[ID: A sketchy digital drawing of Hanzawa Masato from Sasaki to Miyano. He is standing with his back towards the viewer, turning his head to look up at the camera. He's standing knee-deep in a flowing river and has sunburns on his neck, arms, and face. Blood pours out of his back, staining his shirt and diluting into the river below. One version uses blue lines with red blood while the other uses green lines and red blood. The artist's signature "sunnfish" is written in the water. /End ID]
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deciding that my strategy for updating my resume is going to be Do all the other shit I’ve been putting off for ≥ the past year first because I’m not doing the resume thing anyway. #unemployment
back home went to bed at five or so in the morning got up once to pee and slept in until six in the evening. jet lag isn’t real this is just something I do sometimes
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miyano and hirano's friendship is sooooo funny to me. like there's that one sasamiya chapter where he's talking to ogasawara like "yeah hirano is a great senpai... i respect him a lot... he's really cool and smart.... also i think he should take it up the ass" meanwhile hirano is like "i really appreciate how diligent miyano is. he's reliable and a good kouhai. i just wish he'd stop talking about me taking it up the ass"
call me terminally academia-brained but i do think a lot of the fun of character analysis is figuring out how to build a compelling argument for a particular reading using lines of evidence from canon as well as meta/intertextual support
and you could say that what i’m saying here is basically “a lot of the fun of doing character analysis is doing character analysis” but let’s be real a lot of fandom character analysis is pretty heavily vibes-based. and i think that’s where i really chafe up against the traditional thought-terminating fandom attitude of like, everyone’s opinions hold equal weight and any interrogation of that is inherently hostile. because i think it’s fascinating to dig into where others are coming from in terms of their views on characters or dynamics or whatever, especially when they differ significantly from more commonly expressed views, and part of that digging is asking people okay what parts of canon are you drawing from to support your opinion? what parts of canon are you disregarding or downplaying? how does this argument hold up in the light of how race, gender, class, ability, etc. operate both in the piece’s in-fiction and real world contexts?
Simple drawings inspired by this post by @dirtbra1n. I could quote every line in that post its just freaking. Augh. It’s like proper literature it’s profound it gets to me. Kagiura Akira.
everything kagi said about subconscious love was true and he’s the bravest person in the world. how many other people walk around with the height of a telephone pole and advertise the level of vulnerability he does.
he’s all open, nerves and corresponding nerve endings experiencing the world and love and love to kagiura akira is so much. how can love be so fulfilling and yet so cruel? how could he meet and then know someone who is everything he never realized he wanted and yet be kept from them? kagi is all nerves pulsing love but it’s a nerve ending’s job to detect pain. do you understand?
do you?
kagi is made of love. he’s made of love and he’s made to give and receive it and the thing is that he has, he has given love. to his parents and his friends and his teammates. to his hirano-san. and he receives it too, I know he does, from his parents and his friends and his teammates and his hirano-san, but what does it MATTER if it’s not the right love. kagi experiences right love for the first time in his life and it’s queer love and it’s such a fulfilling feeling but it hurts.
please understand. it HURTS.
kagi is young and made of love and he loves hirano. he loves hirano so much and so purely and then it’s not “pure” anymore, not after “Do you want to kiss him?” and that’s not a bad thing but how should he know? he loves and wants to love and he does, he does want to kiss him. kagi wants so much.
and the thing is always going to be that wanting and being good feel so often to be at odds, because how can kagi want hirano so badly and not be wanted that way back? how can he respect the person he loves and yet soothe the ache in his chest? it’s the pining you feel at the backs of your teeth. youth is lovely and ugly and violent because it lives in your bones and hurts as you grow.
and kagi has felt that hurt a lot, it’s how he got so damn tall.
kagi’s hungry. appetite increases when you’re growing and kagi grows constantly. and he wants. and he’s hungry. and it HURTS.
everything kagi has ever said about subconscious love is true. that’s both fact and prayer.
kagi didn’t know he wanted so much. he didn’t know he wanted in the first place. “do you want to kiss him?” was “do you want him?” and “is he special to you in a way that no one else can be?” and “do you love him?”
kagi doesn’t have the same problem as hirano. kagi has growing pains and an ache at the back of his teeth and sore legs that hirano can say “I’m gonna touch you.” over without so much as a jump at his heart, and kagi has hirano in every single way except for the one he wants most.
