#saturday: ah... bittersweet silly!

[intotheelliwoods]

-> -> Guess whos AU is turning a year old on February 17th!

The time when the update will be posted is not specified since it will all be dependent on my work schedule, however I will try and let you all know when it is being posted in advance if I end up posting it very late in the day!

(I am in MST)

[slttygeto]

༉‧₊˚. episode 02: right here

preview: ". . . It triggered a chain of thoughts that was unstoppable like a relentless river. It sculpted its route through the toughest ground, unyielding in its attempt to carve Shuji’s touch into your memory. Now, he existed in both realms for you. A boy that had once seemed so intimidating being the subject of your dreams was your last straw. Therefore, you left."

content warning: cursing, mention of violence.

word count: 4k

➜ ┊: @softshuji @sin-and-punishment @kariatenoh @reiners-milkbiddies @citrusteaa

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

➜ episode one

➜ masterlist [echoes of time]

Who would’ve known that Hanma would continue to torment you even after his departure? You haven’t seen the man in a few days, however you can count the hours you’ve spent thinking about him—of his dual toned hair, his golden eyes boring into yours. The way his grip on your hips was firm yet so gentle, a contrast to how he seemed to be living his life. His presence lingers in every corner of your mind, your goodbyes bittersweet.

He was the subject of your every dream, and when the first ray of sunlight hits your face, you are painfully reminded that he wasn’t next to you anymore—you didn’t even want him to be next to you! You start to blame your own celibacy. Your lack of action must’ve taken a toll on you if you were having embarrassing dreams of a man you barely hung out with for an hour.

As you prepare your morning coffee and plan out the rest of your day—Saturdays were for cleaning, you hated cleaning on Sundays. Even as you scribble down on your notepad, your thoughts wander away and find refuge in the forefront of your mind where your most recent dream plays on repeat.

It’s a teenager Hanma, a sight you never thought you’d see again. He looks the same, maybe a bit younger and far more excited to impose himself on those around him. It’s near sunset, Hanma drags you to the same ramen shop you visit on Fridays before heading home. He orders a tokotsu with extra pork belly and spicy miso broth, whereas you opt for your usual order of shoyu ramen. Your seats are close to one another, something you’ve learned to get used to. Hanma was a touchy person, often discarding his respect for other’s boundaries yet somehow, you were an exception of that. The only time he ever imposed himself, or his touch on you was when you were walking together and a ground of rebels dared start a fight in his neighborhood. His hands rested on your shoulders before he leaned down to whisper “stand back” in your ear—a habit you realize didn’t wither away over the years��before moving towards the group of rebels. They left defeated.

Your orders are here, and steam rises from the bowls in gentle wisps. You feel your mouth watering at the combinations of vegetables, chicken and soy sauce based broth. The texture is lighter than Hanma’s ramen, but you find that you’re more fond of the complex flavors that envelop your senses than the ones the tonkotsu offers.

“It’s hot,” he says in a deep voice, but as a teenager his voice still cracks. “Be careful.”

You’re not sure why your dream is so vivid, why it is offering so many details after a single meeting with the tall man? But you continue down dreamland lane, and you recall more specifics.

“Ah!” you hold a hand to your mouth, your spoon resting near your bowl as you start to blow out the steam from your hot meal. You should’ve listened to him.

“Told you to be careful,” he sounds annoyed, but still reaches for your face to grab it. You don’t fight back, his rough hand holding your jaw like a rag doll. “Open up.” He takes notice of your swollen lips, then you stick out your tongue and it’s reddened—clearly affected by the hot broth.

“You risked your mouth for this, silly girl.” His eyes glance up to yours and he chuckles at the way you’re glaring at him. He lets you close your mouth, but doesn’t pull away from your jaw. You’re used to him staring you down like this, it was Hanma after all. A figure shrouded in malice and darkness, holding Shinjuku’s streets in an unwavering, iron grip—one that eases up in your presence, because no one’s ever seen him act the way that he does with you. His soft stares and less unhinged persona are reserved for you and only you, and one could swear you put him under a spell. But which? And how could you? A mere conversation with him on your way out of school, offering him water and asking if he was okay despite the blood coating his clothes not being his was all he needed to lessen the glares and soften the punches.

“I want water,” you blurt out, getting yourself out of his grip and breaking the eye contact that had your stomach twisting in knots. He doesn’t look away, watches as you continue to soothe your tongue by fanning it. Getting up from his seat, he walks towards the small fridge in the corner of the shop before grabbing a bottle of cold water.

He hands you the bottle and before you could thank him properly, you feel his lips collide against yours so softly—you would never think that the boy was kissing you. Because he wasn’t, he gave you a small peck and then proceeded into his seat like nothing happened. Maybe he was aiming for the corner of your mouth, maybe he didn’t mean to get so close to you—

“I knew if I didn’t do it now, I’d never do it.” Referring to the kiss. But then again, the tapestry woven from your imagination doesn’t seem to be the result of reality blurring with fiction—but rather a trip down memory lane.

Your pen falls from your hand as you hold a hand to your mouth and lean back in your leather seat.

He kissed you. He kissed you when you were teenagers and that’s why your bond was never the same. Navigating a relationship as kids must’ve been a strange and foreign area, and instead of communicating things—you two never spoke to one another again and each went their own way.

No wonder the memories of the man had a beam of sunlight cast upon them, you felt too warm as you remembered your times with him—but to forget such a detail…You want to smack yourself on the forehead.

Something on your wooden desk vibrates and you reach for your phone all whilst trying to process what you just remembered. However, you choke on your coffee when you read the contents of the messages.

XX

you never changed your phone number did you?

Could it be him? There was no way he kept your phone number—you read that it’s an unknown sender, but for some reason your gut is telling you to text back and find out who it was.

you

who is this?

XX

why so formal, doll? It’s me.

You can see the grin behind the screen, and you get this violent urge to smack him.

you

where did you get my phone number

XX

never deleted it

He doesn’t beat around the bush as always.

you

and? do you need something?

XX

to open the door for me

What—there was no way. You scramble out of your seat and out of your office, your phone still in your hands. You’re about to reach for the entrance door until you feel your phone buzz again.

just kidding

but do look out of your balcony

This time, you’re not sure if he is telling the truth. You hesitate for a few moments, staring down at your screen. Even if he was standing outside your building, you’re not sure if this was safe. If he was safe. Then your phone buzzes again, this time he’s calling.

You answer the phone call but remain silent on the line, the sound of cars honking and random people walking past him is the only thing you hear until he chuckles and it resonates in your ear.

“I can see you hiding behind the curtains, doll.”

“What do you want?” you try to be appear harsh, stern but it was pretty obvious that you held no personal grudge against the man to be so cold with him. Perhaps a little scared with his unknown line of work that hinted at crime and illegal activities, deep down you knew that it was only a matter of time before Hanma crept his way back into your life. You didn’t want to question how he was able to find out where you live—perhaps you should.

