Life at 16 - 02/XX - AoiXRuki, RukiXAoi
Title: Life at 16
Chapter: 02/XX
Author: akichuu
Fandom: the GazettE, alice nine.,
Pairings: AoiXRuki, RukiXAoi, ToraXRuki, ReitaX??, possibly more to come.
Theme: 043: Son of a Bitch - Miyavi @ 50stories
Rating: For now, PG-13
Genre: AU (high school), fluff, romance
Warnings: Un-beta-ed mistakes, OOC-ness.
Disclaimers: I only own my funky brain and the amusing ideas it spews on daily basis.
Summary: High school: the epicenter of a human child’s adolescence, the most extreme twist in the roller coaster ride of life; the three years of the most remembered acts of foolishness, of teenage melodramas and adventures. Ruki, a 16 year old high school boy, gives us VIP seats to witness the many quirks of his daily life and the dilemmas of his youth as he reveals them in his journal. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.
Comments: Yes, I changed the summary just a little bit. My big mouth is conveniently shut for the moment (but I’ll babble at the author’s note XD) so I’ll just step aside now and let Ruki take over. He hates his life because it’s getting even more miserable than ever, but then a hero comes at the end, as you will see for yourself. Happy reading! :)
Read at your own cost!!! ~ socialriot's Personal Journal
Entry number: 772
Date: June 31st, 2008
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Hello.
If only I could make it audible instead of just typing it down, you’d know exactly I had meant it not as a polite greeting, but rather as a sad attempt at sarcastic humor. I’m getting good at it after 16 years of practice, you should know. Well, I didn’t mean to be impolite, and we’re just getting started. It’s Tuesday, the last day of June; and my life was ruined, today, even worse than the wreck that it had already been yesterday. Though, at the end, there was one rare, unexpected solace… well, before I get too far ahead of my story, let me tell you all about it, one at a time.
When the day started, I couldn’t have had any premonition just how my life could ever be demolished any further this morning, since it was bright and nearly cloudless and so very promising.
Tora picked me up right after I finished breakfast, and I jumped happily in to the passenger’s seat-though I still couldn’t stop wondering where my friend had developed this habit from. Lately he’s been keen on showing up on the front door without earlier notice, offering me a ride to school. The first time he did this (which was a month ago or so when he finally earned his driver’s license), I couldn’t help asking him if he was up to something or he would ask me to back him up in some stupidity he was about to do. He must’ve wanted something in return. It’s quite inappropriate to say something like that after you’ve received such kindness, but my mind is made of everything skeptical you can find on earth. There’s no salvation to this ordeal.
Haven’t I told you where he lives and how far it is from our house? It’s crossing the damn city, I tell you that. I don’t understand why he would put himself into all the trouble, because he’s never been like this before, not even when he’s still driving his motorbike-though I would’ve instantly refused had he offered me a ride on his bike, because there was no way I would ruin my hair for a trip upon that barbaric means of transportation.
Up to now he hasn’t given me a satisfying answer (other than a puppy dog look and a rhetorical “Can’t a friend be nice sometimes?”), so I’ve reconciled with the thought that he’s just showing off that new ride in front of me. I can’t say I’m jealous of it, if that is really his intention, since I don’t know how to drive a car anyways and Mama won’t let me learn before I’m in dire need of it. It is a fine car, red and shiny, and it does have its flamboyance and earns us some very envious glares every time we step out of it, but other than being a comfortable ride I can’t make myself to think of it as anything fashionable or ‘stylish’, the way Tora likes to put it.
I really don’t want to sound like I’m an ungrateful little brat (I am, but not always!), but I wish he would just tell me what’s going on in that weird head of his.
God… I’ve known Tora for years, since elementary school actually, yet I still feel like I’ve only met him yesterday. Earlier before we’d gotten close, I used to hate him. No, seriously. He was the silliest but most fearsome bully in class; no one would stand against him since he was huge (all of those Caucasian genes he inherited from his grandparent certainly made him grow faster than most of the kids our age) and he wasn’t afraid to say all of the harsh words neither of us, the poor, innocent children, had even heard of back then. He teased every other kid that was smaller than him, and that included me. I remember he called me girly-faced, sissy and all of its following synonyms, and in class, he liked to poke my back with the sharp tip of his pencil and unfortunately my seat was right in front of his, so that happened quite a lot. I believed I hadn’t one shirt that was free of holes, back then.
Well then, came one day that things got too far. It was the day when I committed my first violence against another human being-no, not murder, but quite close-and changed that person’s life for good.
It was in the middle of math hour and Tora was busy poking me again, and suddenly he stabbed me really hard and it felt seriously painful I thought I was bleeding. As a reaction to that, I screamed really, really loud; “Stop it, jerk!” or something like that. And I grabbed my pencil case, which, unfortunately for Tora, was made of tin can and was pretty heavy with every kind of stationery I stuffed in it; and then I hit his face as hard as I could with it. I swear to God there was a really loud clank when the case smashed against his cheek, or his ear-I couldn’t tell… I was really furious, right then and there, and couldn’t think of anything else but to make him feel the same pain he’d caused me. I guess I’d overdone it a bit.
Once I realized what I’d just done, I froze and dropped my pencil case to the floor, thinking that I’d just caused another kid a broken skull or complete deformation of his brain. I was going to prison. I was going to spend my lifetime in sentence. I was going to face death penalty, and they were going to fry me on the chair.
Well, obviously, that wasn’t how the story went; otherwise I wouldn’t have been here telling you all about it.
What happened afterward made me think, even to this very day, that I had permanently damaged Tora’s head. Probably not something visible from the outside, not like a dent or a scar, but it definitely was something inside his skull that I’d wrecked. I had always thought he needed to check that head of his, run a CAT-Scan on it or something. Too bad that he wouldn’t, so I couldn’t tell just how bad I’d hurt him.
After the racket, the whole class went so terrifyingly silent. I was silent too, staring at him, panicked, horrified that he wasn’t giving a reaction whatsoever. Had I smashed his brain to utter ruins? Was he dead? He just remained silent with his eyes wide, staring back at me. And then, after what it seemed like five minutes or so and just when I thought I was losing my mind, he suddenly spoke up: “Would you be my friend, Matsumoto Takanori?”
I suppose I did knock on something inside his head, something that worked like a switch that turned on the ‘good kid’ mode. He’s never been the same person after that incident; he stopped bullying the other kids, and he’s become the best friend I’ve ever had. To think of the positive side of it, I guess I’ve done the society a good deed by eliminating a future terrorist. But then there comes his unpredictable attitude and his deranged mood that I have to face everyday, and for this reason I can’t help thinking that I shouldn’t have hit him so hard.
