Tomorrow's Doom A.2/C.7 - Rainy Daze

Chapter 6: http://pastebin.com/L2pUU7Sh
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Chapter 7 – Rainy Daze

The air is sweet with the smell of pine, intermingled with the odor of fresh rain. My hair is wet and my skin is clammy, as though I'd just gone swimming, but there's no water anywhere to be seen. The trees I'm smelling are certainly nowhere to be seen on this desolate plain. Scorching sand stings my bare feet, and a hot wind seems to blow constantly, tossing wet hair and sand in my eyes. Squinting at the distant horizon, it burns with orange fire from the setting sun, and the parched land beneath it swirls with dust storms. There's nothing but sand and rocks in every direction – a flat, lifeless wasteland.

How am I so soaked when everything else is so dry?

The juxtaposition of the dry earth and my wet predicament is jarring, but it's somewhat subdued by what I see melt into existence a few feet away. A woman, her ragged clothes and frowning face appearing in front of me as though a hidden artist were painting her into existence – I reflexively recoil. Her lips are cracked from thirst and her sunken two-colored eyes are cloudy and reddened; she looks to be on the verge of collapse, her expression maudlin and asymmetrical.

When she's fully formed, I notice her hair is longer than mine and faded to gray, she's a little taller than myself, and her features have sunken with malnutrition or disease, but she might as well be my reflection. It's disturbing to realize that this wasted form bears an uncanny resemblance to myself. A much older, weakened self.

“Hi,” the ragged me says, and I flinch at the sound. Her voice is hoarse and quiet, barely a whisper, but it's also guttural and vicious; filled with malice. Her solitary word echoes in my ears, growing disturbingly louder as it bounces. A gust of wind cuts across us, deafening the echo and sending her gray hair flying across her face, obscuring the narrowed eyes that peer into me, filled with contempt.

“Hi,” I parrot back. My own voice is even and sweet – youthful and girly. The sound of it makes her lip curl in a snarl, and I fall silent. The ugliness of her countenance is matched only by the coldness of her expression. Her effulgent glare, emanating a dull white glow, is filled with hatred, and though I'm terrified by this elder reflection of myself, I cannot turn away.

The fiery sunlight begins to fade behind her, the glowing ball dipping under the horizon, expunging the light. No stars fill the darkness, but the glow from her eyes spreads over her body such that every inch of her wracked body radiates an unsettling, ethereal light; like a flickering fluorescent bulb on the verge of burning out. From its brilliance, all I feel is despair.

The smell of pine and rain disappears as a clamor rises up around us like drumbeats, or marching footsteps. Now the acrid odor of sulfur fills my nose; so overwhelming I feel I might wretch. The drumming sound batters my ears, though it's distant; it echoes from all around us, and it's getting closer. I search around in the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of what could be making the noise or generating the smell, but all I can see are stagnant shadows under a cloudless sky; the only light now is emanating from my other self.

“What's going on?” I ask, though I'm not even sure there's an answer anyone could offer. The other me falls silent; her snarl turning into a spiteful grin.

Lolling her head, she looks up and lets out a sigh – or a gasp. Her eyes close almost as though she's falling asleep, but there is no peace in her contorted expression. I try reaching for her, to shake her, to ask her why I'm here, or just to touch anything, but I can't move. Panic makes my thoughts race as fear fills me and I try lunging forward, but, either I'm frozen in place, or she moves away with each advance; I can't tell the difference in this darkness.

The sky is gone; simply not there anymore. The only thing now distinguishable in this pervasive blackness is my wretched doppelganger, and she remains out of reach. The continued drumbeats grow ever closer, and I keep flailing my arms trying to latch onto something in this emptiness. Watching me, she begins cackling in her frog-like voice, then suddenly shrieks; a shrill, ear-piercing sound no human should be able to make. Thrumming along with the drumming dark, her guttural screech reverberates through me, making my temples throb. Had I the power, I would silence them all, but I still can't move.

Eerily lurching forward with sudden vigor, my reflection drops her head down, staring blankly at her own feet, and begins to levitate – or I'm sinking. Her eyes snap open and she groans, chanting something under her breath, panting and wheezing with each uttered noise. The drums seem to be within my own head now, and I try to sink down in terror, to close my eyes, to block my ears, but I don't seem to have a body anymore.

“I have to go,” I hear her tinny, guttural voice say. Her hands raise up and she lets out a gruesome cackle that grates on my ears like fingernails on a chalkboard. Not having a body to react with, I try to scream. The beating drums drown out the squeaking sound I make and I feel overwhelmed by terror. I try to reach out with arms I don't have, to grasp this frightening woman, this specter, this reflection, but she vanishes, the light disappears, the drumming ends and I'm left in darkness.

“Wait!” I call out finally, desperately, but it's too late. I'm condemned to eternal night; alone, and incorporeal.

---

Waking from the nightmare, I don't really know what to make of the imagery, but the gentle tapping against my window might have something to do with how wet I felt – and the drumming. Disturbed by the imagery more than frightened, the whole dream felt eerily real – surreal, maybe. Seeing my much older self in such horrific condition, wailing and wretched, is altogether unsettling. Lying here, staring up at the dimly lit ceiling, I wonder if I might actually be so horrifying someday; it makes me feel sick.

