#this had gotten way longer than I expected it to be orz

[pompompurin1028]

Can you ramble more about Dazai please? I seem to have become addicted to it

Some notes and disclaimers before I begin: this is about Dazai-sensei rather than bsd Dazai. Yes this is about a bsd centric blog but I'd love to talk about his irl counterpart. Secondly, my opinions are by no means professional, and I have limited knowledge regarding Japanese literature in terms of literary studies. Therefore, I will be for a lot of parts quoting and citing research and papers done by people who are actually in these studies to help me and I will also be adding my own observations and comments as well while also referencing Dazai's works. So if you're interested in the subject, I recommend referring to these papers than what I say. Anyways, these are simply my own opinions that I have gained from reading his works, then reading these papers and contemplating further, and coming to my own conclusions. I have also not read all of his works, this author has around 140 works written in his lifetime from what I have read orz.

Warnings: mentions of suicide, mental institutions, mention of substance abuse

But yes I'd love to ramble more about Dazai! This time, I would love to talk about a topic which I had recently gotten quite interested in regarding Dazai's works and that is regarding his narration. Of course, this is still a topic I am diving into and am looking into but I still think it's something interesting to share.

As most people in the fandom probably already knows regarding No Longer Human, and as many online websites have also shown, this novel is generally regarded as semi-autobiographical and an I-novel. Which is not surprising given some of the similarities of Dazai and his character Yozo Oba. Such as his clowning, which seems also to be part of Dazai's demeanor. As this can almost be felt in a few of his works as seen from his work Cherries:

"I’m the joker in the family. Let me put it this way. All I can do is put a jolly face on the huge amount of anxiety and mental anguish I feel. And no, it’s not only at home that I do this. Whenever I come into contact with people, no matter how depressed I am, no matter how much physical pain I am in, I do my frantic best to create a pleasant mood all around. Then, after parting, I reel with fatigue and think only of money, morality and suicide. And no, it’s not only when I have met with people. This happens when I write as well. It’s when I’m sad that I strive to create stories with a light, jolly air. I mean, here I am trying to give people exactly what they want, and they just don’t see it, coming out with contemptuous things like, ‘Dazai’s lost his edge … he’s lightened up too much … he’s trying to attract readers with facile humour’." [1]

In his work 正義與微笑 (Justice and Smile) we were also met with something similar from his main character, in which in the beginning of the novel, the main character remembers this verse from the Bible, which says "And when you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by others but by your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you." And after reading this verse, the main character seems to come to an enlightenment, which is the central aim of the novel and the inspiration behind its title, "to practice justice through a smile" through becoming an actor[2].

One can even say this clowning can be traced to Dazai-sensei's writing style and the way he acts in his normal life. According to O'Brien, “Dazai seems to have enjoyed playing clown even during his youth... even as a youth, Dazai intended his clowning as an act of service. Sugimori, for example, suggests that Dazai naturally came to feel he owed people (and eventually his readers) a kind of service as the son in a family paternalistic toward its tenants and the neighboring poor” [3] (from what I have read, his aristocratic background may not have helped with this feeling). And “even after Dazai left Kanagi (A/N: Dazai’s hometown I believe) he continued his career as clown — in his writing if not in his behavior. And during his extended residence in Tokyo, it appears that he became more and more familiar with an art that helped him maintain and develop his comic gift. This art — almost unknown to the West — is a traditional type of storytelling and pantomime known as rakugo” [4]. 

Rakugo, from what I have read about it seems to be a sort of comedy (I don’t know too much about this tradition, forgive me orz). But according to O’brien, “Rakugo storytellers practice their act seated on a cushion before an audience in the “Yose” theater. The storyteller will simultaneously mimic and narrate a comic situation — for example, two old women in a public bathhouse, each of whom insists that the other use the single bar of soap first. Gesturing with his fan and arms and adopting the speech and accent appropriate to his characters, the storyteller develops the situation into a skit. [With] the comedy depend[ing] heavily on punning and rapid-fire speech”[5]. Though Dazai does not seem to go to these theatres regularly, O'Brien quotes Dan Kazuo’s (a friend of Dazai’s who was also a part of the Buraiha) The Story of Dazai Osamu, that “Dazai kept only a small supply of books at home. He read only occasional volumes even of those authors he admired — Ueda Akinari, Saikaku, and Basho especially among Japanese writers. But Dazai collected rakugo texts more thoroughly, including the complete works of the nineteenth-century master Encho, and he read through them with regularity and enthusiasm”[6]. 

It appears that Ango had also described Dazai’s writing with Rakugo, in which he says in an interview: “I hold his works in high esteem, like rakugo. I think it is the greatest, rakugo, and one should not speak ill of this. Rakugo is enjoyable and amusing. If it is a piece that extends joy eternally, then that merits being called on of the greats. Dazai is one of the greatest rakugo authors, therefore he will have a place in history”[7]. But comedy in Dazai’s work is a another discussion (something I'm also still looking into) and I have already mentioned some of this to you before so let's more on...

Of course, the connections of some events in the novel No Longer Human, and his real life experiences also aid in the view of this novel as a semi-biographical novel. One being his double suicide attempt he had with a woman from a bar, which he not only referenced in his novel, but also referenced in some other works, such as his personal essay(?) Female, or even his work The Flowers of Buffoonery (both of these should be early period works, and interestingly enough Dazai has used the character name Yozo Oba in this work as his main character, I believe this is going to be released in English next year I believe [finally... I’ve been looking for an English version and was so surprised to not see any. I have a version of it translated in my native language but I have not read it yet], fun fact, this work of Dazai’s was actually name dropped in bsd during the Lovecraft fight as one of the code names lol). The Flowers of Buffoonery is basically based on Dazai’s double suicide attempt at Kamakura and the succeeding days spent in recuperation at a nearby hospital[8], the version I had bought in its description wrote that Dazai may have wrote it due to the guilt he felt regarding this event (the woman died while he was saved)[9]. But interestingly enough, something which was not done in No Longer Human, is that Dazai, the author, intrudes into the narrative at certain points. 

According to O’Brien, “the manner in which Dazai intrudes to comment within the narrative, however, tends on occasion to emphasize his function as author separate from the work. For example, pretending to an exasperation at his inability to properly develop the plot, Dazai calls The Flowers of Buffoonery “senile” and himself a “third-rate author” (A/N: If I recall, this is probably not the only work he has done that since I remember coming across something similar in his works, but Dazai does take criticism of his works quite seriously). In another passage he conceives of his novel becoming a classic, then labels himself crazy for entertaining such a thought. Dazai begins another of his interruptions purporting to explain the purpose of the intrusions. “I’ll tell everything. In truth, it was just a scheme of mine to thrust this fellow called “I” in between scenes and have him recite things he should have left unsaid. Without letting the reader notice what was afoot, I strove to impart a special nuance to the work with this “I.” I congratulated myself on a grand style hitherto lacking in Japanese letters. But I failed. Why, even this confession of failure I’ve included in my plans. I wanted it in a little later, if possible. And, I think I arranged to say that from the beginning too. Ah … don’t listen to me. Don’t listen to a thing I say.” In a later passage Dazai again declares that involving himself in the work was a mistake. “I’ve said much that should not have been said. Moreover, I’ve a feeling that I’ve overlooked more important matters. This may sound priggish — but, if I pick up this work later, I’ll feel wretched. I’ll tremble in self-disgust even before I finish a page. I’ll close it surely, I don’t even have the heart to read what I’ve done now. Ah, a writer can’t afford to reveal himself. That’s his downfall.” Needless to say, his reader can hardly take Dazai literally. He had already shown that he could destroy manuscripts that did not satisfy him, and if Dazai had in fact despised The Flowers of Buffoonery, the manuscript would have ended up in the backyard fire. Dazai feigns an uncertainty as to how to relate his story until the very end. Recall the final line, which follows immediately Yozo’s contemplation of the sea below: “Then … no … that’s all there is to it.” Dazai, it would appear, is not suggesting that Yozo has transcended his fears. The author, to put it baldly, is unable himself to continue narrating. For he is Yozo, not simply in the sense that he is writing an autobiography of past experience, but, more significantly, in the sense that he as well as Yozo does not know what step to take next”[10] (I just think this is something really interesting, we will also refer to this again later).

Furthermore, the ending of No Longer Human can also be traced back to some of his real life experiences. That would be during the prewar period (still during the early period of Dazai) when Dazai let himself be taken from his pleasant Funabashi home to the Musashino Hospital. Only when he found himself locked alone in a cell did he wake up to the fact that his friends had put him in a mental institution (this was due to Dazai’s addiction and increasing reliance on drugs as his mental health went into increasing decline)... This experience led to Dazai to write a work named “Human Lost” based on this experience, and according to O’Brien, No Longer Human was Dazai feeling moved to write on this event again[11].

In addition to No Longer Human, quite a lot of Dazai’s works (especially in his early period and late period) do not seem to be able to escape from autobiographical experiences. Even his rewrite of Schiller’s The Pledge and the myth Damon and Pythias, Run Melos, also seemed to have suspected to have inspiration from real life experiences of his. It can in fact be seen as anecdote from his experience "from a more turbulent part of Dazai's life is actually similar to the story of the Ancient Greek companions. Just like one of the friends from the legend is taken hostage instead of the other, Dan Kazuo once had to remain at an inn in Atami after Dazai had spent all his money there and promised to return and pay his debts after borrowing from Ibuse. As opposed to the legend, Dazai didn't return for a few days, making Dan pay by himself to be able to leave and search for his friend. He found Dazai at Ibuse's place playing shōgi, too ashamed to ask his mentor for money"[12]. And this had Dazai commenting (translated) "Is it painful to be the person who waits? Or is it more painful to be the person who makes others wait?” and according to my source, Dan believed that the inspiration for the story came from here[13].

Anyways, of course Dazai has distrust for human beings for other reasons, since "Dazai felt he had been disappointed and let down, which affected him greatly. He names many instances of “betrayal” in his life, including his friends putting him into a mental institution and Hatsuyo revealing ‘she was not the pure creature he had thought her’ (A/N: she was Dazai’s first wife, who was a geisha, their relationship is... complicated, they eventually divorced). As he was the betrayed and the betraying one throughout his whole life, Dazai probably could not believe the ideal relationship between two people portrayed in Schiller's ballad could exist"[14] (and I will not further elaborate on the actual story since, again I have rambled on that before to you).

On a side note, I thought it was quite interesting that Bungo to Alchemist decided to have this distrust be related to the betrayal he felt regarding the Akutagawa prize, since Run Melos was a middle period work of Dazai's while the Akutagawa prize incident was something from his early period and I was under the impression that Dazai had given up on the prize during that period due to what I have read (but that is my interpretation of it anyway). Run Melos was written after his marriage to his second wife, in which (at least from Chinese sources I have found) that he wrote to his wife during his marriage that:

「結婚，家庭，我認為都需要努力才能維持。需要嚴肅努力對待，我沒有任何輕浮的意思，即使貧窮，我也一生珍惜。」 [15]

(Translation) "Marriage, family, I think it all takes effort to maintain. It needs to be taken seriously. I have no intention to be frivolous, even if in poverty, I will cherish it all my life."

And in something he wrote after his marriage he writes:

「我想錯了，這場賽跑不是100米短跑，是1000米，5000米，是更加長的馬拉松。」 [16]

(Translation) "I was wrong, this race is not a 100m sprint, it's a 1000m, 5000m, a longer marathon."

There are of course works that seem a lot more autobiographical. Which is aided by, of course his use of 'I', the fact, as Donald Keene had stated that Dazai “returned again and again to incidents in his life, especially those that occured during the period when he was nominally in the French Literature Department of Tokyo University, for his materials for his writings. His descriptions of such incidents has induced some critics to treat him as an ‘I’ novelist”[17]. Of course, some of Dazai’s own comments don’t really help with this image, such as his comment in his middle period work Otogizoshi in which he writes, “I’m a story writer with such feeble imaginative powers that unless I myself have experienced something, I can’t write a line—can’t write a word—about it” [18] (but the question of whether we can take Dazai's words literally is again dubious, but it is quite true that Dazai does rely more on external sources for his sources of inspiration rather than through imagination, such as drawing from his own personal experiences, inspired by writings of others and create his own rewrites and even referencing diaries of others, with permission of course). 

The fact that some of his work feels like Dazai 'confessing his sins', or even illustrating his own weaknesses set a very confiding mood, especially in his “personal essays”. This can be seen in works such as Canis Familiaris, in which he describes his persona as deeply afraid and hating of dogs and when one dog in particular followed him home, he couldn’t get rid of it (it’s actually quite comical, even Dazai described it as that), here is an extract to demonstrate:

“Weak-kneed diplomacy. The dog instinctively detected the fear in my heart and lost no time in capitalizing upon it. The next thing I knew, he had brazenly taken up residence. Throughout March, April, May, June, July, and August he has remained at my house, and even now, with autumn in the air, he has not seen fit to leave. I can't tell you how many times this dog has brought me to grief. I just don't know what to do about him. For the sake of convenience, since he's here and won't go away, I've dubbed the beast "Pochi," but in spite of the fact that we've lived in close conjunction for half a year, I do not consider him one of the family. He is, as far as I'm concerned, an outsider. We don't get on well together. There is a decided lack of harmony. Sparks fly as we struggle to come to grips with each other's psychology. And to relax the tension with a warm, spontaneous smile is something neither of us is capable of doing.”[19]

In other works such as Thinking of Zenzo, Fallen Flowers, Cherries etc, there are elements of weakness he will confess to the readers. Besides, weak characters and their weaknesses are quite constant in Dazai’s works, so when met with these things I, as a reader at least, was not quite suprised when met with these elements. Of course, there are also specific elements which cause the reader to assume that these are personal experiences such as referring to other characters that the reader may know to be in contact with him, such as his wife, children or naming specific people, or sometimes just writing down initials which one could easily substitute if one is well aware enough of Dazai’s background. Sometimes, he also refers to events he had written in previous works again, such as Thinking of Zenzo and 市井喧爭 both refer to this one experience Dazai had with buying roses, events like these recounting the past again, or just the fact that he or his chacaters talk about writing with elements of above one may pertain to making these stories feel personal. These elements makes it feel as if Dazai were recounting the past and almost speaking to the reader directly, and the way he creates these stories make it inappropriate to doubt them[20] (I too, for quite some time, took Dazai's narration quite directly because they really do feel personal and I can almost imagine what he writes). I would imagine that, as McCarthy puts it, Dazai uses an "easy... colloquial style" of writing only adds to this feeling[21] (Dazai’s short stories are always really easy to read imo). And these elements as O'Brien writes is believed to be the reason Dazai’s works mainly appeal to a younger audience[22].

But Dazai is by no means "a faithful chronicler of his own life" as Keene puts it, to say his work is entirely confessional is likely not the case[23]. Besides Keene, McCarthy in his essay "After the Silence" also writes that the "brand[ing of] Dazai [as] a relentlessly 'confessional' writer, the ultimate I-novelist, an author who was basically unconcerned with structure and plot, or more or less incapable of creating characters other than semifictional alter egos... is simply unsatisfactory in terms of producing a balanced appraisal of the artist and his art"[24]. O'Brien also comments that “despite their autobiographical inspiration, few if any of Dazai’s works can be called shishosetsu (A/N: I-novels)... Dazai is not a shishosetsu writer, primarily because he does not attempt a minute and sustained recollection and reconstruction of the past... It is questionable whether Dazai had the determination and perseverance to pursue his past in this fashion. Certain of his remarks on how he composed accounts of his past suggest a very different method. Rather than pursue it, Dazai would allow his past to come to him. Like any other person, Dazai retained a vivid memory of certain striking and important events in his past. And these memories — rather than his entire past — tend to serve his need for story material. For this reason, certain episodes occur again and again in different parts of Dazai’s work, creating in some readers an exasperating sense of déjà vu... In the succeeding periods of his career, Dazai frequently used first-person narration. But the first-person narrator in Dazai seldom becomes a wholly reliable one... At times Dazai seems to mix up objective and personal modes of narration as a means of tantalizing his readers”[25].

Though O’Brien in his book raised his fairy tale collection Otogizoshi as the example of having both objective and personal modes. Having read Cherries after reading most of this book, certain areas of the passage have intrigued me regarding its choice of words and narration. These are of course my own observations though, so you need not to take it too seriously. But I think the change of “I”, and “the husband” and “daddy” to describe himself throughout the short story caught my attention.

