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auctes · 6 years

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15-25 ;V

OVERESTIMATING MYSELF ON MAIN // @sanguamnis .

015 . are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue ?

this is implicitly linked to the next question , but fukawa knows she’s got a way with words . while she can fight back physically if necessary , her most natural inclination of defense is to insult , manipulate , to deride , or to blaspheme . fukawa’s defense is the offensive : when she feels threatened , she will automatically respond with what she knows is the most pointed , most personally hurtful thing she can say to a person . she exploits weaknesses as a means of removing herself from the line of fire , and she’s bloody good at it .

016 . what is their choice of weapon ?

given the choice ? her words . her novels . what i find so interesting is the absent commentary that the canon makes on fukawa’s career , and upon her ability as a writer . we know that she’s universally acclaimed , but also that she is able to sway public opinion on even asinine topics with her enormous reach ; if fukawa has an agenda , her demographic becomes her greatest weapon . she could destroy a person’s life in five hundred pages , if she so wished . probably less . drafts not permitted , she’d still take a verbal crack at it .

017 . when does your character think that violence is justified or deserved ?

short answer ? never . fukawa’s life is already inundated with associations of violence : some repressed , and some ungraciously remaining within her memory . she has been wrongfully accused of being an inherently violent person who doles out a distorted measure of personal justice , and that perception has ruined her life . fukawa is more of a pragmatist : she believes that some people do deserve to be punished , yes , and she will not mourn the deaths of awful people . but enduring a game of mandated murder for survival inevitably alters your point of view on the necessity and applicability of violence . she can’t justify it .

018 . your character wakes up to find that war has been declared . what do they do ?

go back to bed , honestly .

019 . if they could have a super power , what would they choose ?

here’s the thing . if the super power was optional , fukawa wouldn’t choose to have one . super powers are too ingrained within the world of fantasy for her to be able to completely buy into the concept , or commit to having one . she would rather remain a mundane person who is grounded in reality than test the boundary of fiction . but if i had a choice ————— and i’m discarding quirk discussion here , because that’s another dialogue within itself ————— superhuman suggestion and mind manipulation , quite honestly . it’s something she ... has more or less mastered as it is , so it’s not too farfetched to imagine that in a fantastical capacity .

020 . what are their hobbies ?

hobbies ? what hobbies ? her life is work , suffering , and occasionally sleeping . i would say writing , but when fukawa is writing professionally , she rarely has time to do so for recreation . she reads whenever she can , enjoys going to galleries and museums , and studying humanities - wing subjects yields some measure of stress relief for her . syo , on the other hand , is a more practical person with a strong spacial awareness : she enjoys building furniture , interior decorating , high risk adrenaline sports , and carpentry .

021 . how do they display affection ?

affection from fukawa is highly dependent on the subject and the nature of that relationship . she can’t offer consolidating words , and physical contact is a process . sharing her work ————— her honest , personal work , and not her professional bibliography ————— is sharing a part of herself that fukawa often deems unsafe to outwardly express . there is a measure of deep trust involved in writing a piece for someone , sharing her poetry , or telling them about things she writes for herself as opposed to for an audience . it’s honestly an intimate experience for her , as fukawa connects with her own humanity through writing ; she can perceive when those closest to her need a hug , or their hands held , or their hair stroked ————— but honest affection from fukawa is simply sharing her heart .

022 . what is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen ?

byakuya togami . i actually have an answer for this , because i think it came up in an in - character conversation on the second ...? killing game server . the most beautiful thing fukawa has ever seen was a beached trawler wreck on a stretch of sand near her home . understand that what fukawa perceives as beautiful could be slightly abnormal : the imagery she employs in her little love poems is ostensibly macabre , and she is inspired by personal tragedies and trauma . i remember waxing poetic about the rusted hull , and the aquatic plantlife that dried and rotted into the bow , but fukawa is most profoundly moved by things we would find ugly , or depressing , or confronting . life in stasis , nature reclaiming appropriated land , and transcendentalism moves fukawa unspeakably . it’s nice imagery , and was deeply symbolic .

023 . what do they consider beautiful in others , physically ?

fukawa does not have a physical type . however , i distinctly remember writing something once in which i stated that she falls in love with parts as opposed to the sum of them . she will hyperfixate and romanticize a single aspect of a person : their eyes , their arms , their voice , their posture , and for as long as she loves them , it will be all that matters to her .

edit : i found it , and i chucked it under a read more below . you can skim it if you want to see what i mean .

024 . what do they consider ugly in others , physically ?

exactly what she fixated upon in the above answer , usually . consider fukawa falling in love on a case - by - case basis : when she’s attracted to someone , and it ends horribly for her , she’ll condemn herself by demonising every precious thought she had about a person . she’ll curse her own stupidity , her frivolity , her foolishness for thinking another person could ever love her , and that they could hurt her like they inevitably do . everything she found beautiful in them becomes abhorrent , until she can’t stand to think about them a moment longer .