The image of my older self sticks in my head as I lunge for the alarm clock, canceling the pop song. Shuddering at the recollection, I decide a distraction is what I need to push the images away before they can dredge thoughts about my future from the recesses of my mind. Kneeling on my bed, I pull the curtain aside to look outside, concentrating on the spectacle of falling rain to help ease the images away.

Soaked by persistent rain over the past couple days, the school grounds flow with trickling streams and glistening puddles. Reflecting the darkened sky, the pall of gloom permeates the entire area, and it makes me feel cold. Summer rain usually comes hard and fast, cooling the air quickly and making me shiver, but, after a few days of rain, it's not merely a psychological reaction – it's genuinely cold out there.

The temperature inside probably isn't any lower than usual, but I grab my blankets anyway, wrapping them over my shoulders. Staring out the window, mesmerized by the water streaking down the glass,a and the ringed ripples dancing in the puddles beyond, I start forgetting about the disturbing nightmare. Blurred by my waking mind, I'm soon left with only the eerie feeling, and that drumming sound, merely an echo in my mind, subtly thrumming.

I was hearing it with both ears.

Having had dreams where I could still hear out of my left ear before, I'm not surprised by that revelation. The doctor told me it's because I used to be able to, so my brain still interprets dreams as though I can, even though I physically can't; it's disorienting sometimes. More than once as a child, not long after the accident, I would wake up and start to cry after being able to hear in my dreams. My dad used to come in and read to me when that happened.

I really miss Dad sometimes...

Sitting on my knees, watching the rain for a few more minutes, I eventually swing around to check the time. It's Sunday, so I'm a little mad I forgot to turn my alarm radio off before going to sleep. Trying to remember when I actually went to bed, I don't think that matters since I feel fully awake. Lying back down to try and get some more sleep would be futile.

Glancing over at my phone, I consider giving Mom a call. Monday evening I considered calling her, but I forgot, and it has been a busy week. Post festival clean-up, shying away from crowds, and stilted conversations with the new guy, Hisao, dominated my week; classes, too, I suppose. Amaya keeps telling me I need to get him alone somewhere, but the chance hasn't really come up – at least that's my cover story.

Stalking The Swooner is tiring.

With it raining out, I probably have the time to let her know I'm still alive, but it's not even seven o'clock yet – and on a Sunday. If I add in the time zone difference, she's probably asleep. I'd definitely be waking her if I called now, and the early time would make her think I'm still getting insomnia; which would be true, but she doesn't need to know that.

I really don't feel like getting the sleeping pills speech.

I have nothing against drugs, really, but they're for other people – people who need them; people who aren't me. Literally anyone else. To me, the idea of taking a pill to sleep like a normal person is just disturbing. A chemically induced eight-hour coma just doesn't sound like a healthy thing to put your body through.

If calling mom is out of the question, studying might help kill some time. No, too boring.

Library visit for some Call of Duty multi-player. No, bad Aiko. Games melt brain.

Swearing off games for a few weeks to rebuild some of my debilitated social skills, I've already started to come out of my social coma, so that's at least a low priority – I'll file it under last resorts. Repeatedly glancing back at my phone, I have half a mind to place a call to someone nearby, but the thought makes me nervous.

Why, though? It's raining, he probably has nothing to do, and... Faulty logic, I know.

Still, Shizune had us trade phone numbers. Saying she wanted him to be available in the event I need to discuss Class Representative issues, Shizune had us trade phone numbers. It made me suspicious, but it seemed logical enough since she decided he would be the Class Representative liaison officer.

'Representative Liaison' – sounds like a dirty movie.

Shizune can't communicate with a number of them directly, or has a tendency to antagonize them, like Lilly, and Misha can tend to be difficult to understand or take seriously, but Hisao is nice and calm and a good listener, so, at the time, it seemed innocuous enough. Even with all that logical basis, I think it may have been a ploy. Whatever Shizune plans to accomplish by starting this covert little war, it sure seems like she's setting me up to win. If I were a romantic, I'd almost think she was trying to play matchmaker, but the way she dotes on him indicates otherwise.

She and Misha go to lunch with him almost every day, and I join them nearly as often, but I really don't know what's going on when I'm not around. Yesterday, Hisao approached me about learning sign-language and I had to decline, but the request made me worried. It makes perfect sense if he's going to be working with Shizune, though. Relying on Misha to bridge all their discussions must be tiring, as well as migraine-inducing. Still, it feels like a win for Shizune.

I should look up some strategy literature sometime.

Constantly chaperoned by either Shizune and Misha or Amaya and Tadao, I haven't had a moment alone with him all week, so maybe calling him is a great idea. We ought to talk about what happened at the festival – and I'm sure he has been thinking the same thing all week. Unless he forgot about it, and I'm making a big deal out of nothing.

No, I saw him fumbling at trying to say something a few times this week when we were almost alone enough to talk – rubbing his sternum all the while. I'm not sure what the waiting period is on discussing an almost-kiss, but it has to be more than a week; I hope it's more than a week. Whoever set out those rules needs to inform the rest of us so we know how to deal with this kind of situation; write them down somewhere, or at least train a parrot to squawk the details and send it flying around the world.

Pick up the phone! Sort it out later.