“do you want to kiss him?” was a catalyst. kagi wanted to and still wants to marry hirano, and then he found out that he wanted to and wants to kiss him, too. he wants to kiss him. he wants him. hirano is special to him like no one else is.
kagi loves hirano.
kagi loves hirano, and he is the bravest person in the world. how can you quantify being someone’s most important person? how many ways can you quantify being someone’s most important person?
an important phone call, or souvenirs and extra souvenirs, all bought with new years money, or a dog keychain.
or blue piercings, worn without a second thought.
kagi is the bravest person in the world, because he knows. he knows that he’s the most important person to hirano. he knows but he’s still left wanting,
and it’s not anyone’s fault.
“I want to get married” was “I want you to keep smiling at me like that,” and “please keep humoring my childish requests,” and “please keep waking me up in the morning.”
“I want to get married” was “I want to marry you.”
if that is that and this is this, how many other ways do you need to quantify being someone’s most important person?
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Tashiro’s hair was loose, and blond all the way to the roots. Strands of it, cut unevenly, curled and stuck to his chin, his neck, and his shoulders. And he was smiling.
“Wow, Hanzawa-sensei,” he chirped. “Fancy running into you here.”
Hanzawa flicked the ash from his cigarette, and watched the smoldering embers of the end. “Please, you’re not my student,” he scoffed. “Don’t call me that.”
some people may have noticed me complain a lot about writing recently. this fic is the reason. I posted a wip version of this in april of last year, chipped away at it in parts, realized the whole thing didn’t work, and then rewrote the thing from the start. all this to say: I put a crazy amount of work into this one, so please enjoy.
.
Tonight, he was craving heat. He’d come out for the cold, because he’d thought he’d wanted it, but he hadn’t, not more than he’d needed the snap of fresh air to clear the drunken haze from his mind. After that it was still cold, still miserable, still dull, like the headache festering at his temples. And this was when the desire, bottled up and dusky, began to gleam—he longed for a crystalline peace, fragile-edged and teetering.
Body leant over the railing of the veranda, his fingers searched into his pockets until he’d unearthed his lighter and a cigarette. The exposed flame sputtered against the windswept night. He clicked emptily though the tedium—caught sparks, flared heat, snuffed out—until the breeze broke into quiet.
Cigarette now lit, he led it to his waiting lips. The nicotine dragged through him, hot and acrid, stealing cacophony into stillness.
The view was distant from the city proper, but even here, the nightglow had sunken its claws into the dark. He let the cigarette dangle between two fingers, and breathed out the smoke. It dissipated as thin fog, and in its place came his frosted breath, tumbling up in the air as he lingered on the sky, lights bleeding in from the buzzing of the buildings below… He fumbled for his portable ashtray, pulled it from his pocket, and balanced it on the railing before taking another puff of his cigarette. Inhale, exhale… The world dripped slow like tar.
A gust rattled behind him—the sound cut through to him a few seconds late, so the face that appeared in his periphery was more mirage than truth.
Tashiro’s hair was loose, and blond all the way to the roots. Strands of it, cut unevenly, curled and stuck to his chin, his neck, and his shoulders. And he was smiling.
“Wow, Hanzawa-sensei,” he chirped. “Fancy running into you here.”
Hanzawa flicked the ash from his cigarette, and watched the smoldering embers of the end. “Please, you’re not my student,” he scoffed. “Don’t call me that.”
Tashiro made a face. “Feels weird to call you Hanzawa-san,” he declared, “so you’ll have to settle for senpai.”
Despite himself, Hanzawa laughed. “Settle…?” he began, and then his voice faltered into a noiseless exhale when Tashiro slipped a hand over his.
