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purkinje-effect · 3 years ago

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 84: Stereoptikon

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter 15. Go to previous. Go to next. CWs: Unreality, PTSD, surveillance themes, drug use, pandemic survivorship, insects, implications adjacent to character death. (Not sure which of them is having the worst day, in hindsight.) (Title card and chapter quote, footnoted as [0].)

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Angel aided Sticks in collecting the armillaries, which they relocated to the living area. Sticks's occasional muttering occupied the otherwise quiet lease. 'Choly set down the film case cooler, and collected his cane from the middle of the drugstore floor. What was one more inexplicable event, in the grand scheme of such chaos? He pulled a kitchen chair from the lease into one bay window of the unlit store front, to watch the subcurrent of panic surge the Concourse. Finger whistles and occasional cowbell clanks cropped up in the crowd, muffled by the glass. His neck knotted up to match the gloved, white-knuckle grip on the cane in his lap.

Lights out. Nobody's home.

He wondered whether preparation on such short notice could brace the Lane denizens for a blizzard. Surely, a majority of their efforts constituted mall maintenance. With a secure structure, and communal kitchen and lodging, a majority of such a task didn't fall upon the individual, but rather the community. Beyond their dress, he could separate Laners from Satellites by their degree of agitation. The latter shared everything, often forced to share... but those who resided on the Concourse scrambled to get their houses in order. He snorted. See's had robbed the trio of the frenzy of a hurried host. Several hundred people lived on the Concourse, and several times that from outside flooded in through all five anchors and the main entrance. Packed shoulder-to-shoulder, already people had got to shoving and other such gestures. 'Choly's posture relaxed despite the deep bone chill setting in, and a quaint smile welled up in his pitying eyes.

Leave it to an unfettered display of human nature, to remind me how much I miss the old days. Nothing will ever be quite like a crowded mall during the holidays... What could worry them now! What do they even panic buy, toilet paper and cigarettes?

He let up his grip on his cane with one hand, to rub vacantly at his left forearm.

"My, Miss Cook certainly has her hands full with Anchor Inn's intake." Angel couldn't sit still. "My sensors are struggling with exact metrics, with so many signatures, but two checkpoints have declared the mall has exceeded maximum occupancy already."

Sticks groused from the open bathroom.

"And what, exactly, is maximum occupancy?"

"I'm hearing conflicting figures, but See's counts at least eighteen hundred so far. The Hall's already given clearance to permit overflow in anchor lobbies, as well as temporary lease crowding where tolerated." Angel went over to the bathroom. "And of course, Mister Bledsoe has a few house calls, for his chronic patients."

"And where exactly has Fresnel gotten off to?" came 'Choly's skeptical detached murmur.

"The Hierosacristan has gone to The Hall to speak with the Mayor. They're discussing matters in Keb. Would you like me to try to translate?"

'Choly could barely muster any objection in his breath:

"Stop eavesdropping, Angel."

He hadn't expected an answer, let alone a detailed one. It got under his skin to suppose Angel might have an accurate understanding of the entire premises, as it had self-affirmed earlier in the day. Once a DIA bug, always a DIA bug, he resigned: but at this scale? At least he worried less about Fresnel with these announcements.

"Should we proceed with shutting me down now, Sir?" When neither of them replied, it hemmed and continued its observations. "The Children of Atom are doing their best tending to the Concourse glass, in preparation for their religious rites. There's talk of door to door hospitality. They're especially delighted to provide, all things considered. Such a community-driven lot! Really, it's a shame their beliefs create such a conflict with the rest of the community here. So many mall patrons are set upon harassing them, out of an unfounded blame. The glasswork isn't wired together, and each contains admittedly imprecise amounts of radioactive fluid. There's no conceivable way humans could purposely synchronize hundreds and hundreds of different glass vessels to chemically fluoresce in unison! The church couldn't possibly be the culprit. Such a fuss over such a simple matter as visible light! But I'm afraid they wouldn't have a word of it from this fine specimen of General Atomics craftsmanship. Ah well. No matter the cause of it, gentlemen, you'd agree all this phantasmagoria has us all on edge. Am I right?"

Sticks hissed into a flinch, and turned off the faucet.

"Just let us blame the cultists and unclench a little, won't you?"

"Oh but they don't deserve to be the scapegoat, do they?" Angel succumbed to the drama of it. "Sir, do let me tend to that shiner. I'll fetch the iodine."

"God no."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mister Carey?"

'Choly jerked in place, trapped in his own head watching the crowd from his comfortable darkness.

"What? No. I'm fine."

His walk was supposed to have alleviated stress, not piled it on. He reminded himself that while the public would not have access to over the counter drugstore provisions for several days, the Gate City Clinic would still remain open to oversee any medical needs he could not.

"You don't have pain receptors, so let me spell it out." The bickering continued. "Some meds hurt more than the injury. You're not splashing this ghoul's face with that shit."

"...Well, would you rather apply ice? There should be some still frozen in the cooler. Let me fetch a chip for you. Then we can initiate my shutdown protocols!"

"Hey 'Choly, bring me some of your ice," Sticks called after the robot. "And some of whatever you've got chilling in it."

"My walk didn't result in any food or drink."

'Choly stood. He picked up the cooler in both hands, still gripping his cane, and waddled it into the stockroom. By the time he sat down in the dark, Sticks brought in an armillary to light their way. 'Choly opened the cooler at his feet and fished out a piece of ice for Sticks, but the ghoul wouldn't grab it without him pressing it to his bruised, swollen cheekbone himself. To see the damage up close, 'Choly's eyes moistened. Sticks shut his eyes a moment and almost smiled, cupping 'Choly's hand with his own. He took the ice, and continued holding it as he retrieved a chair for himself.

"Fucking mall cops..."

Sticks watched as 'Choly got to work.

"If not food, then..."

"I have enough from the Blood Drive for my first batch."

"It's only been a week. Wicked. Of all the times to get caught up in real work, though."

"Angel, you've got my literature. Be a dear."

"Absolutely, Sir! Which texts do you require?"

"Just... set them all out, please. I'll sort it out." He opened the Merrick Index first, and flipped to the section for chemically treating blood. "Blood is perishable. Once the ice melts, it will spoil quickly. It's inconvenient, but if I don't work now... that's a huge chunk of the surety we have to figure out another way to reimburse. If they're shelf stable Stimpaks, there won't be any risk they'll spoil before we can deliver them in a few days."

"I knew that."

"Sticks, hand me the mineral spirits, please. And the iodine. First aid be damned–it's too rare to waste as antiseptic. You two are not to mess with a man's iodine!"

"Of course, of course. See, Angel? Told you we needn't touch the man's iodine. Oh!" Sticks plunked down the tin and bottle as requested, and with a certain surprise eyed 'Choly's recently reclaimed effect propped beside the desk. "Your cane. Where was it?"

"Oh, do come off it, Sir." Angel tossed him a wash rag for the dripping ice. "You told me to keep it a secret while you looked into repairing it, so Mister Carey wouldn't yell at you. It's returned to him now. This charade no longer serves to minimize grievances, so I'm your accomplice no longer."

'Choly didn't know which of them warranted his stupefaction. He thanked that he hadn't yet cracked into the blood packs, before this development. First, Angel had spouted off a dozen details from the local news, and now it seemed the robot could lie? Like many things, he blamed Sticks's influence for this development.

"It's right." Sticks sat back down, speechless for a moment. He forced a smile while he formed the words. "I should have told you when I broke it. Tripped on it a few days ago. Believe it or not, I'm not the most graceful in the pitch dark... I didn't want you to rip me a new one. So I took it to get repaired. I was out to collect it when See's grabbed me. I'm glad they were too mad at me right then to grill me why I had it to begin with. Might not've got it back inside."

As people passed behind the leases in the utility hall, his peripheral vision lingered at the utility door's window. The sight of the exit compelled him, in a brief and inexplicable panic, to escape the back way. The halted half-gesture of trying to stand settled him back into the chair. The See's stationed outside the door shifted their standing posture to where he could notice them. He masked his agitation as an attempted shift in comfort, and animation intimated himself with his texts. The qualities in the light which were neither red nor green prickled in an effulgent heterogeneous static. He rubbed at his eyes and forehead, overcome with a deep viscous nasal stinging.

"Angel, you've permitted me Mentats PRN[1] while we're here. Allow me a Berry for this, please. I need to be as sharp as possible."

"Of course, Sir. Today's been most hard on you already. I hope it helps." Angel produced the tin for him. He nodded in thanks and pocketed a lozenge in his cheek, but the Mister Handy declined the tin's return. "I can entrust you with the whole thing, while I'm turned off. I worry to have the whole store at your disposal, but I will have to have some faith in you to care for yourself while I cannot."

'Choly couldn't help but frown at the tin in his hand. He deflated and set it by the wall on the desk. The bright clarity of the nootropic chem smoothed out the fuzziness in his grey matter, and streamlined his cognitive processes. He commenced his work without another word. Sticks picked up some of the literature to browse out of boredom, and the trio cohabited in quiet for some time.

'Choly mixed a precise ratio of mineral spirits and iodine in condenser glassware. Handling what parts sat on the low temperature hot plate, he took notice that his reinforced officer's gloves exhibited some heat resistance, though by no means could they be considered heatproof. To the resultant benzoquinoline complex, he titrated the blood packs one at a time. He would have to determine a way to disperse the vapors next time. Then he passed this mixture through a separation funnel, and he collected both compounds that settled out. He piped these two substances into each of the syringe wells of empty autoclaved Stimpaks.

"Why didn't you dip into your max strength Mentats until now, anyway?" Sticks flipped a page loudly. "Christ, that stuff stinks."

"Standard Mentats work best for sensory dysregulation," 'Choly snipped, eyes steady on the opening of the wells of a pneumatic syringe. "Berries' cognitive amplification comes from tailoring the formula to maximize the potency of its neurochemical interaction. Doing so alters many of its chemical properties. Mentats exhibit a broad spectrum effect on one's various acuity. I'm finding that Berry does help somewhat with the light's effect on me, but it does one thing, and it does that one thing very, very well."

"Mostly asking 'cause I can promise they'd sell well here."

"Provided I can secure the secret ingredient..." He sniffed, to deflect from their withering funds. "We'll see."

"Knott had better not hold it against our surety due date, with them forcing our doors shut like this."

"Yancy's order will be ready to go, the moment the blizzard is over. If this batch satisfies the Satellites, maybe they'll request a big order like this with some regularity. God knows there's no shortage of blood running around this place."

'Choly's remark cut through Sticks all the worse sharpened with a deficit of affect.

Sticks was the first to break the extended quiet.

"You never mentioned you were in the Federal Fitness Registry."

"Ah. I had a feeling you'd picked up the declassified DIA documents. The chemistry texts would go over your head. What are you on about?"

Sticks sneered, but brushed it off.

"The FFR says here, you–" Sticks balked and gagged a bit. He used his feet to slide his chair further away. A hand went over his mouth. "Blue Flu. Fuck me sideways, and you've been kissing me with that mouth."

"Ridiculous!" 'Choly set everything down to scramble through his Pip-Boy's health diagnostics menus. "Basic medical biometrics have included New Plague criteria for decad– since long before either of our Pip-Boys were manufactured. If I had ever contracted any strain of the New Plague, my health metrics would indicate it. And yours is more advanced than mine. If you had it, yours certainly would."

'Choly leaned over to show Sticks the screen of health effects from which he suffered. When permitted, he showed Sticks how to access the same screens on his own device, to confirm that the Pip-Boys had diagnosed neither of them with the prewar epidemic virus.

Sticks accepted the plea, mostly for his own sanity, but he didn't scoot any closer.

"But Sir," Angel eventually added, dripping with hesitation, "you did contract it. Remember your influenza hospitalization in 2068?"[3]

Sticks flipped back to his place in the DIA printout, and soured at the fact check.

"You could've given it to me. Given it to the entire mall. To the Unfolded. Those saps you've let move in outside Concord." He stood, quavering and furious. "Goddamn bastard! I brought a Blue Fluer to the biggest settlement on the East Coast. If I stayed alive two hundred years just to die of that shit, I'll kill you!"

"Angel!" Rebuked by 'Choly's blunted glare, the robot withdrew to the stock room door. "Think critically here, if you can, Jacob. We lived together before the war as well. Sure, we weren't mouth kissing and what all, but we shared food, spaces, what have you. If I were contagious, I would have been contagious then as well. What's different now than before? You underwent ghoulification. I underwent cryogenesis... And. The Melancholia."

The last bit parsed just as much as rhetorical as it did speculative. He lidded his progress to favor his texts. A memory clicked, and he flipped through the Merrick Index. Reading the data for the Limit 115 supplement, trembling seized him. The oral administration of Stimpaks served to curtail the chronic sequelae of the virus's systemic damage. The hallmark aftermath of the New Plague, endeared to the masses as the Blue Flu back in the day and coded medically as Limit 115, was extensive respiratory scarring and pleuric complications, but it could ravage any and all organs. It haunted him, to read that the patients for whom these supplements worked best were those whose sequelae had originated in viral alimentary damage, as the digestive tract yielded the most immediate route of uptake.

But it just didn't make any sense. If had contracted the New Plague, wouldn't the Pip-Boy show it? Wrestling with logic jogged memories of his hospitalization. What he recalled most readily and most clearly was picking up where he left off at Deenwood. To gain clearance to return to duty, he had to heed the medical biometrics of his military-issue Pip-Boy for any potential flare-ups where he'd regain infectiousness.

He hated the original flavor of the Limit 115 supplement, he recalled. And the Med-X's effect on his speech patterns frustrated his already shaky confidence in sounding the part of a fully naturalized American citizen. So he tried formulating versions with other flavorings, and other opiates. A pit dug into his stomach.

