That Piece of Glass

Disclaimer: Do not own haughty twin-tailed girl and biribiri. Om nom nom.

Being Tokiwadai's ace and the third most powerful esper in the city, it cannot be helped that her life is rife with baseless rumours and speculations.

"What a lucky life she leads," they would say to their friends in hushed tones laced with jealousy and awe, "to be born into the path of the privileged, to be born with such a powerful power."

She had been a high-class lady, a genius, a snobby bitch, a flirt, a cruel electromaster, a demure beauty, a...

But Kuroko knows that she is none of that. She knows that her onee-sama likes to sleep while hugging her giant teddy bear, that she was once just an ordinary level 1, that she is obsessed with a frog, that she wears shorts under her skirt, that her favourite colour is green (and not just any green, but gekota green), that she likes to read manga for free in the convenience store, that she is quick to anger, that she kicks vending machines, that sometimes she would frown in her sleep; her brows furrowed from the worries spilling into the night, and she would toss and turn and Kuroko would hold her hand and stroke her hair and wait until she stops her cries and for the serene calm to return again.

And Kuroko would always ignore the bump bump in her chest, sometimes so loud that she fears the sound will travel across the room and Misaka will find out that

That what?

Kuroko lets the thought trail away. There is no use thinking about that, no use in dissecting her feelings. She convinces herself that it is just adoration for her senior; her hero; her roommate; her best friend; the woman she

She is still not home.

It is two hours past curfew, and she is still not here. She is never here. As always, Kuroko waits until she comes home, sometimes at four in the morning, sometimes never. And when she comes home, Kuroko will always greet her with a smile and an inappropriately timed lewd joke and tell her that she is still up due to judgment work. Misaka, her ever so kind onee-sama will look at her worriedly and tell her to sleep, before going to bed with only a 'good night', and Kuroko will sit there on her desk with her face blank and stare and stare and sometimes her composure would break and she would pull her knees into her chest and bury her face in her arms, silently rocking there until the sun rises.

It is their form of a twisted routine; night after night. Once, Kuroko had deviated and asked about her onee-sama's curfew breaking with a forced sly grin, if she had spent it being lovey dopey in the arms of that spiky haired boy.

Misaka blushed then, waving her arms around, stuttering and telling Kuroko to stop being so stupid and that there's no way she would do something like that - she was just off doing things and they were just watching a movie; they were just, she was just...

Kuroko's grin faltered, her hand resting at her stomach to quell the queasiness churning inside – but still she continued with her stupid jokes and her raucous manner, fulfilling her role as the equilibrium dictates.

Equilibrium. Kuroko had laughed out loud (bordering on crazed giggles, but no, a proper lady must always cover her mouth and laugh only sparsely) when she saw that word in one of her text books and had immediately imagined the fine line (green; it has to be green – onee-sama's favourite colour) where she is treading oh so carefully. Sometimes she is tired, just so tired of tippy toeing between her fragile feelings and her obliviousness

(Oblivious of what?)

She abandons the thought when she hears the crescendo of approaching footsteps. She knows enough about her onee-sama that she can easily discern how Misaka had felt in a given day based on the sound of her footsteps alone; just like how she knows from the rhythmical tap tap that are almost skips, that Misaka will open the door with that happy smile on her face, and if Kuroko asks how was your day, onee-sama? (just like how the stupid stupid routine goes), then she will soon start talkingabout that spiky haired boy, while she laughs and blushes and stutters and complaints about his idiocy is in that irritating, affectionate manner.

It is three hours and twenty five minutes past curfew when the door slowly creaks open.

"Aa, Kuroko. You're still up, huh?"

"You should know from the light, onee-sama." Kuroko hates hates hates that foolish smile glued on Misaka's face. "Had a good time with him?" Hates how her own lips automatically twist into a grin, hates the lightness tone that comes out of it when all she wants to do is scream cry rage go far far away.

"W-well, it's not what you think okay? We were just-"

Hates how they are so physically near; hates that she can close the distance between them in a fragment of a second; hates knowing that she can touch Misaka whenever she wants but never, could never, not how like he touches her.

Sometimes, in odd moments where she is truly alone with her thoughts, when there is no other presence to dampen (and make it disappear, how she wishes it would. just. disappear) the red she sees, when she can hear something go snap. snap. snap.

Her knuckles?

Knuckles. How ridiculous. She would have laughed too. Laughed. If not for Misaka's sudden frown, at which Kuroko stares at uncomprehendingly until she too notices the thin cracks on her mirror, and does not fully register the sight until a her own involuntary cry breaks the haze.

In a flash Misaka is beside her, holding up her palm to assess the damage, shouting out her name, asking what the hell did you do, you idiot are you al

Kuroko tunes the sound out and watches as the piece of glass Misaka had forcefully flung in panic hit the wall and shatters, watches how smears of her own blood seem to cling so stubbornly at the shards.


For some reason Misaka is shaking her shoulders.

Her brain feels sluggish. But nonetheless she responds carefully, removing Misaka's grip gently with her uninjured hand. "Ouch, that hurts. Easy on the injured patient, onee-sama." She exaggerates her wince, laces her voice with playfulness. "It's just an accident. Sleep deprivation, all the judgment work, you know. I must have zoned out."

Misaka's voice is a bit rough. "Zoned out while gripping a fricking glass shard?"

"Yes, well." Kuroko retracts her hand, strokes the throbbing dull pain gently. She must have had punched it. Strange. It is not as if she feels particularly angry; it was a simple accident. "It was a simple accident. That is all."

Misaka scowls and opens her mouth to



Even if Kuroko believes her own lie- believes that the affection she holds is a mere product of a long cultivated relationship of roommates and seniority, believes that Misaka's happiness lies within the arms of that boy, believes that her blackouts and the red she sees and the sound of her own snapping knuckles are just due to sleep deprivation – even if she believes all that, even if she mires in her own bubbles of delusion and filthy, filthy lies punches things without accord self harms those fucking low level criminals with their fucking antics that spiky hair

No, no. How did it get so complicated? She overthinks sometimes, she thinks. Wouldn't it be nice if the source of all her worries would disappear? No more write-ups for breaking a few bones, driving in a few nails. No more waiting by herself for onee-sama to come home. It will be back to normal. Those days of lounging and joking around, of being chased by bursts of electricity. Those normal days. Those days before he existed.

"Onee-sama. He is... immune to all esper abilities, isn't he?"

"Er- yeah. Yeah. But why? Wait, that's not important. We should get this treated- I'll get the first aid kit. Wait here, okay? Don't go anywhere." And so her onee-sama, her ever kind onee-sama whisks out without a single glance back.

Her reply echoes through the empty room. "Of course. Of course."

She lets her gaze trail towards the discarded shards. She wonders how immune he is towards good old fashioned wounds.

Well, she will just have to find out, doesn't she?


Oh come on, we all know that Kuroko is just a crack away from going yandere. It's like, the rule that the lesbian aiming for the straight girl will eventually crack and start killing people. TV tropes said so. Really.