Perhaps the chill hadn’t quite chased away his intoxication. He’d dreamed of the door as a jagged pass, but it was sliding glass and mesh screen, neither of which were opaque. The territory he’d deemed unassailable had been bridged in a breath. Distances were funny like that—hard to judge, with walls.
He blew smoke out of his mouth. “Is this an intervention?” he asked.
Tashiro gave him a funny look. When he spoke, his breath wisped white. “I heard smokers have cold fingers. Thought I’d check if it was true.”
[art by @sunnfish]
Hanzawa clicked his tongue and took another drag; Tashiro’s face remained unchanged. “I’ve been outside,” he said. “Of course they're cold.”
“Well, I guess you’ve always had cold hands,” Tashiro said. He made this observation as he intertwined their fingers, slotting the warmth of his grip between Hanzawa’s shaking flesh. When their eyes met, his flashed with old memory—an unfair vise.
He swallowed. “Guess I have.”
Tashiro’s hand didn’t squeeze, but the entanglement of their fingers was pressure enough. Pinned together, their breaths intermingled, crisp and clean, scorched and sluggish.
In the distance, the city held straight against the dark, concrete and steel and glass wedged into right angles and stabbed into forgiving ground. The skyline scarred the earth as it always had, and in the dead night its lights glowered through the haze, mocking the faded stars that had long since dipped out of frame.
Ash lay leaden on his tongue. He hadn’t the hands to move for it, but the lighter in his pocket weighed of metals and flint and fuel. From his mouth, smoke curled over the horizon, heavy and foreboding. Whether the buildings were dated or stately or had just removed their scaffolding, their curse was well-told: the upswell of growth, the ever-coming march of industry, racing electrically forth, unsleeping and unflinching against the black of night, which waned as the moon into gray and blue smog.
Finally, Hanzawa asked, “Why’d you follow me out here?”
Tashiro didn’t refute the accusation. “I saw you go out a while ago,” he said, “and it looked like the more interesting thing.”
He tamped down a smile. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Tashiro said, emphatic. “Kuresawa went home because he wanted to be with his fiancée, Ogasawara-san lost a drinking contest to Miyano so he’s curled up on the floor and trying to recover his pride, Hirano-san’s moodily watching the TV with Shirahama, who’s still nervous even though it’s literally his apartment, and Sasaki-san got convinced into drinking so he and Miyano are, well…” His hand was warm and point-making. As he talked, he gestured with his whole body, words spilling forth with an almost frenetic quality, and still linked to him, Hanzawa was pulled along.
“He and Miyano are…?” Hanzawa prompted, when Tashiro came to a sudden stop.
Tashiro furrowed his brows. “I’m not supposed to say it…?” he mumbled, but then tilted his head at Hanzawa, and asked, “You’re good at keeping secrets, right?”
Hanzawa offered a miniscule nod. Tashiro’s grip went loose as he considered it.
“Dating,” he said, “That was what I thought, but I guess it’s just the… feeling of it? Kuresawa says not to say anything, and he’s the one with a wife, so he must know better than… I mean, what does it even mean, to date someone…?”
He did not tense. “I see,” Hanzawa said, though he wasn’t even looking in his direction.
A breath glanced by his ear. “Did you get another piercing, by the way?” Tashiro asked. “Your ears—they look a little different…”
“At—some point, yes.” Now he had tensed.
“I can’t place it,” Tashiro sighed. He was silent for a moment, and then muttered, “Need to clear my head, I don’t want to be too drunk tomorrow…”
“Night shift?” Hanzawa asked, turning to him.
Tashiro beamed. There was a glassy, unclear tint to his gaze. “Of course you knew that,” he said. “Must be pretty different than your 9 to 5, huh?”
Hanzawa demurred, “Teaching isn’t such a predictable schedule, what with grading and extracurriculars…”
“So you’re still working yourself to the bone,” Tashiro said. He worried his lip. “Not that I realized it, then.”
