part of town, but blue-eyed blonds weren't exactly common in this part of the world.

Plus, he was carrying something on his back that made him pretty easy to track even in the tight Sunday crowd. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but a large black thing jutted up from his shoulders, bobbing above the crowd like the fin of a shark. I kept my eyes on it as I pursued him, keeping pace about 20 feet behind him until he made a sharp turn into a store and disappeared. Cursing, I put on a burst of speed and ran ahead—but when I came abreast of what turned out to be a small boutique, I didn't see him. The small store lay completely empty, the only occupant a shop girl reading a magazine behind the counter. But where the hell had he gone? There were no exits I could see, and—

"Why are you following me, Captain?"

Minato stood right behind me, close enough to reach out and touch if I wanted. Probably pulled some sort of military tactic, spotting me and dodging me the way he had; l wouldn't put it past him to pull a move like that, especially considering the scowl plastered across his handsome face. Clearly he wasn't happy to see me… but what the heck was he even doing out here? He couldn't blame me for getting curious and following him. He lived in Tokyo, after all.

But I didn't say any of that. I just pointed at the black object jutting up above his right shoulder—an object I was now close enough to recognize as a hard-body guitar case.

Yes. That's right. A guitar case. And that only raised another billion and one more questions.

We'd start with the easiest. I raised a finger and pointed at the guitar case, one eyebrow hitched high. "What's that?" I asked, as if I hadn't already figured it out.

His hand tightened around the case's bright orange strap. "None of your business."

"Oh-kay?" Let's try something else. "Well, then what are you even doing all the way out in Mushiyo—"

"Minato-kun?"

Minato shut his eyes at the sound of his name. He shut them with an air of resignation, as if submitting to the whim of some being far greater than he was—and when he stepped aside, allowing me to glimpse the young woman behind him, I understood why. She had depthless blue eyes, their color slightly magnified by her eyeglasses, and a head of short, blue-black hair that fell against her pale forehead in a soft wave. She was about Minato's height, and her pretty round face gave her a certain inherent sweetness intensified by the way she hung back, looking shyly at Minato through the fringe of her dark lashes.

I recognized her at once, of course. I recognized her the way I recognized all canon characters, whether they hail from my world or from others. But while I was accustomed to encountering fictional characters from time to time, I still found myself rendered mute by the sight of her face.

Blue hair. Blue eyes. Pretty. Knew Minato by name.

There was only one person this could be—and when at last Minato opened his eyes to look at her, I saw inevitability written in the lines of his tense shoulders.

"Hello, Mizuno-san," he said—using the civilian surname of one illustrious Sailor Mercury. "You're early."

"I'm always early," she said, smile shy but friendly. "And please, call me Ami." She seemed to see me for the first time, because she flinched and pushed her glasses further up her pert nose when our eyes met. "Ah. Ahem." Blue eyes, nearly navy and jewel-like, slid back to Minato. "Minato-kun, is this a friend of yours?"

"Yes." He shot me a ferocious glare. "But she was just leav—"

"Just getting caught up with my good buddy Minato!" I cut in, stomping all over what he'd been about to say. I bowed at her at least a dozen times, nearly babbling in excitement. "Hi, I'm Yukimura Keiko, old friend of Minato's from his martial arts lessons. It's nice to meet you, Mizuno-san."

"It's nice to meet you, too." She had a soft voice, like bubbles floating on a summer breeze… but a certain guardedness in her eyes reminded me more of ice, thick and cold and impossible to breach. "Did Minato invite you to the open-mic, as well?"

"The open-mic?" I repeated, completely agog. Guitars, then Sailor Mercury herself, and now an open-mic? What the hell was going on here? I made deliberate eye contact with Minato as I intoned, "He forgot to mention it, actually."

He glared right back, saying through gritted teeth: "Must have slipped my mind, Yukimura. Sorry about that."

Ami looked even more awkward after that exchange. She shuffled from foot to foot, hands clenched tightly in the sleeves of her sweater, blue eyes darting from me to Minato and back again. "Well… should she come with us, or—" She paused, cheeks pinking slightly. "It's not my place to invite others to watch you perform. I'm sorry, Minato-san."

