". . . born in January 9, 1809. He was--"

Nobody really like listening to Professor Hajime Korizawa who handled the subject on psychology. The forty-year old obviously hated his job. His voice slurred words between incoherent and comprehensive, making everyone struggle on the subject. He was a lazy prick who often skipped lectures and simply has some substitute bring some paperwork for the students to work on.

By far, the man proved himself to be the most unlikable professor on campus. Even Mitsuru found him distasteful, enough that she wished he had the gall to walk out during his lecture. But of course, she didn't--no one did.

Impatient fingers tap on a wooden desk, almost in rhythm with the teacher's words. Her mouth opening wide underneath her mask, a long yawn comes out as small tears pull at the corners of Mitsuru's eyes. Like everyone else, she would have to suffer a two-hour lecture with this man everyday. Could she help it? No. Not unless she would help herself by escaping this torture.

But his lecture becomes hazy as the clock ticked, and the white-haired girl decides to sketch the man. With her cheek resting against her fist, a sketch of the professor quickly formed on her notebook. It clearly expressed the bored look on his face, while his eyes were stuck dictating the words on the book he held in his hand.

"Seems like you got a good eye and hand coordination, Shirai-chan," an annoying voice pierced into Mitsuru's ears.

Oh, yeah, they're classmates on this subject.

Mitsuru covers her notebook instinctively. She scowled at the male behind her, though he seemed to hover over her. It was certainly disadvantageous to have the desks platformed in a descending design. Everyone could see what their classmates at the front are doing. But Mitsuru wished that anyone else could've seen her draw.

Not this tall stick.

"Your drawing style reminded me of Mitsuru Kurosaki's," Tetsurou continues.

Oh, shiiiit.

Mitsuru gulps.

"I simply like their art style," she replied as calmly as she could, wiping off the little beads of sweat forming under her bangs.

"Oh! So you're an otaku!" Tetsurou whispered, grinning at the girl from ear to ear.

Again, the girl scowls.

Why does he keep talking to me?! Mitsuru thought as she shoves her notebook into her bag. Class was almost over anyway, and she didn't bother writing notes on the subject.

". . Edgar Allan Poe--the man who became legend because of his horror fictions. ." the professor continued.

"Korizawa-*sensei reminds me of Poe-san," Tetsurou remarked, but he seemed to be conversing with someone else.

"Huh? How?" An uninterested voice replied.

"Well. . ."

Mitsuru found herself listening to their conversation after that. It was far more interesting and analytical compared to Korizawa-sensei. But it surprised her though. Listening to Tetsurou made her feel dumb--he actually seemed smart. She couldn't help but feel entranced with his mini lecture with whoever his seatmate was (Mitsuru didn't dare glance behind her).

By the time the professor finished, Tetsurou had to cut himself off. "Let's continue later!" were his final words before they were replaced by pokes to Mitsuru's head. The girl whirls around, cocking an eyebrow at whoever dared touch her. A goofy grin was the first thing Mitsuru found, leading up to the sly onyx eyes that stared back at her. They seemed so invasive and excited, Mitsuru couldn't feel but go--

"Ehhhh. . ." Her disgusted voice prolonged as she stepped back away. But realizing that people were staring, Mitsuru hurries off and puts on her headphones without giving Tetsurou a chance to speak to her.

"And she runs off again. ." mumbled a disappoint boy, sighing a defeated sigh. Though he still kept the sheepish grin on his face while shrugging his shoulders.

Kenma almost felt sorry for him.

"That's what happens when you're being too hasty," he replied. "Besides. . you were trying to converse with her with our classmates here."

"As an addition to the goal, my friend, wouldn't it be nice to hit two birds with one stone?" Tetsurou replied as he and Kenma picked up their things before leaving.

If only he practiced rolling his eyes, Kenma would have done so. But instead, he heaves out a sharp, unimpressed sigh. His friend was supposed to be smart, why is he picking on a girl for a twenty-thousand yen bet? Kenma chose not to say anything though, because he knows that whatever Tetsurou messes up, he'll fix it himself. The shorty wasn't going to waste his energy on someone else's problem. Plus Tetsurou should learn a thing or two about this if it goes awry.

Now that would be hitting two birds with one stone.

"How noble of you," Kenma replied, pulling out his cellphone. Well. . . though honestly I think you're taking this bet too seriously. Isn't it cruel to aim to woo Shirai-san for twenty thousand yen?

"Edgar All Poe said, 'the best things in life make you sweaty.'" Tetsurou quotes as-a-matter-of-factly. 

Kenma cocks his eyebrow at his friend. He never believed that money would have been enough to motivate him to do something as stupid as that dare. Would he dare to try stopping his attempts?

For a moment the two halt in front of a vending machine. Then taking out a few change, they pick out a couple of drinks. All the while the shorty remained uncertain, and observed Tetsurou's behavior in case the latter really has gone mad. But the giant did nothing unusual with the girl out of his radar. 

"And if this whole set up thing would backfire?" Kenma asks as he took a sip from his drink. 