“Did you have brunch yet?”

“Huh?”

“Food, woman. Did you eat?” the answer was no. You were in the middle of having coffee when he called, and you were planning for a rather long day ahead of you so you try to decline the offer you knew was coming.

“It’s cleaning day for me.”

“I didn’t ask that.” Why was he giving you attitude?

“Yeah, but I’m saying it.” You glare at your phone as you step away from the balcony and into your room. Subconsciously, you reach for your closet and open it to see what you could wear out for brunch.

“Alright then, I’ll drop you back as soon as we finish eating. How about that?”

“And where are you taking me?”

“You’re all about detail, doll,” he doesn’t mask his amusement. “I like that.”

Trying to hide how flustered you are, you clear your throats to change the topic—remind him of your question.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Shinjuku Terrace city.”

The place he takes you to is a bustling culinary adventure located near the Shinjuku station. As you step into the lively dining complex, the smell of different kinds of foods hits your nostrils. The food hub offers a variety of restaurants and cafés, all lined up in order of what to try—first is a cute cat café that catches your attention, the smile that travels to your lips grabbing Hanma’s attention before he continues to walk in the direction of the brunch place.

It still feels like too much. Your lips remain sealed as he stops in front of a brunch place. Brooklyn Pancake House. With its charming façade and its large glass windows, it allows so much natural light to flood in and it feels like the coziest place to go to on a date.

Right, a date. This is what it felt like, but Hanma doesn’t say anything and neither do you.

As you step inside the shop, the large yet intimate dining space offers a cozy and inviting atmosphere. You weren’t ready to admit it yet, but Hanma had good taste in finding hang out spots. Speaking of which, you notice how he chooses the table in the deepest corner of the shop, away from people’s prying eyes. He sits so he can see anyone coming or exiting the establishment. You don’t question his decision, rather quietly sit facing him with your hands neatly folded over your lap.

“Jesus christ,” he chuckles. “You’re acting like I’m holding you hostage.”

Your cheeks feel warm as you scramble to grab your phone. “I’m not—I just—“

“It’s fine, that about you didn’t change as well.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you’re unable to bite your tongue for too long.

“I’ve grown, you know? I changed. Why suddenly come back and try to befriend me?”

That was an amazing question, worth a hefty sum of money—because Hanma wasn’t sure of the answer. Just like the other night when you asked him about his line of work, Shuji cannot provide with an actual answer. Having a routine helps raise a teenager who develops a sense of security, improved behavior and healthy habits— none of which Hanma Shuji had at fourteen. He doesn’t remember a day where his mother wasn’t drunk, but he doesn’t blame her for it. At thirteen, he catches his father in bed with another woman. He doesn’t hesitate to tell his mom, and from then on develops a raging hatred for his old man. His father tries to crawl back into his life on many occasions, but one stands out the most to the dark haired boy.

It’s a few hours until midnight, his mother was wasted on the couch and Shuji sits at the kitchen table with a chocolate bar and one lit, thin candle. There were no happy birthdays, no clapping like the previous years—just a home that was slowly crumbling and a boy easing his way into a life of drugs and violence. He hears a knock at the door, at first not bothering to get it, when the banging intensifies is when he reaches for the door knob and twists.

“Shuji my son!” Stands the serial cheater with a pathetic look on his face. “I missed you, how are you—“

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Never had the boy spoken to his father in such tone, but the adult’s responsible and authoritative image was gone along with their memories together.

“To check on you of course--!”

That night, Hanma discovers two things. One, he is good at throwing punches. Perhaps, the best and worst thing his father’s ever done was to make him watch boxing matches with him as a kid. Two, he learns how to treat his own wounds without his drunken mother stirring awake and tossing an empty beer bottle at him.

Amidst the chaos that was his personal life, a mom that was barely present and a father having long forgotten about the family he’s made, you were the only constant in Hanma’s life. For twelve months, three hundred and sixty five days—you offered the boy what his parents failed to do for the first twelve years of his life, before eventually giving up. It’s ironic how the number twelve keeps finding him over and over again. He drops you near Okube koreatown at 9:12PM, texts you this morning at 10:12AM, doesn’t hear from you for twelve years—he hopes he doesn’t wait for another twelve to earn a seat in the comfort of your heart.

As he comes back to his senses, he notices that you’re scanning his face with a newfound curiosity—most likely wondering what’s taking him so long to reply.

“Just wanna catch up,” he grabs the menu and scans the options for coffe. “For old times’ sake.”

“Could you at least try to sound believable?” you make a face at his ridiculous statement. Despite not having seen the man for so long, you knew based on the bored expression and nonchalance about life that he hasn’t had anything exciting going on in his life for some time now.

“If I did, I’d kiss you.” He sets the menu down, now fully staring at you. “Does that sound believable to you?”

So…Blunt.

“Seriously—“

“Why did you leave?” His voice is back to its bored tone, he takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You know, that summer. I know we grew apart, but why did you leave?”

“I needed to start a new chapter.” You weren’t lying, but you weren’t saying the truth either. Starting fresh, enrolling into a college in a different city—those were the excuses you made for yourself and your parents in order to convince them of this huge step. Life was a mess during your first year, you dated a guy and broke up with him after a few months. There was no chemistry, yet he still ended up being the one to take your virginity. Tumbling like a house of cards, your plans for the perfect love life and its elaborate structure fell apart by the gentlest touch of Shuji’s lips. He had been your first kiss, the first to put his lips against yours, steal away something you’d cherished so dearly—annoyingly, you weren’t mad. You remember vividly the longing you felt for his lips days after the shared kiss, wanting to feel more of his touch, wondering if a kiss on the forehead would ever happen.

It triggered a chain of thoughts that was unstoppable like a relentless river. It sculpted its route through the toughest ground, unyielding in its attempt to carve Shuji’s touch into your memory. Now, he existed in both realms for you. A boy that had once seemed so intimidating being the subject of your dreams was your last straw. Therefore, you left.

“How did it go?” he stares deep into your eyes, striving to pierce through your soul and read you to filth. You aren’t sure if he’s always been like this, or if it’s something life had to teach him. Your eyes drift to his hands, noticing the familiar sin & punishment tattoos carved onto his skin. It makes your own prickle, the ghost of a searing touch tickling the back of your hands.

“How did what go?”

“The new chapter.” He adds stress on the last two words, the hint of a smirk hovering over the edge of his lips.

“It was okay, I have some friends at work,” he seems to find that funny as he snorts.

“Those aren’t your friends, baby girl. Those are your colleagues.”

“They can also be my friends,” you glare annoyingly. You don’t like when people assume they know you better than yourself, and Hanma wasn’t an exception.