I turned to Minato, agog once again. "Watch you perform?!" I repeated, unable to keep my voice from rising. "At an open-mic?!"

Minato ignored me. "It's all right, Ami-san," he told her. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"It's just… you're so good, it would be a shame if…" Her blush deepened as she hung her head. "I apologize."

"There's no need for that." He spoke gently—almost more gently than I'd ever heard him speak, if we're being specific. But when he looked at me, his eyes were only hard. I could hardly believe it when he said, "It's… fine if she wants to come with us."

Not that he sounded like it was fine. It was obvious that Minato was sort of trapped, because if he didn't invite me along to join them, he'd look pretty rude in front of Ami… and judging by how hard he was trying not to snap, he apparently didn't want to look badly in front of her very much at all. (A fact I filed away for future consideration.) But holy fucking shit, no time to think about that, because what the hell was going on? An open-mic where Minato would be performing in front of Sailor Mercury? No way was I going to miss out on hanging out with two Sailor Moon characters at once. I'd make it up to Amanuma and the others later, if I ended up being late to our arcade handout session. They'd get by just fine without me. I'd worry about feeling badly about it later, because obviously recent events took priority.

"I'd love to come watch you perform, Minato," I said, meaning it.

"Don't mention it," he retorted, clearly not meaning it at all.

Ami fidgeted with her sweater sleeves some more. "Well. Ahem." She coughed delicately into a fist. "I suppose we should be going, shouldn't we?"

"By all means," Minato said. "Lead the way."

And thus, Ami led the way down the sidewalk—and as soon as her back was turned, I gently smacked Minato's arm with my fingers, staring in fascination at the back of Ami's head. Minato just rolled his eyes, though, and dodged when I reflexively tried to whap him again. As I watched him follow after Ami, I realized this afternoon was shaping up to be something out of a fangirl's wildest dreams.

I only wished I had a necklace I could use to summon Kagome, who was going to be pissed as hell that she wasn't around to witness this.

Fiddling with her napkin and not daring to make eye contact, Ami said, "So… you said that you and Minato-kun take martial arts lessons together?"

We sat at a table at the back of a nearby café, one with few windows and a bevy of tables scattered around its dim interior. It wasn't too unique as far as cafes went, aside from the stage over near the kitchens. It rose maybe two feet higher than the rest of the café and was lit by a single spotlight, in which sat a stool and a microphone. Currently a man in a beret sat upon this stool. He read what was honestly the most painfully terrible poetry I had ever heard in either of my lives (though judging by his enraptured expression, he thought it was pretty dang great). Gag me with a spoon. This world had never been great for literature, but that day we bore witness to its absolutely lowest point. Patrons seemed to agree with me, because the café housed very few at all, most tables sitting empty.

Once again, I wondered why Minato was here, of all places, instead of in the more cosmopolitan Tokyo.

Not that this was the time to ask him such a thing. The mood that afternoon was… well, to call it "awkward" would be generous. We'd been sitting in silence ever since we came in and Minato put his name on the sign-up sheet, watching bad poets and poor singers regale us with their "best" work. Ami's question about how Minato and I met was honestly the least painful thing I'd heard since stepping foot in the café—but Minato wasn't about to let the conversation take off without his approval.

"Yes," he said before I could comment. "That's right. That is exactly how Keiko and I met."

(He shot me a glare; play along, his withering look said.)

Ami didn't appeared to notice. "I see. And how long have you two known each other?"

I opened my mouth to speak.

"A few months," Minato cut in.

"Right," I grudgingly agreed. "A few months."

Ami nodded. "I see."

It took every last ounce of my willpower not to openly ogle Ami or look between her and Minato in puppy-esque excitement. Call me a fangirl if you want, but I could hardly contain myself, leg jiggling not out of nerves but out of sheer enthusiasm (for once).

Not that Minato felt similarly. He tuned his shiny acoustic guitar in silence, tension evident in the lines etched onto his brow and the jerky movements of his fingers. Watching him tune a guitar was likewise fascinating; I couldn't believe he played one! And that he hadn't told me about being able to play. Not to mention that he had already befriended Sailor Mercury somehow. Which begged the question of how many Sailor Scouts he'd met, which ones had discovered their powers, how long it would take for them all to assemble… ugh, just how much had he refrained from telling me and Kagome? I needed to know yesterday, dammit!