The room spun as the chromatic lights rolled holographic. The space undulated through what he perceived as red, gold, and green, reminiscent of poor television reception: but no one could bang this cabinet or tweak its antennae. On occasion, individual objects would linger in monochroma, only to roll through hues in rapid succession. A dull ringing bypassed his ears, and he felt it directly behind his eyes. He jerked to check the two armillary bulbs hanging in the stock room. The lights themselves looked no different than before: it was the space which mutated.

'Choly's breathing shredded into stuttering as the deep bone chill left him feeling outright frozen solid. He stomped at the RadRoaches that had squeezed under the utility door. He lurched back in his chair to slam his head and shoulders against the wall. He shielded his face from the foot-long insects now flying right for his face.

"Hold still."

He got whacked across the nose, and his glasses flew off somewhere on the desk. He didn't open his eyes until he could tell nothing was chewing or crawling on him. He rubbed at his nose. Sticks had rolled up one of the shorter lengths of single-feed paper, and slapped him across the face with it.

"Did you get them?" he asked the ghoul.

"Them? No, there was just the–" Sticks stopped winding up for another strike. "The one really fucking annoying mosquito... But it wasn't a mosquito. It was a Bloodbug. It landed on your face."

"What are you on about? Where did the roaches go?"

"There are no insects," Angel said. "Even the ants have gone underground."

When the pair gaped at the robot, the lights had stabilized to roll through its red-green pseudo-colors at a manageable low oscillation.

"Gentlemen, we really must initiate my shutdown protocols. Sooner, not later. I cannot initiate them myself."

"The fuck has gotten into you, Angel?" Sticks snapped. "Why are you of all people the one rallying to follow the dumb fucking rules in this place?"

Quailing dread infused its urgency.

"It may be local code, to turn off any robotics during storms such as these, but it's no mere local custom. This is a legislation with clear cause for its penning. You cannot put off my shutdown a minute longer. The Sacristan is on the Concourse right now, delivering the news to Mayor Knott that there's been some kind of structural damage which has compromised the building's hermetic seals. They're... well, they're discussing how to instruct everyone to brace for impact, as it were."

The two continued to gawk as all this sank in. Angel grabbed 'Choly by the right arm.

"Oh, Sir. Sir, please turn me off. I'm a higher functioning AI than an Eyebot. My malfunctions would prove even more unpredictable than anything Miss Cook described."

'Choly shied from Angel only long enough to retrieve his glasses. He sighed, and unfurled a length of his keyprong cord.

"I don't know what you understand this storm could possibly do to you, Angel, but I do know you hear more of what happens in this place than either of us. I... I trust your judgment. I do. I just... don't want to lose you."

"My best odds of surviving this weather undamaged is to suspend operation. I promise you, I am as fearful as you. But... it will only be for a few days, and you can power me right back on."

Angel set down on its tendrils, and extinguished its thruster flame. 'Choly opened its side panel to interface his Pip-Boy with its programming, and initiated the shutdown sequence.

"See you in a few days, chap." Sticks patted its chassis, keen to avoid getting pinched as its ocular lenses tucked flush into its perfectly spherical frame. "You probably haven't had a nap in two hundred years. Get some shuteye."

"Do take care of each other while I'm ouu–" Its vocalization halted mid-word when the processes finalized.

'Choly retracted the keyprong and stared at his motionless companion with a hollow compunction. A daze overtook him while Sticks tied Angel to the metal shelving, as per locals' instruction. The thought that this was undignified overkill loosed him from his internalization, but he didn't stop Sticks from completing the task to satisfaction. A low rumbling trembled underfoot, almost like deep extended thunder, and the pair looked to each other, as though to confirm they'd both felt it. They went to separate front windows to await the civil defense announcement which the soundproof glass would undoubtedly quelch.

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[0] Stereoptikon: An early predecessor of animation, wherein a “magic lantern” camera with two or more lenses superimposed multiple different images, fading brightness of one into another to varying effect. Sometimes, the fade created a three-dimensional effect, while other times it made the static images appear to move or transform. (See also: the Karl Struss technique, in regard to shifting chroma rather than luminosity.)

[0A] Cotard’s Solution: There’s so many layers of metatextuality and allegory in just the title alone. It’s difficult to unpack it succinctly. Cotard’s Syndrome, as applied to the three marks of existence, uh. ‘Choly should be dead a dozen times over, and for it his mental health tends to veer hard into Cotard’s adjacent territory. Of course, here it overlaps pretty neatly with Angel as well.

[1] PRN: pro re nata. Medical idiom, as situation demands. On a prescription, it’s the opposite of instruction to take the medication at a scheduled regimen: medication PRN is instead taken as needed.

[2] New Plague (a.k.a. Limit 115 and the Blue Flu): The extended epidemic of this virus cropped up repeatedly for years before the Great War. The infectiousness and high lethality rates of the virus necessitated emergency research facilities which could develop inoculation. West Tek was able to provide partial inoculation and medications which could suppress the permanent systemic damage, in those who could survive contraction. West Tek’s various endeavors all converged into the Pan-Immunity Virion Project, the research of which would go on to be used to design the Forced Evolutionary Virus.

[3] 2068: Mentioned in Chapter 4 of First Instar, “A Drugstore Errand.” Angel grapples for an analogy to 'Choly's post-111 physical symptoms, and its closest point of comparison is the only time it recalls that 'Choly was ever hospitalized.

#fallout fanfic #fallout #fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic #sole survivor #the anatomy of melancholy #let's have fun in new hampshire #melancholy #sticks #angel #mister handy #ghoul oc #manchester impasse

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thgreatestblue · 4 years ago

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you're alive (in my head)

➜ pairing: sanemi shinazugawa x gn!reader ➜ warnings: angst, mention of dead character, manga spoilers, fluff. ➜ words: 7.6k ➜ a/n: i had the idea for this fic while listening to marjorie by taylor swift. it’s such a beautiful and touching song, i definitely recommend it. this one turned out quite big but anyway, happy holidays! ➜ ao3

summary: The man looks at you again, between white lashes that were still wet from his tears. He was a broken man whose pieces you didn't know how to put it back together. A puzzle you found yourself staring at without any clue of what form it should shape. It doesn't mean you weren't going to try anyway.

The piano would always call your name at the old restaurant your parents owned. It was an old and ugly thing; battered through time, but it would make the same wonderful sounds your grandmother used to do when playing it. That’s how you learned how to play in the first place. And how the tradition of having a musician in the family kept going, much for your parents' disdain.

You worked at your parents’ restaurant as a waitress. It was a family legacy you didn't quite like; working at the old restaurant for the rest of your life was not what you had in mind while growing up. It wasnt that you didn't like cooking and talking with strangers — it was quite a pleasant interaction that you had refined throughout the years.

However, you wanted bigger things for your life. That’s why playing piano and writing songs were something you would always look forward to when the restaurant wasn't full. At some point, people started to demand to see you play, asking when they would hear your songs again; and that was enough to put a little bit of confidence inside your very cowardly heart.

Each time you played, slender fingers touching keys like they were made for it; it would always take you to another place, one that you didn't need to step down the stage and go back to real life. Your mother once told you and your grandmother were too alike, and even though she meant it as a bad thing, you held onto that as the best compliment you had ever received.

Tonight, you were too nervous and focused on playing a song that you had written for your long-passed grandmother; it had taken an entire month to come up with lyrics and a melody that felt just like her. After all, it was her birthday. There were so many things you wished you had said, you wished you had done. But instead of mourning, you decided to pour your feelings into a song — it’s been 5 years already, all the wounds that were open had already healed, but that didn't mean they didn't itch from time to time.

As you sit down on the worn out bench, the floor of the improvised stage cracks under your feet. Your father had built for you after realizing that you weren't going to stop playing it, even if he put the piano outside in the rain. Your mother had convinced him, after all, you were still doing your job and the customers liked to hear live music, there was no hurt in letting you play.

You can feel eyes on you already; there was always an expectation every time you appeared to play the piano, and you would always try to meet them. Always staying up till late, trying to come up with new lyrics, trying new sounds. Even though your life was pretty boring, you still managed to write about interesting elements; situations you could only imagine, like living a fancy life, or loving someone.

While you arrange the papers that you had written the song on the piano’s rack — not that you needed, it was just to put your mind at ease, that you weren't going to screw this up — you take a long look at the crowd; most of them still eating and talking to each other. You knew their attention would only fall on you when you started playing.

However, there was someone looking directly at you. You knew that face all too well by now; it was impossible to miss the hair as white as the driven snow, or the scars that crossed his face that would make many people shrink away, scared by the intimidating aura he carried with him. However, you knew it wasn't the case; his eyes — even though you didn't have the courage to stare for too long — were gentle.

The man would come to the restaurant every now and then. Your cousin who worked at the bar, would always try to talk to him, but the man would always be short and sharp; preferring paying attention to his food, and mostly to alcohol which he would drink until it was time to close.

It wasn’t something unreal, since there were a lot of people who did the same. But what made him so different was that every time someone would come closer without warming, he would snap, always on guard. It reminded you of your grandfather, that would always carry with himself a knife; after a long life battling in the countryside, he never forgot the things he saw.

You offer him a tiny smile; despite not knowing the man — not even his name — you still wanted him to feel at ease in the restaurant, everyone was more than welcomed at this tiny place that your grandfather had fought so hard to build.

Speaking of each, was nowhere to be seen. You weren't sad that he was going to miss your first performance of the song since you two wrote it together. He was almost tired of listening to you go back and forth, memorizing until it was carved on your mind like a detailed wooden piece. Besides, you were sure he was at her grave now, making her some company on this special day.

The man doesn’t turn away, nor return the smile, which is fine to you. At least he didn't completely ignore your presence, being the complete mystery he was, you felt lucky that he had come to watch you play.

Taking a deep breath, your fingers flew over the keys with ease; it was almost like a second nature by now, almost as easy as breathing. It had taken you some time to learn, to understand how the structure of the piano worked and how you could turn separate notes into a song. Your grandmother was patient enough to teach you the basics; to teach the same thing over and over until you had printed on your mind like a tattoo.

The song was quite easy to play, you chose not to do something so out of your comfort zone because you knew your emotions were going to take over once you started to sing. The lyric had you and your grandfather crying once it was finished. But he didn't seem sad — not entirely — he smiled and hugged you, saying that wherever she was, she was proud; and you believed in his words with all your heart.

Your voice trembles in a few parts, but nothing that would mess with the entire song. It only added more intensity and weight onto your words. Most people that frequented the restaurant knew about her, so it wasn’t something coming out of the blue - they understood the feeling behind it. And you are glad that you could remember your grandmother the way she always loved: playing the piano.

As you played the last notes, the small crowd of the restaurant applauded your performance, a sound that made your heart jump in anticipation; it was the best reward you could ever receive. You notice that some people were weeping away their tears while you bow in gratitude for their attention.

Stepping down from the makeshift stage, your mother gives you a hug, she wasn't good with words but you knew she was pleased with the performance. Although, before you could say anything, she shoves an apron in your direction, motioning towards a table that had a couple waiting to order. You shake your head in disbelief, but takes it anyway and starts to get ready to work.

The night goes by in a blink of an eye, there were more people than you were used to. You highly suspected it was because there was a festival coming up in the city in a few weeks, and many people came to see the fireworks. You swing among the tables; dividing your attention between taking orders and thanking the compliments and praises people would throw at you as you walked by. You took each one of them and put close to your heart — they were enough, for now.

When your father decides to close the restaurant, you're more than tired. Even though in your mind the night went by in a flash; your bones were screaming because of the constant walking and talking. It was good for business, but not for you. Your father was a proud man that didn't accept outside people working in his restaurant, so you had to endure the amount of work and hope that the next day you were fully recharged.

The trash of the day is by the door and by the looks of it, no one is going to take it out. You glance at your cousin but he immediately shakes his head, showing that he was still cleaning the glasses from the bar. You sigh loudly, getting up from the chair you were comfortably seated in.

Grabbing the two huge bags, you open the door with your foot. A breath of fresh air hits your face — it smells like rain and grass — it's cold against your skin. You didn't notice the rain had come and gone, too absorbed in your job to pay attention; although you were content since you liked how the earth smelled after it.

You walk to the alleway right beside the restaurant, the huge bins still wet with a few raindrops. As you throw the trash inside, something; no, someone catches your attention from the corner of your eyes.

How fast you recognized the white hair was something to worry about another time, pushing down the thoughts that were starting to rise in your mind to take a better look at him.

The man was seated against the wall, with his arms on his knees and a bottle of alcohol still hanging from his hand. His head was dropped into his chest, and for a moment you thought he was sleeping. You feel your heart spiking up with anticipation, your hands clench and unclench, million thoughts swing around your mind but you can't hear any of them. Against your better judgement, you start to approach him, making sure your feet make enough noise to announce your arrival.

He probably sensed that you were approaching because you notice how his body jerks slightly, slowly raising his head to look up at you. And your heart sinks in your chest as you catch a glimpse of his eyes, red and watery, some tears traveling his face down his cheeks to his chin.

“Are you okay?“ You ask out of habit, because of course he wasn't. A man with a bottle of alcohol seated against a dark alley definitely wasn't doing fine. You want to slap yourself as soon as the words come out of your mouth.

“That song…” He starts, his voice is hoarse, barely audible. As if he had screamed the entire night at the top of his lungs. “Was really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” You answer, not knowing what else to say.

