Disclaimer: We do not own anything. We are hermits who live in a cave in Idaho.

Notes: This is not a reincarnation fic!! **gasp!!** But seriously, it's not. It's a What If Fic. **nodnod** What if….Miaka were from the Universe of the Four Gods, and all the others lived in our world? ^_~ Dun dun dunnnnnn!!!!

Special Note: This fic is posted on March 10 in honor of Nuriko's BIRTHDAYYYYYY!!!! **brings forth cake, presents, hats, confetti, and Hotohori** Anyhooooo…we hope you guys enjoy this ^_^

Written In the Stars

by Purple Mouse and Ryuen

Chapter One

Part I

~*~Saihitei~*~

It came to me without warning, without any psychological trigger at all…and I knew it was real.

For some reason, I knew…which is strange, really, because on the rare occasions during which I do dream, I have no problems at all separating fantasy from reality. The fact that this one never left me with a doubt in my mind was proof enough for me that it was, indeed, some sort of message.

…A message…

SUZAKU NO SHICHISEISHI HOTOHORI.

That's me. It's me, somehow.

The world is black, pure, smothering black, and I am stable, yet floating. Then again, perhaps it is the world that is floating, and not me at all. The air around me is warm, and a slight breeze tickles my face, and I think with sudden wonder that I have never had a dream this vivid before. Strange. Strange, indeed…

SUZAKU NO SHICHISEISHI HOTOHORI. HEED MY WORDS AND KNOW YOUR DESTINY.

The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere, gentle, lilting and strong. Its tone is like a whisper, but it seems to shout within me. And then, a strange, red disc appears before my eyes, hovering like a bubble. The blended colors sharpen, contract, and I realize that the disc is a word. A kanji symbol. I can read kanji—some, anyway—but even if I did not have that skill, I think I would still have been able to understand what it stood for…

Sei.

Star.

And in a split second, the light has moved INSIDE of me…has entered me somehow, and spreads its warmth through me. The left side of my throat suddenly feels very hot; there is a flash of brightness, and then…

…The others.

There are other kanji, other symbols, which do not belong to me. They move so quickly, I cannot see all of them clearly, but I recognize…Wing. Well. And with every shining word there comes a face—faces I have never seen before. A young boy with large eyes. A man, about my own age, with flaming red hair that rivals the glow surrounding me. And then, briefly, there is something familiar… someONE familiar--a young girl with long, violet-colored hair and haunted eyes…and the symbol of Willow.

I know her. I know that girl…

GATHER THE SEVEN STARS OF SUZAKU, HOTOHORI. GATHER THEM TO YOU, SO THAT YOU MIGHT SUMMON ME, AND SAVE YOUR WORLD…

"Who are you?" I ask quietly, scanning the blackened sky.

I AM THE GOD SUZAKU-SEIKUN, OF WHOM YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED SERVANT. SPEED QUICKLY ON YOUR WAY, HOTOHORI. TIME DRAWS CLOSE, AND THERE IS NO OTHER WAY.

GATHER THE SEVEN STARS OF SUZAKU.

And then…

Nothing.

The dream left me softly, slid away like a silken sheet; I laid there in the darkness of my bedroom and stared.

Ryuuen.

That was her name. The face I had seen, those deep, rose-colored eyes, belonged to a girl named Ryuuen; she was my age, and I knew her from my creative writing class. But why had she been in my dream? What did that mean?

Gather the Seven Stars of Suzaku.

Raising a hand to my forehead, I let out a slow breath.

It's real.

I've been trained all my life to be sensible. I had sensible hopes, sensible goals, a sensible major that would prepare me for a sensible job. There was no room in my world for fantasies. I didn't like it, but I had gotten used to it. And so there was no point at all in believing my dream to be anything more than it was. But for some reason, it would not let itself be dismissed.

It was as if the dream had a mind of its own. Every time I succeeded in driving it from my mind, hoping that, perhaps, I could still get some more sleep that night, it surged back again, like it was angry for being ignored.

With a groan, I squinted at the digital clock beside my bed, which was blinking a neon green "5:03." You've got to be kidding me, I moaned in my head, I just went to sleep four hours ago, and my first class isn't until noon! What's more, I hadn't been sleeping well at all in the past few weeks, and I couldn't explain why. However, in any event, I began to consider taking a sleeping pill; only one would do the trick, and I could set my alarm to prevent oversleeping.

Yes. That would work.

SUZAKU NO SH…

AAAAHHHH, anything to get away from that voice!

My consideration quickly and efficiently transformed itself into a decision, and I stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom to get my pill. Flipping the light on, I peered groggily at my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, and thought morosely that I looked like a member of a heavy metal band when my hair had been slept on. I hurriedly flipped the cabinet open, removed my medicine, shut it again, and was about to ingest the badly-needed drug, when…

…there was a glare on the mirror.

