#their main color scheme has been dark/muted with some SOME events breaking out of that

[kawaiichibiart]

There's something about Nightcord in white that makes them all so pretty, I don't know why.

Maybe it's the sheer contrast to what they'd started out with?? Costumes that were most dark, deep, colors, if not that muted??

Costumes where sometimes there was a color that popped out amongst everything else and if the costume was something besides dark or muted, it was just one of the few??

Like, I keep thinking about it and to just, see them in more brighter colors is so...aaaahh 😭🥺🥹

[artsoupsoupart]

Madney Week 2021: Paint Me as You Mourn Me

Day Three:   “I don’t care what happens to me as long as you’re safe.” + angst

Read on Ao3  

“Ch-Chim,” her voice is so far off in the distance, somewhere behind the ringing in his ears. It’s dark, but there are flashes of light pulsing into his line of vision, and he knows he’s hit his head at some point. “Chim, you can get out. Something—”

Her own grunt of frustration cuts her off as he shakes his head, eyes blazing with certainty as his vision clears enough to focus on Maddie, the one person he had secretly vowed to protect from the moment he had met her (even if he didn’t really know the extent of said vow). He looks around for something, anything that could free her from the weight crushing her. “No, gotta get you out first.”

He can think a bit clearer now that the dust has settled, and he’s taken in his surroundings. There had been an earthquake. It had shaken everything and anything, but then it had stopped. The aftershock, though, was quick and intense, and then they were falling, and Chimney was losing everything that meant anything to him. She’s not gone yet; he has to remember that. She’s not allowed to leave him he thinks to himself. Not yet at least. There’s a long trail of blood dripping from her head, thick and oozing, and her eye and side of her face is already beginning to bruise something grotesquely purple. He remembers the ground shaking, remembers thinking this is one of the biggest earthquakes he had ever experienced. He had shielded her with his own body, protecting her in the passageway of the parking garage but then the floor gave out beneath them, and they fell and tumbled to whatever was below.

“Baby, I’m…” she groans out in a pain so distinct that it sinks his heart. “I’m stuck. You have to go. If you don’t,” Maddie winces in pain, her words slurring. “If you don’t—”

“No!” he cuts her off again, his hands cupping her cheeks. “I don’t care what happens to me as long as you’re safe.”

The first time he had picked up a paintbrush, Howard Han was eight years old and at school. It had been the most natural transition from crayons and color pencils to acrylics and watercolors. He had loved it immediately and had gushed to his mother over and over again about how he had wanted to paint for the rest of his life. He painted even the most mundane of scenes. There were canvases of the sky and the moon and the woods behind his home. He had journals and sketchbooks of little moments of ice cream trips and big events like graduating. He mapped out every important event of his life through acrylic and graphite and watercolor.

Setting up Maddie’s security system had been an easy tradeoff for beer and pizza. He had said yes before even meeting her, mainly because he is kind and gentle and the safety of someone is his main priority no matter if he’s on the clock or not.

And then he had seen her. She had said she’d never seen Mission Impossible and what a travesty that is, he had joked. Immediately he takes notice of her, drinking her into his system in the least creepy way possible. She’s blue but not in the dangerous, threatening midnight or oxford blue of a raging ocean where the sea threatens to swallow and drown him whole. She’s nothing like the broad strokes of a pallet knife, thick and aggressive and coarse. She’s far from the aquamarine that drips of hopelessness and grief that he knows so well. She doesn’t make him sad. She doesn’t make an alarm go off in his mind that encourages him to put up false pretenses that will lead to absolutely nothing and drain him of everything he thought he was.

Instead, the strokes of paint are soft under the round brush. Featherlight but abstract because this is already beautiful but so wonderfully new. Chimney doesn’t know the last time he’s felt like this or if he’s ever felt this feeling before. He yearns for her already though they barely know each other, they don’t know each other. Still, she’s a calming sapphire, welcoming and brilliant. He wants to learn what makes her smile, what makes her laugh, what makes her dream of love and light. She sparkles already and he’s only known her for a couple hours. For just a moment he knows he can’t begin to capture what she makes him feel on a piece of linen wrapped around planks of pine.

