#Because I’ll inevitably go from “slight” to “sickly” and I would really like to continue fitting into my pants

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

You’d think that with all this bike riding and lifting children off the floor that I’d be even more hungry, but no; I have the appetite of a little tiny bird???? The fuck

I don’t like it

[jimlingss]

Sugar and Coffee [17]

Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18

➜ Words: 4.6k

➜ Genres: 99.5% Fluff, 0.5% Angst, Pâtisserie school!AU

➜ Summary: It isn't hard to be a pâtisserie chef, but it's not a piece of cake either. It seems like for you in particular, life keeps throwing in one wrench after another. It always finds ways to make your sweets bitter. The cherry on top is Jeon Jungkook — a rival with a sensitive sweet tooth who always finds ways to complain about you.

cr.

Marriage seems to be the ultimate goal for many.    And you have to admit its appeal — cute invitations tucked onto tables by bouquet centerpieces, flowers blooming and budding all around the aisle and arch, long trains of wedding dresses, the tulle of the veil, the glowing smile of both bride and groom radiating happiness.   Love is in the air and it’s hard to hate it. It’s difficult to remain bitter.   For a brief moment in time, you forget about pushing the idea that romance is sickly — that the emotional dependency will cripple you when affections inevitably run out, that the imminent insecurity and jealousy will only act to lower self-esteem, that heartbreak is always impending.   Just for the slightest of seconds….you forget to hate love.   “Jungkook, Y/N! Get in here!”   Sejeong eagerly motions you over and you exchange an expression with the boy beside you before scattering over hesitantly. Yet, she fervently welcomes you, shuffling over and draping her arm around your shoulder. Jungkook stands beside you, smiling wide for the camera.   “One. Two. Three.” The wedding photographer snaps several pictures of all four of you.    “Is this okay?” you ask in a slight murmur in-between shots, still worried considering you didn’t really have a place in this wedding. The only people you know here are the two of them, Jungkook, and Chungha who was somewhere preparing to walk down the aisle.   “Of course, it is!” Namjoon zealously assures with a grin. “You guys are our official wedding cake makers. We can’t forget about you two.”   “Chungha requested that we take as many pictures as we can. She won’t mind, trust me.” Sejeong smiles, excited for her sister’s wedding, and she squeezes your shoulder. “It’ll be a great way to look back on the memories.”   There are a few more pictures taken and when the photographer gives the ‘okay’ sign, the married couple enthusiastically runs out of the frame. “Okay, now just our two interns!”   You and Jungkook awkwardly scoot together, but then the photographer raises his head and suggests you both to go even closer. And that’s enough for Jungkook to throw his arm around your shoulders, pull you close enough that you nearly stumble into his chest and he flashes a grin as the camera snaps while your expression is still stunned.   The next picture, you stand on the tips of your toes with the hopes of overcoming Jungkook’s height and teasing him later on for being short. But he quickly notices you and his grip on your shoulder tightens, attempting to pull you down for the following photograph.    “Hey, don’t try to push me down!”   You try to shove his hand off, but the effort is futile and Jungkook giggles. “You’ll never be taller than me, Y/N.”   “Psh.” You stay on the tips of your toes, putting your hand over your head like that’ll somehow create the illusion your height is greater than his. But then Jungkook goes on his toes as well, lifting up his chin. The two of you laugh, using one another to keep balance and stand as high as possible.   Namjoon and Sejeong grin at your banter and the photographer is smiling as well, continuing to take pictures at different angles and distances with no end in sight.   “You got something on your nose, Jeon,” you lie.   “What?” His heels touch the ground again and his hand lifts to his face. You steal the opportunity to jump straight up as high as you can, putting your hands on his shoulders.    The wedding photographer captures the picture, then one of Jungkook turning his head in shock as you’re still in the air. Then the one where you’re descending and he opens his arms, catching your fall. And the one where you turn to each other, smiling wide as you gaze at each other.   The photographer doesn’t say that these are the best candids he’s taken.   “My name is Jung Sowon and this is Stand By Me.” The woman with the sleek, long, black hair stands at the stage. The band begins to play behind her, drums and guitar crescendo. The wedding singer parts her mouth to sing the first note and the melodic song fills the venue. “When the night has come. And the land is dark. And the moon is the only light we'll see.”   You linger by, watching and swaying to the rhythm.    “Would you like some champagne, ma’am?”   A familiar voice beside you interrupts the music, but it’s a smooth timbre that you recognize.   You turn to find Jungkook, offering you a flute of bubbling champagne and you laugh, taking it.    “Thank you, good sir.”   Jungkook’s dressed in a classic suit — white shirt, black blazer and trousers, shoes and tie. It’s simple, but it makes him look good, hugging his form well. You can’t help musing that he cleans up well. But maybe that’s because you helped him do his hair. It’s combed down as usual, but with the bangs slightly curled in, a bit of his forehead peeking out. Jungkook was screeching this morning and whining like a baby, afraid your straightener would burn his skin, but you’re glad you held him down and did it.    You’re in a blue dress yourself, one that stops at the knees and is ruffled at the neckline. You didn’t think you looked particularly special, but by the way Jungkook was staring at you earlier, you’re not sure what to think anymore.   “The ceremony’s starting soon. We should go.”   You follow his lead, sipping on your champagne. “Hey. Don’t get drunk. It would be embarrassing.”   He scoffs, playfully eyeing you. “Who do you think I am?”   A grin spreads into your face. “I’m just saying.”   The two of you find your seats at the left, near the back. The parents of the groom and bride gather together too, taking their spots at the front rows and the other wedding guests begin trickling into the garden area.    You lean over to Jungkook, keeping your eyes straight ahead, but murmuring underneath your breath, “When do you think it’ll be over?”   “I don’t know. Half an hour to an hour? Why?”   “I’m kind of hungry.”   “Course you are,” he says back but then begins looking around. “Do you want me to ask one of the waiters to bring around those appetizers again?”   “No, I’m fine.” You giggle. “I was joking. I’ll be fine, Jungkook.”   But concern lingers in his eyes. “Are you sure?”   “I won’t starve,” you assure, not knowing he would take it so seriously. Jungkook is attentive to you these days and you’re not sure how to feel……   No. That’s not entirely true. You do know how you feel. But you won’t say it out loud.   Instead, you focus your attention on your surroundings.   The venue was absolutely lovely. It was still a part of the resort, but in a more secluded area that’s away from the prying eyes of tourists and resort guests. A few meters away was the ocean. The tide that was kissing against the shore, saltwater bubbling and fizzing every so often. It was the best of both worlds — the man-made garden inside the tent gorgeous and contrasting against the beach background outside. The floor is verdant grass, soft underneath your feet, and the flowers are in full bloom and wrapped around the ceiling and wedding arch.    The reception area you had peeked at earlier was even more incredible.    You can’t wait until the sun sets and the fairy lights turn on.    “This is actually so nice,” you sigh out, speechless. “You know, for the longest time, I wanted a garden wedding too. Like pink peonies would be one of the themes or focuses or whatever. They bloom during late spring, early summer, so that would be perfect since the weather would be good too.”   Jungkook glances at you. “Do you still want that?”   “I’d probably never get married, so it doesn’t really matter.” You shrug to him, snapping back to reality.    “Why not?”   “Love’s gross,” you mutter quietly as the last people take their seats. “Plus, no one wants me.”   “I want you.”   Jungkook says it forthrightly, without a beat of hesitation, instinctively. As if you asked him what his name was. You look at him, staring wide-eyed. Jungkook gazes back at you, unwavering.    Your heart stutters. And you quickly look away from him.   “You shouldn’t joke about that kind of thing.”   He sulks. “I’m not.”   