valderaa

[valderaa]

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

(meant to send this before and completely forgot, hey kiri<33)

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

Nestled against the long bones of his finger, the warmth emanating from his coffee stung oddly against his skin. Hanzawa didn’t tap the cup in any rhythm—he simply let his hands curl dead around it, watching thin wisps of steam rise under the cover of his lashes.  Sat across from him was Nakata Seigi, a careless hand splayed on his cheek. His skin was still red and irritated, but he was oddly quiet as he gazed through a nearby window. Hanzawa had the sudden thought that whether he took a minute or ten before he spoke, Seigi would stay without interruption.  He wasn’t eager to test that assumption. “Is there something you’re worried about?” he asked.  Seigi blinked, seeming to come back to himself, and turned to face Hanzawa. He frowned, looking sheepish as he tapped his face. “I was just thinking… it’s going to bruise,” he said. 

heyyy malt <3 the really funny thing abt this one is that it's happened in my outline but i actually haven't written the actual happening yet in the proper pov... (that's why answering this took so long lmao) but this helped!

(ask game post | my ask box)

[valderaa]

hi kiri reminded myself about the askbox thing so I didn’t forget. NEXT for it love you

NEXT — the next line. meaning i will finish the sentence I’m on and write a new one, which you’ll get.

Even the usually oblivious Tanimoto-san noticed my listless mood in the following days. It wasn’t unusual for me to worry or speculate about my clients—everyone who stepped into Richard’s store certainly had some kind of interesting quality, but something about Hanzawa tugged oddly at my chest.

(ask game post | my ask box)

[valderaa]

sasaki to hirano (?)

read on ao3 (707 words)

the pros and cons of being awake at two am are twofold. the pro is that you get ideas. the con is that you get ideas. I also really am not being strict abt canon accuracy to timeline my bad. anyways despite me hyping it up it’s actually quite a short scene where I just wanted to mess around with some things. still ironing out how I’d like to mess with them. as always, under the cut:

.

The pros and cons of being awake at 2AM are twofold. The con, of course, is that when Hirano kicks at the back of his ankles, nails digging slightly into the skin, Sasaki flinches at the chill and pops back into wakefulness, ever-increasingly aware of how tired he’s going to be in the morning. The pro is that everyone else is asleep enough to the point that Sasaki can shuffle around to his side and hiss, “Stop kicking me,” at Hirano, who shuts his eyes tighter in irritation before opening them in a squinted glare. In that look, Sasaki sees the optimism of someone who actually believes he’ll get to sleep any time soon. Sasaki had given up the moment he’d seen the slightly-larger-than-average futon that had been set out for the two of them because somewhere, somehow, had miscounted the correct number.

He hadn’t decided who to blame for this yet, so he was circling through the names of every first-year he knew. Currently, that honor goes to Kogasahara. Hirano had said he’d had nothing to blame but himself, considering it was Sasaki who’d been out past curfew and Hirano who’d chased him down, so everyone else got to pick out their single-sized bedding, but Sasaki was ignoring that.

“Go to sleep,” Hirano grumbles. “Sasaki…”

There’s a really annoying tone to the way he stretches out his name. “Do you really think I can sleep like this?” he asks, and gently taps Hirano’s ankles to make a point.

Predictably, Hirano yelps at the contact. “Your feet are way too cold!”

“Yeah,” Sasaki says. “Now you know how I feel.” It's not even a fair comparison, because Hirano’s ankles are so bony that even tapping them feels unpleasant. “If you weren’t trying to be a perfect honor student and drag me in, you wouldn’t be stuck here.”

“You think I look like an honor student?”

“Of course,” Sasaki says, not really thinking.

Hirano bursts into a fit of giggles, and it’s then when Sasaki remembers Hirano’s vivid sunflower-colored hair. It's strange how easily he’d forgotten about it, but in the dark of the room he can catch only the shape of Hirano’s features, not the color.

He doesn't laugh but he does crack a smile. “Okay—well—okay, I get your point.”

Hirano keeps laughing for a while longer, eyes scrunched in small joy, and then he flops down, flat on his back. his knuckle grazes against Sasaki's arm before he pulls it back. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.”

“What?”

“Just—“ Hirano falls quiet. “I don’t know.”

Sasaki couldn’t make out his expression. He wondered how Hirano had seen his. Even when he’d stayed out past curfew for a bit of impulse stargazing, Hirano had woken up and managed to find him. He’d had been annoyed about being dragged back until Hirano had paused in the middle of chewing him out to marvel at the stars.

“It’s not something you see every day,” he’d said, not even sparing Sasaki a glance.

Sasaki had looked up. The stars were stars. “They do look nice.”

Under the low light of the lanterns outside, Hirano’s eyes sparkled.

Sasaki wonders, now, if Hirano is making that same face.

“Sasaki?” Hirano asks. “You asleep?”

“You’re a funny guy, Hirano,” Sasaki says. “How can I sleep when you’re kicking my ankles?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Hirano huffs, and the conversation peters out from there.

It’s not that Sasaki’s afraid of or unused to large crowds, but he tends to spend most of his time hanging out alone or around Ogasawara, who isn’t touchy by nature and is also wrapped up in his girlfriend nowadays. Eimi’s nice, but the three of them have known each other for so long that Sasaki almost registers them as a non-presence.

He’s almost sure it’s that which makes him so conscious of the soft rise and fall of Hirano’s breathing, slowly evening out in the still dark. His feet drift over and nudge at Sasaki's ankles again. They’re still bitterly cold.

There's a moment where Sasaki considers shaking him awake again, but it’s not long before he, too, slips into the world of dreams.

[valderaa]

help! my classmate’s asking for relationship advice, but I’m aromantic!?

read on ao3 (814 words)

I drafted a little hirano & hanzawa conversation after the latest hirano to kagiura (basically. wow I think if they had a conversation like how miyano and hirano had one I think hanzawa would internally lose it) and. and then I got hit by two trucks the first being the case files of jeweler richard and the second being I started playing dgs again. so I decided to just go ahead and post this bc I will probably just leave it to die on my computer otherwise. so this is probably a little rougher prose than I usually go for lol. under the cut as usual.

.

there’s an awkward silence that stretches between two people who are the last to leave a room, which is why hanzawa is about to begin loudly packing his things when hirano turns to him and clears his throat.

almost immediately hanzawa stills; hirano is famously reticent, so he anticipates anything coming out of his mouth to be already midway to a disaster. unfortunately his pencil had been the first thing he’d tucked away. though openly taking notes in front of anyone while they were speaking was probably a bad move.

hirano’s gaze flickers back to the window, and he moves a few steps towards it with increasing casualness. “you’ve dated before, right?” he asks hanzawa.

hanzawa hums. “do you think I have?” he asks.

“you just seem—“ hirano shakes his head, frustrated. “I was just thinking… people get flustered and their heart races whenever they’re around the person they like, right?”

ah. so it was going to be one of these types of questions.

“those are common descriptions, sure.”

hirano levels him with a flat look. “you sure lose all your worldly senpai charm when miyano’s not around, huh?”

miyano was the type of person to have stars in his eyes. hirano was… also the type of person to have stars in his eyes, even if he went about it differently. it was, strangely enough, hanzawa’s favorite thing about both of them.

