knuckles made of grace

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art: #rin's stuff: my art or #rin's stuff: rkgks

writing: #rin's ramblings

thoughts: #rin.sulatin

current interests

classic lit. (i.e. Dostoevsky, Austen, Brontë sisters)

post-punk/goth/coldwave/dream pop (Molchat Doma, Peremotka, Cocteau Twins, etc.)

biblical/religious imagery/symbolism/aesthetics

Maxim Matveev ahehehe and his movies/shows (Demons 2014, Hipsters, Vice, Mosgaz, Union of Salvation, and Mata Hari)

Project Hail Mary (2026)

Lars and the Real Girl (2007)

interact with me on twitter!

my AO3 :)

crime and punishment

Making Raskolnikov's Birth Chart

the brothers karamazov

Making the Karamazov Brothers' Birth Charts: Pilot Test #1

note on sending asks

i welcome most things in my ask box, but please be advised that i hold the prerogative to ignore/decline to answer your ask if it makes me feel uncomfortable. if you're coming to my ask box to harass/insult me/my work, you better do it with that anonymous button turned off. if you have the gall to say those things to me, you should also be brave enough to let other people know who you are and that you speak that way to strangers online.

FAQ

Do you really like Stavrogin even after knowing what he did to Matryosha?

the only reason why i "like" him is because he's portrayed by Maxim Matveev. you won't see me talking about any other Stavrogin of the other adaptations of the book, because i only like Matveev's version, and because it's MATVEEV. i like Matveev. he's just objectively hot in my eyes. Stavrogin, the character, can go burn in hell for all i care. i think he's interesting and fun to analyze and write, but that doesn't necessarily mean that i condone the things he did. he still disgusts me. i want him to suffer.

Why do you not write for XYZ ship?

if i don't write about it = i'm not into it that much. that's it.

[anything regarding hot takes about Demons by Dostoevsky]

Moving back to Wisconsin — with your grandparents who had long wished to see you again — for a fresh start was a decision you’ve been wanting to make for quite some time now. Life in the city had simply become monotonous and tiring; it was fast, demanding, and took a lot more out of you than you thought it could give back. So when your father, your only remaining parent since your early teenage years, brought up the similar idea of going back to his hometown, you didn’t need any further convincing to join him in such an endeavor.

Settling in wasn’t much of a problem, he had assured you. You had made preparations in advance when it came to your new workplace, and you secured a position at the local library a week before the big move.

The people there already knew you by name, specifically your paternal grandparents’ last name that you carried. This was something you found out when you applied for the vacant position over the phone, as the interviewer immediately recognized your surname. You never expected that something as simple and oftentimes overlooked detail as a surname could come in handy at a time you least expected it to.

When you showed up on your first day, everyone was excited to meet you. Not only did they show you the ropes at your new job, but they also gave you a tour around town so you could be more acquainted with the people and the general feel of the place.

Your interaction with the library visitors usually went like this: they’d come up with whatever they were going to borrow; they’d stop and take a good look at you and the small nameplate pinned on your shirt, and you’d get the same reaction as the last person who recognized you — “oh, you’re their granddaughter!" , they’d say upon realizing that you’re related to one of the elderly couples who’d been living in the town since its early years. They’d smile, and say that they’re happy you decided to come back and live with them. Somehow, that eased your guilt of not being able to visit your grandparents as much, as telephone calls were the only mode of communication you had with them in the past.

Being known in this way was nice. The locals were curious about your life in the city; they’d ask you how different it is from living in a small town while you’re helping them check out a book or a CD, and they’d tell you to not shy away from reaching out if you ever needed something that they knew they could provide. You’d smile, thank them, and file away their names so you could greet them out on the street if you ever passed by each other.

The library wasn’t always busy, so conversations with the visitors often occurred. They liked to chat, and you were more than happy to interact with them. Through this, you’ve met most of the locals throughout your first few weeks at work, but as with most things involving the idiosyncratic natures of human persons, even in something as mundane as entertaining people at your workplace, one of them eventually stood out from the rest.

Margo, who had easily become one of your favorite visitors at the library and was your constant companion on your off days, introduced you to Lars one morning after church. He was her coworker and friend. He was with his brother and sister-in-law then—Gus and Karin Lindstrom—when Margo presented you to him. He smiled at you and shook your hand, but he didn’t really converse with you; you figured he was just shy and didn’t think too much of it.

