One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl
Four for a boy
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret
Never to be told
– English Folk Rhyme
The Lord God loves all His children equally and He created each one with love. Right. As a confirmed atheist I can firmly state that the Bible is a book vaguely based on true history and stretched so far past the truth that it's second only to W. Bush's "good intentions" in the Middle East. In fact, the Bible is the greatest story ever accepted as fact1. But I'm not bitter.
I think I learned my lesson most when my parents decided to move me across the globe without even asking me how I felt about it. They told me to pack up and then moved me and my things all the way to Beaconsfield, England. Beaconsfield has a train station, a few streets, a few pubs, a Blockbuster and that's really about it. Of course, after four years, you'd think I'd have forgiven them.
Tell me honestly, would you?
Not only did they transport me without warning, but they tend to just forget that I exist. I'm an only child, and a mistake. I was a mistake. I don't even think my parents were going to get married, had I not been conceived. But good Catholics don't like bastards. Or something like that. Anyway, I know they don't love me. No, don't pity me, I've gotten used to it.
My parents are workaholics, they go, ritually every morning, to a fancy building on Old Marylebone Road, and I rarely ever see them. I have no idea what they do, but they think they're really good at it. They hold parties often, filled with co-workers and the lot, but I lock myself in my room the whole time, making myself as invisible as they pretend that I am.
I've gone to the same school for four years, from my eighth grade year to my Junior year. It's a fancy ex-pat school that goes from preschool to the thirteenth grade (I don't know what that is, either). My parents' company pays the insane tuition, and they can just send me off without worrying about me terrorising the Brits. As an ex-pat school, there are people from all over. Japan, Columbia, Holland, Texas...
See, no ex-pat knows how long they're going to be in any given place. Some of my classmates have been here for years and some for months. The end of each semester is teary, people cry over friends that are moving and the like. But there's usually a single unit of friends, about fifty of any given class, a class being around sixty, that stick together in some way or another. At least at school. Obviously, racial groups hang out together outside of school but other than that, it tends to be very informal and detached. Attachment means losing out.
During the day I hung out with the masses, there but not. They would talk, joke, and I would sit and, occasionally remind them that I was there. Mostly I spent time on my studying or my sketching. I didn't stick out but I didn't exactly fit in, either.
After class, when I got home, I would walk around outside a bit then settle down in front of my computer. (TV sucks in England. Sometimes there's a good special on the BBC, but mostly it just sucks.)
This was my life.
I was walking home, from the town centre, sometime in mid-September, listening to my ancient CD player. There were kids from school hanging about, it was bound to happen. We nodded respectfully no each other as I passed. It hurt, at first, to not have a bunch of friends to be with all the time, like I had at home. But the States were no longer home for me, and I was happy to have my alone time. Funny how things change.
My music played as I strolled through the town, past cars and across Zebra Crossings. I left the main road and headed down the littler streets to my own home. Right outside my house, in the front garden, sat two black and white magpies. Nonchalantly they sat, as if it all belonged to them. Two for joy, I thought to myself with a small smile. Not that I was one for omens. They flew off as I passed.
The two, red BMWs in the drive told me that my parents were both home, so I entered in the side door and headed straight for my room.
The magpies stuck in my head, for some odd reason. Maybe because it was rare that I saw two. Mostly it was one - one for sorrow - or a whole flock of them, usually attacking someone's rubbish; vile creatures. Maybe things were looking up for me? Then again, maybe not.
I went to school, as usual, and it was later that week that there was a new kid in my homeroom. It's possible that I wouldn't have noticed him, had I not been a keen observer of people. He was sitting with the other Japanese kids in my class, Yuki, Kado, Yui and Kanko, and talking as if he knew them already. I mean, I didn't understand a word they said, but they seemed to know each other well.
The homeroom teacher, Mr. Hudson, introduced him as Yasuo Rihatsu, before we left on our way. I saw him a few more times, having a small school means there are very few options in classes and, thus, classmates, the whole time he appeared kind and social. Very few are like that on their first day, more so when they start in the middle of a quarter. His broken English was surprisingly fluent, if not horribly mispronounced and he stuck in my mind through the day like peanut butter in the roof of my mouth.