“it’s my secret,” hanzawa says. thankfully, miyano hasn’t really asked him for advice of this kind yet.

hirano laughs. “sure,” he says. “will one of these secrets tell me what you’re thinking?”

briefly, hanzawa considers the optics of being truthful. he immediately feels bad for weighing his options like this, but feeling bad doesn’t make him want to be honest, so he keeps considering. hirano’s the kind of guy who doesn’t really even unintentionally gossip.

on a thought that’s a bit too bitter… right now hirano is staring out at the sky like he’s looking at a completely different scene. he’s entirely too absorbed in himself to really consider hanzawa as part of the equation.

that evens his guilt by just a smidgen. he supposes these kind of thoughts are what makes him the most self-absorbed out of any of them.

“well,” hanzawa says, casting his gaze down to the wood grain of the table, “I just don’t think liking, in the way you speak of it… I don’t think it’s all that important.”

almost immediately hirano whirls around to face him. “that’s not true!” he says, looks at himself in shock, and abruptly turns around again.

hanzawa has a terrible eye for these things. this is why he notices hirano’s ears turning a deep pink. feeling his own cheeks heat, he quickly averts his eyes—in sympathy or mortification or jealousy, he isn’t sure.

“so,” hanzawa says, staring at the ceiling. “clearly you feel some way. about feelings.”

hirano grits his teeth. “I… I don’t know,” he says. “it’s just… the thought of disrespecting or ignoring those feelings… it’s like… I can’t look away.”

well, hanzawa likes kagiura, too. he’s a good kid. but there’s an odd feeling in his chest that rises when it comes to meddling between them. so he settles on saying, “some people say that when you like someone, you can’t help but follow them with your gaze.”

“but what do you think?” hirano asks.

hanzawa sighs, drumming his fingers against the table. if he makes it sound enough like a joke he can probably give an answer. “well, hirano, you do rank higher than me on exams. is it so surprising I wouldn’t necessarily have an answer for this one?”

“I know that,” hirano says. “I’m not asking for an answer, I’m just... what would you think? if it was you.”

“if it was me, I’d ignore them until they moved on.”

“…and if they never move on?” hirano asks, like he was seriously contemplating a future where love lasted forever.

“then I’ll ignore it forever,” hanzawa says. “if I can’t like them back, what’s the point?”

“but the other person won’t ever get a response,” hirano says, frowning deeply. “forever and ever.”

“in every situation… I think there’s a choice of inaction, and one of action,” hanzawa says. “I suspect you will always be the latter.“

“it’s my choice, in the end,” hirano says. “isn’t it.” he’s still a faint shade of pink. “for what it’s worth… thanks.”

hanzawa smiles, brittle in his bones. he cannot wait for this conversation to be forgotten. “as always, a pleasure.”

if he ever gets asked this again, he’s really going to have to come up with a better answer.

[valderaa]

the anomalous agate (part 1)

edit: there's an updated version of this here

so. a few days ago i floated the idea of a crossover of hanzawa to tashiro and the case files of jeweler richard to the illustrious @dirtbra1n, and after talking about it i. could not stop thinking about it. here is that. you will notice above it says part 1, and that is because I spiralled a bit out of control. this is so long (4.3k) that I thought it merited me posting it on ao3 as well, if you'd prefer to read it there. there's also some notes about the fic contained there, none of which I feel like repeating, except i do have to credit the line of dialogue where seigi asks hanzawa why he has so many piercings to @dirtbra1n. that's entirely their genius.

without further ado, under the cut:

case 2-x: the anomalous agate (part 1)

The longer I worked for the shop, the fewer days arrived when there were no appointments scheduled for the day. As always, Richard seemed unfazed by the lack of customers. I supposed it made sense—this was a shop that only existed on the weekends, after all. He had hired me, but had the two of us not met by chance, it was likely he wouldn’t have hired anyone at all.

Perhaps the reason my employer seemed so content was the fact that he was currently cutting into a delicate slice of tiramisu crepe cake. He ate with almost ethereal grace, and as I somehow hadn’t thought to grab a slice for myself, my mind wandered to the circumstances that had led me to the purchase.

The week before, I had been making Richard’s royal milk tea as usual—I felt somewhat confident in my skills at this point, but there really was no matching a master—and asked him if there was a reason we didn’t serve coffee to customers. It was a common feature of many cafés, after all, and though this place was no longer a café, we still offered things like tea and snacks to customers.

Richard had stared at me like he was waiting for me to figure something out on my own, and after wracking my brain for possibilities, I tried, “We have barley tea and green tea, so it can’t be because you think anything except for royal milk tea won’t do…”

I received a deep sigh for my efforts. Richard arched an eyebrow. “Do you know how much is involved in the process of making coffee?” he asked.

As the coffee I most regularly consumed came from a can, there wasn’t a single response I could give.

That night, I searched up the process of manufacturing and brewing coffee, and quickly found myself beginning to develop a headache. Not only were there many places where coffee beans were grown, the different ways in which coffee was then brewed and what it was paired with felt almost limitless. Searching for espresso machines brought prices well over 15,000 yen, and it was at that point that I began to understand what Richard had conveyed in a single sentence.

Instant coffee could be made without any sense of technique or equipment, but the kind of coffee that set one’s mind at ease was probably the kind that only a real café was capable of. Or a coffee enthusiast, and I was neither. I tried to conjure the image of being offered canned or instant coffee at Jewelry Étranger, and immediately wrinkled my nose. Coffee at a café was meant to pleasant; I had no desire to remind myself of what it felt like to work late night after late night as a security guard. While I felt coffee had a warm, comforting scent, I knew all too well that it was also a bitter necessity. I was thankful that the caffeine had kept me awake, but it only worsened the quality of my sleep.

Still, though I had given up the idea of introducing coffee to our drink selection, I must not have completely forgotten about it, because the next time I stepped into a bakery, their offering of a tiramisu crepe cake caught my immediate attention.

I’d had tiramisu only once during a birthday in junior high. Birthdays when I was younger were a melancholy affair—they were small, intimate celebrations that reminded me of the insignificance of my life. It was the same feeling as lighting a candle in pure dark—loneliness shined more under small points of light. But my mother had always remembered to buy a cake year after year, no matter the circumstances. While she had already developed a taste for coffee, I still considered it something that was a bitter, awful drink that adults actually enjoyed. But after some firm persuasion from my mother, I reluctantly dug in.

Add enough sugar and it can turn bitter into sweet. I knew that now, but as a child I had been given an experience akin to magic. Even now, I could still recall the light and sweet taste accompanied by the delicate hints of coffee and chocolate.

Remembering it now, it was hard to explain why I hadn’t had one in such a long time, but I hadn’t developed the habit of searching out cafés, bakeries, and sweet shops until I started working at Jewelry Étranger. Food tasted better as of late.