Turns out, the Lindstroms knew your family, too. They said they’ve met your grandparents a few times in the past, and they, too, were glad that you and your father had come back to live with them. You all went your separate ways after that short interaction, though you did notice Lars glancing over his shoulder at you a few times while you were en route to your car.

Curious about Lars, you asked Margo more about him as the two of you headed to an antique shop that you wanted to take a peek at somewhere downtown. She essentially crafted for you a near-complete sketch of who he was, what he’s like, and who he’s been with in the past. You learned about Bianca; how much the town loved and cared for her and Lars, especially when the former passed from an illness. You found it peculiar at first, but the more you listened and asked the locals about the stories you heard, the significance of this relationship and what it did for the town in return was something special; a memory that was to be honored by those who were fortunate enough to hear about it.

Your first interaction with Lars — without Margo’s facilitation — at the library was quite a fond memory. You were arranging and sorting the new acquisitions for the year then, when you noticed that your coworker had left their station unmanned; you figured that they went for a quick bathroom break then, but this was a tad ill-timed because someone was there, standing by the check-out, looking for a staff member to assist them.

You half-ran half-walked over to them, abandoning your current task to cover for your coworker this one time. Only then did you see who it was.

Lars. He turned to you as your footsteps drew near, and was visibly surprised when he realized that you worked here. He averted his gaze, choosing to stare at his shoes as he clutched the books he was going to borrow close to his chest. You pretended not to notice as you fixed your hair, having run all the way from the other end of the hall.

“Hi,” you began, “sorry for keeping you waiting. Are you all set?” You asked him.

“Yeah,” Lars gave you a tight-lipped smile. He still wasn’t looking at you, but he put the books on the counter along with his library card and let you do your job.

You checked out each of the books for him, opting not to make small talk as he was doing everything he could to not catch your eye. Interestingly, you didn’t find this offensive at all. It would have been, if you were in another context, but this was Lars. You sort of knew what he was like already, and you were ready to give him plenty of grace in your head in advance for whatever unique characteristics he had. If anything, his current behavior around you only served to endear him to you even more.

You successfully prevented yourself from smiling as you nurtured these thoughts, not wanting to appear like a weirdo in front of an acquaintance who hadn’t yet made up their mind about how comfortable they could be in your presence. It was no problem; Lars could take all the time he wanted with that.

You handed him his books once you finished up and he took them. He thanked you, turned to leave the library just as fast as he came; you did, too, since you still had some unfinished work on the shelves, but you were pulled right back to your previous position when you saw Lars approaching you again. You meet him halfway, still behind the check-out counter.

He blinked at you a few times before speaking. “Do you bowl?” He asked. His hands were gripping the books tightly as he waited for your response.

You blinked right back. “I… I do, yeah. But I kinda suck at it.” You laughed sheepishly. This seemed to disarm him, because he laughed right back at your self-deprecating joke, and you noticed his shoulders were a bit more relaxed now compared to how they were earlier.

“That’s okay,” Lars replied. “My friends and I are going bowling later, and… I thought maybe you’d want to join. Margo will be there, too.”

You took a moment to take all that in. Suddenly your cheeks felt hot (his were, too) and you wanted to start freaking out right where you stood, but you’re an adult. You and Lars were both adults. This was no time to act flustered like a high schooler. You gathered yourself quickly to take up his very kind offer.

“Sure,” you replied. Lars’ face brightened upon your confirmation. “What time will it be?”

“It’s at eight-thirty. But we all plan to come a little earlier because the bowling alley tends to get crowded fast.”

“Oh, that’s no problem.” You assured him. “I’ll be there. Thanks for the invite.”

Lars smiled at you again; now less tense and warmer. It’s like something was squeezing your heart as you basked in its glow. “You’re welcome. Bye. See you.” he said, leaving for real this time.

—

You’ve known Lars for a while now. So perhaps it wasn’t much of a surprise that, after months of skirting around the very obvious, very massive elephant in the room that you two have come to like each other, you’ve finally plucked up the courage to ask him out on a date. It’s not the dark ages anymore, anyway — no one was going to shame you for taking charge.