Deciding finally, I lurch forward, spilling my blankets on the floor and grabbing the turquoise phone off my desk. Standing, I flip it open, find his number in the saved directory, and hit send before I really consider what I'm doing. Hearing dial-tone for a moment, it quickly clicks and there's silence for a moment, followed by the familiar electronic ring.

Come on, Hisao, answer the phone.

It rings again; which means his phone is on, at least. Now he just needs to pick it up, turn it over in his hand, flip it open, hit a button, and probably say something.

Why does time slow down when you want it to speed up?

Ring.

I wonder if he set up a ring-tone for me yet.

Ring.

Answer it, damn you!

There's an electronic clicking noise as the lines connect, followed by a groggy, “this is Nakai, hello?”

Freezing in place, I come to the stark realization that I did not have much of a plan going into this.

...What the hell do I say!? ...Dammit!

Wracked by silence, my brain has turned off and I can't even choke out a single syllable. A few seconds pass before I hear rustling in the background - like he's rolling out of bed.

Did I wake him up?

I shoot a look at the clock; it's still just a little after seven o'clock.

He should have been up by now, right? Wait, it's Sunday, moron.

Hitting upon that realization, my hand slaps to my forehead and I force the panicking noise back down my throat. Normal people, like Hisao, sleep in Sundays, and I just woke him up practically at the crack of dawn.

This was a mistake.

“Kenji if that's you, I'm gonna knock down you door and beat you to death with my soccer ball,” I hear him say, referencing his hall-mate – poor Kenji. Wanting to laugh, I know that would signal my presence, so I cover my mouth and stare wide-eyed at my window trying to think of something to say.

“I'm hanging up, Kenji,” he says bitterly, “if you call me back, I'll shove the soccer ball up your a-”

Now or never, Kurai!

“Hello,” I finally say, stopping his train of thought.

“Er- Hello?” he says, sounding confused; I don't think he expected a girl's voice.

“It's me, Aiko,” I say, frowning at the crack in my voice.

There's a pause, during which I feel my insides twisting into knots. “Uh... Kenji,” he says, sounding suspicious, “if you're trying to get out of-”

Did he tell Kenji about me? What does that mean?

I steady myself and interrupt him again, “no, really... It's me, Aiko... Hi.” I slam my eyes shut and wince.

Smooth. You should be in movies with subtitles in cool-speak for the socially impaired.

Hearing hear him groan and sigh, I wonder if he's that unhappy to hear from me. Perhaps he's just groggy and not used to talking on the phone so early. Then again, he never has heard my voice over the phone, and everyone sounds different over the phone; had I not been the one calling him, I wouldn't recognize his voice either.

Semantics. This was probably just a bad idea, but I can't hang up now.

Maybe he's just groggy and trying to place my voice. “Okay, if that's true, calculate pi to the ninth decimal,” he finally says.

My mind blanks. “Uh... I just woke up,” I mumble, trying to stall.

Think! It'll be cute if you answer right! Cute is good!

I hear him mumble something incoherent and the line crackles like he's switching ears. Taking the opportunity to think, I recall the answer. “Three point one four one five nine two six five four,” I count out, squinting and cocking my head at nothing in particular.

3.141592654... Yeah, that's right.

Another pause. I think he's trying to verify the answer. “Is that right~?” I ask, trying to sound cute. I think I just sound confused.

“Um... yeah, actually.” I smile as he pauses before asking, “morning, Aiko... something wrong?”

Oh God, why didn't I think this out ahead of time!?

I just start talking, “n-no, nothing really. Just woke up, and it was raining out, and I thought I'd...”

That's a lie, you weren't thinking at all.

I chuckle nervously.

He rescues the conversation. “Well I'm up now, so did you wanna meet up or something? I was thinking of checking out the town but the rain's kinda putting a damper on that.”

“I have an umbrella,” I say. I immediately slap my forehead, disgusted by my idiocy.

Of course you have an umbrella, idiot. Doesn't everybody? You are purposely trying to fail this conversation, I swear.

“...Yeah?” he says. I think he's mocking me, but I'd need to see his face to be able to tell. It's too early to recognize sarcasm by voice alone.

I commit to my stupid line of thought. “Well, we could walk into town in the rain... or not, I dunno...” I trail off and silently pray he somehow thinks this is a good idea. I certainly don't, but it's too late now.

I shouldn't be allowed to own a phone.

“Okay, well...” he actually sounds like he thinks it's a good idea.

Small miracles, I guess.

“How about I meet you by the front gate in an hour... say, eight fifteen?” He chuckles, “don't worry, I have an umbrella too.”

Now I know he's mocking me. I don't comment on it, though. I'm pretty sure it's well-deserved. “Um, okay. I guess I'll... see you then,” I say. Being uncertain whether the conversation is over, I stay on the line.

There's a short pause and he finally responds, “see ya then... then...” He lets out a nervous laugh and then the line goes dead.

Success~! What do I win? Probably a cold from walking in the rain...

I hang up my phone and fall back onto my bed, listening to the squeaking box-spring and trying to figure out what just happened. The answer seems obvious, but I need to delude myself for a little while first.

You just called a boy and set up a... date? That can't be what I just did, can it?

That's not like me. Amaya, maybe; she's the gregarious one. I'm the quiet one, the reserved one... I'm the responsible one who focuses on school and making sure her future is set up right. I'm not the girl who calls boys on rainy days and goes on a village tour under the cover of umbrellas.