Luckily the awkward mood encouraged Ami to get up and be anywhere else; she excused herself and headed for the ordering counter to pick up some food, leaving Minato and I alone at last. The second she was out of earshot, I leaned across our tiny table and flicked his arm until he finally looked my way.

"Hey!" I whisper-screamed. "Why didn't you tell me you played the guitar? Why didn't you tell me you had already met Ami? How many Scouts have you met? Does Kagome know? Why didn't you—"

"Calm down." Cold blue eyes skimmed my face before returning to his guitar, fingers plucking notes into the air. "I'm allowed to have a private life."

"Well, duh! Of course you are!" I hissed. "But this is huge!"

"Captain." His fingers stilled on the strings, notes fading into nothing. "Please."

I shut up and backed off . From the tense set of his shoulders to the tightness around his eyes, he projected the opposite of positivity. Reluctance, uneasiness, perhaps embarrassment—all of these things and more occupied the lines between his eyebrows and the furrows around his mouth. And was it my imagination, or did his hand shake the slightest but when he passed it over his short blond hair?

Instantly, my excitement evaporated.

Shit. Some friend I was.

"Do you want anything to eat?" I asked, scrambling for something to say.

He shook his head.

"… are you only saying that so you won't have to get up and leave me alone with Ami?"

Minato glared. "Shut up."

"Because I was gonna offer to buy you something to make for crashing this… this outing of yours."

His glare cooled, but even as he turned back to tuning, Minato eyed me askance. Skepticism marred his lips and eyes, darkening one and thinning the other.

"I'm serious," I protested. "And I'm sorry." I hung my head, contrition weighing down each limb. "I got so caught up in seeing her, I forgot to respect your privacy."

Minato didn't speak.

"So, I'm sorry. Forgive me?" I jerked a thumb over my shoulder at the café's front door. "I can get up and leave right now if that's what you want."

I meant that, too. It wasn't a guilt-trip. I'd crashed, and that had been shitty of me, and now it was time to make it right… so when Minato didn't say a word, just eyeing me over like a snake he didn't quite trust not to bite, I stood up. Hitched my purse higher up my shoulder. Smiled at him, wide and genuine and sincere.

"OK." I bowed. "Call me later, all right?"

I had only gotten a few steps away when a cool hand closed around my wrist.

"Captain," Minato said in a low voice. "Wait."

Pivoting slowly until I caught his eye, I found myself caught in an unexpected staring contest—a war waged with eyes alone, Minato tracing the lines of my face as if searching for insincerity. I didn't dare flinch away. I didn't dare put on a mask. I just let him look at me until at last his eyes fell away, content with whatever it was they'd found in my expression.

"You can stay," Minato said. "But…" He gripped the guitar a little tighter. "Do not ask me to explain."

I had no idea what he meant. But that didn't matter.

The promise of "I won't" was all that mattered, so that is what I said.

Ami came back just in time to sit through a few bad poems and even worse songs. A fgew more people trickled in over the course of the next half hour, filling maybe half the tables—but only half of them paid any attention to the stage's many guests, talking and chatting over the sounds of terrible creative instinct. We earned a reprieve only when the café owner mounted the stage to announce the next act, and that act happened to be Minato. I heard him take a deep breath as scattered applause smattered the air, but not many people (other than Ami and me, of course) watched Minato as he took a seat in the spotlight. He didn't much seem to care, however. He tuned his guitar with gentle hands, head bowed, not looking up even when a woman laughed too loudly in the quiet room.

"Yukimura-san."

I jumped, having almost forgotten (somehow) that Ami was even there. "Oh, yes Mizuno-san?" I said, turning to her with a smile.

But Ami did not smile back. In fact, she looked at me rather coolly, her shy demeanor hardening like water in extreme cold. She was younger than me by about a year, but the look still sent an intimidated chill down the length of my spine.

Ami was a misunderstood character, I recalled. People thought of her as stuck up and snobby, when really she was just shy. When really she was just awkward. When really she was just a sweet girl with a genius IQ who didn't quite know how to thaw the wall between herself and other kids. That's all she was. Nothing I hadn't tangled with before.