It was after a walk along the lake that you asked him if he was free this coming Saturday. Lars was accompanying you back to your house then; he was walking beside you, standing a little too close than usual, but with enough of a distance where your hands were just about to brush against each other. You could practically feel the current running along that gap the entire time, and the tension cracked when Lars responded to you with a soft exhalation of delight instead of just silence.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were asking me out on a date,” he teased. Lars was pretty playful like this, as you’ve come to discover over time, though this trait appeared to be something he reserved for only you, dialed up just enough for you so you could feel its intensity. The smile that accompanied his words morphed into a grin when you turned to look at him. His ears were dusted pink under his beanie.

You chuckled and shrugged. “Well, yeah, I am. It’s been a while since I’ve gone on one.”

“Me too,” he said. “And what will we be doing?”

“Mm, I’ve been eyeing that frozen yogurt shop across the library since they opened. We should try their stuff out. Is two o’clock okay?”

Lars nodded, then glanced at you. “I’ll pick you up.”

“At my house?” You asked, a little surprised since your place wasn’t exactly within the usual route that Lars took to get to town. It was a pretty stupid question to ask, but you did anyway, because you wanted to know if he was actually serious.

Lars gave you a look that made your question sound redundant. “Yes, at your house. Where else?” He laughed. “You’re silly, [name].”

You mirrored his reaction. So he was serious. “See? I told you; it’s been a while. I’m out of practice.”

As you stepped over a particularly large tree root, you slowed down and somewhat leaned towards him; you weren’t about to trip or fall by any means, but Lars was quick to grab your arm. You seized up but recovered just as fast. You accompany your blunder with an awkward laugh.

Lars let you go as soon as you found your footing. Dropping another comment about that tree coming out from nowhere, you thanked him and continued walking; taking a silent, deep breath as you relished in the phantom grip of his hand on your sleeve.

You couldn’t see it, but Lars was smiling to himself, too. He knew you were alright; that you knew where you were stepping, and that you weren’t going to fall, but he still wanted to do that. So he did, and he was more than elated to realize that he wasn’t averse to touching you at all.

Next time, Lars hoped to touch you directly. You were also thinking this yourself.

—

Saturday came, and as he said, Lars did come to pick you up at two PM sharp. Your grandmother opened the door for him, and she let him inside as she called out for you. You hastily grabbed your purse, took one last look in the mirror, and descended the stairs. This was it: you were going on a date with Lars Lindstrom. The thought that used to be just a fantasy to both of your minds was now becoming real.

The first thing you caught sight of was the new sweater that Lars wore beneath his jacket. He stood up from his seat as soon as he saw you emerge into the living room, and the way his eyes drank you in was no different than how you did him.

His hair was neatly combed; you could see the top part of the knot of a necktie under the knitwear, and the pristine white collar of his shirt. Upon approaching him, you can smell the faintest whiff of clean soap and aftershave. So endearing it was to see him put so much effort in his appearance even if you were only going to get frozen yogurt. Truth be told, you sort of felt underdressed with your simple ensemble that’s composed of a white blouse and the floral midi skirt that you thrifted at the flea market from last week, partially covered by the cardigan you chose to protect yourself from the chilly wind. But Lars liked it; you could tell because his gaze kept on sweeping over you and he’d smile to himself when he thought you weren’t looking. Another one of those things that would throw you off if another person did it, but had (un)surprisingly no issue for you if Lars was the one doing it.

You bid your grandmother good-bye, promising to be back before dinner and trailing behind Lars as he led you to his car. Your cheeks colored when he opened the passenger seat door for you, even if it was the most played move in the book. You didn’t care. Lars was just thoughtful like that. He circled back to the driver’s side and got inside himself, fastening his seatbelt before igniting the engine.

Light conversation filled the car interior as you two made your way to your destination. Lars spoke fondly of his nephew as he drove; he was learning how to walk now, and Karin was teaching him how to say Lars’ name more clearly, as he had been coming over to watch the kid whenever the two were away at work, especially when they couldn’t get a babysitter.

You’d seen the newest addition to the Lindstrom family a few times in church these past few weeks—well, you heard him first when he cried during Rev. Bock’s homily, before Karin stepped outside to soothe him. Lars was quite happy about this development; it was obvious that he adored his nephew. He had hinted, some time ago, about wanting his own children in the future, but had his reservations owing to how dangerous pregnancy was. You’re no stranger to the fate of his mother by now. You knew why he was apprehensive despite his desire to be a father.

