Title: Que Será Será
Fandom: Death Note
Characters/Pairings: teenage!Kiyomi, teenage!Mikami. teenage!Kiyomi → teenage!Mikami.
Word Count: 1,066
Author's Note: A ficlet for my darling Viola on her birthday, which is tomorrow (or today, depending on where you live. Your time zone may vary. XD;) ♥ I hope you have a fantastic day, and I love you!
Arriving at school late was not how Takada Kiyomi particularly liked starting her mornings.
She had avoided receiving detention only by citing the 99% she had gotten on the last math exam. Mr. Akihiko—her stern-lipped, no-nonsense math instructor, complete with a receding hairline—had relented, but not before tacking on an ominous, “It better not happen again.” To make matters worse, her pen had decided to throw a tantrum and had promptly exploded in her hand during science class, throwing large, angry inkblots all over her notebook and making most of her notes indecipherable. The cuffs of her otherwise immaculate white blouse had not evaded the ink barrage either, and were still sopping wet from her attempts to scrub away the ink. At lunch, Kiyomi had discovered that, in her hurry, she had forgotten her lunch at home; she had subsequently spent the entire lunch period in the library, battling a grumbling stomach, until her best friend had scouted her out and offered her a Bento box—and then the bell had rung.
No, Kiyomi was not having a stellar day.
At present, her hair was plastered to her forehead and was prickling against her neck; a large part of her wanted to cut it short so she wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore, but she couldn’t imagine wearing it short after having it long for so many years. Kiyomi switched her too heavy backpack from one shoulder to the other, her blouse sticking uncomfortably to her back, as she navigated through the subway terminal. The bright lights and chatter made her feel nauseated, and she pushed past the throngs of passengers to the benches. Most of the seats were filled (unsurprisingly, with the luck she was having), and only one still had enough room left for her to sit; it was next to someone that appeared to be a teenager—by the look of him, one of those despairing, emotionally withdrawn teenagers who was convinced their life was a dark room.
She generally disliked those types of boys, the ones that could not deal with their emotional baggage and resorted to shunning humanity instead. As if they were the only ones with problems. If she wasn’t so tired, she would have gladly stood, but the noise was making the blood pound in her temples and the last thing she wanted was to pass out in a subway terminal.
She approached him blank-faced to mask her uneasiness. To her surprise, he had a textbook opened next to him, and was diligently taking notes in his notebook; an eraser, ruler, and yellow highlighter were lined neatly, from shortest to longest. Kiyomi cleared her throat to get his attention—it was common courtesy to ask if she could sit, and she didn’t want to run the risk of him having an outburst—but he did not look up; most of his face was masked by the dark, choppy layers of his hair, and she nearly rolled her eyes.
“Excuse me,” she said levelly.
He stiffened almost imperceptibly; his hand shook just the tiniest bit, the mechanical pencil digging into his notebook. He was clearly annoyed, and this made Kiyomi almost want to smile.
He still did not look at her when he unenthusiastically responded with a “Yes.”
“May I sit here?” she asked him coolly.
He was silent long enough for Kiyomi to half-expect him to tell her no she couldn’t, and to get the hell lost when he suddenly began rearranging his stationery supplies, moving it towards him to give her more room to sit.
He raised his head and looked at her almost appraisingly, brushing the hair out of his eyes in apparent irritation. Kiyomi was surprised to see the black-rimmed glasses on his face, and the pristine white dress shirt underneath the black overcoat. He was a student. Probably a few years older than her. But still, he was just an average student. Like her.
Okay, so, maybe she had misjudged him—and maybe he was not so unpleasant to look at.
He went back to his notes, retrieving his ruler and drawing a perfect line down the page with surprising speed. “You can sit here,” he told her unequivocally, brown eyes darting over the page as he began making a diagram to the right of his margins.
“Thank you,” she said curtly. As she took a seat, Kiyomi decided not to get distracted by the fact that he was somewhat (undeniably) attractive.
She put her backpack down onto the floor with an unceremonious thud, and he turned to her, looking absolutely horrified. His eyes were locked onto the floor where her backpack was, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly clamped it shut and looked away. Kiyomi thought it was kind of cute.
“Were you going to say something?” she asked lightly.
“No,” he responded quickly, too quickly. “It’s just, well, the floor is kind of dirty, and you put your backpack down and just—er, nothing. Forget it. Sorry.”
Kiyomi almost started laughing. Did this guy have OCD or something? For a moment, she had the insane urge to hug him.
They sat in somewhat amiable silence for a few moments, and she distracted herself from the cacophony of the terminal by focusing on the sound of his pencil making sharp, quick scratches across paper as he continued his notes.
“You can remove those ink stains, you know,” he said, suddenly. She glanced at him, and he looked just as surprised that he had spoken as she did. “Just use some rubbing alcohol and a cotton swab. It should take them right off.”
She had actually been planning on using hairspray, but the fact that he was offering advice was very sweet. Kiyomi thanked him, and he pursed his lips, promptly returning to his notes without any further comments.
Five minutes later, Kiyomi decided she really needed to stretch, and accidentally knocked his highlighter from the bench onto the floor. She apologized, but he was too busy scrambling to catch the highlighter before it hit the floor to acknowledge her. Kiyomi used the diversion as a chance to lean over and read his name from the notebook.
Mikami Teru was written in flawless, obsessive perfection at the top of the page.
Kiyomi smiled to herself, and decided the day hadn’t been a complete loss after all.