#little poem on thanksgiving

[sydnycrtn]

I used to be so quiet

at the holidays

with my cousins and aunts and uncles

just shy and unsure as they tried to chat with me

I’d whisper short responses

and recede to the living room

they’d look on with fondness

and a bit of disappointment

because that’s who I was

a shy little girl

that’s who I always was.

but I grew up

and I met people

and I got a job

and I can talk now

I like to talk now

so I want to scream

come look at how much I’ve grown

look at me talk

I can be loud

I can join in

I’m not a little girl anymore

I’m not shy

I’ve grown

but we don’t spend the holidays together anymore

and there’s no one for me to prove myself to.

I’ve grown

and no one knows.

[wigglebox]

Suptober - Day 7 | Thankful

[cruentaquevivere]

Give Thanks

Some days it’s little things

that I’m oh so grateful for

like getting a smoke from a stranger

or seeing a lively butterfly.

Other days it’s the practical

having food that I like to eat

or warm clothes to wear to work.

Some days it’s the once in a lifetime

type things I find myself

saying thank you for -

seeing a flip phone smartphone

for the very first time

out in real life

or getting a seat on a plane 10 hours after I was meant to take off

but 4+ hours before my first flight will.

Some days I’m thankful

for seeing someone

who reminds me of a friend

or hearing a song

that makes me miss my brother.

Some days I’m thankful for my past

and other days my present

and occasionally my future.

Some days I’m thankful for this

time and age in which we live.

Some days

I’m honestly

just

thankful.

28 November 2022

[adventuresofalgy]

Algy flew a short distance downstream, to a quiet spot where the burn trickled peacefully through a wee level channel it had carved for itself on its meandering journey to the sea.

The moorland was dressed in all its autumn splendour now, displaying its finest colours of the year in a jubilant burst before it rested through the darkest months of the year. Algy had never much cared for the brash greens of the short-lived Highland summer, and in the depths of winter the land too often looked drained of colour entirely, clothed only in washed-out browns and dirty greys. But in October it came into its glory, especially when the sun broke through after a period of rain.

Surrounded by the invigorating fragrance of bog myrtle, which rose from the wee bush on which he had found a perch, Algy contemplated the beauty of the landscape, reflecting that those dreary poets and writers who had likened autumn to a period of decay and death must have been blind indeed, both literally and metaphorically, for not only was the fall of the year magnificent in itself, but it invariably ended in a comforting period of rest and joyful festivities before leading once again into another beautiful and uplifting spring…

It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o’er field and dell, Because the year is dying. Such principles are most absurd,— I care not who first taught ’em; There’s nothing known to beast or bird To make a solemn autumn. In solemn times, when grief holds sway With countenance distressing, You’ll note the more of black and gray Will then be used in dressing. Now purple tints are all around; The sky is blue and mellow; And e’en the grasses turn the ground From modest green to yellow. The seed burrs all with laughter crack On featherweed and jimson; And leaves that should be dressed in black Are all decked out in crimson. A butterfly goes winging by; A singing bird comes after; And Nature, all from earth to sky, Is bubbling o’er with laughter. The ripples wimple on the rills, Like sparkling little lasses; The sunlight runs along the hills, And laughs among the grasses. The earth is just so full of fun It really can’t contain it; And streams of mirth so freely run The heavens seem to rain it. Don’t talk to me of solemn days In autumn’s time of splendor, Because the sun shows fewer rays, And these grow slant and slender. Why, it’s the climax of the year,— The highest time of living!— Till naturally its bursting cheer Just melts into thanksgiving.

[Algy is quoting the poem Merry Autumn by the late 19th century African American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar, whose parents were both emancipated slaves and who was one of the very first African American writers to achieve recognitions and success.]

[m4sonn]

The outsiders, Aftermath AU (no deaths)

(Thanks to my friend @peachyponyboyy whom I collaborated w/for this and probably will collaborate with for any future works like this)

Basically what would happen after the book/movie, also if johhny and dally didn’t die

Ponyboy: Gets a scholarship into UCLA for literature, When he's finished with college he gets his masters degree and becomes a professor at UCLA.

Sodapop + Steve: (NOT THE 'NAM!!!) Soda and Steve get together, both working as mechanics at the DX, they live in the old curtis brothers house when everyone left, the gang only coming back on holidays to visit steve and soda. Soda would later propose to Steve at a nice restaurant, inviting the rest of the gang to see. (Spoiler alert: the entire gang bawled. Absolutely WEEPED, happy tears ofc) they couldn’t get married legally since it was the 60s but they had a nice little ceremony somewhere nice for the gang. They would later adopt a little red head after finding her on the streets.

Darry: Would move out to give Soda and Steve space. Living in the house across from the two, would settle with a wife and kids, Having a special room just for Ponyboy when he visits from college, His family would always cook the turkey during thanksgiving. Would definitely remodel the house.

Dally: would still be a delinquent, fs. Would sleep in his car if he's not already crashing at soda and Steve's place. He appears every now and then, and definitely joined some weird gang with like 13-15 year olds. NOT aloud near darry's kids without adult supervision, too much of a bad influence. He also says he doesn’t like kids so he would probably end up punching them

Johnny: all the way dating Ponyboy, got into UCLA by dumb luck. Nobody even knows how he got in. He kinda just did, def got into a psychology major so he could help other people like the help he needed when he was a kid/teen. Ponyboy and Johnny live in a decent sized apartment near the university. Definitely don't have kids but have a Golden retriever (goldie, named after the poem nothing gold can stay) and a black cat (windrixville, after the town they hid out at.)

Two-Bit: Still has an obsession with Mickey Mouse, probably lives in an RV parked in the vacant lot near the gang's house. Adopts a mouse he found off the street, probably has diseases but it's ok. Named it Mickey, now searching for his Minnie. Probably sells tobacco to kids and teens out of his RV, somehow hasn't gotten caught yet.

[burningvelvet]

Thoughts on Charlotte Brontë's Villette so far (queerness and comparisons to Jane Eyre):

- This is my fifth Brontë novel and I'm about halfway through it so far (either thanks to or in spite of finals, Thanksgiving break, and my intermittent insanity).

- This is probably the weirdest Brontë novel I've read so far. "Weird" how? Well, in chapter 14 our expatriate narrator, whose identity is concealed from us, is locked in an attic with rats by her co-worker (and eventual lover) who is a French literary professor directing a theatrical production and forcing her to be the understudy in a leading romantic male role for which she has to practice her lines in this attic, which is also said to be haunted by a murdered nun who she later either sees or hallucinates while wandering around ill, not knowing which country she is in, and resisting Catholic conversion from a priest. And throughout the novel the identities of all the characters are hidden, and the narrator (Lucy Snowe) is extremely unreliable.

- I can say at this point that Villette has more queer subtext than any of the other Brontë novels I've read so far. In second place I would rank Jane Eyre, which is the first and only other Charlotte work I've read (aside from poems/letters). To the non-believers, I recommend 'He is rather peculiar, perhaps': Reading Mr Rochester's Coarseness Queerly by C. O'Callaghan and The Realm of Faeries: Queerness and Neurodivergence in Jane Eyre by Grace Patrick-West; with the expansive, theoretical sense of the term "queer" being a more broad term covering behavior that is not strictly sexual but could be coded for such. Rochester and Jane are both inherent outsiders in society, and for Rochester this is largely tied to sexual problems. He has several quotes on how societal notions of acceptable romance must be changed, and as an outed adulterer who openly admits to engaging in primarily international relationships and presents himself as an aging bachelor, he is already defying romantic conventions in multiple ways.

So Charlotte may have been the most-likely-to-be-LGBTQ+ Brontë of the bunch, although Emily was the known "tomboy" of the family, and though none of the others lived as long as she did and so did not have the opportunity to explore as many topics. From the little I've investigated, I believe there is a world of analysis already done on Charlotte's possible queerness, so I cease here.

- I've noticed some callbacks to Jane Eyre. It's mostly set in France and so there's a lot of French like in Eyre, but not so much that it's distracting imo. For fans of Adèle Varens (like me) you will be pleased to know that there is a comparably fashionable and overexcitable French girl who in terms of psychoanalytic criticism I argue could be thought of as a variant of Adèle within Charlotte's mind. Similarly, a male love interest is compared to Nebuchadnezzar like Mr. Rochester was, and this comparison is made when our narrator is expressing her attraction to the man in blatant terms, which gives us insight into the mind of Jane Eyre via further confirmation of Charlotte's association with Nebuchadnezzar/attraction. I mean, we all know Jane was attracted to Mr. Rochester, but Lucy's attraction is more realized because it is more matured, possibly on account of her being slightly older at that part of the novel than we see Jane when she relates Mr. Rochester to Nebuchadnezzar. Like Jane, Lucy is also a poor, unattractive governess. And Charlotte's classic "dear reader," is a thing once more!

- Charlotte 🤝 totally unrealistic and problematic age-gap romances which aren't consummated until some change in station makes it slightly more socially palatable

[rachelspoetrycorner]

Thanksgiving (2019) by Rachel Long

In Episode 199, Rachel shares a poet recommended by a listener, Milo Rey!

Rachel: In fact, Rachel Long is actually a founder of a poetry collective called the Octavia Poetry Collective for Women of Colour. She talks a lot about the experience of being what she calls, like, both the invisible and also hyper visible.

[...] And so that poem kind of gets at that a little bit, of just this idea of like trying to exist in this space and be what somebody else wants you to be, you know? And I mean, obviously I don’t have that exact experience, but that experience of being with somebody that you feel is different than you, and trying to just keep everything unique about yourself, like, hidden.