“Mummy tries her best to keep her head above water, and daddy’s no different. It wasn’t as if he was the most prolific novelist in the world from the outset. He’s a timid little coward to the core of his being, and his words stutter onto the page, making this as plain as day to the public. It pains him so much to write things down that the only thing that saves him is drowning his sorrows in drink. When you drown your sorrows in drink, you can’t remember what it is you were trying to say. You drink because things are tedious and annoying. The people who are always able to express clearly what’s on their mind never get dead drunk like that. (This explains why women don’t drink much.)

I’ve never known an instance when I’ve won an argument. I’m always the loser. I’m overpowered by the strength of my opponents’ conviction, by the scale of their self-assurance. I just clam up. It does dawn on me on reflection that my opponents might be arguing totally out of selfishness and that I may not always be the one in the wrong, but the thought of insisting on a reopening of the verbal hostilities once I’ve given in is pretty dismal, and, besides, these arguments leave a grudge as horrible as a fist fight, so I just laugh it off even though I’m shaking with rage, shut my mouth and, with my head full of all sorts of things, drown myself in drink.

Let me put it straight. I could beat around the bush like this till the cows come home, but the fact is that this story is about an argument between a married couple.

'The vale of tears’.

That’s what lit the fuse. This married couple, as I have already noted, are an exceedingly civilized pair of people who do not indulge in violence or swearing at each other. And yet, this very thing is what courts danger and leads to an explosive situation, the danger when neither says a word because they are both gathering evidence of the other’s faults, the danger that each is playing their cards close to their chest, stealing a look at one card then another, preparing to get the jump on the other and to lay all their cards triumphantly on the table. That’s what’s behind the coy reserve with which they treat each other, if you must know. I’m not sure about the wife, but I do know that this husband is so full of bulldust that you couldn’t beat it all out of him even if you wanted to.”[26]

Of course, one can say that I am overanalyzing this, but I found the choice of words extremely interesting. Though one can perfectly imagine Dazai as “the husband” and his wife as the wife in the story. Dazai inserts this ‘I’ figure into his story to add to the narrative, creating an abstract narration. Though in the beginning he seems to associate the father with the ‘I’ as seen from “We cram ourselves into a three-mat room in the summer for our raucous, chaotic dinners, as daddy... that’s me... wipes the sweat streaming down his face and grouches under his breath”[27]. But soon that “we” turns to “they”, and “my children” changes to “their children”. And yet later at some points the “the father” changes to “I”. Of course, when one reads it as it is, one easily notes that “the father” is the “I” that is Dazai was even called that in the short story, but the fact that he deliberately changed perspectives, and so smoothly none the less just makes me think. It kind of reminds me of the narrative method from The Flowers of Buffoonery, except this short story is a late period work, through this connection we can actually examine some of the similarities between Dazai's early and late period works.

One of the main similarities one would be able to note from these two periods is the autobiographical quality of his works. Which is in contrast to his middle period works where he breaks his former style of writing and instead opts for a loosely confessional style. According to McCarthy, in a letter to Ibuse (Dazai’s mentor) Dazai wrote, "for the time being I don't feel like writing realistic I-stories anymore. I plan to write only fiction, choosing only cheerful topics"[28]. Scholars tend to look down at his middle period works, McCarthy describes that they believe that they are "too light, too sunny, too entertaining to be of any real significance"[29] (I think it isn't quite fair, even know I understand analytically wise No Longer Human and The Setting Sun which are known as his best works do seem to have more literary value. But even the voice during this period is quite still distinctively Dazai’s, you can even sometimes sense those previously known qualities of Dazai within these works including some rewrites. Maybe people almost feel that Dazai feels like a moralist in these works? But when you compare it to the actual inspirations of this work you can see Dazai actually adds moral complexity to the characters. I think putting them next to one another and comparing them is fascinating... Even in his rewrites of fairy tales in Otogizoshi, though I have yet to read the originals, one can definitely sense that it is more than a simplistic good or evil characterization. I mean in the end of the first tale, "The Stolen Wen", Dazai literally wrote: "Most of our children’s stories end with the perpetuators of evil deeds getting what’s coming to them, but this old gentleman did nothing wrong. He tried to perform a dance that, owing to a case of nerves, turned out rather disturbingly weird. Nor was anyone in his family particularly evil. And the same can be said for the sake-loving Ojii-san and his family, and for the Oni of Mount Tsurugi as well. None of them did anything wrong. And yet, although not a single instance of wrongdoing occurs in the story, people end up unhappy. It’s difficult, therefore, to extract from this tale of the stolen wen a moral lesson for daily life. But were an indignant reader to demand to know why, in that case, I even bothered to write the damn thing, I would have no choice but to reply as follows: It’s a tragicomedy of character. At issue here is an undercurrent that winds through the very heart of human existence”[30]. Anyways, I’m going off on a tangent here, I'll come back to this later).

But even during his early and late periods, when reading his works critically, one cannot take Dazai literally, and that his 'I, Dazai' stories as completely truths or semi-autobiographical stories as truths, McCarthy even wrote that one should merely take it as a fictional technique. Even though he often seems to be encouraging us to draw no dividing line between the author and the teller, but according to McCarthy, in a letter to his lifelong supporter and mentor, Ibuse Masuji, dated September 1936 (early period) -just a month or so before he entered the mental hospital-Dazai had written: "I've always intentionally chosen the most shameful and foolish things for my 'works' and my 'actions.' I've done so in order to force myself into a position where I had no choice but to write stories. There's nothing unconscious about it"[31]. Besides, McCarthy also quotes Dazai's rambling preamble to "Haru no Tōzoku" (A Burglar in Spring, 1940) (from the middle period of Dazai's career), which writes:

"One needs to be extremely prudent when bringing a character called "I" into a story. Since olden times, in any country -- although in this country the tendency seems particularly pronounced readers have had the bad habit of believing works of fiction to be revelations of scandals from the author's life, and to put on a superior air as they censure him or smile pityingly...

When writing I-novels, authors generally paint themselves as "good boys." Has there ever been a main character in an autobiographical novel who wasn't a "good boy"? I seem to remember that Akutagawa Ryūnosuke wrote a similar complaint somewhere or other. It was in fact this sort of suspicion that inspired me to describe my "I" as the most vile-natured, the most demonic of all the characters. This struck me as more gallant and pure than trying to garner sympathy by becoming the queer little "good boy." That was my mistake. There are limits to what you can get away with in this world...

I know full well that to set public opinion straight is no easy task. I have nothing to aid me in this task -- no social standing, no authority, no money, nothing. Armed only with a pen, setting down these thoughts one character at a time in my attempt to correct what's gone awry, I'm in a precarious position indeed. What is burned down in an instant requires a hundred years to rebuild. . . .

But isn't this, once again, the author writing about his private life? ... Aren't you contradicting yourself? No, I'm not. We've already entered the world of fiction.

The reader, too, must proceed with caution. To get back on your feet is, as I've just said, not an easy thing to do. The proof is that, in order to write a tale about a burglar, I've had to first set down this long disclaimer. The scathing criticisms, not so much of my work as of my actual life, my personality, my physical constitution, have left me all but defeated, to the point that merely to write a single piece of fiction I have to exercise all these precautions. Blessed is he who can love fiction as fiction. The world does not consist of such perceptive persons alone, however.

I originally intended to make this a plausible-sounding confession, a tale of how I, finding myself in dire need of cash, acted as a burglar. I'm quite sure it would have been a realistic and fascinating story. I put too much care into my fiction, the upshot of which is that people -- even persons whom one would think should know better -- are forever wondering whether what I've written is not, in fact, the truth. Even I myself have at times begun to wonder.... That's what I get for doing nothing but read useless storybooks for the past twenty years. I must preserve, to some extent, the romanticism that has seeped all the way through to the marrow of my bones in that time. But I also have to learn moderation. I have to become, to some extent, more mediocre.

... Were I to get carried away as usual, filling my scandalous account with fine details, who knows but that people might whisper, "Well, I wouldn't put it past him. He may very well have done a bit of burglary in his time" -- again I'd be smearing my own name with mud. When I've become a bit more respectable, when the world's opinion of my character is not as low as it is now, when my reputation is elevated to the point where I can at least report on my private life just as it is, then I shall show you the bold use of a main character named "I" as a model of all sorts of depravity. But I mustn't do that now. Sad to say, but I mustn't.

The story I'm about to tell you is fiction. A burglar broke into my house last night. And that is a lie. It's all a lie. The absurdity of having to make this disclaimer.

I can't help but laugh to myself."[32]

Dazai most likely had to do this because as McCarthy also wrote in his essay, his works are becoming judged by his private life. Perhaps the best example I could give to this is Dazai's first attempt at winning the Akutagawa prize. Where though Dazai’s short story was nominated for the prize, the reason for his defeat was the opinion of one of the judges on his private life, due to his work The Flowers of Buffoonery. From Dazai’s letter to Kawabata Yusabari he wrote:

“In the September issue of Bungei Shunju you wrote of me disparagingly: “… After all, ‘The Flowers of Buffoonery’ is full of the life and the literary views of its author, but it seems to me that there is an unpleasant cloud surrounding the author’s personal life at present, and, regrettably, this prevents his talent from being expressed as it should be.”

Let us not bandy inept lies. When, standing in the front of a bookshop, I read the words you had written, I was deeply aggrieved. From the way you had written, it was quite as if you alone had decided who should and should not receive the Akutagawa Prize. This was not your writing. Without doubt, someone had made you write this. What is more, you were even exerting yourself to make this obvious.     … at the end of August, I stood in a bookshop, read a copy of Bungei Shunju, and discovered what you had written: “… an unpleasant cloud surrounding the author’s personal life at present…” etc. etc. To tell the truth, I burned with rage. For many nights I found it hard to sleep on this account.      

Is breeding exotic birds and going to see the dance, Mr Kawabata, really such an exemplary lifestyle? I’ll stab him! That is what I thought. The man’s an utter swine, I thought. But then, suddenly, I felt the twisted, hot, passionate love that you bore towards me – a love such as that of Nellie in Dostoyevsky’s The Insulted and the Injured – fill me to my very core. It can’t be! It can’t be! I shook my head in denial. But your love, beneath your affected coldness – violent, deranged, Dostoyevskian love – made my body burn as with fever. And, what’s more, you did not know a thing about it.”[33]

Anyways, in addition to McCarthy’s essay, in Self-Portraits even is Michiko (Dazai’s wife) writes in an essay that "Many of the things Dazai wrote seem to me to have been gross exaggerations or pure inventions that give the impression of being true, but the circumstances of the gathering of Tsugaru artists appear to have been more or less as depicted in "Thinking of Zenzo". ... I remember him coming home by rickshaw that night and telling me how he'd blundered. The part about the rose-seller, too, is about fifty percent the truth as I witnessed it", so it's something to think about when reading Dazai's works[34].

So, even in Dazai’s later novels, for example, The Setting Sun and No Longer Human, one must be careful when examining the narration. Because, I think O’Brien described it really well, that Dazai seemed to be “’dividing’ himself among a number of characters, allowing each of them to represent limited aspects of himself”[35]. I too felt this when reading The Setting Sun for the first time, in which both Naoji and the author in the book reminded me of Dazai, and as time went on, so did Kazuko (slowly I think I have grown to accept that I enjoy The Setting Sun even more than I do No Longer Human, and with my biases, I like to think The Setting Sun is more representative of Dazai’s works). O’Brien also comments that a reader of Dazai’s post-war fiction should always remain vigilant of the stories lenses, for example, how in No Longer Human one must both accept Yozo’s narration of himself and the hostess’ description of Yozo in the epilogue as an “angel” (interesting enough, in different essays about No Longer Human and Chinese translations of the book that had been quoted by people I’ve seen online, the term the hostess uses isn’t merely an angel, she in fact describes Yozo as “he was a good boy. He was like a god”, something interesting to note). 

This reading of the work according to O’Brien is derived from the reading of Dazai’s middle period works, where he seems to avoid putting the bulk of his ego into them. However, when reading some of them, I could definitely still sense some of 'Dazai’s' world views in the characters. For example, in Otogizoshi, in the tale Urashima-san Dazai writes:

“Why can’t people get along without criticizing one another?” Urashima shakes his head as he ponders this rudimentary question. “Never have the bush clover blooming on the beach, nor the little crabs who skitter o’er the sand, nor the wild geese resting their wings in yonder cove found fault with me. Would that human beings too were thus! Each individual has his own way of living. Can we not learn to respect one another’s chosen way? One makes every effort to live in a dignified and proper manner, without harming anyone else, yet people will carp and cavil and try to tear one down. It’s most vexing.”[36]

or in “The Sparrow who lost her tongue”:

“Me? Me, well... I was born to tell the truth.” 

“But you don’t say anything at all.” 

“That’s because the people in this world are all liars. I got sick of talking with them. All they do is lie. And the worst part is that they don’t even realize they’re doing it.”[37]

I think it is also really interesting to note that, like Cherries and The Flowers of Buffoonery, in Otogaizoshi, Dazai, in addition to narrating his version of the fairy tales, also inserts himself into the work as the “I”. At certain points, he even interrupts the narrative to speak on something in the story itself, making the narrative actually really interesting, I feel like some may be annoyed by Dazai for doing so, but I find it quite endearing. It’s nice, its almost familiar and intimate, like he’s not just the author but sitting beside you and telling you the stories. It’s nice, I remember when I got to the A Retelling of the Tales from the Provinces which was in the same volume of the Chinese version I read, I was quite sad to not see Dazai’s “I” in it. Anyways, I think the introduction of the book wrote about it really well that “the pleasure of reading Dazai is as much about getting a feeling of being in touch with the author as it is about being drawn into the world of a story, and in these tales Dazai’s distinctive voice is very much in evidence, reaching out and taking us into his confidence in a warm, intimate tone. Far more often than a conventional storyteller might, he persistently provides his own running commentary on the main events of the tales—sometimes trying to extract a meaning, sometimes wandering off on a tangent that relates more to his own preoccupations than it does to any events in the story”[38], for example:

“Excuse me,” says a small voice at his feet. “Urashima-san?” 

This, of course, is our famous and problematic tortoise. 

I say “problematic” because, although I don’t wish to appear pedantic, I feel compelled to point out that turtles come in a great number of varieties, and that fresh-water turtles and salt-water turtles are naturally built to different specifications. The turtle we see in paintings of the goddess Benten, stretched out by the side of the pond drying its shell in the sun, is the creature I believe most of us refer to as a tortoise. And it is this same tortoise upon which in picture books we sometimes see Urashima Taro perched, one hand shading his eyes as he peers off toward the distant Dragon Palace. But were a tortoise of this sort to dive into the ocean, it would in fact choke on the salt water and promptly expire. It is usually this type of land tortoise—and not a sea turtle or soft-shelled turtle or hawksbill —that we find, along with a crane, on those ornamental stands that represent the Isle of Eternal Youth. The crane lives a thousand years, it is said, and the tortoise ten thousand, which accounts for their presence on wedding decorations and what have you, and perhaps it’s the auspicious nature of tortoises that causes illustrators of picture books to assume that Urashima-san’s guide too must have been one of these (the Isle of Eternal Youth and the Dragon Palace being similar sorts of places), but one can’t help but think it’s a bit much to ask us to imagine a land tortoise slashing away at the water with its clumsy, clawed feet, struggling toward the bottom of the sea. No, we definitely need something along the lines of a hawksbill turtle, whose wide, fin-like appendages would permit it to glide a bit more gracefully through the deep.[39]

So why is this narration used here? Based on the stuff I have read about Dazai, one of the reasons why is probably because his narrative voice is there to draw the conclusion of the short story. Some of his stories, without his commentary, one wouldn't quite be able to derive much from it. Like The Stolen Wen, as I mentioned earlier, ends with Dazai's commentary about the tragicomedy of character. Since the rewrite of the fairytale on it's own is almost not enough, because readers would question, why did the person who did nothing wrong got a tragic ending? It applies to some other fairytales as well that he told, it is his commentary that amplifies or actually gives meaning to the stories. But this could make it feel as if Dazai dominates the narrative of the story, I saw someone on tumblr talking about how it felt like Dazai was pushing his views of the stories onto them. Secondly, something that an essay reminded me of, is that it allows a familiarity with the readers. It creates a sense that he is inviting the readers to engage in the story, in multiple points of the story, he addresses the readers with "dear reader", and sometimes just talk about oh the reader must be thinking, or I wanted the readers to... The readers themselves almost have to play a part as part of the story. And I think something that is also interesting that one essay writes is that the narrator, one should not think of as Dazai, even though it certainly feels like Dazai. I actually didn't really notice this, before he writes all the fairytale rewrites, he has a prologue/preface, talking about the 'background' of these stories and creates the narrator 'the father'. Not 'I' but 'the father' so the actual narrator, the 'I' within the story collection should be 'the father' and not 'Dazai' even though it certainly feels like him since it talks about the war, a daughter (which one would know is something that is happening during the period when Dazai wrote this story). Of course, it is quite common to associate Dazai's I with himself, but when we look at the deliberate word choice and after understanding all thd above about his narrative, I think it is fair to take this word choice 'the father' (in Chinese translations it was also refered to as 父親 which is father) seriously. This adds a almost dichotomy of reality and fiction to it. And the fact that it invites readers to engage in the 'fictional world' it seems to almost add more depth.

