stights

[stights]

hoho..you guys r in for a doozy

[stights]

outside by stight - serizawa katsuya/reigen arataka, 1,657 words. “he has to squint to catch the white blips of stars twinkling in the sky; this kind of black is comforting and all-encompassing, blanketing the world.” this is a work copied over from my ao3! i hope you enjoy -- and if you do, my ko-fi commissions are currently open!! i would love to write for you!!

i think i smell the rain again It’s nighttime when he steps outside. It’s the first nighttime in weeks; the concept of the sun and moon has blended into one and the wholesome swell of free spins on Gacha games remains all that he really needs, those ticking time-bombs, the vibrant firework displays of beaches and dates on a rooftop, of foreign lands and exploring with friends, of boat rides late in the afternoon and sleepy car rides, illuminated by the steady orange glow of streetlights dipping between cool windows. The people in the games aren’t ever him, though. He keeps the lights in his bedroom off just so he doesn’t see his reflection when the screen turns black, so frail and unlike those smiling cartoon figures. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t exist. There’s a certain kind of dark, disgusting guilt that comes with thinking you’re the only person of your kind in the universe, that you weren’t actually supposed to be here, on this perfect planet. He wishes he could blame his mother for these pathetic shortcomings but he can’t; the counsellors call him gifted and it’s perhaps the one thing he takes away from the sessions, greedily. Gifted. Gifted! He runs it through in his head like a mantra, if only to clutch the last sinews of human contact he’s had in months as tightly as he can. It makes him feel invincible as he lies in bed at night, that deep, comforting dip in his mattress, thinking about what he could do with this magnificent sort of gift, until he checks his phone and sees his old schoolmates’ new houses and wives and cars and he feels like screaming until his throat is hoarse, bitter, sobbing. Gifted. Gifted. fresh air awakens everything His bedroom is dark and musty and it smells like nothing and everything at the same time. Dread curls and spirals in the pit of his stomach when his mother enters the room - food? Laundry? Another therapist? - and stays dutifully quiet. He doesn’t often sprout the courage to look at the disgust thinly guised on her face because the room smells bad, awful, like himself, lines on her face illuminated by the dead blue glow of the television. She never stays long, never talks unless it’s necessary; their relationship isn’t amicable, but as he mulls over this thought long after she’s gone, leaving behind konbini platters and clean sweatpants, can he really say he has a single amity at all? The faces he sees are always smiling but they’re drawn to be that way, those model girls on dirty websites, or the counsellors except they’re ugly and they’re always talking down to him. They hate him, deep down. They want to go home to their families and the people that love them. The thought alone makes him squeeze his controller hard in his hands, feeling the plastic crack and snap. He is society’s cinder block. Out here, it smells good. The sensation shocks his lungs so much so that he doesn’t register the raindrops falling on his head until they splash his nose - it’s the special kind of cold that he can’t find from bottled konbini soda. It’s a reaction to expect his anger, one that he’s formed over fifteen years of isolation; he doesn’t like to be surprised, stopped celebrating his birthday two years in because that pink cake felt condescending. Why cherish the aging of a corpse? i hear the drizzle coming down And yet the raindrops here don’t carry any emotion at all. He closes his eyes to steady himself, but the anger doesn’t arrive, and momentarily it’s just him in the universe in his night air, allowing himself to not just be but become, to put something to this moment. When he opens his eyes again, he takes in more of the nighttime in, slowly. That’s what he’s been told to do. Taking the initiative doesn’t happen in a day but it’s the outcome of work - of others, too - but himself first and foremost. Putting himself first. The raindrops are still falling on his face and shoulders, and as he looks down he notices they’re beginning to accumulate on the street, too, which is narrow (they don’t live in a fantastic area). It’s enough, though. The houses are built taller than they are wide and each is separated from the road by a brick fence with ornate patterns woven in, plants creeping over the top of some, inquisitive and merry, green and pink and white, nodding their leaves in time to the rainfall. Their own house doesn’t have a garden; the two of them are too busy to do much other than water a few houseplants in the kitchen. As he reminisces