Recent events seem to indicate the contrary.

It's not a date, though. I'm just walking around town with him like a glorified tour-guide – again. At least, that's the thought I'll keep in my head so I stay sane. There won't be any fireworks this time to cause temporary insanity, either. If anything happens, it will be a completely sober event.

What if nothing happens? Is that bad?

I sit up on the bed and glance at the clock, then wander my eyes over to the closet. I see the handle for my umbrella sticking out on the top shelf and then look back outside. It's pouring. The sky is dark, and there's a slant to the falling streaks as they're caught in a brisk wind. It's wet and miserable out there.

Whose stupid idea was this...? Right, mine... Well, his, but ultimately mine.

“Dumbass,” I breathe, shaking my head and closing my eyes. I have to deal with this now whether it was completely intentional or not. Hisao will be expecting me out by the gate in around an hour, so I had better get myself together.

What the hell do you wear for a rainy walk into town?

I take a quick shower -which feels a bit pointless- then start plowing through my closet looking for something that's both warm and... sexy? No, that's a bad idea. Warm is fine, it shows that I'm not an airhead. Who dresses sexy to play tour-guide? Paris Hilton, perhaps. She's in jail, though, right? I should probably wear layers in case the rain stops and it heats up later.

Back at his place, maybe.

I slap myself across the face -hard- for having that thought. Digging through the haphazard piles I curse my disorganized closet repeatedly until I finally settle on something warm and conservative; denim blue-jeans, a green polo shirt, and a black, knit, turtle-neck sweater. On top of that I toss on my purple, vinyl raincoat and drape the hood across my shoulders, slip into some short-heeled black leather boots and grab my black umbrella.

Giving my hair a quick brush-out, I smile at myself in the mirror and check the time. Ten minutes past eight. Just enough time to walk out to the front gate. I grab my phone and consider calling him, but I don't want to seem too eager. Stuffing the phone in my pocket, I head out the door.

Now if I can just get by-

“Where ya goin', Aiko?” I hear Amaya's voice through the wall as I walk by. Though nobody can see it, I hang my head dejectedly.

Damn! She has ears like a cat, I swear.

I decide to tell the truth – half of it, anyway. “Headed into town,” I say, straightening up so I don't sound sneaky.

“In the rain?” she's says, sounding like she's not convinced.

“Yeah, why? Did you wanna come along?” I ask. Reverse psychology usually works when she thinks she knows something I'm not telling her. If I said I didn't want her to go, she'd suspect I had a reason for her not to go – aside from the obvious. That could be problematic.

“Nah, have fun though. Don't go catchin' a cold or nothing,” she chirps.

I grin, “Don't worry, mom, I'm dressed nice and warm. I'll be back later.” As I suspected, she's none the wiser.

Works. Every. Time. Okay, it worked this time, at least.

I start walking away at a nice leisurely pace until I'm out of earshot, then start walking briskly. I fear that if I'm late, he might just go back to his dorm.

Maybe I can just follow him there.

Bad thoughts make me slap myself again as I exit the girl's dorm into the rain. I pull my umbrella open and hold it against the angle of the falling droplets, then start marching toward the gate. When it comes into view, I can see a man standing just outside holding an umbrella – wearing a sweater-vest. I smile with relief and break into a jog, calling out, “hey, Hisao!” As I approach, I see an elbow come into view to his side behind the brick wall – there's someone with him.

What idiot would be out here in the rain? Aside from you.

And then the world stops.

Well, not exactly.

Hisao turns to look at me, then moves to the side and I notice an odd expression on his face – apology, concern, confusion, or some combination of the three. As he moves, the other figure comes into view. This one is shorter and skinny, and he sidles up alongside Hisao before turning to look at me.

His dark hair is cut short and messy, and he's wearing a red and yellow striped scarf around his neck – which is getting rather soaked as he doesn't seem to be using an umbrella. Below that, he's wearing a black trench-coat and I can see the green school-uniform pants wrapped around his skinny legs beneath the coat-tails, ending with black shoes. His huge, coke-bottle spectacles catch the dim light of the cloudy morning, flashing like a terrible pair of cat's eyes; it makes his gaze feel analytical and frightening. Kenji Setou, or maybe Harry Potter. This isn't Hogwarts, though, so it's probably Kenji.

I think I know what Hisao's mixed expression means now.

I nearly stumble, hesitating on my next step, but I manage to correct myself before I can fall face down onto the rain-soaked sidewalk. My face scrunches into a distasteful frown as I come to a halt five meters away from them – Hisao and Kenji. Seeing these two unlikely companions standing side-by-side, the theme from The Odd Couple* plays in my head.

Klugman and Randall; not Lemmon and Matthau.

I look at Hisao and see his face has settled on a dumb smirk – one that looks forced. He didn't invite Kenji along, I gather. Maybe Kenji was just out here standing around for no apparent reason, but I doubt a borderline agoraphobic would be out anywhere within view of the world without good reason.

Maybe this is how he showers? It would explain some things.

Don't picture him naked, singing in the rain with a bar of soap.

Dammit... And me without my brain bleach.

Hisao clears his throat and goes to start talking, but Kenji talks over him, “Dude! Your hair is just way too long.” He folds his arms and makes a weird face – somewhere between impressed and confused. I cross my arms and respond with a raised eyebrow.