This bakery in particular was a favorite of mine—it felt like every time I entered, there was still some sweet I had yet to try. And encounters like these, where it felt like little parts of my life were slotting together in serendipitous fashions, were becoming far more common. It was obvious in the way I’d found out about Tanimoto-san’s love for rocks and minerals, as well as her friend Shinkai’s dance company, or Hase-san visiting at the exact time I happened to be in the back, but when I told Richard this, he simply brushed it off.

“The more knowledge and experience you acquire, the more the world reveals itself to you,” he said. “Department stores have existed before you began working here, but only once you took an interest in diamonds did you notice the kinds of jewels they sold. The girl you wish was your girlfriend had an interest in minerals long before you began to. That was not fate—it was the fact that the more you learned, the more you could find commonalities or points of connection in the world around you.” He paused. “You, in particular… I would guess that you run into so many coincidences because you’re unable to turn your back.”

He was correct. The more people that visited Richard’s store, the more that I came to knew about the world. I had liked Tanimoto-san before I had met Richard, and she had loved rocks and minerals for far longer. But because I had been able to meet with Richard—and that was an encounter that could have only been fate—I’d gained awareness of a part of the world that had always existed, just not in my eyes. The more I learned about jewels, the more I treasured various things.

So that Saturday, I entered the bakery again, bought a slice, and arrived at Jewelry Étranger with an offering.

“…I still won’t give you a raise, you know,” Richard said.

As always, he looked beautiful. I had the feeling that he’d be annoyed if I told him the purchase was due to a bottomless kind of gratitude.

“I know.” At this point, I wondered if I needed to directly tell him how he paid far more than what I earned as a security guard. But I’d already turned down a job offer to stay here, so he must have known that I felt as if the work I was doing here was infinitely more valuable.

Since we’d had this kind of exchange quite a few times before, Richard tried the tiramisu crepe cake without much fuss. It was obvious he was enjoying it—perhaps his face hadn’t cracked out into a smile or anything of the sort, but there was a serene look on his face when he was enjoying sweets.

As he ate, a question popped to mind: “Say, Richard, have you had real tiramisu in Italy before?”

Richard paused between bites. “Do you mean to ask if I’ve had authentic tiramisu?”

“Well, you just seem as if you’ve been everywhere in the world…”

Rather than tell me if he’d spent time in Italy or not, Richard began to speak about the conflicted meaning of the word ‘authentic.’

“Tiramisu is Italian in origin, but the exact nature of how it was first produced is still up for debate. Tiramisu as we recognize it today certainly does not come in the nature of a crepe cake, but—” He paused to take another bite. “Grab yourself a fork, would you?”

I stared at him blankly as he deliberately placed his fork down on his plate. The last few bites of the crepe cake remained untouched, and only when he tilted his head in confusion did I rush to the kitchen in realization.

When I returned, Richard continued speaking without commenting on my lack of wits. “Something being authentic indeed means it is the real thing—a genuine article. Authenticity is also related to truth—in art, the style of realism is grounded in an attempt to depict life authentically. Without alterations or embellishments. For gemstones this is a fairly simple thing to classify—jewels are mined from specific places, so we designate that which is naturally-occurring as authentic. This runs in opposition as to imitation jewels, which are made from a different material, and approximate the look of a jewel without matching its innate qualities. The question of authenticity also is relevant when looking at heat treatment—pigeon blood rubies that haven’t undergone heat treatment are more valuable, because they have acquired the color naturally, yes?”

I nodded in agreement, reminded of Tanimoto-san’s opinion on heat treatment. She probably prized the authenticity of a gem—the one-of-a-kind nature each jewel had. I understood her feelings, but I also thought there was some kind of wonder in the process of polishing and cutting and heat treatment—each step gave a jewel a special kind of shine. But beauty was the kind of thing where opinions differed often.

“You’ve forgotten to actually put your fork to use,” Richard said, and I startled out of my daze to hurriedly take a bite. Well, no one would disagree about his beauty.

As expected, the tiramisu crepe cake was both light and sweet. The texture of crepes was certainly different than what I’d eaten as a child, but both carried that sense of pure delicacy—each layer felt like cotton-candied air. Though it didn’t smell like coffee, there was indeed the warm, rich undertone of what I’d come to understand as coffee’s flavor. If I could spend a birthday just like this… it would be a treasure of a memory.

Richard’s lips curled. “How is it?”                      

I made sure to properly swallow before I replied. “It’s delicious,” I marveled. “I don’t know why I’d forgotten the taste.”

“When you make rice at home, would you consider that rice real or authentic?” Richard asked. When I nodded, still chewing on my final bite of cake, he then asked, “Why?”

Maybe I would buy tiramisu on the way home. Or gift some to Hiromi—I could only assume that my birthday all those years ago was the last time she’d had tiramisu, too. “Well, because it’s rice,” I said. “I bought the rice grains, didn’t I? They were grown naturally. And then I cooked them.”

“If you acquired the exact ingredients required for tiramisu, and followed the same exact process as the original—though there are debates at to what the original is—would you still say that was authentic?”

I frowned. “I… suppose I would? Since everything is exact.” Was there a loophole I was missing?

“Perhaps,” Richard said. “Because it is hard to pinpoint its specific origins, what tiramisu qualifies as authentic can be hard to judge. Though the base components and methods are the same, the exact specifics differ—some may consider any tiramisu that follows the general process to be authentic, while others may not. In the case of champagne, unless what you think of champagne is made in the Champagne region of France, it cannot legally be called by that name. Even if the sparkling wine that is created is similar in taste, or uses the same process and ingredients, if the grapes are not sourced from that region, it will not be champagne.”

“Even though it’s possible to make an equivalent product?”  

“You could, indeed, make a very close match,” Richard said. “But it would legally not be authentic. Can you think of a reason why someone might want a name of a food protected?”

When phrased like that, the answer arrived to me immediately. “Brand protection,” I said. “Because the idea of champagne is precious, if other winemakers started selling something labelled as champagne, it would lose some of its prestige. By controlling what can be called champagne, they retain control over the production and image of champagne.”

“Good for you,” Richard said, and I bit down a smile. “Authenticity holds a different value for many people and many things. All that aside… this tiramisu crepe cake remains delicious.”

“It is,” I agreed, and then began to make him tea.

The rest of the day passed by in peace. Richard read from his collection of books, blond hair glittering under the sharp sun. I busied myself by cleaning the kitchen and running out to complete a few errands. The movement was helpful; the chill of autumn had settled in, and I had made the mistake of dressing far more lightly than Richard. His choice of wear likely made it easy for him to sit still, but I thought that even if he was wearing his suit in a blizzard or a tropical summer, he would seem as even-keeled as ever. That was the beauty of jewels—they were something that was gorgeous from all angles.

Around a half hour before closing time, the intercom buzzed.

Richard set down his book, and I went to let in our surprise customer.

Accompanied by a brush of cold wind, a young man stepped into the store. He had a slim frame, but despite being dressed as lightly as I was, showed no signs of being sensitive to the cold. His hair was slightly long in the front, bangs barely cropped above his eyes, but it was trimmed evenly. He was dressed casually yet neatly in a simple powder-blue sweater, gray slacks, and loafers.

The door closed behind him, and he glanced around the room once before asking, “This is a jeweler’s store, correct?”

