#(( honestly i am having so much fun writing these headcanons and im really frigging proud of the one i wrote for alcohol here

[yoshizawaaamiki-blog]

headcanon meme

“♡ + birthday, + collection, + alcohol” - @riotingvines

(ooc: i did not intend for this to get this long but i ended up word vomiting for the alcohol headcanon so here it is in a separate post??? cos i really need to format it and put it under a “read more” jiaodncaond but im really having fun with this headcanon meme though omg)

birthday Somewhat answered here, but here’s a little more.

Miki always liked spending her birthday in the company of family and friends. She wasn’t the type to throw a big birthday bash, but she enjoyed doing something special as much as the next person does—going to get a good meal, going to karaoke, seeing a movie or a concert. The day after her birthday was always reserved for self-reflection on the year that has passed and the year that is to come. She is a firm believer of “new year new me”, and strives to do something differently every year. For her 23rd birthday, she told herself that within the year, she would move to Tokyo. She had achieved that, and now that she is approaching her 24th, it was time to make a new goal. Maybe, just maybe, she would work to open her heart up more to other people.

collection

Miki had never been good with words, so she did the next best thing she could, which was to draw everything and anything that came to mind. A chest filled with sketchbooks sits under her bed, filled with visual journal entries dating back to her middle school days. If she ever let you take a peek into these sketchbooks, you’d essentially have seen into her mind and her memories. She keeps an extremely close watch on them.

“Today I went to the park with Reina and Koji,” a sketch of the duck pond. “I got my first pair of earrings today,” a sketch of her own ear. “This is Shimoda-sensei,” a sketch of a bespectacled man standing in front of a blackboard. And another of him smiling and waving. A ragged edge remained where the next page was supposed to be. The sketch that originally was there was one that she did while staring out to the track and field court from the art room window. Shimoda-sensei liked jogging after school, and while she kept her distance from the gaggle of girls that always gathered around the track to “support” him, she still watched. On graduation day she had, on impulse, tore the page out from her sketchbook and handed it to him after the ceremony without having the guts to actually say anything. He accepted it graciously, with the gentle smile that was always on his features. “I’m excited to see how far you’d go,” he had said. She grew wings in that instant, willing them to carry her as far as they could.

By the time she returned to visit campus a year later, he had gone.

New faces filled the sketchbooks after that. College friends, family she misses, Tokyo skylines. A half burned sketchbook sits amongst the rest of the intact ones, yet to be thrown out. If you were to ever take a look in there, you’d see the sharp profile of a young man’s face—smiling, laughing, focused, asleep… Whether she chooses to reveal her sketchbooks to a person is heavily dependent on how much she trusts them. It’s her soul she’d be baring, after all.

alcohol

The first time Miki had a proper beer to herself was in 3rd year of high school, a couple of weeks before graduation, sitting on the rooftop of an apartment complex with the group of friends that she had grown up with since they were little kids running around their parents’ shops along the shopping street. It was a classic manga moment; she could hardly believe how much art imitated life in that moment. Sunset. Laughter. Anxieties about the future. Eventual tears and hugs and confessions. She saw two versions of everyone—the 5 year-old, with the bowl cuts or the pigtails, and the 18 year-old, trying to act cool while showing obvious signs of being fucking terrified of what’s to come. The polished off 32 cans between the 6 of them that evening, and would have fallen asleep on the rooftop if not for the spring shower that began to fall. They ran, screaming and laughing and crying back to their shopping street homes. Miki was reprimanded by her parents for drinking underage outside, of course, but it was worth it. At 18, her relationship with alcohol was a friendship.

At 20, she discovered a new relationship with alcohol. She ventured into her first house parties, her first proper college goukon, and that’s where she met him. Him with the unreadable smile and cheekbones and clothes that resembled a New York streetwear catalogue. He was everything right and wrong at once. He was a wino, above all that, and introduced her to all kinds of varieties of wines and grapes and she could hardly remember any of them because immediately after their trips to wine bars they’d end up at his apartment in a tangle of limbs and she’d forget for a moment her own name. He carved his existence into her like he carved his soul into his architectural designs. But there’s always a fine line between happy tipsy and emotional storms. The tipping began the night after she walked in on him straddling her friend from the fashion design department. There was an increase in the number of wine bottles scattered around the apartment in the weeks that followed. None were for her, though. He had gone through all of them and tipped over into the storm, but she wanted to pull him back to safer shores. He tore through her like a maelstrom through a wooden raft. She left with splinters in her heart. He left school the next week. She never heard from him again. At 20, her relationship with alcohol was a bitter love. 

Now, at 23, she had fine tuned her relationship with alcohol, with different kinds of alcohol. Beer was for reunions and friends—it still represented friendship, the evening on the rooftop. But wine, wine she had tamed. A month after he disappeared from her life, she was in the student studio late at night, trying to work out the centrepiece for her showcase, but nothing looked right to her. She tried it. He had always had a glass in hand whenever he worked on his prototypes or blueprints. She never wanted to turn into him; but perhaps at this point a part of her still wanted to feel close to him. Love was never quite logical or fair. She poured herself a hefty glass of merlot and went back to work. It paced her. It unblocked her thoughts. It pushed her ideas along, and by the end of her third glass, her cheeks were flushed and her feet were slightly unsteady but her massive centrepiece was complete. Wine became her muse when all else failed. She understood him better now, she reckoned, and every time she hit a block in her creative works she’d down a glass or two, never more than three, because she had seen what it did to him. Whiskey was the newest addition to her alcohol cabinet, first introduced to her by a mature, seasoned bartender in Ginza. She had asked for something strong--it had been a long week, moving in from Kyoto--and he slid a minimalistic glass across the counter to her. Inside sat a pool of beautiful golden liquor around a huge block of ice, carved to resemble a diamond, reflecting the chandelier light in the most dazzling ways. She fell in love. Whiskey became her drink, on her own in Tokyo, without any attachments or weight. It was her go-to nightcap and drink for her solo time. It went well with a cigarette or two at the end of the day. Smoky, but smooth. Beautiful, but packs a punch. It’s also not everyone’s cup of tea. She found her poison. At 23, her relationship with alcohol was a complex, but somewhat whole.