My hair?

He leans forward, perhaps trying to get a better look – though I don't see how a few extra inches would make much difference. I don't think he could see me even if I were only a few inches from his nose. Hisao has a hand on his forehead now and his eyes are closed – I think we're sharing thoughts.

After a few seconds Kenji leans back and smirks, “nice disguise. I've tried to get the particulars of feminist attire down, but for some reason it never looks right. Maybe I should try over-stuffing my chest the way you do.” Hisao now has his hand over his eyes as Kenji lets out a chortling laugh.

The instinct to slap him for the off-handed comment is overridden by the realization that he seems to think I'm a guy – in some kind of disguise. Considering the options, I think the compliment about my breasts is actually better than his assuming I'm a guy in drag. It's really a close call, though.

Is he really that blind, or is this an act?

“Hisao was telling me about your genius plan, and I just had to come out and see it in action,” he says, giving Hisao a pat on the shoulder – which makes him flinch. He looks adorable as he tries to keep silent while Kenji remains oblivious.

“My plan?” I ask, somewhat intrigued.

“Oh wow, you even have the voice down,” he smirks and continues, “your plan to go into town during a rainstorm – it's pure genius. I usually wait until nightfall or early-morning, but there are still people watching around that time – not to mention satellites,” he looks up as he says that; as though there might be a spy satellite flying low enough to see through the clouds and rain – and with his barely-functioning eyes. “But your idea to go during a rainstorm skirts all those pitfalls; I wanted to meet the guy who came up with something so brilliant.”

Does Hisao get an ear-full of this every day?

“Thanks, I guess,” I say. I'm not sure why I'm being so agreeable, but the look on Hisao's face says that it's probably easier this way. He's probably right.

“Man, you don't have to use that voice with Hisao and I. We're bros in the fight against the oppressive feminist regime,” as Kenji says this, Hisao is shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Kenji continues, “we should meet up sometime and swap war stories over a bottle of whiskey.”

It's probably not an act. I think he's actually that blind.

I grin and ask, “so you won't be joining us?” I follow up with a faked frown – that I realize he probably can't distinguish.

“Okay, you like to keep in character – I get it. That voice is killer.” After the sideways compliment, Kenji shakes his head, “and no on the trip into town; I'm set for supplies until next month. I do all my shopping in bulk so I'm prepared for nuclear fallout or the feminist take-over. I just wanted to meet the man with the plan.”

This is the strangest conversation I've ever had.

Shrugging, I respond, “I see. I assume that's why you didn't bring an umbrella.” I point to his wet clothes.

He just laughs, “ah, that. I'm a real man. Real men don't use umbrellas.” He flashes a wide grin and I see his glasses catch the light again – it's an eerily confident gesture. He nods toward Hisao, saying, “you're in character, and this one has reason for it, he tells me. Hisao's all man, though, so I don't hold it against him.” He nudges Hisao with his elbow.

That's good news... I guess. Wait, what does that even mean? I don't think I want to know.

Kenji waves his hand dismissively and then shoves it into a wet pocket. He starts walking toward me, saying, “anyway, rain is good for us men; it waters our lawns, keeps our cars clean...“ He waves his arms around emphatically and I suppress a giggle – his delusions are borderline psychotic, but he certainly commits to them.

Is that what they mean when they say someone is 'committed' to an asylum?

He stops about two meters away and holds a finger up; I see his eyebrows bouncing as he says, “and it generates enough white noise to drown out the reception from the feminist listening devices.”

He pulls his hand out of his wet pocket and starts closing the distance between us, holding it out. He says something, but it gets drowned out by the rain -and from him being to my left- so I turn and ask, “what was that? I can't hear on that side. Bum ear.” I attempt some colorful vernacular.

Bum ear? Am I a forty-year-old former boxer in this play?

He leans forward, inches from my left ear, and starts yelling, “SORRY I didn't know you were DEAF over there. WAR INJURY?” His hot breath reeks of garlic, but the odor is thankfully carried away quickly by the rain.

I thought Misha was loud. Kenji's voice could melt steel – and his breath could wilt cacti.

I pause, letting the ringing in my ear -the right one, that is- subside before answering, “something like that. I can hear you fine now, just not so much on my left.”

Or the right, really. It's still ringing.

I hold out my hand and he grasps it roughly, shaking it vigorously. His hand is wet, boney and clammy, but I suppress the urge to make a sour face. He nods, commenting, “you really do commit to this disguise.”

Now he starts leaning forward -to get a better look at my face, I assume- and I recoil. I'm not sure what he might do it he discovered I'm not a guy, so I don't allow him the chance to get a clear look. I don't think that would go over well considering all the 'feminist conspiracy' talk.

“You even use moisturizer or something, am I right? Your hands are so soft. Manly soft, though.” He leans down toward my hand to inspect it closer.

While his attention is away, I look over at Hisao. He has both hands over his face now, the umbrella comically sticking out in between, and his shoulders are shaking with stifled laughter. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he can't see me.

This is surreal.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting the compliment; though he's wrong about the moisturizer. I also assume the 'manly' comment was just superlative.

I don't have man-hands, do I?

Kenji looks back up at me quickly, and grins wildly. He starts walking past me in the direction of the dorms, saying, “well, I'm headed back into my bunker. Have Hisao give you my number so we can go drinking some night and trade war stories.”