This poem always manages to catch me off guard; it's title and opening lines seem to be guiding the reader towards a peaceful, and even tender, road. But suddenly, you finish reading it and realise that, without even noticing it, you'd been steered right to the edge of a cliff. It's such a quiet, heartbreaking poem.

If you’d like to hear more about the author's experience, you can do so here: In Relationship with the Orbeez, from 23:38 - 35:00

[davidwarnercorner]

Hostile Takeover (1988), starring David Warner, Kate Vernon, Michael Ironside, Jayne Eastwood, and Will Lyman (Youtube Link).

This is the first obscure David Warner movie I'm reviewing! Not the first one I've watched, but the one that made the biggest impression on me so far. I genuinely liked it and would recommend it (the only downside is that the only versions I can find online are VHS rips with not the highest video quality).

The premise: Eugene Brackin (David Warner), a disaffected, repressed office worker at a local power plant, takes three of his coworkers—Larry Gaylord (Michael Ironside), Sally Laird (Kate Vernon), and Joan Talmudge (Jayne Eastwood)—hostage, but makes no specific demands. Outside, local police chief Smolen (Will Lyman) tries to diffuse the situation without resorting to violence.

The sets are limited: most of the action takes place either in the office or just outside of it (it would probably make for a good stage adaption). Hostile Takeover is a character driven story about what it takes for someone to crack and what happens when they do. It engages with ideas about modernity, alienation, and longing; interwoven throughout are references to the T.S. Eliot poems "The Hollow Men" and "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" (and maybe others that I didn't pick up on). Whatever you make of it, this movie was trying to say something about modern life.

(More under the cut because this gets long. Spoilers below.)

Reviews

Reviews for Hostile Takeover are mixed, but I'm going to defend it a bit. Is it a perfect movie? No. But I think the experience suffers if you come into it with the idea that this is a true horror film, when really it's a psychological thriller. There are two brief scenes where there's a lot of dramatic blood, but those make up maybe half a minute of the total 90. There are tense, suspenseful moments, but I'm quite a coward when it comes to horror and this didn't bother me.

A lot of other online reviews call it a "Thanksgiving horror movie," and I'm not sure how this category got attached to it. It came out in December 1988, so it can't be based on release date, and Thanksgiving is never mentioned, we only see that it's autumn. Maybe it's because the movie was released in some countries under the title Office Party and the fact that it starts on a day when people would normally be out of office, like for a holiday (admittedly, I thought it was just a weekend).

Characters

All the central characters in this are interesting in their own ways and get their own moments of backstory, but the ones I want to talk about most are Eugene, Sally, and Smolen.

Eugene - a man who is frustrated enough to take his coworkers hostage but also polite enough to demand that the police bring dinner for them and repeatedly says he doesn't want to actually hurt anyone. David excels at playing characters that are a bit angsty and not quite satisfied with themselves, and Eugene fits that mold.

We're never explicitly told why he did what he did, but it's not that hard to infer. Eugene is a shy middle-aged man who lives alone in a tiny apartment, has nothing better to do than come in to his meager-paying job on an off day, and is maybe a little infatuated with his younger female coworker but is too restrained (and too self-conscious?) to pursue her even when she shows interest. He seemingly followed the "right" path for the 20th-century man and yet still feels his life is hollow. He insists that he's not a crazy, "psycho-type," he only wants to be perceived that way so he'll be sent to a hospital in the end, presumably because he wants to escape it all.

I wouldn't pick up a gun about it, but I can understand his despair. The loneliness and alienation he feels (and, on the other hand, the obsession some of his other coworkers have with money and power) are predictable side effects of the capitalist hellscape we live in.

...Moving away from that, let's talk about how hot David is in this. Some of that may be down to my personal preferences: I'm a sucker for stressed-out businessmen and the role that made me notice him for the first time was Sark/Ed Dillinger in TRON. But here...the suspenders with the gun holster. Him walking around with his tie loose. Being 1988, he'd started going grey and late 80s-early 90s David is peak dilf for me, the silver streaks in his bangs and at the temples make me feral. It's no wonder the next character, Sally, wanted him.

Sally - some Letterboxd reviews were very negative to Sally, saying that she's actually the most unsympathetic character and that she manipulates and seduces Eugene. I disagree, though I may be biased because if I were in her situation, I'd probably (want to) act the same. Textually, though, I think there is some support for my interpretation.

In her introductory scene, we see her walk into the office and immediately flirt with him. It didn't seem like she was doing it to mock him—she's also the only one (I think?) to call him "Gene" instead of his full name, which implies some fondness. We later learn that Sally is attracted to power, and she comments about how powerful Eugene is in his newfound position as hostage-taker, but let's remember that she was interested in him from her first scene, before there was any hint of anything being different that day. We also see that she previously attempted to "sleep her way to the top," but that it didn't work for her and she's bitter about the whole thing.

People also seem to think her affection towards him was just in service of self-preservation, but by the end she doesn't even seem to care about that anymore. She says to him, "you can still get away if you use me as a shield...you're loving and honest and kind, you don't have to die for this, Gene!". You could argue it's some kind of Stockholm Syndrome situation, but imo she seems to be basing this on experience beyond just the last two days spent in the office.

Also, like, is it really so hard to believe that she might genuinely be into him? Some people are just into dilfs and that's okay! It's normal! Us dilf-fuckers deserve the representation and Sally is great! She hates her asshole boss and wants the old man dick, she's just like me fr.

Unfortunately (spoilers), she doesn't get her tropical beach vacation ending with Gene and instead has to watch him die. And she'll have to live with that memory. It's all the more tragic because there are hints that their relationship could have worked if they had been able to open up to each other under different circumstances. As Smolen says, "what a fuckin' waste."

Smolen - there's more to this guy than initially meets the eye. He looks like the total opposite of Eugene, a stereotypical jock, but as the story progresses, parallels are drawn between the two. Someone even accuses him of holding the rest of the police force hostage because he won't let them go in guns blazing. He also takes the time to try to understand Eugene; he's the one who figures out the poetry connection. Eventually (spoilers), he ends up being the one to kill him and, though this is probably an artifact of the bad VHS quality, it looked like there was a trickle of blood running down his own forehead. In the end, both of them were forced into violence they didn't want.

Connections

Random connections I made while watching the movie, kind of like a trivia/fun facts section I guess?

Eugene reminded me a lot of D.B. Cooper. All these years later, we still don't know who he really was or why he hijacked that 727 on Nov. 24, 1971 (now that'd be a Thanksgiving movie!). What we do know was that he was middle-aged, polite to the crew, and had an unspecified "grudge."

One of the T.S. Eliot poems the movie references is "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," a stanza of which goes like this:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.

This part is not quoted in the movie, but it hit me kind of hard considering this context: David played Hamlet on stage in 1965, but it'd been almost 25 years since then when Hostile Takeover was made, and he was in the middle of being in a bunch of random B-movies. It also makes me think of when he was asked, around the time TRON came out, about playing so many villain roles and what he'd like to be in next, and he said something like "I'd like a romantic comedy." And then he...didn't get that? Ever? At least not as a lead. I...yeah. He does at least get the girl in this one! Briefly!

Conclusion

Should you watch this movie if you're a David Warner liker? Definitely. Should you watch this movie otherwise? At least give it a try. I didn't know where else to mention it but the soundtrack also stood out to me, it's very 80s but still good. The way they incorporated the popping and clanging sounds the heaters inside the building make into the music...banger.

I'll be posting some gifs from the movie soon. If you do watch this, or have watched it, please let me know what you thought....am I getting it all wrong? Are you team Sally?

Youtube Link Here. This is to a different or upscaled version than the one I watched. I only found it after I took all the screenshots and did all the gifs. My loss is your gain...?

[girlmagazineedits]

A silly little poem about fall and nostalgia

The bittersweet ending of summer feels so nostalgic. The skies dim, coffee tastes better, suddenly the rain isn’t so bad, why do I feel like reading? I miss my favorite boots, and goodbye to my favorite flip-flops, but what's the rush, it is only September 14th. This anxious feeling feels like I’m 12 again back to school shopping with my mom, pumpkin spice everything clutters the shelves of my favorite stores, suddenly I need to go to Barnes & Noble, my shoulders are cold, but I don’t care. I’m excited for fall, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and oh boy December, everything one after the other, adding more layers as the months go on and the leaves color brown, I need a new scarf. The darkened skies remind me of last October and where I was and what I was doing and who I was with and what I was feeling. The running to the car, rushing to turn the heat on, I’m cold, but I don’t mind. As winter approaches, I say “I’m cold.” I miss summer. I’m sad summer is over, the fun of autumn is gone, the pit in my stomach is back, I watched everything from Hocus Pocus to Beetlejuice, I carved a pumpkin, “I’m cold”, I baked a pie, I spent time with my family, I miss my friends, I’ve reflected enough, I’m tired of wearing this scarf, and “oh God I am so cold”. The nostalgia of last year fills my body with dread like a birthday, one year older, one year colder, the fall is a dangerous season, I can’t leave the house because it’s 26 degrees, I think I’ll just dream of spring. Why can’t I find joy in anything? Why can't I remain excited, fall is so fun! The cold is so fun but I am so sick of these suffocating boots. The new coat I was so eager to buy just ripped, and my pumpkin spice candle burnt out, talks about New Year’s Resolutions, what have I accomplished this year? I love the fall.

[jkuniverz]

Ok, first long MSM post, let’s see how this goes.

Do you ever think about how all the Rare Core Seasonals follow a specific design principle? While the Commons are basic embodiments of whatever holiday they’re meant to represent, the Rares tend to take a negative aspect of that holiday and incorporate it into their design.