There was a growing feeling on your chest, one you couldn't ignore when seeing the man in such a miserable state. You didn't consider yourself an altruistic person, that would run to help people wherever they had a problem. In fact, your mother once said that you were a little bit too cold when outside of your comfort zone that was music.

However, contradicting everything you thought you were, you found yourself stepping closer to the man. Since it had rained almost all night, the ground was still wet, and you could see his trousers were wet in a few spots. The place he had chosen to sit wasn't the best either, with a huge puddle right next to his feet.

And again, against your better judgment, you slowly kneel next to him. He didn't flinch nor made any movement that would be a red flag for you to step away. Rather, he looks away and stares at the bottle he was holding, lips trembling; You didn't know if it was because of the cold or because he had been crying.

“Fuck...” He curses in a whisper, rubbing his face, a few fugitive tears falling down the prison of his eyes “...It’s been a year.”

You couldn't think of anything to say to the man. Comforting people had always been hard since there wasn't anything you could say that would make them feel better — you knew that by experience. He was clearly in pain and going through something you could only imagine. As much as you wanted to help, to offer at least some comfort, you didn’t want to prey and ask unwelcomed questions to a stranger that was in such agony.

“I wrote that song for my grandmother.” It's the first thing that comes to your mind; you heard once that sometimes, changing the subject would make the person focus on other things instead of what is causing distress to them, it was worth a shot, “Everytime I sing it’s like she’s with me.”

The man looks at you again, between white lashes that were still wet from his tears. He was a broken man whose pieces you didn't know how to put it back together. A puzzle you found yourself staring at without any clue of what form it should shape. it doesn't mean you weren't going to try anyway.

"How?" His voice breaks under the pale shine of the moon. You could see his hands trembling, an urge to hold it almost takes over your body, but you stop yourself before you could regret. Instead, you put your hand on his shoulder.

Men are proud creatures. You knew he would probably avoid you after tonight, being seen as vulnerable was the last thing they wanted. Something you never understood why, because right now, the only thing you felt was that this man was human, that he had feelings and regrets. Most men you had the unpleasant chance to meet at the restaurant were not even half of the man in front of you.

“Well, she taught me how to play the piano.” You say with a smile growing on your face. The memory was still fresh on your mind, one that you kept revisiting when the longing was too strong. “It’s a small part of her that I made into mine.”

He looks at you, eyes still red from the tears that dared to escape, but you pretend that you didn't see them, preferring to ignore his state for his pride. He opens his mouth to say something but falls in silence again. You still have your hand on his shoulder, and you squeeze it a little bit before getting up. Your knees were wet but it wasn't a problem.

“Sometimes, we need to fully accept that it happened in order to move on.” You say, looking in his eyes. You didn't know what he was going through, but if it was something like what you felt when your grandmother passed away, then you could say one thing or two. “It took me some time, now it’s bittersweet instead of full on bitter.”

You smile at him again, waving goodbye as you make your way back to the restaurant. You don't dare to look back as you turn the corner, but you can feel his eyes following you until you disappeared from his view.

II.

The next morning, you wake up sensing something strange. There’s a peculiar feeling settling on your stomach as you lay on your bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the man from last night. After coming back home, it took you some time to finally get some sleep, tossing and turning around; his face still playing on your mind like your favorite song.

Why was yesterday any different from the other times you had seen him?

He was a common client at the restaurant; you had seen him stumbling on his feet when going home more than once. Had even exchanged a few words while filling his cup or bringing something he had ordered. Not that he had paid any attention to you, but it was small victories that you collected like seashells.

You knew the answer, just didn't want to admit. Because you are itching to know him better since the first time you laid your eyes on him. You’re a curious brat who can’t stop interfering in others' lives. Because you had seen him vulnerable.

You sigh loudly, rubbing your hands on your face. Fine, you could debate later why you were ceaselessly thinking about a complete stranger — who probably had a heavy amount of baggage and definitely didn't need someone looking at the content inside and making a mess of it.

After taking a quick bath, you head over to the first floor; despite still being morning, there were a lot of things to get done before opening the restaurant again in the afternoon. You didn't completely dislike the routine, but after repeating the same thing everyday, things tend to get blurry and more often than not, boring.

The only thing that took you out of the endless circles of cleaning and cooking was when you were seated on the piano bench; when you were allowed to travel to other places and write about whatever you wanted. However, today was an exception for the rule; your eyes instantly go wide as you watch the white haired man come through the door.

“We are closed, didn't you see the sign?” Your mother screams from the counter next to the door.

She has a dishcloth over her shoulder; her apron had a few stains of water and you suspected she was washing the rest of the dishes from yesterday. The man stops at the entrance, blinking a few times, mouth open midway but no sound coming from it. And you have to suppress the teasing grin that threatens to appear on your face.

“It’s okay mother, I invited him,” You say without thinking twice. Not quite sure where the burst of courage came from.

Both of them quickly turn their heads in your direction and stare at you. Your mother frowning in disbelief — it reminds you of the times you were still bold enough to voice your desire to become a singer, a silly dream that was erased throughout the years. The man had his mouth slightly open, the look of surprise on his face is almost comical.

Your mother gives you a suspicious look, hesitating for a brief moment before turning around to go back to the kitchen; mumbling something under her breath between what are they thinking? and well at least their are talking with someone. You roll your eyes and decide to ignore the last part.

Taking a better look at him in the morning light, you realize how his eyelashes were long, longer than any eyelashes you’ve ever seen; they’re pretty. But what would always hold your attention was his eyes; even though he wasn't looking at you, they were a different shade of purple, and you could stay staring at them for hours because that color was so unique.

“I…” He starts, looking anywhere but you. There’s a brief pause but you don't push the conversation, waiting for him to continue. He cleans his throat and tries again, “I wanted to apologize.”

Your brows arch in curiosity; that was the last thing you expected him to say, leaving you speechless. You didn’t understand. Well, it wasn't that you didn't completely understand what he meant by that, you were just caught by surprise. You could swear he would avoid you like the plague and pretend that nothing happened.

He runs his hand through his hair, seeming nervous with the interaction. You watch the movement, noticing how he had more scars running down his arms, and probably down his chest too. Where did he get that many? Your grandfather had one on his knee, but that was all the marks he had to remind him of the bad days in the countryside - one story that he would tell you from time to time. This man must have a lot of them if his body was covered in so many.

“For the other night, I mean.”

“Ah,” Returning from your train of thought that often had you spacing out; you offer him a genuine smile, “You don’t need to apologize.”

“Fuck, this is embarring,” He drops his hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching his hands, “Look, I drank a lot and…”

“I said, you don’t need to apologize,” You cut him short, saving him from the embarrassment that would be telling a story he clearly didn't want to revisit; to a stranger above everything else. As much as you wanted to know, you weren't in the position to demand anything from him, “I understand.”

Because you really did. Although you dealt with your grandmother’s death in a different way, since you were still a child when everything happened, you could still remember the hurt and the grief. People deal with problems in a variety of ways, it wasn't up to you to judge. He finally looks at you, mouth opening to say something, but you wave your hand, stopping him from saying anything else

“Are you hungry?” You ask, looking at the clock. it was half past 9. There were still some hours until lunch. If he was here at this time, he probably didn't eat anything since yesterday, the man needed something on his stomach after drinking so much. “My father just finished baking some bread, come eat with me.”

And again, you don't know where the burst of courage to invite him to your house, to your table came from, but you accepted it anyway. You had always been afraid of taking the first step since your parents discouraged you every time you tried. After some time you stopped dreaming about becoming a singer, or playing for a huge crowd. However, there was something about the man that made you want to act, to do something.

He looks surprised by the invitation, and you don’t blame him. it was a surprise for you as well. Since when did you become so bold? You would blame the curiosity that lingered every time you looked at his face; the odd feeling growing on your chest every time you thought about his beautiful purple eyes.

“Sanemi…“ Looking away, he rubs his neck. “My name is Shinazugawa Sanemi.”

“Oh, right!“ You can help but laugh, clapping your hands together. Such a simple step that you two had totally overlooked, jumping straight to the heavy stuff, “Y/N, nice to meet you!”

You offer your hand, and after a moment of hesitation, he holds your hand and squeezes it gently. It’s a firm grip and you can feel how calloused and rough his skin truly is. You don't mind though.

“Come,” Before Sanemi could back off and rethink the invitation; you pull him towards the kitchen, hand still holding his’ in a tight grip, “My father just took it out of the oven, it’s better when it's still hot.”

He stumbles a little over his own feet, mumbling something underneath his breath. But follows you inside nevertheless; not letting go of your hand either.

III.

When a song is created, it starts with different types of attempts; you could try changing the rhythm first. Then the words; should they rhyme? should they be separated in the chorus? It’s a long process until you reach the final piece; and it’s even a longer process to make something you’re proud of.

It’s the same process with your relationship with Sanemi. It started with only a few words thrown on the paper, none of them making any sense together. It took you some time to figure it out, how to use those words to create something nice.

The words would come to your mind every time he showed up at the restaurant; every time he talked to you and you could have a glimpse inside his mind. It was a tough task, to say the least. However, your heart has had a change of weather lately; rather than staying inside because of the rain; it started to go out, looking for the sun.

Sanemi would always appear if you invited him, especially on the days when you played the piano. He had told you once that he liked to hear you playing it, and since then you tried your best to come up with more songs and more rhythms. It was almost as if an imaginary dam had been breached inside your brain, and now each night you poured your heart into the paper, there were never enough words to describe everything you wanted to say. So you played.

His presence started to become more familiar; your mother knew his name, your father did too. Even your cousin now would talk to him without receiving a death glare. It was rather amusing seeing them interact because Sanemi was still, well, Sanemi. Although he would slip every now and then, he would always come back to his feet. It was a slow progress, one that you were more than lucky to see it happening.

You never mentioned that you were worried about his habits, what people did with their lives was up to them. However, after that night, you were always looking out for him. Talking and keeping him company when you weren't too busy with other customers. In the beginning he had told you to fuck off; but there wasn't any real threat on his voice, so of course you didn't.

You noticed, then, that he had stopped coming back home with a bottle of alcohol; had stopped getting angry at the other customers who would bump into him sometimes. Had a more friendly voice when talking to your cousin, and didn’t fall asleep on the counter with a glass still full. It was those small details that would make your heart warm, spring finally arriving after a long winter.

“Did you drink tonight?” You ask, leaning over the counter. He was the last client for the night.

The restaurant was closing; what once was relief, now would leave you feeling gloomy because you had to say goodbye to your favorite person. You never knew when Sanemi would come back. He never told you exactly what his job was; or where he worked. So you had only blank spaces that you had to fill in with your own imagination. You were up for the challenge, anyway.

“No,” He smiles at you, a sight you could never get tired of. Sanemi had a different type of beauty; it was endearing to watch. “I decided to stop.”

You can help but open a huge smile after hearing that, “That’s good news!”

It was the little details that transformed him into someone special; not only his beauty was captivating but the way he carried himself, tall and strong. You liked to hear whatever he had to say because it was always interesting. It wasn't half assed excuses or lies most people — most men — would tell you on a daily basis.

There was something else about him; about his scars; about his mysterious past that you felt drawn to, like a fly is drawn to the light. You could only hope one day you would be able to sail on those mysterious waters without sinking after the first storm.

“Well, it’s time to close...” An idea crosses your mind, and like everything you have been doing lately, you don't give a second thought, you don't hesitate. It flows out of your mouth as easily as breathing “But why don’t you come sit with me before you go?”

Sanemi raises a brow at you, and you laugh at his hesitation. Without wasting any more time, you grab his muscular arm and pull him off of the bar stool, heading to the stage. You often find yourself taking the first step yet again; it was rare the times where he would seek out for you. In the beginning, it would make you second doubt everything you said or did, worrying that he didn't like you.

However, it wasn't that he didn't like you, he just didn't know what to do; because everytime you pulled him to do something or talked to him, he would gladly follow, never complaining — unless you asked him to help clean the restaurant, that he would complain, a lot.

“Have you ever played piano before?” The floor of the stage creaks under your steps, not used to have more than one person standing over it. You sit down on the bench, tapping the small space beside you. It was tight, but it would work.

“No…” Sanemi stands behind the bench with his arms crossed over his chest, still unsure about what you were doing. You angrily tap the space beside you as a warning.

He lets out a loud sigh before coming to sit next to you - you knew he only did that to appear tough; it was too easy to see that he wasn't really annoyed. Sitting by your side, his thigh completely touching yours sends a shiver down your spine; instantly coloring red your cheeks, and you have to shut down the thoughts that were starting to rise in the back of your mind.

“My grandmother used to say that sometimes music is even more powerful than words,” You say, fingers hovering over the keys. If there was one thing that you would never stop talking about it, it was her. Somehow it felt like she was still alive, remembering her so tenderly. “She would just play away her thoughts and feelings, it was fascinating to watch.”

When Sanemi looks at you, there's a strange fog in his eyes, clouding his view; as if the weather had closed and it was about to rain. It stirs something inside you, an odd feeling that you knew all too well. Sometimes you would catch him staring at nothing, with the same clouded stare.

You knew that something had happened in the past and he was still grieving over it, not only he had told you that night, but every time you talked about your grandmother he would react the same way. You could only hope that your company was enough to distract him from those feelings.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” You offer, showing him the keyboard, for now this would have to be enough.

“Me?” His voice has a hint of hesitance. You nod, encouraging him with a smile and a tap on his shoulder.

He looks at you, to the piano, then to you again. It was amusing to watch, a grown up man afraid of touching simple keys. Although, to be very honest, when you started playing you would feel completely intimidated with the size and the sounds it would make. But what was most intimidating was the amount of work you had to put to actually learn how to play by yourself. It took you some years to finally overcome that fear of failure before jumping head first.

