rwriting

[rwriting]

hello, i hope you’re all well. there’s been a url change for this account - it’s now @/rwriting. p.s. thank you for all the lovely comments on my sayu yagami work!

[rwriting]

the last victim // sayu yagami (deathnote)

description: gosh, i love sayu yagami so much. i have so many headcanons for her –  it’s a little embarrassing… i really wanted to write this piece! it’s post canon with a few dark themes. i’m of the opinion that sayu’s a character with so much potential, so little of which is explored in the canon. hoping you all enjoy! 

word count: 1.6k

content warnings: light yagami (ha, ha…), implied self-harm, self-hatred (?), the term psychopath (ableism), magazines being gross, sibling and parent death, bullying… sorry, i know that’s quite a lot to bear with. please take care of yourself!

 Breathe.

She’s trying, she really is.

Breathe.

Her hands spasm and reach for her throat.

Breathe.

She forces her hands to her sides.

Breathe.

She opens her eyes.

Sayu Yagami stares at the ceiling of her apartment, head fuzzy with… she wants to say the remnants of a dream, but perhaps a nightmare is closer to the truth. She can’t quite remember. Besides, her waking, no matter the night she’s experienced, is never pleasant. It always involves too much breathlessness, too much begging, too much… emotion.

Sayu feels torn about that. Too much emotion. It seems weird to think that she could be overwhelmed with emotion, when she spends so much time simply without it. She’s not sure what is worse: drowning beneath the waves, or feeling as if she’s dying of thirst.

Maybe I deserve them both, she thinks. It’s a recurring thought – she can never be rid of it. It sneaks up behind her, holds her hand. Offers comfort, somehow. There’s a reason for this, it whispers. Sayu thinks she likes reasons, likes logic, likes… explanations. That’s understandable, they all say. You want to know how one of your own hurt so many others.

I don’t, thinks Sayu. She doesn’t know if it’s a lie or not. How odd to not even know if you yourself are telling the truth.

Desperate not to get stuck in a loop of contemplation as she’s prone to (she’s spent days like this before; lying in bed, pondering and pondering and pondering), she swings her legs off the bed and plants them on the cold, cold, floor. The sensation of the frozen tiles and the jolt they send through her is oddly pleasant; it’ll prevent her from falling back to sleep at the very least.

A quick walk to the bathroom and she considers herself fully awake. Well, as awake as she gets; too many days of hers are spent in a daze, a state so distanced from reality she can hardly call it a state of being awake. A state of dreams and disillusionment.

She takes in her face in as she stares at the mirror. For a terrifying moment, her eyes gloss over her own reflection as if there is nothing there – as if it the face of someone else, or simply a smudge. Or a ghost… she thinks, and smiles in spite of herself. A ghost. That is what she feels like so often, floating from minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day… or place to place, though she rarely leaves her home. The high rise apartment with its large windows and intimidating staircases isn’t exactly comforting, but that doesn’t mean she’s not enamoured with it – obsessed with the way it makes her feel. The way it makes her feel. Calm, mysterious. Like she has a plan. Like him.

She focuses once again on the mirror, on her reflection. All her features are accented, more obvious, more vivid. No. All of his features are more accented, more obvious, more visible, no, wait, all of a sudden they’re the only ones there, and he’s here in the mirror, she can see him, she can touch him, she can let him out!

The mirror cracks as Sayu’s fist makes contact with it, the sound loud and unforgiving. Unforgiving also is the gift it gave her – an open wound, leaking blood. She watches the blood trickle slowly, dripping down into the sink. She doesn’t bother to wash it away. Somehow, to do so would feel like a betrayal. To what, she’s not sure. Maybe she wants evidence. This happened. Or maybe it’s to do with the blood – maybe she considers it proof her existence, her being, her living.

There are other ways to see that blood you know…

The thought is not so much a thought as a temptation; a beg disguised as a calm offer. No, she thinks sternly. She almost wants to say it out loud, but there is something sacred in the silence. Even her footsteps seem more quiet than usual, the sound of her bare feet not muffled by socks but just by the air itself.

Her feet take her away, to kitchen, where she reaches up to a shelf, to grasp in her hand (the one free of blood) a small medical box, filled mainly with bandages and gauze. She tends to her hand, and for a few seconds wishes she had someone to do this for her, with her. It’s a bad idea, a bad thought. Not only is it a foolish longing, but it leads to a reminiscing; an unearthed memory which she wants to hold dear. If only it weren’t so tainted.

Her knowledge of how the memory will make her feel, her warning to herself – none if it seems to help, to stop it as it takes shape in her mind. She’d have been eight when it had happened. She’d planted some flowers on her windowsill and had cut her hand on one of the small terracotta plant pots. Downstairs she’d gone, tears welling in her eyes. And there he was, washing his hands in the sink, turning to meet her with a small smile on his face. Okay, what’d you do this time?