…

Takeout and a movie between friends, that’s all this is. It’s all this will be because they’re friends and he’s content with that. For each tomorrow, he makes a vow that says if friendship is all they have, that will do. Because she’s been through a lot. It’s what she needs and what she deserves and he’s grateful to be witness to a side of her that he thinks is reserved for few people in her life. He is witness to her tenderness, to her gentle hands and soft voice. He’s on the receiving end of her bright sarcasm and welcomes it just as she does his (corny) jokes. They are friends, but they’re closer than that. She leans her head against his shoulder when they watch movies. He comforts her when scenes are a bit too much. Being allowed to hold her hands is sage green with wide, smooth strokes. They laugh together. She makes him walk and talk differently but they’re just friends. Maybe.

The thin liner brush traces the blobs on the canvas, outlining, defining the images beneath the black paint. For what it’s worth, the old Chimney is gone. The old Chimney would contrast with what exists now. The old Chimney is replaced with one that compliments the sage of who she is. Perhaps now he is a blush of pink that mimic his cheeks when he’s near her, or a muted orange that is warm in a way he couldn’t be before. Together they are a peach sunset on a sprawling meadow. He’s relaxed when he’s with her. He doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to lie. She laughs at his jokes and leans against his side. They are warm and inviting and everything good pools just from being together.

They’re just friends and he can be okay with that for as long as she is as well. He won’t push. He won’t press without her because they’re friends but somehow they’re also partners. Together, they are free to be, to exist and open themselves up entirely.

…

He told her he loved her. She is who he loves, with cats in her throat in the morning. She is who he loves, dancing together in the kitchen, cuddled together on the couch, the morning after saving a life. He is who she loves, with his jokes and his strength. He is understanding and hope and joy. She loves him just as much as he loves her and that burns across the pages of his sketchbook, page after page being filled with their desire, affection, and devotion to one another.

Her eyes shine as she smiles at him, they sparkle more than stars in the deep onyx of an unpolluted sky. Perhaps that’s what he’ll miss the most if he loses her one day. The way those deep ebony pools of burnt umber darken because he loves her. The look in her gaze shoots him directly in the heart every time, without fail. She’s gold, a brilliant yellow that blazes through his very being, his very soul. The light that they’ve turned on is bright and blinding and he thinks this is the end all, be all for him, for them. It takes every bit of self-control in him to not fidget as he paints their passion against the pale beige canvas.

Then they’re red, scarlet, burning bright as they connect with one another. This time is different, better. They’ve professed their love for one another, and it shows in their touch, in their kiss, in the warmth of skin against skin. The strokes are angled, precise. He thinks of time as he paints. How they’ve spent so little of it together in the grand scheme of things, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because time goes along with space and they’re well beyond that. They care about each other’s most benign details. They are one and will be for as long as they chose to be.

…

Chimney doesn’t know why he brought the paintings. Each one leans against the wall of the hospital room, comforting him, mocking him. His eyes flicker to each one and his heart breaks that much more. The doctors say she’ll be fine. Somewhere in the back of his mind he believes their optimism, believes she’ll wake up and won’t hate him for failing her, for losing his grip on her, for being the indirect cause of why she’s even in the hospital in the first place. She’d never see it that way, see him that way. Still, he can’t help but think he should have held her tighter, protected her better.

He looks over at Maddie, watches the rise and fall of her chest under the skinny tubes connected to her. There’s so many wires, so little sound, so much light in this room and it’s overwhelming. Everything about this situation is overwhelming. He can’t get the flashes of falling out of his head. He can’t figure out why his hold on her hadn’t been strong enough, how he could have possibly let her slip out of his grasp. It’s not his fault, he’s heard it many times in the last two days. But he had let go, he had let her arms go as they fell, and she had ended up pinned beneath thick, unmovable cement and there had been a rebar of her own through her shoulder. And so much blood.

He’ll never get the image of the color fading from her face as she joked that they’d have matching scars. If only he was good enough, worthy enough to be able to wake her up. He wants to hold her while he waits but can’t risk jostling her and making things worse than they already are.

“I’m going to love you for a long time, Maddie.” His hand finds its place back in hers, tears pooling in his eyes as he realizes how cold it is. She runs cold anyway, but this is practically frigid ice against his. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he knows. The fact doesn’t stop him from worrying anyway. “So, just wake up now and then you can rest until you’re better.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, or speak or even flutter her eyes.

