眠るい 。

she’s  aching  in  this  unfamiliar,  guilty  silence,   just  as  she’s  dwelling  within  the  barren  shade  of  a  cell,  curled  up  into  the  safety  of  her  corner  with  her  knees  to  her  chest  and  her  mind  to  the  crossroads  of  her  response.  she  contemplates  silence,  taking  her  chances  on  a  fleeting  moment  of  rest,  rather  than  simply  humoring  him,  and  she  contemplates  expressing  herself  truthfully  and wholly:   i’m  tired.   i’m  aching.   i’m  sorry.   she  couldn’t  —  and  ultimately  decides  against  it,  even  going  as  far  as  avoiding  the  gaze  she  can  feel  upon  her  with  an  obscuring  cant  of  her  head.     ❛   why  …  on  earth  would  you  come  here  ?   ❜

       “   marceline,  you will not believe this when you hear it.   ”   ferdinand has a look of unwarranted pride on,  even as he picks up a single dress shirt and clears his throat in preparation.   “   i bought this at the startlingly cheap price of thirty dollars !   are you not proud of my financial management skills ?   you can be honest.   ”       

the  subject  of  manifestation  has  never  been  her  forte.    it  sits  on  her  svelte  frame  quite  miserably,    an  ill-fitting  garment  that  crumples  at  the  seams.    something  solid,    something  real                  mortal,    even.

what  an  unnatural  state  of  being  that  he  begs  her  to  be.

time  moves  in  the  most  peculiar  of  manners,    sometimes  long  years    /    sometimes  mere  hours,    and  somewhere  between  it  all  the  decade  has  faded  fast.    she  asks  him  to  grieve  and  leave  her  grave  for  dead.    he  dug  her  up  the  very  next  morning.

who  is  haunting  who,    exactly  ?

the  battle  is  over  before  it  began.    the  bullets  lay  in  fractured  pieces,    like  funeral  decorations  on  the  floor,    and  amidst  all  the  mourners  she  stands  frightfully  tall.    she  feels  him  before  anything,    his  stubborn  arms  wrapped  tight  around  her  waist    /    his  face  unceremoniously  buried  into  her  hair.    i’ve  lost,    she  supposes,    a  fragile  hand  pressed  gently  against  his  own.

checkmate.    she  smiles.      ❛    hello,    osamu.    ❜

       haunter   /   haunted.   their roles ebb and shift,  tide pushing the responsibility of care from one end of the court to the other,  a constant back and forth.   a mirror image of his suspicions.   is she dead ?   is she alive ?   did it matter,  the real question beckons,  and dazai shies away from its answer.   at some point,  the distance between them became nothing.        

       he grows into this emptiness,  the strange sensation of reaching out,  finding nothing.   unable to nullify her into existence.   he doesn’t stop searching,  cannot bring himself to stop searching,  despite this knowledge,  the fear that it’s her who doesn’t want to be found.   and aylen,  he knows,  is very good at getting what she wants.   it’s a pity,  then,  that she’s always cared far too much.   she should know,  with him,  plans within plans are nothing.       

       no one dies,  which is his meager defense for when she grills him eventually,  but for now he concentrates on the fact that she is there,  and the world seems to still around them.       

       in a single moment,  she is there,  and she becomes everything.       

          …geh. his smile frays a fraction at the edges ( he’s not made of money, tooru! ) but he carries on like it’s nothing more than a temporary blip, and even if he grips his wallet a little tighter from then on… well, tooru doesn’t have to know! ❛  haha wooooooow, you’re shameless!  ❜ but then, so is he! and it’s pretty clear from his tone it’s meant to be more of an observation. ❛  but dad taught me it’s okay to splurge on friends, so… when’s the date! should i dress up?  ❜

       he looks down at his hands and finds them bloodstained.   it isn’t his,  but isn’t it,  though ?   the line between blood being drawn  /  blood being shed,  it’s one far too thin to tread.   he’s tripping over himself,  trying and failing to keep his balance.       

       distantly,  he recalls this :  there is a lesson beaten into him,  weaved into tales of nobility and fame.   to win is to survive.   anything otherwise and all you have is death.   so maybe he doesn’t know if he’s doing the right thing.   no idea if this is going too far.   but what would she know about not having a choice ?   her past ?   those were merely games of low stakes,  where all you had on the line was your own life.   he stands here,  now,  lives of an army,  an empire,  slipping,  slipping,  slipping.   he reaches out to pull them back.       

       and he falls with them.       

       when he looks up at her,  it is with a sneer.   “   and what would you know about that ?   ”   deserter.   traitor.   heartbreak.   he discovered her in all of those lights,  in that precise order.   he remembers the day in vivid detail,  how he’d come back to a lack of her and then worse still,  the presence of her,  on the other end of the battlefield.       

       “   you lost the right to say that to me the moment you left,  dorothea.   there is no other way for this to go.   no more running.   i only hope you will be an honorable opponent,  to the end.   ”       

              SIGH  ,   THIS   GUY   .                     one  glaringly  aspect  of  the  blonde  that  invoked  naught  but  apprehension  from  within  :  his  tendency    per   whichever antics   wherein   he   partook   in  ,   thus   a   lift  of   the   shoulder   was   bestowed   prior   to   a   verbalization   being   offered   thereafter  whilst   passive   aggressive  uproar  .  ❛   that’s   what   matters  ,   right  ?  ultimately  ,  coming  together  . .  to   have   a  good  time  .   even  though   you’re   still  growing  ;  you  should  never  stop  having  fun  ,  right  ?  ❜ cunning  ,   throat  angled  ,  static   verse   of  tooth  and  cheek  invidious and   taken   by   shrilling   song  .  ah  -  ha  .