Well, enough about Tora. He’s got nothing to do with the catastrophe I’ve mentioned above, yet I’ve talked so much about him as if he’s the main topic tonight. Let me cut it short, then, and go straight to the horrifying event.
In the second hour of Japanese History, that’s when it all started, right after Oshima-sensei finished her long and hardly meaningful monologue of the history of Kabuki. First of all I have to tell you that Oshima-sensei has been one of my favorite teachers ever since my first year in high school, and it’s not because she knows the A to Z, the smallest little details of our beloved homeland’s history. It’s because she wouldn’t say anything even if her students weren’t paying attention to her. We could even sleep through her lecture or do whatever we want, as long as we didn’t bother her while she discussed whatever had happened in the Meiji era with whoever cared listening to her.
She is also my favorite teacher because she’s very generous with her grades. I won’t even try to hide the fact that History is rather a weakness of mine-well, actually, anything that requires me to remember names and dates and locations is a weakness of mine. I could never tell which guy lived in what era, what war happened in what year, so during an exam, my answer sheets usually would contain nothing more but a bunch of crap-the worst but most suitable crap I could think of. And the funny thing is: I’ve never flunked the subject, though I know I screwed up my grades a dozen times over. Honestly, up until today I never know how she filled out our report cards and where she came up with the numbers from.
But there’s still one more reason why I like her so much: Oshima-sensei knows better than to give her students homework. Almost two consequent years of Japanese History with her, I’ve never once heard of her announcing an assignment or anything alike. I memorize her habit (and the ritual almost never changes): once her lesson ends, she’ll pack up, bid farewell and walk out the door. Not one word about homework.
Not today, though; today she seemed to be experiencing some kind of short-circuit in her head.
Ten minutes to the end of her hour, Oshima-sensei knocked on the blackboard with her knuckle and turned to us, grinning cheerfully in a rather scary way. Scary because she probably had worn her make up while standing up in a subway train and, with the bright red lipstick smearing all around her lips, I thought she resembled Cruella de Vil to a certain degree. All she needed to complete the appearance were the massive fur coat and the white streak on her hair, and she’s ready to go hunting little Dalmatians to their sad end.
“Alright, class,” she started, “it’s unusual, I know, but today I’m thinking about giving you an assignment.”
There was an eerie five seconds of silence, before the class burst into a choir of complaints. I, in particular, wholeheartedly sang the tenor part.
“Now, now, it’s going to be a fun assignment, I assure you!” she laughed, as if she was telling us the best joke of the year. “Since we’ve just talked about Kabuki, I want you to write an essay-ah, don’t worry! You don’t have to make a long one. 30 pages should be enough, I think…”
Again, the choir resounded. Tora shouted something like, “30 freaking pages? Are you kidding me??”
But Oshima-sensei continued with the same cheerfulness, as if she hadn’t heard us complaining. “The essay must contain your analysis-make it detailed now, children!-of a chosen theme or story that has ever been performed in Kabuki. There are hundreds of them; you can choose whichever you like: love stories, wars, comedies; whatever you deem enjoyable. I’m sure you’ll find it amusing to explore and understand the wonderful creativity of our ancestors’ minds.”
Understand the wonderful creativity of our ancestors’ minds? The one and only moment I’ve tried to understand the wonderful creativity of our ancestors’ minds was a long time ago, when I was still 7 or 8 years old. Mama took me and Reita to a Kabuki show; she seemed to think it would be funny to see her children’s reaction once we knew where she was taking us to. We’d begged her to take us to Disneyland, but there you go: Mama always has her own ideas of fooling her kids. We couldn’t protest once she made us sit quietly on our seats, and as the curtain rose and one of the multi-colored dressed actors showed up on stage, Reita fell asleep almost instantly.
I had tried enjoying it, really; I had tried my best because there must’ve been a reason why Mama took us there. In the end I gave up, because even trying to understand what the actors were talking about was impossible. When the play ended, Mama asked me which part of it that I liked best, and since I hadn’t the slightest idea what the story was about, I told her I liked the princess because she looked really beautiful. I wasn’t lying; I really did think the female cast was beautiful, with her long wig and her pink and red multi-layered kimono and the white make-up she wore. But then Mama laughed.
“The casts are all men, honey,” she said, “all of them, including that pretty princess you’ve just seen.”
I stared at Mama, thinking she had gone crazy.
But then, to prove her point, she dragged me and Reita backstage (apparently she was acquainted with the head of the Kabuki house-then again, she was acquainted with the heads of practically every entertainment center in Tokyo…), where all the actors changed clothes. What I saw then could only be described with one word: hideous. The princess that I said I liked because she was really beautiful turned out to be a man-a very manly man, at that; he got a rather stout body (that was disguised with the numerous layers of kimono he had worn to perform) and a rather rectangular face (behold the magic of make up!), and to my utmost horror, he spoke with the accent of freaky, old men I’d seen in the fish market.
I cried. Seriously, I did.
Thank you, Mama, for giving your son one of the most traumatic experiences he’s ever had in his childhood.
Alright, back to class then…
Now when the assignment had been announced, Oshima-sensei continued to do a lottery to decide who was going to be teamed up with whom. She was trying to be merciful, I guess, what with everyone kept complaining non-stop. 30 pages of Kabuki nonsense wasn’t something you could work by yourself, at least not for me, so I was a little relieved that the assignment became a group task instead of individual. I prayed she would let us determine our own groups, but apparently she thought it was more fun to do the arrangements by the game of fate, like the one she was doing when she wrote our names on the board and drew the lines between them until several three or four members groups were listed.
I read the scribbling on the blackboard and found “Okita - Morioka - Amano”. Poor Tora, I thought. That girl Morioka had been lusting over Tora ever since we started second year and driving him nuts with her determination, and with this arrangement being decided, Tora was certainly going to lose his mind (or his virginity, though I doubt that very much) before the assignment was ever done. And then, from Tora’s group, I continued reading the list on the blackboard and finally found my group. It was written two rows from the bottom: “Matsumoto - Nakano - Shiroyama.”
The first thing that came across my mind was: “Oh good, Nakano’s a smart kid. We’ll get the assignment done in no time!”
But then I re-read the list again, and I frowned. With all my might I held myself so I wouldn’t scream my shock out loud.
