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©Philomena Famulok

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frank ohara

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7hell: set on the quiet round table is a cake. not just any cake, it’s a cake that’s soft, still warm to the touch, and decorated with love with soft blues and buttercream. it’s in megumi’s favorite flavor… he’s being celebrated, of course. life is a precious thing. naoki had arranged the candles, while hyesung and haiyan had done the honor of waiting for him at the table. makoto’s obscenely large gift sits right next to the multi-colored balloons hanging from the empty chair’s arm. hyesung speaks up, grabbing the lighter with a smile. “ we’ll be singing to you, whether you like it or not. ”

under the blue shroud of the night sky, megumi walked modestly home, appreciative of the silence after his few hours spent tutoring. he passed by the convenience store glowing violent neon, the alleyway of cats purring only two blocks away, and the unending rows of streetlamps lining about concrete solidified the fact that his hometown was ancient as it was alive, a photo replica of the backdrop of megumi’s boyhood. in its silence, megumi pondered — fleetingly, before it could be stopped — how sweet a sixteen should be, if a wise know-how of life would suddenly unspool, forgiving and velvet in its early day-dawning. but of course, the town remained still, and megumi was inclined to believe that he was perhaps something similar.

as megumi indulgently loitered in his thoughts, primrose and feverfew intruded in his periphery: a medicinal garden potted just outside the door, haiyan’s pride and prize. the herbs grew statically closer and larger and somehow louder and — oh, megumi noted, i guess i’m home, surprised at the ease and speed of his arrival. the door was half-shadowed by the roof overhead.

stepping inside, megumi shrugged off his backpack and unzipped his coat, his shuffling electric amidst the soundless living room. “ sorry i’m late, i got caught up tutoring. my teacher lied about early leav— ”

suddenly, in a slash of his dialogue, the surprise of family. a celebration of life, devoted atop the table; baked sugar and candle flames close-mouthed at utensils; commemoration of years-long friendship in the tower of a gift bag. love clouding in the throng smiling bruising and blessing.

megumi stood, caught in freeze frame, his eyes wide-circling and boyishly innocent. he felt the full force of it at once, the tender chaos of it at once, something ineffable kniving beautifully inside him. he could only stare. “ you didn’t— you don’t— (…) how long were you waiting? ” it wasn’t surprising, how love came in stutters — though quick to shy away in indifference, anyhow.

megumi only waited a few seconds before clearing his throat, the silent sheepishness of him nearing embarrassment. he glanced sideways and scratched the back of his neck in fluster — a habit that followed him as a boy, now sliding tenderly into sixteen. “ please, don’t you think a cake and a wish is enough? ” and maybe, in another home, it would be enough. but megumi knew that in this one — in this chamber of velocity — inertia and minimal ritual wouldn’t come close to it.

so megumi moved forwards, warmed by the fact. love and familiarity ran to embrace him.

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The ceasefire agreement was reached and joy is floating among the Palestinian people

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under blinding fluorescent lights, megumi’s head spun. the walls were too white, tomura’s split lips too red, and megumi’s eyes squinted with the realization of just how blinding color can be. turn this society upside down, she said, and even in a half-daze megumi found sincerity lining the curves of her teeth. a sincerity too extreme, too unforgiving, that even megumi — who carried his own selfish sense of justice — knew that she was settling too far in the deep end. he tested his limbs; they only offered galvanic jerks. stillness, then, though with sufficient movement in his tone: “ so you want to burn the world down, kill everyone until they turn into dust. then what? if your ‘justice’ is a world built on fear, it’s not any better than the justice they preach. ” 