And yet, meeting her gaze just then, I couldn't see anything in her eyes but the ice she'd one day wield as Sailor Mercury.

She pinned me in place with her stare, hard and unyielding behind her glasses. "I hope you understand that being here is a gift," she said, each word clipped and purposeful.

I swallowed. "I do."

She looked at me for a little while longer.

Then she said: "Good."

And she turned to watch Minato onstage.

She had wonderful timing. Just then, Minato struck a chord, the vibration of the strings reverberating through the room in a silken wave. He sat with back ramrod straight, as always—but there was a certain stiffness to him, a certain lack of ease, at odds with his usual grace and poise. However, as his fingers moved across the strings again, a change came over Minato. Tension drained from his face like running water. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Released it on a sigh, fingers ghosting over strings and sending notes forward into the room as if he'd breathed them into being.

I wasn't the only one watching him closely. The woman who had laughed so loudly earlier fell silent. Wandering eyes wandered to Minato and stayed there. Soon other conversations faded into silence, a feeling like the entire café was holding its breath washing through the room. As long as I'd known him, Minato had had charisma, but now… now everything saw it. They all saw that strangely arresting aura of his, the one that capture their attentions and held it as raptly as though within some cosmic, phantasmal fist—and Minato hadn't even said a word.

That changed soon enough, however. Blond hair glittering with ethereal beauty in the spotlight, his eyes slowly opened, and he leaned toward the microphone.

"Liebling," Minato said.

And then he sang.

Minato didn't have the strongest voice, nor did he have the most beautiful tone… but that hardly mattered once he got past the first few notes. He sang in a low alto that flirted with an upper tenor register, husky and warm and striking, voice full of an unnamable other quality I couldn't put my finger on, but one that demanded every last ounce of my attention. And although he sang in German, that hardly mattered in terms of his performance, either. Every note he sang conveyed longing, searching, displacement, nostalgia, hope, rising suns and quiet evenings, hopes tossed on towering waves and on a sea uncaring—it didn't matter the language. The meaning was clear, as if he sang a song I'd known the words to a hundred lifetimes prior. As if he sang the words to a song I knew in the depths of my soul, and if I leaned into them hard enough, I'd remember how this ballad went.

His song conveyed sitting beside a lover with your fingers in their hair.

A kiss on a cheek, perfume ghosting across your face.

The taste of a favorite meal, shared in secret with someone you cared about.

A thousand other things, sublime yet simple, each in their turn savored but lost, remembered both fondly and with remorse.

I knew this song. I knew this song by heart—and as I watched Minato on that stage, my heart swelled near to bursting. It swelled until I thought it would come crawling out of my mouth, a raw and bleeding wreck of feeling to writhe helpless on the floor.

A hand covered mine.

Ami had leaned forward to squeeze my fingers, concern etched across her face.

But why?

The tears pouring unbidden down my cheeks likely had something to do with it, I thought.

I smiled, and she withdrew, eyes on Minato once again. As he continued to sing, I tried to fight back my tears. It was hard, but eventually I pushed them away. I beat them back in time to rise to my feet when Minato's song ended, clapping as hard as I could, a standing ovation I felt with every fiber of my soul. And as he left the stage to rapturous applause, a smile ghosted across Minato's face, identical to the one upon my own—a smile I wore because I'd realized that I had kept my promise.

Although my German wasn't great yet, I wouldn't have to ask Minato to explain even a syllable of his song.

I wouldn't have to ask, because I had understood every single word.

Afterwards, we walked Ami to the train station. None of us talked much. We only walked and then stood in silence until Ami's train arrived, watching as she boarded the car without a word. She waved as the train pulled away from the platform—and then Minato and I were alone.

We didn't start talking at once. We walked in sync to a bench near the train tracks, sitting on opposite ends of the seat, looking everywhere but at each other. Pedestrians milled about, studying train maps and waiting for their respective rides home. I watched them stroll past in silence, wondering where they were going and what lay ahead for each of them.

Soon, Minato cleared his throat.

"What were you doing in Mushiyori today?" he asked.

