#rapture scenery

[franklyfontaine]

video game scenery ≡ rapture credit: other places

[arl3kinka]

[ commission ] 11 months in a rapture's pub 🌊

[moonageinsomnia]

Sheb Wooley :: The Purple People Eater

Halloween Playlist day 9

[lyrinami]

Highland Rapture

Tools used:

Checkpoint: Jib Mix Realistic XL-v14.0 Crystal Clarity EclecticEuphoria Universal SD3_k4 black-forest-labs/FLUX.1-dev

web-ui:  stable-diffusion-webui (AUTOMATIC1111) stable-diffusion-webui-forge ComfyUI

Other: Photoshop

[fandomsideworks]

[giuliettagaltieri]

Break the Bondage

Pairing: Presidential Candidate!Coriolanus Snow x Strategist!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: The Paramour

Warning: elitism, vulnerability, mentions of death

Word Count: 3083

4 of 6

Having to deal with the Capitol politicians and businessmen was something that Coriolanus Snow had come to tolerate as they were his people.  They were of the same kind and same background.

Interacting with the District politicians was something else.  They are too desperate to please, quick to take offense, and they had to introduce their entire family line to Coriolanus and you.  A lot of them claimed that their great great great grandfather’s cousin was born in the Capitol, or something of the same narrative.  

It gets worse and worse as you reach the Districts farthest from the Capitol.  The mayor’s mother in District 9 even insisted that you look so much like her late husband’s sister.  She claims them to be old money.  Coriolanus and you had to humor her of course.

You are just glad that your tour is coming to an end.

“You look tense.”  You spoke flatly as you read the success of your tour in the papers.

Coriolanus looks away from the dim passing scenery of the train window to study you.  “I do not.”  To make it look believable that he was indeed, not tense, he walks over to the refreshment table to pour you both a cup of tea.

“Thank you.”  You say silently as he gently places the cup on your table.  He sits himself next to you.  You grin at this as you continue to scan the article.  Try as he might to act aloof, he is an openbook to you.  Coriolanus sips his tea in silence.  He opted to sit shoulder to shoulder with you, well…shoulder to head, as he is less likely to have his face read by you, that is what he tells himself.

“Listen to this.”  You giggle and he hums in response.  “Coriolanus Snow and Y/N Swansworth stuns Panem with their reinvention of modern campaigning by touring the Districts, reshaping the silhouette of a typical Capitol couple in such a way that has the people breaking into rapturous applause.  They really are the faces of our future leaders.”  You inhale deeply, eyes closing and Coriolanus breaks into a smile,

“A triumph.”  He comments.

“Future leaders, Coriolanus.”  You squeeze his arm in your excitement.  “Future leaders.”

He places his hand on your thigh as he reads the spare newspaper.  You eye his hand, heart pounding.  You have felt for him once, those feelings remain until today, well kept and incheck but still there.  You wonder what he is planning but you choose to drop it when he does not speak again.

For some time, you just keep each other company until a rap on your compartment door steals your attention.

“Mister Snow, sir.  Miss Swansworth.  We are approaching District 12.”  The peacekeeper stationed outside informs you.

You let out a sigh, folding the paper as you finish what is left of your tea.

“Are you ready for this, Mister Snow?”  You ask coyly.

A grim expression crosses his face but he nods.

The weather is not as welcoming compared to the other districts.  It was raining very hard, with thunderbolts startling you every now and then.

It was very muddy, you hesitated if you should step out of the train.  Reporters were already waiting for you, suited with heavy coats to protect their tools of trade.  It is a shame you cannot hear their questions over the rain.

Coriolanus stood tall next to you, smiling at them and you wave, the both of you looking like every regal Capitol couple would. 

The mayor comes, chased by a skinny boy with an enormous umbrella.  He looks like he could be swept by the winds any second.

“Apologies, Mister Snow, Miss!”  He yells, his face dripping with the rain.  “The weather is apparently not on our side today!”

Coriolanus’ hardened eyes look at the man for a moment before he leans closer to the door, his hair swayed by the strong wind.  “No matter!  We are glad to be here in your District!”

The mayor steps back and the reporters click their cameras at you.

“Coriolanus.”  You groaned quietly.  “My shoes.”

He hides a quick mocking laugh and looks you up and down.  He noses your cheek and you almost stop him with all the cameras in front of you. 

“We can’t stay here, they’re waiting.”  He whispers.

“But-”

Coriolanus cuts you off by stepping out of the train and into the mud, dirtying his socks and pristine shoes.  A large umbrella carried by another kid is placed over him, but his crimson suit was already dampened, making it look closer to a maroon.

You smile at the camera to hide your uneasiness.  You have been doing so well, you are in the final District, you cannot ruin this now.  You no longer have an injured foot to use as an excuse.  With a deep breath, you step closer to the door.  You look Coriolanus in the eyes.  He’s waiting, closely watching you.  And of course, you do not want to disappoint him.

Gently, you put your foot out and you shiver at the droplets that wet your skin.  Before your shoes can land on the mud, Coriolanus scoops you in his arms, making you yelp in surprise.

He adjusts you in his chest, pulling you closer and you shrink to yourself, eyes wide as you look at him in surprise and confusion.

“Ohh!”  The mayor claps his hands at Coriolanus’ chivalry and the reporters follow suit.

You wanted to wipe that smirk playing in Coriolanus’ lips.  He’s always so unpredictable, you hate it.

But you hate yourself even more when a hiccup escapes you, your hands cover your lips but with you in his arms, it was hard for Coriolanus to miss and a rumble of chuckles from his chest had your face erupting to a flush.

The mayors lead you to his home, the peacekeepers close behind you as the reporters follow suit.

You clear your throat, jolting every now and then as you hiccup, it was most embarrassing.  Especially when the people of District 12 were lining up in the streets.  Most of them did not have anything to protect them from the harsh rain. 

“Coriolanus, the people.”  You say sadly and he only hums, a charismatic smile plastered to his lips.

“Smile for them, sweetheart.”  He tells you.  “Or if that is too much, smile for me.”  He glances at you quickly but his eyes are set forward before you can respond.

And you do your best to smile.  You meet their anxious gazes with your warm ones.  Yours hold an unspoken promise, something that you will probably not fulfill, but boosting their morale is what matters most.  A little girl was clinging to her mother and she waves at you.  So young, her dress was patched and she was shivering.

“Coriolanus, stop.”

The man pauses and your entourage follows suit.

“Is something the matter, my dear?”  He asks, a perfect blonde brow raised at you.

You ignore how your heart jumps at the endearment.

“Uhm.”  You hesitate now but you look at the little girl again.  “You can put me down.” 

His frown deepens.  “The mud.”

You look down and shake your head.  “It is not as bad as I thought.  And you can always just buy me new ones.”  You smile at him as you stroke his bicep to coax him into agreeing with you.

Coriolanus looks at you, as if a battle is happening behind those blue eyes but you did not back down.  He sighs and gently places you on the ground.  There was a soft squelch and you tried your hardest not to grimace.

“Shall we get going then?”  He asks but you place a hand on his chest.

“Wait.”  You smile at him and you start to unbutton your coat and drape it on your arm.

The frown in his face gets more and more deeper that you had to place a gentle kiss in his jaw to calm him. 

You know that he does not feel for you the same way you do for him but there is this possessiveness in him that makes you want to fool yourself into believing that he has affection for you.

When you try to get closer to the people, his firm hand was quick to grip your forearm, but you give him a pleading look, one you know he will not refuse.

Coriolanus nods at the peacekeepers who keep their ground as he accompanies you closer to the little girl.

“Hello.  I saw you waving.”  You smile and the little girl returns your smile shyly.  “What’s your name?”

She looks at her mother and you frown slightly.

“Uhm…I am so sorry, Miss Swansworth.  She-she cannot hear.  Her name is Lily.”

“Oh.”  Your face drops and Coriolanus places a hand on your back, as if to provide a form of comfort to you.  “Well.”  You drape your coat around Lily’s shoulders, she gives you the brightest smile and her hands make these gestures that you do not understand.

“She says ‘thank you’.” The mother sniffles.  “And that it’s warm.”

You return their smiles.

Coriolanus plucks a pristine white rose from his boutonnière to slip behind Lily’s hair.

The little girl looks at her mother with uncontained excitement.

You wave at Lily one last time, smiling at her and the people around before letting Coriolanus guide you back in the safety of your entourage.

After that endearing encounter, the visit was proving itself more and more disappointing.

The reporters asked the same questions as every other reporter did in the other Districts. 

How you find their District.

How fared your travels.

It was getting difficult to paraphrase your answers.

Despite the exaggerated generosity of the mayor and his family, Coriolanus just could not relax around him.  He is being diplomatic by entertaining the man but you cannot miss the ticks of his jaw, or the absence of willingness in his words.  As if he was trying to bring every conversation to a deadend.  Not that the man or his family notices, they were just happy to have someone from the Capitol in their home.

With all the jabbering of the mayor about his small achievements, the food turned cold and Coriolanus’ temper did not seem to ease.

“Darling.”  You spoke to Coriolanus, head leaning to his shoulder when the mayor busies himself with pouring more wine.  “It is getting awfully late.”

Coriolanus looks you in the eye and quickly recognizes the boredom in them.  “Indeed.”  You straighten up and a satisfied smile spreads on your lips.  “Mister mayor.”  Coriolanus begins formally and the man looks up, his face red from all the drinking.  “Miss Swansworth and I.  We had a long journey.  We would love to accept your family’s hospitality and rest in the room you have prepared for us.”

The mayor starts speaking to you about the house as he leads the way, how it is made of the finest wood, and the number of people who built it.  You chose not to speak so as to not embarrass the man after he felt so proud of this…well, he calls it a house.  He would be a laughing stock if anyone else in the Capitol heard it.

Coriolanus’ answers became shorter and shorter and he even cannot hide the frown on his brows by the time he closes the door to the mayor’s face.

Unlike in the other Districts, Coriolanus and you had to share a room here in 12.  They just assumed that it is acceptable to share a bed despite being unwedded.  Most couples practice here at 12, apparently.

“It’s freezing.”  You rub your arms as you look around the place.  “And it smells like…like mothballs.”

Coriolanus collapses on the bed, his posture stooped for once as his arms rests on his thighs.

“I’m sorry.”

You stop in examining the aged walls upon hearing him say it.  You purse your lips before turning to look at him, trying to look impassive.

“I’m sorry.”  He repeats.  “You did not have to suffer this kind of discomfort with me.”

Without a word, you walk over to Coriolanus and sit on the bed next to him.

“I dragged you here.  Made you live like the Districts.  You…you almost-”  He shakes his head, hand massaging his brows.  He is a mess and he is breaking apart.

You sigh and lie on your back on the bed, your feet still dangling on the edge of the bed.

“You did not drag me here.”  You chuckle softly.  “I volunteered to come.”

“Still-”

“Listen to me, Coriolanus-”

“Corio.”  He corrects you, making you smile.

“Corio.”  You say playfully.  “I made my own decision to come here with you.  Please do not forget that you can never make me do something that I do not want to do.”

He laughs breathily and copies your position.  You both stare at the wooden ceiling in silence.

“The truth is.  I enjoyed this tour.”  You started fiddling with your fingers.  “I got to spend time with you, saw parts of you that you refused to show anybody, this trip helped me get to know you better.”