And it wasn't from the bathroom light. It wasn't even from the bedroom light, which I'd flipped on unconsciously as I'd left my bed.

It was red. And it was coming from me.

The sleeping aid dropped numbly to the floor with the tiny click of talc on tile, and my hand raised slowly to my throat. I brushed two fingers tentatively against the red mark that had suddenly appeared there, afraid that it might hurt…but it didn't. I checked my fingers for blood, but there was none. It felt normal…like normal skin, if slightly warmer. And with the cool flutter of realization spreading through my chest, I saw that it was the kanji for Star. The one from my dream.

I actually pinched myself, but I didn't wake up, because I wasn't asleep.

And I knew, once and for all, that the dream had been real.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

But what did it MEAN?? I asked myself frantically, once my powers of thought had returned. I had gone through my morning preparations as if I were a ghost, and no longer looked like a drug-addicted member of Def Leppard. However, even this knowledge was not enough to ease my worries, and did nothing to answer all the questions I had. Right now, the only thing of which I was certain was that—somehow—I was supposed to find six other people, the Seven Stars of Suzaku, if you will, who had the same symbol as I did. No, not the same symbol; the dream had shown me several different kanji. But people who had a symbol. A red, glowing word, somewhere on their bodies.

And, luckily enough, I had the first of them already.

Ryuuen had a symbol, too. That had to be the reason for her presence in the dream. I didn't know exactly how I was going to ask her about it, or exactly what I was going to do if she denied it. If she said that, yes, she had gotten a mysterious red marking overnight, that was good and well; but if she claimed she hadn't, I was in a tight spot. If she was telling the truth, then I would have to readdress the reality of the dream in question, but I would have to have proof that she was telling the truth, and I couldn't very well just go up to a girl and tear her clothes off.

The only sane thing to do would be to cross that bridge when I came to it, and hope that, perhaps, I wouldn't need to cross it at all.

She was a nice girl, Ryuuen, if a bit on the antisocial side. Very pretty, if one happened to be interested in that kind of thing. We were friends, I suppose, of a sort; more like acquaintances, really, but on the friendly end of the spectrum. I'd met her in Creative Writing at the beginning of the year, a week or so into the semester, under…less than flattering circumstances…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I took a seat next to the girl with the long, purple braid, and nodded at her politely. She seemed surprised, and blushed prettily before giving me a slight smile in return; immediately, I began to have regrets about the nod, because I didn't want her to take it the wrong way. I didn't want to appear as though I were flirting, which I certainly was not. She seemed nice enough, but women were not exactly where my…interests lay, in a manner of speaking, and enough of them had fallen in love with me that it grew tiresome after a while.

The bell rang shortly after my arrival, and the professor strode airily to the front of the room. I barely knew the man, but already, I didn't like him. He was of the sort that would have thrived at obscure coffee houses in the nineteenth century: skinny, haughty, and sharp-tongued.

"I trust you have all completed your written assignments for today," he said, lifting his nose slightly in the air.

Silence from the classroom. Did he want us to respond to that?

"Very well, let's see some of them." And he selected a random girl from the third row, collected her assignment, and read a part of it aloud, offering a lovely gift of biting criticism at the end.

I was horrified. I certainly hadn't expected this! Quickly glancing at the pathetic little poem I had composed, I winced at the number of faults that a man like Professor Mitchell would find in it. I loved to write, but was resigned to the fact that I really was not very good at it. I'd enrolled in this class with the hopes of improving what little talent I had, not having counted on the man in charge being such a…well, Demon from the Depths of Hell about does it, I suppose. The best thing I could do was cross my fingers and pray, to whichever God who would listen, that he would not choose my work to read out l…

"Ahhh, Mr. Seishuku…" and the paper was slowly slid from my desk. "Let's see what wondrous creative work you have produced for our listening pleasure, now, shall we?"

Not for the first time in my life, I wanted to die.

Of course, the final assessment was that the worth of my poem was below that of compost. The subject was obscure, the metaphor atrocious…and, sin of sins in the world of Modern Poetry, it RHYMED. Mitchell made some final scathing comments concerning better uses for the paper upon which the poem had been printed, and dropped it back down on my desk as if it were something positively revolting. For my part, I attempted to maintain my dignity. But it was difficult. I was, however, EXTREMELY grateful that my public ridicule was now over. The only thing was, that meant that the wrath of Professor Mitchell would be focused somewhere else…

"And how have you fared, Miss Chou? Slightly better than your neighbor, I would hope."

My eyes darted sympathetically over to Ryuuen, who looked up in surprise as the disgusting man snatched her work, then turned worried, apologetic eyes to me. We made eye contact for maybe three seconds before her gaze dropped down to her desk, and Mitchell began to read…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The phone rang, jerking me out of the recent past and into the sparse calmness of my apartment. I blinked a few times, trying to get used to living in the physical world once more, and managed to make it to the phone before the answering machine kicked in.

"H…hello?"