She’d stuck out her hand to show him, and his eyes had widened almost imperceptibly. That looks a little serious, Sayu. Despite the pain, she’d stuck out her tongue at him cheekily, at which he had offered a slight grin. Alright. Sit at the table and I’ll tend to it. Even at eleven, he’d had a presence – a sort of commanding aura which made one want to heed his words, hold them close. Obey him. She hadn’t though it dangerous then, it was hard to think of it as anything but now.

My brother. It’s the only way she can think of him. His name… his name invites too much. Personal effects gone through, a computer dragged away by two men in suits. And headlines, so many headlines. Who knew how the press got hold of the information; who cared. All it mattered was that she could no longer see his name - in her mind or written on paper – without every article she’d ever read crashing down on her, words, words, words. Genius. God complex. Misguided youth. Psychopath. Saviour. Killer. Kira. That one hurt almost as much, despite how impersonal it was, a moniker started by… who even knew? The internet was a cluttered, anonymous, graveyard and, beyond that, a mystery. Who cared enough to track down the first person to gift her brother with this title, to find them out?

She thought of this annoyingly often. Maybe if her brother had been given a different title, no title at all, things may have progressed differently. It was so, so foolish. She knew this. It sounded like a time traveller’s pathetic attempt to change the future without destroying the past. Pathetic. The word repeat itself a little in her mind, echoing.

There were articles on her too, of course. Complicit? they said, the question mark seeming more for show than anything else. Yagami sister involved in killings? Imagine that. Her, an accomplice to the Kira killings, and not questioned by the great detective L simply because he thought her young and girlish. Complicit… the word reverberates and she questions it, pulls it apart. Was she complicit? Did she know of her brother’s actions before they were revealed in the news? She was more observant than anyone gave her credit for, but Light (LightLightLightLightLightLightLight) ‘s change in demeanour could have been down to any number of factors, including adolescence, or even his father’s work. Our father’s work, Sayu corrects herself. He belonged to both of them. And now he belonged to the earth.

I lost you both, Sayu thinks. Although she’d previously envied her father and brother’s strong sense of justice, now she felt quite thankfully to not share it. In a way, it led them both to their deaths. One at the hand of the other.

As she looks out the wide window of the apartment, she feels lonely. There are a few precious memories involving both her brother and the night skies, but they’re not what evokes this emotion. Seeing how much there is out there, the bright lights of all the other people living lives like hers, makes her realise how few people there are in her life. She’d maintained no friendships from her school or university, nor her bonds with her mother. Not that the former had many any effort on their own parts – any interest displayed in her was as ‘the sister of Kira’. She could recall so many times, the insensitive questions, the pulling of her hair, the tearing of her clothes. They’d scream at her.

Did my uncle deserve to die, you stupid girl? Did you agree with your brother? Did you go to sleep every night knowing what he was doing in the next room? Did you care?

Her own thoughts, both then and now, are a mirror.

Did my brother deserve to die? Did you disagree with him? Did you wake up every morning to watch the news and fear for your life? Did it scare you?

They’re ugly thoughts, but anger doesn’t need to be beautiful. Neither does justice.

And there’s no justice, she thinks. There never was.

[rwriting]

washing machine heart // misa amane x kiyomi takada (deathnote)

description: the scene in which kiyomi asks misa to dinner, retold, rewritten.

word count: 1.5k

content warnings: ‘obsessive themes’ is probably the most accurate way to describe this, one mention of head banging as a self-harm practice, one mention of violence, one (mild) mouth description, mild cruelty? just the nature of kiyomi’s character i suppose...

song: washing machine heart by mitski

 Toss your dirty shoes in my washing machine heart, baby bang it up inside…

Kiyomi Takada walks with a polished elegance; practiced or effortless, it’s impossible to tell. Every step is marked, accentuated, with a click of high heels against marble. Misa thinks she can feel her heartbeat synchronising, beating in time with the sounds. In the little moments between steps, before clicks, she can hear her breath catch in her throat – every muscle in her body tense as she waits for the next; so she can feel her heart pound once more. It hurts, it does, but the emotions – the sheer overwhelming of their presence – is addictive.

I’m not wearing my usual lipstick.

A little faster, Kiyomi is walking now. She’s approaching someone – the tall, blonde woman who had physically restrained Misa yesterday. A trace of a scowl makes its way to Misa’s face, only to be cowed into submission by a smile. A reflection of the smile of the woman across the corridors, her glossy lips curled upwards. Misa licks her own, finds them dry. Oh.

Misa doesn’t think she’s ever felt inferior before. But seeing Kiyomi Takada, tall and poised – all porcelain skin and crimson lips is making her shy.

Misa doesn’t think she’s ever felt jealous before. But seeing Kiyomi Takada, her head thrown back from laughing at something her bodyguard had said is making her gut wrench.

Misa doesn’t think she’s ever been in love before.

I thought maybe we would kiss tonight.