He leans back against the dark leather seat, lips twitching with amusement. “Sure they can.”

The waiter come and takes your orders—a breakfast combo of pancakes, eggs and bacon for Hanma, and pancake stacks for you. He opts for a double espresso and you choose a café latte. The conversation afterwards is very limited, but neither of you seem to mind the silence. You notice how Hanma glances at his phone more than a few times, typing not so aggressively on his screen. It makes you wonder yet again—what does he do for a living?

Your food comes and you eat it silently, Shuji steals glances at you to assure that you’re enjoying the food and is amused when he sees the expression of happiness painting your features. The pancakes are light and airy with a hint of sweetness that complements the velvety smoothness of the butter. You feel like you’re floating, indulging into a celebration of comfort before you’re brought back to reality.

When it’s time to leave, Hanma’s hand finds the small of your back. A gesture as natural to him as breathing, and you fold like a house of cards in a soft breeze. You let him guide you to the car, and the silence finally comes to a halt once the door to the driver’s side opens.

“Thank you for the food.”

Hanma seems to freeze at your words, but he recovers quickly and starts the car. Without sparing you a glance, he drives off. “It’s nothing.”

“Did you stay in touch with some friends from back then?”

“Yeah, Chifuyu and I are kinda close but he works abroad so we never got the chance to meet.”

Chifuyu Matsuno. The name is more than just familiar, Hanma knows the man personally. He remembers him in his teenage years as this annoying blonde guy who would always interfere on his missions, and as Toman grew and spread its vines over the streets of Tokyo, dominating each corner, the two men were forced to interact more than either of them would enjoy. They barely acknowledged each other’s presence as kids, which was also the case for them as adult men. But upon hearing Chifuyu’s lie, Hanma can’t help but wonder just how little you know about gangs in Tokyo.

“Works abroad hm,” he taps his fingers on the steering wheel at a red light, glancing at his watch. “Did he tell you what he does exactly?”

“I never bothered to ask,” you admit. Sure, you stayed in contact but everytime you tried to ask the dark haired male what he does abroad, he would switch the topic to something else. So you dropped it. A part of you was uneasy about the whole thing, how he disappears for days and then randomly texts you from a new number—tells you it’s temporary before switching back to his old phone number.

As a law abiding citizen, you are no expert when it comes to running away from the law. However, you’ve always suspected that the group of delinquents Chifuyu and Takemichi would hang out with were up to no good, even as teenagers. Revenge crimes, visceral and intense fights. It was ruthless back then, the teenagers combatting one another with a ferocity that left you disinterested and repulsed.

Moving back to Shinjuku refreshes your memory a bit. Years spent away from your hometown made you forget about the violence you had witnessed as an adolescent. Prior to meeting Hanma Shuji, Chifuyu boasted about Toman all the time. He had introduced you to the concept of biker gangs, mentioning each and every name he could remember. Black dragons, Tenjuku, Valhalla—and obviously the one he was in. A notorious and influential force on the streets of Tokyo, operating under the command of Sano Manjiro himself. You understood the pride Chifuyu took in belonging to such a well organized biker gang, perhaps finding it fascinating that they were able to function within such structured hierarchy.

Upon hearing that Chifuyu lost his friend in one of these brutal fights, you lost interest in them. But the names are like shadows that forever linger at the tip of your tongue.

Before leaving Tokyo, you had heard that Toman was spreading. Like a creeping shadow of dusk, it’s enveloped the town. Its influence a ferocious power that couldn’t be stopped but the thought of it performing illegal activities never crossed your mind. You’d turn on the TV every once in a while and frown when there’s yet another morbid announcement.

Breaking news: "Two people identified to be 26 year old HINATA TACHIBANA and 25 year old NAOTO TACHIBANA tragically die amidst a violent clash between two rival gangs, one of which identified as the Tokyo Manji Gang."

Your memory is like a dusty attic and upon hearing the familiar name, your heart stills. Like a treasure long forgotten, craving to be discovered, Toman reappears at the forefront of your mind. A timeworn tapestry, each thread holding the echoes of past and barely any interactions with the biker gang.

Reaching for your phone, your thumbs hover over the screen, contemplating whether you should start typing the message. Surely, you were wrong. There was no way for someone as sweet as him to be involved in such monstrous group of people.

hey

you haven’t texted me in a while

how’s everything?

You received a response five days later from an unknown number. It served as proof to confirm your suspicions.

Glancing back at Hanma, your eyes take in every small detail about the man. From his freshly shaved beard, his sharp jawline and cheeks littered with barely visible acne scars—to his lips that happen to sit in their usual frown. His lashes are surprisingly long, they flutter against his cheeks every time he blinks. Stealing a quick glance at his neck, there’s a tantalizing glimpse of dark ink peeking from beneath the fabric of his top. You let your brain go over the never ending possibilities of what could be adorning his skin, somehow leading you down a path of sinful fantasies—you pinch your own thigh.

He exudes an aura of authority and power, his confident and composed demeanor enhancing his charm. For now, you leave the subject of his work at the table and walk away from it with a shadow of doubt. You’ll come back to it when ready.

You ignore the gnawing feeling that you should look more into it, that youu should press him about the matter. Clearly, he's not ready to talk about it.

Or he simply can't.

➜ ┊: here's chapter 2! i have a whole list of headcanons concerning shuji's past or rather childhood and none of them are happy. but you'll notice that stuff like that comes haunting him back as an adult. anyway, hope you enjoyed reading!

2024 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[lostinthemazecalledmyhead]

EPISODE ONE: NIGHT PROWLERS

Life hasn’t exactly been easy on you. The lemons that were given you were sour. Still you managed to make the best of it. Then one day the Winchester step into your world and change it completely. This is the beginning of your new adventure. Join the road with the Winchesters.

Chapter two: Clean In chapter two of episode one you will further intertwine yourself with the brothers in a way you hadn’t seen comming... (Links below)

                                                       NOW...

