#They are driving me mad tho. I literally just sent a wall of text to a friend about this. She is also into warrior cats

[daily-whistlepaw]

You must be so freaking pumped rn. The writers are considering making Whistlepaw a POV!!!

I am away from Tumblr for ONE NIGHT, one night where I'm going to a play with some friends and they post it THEN.

My god this is terrible for my heart, they are going to kill me eventually with this. Yes I Am Hyped.

Also, @vulturequills' drawing of my design of Whis is in this article. They Know About Me Lol.

[shoplifting]

blocks @/photosthatarensfw aka @/highladysith

TW antiblackness

[Image description: a reblog by @/osha-unofficial that says “Who is their manager.”, which is reblogged and replied to by @/photosthatarensfw saying “You want their manager? ok karen”. End description.] 

A few weeks ago I sent them an ask replying to this comment of theirs, letting them know that if she’s not Black and especially if she’s white she shouldn’t be using Karen like that, it’s not for us. I had been optimistic that they would respond well given that they hadn’t used any other AAVE in the posts of hers I’d seen. They never published the ask.

Fast forward to yesterday where they asked if people would be interested in buying merch from them. I sent an admittedly pissed off ask and this is how they replied.

[Image description: an anon that says “I wouldn’t buy pins/stickers if the procedes go to you bc i sent you an ask about whether or not you’re Black bc you used AAVE and I never saw u answer it. If u did answer it and correct yourself or u r Black yes I’d buy.” Her reply reads “K”. End description.]

And I wrote that pretty late, I didn’t really remember if she’d used more AAVE or what the original instance was and I should have been polite and ask whether or not they got my ask. I do deeply regret this ask, but now that the cat’s out of the bag, OP is addressing it and showing what they think.

This is the reply they reblogged to the ask.

[Image description: The main text reads “Sorry I didn’t answer your anon, I tend to delete baity asks”. The tags read “There’s literally nothing I can say to make you think I’m not an asshole”. End description.]

Which given how I worded the ask I would take into consideration if she was confronting the issue of appropriation. I did not say what I should have, that I hadn’t noticed if they’d used more AAVE, but she should have addressed the issue at this point in our interaction. Furthermore, there absolutely ARE ways to convince me you’re not an asshole, which include owning up and moving on with composure and respect, and my second anon was worded in a way that could be read as bait, whereas, while I don’t remember the exact wording, I hope and believe my original ask was probably simply pointing out a fact.

And now is where all of the assumptions really come in, which is driving me up the fucking wall.

[Image description: an anon that says “if you said you’re black then they’d want photo evidence and throw a fit if you didn’t provide evidence. if you said your not black then they’d “cancel” you. there’s no winning”. OP replies “Exactly”. The tags read “It’s pretty obvious what my main blog is tho so. If they wanted to know they could easily figure it out. (I literally said Karen once) (that’s why they’re mad at me)”. End description.]

WHICH LIKE?? WHAT THE FUCK??

I never hinted that I wanted photo evidence, I wouldn’t have because that’s just too much, too invasive, and I’m trusting of people. I understand that it’s a trend that people will get deplatformed for minor things but the assumption that this case was that is inaccurate. Secondly, they do not have an about page on that blog and I am almost exclusively on Tumblr mobile.

I told her that on anon this morning, as well as the fact that I understood that if she is Black (or a person of color, though I forgot to mention that in the message), then answering would have put her at undue risk and it was fine if she just corrected themself. I said this all civilly and well rested. They have not published that ask yet.

I am also not mad about the unknowing use of AAVE, I am mad about the lack of addressing it now that the conversation is being had, which I believe I had communicated. I really shouldn’t have been mad when sending the second ask because I couldn’t remember if she’d used it recently, but even when sending that ask my anger was due to them not taking accountability, not from the one instance itself.

And then there was this ask.

[Image description: an anon that says “What good comes from demanding to know someones skin colour? You arent a mega corp masquerading as someone who gives a shit, just an independent content creator. I genuinely worry that people cant see nuance in “support black businesses”.” Their reply is “They’re literally just mad I said Karen once so”. End description.]

Which just ignores the whole point of wanting to avoid giving racist people a platform or money, or holding each other accountable. And once again she is deflecting to me being mad over one word instead of taking accountability or addressing the appropriation.

They also allowed jokes to be made on the ask of mine they posted.