A scoff from him surprises you.  “You don’t know anything about me.”  He sits up and before you can reach for him, he sits on the floor instead.  He leans his head on the bed and you watch him curiously.

“This place kills people.”  He says.

You sit up slowly, just observing, trying to understand where this behavior is coming from.

“It was the games that messed with my head.  Opened my eyes.”  He continues.  “But this place.  This place makes you do things that would haunt you forever.”  He props a knee and rests an arm there.  “The hanging tree, the poverty, the fucking mud.  And the people.”  He cups his jaw as if trying to calm himself.

Gently, you slide down next to him, watching the dull walls as you feel his warmth next to you.

“The tribute.  I thought we loved each other.  I truly believed we did.”

Your eyes dart to your skirt, chest tightening with every passing moment of him talking about her.  You wanted to get out of there.

“But it wasn’t really love, was it?”  He sneers.

Coriolanus receives only silence as you are afraid your voice might break if you uttered a word.

“Love is not selfish.”  He places a hand atop yours that was resting on the floor.  “It is about sacrifices but never about giving up who you are or what you could be.”  His grip tightens on your hand.  “I don’t have to choose between the life I was preparing myself for and love.”  He raises your hand and presses a kiss to it.

“Corio.”  You say gently but he shakes his head.

“I don’t deserve you.”  He spoke against your skin and your heart breaks, listening to him talk so vulnerably.  “You are too good.  And I am wicked.”

You are silent as you watch him cradle your hand against his face.  He is crying.  The sobs were contained but the wetness of his cheek against your hand was unmistakable.

“I am not a saint.”  You say quietly. 

“You are not a murderer either.”  He challenges.  “Your tribute from the games was just a kid.  The Mayor’s daughter had her back turned when I pulled the trigger.  Sejanus cried for his mother when he hanged from the gallows.  My hands are stained.”

A ringing silence follows after he shares to you a secret he worked very hard to bury, taking care of loose ends that cost him his peace of slumber for years.

You would hate him now.  He is certain of it.

Just like Lucy Gray and Tigris, you would run away.  Away from him.

“That may be true.”  You agree as your other hand cups his cheek.  “But if I am still to offer my heart for those sinful bloodstained hands to hold, I am no better, am I?”

His crystal orbs rise to meet your glassy ones.

“Even after all I have done?”

You smile painfully, heart clenching with irrevocable affections.  “You can burn this world to the ground and I would still want you.”

He stares at you in confusion, as if wanting to pick your mind apart, to understand why and how you can feel for him so immensely when he has done nothing but cause you pain.

“Why?”

“I told you, I am not a saint.”  You pull him by the nape to look at him closely, your noses now brushing.  “You seem to forget easily.  I am a Swansworth.”  You flash him a haughty smile.  “And I do not scare easily.”

It felt utterly liberating to be free of such burden and be wrapped up in you now.  He laughs in disbelief, pausing to look you in the eye before his gaze drops to your inviting lips. 

Coriolanus believes that if he does not kiss you right then, it would be a crime.  Cruelest yet from all he has committed.

You smile at him from underneath those lashes of yours and Coriolanus Snow does not really have the control to pull away now.

His hooded eyes meet yours and he reveled in how yours flutter close as he inches closer.  Your lips brush the slightest bit and a surge of electricity burns your lips that made him pull you close to a bruising kiss.

That kiss ended the push and pull between you.

You are his woman, not only for show this time.

When you returned to the Capitol, Coriolanus might as well have brought you with him straight to the presidential palace.  Even president Ravenstil welcomed your return.  It made the two of you feel like you are heroes of some sorts.

In some way, perhaps you were.  Any talks of rebellion from the outskirts of Panem went silent as your successful tour brought great happiness and a false sense of belongingness to the public. 

Poor Hilarius Heavensbee, nothing he did after your tour made it to the headlines.

You and Coriolanus will get what is yours.  You swear it by your fathers’ grave.

The day of the election finally came.  Neither Coriolanus nor you slept that night.  Your hand was trapped in his hold the entire night and you did not complain as his warmth, despite being clammy from his nerves, soothes your anxieties.

The results came on the break of dawn.

Snow landed on top.

Hunt for Glory

[ninibeingdelulu]

Happiness ✧

Plot: Discovering Marley with a joyful eagerness, Eren can’t take his eyes off you.

The breathtaking expanse of this new frontier sprawled out in every direction as far as your awestruck eyes could perceive - a sight none of you conscripted scouts ever fathomed witnessing beyond those towering walls hemming your entire reality since birth.

Even as the rest of Levi's elite squad trekked grimly onward adhering to their regimented protocols during this unprecedented reconnaissance mission into the enigmatic lands of Marley; your footsteps gradually slowed to a meandering pace.

Every minuscule sensory detail flooding your awakened awareness with childlike wonderment unlike anything you'd known before now.

The vibrant colors alone radiating across those quaint thatched rooftops, cobblestone lanes and bustling market stalls erupted into a kaleidoscopic mosaic igniting your nerves with rapturous delight.

Such trivial sights taken for granted by the locals yet perceived like divine manifestations defying all previous boundaries constraining your world solely within those dreary monochrome walls.

You pivoted aimlessly soaking in each new marvel presenting itself with infectious glee sparkling through your captivated irises even brighter than the sun's gilded rays dancing across the rustic scenery.

From the sweet fragrant bouquets wafting through the brisk autumn zephyrs carried flavors utterly foreign yet blissfully intoxicating upon your virgin palate.

To the sights of children frolicking with that carefree jubilance you'd only witnessed glimmers of back home before the cruel realities thrust duties far too grievous for any youth to bear without being shattered under their karmic tonnage.

Watching those unburdened souls skipping about without any premature loss of innocence plastered a euphoric smile across your own features now shining with crystalline elation cascading freely down your flushed cheeks.

Even the humblest peddler hawking their exotic wares like some sort of sweet frozen dairy delicacy they called "ice cream" instilled raptures you never imagined possible beyond those oppressive constraints until now.

Eagerly exchanging a few meager coins from your supplies for that peculiar indulgence then wholeheartedly sampling the foreign confection for the first time:

Its creamy richness coating your palate evoking utterly saccharine waves of blissful tingles rippling across every single hypersensitized nerve ending flooding you with unequivocal revelry.

So much so that a few childlike titters even escaped past your reverent lips before you even realized it as your aura radiated incandescent jubilation that moment.

In fact, you'd become so thoroughly enraptured exploring this uncharted realm of wonders that the unmistakable presence of Eren Yeager silently accompanying your gleeful peregrinations had virtually slipped your consciousness entirely.

At least until sidling up conspicuously close enough for his trademark smokey baritone to caress the shell of your ear with a hushed timbre dripping equal parts bemusement and something more molten still blazing behind those emerald depths:

"Y'know, considering the gravity of our mission here...seeing somebody experiencing genuine happiness without inhibitions like this sure's one helluva rarity these days, ain't it?"

His murmur skated across your electrified senses still basking in those euphoric afterglow emanations even as the rigidly self-possessed Alpha scout gradually stepped into your peripheral vision.

The faint spectral aquamarine highlights coruscating through those disheveled chocolate locks framed that severely chiseled visage adopting his trademark impassive mask yet again...

...Well, almost.

For despite Eren's herculean efforts at refortifying that signature stoic exterior you couldn't help noticing the infinitesimal sparks dancing through the mossy jade pools where his razor focus remained transfixed upon your auras' jubilant interplay still rippling outwards.

Like he was savoring those ebullient kinematics stirring something primordial lying dormant within his resonance through the closest empathic proximity available.

Even still, the fleeting traces of mirth subtly crinkling the corners of those piercing emerald spheres conveyed wordlessly just how infinitely more precious such unabashed revelry had become in his existence defined by constant struggle and sacrifice of any frivolous indulgences amidst their neverending war against oblivion.

So despite fully knowing this temporary reprieve of jubilant exploration through Marley's streets didn't remotely align with their covert infiltration directive, Eren couldn't quite muster the stoic willpower to jar you from that liberated headspace yet.

Not when your uninhibited enchantment and reveries shone with the radiant hope he was fighting titanic battles to secure for everybody still suffering under that same oppressive despair they'd narrowly escaped beyond those walls...

[enstars-popularity-tournament]

Round 1

[tenjiiku]

rapture / winter

it's been ten years since you left. he still falls for you the same way he did when he was 17.

manjiro sano x fem reader

11.7k words

warnings: portrayal of abusive relationships

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You first met Manjiro at ten years old. Two years your senior, you were positively terrified of him. You remember this now, of all times, particularly because you dreamt about your first encounter last night.

It was during the Summer of 2001 on a Sunday afternoon.

.

.

.

Having Emma Sano appear at your door only three days after sharing a simple smile with her from across the lawn of your new home was certainly a surprise. Mama had fawned over her many times over dinner, urging you to befriend her. To which you would dismiss, opting to gaze at the girl like some foreign entity — open to admire but never encounter.

The year was in that strange time between the Summer and Autumn. It was awfully cold to fully show one's legs, but by the same coin it was too hot to be wearing a sweater. You weren't sure if Emma had caught you at a favourable or unfavourable moment. You had just gotten out of the shower, on the one hand. On the other hand, because you finished your schoolwork and housecleaning on Friday, you had nothing to do over the weekend.

(Thinking back, Emma had always watched over you.)

“Y/n-chan! We're cuttin' some watermelon, come have some!"

The older girl is positively giddy. You briefly get blinded by her radiant aura. The trees and grass are both stunningly green, and the sky is clear and blue. The scenery complements Emma's presence and vice versa.

She is mature and beautiful. She is everything you are not.

You pinch your inner palm, bend your four fingers and dig them into your skin.

"I...," you start, "I don't know..."

"Are you busy or somethin'?"

"I... was cleaning." You lie.

Emma rises to her feet in response to your justification, leans to one side, and looks inside your home. When you realise what the blonde was doing, your eyes widen, and you awkwardly lean in her direction to hide her vision. It was too late, though.

"Your house looks pretty clean to me!" Emma cheers, "Come on, I wanna play!"

You open your mouth, close it, then open it once more before murmuring a small, "Really?"

"Mhm, we’re gonna play hide n' seek!"

You bite the inside of your cheek. You gaze at your feet, bare because you could not afford indoor slippers. Then you stare back at Emma's hazel coloured eyes.

"Come on!!!"

You take a deep breath in, suddenly becoming hyper aware of every action. You consider all the drawbacks of saying yes to Emma's invitation. But your personal worries would pale in comparison to the blonde's disappointment at being rejected. You had a strong desire to spare Emma's sentiments of disappointment for some reason. Mama had always told you to respect your elders — to never question them, to always be a good girl and listen. So you did. And Emma was no exception.

"Alright..."

Emma grins. You cannot help but also smile. Mama would be so proud of you.

It's almost comical how little it took for the girl to become so filled with glee — but you found it rather cute. You can practically feel Emma's contentment as you finish putting on your sandals.

"Come on, come on. Hurry hurry, the others are waiting!"

Others?

Before you can ponder on that thought a second longer, Emma grabs your arm as soon as your key leaves the door's hole. You try to calm the beating of your heart as you find yourself entering Emma's large complex. What ever were you thinking — going into a stranger’s home when mama was gone?

"Ah! Emma, you brought her!"