He fell into the routine, same as the rest of us, and he joined the mass of people, talking mostly with the Japanese students, but also with whoever else was near. He was just another new student, in four years I had seen plenty. But he was more than the normal student...
I sketch. I don't truly consider myself an artist, not yet anyway. It's my goal to capture, on a single piece of paper, a human soul. Only the best artists can do that. Most only paint or sculpt, but I want create the most accurate account ever. I want for people to look at my work and think 'wow, the subject is alive' and I want the subject to be alive. Because that's how art should work. That's why I always look at people, and that's how I decided that my perfect subject would be Yasuo Rihatsu.
He would be a perfect subject, I somehow decided. I was a big fan of Japanese mystique and Oriental beauty. And he truly was a fine specimen of that. He had a thousand secrets that were hidden behind his brown eyes and red-frosted hair. I would discover them; I would paint him and all his beauty.
I smiled to myself as I practiced sketching him during study hall. None of them caught him enough for my satisfaction, but I didn't expect them to. I would prefect him though. It was a mission that I would complete.
Would you believe that I had never even spoken to him?
Well, not one-on-one. In the group that I've mentioned, yes, but that doesn't count. I loved the way his Asian tongue fumbled with foreign words, the way he blushed when he forgot a word or an idiom. But I wasn't about to tell him that.
There's a Smith's in Beaconsfield, and I had to restock my supplies there within a fortnight of his arrival. My project wasn't working out, but I knew it would take time and I told myself to be patient.
I continued to watch him as school rolled on. There's a small park near my house, and I would go there on the nicer days to sketch him. Sometimes he was actually there. He would play football with whomever so happened to be around. He was good, almost as good as he was at volleyball, or so I had heard. I don't go to school games, but he's on the team.
It was a cool, cloudy day that bore the threat of rain. A Sunday. There was a full football game going, it seemed, a bunch of Brit kids against my peers. The area outside the field was dotted with friends, cheering and having a jolly time. I sat on the sidelines, sketching and watching.
I suppose it was around noon when it started to rain. Nobody moved, rain is such a common thing in England that people learn to ignore it, and the game went on. I think the Brit team was winning, one-nil. I covered my book, but kept watching. I probably should have left, I tend to get sick easily, but I just stayed.
'Hello?'
I had dazed off at some point, I suppose. The game had ended and a brief search told me that most of the players and onlookers had left. Except Yasuo who was looking down at me, a football cradled in one arm.
In all my intelligence I just stared at him.
'It's raining,' he said, 'best to get inside, ne?' He offered his free hand to pull me up.
I nodded dumbly as I took his hand.
'You live close to me, want to walk together?' his words were more definite than they had been only a month prior but they still possessed the foreign lilt.
I considered for a moment before replying, 'sure.'
He smiled as he began to lead the way, still holding on to my hand. We had left the park before he spoke again, 'you do not talk much, do you?'
'No, I suppose I don't.'
'Why?'
I looked at him and saw his brown eyes searching my soul. I shrugged, 'I don't know, not much to say, I suppose.'
'I do not believe that,' he gripped my hand a little more before letting it go altogether. I whimpered a little despite myself. 'You are smart, you have a lot going on in here,' he pointed to his own head to demonstrate. 'You just do not share.'
'It's easier to observe.'
'I listen to you in class,' he confessed, 'so much to say. Talk more. I want to hear what you have to say. Interesting.'
He wanted to hear what I had to say? Since when did I say interesting things? I raked my brain. 'I'll try,' I promised.
'Thank you,' he stopped walking. 'I live here.' I followed his gaze to a house that looked older but better kept than my own. It was a pretty, Victorian-style house. 'See you tomorrow, Terrence.' He said my name like I've never heard it before, caressing the syllables, making them something more; I shivered as I watched him walk into his house.
The rest of my walk I wondered what he was up to. I guess I was confused, but I don't know if that's the right word. I just didn't know what to make of him, then more than ever. I knew that I wanted to talk to him more. However, I figured that I wouldn't have to pursue him, he would come to me, like he had.