The woman, the goddess, the one who could make her believe, make her beg, catches her eyes. Raises an eyebrow. Waves her way. Beckons her forth. Misa’s legs are betrayers – they walk, trembling, before she can even consider ignoring Kiyomi. Whatever for? Whether she’s wondering on why Kiyomi is beckoning her, or why she’d consider ignoring her, is unbeknownst to even herself. The second one is answerable, of course. I don’t want you to see me cry. As she steps forward, she brushes her fringe out of her face. I don’t want you see my love. Her eyes, her shingami eyes, making contact with Kiyomi’s. I don’t want to see you. The words floating above the grey-eyed woman’s head. I don’t want to be inferior. Her book under the mattress at home. I don’t want to lose you.

A few more stops and she’s there. Standing in front of and looking up into the eyes of Kiyomi Takada. The other woman, the body guard, her name (her name!) marking her out to be one Halle Bullock, looks at her with apparent disinterest. But there’s something underneath it. Before she can even consider trying to figure out her truth, Kiyomi is talking, a gentle smile resting on her face.

‘Miss Amane! Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see you here. Especially after the... events of yesterday.’

Baby, will you kiss me already and,

There’s something smug thinly buried in Kiyomi’s words. A flat shield, a thin veneer, a miniscule pretence of kindness, of regret.

It’d hurt less if she’d just say it clearly.

‘Well,’ Misa starts, composing herself, standing a little taller. ‘Awards shows continue despite personal spats, don’t they, Miss Takada.’

The curve of Kiyomi’s lips. ‘Of course. And a… mature… idol with your experience undoubtedly knows that well.’

There isn’t a way to respond to this. Even if she could find the words, the lump in her throat would prevent them from coming out with any conviction. Aren’t you meant to be an actress?

Misa keeps silent.

‘No matter. Let’s see… I think we should settle all this…. unpleasantness between us.’ Another blinding smile from Kiyomi. Maybe she should be the actress. Or maybe that’s how she truly feels. Misa isn’t sure which would hurt more. ‘Are you available for dinner this evening?’

Misa thinks her heart has stopped. It has nothing to beat in time with anymore, she thinks. There’s another possibility of course. A brown eyed boy and a notebook. But, one second, two seconds, there, she’s fine. Fine? Kiyomi Takada just invited her to dinner. She hopes she can control her mouth more than her legs – if she hadn’t walked over here in the first place, she wouldn’t have had to experience all this. She’s unable to decide whether that would be a travesty or a blessing.

Toss your dirty shoes in my washing machine heart, baby bang it up inside.

‘Your schedule’s empty, isn’t it?’

Kiyomi Takada is cruel, Misa Amane decides. She strokes before she slaps, caresses before she catches your skin, no, your soul with her palm, her words. She’s a sharp mind in an elegant body and a sharp tongue between beautiful lips. She’s a contrast to… everyone. The stoic silence of her own bodyguard, the petulant manner of Misa’s words. Even amongst the others, no one has her degree of delicacy, or her acute eye. For a second Misa foolishly wonders if there are other eye deals, with other gods. Because it seemed that Kiyomi could see all your insecurities, all your imperfections, all your worries, at scarcely one glace. Before you even knew them yourself.

Help me, Shinigami. It’s a plea to a god long dead.

Misa swallows. You can manage a smile, right? The expression feels unnatural, spread much too tight across her cheeks. But it’ll do. ‘That’s right. And very kind of you, Miss Takada. Did you have anything in mind?’

‘There’s a sweet restaurant nearby – small, and I can reserve a nice space for the two of us.’ The two of us. ‘I can make sure we’ll be alone – no paparazzi or overexcited fans to bother us. How do you say?’

She wants to say yes so badly. The thing she desires is tantalizingly within reach. And maybe away from all of this, things could be different. Leaving personal bias and unsubtle barbs at the door, they could speak – not as two women trying to one up each other (although Misa truly feels she’s just trying to hold her own), but just as two women.

She looks up into Kiyomi’s grey eyes, a gentle storm. It’ll never happen. And so, why does she still open her mouth to say the words?

‘Yes. I’d like that very much.’ You must really dislike yourself. Maybe you know you deserve this.

Baby though I’ve closed my eyes.

Misa walks home. It would be infinitely more reasonable to take a taxi, or some form of public transport, but she longs for a moment of solitude. Please don’t let him be in, she thinks as she opens the door to the apartment.

He isn’t.

Her sigh sounds eerily loud in the quiet of the empty room. The first sound the apartment has heard in a while (neither of them are home frequently) and it intends to savour it. Misa wants to savour something too – the memory of her and Kiyomi’s conversation. Either that or she wants to hit her head against the wall until she can’t remember it anymore. Beat it until it stops moving.

She does neither of these things. She opens the door to her room, the air stale and scented gently with cosmetics, and sits down at her vanity, her dressing table. She doesn’t look for her name in the reflective surface of the mirror, but she knows it’s there.

I know who you pretend I am.

I don’t even know myself anymore. There’s a pretence, a performance, a setting for everyone. There’s no one she’s herself with, and she’s rarely alone. And even then, even now, all alone, she’s not herself. She’s not anything. If someone walked in and said the room was empty, she would have believed them without question.

I know who you pretend I am.