He glances up at Tetsurou.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

"Well, I hope you won't jinx me," Tetsurou answered defensively. "I wouldn't mind becoming a genuine friend along the way, but you better not tell Erucchan about this."

"That thought never came across my mind, Kuroo," said Kenma. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

Tetsurou grins at him.

"Don't worry about me!" He confidently exclaims, stretching out his arms into the air. "I'll be fine!"

It's not you whom I'm worried about, idiot.

* * * * * * * *

The clock's ticks echoed in a deathly volume: low and silent, enough to let one hear their own heartbeat. The only other sound that echoed was the paper scraping as they flipped and moved. To Mitsuru, it was music to her ears. It only meant one thing: attention. The reader had deep concentration for her work, the attention that meant recognition of a masterpiece. For an artist, recognition is required in order to excel and gain passage to rise to the top. She didn't want the direct spotlight—she was content with the way she was.

Seated across her manager, Mitsuru drew quick sketches on her sketchpad. Her fingers practically flew as it left graphite lines on the paper. Characters of various shapes and sizes with swatches of expressions on their faces. She was natural in this skill, but hidden under a facade of a cold and aloof gaze. In that advantage, Mitsuru would forever remain a mystery people cannot unveil, a puzzle they can never solve. The white haired girl wanted to keep it that way.

Even to her manager.

"I think you're in a winning streak, Shirai-kun," beamed Amano-san as he scanned through the various comic pages laid out before him.

Her eyes simply glanced at Amano-san patiently, waiting for other remarks or statements the blond man had in mind. Slim fingers fiddled restlessly, tapping the silver rings around them in an unsettling manner. And the girl sat still on her chair, her feet flat on the ground.

As for Amano, he seemed as impressed as he could be. The corners of his lips nearly reached his ears as his eyes twinkled in delight. The man couldn't stop his excited fidgeting--as if he was too ecstatic for his own good. Mitsuru knew this process too well. She's witnessed this for the past four years now, and it's nothing new. With that expression on Amano-san's face, there's always a negative outlook later on. If there's none, that would be a miracle and less of a hassle.

But Mitsuru doesn't expect that.

Nothing good comes with great expectations.

Just disappointment.

"You never cease to surprise me," said the blond man later on. "But--"

Here it comes.

"--are you sure with the sequence of events? Won't the readers get confused?" Mitsuru's editor adds uncertainly.

The white haired girl internally sighs.

"Amano-san. . you seem to keep forgetting that I'm writing a mystery-action manga," Mitsuru calmly replied. "If the readers immediately get what's happening, I've failed as a *mangaka."

"The whole thing should make sense later on if the readers paid attention to all the clues and details I've laid out for them. Plus, it should keep them on their toes. Me killing the main character's original lover would add some tension and emotion to the story, and even add some sort of motivation for the main character to pursue the masterminds behind the crime."

"Hmm, makes sense," Amano replies thoughtfully. "You never fail to entail the weaknesses and faults of human beings. I love it!"

"That's why my readers enjoy reading the shit I make."

"Oh, getting a little cocky now, are we?" Amano cackled, but Mitsuru stayed stone-faced as ever.

"Simply stating a fact, Amano-san. Just a fact." She crossed her arms across her chest, giving the editor a stern look. He's always had a playful attitude, not something that the girl appreciated.

Not at all.

Once again the man scans through her work, his expression now though was more thoughtful and analytic. Scrutinizing her work was a sign that the editor was finally serious. It made Mitsuru nervous, as she is always nervous when presenting her work. The fear of rejection or dissatisfaction was what haunted the white-haired artist. It was the one thing she hated so much, but the fear of making a mistake hounded her like death to a dying animal.

Then in a short while, the eccentric blonde sets the papers down and looks at the girl seriously. His fingers intertwine in front of him--another sign of the moment of truth. Behind her usual calm facade, Mitsuru gulps down her anxieties and insecurities. She simply hoped that the words he was about to convey would not be too heavy on her heart.

"This is just a suggestion," the man began as he clears his throat. "You have the choice to disregard it, especially that you're already starting to work on the fourth volume of your latest manga. Before I say anything, just let me congratulate you on your latest success. Just be sure to realize that someone as young as yourself is lucky being published by us, and that you're achieving much more compared to some mangaka who's twenty or even thirty years older."

He pauses.

"But don't you think it's time to step up on the emotional degree between two people?" He continues.

Mitsuru cocked her brow.

"I think I'm having difficulty trying to comprehend what you mean," she replied. "Aren't I already doing a good job at that?"

"Uh. . ." Amano-san pauses, trying to come up with words that may go through the girl's head. His hazel eyes gaze upwards, still busy rummaging through his mess of thoughts. But once he had a steady line of thought, his hazel eyes went back to Mitsuru.

"You could put more romance."

"That is the most mundane suggestion I could get from you, Amano-san," was the girl's immediate reply.

It was as if she tasted something bitter.

Romance--that thing that placed a bitter taste in her mouth. That thing on screen where two people find themselves holding hands because of the reaction of their hormones. That thing where you find them staring at each other right in the eyes. Fingers intertwined and lips touching.