As for your contribution to the chatter, you talked about your experience at your grandparents’ shop where they did their pottery work. That was where they made most of their income, and what kept them entertained and occupied. It had been your grandfather’s passion throughout his entire life; he had some students learning under him, and some of them had ended up working for the shop somewhere down the line.

You told Lars that your latest project was a ceramic garlic grater, and all that was left to do was to glaze it and fire it in the kiln. You asked him for suggestions on the color of the glaze that you were going to use, as you couldn’t make up your mind between blue and maroon. Lars chose maroon.

“You should come over and try it out some time! It’s really fun. And I think you’ve got the hands for it,” you said.

Lars didn’t take his eyes off the road, but he had been listening to you the entire time you spoke. “I didn’t expect that you’d have looked at my hands enough to say that,” he replied, smiling to himself. He was teasing you again, and while you could give him the satisfaction of being flustered by his comment, you chose to keep your defenses steady against his jab.

“It’s just something my grandparents say,” you reasoned. It was true — somehow, decades of being in the pottery trade made them a good judge of character, and they’ve told you many times before, when Lars first came over at your house, that he was good — a judgment they made solely based on his hands.

“Okay, I’ll drop by next week,” came Lars’ response. You couldn’t see his expression as he was watching closely where he was making a turn, but you knew him well enough now to determine, just by the sound of his voice, that he was just as happy as you to have another chance to see each other again, one that you both held fast to your hearts like a promise.

—

Some people at the frozen yogurt parlor recognized you and Lars. Six of them — all parents, this bunch — were regulars at the library — you knew this because their kids were all friends, and you’ve assisted them once or twice with finding their favorite books at the children’s section. The others were possibly acquaintances of the Lindstroms. They greeted Lars warmly as you passed them by, and they smiled at you when they noticed that you were with him.

You could feel them watching the two of you as you occupied the bar stools by the counter and gave your order to one of the employees stationed behind the cashier. The looks that were directed at you and Lars weren’t in any way malicious — they were more similar to watching one’s child finally learning to take their first steps alone without needing to be guided. You surmise that they’re probably just happy to see Lars out and about again after a year since Bianca’s passing.

Your conversation in the car carried over as you two ate. Lars had asked you about what it was like when you first started making pottery.

“I used to be really clumsy in handling clay,” you recounted, scooping a dollop of your mixed berries yogurt, “my hands would be so stiff and I’d just stare at it and let it rotate in my palms. Then my grandma would snap me back to reality and tell me to actually shape the clay and not just watch it. The first one I made was a bottle. I didn’t make the lid, though.”

“Why not?” asked Lars. He was already halfway through his yogurt — vanilla and cherries — when you looked his way.

“I was lazy,” you admitted with a sheepish laugh. “I carved out a piece of cork instead and then used that as a lid. Oh—” you grabbed a couple of napkins off the dispenser to your left. “You have froyo on your face…”

Lars attempted to wipe it off on his own, but he missed by a few centimeters. You smiled. “I can get it for you. Is that okay?”

Lars stared at you for a while before he nodded, his eyes darting somewhere else as he leaned in towards you. He’s grinning like a little kid who’d just been given the shiniest toy on Christmas morning, but you could tell that he’s doing his best to tone it down. You felt the weight of everyone else’s gaze at that moment, as you carefully dab the stray froyo off the corner of his mouth.

“There, all clean.” You said as you crumpled up the napkin. You dared to look over your shoulder. After considering your next move, you leaned into Lars this time to whisper something to him. You felt apologetic as he stiffened from the sudden close proximity; his head was now bowed and he’s looking at his lap on instinct.

Lars was torn apart; he wanted to run away from you, and at the same time, run towards you. His heart was fluttering from all the butterflies that had been let loose inside his body, and for the first time in twenty-eight years, he had to quickly teach himself how to breathe. You, though, were none-the-wiser to his musings.

“Why are all these people looking at us?” You murmured. Lars could barely lift his eyes to yours, but he tried his best to reply.

“I… I don’t know,” he shrugged. His hand on the counter clenched then unclenched. “M-maybe it’s because we’re together?” This time he mustered up the bravery to meet your inquisitive gaze. His heart almost broke when you frowned a little.

“Is that… bad?”

He was quick to deny your theory. “No, I don’t think they mean it like that.”

His head began spinning again when your worried expression transformed into a smile. You pulled away, and directed your attention back to your food. “I hope they mean well, at least,” you said, playing with your remaining yogurt.

