Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ This is Not My Life ❯ You're the only one, who can see, the real me ( Chapter 18 )

"You're the only one, who can see, the real me"

 

-Aya-

 

I've been stuck here at this lousy table, in this mediocre coffee shop for three hours. If I'd realized that Yohji intended to read that book the second I handed it to him, I would have held it hostage for a little bit. Or at least picked up something more interesting to read for myself than a cheap travel magazine. I should have taken him to a library instead of a book store. Then he could have at least read it where I'd have something better to look at than a three page spread on Kansai's least known pachinko parlors.

 

But even still. I only bookmarked a handful of stories. He should have been done with it in twenty minutes. What on earth possessed him to try to read the whole book? Couldn't he have waited till we were back in a hotel? Or somewhere nice at least. What's his hurry? And why does Yohji seem to have such an attachment to second-rate coffee shops, anyway?

 

It hasn't been a nice day.

 

Waking up on the cold, hard ground, only to be followed by a fight and then a game of find-the-keys-on-the-side-of-the-road is hardly something to put in the vacation memory book. To add to that, the ride into town was less than amicable; Yohji's barely said three words to me since we left the campsite this morning. He's giving me such a wide berth of personal space that instead of reassuring me, it only serves as an inescapable reminder of what happened. I feel completely isolated.

 

Bath houses! Bath houses! Bath houses! Says my magazine.

 

I snap it shut and revert to glaring. Maybe I can mentally freeze up his ability to read.

 

It takes a few minutes, but he eventually looks up from the massive volume and meets my gaze. “Yeah?” he says.

 

I want to say “What's taking so long, you've already read the important ones,” but I'm trying not to emphasize its significance. For all he knows I just gave him a random book to shut him up. Instead I say, “You don't have to read all of it.”

 

“But its interesting,” his eyes fall back to the open page, although he continues talking to me, “this is a bit different than the version I used to have.”

 

I take an unnecessary sip of coffee before responding. I don't want to come off as especially eager to be having a conversation about fairy tales. Although the truth of the matter is that a literary discussion could only be an improvement over this oppressive silence born of consequential actions.

 

“Censorship.”

 

Hm, if I want to encourage an actual conversation I suppose I ought to upgrade my sentences to more than single words.

 

“Well,” he says, “I can't say I feel a great loss at having my childhood story time devoid of eyeball-pecking-birds.”

 

“It lacks its sense of justice without all the death,” my tone is defensive.

 

He turns a page and continues reading, “Maybe.”

 

I try to let him read in peace, I really do. But the longer he reads the longer I'm stuck with nothing but my own thoughts to occupy my attention. Given the events of the past twenty-four hours, my thoughts are not a hospitable place to dwell. All I can think about is Yohji. Yohji and the unsettling things he said not even five hours ago. Funny how I'm now sitting here wishing that Yohji would talk to me so I can have a distraction from thinking about Yohji.

 

“You could finish it at the hotel,” I say impatiently.

 

He opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates. I know almost instinctively that he was about to drop some kind of annoying innuendo about us being alone together in the hotel room. When he finally speaks all he says is, “There's no coffee there.”

 

“I wasn't aware that coffee was a prerequisite for reading,” I mutter.

 

He shrugs and flips back to one of the pages I'd dog-eared and stares at it for an unsettling amount of time. His face holds a similar expression to one I've seen him wear while working on crossword puzzles. The knot in my stomach tightens.

 

“I'm noticing a preference for enchantment stories,” he observes, his tone thoughtful.

 

Damnit, why did I give him that book. Yohji is being more perceptive than I anticipated…. What did I expect? Him to glance at the genre and make a sarcastic remark about my immaturity? To flip through it and be completely baffled as to why I'd handed it to him? I certainly did not expect him to pore over it as if he were grasping the Rosetta stone. It's not safe to answer him.

 

His eyes drift up to glance at me, and he seems to understand that I don't intend to comment. Then he's back to reading, but I can tell his concentration is broken. I'm now getting as many glances as the book.

 

After a few more minutes he finally seems to resign himself and shuts it. He looks like he's going to say something, but hesitates. I know he's doing it solely to annoy me. The look he's giving me is so intense it's creepy.

 

The unpleasant stare is quickly redirected though, as he starts idly fooling around with his empty mug, balancing it on its bottom rim and tipping it in circles. Round and round we pointlessly go. This time I don't think he's deliberately trying to irritate me, but all the same I can barely restrain myself from reaching over and stilling his hand. I wonder if he has to practice to maintain so many nerve-grating habits. The spinning vessel slowly winds down to stillness and is encored with another awkward moment of staring.