[Image description: A reblog by @/photosthatarensfw with a screenshot of a reply by @/verisoran that says “On the plus side, this behavior from teh anon fits the sub, as it is decidedly nsfw”. OP’s reply is “did you just call me a sub?” and their tags are the joking tone indicator and “I am not submissive and breedable”. End description]

I didn’t remember that author portraits are a thing on desktop dashboard, which is the only place you can see who they are. Their main blog, @/highladysith, does not have an about page either, and her race is not listed in their bio, but they do have a profile picture with a face in it, so, given the tags of that last ask, I’m assuming this is them.

[Image description: A photo of a young bleach-blonde white person with a sparkly filter applied. End description.]

They still have not addressed the use of AAVE even though I sent them this article about an hour ago, and of the 4 anons I sent I sent (the third message wis split between two asks), she has only published the aggressive one, painting me purely as a demanding and invasive aggressor.

[Image description: a reblog by @/penrosetri-jay-ngle that says “I feel like we’re getting a little too comfortable demanding people share personal information on the internet in order to prove themselves Unproblematic”. End description.]

Given that this is the only discussion of racism on her blog as far as I’ve seen, they’re also only portraying the outcry against this appropriating in a negative light.

They’re one of those people that posts about antiblack violence but immediately argues at recommendations to listen to Black people.

[skyflicker]

sea glass (amasai week day one)

written for @amasaiweek2020, hosted by @storyflight and @toxicisnotapineapple! i know it’s not Monday over there in America or wherever you are unless you live in Asia like me, but it is very early morning over here so y’all get early content...? the prompt is shy/confession and i chose the latter but it might as well have been tears because, as you can see, i literally used it 510983794789278974983 times. i’m sorry-

this is the first official danganronpa fanfiction i’ve completed besides one i only sent to my friends for mid-autumn festival, so please go easy on the newbie of the day :3 i hope y’all enjoy this! (and if you do enjoy it, do drop over to my ao3 @silveryyy, where this is also posted, and leave a kudos ;) (it’s okay if you don’t tho-)

-

Shuichi remembers the day as clearly as if it were just yesterday.

Three long, blurry years could not make a single dent in his memory, in his pain. Three years, and he still flinches at any sound of crashing, still hears the roaring sound of silence rolling in his ears afterwards, still sees the image of the smile he loved so much through the tears blurring his sight into a swirling mess of colours.

Time heals, they’d told him. It’ll numb soon. But Shuichi had never, not once in the half decade he’d spent locked in his room, felt the pain, the grief, the guilt recede- instead, he felt the dread twist deeper into his stomach every day, his lungs squeezed so hard he could hardly breathe with the streams he let pouring down, his gut stabbed, ever so brutally, by a thousand snow-rimmed spears, the deadly cold metal stinging his wounds, and then he’d look down and see nothing at all. The pain, though, still remains, and his heart drops and falls and smashes to the floor into a million tiny fragments that are painstakingly put back together just to be destroyed again the next day. Rivers of guilt and pain flooded his mind day by day, flowing between him and that person he loved so dearly, separating them cruelly on two opposite riverbanks, so so far away from each other.

The mornings are always the worst. He remembers the day after the accident, remembers his eyes opening to sunshine flowing in from the window as always, the fully clear glass fracturing the light ever so slightly to create the most gorgeous rainbows dancing playfully across the walls, casting a golden sheen across the room; the skies such a lovely vibrant shade of azure, smooth as a painter’s steady hand brushing across the ever-expanding canvas. The sky was so clear, without a cloud in sight, like it had not a single care in the world. For a moment, Shuichi had forgotten the day before, forgotten the endless tears shed, the screams that echoed the air, and actually felt his spirits life and soar as high as a joyful bird dashing up into the world. It’d only made him hurt more when the imaginary world breaks into pieces and bits and pieces of memories, ironically just like sunlight, streams into him through the faux happiness, like how the sun always finds a way to break out of the dark sheets of tar-like clouds.

Three painful years, with no one there for him, no one to ease his mind, no one to comfort him.