Unbeknownst to you, Lars was already missing your warmth despite being close enough to touch.

—

The day ended with another walk through the forest. Lars said he wanted to take you to his favorite spot by the lake right before it got dark; the sunset was magnificent there, he told you, and you let him lead the way, following him as he traced a well-trodden route. The air was nice and cool at this hour — birdcalls filled the silence that hung between you and Lars, punctuated by the soft crunch of the forest floor underneath the soles of your shoes. As much as you liked making conversation with Lars, sharing quiet moments with him like this was just as enjoyable, if not more conducive to your continuous discovery of each other. You’ve learned more about him this way, and so did he about you.

“Here we are,” Lars announced as he stopped by a bank. You stood beside him as you feasted on the sight before your eyes. He was right: the view was pretty over on this side of the lake. Cumulus clouds dotted the light orange sky overhead, though there were no signs of a storm coming despite the inherent chill. What you saw above, the water mirrored in fragmented glass in front of you. Further in the horizon, you could see the sun and its gradual descent; its light bathed the entire land in a beautiful, orange hue. You could feel Lars wordlessly observing you as you survey the landscape. You turn to him.

“It’s beautiful here,” you smiled. “I can see why it’s your favorite place.”

Lars returned the smile. You turn to the water again, closing your eyes as you breathe in the air. A gentle wind brushed past the both of you, whipping your hair and the foliage of the surrounding trees along its undertow. The sound of Lars’ footsteps cut through the breeze — he had stepped closer towards you now; you knew because the material of his jacket was now grazing your cardigan sleeve.

A long pause came before Lars broke it himself. Even though you weren’t standing in front of him, he found it more comfortable to bow his head as he began to speak.

“I really like you, [name].” He said. His voice sounded small, like he was shyly opening his palms to present to you a physical manifestation of his feelings. The next breath you took was a little difficult to inhale — you could tell from the beginning that he was planning on something when he proposed to show you this place; you anticipated this, yet you were unable to react with the usual wit that you possessed during your other interactions with Lars. You didn’t say anything in return just yet, and Lars inwardly thanked you, because he had more things to share.

“The last time I brought someone here, I had to say goodbye to her,” Lars said. You understood this as your cue to meet him where he was — still balmy blue and deep as ever — and as you expected, he was already waiting for you to do just that. “I hope I won't have to do that again by saying all of this to you.”

Your heart was now in your throat as you maintained the look that you were sharing. “I like you too,” you replied. You had hoped to be more confident, but you were just as swept away by the moment as Lars, too lost in his eyes to go back to your senses. It didn’t even register in your head that he had leaned down and towards you; he placed his hand below your jaw, his fingers ghosting over the skin as if afraid to press; and he kissed you: a soft, prolonged peck that lasted no more than five slow seconds. His breath fanned over you as he pulled away, but not entirely; he kept his hand over your cheek to see how you would react, and much to his happiness, you put both of your own hands on his shoulders. You were positively pink as you faced Lars, and he was, too — his smile grew larger when he realized that you were more than accepting of his honest declaration.

Every ounce of air in your body nearly escaped when you felt Lars pulling you in by your waist until you were flush against him. He laughed; the sound coming out light and boyish. “You’re even more nervous than I am,” he said. “You’re so adorable, [name].”

You sighed. “Oh Lars, you’re killing me,” you confessed, amused and helpless due to your inability to keep your heart from hammering like crazy inside your chest. You could feel Lars’ cologne rubbing off on you the longer he was holding you in his arms.

Lars cooed. “Don’t die on me, please. I still need to tell Gus and Karin about you.”

You gave up and finally hid your face onto his chest, your own laughter bubbling up from your throat. “I think they’ve been expecting you to do that for a while now.”

As always, Lars took you home after the walk — he got out of the driver’s seat to accompany you to the door, then he checked his watch just before you could twist the knob and announce your arrival to those at home. It was his mother’s watch, he told you once before. You reflexively smiled as he read the hour for you.

“Six-fifty,” he said. “Got you home just in time.”

You approached him and kissed his cheek. Lars was already smiling back at you.

“See you tomorrow at church, Lars.” You said. He returned your words and went down the porch steps, getting inside his car once again.

Choosing to linger, you watched from behind the screen as he pulled away and drove off into the night, undoubtedly brimming with so much joy and excitement like you also were. You could see him grinning behind the wheel in your head.