Don’t you ever think that fate is playing a very cruel game with your life? Well, I do. I always think so, because my life is nothing but one cheap comedy where countless old-school slapstick scenes and hardly laughable dialogues take place. Like the time when Mama and Papa announced their divorce in front of me and Reita, they made it sound like some kind of a hideous joke and seemed to want us to take the news easily and not so seriously. I was nine at that time, and once I got over the shock, I made a decision to never think of my parents the same anymore. They’re not normal, I’ve always known that, but before the divorce I hadn’t thought of them to be truly insane.
I wonder if the insanity runs in the genes… Oh God. Won’t that make me and Reita mentally unhealthy too??
The point I was trying to make is: fate twisted my life yesterday, and once more today, as if I deserved each and every stupid joke that my life was full of. Fate, for whatever divine slash whacky reason it has, is trying to connect my path and that Shiroyama kid’s and I think this, above all, is the most incomprehensible joke I’ve suffered so far. I thought I’d had enough horrors for being placed in the nightmare called core committee with Shiroyama (and that alone had given me constant headache so far), now I’m going to have to face him too in this team Oshima-sensei had just arranged for us.
What kind of a game is this? Why, at the beginning of a supposedly wonderful summer, do I have to deal with this practical joke? If God wants me to be upset, then God has done a very good job. A very excellent job, actually, because I’m more than upset; I’m furious. I’m depressed! I’m not trying to talk of blasphemy here (though I’m well known for it) nor that I’m blaming God Almighty for whatever it is I’m going through, and I do pray once in a while, believe me. Doesn’t that count for a little benevolence?
“Damn, Ruki,” Tora suddenly said, “You’re teamed up with that Shiroyama kid again.”
I glared at him, wishing I had a more lethal object than a tin can pencil case to bash his skull in with. “Yes, I know that, Tora,” I replied spicily, “I know that very well, thank you.”
Since I was turning to Tora’s direction, the sight of Shiroyama also entered my view. Quite appropriately, at that very moment, he was also looking at me, again with that bored expression he never seemed to take off of his face. I stared back at him, noticing his airy, nonchalant poise that was emphasized by the way he propped his chin on his hand. I wanted to turn away, because I would like nothing more than paying back what he’d done to me the other day, making it threefold, though I intended to do it in a more Julia Roberts’ stylish, supercilious way, if you know what I mean. But before I managed to move my head, he smiled.
Yes, bizarre as it may seem, he actually did smile. Well it was more like a smirk because there was only one corner of the mouth that turned up, not that I was paying too close of an attention of which corner, and even if I did notice it was the left corner, it would be totally accidental… However, he smirked. I thought it wasn’t the friendly kind of smirk (though what’s friendly and what’s not on his face, I wouldn’t have known… or cared); it’s almost like John Travolta’s smirk before he blasted the brains off the people he fooled in Face Off, that sort of thing, though Shiroyama didn’t make it half as awesome as Travolta did.
His smirk made me too shocked to come up with a witty enough response (flipping the finger at him or throwing a sharp object at him, for instance), and before I could do anything at all, he turned his face right away, making it the second time he did that to me! And then he was staring at the blackboard, looking sleepy and passive as always, like nothing had ever happened… like he hadn’t just offended me!
I’d never known it before I met him that some people could very well be born insolent, the genes thriving and evolving inside their DNA even before they popped out of their mothers’ wombs. Since it’s genetic, there is no undoing in their retardation in behavior and the way they socialize with others. It’s a special, unpublished case, I think, therefore not a lot of people know about this.
Still, knowing that fact didn’t stop me from wanting so much to walk to his desk and shove his little smirk into his jaws with my bare fist. Clutching at my desk instead, I glowered at his direction, though he was lost in his small world of ignorance and barely giving a damn about what I was trying to do to him-which was to drill a hole through his skull with my mere glare. It was a miracle that I still remembered about being civilized. Angry as I was, I knew it wouldn’t be the least funny if I went beating up a person in class-in the presence of a teacher and dozens other witnesses that would gladly testify against me-without a decent reason. Oh I could tell them this: “He smirked-that impudent brat! I got annoyed, so I beat the crap out of him!” though, I’m pretty certain, they would simply think I needed some professional aid.
And then, since being locked up in a four times four feet square cell and in queue for shock therapy wasn’t my idea of fun, I finally willed myself to look elsewhere-and noticed Tora who had been waving his hand in front of my face and calling my name for he only knew how long. I think I’ve responded in a bit unfriendly way, but he did choose a bad timing to be flashing his perfect white grin and blinking his perfect green eyes-damn Caucasian genes!-at me.
But then he said: “Shopping tonight?”
I instantly thought he was an angel coming down from the very bosom of Heaven to rescue me from the ordeals of this mortal world. And probably he was; since he had been so kind to abduct me and run off with me wrapped around his hand once classes were over, right before Kai had had any chance to take a grip on my nape and sit me down with the people of the core committee. I had heard him asking Komori to call up a meeting after school, just the four key members, to talk about the outlines of the plans for the class stand. I didn’t care what they wanted to do, and I believed the girls would do just fine without me-better without me, in fact!-in the matter of arranging the whole issue.
Shiroyama took off, too, I noticed. Not that I cared where he was heading to or paid that much of an attention to him, that idiot.
God… How on earth am I going to deal with this??
For some additional information, Oshima-sensei’s assignment is due in a week, and I have no idea how the hell I am going to survive that long. Having to review a Kabuki play is a bit of hard work, but I know I could manage it copying-no, I meant extricating it from an anonymous source (why hello there, wikipedia!) and making the report eligible enough for Oshima-sensei to believe that it’s the fruit of my own labor. That makes me sound so low, I know, like a shameless copy-cat sort of low, and I’ll be having a million and one legal suits against me if this happens to be a serious, public matter, but that’s so much easier to live with compared with the minion of boredom referred as Shiroyama Yuu. And what about the core committee! Do you think it’s a bit late for me to ask the headmaster if he could put me in some other class?
Misery, misery… and it doesn’t matter if Tora has just bought me a state of the art PSP (though I barely know how to press what button to kill which bad guy and when-God I hate consoles!) and a silver bracelet-well the bracelet matters, honestly, but that’s because it’s super cool and it has the most marvelous skull design for its chain, and a lovely, lovely skull pendant to add to it! But even with all those, the depression was truly ruining my mood.