At the sound of a boy’s voice, you snap out of your reverie. The hold Emma has on your wrist is taken away and you suddenly feel as though lava has been poured onto you from the sheer intensities of the various pairs of eyes all drawn onto your meticulous frame.

But you dare to look up, and notice that Emma has brought you to the dojo you would often listen in on during evening martial arts lessons. It was open, presenting the wooden engawa, small cherry blossom petals falling in preparation for Winter littering the cracks.

"Emma managed to drag you outta the house, huh?"

The strange man asks with a smile, approaching you and Emma and being bold enough to pat you on the head. You close your eyes at the contact.

"Good job." The young man directs towards his sister, who grins pridefully.

"Hehe, thanks!"

You lift your head, the heavy hand still on your scalp. Your cheeks feel hot from the contact which the man refuses to take away. Still, you try to introduce yourself.

“I’m— I’m L/n Y/n.”

The man finally takes his hand off of you, gazing down at you with lazy lidded eyes and a Cheshire grin. He inhales from his cigarette and puffs the smoke out to the side, you try to keep yourself from coughing.

"Sano Shinichiro. Your mother had come over with pork gyoza the other day. Told me to take care of ya.”

You bind your hands together, awkwardly and unassumingly you murmur, "Oh. Okay. Yeah."

You put on a false ignorance about the three other boys in the yard. You stare one of them in the eye before looking sheepishly down at your feet again.

"Hey!" From across the grass, the boy with whom you shared eye contact yells. You tremble.

As he approaches the two of you, his voice is raucous and loud, as befits the situation. Suddenly drawn to the noise, you look in that direction and are astonished to see someone else appear between Shinichiro and you.

He extends a hand and says, "Baji Keisuke!"

At first, you're taken aback by how swiftly he decided to greet you and carried it out. He appeared to have acted without even pausing to consider, but you firmly believed otherwise. Keisuke, still in front of you, stretches out his hand. You can sense Shinichiro-san beaming broadly with amusement. You can't get out because everyone is already focused on you, so you dive in head first — despite not knowing how to swim — to make everyone feel comfortable.

You also extend your hand, accepting his, "L/n Y/n.”

Your way of speaking was a large juxtaposition of Keisuke's greeting. You accept his hand, and you are surprised to find it so warm against your own. Keisuke in turn, smiles at your willingness — at least you suspect so.

"Y/n, nice to meet ya!" Keisuke shouts, his toothy grin being so dazzling that it almost causes you to lose vision. You could probably work with the fact that this boy wore his emotions on his sleeve.

"Keisuke, you shouldn't say something to someone you just met."

From his seat next to Manjiro, a boy with a buzz cut in rose colour makes fun of his friend, clearly igniting Keisuke's boiling rage.

He turns his head, "Shuddap Haru!" his pupils engorged with venom.

While the two boys argue, you look at Emma apologetically.

“That’s Haruchiyo-kun, next to my brother, Manjiro. Or, we like to call him Mikey!” Emma gently explains to you, pointing at the short blond haired boy beside the taller one. Your eyes meet for a couple seconds, then you look away, anxiety pooling in your stomach.

When you hear the tell tale sounds of grass crunching underneath boots is when you pick your head up to notice an older man looking at you, then at Shinichiro. His taller frame gives you some relief from the sweltering heat, allowing your previously strained eyes to temporarily relax.

“She’s the new neighbour?”

He has a deep, slightly menacing voice. Shinichiro smiles and nods, and the stranger then turns to look at you.

As a sign of acknowledgement, he raises his head, saying, "Takeomi, Shinichiro's friend.”

You adjust the hem of your simple white t-shirt as you nod in agreement. You notice a girl looking at her from behind the man's legs, but as soon as she makes eye contact with you, the youngster runs away once more. You raise your hand to your cheek and begin to scrape the skin there.

Once more peeking her head out from beneath Takeomi's legs, the young girl now also catches Emma's eye. The blonde smiles at the girl while furrowing her brows.

"Senju!" Emma hollers and dashes behind Takeomi's knees to grab at the child's hand. She tugs the small girl from behind her brother, finally letting you catch a glimpse of her.

"This is our new neighbour, Y/n-chan!" Despite being only a few centimetres away from Senju's smaller frame, Emma explains fairly thunderously.

Senju's once-wary eyes seemed to flood with warmth the moment the blonde introduced the young girl to the unusual person who made her best friend Emma so happy.

"Hiya!" She exclaims, her hair bouncing with the sudden head nod.

"Hey-... Hi." The two girls round you and stare at you as if you were holding stars in your hands while you stammer. Baji stays by your side as well, and the sudden attention makes you perspire.

You're happy you chose to wear white for today.

"Are ya gonna play hide and seek with us?" Senju queries.

"Uh," You dare to cast your gaze in the direction of Manjiro and the boy Baji had dubbed Haru. You look back to the shorter girl in front of you out of shame as the two give you a direct stare. "I-I'm not sure."

At this, Emma and Senju whine, and just when you’re about to retaliate, you feel a heavy arm swing around your frame and rest on your shoulders.

"Come on, L/n," Keisuke drawls, emphasising your surname and darting his eyes towards Haruchiyo, "We need more players, 'sides, Haru doesn't even count 'cause I can catch him in a second."

Baji receives a direct blow to the forehead from a tiny rock that appears out of nowhere. The hit is so loud that you would have thought you could hear the wind current it briefly generated while being hurled. The thrower had some talent. After a brief squeeze from the shock on your shoulder, Baji's arm drops from your frame to support his hurting forehead.

"Ow!" When the youngster hollers, Haru is already glaring at him.

"Oops." Haru simply says, causing his partner with the dark hair to frown. He chuckles back and turns to look at Manjiro, who also appears to be smirking just a little.

"Join in the fun, Y/n-san!" Senju cries out while grabbing both of your hands.

You had no idea what in the world you did to attract the girl's attention. In truth, you were unaware of how you got here. The heat was really starting to affect you.

"Yeah! We need more girls!" Emma joins, capturing Senju's arms with her own two hands. You note how the three of you somewhat look like those barrel monkeys, all connected. You bite your inner cheek to suppress a smile.

Your eyes flicker from Baji's gaze to Senju and Emma before returning to Baji. You've run out of falsehoods to tell, and before you arrived here, you were fairly good at it. They were staring at you as you were burning from the sun's excessive brightness.

And that was exactly when it began.

"Fine. Okay, okay."

Emma and Senju both cheer, growing elated that their playing field was becoming more equal. Keisuke forms a toothy grin at the prospect of having one more person join their game, a new neighbour at that, nonetheless. Manjiro's gaze remains situated on the group, not bothering to move from his position, and Haruchiyo throws a glance his way.

Hot burns in your head. You hadn't planned on meeting four new individuals over the course of the weekend, three of whom were rather keen on welcoming you into their little circle. While Emma pulls on your arm, you allow your gaze to fall on her brother. While you weren't anticipating special treatment, he was the only one who paid you no attention. Sincerely, you believed that Keisuke, Senju, and Takeomi were more outgoing and curiously open than him. His response seemed reasonable and reassuring to you.

You hope Manjiro ignores you always.

"Who's gonna be the seeker?" Emma asks.

"Haru! 'Cause I caught him first the last time!" Keisuke states, which earns him a glare from the rose-haired boy.

"That works for me," Manjiro says in his first sentence since you got here. You would've liked dwelling in your shock a little while longer, but Haru instantly turns around, not before rolling his eyes, and covers them with his hands.

It all happens so fast. The two little girls beside you squeal with excitement, already starting to back away from the group. Keisuke sports a wild grin as well, mentally preparing his hiding spot. Manjiro leaps off of his rock to land right in front of you.

"How much do I count till'?!" Haru yells.

"Thirty!" Keisuke hollers, his voice distant.

You turn towards Emma and Senju, only to find that the girls have already disappeared. Baji was already running far too quickly for you to catch up, and suddenly you found that your cheeks were too hot under the sun. Your stomach churns in anxiety. It was like your feet were stuck to the ground.

Suddenly, a tug on your wrist snaps you out of your trance. Eyes widening, you’re forced to twist your body towards the intrusion, and your eyes meet with a mop of blonde hair. They travel downwards towards your hand to find it engulfed in his. You barely have time to spare Shinichiro and Takeomi a glance, but they watch with surprise as Manjiro drags you further away.

One moment, you are drowning in sunlight. The next, you’re overtaken in darkness, and a wooden door shuts behind you.

As your eyes adjust to the sudden shift in lighting, you find that you’re in a garden shed, and notice wall space between a shelf at which you decide to lean against.

It seems as though you were the only one out of breath, as the blond boy in front of you casually leans against the door. You have both come face-to-face now. It's intimate, not in the romantic way. It was quiet, the sound of the heat permeating through the wooden boards. Light floods in through the cracks, you can feel a little bit of the warmth on your cheeks. Playing with your thumbs, you do not dare look so freely towards Manjiro as he does to you. Your heart pounds against your ribcage from anxiety. You want to peel your skin off and take a dip in cold water to get rid of this feeling.

Finally, the culprit who caused you such emotions, is the one to put out your fire.

"You suck at hiding. You’ve never played hide an’ seek before?'' His voice is soft when he insults you so casually.

You lift your head to finally make eye contact with him. You can hear wind chimes in the distance. His eyes are clouded, like he was hiding a million secrets in them.

Furrowing your brow out of frustration, you look down at your feet, "I— I never wanted to play."

“Why’d ya say yes, then?”

His question makes heat rise in your chest. You look down, placing a cool hand on your face.

“I.. I dunno.”

The garden ornaments from outside send a pleasant tune to float in the atmosphere. A slight breeze bellows in from the cracks, You tried relaxing yourself by tilting your head upwards, closing your eyes. But your moment of peace is short-lived.

"You dropped this too."

At the sound of Manjiro's voice, you turn your head to him once more, only to notice a familiar red hair band you recall you tied your hair with this morning.

"Oh," your eyes twitch, something of a smile-perhaps formed out of anxiety-painting your features, "Uh…, ah — sorry."

Staring at the hair tie with eager eyes, you suspect the boy to give it back to you any time soon. But he simply stands there, holding it firmly in his hand. His eyebrows are slightly raised, and it almost looks like he is awaiting a statement to be said from you.

"Can I have it back?" You murmur.

You watch Manjiro rather intently. A resounding quietness befalls them. You note how it looked as though gears were moving behind his eyes, as though he was pondering on what to say next. Perhaps he was not as indecisive as you had first suspected him to be. Every move he made was a calculation he made in mere seconds — which made him all the more terrifying.

“Beg for it.”

You blink. Manjiro only smiles at your colourless expression.

“Don’tcha want it back?”

Your heart starts to race. You want to go home. You don’t like this. He’s smiling like it’s funny. You feel like crying sort of, because you know he is making a joke of you. But you don’t. Because Mama said big girls don’t cry.

“What? Lost your voice?” He mocks again.

You murmur something under your breath. He raises an eyebrow. You murmur it again, pinching your palm with four fingers to calm the panic in your chest. Manjiro crosses his arms, leaning back smugly.

“Hah? What? I can’t hear ya.”

You look up at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“You’re mean. I don’t like you.”

Manjiro blinks soundly. He doesn’t insult you, but he doesn’t give back your hair band. He simply stands there, staring at you. He seems to slump back at your insult. You think to yourself — has anyone spoken up against him?