“Hey Sam!” You call his name as you see him walking down the street alone. He smiles as he spots you. The night Is young, but there is barely any traffic and you cross the street safely as you walk to Sam. “I can call you Sam right?” You ask to be sure. “Because agent Bloomsburg seems so formal, especially since you broke into my house and I cooked you dinner.” This makes Sam laugh. “You can call me Sam.” There is a suppressed smile around his pursed lips. “And the lasagna and garlic bread you made were delicious.” “Thank you.” You say flattered. There haven’t been many occasions where you could cook for people. Let’s just be honest here, there were none. Realizing that you’re not supposed to actually like him your smile falters. “What’s wrong?”  Sam asks you worried. A fake smile appears on your face. “Nothing, really.” You ensure him trying to keep a jolly face. “So, what are you up to?” Immediately you realize that it was a stupid question to ask. After all he thinks you think that he is a federal agent. “Never mind that was a dumb question to ask. Of course you are investigating things. Are you any closer to finding out what is going on?” “No, but I’m not supposed to talk about that.” Sam says. “Oh, yeah, of course. I’m sorry.” You say knowing that you’d better leave or you’ll probably say something that might get him onto you. “I should go.” You are about to walk away when Sam’s voice stops you in your track. “Is that Friedrich Nietzsche?” You turn around and look at the book in your hand. It’s the book that you just picked up from the book store. The book under it is a book about unpopular mythology and you’re glad that is not the book his eye caught. “Yeah, you’ve read it?” You ask him astounded. “When I was in college.” He answers to your surprise. A hunter in college is the last thing you’d imagined. “It’s a good book.” Again you’re ready to say goodbye. “You want to grab a coffee?” Your heart drops. Not in a ‘oh my god a handsome guy just asked me out’ kind of way. More in the ‘a hunter asked me out because he is probably trying to find a way to kill me’ kind of way. “Doesn’t that go against the whole agent work thing?” You ask him trying to get yourself out of it without drawing to much attention to yourself. Sam chuckles. “We’re on first name basis already. And besides I already broke into your house.” Either he is very smooth in picking up girls or he is really smooth in talking to a girl who could rip his throat out in just a second.  You guess the latter. Again you want to say no, but you remember a promise you made. You promised to try and keep the hunters here for as long as you can and maybe this was a way to do it. “Okay, fine.” You say pretending to give in. “What better way to keep an eye on what my stalker is doing.” Sam laughs and the two of you walk down the street to the coffeeshop. You sit down across from each other and order coffee. “I don’t mean to intrude, but where is your partner?” You try not to be too obvious, but you just can’t help it. “He’s following up on a lead.” Sam answers after having taken a sip from his coffee. “This late? Don’t they give you time off to sleep or something?” It’s not that hard to play the whole ‘I’m just a silly girl amazed by you being feds’ thing. He’s doing it and so are you. The only thing is, you are aware that he knows about you, but he doesn’t know that you know about him. He is the one in the dark, not you. “So, Y/N, how long have you lived in this town?” Sam asks. You shrug. “About two weeks ago I moved here. Some part of me whished I never moved here. Since all the killings, you know. It makes you feel less safe.” “I find it a bit hard to believe that you don’t feel safe. I mean, all those awards you won for fighting.” Sam says. “How did you get into fighting anyway?” A sad smile appears on your face as you think about how your passion for martial arts began. “It was because of my father. He had one of the best dojo’s over the whole world. He practically trained me since I was a little girl. He wanted me and my brother to take over the business when he died.” It’s a bittersweet memory. “Every Saturday me and my father would fight together. He wanted to continue to train me until I could win from him.” “And did you?” Sam asks curious. Your smile falters. “No, I never really got the chance.” You look up into his face and realize that you’ve already said too much. Damnit. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bother you with my sad childhood story.” “It’s okay. I mean, everyone probably got some sad childhood story. Some are just darker than others.” Sam reassures you. “So did you do it?” Not sure what he’s talking about you stare at him. “Take over the business I mean.” You look down at the table, biting your lip. You have to choose your words carefully, because you don’t want to say more than you’ve already done. “No, I didn’t.” “Why not?” “Sometimes life brings you something else. A chance to be something more, do something different, more meaningful. And what I did was take it. With my dad gone, teaching a room full of kids how to fight didn’t seem so prosperous anymore.” This starts to look more and more like some kind of philosophy lesson. “I get it.” He says to your surprise. “When my dad died, some things didn’t seem the same anymore.” There you sit. In silence. Both pondering upon old memories of fathers. “So what about your brother?” He suddenly asks. “He’s dead too.” You say without skipping a beat. Your reaction may have been a little too fast. Too greedy. “What’s this?” You follow his gaze and his eye had fallen on the mythology book you placed on the table. He takes the book and turns it in his hands. “Uh, it’s nothing. I just like to read.” “Mythology is a little far off from Nietzsche.” Sam says while flipping through the book. Sweat breaks out in places you don’t even knew you could sweat. Though it’s just a book you overreact and think it’s the end of the world. “Sam.” You place your hand on his, lean over the table and kiss him. His rough fingers stroke yours for a second and then he backs away. You sit back in your seat and watch him look at you in utter confusion. “What was that for?” “I’m sorry.” You get up, collect your books and run out the coffeeshop. “Stupid!” You curse at yourself before you start running home.

“Why you home so late?” Dean asks Sam in a motherly voice when he enters their room. “Did the date go well?” “She kissed me.” Sam says still knocked for six. “Ah, Sammy, cut yourself some slack. You’re not all that bad.” Dean says with a huge teasing grin on his face. Sam laughs sarcastically at Dean, only feeding his glee. “Oh, sorry. Was that the moment you found out you are actually playing for the wrong team?” Sam throws a pillow at his brothers face. “She kissed me after I looked at this book that she bought.” “She’s into books. Sammy that’s completely your type.” Dean is no way near to being finished with Sam. “Too bad she’s a vampire.” “Cut it out Dean. I think you were right.” Sam says serious. “I think she really has something to do with the deaths.” “Did you feel any fangs when she kissed you?” Dean asks trying to look serious, but his amusement is hard to hide. “We need to get to her tonight. I believe she might be leaving town.” Sam says finally getting to Dean. It’s like a switch is flipped. “Did you find a way to kill her yet?” “No, no lore about blood sucking werewolves.” Dean says. “That’s why we have silver bullets and knives.” He smiles broadly.