He touches one key, but there’s almost no sound coming from it since he didn't put too much force on it; when you hesitate to touch the keys is when you first start to fail. He tries again, but this time, his finger slips and touches another key, the combination has you two flinching. You bite your lips as he continues to touch random keys; making a rather interesting combination.

“You’re laughing.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Sanemi sighs and retreats his hand, looking defeated, “I’m not made for this shit.”

“Oh shut up, here.”

You gently hold his hand; skin warm under your touch. He doesn't complain about your boldness, so you keep going, putting his hand over the keyboard again, lightly tapping his index finger over a key so he would play the note. It’s a slow process, having to move at a pace that would allow the movement, but the opportunity of holding his hand is worth every minute. In the end, you two played the beginning of an easy song.

“See, it’s not that hard,” You say, letting go of his hand. “It’s all about feeling it.” Your face is warm for some reason. And Sanemi is still staring at the piano, and you could swear that his ears are a little bit red.

“I’m shit at feelings,” He confesses, rubbing his neck.

Well, you couldn't argue with that. He definitely semeed like someone who would rather show than say, but that’s the beauty in people right? Learning with mistakes, growing with the years as you grasp the nuances of reality and the world around you.

“We all have to start from somewhere, right?” You smile at him, bumping his shoulder.

Sanemi laughs, and doesn't miss the opportunity to bump your shoulder slightly harder, making you almost fall off the bench. He laughs even harder when you try to push him off but don't get even close to move a single inch of his body. However, you wouldn't give up so easily.

The small fight ends when Sanemi accidentally hits his elbow on the keyboard, making a loud noise that has you two jumping and your mother appearing from the kitchen yelling that it's already too late. The smirk on his face doesn't go away though.

IV.

The festival was even prettier this year. The paper lamps shining on top of the buildings give an ethereal feeling to the scenario; the sakura’s trees were adorned with ribbons of all colors, petals flying around in a beautiful dance while the night was captured by the anticipation for the fireworks. However, that wasn't the only reason.

Seated next to you, was Sanemi. His hair reflecting the colored lights from the lamps only made him radiate beauty; they danced across the white canvas. His face looked so peaceful, there was not a single wrinkle on his forehead as he ate the food you had prepared for the night. For a moment you forgot he was really there with you. It all seemed part of a dream, but not even your dreams could come up with such a dazzling view.

To say that you were surprised when he invited you to come with him to the festival, was an understatement. It took you so long to process the information that he thought you had denied; and it was almost a battle to make him believe that yes, you really wanted to go with him, and no, you only hesitated because you were caught off guard. Truth be told, a few days had passed and you still couldn't believe. Not even now, when you were looking at him from the corner of your eyes.

It also took you long hours of begging and whining for him to tell you that his favorite food was ohagi. You couldn't believe how silly he acted when he told you; almost as a kid, stomping his feet and all. You tried your best not to laugh, but failed miserably, which only made him even more embarrassed. When he left, you had your hair all messy but the smile on your face didn't disappear for the rest of the night.

You had prepared everything in anticipation, counting the days and hours to this moment. Your father gave you a day off only for this occasion — he would never admit, but after the white haired man had helped fix a few things in the restaurant, lending a hand whenever they needed, he came to like Sanemi.

Your mother happily helped you prepare the ohagi and a few other things for the festival. Even suggested buying new clothes for you, which you denied. It wasn't a date, at least he didn't say it was. You were only keeping him company, right? Oh hell, who were you trying to fool? You wanted this to be a date so bad.

The spot Sanemi chose was near the lake. As you looked around you noticed that there were reflections of the lamps on the water; like an infinite mirror, you could find stars in the sky or down there on earth, even in Sanemi's eyes. An infinity of beauty surrendering you, bouncing around like shooting stars; all you could do was close your eyes and make a wish.

“I don't know, just…” You trailed off, thinking about his question, “You only die when you are forgotten, memories can keep you alive throughout the decades, don't you think?”

“You sound awfully like someone I know.” He throws his head back with a smirk on his face, drinking the sake.

He had promised it was only because of the festival, just for fun. And you didn't need him to promise that he wasn't drinking anymore, because you believed. You trusted him enough to know that he knew what he was doing. Also, you had seen his journey, there was no need to be reassured when you knew by heart.

“Hmm, I bet they are wise and smart!” The sake tastes strong on your mouth, but you didn't mind. It wasn't often that you drank, but the feeling was nice and very welcomed.

“No, actually he’s a really annoying brat,” Sanemi chuckles, “But you aren't annoying.” He confesses, and if it wasn't too dark you could see a hint of red on his cheeks.

“But am i still a brat?” You raise a brow at his direction. The smirk on his face tells you everything.

“Don't you dare finish that sentence or else there's no ohagi for you anymore.” You try narrowing your eyes as a threat, but the tiny smile tugging on the corner of your lips is enough to give you away.

Sanemi’s smirk is still visible even in the low light, it has become a trademark of him by now, the curl on the corner of his lips, the chuckles that would follow after. And you would take notes of each of his mannerisms, remember every word, pay attention to what he liked and mostly what made him angry. Even if he wasn't someone that talked about himself in general, you had your own way to find out about him.

He picks another ohagi, and you watch him as he takes a bite, humming in delight. It makes your heart warm, your skills with cooking finally paying off for something else rather than just for the restaurant. Watching him eat your food and liking it hits you differently than anything else. You take another sip of sake, the drink burning a little as it goes down your throat is a welcomed feeling.

“Genya,” Sanemi suddenly says. You look at him confused; the smirk long gone, replaced by the same melancholy look that would everytime cloud his eyes, “It was my little brother’s name.” He explains.

You look down at your hands holding the cup, contemplating. It was the first time Sanemi ever spoke about his family, his past. Even knowing him for quite some time now, even after becoming his friend, building a relationship with him from scratch and turning into something you can’t see yourself without it; his past was never brought up. Moreover, you truly believe he was a good man, there was no need to open old wounds only to satisfy your curiosity.

“You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to,” You immediately ensure him, touching his shoulder.

The last thing you wanted was him feeling like he owed you an explanation. Yes, you wanted to know, of course you did. Because you wanted to help, pick his pieces and put them back together, Sanemi wasn't a broken man, not entirely - he still had a bright and beautiful light inside him, it was only obscured with a few debris, leftover of a hurricane that he never recovered from.

“It’s fine…” He’s gazing at the lake, mind elsewhere, far from reality, “I feel like I’ve been mourning for so long that I can't think about anything else.”

It breaks your heart seeing him like this, even harder than the night when you found him crying in the alleway. Because now you knew him, his name, his personality, his favorite food. Because now you held him so close to your heart that you were afraid of crushing it. Because you cared, more than anything.

“But that’s why we struggle. It never goes away,” Your hand shifts from his shoulder, running down his back, caressing with small movements. Almost embracing him with one arm. “It only gets easier.”

Sanemi goes quiet after that, closing his eyes. But you keep rubbing his back, face so close to his that you could see the difference of the skin that healed and formed his scars; the texture is rougher in contrast with the rest of his face.

“Were you there? When it happened?” You find yourself asking. There are sirens going off in your head. Yet, you can’t stop. It’s an intense feeling of yearning. If you could only understand, just a little bit; having a glimpse of what the man was so hurt by it, then maybe you could help put his former self back together. That’s all you wanted.

“Yes,” His voice breaks a little, words caught on his throat. He squeezes his eyes, closing his hands in a fist. However, he doesn't flinch nor say anything. So, instead of retreating, you put your other hand on his arm, the other still gently caressing his back.

“He… He said I was the sweetest person in the world,” He whispers, placing his hand over yours, “Shit, I wasn’t even a good brother, I treated him badly, I pushed him away. I don’t deserve his words.”

“But he forgave you in the end,” You quickly say before he would go down on a spiraling hate towards himself, words flooding your mouth before you could stop, “He could have said anything, and he chose to let you know that you were still loved by him, even after everything.”

You didn't know what everything actually meant, there were still so many blank spaces that needed to be filled for you to fully understand the man beside you. However, you knew one thing: blaming yourself was so much easier than forgiving.

“Fuck… I don’t,” He tries, the grip in your hand a little bit too tight, but you don't pay any attention. All your focus was on his expression, his words, “I wanted him to be happy, to get married and have a family. And now…”

“Sanemi…” The look on his face is devastating, defeated.

He had probably held all these emotions for so long, all these words of regret and shame, kept inside his heart and let it loose on his mind; torturously haunting him at each step he took. Now you understood why he had resorted to alcohol. The pain in his words touches your heart, making it quiver under it.

“Please, don't blame yourself. We can't choose which path people are going to take, it’s out of our hands.”

Silence falls between you two, but it isn't uncomfortable. And you are more than happy to sit there and hold him close, trying your best to show through actions how much you cared about him. If your words couldn't do the job, at least you hoped your touch was reassuring him. At least, it worked for you — every time your grandfather patted your head was enough to remember to keep going, even when the longing was too much.

“You deserve to be happy, Sanemi,” There were so many things you wanted to say, but you couldn't find the right words, “Your brother wouldn’t want any less, right?”

You hold his calloused hands in your small ones, slender fingers touching and tracing his scars, feeling the roughness of it. Since the first time you saw him, It had awakened something inside you; something about his hands, arms, his chest, his face, drawn with a pattern that made him so fascinating and interesting, traced with stories of pain and joy; a map that you couldn't help but want to explore every inch of it.

“This world is cold and we are desperately fighting to be heard, to be seen.” Because it was the truth. Every day when you open your eyes; every day when you close them; each day is a small battle you need to live through. “Being alone in a place like this it’s just cruel.”

You don't know what possessed you at the moment, but when you realized, your lips had touched his skin, planting a gentle kiss, overflowed with affection, on his fingers.

“That’s why I’ll be here for you, whenever you need me.”

The first firework explodes behind Sanemi, lighting him in an endearing aura that takes your breath away. Although, you can’t hear them; your heartbeat is even louder in your ears. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his warm breath against your skin. His hand comes to rest on your chin, squeezing slightly. He tilts your head in his direction and you close your eyes.

Then, he kisses you.

#sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny x reader #kny #sometimes i write

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nutty1005 · 5 years ago

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(Fluff warning) Why is Xiao Zhan a god-tiered beauty? A deep shallow analysis…

Original Article:https://www.weibo.com/ttarticle/p/show?id=2309404476336126165027#_0 Original Author: 织世靳靳子

(TN: This is a fluff piece, written entirely by a fan to praise his good looks. There is also quite a fair bit of Chinese beauty standards in this. Enjoy the pictures!)

(TN: Also, beauty should be beyond gender boundaries.)

What properties should a god-tiered beauty have?

When you think of a god-tiered beauty, who pops into your mind immediately? Is this adulation, or is Xiao Zhan worthy of this praise?

When a person is considered a god-tiered beauty, it usually means that this person is flawless, but is this absolutely politically correct?

I think not.

Beauty comes from imperfection, and they do not need to be hidden, because vividness comes from such imperfections. Audiences can be very sharp – no matter how much “beautiful” labels you attach on a person, these labels will not stay if the person cannot uphold these labels. The entertainment business is full of attractive people, but when you remove the make up and filters, you can really gauge the true physical attractiveness of a person.

I got a lot of surprise studying Xiao Zhan.

When deciding if someone looks good, we do not linger on how big his/her eyes are, or how tall his/her nose is, but instead we look at the proportion and general aesthetic.

If you were to choose the magical touch on Xiao Zhan’s face, which feature will you choose?

I would choose his eyes.

The truth is that in terms of absolute size, Xiao Zhan’s eyes are not very big, but it stands out because of their aesthetically pleasing shape.

The shape of his eyes appears to be almond-shape (but more stunning), with a full lower eyelid and rounded upper eyelid. This gives off a sense of innocence when he looks up. In addition, the the shape of his eyes slant downwards but the outer ends hook up, and with the shadows of his thick lashes, which brings his shape closer to what the Chinese call “Phoenix Eyes”. All in all, the shape of his eyes is one of the rarest eye shape – “Favored Phoenix Eyes”.

The lines of his eyes have always been aesthetically pleasing, but this is further enhanced once he had learned to control his gaze (see X-Fire competition period). The focus of his face is on his beautiful and lively eyes, which elevates the entire aesthetics.

Inner eye corners are more rounded among the Chinese, but because his eyes are pointed and long, giving off a very oriental appeal.

If you study carefully, you will notice that his eyes follow an “S” line. His inner eye corners are rounded, the outer edges slant gently downwards but quickly end with an upward tilt. This is a very rare type of demure oriental beauty. His usual make up is very light and natural, but if there are additional touches on his outer edges, bringing emphasis onto the lines of his eyes, his aura will switch from harmless and innocent to sharp and aggressive.

You probably cannot stop yourself from imagining dating him

When he is not smiling, you can feel that sharp and aggressiveness off him. He gives off a nobility aura and he can keep up his appearances at any event.

In videos, his eyes are large and energetic, and so alluring, it is almost as though these eyes belong to an anime character or a CGI character. Given that we know that the camera would magnify flaws and moderate the overall aesthetic level, we can only imagine how he looks like behind that camera, and it is probably not that “normal good looking person” like he says he is.

Xiao Zhan does not depend on strong features – his brow bone and nose ridge are not tall.