With one hand still in hers, he turns to the travel easel holding a small canvas frame and picks up a paintbrush, dipping it into the flat wash with a sigh.

[ineffable-writer]

New Year’s Eve: Aziraphale gets a wild idea about a question he’s wanted to ask for a while and Crowley does not understand why they’re going on holiday to Iceland.

I’m in Iceland for the new year (I’m posting this from 2020!) and of course I spent the last day of 2019 writing ridiculous fluff. Everywhere the Husbands go is real, and places I’ve been (though I did not get a luxury suite at the Blue Lagoon, I’m sad to say).

Previous installments are sweet but not necessary to read to understand (and can be found under the tag #PlaceWithoutPlot, although that’s not 100% true after this excerpt?). Excerpt here, full on AO3 or below the break.

--

The best crepes in Scotland were, undoubtedly, in a small café near the Meadows, which quickly became a regular spot for lunch on the days they wandered about separately. It was covered in tartan and old records, owned and operated by one man. The drinks were good and the crepes were divine.

“I was thinking, you know,” said Aziraphale, sipping a hot chocolate and relaxing into the tartan, “we don’t need to go back right away.”

“No?” asked Crowley. “Plants will miss me.”

“Oh, the Devices have nowhere to be,” said the angel. “Anathema will keep them alive and I’m sure they don’t mind a little reprieve.”

“You’re scheming,” Crowley lightheartedly accused, fighting to keep the smile off his lips. Aziraphale didn’t laugh or shoot Crowley a disapproving look, which meant he was legitimately nervous about something. The effort of hiding something distracted the angel, which meant Crowley could always tell when it happened. Crowley sat forward a bit: I’m paying attention. I know this is important. I’m listening.

“It’s just, well. We know Edinburgh. The whole island, really. We’ve lived here a very long time.”

“Understatement.”

“Yes. Well. So. I thought perhaps—if you wanted—we could go somewhere new.”

“New?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere’s new, angel. World keeps changing. That’s what we like about it. Remember?”

“I know! But it’s so easy to get around these days. No more horses, no more ships…”

“What’s wrong with ships? I like ships.”

“You never went on a trireme, if I recall,” said Aziraphale.

“No more triremes, I’ll give you.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale was avoiding talking about whatever he wanted to talk about, now. “Where did you want to go?”

“Iceland.”

“Iceland?”

“Iceland.”

Crowley bit back the why, the what in the world is in Iceland that makes you want to go there, the what has gotten into you lately, you’re always such a homebody, I literally moved right down the block from you because we both hate putting in more effort to go places than absolutely necessary. Aziraphale had something in mind, and Crowley had the sense that the wrong reaction would absolutely shatter the man. Besides, Crowley trusted him.

“All right,” said Crowley. “Iceland. What about New Year’s, then?”

-

Aziraphale insisted on being mysterious about his plans once they got to Iceland, so Crowley demanded the right to do the same.

“If you get a mystery,” he said, “I get a mystery too. And mine’s near the airport, so unless you’ve got a fantastic reason, I get to go first.”

They arrived in Keflavik—not Reykjavik, not on an international flight—and Crowley’s reasoning became apparent quickly. The flight didn’t exactly get in early, but this time of year the sun didn’t rise until noon, so it was the middle of the night when they landed at nine AM. They still didn’t have the Bentley (Newt was not to touch the car back in Sussex, and he was terrified enough of Crowley that Aziraphale suspected he’d form a permanent bond with the houseplants) but Crowley had managed a half-decent rental car. He convinced Aziraphale to get in before breakfast—“Trust me, angel, there’s food where we’re going!”—and they set out into the night. The weather was somewhat warm for the season. It was cold, but not freezing.

Iceland was famous for its stunning scenery and dramatic landscapes, but in darkness like this all they could see were black shapes against gray sky. As the sun rose, it cast long shadows over a broken landscape. The earth had cracked and crackled after centuries of volcanic activity, leaving fields that looked like the ruined cities of ancient giants. Trees here were short and grew in sparse copses—it had once been a forest island, but not after the Nordic settlers arrived—and the tumbling rocks were covered in silver-gray lichens and mosses. Here on the southwest corner, the mountains were mostly distant, framing the horizon.

