A Digimon Frontier Fantic

By Sakura Martinez

Author's Notes:

Well, I suddenly had the urge to write something in the first person view and after giving it much thought as to who the character I would write about be, I finally decided to write this fanfic and choose Kouji and Kouichi as characters from it.

I haven't actually tried writing First Person POV stories yet, so please, don't be too harsh about this one. Also, I made this a bit, if not very much, AU-ish to match with the plot.

The back story of the twins here are based off stories that were told to me by two of my dearest friends just so everyone knows.

Anyhow, please enjoy and don't forget to review and tell me what you think about it!

The Healing Touch

Chapter 1

There was a special class at school for the problem kids. Anyone out of the ordinary got dumped there: mentally challenged kids, kids who hadn't spoken for years, kids with handicaps that kept them out of regular classes. The special classroom was off in a corner of the campus, hidden from everyone. It had a special teacher, trained to take care of kids who couldn't tell the difference between candy and their coat buttons.

In the special class, age didn't matter. Anyone who didn't qualify as normal ended up there – no matter what grade they were supposed to be in.

One day, when we were going swimming for P.E., I had to take off my shirt in the locker room.

"I heard your dad gave you that," one of the other kids said, pointing to the scar on my back. He laughed, and everyone turned to look.

The scar was a few years old, but still red and obvious. My father had thrown an iron at me in a drunken rage. Normally I keep it covered up, since I don't like people staring.

I didn't respond, hoping he'd go away. No such luck.

"Is it true?" he said. "Your dad did that? That's just wrong."

Some of the other boys giggled. I clenched my fists until my knuckles went white. In the corner of the locker room was a long-handled brush for cleaning the floor; I grabbed it and before anyone could react, I started beating the kid who'd laughed at me. Before long, he was bleeding and begging me to stop, but I kept hitting him until someone pulled us apart.

The next day, the adults came to my house to check on the conditions there and talk about my "emotional deficiencies". From then on, I was put in the special class.

The teacher was a lady with glasses who would sit with younger kids and cut origami paper into colored rings. They'd made them into a chain so long that it covered most of the wall space of the classroom. She didn't want me; she told the principal she had too many to take care of already. I think she'd heard about me, too, and didn't want to deal with another violent outburst. It didn't matter in the end, since the principal ignored her.

For the first week, whenever she was around me, the teacher looked nervous. Like I was a time bomb that could explode at any minute. She seemed surprised when I didn't exhibit any violent behavior. When one of the younger kids knocked my lunch on the floor, I didn't even get angry with him.

"Doesn't it make you mad?" the teacher asked me.

"A bit." I shrugged. "He's just a first grader, though. He didn't mean it. And getting mad at him isn't going to help."

She shook her head. "It looks like the file was wrong about you," she said.

I liked the special class. None of the kids were mean. They didn't make fun of each other. Half of them couldn't even go to the bathroom by themselves; some of them couldn't talk, or were scared to death of something stupid. But they were all still trying to keep up with the normal kids, so they didn't have the time to laugh at other people.

In April, the special class got a new student. He was eleven – the same age as me – and had just been transferred from another school. He was in the special class because he refused to talk to anyone.

He was short and had pale skin, almost like a china doll. The teacher had to hold his hand and walk him into the classroom. He seemed really nervous.

His name was Kouichi.

In the special class, the teacher handed out an assignment to each person every day. We each got different work, based on how smart we were. Kouichi got the hardest assignments they had, but he still finished them easily. Despite his obvious intelligence, he never talked to anyone. He could do anything the teacher asked, but he wouldn't speak. During recess, he curled up in the corner of the room and read.

One day, I was called into the principal's office to discuss why one of the normal kids had bite marks on his arm. I told them he'd been bullying one of the special class kids, but they didn't care. The principal gave me a time-out in the corner of the office, and that seemed to satisfy the normal kid and his mother.

I sat in the office all day. Some of the people who dropped by gave me strange looks, but I ignored them. After a while they forgot I was there, and a couple of the teachers started talking about Kouichi's family. I carefully pretended not to hear.

"The new boy in the special class," a young teacher said. "He's the one from that incident, isn't he?"

The other teacher nodded. "With his father dead and his mother in jail, he's been bouncing around from foster home to foster home. I think he's with some distant relatives at the moment."

I had no idea what they meant by that incident, but hearing the story made me feel closer to Kouichi. I knew what it was like, living in the house of someone you barely knew.

Until a month ago, I'd been living with my parents. My dad drank, and when he did, his temper was awful. In his rage, he would throw stuff at us and break things. He'd hit us, sometimes; once he got so mad that Mom and I ran out of the house without even stopping for our shoes. We walked around the block, over and over, until we thought he'd had enough time to calm down.

He used to work like everyone else's dad, but for a long time now he'd just been lying around the house. He'd changed. He used to have friends all over the neighborhood, but now they all hated him. He seemed to know it, too, and that just made him angrier.

My mom put up with it, but I could see the relief on her face when he checked into the hospital for good. He was really sick, and nothing was going to save him. For a while I thought it was the beginning of a better life for me and Mom, just the two of us… But one day she went out to the grocery store and never came back.

My aunt and uncle turned up when they found out I'd been abandoned. They pretended to be full of concern, eager to give me a normal life, but all they wanted was the house that my parents had owned. Once they were moved in, I was just an obstacle.