A thud woke you and you are slipping out of bed. Sam and Dean. They have come for you. It’s way sooner than you thought. You make the bed as though someone is sleeping there. Silently you move to the other side of the room and hide behind the door. Waiting for them to open it. The door opens and you have to give them credit for the fact that this time they have been way more quiet than the last time. A dark figure you recognize as Dean is the first to enter the room, followed by Sam. A weird sensation houses your stomach. Dean walks straight over to the bed and jerks the sheets away. At that moment you attack the person standing closest to you. Sam. The first thing you do is knocking the gun from his hand. With a kick in the nuts you sent him down on his knees. After which you kick him in his pretty little face. Dean knocks you down to the ground and you kick him back making him tumble over the antique box on the floor. Sam, who is trying to get up receives another kick from you. Keeping him out of the battle. Now it’s just you and Dean. “Come at me, little girl.” He dares you. You punch him and he blocks and punches you in the face. Blood drips from your nose. Dean smugly smiles at you as you wipe the blood from your nose. You really need to focus. Flexible you kick Dean in his face. Before he can recover you kick him again, you grab his head and bump it into the wall until he stops fighting back. Knocked out he falls down against the wall. Turning around you are grabbed by your ankles and pulled to the ground. With a smack you hit the floor. Sam is on you before you can even flinch. His face is covered in blood. “Don’t move.” You can feel a knife pushed against your throat. “Show me your fangs.” Confused you look into his green eyes. “Fangs.” You repeat as if you are trying to taste the word. A chuckle leaves your mouth. You smile broadly so Sam can see your teeth. “I’m sorry Sam, but I’m no vampire.” His eyes search your face, trying to find out if you are lying. “Then what are you?” He asks. “I’m just a girl.” You say innocently. Sam chuckles on his turn. “I’m not buying that, Y/N.” “Then cut me, Sam.” You dare him. “Cut me and see for yourself. I’m not going to heal.” “I’m not going to cut you.” He says not able to figure out what your game is. “Okay, fine.” You kick him off you, against the wall. You both rise quickly to your feet. “Let’s talk Sam.” “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” Sam starts casting. You laugh. “Really Sam? You won’t believe I’m just a girl. You really think I’m a demon?” You sit down on the end of you bed. “Then what are you?” Sam says slowly moving for the gun on the ground, “I’m a hunter, just like you.” You say letting him grab the gun. “Then why didn’t you say so?” Sam asks not believing a word you say. “Why attack us?” He points the gun at you, but you are not even close to being impressed. “Hey!” You say jumping up from the bed. “You two were the ones who were breaking into my house, for the second time! And if I saw right, your brother was going to kill me.” “Why are you being so secretive?” Sam asks not lowering the gun. “A person has the right of privacy. And if you don’t mind I’d like you out of my house.” You walk past him wanting to leave the room. Sam grabs you and pins you to the wall with the gun against your throat. “You’re not leaving.” There is something in his eyes that makes you wonder how far he is willing to go to safe those people. “I’m sorry I hurt you Sam.” You say looking at the bruises and blood on his face. His green eyes search your face as you look into his eyes, caring. Gently you wipe some blood from his eyebrow. His face hides the sudden pain you cause by accidentally touching his bruise. “I’m sorry.” You apologize. You actually like Sam. Maybe in a way you shouldn’t. “I’m even a bit sorry for knocking out Dean.” Sam just stays silent, watching you. You press your lips together. “I can see that you are a good people, but you are hunters. You don’t get it, Sam. Not the way I do. I came here looking for the nest that killed my father, okay.” You admit a tear rolling down you cheek. “That’s how my father died, Sam. He was killed by those Night Prowlers.” The tears rolling down your cheek fall down on his hand holding the gun. “Please Sam. Let me finish my job.” “I’m sorry, Y/N.” He apologizes for your loss and you can tell he means it. “But you need to tell me everything. What are you not telling me?” “I already told you everything. And if you want to kill me just go ahead.” You say trying to keep your voice steady. Trying to seem brave you stare him into his eyes. “Your brother.” Sam says, figuring it out. “You’re trying to protect your brother. They turned him didn’t they?” Feeling like there is a wire around your heart, being pulled tight you break free from Sam and run away from him down the stairs. You can hear him running after you. Never have you talked to anyone about this and it feels like everything just happened yesterday. Like you’re still that teenage girl who lost both her father and brother to the Night Prowlers. “You can’t run from your problems, Y/N.” Sam says catching up with you as you run into the kitchen. “You can’t kill him!” You yell at Sam. “I have to.” Sam says. “The killing has to stop.” “He is no killer.” You pull out a knife from the kitchen block. “And if you are going to kill him, I will have to kill you.” It’s not what you want, but you love your brother and there nothing you wouldn’t do for him. “You really going to kill my brother over some blood sucker?” Dean enters the kitchen, looking pretty beaten. His hand is on the back of his head, which is probably hurting like hell right now. “If I have to.” You say bitter. “My brother is innocent.” “Aren’t they all.” Dean says mockingly. “Hunters.” You growl shaking your head. In the meantime you’ve opened the drawer and pulled out your gun and point it at the brothers. “I’m sorry, but you’re leaving me no choice.” “Y/N.” Sam beckons automatically pointing the gun at you. “Don’t do it.” Again a tear falls down your cheek, but this time it’s meant for Sam. “I can’t let you kill my brother, Sam. I know you understand that.” “I do.” Sam says lowering the gun, placing it on the counter and slowly moving towards you. “But you’re not a killer, Y/N.” “Please, don’t come any closer.” It’s hard to hold your aim steady when your hand is shaking so bad. “I’m telling you, Sam. Gus is not a killer.” “With that name everyone would go homicidal.” Dean mumbles. “I believe you.” Sam says coming closer. “Now put down the gun.” You look into his eyes and see truth. Comfort. Hesitant you lower your gun a bit. Carefully Sam takes it from you and you hug him. While you’re crying in his jacket he wraps his arms around you too. “Remind me again. Why are you hugging the chick that just wanted to kill us.” Dean says looking at the to him odd picture of you and Sam hugging. “You tried to kill me first.” You mumble choking on your tears. “I’m sorry Sam.” You apologize, but you’re not really sure what for exactly. “It’s okay.” He shushes.

“What was it that you called them?” Sam asks. The three of you are sitting in your living room. Sam and Dean drinking a beer while you reached for something heavier. “Night Prowlers.” You answer. Your eyes are red from all the crying. The tears you never let out when your father died, left you tonight. And to be honest you felt so much lighter. Still a bit sluggish, but as light as a feather. “They are called Muroni. According to Wallachian mythology they are vampires who are able to transform into any animal. That’s probably why you’ve never heard of them and why there is almost no information known about them. The only way to know that someone is killed by a Muroni is by seeing a victim who looks like being attacked by an animal, but whose blood is drained also.” “Then how come no other hunter ever recorded about this?” Dean asks holding an icepack to the back of his head. “They lay low mostly. And besides nobody really knows about their existence and hunters mostly think the attack was done by a werewolf or a regular vampire.” You explain. “How come you got in contact with them?” Dean asks oblivious to what you’ve already told Sam. “They attacked us at home. They killed my father. And my brother tried to protect me and he got turned.” You say. “What did they want you for?” Dean asks. “I never said they wanted me.” You say defensively. “Not with so many words.” Dean gives you a smirk. You roll your eyes at him. They really are good at what they do. “I was eighteen and they needed a new queen.” You say somewhat ashamed. Receiving intrigued glances you continue. “Muroni need a queen for some kind of religious reason. Their queen died and they needed a new one.” “Why you?” Sam asks curious. “Because they needed a eighteen year old girl who was born on the 13th and was still a virgin.” You explain. Dean laughs. “You were still a virgin at eighteen?” Dead serious you look him in the eye. “I’m 22 now and I’m still a virgin. Do you have any problems with that?” You ask intimidating. Your tone makes his smile falter a bit. “No, I’m just surprised.” Sideways you glance at Sam to see his reaction, but he doesn’t seem to be laughing at you or bothered by the fact that you just spilled. “Then what happened?” “They came to my house and killed my father. My brother, a law student at that time, fought them off but got bitten and turned. Muroni have very special saliva. When they bite you and you’re not drained of all your blood. You turn.” “Where is your brother now?” Dean asks. “Why? So you can kill him?” You ask him. “Nobody is killing your brother.” Sam ensures you. “Do you know where the nest is?” You shake your head. “No, but I think I’m close to finding out where.” “How do we kill those things?” Dean asks. You smile uneasily. “By ripping their harts out.” You reply. “My brother was going to do all the ripping, but since I sent him away.. well I guess now we have to do it.”