Crowley peeled off the main road and drove towards an alpine cluster, and the sky grew lighter. He was sure Aziraphale would guess immediately—apparently the angel had been reading about Iceland—but it wasn’t until they drove past the first pools that Crowley saw his eyes light up. He’d picked this place for stupid, indulgent reasons, one of which was that the color of Aziraphale’s eyes matched the water exactly. (He also liked the idea of getting out of the chill for once, warming his serpentine bones, and that played into it.)

Hot springs. Deep-earth saltwater, heated by the volcano and pumped into what was essentially a fancy swimming pool by these brilliant, stupid human beings that they both loved so much. It was indulgent and warm and frankly good for their corporations and souls alike, and after doing things the Human Way for a bit he could use a little pampering.

There was a resort. Crowley had picked the top package, the one that came with free breakfast and facial treatments and daily yoga and guided hikes in addition to everything you could ask for at the hot springs. He’d booked a room for two nights, one with a view of the lagoons. It only came with a single king-sized bed, but honestly, so had every other place they’d stayed. Crowley was the only one who used it. Aziraphale just stayed up reading. Aside from a comment on the décor—“Clearly you chose this place, it looks just like the flat in London with a bit more natural light.”—Aziraphale didn’t mention it at all.

Aziraphale immediately ran off on one of the guided hikes, spouting something about history and geography. Crowley did yoga, taking a moment to try and guess what the angel was getting at with this trip in the first place. He was done first, and was relaxing in their suite with a silica mask when Aziraphale got back (grumpy from the physical activity, but excited about the geological history). Then there was dinner at the restaurant—a great wall of glass built next to the natural volcanic stone, with a table for two right next to illuminated volcanic pools and a plate of Icelandic cod for the angel—and a quick change into suits before they went into the main pool.

Public baths were familiar to them both—they had been around since the moment humans had discovered the delights of warm water—but there was something mystical about hot springs. The vivid water, as opaque and blue as a settled fog. The mist that rose and danced in the air as wind whipped around them, eddying in the rocks and around bridges. The open air, cold and wet with rain against the heat of the water.

The pool was an expanse. The far borders were lost in the mist, and patrons drifted through the water in various masks: mostly white silica, ghostly, with their laughter and conversations muted by the open space. The resort provided towels and bathrobes, so the bridges around the pools were inhabited by patrons in white as well, exploring the intricate landscape of the baths.

Crowley and Aziraphale hung their robes on hooks outside and darted to the water, laughing. They had both slicked back their hair with conditioner—the salt and silica stuck and dried it out—and Aziraphale looked ridiculous, his characteristic curls stuck flat to his head.  Someone took someone’s hand and they ended up drifting like the dead in the water, looking up at the darkness and locked together, holding tightly, refusing to ever let go.

 -

Crowley washed his hair in the private shower of their suite. The conditioner had done little to protect it, despite the spa’s claims that it had been specially designed for the water here. He could just miracle back the keratin, but some deep-down part of him liked the feeling of Aziraphale seeing him as imperfect. He slathered it in a keratin treatment instead, slicking it back against his head, before drying off and wrapping up in a robe. He’d get some rest and in the morning—

The demon’s wandering train of thought was jolted off its track as he came into the bedroom. Aziraphale was sitting on the bed. The angel was wearing pyjamas, silk beige ones with a gold trim, which was a sight Crowley had not ever thought he’d see. His hair was frizzy with silica and salt. He looked nervous. He jumped when Crowley closed the bathroom door.

“Ah. Hello.”

“Hello,” said Crowley, waving his hand in Aziraphale’s general direction. You’re in my bed, the gesture said. This is a new turn of events, please tell me what is happening.

“Yes. Well. I thought perhaps—so much has happened, lately. So much has changed. I’m… I’m tired, I think.” Aziraphale swallowed. “I’m quite tired. And I’ve never been much good at…” At trusting anyone, the pause said. At relaxing enough to let my guard down. Relaxing invites attack. Relaxing means I cannot avoid conflict once I see it coming. “…At sleeping. I thought perhaps I’d try it.”

