fuzzykazeki87 - Tumblr blog

[fuzzykazeki87]

Why is bro angy 😦🤨❌️

why this gilert so mad 😢😢😭😭😭

[fuzzykazeki87]

The Boys at “The Poem of the wind and trees” Premiere & After-Party (Actor Au)

*if you're wondering whose hand is holding Carl's waist, it's Gilbert-

[fuzzykazeki87]

“Our love's got them terrified...Baby, you and I make the angels cry.”

Song name: MAKE THE ANGELS CRY - Chris Grey

~◇~This song is so Serge x Gilbert coded to me~◇~

[fuzzykazeki87]

Dear Serge,

You would love Pokemon cards.

[fuzzykazeki87]

Somewhere deep inside Gilbert, I knew he does love Serge.

*cause tf you mean the person he was imagining for the last time by his side is Serge instead of Auguste?! (Fuck you, augu)

But he was just a little goofy goober...

[fuzzykazeki87]

I kinda hate mappa, but if they decided to remake Kaze to ki no uta into a full anime series and the paris arc a movie...

I might forgive them just a tiny bit.

*because they remake kazeki*

[fuzzykazeki87]

La Seine (Kaze to ki no uta Short Story)

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.

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Seine river, Paris, France - 1886

Years have passed since Serge took Gilbert away from the slums.

Even though he and Pascal had to use a little force, Gilbert finally couldn't help but give in.

Now, Serge was being pulled by an impatient Gilbert all the way. He held his top hat down by the brim slightly with his other hand, the sound of their loafers tapping fast on the streets of Paris and several passersby who would look in their direction.

"G-Gilbert, slow down!"

Serge shrieked when they almost hit a merchant who shouted at them.

“D-Désolé!” he apologize quick with a swift move glancing at the old man over his shoulder before shifting back on the energized Gilbert's back in front of him.

Suddenly the world felt like time was moving slowly. He admired Gilbert's wavy golden hair which was starting to get a little longer than before bouncing under the top hat he was wearing, the knee-length frock coat that hugged Gilbert's slender body and created a beautiful curve even from the back.

Both of them are both 19 now. They had entered the stage of true maturity after being forced to become adults after they escaped from Lacombrade 3-4 years ago. Serge's piano skills led him to a musical career and performing in front of many people as a young pianist who became quite famous (and also because he's phsically charming), while Gilbert had completely recovered from the effects of the drugs that almost killed him. He had half forgotten about Auguste thanks to Serge. He tries to take a job that suits what he likes, in Art.

They finally arrived at the Pont Neuf bridge. Gilbert suddenly stopped his track as if he put on the brakes and let go of Serge's hand causing the dark-skinned man to get throwned off, losing his balance and-

"UWAAA-!!"

Gilbert, regained his conscious after hearing a loud thump and some gasps. He quickly look to the side and his green eyes widen immediately; Serge, laying on his face on the ground, grunting mostly in pain, his hat was an inches far from him and fingers slightly twitching.

"SERGE!!"

Well....that's the opening.

.....

"I'm sorry."

said Gilbert muttering with his pink rose petal-like lips slightly pouted and his sharp eyebrows furrowed as he cleaned Serge's slightly dirty face with his hands, by gently patting them and rubbing.

Gilbert rarely expresses or shows emotions. He almost looked like a puppet being moved by strings, but this time, Serge could see and feel his emotions.

He scrunched up his nose when the blond brushes off the bridge of his nose, his other hand cupping his jawline firmly. These gestures of Gilbert are very affectionate.

"I was too excited, didn't I?", the beauty says with a slight smirk and he put Serge's top hat back on his head.

"Ah..you're always too excited."

Gilbert raise an eyebrow and he turn away scoffing, elbowing Serge's stomach.

"Ouchie!"

"Shush."

The dark skinned boy laugh nervously while rubbing the spot where Gilbert hit him. They approached the barrier wall of the bridge and leaned forward looking down the Seine.

"This is my first time seeing the Seine." said Serge softly with a smile. He felt two sharp eyes glued on him from beside him, "Really?"

"Yeah, I only know about the city of Paris, but never the Seine...La Seine."

"I only heard and read about the Seine River in the library when we were at school, but never actually came here. Even when we were living in our first apartment, even though it was in Paris, we could never come here."

Serge said while continuing to look down at the lively and calmly flowing Seine river.

"Because, we were stressed out with such poor amount of pennies." add Gilbert bluntly and Serge couldn't help but snorts, covering his mouth.

"What? It's true! Ne te moque pas de moi ! (Don't laugh at me!)", Gilbert said with cheeks flushed red, embarassed deeply and shoves Serge to the side as he continue to hold in his laugh.