To be completely fair, his friends did try to help. Kaede still lets herself in every other day, after her day job at the local coffee shop, to shake Shuichi awake, make him a small dinner and prepare simple meals for him when she wasn't there, maybe try to coax him out of the house. She never gave up on him, never gave up on trying desperately to cheer him up, to have him pick up the life he once had. Maki comes over as much as she can- she's busy, being a kindergarten teacher, sits with Shuichi and talks about her day, talks about Kaito, and sometimes they just mourn, together, and he ends up crying and Maki just silently comforts him. Unlike Kaede (not to say she isn’t of any help, Kaede’s great and helps him take his mind off the incident), Maki more than understands- she shares in the pain of having lost a loved one- when Kaito'd died of cancer four years ago, Shuichi'd been completely devastated at the loss of his best friend and brother, but Maki definitely bore the brunt of the impact. At least he'd had Rantaro to help him then. Now- 

It's too painful to think about. But even if his friends tried their best to help him- his other friends/old classmates drop in from time to time as well- they're just… not the people he wants to see or talk to. Despite their attempts to have him move on, he just can't, the last argument he had with… him still deeply etched into his brain, every single moment he'd spent with his ex-boyfriend imprinted onto his eyelids. None of his friends, none of them except maybe Maki, truly understand, truly get why he's chosen to stay here mourning the loss of his lifeline. 

He feels guilty whenever they try to usher him out, though. He remembers the first time Kaede tried to persuade him to go out, his outburst at his foster sister, and she looked more scared than he'd ever seen her. That expression'd been enough for his anger to fade away into the dark wisps of shadows that now permanently reside in the corners of his eyes, always waiting to strike.

He remembers being so shocked and horrified at himself that the glass mug slipped from his hand, the crystal-like cup shattering into tiny sharp fragments, and they'd both flinched at the high-pitched crash, Shuichi's heart falling with it. He’d looked at Kaede, and opened his mouth to apologize at the sight of her large, sweet plum coloured eyes filled with guilt and tears, but she’d quietly beat him to it and slipped out of the doors, leaving Shuichi alone, alone with the click of the doors, and his own screaming, and the sound of the glass shattering on the floor echoing over and over again.

For three years, he hid away in his apartment. For three years, he’d been mourning alone, shut in his room, buried under the numerous blankets he kept in his closet.

But today, he decides, he’s going to break that record. For the first time since his best friend’s death, he’s going to go outside.

For the first time in ages, he actually wants to go out.

The last time he’d gone out was the day his best friend left him, left him alone in this cold and unforgiving world. He remembers coming home to his phone buzzing from a text, from Rantaro, the first time they’d talked since the large, intense argument they’d had two whole weeks prior. Rantaro’d been in Europe since that argument, with the only sister- Rina, a sweet girl five years younger than both Rantaro and Shuichi- he’d found over the countless years of searching- now the sole heiress of the Amami fortune- looking for his other siblings.

“I’m sorry.”

It was so sudden that Shuichi hadn’t known how to respond at all. He’d stared at the text, at the two words glowing on his screen, trying to figure out what to say. He wasn’t mad at Rantaro, not at all, (now he thinks that it was so stupid of him to argue, if he hadn’t he’d have been with Rantaro and Rina in Europe, he might have been able to save a life and saved so many hearts-) but, what if, what if he’d suddenly said something wrong? What if he destroys their friendship once and for all?

He didn't get to be anxious over it for long, though. Barely five minutes later, he’d gotten a phone call from Rina, a call that completely turned his life upside down.

Rina’s completely broken voice, shaking as tears surely were flooding down her cheeks, rough and raw from screaming, still haunts him. He still hears her sobs as she’d delivered the news at night, while sinking in the giant cushion of cruel dreams and misleading unconsciousness.

He couldn’t even bear to leave the house for the funeral. Somehow, the idea of seeing Rantaro’s broken body, bruised and pale and so void of any life at all, was so scary, and frightening. It’d felt so surreal, like he was dreaming and couldn’t wake up at all….

In his memory, Rantaro is smiling. Happy. Alive. His eyes are so full of life, full of care and kindness.

He brushes off a tear, and with shaking hands, tentatively opens the door.

Maki’s waiting downstairs for him, having promised to drive him. She smiles at Shuichi when he appears at the top of the staircase, but it doesn’t reach her eyes- they’re dull and full of sadness, and probably reflect Shuichi’s own. Sometimes Shuichi forgets that Maki was close with Rantaro too, but the pain in her eyes says it for her today all too clearly. Shuichi returns the greeting with a slight inclination of his head, not daring to say anything in case his voice breaks, and his walls fall.