I felt, then, like Tom in the cartoon. I had wanted Jerry, but Jerry was giving me some of my own medicine. It only made me want him more.
The next day was like any other. Class started, in a slow, Monday way and I saw him. He was sitting with a Japanese boy, talking rapidly, he paused in conversation to let the boy talk and he spared me a glace. He smiled softly and I turned my head to hide my blush. It wasn't the only time I felt his eyes on me that day either. The eyes are the window to the soul, indeed. Wednesday in gym we started badminton. Doubles. I usually waited until everyone else was paired off to pick my partner, but Yasuo came to me straightaway. There was an odd number of Japanese boys, and we were on the court with the other two from my homeroom, Yuki and Kado.
I'm not athletic. At all. I felt horrible playing with him, because we lost even though he was so good. He just laughed and told me not to worry about anything, that my skills would improve. Occasionally he chatted across the court to the other boys, but mostly he said things in English to me.
Maybe he liked me, I considered at first, but that made no sense. Because I happen to have horrible luck. So, he didn't like me, he must have felt sorry for me. Typical.
That unit, a few weeks, we were together in gym. It wasn't every day, but it was often enough make me anticipate and fear it. And I noticed that he was indeed listening to me during class discussions, slowly driving me crazy. I still didn't know what to make of him.
I had a big piece to do in my art class. It was supposed to be a big, abstract, 'feeling' painting-collage thing. At the start of it, I had depressed my art teacher, Ms. M., by going to collect the blue, green, purple and black acrylics. I just started painting. Some sketched or planned, but I just painted. I worked for a week or so, going in before school and during lunch to get some extra time in, the whole time not really thinking about what I was painting in my morbid colour scheme.
One day Ms. M. came up to me, watching me over my shoulder. I felt myself flinch. 'Who is it?' she asked, her voice slightly curious and awed.
I paused, looking at my piece. Somewhere just off centre was a partial face in blue, faded into the black background. 'Someone that's touched my soul,' I replied cryptically. She smiled as she walked off to look at others' work. I stared. I hadn't remembered painting him. He was less-than-perfect, still not possessing everything that he needed to, but, nonetheless, he sat contently on the canvas, staring at me, smiling in his shades of blue, hair tinted green in lieu of red. His likeness was at the very back of the painting, hiding nearly in the background amongst other shapes and figures. But he stood out more than the fence going diagonally, right to left, the black squirrel in blue just above the centre or the magpie lurking in the lower left corner.
Damnit! Why couldn't I get him out of my head? Even my unconscious thoughts were of him! Thankfully he wasn't in the class, I thought, there was no way I would have been able to explain it to him. But my mind still traced him. Imperfect! my mind shouted even as I stared at him, memorising him. The bell rang and I slowly covered my paints to be reused and stored my canvas on a rack.
It wasn't fair for him to be so damn gorgeous. It wasn't fair that I couldn't get any closer to him than I already was - watching quietly from a far, hoping to talk to him more, wanting to hear him caress my name again. The rest of the day I sat in my classes, of which I shared none with him, images flashing in my mind.
Why?
I have a severe hatred of snow and cold and winter in general. Seeing as I live in a Christian society, the winter means Christmas. Beneath all the toys and cars and advertisements there's a "Praise Jesus!" theme ringing throughout the season. Of course, the Jewish population is all off celebrating Chanukah for their eight crazy nights. I revoke the season, one where nearly everyone of nearly every religion has something to celebrate.
Well, everyone save me, because, when life hands you a lemon, you're screwed.
An American school in England doesn't need to comply to the religion-removed-from-education thing that the actual American schools do. So there are all sorts of Christian decorations around the school, including a large picture of Jesus that Penny painted hanging in the main entrance, the one with the double staircase in need of repair.