But if it is really considered crucial, here’s my report of the night out: shopping with Tora went alright, if not a little embarrassing when he walked right up to a glass door and bumped his forehead on it hard-I knew I should’ve told him to keep his glasses on. But throughout the night I couldn’t help worrying about my future wellbeing, also scheming for mass murder while I was at it.
I’m sorry, Tora, you know I never meant to be such a whiny little brat. Well, actually, I am a whiny brat-I would never approve the word ‘little’!-and I believe you’ve known that since the day I bashed your head with my pencil case. But tonight of all nights, I suppose I’ve been overacting-overreacting… whichever. I didn’t mean to be such an awful friend but I guess I’ve been one, and I’m totally sorry…
He looked awfully hurt when he dropped me off at my place, so I just had to stop him from going away before I apologized. I did apologize-didn’t think I could be nice now, did you? His last text message assured me that he wasn’t angry with me, even if I’ve been so disrespectful after everything he’s done for me, but I want to text him again before I go to sleep later, fill it out with pretty words just to make sure. I really hate it when Tora’s mad at me-the free ride, the things he buys for me, you know, all of those little but significant benefits I get from hanging out with him; yes, yes, even the pleasant company he makes. I can’t afford to have a conflict with him, and I didn’t mean that in the financially sense. With all the calamity I’m bound to face in the next weeks to come, I suppose I’ll need his support now more than ever.
And who else I know is big and violent enough to beat the crap out of Kai and that Shiroyama kid? Now don’t think of me so badly; I never mean to use Tora like a bodyguard or some sorts. He said it himself that he would do whatever I wanted him to do, and I don’t think rearranging someone’s facial structures is too much of a hard work for him.
Ah well… I’ve poured my heart out and now I shall wait for the glorious demise I’ve been praying for to come and take me away from this misery…
… or not.
The night wasn’t over yet, and just when I thought I’d die from the suffering, Reita called me, and what we talked about on the phone brought a smile on my face-yes, the first after such a horrendous day!
“Baby brother, listen up!” he spoke up (imagine that conspiratorial tone of his voice when he said this), “Honestly, I couldn’t help but be intrigued when you mentioned the class stand problem last night, and also your theory of Kai trying to agitate me through you. Well, after a day of some high-tech and elaborate investigating, now I’m very much convinced that Kai is still planning to shove me off my throne and claim it as his. As if that bastard is ever capable of such mind-consuming thing in the first place… So, little kitten, I’m happy to tell you now that I agree to your suggestion, especially the one about putting our brilliant minds together and deflower-I mean, demolish Kai’s plan to ashes and dust. Oh, brother, you and your magnificent ideas… I particularly love the one where you wanted to set him up in a scandal that would wreck his reputation and even get him expelled-I know several girls in our school who would gladly admit they’re pregnant with Kai’s babies for the cost of quite an insignificant amount of money. Don’t ask me where I know them from, but they’ll come in very useful, don’t you think?”
“I don’t even intend to ask,” I replied, “I’ve known you all my life to memorize all of your little misfits and not think of them seriously. I’m not even surprised if deflowering-no, I haven’t missed that, Rei-chan-our enemy is listed in your mind as one of the goals you need to put your check marks on.”
“Now, now, whatever has given you that idea? Forget those gossips; you should just focus and be grateful that I want to be involved in your wondrous plan, my petite brother,” he said again (why does he always have to emphasize on the body size? Why???), “but isn’t it going to be more scandalous if we set him up… not with the female of our species, but the opposite? Edit that-I meant his species, since we’re like, two of totally higher beings, you and I. Yes, you’ve heard me right, cupcake. Why not taking it to the extremes if we want to destroy-no, not deflower, you have mistaken it, truly-a man’s life? Nothing sprouts greater disgrace than an authentic issue of the forbidden male and male relationship.”
And that’s when, for the first time today, I grinned wholeheartedly. “Rei-chan, my half-witted brother, I adore you… almost as much as you adore me, really. Now speak more of what you’ve mentioned, you know how I love to hear details… Oh we’re such geniuses we deserve a kingdom to rule!”
Aren’t we both the perfect fledglings of the Devil Himself? And the funny thing is: people think my brother is the ideal type of a high school boy and even appointed him as the Chairman of the Student School Board, thinking that he would set up a good example for other students to follow. But do you know what I think? I think we both should star in a sequel of Cruel Intentions (will it be the third or the fourth? I’ve lost count…) because with our talents of pure evil, we will definitely make the movie a bigger best seller than its predecessors!
Who could’ve guessed that Reita would be the one who makes me feel good and optimistic after such a disastrous day?
Right after I post this, I’m going to tuck myself in bed-oh right, text Tora first!!-and dream a pleasant dream. Sometimes I wish Mama and Papa didn’t get divorced so we would still be living under the same roof; it’s a little hard because I could no longer barge freely into Reita’s room and jump into his bed, especially now when I want nothing more than to talk about our ingenious plan till morning comes. But then again: thank God my parents are divorced. One crazy parent is enough for me to deal with, every single day.
Okay, I’ll be off now. But before that, I’ll let you know the text that I’m going to send to Tora: “My dearest, most awesome friend in the entire universe; once again I apologize for being such a pain in your ass today. I did have a good time, I mean it, and I totally love the bracelet! Oh right, the PSP too-I’m playing it right now, believe me. You’re more than welcome if you want to take me out shopping again and I swear I’ll behave really nicely. You’re the best. Thank you and all my love, Ruki.”
God, I am so proud of myself.
Good night.
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A/N:
- Been lurking around and found people talking about good/bad fics-and what do I think of it? Well, I can’t say that I took anything seriously. Oh my ignorant brain, I adore thee (*laughs*). I didn’t say a word there not because I didn’t care (well, I don’t… but, just to make my point…), but more because all I’ve ever intended, as I write, is to gain as many admirers entertain people in probably the only way I know how to do (besides screaming and growling on stage, kicking amplifiers and microphone stand along the way…). I guess I’m just… stubborn (can’t find a more suitable word for it). I like writing and I like it to be about whomever my mind desires (mainly beautiful boys that look hot, nekkid, together in my awesome mental vision-too bad for GazettE boys that they belong in this category…), there’s simply nothing that can change my mind about that.
- If you want to know about Ruki’s Mama, she’s one hell of unique woman (otherwise where did Ruki and Reita get their brilliant brains from?! Well, their Papa contributed too, but only in the part that controls monetary intelligence). She’s incredibly smart, loves art, does painting for a hobby, sells her perplexing stupendous creations at her very own gallery (where she holds an exhibition once every month), and she can’t cook to save her life.