But none of you are able to speak another word. The music interrupts when it begins. The classic wedding march plays and everyone turns around to watch the bridesmaids and groomsmen walk down the aisle with bright smiles. Sejeong and Namjoon wave at the two of you as well as they stride past.   And soon, Chungha is the one walking down with her arm hugging her father’s. She’s in a beautiful, white ball gown, practically glowing as the trail of her dress follows. The woman looks the happiest she’s ever been and as envious as you are, the joy is overwhelming.    Her soon-to-be husband is wiping at his eyes and when they meet, they hold one another’s hands, giggling.   "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”   The officiant addresses the couple, reading a long passage from his book for twenty minutes about what love and marriage means. Then there’s an exchange of vows and it becomes emotional as they read their professions of love to one another.    You feel the sting of your eyes that you try to dispel away.   You forgot love could be so innocent and comforting. For so long, you’ve demonized it in your mind, discredited the emotion as silly mistakes. But with the way the couple stare at one another underneath the arch — so genuinely in love — you realize you had forgotten love could be so sincere.   Not every love ends in heartbreak. Not every relationship ends in heartache.   You had forgotten.    And you find yourself stealing glances at Jungkook.   “Sometimes I wonder how it’s possible that I became so lucky. That I was there on that day. At the right time. And I met you,” the groom inhales a soft breath, staring at his soon-to-be wife. “Not everyone can marry their best friend, but I’m happy to be one of them. There’s no one I’d rather become a family with than you.”   The rings are exchanged as tears pool in eyes and then the pronouncement of marriage is made. After the kiss, the closing remarks are said and everyone stands up, cheering at the newly married pair.   Chungha is laughing, her husband grinning hard and they run down the aisle together.   Love is in the air and you’re glad that you’re experiencing it with Jungkook by your side.   //   Weddings are stressful when you’re the planner or the couple, but it’s fun as the guest. One of the perks that you and Jungkook especially have is being able to pig out at the table without having to mingle or interact with others. It’s not like you know anyone here, so the pair of you have resided by the snack area.   “The catering company didn’t do a bad job.” You lick off your fingers.    Jungkook hums and then turns to you with his arm extended. You look down, finding him holding a chocolate strawberry and immediately, your lips part. He feeds it to you and you taste it on your palette while shaking your head.   “Not as good as yours.”   “Of course.” Jungkook grins, relishing in your praise.   “Where’d you find that?”    “Don’t freak out.” He pauses, letting you suffer in suspense on purpose. “There’s a chocolate fondue fountain over there.”   Immediately you whirl around to where he’s indicating and an audible gasp tears from your throat. Jungkook’s eyes crinkle in mirth and he follows after you, chiding you not to run.   The milk chocolate is falling at three different tiers, grandly cascading downwards in a smooth liquid. You grab a plate and begin to stack skewered strawberries, marshmallows, banana slices, rice krispy squares and pretzels onto it. And the two of you end up crowding the fountain, dipping the food in one at a time to indulge.    “God, I love chocolate.” You could drop dead right now and ascend to the afterlife fulfilled.   Jungkook holds back a laugh. “Don’t eat too much. You’re going to ruin your appetite and get a stomach ache.”   “Doesn’t matter,” you dismiss quickly. “I’m living my best life here, Jeon. I could die happy right now.”   “You better not.” He smiles. “I still need you around to cover for me when I mess up.”   Jungkook has more of a sensitive sweet tooth than you do, so he slows down his chocolate consumption sooner than you even have plans of halting. But he enjoys watching you eat, filling your cheeks with chocolate-covered fruit and sweets. He feels satisfied somehow when he watches you consume to your heart’s content.   He eventually starts dipping what’s left on his plate to feed you, not allowing it to go to waste.   “Ah.”   Your lips part and he feeds you again, but this time, the chocolate accidentally drips onto Jungkook’s hand. He curses, pulling up his white sleeve to not get it stained, but before he can grab a napkin to wipe himself off, your hand clasps around his wrist.   Without thinking twice, you pull his hand to your mouth and you lick off the chocolate. Your warm tongue runs along his skin, cleaning the mess. It takes only three seconds. But in the meanwhile, your pupils flicker up to look into Jungkook’s. Directly. Boldly.   His Adam’s apple visibly bobs in his throat. Sweat begins to collect at his hairline but by then, you’ve already let go and turned away. You’re nonchalant. Your attention returns back to the chocolate fountain and you’re fucking humming, continuing to pig out.   Jungkook cusses in his mind.    You’re a vixen. A damn witch.   But there’s no time to react or linger. Not when you’ve obviously moved on and haven’t thought much about your action. Not when the married couple arrives at the reception area and everybody takes their seats again.    “Thank you everyone for taking the time to come here for us.” Everyone raises their glasses of champagne. “We really appreciate it.”   “I’d also like to thank my older sister, Sejeong, and Namjoon for making such a beautiful wedding cake.” Chungha grins. “It was a surprise, but it’s better than I could’ve ever imagined and it was one less thing to worry about, so thank you. I knew I could trust you.”   “Please,” Sejeong says aloud, “It’s my job.”   There’s shared laughter and the bride carries on, “And thank you to Jungkook and Y/N as well for helping out with my sister’s shop and making the cake. I’m sure it would’ve been a lot more stressful without your help.”   You’re bashful under the attention, but soon enough, the speeches and toasts move onto different people in the room. The maid of honour shares a long story about how the couple met and the best man wishes the pair a wonderful future.    Not long after, the food finally gets served as the wedding singer continues her performance.   You get mashed potatoes as an appetizer and steal part of Jungkook’s scallop dish. He feigns a glare, but then the two of you are splitting each other’s food family style to get a variety of tastes. The main course consists of filet mignon for Jungkook and pumpkin ravioli for you.   You enjoy the meal for the most part, only slightly uncomfortable by the old woman in a floral dress who keeps glancing at you and Jungkook with a smile. And right before dessert is served, the stranger across the table seems to crack.   “How do you two know the bride and groom?” her voice croaks as she nosily asks.   “Oh. We just helped make the wedding cake.”   “We’re the bride’s sister’s interns,” Jungkook adds.   “Nice to meet you.” Her dainty, wrinkled hand shakes your hand and Jungkook’s. “I’m the groom’s great aunt. Such a lovely wedding, isn’t it?”   “Yes, it is.”   “The food’s great too.”   The old woman's eyes glimmer of mirth. “So how long have you both been together?”   You choke on your ravioli — Jungkook wheezes mid-sip of his water, coughing and sputtering. He pounds his chest. The pair of you look at one another, eyes rounded and wide.   “Oh...we’re not...uh….”   “No need to be shy.” Her hand bats the air. “There’s no need to hide anything, don’t worry.”   “Umm...well, we’ve known each other for a while now,” Jungkook says and you give him a look. Technically, it’s not a lie.   “Are you both considering getting married any time soon?”   The proposition gives you whiplash, but after working in the food industry for so long, you’ve perfected maintaining a calm disposition. Even if the smile you offer is stiff. “Oh, no. We’re still very young, so I don’t think so. Not at all.”   “There’s nothing wrong with getting married when you’re young,” she tells. “Back in my day, kids got married at eighteen. Right out of school. Better early than never was always my motto. If you know you’re good for each other, there’s no point in waiting.”   “Uhhh….” You’re not sure what to say to that.   Luckily, Jungkook jumps in and easily uses his infamous Jeon charms. “If I propose too soon, she’ll get bored of me. I’d prefer to keep her on her toes a little while longer.”   The old lady laughs heartily. “That’s a dangerous game, boy. If you don’t put a ring on it soon, she might just run off with another boy and you’d surely regret it then.”   He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t. It may not look like it, but she’s head over heels for me. She’d come chasing me.”   That seems to poke the old lady’s funny bone, but your mouth has dropped open. “I would not.”   “Sure about that?” Jungkook smirks impishly. “I might just run off with another miss if you’re not nice enough to me, Y/N.”   “Psh. I’d like to see you try, Jeon Jungkook.”   “You two are just too cute.” The old lady sighs wistfully. “Reminds me of my late husband and I. I know love when I see it.”   The meal eventually ends and the old lady wobbles off to mingle at another table with people she’s more familiar with — but as she bids farewell, she chides Jungkook to marry you already. And when she’s gone, he shifts to wiggle his brows at you.   You tell him that if he gets down on one knee tonight, you’ll slap him.   Fortunately, Jungkook has no such plans. Instead, the pair of you spend your time watching the sunset on the beach. The sky is painted in tangerine and rosy hues, the ocean reflecting the horizon and once it becomes dark enough, all the fairy lights flicker on. The venue becomes illuminated by the dim and soft mosaic of colours.   You feel ticklish and pink inside — stomach full of food, alcohol making it easy to loosen up, the amorous atmosphere a hatchery for hopeless romantics. You watch the first dance, listening to the smooth voice of the wedding singer and the warm sounds of the band. “Wise men say only fools rush in. But I can't help falling in love with you.”   The bride moves in sync with the groom, her dress gliding across the floor. Their hands are clasped together, feet moving slowly, eyes staring at one another. It’s magical to be an observer and it makes you wonder what it’s like to be there, to know you can live the rest of your life with the person you’ve chosen.   When the others trickle onto the dance floor, you watch them too.   And Jungkook soon returns, having gone to the bathroom and then taking a quick walk around. He finds you enjoying yourself in a rare carefree state, simply swaying to the melody in your seat.   His smile becomes tender.   “Go dance.”   You scoff. “I’m not going to dance by myself.”   “Then dance with me.” Jungkook takes your hand, pulling you up on your feet. “Come on,” he convinces when he sees your reluctance. “This is the only time I’ll ever dance. Are you really going to give up on this chance?”   You let him pull you on the floor right as another song begins.    It’s an older song — another slow one — fuzzy sounds that melts all around you. The wedding singer’s voice is sweet, drums providing a steady beat. The staccato of the bass is resonant and velvety with the lithe sound of the piano. “Stars shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’. Birds singing in the sycamore tree. Dream a little dream of me.”   But what should be romantic is terribly awkward.   Jungkook’s hands are placed tensely on your waist while yours are plopped on top of his shoulders. It’s as if you’ve been propelled back to the past — fifteen years old at a school dance with your crush, not sure where to look, how close to be, how to touch one another and be polite about it.    You wince when he steps on your foot.   “Ow.”   “Sorry.”   “I thought you danced, Jeon Jungkook.”   The boy’s brows knit together. “Who says?”   “I thought you could do everything,” you tease and this time, he’s the one lightly scoffing with a small smile tugging at his lips.   Soon, Jungkook steps on your foot again and you mutter cusses in his ear. It makes him laugh, but you swear the third time he steps on your toes, it’s intentional.   “Say ‘Night-ie night’ and kiss me. Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me. While I'm alone and blue as can be. Dream a little dream of me.”   The crowd on the dance floor is moving together — old married couples and the young ones holding each other securely to kids twirling with each other. Eventually, the music relaxes you enough that you melt into Jungkook’s arms and he falls into a rhythm, no longer stepping on any toes.    Your arms are looped around his neck, your fingers locked together. His hands are tenderly on the dips of your waist. The two of you sway with one another. There’s nowhere to look but directly into his eyes and you find his gaze fixed onto yours. As if your irises are the most interesting kaleidoscopes in the world.   Jungkook makes you nervous. He makes your palms sweaty, your steps unsure and seemingly unpracticed.   “Can you stop looking at me like that?” you murmur. In this party of people, only he can hear you above the music. It’s much too intimate.   “Like what?”   “Like you love me.”   “But I do love you.”   He tugs you closer and you search his eyes, brows furrowing unintentionally. You quietly scold him, “You can’t say that, Jungkook.”   “Why not?” he asks in a whisper.   “Because what does it mean for us?”   “Can’t friends love each other?”   “I—”   “I’m kidding.” Jungkook smiles gently, the corners of his mouth quirking. “Well, not really.”   The slow song encases you and Jungkook into a private bubble. The dim lights make his doe eyes sparkle even more than usual — like there are actual stars captured within them, like he’s snapped a picture of the night sky on a Summer night and kept them there. “Stars fading but I linger on, dear. Still craving your kiss. I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear. Just saying this.”   You never realized how much you love Jungkook’s eyes.   “Hey, can I ask you something?” he pipes up again in a gentle murmur as to not disturb the delicate moment between you two. “It’s not about me, but I have a friend who doesn’t really know what to do...”   “What is it?”   “He’s in love with his best friend who’s head over heels for some other guy and is still heartbroken over him even after so much time has passed. My friend really loves her, but he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship they have because it’s important to him.”   You hum a low note, corners of your mouth pulling. “Well, if this best friend is dancing with your friend, sharing the same bed together every night, and spending their days together, she’s probably not heartbroken after that guy anymore.”   Jungkook’s grip on you tightens, not too much that it hurts, but securely enough to keep you from floating away.    He swallows hard. “So you think he should go for it?”   “I think he should take it slow,” you hum. “Even if he values their friendship, once you’ve caught feelings, there’s not much you can do. I have personal experience on this topic, so I would know.”   “Would you now?” A boyish grin spreads into his cheeks, one that makes him look even younger.    “I think this friend of yours should take his chances.” You lean your head on his shoulder, relishing in his body heat. “Sounds like his best friend might just agree.”   Jungkook holds you close. The two of you sway together, enjoying the moment.   “Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you. But in your dreams, whatever they be. Dream a little dream of me.”   The fuzzy song fades as it ends. The last note holds the air. And with it, the spell breaks.   You pull yourself away from Jungkook’s arms, offering a small smile. It’s awkward, so you quickly turn away to return to your spot at the table. But then….   There’s a call of your name—   “Y/N.”   As you spin around, Jungkook tugs you in by your waist. Your lips meet his.   Your mouths collide together right as another song begins — one you don’t pay any attention to, where you can’t even discern the lyrics. Not when your heart rate is pounding in your eardrums.   It’s a soft brush of the surfaces of your lips, a timid touch, but soon, you’re eagerly deepening the kiss. You’re surrounded in Jungkook and everything that is him — the scent of fresh laundry and his cologne, giving into the velvet texture of his soft lips, reveling in the warmth of his skin that brings heat onto your cheeks.   Your hands slink to the back of his neck, sinking your fingers into the little hair there. Your eyes shut and Jungkook sneaks in a long peek at you, soaking in your pleasured expression before his own lids flutter closed. Your nose bumps together and he easily tilts his head, kissing you tenderly, but eagerly underneath the pretty lights.    Jungkook kisses you and kisses you, like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do. But really, he should’ve done this a long time ago — maybe that time underneath the mistletoe all those months ago.   So he makes up for the lost time, tasting your lipstick curiously, smearing it shamelessly, getting it all over his own mouth.    It’s hot, breathy, and when the pair of you pull apart, the thin thread of saliva between your mouths break. You stumble back on your heels, catching yourself on weak knees. You try to remember how to breathe properly.   Jungkook’s own chest is heaving and he shakes his head, wearing an infectious smile. He wipes his lips wet with your saliva haphazardly with the back of his hand.   “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that for.”   You laugh, grabbing his tie roughly. You tug your best friend closer. “Then shut up and do it again.”   The both of you are in the middle of the dance floor, underneath the lights, but none of you pay any mind.   This time when Jungkook kisses you, he’s grinning against your mouth and you can’t help but smile too.