 

“You're the Princess with the golden star on her forehead,” is what finally spills out of his mouth.

 

What.

 

A wave of panic hits me with such force that I nearly drop my coffee cup into my lap. Why did I bookmark that story? Why did I give him that book? I bookmarked other stories too though, how…how did he pick out that one? How is it that given the vaguest of clues, Yohji can see right through me?

 

Deny. Deny. Deny.

 

No good. Yohji is too skilled a detective to have missed the truth in my shocked reaction. It would only make him more relentless.

 

“I'm leaving.”

 

There we go; a no-fail answer to everything. By the time Yohji pays the bill he'll have lost me.

 

I need to get home to Aya. What was I thinking, agreeing to spend a week resolving our `issues'? My own issues couldn't be fixed in a lifetime, let alone a week. And Yohji…. I can't help Yohji. Spending a week with me isn't going to fix anything. Pretending nothing happened probably is the best option after all.

 

My train of thought is derailed by a jarring jerk to my arm. I've been caught. Yohji's grip is like iron.

 

But instead of dragging me back into the coffee shop, he wordlessly steers me outside. The hold on my arm is not released until we find ourselves standing in one of the more remote corners of the city's central park. No longer is there a threat of disturbing customers should I choose to make a scene.

 

Yohji's eyes keep apprehensively dropping to my no-longer-ensnared wrist, like he expects me to bolt again and will regret having let go. It's an irrational fear; if I'd really intended to escape, I hardly would have let a single hand around my arm stop me. I suppose my masochistic side wants to stick around and find out what he'll have to say.

 

So I wait for him to say something.

 

And wait.

 

And wait.

 

Yohji is, apparently, good at waiting too.

 

“Do I look like a girl to you?” I finally mutter, hoping to derail the truth he's onto with irritation.

 

“Not in the slightest.”

 

“It's too bad I didn't give you Hans Christian Anderson,” I continue bitterly, “then you could have said I was the Snow Queen.”

 

Now that's a statement that's been building up for a while. The others might think they're being subtle, but I'd have to be deaf and blind to miss the fact that they all think my personality is frigid. The snide commentary of icy metaphors is rare, but it still hurts.

 

“Mmm,” he actually has the nerve to smile as he takes his time to reply, “I suppose I can see why you'd think that, but no, I wouldn't say something so absurd.”

 

“How, is that more absurd than calling me a princess with a prissy star on her forehead?”

 

“Well let's see,” Yohji sits down and attempts to pull me down with him, but I resist. “I'm familiar with the Snow Queen story, you know. She's supposed to be a manifestation of the Devil. Do you really think I think you're the Devil?”

 

In the true spirit of the star spangled princess, I keep my mouth firmly locked.

 

“The princess didn't smile for seven years, are you going to tell me you don't see even a little bit of a resemblance?”

 

I still don't answer, although my expression must be giving something away, because Yohji won't shut up.

 

“If you didn't want me to notice, you shouldn't have told me to read it.” He adds obviously. No kidding.

 

“The real Aya is one of the Ravens,” he continues; it's not a question, “which answers whether she's still alive.” His words are assaulting me like jagged little rocks, striking me with sharp stings before dropping dully into the pit of my stomach. Aya has just been reduced to nothing more than alive. But what she's doing right now can hardly be called living. Does Yohji have any idea at all what he's putting me through, even just saying her name? I feel sick, and simply stand, frozen like a statue. My capacity to react is drained.

 

“So I guess what I want to ask is…”

 

Who the hell is Aya? My brain fills in.

 

“….How can I help you help her?”

 

Eh?

 

And Yohji scores another point for catching me off-guard. I don't know what to say so I give in and sit down next to him. The grass is kind of wet and I immediately wish we were somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn't teaming with happy families going on wholesome family outings.

 

“No one can help her,” I finally concede to answering, “and I won't talk about it.”

 

Yohji falls silent for a moment, and I can almost see the questions boiling away under the surface and fighting to get out. He really wants to know about Aya. “The princess almost died because she couldn't tell anyone what was wrong,” he says eventually, “I don't want to see you get to that point.”

 

“If I were really the princess then I'd be screwed because I've already said too much anyway.” I roll my eyes, hoping that Yohji will think it's in response to the ridiculousness of his comparison. The truth is I'm rolling them at myself, because I can't believe I let things get this far. I had so many chances to tell him off or just keep my mouth shut….

 

Yohji sighs and doesn't say anything for a while. He seems to be staring pretty hard at an old stone kitsune nearby; the park is littered with like Shinto vestiges. “Well then,” he says, shaking himself out of whatever he'd been dwelling on, “so long as we're extrapolating upon the Brothers Grimm, I suppose that makes me the big bad wolf, eh?”