"Saaaaaaaaaai!!!"

I winced. Ohhhhh, how I winced. For it was Celine, my impossibly peppy and extremely squeaky cover girlfriend. She was a sweet girl, she really was. She was smart, despite the fact that she came off as slightly ditzy at times, and had a nice sense of humor. My parents adored her, and I cared for her very much. Not that I would even have had a girlfriend if not for them, but that is quite beside the point. However…now was not a favorable time to hear her voice. I was tired of pretending I cared for her more than I actually did, in a different way than I actually did, and that on top of this newfound Dream Duty was, as one might imagine, a bit of a strain. But I managed to keep my voice level as I returned her energetic greeting.

"Oh, Celine! Good morning."

She giggled. "I was just calling you to remind you, you offered to give me a ride to class this morning. Is that still okay?"

Ah! I'd forgotten. "Of course. What time's your class, again?"

"Nine. Are you sure it's still okay, Sai? Because I can take the bus…"

"No, no. I don't mind, really. And I said I would." I glanced at my wristwatch, and was amazed to find that three whole hours had passed since I had been awakened from the dream. "I'll, ahh…I'll be over in about half an hour, all right?"

"That's perfect. Thanks, babe." She made a loud kissing noise into the phone, and I shut my eyes and drew my eyebrows together. "See ya soon! Love ya!"

So, my morning had been decided for me. On my way to pick up Celine, I decided that, the sooner I confronted Ryuuen about a possible glowing Chinese symbol infestation, the better. I'd see her tonight, I thought…I'd set a study date, or something. Anything. But I had to see her tonight…

~*~Ryuuen~*~

There was darkness. I couldn't see anything moving around me, but I had the impression of being moved, of being drawn up out of my body and swept away into a night so thick that it was hard to breathe. And, then, suddenly, the darkness got larger, somehow, not so much in my vision as in my mind, and I felt something like a great warm breath on my cheeks—a tropical wind, a puff of heated air against a chill like winter. And, then, he was around me and in me and there was a crimson mist in place of the blackness, and I wasn't afraid.

He spoke, but not to me. His voice was a rumble of life and death, loud and jarring but somehow soothing at the same time, and I knew that I belonged to him even before the word "god" trickled into my mind. And, then, there was a flash of a vaguely-familiar face—smooth, bronzed skin, slender dark eyebrows, eyes of glittering amber, all bathed in a warm red glow—and I felt the dream fading, felt myself falling back into reality—

The alarm clock was screeching.

Shaking and covered in a cold sweat, I threw the blankets onto the floor and sat up. I hated the sound alarm clocks made, I really did. It was grating and jarring and made me want to clamp my hands over my ears and scream--even so, I didn't make a move to turn it off for several minutes, sitting there on the edge of my bed with my eyes closed and my hand pressed up over them. I was still trembling, and weirdly enough, it wasn't from fear. It was a feeling unlike any I'd ever experienced before, and I found myself thinking that if I could just sit here and focus on the feeling for long enough, I might be able to muddle through its meaning, make some sense of that weird, surreal dream...

Unfortunately, I never got the chance, as the girl next door had started to pound her fists against the wall.

"Okay, okay!" I shouted, pulling the hand from my eyes and standing up. "I'll shut it off! Sorry!"

The pounding stopped. Sighing, I straightened the rumpled satin of my pajamas, flipped a mass of violet hair over my shoulders, and trudged over to the desk. I'd been kind of distracted lately, so I hadn't gotten around to cleaning up, yet--to reach the alarm, I had to pick my way over mixed mounds of jeans, tank tops, T-shirts, and ankle-length skirts, as well as the remains of the care package Aunt Melanie'd sent me and a pile of colored notecards that'd somehow spilled into a Go Fish pattern on the carpet. Finally, bleary-eyed and getting depressed at the thought of all the cleaning ahead of me, I stopped at the desk and slammed my hand down hard on the alarm clock--

--and blinked in shock. "What the…?"

Frowning, I lifted my hand from the desk top, dropped to my knees to peer at the remains of the clock. Shards of black plastic and a bundle of squished red and black wires lay scattered on the edge of the desk, still quivering slightly from the impact of my hand, and from the rusty splotches…

A little shakily, I lifted my right hand. Sure enough, my palm was bleeding, and in more than one place.

What kind of a stupid cheap alarm clock…? Geez, I hadn't hit it that hard. That's the last time I buy one of these things at the dollar store…

As washing the blood off suddenly seemed like a good idea, I stood up and walked over to the closet, then grabbed my shower stuff and headed for the door. If there was one thing I hated more than alarm clocks, it was showering…but, since I also hated smelling like a basket of old socks, it'd become one my daily rituals over the last few years. At least, it was still early--only about seven thirty--and, if the few girls I'd met in my hall so far were any indication, I wasn't going to have much competition for the single shower. Which was good, because there was no way in hell I was gonna use the group shower. Shudder.

