Chapter Text
Kiku had always liked school. From a young age it was something his parents had taught him to take pride in. Doing well in school mattered: it was a social status, a sign of intelligence, and it would be a large part of his life and become an even larger part of his future. More than all of that, however, it was something that Kiku had always found terribly easy.
For the first time in his life, Kiku was beginning to find concentrating on his schoolwork increasingly difficult.
The fluorescent lights were too bright, and there were far too many of them. He was certain he'd be able to see the board just fine with half the lights and half the watts. He knew there wasn't anything he could do about it, and that all of his frustrations weren't stemming from the lighting, but rather from the entire classroom environment in itself.
It was nothing like school in Japan. School in Japan was an environment suited for learning. This wasn't a classroom at all. It was chaos. It was a zoo. The students seemed to do everything but listen to the teacher: pass notes, talk to their neighbors (or people across the room) and doodle in the corners of notebooks. Several students had taken their shoes off, and at least two were asleep.
Then there was the boy who sat directly in front of him. He had the brightest, blindingly yellow shade of blond hair Kiku had ever seen, and he never stopped running his mouth. He talked loudly, incessantly, and nonstop. He talked to the boy on the right and the girl on the left, he talked to the boy in front of him. Occasionally, Kiku noted, he could even be caught talking to himself. Out loud. Thankfully, he hadn't yet turned around and attempted conversation with the boy behind him.
And Kiku was grateful for it.
He could ignore the noise if he tried hard enough, he was sure of it. Closing his eyes, he willed his muscles to relax one at a time. The tension began draining from his head. He could do this. This inner-city public American high school would not ruin Kiku’s otherwise pristine record, nor his chances to attend the University of his choice.
Reminding himself that life was not always easy, he took a deep breath, smoothed out the wrinkles in his khaki pants, and opened his eyes.
“Are you Chinese?” The boy in front of him asked.
Weren't there rules in American schools? Rules about staying seated and not talking during class and paying attention to the teacher? Apparently not.
“Ah no, sorry.”
Why was he apologizing for not being Chinese? It wasn't the first time he’d been asked, nor the first time he’d disappointed. Who would have guessed that in America—land of the immigrants—everyone would be so interested in his heritage? He shook his head, tucked a piece of coal black hair behind his ear, and attempted to resume his classwork.
“So whaddayou like, Korean or something?”
Kiku took a deep breath and shook his head. That was usually the second guess, although not always, sometimes the second guess was—
“Filipino?”
Kiku shook his head again. What was it with this guy? Why did he just keep talking—and right in front of the teacher? Not for the first time, Kiku found himself wishing that schools in America were a little more like schools in Japan. Westerners were far too lax about discipline, it seemed.
“No, I'm...uh...” Despite living in America for more than a year, the language still seemed elude him at the worst times.
“Vietnamese?” The blond offered, and it had Kiku wondering just how recently the prescription on his glasses had been checked.
Right on cue, the blond leaned in further, as if attempting to examine his face up close. Perhaps he thought if he squinted enough Kiku's ethnicity would reveal itself.
“Japanese,” Kiku swallowed before continuing. “I'm Japanese, actually.”
“Japanese?!” The boy exclaimed, turning several heads.
He said it as if Kiku had just told him that he was part Yorkshire-Terrier, on his mother's side. Kiku watched curiously as Alfred's eyes widened like saucers.
“Like, right outta Japan?!”
The teacher furrowed his bushy eyebrows and threw him a rather curt look, but otherwise continued teaching. Kiku couldn't believe it. It was if the students ran the classroom instead of the teachers.
“So did you actually live in Japan?”
At his old school, people had never accosted him about his ethnicity, and they certainly had never asked him if he was, “right outta Japan.”
“Yes, I was born there,” Kiku admitted softly. “My family and I moved here two years ago.”
Alfred gave him a very impressed look. The type of look you give someone when they tell you they just scored a twenty-four-hundred on the SATs.
“So you speak Japanese, right?”
Kiku had definitely been asked more intelligent questions. Being born into a country and living there for several years usually guaranteed that you could at least speak the given language. Americans weren't exactly known for their academic skills, but this guy seemed particularly dense.
“Uh, I mean...” Seemingly realizing his mistake, he quickly added, “Will you say something in Japanese?”
Kiku wavered. “Ano...”
Why was this guy talking to him? Why did he care if Kiku was Japanese or or Chinese? How was he expected to placate this person?
“What would you like me to say?”
Kiku glanced up at the chalkboard in dismay. He'd have to look the lesson over in his textbook when he got home.
“How do you say…” Alfred started, chewing his lip. “This class sucks balls!”
Despite his best intentions, Kiku found himself chuckling softly. “I'm afraid I could not do that phrase justice in Japanese.”
“Well...do you know any cuss words?”
“I really don't—” He was going to try to explain that things just weren't that simple, he was going to try to make up some excuse, any excuse, but then—
“How do you say I love you?”
Kiku really hoped his face wasn’t red. That was just undignified. Why would anyone need to say something as embarrassing and as private as that?
“No, it's not like that!” his classmate rushed to explain. “There's this hot Asian chick I know and if I ever get up her shirt I wanna know what to say!”
Before Kiku could garner a moment to think anything—much less about how ridiculous this guy was being—the blond was in his face again, glasses oddly reflective under the too-bright fluorescent lights.
“I forgot to tell you,” he started, reaching out a hand. It seemed oddly formal all of a sudden, but it wasn't like Kiku had any room to question formality. “The name's Alfred!” he declared, grabbing Kiku's smaller hand and giving it a firm shake. “Alfred fuckin' Jones!”