For example, let’s look at Punkleton for a second:

Pumpkin head, skeletal body, autumnal leaves decorating the neck and arms- yup, this sure is a Halloween Monster all right!

So what about Rare Punkleton then?

Well, since the poor guys’s head decomposes faster than usual, it dresses up in a paper bag to help hide itself from other Monsters. It’s taking the Halloween aspect of costumes and dressing up and using it to cover up this Monster’s insecurity, especially since it uses a brown paper bag to cover its head, which often in media represents embarrassment or shame at oneself.

I’m not sure if I did the *best* job at describing that, but looking at the other Rare Core Seasonals will hopefully better convey what I mean.

So, we’ve got:

-Rare Yool: based off of the Grinch and social outcasts

-Rare Schmoochle: have had conflicts and quarrels with one another

-Rare Blabbit: inversely steals Monster Eggs and covers its tracks well

-Rare Hoola: uses their extra hoop to distract Monsters while tricking them

…Ok, so the theme between them is a little loose, but hopefully you’re able to understand what I’m getting at. There’s some negative aspect to its respective holidays that the Rare Seasonals incorporate into its design and lore.

…but that’s just the Rare Core Seasonals. What about the Rare Auxiliary Seasonals? Do they follow this design principle as well?

Let’s take a look at the current 3 Rare Auxiliary Seasonals:

Rare Gobbleygourds have an indomitable will to try and fly- it’s all they really do. How this is supposed to be a negative aspect of Thanksgiving is… beyond me. Maybe it’s that it mirrors Gobbleygourd’s intense desire to feed everyone during Feast-Ember, but all Rare Gobbleygourd does it hurt itself? I don’t know.

All that we know about Rare Jam Boree is that it’s made of chocolate (or rather, chokkolit), and it may have something to do with poems, as it’s ingame Bio reads like one. Maybe Rare Jam Boree likes to write poems in celebration of events? It’s definitely a more deep and meaningful way to celebrate, by writing it down in contrast to plain partying, so there’s that.

Finally, there’s Rare Clavavera. I’m not too familiar with the Day of the Dead holiday, so I don’t really feel confident about pointing out any sort of reference it may have to its real life holiday equivalent. Though, it’s Bio does state that, “Unique to the Rare… is a special interest in writing of short, witty verses that poke light-hearted fun at those same ancestors”, so that may be the aspect of the Monster that fits with the Rare Seasonal theme?… though, I can’t say for sure.

It doesn’t look like the old Rare Seasonal design philosophy is being followed necessarily anymore, at least not with my analysis. Maybe it is, and I’m just not realizing it. Maybe there’s no such thing as a design theme with Rare Seasonals and I’m just a crazy man on the internet rambling about something that doesn’t matter. Regardless of that, I’m going to make small predictions for the next two Rare Aux Seasonals anyways that follow this probably made-up theme, and no one’s going to stop me.

The next Rare Seasonal to be released will be Rare Carillong, coming sometime soon. For it, I predict it to be based off of/poke fun at New Year Resolutions, and more specifically, how no one can ever follow them. The design would be more rugged and unkempt compared to the Common Carillong’s, maybe with frizzled hair, wear showing on the Chimekeeper, and so on. It’d be funny to imagine Rare Carillong as a hypocrite, preaching about turning over a new leaf and setting goals at the start of the year that it itself clearly doesn’t follow.

After that, we’ve got Rare Ffidyll, which I think would be cool if it were the unluckies Monster in the Monster World. Its nose can only sniff out disaster instead of money, it would look slightly beaten from all sorts of comical trouble it’s gotten in, and to show how unlucky it is, its clover hat would only have three petals.

Will these be accurate predictions for the next two Rare Aux Seasonals, following this theme I may have made up? Probably not. But it would be funny!

[b-plot-butch]

title suggestions #1

today i made a post asking if anyone would be interested in some ideas for fanfic titles and exactly three (3) folks said yes, so massive thanks to @virfujiwara @rriavian and @stellerssong for enabling me <333

all quotes in this post are from the poetry collection night sky with exit wounds by ocean vuong. the titles of the individual poems are in parentheses.

they will see him clearest when the city burns (“trojan”)

show me how ruin makes a home out of hip bones (“a little closer to the edge”)

let every river envy our mouths (“a little closer to the edge”)

let every kiss hit the body like a season (“a little closer to the edge”)

the best way to understand a man is with your teeth (“immigrant haibun”)

i am ready to be every animal you leave behind (“thanksgiving 2006”)

a swarm of want you wear like a bridal veil (“because it’s summer”)

there’s nothing more holy than holding a man’s heartbeat between your teeth (“devotion”)

[lostfirefly]

One post from @hey-august inspired me to write a similar thing.

This year is exactly ten years since I lost the love of my life. And I want to write a little letter.

Hello, my dear Jeremy!

It's been many years since I don't get messages from you, and we don't call each other every day. A lot of things have changed during this time. After nine years of living in St. Petersburg, I moved to Moscow and found a good job.

True, I was laid off from it, and now I'm trying to earn money from freelancing. Waffle is still with me, she's getting fatter and more fluffy. Oh, by the way. Two of my big dreams came true. I was in Portugal and bought my own apartment in Moscow. You know how long it took me to get there. After eleven years of renting apartments, I finally have my own corner that I can organize as I want.

I'm also writing again. Remember when I once showed you my poems and stories, and you wondered why I didn't write anymore. My stories are silly, but some of the vibes of our relationship live in there now.

For the past two years, I've been ashamed of my ethnicity. Thanks to this fucking war, which no one needs. I really wish I had your support and hugs right now, but alas, that won't happen. I still hope to leave the country, but there is almost no chance.

I'm still in touch with your sister and your parents. And they still call me to Connecticut and Washington for Christmas and Thanksgiving.

I'm studying again (you remember how often I told you I wanted to get into the movie world? I'm trying to do that again), going to vocal lessons again, and trying to smile. You would make fun of me for the reason for my smile, as only you could do.

I haven't met anyone, and I don't want to, to be honest. I'm being treated for depression because your death has taken a toll on me. But I'll get through it, I promise.

I hope I don't upset you too much with my tears when I remember some of our fun times. But you do remember that I'm strong, right? It's just that all strong people have moments of weakness, after which they stand on all four paws and move on.

Wherever you are right now, I hope you're doing well.

And I'll be sure to tell you all about when I see you again.

xoxo,

me

[jungle-angel]

From A Cottage Room (Miles Miller x Reader)

Summary: Miles lives for the moments when he can bond with your oldest son and a little story his grandmother used to tell him, makes that bond even deeper

Your first Thanksgiving on the Miller land in Montana had been the best you had ever had with friends and family having traveled from all corners of the states to join you and Miles. Of course his parents had been a given, living in the big farmhouse just up the path from the cottage you two had shared for the last year, while some of your friends from Lake Tahoe had made the sixteen hour journey north.

The house still smelled so good, the heavy smells of dinner having cooked all day, cinnamon and apples as well as the sharp, frosty smell of the snow that was falling heavily outside. Otis and Kathy had already gathered in the living room with the remaining friends and family who would be staying for a few days, while you had gone upstairs to put Jesse, your newborn son, to bed.

Miles had just finished helping two of his Army buddies with the dishes, carefully placing the plates and silverware on the dining room table to be put away in the hutch later. The fire crackled away in the living room while the quiet chatter of the group flitted around like crickets on a summer night, reminding Miles of when the hotel would have those fancy dinner events once a month.

He felt a tugging on the hem of his orange cardigan a minute later and looked down to find Benny clutching his blankie and stuffed puppy.

"Dada I eepy," Benny told him, rubbing his eye with his little hand.

"You tired Benny?" Miles asked him.

"I wan go night night."

"You guys gonna be ok if I bring him upstairs?" Miles asked.

"We're all good man, no worries," Arnie said with a wave of his hand.

"Go do what you've gotta do," Alex told him. "The boys come first."

Miles lifted Benny right up onto his hip and brought him upstairs to your shared bedroom. "Baby goin sleepy too?" Benny asked.

"Yes buddy, Jesse's goin sleepy," Miles answered, kissing Benny's soft little cheek.

Miles dug out Benny's red flannel pjs and got him ready for bed, wrapping him in the warm wool blanket that was always at the foot of your bed. "It's snowing!" Benny exclaimed when Miles seated himself in the rocker near the window.

"Yeah it is, isn't it?" Miles said.

Benny lay his head on Miles's chest, yawning deeply as Miles rocked slowly back and forth, just as he had done when Benny had been born.

"You're definitely ready for bed Benny Bear," he chuckled.

"I so eepy," Benny chirped.

"It's because your tummy's all full from dinner," Miles told him.

Benny buried his face into Miles's shirt, drawing a laugh from Miles. "You want me to tell you a bedtime story?"

Benny lifted his head and nodded.

"Alright lay down buddy," Miles murmured.

He tried to remember one that Grandma Essie would tell him before bed, suddenly remembering the poem by Robert Louis Stevenson that she had told him time and again. By the time he was sixteen, Miles had memorized it word-for-word, taking it with him wherever he went.

"Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain Fly as thick as driving rain; And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by. Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, All by himself and gathering brambles; Here is a tramp who stands and gazes; And here is the green for stringing the daisies! Here is a cart runaway in the road Lumping along with man and load; And here is a mill, and there is a river: Each a glimpse and gone forever!"

It wasn't long before Benny's eyes fell shut with a yawn. Miles rose out of the rocker with Benny in his arms, blanket and all, before tucking him into your shared bed. When he looked in the doorway, there you were with a sleepy smile on your face.