He doesn’t say another word the entire time. The cicadas’ chirping fills the resounding silence.

You can hear the screams of Emma and Senju, no doubt Haruchiyo had discovered their hiding spot. When you can sense bodies from outside approaching the garden shed, Manjiro stands up straight and walks towards you. You, instinctually take one step back. You can’t be close to boys — especially not one like him.

He looks at you with an expression you cannot describe. It silences the beating of your heart.

"Here," Manjiro utters, grabbing your hand with one hand and manoeuvring it so that your palm opens — which he then places the hair tie on.

You are left staring at your open hand, confused at Manjiro's actions. He keeps your hand in his hold for exactly three more seconds, before releasing it. You keep your hand there for a few more moments, trying to register what exactly had just concurred.

A moment passes. Then another. And another. Manjiro scratches at the scab on his elbow, looking down at his sandals. You pretend you don't notice. You can’t really think, anymore.

Haruchiyo finds you both. He interrogates Manjiro on why he was hiding with you, to which the former tells him to shut up. Emma stares at you with bewilderment, which morphs into childish amusement at the prospect of her older brother taking a liking to you. She teases you, hooks her arms around yours and drags you back to their house.

You fiddle with the hair tie. Manjiro was weird. You wanted to go home.

.

.

.

You take a long, cold shower the following morning.

You were no longer children. You had lost all contact with your once friends, never having the gall to introduce yourself once more. Shinichiro-san had died from a car accident the same year your mother had passed — and neither of you had been the same since. Manjiro had grown rough and you had grown cold. You will never get those grievances back, and everyone had just expected one day for you to be alright with such a thing.

You liked to play pretend for their sake, be a small, nice little girl for their comfort — and ignore the incessant rock in your throat that had lodged itself there, stuck for fifteen years.

But with each passing season it only seemed to grow — to suffocate you more and more than the previous years.

You cry under the water with the stone.

Will it ever go away?

.

.

.

The next day, Manjiro begins the conversation. Perhaps it was because you had been acting like a shell of your former self since the aforementioned recalling of your adolescence. Maybe it was because of the cold weather. Regardless of the reason, it was during breakfast — over savoury bowls of tamago gohan — while you were seated across one another under the single kotatsu because that is all he could afford.

You feel like a stray cat he has taken in. The utter irony of it all.

You felt Manjiro’s eyes on you for ten minutes before he pointed his chopsticks at you disparagingly and spoke through a mouthful of warm rice and egg.

“You’re shaking.”

You huff at his audacity, gazing down at your bowl before bringing a bite of rice to your mouth, “Am I?”

Of course, he does not answer. Because he is Manjiro Sano who is nosy, loud and fastidious. He is Manjiro Sano who never finishes what he starts and leaves you to pick up the pieces. You never considered yourself particularly tough before encountering him.

Setting your half empty bowl down, you choose to question him.

“Why did you move to Osaka?”

Manjiro doesn’t answer. Rather, he turns his head to the open engawa, and pretends to care for the sakura petals that fall off the tree branch. You furrow your brow, setting your chopsticks down in your bowl.

“What about everyone else in Tokyo?” You inquire once more.

Thirty seconds pass. You wait, knowing an answer is going to come. The first shove was complimentary, the second prod was real — at least that was how it worked when Manjiro was 16.

“What about them?” He huffs, taking a sip of his morning beer, “They all know my address.”

You bite back a smile — afraid that if you were to show amusement he would only take it as a sign to continue dismissing your concerns. Manjiro had changed but his small little idiosyncrasies remained hidden. A selfish part of you is delighted at the notion that — despite your anxieties — you had truly not forgotten him.

“Don’t you ever feel…,” you bunch your hands together, “lonely?”

His next answer comes naturally. “Nah, think it’s ‘cause it’s new to me.”

“Right,” you shake your head, laughing, “ha— right, right.”

You look down at your bowl. Of course, what were you expecting? Manjiro was nothing like you. He was loud compared to your quiet. Captious to your carelessness. Unlike you who fretted over such illogical matters he would barely put any thought behind even those affairs which required them.

“Do you feel lonely?”

You lift your face up a tad too quickly and despairingly at his question. He’s looking at you with a blank slate of an expression, and it is in this moment you wish he would return to being unserious. You feel like you are in that very garden shed he’d hid you both in.

You force a laugh, “What? No— no. I—… no… No.”

An awkward silence descends upon you both yet again. The chirping of a little ringed plover fills the room. You think, or at least you try to with Manjiro staring daggers into your side profile. Wrapping the blanket he had given you tighter around your frame, you take a deep breath.

“What about… Keisuke and the others?” You ask, tentatively. His name sounds so odd on the tongue. You don’t think you have said it out loud for nine years now.

Manjiro huffs a chuckle, and you mellow.

“I visit him the first of every month. We all show up at his place,” he explains soundly, bending his left leg and wrapping his arms around it, “And his mother every two weeks. But she likes to be left alone.”

You stare at his hand that scratches at his foot. By Keisuke’s mother he most definitely meant her grave. The woman had always been an eccentric character in your childhood. She made the most delicious rice cakes and warabi mochi. You recall the memory with a solemn grin. She passed away two years ago. You hadn’t even known — only realised she was gone when Manjiro had told you nonchalantly in passing while you were preparing breakfast how much he misses her omurice.

You had burnt your index finger that day, and hid the mark from him.

A wind passes by into the house. The wind chimes sing a familiar tune, and you are surprised to notice that they are the very ones the Sanos had back in Tokyo.

You haven’t confronted yourself in a while. She scared you. Maybe confronting this monster inside will soothe this ache within you — you reason.

“I’d— I’d like to go. I’d like to visit them soon.”

Manjiro’s stare which was directed on his foot moves to meet your eyes. He looks at you for three seconds, scratching at his wrist. He stares at you in a way that silently asks you — ‘Are you sure?’ — and your gaze only hardens; with determination or fear, you can’t really choose.

Manjiro nods.

“Alright.”

He picks up your dishes and places them in the sink for you to wash. This is your routine.

You follow him to the kitchen, standing awkwardly behind the island as he looks at the plates he has put. His hands clench around the metal. He looks up at you once more.

“Alright, we will.”

.

.

.

You reach Shibuya at 9:26pm by car.

When you step out of the passenger seat and onto the road where Manjiro parked, the wind that greets you is warm, for November, at least.

An overwhelming wave of anxiety invades your stomach. Suddenly, the warm air does not help you. You feel like someone has set you on fire. Each step you take towards Keisuke’s home — a large house you have never even thought would belong to someone of his stature — your heart pounds erratically. Manjiro’s resounding footsteps following behind you only add to the reality of the situation. You want to go home. You should have never come.

A hand on your shoulder stops you in front of the door.

“You’re shaking,” Manjiro’s voice states the similar expression back in Osaka. You stare into his eyes, trying to ground yourself.

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” his eyebrows furrow in a mature sense of concern — it is so unlike his past self, “You know, you don’t have to meet them. I can tell them you got sick.”

Your mind manages to eat the information he is feeding you. Once it has consumed every morsel you shake your head. You wipe your clammy hands against your pants — you note how Manjiro’s eyes follow them wherever they go.

“No,” you breathe with a shaky tone, folding your arms across your chest, “No, I—I’m good.”

You shrug his hand from off your shoulder, taking a deep breath in. You haven’t been in this neighbourhood for nearly eleven years. It’s only natural that you are a bit nervous. Manjiro does not look quite convinced. You look behind your shoulder to find him, unmoving and unentertained. You leer into his hazel coloured eyes.

“I promise, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

You tell him for the final time, walking to the entrance of Keisuke’s surprisingly old-fashioned home.

You don’t even have to knock on the door, someone opens it for you from inside. You crane your head up to meet a pair of aquamarine eyes. A small smile traces itself onto your features.

Haruchiyo speaks before you can — he has always had the habit of doing that; taking the first step ahead in the riverbank you liked to explore together, the first bite of freshly sliced watermelon, and the first one to make fun of your mother’s death.

He stares at you like you never even left — like you were coming back from the grocery store.

“The hell happened to you?”

Your smile only grows. “Hi, Haru.”

Tiny pleasantries greet you, and — oddly — Haruchiyo’s arms do, as well. He is even taller than he was back in junior high school. His hair is longer and he still manages to stand out everywhere he travels. You can vaguely sense Manjiro entering from behind you — but you don’t have a lot of time to dwell in his presence. Not when Haruchiyo brings you to the living room. They are watching baseball, the kotatsu is out, stray chips and half empty beer cans litter the surface.

You have never felt more at home.

Keisuke and Ken lift their gazes from the television to you at the same time, when a home run is scored. You smile wearily, and they return it with a grin of their own.

“Y/n…” Keisuke is the first to speak, standing up and approaching your unassuming frame. He looks into your eyes for three seconds — an odd gesture, given that he never waited before — before enveloping you in a warm hug.

You grab his back almost too quickly. It only lasts five seconds but you feel the familiar heat in your stomach return — the one you had carried since ten years of age.

He asks how you have been. You murmur a solemn fine and compliment his home. He bashfully explains how Chifuyu had planned out the interior and exterior designs, and informs you of the fact that Kazutora is with him down in Hokkaido — getting supplies for their pet shop.

Keisuke is much more refined and mellow compared to his former self. His spontaneous nature and wild energy scared you at age ten, and treated you softly at sixteen — when the only boy whose presence did not scare you, was his. Even now, with a few grey strands in his hair, he is gentle and kind — offering you whiskey soda, somehow guessing your favourite drink after a decade apart.

Haruchiyo and Ken tease Manjiro in the kitchen. You overhear everything about him even when you do not want to — even as you are engaged in a conversation with your childhood friend.

“Oi, oi, Mikey. You cut your hair?”

“Ohh, he did, wouldja look at that.”

“Shut up.”

They return with more beer cans. Keisuke sits on the floor next to you on the couch. Ken’s eyes fall on your frame the same time your gaze falls on him.

“Hi.., Ryuguji,” your tone sounds sad. You didn’t mean for it to come out that way.

“Y/n…,” the widowed man returns your smile with one of his own, handing you a can of beer, “Please, call me Ken.”

You stare at it. You stare at him. You don’t know how he does it. The grief doesn’t line his face nor eyes the same way yours does — and it was fresh and new. It still stung and he deserved to feel upset. You did not, you had moved across the ocean and forgotten everyone because of yours — and yet it brought you back to square one, right on a sofa bed somewhere in Tokyo.

You put away your thoughts, locking them beside the incident in the garden shed many years ago. It could be dealt with later.

For now, you take the beer can from Ken’s hands with trembling fingers — praying he cannot tell you want to run.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Dinner is lovely. Warm pork ribs purchased from a local restaurant, spinach salad with sesame, sunomono, and many warm bowls of rice are shared amongst the five of you. You feel Manjiro’s gaze fall on you every so often — almost as if he was trying to assess and read your emotions, to be there to catch you when you fall. It feels odd, every time he looks your way. Every time he does, you clench your beer can tighter.

You do not know why he cares for you so. You are not going to give him what he wants. You can’t, right now.

After dinner, you step out of the golden lighting of the living area to the engawa that opens up to the small square area of greenery. American porch lights hang on the tall pillars holding up the structure of the house, and your eyes instantly fall on the small koi pond installation on the right of the green.