Rounded features, not strong

If I were a famous director, I would be very satisfied with Xiao Zhan as an actor. In my Weibo pinned post, I spoke about how he does not depend on shading make up to sharpen his features, but instead, he depends on simply on lighting. This is evidence of his good bone structure. He does not have the standard issues of sunken temples or broad zygomatic bow (TN: the bone area to the side of the eyes) that are common among Asian faces; his zygomatic bow does not broaden sideways, but instead expands outwards proportionately. This advantageous bone structure shows itself most evidently in period dramas, where an aura of heroism is required. This balances out his soft features.

This is an unedited raw image from a HD camera – his features are simply enhanced just by lighting

This face of his looks good in any lighting. Under paramount lighting, his cheekbones stand out and makes his face even smaller. (TN: Smaller faces are considered more aesthetically pleasing in Chinese culture.) Under rembrandt lighting, his gaze becomes more vivid, and the shadows from his nose and cheeks makes the picture more dramatic.

The Chinese have 4 ways to describe dimensions on facial structure – tall, low, flat and sunken. Most Chinese faces have low nose bridges and sunken structure, and for those who have this, when seen on HDTV, their facial muscle movements can be very obvious. In the case of Xiao Zhan, his facial muscle movements are clean and his facial expressions are especially pleasing, even when expressing extreme emotions. In addition, he does not require special lighting and can even withstand odd lighting.

Looks good even when expressing extreme emotions

This is the true meaning of “no bad angles”.

This is a random screen capture off a HD video. Still beautiful.

Generally, if anyone of us takes a picture from this angle, we probably end up looking like crap, but Xiao Zhan looks as thought he had been touched by Aphrodite. His cheekbones is the olive branch from Cyprus; his lips are the roses from Damascus; his Adam’s apple is the shackles of Prometheus, Mount Kaukasos. From head to toe, he is the real life representation of the sonnets of Shakespeare.

His beauty is breathtaking.

He looks like he descended from anime-land, but yet more vivid than ever

At the same time, Xiao Zhan’s features are tight knitted and his eyes sit lower in his face. This gives him a general youthfulness, hence he seems a lot younger than his actual age. I have often felt that his face looks almost anime-like, and in some instances, his expressions make him seem almost unreal.

If we try to convert some of our favorite anime characters to actual humans, how would they look like? From the side profile, the eyes should be position lower, almost towards the middle of the nose bridge. However, it is very difficult for this to occur while maintaining proper facial proportions.

We can immediately see from this picture that the middle section of his face is not too long. A long middle section usually ages a person.

Under further study, you will realize that the mouth-lip area of his face is not too short either. However, his philtrum (the midline groove in the upper lip) is deep and slightly pointed upwards, which moderates the length visually.

The shape of his lips are rounded, but given his sharp eyes and tall nose, the “roundness” and “sharpness” matches in equilibrium, resulting in him looking incredible whenever he smiles.

I am an art student and I am studying his features simply from the angle of an art model, instead of the angle of his fan. The conclusion I have drawn is that his facial features are simply outstanding. Plastic surgery may be able to change the facial features, but will not be able to change proportion; moreover, we know that Xiao Zhan did not go through any of that.

In general, people with good facial proportions will standout in a crowd, more so with Xiao Zhan, who has great features, and these will be especially brilliant after he has good control of his facial expressions.

You cannot hide the smile even if you cover the lower half of his face

Xiao Zhan is an expert in facial expressions control. His smiles can be viewed over and over again, and they are not easy to recreate – I have slowed down GIFs to capture his expression sequence.

When bringing forth a smile, he will move the muscles around this eyes to bring up the outer edges, and this brings the joy onto his face even if you cover the lower half of his face.

He pays attention to the movement of the muscles on this brow and the area around his eyes, such that he is able to pinpoint the emotions in this gaze. This is actually not easy to do such that it looks continuous and natural.

The essence of facial expression control comes from knowing your weaknesses during the training done in front of the mirror, and correcting them. I’m guessing here that he spent a lot of effort in his training, not because he has a lot of weaknesses, but because he has always been very strict with himself.

This is his signature smile. He has a multitude of combinations in his expressions, none of them fixed in any categories but serialized, and recreated in sequence when needed. If not for that fact that he sweats so much, I would have thought that he is an AI, but then again, could AI create this magnificence? I think not.

Xiao Zhan’s signature smile is smooth and stunning – it captivates people because of his confidence and ease.

The entertainment business has always been filled with beautiful people, but what makes Xiao Zhan stand out is the purity in him. He stuns people around him his clear eyes and his innocent smiles – and we pray that he will never lose this.

I know this – with his good bone structure, he will remain handsome for at least another 30 years.

Xiao Zhan is not just a “top celebrity” of this area, but he will also become “that god of period dramas” some decades later, and he will continue to shine bright as an icon of this generation.

#xiao zhan #sean xiao #xiaozhan #肖战

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exodusmc · 5 years ago

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Prey

Genre: vampire au, smut

Words: 3006

Paring: vampire Jin X human reader

Warning!: Blood(feeding), rough sex, choking, unprotected sex, gore, overstimulation, manipulation(?), dirty talk

a/n: But like black haired Jin is superior :)

Gif is not mine

He moved gracefully over the floor, eyes shing black and hair the softest of velvet. You stared openly at the handsome man, how his lips were so plush. Let’s just say you weren't the only one through heart eyes his way. He stopped before some girl, her eyes widening as she tried to look sexy.

“Y/n!”your boss suddenly screamed at you, making you flinch and stop staring at the man.”Get to work!”

You started making coffee for the madame which was giving you an annoyed look, blushing furiously as you felt the handsome man look your way. It wasn't fun working in the food court but what wouldn't a student do for some more money?You would soon be going to college so you need every penny you could get.

“Here’s your drink and sorry for the wait”you bow to the woman, stiffening at her scoff.

“Start doing your work instead of staring”

“Sorry..”you mumbled as she walked away, eyes staring down at the floor just to not look anywhere else. You didn't mean to be so lost, he was just inhumanly handsome.

Work ended later than it usually did, your body aching from cleaning the whole shop as punishment for your little slip up earlier. The mall was closed and it felt rather scary walking through it 11 pm but you were happy that you didn't have school in the morning or else you would be dead. You slipped out of the big building, shivering at the cold gust of wind which legit smacked you in the face.

“Oh god..”you ran to the bus stop, grateful for the little shed like structure which could hide you from most of the wind. When you saw the yellow vehicle coming, you realized that at least your job weren't the worst.

Stepping inside the bus, warmth instantly made your body less stiff. You pulled a small smile at the man driving, which he didn't return, just drove before you could sit down towards the back.

“Rude..”mumbling you sent him a dirty look, deciding to use the seat belt incase he tried to kill you by driving of the road. You never liked being alone late at night but you couldn't walk home, so this was the best option.

Music screamed in your ears as you stared out the window, seeing the same trees as you had seen for around 18 years. Autumn had really come now, the weather colder and duller. Halloween wasn't so far away either, which was fun. It meant no school and movies through the whole day. You smiled slightly at the thought being wrapped up in a blanket and having no worry in the world. Everything was so peaceful and you felt heavy, like you could fall asleep any second but the bus screeched, breaking so hard you flew forward, being caught by the seat belt but making a not so pretty sound. You took out one of your earphones, staring as the busdriver got out of the vehicle. Every hair stood on your body, an eerie feeling crawling over your skin. Something was wrong and the feeling grew the closer you got to the door. You saw the bus driver standing in the headlight, his back turned against you. A frown took its place on your lips, the song which you were listening to starting to sound like a running heartbeat. You swallowed hard about to call for the man when someone else appeared through thin air. His shoulders broad and he was taller than the driver. You stilled, eyes widening as the man grabbed a hold of the shorter ones throat, fingers piercing his skin and ripping his head of. You didn't know what to do, fear paralyzing you. The other one grabbed the headless body, putting his face against it and doing something you couldn't see, however he dropped the corpse and you could see him, who was too handsome and dripping in blood. You screamed, you had never screamed so loud before in your life. Stumbling backwards, panic growing when you realized you were stuck in the bus. The man snapped his head up at you, eyes staring at you, a predators red eyes. He moved with a speed no human could muster, standing inside the bus in one blick. You fell backwards, tears gushing over your cheeks, panic settling in your bones. It was the man you saw at the mall, the one with hair as the night, and now was he standing before you with his lower face covered in blood, fingers slick in the liquid. He took a step forward, instantly making you whimper. He was going to kill you, take all of your blood.

“P-please d-don't kill m-me”you pleaded out, flinching when he leaned closer to your face, grinning down at you.

“Oh..Why would I kill such a pretty little prey, before playing with it?”he questioned you, voice smooth and seeding shiver over your body. You cried harder, shaking when his hands reached for trembling limbs.

The man grabbed you like you were a rag doll and you felt your world turn when you saw the fangs which pushed slightly against his plump under lip. You were so scared but could do nothing. He had caught you, his little prey.

“Kim Seokjin! What in the world are you doing?!”Namjoon bombed through the mansion, eyes shining red. His anger was clear and Jin simply shrugged at the fuming vampire, a small smirk playing on his bloody lips.

“Hm?”Jin answered bored, his hands holding your unconscious body. He couldn't care less about the leader and his irritation. Jin did what he wanted, even if Namjoon disliked it.

“What do you think you are doing!?”brown hair stood everywhere on his head, evidence to him working late and running his hand through the locks. “You can't go kill people and take them!”

“But I just did”Jin looked smug and he realized that he was pushing at Namjoons patience, the latter having not fed in a long time.

“ I know, I could smell her from a mile away and that means others could too!”Jin started to feel annoyance build in him at the nagging of the younger vampire.

“You know what..my last feeding human died and I wanted a new one..”he hissed at Namjoon, who flinched back, his anger falling.

“..You should have asked first, talked to me about it”

“It would have taken to long. She is mine now and I intended to keep her”Jin’s teeth shone in the lurky room, eyes like wise.

He disappeared, leaving Namjoon biting his lip. He knew how much it hurt losing your human but Jin had never mention wanting a new one, refusing every time someone brought it up over the last century. So this was unaccounted for, completely random, and Namjoon feared because the humans had changed. Would everything go wrong and why was Jin so keen about keeping you?

It hurt, mostly because you felt stiff, but also because your head spinned even when you had your eyes closed. What happened? You laid still, thinking that you were in your bed but the silk feeling and cloud like lightness made you open your eyes.. You had a nightmare filled with blood and a handsome face. Opening your eyes an inch, you wondered why you were in a different room when all you had was a nightmare.

“Good morning” instantly sitting up, chills ran down your spine when you saw your nightmare resting in an armchair, red as blood and velvet like his hair. “Slept well?”

He was beautiful and even more so when he wasn't covered in crimson liquid. You didn't know what to say or do. You were scared and all his attention made you feel small.

“What are you?”whispering, you stared at him, taking in every feature. He wasn't human and that made him unreal. Skin slightly pale and shining. He had a gentle face but the way he watch you like a prey made him scary.

“Oh I’m exactly what you think I am..A vampire” this can't be real. Vampires don't exist, which makes him just an imagination your head made up. Maybe it was what you desire most but why would he be a killer then?You had a stare of, which you lost. He was powerful and sat with such grace you felt awful.

“Do you know what you are?”the question was weird, nonetheless making your blood run cold.

“Human..”

“Right...My human”he got up from the chair, walking towards you as tears pooled in your eyes. Fright, chilling pure fright. It filled you, made you numb when he grabbed your chin with two fingers, forcing you to look at him, really look at him. Eyes shone bright red and fangs poked at the flesh of his lip. “My human...My blood”

He leaned forward, stopping to look in your pupils. You should have felt breath fanning over your face but didn't, because he was dead and didn't have to breathe. Danger swam in his glowing orbs, dripping in pleasure and thrill. You lost a will to get away, relaxing into his grasp.

“You’ll let me feed, right?”he mumbled, already scanning over your delicate neck, where his mark should be. You nodded, eyes dulling. Jin smiled down at your empty face, his hypnosis gripping you. “Thank you”

He kissed lightly against the skin, lips moving to coax blood to him. Licks made you shiver in anticipation, body reacting to him. Jin gave you one last kiss before piercing your skin, fangs burying down deep into you. Blood slipped from you, between his lips, hands holding you in place as your eyes widen. You felt warm and sensitive, small gasps leaving you, slowly turning to low moans. It felt great, addicting. You didn't want him to leave, to let you go. You wanted to stay in this feeling, drowning in him. Jin moved from your neck, chuckling at the whine which left you, fingers grasping to keep him close.

“No, keep going..”you mewled out, trying to push his face back to your aching throat.

“But I’ll kill you then”you whined louder, wetness pooling in your underwear, body burning under Jin’s grasp. He could smell you and it was hard to control but he couldn't let go, not yet.

Lapping lightly at your wound, you moan again , chasing after more. Jin kissed it one last time before moving from you, something which almost made you cry in desperation.

“Don't worry my little bird, you’ll get what you want soon”tears flew from your eyes, body aching for more and sleep. You felt weird, light headed and horny to the point it hurt.

“No” Jin walked away, leaving you in despair and weak. You wanted more of him, all of him, but he left you to the darkness.

“She smells too good”Taehyung groaned as Jin walked down the stairs, his head high, blood lingering on his tongue.

“I know”

“Can I have a taste?”

“No”

“Why?”

Jin merely hissed at the younger one as a warning to keep away from what’s his. Your arousal still had a grip on him and he had to get away before he did something bad. Maybe it weren't a good idea to leave you smelling like that in a house full of vampires but he had to get away.

“Touch her and I’ll rip your arm out”

Jin thought your hormones would have died down after four hours but when he stepped inside the mansion after a long run, he realized that it weren't the case. Your fermions laid around him like a hug, pleading for his touch of relief. A small growl left him, mind fighting with his body if he should just walk out again or aid you.