"C'mere sweetheart," he mumbled, holding his arms out and beckoning for you to come to him.

He took you in his arms, holding you gently and kissing your lips softly in the dim light of your bedroom. "Jesse asleep?" he asked.

"I just fed him, he'll sleep for a few hours."

Miles kissed you again, feeling the effects of deep sleep beginning to set in. "Wanna go to bed or go back downstairs?" he asked. "I'm so full from dinner."

"Maybe an hour downstairs and then we'll turn in," you answered.

Miles joined you as you made your way back downstairs to rejoin your family, your boys sleeping soundly and your house truly feeling like the home it was meant to be.

[dyketennant]

not to get sentimental about humanity or whatever but actually yeah there is good out there guys. i promise you i promise you there is so much good. look here is my list:

when i was a really little kid i cried after losing a carnival game (obviously i was 4 so i sucked at it) and the pre-teen age boy who won gave me his prize. i'm pretty sure i still have it somewhere 15+ years later.

one time i was crying on the train and the woman across from me gave me a snack from her bag; i tried to wish her a good day as she got off at her stop and was worried she didn't hear me, but the woman next to me reassured me she had without me ever asking.

when i had a meltdown at the hozier concert because my $40 t-shirt was stolen, someone behind me who was about my age gave me a fidget toy, and when i tried to return it they told me i could keep it (i still use it often, it's one of my favorites).

at the same concert, during the same meltdown when i was in the bathroom, the woman in the stall next to me asked me if i was okay and told me that things like that had happened to her, but that i still got to be there and (in her words) "see the guy" and it made things a little easier for me (i only ever saw her heels and her fingernails, but i later found out she was my dad's coworker, and she told him she was glad im doing better now).

in my freshman year of high school, i complimented a guy's overwatch shirt and we talked about it for a while before class started; years later he told me that it was the nicest anyone had ever been to him up until that point and that he still appreciated it—which shocked me, because he ended up being one of the most popular kids at school and is still good friends with a lot of my friend group.

when i was talking to my asl professor about why i was out of class for a few days (i was in the hospital for a few days following a suicide attempt) she hugged me and told me i was beautiful, and i still think about that professor nearly every day, and how she would always tell us about how much she loved her wife and their life together.

not long after that, my english professor reached out and wished me a happy thanksgiving because she knew i had been having a rough semester, even though she didn't have to and probably didn't do that for any other students (as far as i know).

when i was sorting through old papers i found years of hand drawn and painted birthday cards from one of my best friends, who made me one every year, and it made me realize how long they had been there for me during my worst.

i always start to feel dread when i leave for school, but one day, a girl accidentally got off the elevator on my floor, and then i proceeded to get off on a different wrong floor, and we both ended up in the same elevator and laughed about how we both made the same mistake, and wished each other a good day. it made my walk to the bus stop a bit easier.

at a writing conference, as part of a writing exercise, a woman told me a story about how she left her shitty ex boyfriend and had been single since, and i told her about how much i loved media analysis and symbolism; i wrote her a poem and she drew me a drawing. we never spoke again, but for a few minutes, it felt like we were old friends.

one of the bartenders at my old job loved our coconut macaroons, so i would save one for him so he could have it with his coffee. it was such a simple exchange, but it made me feel warm every time.

at that same job, i worked on my birthday, and once we were closed i asked the kitchen for any leftovers they had. they ended up making me an entire appetizer and singing happy birthday to me.

one time in the coffee stand drive thru, the guy taking my order got excited when he saw the pokemon on my dashboard, and pointed to his car across the parking lot with a gyrados in it. he then pulled a bracelet out of his pocket that said "cute" and said i could have it because of all my cute pokemon. later, i went again while wearing it and saw him, and his coworker said that he just loves making bracelets for people.

for whatever reason, a claw machine at a mall nearby had fraggle rock plushes inside; my friend and i spent forever trying to get some, but couldn't, and we both struggled to find good listings online. when i finally got my friend a mokey plush for christmas, they tackled me in a hug, and it's now one of my happiest memories (they then insisted on paying for my boober plush later on, so now we match).

and i am certain there are many many more instances i am forgetting. and i know things are fucking bleak now and always. and i know it's hard to see. but there is so much good. there is so much love. even from strangers. please believe me. life can be so full of love.

[shkatzchen]

Autumn Bookworm Reflections

Ten behind the scenes looks at the making of my Autumn Bookworm Set.

The entire set took a month to complete.

Every Autumn Bookworm piece is named for a different poem, inspired by the "Rug of Poetic Justice." I thought it would be fitting for my recolor of it to be named for a poem and that then extended to the whole set.

I read a lot of poetry to get appropriate titles. For the Chipmunk in my Yard has one of my favorite images, "This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires Of starlight." I picked A Basket of Flowers because it had "basket" in the title, but it also has a line of melodic consonance I greatly enjoyed: "For the sake of past hours, For the love of old times." My favorite poem discovered in this process I didn't use: Autumn Begins in Martin's Ferry, Ohio. There's a haunting beauty to it, but it lacked a good line to serve as a title.

The original set was only supposed to recolor four items from the Book Nook set, because I like color and there's just too much neutrality in it. The final set has ten build/buy items and eleven books.

The bed gave me fits, because Sims4Studio changed the weights of the mattress if I loaded it into the file the frame came from, rather than the file the mattress came from. Until I figured out that was the issue I had beds moving in all sorts of strange ways when Sims tried to sleep.

Hawthorne Cottage was built specifically to test and display this set. I had a lot of fun putting it together and playing it has given me a chance to get into some aspects of Cottage Living my gameplay heretofore hasn't covered.

Building Hawthorne Cottage led to the addition of matching curtains to the set. They weren't originally planned, but I had trouble finding ones that matched from EA's offerings for the build and so I decided just to make my own.

The palette has sixteen swatches divided into four groups. This was reduced from sixty-four original swatches under consideration and is the third version of the sixteen swatch palette. I think of them (counterclockwise from the top left) True Autumn, Thanksgiving, Wintry Autumn, and Soft Autumn.

I struggled with whether to use Wintry Autumn and Soft Autumn. Although I drew inspiration from a palette clearly marked as autumnal, Wintry Autumn feels a little Christmassy to me. Despite that, I liked the colors together too much to exclude them. Soft Autumn is the biggest outlier of them all, and the one that gave me the most second thoughts, but I wanted a purple in the set, and I was trying to get away from more yellows and browns.

There aren't any real whites in this set. I'd have liked to use a cream in Soft Autumn, but I have difficulty recoloring with anything too pale, because the process I use tends to lose the details I'm trying to save if the color is too light.

Get more info and download the entire Autumn Bookworm Set from the main post here.

[sabraeal]

If the Mind Is Willing, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

Part three of 500 Follower prizes @bubblesthemonsterartist​ earned herself years ago! Only two more and I will have fulfilled all those fics...probably just in time to have a 1K follower raffle

Blue light washes her pink sheets pale, until it’s impossible to tell when cotton ends and her skin begins. The shadows pull longer in its glow, turning her own nearly skeletal as she reaches out a finger, hovering over the link.

“U-J-Kyo?” Chizuru’s mouth wraps around each letter, the sound of them tumbling softly into the muted glow. “But that’s just...?”

The university’s homepage. And her laptop’s, technically, now that Yamazaki helped her set it. Not something she’d normally associate with Souji’s interests, not unless he’s started some new hostilities with the provost’s office again. Their last open letter hung on the fridge until just before Thanksgiving, the second paragraph asking for “certain individuals in the student body“ to “show more conduct becoming of an undergraduate of a prestigious institution” highlighted proudly in lime green.

Dean Kondo dropped by the house only a few days later-- for a friendly visit, he’d said, smile as warm as she remembered. He’d stayed for dinner, complimenting the soup she’d made from their leftovers, and then talked with Souji out on the porch until the swing’s chains started to creak. The letter disappeared the next morning, unremarked, though Souji kept glowering at the bare metal every time he passed through the kitchen.

Chizuru swipes tentatively at the screen, messaging app blooming beneath her finger. The link’s innocuous, known, but Souji has a gift for slipping a sting into any handshake. And if he’s calling it a gift, well--

[ToudouDomination] omg holy shit dude nice knowing u hijikatas gonna kill u 4 sure 💀💀

Professor Hijikata’s taught her enough about Trojans to take that kind of present at face value.

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] *skullfuck u mean skullfuck ull b the most beautiful corpse at ur funeral bro

Her lips press tight, clinging to each other as close as the rubber case to her phone. If everyone’s acting like this about it, it’s better that she doesn’t look.

[ToudouDomination] MY funeral???!! what’s this got to do with me??!!

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] nah man im not talking ab YOU im talking ab dead man walking over here

She’d regret it if she did, probably.

[Dr 💖💋🤭] jfc I’ll say somethign nice at you’re disciplinery hearing

[ToudouDomination] Me??

[Dr 💖💋🤭] No one’s talking about you Heisuke

It’s an accident, really. Her thumb skims up the side of the screen-- scrolling past the sudden influx of skull and fire emojis the boys heave into the chat-- and the pad of it just barely brushes the link. It flashes under the pressure, blue then purple, selected, and well...

There’s no harm in just letting it happen, is there? It’s only the university homepage, nothing--

Ah. That’s what it should be at least. But instead of the azure and white, there’s text curling across the screen, a half dozen different hand-written poems in blue bic and college rule, tiled across every inch of the background. There’s coffee stains on them too, some in the corner, and some in rings, like they were more used to being coasters than literature. And in the center of it all--

“Oh.” She blinks, tilting her screen to get a better view. “A video?”