My 50stories AoiXRuki project list is here
My other fanfics list is here
Chapter: 02/XX
Author: akichuu
Fandom: the GazettE, alice nine.,
Pairings: AoiXRuki, RukiXAoi, ToraXRuki, ReitaX??, possibly more to come.
Theme: 043: Son of a Bitch - Miyavi @ 50stories
Rating: For now, PG-13
Genre: AU (high school), fluff, romance
Warnings: Un-beta-ed mistakes, OOC-ness.
Disclaimers: I only own my funky brain and the amusing ideas it spews on daily basis.
Summary: High school: the epicenter of a human child’s adolescence, the most extreme twist in the roller coaster ride of life; the three years of the most remembered acts of foolishness, of teenage melodramas and adventures. Ruki, a 16 year old high school boy, gives us VIP seats to witness the many quirks of his daily life and the dilemmas of his youth as he reveals them in his journal. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.
Comments: Yes, I changed the summary just a little bit. My big mouth is conveniently shut for the moment (but I’ll babble at the author’s note XD) so I’ll just step aside now and let Ruki take over. He hates his life because it’s getting even more miserable than ever, but then a hero comes at the end, as you will see for yourself. Happy reading! :)
Read at your own cost!!! ~ socialriot's Personal Journal
Entry number: 772
Date: June 31st, 2008
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Hello.
If only I could make it audible instead of just typing it down, you’d know exactly I had meant it not as a polite greeting, but rather as a sad attempt at sarcastic humor. I’m getting good at it after 16 years of practice, you should know. Well, I didn’t mean to be impolite, and we’re just getting started. It’s Tuesday, the last day of June; and my life was ruined, today, even worse than the wreck that it had already been yesterday. Though, at the end, there was one rare, unexpected solace… well, before I get too far ahead of my story, let me tell you all about it, one at a time.
When the day started, I couldn’t have had any premonition just how my life could ever be demolished any further this morning, since it was bright and nearly cloudless and so very promising.
Tora picked me up right after I finished breakfast, and I jumped happily in to the passenger’s seat-though I still couldn’t stop wondering where my friend had developed this habit from. Lately he’s been keen on showing up on the front door without earlier notice, offering me a ride to school. The first time he did this (which was a month ago or so when he finally earned his driver’s license), I couldn’t help asking him if he was up to something or he would ask me to back him up in some stupidity he was about to do. He must’ve wanted something in return. It’s quite inappropriate to say something like that after you’ve received such kindness, but my mind is made of everything skeptical you can find on earth. There’s no salvation to this ordeal.
Haven’t I told you where he lives and how far it is from our house? It’s crossing the damn city, I tell you that. I don’t understand why he would put himself into all the trouble, because he’s never been like this before, not even when he’s still driving his motorbike-though I would’ve instantly refused had he offered me a ride on his bike, because there was no way I would ruin my hair for a trip upon that barbaric means of transportation.
Up to now he hasn’t given me a satisfying answer (other than a puppy dog look and a rhetorical “Can’t a friend be nice sometimes?”), so I’ve reconciled with the thought that he’s just showing off that new ride in front of me. I can’t say I’m jealous of it, if that is really his intention, since I don’t know how to drive a car anyways and Mama won’t let me learn before I’m in dire need of it. It is a fine car, red and shiny, and it does have its flamboyance and earns us some very envious glares every time we step out of it, but other than being a comfortable ride I can’t make myself to think of it as anything fashionable or ‘stylish’, the way Tora likes to put it.
I really don’t want to sound like I’m an ungrateful little brat (I am, but not always!), but I wish he would just tell me what’s going on in that weird head of his.
God… I’ve known Tora for years, since elementary school actually, yet I still feel like I’ve only met him yesterday. Earlier before we’d gotten close, I used to hate him. No, seriously. He was the silliest but most fearsome bully in class; no one would stand against him since he was huge (all of those Caucasian genes he inherited from his grandparent certainly made him grow faster than most of the kids our age) and he wasn’t afraid to say all of the harsh words neither of us, the poor, innocent children, had even heard of back then. He teased every other kid that was smaller than him, and that included me. I remember he called me girly-faced, sissy and all of its following synonyms, and in class, he liked to poke my back with the sharp tip of his pencil and unfortunately my seat was right in front of his, so that happened quite a lot. I believed I hadn’t one shirt that was free of holes, back then.
Well then, came one day that things got too far. It was the day when I committed my first violence against another human being-no, not murder, but quite close-and changed that person’s life for good.
It was in the middle of math hour and Tora was busy poking me again, and suddenly he stabbed me really hard and it felt seriously painful I thought I was bleeding. As a reaction to that, I screamed really, really loud; “Stop it, jerk!” or something like that. And I grabbed my pencil case, which, unfortunately for Tora, was made of tin can and was pretty heavy with every kind of stationery I stuffed in it; and then I hit his face as hard as I could with it. I swear to God there was a really loud clank when the case smashed against his cheek, or his ear-I couldn’t tell… I was really furious, right then and there, and couldn’t think of anything else but to make him feel the same pain he’d caused me. I guess I’d overdone it a bit.
Once I realized what I’d just done, I froze and dropped my pencil case to the floor, thinking that I’d just caused another kid a broken skull or complete deformation of his brain. I was going to prison. I was going to spend my lifetime in sentence. I was going to face death penalty, and they were going to fry me on the chair.
Well, obviously, that wasn’t how the story went; otherwise I wouldn’t have been here telling you all about it.
What happened afterward made me think, even to this very day, that I had permanently damaged Tora’s head. Probably not something visible from the outside, not like a dent or a scar, but it definitely was something inside his skull that I’d wrecked. I had always thought he needed to check that head of his, run a CAT-Scan on it or something. Too bad that he wouldn’t, so I couldn’t tell just how bad I’d hurt him.
After the racket, the whole class went so terrifyingly silent. I was silent too, staring at him, panicked, horrified that he wasn’t giving a reaction whatsoever. Had I smashed his brain to utter ruins? Was he dead? He just remained silent with his eyes wide, staring back at me. And then, after what it seemed like five minutes or so and just when I thought I was losing my mind, he suddenly spoke up: “Would you be my friend, Matsumoto Takanori?”
I suppose I did knock on something inside his head, something that worked like a switch that turned on the ‘good kid’ mode. He’s never been the same person after that incident; he stopped bullying the other kids, and he’s become the best friend I’ve ever had. To think of the positive side of it, I guess I’ve done the society a good deed by eliminating a future terrorist. But then there comes his unpredictable attitude and his deranged mood that I have to face everyday, and for this reason I can’t help thinking that I shouldn’t have hit him so hard.