megumi thought about all the nights he came back bloodied and bruised, saving people from things they couldn’t even see. it was tiring, cruel, unending. so routinely unending that violence felt like a job, sometimes. like a dull, middle-aged man’s desk job at a dead-end soulless company. still, the wholehearted and desperate thank you’s that resulted from it were a warm balm one didn’t know they missed until it was given back to them, again and again. how awful it would be, for that thank you to lose its corollary ‘for saving me,’ instead taking on the shape of ‘for sparing me.’ if the innocent’s only sin was naiveté, what could be said about the powerful who drool with greed? “ the world is only fair in that it is unfair. the innocent have nothing to do with that. ” megumi kept himself up, propped shakily on his elbows, a mean gaze pinpointing her irises. the itch of tomura’s finger on her neck made him hyper-aware of the blood trailing down his scalp. he couldn’t help but note that her wound was self inflicted. “ throwing a tantrum over your short end of the stick could never — in any sense — be justice. don’t kid yourself. ”

despite the efforts she made with her appearance, the frenzy pooling in her eyes only exaggerates the uncanny nature of her visage. two red clots behind disarranged hair bore relentlessly into the boy, narrowing just enough to show the wry smile beginning to twist onto her face. her lips are split; stained teeth glimmer beneath the consuming light, and as it tilts its head, its eyes seem to follow every fidget and shift of body its company makes. “ you're asking me what i wanna prove... but isn't it obvious? ” she counters, pointing a long finger towards the boy, its fingernail split to the bed, nearly perforated at its point. “ i wanna turn this society upside down. people have gotten too comfortable looking onto their protectors whenever there's an issue, they expunge themselves of any personal responsibility. they're so sure about the concept of justice, of right and wrong, that people like us slip through the cracks of their 'perfect reality'. i'm asking a few questions, is all. ” the long finger withdraws, brought to her neck, digging her fingers into its flesh to quell the insatiable itch. “ rooting to the main issue of this age. i'm sure you can wrap your mind around that. ” @kauterized, ♡.

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with the pale of his hands in his pockets and the dewy sweet of spring in the ends of his hair, megumi became something like james’s second shadow. it’d been weeks since he last saw james. every unanswered phone call and late night evenings devoid of play invitations had finally tipped over, chipping just slightly into megumi’s porcelain composure. he inhaled deeply, then, reassumed placidity, half tempted to reach out to james before stopping at his abrupt turnaround. hadn’t it been too long? james’s cheeks burned lovely in the damp air, and megumi clicked his tongue at its incredulousness. 

“ james— ” the man started, quick to wedge himself in the liminal space between farrow and his many faces. he unearthed his hands, kept the velvet of his voice soft and low. but megumi wasn’t fast enough — he never was, and whatever door that was open in that split second habitually snapped shut, quiet as it was undeniable. a small part of megumi found room to be dispirited, even frustrated. “ this is about camilla, isn’t it? ” megumi stepped back, if only to give honesty some space. he was never one to entertain pretenses, and the camilla-shaped space between them was everything but. “ i know it seems… absurd, but i wouldn’t have said it if it weren’t true. you know i’m not one for gossip — if you could call this anything like that. ” he kept his steely gaze on james, his brows furrowed in intent. even now, when james wore a fake guilt so cloying, fluttered his eyelashes so prettily, megumi felt remnants of vexation and tenderness alike twitching in the muscle memory of his hands. he frowned.

“ i thought that was the case, ” megumi said quite dryly. they both knew it wasn’t, and megumi left it at that. he repolished his calm, kept his voice steady in spite of a gnawed patience. “ i’ve been alright, though i’d fare a little better if you’d stop avoiding me. don’t think i haven’t noticed. ” megumi glanced at the patch of grass behind james’s shoulder. he’d grown slightly thinner, dark circles under his eyes, and truthfully speaking he spent most nights haunted by bunny’s pleading, somehow revived in the shell of his ears. behind his ghost trailed a question of camilla’s fate before veering, inevitably, to james. did he think megumi was completely off his rockers, restless to the point of delusion? did he keep himself safe throughout it all? megumi hated the silence that followed, how it stretched so unkindly between them. “ i haven’t heard from you in weeks, james. i know it must’ve been— a shock, but— it would be nice to just… know what you’re thinking, for once. ” about camilla, about bunny. about me. 