Serge rub his eyes as his cheeks were hurting from trying not to laugh and he wave his hand defensely at the blond, "Okay, okay, sorry. P-Pardonnez-moi de rire. (P-Pardon me for laughing.)" he said a bit breathlessly.

Gilbert scowl and turn his face away for a moment, but he roll his eyes playfully and formed a small smile. He turned his face back to Serge,

"Well, actually I have been here several times. It's just that at that time I was little and didn't understand anything. As time went by, I became fascinated by Paris and the Seine river.

One of the hearts of France is the Seine river... it's like a heart, it wouldn't live without a heart." Gilbert said while looking straight ahead with the wind blowing over the two of them. The gust of wind made his golden hair underneath his top hat seem to dance in the air.

Serge who looked at him felt breathless, his mouth slightly agape.

Truly perfect beauty.

"...I used think of myself as Paris, but without a Seine so I feel lifeless.

But, who would have thought, that I had now found my Seine and it was standing right next to me now."

Serge's breath hitched and red color slowly raising up in both of his cheeks when he realize what does the blond referring to.

The blond smile and walked up to Serge, standing right in front of him. The brown eyed stunned when Gilbert suddenly cup his face gently with both hands, holding his jaw.

Gilbert's thumbs traced Serge's chin with his eyes following the movement. His hands slide down Serge's high collar, resting on his firm chest underneath the layers.

"Yeah, it's you. Happy now?"

Seine

I am Gilbert's Seine.

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.

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.

.

[fuzzykazeki87]

It's my 7 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

[fuzzykazeki87]

OMG I FINALLY BACK AFTER A YEAR(?) OF BREAK-

[fuzzykazeki87]

The face, the hair, the skin...the EYES are Serge coded.

[fuzzykazeki87]

[fuzzykazeki87]

＃KAZE TO KI NO UTA !! ♡ — I STEEP YOUR HEART IN MY CHAMOMILE TEA (SERGE X GILBERT).

#. synopsis! — serge will love gilbert until the day he dies .

#. characters! — serge x gilbert .

#. warnings! — angst, explicit mentions of death and canon-typical dark content .

#. word count! — 1.4k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — please accept my humble kazeki spotify playlist <3

It was never that Gilbert didn’t love Serge as much as Serge loved him. No, it wasn’t a matter of choice, or want, or desire, —it was a matter of possibility. By the time they met, it was much too late, although Serge never wanted to believe it. He was a smart young lad, but a child is always a child. And Gilbert was a child too, even if he didn’t seem it at times. They were doomed from the start; by the heavens, by God, by earthly forces and celestial ones alike. They were doomed by every season, by every whisper of wind, by every hand that had ever touched Gilbert’s aching frame, stealing more of him away.

When he met Serge, there was nothing left to give, no matter how badly he’d wanted to. He was a void, some cosmic hole of nothingness that sucked things in and never spat them out. He was broken, and tattered, and torn at every edge, —and he did love Serge for whatever that was worth, but in the end, it wasn’t much. Gilbert was living on Serge’s borrowed time, feeding off his warmth, pulling him under. . .

The sun sets upon another day, one that Gilbert never saw, and Serge sits alone in his room, dressed in clothes that don’t feel like his own. Because they aren’t. He’s always been more tall than he’s ever been proud, and this ruffled collar and gold-buttoned vest may have looked dashing on his father, but they swallow Serge up just like Gilbert used to; trading one prison for another.

At least when it was Gilbert’s doing, Serge felt more like himself.

But here he sits in this stuffy manor, brown eyes flickering across the ornate paintings hung about the room. They’re all trimmed in subtle bronze, carved into filligrous vines, and it’s all so melodramatic that it’s giving him a headache just staring at them. The art itself is expertly done, —mostly flowers and cabins stuffed somewhere off in the woods. For a moment, Serge thinks to himself that he should have run somewhere like that with Gilbert, somewhere they could have hidden themselves away from the world for as long as it took him to get well. Forever, maybe, if that’s what he needed. 

It’s a pipedream now though. Gilbert is gone; has been gone for years, and yet Serge still finds himself thinking of him as if he were soon to walk through the door at any moment’s notice. He can’t eat chestnuts without tasting Gilbert’s burnt flesh on their surface, can’t sleep in any bed without the ghost of Gilbert’s arms encircling him, —and sometimes they’re softer than others, but they never change their size. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, Serge can still smell Gilbert on his sheets; one’s that he never even laid on. He hears his voice when he plays piano, humming along to the melodies he plays, —he feels him when the wind rustles, when the sun shines, and when rain takes over the skies.

If there’s one thing Serge knows for certain, it’s that Gilbert will live inside him for as long as it takes to make things right. He’ll apologize a million times for mistakes he never had the chance to make, and he’ll pour an extra cup of chamomile tea, even though Gilbert probably wouldn’t have liked it anyway.

