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in another universe I forget you before you forgot me

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Michoacán’s Monarch Butterfly sanctuary

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Journal comic.

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Ayato Drabble #2

His grandfather’s motivations are so thinly veiled that Ayato doesn’t know why he even bothered coming along with him. Well, no, that’s not right. He very well knows why he agreed to come along despite not wanting to, namely for two specific reasons: One: his mother had taken an urgent flight back to Japan for work-related reasons, leaving him alone in Russia with his siblings, cousins, and useless uncle, so he couldn’t rely on her to stay with him; Two: while said useless uncle would be around at his grandfather’s house, it wasn’t uncommon for him to bring back ladies Ayato had no idea even existed prior to his grandfather temporarily leaving his uncle in charge of watching over the place while they were gone. So, yes, he knows why, but it’s just that he’s now wondering if dealing with the strange women his uncle loves is worse than dealing with the strange people at the “party” (it’s more a gathering if anything, full of other rich families doing rich family things) his grandfather so obviously brought him to in order to introduce him to the host’s daughter who’s “cute” and “only a year younger than him.” He doesn’t want to meet her. There’s no reason to, especially because they’ve already met before, followed by him complaining to his grandfather who’s conveniently forgotten by now how Ayato had clearly explained to him that Vera Volkov is dense. Stupid. Annoying, loud, and so on. Ayato doesn’t like dense people. “Dedulyaaa,” he interrupts, prying into the conversation between his grandfather and the owner of the house. His efforts are met with no rewards, just a few pats on the head that he knows is Dedulya talk for “Yes, yes, I know, now go away.” He leans away from the touch, scoffing (which, of course, also goes unnoticed). Fine--he’ll go away, but not to talk to that annoying Vera. He decides that he’ll instead make a point by standing near one of the tables, which has been carefully layered with treats for the guests, with his arms folded over his chest. This, in theory, is a perfect plan to show his distaste for his grandfather’s lack of consideration, but in practice is very hard to pull off when his grandfather isn’t even in the room anymore. At least, though, he’s apparently attracted the attention of someone. “Heeey,” says a boy who looks suspiciously like Vera Volkov, now standing in front of him. “You look like a dog took a piss on your shoes.” Maybe if Ayato ignores him, he’ll go away. Maybe he won’t say anything else. Maybe-- “I made it worse, huh,” he continues, still very much there. “Wrinkling your nose like that… Hey, I take showers like everyone else, okay? I don’t smell.” “Eh?” Ayato blinks, not even having realized that he was showing such obvious distaste. Oops. Either way, it hadn’t worked, so he has no choice but to acknowledge him. “Um… Okay.” Clearly, he absolutely knows how to get his point across. “You don’t have to sound like you don’t believe me…” The boy in front of him sounds a bit dejected, which is surprising. Ayato thinks that he must be a little bit older than he is, judging by his height, but not old enough that he has any kind of atmosphere that demands respect, thankfully. “Not like that,” Ayato says, fully aware how clumsy his words sound. Ugh; he hates speaking in Russian, and the fact that both of his grandparents knew Japanese fluently had made him lazy in learning, which sucked, because his sister was already so far ahead of him with it. He wishes she were here now, so she could speak for him, but she isn’t, so this boy will have to deal with his shitty Russian. “Holy crap, your Russian really does suck.” Or not. “What?” “Vera told me you suck at speaking Russian, so I wanted to see for myself, and you really do.” He doesn’t suck so bad that he can’t understand what this kid is saying in full, unfortunately. Ayato suddenly wishes he was worse at something for the first time in his life. “You suck,” he says, indignant. Vera’s brother might be right, but that doesn’t mean he has to take it. “Yeah,” the guy responds, to which Ayato furrows his eyebrows, getting a grin