Well, enough about Tora. He’s got nothing to do with the catastrophe I’ve mentioned above, yet I’ve talked so much about him as if he’s the main topic tonight. Let me cut it short, then, and go straight to the horrifying event.
In the second hour of Japanese History, that’s when it all started, right after Oshima-sensei finished her long and hardly meaningful monologue of the history of Kabuki. First of all I have to tell you that Oshima-sensei has been one of my favorite teachers ever since my first year in high school, and it’s not because she knows the A to Z, the smallest little details of our beloved homeland’s history. It’s because she wouldn’t say anything even if her students weren’t paying attention to her. We could even sleep through her lecture or do whatever we want, as long as we didn’t bother her while she discussed whatever had happened in the Meiji era with whoever cared listening to her.
She is also my favorite teacher because she’s very generous with her grades. I won’t even try to hide the fact that History is rather a weakness of mine-well, actually, anything that requires me to remember names and dates and locations is a weakness of mine. I could never tell which guy lived in what era, what war happened in what year, so during an exam, my answer sheets usually would contain nothing more but a bunch of crap-the worst but most suitable crap I could think of. And the funny thing is: I’ve never flunked the subject, though I know I screwed up my grades a dozen times over. Honestly, up until today I never know how she filled out our report cards and where she came up with the numbers from.
But there’s still one more reason why I like her so much: Oshima-sensei knows better than to give her students homework. Almost two consequent years of Japanese History with her, I’ve never once heard of her announcing an assignment or anything alike. I memorize her habit (and the ritual almost never changes): once her lesson ends, she’ll pack up, bid farewell and walk out the door. Not one word about homework.
Not today, though; today she seemed to be experiencing some kind of short-circuit in her head.
Ten minutes to the end of her hour, Oshima-sensei knocked on the blackboard with her knuckle and turned to us, grinning cheerfully in a rather scary way. Scary because she probably had worn her make up while standing up in a subway train and, with the bright red lipstick smearing all around her lips, I thought she resembled Cruella de Vil to a certain degree. All she needed to complete the appearance were the massive fur coat and the white streak on her hair, and she’s ready to go hunting little Dalmatians to their sad end.
“Alright, class,” she started, “it’s unusual, I know, but today I’m thinking about giving you an assignment.”
There was an eerie five seconds of silence, before the class burst into a choir of complaints. I, in particular, wholeheartedly sang the tenor part.
“Now, now, it’s going to be a fun assignment, I assure you!” she laughed, as if she was telling us the best joke of the year. “Since we’ve just talked about Kabuki, I want you to write an essay-ah, don’t worry! You don’t have to make a long one. 30 pages should be enough, I think…”
Again, the choir resounded. Tora shouted something like, “30 freaking pages? Are you kidding me??”
But Oshima-sensei continued with the same cheerfulness, as if she hadn’t heard us complaining. “The essay must contain your analysis-make it detailed now, children!-of a chosen theme or story that has ever been performed in Kabuki. There are hundreds of them; you can choose whichever you like: love stories, wars, comedies; whatever you deem enjoyable. I’m sure you’ll find it amusing to explore and understand the wonderful creativity of our ancestors’ minds.”
Understand the wonderful creativity of our ancestors’ minds? The one and only moment I’ve tried to understand the wonderful creativity of our ancestors’ minds was a long time ago, when I was still 7 or 8 years old. Mama took me and Reita to a Kabuki show; she seemed to think it would be funny to see her children’s reaction once we knew where she was taking us to. We’d begged her to take us to Disneyland, but there you go: Mama always has her own ideas of fooling her kids. We couldn’t protest once she made us sit quietly on our seats, and as the curtain rose and one of the multi-colored dressed actors showed up on stage, Reita fell asleep almost instantly.
I had tried enjoying it, really; I had tried my best because there must’ve been a reason why Mama took us there. In the end I gave up, because even trying to understand what the actors were talking about was impossible. When the play ended, Mama asked me which part of it that I liked best, and since I hadn’t the slightest idea what the story was about, I told her I liked the princess because she looked really beautiful. I wasn’t lying; I really did think the female cast was beautiful, with her long wig and her pink and red multi-layered kimono and the white make-up she wore. But then Mama laughed.
“The casts are all men, honey,” she said, “all of them, including that pretty princess you’ve just seen.”
I stared at Mama, thinking she had gone crazy.
But then, to prove her point, she dragged me and Reita backstage (apparently she was acquainted with the head of the Kabuki house-then again, she was acquainted with the heads of practically every entertainment center in Tokyo…), where all the actors changed clothes. What I saw then could only be described with one word: hideous. The princess that I said I liked because she was really beautiful turned out to be a man-a very manly man, at that; he got a rather stout body (that was disguised with the numerous layers of kimono he had worn to perform) and a rather rectangular face (behold the magic of make up!), and to my utmost horror, he spoke with the accent of freaky, old men I’d seen in the fish market.
I cried. Seriously, I did.
Thank you, Mama, for giving your son one of the most traumatic experiences he’s ever had in his childhood.
Alright, back to class then…
Now when the assignment had been announced, Oshima-sensei continued to do a lottery to decide who was going to be teamed up with whom. She was trying to be merciful, I guess, what with everyone kept complaining non-stop. 30 pages of Kabuki nonsense wasn’t something you could work by yourself, at least not for me, so I was a little relieved that the assignment became a group task instead of individual. I prayed she would let us determine our own groups, but apparently she thought it was more fun to do the arrangements by the game of fate, like the one she was doing when she wrote our names on the board and drew the lines between them until several three or four members groups were listed.
I read the scribbling on the blackboard and found “Okita - Morioka - Amano”. Poor Tora, I thought. That girl Morioka had been lusting over Tora ever since we started second year and driving him nuts with her determination, and with this arrangement being decided, Tora was certainly going to lose his mind (or his virginity, though I doubt that very much) before the assignment was ever done. And then, from Tora’s group, I continued reading the list on the blackboard and finally found my group. It was written two rows from the bottom: “Matsumoto - Nakano - Shiroyama.”
The first thing that came across my mind was: “Oh good, Nakano’s a smart kid. We’ll get the assignment done in no time!”
But then I re-read the list again, and I frowned. With all my might I held myself so I wouldn’t scream my shock out loud.