Who am I around Kiyomi? Misa wants to say the name out loud, to hold it in her mouth, feel it slide off her tongue. But she doesn’t want to think about the answer to the question. She knows the answer anyway – spiteful, petty, childish. In awe. In desire. In love. Misa squashes the word, but can’t do the same to the feeling. The butterflies of her stomach, the pink of her cheeks. The fact that it felt, at times, as if she existed only to look at Kiyomi. To hold her image in her mind. To hold her dear…

But do me ti…

It’s an impossibility. There’s not even an ‘if we met earlier’ in Misa’s mind. She fancies, for a moment, that they are standing at opposite ends of a widening chasm, just moments away from the gap being too large for either of them to jump over to each other, and only widening more. How romantic… But even that’s not a visual metaphor that truly portrays their situation. Their situation? As if Kiyomi thought of this at all. A pitiful thought. Besides, there is no widening chasm. Their islands were never joined together, close together, to begin with.

Why not me.

Maybe when Misa had the chance to reach for something, she shouldn’t have made it Kira. Maybe instead of acting on her anger, her will for justice and revenge, she should have acted on her will to love, to life.

Why not me.

Maybe then she’d be someone worthy of loving Kiyomi Takada.

[rwriting]

flowers of the heart // toko fukawa x sayaka maizono (dr1) -pt.1

description: hanahaki disease is my new favourite thing... here’s a story set in a non despair future, featuring flower shop worker sayaka and book shop worker toko. this is, naturally, part 1. 

word count: 2.4k

content warnings: hanahaki disease, mentions of a stabbing, mentions of obsessive fan culture

❀❀❀

Sayaka opens the flower shop at six o’clock every morning. At the time, the world is quiet; the world is her own. Nothing there but her hands reaching for the keys, and placing them in the lock, opening, what seems to be, what is for her, a little door into her own world. A place of serenity and tranquillity. A place of flowers.

The smell hits Sayaka as soon as she walks in. Whoever worked yesterday forgot to remove the lilies that are perched on the shelf above the counter – but it isn’t a big deal, she’s not upset. Everyone makes mistakes. Besides, the reason she arrives this early is so that she can take care of it all, make it all perfect.

She sets down her bag, taking care to lean it against the umbrella rack so that it doesn’t fall over, lest its contents slip out. She takes her apron off the hook behind the counter and puts it on – it’s not always necessary, but pollen is bright and stains clothes easily, the one from lily stamens especially so. Her hands reach up for the plant, secured in a colourful earthen pot, and bring it down with practiced ease. No dirt on the floor today, thank you, she thinks, smiling to herself at this small victory. She carries the plant pot outside, towards the compost bins where she removes the wilting lilies and their soil – once the pride of the shop, now just another piece of the gloom. Just like me… she thinks, the words sinking in before she can stop herself. It’s not entirely true, but it’s not entirely false either. Between the ages of sixteen and twenty, she’d been an idol. And not just any idol – the most popular idol in the country, with fame overseas too. She’d led her group to success, her angelic voice and sweet image attracting the best offers, the best opportunities. But it had all stopped. A member died in stabbing – a crazed fan taking things too far, and suddenly Sayaka had seen all the downsides of this career she’d chosen. Could you even choose something like a career at sixteen, truly? Sayaka doubted it. But how jarring the realisation had been. Idol professions don’t last forever – you are an hourglass, a ticking clock, waiting until the hour, the minute, when someone with too much time zooms in on a photo of you posted on a forum and comments ‘Is that a wrinkle?’.

No, Sayaka had thought. I shan’t let it happen. So she terminated her contract and stared at what was left of her life. No relatives – her father had died in car crash, driving while inebriated. No friends – she wasn’t on the best terms with her idol label mates, presumably because of her success. No qualifications – Sayaka had passed middle school with excellent grades, but had no high school diploma or other qualifications to show for herself. And no money – other than what she’d made as an idol which, after paying off the contract, was significantly less than she’d thought it was. She’d been so scared, so overwhelmed, so stuck. She had considered going back to her label, her agency, and begging them to take her back. But she hadn’t. She wanted something new, a fresh start. Something sustainable.

Being forgotten about when you’re an idol is surprisingly, or unsurprisingly easy. A few weeks of not leaving her home, a few interviews with leaders of idol companies, the debut of a few new groups… It was over. She’d ventured out of her home, not accosted by anyone, and seen less than four posters depicting her likeness. It was over.

When she got home that day, she cried for the first time in years. She wasn’t sure what she was crying for – what she’d lost? But that could be anything; her father, her idol friend, her job… And she’d gained nothing but the crushing realisation that she had nothing but her labour, her skill. And what skill was that? A decent singing voice and a cute image? Nothing that would help her now, surely. So she’d signed up for an online course – nothing special, just a high school level diploma. And, she’d thought to herself, feeling oriented for the first time in months, If I have that, I’ll have something.