 

Yes, I want to say, you've hit the nail right on the head. Except it would be a lie, just punishing him for this interrogation. Is that really how he sees himself, or did he just say that for my benefit? Do you really think that I think you're the Devil?

 

I suppose I did accuse him of being predatory.

 

“No.” I say, “You have too much in common with idiotic kings who fall in love with people without bothering to get to know them first.”

 

Yohji's eyebrow shoots up as I drop the word `love' and I immediately regret my phrasing. That's not the word—thank god—he used in his confession. Who am I to make such assumptions of myself? He then gives me a hard evaluating look which slowly melts into a very satisfied grin. “Yet in spite of that, the princess marries him,” he says smugly.

 

“I never affirmed I was the princess.” So much for skipping the denial tactic.

 

“I never said I wanted to get married,” he agrees with an easy smile.

 

We fall back into silence, but the tension has dissolved. With the direction that conversation took I would have expected Yohji to keep pressing the issue. To start cracking jokes about Prince Charmings and damsels in need of rescuing. But he's giving me space.

 

That of course might just have been his survival instinct kicking in, though, because a single one of those jokes would have earned him a black eye. Or worse.

 

Yohji stretches out on the grass and I find my eyes wandering against my will. Does the man own any shirts that cover his midriff? To keep my gaze disciplined I resort to picking off the wet blades of grass that have plastered my shoes. Yohji is starting to become synonymous with staring.

 

“You know,” he says, finally breaking the lull in conversation, if you can call this an actual conversation, “it's your turn to ask me something personal now.”

 

“…Assuming you care to,” he adds.

 

Snapping back with sarcasm is so automatic, that I'm barely able to stop myself from saying something mean. I don't want to be mean, but the words are in my head the second he gives me the opening. What makes you think you're that interesting, eh? It's like I've got some kind of antagonistic programming. Silence is better than a tetchy quip, I decide, although Yohji looks mildly disappointed when I fail to answer.

 

I don't know what I'd ask him, though, anyway. Aren't you cold in that shirt? Immediately springs to mind…and is just as immediately shot down. Bad question, very, very bad question. Bad questions are all that I can think of. Couldn't you find a real princess? Probably. Do I even want to know? No. No, I really don't. Questions. I have too many questions about the path my own life took to have room to worry about other people. Do I look like a therapist or something?

 

I can barely dismiss the notion though, before questions usurp my mind completely. How does a Japanese kid manage to watch so many Western movies? How does a person who has to kill people manage to stay so easy-going on their time off? How can you be interested in Me when you could have any girl in all of Tokyo?!

 

How can a single sentence give me such a big headache?

 

With my shoes newly defoliated, I no longer have an excuse not to look at Yohji. So I shut my eyes. I try thinking about the places we've gone, and not the company I've been keeping. Kyoto. Kyoto was nice, I'll have to take Aya there when she….

 

…Not a more helpful train of thought.

I think I saw a temple when we were walking through this park, I'll have to stop and fill out a prayer board for Aya. Prayer board…what was that Yohji wrote on one back in Kyoto? Something cryptic about a number.

 

And I suddenly find myself possessing a question I genuinely want to ask.

 

My eyes snap open and for once I'm not trying to divert them. “Yohji,” it seems odd actually saying his name aloud, I rarely acknowledge his presence with anything more ceremonious than a you, “what does `99' mean?”

 

His eyebrows go up in surprise, clearly shocked that I would know enough to even pose that question. “You don't waste any time with unimportant details, do you?” He laughs, like that was exactly the question he'd hoped I'd ask. The way his hand is nervously running through his hair says otherwise. I'm not going to answer. If he feels like giving me an explanation I'll listen. If not, he shouldn't be wasting my time by suggesting these stupid games in the first place.

 

“Ah….” he stalls for a minute, “This might sound stupid.”

 

I refuse to argue that statement.

 

“It's Agent 99. A character from an old TV show.”

 

Yep, that does sound stupid.

 

Not that I have any room to judge.

 

My silence increases his fidgeting. “It's nothing, really. I just always compared her to someone important to me.”

 

The past tense doesn't escape my attention. He's talking about the girl who liked cattleyas. He used the past tense then too. He goes quiet, challenging me to ask another question and keep the conversation going. I don't want to be so indulgent.

 

When he realizes that I don't intend to humor him he sighs and stands up. “Well,” he says, seeming to effortlessly brush off all the baggage that was burdening our conversation, “Nara's a big city, there's no point in just sitting in a park all day.”

 

The words she's dead echo in my head, but I keep it to myself.