Protection - Kei Tsukishima fanfiction

four

"Wow, Hoshiko is actually talking to Tsukishima."

"Do you think they are dating?"

"He never takes interest in girls."

"I wish he would talk to me, but he is a bit scary."

"What do you think they are talking about?"

"It sounds like work-talk—better than nothing I suppose."

"Hoshiko doesn't look too pleased about it though. Do you think somethings is wrong?"

"She probably failed her history test or something."

"And Tsukishima is helping her! That's cute!"

"No, that's defiantly not it. Remember when Kanna asked for his help in math? And he turned her down without even a second thought?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. That's pretty harsh considering they're classmates."

"Exactly. Look at his face. I mean it's Tsukishima we are talking about: he's never helped anyone and probably never will."

"Maybe you're right."

I swear I saw it. It might have been my blurry vision, but I definitely saw something out of the ordinary. I swear before leaving class after our last teacher finally waved us goodbye and the cleaning had been done, Tsukishima stopped in his tracks just in front of the sliding door—creating a tall obstacle for people to avoid—and gazed at me with pure guilt in his golden-brown eyes. It seemed as though his eyebrows gently frowned upon the sight before him: me holding my head in my hands in unalloyed hatred at myself, waiting for everyone to leave the classroom before I lift myself up from the desk and stumble the empty corridors alone. I was still contemplating my inevitable failure, and Tsukishima Kei could sense the radiating weight pushing again my frail and petite chest from across the room; it depressed him more than it annoyed him after my emotional outbreak. He didn't show it, and he certainly didn't make it better after commenting on my overconfident persona, but seeing my fiery gaze against his cold stare made him realise how strongly I felt for good grades, other than sulking in the corner and waiting for his undying remorse.

I like to balance my feet along the edges of the various roads I stumble down whenever I walk home from the dreary gates of the school, passing other students in pairs or groups as I singularly avoid their paths. Walking home alone isn't really a compulsion: it's more like a personal choice I make to politely decline any offers I get from various different people, some creepy some not, and besides, I don't think my house is near any company anyway. No clubs to attend, no detentions, and no social interactions I have been requested to join; just a tiresome repeat of my normal school day that gets more tedious every time. I take my time on my way home, and sometimes, if I have some scrape money in my pocket or bag, I go to the nearest convenience store and pick up a refreshing drink or meat bun, so I really can't complain as long as I keep myself from dying of undernourishment or boredom. In fact, I love the walk so much that I declined the idea of riding a rented bike that I could shackle against the metal bars at school. I just thought that it would ruin my serene stroll with the quick pace and the effort peddling up the countless steep hills--I barely have any muscles surrounding my fragile bones anyway.

My house is a conveniently small, one floor complex with enough living space for two-three people depending on the person's situation--in my case, it is just me and my biological mother. My family, just like my living accommodation, is small, but it's like an insignificant paradise; from the petite, green garden in the front, surrounded by flowers and bushes, with a stone path flowing right through the centre leading to the dark oak porch; the tiny sitting area with a light green couch overlooking a sweet coffee table always covered in place mats and mugs, and the box tv which only plays the local channels and the occasional anime from time to time--mostly just a handful of the popular ones; to the kitchen located behind the lounge radiating 'traditional' with beautiful carvings in the wooden counters and cupboards, taking into account of how old the building actually is. I couldn't ask for a more suited house for myself, even if my mother isn't in the picture on most occasions.

The first thing I do when I arrive home is, after I pride the key out of the stingy door lock and sling my school bag onto the shoe infested floor, I run down the narrow corridor, past the small open-plan living area, my mother's room which is to the right of the entrance and pass the bathroom, to the end door which leads into my converted room. Nothing eye-catching about a normal teenage living space other than the occasional poster ripped straight from corner store magazines; a set of plastic drawers that hold the basic essential clothing, most of which is creased and viciously folded; a small bookcase with a minim selection of adventure and romance manga next to the dust-covered school books; and finally the folded up futon I have neatly tucked up against the nearest wall, covered with a flowery blanket and pillow.

Not having the luxury of a bed frame, I sit on the floor, limbs aching and softening into the cushioned material of the carpet while my pressed skirt creases under the weight of my body. My head connected against the hollow wall and I exhale and inhale through my mouth and nose in a concentrated attempt to relax. And of course, to officially fall into a mental state of zen, I must evaluate today and try to at least tell myself that everything will work out. My grade, Tsukishima; it was all running through my head in a never-ending train of thought. I want to forget, but it doesn't seem my brain will allow me to. To make the chore of forgetting even worse, the teacher insisted on taking our tests paper home to show our guardians, however amusingly, I don't think that paper will ever see the light of day again. I will burn it, physically and mentally, until it is nothing but a pile of smoky ashes.