You knock on the motel door and when no one answers you enter. “Sam? Dean?” There is no one here. You grab your cellphone and call Sam. “Y/N?” Sam answers. “Why are you calling me?” “I found out where their lair is. I am at the motel where are you?” “You texted me saying we needed to come to your place.” Sam says confused. “No, I did not.” You say realizing that they are walking right into a trap. Before you can say so you can hear them shout on the other end and the phone falling on the ground. “Sam! Sam!” You yell, but you know it’s no use. Still holding the phone to your ear you get into your car. You can still hear them fight. Stepping on the gas you hope you will get to your house in time. It falls silent and you hear someone picking up the phone. “Sam?” You ask hopeful. “Guess again.” The voice on the other end says. It’s the vampire that killed your father and turned Gus. You need to get to the lair before they do. “If you want to see your little friends again. Alive. You bring me what is mine.” After that he hangs up. He wants your brother. No way in hell you’re going to give him what he wants.

Night Prowler: Chapter one: Style Chapter two: Clean Chapter three: Bad Blood Chapter four: Everything has changed

Sealgair Dhaoine Chapter one: A place in this world

[mariequitecontrarie]

Meet Me in the Courtyard

Summary:  Belle hosts a monthly movie night in Storybrooke, always leaving the seat next to her empty. Gold loathes movies, yet movie night at the library is the one community event even he can't seem to resist. Rating: T WC: 2500 A/N: Written for @a-monthly-rumbelling Movie Night prompt. It’s Rumbelle movie night fluff!

{ON AO3}

Gold glared out the window of his shop, catching Gretel Snyder’s eye before she covered his new window display with one of those stupid movie night posters. Belle French was paying neighborhood children to hang those blasted flyers—again. Young Gretel’s green eyes were as large as dinner plates as he scowled at her in a fierce yet silent showdown. She blinked, and he smirked in satisfaction. Then, with a triumphant grin, she slapped the paper against the glass and fled.

He hobbled to the door and snatched the paper, grinding it beneath his heel with a satisfactory crunch. “Meet Me in the Courtyard indeed,” he muttered aloud to the empty shop. He picked at a stray bit of tape with his fingertips. Gold loathed movies, and he wouldn’t take part in advertising this foolish community event, no matter how gorgeous and engaging its organizer was.

Movies reminded him of his ex-wife, Milah.  Milah, who went to the theatre around the corner twice a week from their Boston apartment, a harmless habit which later evolved into bopping the concessions manager, who also happened to be a wannabe actor. Killian Jones, it seemed, had larger Jujubes than he did.

Not like it mattered. With his bum leg and too-sharp nose, he was hardly movie star material. He’d grown frustrated trying to fulfill Milah’s ideal of a fantasy hero and when she wanted out of their loveless marriage, it had been a relief to let her go.

Besides, movies were silly, contrived stories with cardboard characters and unrealistic happy endings. Nothing of substance or real life in them. Watching only led to disappointment when reality didn’t measure up to the ideal.

Movies. Gold shuddered. Even the smell of popcorn made him nauseated.

But the truth was, he was a hypocrite. He couldn’t resist strolling by the library when Storybrooke hosted its monthly movie night. “Meet Me in the Courtyard” was Miss French’s answer to the town’s lack of a theatre. On the first Saturday of each month, citizens of all walks and ages gathered to watch a film and scarf gallons of “free” popcorn and oversized boxes of Raisinettes. Gold snorted. Nothing was free. Hard-earned tax dollars payed for those movie nights, but the unwitting victims seemed not to care. They were all-too-willing to trade precious time and money for ninety minutes of mindless pleasure.

Idiots.

Gold never attended these ridiculous affairs—at least, not technically. Instead he would lean on his cane behind a well-placed poplar tree, dividing his time between gawking at Miss French and contemplating the always-empty front aisle seat beside her. In all the months he’d been spying on her from the shadows, no one ever sat there. Person after person gave her a fond smile, patted her shoulder, and sidled by in search of another chair.

Puzzled, he shook his head. Belle was a pleasant, intelligent young woman with a bright, sweet voice, who always paid the rent on time. Between her visits to his shop and his trips to the library, he’d been in her presence often enough to know she didn’t suffer from disgusting breath or bad body odor. No, she smelled of crushed rose petals and spring rain. Certainly she should have company at her own gathering. What was the matter with these so-called friends of hers?  

An hour later, as dusk settled over Storybrooke, he found himself lurking behind a hedge as the petite town librarian struggled to push the snack cart through the damp grass in five-inch heels.

As usual, Belle was doing all the work alone. Why wasn’t anyone helping her set up?

He may be a right bastard, but he was also a gentleman, and he couldn’t in good conscious stand by and watch her muscle equipment into place. Gold flexed his fingers and stepped forward. He rested his cane against the south wall of the library, which served as the movie screen, and finished lining up the chairs in neat rows.

“Thank you, Mr. Gold. You’re always so kind.”  Belle squeezed his forearm and the sunny smile she offered made his stomach flip-flop.

He brushed clammy hands on his suit pants and managed a stiff nod in reply. She continued to stand before him, her eyebrows raised in expectation. Mystified, Gold stared at her, then took a look around the courtyard in silent inventory; the snacks were out, the projector in place, and he’d done the chairs. What else could she want? He racked his brain for safe conversation topics, but he had nothing of value to say to this stunning creature.

“So, you, ah, like movies Miss French?” he asked around a cotton-filled mouth. Scintillating, Gold.

She nodded, her auburn curls bouncing with enthusiasm, then chirped, “the only thing better than a good movie is a good book.”

“Ah,” he said, trying not to roll his eyes. She was almost hopping up and down in excitement. In his mind, books were a great deal more superior than movies, but best not to rip off her rose-colored glasses.

“Will you be at the movie tonight?” she asked. “We’re showing The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Such an underrated classic…”

He winced. Was she kidding? Why would he want to bear witness to the misery of a hunched over, lonesome orphan who cloaked himself in darkness, staying hidden from polite society? Poor Quasimodo was even in love with an unreachable woman.

