Kya Carter
The traditional city was more vibrant and packed full of excitement than I imagined. Word about the Dragon's arrival has spread like a wild fire, and villagers are making preparations to celebrate in his honor. Call me crazy, but I have a difficult time celebrating the honor of a man who uses me to get to his home then casts me aside when he doesn't need me anymore. You might think that just because you find me at a bad time in some alley that we've formed some special bond, but you're terribly wrong, he said to me. I want nothing to do with you. I only used you and manipulated your feelings so I could escape Asylum. Why the hell else would I travel with a freak who murdered her own parents in cold blood? His words stung me more than I expected them to, for some inexplicable reason.
In my slippers and plain yukata, I roam the pavements made of stones. Royal red paper lanterns illuminate the street, hanging overhead between buildings. Smaller, fist-sized lanterns of softer colors are strung up above venders that sell aromatic teas, mouth-watering dishes, and small trinkets. Storefronts have swung their doors wide open and not a single person here walks without a smile. Not a single person besides me, that is. It's strange. Usually, I feed off my environment, but the energy here isn't doing me any favors. Is it because I'm too hurt to force a smile, or because everywhere I look I'm reminded of Ren?
Frowning, I reach inside my pocket and finger the medallion. My mouth is rather dry and I think sitting down, getting a drink, and clearing my head is overdue. I make my way into an open café, where I sit at one of the narrow tables outside and order a tea. I go to cross my arms, but refrain. The hand-shaped burn mark beneath my sleeve is irritating and causes me to flinch every time I bump into a stranger or accidentally nudge a food cart.
The waitress comes back with a tray, where two cups of steaming tea are propped. She sets them both on the table – one in front of me, and one in the empty seat across from me. "I'm sorry," I apologize, hoping she speaks English. "I only ordered one."
She looks confused until someone else approaches. "No," he corrects, voice deep but smooth. "This is definitely what I ordered. The order of the girl with the gloomy face and my green tea. Thank you." The man hands over cash to the waitress and sits across from me, sipping his tea casually and looking at the commotion on the street like we came here together; like he isn't uncomfortable.
"You didn't have to cover my order," I tell him, digging into my pockets, hoping I can find some spare bills so I can avoid using the medallion in front of someone. "Let me pay you back."
"You can pay me back," the man says, resting one of his legs on his knee. "But not in money."
I furrow my brows at the weird proposition. For a split second, I feel unsafe, but then I remember that there are gutters full of old rain water I can use, plus the dark strain that is always available to me. "What do you want, then?" If he's as big a fan of the Dragon as these people are, he'll probably want me to spill some of the secrets about who Ren really is. Perhaps people know we travelled here together. We rode in the same taxi.
I clench my hands into fists at the thought, blood boiling with unwanted anger. I bet Ren loathes the idea of the two of us being seen together. The moment he stepped in Tokyo, I'm sure he wanted nothing to do with me. When he ushered me into the taxi so rudely, or ran off into the country part of Tokyo without warning me, I thought it was because he was trying to urge both of us to safety. But after what he said, I think he was trying to create distance. I'm such an idiot. How did I not see it sooner?
The man switches his dreamy gaze from a man selling rolls of firecrackers and to me. I'm taken back by how beautiful his eyes are. His golden eye reminds me of Ren, but minus the harshness of the glow, or the constant narrowed shape of a glare. His blue eye is bright and vivid, like the shade the light blue sky first dons as dusk approaches. "You can tell me why you're so sad. I was just walking by and there was this giant gray cloud hanging in this café. I couldn't help but to see where it was coming from."
A small smile tugs on my lips as I find a way to avoid answering honestly. "A cloud? Are you calling me fat, sir?"
The man's jaw goes slack at first, thinking that I was serious. But my tiny smile cracks open into a bigger one at his reaction, and he finally gets the memo. He laughs, squinting his eyes and tilting his head back as he does so. Both his laughter and smile come easily and they put me at ease. Once he stops, he shakes his chestnut-haired head and sips his tea. "You're the second person who's called me old today, you know?"