It's the most jolly of all seasons and I hate it passionately. Various racial groups display their traditions, such as the Swedish population and their St. Lucia Day parade. The good thing is that the teachers are often more generous around Christmas time, giving less papers and more group work, they know that we're all thinking about the Winter Holidays and two glorious weeks off. Of course, I knew they would give a paper or two to write during the hols, but doing it beforehand was counterproductive.
Let's talk about group work for a moment. I loathe group work. Mostly because I hate people depending on me, I always feel like I'm going to let them down.
Maybe because I often do.
Surprisingly, I wasn't put in a group with Yasuo. That didn't stop me from thinking about him, though. At that point, I was crazy breeching on obsessive. And the really wasn't reason for me to be. But then, it seemed with Yasuo, there didn't need to be a reason. How was it that he could bend all the rules? How could that have possibly been fair to me?
It was a game. Or so I told myself. It was a game we were playing. I didn't know any of the rules, but he was a master player with whom I could not compete.
I mentioned that we live in the same general area, right? Well, the literature teacher decided that she would give us a project to do over the Christmas holiday... With a partner, it we wanted to. Joy!
'Terrence,' he inquired, cornering me after class, 'you live near me, would you like to work together?'
Well, it would be practical, I told myself, as we lived so close to each other. Still I won't have rather did it alone, I argued. Articulate as always, I nodded at his request. He asked my number and told me he would call me. I told myself not to get too excited.
But it was too late.
My Christmas homework was done within a day, because, honestly, what else have I to do? My finished painting was in the corner of my room, leaning against a wall. If I sat up in my bed, I could see it. The cool colours were clashed against my white wall, and I stared at a perfect boy in imperfect painting.
By the third day, I had to buy new books again. Even though it had been days since I had seen him, his image still burned bright in my mind. I was a disaster. I was passed obsession.
He called me on the fifth day. No, I didn't have any plans. Yes, I could go over straightaway. Of course I had already drafted a little bit. I would see him in a few minutes.
I remember vividly where he lived from when we walked home together after the football game. Did you really think I would stoop to stalking? I'm obsessive, not creepy.
For all of its Victorian outside, the inside was like a traditional Japanese home. I took of my shoes upon entering, and was given a pair of slippers. I tried desperately not a look Yasuo in the eyes. He led me up a staircase to the left and into his room. It was, again, a beautiful mixture of England and Japan. In the far side of his room there was a built-in desk that housed a black IBM notebook. It was here that he had me sit, he took the seat next me.
We worked, as teenagers do on a project. That is to say, it was a slow progress. The project itself was fine, it involved writing an alternative reality script to do with a novel that we had read. I took my time to spend more time with him, though if he was slow for that reason as well, I couldn't tell. I had been there for about three hours it we were about halfway done when I had to leave.
'Tomorrow we can finish.'
'Same time?' I asked. 'Although, I doubt there's much more to do.'
'Same time,' he agreed, avoiding the other half of my statement. 'Thank you, Terrence,' he began as he walked me to the door. He left it hanging, though, making me wonder what he had wanted to say.
It was raining rather steadily, but they didn't affect the pace of my slow walk. Needless to say, I was very wet upon reaching my house and had gotten absolutely no where in my enlightenment.
I arrived the following day on time at his place. He looked a bit dishevelled, panting. I looked at him questioningly.
'I was going to make lunch,' he explained, rationally, 'but okaasan must have used all the rice.' I blinked and waited for him to continue. 'Go with me to get some more?' he asked grabbing his jacket.
He was going to make lunch, for me? 'Alright,' I agreed. It was just over a mile to the grocery in Old Beaconsfield, but it was a decent day (in that it was no longer raining) and I was in no hurry (as you should know by now).
We started, side-by-side, walking through the streets. 'You seem unhappy, Terrence,' he commented. A conversation starter?
'How so?'
He shrugged, 'lately especially, someone hurt you?' he seemed genuinely concerned.
'Not per se, no,' I shook my head.
'Per se?'
'Not really,' I translated. Trust the French to supply the English language with dreadful phrases that we hate yet use anyway.
'Not really?' Yasuo sighed. 'You're hurting inside.'
Again I shook my head, 'I'm okay, really. Just a bit...' I searched for the word, 'preoccupied.' More like frustrated.
