Train of Thought

"She's polite to you. That doesn't mean she's interested."

"Oh, what do you know?"

"What I know," I shake my head. "Tsu. More than you think..." More than I'd like.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he says, turning a little in his seat and narrowing his eyes.

The trolley car is empty, except for us, on this last run of the night.

I sigh. True to habit, the great Ichinomiya Kantarou has made a fool of himself yet again in front of a wealthy client, feigning interest when his 'attraction' to her is entirely based on money. It's a wonder the women he 'flirts' with haven't fired him before he's paid for ghost-busting.

I just shake my head again. "Just forget it."

"Haruka...?"

So now, you're going to order me? Fine...

"It's obvious that you're only interested in their money."

"That's not true. They're beautiful women."

"Then humans and youkai have different standards..."

"You think they're ugly?"

"Well, yes. Not their faces, Kantarou."

"Oh, come on, what about Suzakuin Kyoko?"

"Look at the daughters she produced."

Kantarou's capable of seeing beyond appearances, yet chooses not to, sometimes.

He blushes, and looks away. Kyoko's girls, though well under-age, tried to seduce Kantarou and I, for different purposes. Miyabi was mortally ill and wanted to experience sex before she died, and her sister Mai—well, the little murderess wanted yet another sacrificial victim for her misguided magic.

Ironically, Miyabi divined Kantarou's fortune and called him a pervert, though she didn't understand the word.

I understand the word too well. And I think I understand why she divined it, but only if I try to think in human terms.

From their view, it's the way he looks at me, the way he looks at certain people. The way he is so subtle and delicate in his business manipulations, yet so obvious in approaching these women that he dooms himself to fail.

Does he realize that he doesn't want his flirting to succeed? Is he deceiving himself?

Youkai are various in form, but humans are all so, so alike. They're boring. So uniform in kind, they make a distinction over unimportant things.

Kantarou is an example. Compact, graceful, pale as hoarfrost, and strong as bamboo that bends without breaking. This, they call ugly. This, women reject. This, men mock. Trivial differences keep Kantarou alone among his own kind.

Superficial crap.

He's shifted himself to look out the window, our conversation fallen into silence. He's thinking about what I've said, though I doubt it will lead anywhere. Yet it may. He's less stupid than most of them.

I grow bored. I ponder my hands for awhile, wondering if I need to trim my claws—they've become a bit overgrown from under-use. Shall I use a rasp, or merely strip a tree of its bark? Using a tool seems depressingly civilized. But Tokyo doesn't have enough trees to spare one unnoticed. Maybe I'll visit Sugino's forest...

I catch Kantarou's reflection, looking at me in the windows on the opposite side of the train. His face is a mixture of admiration and of grief, attraction and restraint.

He can order me to satisfy him, whenever he wants. But he doesn't. Nor Youko.

I don't know why.

"Why don't you just order me?"

"Hm?" he says, sitting up straight with a jolt.

"You think I don't know?" I say, my voice barely above the murmur of the car.

He stares at me for a minute, his long white lashes flash in the harsh trolley light when he blinks. Again he blushes, and looks away.

"I'm not Fuji," he says, gritting his teeth. He leans away from me, against the wall of the trolley. "And I don't want to be. I'm sorry. I'll get over it. Just—give it a little time, eh?" He pats my knee twice, gingerly, before parking his hand on his own.

Fuji—my master long ago—noblewoman, skilled in Taoist magic—I remember her scent, silky skin, intelligent eyes and pretty face, her attempts at seduction, and finally her order that I please her, pathetic human fingernails digging in as I gave her ecstasy.

I had to cling to moments of physical pleasure, blanking out the memory of what followed if I failed the slightest of her appetites. Fooling myself, I could perform to her desires. From her I learned to associate what should be intimate with self-deception, the imminence of violence, and the absence of emotion.

There was a time when I did care for her. But I—the 'fearsome tengu'—learned fear.

A small motion, as he looks through the window reflections at the darkened streets; his far hand retrieves his prayer beads from his sleeve, not to focus a defense, but for comfort in his isolation.

I do not know if Kantarou is aware of how much I recoiled inwardly at his most innocent touch, because of Fuji-because my master is, as she was, human.

He is terribly manipulative, as she was. He is petty, like her. He has a temper, as she did. He humiliates me, or sends me into danger.

But, unlike her, he does not use ofuda to beat me to unconsciousness to prove his dominance, nor simply because he is angry and wants to hit something, though he throws impressive tantrums. And he will not allow me to kill, much less direct me to.

Many times he has put himself between me, and things too dangerous for either of us to handle alone. He has put his own life at risk to defend mine.

He says, if it came to extremes, he would die to protect me.

I believe him.

So now he holds back. I am reassured. He values all I can do for him. But he also values my life independent of any benefit arising to him.

It is true that he's a petty, lazy, undisciplined, selfish dick who cheats at shogi and usually lacks self control. But...

Yes, Kantarou, you are not Fuji.

The trolley slows. It is our stop. As he makes ready to stand, I reach over—dare I?—and squeeze his hand briefly. He gives me a tired, wistful little smile, and lays his hand lightly on my back as we walk toward the door, avoiding the areas that anchor my wings.

Strangely, as he touches, I don't mind.

Fuji called the thing she felt for me 'love'.

But I think maybe this is, instead.