I assess his features more carefully. Wavy, layered brown hair down to his shoulders, with half of it in tight braids. His skin is tan and smooth. His clothes fit his broad form, but in the chilly breeze, his get-up is rather thin. Opposed to wearing traditional clothes here, he looks casual. He seems young and spritely, but there's a looming shadow behind his eyes that makes him appear ancient – as if he's been through too much in too little time. "You don't seem old," I tell him. "And I don't remember calling you such a thing, either."
"My apologies, ma'am," he replies in a snarky tone.
I wrinkle my nose at his address to me. "Ma'am?" I repeat.
Slowly, the man's lips curl into a sly half-smile. "It makes you feel old, no?"
It's because I called him sir that he assumed such a thing. "Sorry," I brush off. "If you don't want me to call you sir, then you shouldn't buy my drink and ask why I look sad without telling me your name."
Considerably, the man nods. "Touché. My name is Alistair. And you?"
Alistair, I think to myself. What a pretty name. As Alistair extends a hand my way, I return the favor and recite, "Kya." The moment our hands interlock, it takes all of my energy and will power not to retract and jackknife up. I try to keep my face deadpan, but it's straining under such pressing circumstances.
"Are you okay, Kya?" Alistair inquires, looking at me with concern. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."
Nervously, I laugh and wave him off, trying to dissipate what I just felt. "I'm fine. I just..." Think, think. What's a good excuse? You've always observed everyone from the watchtowers. Make an observation! My eyes see commotion down the street. "I just didn't know there was going to be a parade," I lie, nodding down the smooth street, where people in uniforms of all kinds gather; paper dragons, dragon dancers, dragon masks. It's basically Dragons R Us.
"Oh, yeah," Alistair quips as if he knew about the parade the whole time, as if it rolls around the same time every night. "They're supposed to start marching around midnight, but I guess the planned switched and they moved it to one-thirty."
"I see..." I absentmindedly respond, thinking about what happened the instant I touched him. Broken, fragmented, tangled strings of emotions and shattered memories. Such mutilation of the natural flow of his energy. It must impair his abilities to function, but Alistair seems totally fine. Perhaps he's aware of how broken he is and has taken steps to work with it. Moreover, I try to fight the natural instinct inside of me – to mend the broken strings. As a water bender, I have the sub-power of healing, and I'm sure that can apply to fixing strings like Alistair's one day.
"You never answered my question," Alistair reminds me, cocking his head to the side. A thin brain sways with him, it's end containing a golden clasp that twinkles in the lantern light. "What's got you so down?"
Not much. A close friend of mine feinted kindness just so he could get his way. Then he told me he never wanted to be friends, told me there's no way anyone could be around a senseless murderer, then kicked me out of his home. "It's nothing, really."
In reality, I don't trust a stranger with my secrets. Not even ones as charming and bold as the mysterious Alistair, who showed up out of nowhere. Alistair doesn't buy my answer and he leans forwards, the katana at his hip shifting. Folding his hands, he scrutinizes my eyes. "I'm no expert, but those look like the eyes of someone whose heart just got broken."
"No," I quickly negate. There are no romantic feelings between Ren and me. I thought we had a platonic friendship formed through a dangerous journey, and he thought we had a business-like partnership based on him getting out of reach for Asylum. There's no room for heartbreak there, but that doesn't stop the deep red flush on my cheeks. "Nothing like that," I tell both the man and myself.
Curiously, he nods. I can tell he doesn't quite buy my answer, but he doesn't press me for information, either. It's nice he respects my privacy, but he kind of should considering I know nothing about him besides his name. And those tormented strings. "What brings you to the Dragon's celebration?"
"Just some peace and quiet away from..." Home? Friends? Enemies? "...normal life." Yeah, so normal, Kya. "You?"
Alistair shrugs and finishes his tea. "I've been hearing how much everyone fawns over the Dragon, so I stopped by to see him for myself. I wonder if he's all they crack him up to be."