out of him. He looks stupid when he smiles, just like Vera. “Hey, come with me.” He grabs Ayato’s wrist before he has the chance to protest, tugging him toward a hallway, then some stairs, then even more stairs. He’s lucky Ayato’s feeling generous and that he finds the living room full of strangers more annoying than one stranger. When they finally reach the attic, which is surprisingly clean for an attic and not full of spider webs like he had always imagined attics to be, he’s prompted to sit down on a nearby wooden box, which he reluctantly does after making sure that there’s really no dust on it. The ceiling in the attic is low, not so much that he has to crouch, but if his grandfather or anyone taller than the older boy came in here, he knows they would have to, which is probably why the attic looks like it’s been taken over by said boy. There’s various magazines piled on other boxes nearby, notebooks, and other stuff that he recognizes as something he’d find in Sousuke’s possession sometimes, too. “Sacha,” the boy says after pushing some magazines off the other nearby box so that he can sit across from Ayato. Ayato frowns at the sound of them hitting the floor, hating how messy this guy was turning out to be. “Okay,” he says, huffing. It’s not like he’d asked, right? He has the right to be dismissive. Still, it’d be annoying to be known as “the guy who sucks at Russian,” so he gives in for now. “Ayato.” “Okay, Aya.” “Ayato.” “Aya.” “Aya--forget it.” It’s not like he’ll ever see Sacha again after this, so it doesn’t matter what he calls him. “What…” he trails off, biting his lip as he tries to think of how to say what he’s thinking in Russian. “What is this?” “An attic? You don’t know what an attic is?” That’s not what he meant, and he has a feeling Sacha knows it. “You don’t know Russian, and you don’t know what an attic is. Wooow.” “I know Russian,” Ayato snaps back. “I know an attic.” Or at least he does now, having added the word to his mental library after hearing Sacha say it in Russian. “Huh, I was wrong. You know everything, don’t you, Aya.” He’s being looked down on, and he hates it. Ayato fights down the immature urge to get up so that he can try to fight him, mostly because he can tell he’d probably lose against him in a fight. “Annoying,” he says instead, folding his arms over his chest again and looking off to the side. When he looks back, Sacha’s in front of him, having moved from the box in order to invade Ayato’s personal space. For some reason, Ayato thinks that he wants to die. That’s probably what this feeling is. “I’ll teach you Russian,” Sacha says, catching Ayato off guard. He doesn’t need a teacher. He can learn on his own, he wants to say, but he isn’t sure how to say it properly, or at least not with the right attitude he wants to throw back at this guy for being annoying. “Don’t need~” he settles on instead, leaning away from Sacha and his lack of respect. “Yah, you totally do. You suck. Like, you’re the worst ever.” Ayato’s offense must show on his face, because Sacha laughs. “Besides, you’ve got nothing to do at places like this anyway, right? I think you’re funny, so let’s be friends.” He doesn’t think he’s said anything funny this entire time, but it’s the first time he’s been called something other than a kid with a stick up his butt, so Ayato decides he’ll let it slide, even if it might be Sacha bullying him again. “Whatever,” he says, leaving it at that because, honestly, Sacha’s right; whenever his grandfather makes him come to places like this, he always ends up feeling left out due to his lack of experience with Russian, and he’d rather deal with her jerk of a brother than be forced to try to have a conversation with Vera Volkov ever again. “‘Kay. I’ll come find you whenever we’re both at one of these places, so just stand by the wall like an awkward loser again so you’re easy to find.” Ayato suddenly hopes that their first lesson on Russian can be about how to defend himself when accused of committing murder that he may have actually done. He doesn’t say that, of course. “Whatever.” “Yeah, whatever,” Sacha agrees. “Hey, do you like…” Eventually, in the distant future, Ayato will come to realize that he happened to like whatever Sacha decided to bring up those days they spent together simply because Sacha was the one to bring it up… but hey, when he’s eleven, he doesn’t have to worry about gay crisises yet.