Sayaka shakes herself out of her thoughts. She’s not this lily, she works at this flower shop, and it’s going to open soon. Seven twenty-five AM on the dot. She takes the pot back inside and places it in the store room. A vase is plucked from the shelf, filled with water and some long stem roses she cut yesterday – she was intending on drying them out, to use for either décor or to make tea, but they’d make a beautiful centre piece for the shop, and that’s what is needed now. She rearranges more things in the shop – her hands flit and fly with dexterity – the closest she’d ever gotten to this level of hand activity before was playing the piano, and even then her hands had felt clumsy. But now here she is, ordering the hanging vines about and making the shop resemble a little fairy’s store. She’s proud, and she clings on to the feeling, unwilling to let it escape. ‘Stay with me,’ she mutters softly, the words escaping without her notice. Stay with me.

In forty minutes, the store is done – Sayaka’s always pleased with her work, but today there’s a little more pride to be had. She’s added a new alcove, at the behest of her employer, which boasts a small collection of handmade teas. It had been easy to convince her hirer that this would be a prosperous venture – she’d simply suggested it, and he’d agreed. Maybe when he saw her he was reminded by all the other ways she’d ameliorated the shop – at first taking on this seemingly underqualified girl might have been an act of kindness, but now she was a part of the shop, as integral to it as its flowers. I’m proud, Sayaka thinks again, as she walks to the greenhouse. And what a wonderful feeling it is.

The greenhouse and the store room are both attached to the main room, the shop. The two doors on different sides lead to entirely different environments. The store room was cold and dry, filled with jars, vases and all manner of other things. Things that you needed for flowers, but were only half as pretty. Things flowers needed to survive, despite the lack of the item’s supposed beauty. And the greenhouse? Why, it was simply the most wonderful thing Sayaka had ever seen, all streaming sunlight and green tinged reflections, beautiful flowers that took her breath away every time she entered, sitting there paused. They looked so lifelike somehow – as if they would start talking as soon as she left. If I could, I’d never leave, thought Sayaka. And although she would have to leave soon – ten minutes to store opening, according to her watch, she’d could sit her a little while at least.

//

‘Hi, how can I help you? Maybe Sayaka had been wrong when she’d assumed that her skills as an idol wouldn’t come in handy here. The current customer was looking significantly more at ease than he had earlier, and that was saying something. As he explained the flowers he was looking for, a timid looking woman entered the store, the tense expression on her face changing softly into something akin to awe. It was a nice change to see, Sayaka thought. The woman looked much better without the scowl marring her features, and she had to force herself to return her focus to the customer’s words as the new person reached up to brush her fingers upon a jasmine flower.

‘Sure! And will that be all?’ The man said it was, and left the store, his coat trailing behind him, and finally, finally, Sayaka could turn her full attention to the new customer, the woman, without it being in the name of personal curiosity and instead being professional attendance.

‘Hello! What can I help you with?’ asked Sayaka, smiling gently to this person who seemed so sensitive, so easily affected by her surroundings. The reply was a murmur that she couldn’t quite hear. She caught the words smiling, and idiot, which did not bode well. But Sayaka wasn’t to get upset over that. She tried again. ‘Sorry, can you repeat that?’ At her statement, the woman seemed to come into herself, straightening out and making brief eye contact with her, before clearing her own throat.

‘Um, I was, um, wondering if you had any flowers that might be good with children?’ The woman had a pretty voice, low and soft – it made you quiet, made you want to listen. And want to listen Sayaka did.

‘Of course! I’m sure I can pick out something suitable. Do you have any children, Miss?’ Sayaka asked. I’m prying, she reprimanded herself. I’m prying and I shouldn’t be.

‘What?! No, of course not! How could you even…’ The response was exclaimed with so much surprise, that if it weren’t for the glaringly genuine (and just… glaring) expression on the woman’s face, she’d have thought she was acting.

‘O-okay. I’m sorry, truly.’ Sayaka replied sincerely, bowing slightly and hoping that she hadn’t upset the woman, who has now holding her single braid in her hands, and running her fingers on it roughly.

‘Seriously,’ the woman responded, sounding exasperated. ‘I only came here because it was the closest. If I knew it was also like… this, I wouldn’t have!’

‘Closest to where?’ Sayaka questioned. Silly girl. You don’t know what’s good for you.

‘What? Closest to my bookstore, of course. That’s where I work. We don’t treat our customers like this, though.’

We’ve slipped out of our roles, Sayaka thought. We’ve slipped out of our roles as employee and customer. But still, she couldn’t reign herself in. Why couldn’t she?

‘Oh, the bookstore! I know where you’re speaking of! Your seasonal displays are always beautiful…’

‘Wait, seriously? Are you… are you being genuine? You’re not making fun, are you?’

How did she even come to that conclusion? thought Sayaka. ‘Of course not!’ She lifted her hands in what she hoped was a placating gesture. ‘Honest!’

‘Oh…’ The look on the woman’s face was almost… disappointed? Did she genuinely think I was being mean? ‘Well, thank you. Sorry for jumping to conclusions, I guess.’ And then another comment, mumbled under her breath. ‘I like your displays too.’