A deep, trembling chill was burrowing under his skin; his fingers twitched. He puffed on his cigarette, the warmth of it brittle and souring.
“Seems like you’re working pretty hard, too,” he said. “If you’re working weekends.”
Tashiro smiled sheepishly and scratched at the back of his neck. “Ah, well… at a certain point… there are just some things that are hard to run from.”
Wind bit at his cheeks and set his body back to rights. Hanzawa took a deep breath, and freed his hand. It was the only part of him that still glowed with heat. “Back then,” he said, “you always wanted to leave.”
Tashiro’s smile flickered. He said, “You didn’t let me.”
He watched the fire die as he stubbed out his cigarette on the ashtray, and pocketed it. “It was the previous president’s decision.”
“Which you upheld.”
His hand felt for his lighter. “Not well enough. I couldn’t make you captain.”
“Not your fault,” Tashiro countered. “I didn’t think I’d be a good fit. I just didn’t care about it the same way…”
Cool metal, hard edges. The thing pressed against his palm like the night. “Do you regret it?”
Tashiro’s answer was instantaneous: “No.” He repeated it firmly. “No, I don’t regret it. I spent a long time trying to quit, so I kept challenging you, and going to the bathhouse… and I wanted to quit, but I—I liked all of that. And I know I ran away when you wanted to make me captain. But I liked that, too.” His face had gone scarlet, but his lips were twitching up as he recollected the past.
“It would have been great if you were captain,” Hanzawa admitted.
“…Maybe you’re right,” Tashiro said. “I wonder if…” His gaze went half-lidded, drawing attention to his lowered lashes, long and undyed, the black shadow of them on his face a plain kind of beautiful. Again he had trailed off.
Rather than prompt him, Hanzawa went quiet, running his tongue over the roof of his mouth. It was dulled by the aftertaste of tobacco.
“After you graduated, it was like you disappeared,” Tashiro said. “But then you ended up working with Miyano. Only I didn’t see you much, still. And then now, we have all these people from the same high school, in the same building again… it’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?”
“It’s quite a serendipitous series of events,” Hanzawa agreed
Tashiro steadied himself on the railing. He stared at him. “You know,” he said, very slowly, very clearly, in the way that drunk people tried to not slur their words, careful to the extreme, “I missed you, too.”
His face was still red. Everything of him burned. Tashiro’s eyes were aglow, brightened like every dying firefly had found respite in the ring of his irises. Heat cascaded through Hanzawa’s body, tasting of thrill and triumph.
“…It’s too late to talk about that,” he lied, and stepped away from the railing. But he hesitated by the door. “…If you wanted to talk again, though, you could come by mine.” His piece said, he ducked back inside and didn’t look back.
The interior was just as Tashiro had described. Sasaki was flushed and curled up against Miyano’s shoulder, who startled and pinked at Hanzawa’s reappearance. Hirano and Shirahama too engrossed in the TV to take notice, white-knuckled on the couch as they watched Kagiura drive through the paint. He stepped over Ogasawara, who was slumbering on the floor, and once he’d crossed the room halfway, the balcony door slid open.
“Wait!” Tashiro cried out. “Your place—I don’t even know where that is!”
“If you want to know, you’ll have to catch me!” he crowed, and bolted for the front door.
And the rest of everything—it blurred by. An electric hum arced through him.
Tashiro skidded through the front door, which was just a wooden thing with hinges and knobs that had swung open and allowed chase. Gasping for breath, he called after him: “You have—seriously—bad habits!”
As he skipped down the stairs, footsteps thundered after him; Tashiro had broken out into a run.
Wrote this in one long sitting late last night. Very silly, short (1.4k) thing about Niibashi and Kuresawa becoming friends. For our purposes let's say this takes place in an AU where Kuresawa landed in 3-A. here it is on ao3 :)
Niibashi wondered if he'd finally, finally gone off the deep end saying yes to the latest of his new desk neighbour's whims. The quiet guy with thick glasses and strained eyes usually glued to his cellphone, asking Niibashi to "make him sexy" with all the earnestness of someone asking to marry him.