I stop mid-swallow. Forcing back a dejected sigh, I ask, "The Dragon's supposed to arrive?"
My disappointment does not go unnoticed by Alistair, who seems to light up at not being the only one not fascinated by Ren Walker. "Not a fan of Japan's lucky totem?"
"No," I answer, tracing the rim of my cup. "Not really." Seeing all these people blindly fall in love with Ren almost disgusts me at this point. I'm sure he twisted their emotions and beliefs to benefit himself – to give him thousands of supporters who would provide him a luxurious home without disturbance. I want to climb the highest rooftop and shout through a megaphone how much of a fake he is. Japan might know the Dragon is moody, but I bet they don't know he's a ruthless manipulator, too. The idea of seeing him adored by all these people puts my stomach in tight knots. "I'll be heading back. Thanks for the drink," I bid to Alistair.
As I stand, he stands with me. "Wait," he beckons. "I had a personal mission to cheer you up, so leaving now would be awfully rude of you."
I blink in surprise. On the surface, he seems sweet and genuine, like he really wants to make a friend. And I find myself wanting to be friends with him – to tie his broken strings together and untangle the mess. But like I've always said, it's beneath the surface that counts. And beneath his charismatic exterior, there's the mess of a man who was utterly destroyed and never quite put himself together. He's the dangerous type, and if I'm not too careful, I can find myself swept up in another mishap.
Nevertheless, I pity him. I know what it's like to hit rock bottom and be so alone that it's taken years to accept what I did to my parents. Even now, bringing it up makes my hands twitch and my face blanch. It would be wrong of me to turn someone away who, at one point in my life, was just like me. Conceding to staying, I ask, "What did you have in mind?"
Triumphantly, Alistair smiles, one half of his mouth lifting. "You ever been to a ceremonial dance before?" The dip in his tone tells me that if I haven't, then I'm sorely missing out.
"Never."
"And you never will, dressed like that," Alistair bluntly states. "Luckily for you, I've heard of an excellent tailor just downtown. We'll get something nicer, then the real fun begins." He walks to my side and offers me the crook of his elbow. In a mocking aristocratic tone, he asks, "Shall we proceed?"
I don't remember how long I've been doing it, but I realize I'm grinning, and as I loop my arm through his, I find it hard to tear my eyes away from his own smile.
I don't know how, but the 30 minutes we walked downtown, we talked to whole time. He doesn't talk of his past, but I didn't expect him to with how obliterated it seemed. We spoke of our interests, 2-week-long hobbies, and made small talk that always seemed to make me beam. By the time we arrived at the tailor's, I was almost saddened that we had to part to get our fittings; we have a lot in common.
The tailor is a man named Monsieur Petit, whose father was French and mother was Japanese. He appears to be in his 30's, though he prances around and behaves like a 13-year-old. "Oh, mademoiselle," he pouts, studying me and wrapping measuring tape around various limbs. "Why did you bother putting on this cloth? You've such a tiny waist," he notes, turning to write down some notes then twirling back to me, working the tape like an Olympian's gymnastics ribbon. He giggles as he takes more measurements, shaking his head and tapping his tongue. Clearly, he's having a comedy show in his head. I'm too scared to ask what he's thinking. "I'm sure if I grabbed you just a touch too forcefully, you'd completely break! Your bones are thin like a noble. But the meat on your bones..." he surveys my calves. "Very toned. And your skin is like porcelain. Have you never seen the sun?"
Monsieur Petit doesn't expect an answer as he continues to work vigorously. When he snaps his fingers, three women carrying various supplies come in. "I want the silver silk with sakura accenting – detail golden fringes." The first woman nods and disappears. "I want the sizes to be exactly as I've marked. Double extra small waist, form fit through the shoulders and down to the hips, then let it fall." The second woman with Petit's notes walks out next. "You have a special job," he says to the woman with an elaborate hairstyle. "This hair is quite unique..." I assume he means the silver strands and fear what might happen next. Will he dye them out? Cut them away? "Make the light strands prominent. I want them to stand out. Do your best work on this one, and add accessories."