You vaguely hear Keisuke and Haruchiyo yell at each other from inside. You walk barefoot on the grass. You feel like an oversized child.

The creaking of the floor boards alerts you towards the open entrance. You turn as Ken approaches you. His lips are laid flat — and he pretends he doesn't even see you. You appreciate this about him. He’s never made you uncomfortable.

You think you should say something for both of your sakes. Spill the milk and clean it already.

So, you — the ever awkward — murmur softly towards the koi fish, “You’re all so… taller.. now.”

Ken huffs a laugh, standing next to you now. His shows are on, though.

“Maybe you just shrunk.” He jokes. You smile.

“Perhaps,” you respond, “I heard that the weather in New York does that to one.”

For a while, you both stand there. A congenial silence befalls on you both. The wind chimes play a foreign tune. The smell of whiskey, cigarettes and fried pork are carried with the wind. It feels the same way a full stomach does.

A couple moments later, Ken mutters to you, turning his head to gaze down, “You look lovely, tonight.”

You turn your head, too. Since he is now looking at you you suppose you should do the same. It is only customary, after all.

“Thank you… thank you.” You stutter, taking a good look at his features.

His five o'clock shadow is more prominent, only half of his being illuminated by the patio lights. The familiar dragon tattoo is as prominent as ever, but his hair is a dark black now. You wonder if Emma had anything to do with it. When you look at him, you start to think of her.

So you look back down at your feet. It hasn’t snowed in Tokyo yet. You are grateful it is not as cold.

“The weather here is great, though.”

Ken sighs, breathing in the night breeze, “Yeah...”

This time the silence is a little awkward, so you do not prolong it.

“Whose idea was it to install a koi pond and these patio lights?” You force a laugh, trying to make him smile again. It seems to work.

“Ah,” Ken brings a hand to the back of his head, scratching at his neck, “Sana had always wanted fish…, but Emma was allergic. So we had compromised to have them at Baji’s — so she could visit them.”

Your face pales a little at the mention of his daughter. You recall seeing pictures of her on Emma’s social media accounts. You had congratulated her briefly then went on about your day. Your mind had not even recalled her — how shitty of a person were you?

Ken breaks you out of your departure. 

“I think the lights were Kazutora’s idea, though.”

You laugh at this, albeit an uncomfortable one. You knit your hands together. Maybe you should ask about her —he would not have brought it up if he did not want to.

“How is she?”

The koi fish in the pond move more rapidly as you pose the question, almost as though they felt the tension and wanted to relieve it. Ken pockets his hands and grins as he looks down at his reflection in the water, his eyes drifting from his, to yours. 

“She’s doing alright. Left her at her friend’s house for a sleepover.”

You breathe a sigh of relief — one you did not realise you were holding. “That’s nice…”

You look around the scenery, trying to rack your mind for more conversation starters. You had not done this in a while — let alone consoling your once best-friend’s husband, who was now a widower. You were never really that close to Ken, you momentarily recall the few times you did interact; which happened to always be through Emma. You never quite had a problem with, you were happy for her — you truly were. Now that the one virgule connecting you both had gone, it was up to both of you to hang on to another. You wanted to be there —you knew Emma would have wanted that.

You don’t even realise the statement that leaves your mouth next is about her until it just slips out.

“She would’ve loved tonight.”

The dark-haired man only looks down, eyes solemn but a cheeky smirk plastered on his features. He chuckles, “She would’ve dragged me outta the house ‘cause I’d say no.”

You grab for his hand, noticing that the look in his eyes is all too similar to the one in yours. 

“So why’d you say yes?”

Ken does not answer, but his fingers press deeper into your palm. Not enough to elicit blood — but it might as well have been.

“I— I don’t really know. I guess I thought it would make me feel better,” he laughs through a choke and you can only nod, knowing all too well how he feels. You don’t know how long you stand there, holding his hand in yours. A breeze you felt in Osaka bellows past you both. 

Manjiro takes you back to his home, and you feel at peace — like you have done something right.  

.

.

.

Osaka culture is dissimilar to Tokyo’s. Manjiro Sano is much different than The Invincible Mikey. But you were all the same.

A part of you thinks that is why the two of you attracted one another the way you did, many suns ago. Another irrational side of you believes that is why you have not been able to hold eye contact with Manjiro for longer than fifteen seconds since dinner at Keisuke’s home. You don’t know if you lack sexual appeal or if Manjiro’s libido has declined, but he has grown more… comfortable, around you, so to say; walking around with no shirt on and wearing sweatpants that hang too low on his waist.

To keep your mind occupied, you have taken on laundry duty. 

You hum a tune to the melody your mama would sing to you sporadically throughout your adolescence, seated on the floor of Manjiro’s closet with his fresh laundry sprawled about the carpet. 

Your phone rings. You take a look at it — it is an unknown caller. Craning an eyebrow, you finish folding the shirt you currently hold and pick it up.

“Hello?” You mutter into the speaker first.

The voice you hear makes your stomach drop. A heat begins to rise in your head. 

“Y/n.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief. You take your phone off from your ear, check to see if you are actually currently in a call with someone, and put it back. 

“…Ryuchi?”

An all too familiar exasperated sigh leaves the caller’s mouth. That is when you realise your assumptions were correct: your ex-fiancé is real and true.

“Fuck— Y/n, shit.”

Ryuchi utters your name like it is a disease — like it hurts his tongue. It is why you cannot put the phone down — why you cannot hang up.

“You know the fucking things I had to…—” his voice becomes a whisper, like he is trying to hide that he is conversing with you from someone, “you know how difficult it was to get a hold of you?”

You place a hand on your ankle, scratching at the scab there — willing it to open, “Ryuchi, why… Why are you calling?”

He doesn’t speak for three seconds, and it terrifies you. He always did that — when he was angry with you. He would never want to communicate until his emotions would reach their precipice and even then, it would require several pushes from you to draw his reactions. As such, those nudges had always led to him shifting the blame on you.

You had learned to live with it. Mama lived with Papa that way, before he left. But she was not allowed to leave first. She would have to stay until he did not want her anymore — and you would do the same thing with Ryuchi. Be it a hole to fuck or in those very soft, sentimental moments, a woman for him to hold — you would give your everything. You didn’t care about his wealth, you didn’t care about yourself. Why would you? He was everything — he was your World, it was how he wanted it so you would give it to him and not think twice.

Then, Ryuchi starts.

“Wha— What the fuck are you talking about?” He laughs, it sounds scary, “You— where the hell are you? Why— Why the fuck did you cancel your lease?”

You chew on your bottom lip. You hate how soft your voice comes out when you ask him again, “Ryuchi, why are you calling?”

A scoff, followed by a, “Do I need a reason to be calling my fuckin’ fiancée — are you kidding me?” rings on the telephone, but all you hear after the word fiancée is white noise.

You remember it vividly. How he had broken things off. You remember him calling you to buzz him up to your new apartment, the one you wanted him to move in with since he was still living in a bachelor’s flat with his friends. You remember opening the door to his solemn face — and you had remembered knowing that it had ended before he told you himself: ‘This is not going to work. Not anymore. Not with you.’ How could you ever forget those words?

You hadn’t cried. You hadn’t even felt mad. You just thought about the papers you had wasted printing your engagement cards. You thought about what everyone would think of you — thought about how mama would be so upset with you for not giving your life and soul to his relationship.

You had heard her voice that day. It was cold.

After a moment, you murmur a flat, “What?” Your breathing begins to pick up, “I… I thought—”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t really know how to. Ryuchi was smarter than you — right? He could pick up the pieces and fix the puzzle.

He does.

“Holy shit—,” he chuckles darkly, his tone then becoming mocking and impassive, “You— you thought I was being serious?”

You don’t realise the words that leave your mouth and escape his.

“You— You asked for the ring back, Ryuchi, Your— Your mother returned the wedding card—.. What— What was I supposed to think?”

“Yeah— yeah—, Cause I was stressed, Y/n. Mother had some qualms with you and I let her get to me. But, I’ve dealt with her now — all for you. I fought for us. Fights like this happen all the time — that... that doesn’t mean you can just get up and walk away.”

They all sound spiteful. You hate arguing. You just wanted to be good. You didn’t want him to do all of this for your sake. You did not need much, you do not know why Ryuchi insisted against that for the longest of times.

He always called you too naive for your own good: but you know what love is.

It is why, after the longest pauses of utter silence taken so far within this phone call, is when you murmur quietly, “Ryuchi, I— I.. I can’t... I.. can’t do this.”

He is on you, instantly.

“What do you mean you can’t?” His voice cracks. You don’t know what to make of it. “I—I miss you. Please. I love you. I love you, baby. You.. you can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please come back to me — I’ll make it work.”

He can’t. You know he can’t. He’s never needed you, Ryuchi has only ever wanted you in his life. You cannot go back now.

You stare down silently at your hands, fisting Manjiro’s shirt in your palms. The door of the closet is cracked open, streaming in the yellow lighting of the bedroom. It is oddly warm, given the circumstance you find yourself trapped in, unable to move.

When you feel darkness impose on that, you lift your head up. Manjiro stands there, gazing down at your frame. His eyes fall on your cell phone, then on the clothing you crumple.

“Y/n.” Manjiro calls your name. It is soft. His eyebrows are furrowed and you could mistake his worry for how tightly you are gripping his favourite shirt, enough to leave wrinkles.

“Y/n.. please.. don’t do this.” Ryuchi’s whines ring into the speaker. They settle in your ears. Before it would have elated a fire in your stomach, but now it sends a chill up your spine.

You are a bit tired of feeling cold.

“Don’t call me anymore.”

You hang up, stare at Manjiro for a moment, before exiting the closet with his shirt in hand.

You go to the bathroom, and you cry into it. Manjiro doesn’t ask for it back.

You wonder late at night why he is so soft to you.

.

.

.

You think Manjiro began feeling bad for you. He would not leave you alone since the day Ryuchi had called. He’s started to clean up after himself: figuratively and literally. Whereas prior he would leave dish washing duty and laundry to you, you found he would pick up groceries for the dishes you’d plan to make that day — and an expensive brand of detergent you had been eyeing but never had the gall to request.

His steps were small, but left their marks in the ground. You felt supported and seen.

So, the next time he went shopping, you asked him if you could kindly join him. He had told you that if you’d asked sooner, he would have taken you to Tempozan Harbor Village for a picnic.

You refused, saying that your fresh home cooking tasted much better — he hadn’t disagreed — and you ended up going to Tamade Supermarket on a Monday afternoon. The last time you went there you were fifteen and in love with him.

It is funny. How things change.

“I like this shelf,” he states, pointing at a random wooden shelf displayed in the show room.

You nod awkwardly, “It’s a nice shelf.”

It is also nice to be talking to Manjiro like an adult. Although at heart you felt as though you had stopped mentally ageing at 19, it felt good: the idea that he had caught up with you in terms of getting around your hobby of window shopping appliances you can only dream to afford. You do not even care if you are being too loud in the department store. Manjiro made a detour on the way to the supermarket. It feels nice to take up space with someone else. You did not get much interaction like this in your youth; most of your time spent with him was passionate and lustful. Taking things slow was a wonderful change of pace, something you realise your adolescent self would have appreciated though refuted against.

You ponder more about your relationship, admiring the bonsai trees in the garden supplies aisle.