For an easier understanding, we can refer to this chart from the essay Dazai Osamu's Otogizoshi A Structural and Narratological Analysis[40]:

I hadn't quite finished reading the essay yet, but just judging but this part alone it is very fascinating in terms of narrative. Because, one, the majority of the story we interact with the 3rd domain, but Dazai's I-narrator (the father's interruptions) allows us to interact with the 2nd domain, while also inviting the readers to interact with the narrator. As the reader begins to interact with said narrator, they almost become part of the fictional realm Dazai creates, because these stories cannot quite be read alone without the narrator's narration and interruptions. They often add to how we as readers understand the story (and at least 3 of 4 of these stories end with the narrator's additions which further emplify the 3rd domain stories). The fact that Otogizoshi ends without an epilogue further complicates things (it reminds me of Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew in terms of structure which I had always found fascinating), I personally like to think Dazai's rewrites which adds moral complexity and a more I guess 'realistic' portrayal of the human condition almost complicates it further in terms of fictionality and reality.

But then you may be asking, Kat you have written a lot about Dazai’s narration (I hadn’t even quite gotten discussing that in his rewrites yet and mainly only focused on his first person perspective narrations... but that’s fine, I hadn’t even gotten there that far yet in research orz) but what does it mean? Honestly, at this point, I am almost tempted to agree with some parts of “Dazai Osamu's Otogizoshi A Structural and Narratological Analysis” (though I am still in the middle of reading it) to an extent that maybe in Dazai’s writings there is a sort of metafiction quality to it, where the author constructs or re-constructs of the concept of "self' in his works. Or maybe it’s like (another essay I recommend reading on the topic) "Art Is Me": Dazai Osamu's Narrative Voice as a Permeable Self” that perhaps “Dazai, undoubtedly to his own personal detriment, invited his readers actively to merge with him, to enter into his mind, as fluids pass through a permeable membrane” (I personally think this is a fascinating argument)[41]. 

Or maybe, there’s a quality an early period Dazai short story element to it (this part of the story has always intrigued me, I didn’t quite know why), from the section Saburo The Liar from “Romanesque”, which is about a diabolical liar, who even wrote a book called In Lies Lies the Truth, which was about “the fascinating and comical life of a cynical young man named Master Misanthropos, who, when visiting the pleasure quarters, would pass himself off as an actor or a millionaire or a nobleman on a secret outing. So rich in versatility were Misanthropos’s deceptions that the geisha and the male entertainers never doubted for a moment that he was who he said he was. His ruses were indistinguishable from reality, and in the end even Misanthropos himself ceased to doubt that it was all true”[42]. And soon, at the funeral of his father he begins to think that “one lies to seek a bit of relief from a ponderous, suffocating reality, but the liar, like the drinker, gradually comes to need larger and larger doses. The lies become blacker and more complex, and they mesh and rub together until in the end they shine with the luster of truth”[43]. 

Though a lot of Dazai’s works outwardly seems autobiographical, perhaps it is better than one should take it as fictional, or as McCarthy puts it “whether [a] story is ‘true’ or not, it is a work of fiction nonetheless. Fiction is not opposite of truth. Fiction is a form of art, and art... is a lie that makes us realize the truth”[44] (and you know, this elusiveness of being able to identify the “true Dazai”, though it is not so important in this case one can say, almost reminds me of bsd Dazai, but that is another discussion).

[1] Dazai, Osamu. Cherries. Tr. Roger Pulvers.

[2] 太宰治, 《正義與微笑》, tr. 高詹燦

[3]  O'Brien, James A.  Dazai Osamu, Twayne Publishers, 1975. Twayne’s World Authors Series 348. Gale Literature: Twayne’s Author Series

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid. 

[6] Ibid.

[7] bsd-bibliophile. “Reporter: what do you think about Dazai?...”. August 13, 2022, https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/bsd-bibliophile/692512807258865664?source=share

[8] O'Brien, James A.  Dazai Osamu, Twayne Publishers, 1975. Twayne’s World Authors Series 348. Gale Literature: Twayne’s Author Series

[9] 太宰治, 小丑之花：太宰治《人間失格》創作原點

道化の華, tr 劉子情. https://www.books.com.tw/products/0010721543

[10]  O'Brien, James A.  Dazai Osamu, Twayne Publishers, 1975. Twayne’s World Authors Series 348. Gale Literature: Twayne’s Author Series

[11] Ibid.

[12] Gantar, Lija. "Ancient Greek Legend in Modern Japanese Literature, 'Run Melos' by Dazai Osamu". University of Ljubljana, Slovenia.

[13] 奔跑吧梅洛斯, 百度百科, https://baike.baidu.com/item/%E5%A5%94%E8%B7%91%E5%90%A7%EF%BC%8C%E6%A2%85%E5%8B%92%E6%96%AF/7254876

[14] Gantar, Lija. "Ancient Greek Legend in Modern Japanese Literature, 'Run Melos' by Dazai Osamu". University of Ljubljana, Slovenia.

[15] 人間失格之前：帶你走進太宰治內心的罪與罰, 每日頭條, https://kknews.cc/n/zr8x9vg.amp

[16] Ibid.

[17] BSD-Bibliophile, "Dazai returned again and again to...", https://bsd-bibliophile.tumblr.com/post/692040980912848896/dazai-returned-again-and-again-to-incidents-in-his.

[18] Dazai, Osamu, Otogizoshi: The Fairy Tale Book of Dazai Osamu, tr. Ralph McCarthy, accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[19] Dazai Osamu, Self Portraits, tr. Ralph McCarthy, accessed via BSD-Bibliophile

[20] O'Brien, James A.  Dazai Osamu, Twayne Publishers, 1975. Twayne’s World Authors Series 348. Gale Literature: Twayne’s Author Series

[21] McCarthy, Ralph, "After the Silence", accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[22] O'Brien, James A.  Dazai Osamu, Twayne Publishers, 1975. Twayne’s World Authors Series 348. Gale Literature: Twayne’s Author Series

[23] BSD-Bibliophile, "Dazai returned again and again to...", https://bsd-bibliophile.tumblr.com/post/692040980912848896/dazai-returned-again-and-again-to-incidents-in-his

[24] McCarthy, Ralph, "After the Silence", accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[25] O'Brien, James A.  Dazai Osamu, Twayne Publishers, 1975. Twayne’s World Authors Series 348. Gale Literature: Twayne’s Author Series

[26] Dazai, Osamu. “Cherries”, tr. Roger Pulvers, accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[27] Ibid.

[28] McCarthy, Ralph, "After the Silence", accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[29] Ibid.

[30] Dazai, Osamu, Otogizoshi: The Fairy Tale Book of Dazai Osamu, tr. Ralph McCarthy, accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[31] McCarthy, Ralph, "After the Silence", accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[32] Ibid.

[33] BSD-Bibliophile . “In the September issue of Bungei Shunju you wrote of me disparagingly...”, https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/bsd-bibliophile/182073929969?source=share

[34] Dazai, Osamu. Self Portraits, tr. Ralph McCarthy, accessed via BSD- Bibliophile.

[35] O'Brien, James A.  Dazai Osamu, Twayne Publishers, 1975. Twayne’s World Authors Series 348. Gale Literature: Twayne’s Author Series

[36] Dazai, Osamu, Otogizoshi: The Fairy Tale Book of Dazai Osamu, tr. Ralph McCarthy, accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[37] Ibid.

[38] Ibid.

[39] Ibid.

[40] Nagaike, Kazurni. Dazai Osamu's Otogizoshi A Structural and Narratological Analysis, University of Alberta.

[41] Lyons, Phyllis, “Art Is Me": Dazai Osamu's Narrative Voice as a Permeable Self”, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies , Jun., 1981, Vol. 41, No. 1 (Jun., 1981), pp. 93-110.

[42] Dazai, Osamu, Blue Bamboo, tr. Ralph McCarthy, accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

[43] Ibid.

[44] McCarthy, Ralph, "After the Silence", accessed via BSD-Bibliophile.

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Analysis only:

@ODDEYESIGHT

[6okuto]

for @poisonouswritings : sage, dialogue 9, scenario 20, gn!reader "you know you have to let go of me eventually.", haunted house meet cute(?) where person a accidentally clings to person b instead of the friend they came with

OH EM GEE!! thank u for requesting this scenario i wanted to try it at least once orz

rule 1 for visiting haunted houses: don't lose your friend.

the wood creaks beneath your feet and you hold out your arms to avoid bumping into anything. you can’t tell where your group has gone at this point. you had gotten turned around, the maze of walls and props in the dark got you separated, and now all you can do is trudge forward alone. you’re still waving your arms around when your hand finally reaches something—someone—and you hold them, thinking it was the jacket of your friend.

“god, there you are. seriously, why the fuck did you bring me here?” you whisper angrily. but the voice that responds wasn’t the one you expected, and your next words die at the tip of your tongue when the figure speaks.

“while i’d love to say i was the guy who brought you here, i think you’re talking to the wrong person.”

“fuck—” you jump back, pulling your hands to your chest. you still can’t really see who spoke, only noticing his long hair. “who—”

a crash comes from somewhere in the house and you let out a yelp, accidentally bumping into the stranger again. “here,” he coaxes, slowly reaches for your arm. you pull back a little and he stops. “hey, while this isn’t exactly a regular meeting, i’d rather you hang onto me than have guilt on my conscience for leaving you to fend for yourself. and if we find your friend i'll, uh, pass you over. we should be near the end anyways."

it’s a weird offer. you didn’t know who he was and the entire thing seemed like it was asking for awkward apologies and hesitant moves—especially when you can barely fucking see who’s offering to walk with you. yet you weigh the benefits and cost, knowing walking alone would be awful in another way, and decide to move closer in the end. you clear your throat before speaking, "thanks." if the stranger smiled or did anything, you couldn’t tell. he doesn’t come toward you, allowing you to choose how close to move.

you shuffle close enough to gingerly hold onto his sleeve and he lets you before beginning to walk again. and know you’re only together for a few minutes at most having gone through the majority of the house already. but the weird tension of wanting to cling onto him at every thud and flickering light while knowing he was a stranger made everything feel longer than it was. it doesn’t seem like the guy minded, though, or at least was better at hiding it.

he suddenly pulls you closer into him. “watch out, you could have tripped.” looking down, you spot the props on the floor and mumble a thank you before continuing on. "how the hell did you see that?"

"i used my eyes?"

"thanks." he breathes out a laugh at your response. you stay close enough that you could easily wrap your arms around him if you wanted, and you’re vaguely aware of his arm positioned in front of you in a protective manner.

your proximity only grows as you walk, getting used to his presence. your eyes flicker toward the walls of decorations as you take another turn. “hey, look. see? we made it.” you feel a few taps against your arm and look up. there’s a light up ahead that makes you let out a breath. “thank god.”

but you make the same mistake you did at your meeting—thinking you’d be safe.

you start to pull your companion with you, steps speeding up as you get closer to freedom. by the time you realize what’s happening, it’s already too late as a worker jumps out from behind a wall beside you. you manage to catch a glimpse of their tattered, bloody, outfit before letting out a scream, moving to grab and hide behind the nearest thing. it’s when the thing pulls you along, away from the actor, and speaks that you realize your second mistake.

“did you just try to use me as a shield?”

“i…sorry, i—” you move away a little and stutter as he starts to laugh. “that was seriously a reflex. stop laughing, oh my god, i’m gonna kill you,” you threaten him, though the whine and choked laugh render it empty.

“no, it’s—it’s fine,” he continues to laugh. “i’m the one who told you to hang on. and a knight in shining armour can also be a great wall, i guess.”

“shut the fuck up,” you snort. he’s still grinning as he offers a half-hearted apology, choosing to keep walking towards the doorway with you groaning against his sleeve. once you step outside, you squint at the sudden light and blink. the both of you pause as the sound of crowds become louder—you’re free.

“and, y’know, while i don’t dislike your company,” the newly familiar voice interrupts, “you know you have to let go of me eventually.”

“what?” you look beside you, then down and realize you’re still clutching onto your new ‘friend’ and jump back—just like the first time. “god, sorry.”

“thanks for, uh, letting me hold onto you…” you trail off.you never asked for his name. but he smiles a little, as if he had read your thoughts. “sage. and it’s no problem.”

he has a nice smile. and now that you can finally really see him, you realize how attractive your acquaintance is and feel your face warm. but you clear your throat and do your best to keep eye contact. “is there anything i can do to repay you?”

sage takes a deep breath and hums. he scans the attractions around you before speaking. “it isn’t really as physically affectionate as a haunted house—" you groan at his joke and he turns to you with a grin. “and i know we should probably find your friend, but did you want to maybe grab dinner at some point?”

[sweetcatmintea]

A Stranger’s Stress

Flash fiction Friday! :D Remember way back when I said A Stranger’s Kindness was a stand alone? And then went and made a bunch of discount continuations? We’re at it again folks!  I hope you enjoy another day with the stranger and the kid (and aren’t getting sick of them yet <u<;;)! Feedback is appreciated ^u^

Thanks again for organising and hosting @cawolters!

Prompt: We Are Not Alone

Words: 1499 orz

Previous parts: 1, 2, 3

----------

          Sometimes you have a bad day. Just a heaping pile of unwanted events. You get up, three new rejection letters. You boil the kettle and the milk’s gone bad even though you know you only bought it last week. Your awful bitter coffee spills down your shirt – your favourite, naturally – after you trip over a toy that you specifically remember having asked the night before that it be put away. There’s a notice that the rates are going up again and now the window’s broken thanks to a bored kid losing control of a ball. Thoughts nag at you that the kid should be in school or something. You know this but you don’t know it it’s safe yet and you haven’t worked out a cover for why you have a kid who, for some reason, has missed a lot of class time. No pressure but if you botch up, it’s yours and the kid’s necks on the chopping block but how are you supposed to be able to work that out and maintain your late grandmother’s cottage and look after Sudden Child and find a job and those rejection letters aren’t going to read themselves and that takes time. You know, just your run of the mill stuff. It might just be me. It seems unlikely that these experiences are universally shared. Although, I am sure that a lot of people have been in a similar situation as me now, kneeling over broken glass, duct taping it out of the carpet. I guess you can say I’ve been a little … tense lately.

          The kid’s settled in well. His nightmares haven’t been so bad since we put up those stars. He’s really taken to gardening as well which, I’ll never admit out loud, is somewhat touching. We haven’t heard anything from his folks or the police. It should be singing and smooth sailing, but I feel paranoid. Like disaster is looming over us while we carry on, oblivious. There’s no way it was that easy. It’s in every story. The instant the villains..? heroes..? Characters, breath a sigh of relief, crunch! Beartrap. I’m serious about schooling as well. I’ve got to sort it out, I want to, bit damn if it’s not nauseating to think he might be recognised.

          “I’m really sorry.” He’s not as whistley now his front teeth have grown back in. Unfortunate buck teeth until the rest of him catches up. He’s been hovering – figuratively, those wings are still too small to be more than decoration yet – the entire time I’ve been cleaning. Of course I’m not letting a seven year old pick up glass. How stupid do you think I am?

          “I know. It’s fine.” I think I’ve got all the pieces. Another tape canvas to be sure.

          “I tried to stop it, but it was too fast.” His fingers worry the fraying hem of his shirt. I’ll have to get him new clothes again soon. More money.

          “Look kid, accidents happen. It sucks that the window broke, but no one was hurt. That’s what matters. Now you know to be more careful next time. You can help me put the new panes in when I get them. Fair?”

          He nods eagerly, brightening despite my frank tone. At least he’s gotten used to that.

          I get up, bones creaking in protest. I feel old. Tired. It was lucky I didn’t break my ankle on that damn toy. Kid follows me to the kitchen. Might as well get a start on lunch. Paper catches my eye when I get the bread from the pantry. The calendar month is wrong already. Where has all the time gone?

