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October 31st, 2010


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kahn
10:56 pm - Fic: Yu Yu Hakusho vs Twilight (1/?)
A little something for Halloween!

Title: YYH vs Twilight
Pairings: Kurama/Yuusuke
Warnings: Sparkling vampires. Yuusuke's potty mouth.
Notes: I'm actually a little embarrassed at how serious this became. It started out as a parody and became another bird entirely. I hope you still enjoy it, though. This is an amalgamation between the Twilight movie and the book.
Thanks: Special thanks to nightwalker who did a very quick and dirty beta-ing. Most of my coherence is because of her!
Summary: Urameshi Yuusuke arrives in Forks. It's not what you think.
Extra Disclaimer: All aspects of Twilight belong to Stephanie Meyer, Little, Brown Publishing, Summit Entertainment, and associated parties. These characters were borrowed without permission, but only for fun and not for commercial purposes.






PREFACE

Yuusuke'd never given much thought to how he would die--even after dying a few times--but if he had, if he'd been allowed to choose one of his several expirations, he would've wished at least one of them be like this.

He stared across the expanse into the dark eyes of his opponent, who smiled like someone about to ask if Yuusuke had accepted Jesus into his life. Yuusuke inhaled slowly, then emptied his mind, exhaling all worries, and grinned back.

This was a good death, a death that felt familiar, more like coming home than anything he'd felt in the last few months. To die in place of someone he loved. To die trying to surmount impossible odds while the world burned down around his ears. It sounded hopeless, but Yuusuke was an eternal optimist. Even after he was gone, the battle would be won. His friends would never let his death be in vain.

He realized that if he'd never gone to Forks, he wouldn't be here, now. It was the first time he felt a begrudging fondness for that place. Despite the struggles, the crushing boredom , the frustrating confusion, he couldn't bring himself to dislike a place that had brought him here, to a near-perfect end. He wasn't afraid. He flexed his calves, stretched his fingers, warming muscles that had a good work out in a while. When life offered you a spectacular challenge on a great battlefield, it wasn't nice to complain.

Yuusuke smiled and took off, running toward his death.

_

CHAPTER 1: Welcome to Forks, Pop. 3120

My mom booted me out of the house with a cheerful grin and some last words of advice. "Don't tell a woman who's fond of sex that you're going to kick her boyfriend's teeth in next time you see him," she said, chucking something at my head. "I need those teeth. They've been good to me."

"Ew!" I said, batting whatever it was out of the air before it hit me. You have to have fast reflexes around my mother or you end up with a lot of bruises. It felt flimsy as it hit my hand and fell into the street with a soft sound. "Old people sex."

"I'm not old, you damn brat! I'm thirty."

"Almost twice my age," I pointed out.

"Any wrinkles I have you gave me!" she retorted, a familiar refrain. I supposed it was true enough. I never claimed to be an easy child to raise.

"Don't lose that," she said as she lit a cigarette and the jabbed it toward the thing on the ground. "You're going to need it."

I glanced at it. It looked like a thin, pocket-sized book with an official stamp of some sort glinting in gold on the front.

My mother breathed smoke into the night, and then raised the cigarette for another draw. Usually, she lingered over them like they were a really good cup of tea, but tonight she sucked it down. Her hands shook a little. The ember lit her face dimly, but even in that faint spark, I could read the unyielding hardness in her usually animated face. Urameshi Atsuko was attractive in a sharp way, when she was clean and sober, which wasn't often. Her features were strong and striking, the wide, expressive eyes a shift away from pure Japanese that lent her an exotic look. There was gaijin in her blood somewhere, for all she lived and breathed Tokyo like it was food, water, all the essentials of life.

Then I remembered why I was standing on the chilly street, damp breeze of an early cold-snap cutting through threadbare jeans. "He's not good enough for you."

"No, he's fine for me. He's not good enough for you and no one will ever be." She stood propped against the doorframe of our apartment, staring at the last of her cigarette. Then she flicked the butt away, ran a hand through her thick, brown hair and straightened. "So! Since you seem in want of a bachelor pad, I'm sending you to your father."

"I don't even know where he lives!"

She smiled. Our smiles were almost mirror images of each other, except for obvious gender differences. There was a lot of my mother in me and it was really obvious when we smiled, both wide and warm, but with hidden edges. We didn't necessarily smile to invite someone closer. Sometimes we smiled when we were preparing to push them away. "I raised you to be smart. Go find him."