I didn't look at him. I couldn't. I just said: "Meeting Amanuma and the others for a trip to the arcade."

"Can you still make it?"

"Probably not."

"So you skipped…?"

"Yes," I admitted.

I felt eyes on me, intense and studious. "You don't seem particularly remorseful about that, Captain."

"I'm not." Another admission, this one softer than the previous. "And not just because I got to hear that." Finally I looked at him, because I had to. Because I needed to. "It was beautiful, Minato. It really, really was."

"Thank you." He didn't let me gush. He just asked, "And your other reasons?"

"I…" I swallowed. "I don't know how to explain."

"Try," he said, a demand no harsher than cloud.

It took me a while to find the words. Watching the people in the train station helped. They smiled and laughed with their friends and families, oblivious to the machinations of the broader universe—and of the pink-haired man pulling its strings. None of them knew a damned thing about the truth… but I did. I knew, and I suffered for it every day, and not a single person in this train station had any goddamn idea.

And here I was, sitting on a bench wearing Keiko Yukimura's pretty face, pretending to be one of them.

Unwilling and unwanted, my leg began to bounce, knee jouncing up and down in a nervous, erratic rhythm.

"Hanging out at the arcade is just… just so normal, y'know?" I said eventually. "And I don't really feel normal these days. Going to school, hanging out with friends… it's like shoving a fist into a shoe or a foot into a glove and expecting all the fingers and toes to fit." My hands clenched around the strap of my purse, leather cutting into palms. "It just feels wrong."

Minato hummed, low and deep in his throat. "You're keyed-up all the time," he said in a voice like warmed honey. "You can't calm down. It's like you don't fit your own skin anymore, a toothache you just can't soothe."

"That's exactly it." I searched his face and found his blue eyes distant. "But how…?"

"I noticed the other night, after we had that talk about solipsism. I started to ask about it, but…" He shook his head, a sardonic smile twisting his lips. "I knew you would come to me eventually. Pushing on that subject never works. But even so, I understood what you felt."

"I believe you." Especially after hearing that song, I believed he understood me perfectly. Still… there were things I didn't understand. Unable to look at him, I murmured, "If you get it, then can you tell me what this is? What this vice grip around my chest is called?" My hands tightened further around my purse, because if they didn't, they'd grip my heart, instead. "I'm tired of my enemy not having a name."

"It's a trauma response, Captain," Minato said—and this voice, I knew in my bones, was indeed the gentlest I'd ever heard him use. He used that same voice again to say, "You're a solider who's returned home from the theater of war, and although your mind knows that you are no longer there, your body hasn't caught up just yet."

And there it was. Everything I'd feared and suspected about my emotions in recent days, laid out as pretty as you please. Leave it to Minato to cut straight to the heart of the matter. It made sense that he would know what I was going through firsthand, and that made hearing his opinion… it was both damning and redeeming at the same time.

So I said nothing, for a bit. Minato let me regroup in silence, not pushing, not prying. He just waited for me to turn to him, an encouraging not-quite-smile crossing the face of my fellow Not-Quite.

"How do you move past it?" I asked, unable to keep the desperation from my voice.

His chin dropped. "It isn't easy."

Agitation made me fidget. "Good thing I'm not looking for a magic bullet, then."

My answer seemed to satisfy him on some level. His chin rose again as he met my eyes, stating the following without emotions: "Find your purpose and use that energy to pursue it, Captain. Don't let that energy use you. Turn it into a tool, or even a weapon, if that's what it takes. Let it fuel you on your terms, not its, and keep facing straight ahead."

He spoke with clipped dispassion. As if he'd told someone the same thing before, and knew a cold delivery would make this medicine go down smoother… but a part of me had to wonder how good his advice actually was. A part of me had to wonder if using, and not dispelling, these emotions was actually healthy. A part of me wondered if confronting the emotions was a better strategy—through therapy or similar, of course.

But that course of action wasn't an option for Keiko just yet.

All that left me was Minato's way, uncertain of it though I felt.

Shifting on the hard train station bench, I muttered, "Too bad I'm not sure what I should be doing in the first place."

"What do you mean?" Minato asked.