Hogyoku Open Mic, it reads at one corner, reflection on water. A strange choice for Souji; he’s never mentioned an interest in poetry, let alone live readings. Frowning, Chizuru tilts her phone, letting the video fill the screen.

It plays, and oh, several things become clear, all at once.

“My heart is pure,” the man on screen promises, words raking over the gravel of his voice-- how little of it there is marks his age more than the lack of lines on his face-- but Chizuru’s isn’t, not when she can’t do much more than stare, fingers numb around the rubber case. “I use my palm as an inkstone.”

The camera pans closer, and yes, above that black dress shirt-- open to its third button, oh goodness gracious-- is Hijikata. Not the one she knows now, the grizzled professor who kicks his feet up on the desk and uses profanity as punctuation, but--

But a much younger man, not much older than her, considering the last little bastions of baby fat clinging to his cheekbones.

[Dr 💖💋🤭] This muts be a hundred pakcs of cigs ago

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] 💯

[ToudouDomination] do moths feel desire or is that like a poetic thing he talks about rain a lot too whats that all ab

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] its a sex thing

[Dr 💖💋🤭] Shin don’t tell the baby taht

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] hes a growing boy he has to learn sometime better he hears it from us hijikata fucks 🍑🍆🍑

[Saito.Hajime] Can I please be removed from this group? Also, congratulations, Souji, on finding a new, creative way to die

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] no way if we all have to think think about hijikata fucking u have to suffer too

[Saito.Hajime] I am not certain I care for that logic

[Dr 💖💋🤭] Too bad, bud. Your stukc with us

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] yeah bro u signed the housing contract ur here til death comes for u or like u move out or smthn

Chizuru means to stop the video, really she does. It’s not something Hijikata would want them to see-- at least, she assumes so, considering the way he flushes every time Souji brings up his graduate school slam jams, threatening to expel him if he doesn’t ‘shut his damn mouth.’

But the one on the screen smiles as he finishes his set, smouldering out past the stage lights, and she-- she expects snapping, some cool cats with shades and berets nodding their heads to his truth or whatever mood this is supposed to give. A respectful silence, one that gives space to the idea he’s introduced to the space, but instead--

Instead there’s screams. A full audience of women-- and a few particularly enthusiastic men-- loudly voicing their appreciation for what she’s hoping is the poetry.

Ah, maybe Shinpachi is right. It is a sex thing. And she’s watched a full ten minutes of it.

Hijikata can never know. Or worse--

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take this down. Now.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] eat my ass

Her heart ricochets around her rib cage, panicked, before it lodges itself in her throat. It flutters there, queasily, and-- and there’s no way he could possibly know, but still, guilt seizes her. She shouldn’t have looked, not once she knew. She should have been the first to say it was wrong. Helpers can only help when they know there is a problem, that’s what Father would have said. If you cannot perceive it then you are part of it.

She could say something now. Her hand squeezes tight around the case. No, she should say something now. She has to, because father will ask. She’ll tell him about this frantic midnight showdown, and he’ll say, and what did you say?

And if it is nothing...

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take it down now. Or I will get university IT involved.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] you don’t have the fucking balls

[Susumu Yamazaki] Try me.

Even with her eyes closed, her failure is inescapable. The words flash behind her eyelids, no longer composed of ones and zeros but scrawled in neon lights instead, reminding her that if she were better she could have fixed this. That if she were good enough, she could have found the magic phrase to get them all to get along. But instead...

Silence, that’s what he’ll give her. A long pause where all his expectations weigh on her, piling on her chest like boulders on a criminal. A cluck of his tongue, and a soft, I thought I raised you better. Any moment now, her phone will ring, and Father will know what a disappointment she is because--

It’s Christmas. Just about everywhere but Hawaii. A couple other islands in the Pacific too, if she’s being fair. It’s Christmas, and he’s supposed to call because that’s the way it’s always been: her staying up late not to catch Santa and his Reindeer but Father emerging from his office. It’s her that would tromp down the hall with all the grace of an elephant, to fling her arms around him and yelp, Merry Christmas!

And it was him who had to be stern, who must put her back down on the carpet and scold her for being out of bed. Who has to wait until she’s nearly shut her door to stop her, to call out, Merry Christmas, Chizuru.

It’s supposed to be her first. The one given moments after midnight, the most real, and-- and--

And she’s spent the whole day waiting for an empty office.

There’s a part of her, one that’s still too short to reach the microwave and can’t bear the kindness next door, that thinks she missed it. That there’s some dead zone in the house that she unwittingly lingered in, or a notification that her phone somehow swallowed whole. That it’s her fault she never presented herself to be loved.

But there’s another part, one that’s growing every day, and that one--

That one’s just tired. 

It’s tired that wins out, in the end.

There’s a weight that drags at her, urging her to stay within the cocoon of her covers, to let the night unfurl across her screen, each blow reported in black and white right before her eyes. A passive observer, an active disappointment, but most importantly: unmoving.

Even still, she gets up, throwing the cloud of her comforter back so that she can slide out from underneath it. Her heels hit the floor with a force that chatters her teeth; or maybe that’s just the chill of the air now that her body heat is no longer trapped up against her skin.

Her phone settles on the nightstand, cozening up to the lamp, and for a long moment, she thinks about turning it on. Every muscle complains as she peels her day clothes off and exchanges them for pajamas, her eyes straining to make out what’s a hole and what’s just dead air, and yet--

Yet it’s easier than facing herself.

The same weight drops her back onto the mattress, an anchor sinking into the endless depths of open water. She isn’t sure when she’ll hit bottom, but staring at the blank screen beside her feels entirely too close to it.

It’s with a trembling finger that she guides the volume from full to vibrate. Even that makes her heart race, makes her wonder if she’s just punishing Father for having priorities besides a fully adult daughter, the same one who had so happily told him she would support his sabbatical wherever it took him. What if he needs to get a hold of her? If there’s an emergency on Borneo or San Cistobal or whatever island his research took him? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just keep it on a little, just in case--

Her fingers flex. She deserves to sleep tonight, what little of it there is left. And if this is on...

Vibrate changes to mute. The phone flips over, screen pressed against the wood.

“Good night, Daddy.” She gives the case one last, small tap. “Merry Christmas.”

“Hey, jailbait.” Something warm nudges her shoulder, not gently. Chizuru has the space of exactly one breath to wonder what, before the same something grips both and shakes. “Get up!”

“Haah?” Her hands flail out, but whatever’s gotten hold of her slithers out of her grip, retreating past her arm’s reach. “What...?”

It’s bright when her eyes peel open, the sun already seeping through the curtain even though it can’t be more than--

“Class!” Her limbs fly out, wild as she tries to turn over, tangled up in the tight embrace of her covers. “I’m late for--”

“Hold up a slice, shortcake.” Souji looms over her, tall enough that his knees barely brush the bed to do it. “No classes today.”

“No...?” It’s not as if she has anything to say, brain moving at a snail’s pace that it is, but her mouth keeps moving anyway, as if just working her jaw might help get the gears moving. Which it does, oddly enough, reminding her it’s not a weekend but a holiday, and not just any holiday but Christmas, and--

And Father never called. Unless it came in the night, after she’d put herself to bed. After she’d not only turned off the ringtone but vibrate too, leaving him no chance to hear her voice, forcing any attempts for him to contact her straight to voicemail, like she didn’t even care--

“Hey.” Souji knees the mattress, jolting her outstretched elbow right into the corner of the nightstand. “Get up already.”

Painful tingles race up her arm, bouncing from elbow to shoulder and back and, oh, why is it called the funny bone when it’s not funny at all? “Souji, why are you--?”

A bleary blink turns the blurred numbers on her clock to something like sense.

“Oh!” She bolts upright on the mattress, sending Souji skittering back a step. No wonder he’s deigned to scratch at her door; Harada might be the oldest, but of the three of them, Chizuru’s the only one that can be trusted with the stove. “It’s late! Are you hungry?”

“No.” This close, it’s easy to see that furrow flash between his brows, the quick reassessment of his opinion. “Well, yeah. But that’s not what I want right now.”

This early, her brain’s as bleary as her vision, but it won’t clear no matter how much she blinks. “Then what...?”

He heaves a sigh; her only warning before long fingers clamp around her wrist, cold as iron. “Just come with me already.”

It’s a feat to get untangled from her blankets; there’s a knit one sandwiched between the top sheet and the comforter, plus another for more weight-- and heat, since she shares her thermostat with Shinpachi and Harada, whose bodies both run at a temperature verging on medically alarming if they think sixty-five degrees is comfortable. It’s harder still with Souji yanking at her the whole time; she’s not certain whether he does it because he’s impatient or because her struggling amuses him. Possibly both, knowing Souji.

Impatience, however, wins out. One foot wins free, planting itself on the bedside braided rug, and he snaps, “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

She’d love to, if only the comforter hadn’t swallowed her up to the ankle, cinching tight when she tries to pry it apart. “Ah, I know! Just give me one--”

Unless she’d meant to say second-- which she hadn’t, not at all-- Souji doesn’t give it to her. Instead he tugs, and she stumbles off the mattress, dragging half the blankets with her. “Good,” he huffs, barely glancing back. “Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Souji has a terrible habit of making things worse the longer he’s made to wait, but she digs in her heels anyway. Or, well, the one that isn’t still trapped in Poly-Fil. “Can I at least put on my robe?”

“Why? It’s not like there’s anyone to see your cute little Christmas--” he squints “--raccoons?”

“Tanuki.” She smooths her hand over the fabric, one of their round faces peeking playfully out from between her fingers. “They’re just so fluffy.”

Souji stares at her, stone-faced and silent, and-- and it’s longer than that his teasing typically takes. “Right,” he says, stilted. “Whatever. Just hurry it up, Sleeping Beauty.”