“You’re so stupid”Namjoon hissed, walking out from the right, his eyes shining red again.”You really left her like that with the youngest around”Jin knew it was stupid but he would have hurt her, so he couldn't stay.

“Fix it”it was a command and it decided what Jin would do. He would go to you and he would help your burning body.

You tensed when the door flew open, hitting the wall with a thud and then closing a second after. He stood there, red eyed and hungry. Your body acted on its own, begging for his touch. You whined out at the sight he was, dropped in a black silk shirt and the same color slacks. The items shoved of his body so well, following his broad shoulders and tiny waist. You wanted everything from him, every touch, every sensation.

“Please~”you whined out, leaning forward so he could see your neck, pricked with two faded marks.

Jin hissed again, standing by you in a blink of an eye. He grabbed your wrists, pushing you to lay down on the soft covers, not really thinking about his strength. You squirmed, not caring about the force he put on you and how you would be bruised in the morning. Tongue dipped down on your jugular, licking a long strip up the whole body part, until he stopped by your jaw, he could feel your blood rush to his wet muscle, aching for him to take. Jin groaned at it, a hand grabbing both of your wrists and holding the over your head. You were on cloud nine and he hadn't even touched you. He made nothing of your shirt, eyeing your abdomen. Jin licked his lips, dragging a finger between your breasts, down your stomach and stopping by your jeans. It frustrated you, body burning in desire.

“Keep your hand still and I’ll reward you”his purr had you drooling down there, fingers clenching to stay but begging to run through his hair. Jin smiled at your struggle, parting your thighs so he could roll down on you.

He was hard and big, mouth watering. You let out a desperate sound, his hands dragging over your neck. Jin wanted to squeeze the part, to feel you struggle. Hair hung in maddening eyes, a predator catching his prey.

“We can't keep these any longer..”the vampire mumbled while grabbing at your pants, putting a little more force on your hips.”They're in the way”

He shredded the fabric, having to close his eyes at the increase of your scent. The mix of your arousal and blood had him moving faster. Jin couldn't wait and he knew you couldn't either. You never got to see him take of his clothes because he moved too fast, bare and in his flesh in a second. Your gaze wandered down his abdomen, gushing at how erect he was, pussy clenched at the mere glance of his cock.

“Please please”chanting, you grabbed a hold of silk sheets, which were your only anchor. You needed him now. Jin smirked, ripping of the last pieces of clothing on your body, staring at your dripping cunt. You were so ready, he didn't even have to prepare you.

“What do you want? Hmm? Use your words”whining and trashing, your body burnt at his tease.

“Please fuck me~”it started to hurt, the feeling of arousal in you. Pressure only built and the second Jin pushed himself in you, stars took over your gaze.

You gasped, back arching at the feeling of being filled. Jin moaned, your pussy clamping down on his sex. Adrenaline flushed his system and he lost himself. Jin moved fast, pounding into you like no tomorrow. His hands gripped hard at your hips, scream like sounds ripping through your throat.

“Scream for me baby, scream my name..”you gasped out, searching your mind for his name, realizing you didn't know it. “Jin. Scream it”

His name left your mouth like a prayer, hands letting go of silk sheets and grabbing velvet hair. You screamed and screamed, head turning. Jin kept his gaze on your neck, not being able to control the want to hold it. He pushed you down by putting pressure on your throat, choking you lightly. The loud sounds from you turned to stifled moans, making your pussy tighter. Jin smirked at it, growling while he moved.

“You’ll stay forever, right? Give me your blood, right?”he panted out, face close to yours.You merely nodded, too out of it to speak. He hit the right spot every time he fucked into you, eyes rolling back.

Jin felt his orgasm come fast, thrusts becoming sloppy. You were gone already, the euphoric feeling washing over you in forms of shaking and gasps. But the vampire didn't slow down, driving your body to overstimulation. Tears dropped from your eyes, choked out sobbs leaving your dry mouth. It hurt and felt so good at the same time. Jin growled out a moan as his hips snapped against yours, cock twitching in you before cumming in long spurts. He took deep breaths even when he didn't need to, while you panted lodly, hand formed bruises decorating your neck. He pulled out of you, landing besides you as your body shuddered. Sleepiness came over you mere seconds after your second orgasm. Jin glanced at your heavy eyelids, your screams of pleasure echoing in his ears.

“Sleep my little human..Dream of peace”his voice was so soft, luling you so slumber. You had no grip on real life while Jin watched you disappear. Something between a smirk and a smile tugged at his lips. He lingered by your cheek, wanting to kiss it but choosing not to.”And stay by my side forever”

“Why Jin?” Namjoon asked the second Jin walked through his doors, hair still messy.”Why her?”A frown developed on his lips, his undead heart beating for the first time in a century.

“Because she is her in another life and this time I am not letting her go”

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fratresdei · 4 years ago

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Spirituality Defined

Where did our working definition of spirituality come from? How has it evolved over centuries of research, ritual and belief? Philosophy grad Brayte Singletary stopped by the blog this week to take us on deep dive into the ever-elusive meaning of spirituality. Enjoy!

What even is spirituality? Rachel asks that very question in one of this blog’s first posts, and gives her answer there too. It’s one of the fundamental questions of spiritual direction. Those seeking or giving spiritual direction are liable to stumble on it sooner or later, through education or reflection. This post is one of those trips—and since it’s a bone we may need help chewing, I attempt to shine some Sirius-light on the best research I could dig up. Hopefully it’s illuminating.

In 2016 some researchers in Germany and the U.S. published the results of a formal investigation into the meaning of spirituality [A]. They based their investigation on a 2011 survey of Germans and Americans that asked, among other questions, “How would you define the term ‘spirituality’?” Approximately eighteen hundred different definitions came back, about forty percent German and sixty percent American. Quantifying these samples, the researchers started running statistical analysis.

First they looked for categories of response, grouping similar categories together and narrowing the list down to just those that make the most sense of overall response patterns [B]. They found that ten basically distinct concept clusters [C] come under the heading of spirituality, almost always in some combination [D]:

A keenly-felt connection to and harmony with nature, humanity, the world, the universe, or the whole of reality.

Dependence on, relationship to, or union with the divine; a part of religion, esp. Christianity.

A search for one’s higher or true inner self, meaning, purpose; knowledge of these things; attainment of peace or enlightenment, esp. in terms of a path or journey [E].

Holding and daily acting according to ethical values, especially in relation to others, one’s community, or humanity; a moral way of life [F].

Faith or belief in transmundane forces, energies, beings, a higher power, gods or God.

A noncommittal, indefinite, but intensely emotional, maybe loving sense that there is some thing(s) or being(s) higher than and beyond this world, this life, or oneself [G].

Experience and contemplation of reality and the truth, meaning, purpose, and wisdom, esp. if considered beyond scientific or rational understanding, inexplicable and indemonstrable.

Awareness of and attunement to another, immaterial or supernatural realm and its denizens (spirits, angels, ghosts, etc.); feeling their presence; using special techniques to perceive and interact with them (tarot, crystals, seances, etc.).

Opposite religion, dogma, rules, traditions; unstructured, irreverent, religious individualism.

Individual or private religious practice; prayer, worship, or meditation; relationship-deepening or connection-fostering personal rituals and devotional acts.

Doing the same grouping and narrowing to unearth anything deeper, they found that all of these ten clusters fall somewhere on three scales, which they call the dimensions of spirituality [H]:

I. Vertical vs. horizontal general terminology for transcendence [I]

II. Theistic vs. non-theistic specific terminology for transcendence

III. Individual vs. institutional mediation of transcendence

Finally they found that this analysis confirms their larger research team’s theoretically-grounded hypothesis that the root definition of spirituality is:

Individually-mediated, experience-directed religion, esp. among religious nones [J]: i.e., religion oriented away from mediation through institutions, dependence on organizational structures and absolute authority claims, toward the immediacy of firsthand experience, emancipatory independence and value relative to the individual [K].

All this verbiage cries out for explanation. But for the moment let’s step back to marvel at our good luck in having research like this. Its conclusions about the meaning of spirituality—at least the ten concept clusters and three scales—came through something nearer experimentation in a laboratory than reflection in an armchair. In philosophical jargon, this argus-eyed approach was a posteriori rather than a priori; in anthropological jargon, emic rather than etic. As a result, we better see wrinkles in the meaning of spirituality, including internal inconsistencies that a cyclopic definitional scheme might smooth over, e.g., as a part of religion (2) and as opposite it (10).

For starters then, we see that this definition of spirituality is tripartite: “individually-mediated”, “experience-directed”, and “religion”. Since spirituality here is a kind of religion, religion is the core concept, so we’ll take it from there. That will lead to the three scales of spirituality, ‘vertical vs. horizontal terminology’ (I), ‘theistic vs. non-theistic terminology’ (II), and ‘individual vs. institutional mediation’ (III). “Individually-mediated” will come along with the third. That leaves only “experience-directed” and closing remarks. Now where did I put my patience for dry exposition…?

If none of it jibes with your own sense of spirituality, all the better! We all have much to learn, and outliers—you whose lives are led under stones yet unturned by science—have much to teach us.

First “religion”: For these researchers religion is any socially constructed system of symbols and rituals that interprets transcendent experience in ultimate terms [L]. This applies even to people who don’t consider themselves religious, including those who would self-describe as “spiritual but not religious”. But precisely what do transcendent experience and ultimate mean here? Transcendent experience—or simply ‘transcendence’—is any experience of “distance and departure from [the] everyday”, above and beyond the boundaries of ordinary experience [M]. More than just extraordinary, it exceeds our expectations of life and the world as we know it, e.g., by excelling in its class or defying classification (almost) altogether: the weirder and more wonderful, the more transcendent. So transcendent experience is often what we would traditionally call ‘religious experience’, but they make the distinction that it only counts as religious if on interpretation it’s cast in ultimate terms. Turning to “ultimate” then, here this is really elliptical for ‘of ultimate concern or importance to a person’. The ultimate is what “gives depth, direction and unity to all other concerns”, as theologian Paul Tillich puts it, from whom they draw the idea—e.g., our answers to basic questions about the world and our place in it [N]. Bringing these ideas together, a merely transcendent experience becomes genuinely religious when we see in it something all-important to us, and it becomes full-fledged religion when we build around it a symbolic-ritualistic framework of beliefs and practices. One’s framework needn’t be grand or widely-shared: it might be a slim private affair, like a single-person tent that’s as easy to pitch as to pack up and carry. Likewise a person can bring to transcendent experience a religious interpretive lens, or craft one afterwards just to come to terms with it. Either priority fits.

Before we move on to the next concept, let’s clear up some potentially misleading language in this definition of religion. To start, “socially constructed” here doesn’t necessarily mean ‘made up’, ‘fake’, or otherwise unreal. It just means that if nobody thought or talked about religion, there wouldn’t be any: its existence depends on its exercise. Likewise the claim that it “interprets” transcendent experience doesn't imply that it therefore misinterprets it. Indeed the opposite may well be true. Even elementary sense perception needs interpretation to become understanding: naked experience unclothed by categories or classifications is at best a muddle—e.g., in rounding an unfamiliar corner in the city or in coming out without warning on an open expanse in the country, when the sudden change of scenery produces a visual experience of undifferentiated shape and color, it’s all just optical nonsense until reason and intellect, as it were, catch up, and organize this sense data into a coherent picture: only then when interpretation goes to work does one finally know what she’s looking at. Although we may at times be apt to make meaning where there is none, often enough we find it right where it belongs. So this definition doesn’t debunk religion; it merely says that, assuming it has this experiential basis, it’s imbued with the meaning we give it, veracious or fallacious.

The terminology of our interpretation, i.e., our way of using terms for and ideas about the ultimate, admits of a couple distinctions. These are also the first and second scales of spirituality above (I-II): vertical-horizontal, and within that, theistic and non-theistic [O]. The former measures the metaphysical distance transcendent experience crosses. The latter measures the unity and personality and sometimes also the clarity of the religious object. Vertical terminology characteristically evokes what we would traditionally call the transcendent, e.g., God and heaven—generally, the otherworldly. It aims at things other than and over this world and oneself in it. Horizontal terminology tends the other way, toward the traditionally immanent, e.g., nature and humanity. Leaning this-worldly, it aims at things in and of the world and the world itself. Notably, whereas the vertical is often explicitly religious, the horizontal’s religiosity can even escape the notice of the person professing it [P]. Within this distinction is that between theistic and non-theistic terminology. The apparent presence of God, gods, and god-like beings or forces maps an important area of vertically transcendent experience, as their apparent absence does an antipodean area of horizontally transcendent experience. But this also sheds light on terminology between vertical and horizontal. This family of views sees the ultimate as in neither our world nor a world beyond, but rather in “a world behind”, i.e., behind and beneath the world’s surface appearances [Q]. Typically this is non-theistic, e.g., about ghosts, spirits, energies, or forces.

A gloss of the third scale (III) now moves into view, and with it “individually-mediated”: Individual-institutional mediation of transcendence measures the directness or indirectness of a person’s access to transcendent experience, i.e., the extent and power of the gatekeepers standing in her way. As these researchers put it, “Institutionalized mediation says that ... there is no other way to transcendence than through the church, sacraments, and priests; that there is no other truth than the sanctioned teachings; and that the ultimate concern is determined by the institution and its tradition” [R]. By contrast, and often in vociferous reply, individual-mediation says, “there is no or very little mediation of transcendence, but rather the experiential immediacy of the individual; there are no claims of absoluteness, but the individualistic evidence of experience; there is no or very little organization or structure" [S]. In this way, against so-called organized religion’s usual mediation by institutions, esp. hierarchical structures operating them, spirituality favors an unpatrolled, gates-wide-open setup. Yet it doesn’t follow from such independence that spirituality is therefore a lonely pursuit—though “flight of the alone to the Alone”, i.e., hermetic mysticism, is surely right at home here too [T]. We’re able to have experiences with others, just not for them, so it can be equally possible to pursue direct experience of transcendence with others as by oneself.