“You’d be right,” I said, guiding him to sit in one of the red armchairs.

His hesitant expression curved into a full-faced smile. As he sat down, the awkward lines of his body began to bleed away, and he relaxed into the chair with an air of steady self-assurance. His pose remained polite, though—he kept his hands carefully folded over his lap, and his ankles were loosely crossed.

“Would you like something to drink?” I asked. Originally, I had wanted to give him something to soothe his nerves, but it looked like that was unneeded.

“Ah… that milk tea would be nice, if you don’t mind,” the man said, gesturing to Richard’s teacup.

Richard returned from the bookshelf, taking over the process of greeting out newest, customer, and I headed back to the kitchen. Both men spoke in measured tones, so even though they spoke at a medium volume, their voices carried well enough.

“…Richard Ranasinghe de Vulpian? Is it alright to call you Richard-san, then?” He spoke the name slowly, but he pronounced Richard’s full name without fumbling.

“Just Richard is fine, too.”

“Nice to meet you too, Richard-san. I’m Hanzawa Masato. If I’m not incorrect, you sell jewelry at this place?”

“Indeed we do. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

I returned to see Hanzawa-san wearing a thoughtful expression on his face. His gaze flickered towards me as I reentered the room. “I was hoping to look at stud earrings… is there anything else I should specify? I would prefer if it wasn’t prohibitively expensive…”

“Are there any kinds of stones you’re interested in looking at? Or a particular occasion or style this is meant for?”

When I drew close enough, Hanzawa-san turned to face me and accepted my tea, eyes still curved in a pleasant smile. “It’s something like a birthday gift, I suppose. As for stones… I’m not too knowledgeable regarding them.” He paused to contemplate.

Choosing a gift was always a complicated thing, in my opinion. For a gift, the trouble never ended at the purchase—it was always at the gifting that the issues arose. Would they understand the gift with the same meaning that I had in mind when I picked it? I thought about my grandmother and mother choosing my name. Was I the type of person they’d had in mind? I could only hope that was the case.

“I guess… something neutral would be best? The kind of earring fit for daily work wear.”

“Are you interested in looking at birthstones?”

Hanzawa-san sipped his tea, eyes fluttering shut in thought. “Not particularly.”

I had spent enough time to catch the traces of concern on Richard’s face, but not enough time to understand his worries. “It will take some time for me to bring my selections out. Please enjoy your tea while you wait,” he said, and then he was off, a determined crease to his brows.

Though I didn’t know exactly what was troubling him, I could learn. Surely Richard wouldn’t mind if I made some small talk?

“Might you also be a university student, Hanzawa-san?”

Hanzawa-san waved dismissively. “It’s only my first year, so I think I’m younger than you. I know I’m a customer, but there’s no need to be formal. Your name is…?”

“Nakata Seigi,” I said. “I’m in my second year.”

“I was right, then,” Hanzawa said. He’d passed over both Richard and my name without comment. I’d expected him to sound as restrained as he had with Richard, but he spoke freely. “Would I be right in saying you seem more interested in jewels as compared to jewelry?” At my confusion, he gestured to my neck, ears, and hands, which were bare of any accessories. “You don’t seem to wear any, so I’d wondered…”

“I suppose it’s the jewel itself that interests me,” I admitted. “Is it the opposite thing for you?”

“Most likely,” Hanzawa said. “It’s what I have experience in, anyways.”

At my once-again befuddled expression, Hanzawa brushed back his hair, and I caught sight of six piercing holes in his left ear.

“I see…” I replied, a little stunned. Even when his hair wasn’t brushed back, it was easy to see a few of his piercing holes.

Richard had probably noticed them from the moment he’d walked in.

Now that I thought about it clearly, a birthday gift could be presented to oneself, couldn’t it? Just like Yamamoto-san trying to buy herself a garnet.

I’d seen guys in my college with piercings, but none who bought any with jewels like the ones in Richard’s store. It was a kind of flashy choice for someone who looked so mild-mannered, but so were piercings in general.

In the same way that I’d only noticed the tiramisu in that bakery after asking Richard about coffee, I realized the reason for his concern. If it was a present for himself, the uncertainty in his answers could prove troublesome.

“If I could ask…” I prompted, as Richard returned with his tamatebako.

Richard set down his tamatebako with a harder than usual thud. He still looked concerned, but there was a different note to it.

“Sure.”

“Is there a reason a guy as young as you has so many piercings?”

Richard opened up his tamatebako with a sharp click.

Hanzawa kept smiling up at me. He took a long sip of his tea, and then directed his attention towards what Richard had selected.

I leaned over to take a look. As I did, Richard shot a pointed glare towards me. What? I mouthed back, but he ignored me.

The stones Richard had picked were split between gemstones with faceted cuts and cabochons. The studs themselves were made of a simple silver backing, with the stone fitted on top in a rounded or squared shape. The exception to this was the studs fitted with lapis lazuli, which were backed with gold. While I recognized the diamond and amethyst, there were a few colored stones in faceted cuts that I wasn’t certain how to identify. But the ones that caught my attention were the larger stud earrings, which were fitted with polished stones that didn’t sparkle but had bands of red, terracotta, and peach striped across its surface. Others had the same banding pattern but in soft grays and whites.

“These are beautiful,” Hanzawa said, smile dropping into a look of deep consideration. He leaned forward to study each one. “Of course, diamonds are a classic choice,” he sighed to himself.

“The clear color of a diamond is indeed well-suited to various shades of any outfit you might choose.”

“I see,” Hanzawa mused. He gestured to the rest of the jewels. “I recognize the amethyst. And the… lapis lazuli, yes? Seeing it in person, it certainly is a vivid kind of blue,” he said. “But I’m a little unfamiliar with the rest of these gems. Would you mind explaining them?”

“Of course,” Richard said. “The green stone you see here is peridot. The yellow, orange, and brown stones you see here are citrine. Like amethyst, it is a type of quartz. This”—he pointed to a deep yellow-orange stone— “is heat-treated amethyst, which looks similar to citrine, with minor differences. The banded stones are agate. They are a mix of quartz and moganite—both have an equivalent chemical composition, but different crystal structures.”

I hadn’t heard of moganite until now—unless I was mishearing morganite, but Richard had such wonderful pronunciation I thought that was impossible. Despite all of the information, all Hanzawa did was nod in understanding.

“Peridot,” Hanzawa repeated to himself. “I don’t think I’ve seen any before.”

The stone he was looking at was a sparkling kind of lime green. “It’s like the color of spring,” I said.

Hanzawa bowed his head, suddenly bashful. “Yes. It’s… well, it’s a color I’m fond of,” he admitted.

“Would you like to see more?”

He shook his head. “…No, it’s not really… well-suited for me.” After a moment of contemplation, he pointed to the lapis lazuli. “How does this one get its gold flecks?”

“Lapis lazuli is composed of several different minerals, and a common addition happens to be pyrite, which is responsible for that gold color. As you mentioned, it is a very vivid blue, which is why, historically, it was ground to create ultramarine. Before a synthetic alternative was created, it was an extremely expensive and prized paint.”  