I slipped out into the hall with my bloodied hand pressed up against my chest, a basket of Bath & Body Works stuff dangling from my wrist and a towel slung over my shoulder. The hall itself was, as I'd expected, pretty empty at this hour. I could hear the echo of somebody's Puddle of Mudd CD blaring from the guys' half of the floor, but other than that, there wasn't much sign of life. Not that I'd expected to find the place crawling with activity, or something…but, I don't know, the lack of life was kind of creepy—especially since the handicapped shower, the only one with any kind of privacy in the whole place, was way down at the end of the hallway where all the empty rooms were…

Despite my worries, I made it to the shower without being attacked or molested, and went inside feeling jumpy but a little more at ease. The room itself was set up like a pretty typical bathroom, with a toilet, sink, and mirror in one corner, and the massive handicapped shower in the other. Of course, it smelled like Lysol and had a bizarre green fungus growing in the corner, but then, that was what shower shoes and scented body wash were for, right?

I dropped my basket onto the floor and got the water started—it always took a little while to warm up, especially in the mornings—then went over to the sink and stopped in front of it. I'd meant to look a little more closely at my injured hand, maybe wash it out a bit and make sure that there weren't any little pieces of plastic stuck in it, but I got distracted. Mirrors had always been a thing of fascination for me, even when I was a little girl and Mom was still taking care of me. There was just something about them that drew me in—I mean, when else did we get a chance to see ourselves like that, to get a glimpse of what everybody else saw when they looked at us?

Unfortunately, as I'd gotten older, what I saw grew more and more disappointing.

I wasn't bad looking, I really wasn't. In fact, I was fairly sure that I was pretty—maybe even exceptionally pretty. My face was small and heart-shaped, and my complexion—while a little pale—was smooth and unblemished, and made a good contrast to my eyes, which were a few shades darker than my hair. My face was great, wonderful, fine—small nose, high cheekbones, full lips, well-shaped eyebrows, even a little beauty mark beneath my left eye…

I sighed, averting my eyes before my gaze could wander downwards.

…it was the rest of my body that was the disappointment.

I mean, hey, it wasn't like I wanted to look like Cindy Crawford or something…but, couldn't I at least have some semblance of a figure? It…it wasn't fair. I wasn't vain, I really wasn't, but my body was just so…so…ugly. Sighing again, I turned away from the mirror and stretched my arms down, grabbed onto the bottom of my pajama shirt and tugged it up over my head. A cold breeze swept against my bare skin, then, making me shiver, but I tried to ignore it. Instead, I bent, and—keeping my eyes squeezed tightly shut—dragged at the elastic waistband of my pajama bottoms, pulled them downwards, and stepped out of them.

It was kind of a trick, finding my towel with my eyes closed, but I managed--I felt along the floor with both hands, retracing my steps as best I could…and, then, my fingers latched onto the familiar scratchy cotton and I let out a silent breath of relief. I pulled the towel around my body as quickly as humanly possible, tucking it beneath my arms and wrapping it around my back, and then made a quick little knot at the front and opened my eyes.

I tried not to look at the mirror as I walked over to the shower, and succeeded for the most part. The bathroom was starting to get muggy with steam, so the glass was already fogging up, but there was still enough of it exposed that I had to avert my eyes to keep from glimpsing anything of myself as I moved. And, then, the rubbery curtain was in my fingers, and I was stepping into the shower.

Once inside, away from the imagined prying eyes of the bathroom and safe behind the curtain, I turned my gaze upward, grabbed the knot at my chest, and pulled the towel away from my skin. There was no chill this time, as I was already wrapped up in the heat of the water, but it wasn't a good feeling. Then again, it never was.

After tucking the towel onto the rack and unpacking my basket of Bath & Body Works stuff, I closed my eyes, drew in a deep breath, and stepped under a spray of warm, warm water. It rushed all around me, flattening my hair and pouring over my cheeks and streaking down over my non-existent curves like tight-fitting clothing. And, with my eyes closed and the water soothing into my muscles, I could almost pretend that I was somewhere else, someone else. I could almost pretend that I was just a normal girl, taking her normal shower and washing her normal body. Under the water, as long as I kept my eyes closed, I could forget.

After awhile, though, my lungs started to burn, and I had to step back, draw in a deep breath of air and come back to myself. As I worked the lavender-scented shampoo into my long hair, kneading the suds against my scalp in rhythmic circles, I found myself once again faced with the task of finding a distraction. Shampooing wasn't all that bad, particularly since all my attention was focused upwards…but, in just a few minutes, I was going to have to wash the rest of my body, and so it was either let myself get horribly depressed again, or find something else to think about. So, as I usually did, I started scanning my memory for possible topics. It was always better, I'd found, to have something I felt strongly about to think about while showering, because that way--not only did the time go by quickly and without me noticing much of anything--but, I usually ended up solving whatever the problem was by the time I'd washed all the soap from my skin.

