#sometimes a girl just needs to annotate her silly little poetry

[ruby-learns]

I annotated some Keats poetry and went a lovely walk in the Peak District today!

[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the starts apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop's most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo's pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 4 OF 22

She is… persistent.

The kind of persistent that would be inspiring if the persistence wasn’t pointed in his direction. Theo isn’t anti-social—he’s not the kind of person who would purposefully avoid conversation or hide from people, because he knows that, especially with his major, building networks is a thing. 

But she’s different, because it’s not like she’s doing it for any sort of plus or gain on her end—at least in Theo’s mind—so he doesn’t quite understand why she’s like this.

“Do you have a favorite book?”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Why’d you decide to work at Dragon’s Hoard?”

“What’s it like being a business major?”

She asks just a handful of questions in a day, as if not to scare him off. But she makes the most out of his patience. She sits there, the book he’s lent her in her hand, a finger stuck between the pages to mark where she was last at. She gives an answer for every question she gives, as

“Me? Man, I wouldn’t be able to pick a favorite book…”

“I really like Japanese food, actually, but…”

“Hmm, I’m thinking of getting a part-time too, so…”

“It’s prettier on paper. Everything is prettier on paper in the lit department…”

Something about her persistence reminds him of Vincent, in a mirrored way that he can’t quite put into words. She and Vincent both have something thrumming in their veins that pushes them forward. It’s something he doesn’t understand, because it’s never been like that for him.

So one day, he finally asks:

“Why me?”

“What?”

Theo asks it out of nowhere, and she looks up at him curiously from between the pages of Ocean Vuong.

“What do you mean, why you?”

“It is what it is.”

“Okay, mister vague-posting,” she rolls her eyes at him, but there’s a smile on her face. “I don’t know, really. You’re interesting, I guess.”

It’s not the eloquent answer he expected out of her, but he’s a little relieved it’s not anything more complex. He doesn’t know what he would done with that sort of information. “Glad to have been entertaining, then.”

 “What do you think of yourself, a shiny thing?” she says, laughing. “You’re just more than you show yourself to be, and that’s the fun part. I just might see through you, Theo.”

“You do not.”

“I do! You’re all barbs but Vincent calls you the sweetest thing and that’s all I need to know. Maybe I can even guess your favorite color.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Is it yellow?”

Theo didn’t have a favorite color. And even if he did, yellow might not be that high up on the list of contenders. But in that moment, he considers it: yellow, the color of Vincent’s hair, yellow, the rye fields of their home town, yellow, the color of childhood summers and painting in the backyard, yellow, the colors on their bedroom wall.

Maybe this silly girl was right. Maybe yellow could be his favorite.

“Lucky guess, hondje,” he says, instead, watching the sun blossom, bright yellow, on her face.

--

“You’re trying to justify a friendship with a guy who called you a dog?” he asks, tucking beautifully-tinted violet hair behind his ear. “You deserve better, Toshiko-san.”

It’s late afternoon, and she’s sitting in the gazebo near the Arts Building, the small, undignified hangout spot of the school’s already tiny literary club. Her friend and senior, Dazai, sits across from her on the table with his glasses on, squinting at her in confusion.

Dazai graduated a bit back, being two years older than her, but he’s still studying under the department.  For some reason or another that she could not comprehend, he decided to take his MA in Japanese Literature here as well. One shared intensive writing workshop class with him has made them good friends.

“Called? No, present tense. He calls me a dog,” she corrects, shaking her head as she finally lifts her head up from the book she is highlighting. “I mean, he uses my name… sometimes… rarely… okay nearly never, but somehow he’s figured out calling me his puppy in Dutch is a good nickname.”

Dazai shakes his head. “Sounds like a fuckboy,” he comments, readjusting his glasses into place, as he flips his readings back to the right page. “Steer clear unless he has a huge cock, I guess?”

“Shut up, oh my god!” she exclaims, rushing over to cover his mouth with her hands. “No way, no way. He’s a business major, and I don’t want to be in a relationship with a business major of all things. Besides, there’s a better option than him in the same house. Does arts too.”

“Oh? Pray tell, who might it be?”

“His brother,” she whispers, conspiratorially, “is Vincent.”

Dazai blinks. There is a moment of silence before he can compose himself. “No way. Van Gogh? He has a brother? He’s still here?”