Hanzawa smiled down at the stones. “I’ve heard of ultramarine. Isn't it what provides the blue shades in many of Johannes Vermeer’s works?”

I made a note to ask Richard who Johannes Vermeer was later.

“That’s correct.” After a pause, Richard added, “If you are looking for something neutral, blue tends to be a color that pairs well with others.”

“Oh, that’s—I’ll keep it in mind,” Hanzawa said. Haltingly, he asked, “Is jewelry made of lapis lazuli—is it quite common?”

“Compared to the rest of these stones, it’s a bit of a more delicate material,” Richard allowed, “so it has to be carefully looked after. But historically, lapis lazuli has been used in all kinds of jewelry.”

“…Is that so.”

Silence dragged on between them. Hanzawa seemed unbothered by it, though it was hard to see much of his expression, with both his bangs and lashes obscuring his eyes.

“…This agate. I feel like I’ve seen stones with this banding before.”

“Banding is characteristic but not exclusive to agate,” Richard said. “It has been used for carvings as well as jewelry and remains popular today. Each piece of agate has differences in how exactly the banding occurs, so one could say that each piece is truly unique.”

“Unique…” A ghost of uncertainty appeared on Hanzawa’s face, but it was gone in a flash. “Does it come in any other colors?”

“Oftentimes agate will be dyed into various colors, but there are some other colors present in naturally occurring agates. Would you like to see some blue lace agate?”

“Surely that dyed agate is prettier, huh?” Hanzawa murmured, so low I barely heard him. Apropos of nothing, he then straightened up, looking flustered. “Sorry,” he said. “I think—I think I’m a little in over my head.” He drank the last of his tea in disconcerting silence.

“If you’d like to come back, we take appointments,” I said.

“…Right,” Hanzawa said, eyes still fixed on the earrings before him. He set his teacup down on the table. “What would be a good time?”

“Sunday, 4PM?” Richard suggested, and Hanzawa agreed.

With that settled, Hanzawa thanked me for the tea, bid a polite goodbye to us both, and exited the store, leaving another gust of crisp air in his wake.

As it was now closing time, I went to collect the now empty teacups, only to find Richard looking up at me expectantly.

“What?” I asked.

He sighed. “Nothing that concerns you, I suppose.”

“By the way, who’s Johannes Vermeer?” I asked.

“Have you ever seen Girl with a Pearl Earring?” Richard asked.

“He was the artist?” I confirmed, and then went to wash the teacups.

When I returned, Richard was staring at his open tamatebako.

I took a seat next to him. “Thinking about our customer?”

“…Jewels reflect the inner feelings of a person,” Richard said after a long silence. “I wonder how to convey that truth to a person like him.”

“It was strange to see someone so young here,” I agreed. “Well, Hajime-kun was much younger, but his circumstances were different.”

“You’re quite young yourself,” Richard commented dryly. “Aren’t you two the same age?”

“If we went to the same university, I’d be his senpai,” I said. “Still. It’s rare. I thought he’d be more nervous.”

“…I don’t think he wasn’t nervous,” Richard said, but when I asked him what he meant, he didn’t elaborate.

“Well,” I said, wondering how I could clear those worry lines from his face, “we’ll see him next week.”

“Maybe,” Richard said, and this, I didn’t need him to explain.

If Hanzawa Masato came in next week at the appointed time, or if he had disappeared out that door for forever, it was impossible to know.

[valderaa]

hanzawa to tashiro warmup

read on ao3 (759 words)

was having trouble w/ setting the tone of a fic I’m writing so I did some warmup practice. that ended up being some hanzawa to tashiro stuff, so that’s under the cut

“This is so unfair,” Tashiro complains.

He can’t see much of Hanzawa’s face, what with his hair obscuring his forehead and also the fact that he’s currently looking down, studying Tashiro’s nails with careful intent. But he can catch glimpses underneath Hanzawa’s lashes, thick and secretive like his bangs, and the steel glint of his eyes in concentration. It’s the same way he looks in a match of ping pong, only instead of darting back and forth he’s unnaturally still, swiping stripes of polish across the breadth of Tashiro’s nail.  

Hanzawa looks up; there’s the ghost of a smile on his face. Beneath him, Tashiro’s hand is laid flat on the table, guarded by a thin sheet of scrap paper. There’s a clean coat of translucent, scarlet red on his index finger. “What’s so unfair, Tashiro-kun?”

“You are,” Tashiro says, at first unwilling to pay him a compliment. But he relents as Hanzawa’s smile grows wider, anyways. What a jerk. “How are you so good at painting nails? There’s got to be a limit to the number of cards someone’s allowed to have up their sleeve, you know?”

“Cards?” Hanzawa muses, dipping his brush in the bottle of polish, and moving to the next nail. “You make me sound like the kind of person who’d cheat at poker.”

Even though Hanzawa can’t see him, Tashiro stares at him with the kind of look that says, yes, absolutely, you would do that.

Judging by the way Hanzawa pauses over Tashiro’s ring finger, shoulders slightly trembling, Tashiro thinks he knows.

“Anyways,” Hanzawa says, once he steadies himself and resumes painting Tashiro’s nails, “it’s harder for people to paint their dominant hand. I’ve been enlisted by my sister to do this quite a few times, so I’ve had practice.”

“I guess that explains it,” Tashiro says, wondering if he should ask Hanzawa to go ahead and repaint the hand he did himself, too. “What’s your sister like?”

“Ah—could you lift up your hand, Tashiro-kun? I’m going to get your thumb—make sure not to hit your fingers against anything else.”

Tashiro complies, and Hanzawa uses his free hand to hold Tashiro’s thumb steady. Tashiro keeps his fingers splayed, wondering if the unnatural heat of his fingertips is enough for Hanzawa to notice. If he’s noticed already. It would be impossible for him to not notice, because Hanzawa’s hands are chill to the touch—delicate, too, like the glassy sound of ice in a summer drink.

“She’s a little bit like all big sisters are, I guess,” Hanzawa says. “I’m glad she’s able to help out during these events, but,”—a small, breathy laugh escapes his mouth and grazes Tashiro’s skin—“I do wish she’d stop treating me like a child.”

Hanzawa swipes the brush over his fingernail and screws it back into the bottle. “All done,” he says, standing up and stretching the crick out of his neck.

Tashiro watches him, mouth suddenly dry. “Hey,” he says, “think you could redo my other hand, too?”

Hanzawa smiles.

bonus:

“Hey.”

Predictably, Hirano startles, whirling around in irritation before his brows promptly un-furrow into deep apathy. “Wha—Oh. it’s you.”

Sasaki resists the urge to ruffle his hair. “That’s how you greet a friend?” he asks.

Hirano scowls. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Sasaki shrugs and tips back on his heels. He’d just gotten a text that Miyano was way too busy to even text, and while Sasaki thinks he wouldn’t complain if he visited, he also thinks it’s probably not the correct thing to do. It’s Miyano’s last year, and he doesn’t want to distract him from his last school festival—it has to be special.

Besides, Sasaki’s gotten pretty good at waiting.

“You’re not running to see Miyano?” Hirano asks after tapping out a text on his phone.