She doesn’t say anything either, just wordlessly gestures for him to get on, her gaze bitter. Her car is a gorgeous shade of glossy sapphire and it shimmers in the morning sunlight, projecting a soft warm silk-like sheen of light that almost seems to coat the vehicle, and Shuichi is reminded of the ocean- gently rocking the boat like a baby’s cradle and its waves softly caressing the vessel sometimes but roughly pushing it from side to side and violently crashing over one’s head in others- as he looks at the colour, and he feels as if he’s drowning in the wild raging waters of heartbreak.

It’s also vaguely similar to the deep navy blue that forms the base of the galaxy, the shade that swirls to form so many beautiful and yet unpredictable patterns upon the dark spans of canvas at night. He wonders briefly if Maki picked this colour in memory of Kaito, of the love of her life she lost to dreadful lung cancer, of the space he used to love and fantasise about so much. 

In so many ways, Maki is much stronger than he, Shuichi, is. Even after the death of her boyfriend, she’s still able to pick herself back up, able to actually get back on her feet and continue living on with Kaito’s stars shining a pathway in her eyes, guiding her hands and mind, and his memory in her heart that she carries with her everywhere. She lives on and her world keeps spinning where Shuichi’s stopped, lives with a smile that Kaito instilled in her, remembers the good memories and is able to move on, truly once and for all, carrying the fond memories she smiles upon without a single trace of bitterness with her. 

Shuichi envies her, envies that she has the courage to stand up and brush the pain off her as if it were just simply dust and ashes, when he’s falling into an endless spiral of despair with no way out.

It’s too upsetting, though, he decides, to think about it now. He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls the door open, hands fumbling to pull himself into the chamber.

It takes them a whole hour to get to their destination, complete with a quick stop to the nearest boutique. Shuichi clutches the flowers he picked out tightly, restlessly fiddling with some of them, absentmindedly weaving a few roses into a small flower wreath. Maki’s mostly silent as she drives along the deserted roads of the countryside, and Shuichi stares outside the glass panes, at the miles and miles of rolling emerald fields, the sun shining upon it relentlessly. He can’t help but think how Rantaro would’ve tried to break the silence, giving him that beautiful smile and initiating a conversation that would bloom to become lively and animated, and end with all of them smiling or laughing. Rantaro was perceptive like that, knowing when people needed support and being able to cheer them up in the best ways possible.

Shuichi wonders what Rantaro thinks of him now, if he were watching Shuichi in his afterlife. Would he be disgusted, disappointed with how Shuichi is wasting away his life? Supportive and encouraging, understanding that Shuichi can’t move on? Hoping that he’ll see sense soon?

“You’re nervous,” Maki breaks the silence around them, her eyes not leaving the road for a single second, but Shuichi knows she’s directing her statement towards him. 

Shuichi lets out a breath, “who wouldn’t be?” He can feel his stomach turning over and over, and the horizon seems so blurred, the shades of blue and green swirling together into a mess of emotions as the tears swim in his eyes. He can feel his throat tightening, and the dread settle in his gut, sinking slowly but surely, like heavy grey stones. 

Maki laughs bitterly. “Yea, true.” Shuichi doesn’t look at her, is scared to look at her in fear he’ll break down and they’d have no choice but to turn back again, but he’s certain Maki’s hands are shaking terribly as her slender fingers tap on the wheel. “You don’t have to be, though. Rantaro would understand why you’ve put this off for so long. It’s not easy.”

She doesn’t continue, but Shuichi knows what she doesn’t say. It was especially hard on you.

“Would he, though?” Shuichi remembers clearly, the last thing he ever said to Rantaro, harsh words he regretted for years in a harsh fight. Rantaro’s eyes, pleading, the lemongrass colour Shuichi adored so much infused with tears, Shuichi telling him to leave him alone, stop bothering him. He’s regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, but by then Rantaro was already gone, with nothing but the tear stains left all over the ground by both of them, left behind. Shuichi didn’t have enough courage to take the initiative, to face his best friend after that, but never in his wildest dreams would he have had ever imagined that he wouldn’t ever get a chance to apologize and make amends. He knew very well that Rantaro had done nothing wrong at all, that it was him, him and his issues and bad mood, and Rantaro had simply walked in at the wrong time when Shuichi was weak and vulnerable and just upset. Still, he’d pushed Rantaro away, hurt both of them at the same time, unknowingly the last time they’d see each other.