on the fact, he can finally put an emotion to this weather that so starkly contrasts anything he’s witnessed before. He thinks it’s joy. and then i realise in all of my life His clothes aren’t really appropriate to stand here in, even if it hasn’t been long. He learnt how to iron a shirt yesterday and he’s made good use of the skill tonight, tongue stuck out in concentration as he stood in boxer briefs and shorts earlier, carefully running the iron over the sleeves, one at a time, the collar, then the main body, taking his time. It’s nice to have something to show for his efforts, even if it’s slowly getting dampened. That’s okay. He’s getting used to letting things happen, too. He can always iron it again. It’s dark above. He has to squint to catch the white blips of stars twinkling in the sky; this kind of black is comforting and all-encompassing, blanketing the world. It’s not a warm hug but touch is touch and touch is something incredible with any kind intent. Looking up and being faced with this never-ending sea reminds him of those witching hour marathons - how long had he been playing for? A day? Two? Three? Energy drink cans littered the floor and his legs ached with every sudden movement, the muscles in them tired and settled from being crossed for so long, as if they belonged to something dead - and indeed it was a zombie playing the rhythm game, the cheerful music falling on rotting ears, impenetrable to any sort of living emotion, and when the screen went black the zombie stared back at itself and its haunted eyes and its quivering mouth and those heavy salted tears spilling down its cheeks-- i don’t think i remember it being so vivid Hand on the small of his back. Footsteps in puddles from behind. There’s someone laughing in his ear. “Why’re you standing in the rain, silly?” A creeping love blooms in Serizawa’s chest as a man, shorter than himself but with a heart too tall and too wide to be comprehended by numbers, walks beside him. “I was just thinking.” The rain falls quietly around them. “Mm, that’s dangerous..” The other man’s hand slides from his back, then to the umbrella he’s holding. It’s made for Serizawa rather than himself, and it’s too big; he struggles to pull the catch on it which makes Serizawa laugh, sticking one leg in the air as if it’s going to help, then finally pulls it free. The arc of the umbrella’s clear, so that when he strains to hold it above both of their heads, Serizawa can see the drops hitting it and sliding off. The man’s other hand comes down his arm, then brushes his own, and then they’re linked. “You want to know what I’m thinking?” Serizawa’s smile comes effortlessly. “What?” Reigen smiles back. It’s the kind of thing that he can’t find on videogames, or videos, or social media. It’s the kind of thing that makes his heart cartwheel. It’s the kind of thing that reaches Reigen’s eyes, so warm in their mirth. “I’m thinking that I love you.” Serizawa laughs again, giving his hand a squeeze in his larger one. Reigen squeezes back, then stands up straighter, dutifully, “and that Mob’ll be scratching his head if we don’t get to this reservation on time.” Later that evening, Serizawa excuses himself to the bathroom in the back of the ramen shop they’re at. It’s an old place with pleasant sunset lights, people from every walk of life sitting on wooden benches; tonight it just so happened that himself, Reigen, Mob and one small, green ghost were decorating them. The meal was delicious. Good company always made everything a little sweeter, whether that was food or the scenery. Between the chatter he’d hardly stopped laughing all night, and smiles even as he goes to wash his hands in the small restroom, turning the faucet on and letting the cold water flow. He looks up as he does it. There’s a mirror above the sink and as if the glass had been broke, a stab of something stale and wrong shoots up his spine. He takes in his reflection; a tall man with broad shoulders, tired eyes, short hair, thick eyebrows, a faltering smile. A tie. His reflection. Fifteen years old. Twenty years old. Twenty five. He takes in the small lines on his forehead, the shape of his jaw, his Adam’s apple, the collar of his shirt.. It’s perfectly ironed. His shoulders are still slightly damp from the rain. And he can look at himself without being scared once again. He’s just a man; not some kind of pest squirming on the earth, or something to be revered, something immortal and unworldly. He’s just a man with friends from school, and a boyfriend, and whatever Ekubo is to him. When he exits the bathroom, taking his seat, everyone beams at him. Reigen reaches forward to wrap his arm around his shoulders, then pulls him forward to kiss the side of his cheek, and it’s the best feeling in the world. He’s just a man. He’s loved.

[stights]

Photography by Peter Solarz

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