“Myaa-chan’s busy,” Sasaki replies. He squints at Hirano’s phone, but it’s too far to make out any proper words on the screen. “You meeting up with your roommate?”

Hirano wrinkles his nose, taps out another text. “Not my roommate.”

“It’s the only way I know how to refer to him,” Sasaki says. “Would you rather I call him Kagi-kun?”

“What? No.” Hirano looks aghast.

“Well, that’s all the information I have, name-wise,” Sasaki muses. “Would you prefer ex-roommate?”

Hirano groans. “That’s even weirder,” he says.

“He’s nice, though?”

“Hm?”

“Your—whatever,” Sasaki waves his hand indeterminately in the air, deeply conscious of the ring on Hirano’s hand. “He’s nice?”

Hirano closes his eyes, looking pleased. “Like the damn sun.”

[valderaa]

B, F, K?

thought abt going thru all of my fics and felt an intense bout of decision fatigue so I’ve decided to limit things to mostly a3, which I think is probably the more interesting way to answer, anyways. I ramble so this is a bit lengthy.

B: Any of your stories inspired by personal experience?

oh yeah. I am Not Immune to Projecting Sometimes. I know I just said I’d talk abt a3 but this bakugou-centric fic was just me drawing heavily on my personal experiences with like. complicated family dynamics and it seemed to go okay so. I’m pleased with it mostly bc i felt like the conclusion wasn’t very… wish fulfillment? which is nice sometimes, but not what i wanted. 

on the a3 side, the Specifics are rather different but dress for success was definitely inspired by conversations i’ve had about gender and presentation before... but the detail drawn most from real life was probably juza’s thoughts about his smile, particularly that he’s just a guy that. Doesn’t Smile. As a kid i was 100% the sort of like. Person who has never smiled ever to my classmates and that made me later in life believe that i was just like. Incapable of smiling properly. I smile lots nowadays tho :) 

F: Share a snippet from one of your favourite dialogue scenes you've written and explain why you're proud of it.

[LUKE] It’s not. Besides, when I wake up, won’t you be there? On the other end of sleep, and “ Good night,” is a “Good morning”. You don’t need to follow me into everything, as long as you know you’ll see me again. [S] “Good night” is a very strange greeting, then. [LUKE] Maybe so. More than a greeting, I think it feels like a promise. 

clockwork heart is. my favorite play. it may even be my favorite event. (tough competition w/ captain’s sky pirates + my master’s mesmerized by mystery for me. and nocturnality.) 

this snippet is really just. it's kind of barely a fic. the whole post is not that long. I had Lots Of Thoughts about how luke, at the end of a clockwork heart, says, “So it’s just good night for now.” it was, to me, just such a perfect encapsulation of the idea that this separation was temporary and not forever, even though they were both saying goodbye, so I wanted to write something that expanded on that idea a little. i think it's effective, seeing as how I get more emotional about the ending, now, and the script format forced me to pretty much rely on dialogue alone.

K: What's the angstiest idea you've ever come up with? 

this made me look at myself and be like… huh, i think i’ve decreased in angst as i’ve grown older. interesting.

anyways i think mine would be…  there’s this backstage for nocturnality (so like, spoilers for that) where azuma is transported into the world of nocturnality and like. meets with kota after the ending of the play. and he makes this comment about like. oh, I prefer tasuku to kota, after all. 

and it just like. I’ve never stopped thinking abt that. so I had the sketches of an idea where it’s like. azuma is dropped into that world only like… he Stays There for wayyyy longer than a couple of hours. and u get very fun stuff of like. kota projects his feelings about reo onto azuma and azuma kind of does the same, and the like… lines blur a little badly and they probably lash out at each other somewhat. and it’s a bit complicated, since at this point in time azuma and tasuku have grown closer but they still don’t know each other Perfectly. and he’s not even here but there’s a guy with his face who is Almost Like Him (and how well can you be sure you knew tasuku, too…) all while you’re also slowly losing your sense of self because like, in this world, “reo” is the real existence?  there was also gonna be some kind of drama with the vampire society I think… since azuma would actually be like Human and not. Turned Yet. 

anyways it never rly went anywhere bc it would have to be a lengthy multichap and i’ve got a slow track record with those. i need to finish at least One. these are all also just like… vague concepts that i hadn’t fleshed out into proper plot beats, so it requires a Lot of Work that i just. don’t want to do currently. but i think it could be like. really fun.

ask me about fics & stuff!

[valderaa]

whenever I have Thoughts particularly abt gender I end up floating back to the fun quirks of hanzawa to tashiro so here is me inflicting my tashiro wip on the world. it is under the cut.

read on ao3 (759 words)

II.

last week hanzawa had pressed an ice cold water bottle against his neck, and when tashiro had shrieked with the voice of a high school girl he’d whirled around to see hanzawa doubled over and laughing, the wrinkles around his eyes deep and mysterious as always.

“tashiro-kun,” he’d said, “your face!” and the glee mapped out in the curve of his lips and eyes and the scrunch of his nose was maddening. in the kind of way that made tashiro feel like he needed to retaliate immediately but in the way it made him feel like he was also pinned to the ground and couldn’t.

“what was that for?” he asked.

hanzawa crouched down, water bottle swinging hypnotically in his hands. they’d been making eye contact the whole time, but now he was eye-level, and even though he hadn’t shrieked at this tashiro felt the distinct impression that there was a rug being pulled from underneath him. “hmm,” hanzawa said, only he stretched it out into three separate notes, like he was not just mulling over one thing but thousands in a few seconds. “because it’s fun?”

“you—“ tashiro said. he tugged the water bottle from the loose hold of hanzawa’s fingers. “why are you always like this?”

“aren’t I delivering you your precious water?” hanzawa asked, faking the most blatantly untruthful expression of sincerity and surprise. “my, tashiro-kun, how could you be so rude?”

tashiro stared at him for a while and then—and then hanzawa giggled, a little different from his regular laugh, a little quieter, and silly in a way that tashiro thought sometimes he only got to see, and it was hard not to crack a smile at it but he managed, settling on a pout instead. “you’re impossible,” he’d said, and that had been the end of that.

this, by itself, was not that weird. it was just the way that hanzawa masato operated.

only now he was sitting in his dorm and—well. the water bottle—hanzawa’s water bottle, that is, was still there. sitting on his desk.

he didn’t mean to forget it, okay? he’d noticed he’d taken it almost immediately and he’d left it on his desk so he would remember, only he didn’t remember, and even though he could give it back any time now it just felt strange to do so, especially considering the fact that hanzawa hadn’t asked him about it at all. and it wasn’t a disposable water bottle, either—it was a nice, unassuming kind of brand, and it was part of why tashiro had been so surprised in the first place when he’d felt it against his back, because cold plastic was different than cold metal and he was still in high school! his voice still cracked! it was fine if it sounded a little high!

but the water bottle was still in front of him. it wouldn’t be such a big deal if he just returned it, but he wondered if hanzawa had gotten another one for himself already. or if he was being tricky again, and the reason he hadn’t asked tashiro about where his water bottle had gone was because it was another kind of indirect and weird gift. like how he’d passed on the title of captain in a way that was irritating and sweet in the same breath.