'With school? But you're good at it, everyone knows that.'
With you... 'With lots of things, I think too much.' He seemed to take that as an answer. And drifted off the topic. He then starting talking about Japan and how it was different than England. What he liked and disliked. I listened to him intently, as he spoke. He was homesick, obviously, yet he had a mildÑbut growingÑcase of anglophilia. He talked of his friends and said that he kept in touch with them. He seemed to like the area and the school, but I knew that already.
All-too-soon we arrived at the grocery. He bought five pounds of rice in two bags, with the explanation that Asians eat a lot of rice. This I knew. I took one bag from him, to lighten his load, and we started back.
Somehow we decided to walk through the park on the way back. It was devoid of people and animals, but it was still green if not dewy. Suddenly he took my hand, pulling me forward as if to show me something. Whatever it had been was gone by the time I looked, and he sighed in disappointment. But did not let my hand go.
We continued walking, each holding a bag of rice and the other's hand. Then I stopped, so he stopped. Sitting, tauntingly on the football green was a single, dichromatic devil.
'One for sorrow,' I whispered.
Yasuo looked on, 'nani? ...what?'
I smiled and laughed at my foolishness, 'child's rhyme. Magpies are supposed to carry meanings depending on how many are there at a given time. One means sorrow.' I proceeded to tell him the others. 'It's silly, just a superstition. I hadn't heard of it until I came here, but the rhyme always comes to me when I see the damned birds.'
'It's not silly,' he comforted, 'maybe they do carry meanings.'
I blinked. Unsure. He said nothing more on birds or on anything else. We walked in silence the rest of the way, his hand holding mine faithfully. At his house he made a meal fit for four which, like teenage boys, we finished it off unhelped. By then it was past five, and we hadn't begun to work, not that that bothered either of us. We did go up to his room, but to listen to some of his music.
By the time I knew, I was bornI listened to the words, not understanding many of them, but still knowing their meaning. We listened together to his favourite songs as he told me more about his home. Of course, he was bound to ask me about mine;
Reason or quest, not being told
What do I do, what should I take
Words "God Only Knows" won't work for me
Nothing starts nothing ends in this city
Exists only severe lonesome and cruel reality
But still I search for light
I am the trigger. I choose my final way
Whether I bloom or fall is up to me
I am the trigger.2
'There's nothing to tell,' I shrugged my shoulders. 'I lived there, but now I live here.'
He waited for me to say something else, 'what about your family? What are they like?'
'My parents forget I exist,' I sighed, silently begging him not to pity me, 'so I pretend to be invisible.'
He didn't know what to say to that. His brown eyes told me that he was sorry for me, though he wisely said nothing. Instead, he pulled his notebook off his desk and onto his bed, where we were sitting.
'Let's finish the project,' he suggested, handing the notebook to me; I'm a faster typist.
As I had predicted, it didn't take long at all. We printed it out and Yasuo put it in his folder to turn in on the first day of class. Then we went back to sitting on his bed, listening to his music. He said less and I could feel his eyes on me, studying me. It was as if he had something he wanted to say and yet was having a hard time deciding whether or not to say it.
It was late, around nine, when I decided that I probably should leave; I didn't want to bother him anymore. He nodded and saw me out.
I couldn't sleep that night.
In fact, I had a sudden case of insomnia that lasted well though the holiday. My artwork, however, was improving, and I was working diligently on a sketch. This time, I saw him come to life on my canvas. Pencil to be painted over.
School started again, and Yasuo talked to me as he had, whenever he was presented with a chance. There seemed to be a lot of chances for him to. And he gave me a CD that he burned for me. It contained his favourites from Luna Sea, Malice Mizer, Shanza, Dir en Grey and L'arc en Ciel.
There was another project. We were put into groups of four and five to make a magazine of sorts. Yasuo and I were put in a group with Ryan and Astrid and we decided to meet at Yasuo's house. The project would take a while and a lot of effort to complete, and it was due in a month, just after the second semester was to start.