[regrettablewritings]

Maybe the gift rule, the bringing lunch, and the taking care on sick days for Poe?

Captain Dreamsicle it is!

Takes care of on sick days: Both of you, though Poe gets a bit more in by comparison . . . Poe is a man of many traits: He is sweet, hard-working, a little gung-ho but altogether just plain passionate. He’s also a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to his own health. The moment you so much as hint that you might be coming down with something, this man is on your case. You can’t even sniffle around him before he’s right in front of you, those big, brown eyes of his filled with almost puppyish worry. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice gentle yet heavy with concern. He places a hand to your forehead, searching for any excessive heat. “You don’t think you picked anything up, do you? I know your bunk mate just came back from a recon mission --” And so begins the Resistance pilot’s transformation into a mother hen, however annoying as it may be. He can’t force you to stay in bed, especially if the infirmary insists that it’s just a slight head cold (at most), but he’s definitely going to keep an eye on you whenever he can: He has subordinates working close by you report back to him, sending him messages on his tablets as to whether or not you seem particularly light-headed or drowsy. He requests the droids’ assistance in making sure you stay in bed just so long enough that you get a confirmed eight hours. He makes sure your plate has only ever so slightly the bittest more of rations when it’s time for you to eat. (If you make any comment on this, he eagerly ushers you along, commenting on oh look at that lucky you! You don’t see the nod of thanks he gives to the person on ration duty, but you know they’re in cahoots.) And once he gets promoted to general, you can just forget about it! . . . But the moment Poe sniffles, it’s like he’s done a 180 on the matter: To him, Poe Dameron can’t get sick. And if he does, well, he can work it off. So many people depend on him now more than ever, and he can’t let them down by taking some down time just to fight off a common cold. Besides . . . doctors are a little scary. It may take some convincing (and fussing), but eventually, he does give in -- to a degree. Really, if you can convince him to lie in bed with you while he reads over plans and maps, it’s a win. Because you’ll inevitably massage his curls until he drifts off into a much needed sleep. He pretends to be frustrated that you let him sleep in the next day, but the truth is he greatly appreciates it in the long run.

Brings the other lunch at work: You swear that ever since he got promoted to general, Poe’s self-care has taken a hit: He’s up at all hours, he’s running around like crazy, and he keeps skipping out on meals, insisting that he’ll eat later! At first, you were very understanding of it: He did, after all, just jump ahead into way more responsibilities than he’d previously had as just a captain. Sure, he’d been trained for it, but that didn’t make the reality of what it was that much easier. You did your part where you could: Delivering messages, sitting in with him on meetings to take notes on anything that might be of use to him later, making sure BB-8 kept out of trouble . . . But really! Did the man seriously think he could get away with his third straight day of skipping lunch!? You had never been a particularly intimidating person but as you stormed across the base, expression stern as you carried a small tin case in your hands, everyone knew to stay out of your way. You sure wish you’d kept that same amount of confidence when you stormed into his designated workspace. Thankfully, he wasn’t in the middle of talking with somebody, but he was definitely in the middle of something. But you tried not to care about that: Instead, you found yourself focusing on how your beloved looked. He didn’t look sickly, and you’d certainly seen him in a worse state. But there were clear, tiny traces of him lacking proper or consistent nutrition. And rest. Nevertheless, he wore that boyishly cute grin when he looked up from his tablets and saw you. “Oh, hey!” he said, as though there weren’t threats of shadows developing beneath his eyes. He leaned back in his seat ever so slightly. “What brings you to this neck of my woods?” You bit your lip. Remain stern, you told yourself. Be gentle and loving, but make it clear you’re not going to mess around. “Castion told me he didn’t see you in the mess hall earlier. Or for lunch for that matter. So I’m here to deliver your rations,” you lifted up the tin container just a bit higher for him to take note. He nodded. “Thank you, hon. You can put it right there--” he nodded at a corner of his tech-cluttered desk-- “and I’ll get to it in a bit.” He then returned his attention back to the holo-map in front of him. You fought to release an exasperated sigh. “No,” you decided upon instead. You watched as the general blinked before looking back up at you. “Huh?” “I said no,” you informed, a bit more assertive than before. “You always say you’ll ‘get to it’ but according to BB, you ever really do. You take maybe, like, three or four bites and then you’re done. And that’s if you can be bothered to eat it even four hours after receiving it!” You could see Poe gently scowl. How rude: Ratted out by his own droid. He tried again, “Honey, I promise to you: I’ll eat it within the hour. All of it. Heart crossed and hope to --” He paused. “Get Force-blasted by Rey. Again. This time, on purpose.” You hummed. That was a fair proposition to make. But neh, you weren’t buying it. “Oh, I know you will,” you responded, walking towards the desk. And then around it, until you stood next to Poe. You didn’t set the container down. “Because I’m going to stay and make sure you do.” You threw in a cloyingly sweet smile. Poe returned with a smile of his own, albeit one much less composed and far more wobbly. Oh, boy. “Uh . . . Don’t you have something else to get a handle on, sweetie?” “Nope!” said, popping your ‘p’. A beat of silence. Poe eyed the tin. “But . . . I’ve got a lot of stuff to focus on, babe . . . I can’t exactly take the time out to just --” “For the Maker’s sake, Poe! I know you have a lot to do, but that’s no reason to keep skipping out on food. That’s frankly even more of a reason to eat when you can -- you’re not going to be of any help if you’re just a pile of bones, you know!” This time, it was Poe’s turn to do the lip-biting. You had a point . . . You continued, “Look, I know the rations aren’t that great, but you gotta eat something. In fact . . .” You popped the lid off. “How about a feed you?” “I’m not a baby, (Y/N) --” “No, but you’re being reluctant like a toddler. And in any case, if I feed you then at least you can keep your hands busy doing whatever it is you insist you need to do instead of actually putting nourishment in your body. Capiche?” Did he have any real say? No, not really. By this point, after all the ones he’d grown up around and encountered in the Resistance, Poe had learned when to fold in the face of a woman on a mission. Besides, underneath the resigned demeanor, he rather appreciated the gesture. You didn’t have to do this; you were just as important as he was to the Resistance as far as he was concerned. Yet, you were spending your time, making sure he was operating better than he thought he already was. And doing that? It made the disgustingly bland protein glob you spoon-fed him ever so slightly more palatable. Well, almost.