“Am I on the couch, then?” asked Crowley, perhaps a bit more snidely than he meant it. It wasn’t so much that he was opposed to seeing the angel in pyjamas. He just assumed, at this point, that it was part of the Agreement that he was entitled to any bed in a room they shared, and he’d been looking forward to this one.

He’d give up any bed in the world for Aziraphale, but that was beside the point.

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh,” said Crowley, surprised.

It was utterly impossible to sleep. The bed was warm and soft, and the rain pattered outside in a gentle white noise. Crowley rolled over, restless, assuming he’d see Aziraphale as a knot of blankets with a little angelic cloud of hair sticking out. Not the case: Aziraphale had turned to look at him, too.

Their eyes met. Gold to blue. Crowley breathed.

“You’re not very good at this,” said Aziraphale. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Sometimes it’s difficult.”

“Clearly.”

“You’ve messed with my usual routine,” said Crowley. “I don’t usually have distracting angels in my bed.”

“Distracting?” Aziraphale’s voice was prim. “So sinful.”

Crowley hit him with a pillow.

 -

The second night was clearer, and the private lagoon that came with their suite produced less steam. Crowley, who was beginning to doubt that he would ever sleep again, floated in the water and watched the stars for a while. There was some small light pollution from the spa and a nearby geothermal plant, but for the most part the sky was clear, and he could see the galaxy.

Aziraphale joined him. Crowley hadn’t bothered with a suit—no one could see them here and he still felt a little weird dressing up to get in a bath. Neither had the angel. He laid back in the water and joined Crowley without a word.

Crowley pointed. “Helped build that one,” he said.

“I know,” said Aziraphale. He pointed at a nearby cluster. “And those. And most of the structures around Ursa Major, didn’t you?”

“You kept track?”

“It’s not hard,” said Aziraphale. “You tell me every time we go stargazing. We’ve done quite a lot of stargazing.”

Crowley laughed. “Humans say, when they get old, their friends know all their stories.”

“And their partners,” said Aziraphale, and then he seemed like he was going to say something else, but he hesitated.

Crowley elbowed him. “Why are you so nervous?”

“It’s my turn tomorrow,” said Aziraphale. “You’ll find out then.”

 -

It was New Year’s Eve. They didn’t leave early, not until the sun was up. They needed to arrive after dark, Aziraphale insisted, and the drive wasn’t too long.

Bullshit, in Crowley’s opinion. Not too long was about seven hours from the resort, at the speed limit and with no stops. They drove north, touched the edge of Reykjavik, then swung east on Route 1 and took the Ring Road into eternity. And Aziraphale kept stopping for nibbles and photo opportunities. They took a detour north because he simply had to see Þingvallir National Park, and then he kept taking pictures out of the car window rather than just waiting for the lookout points, and then there was this lovely little farm-to-table place in Reykholt where they had to stop for a late lunch. It had a stunning mountain view, although it also had views into the actual barn and Crowley felt a bit odd eating a hamburger next to its still-living friends.

“Is this the thing?” Crowley asked, every time they stopped. Þingvallir was spectacular, great sweeping hills absolutely spattered with snowcapped mountains and boiling, broken earth. The barn food was good. The landscape was beautiful. But each time, Aziraphale shook his head. He was stalling, the bastard. Wherever he wanted to be, Crowley suspected he wanted to be there at midnight.

It was eleven-thirty when Aziraphale told him to pull over into a nondescript parking lot. They were a third of the way around the Ring Road. They weren’t even close to a town. (Hof didn’t count, it had a total of six intersections and five roads.) It was as godforsaken as Crowley was, and that was saying something.

“Just pull in,” said Aziraphale. Crowley was grumpy and tired. “I promise you, it’s worth it.”

Crowley obeyed. Wherever they were, Aziraphale had dragged them to the ends of the earth for it. Demons trusted no one, but Crowley trusted his angel. Always.

They parked and Crowley stepped out onto black sand. It was gritty and volcanic and nothing special, exactly: it covered the entire island like a blanket. It even pooled up at the bottom of the hot springs. They hadn’t traveled all this way to see sand.

Crowley turned around.