She stepped back into the apartment and shut the door. It took me a minute to realize that she had just said her goodbyes. That was how I left home, pausing to pick up what my mother had thrown at my head, which turned out to be a passport. In retrospect, that had been a clue. In the moment, however, I still assumed my father would be in the city, somewhere. Tokyo is a huge place. Two people could live here forever and never meet, especially if they were trying.

I spent the night in a 24-hour internet café flirting aggressively with wallflower nerds until one helped me find my father via search engine just to get rid of me. It turned out he wasn't in the city. It turned out he wasn't in the country. So step two of my plan would be to get on a plane going in the right direction. I didn't have any money for a ticket but I figured I would deal with that later.

On the way to the airport, taking public transportation for as long as I could afford and then walking, a man approached me. He had a rock star look. His hair was silver, but he didn't look that old, and he had a small, jagged series of tattoos under one eye, like tribal arrowheads pointing the way to his strong jaw. His eyes were intense, and he was really tall. We were in Shinjuku, Tokyo's craziest district, and he was still drawing stares. He offered, in a voice that rumbled down my spine like it had frequencies too low for my ears but I could feel on my skin, to pay me for a blowjob, double if I swallowed. It was not what I expected, somehow, but I took him up on it. He was wearing 500,000-yen shoes and a ridiculously expensive suit.

Away from the main street lights, next to the trash bins of a curry house, where the sounds of the city were soft and the smells harsh, I knelt at a stranger's feet and then punched him in the gut. After that, I stole his wallet.

Let that be a lesson. Never assume short, skinny kids can't knock you the fuck out.

Figuring I had about ten to fifteen minutes before my "customer" recovered, I ducked into the nearest subway station and then bought myself a ticket to the airport. Once on the train, I flirted with a girl until she let me use her phone to book my one-way plane ticket with the stranger's credit card, and once at the airport station, I left the wallet with security.

Aside from the clothes on my back and the wits in my head, my mother had given me something else--a passport. I remembered having at least three, each with different names in them. "Just in case," my mom had always said. She'd given me the one with my actual name in it, Urameshi Yuusuke. It had never been used. None of them had. That supposed future crisis was, apparently, still waiting to happen. I guess now it would happen without me. That worried me, almost more than the fact that I had no idea what I was going to do once I got to America. I didn't even speak the language. Hell, I didn't even know the alphabet.

I suppose it might've seemed strange to some people that I'd be anything but angry at a person who'd just kicked me out of the only home I've known with no money and nowhere to go, but my mom had never been anything but upfront about the fact that I would have to grow up fast. She'd never been very interested in being a mother. I'd been an accident. She'd kept her shit together as much as she could for as long as she could manage. She hadn't been a particularly good parent, but better than her own, as far as I knew. Hell, they'd kicked her out when she'd been fourteen. I'd had three more years to prepare for it.

Getting through customs was easier than expected. I scrubbed up in a bathroom, let my hair flop over my ears and eyes and looked as wide-eyed and innocent as possible. It was a look I could only hold for about five minute increments before it started getting a bit manic around the edges, but while I was in the zone, that look was golden. On the plane, I settle back for in-flight movies and food. I'd booked first class. Why not, when someone else is paying?

Tokyo vanished quickly after take-off, swallowed by the sea. I'd never loved it, not the way my mother did, like it was a beloved parent. Still, it was all I'd ever known, and it had treated me better than I'd had any right to have expected. Cities were cruel by nature, but Tokyo had always been kind to me.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I got to America. It certainly wasn't the tall boy about my age, holding a sign with my name on it, in proper kanji and everything. His orange hair was a mess of tight curls, and he stood with a fighter's stance: solid, with his weight centered, like he could stand there forever and not get tired. Beside him was a tiny woman in a wheel chair, blanket over her legs, a rope of braided gray hair dangling over her shoulder, most of her features lost in the deep wrinkles of her face.

My first instinct was to avoid them. Mom always said to be wary of strangers who know your name. But just as I decided to walk past, the dude locked gazes with me, then he tapped the wheel of the old woman's chair with his foot. She looked over and saw me, too, and reached down, next to her chair to lift up her own sign and turn it toward me.

Get over here, idiot. We know your dad, it said.

I veered toward them. Who was I to argue with a wizened elder adorned with caustic signage?

"Hi," I said as I drew near. "I'm Yuusuke."

"I'm Kuwabara Kazuma," the kid said. "This is Genkai. Your father sent us to meet you."

"I figured."

"It's good to see you well," Genkai said, her voice full of age and rust, a rattle in her labored breath.

"Did Atsuko call ahead or are you guys psychic?"

They gave me identical impenetrable looks.

"Which one do you think's more likely?" Genkai asked.