He’ll sit and think far too often about how Gilbert would have grown in tandem with him, —getting taller, and warmer, and kinder, like Serge was melting ice in his palms. He’ll visit his grave and tell him about his days, even if he’s never really felt Gilbert there where his name is carved into marble and brownstone. He’s the only one who ever visits these days, and it would be a shame to let his resting place become some overgrown mound of weeds. Maybe Gilbert wouldn’t mind, but Serge does.

He’ll try not to cry as much as the days go by. Time hasn’t healed his wounds the way he thought it would, —but he’s not doing himself any favors with the way he digs his fingers around in them every morning, desperate to keep them festering like some metaphorical maw of devotion. It’s what Gilbert always did, picking at his cuts and his bruises to keep them around.

Serge will bleed on every inch of Lacombrade Academy, then on every stone on the streets of Paris, just as Gilbert would have wanted.

He’ll carry this guilt like a cross on his shoulders, —unadulterated and proud, each step heavy with the weight of remorse. Serge will lug this love like a burden and a gift from some forsaken savior, a constant companion, shaping to the contours of his soul, merging down to the muscle. This is where he feels closest to the writhing boy he lost to the rain and the mud and the horrors of his mind. This is where he feels Gilbert so strongly; in the sinews of his being, rotting on the inside but sickeningly sugar-coated.

He puts an extra cube of sugar in Gilbert’s tea and watches it dissolve, then takes a sip of his own.

It’s mild, —floral, and maybe it would be soothing if Serge allowed for it to be. He won’t, of course.

Shadows dance off the walls in the late evening light. The air is thick with melancholy, the kind that permeates the tea in Serge’s delicate porcelain cup. He almost smiles when a whisper of wind from the open window makes the curtains quiver and snuffs out the candlelight on the clothed table. Gilbert never did like romantic gestures. He preferred something raw and much less tangible, clawing at Serge until he came apart, just so he’d put him back together.

And he always did. . . Until he couldn’t. Serge always knew how to fix Gilbert; how to pull him in and soothe the ache, until the echoes got louder, until Gilbert got high enough to block them out, even when it came at the cost of blocking Serge out with them. At least he was delirious at the end. It’s a somber sort of comfort knowing Gilbert wasn’t in the right mind when it all came crashing down, —but more than that, it’s a reminder to Serge that it’s his solemn duty to keep those memories alive until he’s food for the worms to eat.

There wasn’t enough love in the world to save Gilbert from himself, and Serge has yet to reconcile with the bitter truth that he knew that all along. He’d known it from the moment they met in that claustrophobic dorm room when Gilbert came crashing in, teetering on the edge. It was only a matter of time before his sadness caught up to him. He was running from ghosts and the whispers of his mind, from the attention he craved and begged for, and found in the arms of whatever upperclassman or old, nasty man he could sink his teeth into for a night.

And Serge couldn’t kiss that away.

He couldn’t ever hold Gilbert tight enough, so he settled. He settled for the tanned hands brushing golden strands from his face, caressing him gently even when he begged to be hurt. He settled for whispered words against his neck instead of canines on his flesh, for big, brown, innocent eyes that were just so disgustingly kind. Gilbert settled for love when he wanted to be hurt.

Worst of all, he liked it.

He liked how Serge held his cheeks and kissed his tears away and how he always kept the promises he made.

Now, Serge sifts through memories of pale skin and lean muscle, —emerald eyes that never really had a spark. But heaven knows they were so, so pretty when Gilbert wanted them to be. His heart wanes like the humble moon, the ache of loss still ever-present, no matter where he goes. He lives with a chill that follows him wherever he ventures, undeterred by the warmth of his tender memories or the cup of quickly cooling tea in his palms.

Gilbert’s love was never perfect, and it never came without great costs, but Serge would have traveled to every end of the Earth to keep it. He’d have paid every prince imaginable just to pull him from the depths and breathe new life into his fragile lungs.

But it’s too late now. . . So Serge sits alone at this table, holding a cup of chamomile tea the way he once held both their hopes and sorrows. He clings to what he has left, —the reminders of what he lost and what he gained. 

The last sip lingers like Gilbert’s lips always did on his collarbones, and Serge settles the empty cup back onto its saucer.

[fuzzykazeki87]

[fuzzykazeki87]

I had weird obsessions with their grown-up ver in the last volumes

[fuzzykazeki87]

enjoy a few screenshots of me corn platting the shit out of this panel and crying

[fuzzykazeki87]

"Serge is gorgeous and he know that very well" Carl Maisser - @1234explode-blog

[fuzzykazeki87]

This is probably how Serge and Gilbert to each other

Serge fell faster, but Gilbert fell harder...