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Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.

The Little Prince (via derlingdarlest)

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She was an angel. Always looking bright and smelling sweet yet with a glance of death in her eyes.

(via 13lilies)

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이달의 소녀 (현진) (HyunJin (LOONA)) - 다녀가요 (Around You)

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Junghwa (feat. PINKMOON) - ALICE

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Unread Letter #1

Attached to the lid of the inside of a music box. Shion, Happy birthday. Actually, I hope that after reading this it doesn’t change your impression of this gift, but it was just coincidence that I happened to have this, okay? My grandfather gave it to me when I was younger, even though I really think he should have given it to Kira. I’m not really into musicals, but since you like them, I decided it’d be better if I gave it to you, since I don’t think they make these anymore.. It’s probably valuable or something? I can’t afford expensive things, so this is the closest I can get to that. I mean, don’t get rid of it for money. That’s not why I’m saying it is! I’m just saying that I’m giving you something good, so appreciate it. I don’t know if we can ever actually go see it, but this one’s Russian, so even if you can’t see the original (I still don’t get the difference) and you’re stuck with Japanese renditions your entire life, this makes up for that, maybe. I hope we can go see it, though. I already said I don’t really care about musicals, but I think I would like it if I went with you. I like a lot of things when I do them with you. Granted, you’re one of my first friends in a long time. One of my first REAL friends. I’ve had other friends. I’m not… that pathetic. The point is, I’m glad we’re friends, so don’t think about giving this back because it’s supposed to be sentimental. I’d rather you have it. You’re the only one I’d give something like this, because we’re friends. I want to call you my best friend, but I don’t think that’s entirely accurate because I don’t think I feel close to you because of friendship. I’m sorry I lied about liking guys at first… and about not telling you that the guy I like doesn’t actually exist, or he does, but he’s not seeing anyone else, because he’s not the guy I said he was and. Okay. It’s you. I like you, okay? I don’t know why either. It’s not like you have to like me too. I know you like some other guy. That’s fine. I just wanted you to know because we’re friends, and I think you’re justified to know that when you do the things you do with me, I’m seeing them in a different way, which I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable with because we can stop talking and I’m seriously rambling. I should stop writing this. It’s really long. I feel like I still have a lot more to say, but I’m not going to tell you that until you know and even then I might not tell you because it’s embarrassing. So yeah. Don’t get your hopes up. Maybe this is a bad thing to tell you on your birthday… (Haha.) You can just disregard all of this if you want. I won’t be hurt. I mean I will but whatever, I’m not a baby or childish. I think that’s more like you, but I’m writing you something complimentary not insulting you. Okay. Happy birthday, again. Ayato. P.S. If you don’t want to come to Christmas after this then it’s fine. I mean I’m looking forward to that but I don’t wanna weird you out. Also I don’t want to get a boyfriend or for you to bring a girlfriend. I don’t know why I said that was okay. P.P.S. Don’t forget you promised me you’d pass your math test. December’s starting, so we’re only four months away from April… Crazy, right? I’m kinda excited, though. I wanna be a second year with you. We’ll both be called senpai again which I think is cool. (Haha…) Okay, these aren’t supposed to be longer than the letter so I’ll stop, but I’ll be seriously mad at you if you don’t ace that test!

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young legends | sleigh bells

young legends die all the time but I don’t mind, don’t close your eyes don’t say goodbye, I know you’ll try young legends die and so will

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Into the Well | Mree

are they mine? these memories reside inside my mind i swear that i have been here before

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#1: Beginning ft. Ayato

Ayato is smart.

Naturally gifted, his teachers say. That his mother should be proud.

At least that’s what they say when he’s younger, when he’s inquisitive and willing to show off that he knows more than the other kids around him, that he’s better and smarter and always will be—until he isn’t anymore.

He realizes in junior high that he isn’t gifted. He isn’t naturally smart, and he isn’t better than any of the other students around him. He’s just average, he thinks, as he stares at the failing red number written on the test his teacher passed back.

The numbers are briefly covered by long, blond hair as a female classmate leans over his desk to look, a presence he hadn’t noticed because he was busy getting taunted by his own stupidity. “Awww, Aya-chan,” she says, patting his head in an attempt to sympathize, even though he knows she doesn’t really care, not like he does. “It’s okay. It happens to everyone.”

But I’m not supposed to be like “everyone,” he thinks. He’s supposed to be smarter, better, because this—everything—was supposed to come to him naturally, studying only for good measure. So why—why did he fail when he was certain he was right?

When he doesn’t say anything, she sighs, standing up straight and offering him a smile regardless of how rude he’s being. “I thought that you were smarter than the rest of us, so I—”

“Haha, I did too,” he interjects, laughing a little, even if it’s not a nice thing to say. It’s true. He had thought so. He doesn’t like being brought down onto her level, either, not this girl who spends all of her time talking to boys instead of putting any weight into her grades. ‘It doesn’t matter until high school, anyway,’ someone like her would say, and he’d smile even though he was thinking about how stupid they were, about how they’d fail in the future too because they couldn’t even pass now, at this level.

Now, realizing he’s the failure here, more so than her because he had actually tried, because he wasn’t supposed to be like any of them, hurts.

“—so I feel a bit comforted, that you’re the same as us.”

But I’m not.

“Let’s just forget about these stupid tests, okay? They won’t matter in the long run.”

“Won’t they?”

“Aya-chan, don’t worry about it!” She places her hand on his shoulder, and he wants to shrug her away, but he doesn’t, because he’s Miyagi Ayato, a boy his mother had taught to be nice in every way that she could. “We can forget about it! Some of the other girls and I are going out for karaoke after class, so you should come with! We wanna, like, hang out with you!”