"Everything I've wondered for the past 15 years on steroids, more or less." I rolled my eyes, but there was no humor in it. "How hands-on should I be? How tightly should I cling to canon? Should I be rushing headlong into what's to come? Stand back and let it wash over me as it will? Try to affect things now, before they get here, and alter the course of fate? Or wait until things come to a head and deal with them as they arise?" Leaning forward, I buried my face into my hands, fingers carding through my freshly cut hair. "Reactive or proactive, Minato? Which one should I be?"

A hand, heavy and warm, rested upon my shoulder. "I wish I could tell you, Captain."

"I wish you could, too," I confessed to my palms. "I really wish you could."

A loudspeaker dinged; a voice informed us that a train would soon arrive, one bound for Minato's home in Tokyo. Minato patted my shoulder twice, offering a hand to help me to my feet. We stood on the edge of the tracks together, peering down the tunnel to our left, watching as headlamps in the distance grew brighter and brighter still. A wind picked up, swirling and smelling of dust, tossing my hair like a life raft set adrift upon a stormy sea.

"You bear a heavy burden, as our Captain," Minato said as the train grew closer, and then closer still. "The mantle of leadership rests upon no one's shoulders lightly—and make no mistake, Captain."

Here he turned to me. We faced each other beside the tracks like reflections in a mirror. But while his eyes stayed bright and focused, mine remained hooded and lowered, unable to compete with the ferocity blazing in Minato's blue-heart gaze—a warped mirror, a poor imitation of his courage and his poise.

But Minato didn't see it that way. "You are our leader," he said in the commanding tones of kings. "You wear the crown of the Not-Quites. It is you who must strike out ahead of our contingent, treading unerringly upon untrodden ground, showing Kagome and I the way in preparation for when our stories truly begin. Whether you become a shining example or a cautionary tale, I cannot say—but Captain?"

I breathed deeply.

"Yes, Minato?" I said.

For a time, he remained silent.

Then, as the train pulled to a stop before us, Minato said to me: "I only ask that you tread carefully, for your sake as much as ours."

The train pulled to a stop. Minato boarded without a word. As the train moved away from the station, our eyes remained locked, until Minato's car pulled into the tunnel and out of sight, blue vanishing into yawning dark. I stared after the train for a long time—lamenting that what I'd said was true. When it came to the future, I had no idea what to do next.

Luckily for me, the universe—as it was wont to do where I was concerned—wouldn't wait very long to give me a clue.

NOTES:

SAILOR MERCURY FTW. Small cameo, but I like showing that stuff is happening outside of NQK's immediate sphere, y'know? Trying to make the world feel… Real, ironically and for lack of a better term.

I've known Minato is musical ever since he entered the picture, but he's not the type to mention it to anyone (although his past comments about music in general probably make more sense now). Finally bringing that around full circle. Also, there are plot reasons for introducing his hobby, so that scene isn't just a fun character moment (though some of you love Minato enough to probably be content with it just serving as a fun character moment, so IDK).

Also, I love Byron. He's great. And I don't introduce characters for no reason, so keep a close eye on his appearances.

My COVID test came back negative, thank my lucky stars. Still feeling a bit gross, but at least it ain't that.

Aaaaand IDK what else to say so let me just thank these folks for being amazing. You really keep me going with this beast of a story, and as we get into the final arc, I can't thank you enough for following along: noble phantasm, balancewarlord, Sky65, EdenMae, Sorlian, ewokling, cestlavie, Caelyn M, rezgurnk, MissIdeophobia, Kaiya Azure, Pelawen Night, Melissa Fairy, vodka-and-tea, Ouca, xanaldy, xenocanaan, MyWorldHeartBeating, LadyEllesmere, EasilyAmused93, makford, Biku-sensei-sez-meow, Call Brig On Over, IronDBZ, C S Stars, KhaleesiRenee, MiYuki Kurama, tehquilamockingburd, buzzk97, SterlingBee, AlwaysAnonymous, Vienna22, Ayres91, NightlyKill, Kuesuno, craftscute09 (congrats on getting caught up, gorgeous speedreader!), tammywammy9, cezarina, kiralol101, Yakiitori, rueedge, and PretiBurdi (congrats on getting caught up you magnificent human bean! Yes I said bean lol).