It didn't take all that long for me to come up with something.

The mere thought of him made me feel vaguely queasy, like I'd eaten a big meal and then gone dancing, or something. He was a freshman, too, and a prospective business major if what he'd told me was true. He had the look of money to him, always dressed in stylish blazers and neatly-ironed dress shirts and slacks, and despite the fact that he was, quite possibly, the most attractive man or woman I'd ever seen in my entire life, I hadn't given him more than a second glance until just about a week ago. And, even then, it was more because I pitied him than anything else.

I smirked, pulling the bath rag into my hands and squeezing a generous amount of body wash onto it. It was so ironic and stupid, me pitying him. He had looks, money, intelligence, an expensive apartment just off-campus… And, a girlfriend. He had…a girlfriend.

I mean…not that I wanted to date him, or something. God, no. But, still, it was a little disheartening, to look at someone and maybe make that first tentative step towards friendship and know, at the same time, that you'll always be upstaged by the girl you've never even met. Celine. I'd only heard him speak the name once, when she called during our first writing session, but he spoke it well—it rolled off his tongue, evidence of the years of French he'd taken in high school, and although the emotion that rolled with it certainly wasn't mad passion…at least it was fondness; affection. Of course, Saihitei Seishuku didn't strike me as the type to let it show to some random girl from his Creative Writing class if he did experience mad passion…but, still.

I washed some of the suds from the rag, squeezed another dollop of body wash onto it and started scrubbing at my collarbone. I barely even noticed as the rag wandered down over my chest, as I was lost in remembering that first day we'd spoken, only a week ago yesterday.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It wasn't my best work, it really wasn't. And, if what I'd heard of Mitchell was true, I'd probably be getting a chance, very shortly, to hear just why it wasn't my best work. But… I sighed, forcing myself to calm down by drawing in long, heavy deep breaths and then letting them out through my nose. But, hey, I'd wanted to be a writer, and with being a writer came criticism—I was just going to have to get used to having my writing ripped apart, and why not sooner rather than later? Besides, it wasn't like I was claiming to be a poet, or something—I was a fiction writer, damn it! So what if Professor Mitchell didn't like what I'd written? It wasn't like I was investing my entire future into this dinky little poem, right?

I nodded inwardly. Right.

So, why were my hands still shaking?

Sighing, I folded my arms on the desk and thudded my chin down onto them. I'd been sitting like that for a few minutes, vaguely aware of the sounds of students meandering in from the hallway, when I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I straightened a little suddenly, head turning to the side in search of the source of the movement—and, only a second later, he stepped into view.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, muscular like a football player but with a slimness to him that made him seem more like a dancer than anything else. He certainly had the grace of one, picking his way to the seat beside me with delicate arm movements and a fluid strength that I couldn't help but envy. As it was, there were a few things that I noticed right away about him—first of all, his hair was nearly as long as mine, a flood of silken chestnut that stretched down a little past the middle of his back; second of all, his eyes were a very strange shade that glowed like amber in the flourescent lights; and, third of all—and probably most importantly—he was smiling at me.

Something like electricity shot through me, and I promptly blushed.

Professor Mitchell came striding in a few moments later, but I barely noticed. Random and not-so-random lines from the Godfather (Miiiichael! You been hit wit da thundabolt!) were spinning in my mind, and as such, I spent most of the first few minutes staring dutifully at my desk top and trying to coax the blush out of my cheeks. What was wrong with me, anyway?? I didn't get crushes, for God's sake! And, yet, here I was, sitting at my desk with all the symptoms of a crush on the guy sitting next to me, and all he'd done was smile at me and nod a little!

Hey, look on the bright side. Maybe he can inspire you to write a beautiful love poem that Professor Mitchell will actually -like-.

Speaking of…

I realized with a start that Mitchell was standing right beside me, gazing down at Good-Looking Guy Next To Me's desk with an evil glint in his eyes. He stretched down a hand and grabbed up the guy's paper, then held it up in front of his glasses and peered at it.

"Ahhh, Mr. Seishuku," he said in that smooth, cultured voice of his. "Let's see what wondrous creative work you have produced for our listening pleasure, now, shall we?"

I let myself hope that maybe "Mr. Seishuku"—Saihitei, as I could see scrawled in neat handwriting at the top of his paper—had written a great poem, and that Dr. Mitchell would realize that and lay off on the guy. I let myself cling to that hope, even as Mitchell read the words aloud and I heard his lip curling in distaste. I was still hoping that, in fact, up until the moment when he slapped the paper back onto the desk, folded his arms over his chest, and launched into an astute but ego-shattering criticism session that made me—and quite a few others, I was sure—wince in shared agony.