Bunker...?

“I'll do that,” I say as I watch him walking away.

He stops and turns, “I almost forgot. Name's Setou, Kenji Setou.” He strikes a refined pose.

Bond, James Bond, you're not.

“Kurai... Aiko Kurai,” I say, imitating his introduction and pointing at myself. I'm not sure if he can see the gesture.

He smirks and starts shaking his head, placing a hand on his chin. “You even use a girl's name for your cover I.D.? Damn genius, man! I'll see you around – don't be a stranger,” he says cheerfully as he turns and continues walking.

Definitely not an act, and he's blind as a bat.

I continue watching him walk away for a few seconds, stunned by the whole ordeal, before I spin on my heel and find Hisao with a hand over his mouth, still shaking his shoulders. I would like to know exactly how Kenji found out about our trek into town, but I think I can surmise – Hisao's hapless look tells the story well enough. A sudden thought crosses my mind – a quick torment for his lack of discretion.

Check that ring tone! **

I reach for my phone and hit redial. A few second later, Hisao's phone starts buzzing and I frown. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the phone, but before he can answer it, I end the call and ask, “what, no ring-tone for me yet~?”

I think I'm getting better at that lilt.

He frowns and looks at his phone, “I don't really-” he doesn't complete the sentence, but I understand the thought. He doesn't seem like the kind of person to set up different ring-tones for different people. Though, considering his reaction when I called, that might be a good idea. I'll bring it up some other time.

I shake my head and sigh. “So, he ambushed you on the way here, I gather?” I ask rhetorically. Hisao nods in reply. I give my head a shake to clear the last couple minutes of confusing dialogue out of my head and finish walking over to him, wearing a happy smile. “That guy has issues,” I say.

Hisao nods in agreement, “you have no idea...”

“Did you tell him I was a guy?” I ask, expecting otherwise.

“That was his delusion... I didn't bother to correct him. It's just easier that way,” he explains, and I believe him. I've seen Kenji fly into rage before and it's fearsome. If I had to live across from him, I'd just smile and nod at his delusions, too.

“Have you had a chance to check for dynamite?” I ask.

He grins, “he has like twelve locks on his door, so I don't think I'll have the chance unless I go in with him.”

“Sounds dangerous,” I grin craftily and nudge Hisao with my elbow.

Hisao turns and I fall in step as we start on our way down the street. “He's mostly harmless, I think. Bark is worse than his bite,” he comments.

“What's with all the 'feminist' talk?” I ask, but Hisao just shrugs. I think discussion Kenji's delusions is something best left to a really good therapist – one with a lot of time to spare. I'm neither trained or willing to be that therapist, so I drop the subject.

We walk quietly for a short while before I realize something important. I'm actually alone with Hisao and there's nobody around to eavesdrop on us, so now would be an excellent time to bring up last Sunday. He's looking at me with a similar expression -somewhere between hope and bewilderment- as I turn and start to ask, “so, what happened-” I stop, not knowing how to finish the question.

“At the festival,” he states, finishing my thought.

Maybe he can read my mind.

“Yeah...” I blush and start to look away, but I arrest the action and look back. “It was... awkward.”

He digests my description and then sighs, “I think we were caught up in the moment.”

He does read my mind.

“Yeah, something like that...” I want to add to the thought and maybe keep the conversation going, but the silence seems to last too long for that kind of reprieve.

We walk in silence -relative silence- down the windy road, each absorbed in thought. The din of falling rain, swirling streams and our muffled footfalls drown us in white noise – it has a calming effect and helps me settle my thoughts. Whatever rain may do to stop listening devices from working, as Kenji said, it seems to have the opposite effect on my thinking device.

Having said something about our near-kiss to Hisao doesn't really make me feel better. It feels unresolved. I know it was something like being caught in the moment, but that can't have been all. Raging teenage hormones aside, we were walking around all day, talking and laughing; just like a date. We shared a meal, like a date. We talked about our pasts -sort of- like a date. Outwardly, it appeared that we were on a date. But in our minds, we weren't.

That may be the problem.

It was referred to as a tour – an innocuous action; something business-like. There were unspoken social rules to follow – etiquette and protocol. Had anyone asked -and they didn't- we would have awkwardly referred to it as a tour, even as they assumed it was a date. I think that may be where it went wrong – why the kiss didn't happen.

We -or at least I- got caught up in what we called the activity. As far as we were concerned, I was just showing him around the school; so when we almost kissed, it was incredibly awkward – inappropriate, even. If we had settled on calling it a date -which would have been more accurate- then I doubt we would have pulled back in that last instant.

My mouth starts working before I can completely formulate what I want to say. “We should have-” I start to say, but I cut myself short.

I was going to say 'kissed'. That wouldn't have been right.

Hisao raises an eyebrow, his eyes pleading to hear the rest of my thought.

The little pause gives me time to adjust my statement. “We should have just called it a date,” I say finally. Inside my head, there's a crowd of people all falling quiet at the same time, as they await Hisao's reaction.

My life as a sitcom.

The deafening noise of cascading water fills the air and I hold my breath watching his eyes narrow. I feel as though everything we could possibly have together depends on how he takes my assessment. I'm unable to settle on what face to make as I wait, so I just settle on a dumb smile that I hope he finds disarming.