Breaks the expensive gift rule during Christmas: (Since Christmas apparently doesn’t exactly exist in the Star Wars universe as we know it, I’m keeping a more modern setting in mind.) Every year, you would make Poe look you in the eye and promise that he wouldn’t go overboard with the gift-giving. You two weren’t exactly hurting for money, it just didn’t seem to make much sense to go and splurge on something that the two of you both couldn’t benefit from equally (a pool, a tv, a roomba, and so on). At least, to you it didn’t. Which was why every year, you reminded your significant other of this and hoped he would keep a lid on it. And every year, Poe would find some sort of loophole to squeeze himself through, or just plain break the rule, offering only the most sheepish of smiles when the reveal inevitably arrived. Though, if you were “lucky”, you’d be regaled the story of how he found whatever that year’s big splurge was and how he knew from the moment he saw it that it “had to be yours”. Which was how you wound up with a limited edition makeup set. And a gorgeous cocktail dress. And a diamond-and-pearl earrings and necklace set. And tickets to the touring version of that musical you’d always dreamed of seeing. And so much more. And every year, you’d be somewhat upset about it, but only a little bit: You’d learned long ago that none of this was done out of malice or to humiliate you by making whatever you gave him appear lackluster or bought on the cheap. This was simply how Poe was: He was a go big or go home type of fella and it only made sense that this type of mindset would carry over into how he showed you his love for you. To Poe, you deserved to be showered in gifts, and he made it his goal every year to shower you with the best of the best. There just wasn’t a price that could be put on surprising you or making you smile (well, on the inside, because on the outside you were weakly chiding about how he once again broke the rule). And you couldn’t fault him for being your loving, passionate Poe. Besides it wasn’t as though every year, he didn’t also gift you with a painfully ugly Christmas sweater to match his. 

Thank you for asking!! Hope I did okay . . .

[harry-leroy]

Multiples of 5 for Edgar! :)

Hi! Thank you so much for this ask - it’s my boy :) Thank you, Claire! 

I’m using the Edgar from my project to answer these, if that’s alright with you! (although I could probably back up a lot of these through the original play - not all of them, but a lot of them) - (And I’m still trying to figure him out completely, - and I think these follow - but if there are contradictions, I apologize). Thank you again for your patience!  

And- I’ll tag @suits-of-woe (so you can see this one as well!) 

5) Cleanliness habits? (personal, workspace, etc.)

He’s an absolute mess, though it’s not something that he’s always aware of. He strikes me as somewhat of a hoarder, because he’s afraid that he’s going to forget something, or lose something that he will need later. In other words, he doesn’t like to let things go, so he lets them pile up and weigh on the space he’s in. The best word would be disorganized, I think. It’s parallel in his own head as well. There’s always background noise. Things are where they shouldn’t be. If everything has a place (or as the old saying goes), Edgar might know that, but he doesn’t always have a place to put things, though to let them go isn’t an option either. When he’s hiding in Edmund’s room, he would probably be surprised that there’s room to walk freely, instead of books and clothes being piled up on the floor.

10) Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

Edgar gets a thrill from being in control, and he’s not sure if he likes it, or even if it’s right. When he and Edmund were little, whenever they fought over a toy, it was usually Edmund who’d wrestle it out of his hands. Edgar probably learned to accept that he was the weaker one (physically anyway), but it stopped bothering him - until Edmund said that dad was coming to kill him. Control is his idée fixe in The Edgar Project, because being outside of court, it became something he could explore, and he does it primarily through disguise in King Lear, but in The Edgar Project, he wants to manipulate the memories, make them turn out how he feels that they should have. And it’s done with brute force, something that he’s suppressed essentially his whole life. Though, we find that he can’t win a wrestling match with the gods, or with fate, or with anything that’s already passed. Does he recognize that he’s playing this wrestling match as desperately as he is? No.

15) Biggest and smallest short term goal:

His smallest short term goal is to get these memories out of his head. Or to change them at least, to make them, in any way, less awful than how they really were lived the first time. But like the wheel, everything comes back full circle, and it absolutely crushes him. He also wants us to recognize that he isn’t mad. Half of the time, he is quite aware that he has an audience that he can command, the other half, he thinks of himself as being totally alone and powerless.

His biggest short term goal is to achieve some sort of victory from this, some learning experience. He’s taking the gods by the arm and attempting to throw them over his shoulder, and drag them like he did Edmund. This power is the fiend that bites not only his back, but the backs of all. It’s also a continuous competition, and he has to lose it.

20) Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

So how I’ve got it set up right now because I said that I would take some fictional liberties with Edgar and Edmund’s childhood (and I’m still tweaking this project, so bear with me): Edgar’s mother (who I have not named) died of madness and grief when she found out that Gloucester had been disloyal, but the descent was slow and painful. She loved Edgar though, and protected him fiercely even though she was in no position to take care of him. It probably left Edgar a somewhat sickly (and timid) child, but he is in no way weaker than his brother. He’s had a strength in him all along, he just avoided the violence bit for so long that he wasn’t ready when he needed to be. (That went on a tangent, but that’s where I’m at for now).

25) How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know. Edgar’s very much a “live in the moment” kind of guy, but not in a carpe diem sense, but the present is the only thing he can focus on (or for the Edgar Project, this focus becomes a control of the past), or else it’s too much. All that he can hope for is that things don’t get any worse, but he knows, following that trajectory of King Lear, that they can and they will. He looks at Albany as king and aches for what put him there, and he’s not able to let go of it. Ultimately, to him, as much as he might want to manipulate that too, there’s a slight awareness that he can’t control what will happen next. He can only hope and pray.

30) Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster?

If we’re using the death example, it really only makes him hauntingly aware of his own mortality, to the point that he starts to echo Tom again. And that scares him, deeply. At one point, he too will fall and hit those last acts of the mortal play, though he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He’s afraid of what’s beyond death, or if there’s anything beyond death. The walls of reality could come crashing down at any minute and the thought of non-existence terrifies him. Life might be one heck of a fever dream that comes to no point, and it just cycles on and on and on….

(It is why he cannot bring himself to fall in love, or to want to play anything but the child, or to totally claim the crown - it’d be moving the wheel forward, and Edgar wants to keep it back as long as possible.) 

35) What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

Revelry. It makes him feel idle, dull. He gets no satisfaction from it after the fact, and it’s an indulgence he kicks himself for. Although he’s a “companion of the riotous knights”, he’d much rather be spending time alone in the small, pressured spaces he’s designed for himself. He thinks hiding himself will come to some sort of end where he doesn’t have to face the wheel, but time moves on mercilessly and without answer.

40) Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

Like L.E.A.R.’s Edmund, my Edgar has a bit of both in him as well.