"I was thinking a qipao," he was saying. Kuresawa's voice had an odd melodic quality to it when he was excited, measured but lilting like a steady bass line. They stopped to wait at an intersection, and the sound of his voice underscoring the beeps of the traffic lights formed the barest bones of a melody just cohesive enough to leave Niibashi disoriented.
He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, unlocking it in milliseconds to show Niibashi a Pinterest board. "I've wanted to try one on since the competition last year, when I was helping Miyano out. Miyano's the guy from 3-B who took second place, by the way. The one with a mole near his eye."
Niibashi felt as if he'd stepped into one of those infamous rivers that, despite seeming placid, would kill any person dumb enough not to realize how badly it wanted to bash your head in. He ended up so overwhelmed by the torrent of information that the only thing to tumble out of his throat was "Pinterest?"
Kuresawa's eyes sparkled behind his glasses, undeterred by Niibashi putting his foot in his mouth. "Surprised? My girlfriend had me make an account."
He showed off his Pinterest albums with the clear-cut confidence of Michelangelo standing next to David. Niibashi scanned through moodboards with names like Binary Stars, Black Holes, Drag Competition 2018, Night on the Galactic Railroad, Miyano Manga Recs, JWST News, and Our Wedding.
Our Wedding? Seriously? Niibashi's gaze slid back up to Kuresawa, who was starting to take shape as Heterosexual Kagiura in Niibashi's mind.
"My girfriend agreed to help with my makeup, but I really want to wear something that'll make my friends fall for me." Well, probably heterosexual.
He continued to soundtrack their walk with the usual bombast for how perfect his girlfriend was, but years of hearing Kagiura's Hirano-talk seemed to have inoculated Niibashi against the worst of it. He found himself drawn to the effortless confidence of a guy with heavy glasses and striking piercings, bold enough to talk up his girlfriend in an environment where even mentioning he'd managed to land one was enough to set most guys off. He'd been the only student to transfer to the advanced class for third year exam hell, but nothing Niibashi had seen from him suggested regret— in his eyes, all Niibashi saw was a resolve to reach for the stars.
"I'm thinking of something with a cutout on the chest. I'm not sure if I should try padding it out with newspaper, or what." Niibashi's admiration was dulled a little by how that same resolve extended to wanting to seduce his guy friends.
"You brought me out to ask if you should shove newspapers down your shirt?"
"I brought you here because you have an eye for aesthetics," Kuresawa asserted. "Isn't that what helped you steal the win last year?"
"I won because 2-B was stuck in the Taisho era, obviously."
Kuresawa had stopped walking. Niibashi followed his gaze to an unbelievably chintzy, girlish boutique, with a name rendered unreadable in cursive.
"My girlfriend said to start here," Kuresawa said. He walked in with a bold stride that left Niibashi scrambling to catch up with him in double-time.
"I know you said she was helping you with makeup, but…" Niibashi watched Kuresawa greet the store employee as she eyed the two high school boys in her store warily. "…Uh, is your girlfriend actually supportive of you doing this?" I feel like she's playing a prank on you, he left unsaid.
Kuresawa flashed him a thumbs up. "She said, 'there's nothing hotter than a guy confident enough to cross-dress'."
Niibashi wasn't touching that can of worms any time soon. Thankfully, Kuresawa was already preoccupied with browsing the racks before them.
The boutique carried a wide variety of traditional Chinese dresses alongside more typical lolita picks; according to Kuresawa, it was owned by an expat interested in fusing unique aspects of Japanese and Chinese fashion. All the respect Niibashi had for such an innovative vision fell apart when he saw the results of it.
"No taste at all," he muttered. "Too much lace. You have to use that kind of thing thoughtfully, or it'll look like you're compensating for something."
"Like what?"
Niibashi ran a fingertip over one of the dresses with a grimace. "Like how cheap this fabric is."