After an eternity, Hisao grins nervously. He holds his hand to his chest and takes a deep breath, clearing his throat. Then he nods and answers, “How about we start over, then?”

“Start over?” I ask, not quite sure what he means.

He holds out a hand, “Hi, my name is Hisao Nakai.”

I smile brightly. He wants to go back to the beginning – erase the mistake we almost made. I want to leap forward and kiss his cheek for being so brilliant, but I take his hand instead and grin widely. “Aiko Kurai, at your service,” I say cheerily, “pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The crowd cheers.

His hand in mine, it feels dry and strong. It isn't clammy or boney like Kenji's, it's actually warm and thick – manly, even. My hand seems to disappear behind his fingers. Feeling the warmth radiating from his palm, I smile. He offers a reassuring squeeze and we look at each other for a moment, not wanting to let go. Finally I blush and pull my hand away.

He smiles and lets out a laugh. After a few moments, he looks back at me and I grin hearing the return of his gentle baritone, “I looked away when I saw Amaya looking at us, by the way,” he says, recalling last Sunday.

I smile, remembering the sudden distraction that tugged me out of that trance. “I heard something behind me like a whistle,” I say.

“That was probably Amaya too,” he explains.

Figures.

Suddenly, it's easy to talk about what happened. As though declaring a new beginning is letting us see last Sunday as something from a movie – or a previous life. A few hundred questions bubble to the forefront of my mind, but only one makes it out of my mouth, “did you think I was flirting when I fell on you?”

He starts laughing and shaking his head, “for a second, yeah. I nearly had a heart attack.” He starts rubbing his sternum again, but he doesn't look nervous this time. He didn't lose the baritone, either.

Maybe it's just a habit, or maybe he actually thought he was going to have a heart attack. That couldn't be it, though. He's looking much healthier now that he's gotten away from hospital food – relatively speaking. Assuming he was in the hospital – I made that part up, if I recall. I still wonder what happened to bring him here.

What was that comment from Kenji about Hisao being 'all man'?

I look away to hide the blush. “Okay, well, how about we clear that up a little.” I say, “I was definitely flirting with you until I actually nearly fell over.”

“Well, I am The Swooner,” Hisao says simply, smiling proudly.

I giggle and look up at him again to explain, “Tadao jokes, but I do have that happen sometimes. Side-effect of blowing out an ear drum. Used to worry my mom whenever I was on anything high.” We take a few more steps in silence before I turn and add, “I'm glad you were there to fall on.”

“Anytime,” he says with a nod. I consider taking him up on the offer.

Now I set up a loaded question, “did your parents dote over your condition?”

Assuming you have one. And assuming you have parents. Crap. Crap? Crap!

I somehow expect a flash of lightning to streak the sky as I look up at his contemplative expression. He narrows his eyes, that thoughtful pose, and blinks at me a few times. Thankfully, his face doesn't turn into a scowl like Tadao's did when I asked him that same question. I remember it took two weeks for him to tell me why – that his parents died when he was three. We bonded over that, as I recall. That's how we -Amaya and I- started hanging out with him all the time.

Lessons in social interaction.

The rain falling around us makes the mood feel darker, but I'm really more anxious than worried. Considering the dodgy glances he's casting my way in between bouts of sputtering, I think he's just stalling. He doesn't seem mad, though, which is a good sign. Even the normal -relatively normal- students at Yamaku expect to be asked if they have a disability at some point; it's assumed you have one if you're a student here. That may be a stigma, but it's not unexpected.

If he didn't have one, he'd just outright say it, I'm sure.

Finally he speaks, “I guess so. It's a lot more recent an issue, though.”

“Oh,” I say. I don't mention I already suspected as much. “So, do they call you every other day asking stupid questions about it?”

He laughs, “no. They're pretty busy and I think they've been letting me adjust to it on my own.”

He's still skirting the answers I want, but I'd feel like I was prying to get much more specific. The rain has lightened and I can see some streaks of sunlight breaking through the clouds in the distance. I think our rainy walk might be turning sunny. “Well, having your parent call up worried sick isn't exactly a picnic,” I gripe.

He chuckles, “I can imagine. It's nice to know they care, though”

I nod and ask, “do you miss your old school?”

He had to have been going to school somewhere, right?

He gets a bewildered look as he mulls over an answer, looking like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Yeah... I miss my friends, at least. Used to spend a lot of time with them while my parents were working, so we got pretty close...” he trails off looking a bit forlorn.

Wondering if he stayed in contact with any of his old friends, I feel a little sad seeing the frown he's making. He has his hand back on his chest and his eyes are narrowed. I think my question made him recall something traumatic – or at least unpleasant. I try to dispel his darkening mood by pointing out something good, “well, you're making friends here already. Shizune and Misha, myself – even Kenji.”

He nods, looking a little relieved.“Yeah and I've been back out to try running with Emi a few times, but I still don't think I'm well enough for an impact workout...” he trails off, a far-away expression coming over him as he looks away.

The term 'well enough' sticks out in my mind. Whatever happened, I'm thinking it's internal. Maybe a blood disorder or something else that causes fatigue; organ failure, kidney transplant, heart surgery, or maybe he just has bone grafts or is recovering from cancer. Though chemo-therapy would have left him without hair, and that's not a wig – nobody would intentionally use a messy hairpiece like that. He also pointedly used the word 'impact', so I strike on an idea and say, “well, you could try swimming with me.”