This superiority complex comes in that he is young and rather austere (in comparison to Edmund, Goneril, Regan, or any of his knight friends). He’s not in any danger of the consequences of old age… yet. There’s something almost Caesarian about him in his ability to play his youth to his advantage. He’s able in body, and in mind he likes to think of himself as wise. I think he’s seen his brother as somewhat immature, doing things he shouldn’t be, although it makes him totally suited for the world they’re living in.

Yet these things become his downfall. Edgar’s refusal to acknowledge and adapt to the world allows it to pin him into a corner and drive him to his wit’s end. It allows Edmund’s initial victory. He also knows himself to be below these higher powers, whatever they are, but we find him testing the waters a bit in The Edgar Project, because he was able to achieve victory in the original play, so he comes back for Round 2. The control he’s learned to wield in the original play is tested and stripped from him in my play. So how much is he really winning?

45) Superstition or views on the occult?

He thinks astronomy/astrology is silly. But there is some silent presence out there, constantly screaming at him, pushing him around, he just doesn’t know what it is. There is no life after death. For Edgar, this is the promised end. He would rather suffer through Hell fifty times over than become nothing. It’s what he believes to be right as much as it makes him uncomfortable. Edgar’s philosophy probably borders on absurdist, to sum it up a little better - though he’s really struggling on the quest for meaning, so he might even be nihilistic. 

50) Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

Terrified. Absolutely terrified, if you weren’t getting that vibe from this whole post. If everyone is to die at some point or another, that becomes the problem. We’re all powerless to stop it. Our existences ultimately become nothing, so what’s the point in claiming that power if you’re going to lose it? It’s why we see his many, many challenges to the inevitable. They’re foolish, but they’re desperate. They’re all competitions that he’s losing. It’s why he retreats to his mind for the entirety of the play, or why he shuts himself up in his room, why he likes his disguises so much. He doesn’t like the idea of Edgar vs. the elements. He has to have the upper hand in some way. He doesn’t want to “let corpulation thrive”, it gives the gods more pawns to play with and eventually throw into oblivion. 

[avoresmith]

interesting dazai quotes

So I read The Setting Sun and No Longer Human recently, and each has characters that probably inspire Asagiri’s version of Dazai a lot. In the Setting Sun Naoji (the MC’s brother) is the Dazai-like, and in No Longer Human, it’s the protagonist himself. 

I read about both books on Wiki and honestly wasn’t interested in them at all. the bullet points of the stories just sound kind of boring. But Dazai’s writing is honestly lovely, and his character work is great. But I only realized that once I saw some of the author’s own work. I won’t give context for many of these, but if you get curious, I highly encourage you to check them out!

Oh and CW for some very pro-suicide stuff. Uh. Dazai writes it better than Asagiri does. And additional CW for some reference to CSA.

Also, spoilers, obvs.

First, Naoji in The Setting Sun:

I want to spend my time with people who don't look to be respected. But such good people won't want to spend their time with me.

When I pretended to be precocious, people started the rumor that i was precocious. When I acted like an idler, rumor had it I was an idler. When I pretended I couldn't write a novel, people said I couldn't write. When I acted like a liar, they called me a liar. When I acted like a rich man, they started the rumor I was rich. When I feigned indifference, they classed me as the indifferent type. But when I inadvertently groaned because I was really in pain, they started the rumor that I was faking suffering.

The world is out of joint.

Doesn't that mean in effect that I have no choice but suicide?

In spite of my suffering, at the thought that I was sure to end up by killing myself, I cried aloud and burst into tears. 

Solemnity = feeling of idiocy 

It is painful for the plant which is myself to live in the atmosphere and light of this world. Somewhere an element is lacking which would permit me to continue. I am wanting. It has been all I could do to stay alive up to now.

When I entered high school and first came in contact with friends of an aggressively sturdy stock, boys who had grown up in a class entirely different from my own, their energy put me on the defensive, and in the effort not to give in to them, I had recourse to drugs. 

I became coarse. I learned to use coarse language. But it was half—no, sixty per cent—a wretched imposture, an odd form of petty trickery. As far as the “people” were concerned, I was a stuck-up prig who put them all on edge with my affected airs. They would never really unbend and relax with me. On the other hand, it is now impossible for me to return to those salons I gave up. Even supposing that my coarseness is sixty per cent artifice, the remaining forty per cent is genuine now. 

It may be true that in any society defective types with low vitality like myself are doomed to perish, not because of what they think or anything else, but because of themselves. I have, however, some slight excuse to offer. I feel the overwhelming pressure of circumstances which make it extremely difficult for me to live.

“What’s all this rationalizing for? Anyone can see that he’s a playboy from way back, a lazy, lecherous, selfish child of pleasure.” Up to now when people have spoken of me that way I have always nodded vaguely in embarrassment, but now that I am on the point of death, I would like to say a word by way of protest. I have never derived the least joy out of amusements. Perhaps that is a sign of the impotence of pleasure. I ran riot and threw myself into wild diversions out of the simple desire to escape from my own shadow — being an aristocrat.

Undoubtedly you will weep when you learn the news—apart, of course, from such ornamental sentimentality as you may indulge in—but if you will please try to think of my joy at being liberated completely from the suffering of living and this hateful life itself, I believe that your sorrow will gradually dissolve.

Any man who criticizes my suicide and passes judgment on me with an expression of superiority, declaring (without offering the least help) that I should have gone on living my full complement of days, is assuredly a prodigy among men quite capable of tranquilly urging the Emperor to open a fruit shop.

This is actually a character speaking about Yozo in the prologue of No Longer Human:

He is a student in this picture, although it is not clear whether it dates from high school or college days. At any rate, he is now extraordinarily handsome. But here again the face fails inexplicably to give the impression of belonging to a living human being. [. . . ] And yet somehow it is not the smile of a human being: it utterly lacks substance, all of what we might call the “heaviness of blood” or perhaps the “solidity of human life”—it has not even a bird’s weight. It is merely a blank sheet of paper, light as a feather, and it is smiling.

The rest of these will be from Yozo:

I have been sickly ever since I was a child and have frequently been confined to bed. How often as I lay there I used to think what uninspired decorations sheets and pillow cases make. It wasn’t until I was about twenty that I realized that they actually served a practical purpose, and this revelation of human dullness stirred dark depression in me.

It drove me indeed to the brink of lunacy. I wonder if I have actually been happy. People have told me, really more times than I can remember, ever since I was a small boy, how lucky I was, but I have always felt as if I were suffering in hell. It has seemed to me in fact that those who called me lucky were incomparably more fortunate than I.

I simply don’t understand. I have not the remotest clue what the nature or extent of my neighbor’s woes can be. Practical troubles, griefs that can be assuaged if only there is enough to eat—these may be the most intense of all burning hells, horrible enough to blast to smithereens my ten misfortunes, but that is precisely what I don’t understand: if my neighbors manage to survive without killing themselves, without going mad, maintaining an interest in political parties, not yielding to despair, resolutely pursuing the fight for existence, can their griefs really be genuine?

If that is the case, their sufferings should be easy to bear: they are the common lot of human beings and perhaps the best one can hope for. I don’t know ... If you’ve slept soundly at night the morning is exhilarating, I suppose. What kind of dreams do they have? What do they think about when they walk along the street?