[valderaa]

excerpt(s) from the novel hanzawa masato will not write.

—written words are dangerous. they’ll stain the self like a false record. what goes on here lies half awake and asleep.

(I could be awake. but it is easier for everyone to pretend otherwise.)

this is not a very good novel. it’s you, after all. it’s me. it’s him—the boy not-yet man with black-dyed hair and covered piercings. hanzawa masato. you know him. you know yourself. you know yourself so well you could dissect him into small little pieces and line me up on a table, piercing by piercing.

here’s the first. on the right, it pricks through the skin with an uncertain, slipshod sense of correctness, and then the left comes easily enough for symmetry. there’s something quite beautiful about parallels, but it feels ugly when worn by him.

that’s the kicker, the second thing, not a piercing but a wound stretched across your back. settled there like a phantom, the image clinging with a sticky kind of awkwardness. a real knife wound of that size would hurt. whatever… feelings you’re having, they’re certainly not like that. try again.

this is a story. it is not a very good one, but he knows how to tell it like a story—can disassemble his smiles into charm the same way he can take each bout of his insomnia and draw a sympathetic portrait. bow with his head to the ground and tear up and confess his sins. beg for forgiveness. let everyone know I am afraid. you know why you cannot write this novel.

—does that make this boy selfish?

a liar, at least. that one is obvious enough.

pretend that it’s insomnia which loosens your tongue and not your own self-inflicted weakness. the mind thrives on little delusions. you’re me, after all. I know the kind of person you are. incapable of any expression but the vague ideal of one. vacant of any feeling but the suggestion that he might be something more than an empty, rattling shell, paint bleached out by sun. even that’s a metaphor too pleasing for the hands that write this, for the aching pulsing in my brain—even that description of my sickness… it’s too nice.

…I can’t. I don’t think I can say—

—or write. it’s too permanent, too real, but is anything real? it’s not important, I don’t think, it’s just…

all the blood under your skin will remain exactly where it is. veins glow blue-green and expose less than you think. you’ll laugh soon enough, so just…

[valderaa]

excerpt(s) from the novel hanzawa masato will not write.

—written words are dangerous. they’ll stain the self like a false record. what goes on here lies half awake and asleep.

(I could be awake. but it is easier for everyone to pretend otherwise.)

this is not a very good novel. it’s you, after all. it’s me. it’s him—the boy not-yet man with black-dyed hair and covered piercings. hanzawa masato. you know him. you know yourself. you know yourself so well you could dissect him into small little pieces and line me up on a table, piercing by piercing.

here’s the first. on the right, it pricks through the skin with an uncertain, slipshod sense of correctness, and then the left comes easily enough for symmetry. there’s something quite beautiful about parallels, but it feels ugly when worn by him.

that’s the kicker, the second thing, not a piercing but a wound stretched across your back. settled there like a phantom, the image clinging with a sticky kind of awkwardness. a real knife wound of that size would hurt. whatever… feelings you’re having, they’re certainly not like that. try again.

this is a story. it is not a very good one, but he knows how to tell it like a story—can disassemble his smiles into charm the same way he can take each bout of his insomnia and draw a sympathetic portrait. bow with his head to the ground and tear up and confess his sins. beg for forgiveness. let everyone know I am afraid. you know why you cannot write this novel.

—does that make this boy selfish?

a liar, at least. that one is obvious enough.

pretend that it’s insomnia which loosens your tongue and not your own self-inflicted weakness. the mind thrives on little delusions. you’re me, after all. I know the kind of person you are. incapable of any expression but the vague ideal of one. vacant of any feeling but the suggestion that he might be something more than an empty, rattling shell, paint bleached out by sun. even that’s a metaphor too pleasing for the hands that write this, for the aching pulsing in my brain—even that description of my sickness… it’s too nice.

…I can’t. I don’t think I can say—

—or write. it’s too permanent, too real, but is anything real? it’s not important, I don’t think, it’s just…

all the blood under your skin will remain exactly where it is. veins glow blue-green and expose less than you think. you’ll laugh soon enough, so just…

[valderaa]

One unfortunate side effect of his sleeping schedule is that Hisoka frequently wakes up in the middle of the night. At first, it’s calming—the utter silence of the dorm feels rather warm in it’s stillness, and sometimes when the moon is bright enough his feet will lead him outside to stare at it and feel something sure settle within himself. Now that he’s gotten his memories back, the moon brings more real reminiscing than it does vague feelings, but tonight, none of that is on his mind.

When he wakes that night it’s to a new moon and soft mumbling. Hisoka breathes in deep and shifts noiselessly to squint at the hazy shape of Arisu kneeling on his bed, half-lit solely by the alarm clock on his nightstand. Even in the fuzzy dark, Hisoka can see the thin lines of his hands clasped in prayer. The vision shakes—Hisoka blinks to steady his eyes, and only after a minute does he realize that Arisu is trembling.

Though Arisu tries his best to keep quiet, Hisoka’s lived a life where his senses needed to be sharp or else.

“But you… I think you were wrong. You will be, at least,” Arisu whispers. A long sigh escapes his mouth. “That thing… it can happen to me. Someone like me… I can have it. I can give it back.” His last words leave a long stretch of silence in their wake, so long that Hisoka considers returning to sleep, but Arisu hasn’t yet moved from his current pose. “And even if… it never happens, it is okay,” Arisu says. “I will be fine. I will. I do not imagine I will ever stop wanting it, but—“ His voice cracks. “I will be fine.”

Hisoka wants to leap from his bed right now and comfort him. He wants to tell Arisu that the thing he wants is right in front of him. That Hisoka can see it glittering deeply and brightly in his eyes and that he’ll be adored by it for the rest of his life. He wants to tell him that he’ll have as much of it as he wants wherever, whenever.

But right now Arisu looks sleepless and scared and on the verge of tears and Hisoka, more than anything, doesn’t want to make him cry. When you’re sleepless it can wreck your brain and make feel so crazy that even the right things can feel strange, and he’s not willing to chance that, especially on his own.

Instead, he waits as a weary exhale leaves Arisu’s still-kneeling form, and watches carefully as Arisu tucks himself back into bed. He’s asleep soon enough, and when enough time has passed that the sky is beginning to lighten with the cracks of dawn, Hisoka sneaks over to Arisu’s fancy writing desk, steals a pen, and scribbles a shaky ink heart into his open palm. He does it enough times that the outline is thick as marker, and then he runs a hand through a lock of Arisu’s hair. It’s soft between his fingers. Then he leaves the pen curled in Arisu’s still-open hand, and moves back to his own bed.

When he wakes, Arisu is on top of him, eyes glittering bright with unshed tears. “You! Hisoka Mikage!” he shouts as soon as Hisoka blinks awake.

“What?”

“You are so frustrating!” he exclaims, jabbing a pointed finger at Hisoka’s ribs. “Truly maddening!”

“Hm,” Hisoka says. “You’re happy?”

“Of course I am!” Arisu says. “It’s to the point I could recite poems spontaneously! Dozens of them!”