Chizuru is keenly conscious of every second Souji suffers her, all-too aware of how impossible it is to win a race against the limits of his patience, but she’s determined to make the most of what she’s given. It’s hopeless to aspire to Hajime’s cool efficiency, but she tries, keeping her movements sharp and purposeful, as if putting on her robe required the same sweeping grace as his kata, and yet--

Yet she barely cinches the knot tight before he’s grabbed her again. “C’mon, princess. We’ve got things to do.”

It’s a struggle just to keep her feet beneath her, but she manages a very eloquent. “Huh?”

His mouth quirks, too pleased, as he tugs and she stumbles, bare feet barely braced against the jamb. “People to piss off.”

Ah, well that’s hardly promising.

When all is said and done, he doesn’t drag her far. A cold comfort, considering.

“This is Hajime’s room,” she informs him. His grin assures her he already knows. “And, Ya-- ah, I mean, Su-- uh, um. S-susu...?”

The name’s foreign in her mouth, tongue stumbling and stuttering around it, and it’s-- it’s just odd not to use it, when she’s so used to Souji and Hajime and Heisuke and Shinpachi and even Sano, if it feels safe to say, instead of intimate. As if she’s letting all the rest of them close while keeping him at arm’s length.

Which isn’t true. But still, she can’t bring herself to say Yamazaki’s first name so casually, not when even Heisuke, who barely lasted three hours before asking if she was cool with nicknames, hasn’t managed it. With the syllables rolling around in her mouth, it’s almost...

Illicit. That’s it. “Is there a reason you need me here?”

Souji’s mouth curls, so satisfied she’s surprised she can’t see feathers between his teeth. “Yes, definitely.”

“But they went home for the holidays.” She frowns. “Did you need something in there? I’m pretty sure it’s--”

His leg kicks back, and with one smooth swing, he completely bypasses the need for a doorknob, the open door shivering from the force.

“-- locked,” she finishes faintly. “Oh my.”

One hand catches the door, long fingers splayed across the grain. “After you, jailbait.”

She nearly balks-- it’s not as if it’s his room; he hardly has the right to invite her-- but the door swings open, and she--

She’s never seen this before. Yamazaki’s room. Or Hajime’s, of course. A tour down the hallway would be enough to get a glimpse into any of the other rooms; Heisuke hadn’t even waited a day to drag her into his, pointing out all his favorite posters. Harada and Shinpachi took a few weeks longer, though she’d spent most of that visit with her hands clapped over her eyes. Even Souji tolerated her shuffling a step over the threshold, even if it was only to ask for him to help her reach one of the taller cabinets. But Yamazaki and Hajime...

Their door has always been carefully shut, not even the slightest gap for a peek. An easy habit to explain away; the both of them value privacy over accessibility, choosing to socialize in the common areas of the house rather than in their room, but still--

It’s almost surprising how normal it is. Not that Chizuru expected it to be wallpapered floor to ceiling with centerfolds, like Harada and Shinpachi’s room, or crowded with collectibles like Heisuke’s, but maybe white walls and stark sheets, monochrome and neat as a pin. The sort of room that would seem unoccupied, if it wasn’t for the monitors on the desks. Sterile.

Instead there’s posters. Not crowding the walls, so close that the corners overlap, but there’s personality, if not chaos. Enough to know that the boy who sleeps under the navy comforter likes movies with kimonos and swords or computers from the 80s, and that charcoal comforter likes wuxia and vintage medical diagrams. And books too, if the stack teetering on his bedside table is any indication.

Chizuru shuffles a step further into the room. It would be rude to rummage, but surely-- surely it wouldn’t hurt if she just read the titles. If she just stooped down the tiniest bit and--

And tripped over Souji, shoulder-deep beneath Yamazaki’s mattress. “W-what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grunts, annoyed. “A guy that uptight’s got to be hiding something. And not just the normal stuff. The kind of something that’s gotta be top shelf fucked up.”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“Oh come on, you know what I mean. Whips and chains.” He drags his arm out with a huff. “Autoerotic asphyxiation. Snuff tapes.” Souji reaches up, flipping over his pillows. “Yiffing. Who could say what a small-dicked little turd like him is into?”

Half those words are unrecognizable, and so it’s not until he’s on his feet, poking through desk drawers that Chizuru realizes, “You mean you’re looking for...for...” Her mouth works, cheeks painfully hot as she manages, “Girlie magazines?”

His fingers still, pressed into a sheaf of glossy page edges. “I’m trying to find porn, Chizuru. That’s what we call it this century.”

The book shuts with a snap, joining its friends on the shelf, and when he reaches for another, she blurts out, “Don’t people just watch that online now?”

Souji laughs, not kind, but abandons the bookshelf. “And everyone thinks you’re so innocent, huh, princess?”

Her hands clap to her cheeks. Ah, she hadn’t realized it could be painful to blush. “I, um...only, ah--” Souji flings open the closet “--I don’t think you should really be--!”

“Jackpot.” The hangers rattle as he slips something off the rack; with only the sunlight eking in around the blinds to light the room, it’s hard to see just what. “What do you think? Would it look good on me?”

The fabric’s black, limp and shapeless on its hanger, utterly unrecognizable. “I don’t...?”

“Nah, no way I could fit into that shrimp’s costumes.” The light might be dim, but Souji’s teeth practically glow when he says, “But you could, half pint. C’mon, get over here.”

She doesn’t have much of a choice, not when he grabs her wrist and yanks. “I don’t understand,” she murmurs, watching him separate a smaller piece from the whole, more uncomfortable by the second. “Why did you need me when you were only going to..um...?”

Steal seems a little strong for the moment. Scrounge falls a little short.

“Ahhh, see, kid, last night I left a little gift for the whole student body. Right on the main page, where everyone could appreciate it.” He steps entirely too close, the warmth of his body filling the space between them. “And our favorite little ass-kisser didn’t appreciate it.”

The scrap slips over her head, cool and smooth where it settles around her neck. “So he took it down. Or got some of his nerd friends to do it. Either way...” Souji shrugs. “It’s rude to give back a gift, isn’t it?”

His wrist twists, the cloth pulling tight against her skin. Tight enough that only a twitch guides her into a nod. “See? That’s what I thought too. Kid needs to learn a thing or two about manners. So that’s what I’m doing.” Souji grins, the fabric loosening as he lets it slip from his fingers. “Teaching him a lesson.”

“B-but...” Her focus stumbles as he steps closer, threading his hand beneath the few inches of her hair that don’t clear the fabric and pulling them free. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“It’s cute that you don’t know.” His smile could cut when he slips the cloth right up over her nose. “This is a hostage situation, jailbait, and you’re going to read from the script. Now look over here.”

She does, blinking right up into the blinding light of flash photography as his arm squeezes her close. “What...?”

“Perfect.” Souji’s lips slant to a smirk, phone pinched delicately between his fingers. “Now I just need to post this in--”

The lights flick on. Neither of them are near the switch.

But Hajime is.

“Just what,” he says, brows drawn down like a storm, “do you think you’re doing in here?”

There have only been three house meetings since Chizuru showed up on their doorstep, hair shorn and all her earthly possessions split between a backpack and a trash bag: the first, called by the professor, to announce that that there would be a new roommate; the second, to decide how exactly to handle the fact that Chizuru wasn’t a boy’s name, nor was she; and the third, well...

I’m not complaining that you invite girls back, Sano, Shinpachi had said, with all the gravitas of a judge, but you can’t let them wander around. She went through our trash, dude!

But this-- it’s different. Not just because of the Christmas lights, festively twinkling through their cycle, or Shinpachi’s sweater blinking through its own.

It’s that they’re all here, Christmas afternoon-- evening really, with how early the sun sets these days-- holidays cut short. Chizuru might not have anyone to spent Christmas with, but Shinpachi did, and Heisuke, and Yamazaki--

And instead they’re all here. Because of her. Not a single one of them is smiling.

It’s too much.

“I’m so sorry!” The words burst out of her, rushed, but it’s important to get them out before anyone else can speak, before they think she’s only sorry because she got caught. “I really didn’t mean to go in! I just...Souji said...”

“Narc.” It’s muffled in his shoulder, just loud enough for her to hear. And maybe others, the way Yamazaki’s brow twitches across the table.

“Chizu, Chizu. Come on.” Shinpachi holds up his hands, as if a half-hearted sweep like that could clear the slate of her worries.. “No one here thinks this is your fault.”

It’s kind of him to say, but that’s...impossible. Not when she’s so clearly transgressed. “I went into Y-Yamazaki and Hajime’s room without permission. That’s against the--”

“No, Yukimura, that’s not--” Yamazaki’s teeth clack down, hard.  “I don’t mind if it’s you. Ah, I mean--” his ears flush the same angry pink that licks up the column of his neck “--it’s, er, different.”

“You are respectful of other people’s personal belongings,” Hajime clarifies. “There is no issue with you in our private space. Souji, however...”

“Oh, come on.” Souji kicks his feet up on the coffee table, baring every hole in the bottom of them. “It’s not like I broke anything.”

Yamazaki’s eyes hone onto him-- or rather, the parts of him only inches from Harada’s iced mocha, so close a flex of a toe could touch the coaster. “Right, you only stole something. Not like that’s a big deal.”

“Stole? Like I want--” with a sweep of his palm, Yamazaki clears the surface of appendages, so precise it doesn’t even disrupt the condensation on the cup “--hey!”

He doesn’t smile, but when Yamazaki glances up at the couch, his satisfaction shines just as bright as one.

“Souji.”