By the end of it, I was clenching my hands on the edge of the desk to keep from lashing out. Good God, what was wrong with this guy? So, it wasn't Shakespeare, give the guy a freaking break! And, besides, it really wasn't that bad of a poem. The wording was a little clumsy, yeah, and at some places, the metaphors seemed a little forced, but the rhyme scheme was very well-done and the content was absolutely amazing. I mean, sure, the mechanics of the thing were a little less than stellar, but it was obvious that the heart of the poem was high-quality stuff! If Mitchell couldn't see that, then he was even more of an idiot than I'd thought!

I was still thundering on through my inner rages when, unexpectedly, Mitchell's eyes turned on to me. "And, how have you fared, Miss Chou?" His eyes, I could see, were dark green, and they looked wider and…well, eviller beneath the huge frames of the glasses. His eyebrow lifted. "Slightly better than your neighbor, I would hope."

Okay, this was it. I drew in a deep breath, watched the fingers draw my poem up into the air, and steeled myself for the worst.

The adjective choice is dull and uninspired. The wording in the second stanza is awkward. The central idea gets fuzzy about five lines in, and stays fuzzy until the last two lines. The writing doesn't flow well. The handwriting is messy. The ink is smudgy. The paper is crumpled in the left-hand corner. Oh, and you're not a real girl. You never were. Just save us all some trouble and go die somewhere, you disgusting pathetic freak.

"Hmm," said Mitchell, cutting into my thoughts. He was staring down at my words, tapping a ballpoint pen against his chin as he read. "Hmm!" he said again. "This is a very interesting use of simile here in the third stanza, Miss Chou. And, although you have used a cliché here in the third line, you've changed the wording just enough for it not to feel tired or overused. Oh, and your central idea is…inspired, to say the least. Whatever prompted you to write about this subject?"

Feeling a little breathless with shock, I nonetheless managed to answer without too long of a pause. What is this, some kind of trick? "I-I guess it's because I've always been interested in the things people do on Halloween," I managed. I was going to leave it at that, but as both Saihitei and Mitchell seemed to be frowning at me, I went on. "I…I mean, Halloween is a time when ordinary people get to dress up as…not-so-ordinary people. They can change the way they look, as well as the way they feel. They can…become different people, but no matter what they do, at the end of the night they're still…the same, underneath. I-I guess that's what I was trying to get at."

Mitchell was silent for a long time—for so long, in fact, that I began to wonder if maybe it was all just some elaborate, cruel-hearted joke… And, then, he turned back to me, lowered the paper gently onto my desk, and gave a quick nod. "Well," he said. "You capture the essence of that feeling surprisingly well. Well done, Miss Chou. Well done." He glanced back at Saihitei, who was sitting there with his palms pressed flat against his poem as if trying to hide it.

"You, Mr. Seishuku, could benefit greatly from following this young woman's example. She has defied convention and managed to bring something new to even the tiredest of clichés—and she did it, might I add, in a short, concise poem that did not have to resort to rhyme in order to function. You could all stand to benefit from following in her footsteps." His lips bent into a slight smile. "Not that I believe you all can, of course…but, this, after all, is a class graded primarily on effort, and…"

I drowned the rest of the words out, feeling hot and angry. Why had he said that?? Why couldn't he just let it be, let the praise stand and then walk away? Agggggghhhh, men sucked!!!

The rest of period was a blur to me—I could barely get my own thoughts to flow straight, let alone focus on Mitchell's droning lecture. Thankfully, before long, there was the familiar rustle of college kids shoving notebooks into their bookbags, and then Mitchell stood and waved his hand, and thank God, we were dismissed—

--and, Saihitei Seishuku was out of his chair and out the door in about two seconds flat.

I don't know why it seemed so important that I catch up to him, but it did. So, I grabbed my books and shoved them into my bag, and even though Mitchell was eying me like he wanted to say something, I brushed past him and sped out the door. Rude, yes. Did I care terribly much right now? No. I dashed out into the hall, spun in the direction I'd seen Saihitei going…and, was just in time to crash into someone hard enough to knock loose a tooth.

"Ahhh, I'm so sorry, I—"

I found myself gazing up into soft amber eyes, and was so startled for a moment that I didn't realize just how close I'd ended up standing to him. So close, in fact, that if I were to take just one little tiny step forward, our chests would be touching…

I snapped out of it pretty quickly, blushed, and took a definite step backwards. "I'm sorry," I repeated with a sheepish grin. "I-I didn't realize you were there."

He didn't smile at me, exactly…but, then, he looked pretty tired all of a sudden. Weary, my writer's vocabulary informed me. "It's all right," Saihitei murmured. He wasn't looking at me, staring instead at the large round clock that rested on the wall behind me. "It was an accident. Not a big deal." His eyes lifted from the clock for a split second, flickered onto me, and his lips lifted into a thin, close-mouthed smile.