Don’t you ever think that fate is playing a very cruel game with your life? Well, I do. I always think so, because my life is nothing but one cheap comedy where countless old-school slapstick scenes and hardly laughable dialogues take place. Like the time when Mama and Papa announced their divorce in front of me and Reita, they made it sound like some kind of a hideous joke and seemed to want us to take the news easily and not so seriously. I was nine at that time, and once I got over the shock, I made a decision to never think of my parents the same anymore. They’re not normal, I’ve always known that, but before the divorce I hadn’t thought of them to be truly insane.
I wonder if the insanity runs in the genes… Oh God. Won’t that make me and Reita mentally unhealthy too??
The point I was trying to make is: fate twisted my life yesterday, and once more today, as if I deserved each and every stupid joke that my life was full of. Fate, for whatever divine slash whacky reason it has, is trying to connect my path and that Shiroyama kid’s and I think this, above all, is the most incomprehensible joke I’ve suffered so far. I thought I’d had enough horrors for being placed in the nightmare called core committee with Shiroyama (and that alone had given me constant headache so far), now I’m going to have to face him too in this team Oshima-sensei had just arranged for us.
What kind of a game is this? Why, at the beginning of a supposedly wonderful summer, do I have to deal with this practical joke? If God wants me to be upset, then God has done a very good job. A very excellent job, actually, because I’m more than upset; I’m furious. I’m depressed! I’m not trying to talk of blasphemy here (though I’m well known for it) nor that I’m blaming God Almighty for whatever it is I’m going through, and I do pray once in a while, believe me. Doesn’t that count for a little benevolence?
“Damn, Ruki,” Tora suddenly said, “You’re teamed up with that Shiroyama kid again.”
I glared at him, wishing I had a more lethal object than a tin can pencil case to bash his skull in with. “Yes, I know that, Tora,” I replied spicily, “I know that very well, thank you.”
Since I was turning to Tora’s direction, the sight of Shiroyama also entered my view. Quite appropriately, at that very moment, he was also looking at me, again with that bored expression he never seemed to take off of his face. I stared back at him, noticing his airy, nonchalant poise that was emphasized by the way he propped his chin on his hand. I wanted to turn away, because I would like nothing more than paying back what he’d done to me the other day, making it threefold, though I intended to do it in a more Julia Roberts’ stylish, supercilious way, if you know what I mean. But before I managed to move my head, he smiled.
Yes, bizarre as it may seem, he actually did smile. Well it was more like a smirk because there was only one corner of the mouth that turned up, not that I was paying too close of an attention of which corner, and even if I did notice it was the left corner, it would be totally accidental… However, he smirked. I thought it wasn’t the friendly kind of smirk (though what’s friendly and what’s not on his face, I wouldn’t have known… or cared); it’s almost like John Travolta’s smirk before he blasted the brains off the people he fooled in Face Off, that sort of thing, though Shiroyama didn’t make it half as awesome as Travolta did.
His smirk made me too shocked to come up with a witty enough response (flipping the finger at him or throwing a sharp object at him, for instance), and before I could do anything at all, he turned his face right away, making it the second time he did that to me! And then he was staring at the blackboard, looking sleepy and passive as always, like nothing had ever happened… like he hadn’t just offended me!
I’d never known it before I met him that some people could very well be born insolent, the genes thriving and evolving inside their DNA even before they popped out of their mothers’ wombs. Since it’s genetic, there is no undoing in their retardation in behavior and the way they socialize with others. It’s a special, unpublished case, I think, therefore not a lot of people know about this.
Still, knowing that fact didn’t stop me from wanting so much to walk to his desk and shove his little smirk into his jaws with my bare fist. Clutching at my desk instead, I glowered at his direction, though he was lost in his small world of ignorance and barely giving a damn about what I was trying to do to him-which was to drill a hole through his skull with my mere glare. It was a miracle that I still remembered about being civilized. Angry as I was, I knew it wouldn’t be the least funny if I went beating up a person in class-in the presence of a teacher and dozens other witnesses that would gladly testify against me-without a decent reason. Oh I could tell them this: “He smirked-that impudent brat! I got annoyed, so I beat the crap out of him!” though, I’m pretty certain, they would simply think I needed some professional aid.
And then, since being locked up in a four times four feet square cell and in queue for shock therapy wasn’t my idea of fun, I finally willed myself to look elsewhere-and noticed Tora who had been waving his hand in front of my face and calling my name for he only knew how long. I think I’ve responded in a bit unfriendly way, but he did choose a bad timing to be flashing his perfect white grin and blinking his perfect green eyes-damn Caucasian genes!-at me.
But then he said: “Shopping tonight?”
I instantly thought he was an angel coming down from the very bosom of Heaven to rescue me from the ordeals of this mortal world. And probably he was; since he had been so kind to abduct me and run off with me wrapped around his hand once classes were over, right before Kai had had any chance to take a grip on my nape and sit me down with the people of the core committee. I had heard him asking Komori to call up a meeting after school, just the four key members, to talk about the outlines of the plans for the class stand. I didn’t care what they wanted to do, and I believed the girls would do just fine without me-better without me, in fact!-in the matter of arranging the whole issue.
Shiroyama took off, too, I noticed. Not that I cared where he was heading to or paid that much of an attention to him, that idiot.
God… How on earth am I going to deal with this??
For some additional information, Oshima-sensei’s assignment is due in a week, and I have no idea how the hell I am going to survive that long. Having to review a Kabuki play is a bit of hard work, but I know I could manage it copying-no, I meant extricating it from an anonymous source (why hello there, wikipedia!) and making the report eligible enough for Oshima-sensei to believe that it’s the fruit of my own labor. That makes me sound so low, I know, like a shameless copy-cat sort of low, and I’ll be having a million and one legal suits against me if this happens to be a serious, public matter, but that’s so much easier to live with compared with the minion of boredom referred as Shiroyama Yuu. And what about the core committee! Do you think it’s a bit late for me to ask the headmaster if he could put me in some other class?
Misery, misery… and it doesn’t matter if Tora has just bought me a state of the art PSP (though I barely know how to press what button to kill which bad guy and when-God I hate consoles!) and a silver bracelet-well the bracelet matters, honestly, but that’s because it’s super cool and it has the most marvelous skull design for its chain, and a lovely, lovely skull pendant to add to it! But even with all those, the depression was truly ruining my mood.
But if it is really considered crucial, here’s my report of the night out: shopping with Tora went alright, if not a little embarrassing when he walked right up to a glass door and bumped his forehead on it hard-I knew I should’ve told him to keep his glasses on. But throughout the night I couldn’t help worrying about my future wellbeing, also scheming for mass murder while I was at it.