"I'd hate to point this out now," I start. "But I don't have the money to –"
"Nonsense," Petit shushes. "Monsieur Azarias has covered all payments."
Azarias? "Alistair?"
"Alistair Azarias, yes. You catch on quickly," he sarcastically snubs. "Now go," he dismisses to the hairstylist and I. "You've got potential to live up to."
A stylishly loose, thick braid curves and hangs over my shoulder. Somehow, the silver strands seem to glimmer more, like Petit requested. A few strands elaborately drape around my face. White and light pink orchids weave throughout my hair, dotting my do with florescence. My makeup has is done lightly – pink glossy lips, eyes lined in black, lids powdered in shimmery pink and silver, lashes extended, blush vaguely there. The dull yukata I wore when I left Ren's house has been replaced with Petit's fitting, silky kimono. The base color is silver, with the design of cherry blossoms on the material. The flowers are outlined in gold, and starting from my shoulders, there's a fade of the light pink sakura color that blends into dark gray. The change from fabric to silk also feels much better on my burn than before.
In the mirror, I find myself unrecognizable. In Asylum, I never cared much for appearances, and once I escaped, I had grown used to being covered in mud and grit and nervous sweat. I never knew that I could look like this. I had never considered myself pretty or noticeable, but thanks to Petit's work, tonight I look stunning. It's a shame that, by the time I get back to Ren's dojo and clean up to sleep, this will all fade away.
By the time I get back to Ren's dojo... If I really decide to leave, where would I go? Who would I stay with? I can't look around so easily – I can't speak Japanese. Sure, I have the Dragon's medallion to pay my way through the country, but will Ren even let me keep that? He made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with me, so perhaps he wants the medallion back so he can give it to someone he does want around him. Then there's the matter of insuring the safety of the others. Though they can all take care of themselves, besides maybe Leo, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I walked out on them and something terrible happened.
A low whistle sounds from behind me. Snapping up from my thoughts, I see Alistair propped against the doorframe, dressed like in a kimono of gold and blue to match his irises. "I don't get you," he teasingly says. "I'd have thought that this would've made you happier, not sadder."
"No, I'm really grateful," I promise, turning back to see him face-to-face. "You're the one I don't get. Why did you do all of this? Seems like a lot for someone you just met."
Alistair frowns, as if he's just taken the effort to explain some intricate theory to me and I still fail to see the point. It's the expression of disappointment mixed with vague sadness. I almost feel guilty for putting him in this state, but I remember I have a valid point. "Is it such a crime to want to make someone's day a little brighter?"
"It's not a crime, but it is a little suspect," I admit, trying to see the best in Alistair. "Especially when you carry a katana around all the time."
"I'm not wearing it now, am I?" he jests, holding his arms out in a dramatic fashion. "Petit said he'd hold it for me. Besides, there's nothing suspicious about if you knew why I carried it; since he Dragon's arrived, people are coming down here like moths to a flame. Crime rate has increased, especially thievery. The katana wards of threats and lets me help others at the same time."
"That's an awfully big gesture," I note, trying not to let doubt seep into my voice.
Like before, Alistair catches it. He's incredibly perceptive. "I like helping people," he helplessly states, shrugging his wide shoulders. It's then that I realize he's probably trying to compensate for whatever hellish lurid occurred before. It's what I used to do in Asylum, when I did underhanded favors like steal paints and stash ace cards for my friends. I think, subconsciously, I still do it.
Taking pity on the two of us, I swallow my skepticism and know that no matter how unusual this encounter is, it's better than being around Ren, who hates me, and everyone else, who would hate me too, if they knew I killed my parents. "I guess that's good, because I'm going to need a lot of help pretty soon." Alistair raises his brow at me in questioning. "I have no idea how to dance."