          “Could you fix the calendar?” Probably better to get that sorted before I forget again.

          “Yep!” He’s as zealous as ever. Why do kids love doing all those little mundane things? Y’know, pushing crossing buttons, taking tickets from the deli dispenser, pulling sticky note sheets off, that sort of thing. Weird little goblins.

          “Guess what!”

          “What?”

          “It’s my birthday month!” He thrashes his tail, nearly sending the trashcan flying in his excitement.

          Already? I don’t let my hands slow. One small act of keeping it together. My mind races on. Stars above. The window wasn’t enough? I have to get him something, obviously, kids deserve birthday presents. And a cake. Would he want a party? How am I supposed to facilitate a party of one?? I’ll run out of money soon. I thought this would be a whole ‘new leaf’ situation. But if I keep getting rejections, I’m going to have to start stealing again. At least it’ll get those guys off my back. What about giving the kid a decent role model? I can’t give him much, but I thought I could do that for him. If I go back to my expertise and get caught, that’s it. All anyone will hear is that some crazed thief kidnapped a little boy. He’ll get shoved straight back into their hands no questions. A pat on the back to his rescuers and I rot. I can’t let that happen. I’m trapped. I’ve never been trapped before. Not like this.

          He’s still waiting for a response. The enthusiasm draining from him the longer I delay.

          “You… You’re not cancelling my birthday, right? I’m really, reaalllyyy sorry about the window..”

          “ENOUGH ABOUT THE DAMN WINDOW!” I regret it immediately. He cowers, stumbling over apologies.

          A second to breath.

          “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” This time, I do stop. Giving him my full attention, crouching to look him in the eye. “I’m not mad about the window. I told you, it’s fine. I was… feeling stressed and snapped. It was wrong for me to take out my feelings on you. Can you forgive me?”

         He pauses. This is not something he’s gotten used to. I wonder how many time’s he’s been given an apology. He considers my words, then nods.

          “I forgive you.”

          “Thank you.” I finish up the sandwiches. “What do you want for your birthday?”

          “Um!” Another pause. Faux thought. He already knows what he wants. “Can we go fishing? I’ve always wanted to try!”

          “Fishing?” That wasn’t what I expected.

          “Yeah! You know, on a boat, catching fish with strings! You’ve got a boat, right?”

          “What? Why do you think I have a boat?”

          “Well, you do live near the water and, you know, you kinda have lots of things that maybe you shouldn’t have…” Not wanting to commit to the accusation, he trailed off, twiddling his thumbs.

          “Do you think I’ve stolen a boat?”

          “Mayybee…”

          “Do you know how hard that would be? You can’t just decide to acquire a boat for the fun of it. You have to sell those things.”

          “Is that a no..?”

          I sigh. I don’t fish but it is his birthday. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises but I’ll try.”

          “Really!?” Stars, his eyes shone. “Thank you!” He launched a hug at me. Kids.

          “Okay. That’s enough. Take your lunch and off with you. Go do whatever it is gremlins do. I’ve got a call to make.”

          He gave a final squeeze before running off, giggling. I flip open my phone, plugging in the one person who may be able to help. She answers on the third ring.

          “Hey Grace, it’s me.”

          Quiet laughter. “I know who you are dummy. Caller ID.”

          “Right. Uh, you remember Grandpa’s old boat?”

          “The one Gran left me? Yeah. Hard to forget when I can see it now.”

          “How would you feel about going fishing with me and someone?”

          “You hate fishing.” There’s a note of accusation in her voice. I hope this is the right decision.

          “I do. It’s cruel and unnecessary. But that’s a rant for another day. See, there’s this kid…”

          “What kid? Why do you know a kid?” She doesn’t leave room for an answer, barrelling on. “Wait! I swear to god, if you tell me you stole a kid –“

          “First of all, there are a lot of unfair accusations going around today. Second, I’m deeply offended that you think the only way I’d know a kid is through dishonest means. Third, you’re right, I did.”

         “What the actual – actually, never mind. Two minutes then I’m calling the cops.

         “The long and short, he’s Tainted and his parents were pretty much torturing him. I’m trying to help him, I swear.”

          Grace was silent for a long moment. We’ve had our differences. Bridges a patchwork of scorches and repairs. I don’t know how she will respond but I hope she can at least sympathise. She was always the one to bring home injured animals when we were young. If she wants to cut ties after this, that’s fair. As long as she doesn’t rat me out, it’ll be okay.  Finally, she sighs.

          “That sounds like the sort of dumb thing you would do. Alright. What can I do to help?”

          I guess we aren’t as alone as I thought.

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Tag list

@cawolters,  @inkovert, @snobbysnekboi, @kainablue, and @i-rove-rock-n-roll

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Sorry if this one isn’t at my usual quality. My brain’s kinda fried today :T Hopefully things’ll be running smoothly again next week ^u^

[anearthstruckalien]

[[  Here’s yet another writing thing (’another’ because I’m dishing these things out more frequently now thanks to having a ton of inspiration) but it takes place in the past back when Giegue was still working for the Psions.  It’s bascially part 1 of 2 where he has obtained the Apple of Enlightenment before his first ever attempt at his invasion of Earth (and destroying humanity) and he’s having a conversation with it.  ]]

[The invasion of Earth should have already been set into motion.  His plan was considered to be a good one—precisely as detailed and efficient as one would expect of the Psion by now—and he had all the required resources at his disposal.  There was no reason not to proceed.  But, whether he consciously acknowledged it or not, there had been a ruthlessly persistent seed of doubt embedded at the darker fringes of his mind and it had continuously nicked away at his confidence with fear until there was a big enough hole left behind that it could no longer be easily ignored.  What if this ended up being like that time during George’s escape? What if his own plan had some unforeseen flaw in it?  What if there’s something about Earth and the humans that hasn’t been accounted for? What if… and it continued to go on until the Psion decided to postpone the invasion and instead find the Apple of Enlightenment first so that he could refine his invasion plan to account for everything.

Pale fingers start to tap atop the neutral surface of his desk (a seemingly simple surface concealing far more advanced functions within) while dark blue voids continue to stare (relentlessly and without a blink) at the artifact in question.  It is designed to convey knowledge in an objective way.  The most prominent sub-function of this is its capacity for making accurate predictions of the future.  That is what he is most intrigued by for it will help him with devising the best possible counter-measures in-advance no matter what it may be.  As such, the Apple of Enlightenment would be key to the perfect completion of his objective; exterminating humanity like the diseased swarm of insects they truly are.  It would be what would at long last purge the miserable past and firmly cement what is. This entire debacle could at last be put behind himself and his people to which he is duty-bound and with it, would come the comfort and security of knowing that everything is as it should be and that this is how it will remain.

Everything.  His perceived usefulness by Psion society.  His consequent position in it.  Their trust.  Approval. And appreciation.  He needs only to ensure that success is 100% certain and that starts with activating the Apple of Enlightenment (now that he has recently managed to acquire it) to then extract all the information that he requires. But, even after that thought follows, there’s a strange delay before he eventually moves a hand towards the golden (and faintly ethereal in its gentle glow) apple-shaped object, as though something in him had him frozen in place for just a moment.  Something horrible and unpleasant.  That same something which had gotten him to locate this artifact in the first place.  The same something which would be extinguished once a revision of his invasion plan is made through the Apple.  It takes little effort to promptly shift the apple to its ‘active’ mode and with that, he doesn’t hesitate to begin the conversation… but not without one last preliminary confirmation of its identity first.  One can never be too cautious and especially in dealings with things of questionable existence, caution is always warranted.]

Giegue: Apple of Enlightenment.  What is my name?

AoE: You are commonly identified as ‘Giegue’.

Giegue: That is correct. [he says off-handedly as if conducting some mundane task rather than going through a process seeking out critical information] Next question.  Who am I beyond my name?

AoE: You are the one that has lost his tail.  Cleaved was it so that your shape may lose its hero’s mettle and become malleable enough to be reconfigured to another’s design; a hollow tool.

You are the forgotten one.  Erased from the hearts of others–

Giegue: Be quiet.  That is not what I asked. [and this is said with a distinct note of sharpness to his tone at an all-too-rapid a tempo as if (in some unconscious way judging by the split of second of disorientation that follows) this is getting a little too close for comfort and he has to put a stop to it before it becomes something far more distracting and troublesome than is acceptable.  Then a sharp flicker of his tail while he closes his eyes, inhales and exhales, and duly responds.] And your answer was wrong anyways.

AoE: My answers are never wrong.  I am an entity of knowledge.  If you were asking a different question than the one that I attempted to answer, then it is your question itself that is flawed.

Giegue: [seems to consider this for a moment before relenting with a faint sigh, be as it may the artifact is… completely right, he must correct himself accordingly] Understood. [takes a moment to just… brush off the impact of answer before and continues with the same intent from before] Who am I… in the context of Psion society and across the various spacial colonies that are connected to it?

AoE: You are Commander Giegue.  Your formal identifier is ◼◼◼◼◼ of the military faction.  You are under the most direct command of governing leader Orz. You serve in a capacity that involves the completion of many military functions critical to that which you refer to as ‘Psion society’.

Giegue: [nods curtly before neutrally continuing as though (once again) this is little more than a mundane task] Do you know why I have dedicated great efforts towards obtaining you?

AoE: Yes.

Giegue: Elaborate on what you know then.  Why have I bothered with obtaining you?

AoE: Your core reasoning is to use the knowledge that I possess so that your future invasion of the planet Earth will succeed with 100% certainty. You wish to use me for refining your invasion plan because you are afraid of the slightest possibility that you could fail a task of perceived importance to your species.

Giegue: … [a vague blink and… seemingly satisfied (if a little uncomfortable at the mention of fear) of the preliminary confirmation of the artifact’s identity, he continues] What will the invasion’s outcome be?

AoE: Your invasion of the planet Earth will be a failure.

Giegue: [looking stunned and upon rapidly blinking several times as though he either couldn’t believe what he had heard or was just too overcome with… something to properly process it] ………..what… –?

AoE: You will fail.  The illusion you have clung to as the pinnacle of your existence will crumble and–

Giegue: [shaking his head in utter defiance while elongated ears fold back just a bit with a noticeable lash of his tail following suit shortly after] No.  That… cannot be correct.  That is absurd… or at the very least… highly unlikely. [takes a moment to reel his emotions (horrible and disgusting and utterly unacceptable things) back in and recentres himself enough to continue with his task of extracting information from the artifact.  Focus. Anything else lacks productivity and thus is unacceptable.] …how do I fail… –?

AoE: You are destroyed by the Chosen Ones through their use of the Earth’s Power.

Giegue: …what are these ‘Chosen Ones’?

AoE: Human children from the planet Earth.

Giegue: [bites back a rather irrational desire to deny it (no matter how absurd it seems) and instead leans in towards the artifact atop his desk, his gaze even more fixated upon it than ever.  There has to be more to this than that.  It can’t be as absolute as it sounds.  There has to be a way around this and that starts with continuing to intently press on with his task regardless.] What are their names and where are they situated on Earth?

AoE: Ness of Onett, Eagleland.  Paula of Twoson, Eagleland.  Jeff of Winters, Foggyland.  And Prince Pu of Dalaam, Chommo.

Giegue: What is their current status in the context of this prediction? [and this time he grips the underside of his desk in a rather tense yet unseen motion.]

AoE: They are currently strangers to each other.  And they do not know of their intertwined destinies yet in full.  They are just human children living mundane lives.

Giegue: [gently leans back into his chair, somewhat relieved that there’s at least a little bit of good news here… assuming that all of this is true which it… may be given the artifact’s core function of knowledge and future predictions] Are any of them PSI-users?  Elaborate upon their psionic proficiency if the answer is ‘yes’ to my inquiry.

AoE: Yes.  Ness, Paula, and Prince Pu are PSI-users.  All three of them have been familiar with their psionic abilities throughout their entire lives and have already acquired a number of psionic abilities, but it is at a level that is regarded as ‘low’ by your species.

Giegue: Good.  [now, some more of that relief creeps back in and is enough to have him let go of his desk, but all in all, the Psion remains tense and wary] So it is only their association with the Earth’s Power that I should primarily concern myself with then.  What is the ‘Earth’s power’?

AoE: It is an ancient power that lies dormant within the planet itself.  It is the planet’s life and willpower which when synchronized with the hearts of Earth’s people can overcome any adversity.

It is the power of hope, wishes, and miracles which only the Chosen Ones may connect with and channel.

Giegue: [narrows dark blue voids, fingers beginning to pensively tap against one another, while he momentarily glances off to the side] …is there any way to oppose it?

AoE: No.

Giegue: [glances back at the apple with something indiscernible in dark blue voids] I see… [the finger tapping stops] What would happen if I were to travel through time and terminate the lives of these ‘Chosen Ones’ in their most vulnerable phase of human life?

AoE: New souls would be constructed to fill the predetermined role of each ‘Chosen One’ that is involved in destroying you.  Your actions would be moot.

Giegue: [a sharp inhalation and subsequent exhalation of breath. There is a way around this.  He just has to know how this happens to determine that much.  Anyone that claims otherwise is simply too weak-willed to bother with doing any more than complacently accepting ‘fate’ as is.] What are the precise sequence of events that lead to this outcome?

AoE: Let me project images to your mind.  Your inquiry will be more efficiently answered this way.

Giegue: Of course. [a moment or two of silence follows while a strange concentration breaks the relative neutrality of his demeanor (making preparations no doubt) before he gives the affirmative for action] You may proceed. I am now ready.

[darkicedragon]

Whew. 26C today. Played pokemon go for a couple hours until, uh, I started to feel a bit off and was all, ‘Okay, I’m being a shit if I continue playing when I could go rest’. So sat in starbucks for a while. It’s one I’ve visited a couple of times, and couldn’t quite tell if the barista passing by was asking how I was because they recognised me and noticed I wasn’t quite how I usually am, or or they were just being friendly. 8′D

So, highlights:

Which ended up longer than expected, so yes, read more,ahaha.

Did my raid and subbed for two people at the same raid. =^=;;; Had someone ask if I could sub if he gave me his spare phone, and then asked if I could sub for someone else. ARCH RIVAL also needed a sub, but yeah. Absolutely not enough hands or phones for that, which is a shame. :(

Person on my other phone kept getting kicked out, so I’m guessing he was logged in too close to the time so no mewtwo for him. Not my phone sub got a 93%. Didn’t catch mine, but it was 2219 anyway so some 82% yet again. =^=;;

Spent some time afterwards just trading with a friend because I have so many distance pokemon that were just taking up space in my bag. So many.

No lucky pokemon, but that’s fine. Had been trading with another friend the day before to also get rid of some of my distance pokemon and our faces were just like D8 when we got a lucky trade. Because they were meowth and ratatta. Then we got a little serious to see if we could get good lucky pokemon. The trade with the 2017 pokemon failed, and I got a much worse pinsir than it originally was.

Then we tried trading a 2016 parasect for a mewtwo and those became lucky (we’d heard 1 for 1 didn’t tend to work) and the mewtwo went from like 69% ->84%, so that’s a decent upgrade. So next time we’ll see what happens when I get the mewtwo ahah. It was a super cheap trade since we’re ultra friends and we’ve both got mewtwo — only 1,600 stardust. So that’s cool.

After spending time in starbucks I was just like, ‘nopenopenope, I’m going home. There’s a couple of buses where their final stop is the one before I’d get off but NO. I’ll take the bus that goes to my street! The less walking the better!’

Jumped onto a bus and was like, ‘Uh, wait, that’s weird, we should have turned down the other way. Huh, guess there was a diversion...

‘But I’ll be fine, we’ll turn back - we’re not turning back. Crap.’

Got off the bus and found out I’d gotten on the wrong one in my hurry to get on a bus. 8′) I ended up walking MUCH more in comparison than if I’d gotten the final stop bus, haha.

So I’ve just been taking it easy and drinking lots after getting home.

I’ve hit 40 million experience. Like, what the hell. I’ve just been trying to get rid of the lucky eggs I’ve accumulated. orz;; And I got this in a fraction of the time it took for me to reach level 40, jeez.

Found out today we could change our nicknames more than once! So was like, ‘LET’S SEE IF DARKICEDRAGON IS STILL TAKEN’

It was. 8c Decided, well, I’ve went this far already, so let’s see if DarklceDragon will work, if I change the i to an l.

Got reminded a couple of minutes that notifications from gifts are in all caps.

DARKLCEDRAGON.