It was a minor miracle, he was sure, that the sky was still so clear and the beach was so empty. They were the only sentient creatures present for miles, and the stars spilled above them in a shining display that was almost as clear as the day Crowley had made them. They looked like diamonds, spilled across a sky of black velvet. And in front of him, in this perfect place, the beach—

“Behind us—they call it Glacier Bay. It’s full of icebergs that break off from the glaciers, and they all exit the bay through that small opening there. They break up and smooth down in the ocean, then get caught in the tide and pulled back here.”

“Angel…”

“They call it Diamond Beach because the ice is so clear and smooth, and the broken ice looks like diamonds on the black sand. One of the employees at the bookshop in Edinburgh went here, they showed me pictures. They do look like diamonds, of course, but I saw the pictures and I thought it looked more like—”

“Stars,” Crowley breathed.

Some of the shards were the size of Crowley’s hand; some were the size of Crowley. They were scattered along the sand like glass on ink, like stars on the sky, like diamonds on velvet, and it was freezing but it was beautiful, and this time Crowley knew exactly whose hand reached for whose. He’d taken Aziraphale’s and grasped it tight.

“I thought we could go for a walk here,” said Aziraphale.

“You brought us to Iceland for a walk?” He’d already started, tugging the angel along behind him. Down the slope to the beach, careful not to slip. Aziraphale cleared his throat and caught up.

“One could put it that way.” The angel extracted his hand from the demon’s in favor of tucking into Crowley’s arm instead. He was clearly trying to be romantic, to cuddle a little, but he was too nervous and his back had gone stiff. Crowley kissed the top of the angel’s head.

“I saw it and it reminded me of you,” said Aziraphale, clearly trying to segue into something. “You helped make the stars. It’s silly, thinking you’re older than me. I wasn’t around yet, not for that part.”

“Didn’t think I was older than you.”

“Not by much.”

“Not by much,” Crowley mimicked in a posh accent. He was teasing. Time as a concept didn’t really apply to angels.

“Hush, you. It made me think, well. You talk about them so much, and I think it was a happy time for you. I hope it was a happy time for you.” Complicated topic. But Aziraphale was building up to something, and Crowley wasn’t going to stop him. “And because, well, because it seems like a memory of a safe place, something important to you—a beginning, really. Not our beginning, not The Beginning—oh dear, maybe I should have done this in a garden—”

“Angel.” Crowley laughed. The sand sunk under their footsteps and the ocean—pure Atlantic, powerful and deep—beat steadily in the background. “Keep going.”

“It just seemed like a good place to ask you a question, that’s all. I didn’t have a diamond. This isn’t very well thought-through.”

Crowley paused. There was a feeling like warmth spreading through his chest.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to let go of Crowley’s arm and turn to face him. They stood there, eyes locked, twin points of light and darkness in a line parallel to the ocean. The angel breathed deeply, and the demon forgot to breathe at all.

“I need you to know what it is that I am asking,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t… There’s so much of this, of our relationship, that I never want to change. I enjoy our independence. I will never stop you from running off to see Bond Films at the cinema or saying unforgiveable things to your plants. I know that over the years we have both developed—ah—close relationships with humans on occasion, and I do not expect that to stop for either of us. I think those relationships, whatever they might be, are important to us.”

“Aziraphale…”

“I think our freedom, however we use it, is important to our dynamic. I don’t want anything to change between us, except perhaps for each of us to… to know. Crowley—Anthony—earlier this year I said something truly horrible to you, and I need you to know it wasn’t true. It has never been true, not really. I’ve been lying to myself. I think I’ve been lying to myself for quite a long time.”

The angel took the demon’s hand.

“I am on our side. Anthony Crowley—”

“Anthony J. Crowley—” It was a reflex.

“Anthony J. Crowley, I have chosen you for six thousand years. I have done so bucking and—and fighting, on occasion. But I have done so. And I know that you’ve done the same to me. In fact—in fact, I think I’ve lied to myself more than you’ve ever lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” said Crowley, holding that hand like it was the end of the world.

“What I’m asking you,” said Aziraphale, “is simply to… make it official, as it were. Say to each other, directly, that we are on our side and no one else’s. That we will choose each other over all future sides. All future… er, choices. All future loves.”