I’m sorry, Tora, you know I never meant to be such a whiny little brat. Well, actually, I am a whiny brat-I would never approve the word ‘little’!-and I believe you’ve known that since the day I bashed your head with my pencil case. But tonight of all nights, I suppose I’ve been overacting-overreacting… whichever. I didn’t mean to be such an awful friend but I guess I’ve been one, and I’m totally sorry…
He looked awfully hurt when he dropped me off at my place, so I just had to stop him from going away before I apologized. I did apologize-didn’t think I could be nice now, did you? His last text message assured me that he wasn’t angry with me, even if I’ve been so disrespectful after everything he’s done for me, but I want to text him again before I go to sleep later, fill it out with pretty words just to make sure. I really hate it when Tora’s mad at me-the free ride, the things he buys for me, you know, all of those little but significant benefits I get from hanging out with him; yes, yes, even the pleasant company he makes. I can’t afford to have a conflict with him, and I didn’t mean that in the financially sense. With all the calamity I’m bound to face in the next weeks to come, I suppose I’ll need his support now more than ever.
And who else I know is big and violent enough to beat the crap out of Kai and that Shiroyama kid? Now don’t think of me so badly; I never mean to use Tora like a bodyguard or some sorts. He said it himself that he would do whatever I wanted him to do, and I don’t think rearranging someone’s facial structures is too much of a hard work for him.
Ah well… I’ve poured my heart out and now I shall wait for the glorious demise I’ve been praying for to come and take me away from this misery…
… or not.
The night wasn’t over yet, and just when I thought I’d die from the suffering, Reita called me, and what we talked about on the phone brought a smile on my face-yes, the first after such a horrendous day!
“Baby brother, listen up!” he spoke up (imagine that conspiratorial tone of his voice when he said this), “Honestly, I couldn’t help but be intrigued when you mentioned the class stand problem last night, and also your theory of Kai trying to agitate me through you. Well, after a day of some high-tech and elaborate investigating, now I’m very much convinced that Kai is still planning to shove me off my throne and claim it as his. As if that bastard is ever capable of such mind-consuming thing in the first place… So, little kitten, I’m happy to tell you now that I agree to your suggestion, especially the one about putting our brilliant minds together and deflower-I mean, demolish Kai’s plan to ashes and dust. Oh, brother, you and your magnificent ideas… I particularly love the one where you wanted to set him up in a scandal that would wreck his reputation and even get him expelled-I know several girls in our school who would gladly admit they’re pregnant with Kai’s babies for the cost of quite an insignificant amount of money. Don’t ask me where I know them from, but they’ll come in very useful, don’t you think?”
“I don’t even intend to ask,” I replied, “I’ve known you all my life to memorize all of your little misfits and not think of them seriously. I’m not even surprised if deflowering-no, I haven’t missed that, Rei-chan-our enemy is listed in your mind as one of the goals you need to put your check marks on.”
“Now, now, whatever has given you that idea? Forget those gossips; you should just focus and be grateful that I want to be involved in your wondrous plan, my petite brother,” he said again (why does he always have to emphasize on the body size? Why???), “but isn’t it going to be more scandalous if we set him up… not with the female of our species, but the opposite? Edit that-I meant his species, since we’re like, two of totally higher beings, you and I. Yes, you’ve heard me right, cupcake. Why not taking it to the extremes if we want to destroy-no, not deflower, you have mistaken it, truly-a man’s life? Nothing sprouts greater disgrace than an authentic issue of the forbidden male and male relationship.”
And that’s when, for the first time today, I grinned wholeheartedly. “Rei-chan, my half-witted brother, I adore you… almost as much as you adore me, really. Now speak more of what you’ve mentioned, you know how I love to hear details… Oh we’re such geniuses we deserve a kingdom to rule!”
Aren’t we both the perfect fledglings of the Devil Himself? And the funny thing is: people think my brother is the ideal type of a high school boy and even appointed him as the Chairman of the Student School Board, thinking that he would set up a good example for other students to follow. But do you know what I think? I think we both should star in a sequel of Cruel Intentions (will it be the third or the fourth? I’ve lost count…) because with our talents of pure evil, we will definitely make the movie a bigger best seller than its predecessors!
Who could’ve guessed that Reita would be the one who makes me feel good and optimistic after such a disastrous day?
Right after I post this, I’m going to tuck myself in bed-oh right, text Tora first!!-and dream a pleasant dream. Sometimes I wish Mama and Papa didn’t get divorced so we would still be living under the same roof; it’s a little hard because I could no longer barge freely into Reita’s room and jump into his bed, especially now when I want nothing more than to talk about our ingenious plan till morning comes. But then again: thank God my parents are divorced. One crazy parent is enough for me to deal with, every single day.
Okay, I’ll be off now. But before that, I’ll let you know the text that I’m going to send to Tora: “My dearest, most awesome friend in the entire universe; once again I apologize for being such a pain in your ass today. I did have a good time, I mean it, and I totally love the bracelet! Oh right, the PSP too-I’m playing it right now, believe me. You’re more than welcome if you want to take me out shopping again and I swear I’ll behave really nicely. You’re the best. Thank you and all my love, Ruki.”
God, I am so proud of myself.
Good night.
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A/N:
- Been lurking around and found people talking about good/bad fics-and what do I think of it? Well, I can’t say that I took anything seriously. Oh my ignorant brain, I adore thee (*laughs*). I didn’t say a word there not because I didn’t care (well, I don’t… but, just to make my point…), but more because all I’ve ever intended, as I write, is to gain as many admirers entertain people in probably the only way I know how to do (besides screaming and growling on stage, kicking amplifiers and microphone stand along the way…). I guess I’m just… stubborn (can’t find a more suitable word for it). I like writing and I like it to be about whomever my mind desires (mainly beautiful boys that look hot, nekkid, together in my awesome mental vision-too bad for GazettE boys that they belong in this category…), there’s simply nothing that can change my mind about that.
- If you want to know about Ruki’s Mama, she’s one hell of unique woman (otherwise where did Ruki and Reita get their brilliant brains from?! Well, their Papa contributed too, but only in the part that controls monetary intelligence). She’s incredibly smart, loves art, does painting for a hobby, sells her perplexing stupendous creations at her very own gallery (where she holds an exhibition once every month), and she can’t cook to save her life.
My 50stories AoiXRuki project list is here
My other fanfics list is here