#and TASHIRO ASSERTING DOMINANCE OVER HIM

[hiranospiercing]

stained crocheted sweater and a sulky hanazawa ft. tashiro

at first glance, one would not necessarily presume hanazawa masato to be someone who could get attached to a piece of clothing, he was what tashiro would call the 'practical-type', somebody who would perhaps engage in an argument against materialism, someone who at first glance would be presumed to be a minimalist, but contrary to popular belief what tashiro found was an upset hanazawa, sitting in the centre of his bed, with a faintly beige crocheted sweater in his hand that happened to be stained by soy sauce a day before and surprisingly he happened to be quite a handful at times.

there had been a distinct behavioural pattern that sir tashiro had managed to observe and it were the chain reactions that would take place once hanazawa had managed to enter the flight-or-fight mode, it would start with him denying the acknowledgement of the existence of his problems, masato would rather run away than address the fact that he had somehow surprisingly managed to get into them which would later be followed by him wanting to revolutionize the universe by mysteriously managing to get away from all of them and now one would assume that that's how the reactions end but well the exceptional step number 3 was to be a sore loser at times, to simply sulk and be a minx and a menace to the society and to tashiro at times.

the classic blotting the stain with hydrogen peroxide, laundry detergent and borax, vinegar even toothpaste, everything had been performed and done and tried but well the stain happened to be quite stubborn, and stubbornness brought impatience that made an impatient tashiro question, "you do not look like the type to be sad over a sweater," and well he instantly wanted to take it back, hanazawa smiled, that one smile where he would strangely close his eyes, as if he was putting back the layers he had somehow managed to peel off, "i'm not necessarily sad just a little concerned," and then he was running again, moving from room to room, leaving tashiro and the sweater alone.

if somebody somehow got to know about the certain train of thought hanazawa indulged in at times, they would perhaps presume that he was an undeniably sad person, if you asked hanazawa about what he felt about that he would laugh, saying how funny that sounds, saying how he was perhaps helpless and tired and again for most people helplessness and tiredness weren't happy emotions but then again what was happy and sad objectively, perhaps sensations that made you experience an hedonistic reality was perhaps what happy was if looked at with a rather simplistic perspective and simplistic perspectives were easy and nice but rather disgustingly one-dimensional, hanazawa masato was perhaps tired but the triumph that came with the movement was warm at times, after all the circuit was all he had known forever and the only place that was closest to his skin, to his feet, the only time he felt held was when he sliced himself open to follow the rituals he had gotten for himself, after all what would he be if not an obedient child, somebody who never held complaints, somebody who would be corporately successful with a beautiful wife and children one day, somebody who would be respected, if somebody somehow got the opportunity to ask hanazawa whether that was what he wanted, he would simply start running again, after all what he wanted was not necessarily something he could ask himself, such questions and stained crocheted sweaters that were gifted to him by tashiro gonzaburou made him an undeniably sad person.

tashiro surprisingly never had to do much, all it took for a running masato to stop in his tracks was a warm hand to the left side of his neck, at times like that tashiro would feel a weird advantage he held towards masato, a power that he adored but was also grateful for, after all even he had days when he would think about what if someday masato stopped to stop for him, what would he do, after all masato despised stagnancy, at times like that tashiro tasted helplessness, something that he prays he never has to taste, "it was an ugly sweater," tashiro teased, "i even messed up the sleeve while crocheting it," they were sitting on the floor now, "it was ugly and the sleeve was embarrassing," , "but-", "but it's time we get you a new one," , "you are going to make a new one?" , "yeah perhaps pink would look good on you," , "I do not deserve it though, I have nothing to give back," , "you do, you are just miserable at knowing that."

hanazawa had grown to despise the stagnancy because all stillness brought him was time to sit with himself, and sitting with himself meant finally undressing out of all the layers he had been wearing that have brought him discomfort, it brought him the time to feel the discomfort and letting himself out of those layers meant looking at what he was beneath them and how he was surprisingly moderate, someone that had nothing to offer, all hanazawa had considered himself to be was somebody who could run the fastest even with the substantial shame dancing on his shoulders, but that was a long time ago, a time when he hadn't learned catharsis, catharsis in the form of tashiro gonzaburou and his presence, in the form of stained crocheted sweaters and messed up sleeves, in the form of touches felt on his neck, in the form of what ultimately made him less of an undeniably sad person.

if somehow somebody got the opportunity to ask hanazawa masato what he wanted to be, he would smile and say how he wants to be moderately normal and alot of crocheted sweaters and the same good old tashiro gonzaburou.