The theme was far too familiar, and further proof he and Belle French may both reside in the same small town, but their lives were worlds apart.

“Not bloody likely,” he bit out, then picked up his cane and beat a hasty retreat back to his shop.

xoxo

“Leaving the aisle seat empty again, Belles?” Ruby shook her head, then slid into her chair next to her boyfriend, Archie, right as the movie began. “He won’t come. He never comes. What makes you think tonight will be any different?”

“He might,” Belle insisted, lifting her chin. “There’s always hope.”

“Whatever.” Ruby rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh.

The music swelled and the opening credits began, and Ruby turned her face toward the screen. Belle worried her lower lip as she looked down the row of chairs, hugging her popcorn for one to her chest.

Five minutes into the movie, Belle glanced at her patrons’ faces, reflecting the glow of the screen. She was pleased to see so many townspeople enjoying the movie, but their joy left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. Mary Margaret’s head was nestled against her fiancé, David’s, shoulder; Ariel and Jefferson were holding hands; Mulan was feeding gummy bears to Merida; and Ruby had slung one long leg across Archie’s lap.

It wasn’t the movie making them happy; it was having someone to share it with.

All her friends were paired off; each of them had someone special to share movie night with—everyone except her. Afterward they would all go to Granny’s for coffee and pie and chat about the movie, and once more she would be the third wheel, (or in this case, the ninth), squeezing into the corner of the booth, surrounded on all sides by loving couples. She was better off going home to a box of half-stale brown sugar Pop Tarts and re-reading Pride and Prejudice.

Belle sent a longing look toward the street, hoping Mr. Gold would reappear. She’d been delighted earlier this afternoon when he offered to help prepare the courtyard for the movie. The salty sea breeze had carried his spicy, masculine scent toward her, making her nostrils flare with pleasure. He smelled better than buttered popcorn.

It figured the one man she was interested in eschewed community gatherings. Belle’s stomach dropped. Maybe she was the problem; when she dared to suggest he might break with tradition and attend tonight’s festivities, he’d all but sprinted down the street to get away. Perhaps it was her choice of movie. Was he not a fan of Disney films?

She snapped her eyes back to the screen and tried to focus, but her thoughts returned again and again to Mr. Gold. Moments later she was scanning the streets once more, praying for a glimpse of him.

“Belle.” Ruby nudged her with a sharp elbow. “What’s with you? You’ve missed the entire first hour of the movie.”

“Nothing,” Belle whispered, massaging her sore neck between thumb and forefinger. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, right.” Ruby snorted, sending several kernels of popcorn flying. “You’re going to need a neck brace if you keep whipping your head around looking for Mr. Wonderful. Unless you want an excuse to visit Whale? I mean, he is pretty hot…”

“Ruby!” Belle shot a pointed look at Archie whose attention was thankfully on the movie.

“What? I meant for you, not me. For some reason, though, you’d rather have Gold.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to get it,” Belle hissed.

“Shhh!” Leroy Kline pummeled Belle’s shoulder with a box of Junior Mints, then leaned forward to poke his head between her and Ruby. “Take it somewhere else, sister. I’m tryin’ to watch the movie here!”

“Sorry,” Belle said, slumping in her seat before chancing another glance behind her.  

xoxo

From the shadows on the street, Gold cringed. She was doing it again…turning around to look at him. No doubt wondering what he was doing there. Hell, he wanted to know himself. He should have snagged a chair in the back row or walked on when he first caught her watching him. Now it was too late. Now Belle—and everyone else in town—knew he was a pathetic stalker.

Miss French approached, and he froze like a deer staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Feeble attempts to look busy were in vain when he was standing under a street lamp, gaping at the makeshift movie screen. His hands started to sweat, then his cane slipped out of his grip and clattered on the sidewalk.

Belle bent down to retrieve it, and handed it over with a soft smile. “Are you all right, Mr. Gold?”

“I’m on my way. Don’t bother.” He turned around with a huff and stepped back into the shadows.

“Wait! Please!”

He spun on his heel and crossed his arms. “You think I don’t notice, is that it? The way you’re looking at me?”

“What? Oh.” Belle pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. “Am I...I didn’t realize I was so obvious.”

So he’d embarrassed her? Good.

“Quite, Miss French.” He stabbed the sidewalk with his cane for emphasis.

“Please call me Belle,” she said, a bit too sharply.

He raised an eyebrow. “As you wish, Belle.”

He spat out her name like it tasted bad, and Belle shook her head. He was misinterpreting every move she made.

“Need I remind you I don’t need your permission to walk this street during your preposterous movie event or at any other time?” He gave an imperious wave to hide his trembling fingers. “I own this block,” he barked. “I own this whole town.”

“I know.” Belle shivered, then hugged herself. “I keep turning around because…”

He cut her off, unwilling to listen to excuses.

“I thought you were different, Miss French. But I suppose that’s only one-on-one, eh?” Furious and hurt, he considered her visits to his shop when she quizzed him about the antiques on display and chatted about old books, or her winsome smile as she’d accepted his help earlier this evening. All a ruse to make him look like a fool. “In public—where it counts—you’re just like the rest of them.”

Belle’s teary eyes shimmered in the moonlight. “You don’t understand anything!”

She slapped him on the arm, the blow carrying surprising bite through three layers of fabric. He took a half-step back in surprise.

“And you didn’t let me finish!” Her hands were on her hips now, her eyes sparking in the dark. “So you noticed me watching you, but you never noticed I leave the seat beside me vacant? While all my friends pair off with their sweethearts to watch the movie, I turn around to look at you because…because…”

“Why?” he asked in a half whisper, and oh, God, all at once he knew the answer. He was terrified to be right, but even more terrified to be wrong. He leaned closer, needing to hear her say the words.

“Because I’m an idiot!” she snapped. “I keep hoping you’ll stop being such a pompous ass and come sit with me!”

Well. That certainly put him in his place. Several moviegoers turned around to see what the commotion was, and he waved at the wall. “Show’s over there, folks!”

Two dozen heads swiveled back toward the movie, and he returned his attention to Belle.

“Pompous ass, am I?” he asked, unable to stop the smile cracking his face.

Her eyes widened and she twisted her fingers in her skirt. “Not usually, but…yes! At the moment, you’re being a first-class jerk.”

“Forgive me, Miss French, please. I didn’t realize…” He grimaced, raising his hands then dropping them in defeat. He thought she’d been embarrassed by his presence. “You’d be right to snub me. I’m the town pariah.”

“Not to me.” She took a step closer. “You’re handsome and witty and sweet, and I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I’ve had a terrible crush on you for ages. For months I’ve racked my brain, trying to come up with a movie even you couldn’t resist. Anything to get you to meet me in the courtyard.” She laughed weakly at her little pun.

“I’m not much for movies,” he admitted.