Quaintly, he smiles. "It's like flirting without words. Sense the music, pick up the beat, and fall in love with it." The way he talks of the music makes me wonder if he's ever picked up an instrument. Before I can stop myself, my eyes trace down from his eyes, his straight shoulders, the corded muscles of his arms, and to his hands – long-fingered and slender. He certainly has the ability to pick up something like the piano, if he tried. "Don't worry," Alistair coos, smirking in the reflection. "You can hold them soon enough." Charmingly, he winks his blue eye. For a split second, he reminds me of someone, but I can't place the name. But as soon as the strange familiarity takes root, it disappears.
A blush spreads beneath my beautiful kimono. "That's not why I was looking at them, I..." What would be more embarrassing? Agreeing with Alistair that I wanted to hold his hands, or saying that I was envisioning him playing the piano?
Alistair chuckles, bending down and carefully picking apart my face. He's so close that I can smell him; fresh raindrops, cut grass, vague scent of roses. Carefully, he pushes my braid back and brushes his fingertips against my neck, making my heart race. Is it the nervousness in being touched in a vulnerable place? Or nervousness by being touched by him and his musician's hands? "Your skin is as hot as it is red," he notes. "Is that normal?"
I swat his hand away and step away. "Only when someone touches me out of the blue and leans in for no reason. It's a common reaction," I justify. "You're the one with the strange habit of dropping in and..." I stop myself again. What was I going to say? Dropping in and making my heart race?
Alistair stands up straight again, giving me my space. For the first time, I notice his hair is out of its braids and put in a half-bun, the bottom half of his waves down. "You don't complete a lot of your sentences. Are you trying to leave me wanting more on purpose?"
I gape. "That wasn't my intention at all, I -!"
His smile stretches and I realize he's only messing with me.
"How is this helping me?" I remind him, crossing my arms, then flinching at contact with Ren's injury. I almost forgot I was even mad at him.
"You're smiling, aren't you?" Alistair coyly questions, smile more like a leer.
In the mirror, I'm a bit shocked that he's right. That despite being hurt and having my emotions lied to on my journey to Tokyo – that the person whom I told things to that I've never told anyone else hates me – I manage to smile. And I know that if that waitress only brought me my drink and I sat at the outdoor café alone, I'd still be devastated over the turn of events. If not for Alistair Azarias, I'd still be sulking. "Don't get cocky," I playfully snap.
He gasps, acting hurt. "Me? Cocky? I wouldn't dream of it."
The ceremonial dance wasn't as quaint as I imagined it would be. I pictured a small square full of old people doing some strange, painfully slow dance. But the more I get to know Alistair, the more I start to think "painfully slow" isn't his scene. He explains that the dance is meant to honor the earth's elements, and that things only get slow when they celebrate the moon and winter. In the square by where the parade's march is supposed to end, which must have begun while I was getting my fitting, at least 100 people dressed in kimonos as fluorescent as mine twirl their partners and move in rhythm.
"This already looks complicated," I half—joke, eyes searching the scene of luminous lanterns, colorful pastries, and foreign drinks.
Alistair picks up a blue dessert. "I mean, it's just a macaroon, Kya. I'm sure they're not hard to make." Laughing, I give him a little shove, which does nothing to budge his tall figure. "Relax, it's not hard. It only looks that way because of all the flashy colors. Everyone's doing their own thing. The traditional dance is about honoring the elements, not how you honor them."
Curiously, I peer up at the handsome man. "Do you believe in all the mystical element myths?"
Heartily, he laughs that easy laugh. "No, I don't believe in all that mumbo jumbo crap. I believe in what I see, and what I see looks like a hell of a good time." He extends a hand towards me. In an extremely unnecessary way, he bows. The ridiculous smirk on his face tells me he knows he's being all kinds of rash. He plucks my hand from my side and brings it to his face. A set of something soft and full briefly rest on the skin above my knuckles – lips. Alistair stands back up, but he doesn't release my hand, and I didn't really want him to, either. "Hopefully, if I play my cards right, your hand won't be the only thing I kiss tonight."
The biggest blush of my entire life completely engulfs my cursedly white skin. I feel the heat from my toes, to my stomach, to the top of my head. I've never had much experience with men, let alone ones with assumed romantic interests. So it's pretty obvious that I've never discussed such awkward topics with a man so bold to announce them without a second thought.