025 . what do they consider beautiful in others personality - wise ?

this one is easier . fukawa is attracted to narcissists . she likes self - assuredness , self importance , and the incredibly toxic degradation and dehumanisation to which a narcissist’s peers are subject .

on the lighter side , she appreciates courage and strength of character . she is attracted to people who are decisive , who are sure of who they are , and who are not afraid to stand up for themselves or others . intelligence is a bonus , but she is most likely to swear loyalty to a person who engenders their values into their entire being . bravery , occasional recklessness , and a strong drive to do what is right for no other reason than it is the right thing to do .

it just takes some growing up on her part .

touko fukawa does not fall in love with people . she falls in love with their parts , as opposed to their wholes ; the attributes of which come as freely and fondly to her as the sweet surrender of sleep as she vanquishes a crucial deadline . love , as a tangible epiphany , comes to her first within the pages of a novel . this is the part she likes : the sweeping grandeur of a complex indemnity , and the anticipation of knowing it for herself . ( she doesn't remember the rest . but LOVE sticks to her like yellow wallpaper . )

she's ten years old when love first draws her into its vices — in the pleasing lilt of a boy whose words consume her heart like a forest fire . his voice carries the implication of her very first protagonist : a sweet - nothing man who brings the first of touko's hopeful - hearted following to pieces . it's music / it's magic / it's more than her very beginnings can stand . it harshens her tone by virtue , and underscores the idiosyncrasies of her speech . she knows the words to this elegy ; they fall easily onto paper .

paper she finds pinned to the bulletin board , beneath the book club sign - up rota . ( and here's when she remembers the other side of love , and why she'd submerged it in far more saturated sentiments . ) his voice still burgeons in her when it tightens over callous condemnations of her folly ; touko finds it searingly sublime when he laughs at her heart's punchline . ( she's sure it was mesmerizing , still , when he was BEGGING her wild - eyed mr hyde to put down the scissors, i'm sorry , i'll go out with you , i'll do anything — )

she's fourteen years old when love flags her down in the hallway with its strong , safe arms . touko fixates upon the crook of his elbow , languidly inclined against the locker , as he scribbles a number onto her palm . he's a swimmer : broad and strong , to her frail and insubstantial . she falls in love with their duplicity , with bold and bashful , with gallant and meek ; with the idea of falling ( and falling , and falling , ) into those arms , and letting them alleviate the chill that's endemic to her constitution .

constitution that grows impedingly more frail as touko sits , alone , at the back of a dim theater ; falling ( and falling , and falling , ) into the constricting unease of the dark . she's somewhat thankful for the amnesty this grants for her tears to flow freely ; for her face to stain with the dimming remnants of hope that she'd foolishly allowed herself . her own arms are no substitute , but they draw her into herself ... for as glorious as his were , touko is certain they weren't enough to overcome the monster that hung him like a portrait .

it's a silly game without an end . a game of bright eyes , and easy smiles ; of lanky limbs and chiselled jaws . again and again , she lets love deceive her . yet again , she learns its true name . and the bodies keep turning , and the tally keeps striking , and the words keep flowing , and it's back and back and back into the easier parts of herself that make love seem so REAL . she will never trust again . she will never LOVE again . except that she DOES , as her empire flows from her fingertips like an endless rainstorm .

she's nineteen years old ( believing she is seventeen , ) when love pierces her palms and seizes her against the wall . she likes to believe it was earlier , in the graveyard of memories she's been forced to disrepute . she is held captive here , in the academy , with her love for him : the love she endures for the quiet turning of pages in the library ; for his relentless precision in the courtroom . for his esteem , and his diligence , and his velleity to survive . and yes , she thinks , THIS is the love she has intimately named .

names that slide from his beautiful tongue with acridity and exactitude . names that give her vile personage a substance she's been lacking . touko takes these verbal beat - downs with vigor — and it's alright , really . ( no , really ! she doesn't mind . ) he only means to villify the dispraising nature of her existence ; to give her leave of this liminal word between fact and fiction . touko feels this love in the shy callings of her soul , and in the hairline cracks of what little composure she keeps . really — it's alright .

touko fukawa is twenty years old when she is forced to relearn her definition of love . in TOWA , of all places , where the air is thick with despair - tinged expulsions of god - knows how many lungs . where the skyline alters with each new bout of destruction , and RED is not a color , but a state of existence . byakuya is gone . a more cynical , more resilient touko stands in his place : on feet that save her from falling , despite the debris below them . on legs that practice perpetual motion , despite this underwater - uncertainty about her .