[. . .]

The more I think of it, the less I understand. All I feel are the assaults of apprehension and terror at the thought that I am the only one who is entirely unlike the rest. It is almost impossible for me to converse with other people. What should I talk about, how should I say it?—I don’t know.

This was how I happened to invent my clowning. It was the last quest for love I was to direct at human beings. Although I had a mortal dread of human beings I seemed quite unable to renounce their society.

I managed to maintain on the surface a smile which never deserted my lips; this was the accommodation I offered to others, a most precarious achievement performed by me only at the cost of excruciating efforts within.

Again, I never once answered back anything said to me by my family. The least word of reproof struck me with the force of a thunderbolt and drove me almost out of my head. Answer back! Far from it, I felt convinced that their reprimands were without doubt voices of human truth speaking to me from eternities past; I was obsessed with the idea that since I lacked the strength to act in accordance with this truth, I might already have been disqualified from living among human beings.

I thought, “As long as I can make them laugh, it doesn’t matter how, I’ll be all right. If I succeed in that, the human beings probably won’t mind it too much if I remain outside their lives. The one thing I must avoid is becoming offensive in their eyes: I shall be nothing, the wind, the sky.”

Whenever I was asked what I wanted my first impulse was to answer “Nothing.” The thought went through my mind that it didn’t make any difference, that nothing was going to make me happy.

At the same time I was congenitally unable to refuse anything offered to me by another person, no matter how little it might suit my tastes. When I hated something, I could not pronounce the words, “I don’t like it.” When I liked something I tasted it hesitantly, furtively, as though it were extremely bitter.

I acquired my reputation at school less because I was the son of a rich family than because, in the vulgar parlance, I had “brains.”

I had succeeded in escaping from being respected. My report card was all A’s except for deportment, where it was never better than a C or a D. This too was a source of great amusement to my family.

Already by that time I had been taught a lamentable thing by the maids and menservants; I was being corrupted. I now think that to perpetrate such a thing on a small child is the ugliest, vilest, cruelest crime a human being can commit. But I endured it. I even felt as if it enabled me to see one more particular aspect of human beings.

I smiled in my weakness. If I had formed the habit of telling the truth I might perhaps have been able to confide unabashedly to my father or mother about the crime, but I could not fully understand even my own parents. To appeal for help to any human being—I could expect nothing from that expedient. Supposing I complained to my father or my mother, or to the police, the government—I wondered if in the end I would not be argued into silence by someone in good graces with the world, by the excuses of which the world approved.

It is only too obvious that favoritism inevitably exists: it would have been useless to complain to human beings. So I said nothing of the truth. I felt I had no choice but to endure whatever came my way and go on playing the clown.

I also have the impression that many women have been able, instinctively, to sniff out this loneliness of mine, which I confided to no one, and this in later years was to become one of the causes of my being taken advantage of in so many ways. Women found in me a man who could keep a love secret.

The ensuing days were imprinted with my anxiety and dread. I continued on the surface making everybody laugh with my miserable clowning, but now and then painful sighs escaped my lips. Whatever I did Takeichi would see through it, and I was sure he would soon start spreading the word to everyone he saw.

If it were possible, I felt, I would like to keep a twenty-four hours a day surveillance over Takeichi, never stirring from him, morning, noon or night, to make sure that he did not divulge the secret. I brooded over what I should do: I would devote the hours spent with him to persuading him that my antics were not “on purpose” but the genuine article; if things went well I would like to become his inseparable friend; but if this proved utterly impossible, I had no choice but to pray for his death. Typically enough, the one thing that never occurred to me was to kill him.

During the course of my life I have wished innumerable times that I might meet with a violent death, but I have never once desired to kill anybody. I thought that in killing a dreaded adversary I might actually be bringing him happiness.

Even Takeichi seemed not to be aware of the hypocrisy, the scheming, behind my actions. Far from it—his comment as he lay there with his head pillowed in my lap was, “I’ll bet lots of women will fall for you!”—It was his illiterate approximation of a compliment.

I have always found the female of the human species many times more difficult to understand than the male. In my immediate family women outnumbered the men, and many of my cousins were girls. There was also the maidservant of the “crime.” I think it would be no exaggeration to say that my only playmates while I was growing up were girls.

Nevertheless, it was with very much the sensation of treading on thin ice that I associated with these girls. I could almost never guess their motives. I was in the dark; at times I made indiscreet mistakes which brought me painful wounds.

Women led me on only to throw me aside; they mocked and tortured me when others were around, only to embrace me with passion as soon as everyone had left. Women sleep so soundly they seem to be dead. Who knows? Women may live in order to sleep.

[. . .]

These and various other generalizations were products of an observation of women since boyhood days, but my conclusion was that though women appear to belong to the same species as man, they are actually quite different creatures, and these incomprehensible, insidious beings have, fantastic as it seems, always looked after me.

The pictures I drew were so heart-rending as to stupefy even myself. Here was the true self I had so desperately hidden. I had smiled cheerfully; I had made others laugh; but this was the harrowing reality. I secretly affirmed this self, was sure that there was no escape from it, but naturally I did not show my pictures to anyone except Takeichi.

[. . .]

On the other hand, I was equally afraid that they might not recognize my true self when they saw it, but imagine that it was just some new twist to my clowning—occasion for additional snickers. This would have been most painful of all. I therefore hid the pictures in the back of my cupboard.

I soon came to understand that drink, tobacco and prostitutes were all excellent means of dissipating (even for a few moments) my dread of human beings. I came even to feel that if I had to sell every last possession to obtain these means of escape, it would be well worth it.

(At this point Kindle got mad at me for copying and pasting too many excerpts to a friend (I wonder why!!) and so I stopped doing it, there was only one other thing I wanted to share enough to type it out myself:)

[. . .] I knew that the facts were certain to be discovered, but I was afraid to state them as they were. One of my tragic flaws is the compulsion to add some sort of embellishment to every situation - a quality which has made people call me at times a liar - but I have almost never embellished in order to bring myself any advantage; it was rather that I had a strangulating fear of that cataclysmic change in the atmosphere the instant the flow of a conversation flagged, and even when I knew that it would later turn to my disadvantage, I frequently felt obliged to add, almost inadvertently, my word of embellishment, out of a desire to please born of my usual desperate mania for service. This may have been a twisted form of my weakness, an idiocy, but the habit it engendered was taken full advantage of by the so-called honest citizens of the world.

Some final notes:

Dazai (the author) writes with a lot of character, and he tends to have characters who echo a specific miserable perspective on life which is widely believed to be informed by Dazai’s own thoughts. However, they are different characters. Naoji speaks of playing the clown out of genuine love and Yozo persistently is completely dispassionate about just about everyone in his life, even the people he behaves in loving ways towards. 

Dazai (the character) is certainly going to be his own as well, since he does and acts in many ways unlike either character. For one, while Dazai acts the buffoon he deliberately does it to antagonize, which is a complete 180 from Yozo’s motivations and how he is perceived by just about everyone. Making people constantly irritated at him would have sent Yozo into a regular state of panic. 

But there is certainly A Perspective here, which I think is hugely influential in how Asagiri portrays Dazai and also probably very #relatable to a great many people. 