“Yes, him, the ‘genius of the College of Arts’, he ‘who haunts the hallways of the Fine Arts Department’, the professors’ favorite ‘artistic genius’,” she rattles off, having memorized the rumors with how many times she’s heard it. “The only reason I know he’s still here is because it would have been huge news if he actually graduated.”

“Seven years in the shitty College of Arts? He’s some sort of masochist for sure,” he comments. She poses no comment to the fact that Dazai took his undergraduate studies here, too, and now he’s also doing his masters… here, too. “But you’re telling me the guy at Dragon’s Hoard is his brother? His brother is a business major?”

“Look, I know, I was surprised too,” she says. “I was already shocked enough that he was the friendly barista at the café when you told me… but to know they’re related? They’re like ice and fire.”

“Exact opposites, huh?”

“Either way, that’s the story of how I got into some sort of mini modeling gig and into a friendship that I did not expect or want,” she says, finally finishing her story, with a wave of her hand like a conductor at the end of a piece.. “I’m trying to make the most out of it, though.”

Dazai nods, but his face is full of disbelief. “Yes, by sticking around a guy who calls you a dog in his free time.”

“No nickname will stand between me and getting people to read some good old poetry.”

“That’s not the point, Toshiko-san, but if that’s what makes you happy.”

For a moment, the two of them return to their studies. She, turning back to the book she’s highlighting and annotating for a class tomorrow. Him, going back to his readings for tonight’s class. The College of Arts’ literary club used to be open to everyone, but after dwindling membership, it became one that was limited to the Department of Literature’s students—or, rather, all of the students are immediately made part of it, and could hang out at their said sad, lonely gazebo if they want. That didn’t make it any more popular, though, so she’s made it her and her friend’s little nook for studying when she’s not in the library.

“Say, what made Vincent a legend in the College of Arts?” she suddenly asks, just as she reached the end of a page. Dazai hums, finishing a passage he’s reading before looking up.

“Isn’t it because of his style?” Dazai answers, though hesitantly. “I’m sure the painting hanging in the Dean’s room is his.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure of that too, but…” she pauses, thinking of Vincent in his studio room, planning his paintings, the corkboard, and the canvases. “Why didn’t he just…get it over with? Why hasn’t he graduated? I’m sure there’s some sort of—apprenticeship or studio that’ll take someone like him when he paints like that. Maybe they’ll give him an allowance too. And with the number of recommendations that he can get from the professors?”

With a hum, Dazai offers: “Maybe you can ask his brother.”

They make a face at each other, laugh, and get back to studying.

--

Dazai’s class starts at five in the afternoon, running up until seven p.m., and while there are days that she waits out for him at the gazebo for dinner, tonight was a special day. The Office of Student Relations has meetings on Tuesday mornings; and while they do post their announcements online the next day, the fastest way to get the news from them is to check the bulletin board outside their office at six p.m., which is when they post. Sitting on a bench right outside the office, she waits for the assistant or secretary to post what she’s waiting for and—

There he is!

“Hello,” she greets, standing up from her seat and walking toward the bulletin board. The secretary smiles and greets her back, tacking the notice to the board.

“Waiting on the requirements?”

“Sure am,” she answers, wringing her hands behind her. “Been very anxious.”

“Well, here they are. Best of luck.”

“Thank you!”

The secretary takes his leave shortly after that, returning back through the large wooden doors of the antiquated office. She left behind, stands in front of the bulletin board with her eyes closed, and takes a deep breath.

This is it. The requirements for her dreams, right in front of her.

She opens her eyes and takes out a flyer from the small pocket that the secretary had pinned onto the board. A flyer detailing the requirements for the one-year, international scholarship program of the Office of Student Relations.

A long, laundry-list of requirements, from filling in forms, requesting official paperwork like transcripts and recommendation letters, submitting portfolios, and passing a certain number of assessment interviews.

“I can’t afford to get distracted,” she says, to no one in particular, as if saying it out loud will make it real, will help it come true much easier than it actually will take. This is what he was all supposed to be—a small, pleasant motivation, a distraction for when idle, but not one that will stop her from what she originally intended to do.

This.

To go away.

But…

She tucks the flyer in between notebooks, thinking quietly to herself, But those are only books, so it can’t be that bad—can it?