Something in her sharp eyes, peering out from a face that age had made stark, reminded me of something familiar, like hearing a song but being too far away to understand any words. Kuwabara set off the same vibe. They were friends of my father. Had I met them before? Nothing about them was normal and that should have twigged all sorts of alarms, but it didn't. I trusted them.

"Do you always answer every question with a question?" I asked her.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Why would you?"

"Isn't it my job, as village elder, to be spiritual and vague?"

"You're a village elder?"

"Do you think I'm a spring chicken?"

Kuwabara interrupted. "Are you two going to do this the whole time?"

"Did you hear something?" I asked, not even looking at the other guy, just because I knew it would drive him crazy.

"Isn't it in your best interests to be nice to Kazuma-kun?"

So, the old lady was on a first name basis with the tall kid. I glanced between them. Kuwabara had a long-suffering look that was slowly inching toward true annoyance. Genkai's eyes twinkled. They didn't look similar enough in features to be related, but I couldn't be sure.

"Shouldn't he be nice to his guest?"

"Who said you were our guest? We're just your ride."

I glanced at Genkai. "Do you think that counts? Did he just cheat?"

Kuwabara turned and started to head toward the exit. "I'm leaving. Hope you don't have any luggage."

"Ha!" I called after him. "Loser!"

"Ha," Genkai said, turning her chair with strong, deft movements to follow Kuwabara. "I win."

I thought about that. "Dammit!"

They loaded me into an SUV, which was possibly the biggest, most solid car I'd ever seen.

"You could build an awesome fort out of this! It would be really sturdy!"

Kuwabara eased into traffic. "That was your first thought?"

Civilization gave way to wet, wooded country under a darkly overcast sky. America was a vast place. Even though I'd seen movies set in this country, I'd never really understood the sheer amount of nothing that could exist between landmarks.

Usually, I couldn't fall asleep around strangers, but I found myself nodding off in the back seat. It was weird, but I chalked it up to jetlag. Kuwabara and Genkai tried to talk to me, but I was having trouble focusing and eventually gave up even attempting to answer. So, instead, they carried on quiet conversations without me in English, until the murmur of their words faded out entirely.

The next thing I knew, Kuwabara was gently shaking me awake. I don't wake up friendly, but he managed to duck my reflexive punch to the face, and then helped me up the steps because I couldn't quite keep my feet under me. The world still had sleep's fuzzy cotton over it, and I was having trouble waking up. We were parked in someone's driveway. It was too dark to see details, but the house had a set of white steps, leading up to a wide porch. A house this big in Tokyo would've cost a fortune. Kuwabara propped me up with his hip as he dug through his pockets and produced a key.

Maybe I should've protested, since I didn't know where I was and he could've been leading me into a country brothel to sell me off, for all I knew, but I didn't. We stood in a pool of warm yellow light from the porch light. Kuwabara smelled like wood smoke and cinnamon and laundry detergent.

"Your dad might not be home until late. He said to take the guest room, for now."

By this point, my vision was tunneling. I let Kuwabara lead me into the house and up more stairs and into a bedroom. All I could think was, mmmm, sleep and then I was face down in the pillows, two days of travel finally catching up with me. I think Kuwabara chuckled. I tried to flip him off, but I my arm only waggled a bit.

I must have drifted for a moment, because when I turned my head and looked toward the door, he was gone. I tried not to wish him back. Acting pathetically wasn't going to help anything. He'd left the hall light on but shut the door so I could see vague shapes of a stranger's furniture highlighted in the dim glow that came in through the crack near the floor. The pillow smelled like dust and gardenia.

It was so quiet here. The nights in Tokyo were loud with the rush and hum of people, no matter the hour. I was tense, waiting for a gunshot, the sound of a distant argument, a police siren, anything familiar. Instead, it was only the creak of trees, the rattle of wind through their leaves almost like the sound of the ocean.

Despite being too tired to think, I didn't drift off until it started to rain. That soft sound, constant and hushed, was enough to send me to sleep.

I'm sure I was out for at least twenty four hours. When I opened my eyes again, it was morning. Morning was...loud in this town, and night was quiet. It was the reverse of what I was used to and it had made for restless sleeping and disoriented waking. Outside, birds chirped, rain continued to patter softly against the window, trees shook noisily in the wind. Pots and pans rattled downstairs. After a moment, that stopped and someone was walking up the stairs with muted, thumping steps.

Those weren't my mother's footsteps because they were heavy and far too careless. That woke me up, more than all the other unfamiliar sounds combined. Even though I knew I was (probably) safe, I threw off the covers and got out of bed, putting it between me and the door. I was still fully dressed. I got a whiff of myself in the back draft of the sheets. Phew. Well, scent alone might defend me.