NOPE. NO THANK YOU. TOO MUCH POTENTIAL FOR LICE DRAGON. I’LL GO BACK TO ESPDRAGON THEN. So that was a very fast takeback, aaaahahah. XDD

[linssikeittomies]

The Place Between Here An There - Chapter 2: Ship Of Fools

Masterpost     AO3

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8   Chapter 9  Chapter 9(cont’d)

Ugh, Alfred is so hard to write! His POVs are all Thing happens, thing happens, thing happens, he has a thought, thing happens… Ivan’s POV is more like Thing happens, he has a thought about the thing, that reminds him of past thing, thing happens… And Alfred has too many non-plot-important friends, but leaving them out feels even more wrong because he’s a people person first and foremost. He does get more thinkey later, but at this point of the story he doesn’t really worry about anything so he doesn’t have too many thoughts floating around his brain. His parts feel like such filler orz Try and bear with me orz I got so sick of looking at this mess and not being able to write it the way I wanted to so I decided to screw it and let it be, filler-y and bad and all.

–

“Morning, sunshine!” a happy voice greeted Ivan right as he stirred. The grating cheeriness revealed the identity of the perpetrator before Ivan even opened his eyes. The act only confirmed that the annoying idiot was grinning from ear to ear. Seeing that his bedmate was somewhat awake encouraged the American to rise up on his elbows to peer down with an excited look. So he was near-sighted, since he hadn’t put on his glasses.

“Dobroye utro”, Ivan muttered, not sure if he was glad to see Alfred or not. The novelty of being treated like a normal human being was fading quickly now that he wasn’t allowed to wake up at his own pace. “Are you really a cop?” Alfred queried with badly contained glee, leaning in closer with his morning breath. With a grimace Ivan turned his head slightly, and Alfred seemed to get the hint. “Yes, a detective.” “Man, that’s so cool! I applied to the academy a few years back, but I had speeding tickets, and the air force didn’t want me for some reason so I’m still-“ Probably a store clerk. Maybe a cleaner. Likely living on his parents’ money. “- a fireman and it’s great ‘cause I’m saving lives and all, but man, cops! I love cops!” Yeah, right. This infuriating loser seemed barely literate. Pro wrestling would suit him much better: prancing around in embarrassing clothes yelling cringey lines, and no one would notice if he got brain damage. Claiming he actually did important work was the most bold-faced lie Ivan had heard in his life. “But how in the hell did you get in? Did you kill all the other applicants?” “How rude. I was never linked to those cases.” Alfred pretended to be struck dumb, and clutched his pearls like a scandalized granny. “I was hoping you’d claim to be the paragon of justice, but you just ran with it! How am I supposed to make fun of you with that attitude?” he laughed as he sat up, dragging the covers up with him and then letting them fall off his shoulders. The move revealed his toned chest and subtle six-pack again. Ivan contemplated taking a spied look between his legs, but decided against it. His senses were returning slowly, but the insecurity had already creeped in almost full swing. He pretended to be cold and wrapped the covers more tightly around him. “It’s not an attitude. It’s the truth.” Alfred laughed and told Ivan to dress his ugly ass, he was making pancakes. Ivan was not one to say no to a free meal, and the company only left something to desire.

Even if waking up next to someone was a questionable joy, having someone to eat breakfast with was undoubtedly pleasant. Much time had passed since the last time Ivan had a discussion at the table. They used to be common in the old days, and the siblings especially had been practically glued together, but then the thing happened and everything went to hell. Their family dynamics never got back to normal, even after 19 years of stability and moving halfway across the globe. It had no longer felt natural – one was missing and one became an outsider. It was almost more distracting to have his sisters in the same table than eating alone. But with Alfred there was no history so he couldn’t be reminded of anything, and as a result he found himself genuinely enjoying the moment. “Well, ya just don’t look the part, yannow? Think Magnum PI! Ya need a square jaw and a cool baritone voice and a great mustache.” “So what kind of cop do I look like?” “Hmmmm…” Alfred hummed and held an exaggeratedly long pause, took a bite off his pancakes, chewed and then shrugged. “I dunno, the kind who negs decent people and takes advantage of drunk guys?” Ivan shrugged nonchalantly.  “Guilty as charged”, he agreed. He doubted Alfred had actually been all that drunk by the time they left the restaurant, and the stumble had been a conspiracy to make Ivan take him home. He still had trouble imagining Katyushka scheming like this, because she had always been the most honest and straightforward of the family. Her saintly nature must have come from a distant ancestor. “So are you gonna go and brag to all your friends about how you finally scored with a conscious person?” “I hesitate to call someone with your level of brain activity conscious.” “But you will brag to all your friends?” “I don’t have friends”, Ivan’s mouth said with brutal honesty before his brain could shut it up. His breath got stuck in his throat as he waited for inevitable pitying look. It always happened. He could be as terrifying as he wanted, the second anyone learned about his sorry excuse of a social life they suddenly saw him a charity case, defective, helpless… Nothing could be further from the truth, but nothing would convince the hypocrites  that Ivan didn’t need anyone, people were only in the way, and he didn’t care for backstabbing gold diggers or emotional leeches. Jones was a person, Ivan had no use for him. God spared him just this once. Alfred, oblivious to anything but a jackhammer to the skull, missed his slip completely and continued with the friendly hostility. “Small wonder, with your personality.” Ivan was well aware of his flaws, but could do nothing to change them. His path had formed in front him on its own on that day and there were no side roads. He wasn’t like Jones, who had a say in what happened to him. He had no business commenting on what he knew nothing about, but spoken like a true American, he felt the need to police everyone else and just flap his mouth hole to make noise for the sake of it. And he had such a grating voice, too. Ivan wanted to get out of this apartment yesterday. “More coffee?” “Yes, please.” Watching Jones stuff his face with pancakes made Ivan wonder what he even found appealing about the glutton at this point. He was a slob with terrible table manners who loved putting people down. That answered the question of why he hadn’t gotten laid in ages, at least. He should get drunk more often, it seemed to better his odds. “Do you have the day off?” Ivan asked. He almost regretted it, since Jones didn’t bother swallowing his half-eaten pancakes, choosing instead to spit soggy crumbs all over the table. Ivan quickly lifted his coffee off it. Jones failed to take the hint, as expected. “Yeah, but my cousin’s coming over. I’ll have to kick you out by noon.” Ivan hadn’t been planning to stay after breakfast. He hadn’t planned to stay the night. Having to leave in a few hours was no problem for him. And even if he had been free to stay as long as he wanted, which was not a single minute by the way, he was a busy man. He had things to do. Plans to review. He wouldn’t stay even if Jones begged to blow him. “I’ll be gone before that.” Jones smirked coyly, for reasons unknown to Ivan. “Do you wear the uniform?” Ah, he was one who loved a man in uniform. Ivan could hardly blame him, he himself couldn’t resist a suit with a tie. Wonderful toys they were, so versatile, never failed to make him want to pull. He’d like to put one on Jones, for so many reasons. “Only for special occasions.” Ivan would have liked to have a newspaper at the table. The absence of one didn’t exactly surprise Ivan, Jones didn’t strike him as the type to read, even magazines. It was excusable – in his line of work it wasn’t important to know what had went on during the night. For Ivan, it was both a necessary evil and a questionable joy. Not knowing the latest updates when he walked into the office was considered bad work morale, and that’s where news apps really came in handy. A newspaper, after all, first had to go into print, and then be delivered. While all that happened, ten new things had unfolded. It was still nice to have a physical page in his hands, feel the crinkle. They were easily stored. Ivan had a whole bookcase dedicated to newspaper and magazine clippings: cold cases, cases he’d worked on, PD bashings, survival stories, true crime articles… Lately he had taken to throwing out some of the older things to make room for all the Baton killer related articles. 7 confirmed victims, 5 suspected, and that was only after a year and half of activity. Despite what you heard in popular media, it was actually quite rare for a serial killer to have more than 4 victims per year. Reporters liked to play up the numbers, speculating at least a dozen victims, but even more than that they liked blaming the police department for not catching the raving lunatic. Their words, not his – from the evidence and bodies it was clear as day the Baton killer was not crazy. Yes, he never bothered hiding the bodies well, but there was never any evidence left. Every body was cleaned thoroughly after the act to dispose of any DNA evidence, there was never a glimpse of him in security footage, no one ever reported seeing someone who didn’t belong… It takes meticulous planning and a clear mind to do something that carefully. The police weren’t even completely sure they were dealing with a male killer – the only reason to suspect that was that among the victims were two large men who had last been seen in gay bars, and an unopened condom left on the body of one female who had been reported to be fiercely faithful to her clean husband. Ivan didn’t like not knowing things. He got anxious when he couldn’t be sure. It should have been common courtesy to have one paper at the table. “A suit, then?” Ivan shook his head. He preferred wearing his everyday clothes to work, because they made him look just a bit less intimidating. A suit was a double-edged sword: on one hand, it tended to make people more nervous and slip up, but on the other, it isolated him further. Normal human interactions were few and far between for Ivan, so he cherished every single one. This was why he liked dealing with the the deaf: they couldn’t tell the disparity between his voice and stature, so they assumed he was just a normal, large man. In this Alfred resembled them. The bad thing about Jones was that he was insufferable. Ivan had a hunch Jones would be difficult with the authorities, just for the sake of being difficult. “Betcha you’d look hot in one”, Alfred said, winking. Ivan didn’t agree. He didn’t think he looked hot in most clothes. He still muttered a thank you because he wasn’t on the mood to argue.

~¨:.:¨~

Jeez, this guy was just too cute! No adult man should be allowed to have such an adorable face! The way he shyly blushed and averted his eyes to the side combined with his huge stature did something incredibly pleasant to Al. It was getting the best of two worlds. He tended to go for the big, tough guys, but enjoyed the odd twink every now and then, and here he had two for the price of one! Moving to the big city really was the best damn decision he had made in his life. Rural Kentucky just didn’t have these types. “Unlike you, no doubt”, Ivan answered weakly, and Al grinned again. He couldn’t explain why he liked exchanging insults so much. He did it all the time with Arthur, too, but the Brit always got pissed too quickly. Mattie’s game was too strong, so Al no longer did it with him. But now he had a new playmate! One that liked the game just as much! He hadn’t had this much fun since last night, and with any luck he might be able to convince the Russian babe for round two of that, as well! Maybe one day he could bring the insult game to bed? “Yeah, but I look good naked”, Al shot back. Ivan rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee again. “You get cross-eyed when you take off your glasses.” “Do not! Take that back, fatso!” With a teasing smile Ivan raised his gun again. “And you smell terrible. Have you showered in the last three days?” “Didn’t bother you last night.” “I had a momentary lapse of standards. The culture must be damaging my brain.” Aaahhh, that accent! That was paradise, right there! Ivan really had everything: looks, personality, huge body, huge dick… He should marry the guy before he wriggled away. The way to a man’s heart goes through his stomach, right? “Sure you don’t want pancakes?” Alfred confirmed. He was almost offended Ivan had refused them the first time. While his weren’t as divine as Mattie’s, they could still make a man moan in pleasure. Pancakes were the one food he never made from instant mix or in a microwave. “I am sure.” Al pouted and poured some more syrup on his stack. Fine, be that way!Vodka had probably ruined his tastebuds anyway, so he couldn’t appreciate the pancakes if he wanted to. Ivan gulped down the last of his coffee and got up. “Leaving already?” “I have work. Thank you for the coffee.” Work on Sunday? What kind of breakthrough had they had in whatever case Ivan was working on? Detectives usually only worked weekdays 9 to 5. “No prob. See ya ‘round!” Ivan scoffed as he put on his coat. He was wearing three layers, and it wasn’t even that cold yet. Guess he was just always cold, if he needed two sweaters even indoors. “No one would want to see you again. You are a headache on feet.” Al laughed. A lot of people commented on his loud voice, usually telling him to turn it down a notch. He just didn’t have an indoor voice and he got excited so easily. “And my ears are ringing from listening to you squeaking”, he joked back. He wondered why Ivan decided to use such a weird voice. Obviously he had a much deeper natural pitch, but it hadn’t come out much even last night. He sounded like a prepubescent boy. It added to his cute image, but couldn’t have been easy to produce. Maybe it was an effect of growing up with two high-pitched sisters? “Are you the youngest?” “The youngest what?” Ivan asked, voice muffled from the pale pink scarf. Another cute quirk, didn’t fit his towering height and wide shoulders at all. “Sibling. Katie’s the oldest, right?” “Yes. Katyusha is four years older and Natasha is five years younger.” “Really? You and Natalie look the same age. Do you look young or does she look old?” “It could be a little bit of both.” Ivan had his hand on the knob, but hesitated. Al tilted his head questioningly, and Ivan reached a decision. He dug out a pen from his pocket, but couldn’t find paper, so he wrote his number on the wall instead. “Call me if you want to go drinking sometime.” “After you ruin my fucking wall?! In your dreams!” Ivan gave an infuriating little smirk and closed the door after him. Damn that Russki and his adorable ways. How long should Al wait before he called?  The same day would be needy and a little creepy, but he didn’t want to wait two days! Agh, this was just like that one time in Montana! Or, Christ, Tex! He couldn’t handle another bi-curious cutie deciding he wanted to stick to women! The guy was just too much fun, Al really liked just hanging out with him, not that he minded the afterhours, either… After wolfing down his seventh pancake Al did his morning pushups and jog. Artie had been right in that age would eventually catch up with him and he’d need to work harder to stay in shape. With his steady diet of junk food it was really a miracle he was so fit. Musta been good genes. Pissed Artie off to no end. Speaking of, he should clean up the place. Neither of them was looking forward to Mister Cleanliness nagging about Al’s housekeeping skills. It didn’t really even matter, no one in the history in the world had died of a few shirts on the floor, or a few weeks’ dust, or a messy closet, and penicillin had been discovered in dirty dishes. And so what if there was some food gone bad in the fridge, they were in closed containers, the bugs weren’t about to strongarm open the lids. Ehh, Artie was still three hours away, he had time. He could play some Mortal Kombat first. He needed to practice Kenshi’s fatalities anyway. And while he was on the sofa anyway, he might as well try out that GTA swing glitch! Oldie but goodie.

Knock knock. “Who’s there?” Just kidding, Al already knew it was Artie. His British cousin was the only person in the world who knocked when there was a perfectly good doorbell. “It’s me.” “Me who?” “Arthur, you bloody twat! Open up!” Sigh, ol’ Artie never played along. All he laughed at was that Monty Python show. Poor guy, he’d die an early death thanks to never laughing. Al threw the controller on the couch and got up to get the door. Yikes, those eyebrows were still a shock every time. “I swear you grow like twenty new hairs every time I see you!” Al commented, earning an irritated sigh from his cousin. After 17 years he didn’t need to ask what Al meant by that. “And you accumulate more and trash in your place. Three copies of Die Hard 2?” Artie whined looking at the living room table. Well, at least he wasn’t bitching about the dirty coffee cups and plates on the kitchen table. He should be a maid, he was so great at whining about pointless stuff. After setting his luggage in a corner, Artie made a show of placing the Xbox controller on the coffee table and making himself at home on the couch, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “Never again!” he announced. “This baby screamed the whole flight and my neighbour spilled his orange juice all over my trousers.” Seeing Al eyeing his perfectly dry pants, he explained. “I changed in the airport toilet.” “Wanna throw them in the washing machine?” “Go ahead.” Artie’s suitcases were works of art. He knew just the way to tightroll everything and exactly how much of any given thing was needed, then filled every square inch so perfectly it looked like a Tetris high score. Speaking of Tetris! “Hey, Artie! Guess who scored with a cop last night?” “Alfred, please! I don’t want to hear about your sex life!” “But he was so great! So tall and cool and burly and cute! And I got his number!” Artie gave him a confused look from under his arm. “Burly and cute? That’s a combination you don’t hear often.” “I know! But it was awesome! God, I wish I had a photo to show you, he was just perfect! He’s a detective!” Artie lifted his feet off the couch to let Al plop down next to him. “He acted all cool and aloof and then blushed when I said he’d look hot in a suit! It was adorable!” Al knew he was gushing like a teenage girl about her latest celebrity crush but he couldn’t help it! This was the single greatest thing that had happened to him since… since he first got laid, basically! “And he’s a cop! I’ve never seen a cop like him! He wrote his number on the wall”, Al helpfully pointed at the number scratched on the wall paper. The wince on Artie’s face was great. “You two seem like you would get along swell”, he muttered. “I know! He’s not at all uptight like you are!” “It’s called being a functioning adult! You git!” “A functioning adult would have brought me Cadbury creme eggs!” “The last time I did you thought I was flirting with you!” Oh right, it had been the day before Valentine’s and Artie had been blushing for some reason.