The white-haired doll found it revolting.

No.

She was just bitter.

And the very thought of it reawakened the memories she's buried.

"I thought you were going to suggest something like killing off the favorite character later on or something," Mitsuru adds. "But hearing romance is not one of them."

Amano-san gawks at her.

"Oh my. Didn't expect you to say that."

* * * * * * * *

 Mitsuru sighs.

Not just any kind of sigh.

It was the deep, heavy type.

But her heart doesn't feel any lighter.

"You could put more romance." 

Stupid Amano-san. Thought the girl, gritting her teeth.

Thoughts started filling up her head, but she quickly pushes them away with the willpower of the famous and popular Naruto. 'Think happy thoughts,' 'don't mind,' and 'be strong' were repeated over and over in her head. She shook them off like how a dog shakes off the water dripping down its fur.

Her hands buried themselves into the pockets of her leather jacket, keeping them warm from the cold. Though summer was fast approaching, the evening breeze simply reciprocates a cool atmosphere. Along the colorful city lights, Mitsuru found herself wandering Tokyo mindlessly. Her newest volume was a success, she should be celebrating with her loved ones or friends. Thousands of volumes were already sold on the first day, and the numbers only grew progressively as days passed. But despite that, Mitsuru remained unsatisfied.

But whatever she lacked, she did not know. What could she possibly lack when her stories are adored by many far and wide throughout the country? What could possibly not make her happy?

Her blue orbs gaze through the clear glass in front of her, and sees a bunch of boisterous teenagers enjoying their booze. The smiles on their faces brought upon an unpleasant emotion that poked into her little heart: envy. Ah, the white-haired artist hated the feeling. The feeling of discontent because of someone else's content.

Instead of heading into her favorite restaurant to celebrate on her own, the artist decides to head to her favorite cafe instead for a cup of drink--maybe something she hasn't tried before. A little different something.

Life is an adventure after all.

Wait.

Life should be an adventure.

But Mitsuru didn't linger inside. The moment her order was given, she walks out and heads home. No one would be waiting, just her goldfish, Urie--named in honor of her favorite character in Tokyo Ghoul. It was a masterpiece she adores with her whole being. But the girl compares herself to dearest Edgar Allan Poe, a melancholic genius who drank the cup of insanity, but his works are art. And also her cute black cat, Kuro--who's probably buried himself somewhere in her clothes.

In this moment, she decides to take the liberty to quote a short poem that somehow speaks her current fleeting feelings: 

"Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

"I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter --"

"Wit-woo!" Came an unpleasant whistle.

"Ack!" The girl muffled under her breath.

Whirling her head around, her heart began to pound when she saw a pack of men (that was an exaggeration, there was only three, but still many in her opinion) standing close by. She was heading to the suburbs where she hoarded a house to herself, but it was a long walk. Then finding some wolves by a vending machine was not part of her plan. Discomfort crept up her skin as she decided to walk on, but dread dogged her every step as Mitsuru bravely attempts to walk pass them.

"Yo, honey!" A slurred voice cried after her. 

The stench of alcohol becomes evident, and its stinging smell annoyed her nose. Their slurred voices were noise to her ears, and their efforts of calling her soon became a failure. Her ignorance offended them, and before long Mitsuru found herself halted in her path. And found her wrist trapped in some drunkard's grip.

Shit! Her terrified voice screamed in her head. He's touching me!

"Let go of me!" The girl seethed angrily. "Let go, damnit!"

"Heyyyyy. ." the man holding her frowns. "Y-ouuuu're bweeeing ruuuuuuuuude. You. . You're a wooom'n. Y-"--he hiccups--"You're suppwosed to mwake us fweeeuul goood!"

"Stupid, motherfucking asshole!" Words came out of Mitsuru's lips like a whip, quickly kicking the dude in the shin.

Angry, the man pushes her, making Mitsuru stumble backwards and fall on her bottom. The girl quickly scrambles, readying herself to run for it. But her about-to-be-attackers hover over her like hungry wolves. Fear froze Mitsuru in place, and for the first time in a long time she began to pray to the heavens for mercy.

It was instantly answered.

Under the light of the post lamp, where the stars seemed to disappear because of city lights, Mitsuru stood motionless and silent.  She could hear the cicadas singing, and her own heartbeat drumming inside her rib cage. A stagnant smell of sweat filled her nostrils--it was unpleasant. But Mitsuru found the an all-familiar back facing against her. The large hand he owned held tightly to hers. It made her wonder how she got on her feet.

"What are you guys doing with my girlfriend?" Tetsurou asks with a sly grin. 

Kuroo? 

~~~

Number of words: 3009

*sensei (先生) means teacher both noun and honorific in Japanese.

 *mangaka (漫画家) is the word for manga artist.

This chapter is dedicated to kenmapplepie :) I hope this update made you smile, hehe <3

and uh, some Kuroo appreciation?

https://youtu.be/VYk9zZ549h0

you're welcome and don't forget to thank me AHAHAHAHHAHAHA

- raita

p.s. why are 2D guys so HOT? ;;