“Didn’t you have a thing for flowers or some shit?” Manjiro asks, pushing the cart up behind you.

You look at him incredulously, with an eyebrow raised in question, “Botany?”

He clicks his tongue, placing his elbows on the cart’s pushing bar and leaning forward.

“Yeah, that.”

“Yeah, well,” you huff a laugh, playing with the leaves of the tree gently, “a bachelor’s in botany is about as useful as a glass hammer.”

“Oh, so it’s shit, then?” Manjro asks rather forwardly.

You snort, and try correcting him. The auntie who strolls past you both looks at you with disgust and Manjiro only makes an even uglier face that makes her run away. “It’d take a lot of time and money. Neither of which I have.”

“That’s why you went into software?”

You think for a second. You look at the flowers you had wanted to plant all over Tokyo as part of your dream adult career when you were 6. How stupid you were, then. It was nice, it had always been better, back then — when you did not know how to tie your shoes or write your name properly in kanji.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

A silence befalls you both. You stand still in the shelves section of this sequestered furniture department store.

“Guess I’m lucky Shin left his shop for me,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say as a response.

Manjiro looks at you. Then he reaches for the shelf, cradling it like it is an infant. Your eyes crinkle up in amusement.

“I’m gettin’ this shelf.”

“Alright,” you huff. “Can we go to the market now?”

He smiles back. You bend your four fingers into your palm when you feel your heart begin to develop a rhythmic thumping against your chest at his expression.

You were not 15.

“Sure.”

But you sure wanted to be.

.

.

.

The next week, Manjiro went to work — and you had taken a long, good look at yourself in the mirror; assessing the damage. 

A wrinkle would come on your forehead when you would smile. Crinkles would form near your eyes and at the corners of your lips, too, if you got too excited. Your skin was transparent — showcasing all your emotions whether you wanted it to or not. Truthfully, you preferred it that way. You had hidden too much of yourself when you were young — for no reason. Perhaps out of fear or embarrassment of being seen — is what you could possibly surmise as some reasons. Your features had also hardened since then, odd, considering how much softer you had morphed. 

All of your youth, you spent resenting yourself. Too afraid to even look at yourself, at times. But, you were normal. You were not a monster — a pleasant surprise.

As you were eyeing yourself, your eyes hand landed on a pair of scissors in a cylindrical cup on a shelf over the toilet. You had then looked at yourself once more, before grabbing the scissors.

Manjiro comes home in the evening with groceries in hand. A small ‘tadaima’ leaves his lips as he takes his shoes off in the genkan. You appear in the dimly lit hallway, a part of you missing. His eyes, already on you the moment your frame turned the corner, enlarged. You feel your chest tighten and the familiar coil in your stomach tangle. 

“You cut your hair,” he breathes softly, like it was a secret.

You approach him. He comes close to you. You are standing taller than he is on the elevated flooring of his home. You smile, a delicate one. “He always preferred long, but I never did.”

A pregnant pause follows. That was the first time you had brought up Him ever since that encounter in the closet. At least voluntarily. You can see Manjiro’s chest deflate, almost as though he had been holding his breath for you to set him free, ever since that day. A part of you hurts at the notion that he still cared for you. Another, more selfish and attention-starved piece of you thrived. 

The clock you purchase him ticks. Manjiro’s nose is red and his eyes are wet from the cold. You see him lift up his hand — it is shaking but you do not stop him or inform him of that.

He cups your cheek. His hands are cold against your warmth. He murmurs, softly and true, “You look nice.”

You look down, suddenly feeling like a teenager again. 

“Thank—Thank you…”

Manjiro’s actions do not register in his mind until your discomposure. He looks at his hand like he has committed a crime and snatches it away. You are troubled by how much his disappearance bothers you.

“Sorry— I—.”

“It’s okay,” You cut him off halfway, giving him a tight-lipped smile. What were you thinking was going to happen? You grab the grocery bags he had set down and walk inside. “I’ll start dinner.”

.

.

It is not after dinner he touches you again. It is late in the night, when the moon has reached its high and the cicadas reach their crescendo. You are laid on the tatami, turned on your side and admiring the melting snow on the sakura trees outside. Your head lays on your left arm, the right one traces patterns into your own skin.

You feel someone behind you. You turn, and see Manjiro.

His gaze reads sorrowful. The rims of his eyes are red. Though he is shirtless and resembles a man, he looks like he is eighteen again when he cries like this, in front of you. It has only ever happened once, when you saw him like this. You had run into him, rather than the other way around — like this.

Manjiro had grown mad. You had grown scared. You were both so stupid and naive back then.

You sit up, your covers bunching at your waist as they fall. You call for him, your tone only but a whisper.

“Manjiro,” you call for him, the clouds finally parting, letting the moonlight flow into the quaint living room and paint his features.

You knew it was coming — it was only a matter of time. Heated stares shared across the too large kotatsu, limbs entangling underneath for ‘warmth’ — they were all a rouse.

A teardrop falls onto your face, as the last sakura petals of Spring shake off the tree branch outside, and meet their wilted brothers and sisters on the dull green of the grass.

“Y/n…” He speaks, ever so softly, as though afraid of breaking through your skin.

Manjiro sounds so sad. He bends onto his knees in front of you. You stare into his brown. A shiver runs down your spine, from both the cold and his close presence. You had realised you had been mentally awaiting for this to happen. It was only natural — like moths to a flame. Suddenly, the tatami mat beneath you is non-existent. You feel like you are floating — like you are in Mr. Nakamoto’s linear algebra classroom, about to receive your first kiss from the boy who’s ruffian behaviour scared you, before. Looking at him now — ten years after heartbreak and uprooting your life — only now you have realised his softness.

“Yes?” You whisper, knowing it was too late — but also knowing Manjiro would never care. It would never bother him like it would to you.

“Y/n,” his voice cracks, he places his hands around your frame, encompassing you everywhere. He calls for you again, his voice only a whisper — almost as though Manjiro were afraid that if he were to raise it any louder you would leave him once more, “Y/n.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur, laying down as he begins to move over your frame and bring your covers up, “it’s alright.”

You take Manjiro into your arms; his sharp teeth at your neck, his warm hands feverishly running up the cold skin of your stomach under his shirt you wear, his blonde hair in your fingers, him, inside of you and you holding onto him for dear life — irrevocably — and he leans into them.

.

.

.

His introspection arrives the morning after he has laid with you — it comes gently and ordinarily. You would not have even known he was opening up to you, if not for the seldom look-aways and hiccups he’d let out every now and again. Metaphorical, of course. But they might as well have been real — it’s too easy for you to discern them.

It scares you, the idea of being a form of his recluse.

You wake up, and he is already staring at you. Your cheek rests on his bicep. His eyes form into crescent moons when you look at him. A warmth rises to your cheeks. You unconsciously hide your hands underneath the covers.

Some birds are chirping outside: for some reason they have not gone to warmer climates. Manjiro is still staring at you — like you are hiding something. You gaze at him, your lips lifting up at the side, unable to hide your amusement and giddiness for some reason. You feel like a small child in his arms; like an excited seventeen year old who had passed their driving test with his guidance. You feel like you were always meant to be here — next to him.

It feels nice. Which is why it confuses you when he asks.

“What?”

You hum. “Hm?”

“You’re hiding something,” he says.

“Huh? What?”

Manjiro grabs at your hands covered by the blanket. He finds the top and kneads it with his thumb. It sends a thumping to your chest.

He grins at you, curious, as he questions, “What’s in your hands?”

Your eyes widen, ever so slightly. Manjiro was always watching you. Usually attention would bother you. You hated explaining yourself. But his attention elicits a warmth in your stomach that sends the same pleasure as drinking a warm cup of coffee.

You think your cheeks are dark as you murmur, a small, “Nothing.”

Manjiro clutches your hands in his, smiling. “Then why do you keep hiding them like that?”

“Have I?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, rustling a little under the covers. The duvet falls to expose his bare stomach. Suddenly you grow hyper aware of the fact that you are both naked. You are even more shocked to find yourself not caring to know the whereabouts of your underwear.

“S’been driving me insane. Thinking you’ve stolen something of mine.”

You feel yourself smiling from one side. “If I had you wouldn’t have found out so easily.”

“Hn.”

You laugh a little at the tiny sound of hesitancy and distrust. Manjiro was so cute. You rustle under the covers, pressing your hands closer to your chest. You hold them together. They are cold against your breasts, and when you press them too hard to the bite and kiss marks left over your skin by the man you lay with, you feel yourself growing shy under his gaze.

“It’s… a habit,” you measly whisper, “I don’t know why.”

Manjiro places a hand on your cheek, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Yeah, you do.”

You sigh and look away. “It’s silly.”

Manjiro brings your face back down to look at him. He looks so serious. You don’t know whether to be flustered or afraid. Perhaps both.

“Tell me.”

You cast your gaze downwards. It was stupid.

“I— ah, you know,” you swallow, “Haruchiyo… used to tease how stubby my fingers were.” You explain, purposefully letting out the part he was involved in. Although you had lost the baby fat and were 29, you do not know why your brain chose to hold onto such an inane insult. You were barely 11 when you were told that. How come you do not remember the good things?

Manjiro looks at you with guilt. Your eyes widen. He remembers, too. You look down, again — feeling embarrassed for even bringing it up in the first place. 

“I— uh— it’s whatever…, I also never liked my hands.”

He shakes his head, and rests his forehead in the crook of your neck and shoulder. You still. 

“Shit,” he grunts, arms wrapping around your frame, “I’m a dumbass.”

You feel your heart jump. You don’t think it’s ever done that before. You like how rough Manjiro’s hands feel against your skin.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, reluctantly bringing a hand up to brush the back of his hair. 

He slightly pulls away, looking into your eyes. You feel his feet brush your ankle. 

“It’s not, though.” he says, “How could I—,” Manjiro stops himself midway. 

He continues to look at you. You feel his eyes travel to your cheeks, the mark under your eye he gave you accidentally when you were 13 and taking turns jumping into a neighbourhood lake you stumbled upon (he had pushed you in because you were afraid — scraped your face against a rock — you had never seen him look so regretful and scared). You look at him — at the light stubble on his chin, the scars running on his cheeks, be it from his time as a delinquent in his youth or from motorcycle work at the shop he runs right now. You wonder where all the others came from while you were gone. You’d gotten up and left — right when you were getting to know each other. You have no one but yourself to blame, and yet he looks at you like you were a martyr who could do no wrong.

“God, I was a dumbass.” He rasps, sweet and true. He leans in closer. You lean in, too.

He holds you so gently, it makes it so easy to forget whatever you had been worried about before your reunion. Warm thumbs brush your cold cheeks — you feel small but you can burst through the seams from this warmth.

“How could I have not seen how beautiful you were?”

His lips brush yours and his voice is raspy smooth when he asks the rhetorical question. You blush and tilt back. Your eyes shift to the open engawa behind him, to Manjiro’s face. You lift your hands from underneath the covers, and place them on top of his. 

“You like me.” You soundly state.

“Yeah,” Manjiro admits, “yeah I do. I like you very much. But you don’t need to worry. That’s something I have to deal with.”

His confession elicits something in you. Something that seemed to have been festering for a while, waiting to be awakened by only him. You feel safe. You do not want to run away. Manjiro knows exactly what to say. 

The admission causes a silence to fall. You break it by opening your mouth and spewing nonsense, as you usually do.