‘Really?!’ Sayaka exclaimed, almost pouncing on the words. The woman flinched once, then twice, as Sayaka took her hands and held them in her own. ‘Thank you, thank you!’

‘God, what’s with you…’ said the woman, looking abashed and extricating her own hands.

‘Sorry, sorry….’ said Sayaka gently, before making a decision. She put out her right hand and looked the woman in the eye, making her facial expression stern and professional. ‘I’m Sayaka Maizono’

‘Jeez, why…. ugh.’ The woman seemed to make up her mind and put out her own, and as the shook she said ‘I’m Toko Fukawa. There, I’m not repeating it.’

Toko Fukawa… The name ruminated in Sayaka’s mind and she tried to place it. It sounds familiar…. someone I knew when I was an idol? She took another glance at the woman’s face. No, I would have remembered her… So I know her name but I haven’t seen her face? What sort of person… And then came the realisation, quick and lucid. A bookstore. Someone who’s name you knew but face you didn’t. ‘Oh my god.’

‘What? Are my hands sweaty?’ The words were accompanied by a tug, an attempt to take back her hand which was now clenched between two of Sayaka’s – the other had not been deliberate but it was there, holding down deftly.

‘Oh my god.’ Sayaka said again.

‘Seriously, is that all you can say? You’re gaping like a goldfish!’

At this, Sayaka shut her mouth, but didn’t release her hands. ‘You’re Toko Fukawa!’

‘I literally just told you that? What is wrong with this girl?’

‘But you’re like… famous! You wrote ‘So Lingers the Ocean’… you’re like my favourite author!’

‘Why are you so surprised? Are you upset? It’s only natural you would be, after seeing me… It turns out your favourite author doesn’t look the way you expected and you’re disgusted. It’s palpable.’

‘No! I mean… Miss Fukawa… I’m just very happy to meet you.’

‘Oh. Well thanks, I guess. And just Toko is fine.’

‘Cool! You can call me Sayaka, then.’

‘Okay…. Sayaka.’

Why is my heart beating so fast? Oh my god she said my name. Toko Fukawa said my name. Wait am I still holding her hand? Okay, stop doing that. Calm down. Flowers. She wanted flowers.

‘I’m going to get you your flowers, okay? Carnations are good long stem flowers for children – no thorns, but peonies and pansies are better for planting. You know windowsills, and all that? Do you have a preference?’ ‘Um, pansies would be good. We need them for the children’s reading corner at the bookstore.’

‘Okay! I’ll be sure to choose plenty of bright colours, okay?’ Sayaka quelled her nerves and went ahead, choosing flowers that she thought would evoke joy from children. Vibrant colours and gentle smells that you weren’t likely to be intolerant to. When she’d selected what she deemed enough – and glanced over and saw Fukawa’s nod, she proceeded to the counter and began to package them gently. Perhaps she should have chosen something with a bit more resilience? No, these were a good choice, she reassured herself. Besides, Toko was happy, and wasn’t that what mattered? Customer satisfaction? Customer satisfaction, or the satisfaction of this customer? said a voice in her mind, tinged with cruelty. She inwardly told it to shut up.

‘Alright, here are your flowers! That’ll be two thousand yen.’ Sayaka said, waiting patiently as Toko took a plain black purse from her pocket and check for notes. Sayaka thought of her own purse, light pink with blue stripes, not to mention covered with stickers and blushed with shame. As she took the money, and Toko turned for the door, the thing she wanted to say made itself visible in her mind. Say it! Say it! ‘Hope to be seeing you again!’

Toko turned gently and looked in her direction before leaving. If she noticed the difference in the way she and the customer before her had been addressed, she didn’t comment on it.

❀❀❀

[rwriting]

sleepover // celesgiri + naegami (dr1)

description: i was talking to a friend (the wonderful and ever talented mantis, @ohkorekiyo) about byakuya and celestia’s friendship, and this idea came to fruition! it’s a soft and light hearted pre despair high school story. this is my first time writing in a while...i hope you enjoy it! 

word count: 2k

content warnings: hmm not much? there’s fluff (in the form of both the story and a pillow fight), spoilers for kyoko (talent and gloves), and a potentially paranoia inducing ending? (being watched). it is obvious how much the writer longs for meaningful connection....

The ending bell rings, true and bright on Friday afternoon. An ending bell is often welcome, because it signals just that: an ending. But today, for four particular students at the prestigious Hope’s Peak Academy, it was not an ending but a precursor – a precursor to something wondrous and joyful and-

‘Kyoko~!’ The words came with a throwing of arms around shoulder and a nuzzle into a neck. ‘Are you writing again?’

The speaker was, naturally, Celestia Ludenberg – a girl who cut an intimidating figure unless, of course, you were her girlfriend, Kyoko Kirigiri. Two seemingly impassive, cold and emotionless figures reduced to admittedly adorable messes when in each other’s company – and they were not the only ones.