Oh, dammit. I really need to start thinking before speaking rather than the other way around.

He cocks his head to the side, and I realize I basically don't tell anyone that I like swimming. I guess it is a little odd, but it reminds me of my childhood. I decide not to tell him that. Instead I start explaining, “well it's lower-impact than running, it's inside so you can't get rained out, and I might even let you win some laps, unlike Emi.” I grin cheerily as I finish, but there's a part of me hoping he thinks it's a bad idea.

Hisao and myself in the water together, losing our bathing suits.

Thinking that, I slap myself mentally and try not to blush – which has the opposite effect. Hopefully he thinks the blush has to do with the question rather than the following, dirty thought. He finally lets his brow rise and he nods in agreement. “What time do you usually swim?” he asks.

Pretty much whenever I find myself both awake and ambitious enough to walk down to the pool.

“Six thirty or so,” I lie. I can make an effort to make it true, though.

He nods again and smiles. “Sure, that will work. Emi has been starting me at seven since Monday, but I can get up a little earlier to meet your schedule.”

My schedule...? I may have to make one up.

I decide to sound like I'm compromising, “I could change to seven.” I'm getting good at lying – or obfuscating, as it were. It technically isn't lying since I'm just not mentioning superfluous details; like my complete lack of organizational skills. I think he'll figure that out on his own eventually – later rather than sooner, I hope.

“Seven, then,” he says. “Which days?”

This is getting complicated.

“Uh, well...” I trail off at a loss.

“Emi planned to have me out running six days a week,” he explains. Six days a week sounds like a lot, but he seems eager.

I suggest, “How about five days a week, then.” Now I'm just making stuff up – I haven't been out swimming daily since I was twelve. Emi is the one with fitness graphs and flow-charts; she showed me them once in the common room. She takes it surprisingly seriously.

“So weekends off, then?” he suggests.

“Yeah,” I reply, shrugging.

“Or should we do three on, one off, two on, one off?” he says. I'm glad one of us has some idea what they're talking about. He did spend the last week and a half of mornings running with a track star, so I guess she could have easily rubbed off on him.

Don't think it... too late. Things I can't un-imagine...

I frown, suppressing the thought, then respond, “that sounds better, actually.” Part of me wants to just say this is a stupid idea, but there are hormones at work. “Thursdays and Sundays off, then?” I suggest.

We'll be swimming early on hump-day.

I allow myself a smirk despite the crudeness of my thoughts. This whole idea is fueling the dirty part of my mind, though, so I think a few stray thoughts are admissible. As long as I don't start actually saying those things – unless he wants me to say them.

Calm down, Kurai!

“Okay, I'll give Emi the bad news later on, then,” The way he says it, I think he's happy to be abandoning Emi's run schedule. Or, maybe he's just happy to be swimming with me instead. I feel my heart fluttering and I know I'm blushing, but I suddenly don't care. I'll have an excuse to see him almost every day, and that idea is encouraging. “You're sure about this? I don't wanna be a burden,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

That's my last chance to weasel out of this, but I decide to let it slip away. “Yeah, it'll be fun. Refreshing daily dips in a nice warm pool,” I say and cockily add, “with a pretty girl.”

Amaya would be cheering right about now, I'm sure.

Hisao nods sagely until that last part, at which point he blushes furiously and swallows hard. “I- Uh,” he stammers.

Oh no, don't you back out now!

“What?” I ask.

He grins shyly and just nods, which is somewhat deflating, but it looks like he's got something else crossing his mind. He holds out a hand to feel for rain -which has apparently stopped- and looks around aimlessly for a few moments. When he turns back, he starts rubbing his sternum again before saying, “it's nothing...” he looks away, “It can wait.”

I frown and nod, trying not to furrow my brow at the cryptic response. I lean over and nudge him with my elbow “So, you'll be there, right?” I ask cheerily.

“With bells on. I'll have to swing by and get a school-issued suit, though,” he says absently.

“Unless you wanna swim naked,” I say, immediately regretting it; feeling the intense blush on my cheeks.

Dirty, dirty thoughts.

He laughs and blushes beet red. “No, that wouldn't be...” he says, then starts looking around making that narrow-eyed thinking expression before looking back down at me and grinning, “appropriate.”

I may have to let him know some day how inappropriate my internal monologue was through this whole conversation. I think he'd laugh -hard- and probably tell me a similar tale.

We spend the rest of the day wandering around the little village and I show him where to find the general store. He explains he was already in town with Shizune and Misha a few times, but they usually just went to the Shanghai. Evidently, he's been living on cafeteria food and Ramen since he got here, and was happy to finally get his hands on some groceries.

I don't know exactly how his talk with Emi went, but I heard her come back later and wanted to apologize upon hearing how dejected her usually-springing steps sounded. Other than that, it was a good day. Maybe it's a hint at what the rest of the school year will be like; but that might just be my sardonic optimism talking.

I set my j-pop blaster for six-thirty to give myself some lead-time before our swim scheduled at seven, and collapse onto my bed. The phrase 'well enough' echoes in my mind a few more times as I lay there, and I actually fall asleep sometime just before ten.

Imagine that.
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Chapter 8: http://pastebin.com/Xpw3XQQa