They hopped from store to store, guided by the invisible hand of Kuresawa's girlfriend through pinned locations and eager texts. Kuresawa seemed undeterred by Niibashi's continuous string of vetoes, culminating in Niibashi throwing his hands up and dragging Kuresawa to someplace more normal.
The employee at one of Niibashi's usual haunts greeted Niibashi by name, offering to guide the two to their new arrivals. The sleek, pearl-white walls were lit by delicate sconces and a small chandelier, lending the establishment a casually neoclassical look. Niibashi knew not to be fooled, though; he'd seen the same camp sensibilities Kuresawa seemed drawn to executed much more competently through the brands this particular boutique chose to carry.
"I don't think we have the budget for this," Kuresawa said.
"I'll pitch in. Better than you embarassing yourself out there."
They cycled through dresses and skirts until Kuresawa, eyes sparkling, locked on to a two-piece set with a sheer, glittering top. Niibashi wasn't a fan, personally— the dark pattern on the dress was in vogue, but would age poorly— but the joy plain on Kuresawa's face dissuaded Niibashi from adding his two cents. Besides, if they were going to win, it'd be easier if their star enjoyed the clothes she was wearing.
The wig was next. Niibashi corralled Kuresawa to the back of the shop, where lines of lace wigs stared them down. "There are plenty of ways to be 'sexy', but I think your dress is best utilized for a femme fatale character."
Kuresawa gave him a firm nod. "I eat boys for breakfast," he said.
"If you use that falsetto in the competition, we're gonna lose. How do you feel about straight bangs?"
Kuresawa tilted his head to the side. "A hime cut? Wouldn't showing the forehead be sexier?"
"You're already showing this off," Niibashi said, jabbing a finger at Kuresawa's sternum. "And that dress is pretty short. Leaving something to the imagination is key. We can keep the length short if you want to hold on to the flirty vibe."
They settled on a chin-length wig, with longer extensions on the side to style into twin buns. They left the store by sundown, leaving Niibashi to mull over how quickly the day seemed to go by.
"I appreciate your help, Niibashi-san," Kuresawa said. "I don't actually have much experience with this sort of thing." He hesitated for a moment, then held his cellphone up, adding "I wanted to bring my girlfriend, but the change of seasons is always hard on her. I didn't want her to get even sicker."
Niibashi wasn't sure what to say. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried, "I hope she feels better soon."
Kuresawa gave him a resolute nod. "I hope so too."
They spent the walk back to the station in companionable silence. Once you adjusted to his frequency, Niibashi thought, Kuresawa was a startlingly easy person to talk to. He was thick-skinned and conversationally savvy, taking Niibashi's missteps in stride. Walking next to him, Niibashi itched to learn about Kuresawa's perspectives on different mundane topics just so he could turn them over in his head.
"Why did you volunteer for the Drag Contest?"
"Seemed fun," Kuresawa answered immediately. "I had a taste of it as Miyano's understudy last year, but wanted to experience the full thing at least once before I graduate."
He shrugged, smiling casually. "I'm only gonna be young for so long. And it's really funny to watch my friend freak out when he realizes he finds me attractive."
Niibashi pressed his lips together to keep himself from grinning. "That's weird."
"Aren't I supposed to be a seductress?" Kuresawa's eyes glittered with amusement. He put a hand on his hip and let out a loud, witchy cackle, switching to a higher register with a theatrical affect. "You pathetic, wimpy boys could live a thousand lifetimes and still be too weak to handle me!"
Niibashi hastily tried to bring Kuresawa's arm back down. "People are staring," he hissed.
He was grinning, even as he let Niibashi yank his arm back down to neutral. "Well? Wasn't that better than the falsetto?"
see the thing is that someday harusono shou is going to tell us who hanzawa masato’s first year roommate was and I’ll handle it winningly one way or the other. because either the incredibly shot-made-in-the-dark supposition that prev prez had anything to do with the dorms is confirmed for The People. or we’re introduced to yet another character for me to extensively mindpalace relational proximity to hanzawa masato about
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