Rantaro had died thinking that Shuichi hated him, that Shuichi didn’t want him around, that Shuichi didn’t trust Rantaro enough.

All of which were false, and Shuichi, to this day, can barely live with that fact.

Rina had told him that the crash hadn’t instantly killed her brother. According to the younger girl, the bus had gone completely out of control in the middle of the countryside, veering completely off the road, crashing into a tree and flipping back onto the road, this time upside down. It’d killed most of the other passengers on impact, knocked a few others unconscious, but Rantaro had grabbed his sister the moment things had started to go wrong, keeping Rina safe and one of the only survivors of the crash. Rina’d described to him in tears when she visited him how Rantaro had reached for his phone desperately despite being severely injured, stabbed all over by the shattered windows, just to try calling Shuichi (who was unfortunately in the elevator),and when there’d been no response, he’d painstakingly typed out his final words to Shuichi, wincing in unbearable pain with every moment. “He refused to stop no matter how much i begged him,” Rina had said, her face stained with numerous tear tracks that were being constantly renewed. “He really did love you a lot.”

That night, and countless nights after that, he dreamt of Rantaro’s last moments, exactly how Rina had described it to him. It played, and replayed, and replayed in his mind, constantly torturing him with the knowledge that his best friend, his crush, the one person he loved beyond everything else, went through such pain just to reach him, and died not knowing that Shuichi wasn’t mad and loved him with all his heart.

Shuichi knows, deep down, that he doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve that love that Rantaro had endlessly and unconditionally shown and devoted to him.

Countless memories flash before his eyes, and Rantaro laughs and smiles in them, his eyes so bright and full of life and happiness, taken away from him too soon. He always had a way of comforting people, and it was so hard to not smile in his presence… ever so easygoing and kind, ever so calm and collected. It drew so many people to him, most of all Shuichi. He remembers how Rantaro’s eyes lit up in excitement and anticipation when they’d travelled to anywhere he hadn’t been; the concern so blatant on his face whenever Shuichi got himself injured or neglected his meals; the concentration he held in his eyes when he’d walked in on Rantaro sketching, his colour pencils scratching the parchment lightly, Rantaro’s chuckle as he tore the drawing off the sketchbook and pressed it into Shuichi’s hand....

“You’re too harsh on yourself,” Maki says, and takes one hand off the wheel, placing it over Shuichi’s trembling pair, as the car slides into the empty carpark. “Rantaro isn’t the type of person to be angry at you for something like this, and you know it.”

He can’t say a thing, not without letting the urging stream currently held back by a weak imaginary dam rush out and drip down his cheeks. He slips out of the car once it comes to a stop, and Maki comes to his side after locking the doors. She looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t, and instead wordlessly walks away towards the onyx iron gates glittering in the sun. 

She looks back at him as she approaches the gates, and Shuichi follows her steps as Maki pushes them open slowly. 

Beyond the gates is a path sheltered by tall oaks and towering willows on both sides, leading to an open field framed with trees, holding rows upon rows of uniformly arranged warm grey stones, an endless meadow of rest for the deceased. Maki heads straight for them, maneuvering around the graves easily with complete certainty, like she had the route memorized and printed clearly into her mind, and her feet would find the correct path without error even if she wasn’t looking. She must’ve walked this same path a thousand times.

Shuichi follows her after a slight moment of hesitation. Maki stands at the side of one of the rows in the middle, and as he approaches her, she walks to the seventh slot, and kneels before it. She drops her own bouquet of blossoms, takes the wreath of roses from his hand lightly, and places it on top of the gravestone for him, and with a shock, Shuichi realizes that Maki is crying. 

Her silent tears make their way down her face and fall onto the cushion of soft grass beneath her knees. They remain in the quiet for a while, with no sound except for the rush of the wind and the soft chirping of the birds in the distance. 

He can’t even recall the last time he’s seen Maki cry at all, at least not since Kaito’s funeral (which was natural, considering they were completely and utterly in love). Seeing her expressing her emotions, letting the droplets run freely across her cheeks and glisten in the sunlight, is so utterly devastating and somehow relieving (as opposed to how reserved she was when he’d met her and Kaito in primary school) at the same time. Maki used to spend so much time with Kaito, it’s so easy to forget she and Rantaro were childhood friends, but in times like this it’s clear that they were at least close. The scene pushes at his own tear ducts, and he holds back his sobs, in fear he might distress Maki even more.