Outside of this classroom, outside of this floor, outside of this school, walking side by side – and by extension hand in hand, two figures. One of whom you’d expect this level of affection from, the other… not so much. Byakuya Togami, head usually held proud and tall was looking down, with a blushing face, at a much shorter figure. The figure, the shorter person, the boy, Makoto Naegi, looked up to see the blushing face of his beloved, only to see him turn away at the last second. A small pout on his lips, and then words.

‘You look cuter when you’re smiling at me.’ innocently and offhandedly said, but with quite a flustering effect on his partner.

‘I do not!’

‘Yeah, you do….’ and suddenly arms wrapped around the taller boy’s neck, the shorter boy on tip toes, a small kiss planted on the nose of Byakuya Togami, whose face was starting to resemble more and more the rose garden they were walking through.

How the moment would have progressed uninterrupted is but a mystery, because at that very moment the sound of a phone rang through the air, separating the two and sending hands off waists and back to pockets, where they had both received a message from one Celestia Ludenberg which read simply: ‘Be seeing you at five!’ and then the details of Kyoko’s address.

‘Come on,’ Byakuya spoke, injecting some authority into his voice, ‘we can stay at my house for a short while. And then be dropped off at Kyoko’s by car. Naught to worry about.’

‘Um, Byakuya? I don’t think I have money for a taxi…’ Makoto muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment by tilting his face to the side.

‘Don’t be foolish, Makoto. Not a taxi. A chauffeur. My chauffeur.’

‘Oh, right. Haha…’

‘Honestly!’ An exasperated sigh, a roll of dark green eyes and a small smile, hidden and kept for two.

//

‘Let me paint your nails.’

‘No.’

‘But I want to! And you’ll look even more beautiful!’

‘Flattery doesn’t work, Celeste’

‘Pity! If it were the other way round…..’

This back and forth, between these two girls, could have gone on for an infinite amount of time. But it was brought to what would either be a swift close or a pending climax by the next words said by the lavender haired detective.

‘Okay. But only if you say please.’

In that moment, so many expressions crossed Celeste’s face, that anyone who wasn’t a detective, nay, anyone who wasn’t the ultimate detective would have been bewildered. But Kyoko’s practised eyes could pick out, in order, surprise, shock, amusement, realisation and then a sort of mild annoyance that comes when the thing one desires is within reach only if one is willing to lower themselves a little further – Most people would have had no problem saying please – and Celeste usually wouldn’t – but well, being asked to say it was an entirely different matter indeed.

It was, arguably, in Celeste’s nature as the ultimate gambler to bluff and negotiate her way into preferred positions – and relationships were, by their very nature too, a compromise. But there was something about the girl you love most in the world asking you for something that changed you a little.

‘Alright then, you devious kitten.’ Celeste lowered herself into a curtsy and looked up at Kyoko with gentle eyes.  ‘Lady Kyoko of Kirigiri House – may I please paint the nails of your hands using nail polish that I’m sure is located somewhere in your room?’

‘It’s not.’ Kyoko said, unable to suppress a grin.

‘Well! No issue at all. I have 4 vials in my handbag for situations like these alone.’ And, true to her word, Celeste pulled 4 vials of nail polish from an immaculately organised handbag and placed them on Kyoko’s writing desk come dressing table – a commodity Celeste was sure she’d rectify, a mental note made to attempt to persuade Kyoko into purchasing something much more stylish.

Taking Kyoko’s hand gently in her own, her own pale complexion looking almost alien next to the dark and honeyed glow of Kyoko’s unfortunately scarred skin, Celeste began wondering how a detective – a person of a profession so usually associated with a lack of physical labour had ended up with such an unsightly injury. Not unsightly, Celeste thought to herself. the beauty of Kyoko’s hands matches that of her face, her arms, her shoulders….. Little thoughts, but thoughts that truly were the indicator of purest love.

Just as Celeste placed her brush to begin painting the Kyoko’s last finger, the door bell sounded – an annoying trill that would have distracted and startled the hand of any other than Celeste, who – to her everlasting credit – remaining entirely calm, precisely proceeding to finish the last finger, before staying her hand to seal the bottle. ‘I’ll go get the door! Can’t having you smudging your nails, especially after I’ve spent all that wondrous effort on them.’

‘You made the painting look quite easy!’

‘I meant saying please.’

‘Ah.’

‘Ah indeed. Do not move.’ The sound of gently stockinged feet pacing the landing before proceeding downstairs was found oddly soothing by Kyoko, who was examining the sparkled and glossy dark purple coat of her nails. Maybe it’s not the sound of the footsteps, but instead the knowledge of the one who is making them…..

 ‘Kyoko!’ The excited voice cutting through the serene atmosphere of Kyoko’s room, was – even without looking – easily recognisable as the voice of Makoto Naegi. He rushed forward and sat down on her bed in front of her. ‘Hi!’ His eyes scanned her room, absorbing every detail and filing them away to memory – as air headed as Makoto Naegi may have seemed, he had and observant eye and excellent instincts. ‘Your nails look so pretty! The colour suits you so much.’