“I… also used to make fun of you.”

Manjiro grins. You blush. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Used to misplace your things when you’d piss me off.” You say, staring up at him through your eyelashes. That was your rebellious phase. Albeit, that had only occurred once — you did not want Manjiro to feel alone in his guilt. 

He laughs. You smile. It is that simple.

“That makes us both idiots, then.” He murmurs, leaning in closer. Your lips touch each other, and you are 15 again, in his arms. 

“I guess so,” You whisper through a smile, and return it ten-fold — a warm mouth melting you away softly.

.

.

.

February arrives carrying a similar breeze. Snow is starting to melt and Manjiro’s garden is beginning to blossom. You make love in his living room, bedroom, and the shower — when he is busy. You also procured a part-time job at a local firm to finally have the money to purchase your own clothes, instead of lounging in Manjiro’s garments all the time. He leaves often in the afternoons, rarely in the mornings — but he always comes back to you in the evenings. You prepare breakfast, lunch and dinner — but this time an odd sense of romantic domesticity is involved in all of your gestures and being around him. Manjiro is clingy, you have come to find out. In his youth his affections were scarce — but so were yours. You were both scared, hiding your love from one another — maybe out of embarrassment, you presume? Now, he is older and so are you. Manjiro’s hands find themselves around you any and every time you are near him.

It is lovely. 

Currently, it is 6:45pm. You are in his closet, arranging his clothes once more. Your eyes land on a box hidden away deep on the lowest level of his shelf. You crane an eyebrow. It has a feminine, intricate design of bellflowers etched into the wood. You note the initials K and E also carved on its top. You reach for it and open it. Your heart falls.

“Found anything interesting?” Manjiro’s voice pierces the silence.

You jump and look towards the door. Much like the day he found you speaking to Ryuchi, he is standing there in his work clothes. Your eyes fall on his face. He does not seem mad. If anything, he seems relieved — almost as though he had left this box out in the open for you to find. 

“You’re home,” you breathe.

Manjiro drops the bag in his right hand. He enters the closet and closes the door behind him, sitting down on his knees close to you and placing a chaste kiss on your cheek. You make a noise between a choke and a grunt, but he only caresses your face.

“I’m home,” he whispers softly to you.

You look down at the box resting in your lap. Manjiro’s hands rest on yours, and guide you towards the lock to open it. You look up and gaze at him with uncertainty. He only nods.

“Open it. It’s meant for you.” He encourages, letting go of your hands.

You stare down at the box. Something in your mind tells you that you know it is yours. You open it, and it is true. Silent for a moment, you gaze down at the countless number of bottle caps — from soda and milk brands back in the day — and your stomach twists at how familiar they all look to you.

Then, you remember why that is. 

“I can’t believe she still had this…” You murmur. You look up at Manjiro. He looks down into the box and rests a hand on your left one. It is only when he does that that you realise that you had been shaking. 

“What is it?”

“Bottle caps,” you utter, breathlessly, “Emma and I… we—we’d buy each other drinks on Wednesdays. A midweek reward,” your voice starts to crack,  “I—I’d put aside money from my tutoring job for it.”

The idea that for over a decade, the girl who you thought forgot about you — did not care for you or wonder about you — kept such an odd presence of your reminder in such a delicate box that you know meant a lot to her (the first present Ken has bought her when they started dating), makes you want to cry. You can’t though. Not with him around.

The walk-in closet suddenly feels too small. The tiniest of whimpers leaves your throat. Manjiro cups your cheek again, grounding you from the panic you feel.

“She always cared for you. But, that doesn’t mean she was mad. She was never mad.” He softly speaks.

You can’t say much to that. Emma is dead. She will not even know that you came back for her. You think Manjiro senses that, because he drops it. You set the box down and lean against the shelf, and he copies your actions. Your shoulders are touching. You look down into the box and decide that perhaps organising these bottle caps will make you feel better.

You start putting them into groups on the carpeted floor of the closet. You can feel Manjiro’s eyes on you. A couple of minutes pass just like this, the only sound being the occasional metal of the caps hitting each other and the rain hitting the windows from outside. 

“Have you ever been in love?” Manjiro asks.

The question oddly does not take you aback. You reckon that he deserves to know. “I guess… I mean… I was engaged.”

Manjiro’s body stiffens beside you. You continue organising the bottle caps.

“His name was Ryuchi. He was friends with my old roommate's boyfriend.” you murmur, eyebrows furrowed as you recall your past, “I—I don’t even talk to any of them anymore.”

Looking towards Manjiro, you find him already staring at you. You note his hand formed into a fist, and look away.

“I think I liked his smile, so I gave it a try. His mother never liked me,” you laugh a little — not quite out of amusement,  “He broke it off in my apartment after four years. A Sunday.”

“I’ll kill him,” Manjiro growls. 

You turn your head to look at him and weakly smile. You place your hand over his fist, and it unfolds to grab at your fingers and intertwine them together. 

“He’s… not in my life anymore. That’s that.”

“I am.” Manjiro reminds you softly with an accusatory tone of voice. It itself is so contradictory it makes you smile; makes your heart flutter.

You shift closer, so your elbows are touching. Your exposed thighs press up against his. “Yes, you are.”

“Were you upset?”

You move a little in your spot, sighing. “I mean, obviously.”

“Are you still upset?”

“I—I dunno.”

A weird part of you feels relieved, another part wants to murder him and another smaller part wants to die. But you do not say any of that to Manjiro. It feels too weird. The topic shifting from his dead sister to your deadbeat ex-fiancé feels too much.

“But enough about that,” you change the topic, tightening your hold around his hand, “What ‘bout you?”

“Yeah,” Manjiro admits, keeping eye contact with you and coming in even closer. “I have.”

“Oh,” your breath hitches, and you murmur a very awkward, “nice.”

Manjiro is close to your ear. You can feel him breathing down your neck. You shiver. “Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

He presses his forehead against yours, playing with a strand of your hair with his index finger and thumb.

“Y/n…”

He kisses you gently, laying you down softly against the carpet. Hot palms brush the bare skin of your stomach, kissing down your neck — leaving small little messages in their wake. A small mewl of defeat escapes your mouth, which he swallows all too easily— all too greedily. Manjiro is everywhere around you, all at once, shielding you from everything and anything in the small little closet of all his and your belongings. A shirt comes off, then your socks. Fists meet hair and you have never felt so alive despite the incessant biting at your skin and clashing of teeth.

I missed you. Each one seems to speak to you. Never leave me again. They beg.

But — something bigger leaves his mouth. Like a monster that had been hiding in your closet all along — hiding in the garden shed since that very day you met the bane of your existence — something you tried desperately avoiding. You start to cry but only clutch onto him harder, because you had always had a fondness for the ugly creatures in life. 

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

[mybeingthere]

Gustav Wunderwald’s Paintings of Weimar Berlin.

The landscape painter Gustav Wunderwald (1882 - 1945) died from water poisoning in a hospital in the western suburb of Charlottenburg, Berlin. He was sixty-three years old.

Born in Kalk, an industrial suburb on the outskirts of Cologne, Wunderwald experienced first-hand the modern, industrialised city from a young age. Showing early signs of a proficiency in painting, he undertook a two-year apprenticeship under the guidance of the painter Wilhelm Kuhn. Wunderwald quickly found his niche in theatrical and stage set design, taking a job as a scenery painter in Gotha in 1899. For the next thirteen years, his skills led him through a succession of jobs in a variety of cities. After a year in Gotha, he spent four years in Berlin (1900–1904) working at the studio of Georg Hartig and Company, where he specialised in theatrical set painting. From Berlin, Wunderwald moved to Stockholm, and then onwards to Düsseldorf, Innsbruck, and Freiberg over the course of the next eight years, before moving back to Berlin in 1912 to work as a stage designer at the German Opera House.

Wunderwald’s paintings of Berlin’s working-class neighbourhoods have an enigmatic quality about them. They employ a sooty palette of warm browns and greys, and have a stillness and architectural solidity to them that can perhaps be accounted for by the artist’s prior experience as a painter of theatrical scenery. One could well image scenes such as Fabrik von Loewe & Co. or Brücke über die Ackerstraße as backdrops to theatrical adaptations of Weimar-era novels like Alfred Döblin’s Berliner Alexanderplatz, Hans Fallada’s Little Man What Now?, or Christopher Isherwood’s Goodbye to Berlin.

Amidst the tenement blocks, factories, smokestacks, and advertising hoardings, Wunderwald found no shortage of subjects to paint. In a letter to a friend, written in the winter of 1926, he wrote: “Sometimes I stagger back as if drunk from my wandering through Berlin; there are so many impressions that I have no idea which way to go.”3 Wunderwald, describing his search for inspiring scenes to paint on the streets of the city, was not the first and by no means the last individual to find themselves overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of Berlin. His description of feeling drunk through sensory overload brings to mind fellow Berliner and sociologist Georg Simmel’s description of the “intensification of nervous stimulation” that the modern city-dweller encountered on the streets of the metropolis.4 Most urban inhabitants, argued Simmel, adopted a blasé attitude in order to protect themselves from the excess of sights, sounds, and movement encountered in the urban public sphere. By contrast, some individuals — like Wunderwald — consciously chose to immerse themselves in the tumult of the big city, wandering around its streets in a state of rapture, just as Baudelaire had done in Paris half a century earlier.

From an interesting article by Mark Hobbs https://publicdomainreview.org/.../gustav-wunderwalds.../

[fatehbaz]

The [British] annexation of Kumaun and Garwhal [in the "Indian" Himalayas, after 1816] [...] not only heralded new systems of revenue, land ownership, and forestry but also gave rise to novel aesthetic forms of valuing "nature." [...] [S]portsmen like Colonel Fred Markham declared that [...] hunting musk deer [...] and blue sheep [...] in the Himalayas could not be rendered into prose as dramatically as tiger hunting in the plains. Thus, in the mountains colonial writers relied upon the aesthetics of the sublime [...]. [M]usk deer and bharal hunting on the slopes of the Gangotri glacier […] had become a "set-piece" in hunting journals […] by the middle of the nineteenth century. English travelers to the Himalayas considered themselves unique in their inclination to "wander through strange lands for the mere purpose of seeing the country [...]," a trait that was ostensibly beyond the comprehension of "natives". Colonial travelers acknowledged the hill dwellers' love of home but dismissed them for taking "little interest in scenery which threw us into raptures." [...]

The life and legend of Frederick Wilson (1816-83) [...] reflects the ways in which the "psychological sublime" as it unfolded in the Himalayas was tied to colonial constructions of racial difference. To metropolitan readers and gentlemen sportsmen, Wilson was a self-trained natural historian, a paternalistic employer of natives, and a connoisseur of the wild. [...] He was a guide to famed hunters such as Fred Markham and Robert Dunlop. [...] Wilson's writings reduced paharis from perceiving subjects into unseemly objects of dirt: "Like the inhabitants of most cold, mountainous, and half civilized countries, the Puharies are extremely dirty; dirty in their persons, in their clothes, their cooking, their dwellings, and, in fact, in everything." [...] Although historians have located the major break in systems of land use [in the British-controlled Himalayas] [...] in the advent of scientific forestry in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, [...] new forms of economic exploitation [and racialization, and environmental management philosophies, had already been present earlier] [...]. Wilson's pursuit of hunting as a profession was exceptional among nineteenth-century sportsmen in the subcontinent. To monopolize trade in Himalayan musk pods (the gland of the musk deer) and pheasant hides, he relied on [...] contracts with the subordinated princely ruler [...]. "Shikari Wilson-Hunter and Lumberer" exported bear grease, monal pheasant feather, taxidermied birds, and musk before extracting wood from the forests of the Bhagirathi Valley in the 1860s to furnish the expansion of imperial railway networks. [...] The success of his enterprises relied upon "native" labor and knowledge [...].