“You don’t say.” She smothered a giggle. “Hard to believe the same man who feeds stray dogs and cats in the alley outside frightens away children who dare to hang flyers outside his shop window.”

Gold bowed his head. For someone who valued privacy and solitude, he was an open book to this beautiful, extraordinary woman. A flush of embarrassment radiated from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“Movies don’t quite offer the same escape for me as they do for others.” He kept his voice soft, attempting to explain without saying too much. He darted his eyes toward the audience and licked his parched lips.    

Belle nodded, and linked her arm through his, pulling him closer until they stood flush against one another. “We could leave,” she suggested. “Late dinner at Granny’s?”

Hesitant, Gold lifted his gaze to the screen, watching the scene when Quasimodo rescues Esmeralda in the square unfold. He turned to Belle. “Perhaps we should stay.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He gulped. He wasn’t sure at all, but Belle had gone out of her way to reserve him a chair and make him welcome. She’d shown him kindness, not pity, and he wanted to do something to please her in return.

“Maybe we can find a way to make movies a happy experience for us both?” She held out her hand, offering more than he thought possible with the small gesture.

“I would like that,” he said, lifting her hand to his mouth to kiss her chocolate-scented fingers.

He followed her into the soft crush of grass, winding through the cluster of chairs, and took his seat.

###

[20smthngrp-blog]

                                     ( NISHITANABE YU, 27 )

Name: Nishitanabe Yu Date of Birth: 1990/12/29 Occupation: Finance Salaryman

SPARKNOTES:

nishitanabe yu is the eldest child born in kobe, japan. a few years down the line was his sister’s birth, whom he had a rocky relationship with as they were growing up as children.

yu’s relationship with his father was rather difficult. militaristic and distant with minimal affection, there was a gap in treatment between the two children. his sister oftentimes was an object of father’s adoration, which made a distinction between the two.

however, upon growing up, the family was an average middle-class home raised on keen values.

education was highly regarded at home, and yu took it upon himself to perform well to lessen any burdens. especially after junior high, cram school was an after school “curricular” replaced with baseball to prepare him for the high school entrance exam.

showing an interest in drawing, yu forced breaks in between schoolwork to better his craft. his parents weren’t opposed to it, only if art was to be treated as a hobby than a potential career.

after high school graduation, he quits his part-time job with bittersweet goodbyes and begins packing for tokyo. to uphold his father’s great expectations, yu figured that he’d ought to study in tokyo and secure a career in business. another unsaid, personal reason for fleeing to tokyo meant studying/exploring a completely new environment as a fresh start.

what continues to follow him is a feeling of regret. he initially wanted to become a cartoonist, eventually applying to an art school in america, but he feared it’d be frowned upon in his family as not a promising career.

after four years in university, he earns his bachelor’s degree in business administration. yu was offered a job as a financial analyst in a company sanctioned in tokyo. the same bank established branches in korea, which lead to his promotion to work abroad.

some years later, the time was spent gathering papers for his work visa, apartment hunting and contacting his family referring to going overseas, he’s also been learning the korean language and its tradition/customs/history.

nishitanabe yu works over 60 hours a week with unpaid overtime along with two days off. korea is fascinating, but it’d be even better if he was here for something he truly desired.

FREEFORM:

because you are young, much of the world is left undiscovered. inexperienced. muted chuckles of nostalgia come from men with greying hairs and sunken laugh lines over beer and grilled chicken skewers. “ah,” they begin, wallowing in their memories, “twenty-seven.” there’s something miserable about being alive and well and young, without feeling what it means to be.

an entry in your neglected journal goes as followed, nishitanabe yu is part of the country’s epidemic of overworked, dreamless men clad in suits. in they go, marching with their briefcases in hand, entering buildings of cold steel.

playback: high school.

living was easy. your only obligation that occupied most of your time was school. you were fairly popular, most likely to say ‘very well-liked’ among your classmates. it was nice. for the most part, living was nonchalent. you were skilled at a few things, such as baseball and even in some subjects (to name a few, math and history). and you had a knack for drawing! you dreamt of becoming a storyboard artist or animator or something, anything that worked with drawing. people liked you and you liked what you did. for some mistaken, irrational logic that phased you, you thought high school would last forever and your teenage legacy would stay with you for eternity. the years increase, fifthteen to sixteen meets seventeen ending with eighteen, and you thought were born nearly invincible.

so you thought, ”i’d take on an art related major and see where it takes me”.

but art is hard. it involves thought into bringing something to the world, something different and unrefined. purging something in unique forms. something that can be remembered on the earth as an object of creativity. studying art is hard, it’s such a craft that many go to school dedicated to what capabilities they have.

so many people on this earth are natural born talents, and yet these gifts aren’t cultivated the way that they should be. people with half as much talent, with strong perseverance, are dangerous.

and in the end, you don’t try. with everybody’s (mostly friends) encouragement, you only think it’s a massive waste of time. you say it’s silly and puerile to stick to those ‘dreams’ and attempt to make something significant out of it. your father gleams with a wide smile and gives you a pat on the back, “i knew you’d snap out of boyhood quickly.” because it’s rare that a man in japan could support his wife and family on making cartoons alone.

you think to yourself, this must be how the young kill themselves with unfulfilled aspirations.

are you afraid of failure? why are you afraid of failing? most great artists don’t become recognized for their work until they’re dead.

around comes graduation in spring, and it’s crucial to buckle down. it’s time to stray away from your parent’s comfortable home in kobe and deal with the world on your own. you say goodbye to the owner of the izakaya you were last employed as a part-time gig, though you still hold onto the uniform with hints of barbecue sauce. nevertheless, this was a house of four people: a father, mother, an older brother (yourself) and a younger sister. a model family governed by a lawyer and a stay at home mom. as all families do, they bicker and come together with a peaceful compromise. the greatest hardship told over the dinner table was a death in a family— great grandparents whose time was up.

tokyo is larger than life. you know this for a fact after having spent four years in university. with a bachelor’s degree under your belt, you were destined for a position under a financial firm. days, months, and years of reputable work lead to an advancement into your career with numbers. however, the job required you much more than you already know. in the bookstore beneath the subway station, you’re found in either the language or travel aisles. korean and south korea.

compared to your coworkers, it seems that your surname is written with an infinite amount of hangul characters. your mind is improving rather than buffering a response in a foreign language. the train system is easy to follow, your work visa is intact, and the neighborhood around your apartment has central air.

all work monday through friday. saturdays are reserved for window, furniture and book shopping accompanied by a cafe lunch. sundays are spent preparing for monday. now, you’re just like everybody else. how long would it take to turn in a 60 hour work week in a cubicle for what you anticipated for? for some, realization comes in the form of a rude awakening. however, until then, you are a product of a million ideas that could’ve lived