* 𝐺𝑅𝑂𝑇 / 𝐸𝑆𝑄𝑈𝐸.

no listed guidelines. i trust you.

limited, inspiration-determined activity.

no muse list. shop for yourself — aka i'll probably write whoever you ask for, but will reserve final choice.

"fantasy is for before burial," terse, blade beneath tongue and dirt loose around teeth, yet it draws ghosts from grave. something unspeakable happens to children here, that slow death of innocence that bares itself to martyrdom or cynicism or, heaven forbid, devoutness. he counts it in lives taken, souls lost, books and books of names crossed out into epitaph: here lies fools who fell like fools at the world's feet.

yuri smells war coming like blood in snow, calling and sickening in equal measure. he bares his teeth. wolves are wolves.

well-versed in macabre: ohta is in the glass case affixed to the wall, limbs spread out, pinned. this is not metaphor. maruki takes the role of lepidopterist seriously, displaying his collection in meticulous rows and thin needles: dead things categorized, studied, and displayed. the intent doesn't matter, instead the preservation opposing natural decay.

it's hypocritical calling for things to be let go of in their due time. hypocrisy is easier than complacency, is easier than dormancy, is easier than existency. whatever goro akechi would think in this circumstance, he should too. he's built off the perception of a shared persona, after all.

but ohta? ohta wants to comfort his brother. ohta wishes he could have stayed a bit longer. ohta doesn't know what to do with more time than he planned on having. ohta doesn't really deserve to live.

. . .

but all of this is later. right now, he's in the bowels of a ship, a bullet wound in his chest, propped up in @yishuns' arms.

neither of them are good at this part — grieving. "i would have preferred a smarter brother." gurgled, choked between blood and relief. sei's alive. that's all he wanted by the end of this, and there's no guilt despite the mark it'll leave behind. "less reckless, more considerate of my plans," not diving into danger where ohta knows his marker is, signaling a grave, "not so young and clingy."

i love you, sits in every word. roosting a home, claiming each jab as something cherished and prematurely missed all those nights he came home late, bloodied, and stared down at sei's sleeping face. ohta's family has always been and will always be only sei.

her names bullet a list, each discarded into the next like graves beside graves — a deathbed of identity. the past is not held onto so much as leveraged, a trail burned, a ledger cleaned. that's before evelyn chevalier. now she holds tightly, carving a silhouette befitting the mold and praying it sticks.

release the past, move towards the future; no one says what to do when you cling to the present.

it's typical, yusuke with a sketchbook in hand, drawing expressions and movement and crowds shifting through the subway. his head bent back, back curved to the wall, like something smaller than himself - insignificant enough that inspiration cannot be tempted; the same can't be said for the evening rush, its many heads double taking at the surrealism of artist and what calls him.

he should say i'm sorry or thank you for noticing my absence in the face of so much world to gaze at or i'm lost in this place that will not find me.

this room brightens stingingly, sterile and cushioned in ways only wealth allows. no expense withheld for a stoneheart. [ tents dot memory, half torn from rods and soiled in mud, and the brief flashes of white in their gaps. ] a hat, feathered and dampened in dark sea, sits on argenti's lap. he caresses the fabric, lamenting how the colors bled out into greys; entropy seldom washes out, but this article led him with what hopes left in something so beloved.

still beautiful, then, still worth saving.

"no need for that. you're doing well." eyes flick up, roving the blonde tucked beneath thin sheets. haggard is a kind word for this, the pallor and dark-rimmed dips beneath eyes — something numbed thawed out. "focus on recovering, then we'll bother with introductions." it's pointless now when the want to peer at nothing still crawls where the light can't pierce.

some call hearts wells, keep filling them with passions and ambitions and people, keep dipping the bucket in as a reminder. there's a limit, believe it or not. a heart overfilled wears at its bricking, loses water. @aicidos avoids this by keeping a revolving door, akechi deduces, circles those starved of love and, by some curiosity defiant of gods, gets enough to replenish what he's lost.

homeostasis. a well-watered garden yields fruit. all that poetic shit akechi can't stomach.

"don't start," exasperation warns oncoming ire, his boyish smile wavering, "there's such a thing as taking a joke too far." the rest sit in the dusk of an attic, comfortable where forgotten things are left. displacement hits before boards creak underfoot, and that's the comforting part in all of it— being the tacked on piece cut from one frame to another, forced to fit while not belonging. "you don't make homes of hearts. you make spectacles. you make examples."

i am tired of being a show, tiny and strained inside him, soon burned in the anger keeping the act going. "what's special about mutual benefit? when we're done, your heart days are finished." we'll be finished, he continues, eyes shut and chest constricted and mantra of this is what it was all for repeating, you'll be dead.

he treks where sacred dwells, in ruined temples, shattered monuments, by goddess statues — pilgrim in a world lost. all familiar, yet clouded, reminiscing peppered in spice 'til warm in the belly and stinging gums. ( pains that feel terribly unfair, at first, then a given in place of failures. duties into wounds, princesses into martyrs. ) age-old stories become new tales, pre-established obligations new burdens, and worn swords honed blades. his fingers trace groves in stone rebuilding etchings of past and prophecy, where he and zelda are two pieces of a tirade built in light, dark, and blood.

link walked this before at her heel and wonders now, how did you not bow your head and stagger?

it is easier to rebuild than protect what once was. "to me, only once," he signs, wistful in the phantom sway of hair down her back, "and it is only these two versions that i carry." one life restarted is too heavy without numerous others stacked atop it. link learns to carry only what he can bear. he hopes @aicidos will do the same in this world with so much to be lifted.

he twirls a pen, idling in thoughts while unaware of wandering eyes. when they bulge, it's half-mockery and half-truth; only shoichi manages to still surprise him, catching nuances others couldn't fathom in his expressions. [ the friend of my enemy is my— hm, it's not so simple. they're friends, in a way. that nostalgic monster in his chest that misses @yishuns, yet wants to watch every hint of fondness burn up in fury; that guilt-driven soldier in shoichi that wants to bury byakuran while still shouldering fault for unleashing him upon the world. ] lilacs narrow, gleeful and knowing, then fall behind lashes. eyes, windows, and all that, and a soul that still survives if shoichi is there to witness it.

"this face?" voice teasing, he points at himself, all smiles and tilting head. "i was born with it, but you can have it if you're so interested."

there's an endless supply, he thinks. multiple selves across multiple worlds holding multiple victories. a bit dull, should be the thought, but anomalies keep coming so, if not for how hard you all try in the face of certain defeat. he wouldn't mind seeing that sulking, red-lined face in the mirror. something more honest than this washed out canvas.