“ are you going to cold-shoulder me all semester? ” // for that supposed-to-be calm scene… 🤭

dressed in black jogging pants and a grey dellecher sweatshirt one size too large for him, james walked the woody path behind campus, twigs cracking underfoot. his chest was tight, lungs overworked. and a slight trickle of sweat clung to his temple... his cheeks were flushed, too, as they always were after a hard run, even in the cold; this wasn't the time for confrontations and feelings, but here they were. what had he been thinking? he couldn't avoid megumi forever; that they went to separate schools was irrelevant. campuses could be walked. james pouted comically deep, realizing his error. then, he stopped, suddenly whirling to face the other man who had to draw short else they'd clash. he missed him and nearly scowled about it.

face-to-face they stood; james chewed his bottom lip raw, feeling too much like himself, then, eyes bright and searching. sighing sweet: ❛ i have been neglectful, haven't i? i'm sorry. it wasn't my intention, it never is. ❜ a lie — it had been; megumi called camilla a killer weeks ago, and perhaps that was true, but what was james? a killer as well, circumstance be damned. until he learned how to hide his rotten secret, until he learned how to steady himself again and breathe easy — or easier — he had to keep his distance. his eyes went pleading, then, an unfair tactic he employed without meaning to sometimes, and he crossed his arms, hugging himself in the wind, face sad. there was a bite to the air, a chill. it'd been a dismal spring. ❛ i'm just overworked. king lear auditions are approaching, you know, they start next thursday, and i'm trying something new to diversify my resume. it's quite time-consuming... you'll forgive me, won't you? have you been alright? you look well. ❜

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+ gillian armstrong, little women / haruki murakami, sputnik sweetheart / victoria chang, obit / ocean vuong, someday i'll love ocean vuong / rachel mckibbens, blud.

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the stagnant white walls of shoko’s office was redolent of megumi’s quiet boyhood. he thought about gojo and his odd way of showing care, poking banter at megumi’s small wounds yet still ending the day with a swift walk to shoko’s infirmary, her building standing tall above the pink horizon. the amount of years spent at jujustsu high suddenly stacked, unsparingly, and tapped against the crimson door of his heart. amidst the wrinkle of the bandaid’s opening, megumi smelled antiseptic, and he lingered, fondly, somewhere between five and fifteen years old. “ keep waiting, ” megumi teased, “ i’ve well past grown paper cuts and scraped knees. ” in a habit of noiselessness, megumi tucked regard in the back of his throat. he liked the fact that shoko still kept the kit around even if it had been momentarily dormant. actions like that in place of words were enough to fill his tolerance of sentiments, brim it to its edge, even. 

knowing of shoko’s grin without even having glanced up, megumi scoffed just as quickly as her smile bloomed in the four corners of the office. he disregarded the usual, strict temperament of his voice. “ no thanks. i’d rather skip itadori’s and kugisaki’s taunts. gojo-sensei included. they’d never let me live that down. ” the image of gojo setting a star-stickered megumi as his profile picture flashed quickly in his mind, and he lightly scowled at the thought, but the pomegranate evening pressed against the windowpane made everything feel okay. 

megumi sat and allowed a pause to satisfy its welcome. finally, after the entirety of a minute, he spoke plainly and somewhat bluntly. “ have you been busy lately? i know gojo-sensei’s — immortal? — the strongest and all, but... you haven’t stopped by for dinner in a minute. ” megumi tried his best; he didn’t know how else to say how are you? it’s been a while.

@kauterized: “ it feels like being a kid again. ” // shoko<3

his words bring a warm, lazy smile to glossed lips. her touch is feather-light, as usual, and attentive, of course. his injuries aren't serious, not important enough to dot on. but gojo would be irked with her if she wasn't thorough with megumi, and she'd be annoyed with herself too, considering she sometimes still sees that unsure little boy staring up at her. well, down now, seeing he's grown taller than her, even with her heels on. when he was a child and brought to the school by gojo she could remember how unsure she was, she was certain it wouldn't work and the poor kid would get punted to social services. but, oddly enough, megumi stayed and has been here ever since. and she wouldn't have it any other way.