For a long moment, I couldn't seem to think of anything to say…so, I just stood there, staring at him as if that would help somehow, and tried vainly to force coherent words to come from my lips. I guess I didn't come up with them fast enough, though, because he spoke before I did.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding a little distracted, "I forgot to give him the assignment." He gave a short laugh—it sounded more than a little bitter to me. "Not as though that would cause him any sort of trauma, but…please, excuse me for just a moment."

And, before I could say a word, he'd brushed past me and gone back into the room.

I sighed, slipped through the flood of students to the doorway, and leaned my back up against the wall right next to it. Fine, he wanted to play that game? I'd wait him out. Wondering—and not for the first time since I'd left the room—just why talking to this guy seemed so important all of a sudden, I cradled my books to my chest, leaned my head back against the wall, and tried to think of just what I was going to say once he returned.

As it was, I didn't have long to think. Only a couple seconds later, he stepped out into the hall, turned in my direction—and, came to an abrupt halt just in front of me. His eyes widened.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Umm…hello, again…"

He looked like he was struggling to find the words to say something—probably, I thought, trying to figure out a polite way of telling me to get lost—so, I decided to take the initiative for once and not give him the chance.

"Look," I said a little quickly, "I just…wanted to apologize."

He blinked, and again that flicker of surprise lifted at his eyebrows. "A…apologize?" he echoed. "Whatever for?"

"Well…" I wanted to look him in the eye, I really did. I wanted him to see the sincerity in my face and hear it in my voice and know that I wasn't trying to flirt with him, I really wasn't, but that I just wanted him to understand that I was sorry and… Sigh. But, I just couldn't. My gaze fell to the floor, and my words came out sounding soft and stupid. "It's just that…well, what Professor Mitchell said to you… It wasn't kind. And, it wasn't right of him, to say all that. I'm…I'm sorry that he did."

There was silence for long enough that I dared lift my eyes, peer a little fearfully at his face. I was just in time to watch an expression of sheer and utter astonishment fade, relax into a startlingly-gentle smile. "It's all right," he said. "Certainly, he was a little…vocal…but—" He shrugged. "I can't say I didn't deserve at least half of it, with my writing talent…or, lack thereof."

"No, no! Don't say that! You…" I could feel my cheeks getting hot, and my voice dropped in volume accordingly. "You're very talented. You just…have trouble sometimes, I think, getting the words to do what you want them to. But…but, that just takes practice."

He was smiling—a good sign, I guessed. "That's very nice of you to say," he murmured. "Thank you. I must say, I'm glad he didn't do that same to you. Not that it would have been due to any sort of flaw in your writing, which I thought was…very good. A good subject."

And, that was that. He turned, tugging a slim black book satchel along with him, and started off down the hallway…and, it felt as if all the emotions that had been rising to the top of my mind were suddenly and inexplicably dropped. They landed into my stomach a second later—thud—and I was just resigning myself to trudging back to Forbes and moping over a blueberry muffin, when I realized that he'd stopped.

He'd halted a few steps down the corridor, was standing facing me with his eyebrows raised and his arms held out a bit at the sides. Aren't you coming? he seemed to ask.

I was more than a little surprised, but I regained my composure pretty quickly—for me, anyway—and hurried after him. Once I'd caught up and was beside him—good God, he was tall!—he started forward again, and we made our way to the front entrance of the building. And, despite the fact that I'd been at the University of Pittsburgh for more than five months, now, it was a new experience for me. I had a few friends and acquaintances that I'd collected from one class to the next, but—despite the fact that I'd been asked out by at least six guys over the last semester—I typically tried to avoid being walked to classes by any of them. It wasn't that I had something against being walked to class, but more that I just had never felt comfortable with any of those guys, like their only thoughts when they looked at me were, Gee, I wonder how long it's gonna take before I can get this girl back to my dorm room and prove what a freakin' pervert I am.

And, yet, for some reason, I didn't get anything of that vibe from Saihitei. So, I reasoned, he was either a true gentleman, the last of a dying breed…or, he was gay. Whatever the case, it definitely made me feel a little more at ease.

"So," he said as we started down the front steps, "your name is Ryuuen?"

Since I was feeling a little more relaxed, I actually let the books I usually kept pressed up against my chest drop, and answered without pausing or stuttering. "Yeah. And, yours is Saihitei?"

We thudded down the last of the stairs, hit the sidewalk in front of the Cathedral of Learning, and started off at a brisk walk for the edge of the road—Bigelow, I was pretty sure it was called—that bisected the upper and lower campuses.

"That's right," he replied after a moment. "Saihitei Seishuku. In case you didn't catch that from the revolting way it rolls off Professor Mitchell's tongue." And, then, he'd juggled the folder he was holding into his left hand, and was holding out the other hand for me to shake. "It's nice to meet you."

I almost—almost—didn't take his hand. As it was, I did spend a long moment hesitating before I finally did, but then I lifted my hand and let his larger fingers swallow mine up…and, the warmth of the touch shot up my arm like fire. I could only hold the handshake for a few seconds before I had to pull my fingers free. Then—blushing fiercely but hoping, somehow, that Saihitei wouldn't notice—I tugged my books back to my chest and managed a reply. "I-It's nice to meet you, too."