They cleaned up the place together. Artie tried to cook “as a reward”, which would have been about as much of a reward as a death penalty. Al insisted he wouldn’t make a guest cook, so they went out for dinner, even though Artie hardly counted as a guest. He was rarely over, thanks to the ocean between them, but the guy was as much family as Mattie. Every time he stayed at Al’s place it was like a roommate coming home. Artie didn’t buy the excuse, as he never did, and claimed Al needed a good English dinner in him just once and would never go back, as he always did. This was routine for them. Everything about Artie was familiar. He had gone through a few phases in his teens and early twenties, but ever since becoming a premature grandpa the only thing that changed were his clothes. He was as stagnant as Mattie. “You gonna go see Mattie after dropping by our folks?” “I don’t have time”, Artie said. “I only have three days left and I couldn’t get a ticket. I’ll see him on Christmas.” It was something of a tradition for the whole extended family to gather at Mattie’s place on Christmas, since he was one of the few who didn’t switch apartments every year. Not everyone could make it at the same time, some stayed for a few days before Christmas and some dropped in to say hi on Christmas Day. Al always stayed in the guest room, but the sheer number of relatives forced the large majority to stay in hotels. Artie got a mattress on the floor the years his pervert husband stayed home. They had learned from the first time. “Francis is still working out his schedule so I’m not sure if he can make it.” “Good! He’s already got a hubby, he shouldn’t hit on Mattie!” Francis was an okay guy most of the time, but you better not let your guard down or you’d find his hands down your pants. How Artie hadn’t dumped his cheating ass was something Al would never understand. If he ever started going steady, he wouldn’t forgive a single stray ogle. Luckily Ivan didn’t seem like the type to cheat, since it had taken him so long to even realize Al had been hitting on him from the first sentence he had said to him. It didn’t look like the guy had much of a sex drive. “And he better stay the hell away from my date, too!” “Your date? Weren’t you single just a few hours ago?” “I’m talking about that cop!” Artie made a face, but Al couldn’t figure out what he had said wrong this time. “Al, you only met the guy yesterday, and now you’re bringing him to Canada for Christmas?” “No! I mean, I could, I think we really clicked and I’m of course awesome so he totally wouldn’t say no.” Another face, more concerned than exasperated this time. “Oh come on Artie, be a little more happy for me wontcha?” “I am, it’s just that – you’ve been hurt before, because you get so into it far too early.” Right, Tex. But this was different from Tex! Ivan was completely comfortable being with men! He wouldn’t pull the same “incompatible” stunt he had! Ivan and Al went so well together, they liked the same things, they understood each other, and talking was so easy between them. Talking with Tex had sometimes been like pulling teeth. “I’ll be fine! I’m a grown man! And it’s just for fun – I just meant I wouldn’t object to getting serious if he wants to.” “Well – good luck”, Artie muttered. “Thanks!”

The next morning Al woke up to a horrible smell drifting from the kitchen. Not the worst Artie had ever caused, but it still made his eyes water. The sentiment was nice, but Artie just didn’t get that his breakfast would be put to better use in torture chambers. They did the usual song and dance – Artie claiming his cooking was great and Al just didn’t understand the fine undertones of British cuisine, and Al dumping his portion in the garbage and frying a healthy dose of bacon. Then they went sightseeing, since this was Artie’s first time in this city – the last time he had been living in Waynesburg. He’d leave tomorrow while Al was at work, so they had to make the day nice, since they would next see each other on Christmas. Granted, they talked daily but it still felt important to part on friendly terms. The one time they hadn’t, Artie had cut all contact with Al for 5 years. It didn’t matter that it had been over a decade ago, that before and after they were thick as thieves. So the next morning Al let his cousin make breakfast, bravely swallowed one bite and washed it down with half a gallon of Coke, and finished with three sunny side ups. Artie insisted his “baked beans”, that is, a sad, dry heap of something bumpy, and black pudding were delicious and nutritious. That might have been the case with store-bought “pudding” that had no business being called pudding, if the ingredient’s weren’t so god damn gross to begin with. “It’s an acquired taste, that’s for sure”, Al muttered in response. How Artie was capable of swallowing his own hellish productions was a mystery for the ages. He was married to a master chef and still lived in a delusional world where his own cooking wouldn’t be censored in daytime TV. Al left the Brit to shovel his indescribable “consumables” alone, and 15 minutes later arrived at the station. “Morning, guys!” “Morning”, greeted a chorus. A slow night, then, if so many were at the station. José made space for Al at the table and they went over the incidents of the last shift. A couple car crashes, two kitchen fires, one false alarm. Such a big city and so few incidents, that couldn’t last. Today would have to be busy. Stu dug out the playing cards after the last shift went home. They were starting the second round of poker when duty called the first time – a false alarm from an old folks’ home, something had spilled on the stove and triggered the alarm. One of the nurses made eyes at Stu, who never wasted a chance to flirt with a pretty face. “Way to keep it professional, Stu”, Jack sighed back in the truck. Jack was a forty-year old virgin. Word on the street was he’d never had a single girlfriend, or boyfriend, and that was why he was so frustrated. He spent most of his free time exercising and fishing. “I just made her day”, Stu argued proudly. He never went beyond flirting, as far as Al knew – the man worshiped his wife. His phone memory was 90% pictures of her. That reminded Al - should he have called Ivan yesterday? Al knew he wouldn’t mind being contacted the next morning, but Artie did keep telling him he was the most socially clueless bloke in the world, so maybe he shouldn’t trust his own judgment? Why hadn’t he asked Artie yesterday? The old man might not have been in the game for a decade, but he had to still have some memories from his single days! “Hey Jack, suppose you gave your number to a girl. Wouldja think she was desperate if she called you the next day?” Jack sighed exasperatedly, like he always did when Al asked him for relationship advice. “I don’t know. I never know anything you ask! Think whatever you think.” “I just wanna make sure! ‘Cause I don’t wanna drive away a good guy by being creepy.” “You’ll drive him away by being obnoxious”, Jack snapped. “Can we please concentrate on work instead of your sex life?” “I’d rather not think about all the dick my coworker is sucking, either”, Stu commented from behind the wheel. Had it been anyone else, Al would have punched them. Stu was chill, he just had a crass sense of humor and no brain-to-mouth filter. “Honestly though, wait until next evening but not longer. You’ll want to seem interested.” Shit, so was it already too late?! A day and a half had already passed! And the station was still ten minutes away! Had he already screwed up his chance? Jeez, stay cool, man! Ivan was totally into him, if anything he’d be overjoyed Al had remembered him! Yeah, that sounded much better. Al could salvage this. Right when they got to the station he’d call. Riiiiight… nnnnnnnnnoooooooooow! “I need to make a call!” he yelled and sprinted for the relative peace of the locker room.

~¨:.:¨~

Ivan was in no mood for solicitors right now. Staring at files and security footage for hours on end was soul-sucking work enough without some young hopeful desperately begging him to buy just this one amazing supplement that comes free with this subscription of these seven home improvement magazines only for 19.99 per month! Ivan never had problems hanging up on them immediately but that didn’t take away the reminder of outside life. For now, the only place that was supposed to exist was this sleazy alley with dismal lighting where one frame in a week’s worth might or might not reveal that Richard Boyarin had walked by it at some point during his vacation. Incredibly important work. Ivan frowned at the screen. It was a number he didn’t have saved on his phone. That was no news, he had a total of eight numbers in there. Two were his sisters’, one his boss’, one his partner’s, one for the station front desk, three for delivery food. He suddenly had the irrationally hopeful thought that it might be Alfred. Absurd as the notion was, it was tempting. And Toris clearly wanted him to silence the ringing, so why not try his luck? Anything would be better than trying to distinguish the black pixels from the other, slightly less black pixels. Fully prepared to be disappointed, Ivan answered as harshly as he could. “Alyo?” ”Hey Vanya, it’s Alfred!” Thoroughly shocked, but altogether pleased, Ivan felt an unexpectedly honest smile forming on his face, and casually insulted Alfred’s pronunciation. “Oh screw you, I did fine. You free tomorrow night?” Alfred’s nasal voice asked, completely carefree and smiling widely. Typical American, but at least Alfred’s smile wasn’t deceitful. He smiled because he was happy, not because he needed a good tip to pay his bills. Ivan was free, and had the feeling he would even make himself free if he hadn’t been. But the idiot didn’t need to know that, his ego was bloated enough already. “Hmm…” Pausing as if to check his calendar, Ivan lifted a finger to his lips at the nervously disapproving Toris. There was never any evidence in the Baton killer’s cases anyway. Of course not a single hair, spit drop or footprint had been found in this one either, which was the whole reason they had been forced to turn to these good as useless security tapes. The only thing ever found were the bodies, and that they had already analyzed to Hell and back, and of course it had revealed nothing new. Why pour over the same old evidence, hour after countless hour without any breaks? There would be a new victim, perhaps soon, even, there had been a long break between the last two. Then they could actually work. “Yes, I have a few hours after seven.” It wouldn’t do to look too eager. Ivan Braginski did not chase after men. “Great! Wanna go out? Rocker’s has a party celebrating the owner’s daughter’s birthday so they’ll have free booze! See you there at eight!” It better not be punch. “I suppose. What’s the address?” “It’s right next to orthodox church, you’ll find it!” If he found the church. Ivan rarely paid attention to places of worship, and then only to avoid them. Well, he would just Google the place later. Couldn’t be too many Orthodox churches in a city like this. He wondered if Alfred suggested the place because he thought Ivan had an inclination towards the Eastern church. “And hey, you never showed me your badge”, Alfred whined. An adult man, so fixated on badges, how cute. “You didn’t ask.” “Well show it to me tomorrow! You’ll love it”, Alfred said, wiggling his eyebrows so hard they almost rode the electronic waves to Ivan’s desk. He truly did like cops. Alfred was delightfully childish in a way that was funny for a few hours, but no one could take for more than a day at a time. One could only imagine how he had been as an actual child. Ten times as bad, or exactly the same? Maybe some boys never did grow up, as they say. “Only If you promise to stop whining.” “I promise nothing! Come onnnn, I’ll show ya my hose…” Again the eyebrows wiggled and Ivan almost snickered. Such a strange person. How old was he? He had looked a bit younger than Ivan, so maybe thirty or late twenties? A good age, young enough to enjoy fun but not young enough go overboard, old enough to understand life but not old enough to be weary of it. “Well in that case. Will you show me how it works?” “Oh, I’ll show you all right, and let you try…” This time Ivan did snort. “Tone down the eyebrows and I might take up your offer”, he chuckled, making Toris tilt his head in confusion. It couldn’t be that odd to hear Ivan laugh, could it? Surely he had done it in his partner’s presence before. “Eyebrows?” Alfred asked and the eyebrows stopped wiggling. He must have done it instinctively so he didn’t even pick up on it. Ivan wouldn’t be surprised – Alfred hardly seemed the perceptive type. The only things he could think about were probably sex, cheetos and beer. “You want me to pluck ‘em? They’re kinda thin already…” “Nevermind. Just make sure to impress me and you’ll get something good in return”, Ivan smirked, whirling around on his office chair. “Ivan –“ Toris attempted, but a quick hushing from Ivan silenced him and made him go back to studying the badly pixellated security footage. “Oh, do you have company?” “Just my partner. We’re going through some evidence.” Thank you, Toris. Live a little, nerd. “Jeez, you should have said you were at work. Tell me all about it later! Seven at Rocker’s! Bye!” “Bye.” With a heavy sigh Ivan put his phone back in his pocket. Security footage was easily the most mind-numbing part of police work, even worse than paper work, and in homicide investigation it contrasted so badly with the actual interesting part it felt ten times more tedious than in any other department. “Toris, you wouldn’t mind getting me a coffee?” Toris silently nodded and scurried off. The diminutive Lithuanian was an interesting mix of courage and nerves: on the job he wouldn’t flinch even when a gun was pointed at him, but whenever he was alone with his partner, he became a fidgety mess. Brilliant man, great at his job, but very meek. He had joined the force three years before Ivan, and was also that same three years older. They had been partnered seven months ago, after Ivan’s then-partner had been crippled on duty when they had been chasing a suspect. Tragic story, really. She would have survived the car crash with minor injuries, had a freak malfunction not made her gun fire inside the car and lodge the bullet in her spine. One of the finest of the force, she had been. Dedicated, smart.

--

You might have noticed that Ivan goes back and forth with Alfred and Jones – that’s on purpose. He uses Jones whenever he wants to maintain some distance, and Alfred when he forgets to despise all of humanity. Oh Ivan, you’re not nearly as misanthropic as you tell yourself!

Dobroye utro(Дoбрoе утрo): Good morning Alyo( Алё): Hello

Chapter name comes from Ship of Fools by World party. I should probably mention that the song lyrics have nothing to do with the chapter contents, I choose them purely by title. Also the symbolism mostly only makes sense to me:D Don’t mind if you don’t get what I’m going for.

[tkpro-scenarios]

Can I ask you to make a scenario where Sora and Nozomu fight for the reader and then reader chooses either of them? Separate endings for both please. Thank you so much ^_^

Thank you for the request! We’re soo sorry this took so long orzMods decided to have a little fun with this request and make it more interesting for the readers~!At the end of the main story, you, the readers, will be presented with two choices. One leads to Sora’s ending while the other leads to Nozomu’s, but who you get will depend on which choice you select~Hope you guys have with it ;)

- Mods nana and mari

Things had gotten a little strange lately.

Despite notbeing one to shy away from physical contact among friends, nowadays hugs fromNozomu became more of awkward pats on the shoulder or with him setting his armsback down to his side and turning on his heel in the middle of his action. Evenwhile you guys were playing around, any pats on the back or light punches onthe arm came with immediate, formal apologies. There were even times where he’dstop being his usual energetic self altogether—sparkling brown eyes justsilently staring at you with a look of wonder.

Sora wasn’tany better. While he always reacted kind of weirdly to you calling him‘senpai’, nowadays he’s cover his mouth while his entire face went red. If youasked him what happened, he’d play dumb or quickly gather his things and tripon his way out. He also stared at you longer whenever the two of you walked together–doing a horrible job of hiding it when you caught him by ramblingon about…even he probably didn’t know what. Any sort of contact between youtwo, even an accidental brush of the shoulders would make him leap into theair—like the mere act of touching you sent a shock through his body.

And it onlygot worse when both of them were together. Glaring at each other whenever theycaught you with the other or making jabs at each other whenever youcomplimented one of them.

It wasfairly obvious for anyone to see that they had fallen for you—hard. And they weren’t so dumb to notrealize the other had as well. And so they were fervently trying to keep eachother at a stalemate…but it was only a matter of time until one of them tried to break outof it.

“Ah~! I’mhungry‼” Sora exclaimed, setting his beloved guitar down and stretching. Helooked over at Nozomu who was playing on his phone, eyes narrowing at theyounger male.

It wasinitially just you keeping Sora company while he was brainstorming for new songideas but then the burgundy-haired youth decided to barge in out of nowhere andhad now completely made himself at home.

Sora thenstole a glance at you, who was in the middle of reading a printout whenNozomu’s voice broke him out of his trance.

“Sora, won’tthe Hana-pan be sold out if you don’t hurry?” he asked, making the red-hairedyouth suddenly shout.

“Ah crap! Iforgot‼” Sora exclaimed, rushing out the door while Nozomu clenched his fist invictory before he made his way to you.

“Hey, [Name]do you mind coming with me for a bit?” the energetic bassist asked,feeling a rare moment of anxiety once you looked up. “I-I need to tell yousome—”

“…Is thatwhat you thought I’d do?! It’s after-school you idiot‼” Sora exclaimed, shovingthe door to the back entrance open.

The youngerboy clicked his tongue, grabbing your wrist as he pulled you to your feet. “You’rethe idiot for taking this long tofigure it out‼” Nozomu exclaimed, opening the classroom’s front door as he randown the hall with you.

“W-Wait!Nozomu-kun, where are we going?!”

“Not so fast‼”

—

You foundyourself getting dragged all around the school while the two boys played atiring game of tag, as Sora desperately tried to catch up to his junior. It was clear everyone was getting tired, yet neither boydecided to give in.

“Nozomu-kun,where are we going?!” you reiterated, stumbling to keep up with your classmate.

“For now the plan is somewhere Sora won’tfollow!” Nozomu huffed, pulling you along when you heard a voice getting closer.

“Get back here, Nozomu‼ Don’t think I’m gonnalet you get one over me‼” you looked back to find Sora catching up to you two.