genocider keeps their body intact ; touko holds their mind together . it's an empty partnership , but she's bitterfly thankful for the aptitude to propel herself from one scenario to the next . thankful for the motive : not to KILL , but to perpetuate . byakuya's existence awards her this . and she's thankful , begrudgingly , for komaru naegi . for what ? touko isn't sure yet . but there is something to be said for the muted whirring of her mind as she endeavors to amass the most sensical form and reason of their narrative .

komaru naegi : so bafflingly simple - minded , so ordinary of disposition . little in the way of courage , or conviction : a bland and mediocre excuse for a woman , who perplexes touko to no end . mystifying , isn't it ? how someone so ordinary could defy express definition . perhaps , ( and to her credit , ) it could be because touko has never penned such a baseless protagonist that she struggles to append an appropriate adjective to komaru . her fingers itch ; she's not written , properly , in months . she must be losing her touch .

touches that linger long after the initial bristle of skin against skin . casual touches that are , at the time , overlooked in favor of surviving , but later tear the flesh from touko's palms as she considers them . komaru's hands are rough , marred by tribulation ; but they are always outstretched , always wanting , always seizing touko's own at the penultimate second of an opportune moment . komaru had reached for her amid the deluges of gunfire , the onslaught of despair - crazed assailants , and it had only meant something hours later .

touko attributes this to the absence of her master ; of the thunder between her lungs . �� she feels this absence of companionship so profoundly that she wonders how despondent she must truly have been for all her years prior . and this makes no sense : because komaru is RIGHT HERE , beside her . behind her . always within arms reach — she is everywhere . and , in the wake of everything , as touko cards her fingers through komaru's hair , and komaru drives her face into touko's shoulder , touko is still at a loss for words .

the one she learns , and settles quite neatly into , is ' together . ' she and komaru are two tandem pieces ; they are no longer mutually exclusive after all of a day . touko , who has never really been included in anything , finds immeasurable solace in this term . ' we ' are going to hold the sky in place ; ' we ' are finding hope at the fraying edges of this fitful world . together , they are unstoppable . together , they are impenetrable . ' together ' is not a word that either of them are used to , but it becomes touko's favorite .

because she realizes amidst the chaos , quite by accident , that she does not want to lose komaru naegi . ever . touko cannot lose this : the tentative affirmations passed between them like clean air . the prevailing truth in a sea of lies that has driven touko from one madness into another . ( a RINGING in her ears : even in the static of her fugue state , she remembers komaru's hand latch securely onto genocider's arm . the trust / the tears / the TORMENT of it all ... ) the importance of this moment lingers in her heart as she finds herself again .

the decision to stay with komaru was so natural that it mightn't have been borne of conscious effort . touko is still trying to find the words — the only thing she knows — to lend illumination to what she feels for komaru . they're eminent on her tongue — until she loses them around shadowed corners , or under the ruins of this fallen city . hopeless until she feels komaru at her side / hand in hand / back to back , and the inexplicable lightness in touko's chest prevails . for all her works & accolades , how strange this expression feels —

it feels unreal , at times . touko fears that this is another of her delusions , and that one day she'll wake to the peeling wallpaper of her room , ( more her prison than respite , ) and the woman she has become will exist only on paper . but komaru is real . THIS is real . and when touko reaches for her — she doesn't burn . she doesn't bleed . and komaru doesn't crumble to ash & waste between her fingers , and all of this is really , really real . fear does not stop touko from holding on . komaru keeps her from letting go .

touko fukawa is twenty years old when she relearns the definition of love : when she falls in love ( not with people , but ) with komaru , and komaru only . she falls for her smile ; its unyielding brightness in touko's dark . she falls for her embrace , which takes touko's grey world and propels it into violent technicolor . she falls in love with the picture of innocence , and how it lifts the burden and decay from their shoulders . she falls for the maddening simplicity of her ; even for her absurd taste in reading material .

she falls for this new concept of reality that's tinged with fiction . it holds promise : that same promise that comes from long evenings of aching joints and mottled lighting that pursues the realization of the kindest places within touko's mind . komaru feels like a story — she rarely makes sense , but she is evocative of the solitary paradise in prose . only this time , when touko folds the cover of this story over its dog - eared pages , it follows her past the afterglow of a happy ending . komaru is , quite simply , her hope .

she falls for fragments : cold and creeping , as autumn bows to winter's whims . it's guided steps into touko's first real ' friendship , ' she thinks , as she marvels at the sun - steeped renewal of each day with komaru . flowers do not bloom in carnage , but it doesn't stop them from trying : every touch , every word , every abiding gaze , become parts of her . parts of this story that touko will never surcease . the sum of komaru's parts is inexplicably , inexorably whole — and it's EVERYTHING .

#sanguamnis #╰ 📖 —— mail .

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