I know it seems like I quoted a lot but there is also plenty more where that came from, so if you found it interesting, please read the novels!

[hilswriting-blog]

Thoughts

By Hilary J. MacDonald

The taste of caffeinated blackness has left my mouth, immediately replaced by a rush of unbound, limitless thoughts. Thoughts popping up so fast I can’t capture them all. Memories of my childhood; yesterday’s breakfast; cats; the sexy date I went on last week; the color of some guy’s cool blazer – all rushing through my mind at once. Thoughts that distract me, limiting my capabilities. There’s a feeling inside the pit of my stomach needing to be filled with a sense of accomplishment. Wait, that’s hunger. These thoughts have distracted me so much that I forgot to simply eat. Let the procrastination of eating begin.

Ah yes, my favorite sweet.

Sweet victory my roommate offers me in the form of those Pillsbury Doughboy® cookies with little heart icons in them. I take six. My mouth is bursting like fireworks during the Chinese New Year. Happy and bright flavors going on all at once. Again, the memory of childhood springs up to when my mom would bake these cookies, or when I made the totally adult decision to eat a full tray of them in one sitting – and to this day still believe that it had no negative effects on me. The taste of water washes everything away creating a clean slate. A clean slate that could maybe help me focus on what I should be doing. However, the need for a new kick causes me to reach for some chips left on my desk. Like, who doesn’t need their whole sodium intake for the day? Every bite arid. My mouth is drying out like wet dirt in the heat of the sun. But I can’t help but to think about one thing: how much I want another cookie.  I can smell the aroma that they left behind, and it takes me to a warm place.

Literally.

I have decided to curl up in my bed after a long, busy week. This may not be a good idea because I’ll never get anything done like this, but I try to work through the inevitable comfort. The smell of these freshly washed sheets make me not want to leave. Not even for cookies. Now all I can picture in my mind are bed sheets hung from a clothesline subtly blowing in the breeze. Fabric delicately mimicking the movement of the invisible air. This reminds me of the apple scented laundry detergent my mom uses which could make me sleep for days.

That would be nice right about now.

Home would be nice right about now.

A new scent is taking over. The scrunched up look on my face could tell it all. It’s kind of like the smell of onions that doesn’t leave your hands no matter how much you try scrubbing it out. A scent that seems quite out of place. I know what it is. Being so caught up in my mind I forgot to bring my dishes from lunch out to the kitchen. It’s like my mind can only focus on one thing at a time – the unimportant things. That’s okay. You can almost blame that on the ADHD because I –––

-*CRASH!!!*-

The sound splits the air like sudden thunder crackles on a quiet night. Heart rate now fast as lightning. What the heck was that?! It turns out that I have failed to place my ruler in its proper spot and it came crashing down like it knew just when the perfect time would be to interrupt me. A ringing of metal dancing through the air. Hair still standing up on the back of my neck. As I was saying before that nuisance, I can try to blame my past experiences of struggling to get things done on my ADHD. It’s better than trying to explain the rollercoaster that my thoughts go on.

With my room now back to silence, I can hear the slight murmur of my roommate’s music with occasional elephant stomps coming from upstairs. This followed by the crunch of chewing on these chips: a sound that’s deceivingly loud. The furnace turns on every once in a while, which is strangely comforting. The deep lulling fills the void of silence knowing that warmth will soon follow. Now, this is an environment I can focus in. Pen strokes scratching away on paper; a sound that is not uncommon for an artist. All these sounds together creating their own, unique symphony.

Snoring.

Bothersome snoring.

Hearing my breathing reminds me of snoring. The endless, constant pattern reverberating into the dark of night, causing corrupt ideas to run through my mind. Monotone singing is coming from the annoyances upstairs; it’s been going on for days. God knows what they’re doing. The furnace turning on and off makes the water pipes creak and crack. The aggravating, repetitive ticks of my roommate’s music is still audible.  This “unique symphony” is obviously one a child would write – and not a prodigy child either. Sounds that were, a few minutes ago, calming now noticeably disturbing. To my left is a bedside table which holds the answer to escaping this raunchy medley. My earplugs. Thank goodness. I tune out the sounds around me and, again, try to push through the deafening thoughts in my head.

Red ink.

There’s red ink everywhere. I ask myself why I used a red pen to write with in my notebook. Red means it’s important, the color of the blood of my enemies, and it catches my eye. Maybe I chose this obtrusive color as a subconscious decision so that I could get this done faster. Smudges graze the paper after falling victim to the cursed left hand. Messy, but meaningful. The lack of lined pages causes my writing to go off in all different directions. My mind definitely has a lack of lined pages. I see the Christmas lights sparkling in the reflection of my mirror which brings a great comfort. My eyes pick up the soft light bouncing off of the tinted paper of my notebook.

I look around to see my room.

It’s like my room resembles what my mind looks like: a jumble of random objects spewed over every surface imaginable. There’s art crumpled up in the corner whereas more art is neatly stacked on the opposite side of the room; those dishes I mentioned before, which escaped my mind again until now; a separate clothes pile for both “used but clean” and “kind of dirty;” stashes of leftover chocolate from Christmas trying to get my attention. I see the ‘baby chick’ yellow color on my wall. I glance down at my notebook so I don’t have to see that sickly color any longer. My dimly lit computer is sitting on my desk, waiting for me to use it when I’m done of this. It’s been waiting for a while. Beside that is the calendar with my entire schedule on it; the best stress inducer invented to this day. Reminded of my procrastination, I immediately have the familiar feeling that I’m never going to get this done. Doubting myself. My notebook still has so much empty space. The red ink starts to quickly fill the pages again, attempting to relieve me of these thoughts.

I feel a breeze.

My toes are sticking out from under the blankets chilling me up the spine. I move around to readjust the blankets so I can survive the Antarctic temperatures of my room. Pen in hand, gripping it so hard that I can feel blisters coming on, while my hand continuously brushes the smooth paper as it glides along with the words being formed. Comfortable in the fluffy blankets of my bed, my eyes become heavy, weighed down by the task in front of me. A sudden pain hits my face as I try to wake myself up. That definitely helped. My hand continues to move vigorously over the page, feeling tired but hopeful. As I’m getting so close to finishing this, I can’t stop the feelings of doubt and thoughts of failure flooding my mind.

I always had trouble with writing – putting thoughts from my mind down onto paper. Either I get distracted or I doubt myself into thinking I can’t do it. Feelings like I can’t accomplish something great, feeling like I can’t be successful. I always handed assignments in late, and I have no idea why. Maybe I was just not confident enough. But how could a bodacious genius not be confident? Thoughts were placed in my head, from either myself or others, that I didn’t deserve to do well. But I’m testing myself. Proving to myself that yes, I can create something I’ve never successfully done before, let alone be proud. In doing this, I am really trying to break these thoughts. I’m attempting something new and I will feel good about it.

I place my pen in the middle of my notebook with a sense of accomplishment.

That’s it.

All of a sudden my head shoots up and my hands slam down with the realization that this isn’t just a thought. I have done it. I have created the first writing piece that I am proud of. I’ve managed to turn all these thoughts into something useful. And no, I won’t be handing this in late. The feeling of accomplishment hits me like the slap in the face I gave myself earlier. I have actually finished it, and damn, does it ever feel good.