He removed his signet ring.

“When I say marriage—”

Crowley finally broke down. He wasn’t sure if he was laughing at Aziraphale’s monologue—was this a proposal or a contract?—or crying at the sudden rush of emotion, but he closed one hand around the ring and the other around Aziraphale’s waist and kissed him. Kissed him under the stars and among the diamonds, hours away from civilization, at the stroke of midnight.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, you idiot, always yes.” Crowley’s hands cupped his angel’s face, drinking in the love that poured from Aziraphale like a fountain. “You’re right. I’ve always picked you above everything. Everyone. Always. Easy to be ourselves and still do that. It’s natural.”

Natural didn’t always mean easy—especially to Aziraphale, who could be loyal to a fault to all the wrong people. But they were free to be themselves. Free to live however they wanted. Free to choose each other. Crowley put the signet ring on his finger, already mentally sketching out a serpentine ring to match it.

This time it was Aziraphale who kissed him.

[2020recommendanime]

Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun and the Power of Visuals

Unique animation and background art can be selling points when it pertains to whether an individual decides to watch a new series. Although great story writing and characters can create an amazing series, it is difficult to know these two qualities without first watching the anime itself (as well as reading the light novel or manga). The easiest way to impress a person into watching a show without any prior knowledge is to have an interesting art style. This sort of technique is used in more than just Japanese animation, but also in other countries such as The United States with Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse and Loving Vincent. Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse brings a comic book to life by using frames and onomatopoeia words, while Loving Vincent was hand-painted using stop-motion. With these concepts, movies that would have been a simple crossover and a documentary would be dull and not cause more people to watch and marvel at what is to come. The anime and manga of Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun do just that; the animation and background art draws people in to enjoy what is to come. 

Figure 1 Persichetti, Ramsey, Rothman, “Spiderman: Into the Spider-Verse”

Figure 2 Kobiela, Welchman, "Loving Vincent"

 The Impact of Visuals

As with other art forms, anime has its general groups where you can expect a certain art style to go along with the concept; seinen (mature themes) are often done with more darker schemes and muted styles, shounen (aimed at boys) is brighter and smoother, hentai (animated porn) focuses on exposure and shojo (aimed at girls) is bubbly and sparkly. While there are these general groups, there are subgroups that contain their own styles, and even then, there are always exceptions. As mentioned before, Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun is one of these exceptions. 

As stated on Mangakalot, Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun is a shounen that includes comedy, supernatural, and school life themes. With these themes, the first thought would be to compare this to shows such as Noragami and Natsume's Book of Friends. Both Noragami and Natsume's Book of Friends are stereotypical looking anime with thin lines, dry colors, and standard scenery. While these shows are impressive with their storytelling and inclusive to supernatural myths, the amount of uniqueness and creatively put into the art style does not instantly draw the viewers in. 

Figure 3 Tamura, "Noragami"

Figure 4 Miyake, "Natsume's Book of Friends"

 Although I can go on and describe Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun’s animation and background, James Beckett from AnimeNewsNetwork summaries it perfectly: “The environments feel hand-crafted, like they were plucked out of an especially evocative picture-book, and the way the show uses overlays of comic panels to break up some of the gags and establishing shots makes everything even more painterly.” This kind of exceptional work is common with the producers and directors of the show. As reported from AnimeNewsNetwork, Studio Lerche employed director Masaomi Andō, writer Yasuhiro Nakanishi, character designer Mayuka Itou, and animation producer Yūji Higa. Both Masaomi Andō and Yūji Higa have previously collaborated for a child-like show, Hakumei and Mikochi. With this team, they would go forward to produce another amazing series. 

Figure 5 Andou, "Hakumei and Mikochi"

 There are three important factors that go into making Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun series’ art special: manga frames, vibrant colors, and creative lighting. 

 Manga Frames

When discussing this subject, it is important to remember its origins. When reading manga, the frames and panels are outlined boxes stacked against each other that contain drawings and words. This concept is common across manga and comics alike but employing this type of style of boxes containing drawings is not common in anime. As referenced at the beginning, the American movie Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse uses the same notion with it being a parody towards superhero comic books. Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun does this in a similar fashion with its manga-inspired animation. 