❝ that's what i was going for, ❞ shoko admits, aligning the cartoon themed bandaid up with a small cut he received on his arm. the very same bandaids she had purchased when megumi was younger. she hadn't been qualified then, and he wasn't the type of child who went out to play with friends every day and came in with scraped knees, but when he did find himself with a paper cut or a bloody knee gojo would always bring him to her, and she'd always treat him delicately. ❝ i found them in an old first aid box i had shoved to the back of a drawer. i've waited two months to slap one on you. ❞

once it's pressed on the wound and then stuck to his skin, the woman steps back, her smile remaining. ❝ well worth the wait if it makes you feel nostalgic. ❞ her hand reaches off to the side, snatching up the cigarette she'd left to burn while tending to him. there's still some left, so she takes a drag from it and turns to exhale the smoke away from the boy. ❝ if you really want to continue down memory lane i can find a juice box or something for you? maybe there are some golden star stickers still around, ❞ she teases, her smile coiling into a grin as she turns to flick the ash from her cigarette into her ashtray.

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Franny Choi, Soft Science

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to say that megumi was disturbed would be to compliment him.      whatever moral compass other fifteen year olds held never quite fit in the centerfold of his heart,  and,  truthfully speaking,    megumi was more curious than anything.      he wanted to know what a typical  hyesung  day held,     what gore was present within them and how much of it should be numbed.      he frowned,   somehow offended by hyesung’s glean of him,   and watched    —    almost amusedly    —    how hyesung deciphered his crooked map for a job so heavy as this.

“   i told you already,   it’s fine.     i’m already familiar with unpretty things.   ”      the gaze megumi veiled on the mound was lined with intent;   the stench that funneled from it was enough to call maggots. 

megumi surveyed the area,     assuring that they were alone,     and looked back at hyesung at its confirmation.      there was no pause for consideration,     only the rustle of trash bags retrieved from his pocket before interposing the space between them.      “   the only way i’ll turn back is if haiyan comes here and drags me by the collar himself.   ”      the quirk of his brow was challenging,   almost impatient,   waiting for hyesung to accept the plastic bags.      “   anyway,   you got the gloves?     we should pick up now before anyone comes wandering. people get curious at night.   ”

      he doesn't blame megumi for asking, any sensible person wouldn't prowl in the early hours of night, searching for mishaps within narrow passages and alleyways... incidents where blood runs cold. a glance down at the map flutters betwixt thumb and index, makeshift, but it does the job. ' yes, i'm sure. ' a pause, breath sullen in hyesung's ribs, heeding a warning; ' but megumi... are you sure you want to do this with me? it's not pretty, i told you before. ' an understatement. in the moon's gaze, lies a mound concealed underneath a tarp, littered trash keeping it company. they're faced with a bittersweet reality of the manner, amongst disinfectants and red bags— there's nothing left to save here. ' this is your final chance to turn back. '

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Langston Hughes (1902-1967), ‘Tired’, “New Masses”, Vol. 6, #9, Feb. 1931 Source

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where should you be kissed? (…)

on the knuckles. it feels as though you have fought every day of your life. sometimes, you cannot even tell how much of the blood on your hands is your own... and how much comes from those who've tried to hurt those you defend. you deserve the gentleness of a kiss to your bruised knuckles and broken skin, a reminder that you are not only made of violence.

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✦ @7hell : hyesung,

“ you sure this is the right place? ”

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✦ @7hell: haiyan,

“ can you try to explain it to me? ”

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✦ @7hell: makoto,

“ i’m generous with you, considering. ”

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“As with a wound on one’s own body, it is possible to develop an intimacy with the most disturbing of things.”

— Kazuo Ishiguro, A Pale View of Hills 

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chevergreen