“Sora-senpai—”

“Dammit,he’s persistent…” Nozomu clicked his tongue, turning his head back to shout at the young singer. “Find someone your own age, senpai!”

“What areyou talking about?! I’m only one year, two months and nine days older thanyou‼”

“You’restarting college in a few months, you creep!”

“Like Isaid, what does tha—[Name]-chan look out!” you immediately found yourselfgetting pulled back by the shirt, bumping into Sora’s chest as he clutched yourshoulders while Nozomu tripped and fell down the stairs.

“Ow ow ow….”The burgundy-haired teen muttered, sitting up and rubbing his head.

“Nozomu-kun,are you alright?!” you and Sora jogged down the stairs to tend to the youth.

“Oww.Distracting me so I trip down the stairs…that’s a dirty move, but well playedSora!” Nozomu complimented as though it was the most ingenious thing he’d everseen.

“I think youjust tripped because you weren’t looking where you were going, Nozomu-kun…” youreasoned.

“Eh? Huh? O-Oh yeah! A-all according to plan!” Sora nodded, an ‘evil’ smile twitchingon hisface as he took on a deeper tone. “Thank you for falling for my trap.”

“Why are youowning up to an accident?! If this was really something you planned, then you’rea horrible person, Sora-senpai‼” you retorted, looking back to your senior whenyou felt a hand on your shoulder.

“Asexpected, you’re not gonna go down without a fight.” Nozomu put himself between you and the redhead. “How ‘bout we settle this once and forall, Sora-senpai?”

You tuggedon Nozomu’s sleeve. “Guys, I don’t really get what’s going on but stop fi—”

“I wasthinking the same thing. What do you have in mind?” Sora asked, still keepingup the evil mastermind façade.

Nozomushrugged, closing his eyes. “Obviously with music.” Brown hues opened with aspark, challenging his fellow bandmate. “Whaddaya say?”

“Wouldn’thave it any other way.” Sora returned his glare. “You on the bass versus me onthe guitar. Winner gets the right to ask [Name] out first.”

“Wait. What kindof contest is that?! How would you even decide the winner?!” you retorted, both boysblinking at each other in realization.

“Ah…that’strue.” Sora scratched the back of his head while Nozomu folded his arms andclosed his eyes in thought.

“…How ‘boutrock-paper-scissors then?” Nozomu suggested, earning an eager nod from his bandleader.

“Yeah! Getready! One, two—”

“Umm…” youfinally spoke up, both of them look back to find you raising a hand. “D-Don’t Iget a say in this?” you asked, cheeks lightly flushing at their doe-eyedexpressions.

A ratherawkward moment of silence passed until Sora and Nozomu looked at each other.

“I-I guessyou’re right…” Sora replied with a chuckle and a sheepish scratch of his cheek.“We got a little too carried away, huh?”

The burgundy-haired teen nodded, returning his attention back to you. “Then [Name], whydon’t you tell us?”

“Hm?” youblinked.

“We’re clearly gonna get nowhere fighting about it, so why don’t you tell uswhich one of us you want to date?” Nozomu suggested, placing his hands on hiships. “You like one of us, right?”

“Eh?! ButI—” you began, cheeks flaring red at how casually the words left his mouth.“H-How did you know that?”

Looks likethey were more perceptive than you thought…

“Nothing’s gonna change between us if that’s what you’re worried about!” Sora reassured.“Whoever you pick, we’ll all still be friends like always, so don’t worry! Nohard feelings, no matter who gets picked. Right Nozomu?” He looked to theyounger male who nodded eagerly.

“No hardfeelings!” Nozomu echoed, both boys looking back at you as they spoke inunison.

“So [Name],who’s it gonna be?”

You looked from Sora to Nozomu, nodding in understanding. Standing straight to properly address them, you calmed your nerves by…

> Taking a deep breath

> Clenching your hands into a fist.

Ohara Sora

Sora let out a sigh as he closed the sliding door of the room they had been in. He didn’t expect for you to choose him, nor did he expect Nozomu to actually step down. Of course, before you two could go back to the room, both of you escorted Nozomu to the nurse’s office first. Nozomu was initially with you two after the trip to the nurse’s office to head back to the room, but decided to just head home after getting his things.

Taking a deep breath, Sora looked at you. “Sora-senpai…” you started, but before he could let you say more, he asked you to sit down on one of the chairs.

“Senpai?”

Sora went to get his guitar and slipped on the guitar strap before facing you, “I…” he paused before taking another deep breath, “[Name], I like you.” he said it confidently, and quite seriously, which surprised you. He was rarely serious, even if he was, he would still look like he was having fun.

“I actually wrote a song for you… And I planned on singing it to you before or after I graduated, depending on what I felt. But… Now that everything had happened, I just thought of singing it to you now. So… Please listen to this.” he then started to strum his guitar, and soon, started to sing.

It was slower than most songs he composed for SOARA, but you could feel how he felt about you from it. Closing your eyes, you listened to his singing and smiled. When he had finished, you had opened your eyes to see him setting his guitar down and walking towards you. “[Name]… I know that I’m graduating in a few months but… I really do like you! And I just–” he soon started to get frantic and his face got flustered, seemingly embarrassed and lost for words. “Aaaaah! This wasn’t what I imagined to do!!!” he cried out as he hid his face with his hands.

You giggled as you gently took his hands in yours, and pecked his cheek, “Sora-senpai… I like you too.”

Feeling himself getting more flustered, at both your gesture and words, he asked, “R-Really?”

You nodded, giggling once more as you thought that he was cute for suddenly getting flustered when he was acting so confidently just a minute ago. You then got surprised when he had suddenly hugged you, “S-Senpai?!” 

He tightened his hug before facing you, “Can… Can I kiss you?”

“Eh? Y-Yeah…” you nodded.

Sora then pressed his lips to yours. You then felt yourself blush as you two pulled away. Sora soon chuckled and grinned at you, exclaiming, “I really do like you, [Name]!”

Feeling flustered yourself, you hid your face in his chest. You guessed that now that you had returned his feelings, he had finally felt confident in announcing it over and over again. Sora muttered in your ears once more, “I like you.”, as he placed his head on top of yours.

Nanase Nozomu

“This is why‘no running in the halls’ in a rule. Please be careful, alright?” the schoolnurse chided, heading back to the staff lounge and leaving the two of you toyourselves in the infirmary.

“Are yousure you’re alright, Nozomu-kun?” you asked, looking at the bandage around his wrist. “You took a pretty hard fall…”

“I’m fine!Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix~!” the youth replied, waving his injuredhand in the air to show it wasn’t as bad an injury as it looked. “To think you might’ve ended up this way too if it wasn’t for Sora…” he folded his arms withdeep thoughtful nods. “I hate to admit it but, good job senpai! I should thankhim properly later for protecting my girlfriend.” He mused with a chuckle, recalling his senior had gone to get everyone’s things once he confirmed Nozomu was alright.

“Girl—?!”you exclaimed, bringing your voice down as you shyly glanced at your feet. “G-Girlfriend…”

It hadn’teven been that long since the whole fiasco yet he said it so casually, like itwas the most natural thing in the world for him.

“[Name], it’sprobably weird for me to be asking you this after all that’s happened but…” Nozomu called, making youlook back up at the teen. “Are you really alright with me?”

You blinkedin confusion, prompting the young bassist to elaborate.

“We’ll begoing on dates and holding hands and stuff from now on, you know? We’ll even be kissing!”he exclaimed, leaning closer for emphasis. “Are you fine with kissing me?”

[E/c]hues widened, looking away while his curious brown eyes bore into you. You took adeep breath, glancing to the side.

“Of course! I-Iwouldn’t have picked you if I wasn’t…right?” you stated with a pout, feelingthe blood rush to your face. “I like you, Nozomu-kun.”

Coffeeorbs stared at you for a few more seconds. “Heehh…” he hummed, the usual grinspreading across his face. “That’s true! Haha, I guess you wouldn’t!” helaughed. “I like you too, [Name]!”

“And sincewe’re at it…” Nozomu draped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. “CanI kiss you?”

“Eh?!”

He nodded, pullingyou to his chest to lean his face closer. “I’m your injured boyfriend afterall! I fought hard for your affections so a kiss as a reward might help meforget all about my pain~” he whispered, closing his eyes as he pressed hislips against yours.

“H-How’sthat…? Did I make it better?” you asked once you pulled away.

“More than agood night’s sleep ever could.” Nozomu replied, brown eyes smiling warmly atyou.

“Ahh, I kindafeel a little bad for Sora-senpai!” He laughed, pressing his head atop yours as he hugged you tight. “But this was soo worth it!‼”

[403secret]

@godhelpthesickies pLEASE DONT BE SAD (and sorry i took forever orz my brain is working very slowly)

EDIT: OH SHIT APPARENTLY RICH ISN’T AN ONLY CHILD FORGIVE MY INCONSISTENCIES 

There are two digits written at the top of his test. Red ink bleeds into the page, and even when he turns the paper around they show through. At first, the numbers don’t register to him–they’re unreadable, unreachable, and he feels numb all over, like nothing can touch him.

And then the score registers--61–and Rich suddenly feels like he can’t breathe.

Normally he’d be fine crumpling up the exam papers and tossing them into the nearest recycling bin, but that currently isn’t a viable option for him. 61 is far below the class’s failing grade, which means the teacher is going to call home. There’s no way he’ll be able to hide this from his dad.

He can’t go home. He can’t go home. He can’t go home. 

The second the bell rings, he bolts from the classroom. School’s out, and he’s supposed to be walking home, but the idea of facing his father makes his stomach turn. He makes a beeline toward the school bathroom and locks himself in the first available stall. His heart is pounding at least four times faster than it should be, and he feels shaky and hyperattentive, like every detail around him has been amplified: the bathroom lights are suddenly blinding. Someone enters the bathroom, and simply the click of the lock turning on the stall beside him sounds deafening. It’s all too loud: the footsteps, the creak of the stall door opening, the rushing of water in the sink.

In his mind, the sounds turn to his father’s footsteps, the creak of the bedroom door, the slosh of alcohol overflowing from a glass bottle, and then his father reaches out and– 

–and then the person leaves the bathroom and he’s alone again. The room is too silent and his heartbeat is too loud. Shakily, Rich sinks to the ground and lets his backpack slide from his shoulders. He’ll just stay here, he guesses, where no one will find him. Better here than home.

“Have you seen Rich?”

Christine looks up at him, puzzled, and shakes her head. “Sorry, but the last time I saw him was at lunch.”

“Well, if you find him, let him know I’m looking for him.” Jake tries keeping his voice even because hey, he’s the coolest kid in the grade, but it’s pretty evident that he’s borderline panicking. He knows for a fact that Rich was at school today–they were supposed to walk home together–but now, he can’t find him anywhere. 

He pulls out his phone. Rich still hasn’t answered the five texts he’s sent, what the fuck?

J: where r u?

J: dude

J: i can’t find you anywhere

J: richard goranski, answer my texts

J: rich?

J: are you okay???

Maybe he just has text notifications turned off. Taking in a shallow breath, Jake dials Rich’s number, bracing himself for the worst.

No one picks up.

Okay, that’s really weird. Jake bites his lip, pocketing his cell phone. Either Rich’s phone is dead or something is very, very wrong.

Rich’s father is a businessman.

Well, actually, that sentence is more accurate in past tense: Rich’s father was a businessman–and a successful one at that–up until he got into alcohol. Now he’s jobless and drunk all the time, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s had a taste of success.

That success has now, unfortunately, slipped from his reach.

With Mr. Goranski himself being incapable of keeping his own business running, of course his expectations get transferred to Rich, his only child. And when Rich can’t uphold those expectations–well, that’s when the problems start.

Rich squeezes his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around his knees and making himself as small as possible. He can’t do it. He can’t go home where he’s vulnerable and defenseless, but what other option does he have? He can’t hide here forever. His father will come looking for him.

Hot, burning tears obscure his vision. Pathetic, his mind supplies, and he doesn’t fight it. Vaguely, he feels the vibrations of his phone in his pocket–a steady on-off pulse like a SOS signal–but he doesn’t reach for the phone. He doesn’t want to pick up because he doesn’t think he can keep his voice steady enough to hold out a conversation. He doesn’t want to sound as broken as he feels.

“Hello?”

There’s no response. Tentatively, Jake pushes open the door to the bathroom, scanning his surroundings for any sign of his boyfriend. The place is empty, except for– 

–a single locked stall. His eyes dart to the ground–he can see Rich’s shoes from under the stall, along with the outline of his backpack. Checkmate.

“Rich, I know you’re in there.” Jake takes a few steps forward, then comes to a stop just outside of the stall door. “Come out?”

“I’m not in here,” comes a muffled voice from the other side, and Jake freezes, feeling his blood run cold. He’s always been perceptive–it helps him out with social cues–and it’s evident, by the rough, uneven edge to Rich’s voice, that Rich has been crying.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Jake tries again. “Can you at least unlock the door so I can come in?”

“No. Please, just–just leave.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Jake.”

“That’s too bad.” Jake exhales, staring down at his fingertips. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“That’s fine.”

Rich doesn’t speak for awhile after that. The room is silent, except for the drip of water coming from a broken tap, and the occasional ghosting of footsteps outside the bathroom door. That’s fine, Jake thinks. He’ll stay here for as long as he needs to.

“If I tell you,” Rich says suddenly, “will you promise not to laugh?”

Jake is a little startled–he’s gotten so accustomed to the silence that the sudden sound is a little jarring. “I’d never laugh,” he says. Nothing that makes Rich sad is worth laughing over.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then Rich slides a slightly-crumpled sheet of paper through the crack between the stall door and the divider that separates his stall from the next. Jake takes it gingerly and looks it over. There’s a red 61 at the top, next to the typed headline, Math.

At first, Jake just stares. Rich usually gets decent grades, but a rare 61 can’t be that bad, can it?

“I don’t understand,” he starts. “Your average in math is great, right? I’m sure you’ll be okay–”

"That’s not it.”

“What?”

“I'm not worried about that. It’s just– they’re going to call home. My dad's going to get r-really mad.”

That’s when everything clicks into place. Oh, Jake thinks, feeling his blood settle icily in his veins. “Open the door for me, Rich.”

“W-What?”

“Please just open it.”

There are some shuffling noises, and then the lock clicks and the door cracks open. In the split second after, Jake takes in the sight before him–Rich’s eyes are wide and red-rimmed, shining with the glassy sheen of water, and his hair looks disheveled, like he’s been running his fingers through it. He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance to.

Jake pulls him into a bone crushing hug. His arms fit nicely around Rich’s frame, and he feels the tremble of Rich’s frame as the smaller boy takes a breath. He’s trying not to cry, Jake registers. The realization hurts.

He reaches up tentatively, carding his fingers through Rich’s hair. “You can cry.”

Rich’s breath hitches again and he buries his face into the Jake’s shirt, his fingers loosely grasping the fabric. “Jake–”

“Look. You’re going home with me,” Jake asserts, in a tone that says that he’s already made up his mind about this.

“But my dad–”

“You can stay at my place until he comes to his right mind about this.”

Rich nods, just once. Jake thinks he’d be content to hold him like this forever. 

But the world won’t wait for them, so instead, he takes Rich’s hand. Rich shifts so that his weight is no longer on Jake’s body.

“I’ll walk you back to my place,” Jake offers.

He knows he hasn’t fixed things yet. They’re a long way from that. But from the small, relieved smile on Rich’s face, he knows that it’s a start.

[dollofdeath]

Long Dream [2/7]

Series: Joker Game

Characters: Hatano/Jitsui; Miyoshi is there too

Rating: G

Summary: Hatano wasn’t one to read shoujo manga, but there was something familiar about this author named Kunio.

Words: 3584

Notes: Modern AU/Reincarnation AU; Spin off to Déjà Vu (KamiMiyo); I feel a bit odd about this chapter, especially because I’m not quite sure about Jitsui’s character?? So sorry if he feels off, especially past Jitsui (he’s sure, uh, something) orz ;; but anyways *jazz hands* here it is, chapter two~

Ch. 1 | You can read this on AO3! Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoy~! o/

Ch. 2 - Jitsui I: Our Next Time

As the man who would become known as Jitsui entered the designated training location, he felt neither stress nor ease, neither excitement nor dread. Odd, considering he'd spent the prior days pondering the weight of his decision, but in this moment he didn't quite feel anything.

Well, that wasn't completely true. Perhaps he did feel a bit out of place.