Lastly, “experience-directed”: This means that, whereas transcendent experience might play no ongoing role in a religion’s usual exercise, e.g., as none other than an oft-remembered historical event, in spirituality it takes the lead. Ritual, symbol, etc., become at best aids to pursuit of transcendence, but at worst impediments. Therefore spirituality in its purest, i.e., barest, form may focus on such experience exclusively; and since “directed” here means both ‘directed to’ and ‘directed by’, the religious ideal may resemble an upward spiral of being led from transcendence to transcendence by transcendence. Still this isn’t to say that spirituality takes direction from nothing else, or that by focusing on transcendence even exclusively, the rest of familiar religion vanishes. A spiritual purist may disavow religious side projects in pursuit of her wonted mode of transcendence, or she may simply subordinate them to it as various means to this end. Yet while she might style herself as therefore unencumbered in her pursuit of raw experience, her religious interpretive lens remains ever-present, however unwittingly. It must, or else her chase after the spiritual would be of the wild-goose variety. E.g., someone undergoing a crisis of faith might discover to her horror that she’s no longer able to participate in her favorite religious exercises, since the vinegar of doubt now spoils every well from which she used to draw joy. Since her experiences can’t mean what they used to, they can’t be what they used to either.

Let’s sum up with a little illustration. Consider this spiritual foil: one an atheistic nature lover, the other a Catholic anchoress. The former’s approach is thoroughly horizontal and non-theistic. She takes regular hikes to feast on natural beauty and sublimity, but deems it all mere serendipity in a chaotic cosmos. She’s a proficient adventurer, as comfortable with friends as without. She might not spurn a Beatrice to guide her through some earthly paradise, but her trust would be that when she came face to facelessness with wild abundance, her delight would need no shepherd. The abundance itself would call out of her everything necessary for its appreciation. In this way she mediates her own pursuit of these experiences. Their ultimacy for her comes not only from her denial of the otherworldly, but also from her judgment that nature is intrinsically, i.e., ultimately, good—or at least, that immersion in it stirs and sustains her is. Conversely, the latter’s approach is thoroughly theistic and vertical, and manifestly ultimate. She spends her life in solitary prayer. Sometimes during contemplation of the divine she has ecstatic visions or auditions. But whatever happens, her daily goal is total abandonment to God. Still even with the individuality of her self-mediating lifestyle, it retains considerable institutionality. She holds fast to piety towards the Church, its orthodoxy and orthopraxy. Yet despite this rigid adherence to ecclesiastical authority—or, she would say, because of it—, she lives as a recluse whose sole aim is attaining union with Him Whom she worships as Transcendence Itself. Both in their disparate ways are individually-mediated, experience-directed religion.

Here we are then! We’ve gained at long last the real meaning of spirituality, right? Well, maybe: We have to trust not only that German and American ideas of spirituality are the same as everybody else’s, but also that the notions of these particular people are the same as those of other Germans and Americans [U]. Moreover we must take for granted that what they put in Tweet-sized writing when a survey bluntly asked them their opinion is the same as what they think all the time, even when they’re not thinking about what they think [V]. Still science has yet to master the art of mind-reading. So even if this isn’t the definitive definition of ‘spirituality’, it’s got my money for our best guess yet.

In Rachel’s post, she’s wise to the width of variety, saying, “Spirituality has been defined and redefined throughout human history, and it is now my intention to shout yet another definition to the abyss.” For her, its definition is: “the practice of deriving any amount of meaning from any event, thought, or activity.” Looking back at the ten concept clusters above, this bears striking resemblance to parts of (3) and (7). She’s in good company. Clinicians and care professionals typically promote this conception: e.g., psychological measures of wellbeing that account for spirituality usually cast it in these terms, viz., purpose and meaning. Though some have wondered whether this confuses spirituality with a part of mental health, the findings above resoundingly vindicate it as an important part of the spiritual puzzle [W]. If they also solve that puzzle, hopefully they do so more in the spirit of Ariadne’s clue out of the Labyrinth than Alexander’s sword through the Knot. At the very least, such research is a waypoint on the path to understanding. If none of it jibes with your own sense of spirituality, all the better! We all have much to learn, and outliers—you whose lives are led under stones yet unturned by science—have much to teach us. So it’s still worth asking:

What does spirituality mean to you? Please share your definition in the comments.

Unpack what spirituality uniquely means to you through the ancient practice of spiritual direction. Schedule a free online session through the link in the comments.

Endnotes:

A. Eisenmann, Clemens, et al. “Dimensions of “Spirituality”: The Semantics of Subjective Definitions.” Semantics and Psychology of Spirituality: A Cross-Cultural Analysis, ed. by Heinz Streib & Ralph Wood, Jr., Springer, 2016, p. 125.

B. Op. cit., pp.129-35. Before grouping and narrowing them together and down, these were the forty-four recurring categories they found:

Faith and belief, believing, belief system

Connectedness, relationship, in touch with, harmony

Individual, personal, private, subjective

Everyday, daily life, way of life, to act

Values, (higher) order, morals, karma

God (also the Father, Lord, Creator, the Divine)

Unspecified transcendent: something bigger, beyond, greater; “may be”

Feeling, emotion, intuition, empathy, heart, love

Within, self, higher Self, inner core, essence

Seeking, path, journey, reaching, to evolve, to achieve

Awareness, consciousness, sense of, feeling a presence, in tune

Supernatural, non-material, cannot see or touch

Transcendental higher power/forces/energy

Thinking about, to understand, to reflect, contemplation

Relation to the world, nature, environment, universe

Cannot be explained or scientifically proven, beyond understanding

Higher/beyond/greater/other than oneself/humans/this life

Relation to others, community, all humanity, humankind

Experience, sensory perception Spirit and mind

Rest (i.e., the remainder of uncategorized responses)

Practices, to practice (one’s faith), music, prayer, worship, meditation

(Inner) peace, enlightenment and other attitudes and states of being

Guided, destined, controlled, saved, healed, dependent

Part of religion, Christian, biblical

All-connectedness, part of something bigger

Meaning and (higher) purpose, questions and answers

Transcendental absolute, “unity of existence,” omnipresent and indiscriminate, the one

Otherworldly, beyond this world, “spiritual” realms Acknowledge, to recognize, to accept, to realize Vague, unclear, unsure; bullshit, fantasy, hocus pocus Without rules, tradition, norms, dogma, structure, directions (21) Something else than religion, without worship

Energies, vital principle, ghosts, angels and demons, spirits

The truth, true nature of existence, wisdom, reality (4) Jesus, Christ, Holy Spirit, the Son Greater being/person, deities, gods Soul

Universal category, basis of mankind Esoteric, occultism, spiritism, mystic, magic (39) Deal with, interest in, engagement, focus

Part and beyond religion Obedience and devotion Life after death.

C. I borrow the notion of concept clusters from passing familiarity with Ludwig Wittgenstein’s philosophy of language.

D. Op. cit., pp. 137-8. Paraphrase.

E. Whereas spirituality conceived of as a part of religion (2) fits nicely with its mostly premodern history as just that, the conception immediately following of it as a journey to one’s true inner self (3) sits well with modern social movements toward individualism and subjectivism: op. cit., p. 146.

F. Spirituality conceived of as living out one’s values may partly underlie the self-identification “spiritual but not religious”. Here ’spirituality’ primarily indicates an ethical concern that being merely ‘religious’ doesn’t—not just talking the talk but walking the walk: ibid. More clearly this identification involves some combination of clusters with (9).

G. The much-maligned vagueness of spirituality’s meaning may come from this conception of it as a sense of something indefinite and beyond: ibid. N.b., philosophers of language usually distinguish vagueness, i.e., unclear meaning due to imprecise extension over borderline cases, from ambiguity, i.e., unclear meaning due to polysemy—having multiple meanings.

H. Op. cit., p. 143. Paraphrase. Their dimensions are: (I) mystical vs. humanistic transcending; (II) theistic vs. non-theistic transcendence; and (III) individual “lived” experience vs. dogmatism.

I. I use “transcendence” and “transcendent experience” interchangeably throughout this post. Though there may be other forms of transcendence than experience, talk of ‘transcendence’ as an event and not, e.g., as a divine attribute, usually means ‘experience of transcendence’, i.e., ‘transcendent experience’.

J. Religious nones get their names from those who answer “none” to demographic polls asking their religious affiliation. In other words, they are the religiously unaffiliated. Cf. unchurched.

K. Op. cit., p. 148. Paraphrase. Their definition is privatized experience-oriented religion, following research by other members of their team: Streib, Heinz, & Wood, Jr., Ralph. “Understanding “Spirituality”—Conceputal Considerations.” Semantics and Psychology of Spirituality: A Cross-Cultural Analysis, ed. by Heinz Streib & Ralph Wood, Jr., Springer, 2016, p. 9. Ensuing fns. refer to that ch.

L. Op. cit., p. 11. Cf. Emile Durkheim’s definition of religion, popular esp. in U.S. religious studies depts.: “a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and forbidden—beliefs and practices which unite into one single moral community called a Church, all those who adhere to them”: The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. trans. Carol Cosman, Oxford Univ. Press, 2001, p. 46.

M. Op. cit., p. 10.

N. Op. cit., p. 11.

O. Strictly speaking, non-theistic terminology could be either vertical or horizontal, while theistic terminology is by definition vertical. As it happens however, or at least according to this research, our thinking about spirituality typically separates out the theistic and vertical from the non-theistic and horizontal.

P. Op. cit., p. 12.

Q. Ibid.

R. Op. cit. p. 14.

S. Ibid. They also mention here sectarian middle mediation “through a prophetic and charismatic person”.

T. Famous last words of the Neoplatonic classic: Plotinus. Enneads. VI.9.11. trans. Andrew Louth, qtd. in The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys, Oxford Univ. Press, 1981, p. 51.

U. Cf. WEIRD bias (Western, educated, industrialized, rich, and democratic), an ongoing problem for representative sampling: Henrich, Joseph, Heine, Steven J., & Norenzayan, Ara. “The weirdest people in the world?” Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 33, 2-3, 2010, 61–83. In fact there were some statistically significant differences between German and American responses: American definitions of spirituality were more Christian or otherwise traditionally religious, mentioning Jesus and the Holy Spirit much more, but God only a little more—presumably because theism goes beyond Christianity. Still when they did mention God it was more often in Christian terms of a personal and sovereign lord. Likewise they mentioned faith and belief much more often, and this was more often faith or belief in something beyond, higher power(s), god(s), or God (5). Their notions of spiritual power were also further outside and over themselves, as in talk of guidance or obedience. By contrast German definitions of spirituality were warier of dogma and authority, whether religious orthodoxy or scientific consensus. They mentioned experience, as opposed to belief, more often, and were generally more esoteric, occult, and magical in their terminology, talking of the otherworldly in more universal but impersonal or abstract, terms. They were also more critical of spirituality, oftener complaining of its vagueness or even dismissing it as bovine fecal material. Still despite all this the researchers noted that American and German definitions were much, much more alike than different. These differences should therefore be understood as in emphasis, not substance. Their considerable overlap, striking in itself, forms the basis of the ten concept clusters and the three scales.

V. We must also assume that the scientific method deserves our confidence, and that the concept of spirituality, if not spirituality itself, is amenable to investigation by it. Other assumptions include those about word meaning, natural kinds, and other hot topics of debate in the philosophy of language and science—all of which would take us far afield of the present discussion. May curious readers experience transcendence of this post!

W. Eisenmann, Clemens, et al., p. 147.

#spiritual #spirituality #Religion #religious #theology #philosophy #Religious Studies #spiritual but not religious #spiritual direction #spiritual director #spiritual direction denver #denver spirituality #history of religion #spiritual journey #faith #belief #soul care

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lwjstiletto · 4 years ago

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wangxian au where lwj is a popular hand model and wwx is an independent jewellery maker [Part 2]

[Part 1]

their monthly sibling catch-up jenga ruins wwx’s plans to mope for the foreseeable future.

jc is concentrating very hard on wiggling a piece out and wwx would usually make fun of him but he can only conjure enough energy to pull out the easy looking pieces today so he has no high ground.

“name 3 good things that happened to you.” jc frowns as he reads the wooden cuboid, “like ever? or in the last month?”

jyl doesn’t quite give him a look, but a slight downturn of her lip still gets the point across.

jc sighs, “an old student of mine opened a gallery, xichen and i went for brunch and wei wuxian hasn’t bothered me in a while. what’s up with that by the way?”

“my turn.” wwx says unenthusiastically and pulls a loose jenga piece. ‘how is your love life?’ it reads. can jenga be rigged? it has to be rigged.

“you know we’re allowed to ask questions outside the jenga right?” jc snaps.

wwx knows. wwx also knows that the jenga questions were only introduced by jyl to stimulate conversation between an angry jc and a stubborn wwx when he’d come back two years ago from his apprenticeship abroad.

but wwx also doesn’t want to talk about his humiliating interaction with the man who his brother had called ‘wangji’. he even has a nice name. why is wwx’s life so hard?

“a-xian,” jyl starts, “are you alright?”

wwx looks at her with a pout, “how can i be when we’ve not seen each other for weeks? i missed you.”

jyl smiles indulgently, “i missed you too. next time you should come with me, lotus pier seems empty without you two.”

jc looks like he wants to prod wwx more but then he looks over at wwx’s jenga piece and starts to laugh. wwx hates it here.