Alistair laughs and begins to lead me into the square. Over his shoulder, he calls, "Don't get so worked up. I was only somewhat kidding."
"Somewhat?" I echo.
The response I get is another fit of laughter. I start to let myself loosen up, but then I get a feeling. The sensation of tiny pinpricks stabbing behind my head – the intuition that I'm being watched. I search the crowds behind me, but anyone could be staring. There's so many people here that I wouldn't be surprised if at least 1,000 people saw my face within the past couple of minutes. My gut instinct tells me that whoever is staring my way doesn't have malicious intents, but it's still disturbing, nonetheless.
Alistair stops and snatches my other hand. "Just follow my lead for now," he softly instructs. Smoothly, he guides my movements, giving me praise when deserved and criticism when needed. When the music increases, a devilishly enchanting smirk crosses Alistair's face. "Time for the real fun. Ready?"
Before I can respond, he launches us into a series of winds and whirls. The beating of a fast drum and the speedy movements of my steps make me feel like I'm flying. The lights spin around me overhead, as if I'm in some sort of heaven. A bubbly laughter erupts around me, and at first, I think it's Alistair, but with another assessment, I realize it's me.
Let whoever is watching me keep watching. If it's Asylum, they'll see nothing but a harmless girl enjoying herself dancing with a dreamboat. If it's Cerberus and his accomplice, they'll see a square too filled up with people to make a bold move. If it's any of my friends, they'll see me finally having a good time. If it's some passerby who I've never met, they'll see some stranger laughing at nothing.
"Are you sure you've never done this before?" Alistair questions as we fling ourselves about the dancefloor, fingers threaded together and feet moving simultaneously.
"Positive!" I shout back, barely even hearing my own thoughts over the overwhelming music and vibration numbing my mind. There's an elated feeling in my chest, as if the loud music and dynamic energy are making me dizzyingly drunk. I've been confined in Asylum for three years, then forced into running to escape my cage. In these past three years, I've never felt so free.
"You're doing great," Alistair promises, getting a kick out of my wild expression. "Which means I'm doing great – if I were anyone else, I would've never guessed you were on the verge of tears back at the café."
Verge of tears is a bit dramatic. But maybe I was...who knows? It doesn't matter right now because I'm having the time of my life. "Wow, thanks Alistair," I joke as that feeling of being watched returns.
Gradually, the music slows, the tempo a lot slower than the thrumming of my heart. Alistair's hand gently rests on my waist and guides me just a shade closer, respecting my unfamiliarity with him physically, but giving me a look that tells me he wouldn't mind if there was no space between us. I've seen dances like this in fairytale books that Sarah used to redraw, and one of her paintings flickers in my mind, and to match it, I rest my hands against his shoulders, swaying with the tune.
Ever so slightly, he leans in and ducks, mouth pressed by my ear. "A natural," he hums as if he's delighted at the fact. His breath blows through my braid and tickles my lobe. When Alistair backs away, I almost miss his warmth. Feeling a bit bold, I rest my head on his chest, aiming for his shoulder but he's too tall. At first, I'm tentative about the action, but the music is soothing and Alistair adjusts his hands; the one on my waist moves to my middle back and the other wraps around my shoulders. I find myself relaxed.
I wonder if he can feel my strings like I feel his – if he can feel how taught and unrelenting they've become. If he can feel how in this moment, they ease up just a bit and allow my body to stop being so tense. Despite being happy, I can't help but think of my glass as half-full. If only I could tell Alistair about the troubles of having powers, and how I'm on Asylum's Most Wanted. But not everything is perfect and not everything can go the way I want it to. The people who know of my powers either want me dead, falsely presume me a saint, or hate me.
But for now, nobody who knows me is watching. At least, that's what I thought...
Let them watch me. I'm not doing anything wrong... I think of the feel of Alistair's lips on my hand and the way his lips curl when he's amused.
...not yet.
serif:~|