Apparently, he didn't notice, because he plunged onward into the next line of conversation with barely a pause. "So, are you an English major? Or, are you just taking this class for—" He gave a comic wince. "—fun?"

I laughed, more at the look on his face than anything else. "Well, actually, I'm undecided—it's only the second semester of Freshman year, after all. But, I'm planning on being an English Writing major. It's not all that practical, of course--" I smiled a little shyly. "--but, it's helpful for surviving Creative Writing classes, at least."

Saihitei gave a solemn nod. "I'm in the School of Business. I was under the false understanding that this course would be a relaxing and enjoyable gen ed." He shook his head, glanced at me briefly with a speculative kind of smile, and then faced front again. "But, it's good that you're planning on majoring in something that you enjoy doing."

There was a slight pause as we strolled over the crosswalk, joining the flow of pedestrian traffic and effectively cutting off the flow of motor traffic…but, once we'd reached the other side, I drew a deep breath and actually spoke without prodding. "Hey, uhh…Saihitei. I… Have you… Well, I mean…"

Okay, stop. Deep breath. Start over.

"Have you started that assignment due on Tuesday, yet? The short story?"

His eyebrows raised. "Ahh…no. Are you kidding?" He chuckled, slipping both hands into the pockets of his slacks as we turned the corner onto Forbes Avenue. "I was going to wait and see how he liked my first assignment before beginning the second. And, right now, for some odd reason, I'm feeling rather uninspired."

I smiled briefly, ignoring the voices inside of me demanding to know what in the hell I thought I was doing, and continued. "Well, ahhh…if you wanted to, I'd be happy to help you get started. If you need it, of course."

He blinked, turned and stared at me as if I'd just told him that I secretly believed the earth to be flat and made of cottage cheese. "I…I'd appreciate that, of course. But…are you sure?"

And, oddly enough, I was. "Yes, I'm sure. I've already got my paper mostly finished, and it's not like I've got something better to do. Besides, don't you want to see Mitchell's face, when you turn in something fantastic and he has to admit it?"

He smiled, turned back to me and opened his mouth—

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

—and I realized, very suddenly, that the shower water had gone cold.

How long have I been in here??

I shivered violently, only just barely resisting the urge to wrap my arms over my chest. Instead, I reached forward and switched off the flow of water, and that helped a little. It wasn't until I snagged the towel from the rack and wrapped it around myself that I started to get warm again, though, and even then, the moisture was like ice on my skin. How long had I been in here? It wasn't like taking long showers had ever been a problem of mine in the past. Typically, it was get in, wash, and get out—speed was more important than efficiency, and finishing the shower and getting dressed again was the goal, attained no matter what the cost to hygiene.

And, yet, here I was, wrinkled and cold and clean several times over, and if the water temperature hadn't have dropped so suddenly, I would probably have still been standing there under the water reminiscing. What was it about that guy that did this to me??

Sighing, I pushed aside the curtain and stepped out into the bathroom, made my way over to the sink to comb out my hair. I noticed the piece of soap on the floor but didn't pay it much attention—my thoughts were still spinning around the unheard of amount of time I'd spent showering, and as such, it wasn't until my foot had landed directly on it that I realized the danger.

Slick foot + slick soap + distracted Ryuuen = ?

I gave a little cry of surprise as my foot slid out from underneath me, grabbed reflexively for the sink as I went plunging downwards—and caught myself just in time. I hung there for a minute, then, clutching onto the chill porcelain of the sink with my legs pushing towards the ground at odd angles, and tried to catch my breath. My heart was racing, and the slow realization of just how close I'd come to bashing my head off the edge of the sink was beginning to trickle into my brain—crap, I could've cracked my skull open or broken a leg or…! And, then, my gaze slipped upwards to the mirror, hanging there above the sink, and…I froze.

The fall had jarred the knot I'd tied in the towel, made it slip down to my waist, where—thankfully—it still hung, but… A high, strangled sound worked its way up my throat, sprang from my lips like a sob. But…my chest…

I wanted to look away. God, I wanted to look away so badly, to go into my room and put my clothes back on and fall back under the illusion of being a normal, healthy, happy eighteen-year-old girl. But, for some reason, I couldn't tear my eyes away from that horrible image in the mirror, that disgusting awful ugly wrong image that was suddenly all I could think about and all I could focus on. All thoughts of Saihitei fell into the dark recesses of my mind, then, and there was nothing but that boy with my face; that boy with the flat, smooth, ugly chest; that boy who stared back at me with wide, haunted eyes as if he might burst into tears…

And, then he did, and all I could do was clutch onto the edge of the sink and cry with him.

It wasn't his fault, it really wasn't. It wasn't his fault. But, maybe it was mine.

~*~*~*~*~*~

---