At the first meeting we decided the magazine's title and subject and started drafting articles and assigning jobs; I was to be the main artist. Then we decided to meet each Sunday until it was due, and then we could work in class together on minor details.
The second meeting was longer. We edited articles that we had written and started on an order. Yasuo brought out some Pocky, a snack, he claimed, that was popular in Japan. I stayed longer than the others, as I lived within walking distance, and, when I gathered my things to leave and said good-bye to Yasuo, I noticed him smiling faintly, as if he were satisfied.
I got home and looked through the work I had been given. I needed to either find or make some artwork for the articles. But there was a piece of paper in my pile that had most definitely not been there before. It was a hand drawn, almost cartoon-like, image of four magpies huddled in a loose formation. I stared at it, and I knew its artist; Yasuo Rihatsu.
Four for a boy.
I sighed. Four magpies. What was he trying to tell me? I stared at the picture in my hands, knowing that he used the rhyme I had told him to confuse me just that much more.
He didn't say anything at all that week about the picture. He smiled sweetly at me whenever he could, his eyes glowed brightly.
The third meeting brought a more finished product. Very little actually had to be done still, but I couldn't concentrate on that, at all. His mother made us some food, chicken fried rice, to help us work. With only one week left, we had the cover page, one article and a few advertisements to do and it would be finished. Astrid and Ryan were going to find a few advertisements a piece and Yasuo was going to write the last article. That left me to finish the cover page and then we needed to bind it.
They left, again, before I did. And, when they did, I stayed up in Yasuo's room, watching him watch me.
Finally he stood and padded across the room. He paused at the door, I thought he was going to leave, but he closed it quietly and came back over to the bed, where I was sitting. Without saying a word, he kissed me, and then drew back. It was over before it started.
'Are you angry, at me?' he asked, innocently.
I shook my head, trying to find my voice, 'no.' Do it again! my mind shouted. I reached for him, blindly, to make sure that he was real. He took my hand in his.
'Four for a boy,' he leaned forward and kissed me again, longer this time. Then he pulled me against him, holding me. 'The best thing about England,' he whispered in my ear, 'is that you live here.' He continued to hold me close until his mother called to him, asking if I had left yet (or so he translated) he called back, 'no,' but then told me that I had to leave; he would see me on Monday. He kissed me again and I walked home in a daze.
I didn't sleep that night, but for a different reason. I was painting him. I had my paints out on my floor, finally able to complete the masterpiece work. I finished around four in the morning, and just stared at it. Perfection. I smiled.
At school he came to me, 'I don't want to hide from others,' he meant our relationship ø whatever it amounted to at that point. And he kissed me lightly on the cheek. I practically melted.
Later he asked if he could come over to my place after school ø he said he wanted some help in math, I seemed to understand it and he didn't. 'Sure,' I said, my heart pounding.
'He said what? Does he understand all that we've done? Of course not! How could he? All he does is sit around all day and drink! What would he do if we weren't there to save his sorry, little ass?'
'Don't worry, it won't happen. They've budgeted for us to be here for at least five more years, they won't send us back to the States.'
'They better not! Because I won't go! And you won't either!'
When we walked in my parents were in the living room having a conversation. Their voices carried and, my spirits fell when I realised of what they were talking. Yasuo seemed to hear it, too. He followed me to my room and closed the door.
'He said they won't move you back,' he started. I just looked out of the window.
'I've never been fond of my parents, and they've never been fond of me. But I rely on them being employed to be here. If they get sent back to New York, then I go with them. I don't want to leave,' I admitted.
I felt him sit next to me and then gather me in his arms. 'They won't send you anywhere. You're not going anywhere.' He pulled my face to his and kissed me, successfully comforting me. 'You painted me,' he stated, obviously looking at my work, the collage and the one from the night before.
I turned redder than his dye, 'I... um...'
'You're amazing, Terrence,' he went towards them, to get a better look. 'Promise me that you'll ask me to sit for you next time.'
Dumbly I nodded.
'You are not leaving,' he repeated, returning to me. 'You're mine, and you're not going to leave, understand?' he purred, possessively and I shivered.