Eventually, she raises her hand to swipe off the tears, and stands. “I’ll give you a little bit of privacy,” her voice is soft and trembling and so fragile, completely opposite to her normal tone. “I’ll be over at Kaito’s, you remember where that is?”

Shuichi nods, and Maki picks up her flowers and walks away.

He takes Maki’s previous position, kneeling before the gravestone, and finally lets out the sobs he’s kept. Finally, he lets the regret, the guilt, the grief, the pain all out at once, letting it stream down and away from him.

“You finally came,” A familiar voice says, and Shuichi looks up to see the image of a teenage boy sitting on the edge of the stone. “I was wondering when I’d finally get to see you.”

He looks exactly the same as when Shuichi last saw him, down to the very last detail- his tousled green hair, the soft aegean-and-white striped sweater he loved so much, the same charcoal coloured jeans, the warmth he held in those pretty lemongrass eyes. He was sixteen when he left, and he looks like he hasn't aged at all- which, admittedly, he probably hasn't. Do people age in heaven? Is there even a heaven?

Well… if there is one, Rantaro would definitely be there.

“Rantaro,” Shuichi chokes out. "I-" 

The person in question shushes him, a faint smile remaining on his lips. "It's okay, Shuichi. Don't apologize."

Shuichi brushes away his tears, "How could I not?" His voice wavers and shakes as he speaks. "I- I yelled at you for nothing- you-"

"Shu, it's okay," the smile doesn't leave Rantaro's face. Why isn't he angry? Why isn't he- "It's okay to just be feeling upset. It's okay to take your time to process something that impacted you as much as my death did." 

And there it was- the ease with which he addressed his own death, like it was something out of his control. Like Shuichi couldn’t have saved Rantaro in another world or another timeline. “But I- I could have saved you, I could have saved all this pain-”

“Shu... “ Rantaro shakes his head. “It’s already been done. It’s fine, it’s completely fine… I’m proud of you, already, for coming here today to see me. You’ve been so brave.”

His hands seem to instinctively reach to touch Shuichi’s head, but Rantaro quickly retracts it before it touches the other man. Shuichi, however, stands and hugs his friend, not caring about the freezing coldness spreading across his body, burying his face into Rantaro’s shoulder as he sobs into him. In life, his friend was always so warm, in contrast to Shuichi’s constant coldness, but now he’s deadly cold, but Shuichi doesn’t mind.

Rantaro hugs him back, and for a moment Shuichi feels like they were back in the past, three years ago, when Rantaro was always with him. “I love you,” he blurts, “I never really got to tell you that, even if I did crush on you for ages,” he laughs bitterly at all the years he spent pining for his best friend, “ and you were gone so quickly- so soon, when I thought we’d have more time, and the argument, and all, I’m so sorry…”

“I love you too,” Rantaro replies simply, and Shuichi’s heart soars, “that was quite sudden, though,” he adds, “very unconventional. I like it,” he chuckles. “ why wouldn’t I like you back? For someone who’s so smart and quick normally, you can be dense when it comes to your feelings and feelings others have for you… Akamatsu-san crushed on you for years, and as did I, and you had no idea.”

Shuichi laughs through his tears, “So I’ve been told,” he says, “I should’ve told you earlier, maybe we’d be able to avoid all this.”

Rantaro smiles, shaking his head again. “What’s done is done, Shuichi, there’s nothing we can do to turn back time. Besides, I don’t blame you for being upset about being bullied for something as personal as sexual orientation, let alone being taunted for crushing over me.”

The other man goes quiet, “you knew?”

The smile Rantaro gives Shuichi is a sad one, “Kokichi told me after I left you alone. I’m sorry for triggering you that day, I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t say that,” Shuichi cuts him off, “please, Rantaro, it was my fault for yelling at you.” He doesn’t say that his mistake haunts him for days, for months, for years, that he still dreams of it and wakes up screaming in the mornings. It’s his fault, after all, and he deserves the punishment.