“Tell me, then,” Hisoka challenges, and Arisu leans down and whispers that thing over and over and over again, ballpoint pen pressing ink hearts on Hisoka’s face. Though it’s a little difficult with a pen pushing against his cheek, Hisoka repeats every word with an equal amount of feeling.

[valderaa]

minamoto kou failed his first and only art class in his first year of middle school. fail is a bit harsh—he scraped by with a passing grade, but his teacher had told him with big and kind and serious eyes that he had no talent and vision. “I encourage abstract art,” she’d said, “but it’s like you’re unable to capture the shape of anything. everything you turn in is like illegible handwriting. you just don’t have the sense for it. even in abstract, there’s no direction to it.”

it wasn’t a big deal, at the time—art was an elective, so kou switched to a different one the year after. nowadays, though, he stops by the art room every once in a while. the students work on a lot of subjects, but almost always, there’s some portrait or the other, and kou spends a few minutes imagining that he could hold a paintbrush and capture the strokes of mitsuba’s smile.

maybe that’s why mitsuba’s so careful with capturing people in his camera—there’s no art to change what’s around him, so it has to capture what’s there. rendering that into an image—kou understands the difficulty, a little bit. when photos were good, they were almost like paintings, lush with vivid feeling—a quick, imprecise capture would only make things looks worse.

still, mitsuba had taken a picture of him. despite all of that. maybe because of it. he’d snapped it so quickly, too. like he knew it was a sure thing. and when kou had seen that picture he’d seen himself and the colors of mitsuba’s vision burned into a single photo, after he’d cried for an hour and gotten the strength to look at it again without tears to mark his vision, he’d seen pure life coming out of it. artistic sense of vision or not, minamoto kou understood then that mitsuba sousuke was a genius.

[valderaa]

[SEO KOTA]

You know, I don’t think I ever get tired of seeing you cook.

[KUTO REO]

Ah, one of these days I was planning to ask why you always sit there so intently. Haven’t you heard it’s not polite to stare?

[SEO KOTA]

Well, now you know. It helps me relax.

(REO stands with his back facing KOTA, but the audience is able to see the pleased smile on REO’S face.)

[KUTO REO]

(with a light laugh)

Is that so? Have you been finding work troublesome?

[SEO KOTA]

Not necessarily. Work is work, you know? It’s not that interesting. I suppose I haven’t been sleeping well recently, but it’s not like work has been stressing me more than usual… I don’t know. I apologize—that was a bit of a tangent. I’m sure this will pass, soon enough.

(REO’S expression visibly dims. He takes a long moment to steady himself before turning off the stove, and sitting across the table from KOTA.)

[KUTO REO]

…Soon enough, I’m sure.

[SEO KOTA]

Hm?

(REO’S head is bowed, eyes locked firmly on the table and dishes in front of him.)

[KUTO REO]

(spoken as he plates a dinner for one)

Your troubles with sleep. I’m sure they’ll pass soon enough. I’d like to see you doing alright.

[SEO KOTA]

As always, you’re sweet. This looks delicious, as well. Something like this… it’s definitely enough to make me feel more than alright.

(REO’S expression falters, and a bowl slips from his hands before KOTA catches it in a steadying two-handed grasp. Their fingers brush against each other, and linger before KOTA places the bowl down.)

[SEO KOTA]

Whoa! Are you okay?

[KUTO REO]

I’m fine.

[SEO KOTA]

Come to think of it, you look a little out of it. I know you said you’re used to keeping an irregular eating schedule, but if you’re hungry, we can just share. I don’t mind.

[KUTO REO]

(with a shake of the head that comes off as slightly forceful)

It’s alright. I was just lost in thought. Why don’t you eat before the food gets cold?

(KOTA begins to dig in, but his eyes stay locked on REO. REO looks away from KOTA. His gaze settles on the night sky.)

[valderaa]

two-tone.

read on ao3 (1,568 words)

ummm. so. @dirtbra1n‘s posts about hanzawa and tashiro and the river and everything got me thinking enough that i ended up? writing something. so here is my small offering under the readmore. please don’t ask me about where this fits in with the canon timeline… i’m not good at that

Keep reading

[valderaa]

[S]

I don’t understand. Why are you mad? Can a broken thing not be fixed?

[LUKE]

Not everything can be fixed! And even if it can be, it’s still been broken… that hurts, you know! 

[S]

You feel pain for this object? It feels nothing, though. And this state is temporary.

[LUKE]

Even if I know it can be restored exactly the same way, I’ll still be hurt, because I’ll remember the way it looked when it was broken. It’s not like I can just forget that.

[S]

Even if it was perfectly the same?

[LUKE]

Even when you fix something that’s broken… it’s never the same as it once was. No matter how hard you want it to be.

[S]

I don’t necessarily understand it, Luke, but it seems important to you.

[LUKE]

Time has always passed, you see. Can you undo the time that it was broken? Time is not something you can fix, after all. Memories will always remain.

[S]

So strange. Just yesterday, I had read that time heals all wounds.

[LUKE]

That’s quite a famous saying, S. I don’t know if I really agree with it, though. Some people might believe that with enough time, memories will fade and you won’t remember the pain you went through. But I’ve always felt that some things are important enough to remember forever.

[S]

Memory, is it? It seems like such a treasure to you. [LUKE]

When people or things you used to have by your side are gone… memory is the only thing you have left of them.

[S]

I see. It makes you feel less alone. [LUKE] It does. I’ve been alone for a long time, but… well, that’s not the case now.

[valderaa]

[S]

Good morning from the time you wake to noon, good afternoon is for after noon until evening, and evening is…?

[LUKE]

Evening is… hard to define. You can just say hello to greet others, then.

[S]

And after evening, you must greet someone with “Good night?”

[LUKE]

No, “Good night” is what you say when you’re telling someone goodbye. Because you’re usually both leaving to go sleep, so that’s why we say “Good night.”

[S]

But you and me do not leave to go somewhere else, do we? Yet you still say “Good night.”

[LUKE]

Well, when we sleep, it’s not like we travel together in our dreams, right? So we are saying goodbye, but it’s just temporary.

[S]

I do not dream.

[LUKE]

But you still sleep, right?

[S]

I do. …I would like to follow you into your dreams one day, Luke. Is that not possible?

[LUKE]

It’s not. Besides, when I wake up, won’t you be there? On the other end of sleep, and “ Good night,” is a “Good morning”. You don’t need to follow me into everything, as long as you know you’ll see me again.

[S]

“Good night” is a very strange greeting, then.

[LUKE]

Maybe so. More than a greeting, I think it feels like a promise.

[S]

Night fell a few hours prior. If I say “Good night,” you and I will sleep, and then see each other when we wake?

[LUKE]

I might not sleep immediately, but essentially, yes.

[S]

I see. …Good night, Luke.

[LUKE]

Good night, S.

[valderaa]

heads up: I’m reorganizing and updating this archive blog, so there will be a bunch of posts coming in the following days! trying to keep everything in order; when it’s done I will maybe post my organization scheme for navigation.

currently I have it set to queue 3 posts per day. I may up this to 5, but either way it won’t be any kind of spam, just increased activity

edit: okay bumped up to 9-10. I still think that falls under “not spam”? hopefully?