Hajime is not like Shinpachi, using his outdoor voice in every room no matter how small, or Heisuke, unable to control his volume once a conversation gets interesting. He’s soft spoken, serious; the sort of person other people lean in to hear, rather than ask him to speak up.

But today, he pitches his voice to be heard. “You cannot enter someone’s assigned private room without express permission.” With even graver inflection, he adds “It is against the rules put forth in the Signed Housing Agreement.”

Souji snorts, sinking further into the couch cushions. “No one pays attention to that crap.”

Air hisses between Yamazaki’s teeth. “That’s--”

“If I am not allowed to leave the group chat unless a member of the house boots me for a pre-agreed upon duration,” Hajime says, mouth pulling thin, “then you are also not allowed in my room.”

His glare is hardly aimed at her, but it comes close enough that she flinches. Souji doesn’t, refusing to acknowledge it that same way a cat declined to be caught on a curtain, as if reality was simply an opinion he did or did not hold. “I didn’t even touch your stuff. I don’t know why you’re trying to--”

“You did touch Yamazaki’s stuff, though.” Harada shifts in his chair, the vee of his sweater dipping deep enough to bare cleavage. It might be distracting, if it wasn’t already a relief that he was wearing all his clothes. “Which is against the rules.”

“Yeah, that’s fucked up, right?” Shinpachi cracks open a tall boy, cold enough that the beer fizzes out, threatening to drip right across the festive moose on his chest; HORNY AND WELL HUNG according to the words knit into his sweater. “There’s no locks on the doors, man. We’ve all got to trust each other.”

Chizuru blinks. “But I have a lock.”

He pauses, mid-sip. “Well, I guess that makes sense. You’re a girl, after all. Can’t have a girl be alone with a bunch of guys if there no--”

“My room also has a lock.” Hajime frowns, considering the socks Souji’s just returned to the table. “Hardly a good one, if Souji was able to bypass it with just his foot, but...”

“Me too,” Heisuke chimes in. “I just don’t really use it.”

“Wait, what?” Shinpachi swivels between them, lost. “Are me and Sano the only ones who don’t--?”

“I think the best course of action is to inform Professor Hijikata about the infraction.” Kneeling on the carpet next to Shinpachi’s luggage, Yamazaki’s hardly an authority figure, but when he raises his voice the room fritters to silence. “I’m sure he can take it from there.”

Harada hums, unconvinced. “I don’t know about that. Souji’s already got two strikes against him. If we report another one, I’m pretty sure Hijikata’s going to toss him out.”

They might be more suggestions than eyebrows, but still, it makes an impression when Yamazaki furrows them.  “I don’t see why that’s any of my concern.”

“Aw, c’mon, Yamazaki.” They all might tease her about her pleading eyes, but it’s Heisuke that uses them now, as compelling as any puppy in a pet store window. “You know Souji doesn’t have anywhere else to go. You wouldn’t throw him out in the cold just like that, would you?”

His mouth pinches, bracing the way the rest of him is, squared off and utterly implacable. “Souji is a grown man who can make his own decisions. If those decisions lead to him getting tossed out, that hardly has anything to do with me.”

Souji snorts. “None of the people who complained are even here anymore.”

Yamazaki whips around, eyes so cold they could turn any other man to ice. Souji just smirks. “Yes, because of you.”

“Well, I don’t know...” Heisuke hums, thoughtful. “Ryu left because of that art program. You know, the one that had the scholarship.”

“Only after Okita shoved him off--!”

“Oh, c’mon.” Souji’s shoulder twitch, barely summoning up the energy for a full shrug. “That’s all water under the bridge.”

Yamazaki surges to his feet; only Harada’s hand, keeping him from jumping the table too. “You broke his wrist in three places! The only reason he didn’t press charges was because his foster father is somehow an even bigger asshole than you!”

Souji picks his grins the same way a chef picks his knives from the block: with the intention to cut. “No hard feelings.”

“Hard feelings?” Yamazaki chokes out. “You think this is about hard feelings? When Itou left, he--”

“Itou was a prick.”

Hajime doesn’t so much sigh as hum, raspy and dubious. “That doesn’t mean that what you did was right, Souji.”

His eyes narrow, annoyed. “Don’t pretend you miss him running around the place, acting better than everyone.”

“No, no. He’s got a point.” The easy chair grunts as Shinpachi shifts his weight back, crossing his legs ankle to knee. “They both do. You know I don’t want to kick you out, man, but you’ve got a bad habit of taking stuff way past funny right into, well...”

“An actionable offense?” Harada offers, wry.

A blunt nail taps at his can, uncomfortable. “Yeah, that. It’s not good, bro.”

Something happens with Souji’s mouth. A lot of somethings, actually; subtle ones, hidden in the corners and tucked into the cheeks, the sort that happen between one blink and the next. Missable, save for the fact that Chizuru never looks away.

There’s a jut of his lip first, not a pout but its more serious cousin, the kind that’s like a levee to a deluge: one tremble away from a flood. A scowl next, never quite reaching his eyes; good practice for the smile that follows, curving into a smirk the way steel takes an edge: like it’s meant for it.

“All right, all right.” His hands raise up, too lax for a peace offering. It might stand in for a concession, if she tilted her head and squinted, but only a little. “So you’re all mad at me or whatever.”

“For good reason.” It’s a strong stance for Harada; he’s usually the one who’s quick to compromise, so long as it keeps everyone civil.

“Sure, right.” Souji shrugs, unconcerned. “I get it. But consider--” fabric whips out from behind a pillow, matte and black-- “this.”

Chizuru blinks. “Wasn’t that in...?”

Yamazaki’s closet, she doesn’t say. Not when he shakes it out, turning it from cloth to clothing, a whole jumpsuit with fussy embroidery picked out in an even darker black.

“What’s that?” Shinpachi scoots to the edge of his chair, squinting. He must not have his contacts in. “Some sort of ninja costume?”

She knows better than to turn, to draw attention to the statue suddenly sitting across the table, but Chizuru can’t help it, not when Souji is so quick to say, “It is.” There’s enough relish in his tone that she can taste it. “And it’s Yamazaki’s.”

There’s a pause-- for effect, she’s sure, considering the way Souji grins. Like he’s pulled off some magic trick, making his troubles disappear in one hand and then plucking them out from behind Yamazaki’s ear.

“So?” Harada snorts, unimpressed. “Are you surprised? He’s been a ninja for Halloween like, what? Three years running? Since I’ve been here at least. What next? Gonna pull a sexy firefighter out of Shin’s closet?”

“Hey!” A hand presses right over WELL, leaving HORNY and HUNG peeking out from underneath it. “I’ve branched out! This year I was a sexy soldier.”

“How can you tell?” Heisuke mutters, hunched shoulders making his chest even narrower, more concave. “You’re only wearing like half a costume.”

“We’re not talking about Nagakura.” With all the subtlety of a bomb, Souji drops, “We’re talking about Mr Kiss-Ass and how he has like, five of these tucked away for a rainy day.”

It’s been three months since Chizuru managed to insinuate herself into the house, but not once has it been quiet. Even in the night there’s something: Shinpachi snoring, Harada’s flings trying to find the front door, Heisuke up entirely too late typing up papers or-- more likely-- playing video games. Something. But now--

Now it’s a ringing silence that’s left in Souji’s wake, an awkward air that has every shoulder stiff, every eye finding somewhere else to look besides the place where Yamazaki sits, still as a stone.

Or at least, until Hajime slides forward, dexterous fingers smoothing over the raised stitches of the sleeve. “Oh,” he hums, impressed. “Your skills have really improved since your last attempt. I take it this is for next weekend?”

“Ah...” He swallows, loud enough that even Chizuru can hear. “Y-yeah. The new kunai were too heavy for the belt, so I thought if I remade that, I might as well add a few more quality of life adjustments, and, er...”

“Oh my god,” Heisuke breathes, quivering like a corgi at the end of his leash. “Are you a real ninja?”

A broad hand cuffs him on the back of his head. “C’mon,” Harada mutters. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

If Yamazaki’s ears were painted pink before, they’re crimson now, hot enough to burn from touch alone. The square of his shoulders deflates, rounding with the slow leak of his confidence, but--

But Hajime simply nods, stroking his chin. “Perhaps I should look at my own as well. It hardly feels adequate next to all the work you’ve done.”

“Is this like...a sex thing?” Shinpachi’s eyes dart between the two of them. “It’s a sex thing, right?”

“No,” Yamazaki says, stern, immediately undermined by Hajime’s, “A little.”

It’s with a hefty heaping of betrayal that Yamazaki turns to him, glaring as he grounds out, “Absolutely not.”

Hajime’s mouth gives a dubious twist, and he opens it, perhaps to gainsay him, but--

But there’s no time, not when Heisuke practically explodes. “Are you a ninja too, Hajime?”

He blinks. “No.”

“Oh.” Heisuke deflates. “Okay, I guess...”

“I’m a samurai.”

“What--” Harada’s voice strains beneath the words “--is going on?”

“So let me get this straight.” Harada’s fingers pinch at the bridge of his nose, but by the wrinkle above them, Chizuru doubts it helps. “You two...dress up as samurai...?”

“I’m the samurai,” Hajime explains, so helpful. “Yamazaki is currently playing as a ninja. As he typically does.”

“You don’t have to tell them that,” he mutters. “That’s not really the point--”

“Right, of course, but...” Harada grimaces. “This is what you do on the weekends? For fun?”

A narrow shoulder lifts under Hajime’s tee, the closest he comes to a shrug. “An afternoon a month, to be more specific.”

“Once a month?” Heisuke asks, wide-eyed. “That doesn’t seem like a lot.”

