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Tuesday after classes, Shiro goes in search of Betsy to talk about Kwannon. Poor boy gets his heart broken.


Shiro is not a fan of confrontations, unless they involve fists and/or steel. He does not like having to search for people and force them to speak with him. So it's with great reluctance that he set out to find Betsy. She had never responded to his e-mail those months ago, and he simply had to speak with her. There were times when he couldn't stop thinking of Kwannon, and he knew it was driving him batty. He hadn't told a single soul about what had happened between them, because it was just that: between them. But he knew he needed some sort of resolution. It wasn't long before he found himself in front of the door to Betsy's suite, knocking.

"Yes, come in." Betsy was sitting on the floor of her bedroom, dressed in loose-fitting sweats and a white tank top. She held her form perfectly, while she meditated. Her thoughts were on focusing her control and if she kept having interruptions, she'd never get anything done. She grabbed the towel from her chair and wiped the sweat from her brow.

Shiro is many things. Among them a seventeen year-old male. It took a great deal of self-control to not drool on-sight or drop his jaw when he opened the door and saw what Betsy was wearing. "Um, Ms. Braddock, I was wondering if you had a moment to spare . . ." he said hesitantly, still standing outside of the room.

"Oh, Shiro." Betsy hesitated. Shiro. She really should've checked who was at the door before answering. Damn it. She retrieved a dressing gown from the base of her bed and protectively wrapped herself in it. She turned back to her door and let Shiro in. Why now? "Yes, what can I do for you?"

He blushed and looked away as she covered herself, and only after a few seconds to compose himself looked up again and entered the room. "Anoo . . . I was just wondering . . ." Seems the easy part was starting the conversation. But Shiro had no idea what to say next. ". . . um, if you have been well. After everything." Smooth, Yoshida.

Betsy took in Shiro's stance, his uncomfortable nature, and cringed. She didn't have it in her to talk at the moment. But, she couldn't deny him what he wanted to know. "I'm fine," she said, the strain evident in her voice. Betsy couldn't help but keep her arms crossed defensively. Cool it, she told herself. It isn't his fault now, is it? She bowed her head and sighed. "Why don't you have a seat while I make us some tea?"

"Arigatou," he muttered, not even realizing that he had switched to Japanese. He took a seat, his hands on his lap and back straight like a proper gentleman. "Everything has been, um, crazy around here recently. I-I was just concerned, I guess."

Betsy returned with a tray of tea and two cups. "Dou itashimashite, Yoshida-san," she said not realizing she spoke in Shiro's native tongue, her accent lost to her.

Betsy continued to pour two cups of tea, she gave him a reassuring smile. "Well, I appreciate the concern. But, I know that is not what brought you here."

There's the blush again. He muttered another thank you and took a sip, careful not to burn his tongue with the scalding liquid. "Right. You are a telepath." Shiro bit his lip and looked at anything not Betsy. "I do not know why I am here, exactly. I . . . I do not understand the situation with Kwannon, I suppose. What happened between her and me . . . did it affect you at all?"

"It did." She flinched. Betsy felt the bubbling of emotion and did her best to subdue it. Though her body felt like it was coming undone, she had to hold fast. Shiro's words echoed. Affect her? The bitch almost bloody broke her, but he was more focused on his....

Betsy coughed, taking another sip of her tea. "But not in the way you'd expect. I was merely a vessel for Kwannon's...actions. And if there was a way to take back what she did, I would. But there isn't and I must live with that."

"Everything?" he asked softly, unaware that the word had even left his mouth.

"Yes, everything." She paused for a moment, thinking it over. Betsy fought hard to separate it. It was her body, her face, he crooned over. "What happened between you and Kwannon...did you love her?"

It felt like someone had tied an iron weight to his heart and let it drop. Shiro took another sip of his tea to calm his nerves. Samurai do not get emotional, Yoshida. Understood? "I . . . do not know. Maybe?" He looked up at Betsy, trying to mask the pain on his face. He did an admirable job, certainly. "If she had not been so . . ." Evil? "Manipulative and destructive, I think I might have been."

"I only remember bits of it, really. It was hard to be conscious for much of it." She looked up at Shiro and hoped that if she lied, it would ease his pain. If she could just keep herself from remembering what happened, she wouldn't be wrestling with the knot in her chest. Betsy hoped this would ease his suffering a little. "I really do think Kwannon cared for you, what part of her was capable of that."

"Really?" He wasn't sure if he should believe it, because after everything he had gathered about Kwannon, it didn't seem possible that she cared for anyone except herself. "But she is gone now, right?"

Betsy hesitated once more. "Yes, she's gone." All lies, she told herself. How many times will you have to do this? She bit back her response and nodded at Shiro's curious glance at her. "I'm sorry."

Shiro stood up, abandoning the his half-full cup of tea. "No, there is nothing to apologize for. Thank you for your time. I am sorry for disturbing you, Ms. Braddock."

Betsy stood with him, she looked obviously puzzled. "Oh, not a problem. If I can help you with anything else, you'll let me know?" She left the question hanging. Though she could think of ten other places she could be instead of here.

"Of course. Have a pleasant day, Ms. Braddock." He gave her a slight bow and exited the room. Ignoring the sudden rush of unfamiliar emotions, he went straight back to his room to change into lighter clothing and grabbed his katana. "Urusai," he muttered angrily to himself once he got outdoors, forcing his mind to shut up so he could just concentrate on the sword. There was nothing but the sharp blade in his hands; no emotions, no thoughts, no memories of being touched . . . With a loud cry, he shot straight up into the air, slashing and moving as fast as he could until exhaustion.