I'd accepted all this as the facts of life, but it made me feel like I understood Kouichi.

Everyone was happy to go home when the bell rang. A lot of special kids couldn't go home alone; they couldn't remember the way, or they'd be too scared on their own, so they waited for their parents to come and pick them up. Kouichi and I would wait around with them until long after dark, trying to postpone our return to what awaited us.

The classroom got quiet as people left, and the setting sun painted the campus orange. Little sounds echoed – footsteps or the thumb of a bouncing rubber ball. The shadows on the empty playground got longer and longer, twisting into a tangled maze. It was hard to believe the school was such a rowdy place during the day.

It was around the same time of day my mom ran away, just as the sun disappeared. I always ended up alone in the classroom with Kouichi. He would read, and I'd watch TV and draw or work on some craft project.

It was one of those quiet afternoons that Kouichi revealed his strange power.

I was carving wood with a knife. I've never been a very good student, but I loved art class. Once I'd done a carving of an owl, and the teacher thought it was brilliant; she praised me in front of the entire class and put it on the shelf for everyone to look at. It was pretty much the first time anyone had said something like that about me, so it made me happy.

That day, I was working on a carving of a dog. I'd been at it for a while, and there were shavings all over my desk and my clothes. Kouichi sat in the corner, lost in his book, and from time to time I'd look up at him. He was the same age as me, but so thin it looked like a strong wind could carry him away. He had soft, silky hair, and beautiful eyes that were totally absorbed in his reading.

The knife caught on a knot in the wood while I wasn't paying attention, and I put a little too much strength behind it. It slipped free and my hand jerked, slamming against the desk with a surprisingly loud bang. A line of bright red bloomed along my left arm, which had been holding the wood, and blood trickled down to my hand.

I jumped up and ran to get the first aid kit. It hurt quite a bit, but mostly I was afraid that the teacher would take the knife away from me because I had hurt myself. If that happened, I wouldn't get to finish my carving.

Kouichi stood as well. He moved to my side before I'd even remembered he was there. He so rarely did anything of his own volition that he was easy to forget. When he saw the cut on my arm, he turned pale and started to suck in air like he was choking.

"Are you okay?" I said, my own pain forgotten for the moment.

"I'm used to this kind of thing," he said. It was the first time I'd heard his voice; it was thin and shaky.

He grabbed my arm and pressed, making more blood trickled from the wound. I couldn't figure out what he was trying to do, and after a moment he gave up and let go.

"Sorry," he said. "I thought I could get the cut to close."

Apparently he'd been acting on instinct. It almost made sense that by pressing the skin around a cut back together, you could get it to heal. Sort of a wishful thinking, like kissing your finger when it was hurt or the ten-second rule for candy that fell on the ground. But, there was no easy fix.

I patted him on the shoulder, and he gave me a curious look. The first aid kit was on the shelf , and I opened it up to find the disinfectant. For some reason, the cut didn't look as bad as it had a moment before, and I wondered if Kouichi's little trick had actually accomplished something.

I looked up and found him staring at his own left arm. He'd rolled up his sleeve – his skin was fish-belly pale, like something that lived under a rock – and he had a cut of his own, nearly identical to mine. It wasn't deep, but it was in the same place and just the same shape.

"Did you cut yourself before?" I asked.

Mute, he shook his head.

I blinked. It was as though the cut had moved form my arm to his, making mine that much better. Apparently, Kouichi came to the same conclusion.

That's impossible, though.

"Can I try that again?" he asked in a soft tone.

I chuckled weakly and held out my arm.

He pressed the cut closed, like before, and concentrated for a moment. A drop of blood fell, not from my arm but from his; his cut had gotten noticeably deeper, and mine was half as long as it had been before.

I pulled away, and Kouichi looked curiously at his own left arm.

"That's about half," he said. "Now we're even." It took me a moment to realize he was joking.

From that day on, we became friends, united by our shared secret. We didn't tell anyone else, of course, but we experimented to figure out exactly what he could do.

By pressing on any injury, Kouichi could move it to his own body. We confirmed that by staking out the nurses office and waylaying underclassmen with minor cuts, Kouichi could shift scraped elbows, bruised knees, and so on to himself, leaving the injured person untouched. With a little bit of practice, he could do it almost instantly – with the lightest touch. He didn't even have to touch the injured area, just the person in question. Unfortunately, our rests were cut short when the nurse noticed we were hanging out there and she banished us for a while.

"So, why are you in the special class?" Kouichi asked me one day after school.

I was a little hesitant to explain, but I told him about the scar on my back and my violent episode in the locker room. He look frightened by the time I was done.

I shook my head. "Are you scared of me, now?"

"Of course not!" He sounded surprised. "You're not scary at all."

"Sorry, you just looked--"

"Your story was scary, that's all. And kind of sad."

We walked in silence for a moment and then he turned and grabbed my hand. His expression went suddenly distant.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I… just thought I'd try something." He turned away and didn't say anything else until we parted.

When I went home and changed clothes, I examined myself in my mother's full-length mirror. The scar was gone! It had appeared, I was certain, on Kouichi's back. It was proof that he could do more than shift little cuts around.

I confronted him about it the following day. "Give me back my scar!"

He just shook his head and smiled. I couldn't get him to budge, no matter what I said. We went back to our surreptitious practice, and before long he could move burns and old scars at will.

To be Continued…