“It takes a large amount of effort and dedication to keep up a long-form Live Action Roleplaying campaign,” he explains gravely. “That the organizers are able to run so often is a testament to their skill. And to run a weekend event--”

“So you mean you go there the whole weekend?” Heisuke blinks. “Like just forty-eight hours of samurai stuff?”

Hajime’s correction comes the same way as all his interactions: swiftly and without any judgment. “Seventy-two hours.”

Shinpachi goggles. “That’s a lot of fucking hours.”

“It is to aid with immersion.” Hajime isn’t a man of many words, but now he does not so much pause as he does breathe. “Unlike other games of its kind, Legend of the Five Rings does not focus so much on combat as it does internal conflict, and the robust worldbuilding--”

“This isn’t what they’re asking.” Yamazaki’s gaze darts wide-eyed around the table, never daring to stay longer than a blink. “You don’t have to--”

“--Is based on Sengoku Era Japan,” he continues, heedless. “As gratifying as it is to play on a regular basis, it really isn’t until a few hours into any session that people truly come to embody their roles. The court politics alone--”

“Saito.” Yamazaki may be seated at the opposite end of the living room, but his stare is enough to make even Hajime hesitate. “I think they get the idea.”

Harada looks between them, pained. “So are there...scripts or something?”

“No. Yes.” Hajime frowns. “It’s complicated. Each scene is improvised in character, but the organizers are present to facilitate the flow of the story. It is a collaborative effort.”

“But that’s it?” Heisuke asks. “You’re just like...samurai for a day? Or, er, three of them?”

“Yes.”

“And you do this--” Harada’s eyebrows furrow, pained “--for fun?”

Hajime doesn’t answer so much as cock his head, hands outspread as if to say, what else?

“That’s so...so cool!” Heisuke leaps to his feet, practically tripping over the table in his excitement. “Can I go? You guys gotta bring me!”

“What?” Harada blinks at him. “You want to go to this?”

“Uh, yeah?” His hands clench, too excited. “You get to be a samurai, Sano! Who wouldn’t want to?”

“Hey, so.” Shinpachi leans in, face pinched in curiosity. “Is this like...D&D or whatever?”

“In spirit,” Yamazaki creaks out, looking like death warmed over.

He nods. “Right, right. So like...a total sausage fest, or...?”

“The numbers on many tabletop games typically skews toward male,” Hajime explains, “but Live Action Roleplaying draws a higher percentage of female participants. Possibly due to the cosplay aspect.”

Shinpachi grins. “Oh, then count me in too, sensei.”

Harada stares at him. “Who are you?”

“What?” Shinpachi shrugs. “It’s math with babes. What’s not to love?”

“Ah...” Yamazaki waving hands don’t do much to hide his grimace. “I don’t really think this will be as interesting to you as you think...”

“He’s right,” Harada presses. “You may think it’s a good place to pick up women who aren’t afraid of, er, theoretical numbers--”

“They’re not theoretical,” Shinpachi huffs. “They’re real, it’s just the equations used to describe them are--“

“See? Already my eyes have glazed over.”

“I don’t know,” Chizuru hums, pitched just loud enough to be heard. “I think it sounds...fun?”

Yamazaki’s stare fixes on her. “Really?”

Even as a girl, Chizuru had never been one to play dress up, never been one to play pretend-- father didn’t approve, for one. Not when there were more direct benefits to be had from drilling flashcards or reading books. A second, her daydreams were vivid enough she hardly needed to act them out, not when Father was so apt to remind her, princesses don’t have to pass their medical exams.

But Yamazaki is as serious as they come, a TA for the dean of the pre-med department even before graduating. His acceptance to the medical school almost assured, and he finds this worth his time. Enough to have made a costume-- with his own hands!-- and sign up for a whole weekend away from his studies...

“Y-yeah.” She ducks her head, hoping to hide the heat that pricks at her cheeks. “I mean, as long as it wouldn’t be a bother for me to, um...”

“Ah, no! I mean, yes. Never.” Yamazaki shakes himself, pink staining the high arch of his cheekbones. “It’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, Chizu!” An arm clamps around her shoulders, dragging her against Shinpachi’s personal light display. “That’s right! Let’s all go. House field trip!”

Yamazaki’s jaw drops. “I don’t, er, know about that--!”

“Fine.” Harada sighs, getting to his feet. “If Chizuru wants to go. Count me in.”

“That’s the spirit!” Shinpachi claps him on the back, hard enough that even Harada has to cough. “Now, that just leaves...?”

“Uh-uh.” Souji’s arms fold over his chest, forbidding. “No way I’m going to your nerd party.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Shinpachi drops between them on the couch, arm pulling tight. “Think of it as a group bonding experience.”

Souji scowls. “What makes you think I care about bonding with any of you--”

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it.” He squeezes tight enough to eke a squeak out of him. “Think about it as, ‘if you go we won’t tell Hijikata about you stealing shit.”

Souji glowers. “Fine,” he grumbles, shoving him off. “But I won’t like it!”

Shinpachi’s smile is all knives when he replies, “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

It’s dark when Chizuru stumbles out into the hall; there’d been daylight still when they’d piled into the parlor, but now night clings to the the edges of dusk, only enough light to gild the snow in golden shadow. It might bother her more if it wasn’t such a relief, a respite from having to scrape at the last reserve of her smiles. And so she takes it; one big breath and the muscles around her mouth slump, aching from use.

Any other night, she might worry about one of the boys following out behind her, but she can hear the ruckus shift from the parlor toward the kitchen, wheeled baggage and Shinpachi’s booming voice all tromping toward the back stair. Her day may have happened in fits and starts, but everyone else has been on the move, going from Christmas to short notice travel to fraught house meeting all within the space of hours. There’s no one who’s going to be worried about her.

Which suits her just fine. A few minutes lying face down on her comforter and she’ll be right as rain. Just a breath or two to herself, and--

Someone huffs behind her. Right behind her.

She whips around so fast, she nearly tumbles Yamazaki into the wall with her. Or at least his arm, half outstretched, now just hanging there in the air between them.

“Oh!” There’s no reason for her to shy back, but she does, guiltier with every inch. “Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“No, no. It’s my fault.” His hands aren’t large, not like Harada or Shinpachi, but the fingers are long and tapered, digging runnels through the shaggy bristle of his hair. “I should have-- ah, I mean, I just saw you, and er, wanted to make sure that you were all right. After, ah...all that.”

Her first instinct urges her to laugh, to let her nerves giggle out, there’s no need to worry about me--

But Yamazaki stares at her with the same careful intensity as he had in the kitchen-- you’re worth a good meal-- and Chizuru tries deflection instead. “I’m the one who should be asking you that! I went into your room without any permission and all, and Souji--” Yamazaki grimaces at the name “---I just...you have every right to be mad at me!”

“You?” he echoes, incredulous. “It’s not your fault, Yukimura. Okita’s the one who dragged you in there.”

She shakes her head. “I could have chosen to leave any time. I just was too curious to think to question him.”

“Curious?” There’s no inflection to the word, and with the shadows making a muddle of his expressions, there’s only the tilt of his head to tell here there’s a question. “Why would you be curious?”

“Ah, I’d just...never been inside before?” Her palms clap to her cheeks, and oh, she must glow from how hot her cheeks burn. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not! It’s just, ah...unexpected. I...” His mouth opens, as if he might say more, but with a lick of his lips, it closes instead. Or rather, his chin dips down and it follows, gaze dropping from her eyes to somewhere at her neck. As if...

“Oh, did I spill...?” She can’t actually remember what she’s eaten today, whether it could be something that she could walk around wearing, but Yamazaki’s already shaking his head.

“Ah, no, it’s just...you still have...” His fingers curl hesitantly in the air between them. “If you would let me...?”

Every twitching nerve of her stills as he steps close, fingers skimming past her shoulders. Only days ago she’d knotted his scarf, but it feels different now that he’s the one reaching, so close his hand meet behind her neck. He’s not bundled up now, no three layers of wool and thermal and parka to keep her from realizing that he smells nice, like...like something clean with a hint of eucalyptus, and it’s...

It’s a lot.

His fingers knit into the fabric at her nape, too slippery for him to find the end of it by touch. At least, the first time; he gathers it up, hiking it higher and higher until he can slide under it, the flat of his nails smooth and warm against her neck. Her pulse pounds so hard he must feel it, but Yamazaki doesn’t flinch, instead lifting it with surgical precision. The stretchy fabric threads right off her ponytail with no more than that initial brush of fingers, and she--

She stare. It’s the mask. The one Souji put on her. All this time, and she’s-- she’s just been wearing it, like some sort of...scarf. Right over her tanuki pajamas. In front of everyone.

In front of Yamazaki.

If she could melt into the woodwork, it would be a miracle. But as always, reality refuses to oblige her. “Oh, I hadn’t even...ah...”

“Please, don’t worry about it.” His fingers smooth over the fabric, mouth curving into a rueful smile. “It looked better on you than it does on me.”

“Ah!” Her gasp catches in her throat. “That’s not...um...” She hakes her head, hoping that might clear enough room for a sentence or two to compose itself. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Yamazaki glances up at her, amused, and oh-- she hadn’t meant to say that. Not like that.

“You know, I meant to...” He stops himself. Not abruptly, like she does, but a slow, thoughtful halt. Like a train pulling into a station rather than a car braking for a yellow light. “I mean, I don’t think I ever got around to saying it last night, and today, with everything...well”

He hesitates again, a breath hissing between his teeth. But this time his shoulders square, and even though his gaze is lost in the shadow of his brows, she knows he’s looking at her. “Merry Christmas, Yukimura.”