While he'd been anticipating the other trainees to fit a particular image, seeing it for himself made him realize how he stood out. He'd heard comments about his pretty face and his smaller physique all his life, but he'd learned to ignore them and he'd like to think he'd learned to have gotten over them as well. No longer was he intimidated by sneers and mocking gazes, but as he saw how much bigger and tougher the other trainees looked in comparison to him, he felt an extra need to prove himself here more than ever. There was a reason he'd been chosen for this spy training facility and he would live up to the Lieutenant Colonel's expectations despite what others thought.

But no matter how soft-spoken and caring he was supposed to be, that didn't stop him from wanting to smack the grin off his seat mate, who so blatantly ignored his attempts at being friendly in favor of talking to the men seated in front of them.  

Had it been under different circumstances, Jitsui wouldn't have thought much of it. It was nothing new for people to snub him, but he'd thought the other trainees would be above such quick judgments or would at least bother trying to be polite on the first day. As it was, he couldn't really call the man out since it went against his assigned persona and he would have to live with that, he supposed. There was no need to cause a scene on the first day over something like this.

Even then, it felt strangely isolating as he sat to the side. A scan of the room showed that a majority of the other trainees had already struck up conversations amongst themselves as they waited for the session to begin. Normally, Jitsui wouldn’t be opposed to the silence he found himself in, but he thought it unwise to not make at least some acquaintances. Fortunately, there appeared to be another like him; sitting by himself in the back was a man whom also didn't meet conventional standards what with his youthful face and shorter stature. Barely sparing his seat mate a glance, Jitsui put on a polite smile and went over to the man. He would make this work in his favor.

"Hello," Jitsui said as the man nodded at him in greeting.

"Hey," the man said non-committedly.

"How do you do?"

"Could be better, could be worse." Like an afterthought, he added, "And you?"

"The feeling is mutual, I suppose," Jitsui said, pausing as he took in the chatter of the other trainees. Already, it seemed like they were forming cliques and groups and whatnot. "Not much of a social butterfly, are you?" He asked, keeping his voice light and pleasant.  

As if he'd just said some sort of dry joke, the man snorted.

"I could say the same of you." The man gave him a once over, looking rather unimpressed. "What brings you here anyways?"

It was good that the man seemed competent enough to be suspicious of him, but it wouldn't do him well if he wouldn't cooperate with him. Either way, Jitsui carried on.

"'Here' as in this facility, or 'here' as in right here?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

The man merely raised an eyebrow, his eyes holding only the smallest hints of wariness.

"'Here' as in what do you want from me?"

Jitsui didn't take any offense at the accusatory tone but he didn't reply immediately either. Instead he looked back out to the other trainees as if to illustrate his answer. In his peripheral, he saw the man's eyes follow his and if he was seeing anything that he was seeing, then he'd see alliances forming -- alliances that could work against the both of them should they see fit. And if they were to survive in this training facility, they couldn't do it individually.

Returning his gaze back to the other man, Jitsui saw that he was still staring at the others with a blank expression.

"I just think that us small people should stick together, no?" Jitsui said, a suggestion rather than an insistence. Still, as the other man looked back to him with those droopy eyes of his, he thought his words had done the trick.

"Fair enough," the man said, offering his hand to shake. "Hatano."

"It's nice to meet you, Hatano," he said, shaking his hand. "My name is Jitsui."

As Hatano returned his smile with a lazy one of his own, Jitsui decided he’d made the right choice. He'd made an ally for now. And perhaps he could get along with this Hatano man.

Jitsui had long become familiar with the sounds of pencil scratching against paper, the scritching noise as he sketched a comfort of sorts. The amount of erasing he'd done had stopped frustrating him some time ago, knowing that he was just one step closer to perfecting his story as he brushed away the eraser bits. As strange as it sounded, the manga making process was one of the few times Jitsui truly felt content. Of course, he often felt like murdering a man or two as he worked, but it was his creation in the end -- his own little world where he could lose himself in with the familiar characters. Or rather, familiar character.

Despite the taller stature, unkempt silver hair, and ice blue irises, the droopy eyelids of Le Loup 's main character was a constant reminder of the man dearest to Jitsui. "Whom had been dearest" was probably a more accurate statement, but as long as Jitsui kept on writing Shimano's story, he could pretend that Hatano still existed. And as far as he knew, there was nothing to prove otherwise. At least, that was what Jitsui told himself whenever doubt began to swell up.

Still, he didn't dwell on such thoughts and continued his cycle of sketch, erase, and repeat. At one point or another, his life began revolving around Le Loup -- maybe it was when Fukumoto and Odagiri (finally) admitted to their relationship or maybe it was when Miyoshi had tried moving on from Kaminaga -- but regardless of the reasoning, he dedicated most of his time to it because it was almost as if Hatano was still by his side. Little by little he'd been given inklings of the true Hatano during their time spent together, where they shared more than they should've as they grew closer; that was the Hatano he wanted to remember, to immortalize with his work -- the ray of sunshine that somehow made his way into his heart.

And, if he had to be completely honest, a part of him hoped that Hatano was really out there and would reach out to him one day.

For now, Jitsui settled on recreating Hatano's experiences told him about albeit with a fantasy twist. He'd never be able to go through what Hatano had for himself, but imagining how everything played out was fun in its own right. Sometimes it was like he could hear Hatano's voice when he wrote Shimano's dialogue and see the fluidity of Hatano's movements as he drew the action scenes. But if he had to be honest, Jitsui's favorite feature to draw was Shimano's eyes -- his droopy, ice blue eyes that held the same fire Hatano's did. He spent more time on them than he liked to admit, but it was so easy to lose himself in them --

"I'm home."

Jitsui tore his gaze off the paper to see Miyoshi entering their apartment.

"Welcome home," Jitsui said, quickly forcing himself to get back to work. He saved admiration for when he was alone, especially after that time Miyoshi pointed out the similarities between Shimano and Hatano. Though he'd shut him down with a remark about his hair, that didn't stop Miyoshi's all-knowing smirk from popping up whenever he worked.

"My," Miyoshi said, taking a seat across from him. Jitsui didn't need to look up to know that he was gazing over his work with amusement. "Did you even go to school today?"

"Why wouldn't I? I got home early is all it is." Not that he'd ever say it, but he'd specifically created his schedule so he could have as much time to work on his manga as possible.

"Right. I just don't want you dragging behind in your school work, Kunio-sensei."

Without pausing, Jitsui gave Miyoshi one of his cold smiles. To his credit, Miyoshi didn't flinch.

"Are you doubting me?"

"Of course not; you're one of the most capable people I know. I'm just concerned," he said without any hints of actual concern.

Now it was Jitsui's turn to be amused.

"You? Concerned?"

"It's one of my father's conditions after all." No amount of training could ever cover up Miyoshi's disdain for his father, his smirk falling just a bit. While Jitsui could relate to a certain degree, he never missed the rare opportunity to exploit Miyoshi's weaknesses.

"You never struck me as the type to care about other people's orders," he said, more teasing than mocking, as he continued sketching away.

"I could care less about what that man wants." In his peripheral, Jitsui saw Miyoshi straighten his posture and raise his chin high. "I just don't have the means to support myself. Not yet, anyways."

"It's amazing how all it takes is one man with money to have some control over you."

Feeling Miyoshi's eyes burning holes into him, Jitsui kept his smirk to himself.

"It's just a minor setback," Miyoshi said, to which Jitsui hummed in response.

"Things have certainly changed, haven't they?"

Miyoshi made no reply nor any indicator that he heard him, but Jitsui didn't mind. He worked best in silence anyways, when he could concentrate completely on the story he told -- on his memories of Hatano. He wanted to give them the respect they deserved, the care they needed. Hatano had never been the most detailed storyteller, telling him only the main points and expounding only when asked, but Jitsui clung onto every word nevertheless and worked with what he had.

He clearly recalled what Hatano had told him about his mission in France, of how he'd instigated a riot and lost his memory in the process, of how he'd gotten wrapped up with members of the French Resistance and helped them escape from the Germans. It was the scene he worked on now, the image of Shimano nursing his bloodied head and his allies tending their own wounds as they discussed an escape plan forming piece by piece. More often than not, Jitsui wondered about how Hatano had truly felt throughout his missions. Things would be easier if he were there to discuss all these things with him. Things would be easier if he were there in general.

"I saw something interesting today," Miyoshi suddenly said, cutting through the silence and more importantly, his concentration. "Two somethings, actually."

"Is that so?" Jitsui asked, only half interested. Miyoshi would never waste his time with meaningless chatter, but he had a deadline to meet. Even then, nothing could prepare Jitsui for what he was about to hear.

"Hatano --"

They were three simple syllables composed of three characters, yet somehow Jitsui's body came to a standstill as Miyoshi spoke them. His hand stopped abruptly as it hovered over Shimano's face, Jitsui trying to register what he’d just said. Though he'd often heard the name in his dreams and repeated it plenty of times in his head, hearing it spoken out loud was a rarity.

"-- and Kaminaga."

Jitsui barely heard him say Kaminaga's name, but he tried to remain calm. To think, not only was Hatano around but Kaminaga also. As he looked up, Miyoshi wore an unreadable expression.

"Are you sure it was them?"

"I wouldn't have told you if I wasn't."

He really wouldn't. Miyoshi wouldn't lie about such a thing, especially when it concerned him as well. Not to mitigate Miyoshi's own problems, but Jitsui was still trying to come to terms with the fact that Miyoshi had seen Hatano -- alive and in the flesh. Part of him thought it unfair that Miyoshi got to see him first when he'd spent the better part of his life wondering about him, when he'd been hoping that he'd been reborn also, when this was his Hatano. However, now wasn't the time for any resentments.

"How were they?" Jitsui asked finally, hating how shaky his voice came out.

"I don't know." Miyoshi said, much to his disappointment. "I... didn't get the chance to talk to them."

Jitsui would've gladly called Miyoshi out on the pause he'd just made had the situation been different, on how obvious he'd made it that there was more going on than what he told him. But Jitsui's own mind was still numb from the news, still letting what he'd heard sink in.

"That's unfortunate," he said instead. "But they must be around here, shouldn't they?" Mechanically, he resumed sketching. "I suppose you'll just have to find out next time you see them, then."

Miyoshi didn't respond immediately, but from his peripheral, Jitsui saw him clutch at his chest -- his heart -- perhaps a hint to whatever mishap may have lead Miyoshi to miss his chance today. How ironic, Jitsui thought, that the once perfect spy had become so flawed. Or maybe it was more like he was allowed to be flawed now. Nonetheless, the moment of vulnerability didn't last long and Miyoshi looked up to him with a smirk.

"Of course," he said with a different kind of confidence than his usual -- this one more determined, filled with meaning.

Jitsui only smiled back before looking towards the pages of Le Loup in front of him, Shimano’s droopy eyes matching his gaze. As glad as he was for Miyoshi, his thoughts drifted off to Hatano. He wondered if he and Hatano would have a next time as well.

Perhaps their next time would come sooner than Jitsui expected.

Miyoshi had since gotten bored of watching Jitsui draw and left him alone, which he was thankful for, but the sounds of his phone ringing interrupted his much needed solitude. He had half the mind to ignore the call, but seeing that it was from his editor/publicist/whatever-the-fool-was-calling-himself-today and knowing how he got when ignored, Jitsui answered.

"Good afternoon, Gamou," Jitsui said, positioning his phone in between his ear and shoulder as he continued working. "Is there anything I can do for you?

"Afternoon, Jitsui," Gamou said, sounding tired, the kind of tired he got whenever Jitsui insisted on adding extra blood to a scene. "Yes, actually. Whenever you can get to it, can you hand in a signed autograph? Some kid is asking for one."

Already, Jitsui added it to his mental to-do list. Autographs weren't exactly uncommon, but on top of finishing the next chapter, restocking on supplies, and getting his own schoolwork done, they weren't top priority. In fact, he'd just gotten a stamp to sign things off.

"Don't worry, I'll get it done. And whom am I making it out to?"

"Let's see..." In the background, typing noises could be heard from Gamou's end. "I believe his name is Hatano."

Hearing that, Jitsui froze and his phone slipped from his shoulder and clattered against the kotatsu top. Faintly, he heard Gamou calling his name and he scrambled to pick it back up.

"Are you okay, Jitsui?"

"I'm just fine, thank you," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Just to make sure I heard you correctly, you said Hatano, right?"

"That's right. Ryousuke Hatano."

Jitsui's mouth dried up. Simply Hatano could've been anyone and despite what Miyoshi told him earlier, Jitsui didn't want to assume. But Ryousuke Hatano was too much to be happenstance. He remembered Ryousuke as the name Hatano had taken up for his mission in France and it seemed that the recurring theme for the reborn spies was for their names to be a combination of the names Yuuki had given them and an alias they'd taken up.

This had to be Hatano. His Hatano.

"I see, thank you. If it's no problem, may I have his address? I'd like to send it personally."

There was a brief pause where Jitsui could imagine Gamou’s brows furrowing and and his eyes narrowing, like whenever Jitsui thought it'd be a good idea to kill off yet another character.

"Can I ask why?"

"Do I need a reason?" Jitsui asked, adding an extra edge to his tone.

And then there was another pause where Jitsui could imagine Gamou recoiling in fear like the first time he laid eyes upon him in this lifetime.

"No, no," Gamou said rather dejectedly. "Just... I'll text it to you, all right?"

"Of course," Jitsui said, his demeanor taking a one-eighty. "Thank you, Gamou," he added in that sickeningly sweet voice of his.

"It's no problem," Gamou said, trying to keep whatever dignity he had left before hanging up.

Setting his phone down, Jitsui looked back to the panel he was currently working on, where Shimano stared right at him. Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to continue sketching. How funny that his whole career had started with his one desire to see Hatano again, but he didn't expect it to actually come true. But it was happening -- would be happening if things worked out well. It must've only been a few seconds since Gamou ended the call, but Jitsui couldn't sit still now. As dear as Shimano was to him, Hatano was dearer still and he didn't want to wait for Gamou's text.

Checking his business email and social media accounts was something Jitsui rarely did, having been banned from posting things himself without Gamou's approval. Apparently his messages and statuses had been "scaring away the demographic," and as ridiculous as he thought it was, he complied. It was easier letting Gamou handle everything and he'd never been much for social media anyways. But if it meant that he could read Hatano's words for himself, it was worth a try.

His inbox held nothing of interest, but fortunately something came up on his Twitter account. Right on the very top of his conversations was a user with the display name “hataYES” and an icon of a black cat. Jitsui had never clicked on something so quickly in his life.

The last message had been sent from him (well, Gamou) a few minutes ago but considering the blue checkmark, it'd been seen, so hopefully that meant he'd be getting a response soon. In the meantime, Jitsui read the rest of the conversation, which didn't consist of much but held a lot of significance nonetheless.

Hey! How do you do? I'm a huge fan of yours and was wondering if there would be any opportunities to see you in person?

Just with Hatano's greeting, the corners of his lips tugged up as he recognized the meaning behind Hatano's words. If only he hadn't made the decision to keep his identity private, then maybe they could've planned some sort of meeting. Or maybe if he'd just gotten the chance to talk to him first, then Gamou wouldn't have offered an autograph instead. But no matter. He could make this work. If Hatano was willing to go with what Gamou suggested, then surely he was up to something too and Jitsui would meet him halfway.

"You look particularly happy," Miyoshi said, emerging from his room. As he poured himself a glass of water, he gave him that all-knowing smirk of his, but somehow it didn't annoy Jitsui like it usually did.

"I just feel good today." Jitsui simply said, rereading the message for the umpteenth time.

"Hm, should I be expecting the police to come asking about a missing person?" Miyoshi asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.

"It's nothing like that." Jitsui set his phone back down again, the message burned into his memory. "But I think I found a certain someone."

Miyoshi blinked at him, his mouth opening as if to question him but shutting it once it seemed to click. He didn’t give any witty remarks or any snide comments, much to Jitsui’s surprise, but he smiled -- one of those rare, genuine smiles of his -- as he walked back to his room.

"I hope things work out with your someone then."

"Thank you. I hope so too."

With the click of Miyoshi’s door closing, Jitsui cleaned up his work space, leaving behind a clean piece of paper and a pen. He couldn't concentrate on working right now, thoughts of Hatano flooding his mind. It would be a while until he had more free time to make any visits, but he'd at least give Hatano the autograph that he agreed to take. An autograph with a generic message and stamped off at the end wouldn't cut it though. He needed to send him something meaningful and worthwhile.

Not wasting any more time, Jitsui began writing, knowing exactly what to say.