Kyoko smiled – a genuine smile, once a rarity in her life but now something she was growing ever used to, and expressed her thanks. One could always be assured that when Makoto Naegi was speaking, the words were genuine. The figure in the doorway however…

‘Don’t listen to him. You look quite awful.’ The tall figure of Byakuya Togami leaned in her door frame, bearing a smile that once seemed demeaning but now - with just a little effort on Kyoko’s part – could be appreciated as… some form of endearing. The smile disappeared however, as a pair of pale hands clasped him from behind. He struggled for a brief moment before relenting, ‘Alright, alright! She looks lovely – There, I said it! Let me go this instant!’ The frantic requests were obliged and his words met from behind with a gently muffled murmur.

‘So!’ Celeste remarked, sitting on Kyoko’s bed also, and affectionately ruffling Makoto’s hair. ‘What are we to be doing on this fine eve, gorgeous hostess?’ A goofy smile from Makoto and a roll of eyes from Byakuya.

‘Isn’t obvious?’ He said, punctuating the sentence with a gently exasperated sigh. ‘I’m going to beat you at monopoly.’ The otherwise calm atmosphere shifts, with his words, almost imperceptibly to one filled with startled concern and laced with a competitive edge.

‘Well! You know… when both of you play monopoly together things can get a bit... which is to say, you’re both so good, and I don’t think it’s necessary to-’ Makoto was abruptly cut off with an owl like swivel of both of the heads of the people in question. They, together spoke in a dull, monotone unison.

‘Board. Now’

‘Well, my hands are all sticky. But hey, Makoto – I think the board is on the leftmost shelf in the spare room.’ Kyoko said, a tense and small smile overtaking her features.  

‘Top shelf or bottom shelf? Because if it’s the top one he’s going to need help reaching it.’ said Byakuya, his face describing what could only be described as cruel amusement.

‘Hey!’

‘It’s the bottom shelf.’

‘You guys….’

A scarce five minutes later, the board had been retrieved and laid neatly down. But no game had been started, as these two competitors could argue about seemingly anything.

‘Well, I want to play as the cat.’ Byakuya said, unaware of the escalation this supposedly innocuous statement would lead to.

‘You can’t play as the cat! I’m going to be the cat. I have a cat.’ Celestia responded idly, voice reaching a small height towards her last sentence.

‘Exactly!’ Byakuya pounced.  ‘How many cats do you know that own other cats?’

‘Plenty! That’s how mother cats work.’

‘Well, that’s not owning. And even then it’s debatable considering the fluid dynamics of familial structure in feline families.’

‘You’re talking to me about feline families?’ Celeste interjected, a look of mock outrage on her face, wide eyes accentuated by her precise makeup. She was about to go onto would be a spiel, predictable only in the sense that it would involve as many personal blows to Byakuya’s ego as was possible, and a myriad of cat related metaphors. Kyoko, sensing this, and desperate to prevent her sleepover from turning into a competition of who could deal the most insults, decided that now was the time to interfere.

‘Why is anyone talking about feline families, to be honest?’ Makoto shot her a thankful look. ‘Forget this – you guys are playing scrabble and whoever wins the game has won the argument. End of case’

‘Not really the civil solution I was looking for, but it’ll do....’ said Makoto, sending her a gentle smile.

‘With these two, there was never going to be a civil solution.’ The words were muttered by Kyoko, and naturally, entirely true.  

Byakuya and Celeste had locked glaring eyes on each other, before agreeing in unison that yes, scrabble would be most palatable.

Scrabble was, of course, a precursor to more of the same.

‘No. That’s not a word. Don’t think you could best me.’

‘I have no intention of besting you, Byakuya. Only beating you. And I ensure that this is, indeed, a word.’

‘See! You’re bluffing. It’s in your nature. Someone get the dictionary.’

A groan from, well, everyone, filled the room. Makoto looked at Kyoko pleadingly.

‘Please – this time, can you do it?’

‘I’m sorry Makoto,’ came the calm response, voice tinged with sadness. ‘My nails haven’t dried yet – and I don’t want to ruin my books.’

‘….Okay….’ Makoto answered softly, with seemingly no fight. As he left the room, Byakuya turned to Kyoko with a curious expression on his face.

‘Are your nails really not dry yet?’ Byakuya questioned. ‘Whenever I get my own done, it takes scarcely fourteen minutes at the absolute most.’ He paused. ‘Then again, maybe my polish is simply better than yours.’

‘Are you trying to give me even more reason to beat you at scrabble! It’s my polish and it is custom made. I won’t tolerate any of your baseless slander!’

‘I lied.’ Kyoko said, face gently blushed. ‘I just really didn’t want to have to carry the dictionary.’

As raucous laughter ensued, gently flitting out of the confines of Kyoko’s room and out of her open window, the hearts of the joyous high school students swelled with happiness and understanding. If you were standing there, you would have seen the pillow fight that came to pass, and the happiness that emanated from the whole scene. You would have heard not only the exuberant voices of the friends, but something else, like a distillation of happiness and a boisterous sort of tranquillity. And if you were the Ultimate Despair, watching eagle-eyed from a nearby apartment building, you would have heard something different entirely: potential.