—•—

lwj wears gloves when he’s not working to shield his hands from things like tanning, small scratches, drying out etc. any normal person would overlook these as minuscule imperfections but it could put him out of his job for weeks

he has custom made moisturising cotton gloves that he wears during the night; and thicker cotton or leather gloves for the day, depending on the weather

at first, he had found this incredibly bothersome. a month or so into it he stopped noticing them and suffered through various incidents where he tried to eat with gloves on or, on a particularly horrifying occasion, wash his hands with them.

but now, he has begun to indulge. he buys gloves in materials which are impractical, which he can only wear when he has nowhere to go and nothing to do.

there are the pastel lace gloves that draw patterns from his fingers up to his elbows, the white satin ones with frills, and finally the fingerless black gloves made of supple, soft leather.

(for ref)

they make him feel a certain type of way that he is too embarrassed to put in words, so he doesn’t.

he puts them away in a drawer on the furthest corner in his wardrobe that he only opens when he needs a confidence boost or after a particularly tiring shoot

today happens to be the latter, except it has been multiple tiring shoots and while his muscles aren’t aching anymore, he still feels like he deserves something nice.

he retrieves a new pair of leather gloves that have an adjustable belt at the wrist. he tightens the strap to the point that he can’t move his hand too much without it hurting. he hums, a pleased sound escaping his lips, and finally lets himself go

—•—

wwx has spent the last hour answering nhs’ questions about his business, future plans and why he wants to work with lan wangji (who is apparently a hand model? and a super successful one at that???)

wwx answers to the best of his abilities as his head spins from the turn of events and the recent information that has come to light. it’s- a lot.

finally nhs nods and picks up his phone to call someone.

“not presentable... what does that- it doesn’t matter, i’m not calling you here for a shoot. just come here and i will explain.” with that nhs hangs up the phone as if someone would have jumped through it otherwise

wwx, who has finally managed to absorb everything, asks, “was that lan wangji?”

nhs just smiles cryptically. wwx’s question is answered soon enough though, as lwj walks into the office twenty minutes later. he blinks at wwx but does not show any other outword reaction as he takes a seat

nhs begins to speak, “i have spoken to wei-xiong and come to the conclusion that he is not stalking you.”

lwj looks at wwx and then back at nhs, not quite an eyebrow-raise but as close to it as it gets.

“wei-xiong wants you to model for him. i will let you two speak for a while. there is no pressure, just a light discussion.” nhs says and then skips out before any of them can stop him

the air in the room gets significantly more tense. lwj’s expression is blank and when wwx can’t look at it anymore, he decides to look at his crossed arms instead

“holy shit dude, are you ok?” wwx shouts, alarmed at the bruised red marks lining lwj’s wrist where it pokes out of his long sleeved sweater

lwj looks down at it, seemingly horrified, and pulls his sleeves down before wwx can get a better look.

“are you... hurt?” wwx asks gently.

lwj shakes his head. “i’m fine.”

he sounds like he’s telling the truth. this immediately short circuits wwx’s brain because.. why else are there bruises on his wrists... what else could possibly... oh my god he likes to be tied up, wwx’s brain supplies

thankfully he manages to keep the thought to himself this time. lwj still looks at him like he heard it all the same.

“you are not stalking me.” lwj states.

“not really? i mean not for the reasons you think.” wwx cringes at himself. but lwj hasn’t walked away yet which means he must be willing to hear him out this time.

“to be honest i’ve been in a bit of a slump these past few months. i saw you at the university and wanted to work with you, i had no idea you were a hand model. i didn’t even know that was a thing.” wwx says.

lwj scrutinises him for a few seconds then nods. “thank you for explaining.”

lwj clearly sees this as the end of the conversation but wwx doesn’t want him to leave again so he starts to talk about the hand chains he has been working on the past few weeks, pulling out his phone to show lwj pictures of a few.

wwx is with his jewellery how new parents are with their babies. he has been gushing about the complicated silver work that he plans to refine over the next few days when he looks up to see lwj’s face inches from his.

lwj is looking at his phone, seemingly absorbing his words, because when wwx pauses lwj looks at him as if to ask him to continue. wwx gulps. being on the receiving end of such undivided attention, no less from such a beautiful man, is almost intimidating.

then lwj blinks again and the spell is broken.

wwx straightens up, “ah sorry for rambling.”

“if we were to work together,” lwj starts, “what would it entail?”

the implication that lwj is seriously considering working with him, a small business beneath his usual collaborations, is both flattering and slightly unreal.

“i would need you to come in to take measurements, maybe a couple of photographs so i can have refrence to your skin tone and bone structure when designing.” wwx says, voice professional.

“my... are you making these specifically for me?” lwj tilts his head, a gesture so adorably confused that wwx wants to coo.

wwx rubs his nose, “more like i’m using you as a reference? having a clear picture in my head helps kickstart my creations. once i have cohesion within my designs it’s easy to expand my range from there if that makes sense.”

lwj nods, looking contemplative. “won’t you need me to try them?”

wwx nods, seeing them on someone is usually important. after all, jewellery is made to be worn. “you’ll need to come to my workshop for that though, so i can make minor adjustments on the spot. my thoughts tend to run away from me sometimes and i forget half my observations as i work. it won’t be often though, i’ll only call you in when necessary. and if you’re too busy then we can always reschedule.” wwx says.

“you are too accommodating.” lwj says, “in this industry, you shouldn’t be.”

wwx feels a little stricken by the statement. he laughs nervously, “it’s not like i can have you sit there for hours while i work.”

“if it makes it easier for you, then you should. i’m used to holding still.” lwj says, serious.

“is that an offer?” wwx raises an eyebrow. because this whole discussion certainly sounds like they’re making a deal.

lwj turns his head to the side and the loose strands of his hair swish with the movement. it’s such a graceful motion that wwx thinks he has surely practiced this before.

when he turns back, wwx notices he’s holding a business card out towards wwx. “you can contact my agent about my scheduling. my number is only for emergency appointments in case you need them.”

wwx is speechless. he cannot believe he actually pulled this off what the fu—

he’s still feeling thunderstruck when he gets home. with numb fingers, he has managed to program lwj’s number into his phone because he knows he’ll lose the card sometime soon. his contact name is just ‘💅🏻��

it’s both because wwx thinks lan wangji is too formal, and because he has an undeniable urge to see his nails painted.

it’s just so he can know what colours and gemstones would suit him of course. the thought that probably everything would suit lwj is firmly shut down and pushed at the back of wwx’s head.

—•—

lwj gets a call at 6am the next morning. he doesn’t know why but he immediately thinks of wwx. it turns out to be nmj

“wangji, have you been well?” nmj asks.

“yes.” lwj says, unsure of why nmj is calling him so early in the morning. isn’t he supposed to be at the gym at this hour?

“that is good to hear. are you busy?”

“no. i have five hours until my shoot.” lwj says, still confused. a feeling of dread settles in his stomach.

“let’s go for coffee then. i want to treat you.” nmj says.

lwj is silent for a few seconds then, “why?”

“i need to discuss an urgent matter with you.” nmj says.

if lwj wasn’t alarmed before, he definitely is now. he agrees to meet nmj in a cafe he visits regularly.

when he gets there, nmj is waiting for him at the door, attracting every passerby’s attention with his muscles bulging out of his grey t-shirt.

when lwj comes to a stop before him, nmj gives him a small smile and opens the door for him, gesturing him to go in.

people look as they walk over to a table in the back and keep looking as they take a seat. lwj makes nmj sit with his back to the cafe so he hides lwj completely from their eyes.

“wangji,” nmj starts seriously, then pauses, pushing a glass of water towards him.

lwj doesn’t touch it.

nmj sighs, “i was at huaisang’s office the other day and bumped into a man. he came there looking for you so i asked who he was. luckily huaisang had told me about him before, su she?”

lwj takes the glass of water and chugs it. nmj looks at him with concern.

“i turned him away but i’m worried about you wangji.” nmj says, pushing his own glass of water towards lwj.

lwj doesn’t frown but it’s a close call. “i do not know what he wants.”

nmj’s face hardens. “clearly nothing good. huaisang stopped me from punching him but if you ever need me to, feel free to call me.”

lwj shakes his head, “it’ll be okay. possibly.”

this makes nmj frown even more. “i’m serious, call me if he dares follow you. we cannot press charges until he portrays to be an actual threat but i will protect you.”

“i do not need protection.” lwj’s grip tightens on his glass.

“i know that.” nmj says, “but i will offer my protection either way. it’s good to know someone has your back.”

lwj wants to fight him on this, they barely know each other outside work and lwj does /not/ need someone to do his dirty work. he doesn’t though, because he is tired of carrying the fear of being recognised/followed all by himself. it’s not like he can burden nhs or lxc.

and nmj is neither judging, nor underestimating him. he is just offering to have his back should he ever need it, and it’s not... a bad thing. it’s almost like having a friend in the industry, and maybe he needs some of those.

so he nods. even nmj seems surprised by this but gives him a smile and orders him a coffee, true to his word.

nhs emails lwj a document containing his schedule for the next month and wwx is nestled comfortably in the only free hours he gets on fridays. he’s not as upset about it as he thought he would be

at 4pm friday, lwj drives to wwx’s ‘workshop’ which is simply an extension of his untidy living space. lwj doesn’t know how someone so meticulous with their handiwork could be so in a borderline hazardous workspace.

wwx conjures up a beanbag and gestures for lwj to sit down. lwj looks at the purple monstrosity and then at wwx, dubious.

“aiyah i’m just trying to make your comfortable!” wwx says, “graphing out your measurements will take a while.”

lwj doesn’t remember the last time someone cared for his comfort when he was at work. he has to stand for hours when only his upper body is in frame, and bend his fingers in unnatural ways as per the director’s requirements. discomfort is his status quo

he has never complained. it’s part of his job to hold still and not draw anyone’s focus to the less important parts of him, i.e. his face, by voicing his discomfort. it hardly bothers him anymore.

“are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me sit upright?” lwj asks, because while wwx seems like a considerate person lwj does not want to compromise the quality of his work.

“it’s gonna take an hour,” wwx says scandalised, “i’m not cruel. besides, i already received the photographs i needed for reference so you can just chill out till i do my work.”

lwj doesn’t mention how an hour is nothing compared to the time he had stood with his hands outstretched for seven hours. with an internal sigh, he gingerly sinks down on the beanbag. he hates to admit it, but it is actually comfortable.

wwx smirks at him like he knows, then gathers his measuring tools and approaches lwj. lwj removes his cotton gloves and places them on his knees.

once wwx is close enough, he takes lwj’s proffered wrist and winds a measuring tape around it. lwj doesn’t want to stare straight at wwx’s.. ehm yeah so he looks up.

this is just as bad of an idea, because where lwj has noticed wwx is attractive, seeing him from this angle is just... too much. he can’t close his eyes either, because that will make it look like he’s— enjoying this or something.

he decides to look to the side instead, spotting a framed picture of wwx and a toddler.

“is he your son?” he asks, because he feels the need to fill the silence for the first time in his life.

wwx looks at the picture, then laughs, “no, that’s my nephew, jin ling. he’s three and already spoiled rotten by my family.”

“do you have a big family?” lwj asks. asking personal questions is both unlike him and probably very unprofessional.

wwx, however, smiles indulgently. “it’s just my shijie, her husband jin zixuan, jin ling and my brother jiang cheng. well those are the nearest and dearest ones.”

“jiang cheng?” lwj asks.

wwx frowns, “yeah. do you know him?”

“he and my brother are close friends.” lwj says.

“wait, xichen is your brother?” wwx asks, then cringes at his informality, “i guess that’s lan xichen huh? i never knew his family name.”

“and what about wen qing? how do you know her?” wwx asks as he starts to try different sizes of measurement rings to see what fits lwj’s fingers.

it takes lwj a few seconds to answer. “wen qing drew studies of human anatomy for her final project.”

“let me guess,” wwx grins, placing a ring on his middle finger, “were you the hand section of her anatomy?”

lwj feels his ears burn for some reason. “yes. it’s how i got discovered.”

“discovered? like you got scouted for hand modelling based on a painting?” wwx pauses in his movements.

“nie huaisang was present at the final display at the university’s gallery, he’s fond of art.” lwj says.

wwx looks impressed, “just like that?”

“it is common for hand models.” lwj says.

“okay, so in your professional opinion, could i sell-“ wwx pauses, “could i be a hand model?”

he wiggles his fingers in front of lwj’s face.

“no.” lwj says.

“oh wow, blunt but effective.” wwx pouts

“you have callouses.” lwj explains, taking a closer look at wwx’s hands, “and dents from using your tools. things like cuticles, tanning and nails are fixable, but the others will remain permanent if you plan on still making jewellery and doing other strenuous work.”

when he looks up, wwx’s face is unreadable. thinking that he has offended the man, he draws back. “i apologise.”

that seems to snap wwx out of it, “don’t! you don’t need to apologise. it’s just– i don’t think anyone has ever answered a silly question of mine so sincerely. i’m still absorbing it.”

“i’m just being honest,” lwj says, “you have a good bone structure. you could have considered this line of work were it not for your existing business.”

wwx drops lwj’s hand and places both of his own on his cheeks, “i’m pretty sure that you’re messing with me but i can’t prove it so i’m gonna let it go.”

lwj suppresses a smile. maybe he doesn’t need the free hours on fridays.

[Part 3]

#wangxian fic #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #lwj x wwx #lan zhan #wei ying #the untamed #cql #mdzs #my fics #hand model au #long fic

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