'I don't want to leave,' I cuddled back against him. 'Not ever.'
'Good.'
We got together after school for the rest of the week, at my place. We did a little bit of work, we talked and we made out. And he wasn't hiding anything at school, either. He wasn't into the PDA thing, but he would hold my hand in the halls and sit next to me at lunch. I felt like a giddy schoolgirl. No one seemed to disapprove, either.
It was Saturday and we were sitting in my room again, curled up against each other, when there was a knock at my door.
'Terrence, we need to talk,' it was my mother. Yasuo looked at me sympathetically and I untangled myself from him.
'I'll be back in a minute,' I promised him as I left.
My mother and my father were waiting for me in the living room. I couldn't remember the last time I had talked to them both.
'Next autumn you're going to a different school, one we haven't decided on yet. Our company is lessening our budget, so you're going to a boarding school,' my mother said.
'Bet you're glad,' I laughed, bitterly, 'you get to get rid of me a year early.'
'Don't you talk to her like that!' my father scolded, 'you will do as we say.'
I looked at them, each in turn, holding back my anger and hate. 'Is that all?' I stood. When they didn't protest, I left to go back to my room and Yasuo.
'Terrence?' he asked upon my return. 'They're not...?'
'No, but... they're sending me away,' I replied. 'Next year, to some boarding school.'
'In the United Kingdom?' he asked.
'I don't think they care... just one not here. Why? The point is I won't be here.'
He smiled and kissed me, 'trust me, Terrence. Trust me.'
Soon thereafter he left, telling me to come to his place about an hour earlier than the rest of the group the next day. I agreed, wondering what he was planning but knowing better than to ask.
He made lunch for me and it was waiting for me when I arrived. We ate quickly and silently and, as he was clearing the dishes, he told me to go to his room; there was something for me on his desk.
It was a pamphlet. About a boarding school. In Scotland.
'My parents were thinking about sending me there,' he came in and held me from behind. It's cheaper than our school, actually, and we could request each other as roommates.'
'You would do this... for me?' I was shocked. My parents might buy into it, and it would save them research time. Plus, I would get to be with Yasuo.
'You're mine,' he reminded me. 'At least, think about it. If your parents agree, then I tell my parents that I want to go.'
'Yasuo...'
'I can't let you go, Terrence, not without me.'
The other two came and we finished the project less than an hour after they arrived. Astrid took it home, to turn in the next day, claiming that she was a girl and, therefore, the most responsible. Yasuo kissed me before I ran off, just after them, to tell my parents about the school.
I can say there's a mutual dislike between my parents and me as often as I like, but I suppose that it would be hard for them to deny their only son something when they've never even been there for most of his life. They okayed the school, they only looked at two things; the cost and the location. Apparently it was cheap enough and far enough for them.
I called Yasuo and told him that I was coming by, that I wanted to go out for a walk. 'It's raining!' he said, but I told him I didn't care. He agreed.
We walked together, through the rain and through Beaconsfield, hand-in-hand. Our hair was plastered to our faces, but neither of us cared. We ended up in the park, underneath a tree. London may have been warmer than New York in the winter, but it was still cold. We started making out. Outside, in the park, in the middle of the rain, we started making out.
'They said yes!' I pulled from him for a moment to catch my breath.
'I knew they would,' he caught my lips again.
Sometime it stopped raining, and we ventured out from under the tree, the park was covered in a layer of mist, fresh from the rain. He held on to me like nothing else mattered. I might have been mistaken, but I thought I saw seven magpies sitting in a cluster at the edge of my sight. I smiled at the irony.
'Nan da?' he asked me.
I shook my head, 'silly superstitions again.'
'How many?' he whispered against my ear. I shuttered at the sensation.
'Seven.'
He just grinned, not having anything to say, not needing to. It was ours, this magick. And nothing was going to separate us. Not ever.
1. Shamelessly stolen from the Reduced Shakespeare Company's The Complete Word of God [Abridged].
2. This is from Rosier, by Luna Sea. The verse is actually in English, although it might be hard to understand.
The End
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