 (Below will be images for this example) Episode 6 of Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun features many examples of manga frames, but for this example, we are focusing on a screencap from time 3:42. The screencap has two visual planes, in the background is an open book with a red page reading “Future” while in the foreground is Yashiro Nene’s, the main character, face being shown within white manga-panel borders. This image shows an interesting way to convey Yashiro talking while still being able to see what she was talking about on-screen. This scene is comparative to the one drawn in the manga. In the manga, the panel that has the book and “Future” is read first, then the next frame has Yashiro talking about what she is looking at. The way the producers decided to adapt to this scene is interesting; they were able to see the original concept and impact, but also integrated the feeling of being able to still see the first image while also continuing to read/watch on. 

Figure 6 Andou, "Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun" Ep 6

Figure 7 Aida, "Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun" Chp 11

 Vibrant Colors

Different anime may use color schemes to enhance themes, specific events, or symbolism. Color is everywhere in anime, and it is important for the animators to place certain colors in places to bring meaning or impact to the watchers. A popular example of this is in JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure where the color scheme inverts at random yet important times during the episodes, which brings about the weird and unique flare that this series holds. A series does not need wild color changes to be recognizable. 

 The very first noticeable feature of Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun is how bright and lively the art looks. James Beckett’s description that this show looks like a picture book is accurate in this sense. Children’s books often have bold and contrasting colors to allow for easy viewing and longer attention spans. Rachel Pancare wrote a Sciencing article title, “How Do Bright Colors Appeal to Kids?” which states, “Bright colors catch young children's eyes because they help kids to distinguish objects from one another in their field of vision. Children spend more time looking at bright colors as opposed to looking at muted shades or pastels.” While this is true, some of the tones and circumstances within the show are not child-friendly, and even then, the coloration and art style are still able to bring the fear that is needed. 

Figure 8 Andou, "Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun" Ep 1

Figure 9 Andou, "Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun" Ep 1

 Creative Lighting

Lighting can be used in many different forms; it is used to brighten a landscape, a special character or object, or to create a certain atmosphere. In the average anime, lighting may not be diverse but may be only used to brighten the landscape so that the viewers can watch. There would be no major variation or casting that would change the mood of the scene. At times, there is seemingly no direct light source, but just everything is filled with brightness by either the sun, indoor lights, or for no reason. If the setting is at night, a streetlight may light up a character but that is seemingly the only option. Incredible anime typically takes a dive into using light sources and shadows dynamically, especially when there is a dramatic scene or an object that needs to be emphasized.

 Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun possesses the traits of having various light sources and accurately placed shadows, but there is another layer that is added. An integral part of the art style is that light can take a variety of shapes, but usually hexagonal. The pictures below demonstrate this; a light that emanates from the lamps and the lenses flare are hexagons, providing a creative change other than the usual faded circle of light surrounding an object. The other light sources are the light blue, glowing gems and the sunlight from the window. These two light sources provide the rest of the scene to be lit but within proportion to how bright the source is. Shadows are used accurately as well, causing darkness on the two character’s backs as well as slopping downward on the stall doors. These small additions can contribute greatly to the finished product and can transform how a scene is seen and the feelings that are derived from it.

Figure 10 Andou, "Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun" Ep 6

Figure 11 Andou, "Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun" Ep 1

 Conclusion

The three essential components to Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun are creative lighting, vibrant colors, and manga frames. Analyzing and discovering what goes into a series can improve your experience and create a deeper devotion to the content. With this being said, not all shows that have the typical animation style and dull background are bad, but that they need to be analyzed in other areas and be appreciated in those. Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun deserves praise and attention for its art style, and studios should look after this show and put forth the effort to make more series like this.

 When considering what new series, you may watch or if you would want to stop watching a series, stop and think for a moment, “Does this art style impress me? Was the effort of the animators shown?” If the answers to the questions is “yes,” then I recommend that you follow through and continue watching that series. While storytelling and character development are important aspects to a show, there is more to the story than that. So, take a minute, turn the volume off on your favorite anime and watch—does the art tell a story? Does it make you laugh, scared, sad, or any emotion? Looking out for these feelings is important, and so is analyzing why this show may look so wonderful, because the smallest details matter the most, and it shows the dedication and love the creators have for the series.