Wariness made me orient myself quickly. The bedroom was plain and kinda beige-y, decorated with girly silk flowers in a lavender vase on the dresser and the framed picture of softly painted flower fields over the bed. There was a bedside table that sported a lamp, a digital clock that read too fucking early in the morning, and a framed picture of a pretty girl with shoulder-length brown hair. Most of one wall was made up of two large windows, between which stood a dust-covered whitewashed desk.

The bed was odd to me. I'd never had one before. Mom and I slept on the floor most nights. Sometimes I got the futon, but usually she did. The bed was soft. I ached like I'd been in a fight just from sleeping in it.

I categorized the room like this: possible obstacles--bed, dresser, desk, depending on which way the fight went; possible weapons--vase of flowers, clock, lamp, desk chair, if necessary; possible escape routes or hiding places--under the bed, in the closet, out one of the windows or the door, though that was unlikely because it would be blocked by whoever was now on the other side of it.

I told my stupid, paranoid brain to shut up. I was fine, safe. If anyone had wanted to do anything to me they could have done it while I'd been practically unconscious for a day. I still tensed up when the door opened.

The man who stuck his head in couldn't have been anyone but my father. I'd always thought I'd been a spitting image of my mother, gender differences aside, but that was just because I'd never had anyone else whose features I could compare to mine. It was like looking into a future-mirror, age skinning away baby fat and adding wrinkles--not many, though. My dad looked pretty young, for an adult. He must have been a stupid kid when he'd knocked up my mom, just like she'd been. That was a comfort, I guess. But I didn't feel comforted.

Resentment welled up in my throat. I did not want to look like this asshole. I suddenly blamed him for every hurtful thing my mom had ever said or done to me.

"Mornin'," he said, Japanese pulled out in a drawl.

Dear God. My dad had an Osakan accent. Had I known that? I must have. I had some hazy memories of him left over in the cobwebs of my toddler days, but it took me completely by surprise. Suddenly, I wanted home again, or even Genkai and Kuwabara and their perfect Tokyo-ben. The backseat ride here had felt more familiar than this.

Idiot, what the hell is wrong with you? Just say hello. And if he makes any sudden moves, break his nose.

"Hi."

He must have read me well or had memories of my mother and her devastating quick-jab, because when he opened the door and took a step into the room, his movements were small and easy.

It had taken what felt like a full minute of staring to begin to pick out the little differences between us: my dad's narrower nose and eyes, his squarer jaw, but the open door revealed a big difference. He was tall. I was on the small, compact end of things, so I didn't look like much in my one-size-too-large t-shirt. I was 5' 6" and shorter than my mom, who stood 5' 7"-ish. She'd always promised a late growth spurt. She must have been remembering my father.

He was stretched what must have been six feet, lanky, with broad shoulders and big hands, one of which was wrapped around a black ceramic mug. He wore a flannel shirt, something I hadn't realized existed outside of movies, and worn-in jeans. Not the kind that were in danger of dissolving in a hard rain, like mine, but not fancy or even close to new. I'd gotten his thick, jet-black hair, and he even wore it slicked back, close to his skull, like I usually did. That made me frown. Had I picked that up from him?

But any more brooding on the subject was waylaid by the heavenly scent of coffee, probably from the cup in his hand. When I zeroed in on it, all other problems seemed less important.

"You like coffee?" he asked somewhere in the background with the rest of the things that didn't matter.

FUCK YES, I thought, but managed to dilute it into a non-committal one-shouldered shrug. Ambivalence, thy name is teenager.

"There's plenty more downstairs. Bathroom's across the hall. Better get ready--you don't want to be late for school."

With that, he turned away, taking his coffee with him. After a moment, my brain caught up.

School...?

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"


Chapter 2





(2 comments | Leave a comment)

Comments:


[User Picture]
From:nightwalker
Date:November 1st, 2010 03:51 am (UTC)
(Link)
Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiic.

I love Yuusuke's Dad. He's so obviously clueless about how much trouble he's in for, but I think he can handle it. I also love Yuusuke's voice here. I'm not a huge fan of the source material (the book, not YYH, of course) but I think if the female protagonist had handled things more like Yuusuke I would have liked it a lot better.

Can't wait to read the rest!
[User Picture]
From:kahn
Date:November 3rd, 2010 12:10 am (UTC)
(Link)
Thank yoooou!

You'll read it before anyone else, because you're my designated beta reader! Aren't you lucky?? :-D

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