“How was it your fault?” Rantaro’s voice is soft. “Listen, Shu, there’s no going back now. We had so many chances, but all those are over now and I don’t regret ever loving you, I don’t regret a single second of the time we spent together. Our chapter of your story, the final chapter of mine, it’s over, Shuichi. It’s time for you to move on now, to turn over the page and find your happiness again.” He pulls away, ushering Shuichi to sit down on the grass. “There’s nothing I want more than to see you truly happy again.”

“But- but,” Shuichi starts, “how do I go on without you? How do I move on-” his voice breaks and he whispers, “how do I move on without you with me? Without you guiding me?” 

Rantaro smiles lightly, “I’ll always be there for you, with you. My memory’s always in your heart, isn’t it?” He reaches up and unclasps the necklace around his neck, the one piece of jewelry Shuichi had never seen his best friend without, and he grabs Shuichi’s hand gently, shoving the necklace in it. “Part of me is always with you.”

Shuichi stares at the priceless treasure he holds in his hand, the blues and greens in the sea glass swirling into a gorgeous whirlpool, and he’s reminded of the gentle waves lapping at Rantaro’s boat, that one time they sailed to find Rantaro’s sister. It reminds him abruptly of the one night of his life he’ll always remember, one beautiful night when Rantaro got himself drunk and accidentally kissed Shuichi. Rantaro’d forgotten the incident the next morning, and Shuichi had been too embarrassed and nervous to tell him what had happened, but he remembered the feeling of the lips of his first love pressed against his own, and the feeling that everything was right in the world when the green-haired boy had taken his first kiss. He smiles sadly at the necklace, knowing things like that would never happen again.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t do it just once again. He pulls Rantaro down from where the other was perched on the gravestone, and ignoring the feeling of ice that spreads across his body, he kisses the man he loves so much. Rantaro seems alarmed and surprised at first, but he complies and kisses him back, and Shuichi can’t control his crying as he melts into the person he fell in love with so long ago. 

Eventually, Shuichi pulls away, and hugs Rantaro instead, wrapping his arms around the other and clutching on as tight as possible. It feels so bittersweet, and Shuichi knows this is the last time he’ll see Rantaro, at least until he dies himself, but somehow, he’s alright with that, at least more than he was before he came to see Rantaro. At least, now, he has closure, and something to look forward to. At least now, he knows that he isn’t alone. He’s had a chance to say goodbye, a chance to write the final sentences of the last chapter, a chance to reconcile with what he thought was long gone.

Only one question remains, that Shuichi needs to ask Rantaro.

The man in question only smiles at Shuichi as the latter asks, “is this real, and are you really here? Or am I dreaming and all this is only my imagination?”

Rantaro holds Shuichi’s hands as the latter sits up, having pulled back from the hug, and lets lemongrass meet the green grey that is Shuichi's eyes. “Of course it’s a dream, an act of imagination, but why should that mean it isn’t real?”

Shuichi lets out a laugh, “thank you. I love you, Rantaro Amami,” he takes a deep breath, pushing away further tears. “Thank you for all you’ve given me.”

Rantaro smiles, “I love you too, Shuichi Saihara,” he lets go of Shuichi’s hands. “Thank you, for being the most amazing friend and crush I could ever have asked for, thank you for the happiness you gave me, thank you for everything.” 

And Shuichi cannot help but brush away a tear as the image of his best friend fades away and is carried off by the gentle spring breeze, and picks up the bouquet of forget-me-nots lying on the ground. He places it right in front of Rantaro’s gravestone, and his mind is full of images of the drawing Rantaro had gifted him years ago that is still placed on his desk, the vibrant azure of forget-me-nots captured eternally in colour pencil.

He stands, and the light of the late morning sun shines over him as he looks over the graveyard, his gaze sweeping over the endless rows of stones, and landing back on Rantaro’s. He looks down, and with a start, realizes that a certain sea glass necklace is still in his hand.

He holds it with both hands, caressing it softly with his thumb, his fingers moving across the glossy, reflective surface of the gem as droplets land on the sea glass and allows light to pass through, fracturing the sunlight into countless tiny rainbows shining on the surface of the sea glass. 

With a small laugh, he clasps it around his neck, tucking it behind his black T shirt, and feels the cool gem drop onto his skin. He lets his gaze move to a farther spot, where Maki is kneeling before Kaito’s grave, and starts to make his way over, but not without looking back at Rantaro’s grave, and whispering “thank you”.

And for the first time in three years, Shuichi smiles, genuinely.