He offers her the same smile in return, shaking his head as he stands from his desk and removes her hand from his shoulder in the process.

“No thanks,” he says, stepping around her, clutching the ‘stupid test’ in his fist, and crumpling it. “I have to go home to study. I’m sorry. Maybe next time?”

“Aww, okay,” she says, her voice sounding whiny, and he hates it. He hates that she doesn’t get the weight of this situation, that she thinks everyone wants to be like her, with a total disregard for their grades and who they’re supposed to be—what they’re supposed to live up to. “Next time, then! I’ll, like, totally ask you tomorrow!”

“Of course,” Ayato agrees, even though it’s a lie, and he knows it before he even reaches the classroom door. He can’t hang out with her, or anyone else, not when he has to study. Not when he has to become better.

This, naturally, is only the beginning of his dedication to becoming “gifted.”

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Kou Drabble #2

Kou doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry, he says, because his tear ducts don’t work “or something.” It’s a joke. It’s funny. It’s especially funny because no one knows enough to correct him, no one knows enough to say what he’s thinking in the back of his mind, that they probably don’t work because he’s already dried them up in his younger years. No one can say that he definitely did cry, once upon a time, often and always followed by a, “Boys don’t cry,” from his father with a pat on his head that never meant anything that he wanted it to. It was a dismissal, a “you’ve taken up enough of my time,” even though his father had spent the entirety of their time alone together scolding him for what he hadn’t done, what he couldn’t be, more than for anything that had actually been happening in his life. He kept the words to himself, that boys don’t cry, that he’s not a baby anymore and shouldn’t act like it, even if he didn’t believe in it. It was his father’s fault that he became this way, that he happened to cry so often even when he didn’t want to. He could at least remind himself of that when he was away from him, leaving the room to seek solace in anyone or anything else, even when he couldn’t stop his eyes from watering. He didn’t need his father’s approval. He didn’t care if his father thought he shouldn’t cry because his father hardly thought anything of him except for when it was to tell him how much of a disappointment he was. Kou didn’t need him, or his opinions, or anything else about him, but he did need someone--anyone, at least one person to confide in. His brother, luckily, was the perfect person for it; despite his parents being the people they were, an older brother was still an older brother. They were meant to protect their younger siblings, no matter what happened, so even if Ren were older and Kou was still a “baby,” one who hadn’t grown out of crying yet, he knew that his brother would understand him. He had all of the other times, pushing Kou’s hair back and away from his face as he told him it was okay, that he didn’t need to be upset over something so small in a way that made him feel okay. In a way that had conditioned him to expect this comfort from Ren, in a way that hadn’t prepared him for what would happen when Ren pushed his messy bangs away from his watery eyes as always, smile ever soft as Kou awaited his words about how he was fine, how he didn’t need to worry about negative things that were said about him… Except it didn’t come. “Kou,” Ren had said that day, smile always the same and yet looking so different in that very moment, “Boys don’t cry, you know?” Oh. Maybe he didn’t need an older brother, either.

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Kou Drabble #1

Stupid teacher. Stupid teacher who didn’t understand anything.

Stupid teacher who pretended to be on his side, then sent him home when he got to be “too much.”

Even though she had said that she understood. She said she understood him—that he was antsy and loud for reasons he couldn’t help—but she apparently didn’t understand enough that under no circumstances should she ever contact his parents in the case that he couldn’t behave in the cookiecutter way that everyone expects him to.

He doesn’t know why he expected her to understand that; no one does, or at least no adult does, even when he tells them that he hates his parents and doesn’t wanna go back to them. No one gets it, because he’s just a kid, just another eleven-year-old with a temper issue and a hatred for anyone who dares to scold him for it.

But it’s not his fault.

It’s not his fault that he’s this way, that he’s so very “Kou” in the way that every adult hates.

It’s not his fault, except it is, especially when he’s in the car on the way home with his mother, the silence in the air filled with voices that tell him so.

It’s your fault, Kou.

You’re a terrible child, Kou.

You stress us out so often. Do you want to kill your mother—

“Kou?” she finally says. He looks to her reluctantly and is met with a warm gaze that he recognizes but feels nothing for, one that he might actually believe if he knew his mother cared for him.

“Mmm,” he hums, dismissively because he doesn’t want to talk to her, and part of him hopes she’ll get the hint, but of course she doesn’t, eyebrows furrowing at his response to her.