---

[Initially,] animals and forest produce [had] effectively remained common property. [But] [a]fter he obtained a contract for the animal trade at a nominal rent from the Tehri Raja Bhawani Shah, who ruled under the paramount authority of the [British] colonial state, Wilson proved able to exploit this [...]. His ability to monopolize the hide trade suggests how the context of colonial domination reshaped the ecology of Garhwal even before the advent of scientific forestry [a particular style of British forest management for the purpose of long-term profit from timber extraction, implemented in the later decades of the century]. Wilson relied upon [...] "lower" caste shikaris and bajgis trained as taxidermists, centralized "bird godowns" for the collection and processing of skins and hides, and a commission agent dispatching time-sensitive orders to distant markets. He managed to dominate the taxidermy trade [...] with the use of arsenical soap as a preservative. A single season could yield "upwards of 500 birds, principally pheasants and partridges," "scores of the deer tribe," enough bears to furnish "upwards of a hundred quart bottles of grease," and four leopards. Musk and monal were his chief products before he successfully petitioned the raja of Tehri for the lease of the Bhagirathi forests in 1858. [...]

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Wilson dispatched [these animal products] [...] to the imperial metropole [London, etc.] and Himalayan hill stations [where British administrators lived] in unprecedented quantities. We might consider Wilson's role in expanding the trade in monal hides and feathers as an example. The monal pheasant was little known in Britain before the latter half of the eighteenth century, when it was first coveted by East India Company officials. Lady Impey, wife of the the chief justice of Bengal, first housed a monal in her extensive menagerie. The pheasant was subsequently named Lophophorus impeyanus in her honor. With the expansion of the monal trade, the high-ranking colonial official's fascination with this once rare and exotic emblem of oriental riches spread to the metropolitan public. Toward the latter half of the nineteenth century, monals were used to ornament women's bonnets and serve as ornithological specimens. Metropolitan ornithologists [...] singled out Wilson's taxidermied pheasants as objects of praises, creating a demand for them in the process. Over his thirty-year career, Wilson sent an average of fifteen hundred monal skins to Britain yearly. [...]

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Wilson continued to curate the Himalayan sublime for European sportsmen well into the 1860s. [...] However, by the 1870s, the scale of Wilson's extractive enterprises in the Bhagirathi Valley was gaining notoriety. Writing in Hume's Stray Feathers, Edwin Brooks admonished the wreckage left behind by Wilson's logging operations, writing that "such wanton and wholesale destruction of the timber of a fine valley is not to be met anywhere else upon the face of the earth." Though Wilson defended himself against Brooks by arguing that the destruction of "grand old forests" was a "sad necessity," his lease over the Bhagarathi forests ultimately transferred to the Forest Department. While the advent of scientific forestry in the Central Himalayas heralded a new discourse about the management of nature [still in service of extraction and profit], the demarcation of racial difference remained central to the colonial imagination of Himalayan peoples and places.

---

All text above by: Nivedita Nath. "Imperial Hunting and the Sublime: Race, Caste, and Aesthetics in the Central Himalayas". Environmental History 26 (2021): 301-323. doi: 10.1093/envhis/emaa084. Published April 2021. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Italicized text within brackets added by me for clarity and context. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[raptureshots]

FRANK FONTAINE'S APARTMENT

its fucking weird!!!!

big. long rant/analysis thing cuz uhh my brain works in weird ways!

FIRSTLY. THE WEIRD SHIT. He has no closet or shower (its just. a Tub. no shower head), 16 boxes of cigars on a shelf, no kitchen sink, a fucking fireplace???? in his bedroom, his bed is literally on a platform, 5 separate sets of stairs, 17 Bookshelves, a fucking ZEN GARDEN???? three separate taxidermy animals, 9 random carpets, three whole fridges and no tvs.???

His bedroom as a whole is LARGE but not decorated at all, like theres so much empty space. literally three pieces of furniture in the whole room??? One is his bed, then a COUCH. A WHOLE COUCH right in front of said bed, and a random chair?? just on the other side of the room???

ALSO. the fucking pool table?? its just in a dark corner of a room?? with no pool balls or ANY pool equipment at all anywhere near it

His apartment in general doesn't seem LIVED in. Like its decorated and artificial in a way. but it also FITS him and his character? He's a business and conman, bro probably doesn't have much time to be at home in general but needs to pass as just. a Normal Guy so he makes it appear lived in.

Okay. Now I wanna talk about the fucking. VITA CHAMBER. i know it is literally just there for convince and game reasons, but looking at it as if this was real, WHY DOES HE HAVE ONE. WHY. Ryan distributed them around Rapture, yes, but they were never advertised as being able to revive people. Only that they could rejuvenate you. AND. FONTAINE "DIED" AROUND THE SAME TIME THEY STARTED BEING PRODUCED SO. WHY IS IT THERE!!!!!! Did Ryan put it there as a precaution??? Which also makes me wonder, What exactly happened to Fontaine's apartment after his death?? I know the timeline for BioShock is kinda fucky so..??

( Just know I'm basing. Parts of this off the Book and the Wiki . Take this with like a fuckton of Salt )

Overall, I do think his apartment is designed well and fits his character!!! I love just. the whole scenery of BioShock as a whole and I do think its cool that we get to see both his apartment AND Fontaine Futurists... Maybe one day I'll analyze/talk about his office :-)!! ty for reading this all

[frogspawned]

pet peeve is when a story tells us something is aberrant, but it seems to matter more about who does the behavior than the behavior itself. rorschach in snyder's watchmen isn't going too far; we watch nite owl and silk spectre ii snap necks and arms with gleeful, loving abandon, in slow motion no less, while they lecture the audience about rorschach's violence. heroes frequently torture the plot contrivance out of a villain and then moralize to the camera when the villains do the same. indominus rex's killing spree doesn't shock or appall me; all the jurassic world dinosaurs act like mindless killing machines, and the camera lingers, rapturous, on their cruelty. it's not an outlier. there's nothing interesting about it beyond as a set piece.

in a better script, the indominus rex would have had pathos; a chimera made for entertainment, for profit, stitched together with no regard for itself and placed in a lonely box. a freak among freaks. of course it would be mad. but the film wasn't interested in it as an animal, or a character, only as a moving piece of scenery for people to scream at or breathe tensely while it can clearly smell and reach them but doesn't, because it isn't a character and doesn't have motivations.

it's just sort of boring, i suppose. it tries like all other empty drab things do to cover it with bombast and roaring and soaring brassy scores but it's just sort of dull. a sprawl of nothing.

conversely peele's nope is a transcendent monster movie, imo, because it thinks about the the whys and hows, how jean jacket perceives the world, how the world perceives her, and lets that shape the narrative as much as jupe or emerald or gordy. they consulted biologists and behaviorists, digging into the meat of it. the creature as a camera as an animal as a device. nope has layers. it takes its own insane premise seriously, and has something to say, and is a goddamn good movie. i forgot where i was going with this.

[followcb]

Optimistic hues . . . .

Glamorous, sunset views

Color the sky spectacular

Elevate our sullen moods

Out here positivity shines

Gorgeous scenery defines

The rapture of changing attitudes

Capturing such splendor . . . .

Winter's fingers upon these latitudes

To bare witness to this bliss

Fills my spirit with gratitude

Joy for the simplicity of the occasion

Bathed in gold and pink

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Poem & Image ©️ @followcb ☆ Dec 16, 2023

[fandomsideworks]

[diversegaminglists]

Games Finished in 2023

Didn't get as much gaming as I usually do, due to a combination of health issues, my cat having cancer (she's fine now) and my computer breaking in a couple of infuriatingly nebulous ways.

Games I recommend are bolded.

Archvale

Franken RPG

Symphony of War: The Nephilim Saga

Signalis

Bound by Flame

Monster Train

The Last Door Season One

Unforgiving: A Northern Hymn

Dirk Smallwood HD

The Excavation of Hob's Barrow

Flynn: Son of Crimson

Dishonored: Knife of Dunwall

Dishonored: The Brigmore Witches

Sands of Salazaar

Adios

Talk to Me

Dishonored 2

Power Wash Simulator

Power Wash Simulator: Tomb Raider

Power Wash Simulator: Midgar

Pilgrims

Stone

Teacup

Cloud Gardens

Memory Traces: Japan

Khimera: Puzzle Island

Katamari Damacy Reroll

I was a Teenage Exocolonist

100 Hidden Frogs

lure

Lights Off...

Viltnemda

Suspicious Downpour

The Lost Dachshund

Resonance of the Ocean

Swallow the Sea

Shadow Burglar

Kore

Fears to Fathoms: Home Alone

Greedfall

Rapture: The Beginning

Adventure Escape Christmas Killer

Apeture Desk Job

Corridor Z

Hero of the Kingdom: The Lost Tales 2

The Shore

Alder's Blood: Prologue

Mirlo Above the Sun

Stillwater

The Call of Karen

Karisvale

Momotype

Epic Battle Fantasy 5

Aztlan Uncovered: Prologue

Good Dog

Adventure Escape Mysteries: Cluedo

You are a Whale Also Part 1

Adventure Escape Mysteries: Midnight Carnival

I want to be a Triangle

Behind the Frame: The Finest Scenery

The Case of the Golden Idol

The Darkside Detective

Project Exhibited

The Case of the Golden Idol: The Spider of Lanka

The Test

Fayburrrow

Faefever

You Will (Not) Remain

Bad Dream: Stories

Star Apprentice: Magical Murder Mystery

Arcanbreak

Glass Masquerade 3: Honey Lines

Dot's Home

Westwood Shadows: Prologue

The Suicide of Rachel Foster

The Looker

Nancy Drew: Legend of the Crystal Skull

Without a Voice

Escape Academy

One Night Stand

Nancy Drew: The Phantom of Venice

Janosik

Don't Escape Trilogy

Spirit Cleaning

Fatum Betula

Viridi

Sarawak

Baldur's Gate: Siege of Dragonspear

Riddles of the Past

Desolatium: Prologue

Apocalipsis

The Vagrant

Apocalipsis: One Night in the Woods

Hayami Chan

Ginkgo

Alba: A Wildlife Adventure

Memory Traces: Egypt

Wilful

Distraint

Baldur's Gate 3

Zombie Admin

The Lost Night

Inside

Kingdom Hearts 2 Final Mix (PS4)

The Painscreek Killings

Eiyuden Chronicle: Rising

One-Eyed Lee: Prologue

Nasty Little Man

Halo CE: Anniversary

Technoccult: Covenant

To be a Herpwitch

Seethe and Scab

Neverwinter Nights: Enhanced Edition: Main Campaign

Moons of Madness

Dragon's Crown Pro (PS4)

Paradise Killer

Amnesia: Rebirth

Dave the Diver

Zemblanity

Fighting Fantasy Classics: The Warlock of Firetop Mountain