“Kou,” she repeats again, clearly not satisfied with his answer, not that it really was one. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of what she wants to hear, but she doesn’t stop looking at him and he eventually breaks under the pressure, unable to hold his ground for long—he’s only eleven years old, after all.

“Yes, mother?”

The word tastes bad on his tongue, like something rotten he’s being forced to swallow, but at the very least, it’s all he has to do. She doesn’t make him smile or pretend he’s happy to see her, because he’s sure she knows he isn’t, and he’s also sure she knows that he knows she isn’t happy to see him, so he doesn’t know why she pretends.

Mothers sure are a complex kind of being.

“You really shouldn’t be doing things like this,” she finally says, and he knows it’s coming, but in a way it feels less bad than the silence from before. “Having us called from school to come get you, getting in trouble in the first place… Your father is a very busy man.”

“I know,” Kou says, because he’s heard it since the first time he ever did anything wrong. His father’s a busy man. His father’s someone who works hard to make sure they’re living happily. His father doesn’t have time to be stressed out (by the likes of him, they never say. By the likes of their delinquent son they hardly have the time to even look at, let alone know anything about).

“Do you?” she asks, even though he doesn’t know why. He said that he had. “Ren does. Ren never gets called home from school. Ren is—”

“I’m not Ren,” he spits, cutting her off even though he knows he isn’t allowed to, and regret immediately fills him, causing him to direct his gaze down to the floor of the limousine they’re in. The limousine that he’s so lucky to have the privilege of using, because so many kids his age will never even have a house as expensive as it, so he should act like he understands how lucky he is. How lucky he is that he doesn’t have to be himself, that he doesn’t have to be a cheap delinquent, instead being supplied plenty of lessons on how to be a boring, snooty, stupid rich kid with parents that’ll love him for it.

Unfortunately, he happens to find that kind of “love” cheaper than being the “delinquent” he apparently is.

He hadn’t noticed that she scooted closer while he kept his gaze low, thinking to himself, and when she reaches out to touch him, he instinctively flinches, drawing away. She doesn’t let him, though, because there’s only so far he can go and she’s bigger than him, so she places her hand on his head anyway, running her fingers through the mess of his hair.

“You’re not Ren,” she says, her tone unexpectedly the same as earlier, even though he had thought she would kill him for talking to her that way. “But you are Miwa Kou, and he’s Miwa Ren, so in a way, you’re the same. You’re both Miwas, and as such, you should focus on showing this in the best way that you can.”

“I can’t,” he mutters. He can’t be the person that she wants him to be. He can’t reply to her saying that she shouldn’t worry, that he’ll shape up and become the second son that they always wanted but never needed. He wonders, briefly, if he was the way they wanted him to be, would he still hate Ren? Would he still be inferior to him in a way he couldn’t help?

“You can.” She’s trying to persuade him, her voice still warm but becoming stricter, so that it doesn’t sound like he has an option. He isn’t looking at her, but she’s staring at him, and he can feel it. He can feel her disappointment boring through him, and he thinks, just maybe, that for once, they’re similar.

In the same way that he looks at her, wishing for a mother that actually cared for him, she looks at him, hoping a son she can actually love would appear in his place.

It’s kind of funny, actually, except that in the moment, it doesn’t feel like it. Instead it feels like pressure boiling within him, making his throat feel tight as he realizes that he’s trapped in this situation that he doesn’t like, trapped in this conversation with a mother he doesn’t even want to know, and it’s too much—he can’t bear it, he can’t, he can’t.

So he snaps.

He lifts his arm, pushing her hand away from his head harshly as he looks up at her, eyes narrowed and voice breaking as it raises. “I can’t! I can’t, and I don’t wanna! Lemme alone, you—you ugly—just shut up! I don’t wanna talk to you!”

For a moment, all he can hear is his own harsh breath, but when he calms down, there’s only silence again. That suffocating, harmful silence that he hates, back to haunt him because of his own actions—it’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault.

Maybe if he focuses hard enough, he can choke on it.

“Fine,” she suddenly speaks, all of the warmth from before having disappeared.

It was fake anyway, Kou thinks, trying not to let that bother him. It’ll never be real.

“Fine,” his mother reiterates.

The scenery passing outside of his window suddenly becomes more interesting than her scandalized face as she scoots back over to her side of the car, likely not wanting to look at him either.

“You can speak with your father later, instead.”

That night, he contemplates running away again, having lost count of how many times he’s tried.