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heyitsdoe · 3 years

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Dearly Devoted | Charlotte Katakuri x OC Chapter 4

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<- Chapter 3

Charlotte Katakuri was a...complicated man. Yuna had gotten an inkling of that from the first time they'd met in Big Mom's throne room, and then again when he'd arrived to escort her to their wedding ceremony. But the extent of that complexity hadn't become clear until after they'd officially wed. In the days following, the former Princess began to learn he had many rigid rules that made him who he was. Most didn't make sense at all. Well, from Yuna's perspective at least.

He was a man who refused to show his face to anyone, including his own siblings and now not even her, his wife. The times they happened to cross paths in the week after their wedding-such occasions were few and far between, as the 2nd son of Big Mom worked relentlessly at his Minister and Sweet Commander duties-he was never seen without that peculiar scarf. His scarlet hair and piercing eyes were all she could ever see of his face, and they always seemed to dismiss her before she'd even gotten a word out in greeting.

She wasn't too concerned about what he may look like underneath the fluffy accessory. It was more a curiosity than a fear. Yuna would be hypocritical if something as superficial as appearance could sway her opinion of him. But, really, the scarf was more than just a cover for his face. She chose to view it as the divide of trust between them. A reminder that he viewed her as nothing more than a stranger, if even begrudgingly, his wife by law. They knew so little about each other. A week wasn't nearly enough time to really get to know someone on an intimate level, but Yuna at the very least was willing to try bridging that gap and making this partnership something more.

Katakuri? Well, she didn't truly know what he felt about such an idea.

He was aloof, distant, and barely gave her the time of day in the moments he happened to be around. Never sticking around long, gone as quick as he had come, and stating he was a busy man that didn't have time to dawdle. But she sensed an honor, a patience, and something more underneath that icy exterior. Daigon might have called it 'seeing the good in things that didn't deserve it.' Regardless, Yuna had promised that she'd make this work somehow, and she had no intention of breaking that vow. She'd made it this far. No going back now.

His peculiar creed of never sleeping on his back still held true and astounded her the most out of all of his baffling rules. In fact, other than their wedding night, Katakuri hadn't retired to their room by the time Yuna went to bed. Even when she tried her damndest to stay awake waiting up on him, she could not manage to ward off sleep long enough to see him come back. And by morning, there was never any evidence of him having returned at all. If he was taking the time to rest, it was elsewhere. How uncomfortable and unnecessary. What was he hoping to prove?

A former Princess, she understood that as the Minister of Flour there was rarely a moment when something did not require his attention or approval. Assisting her father back home in running the country and making important decisions, she was no stranger to hard work and could recognize a good leader when she saw one. His absence itself wasn't the issue. In fact, she had quickly grown to admire his drive and dedication. Perhaps he wasn't as warm and friendly on the surface as her father had been, but he still cared enough to take his responsibilities seriously and commit the necessary time and effort to do them right. Such a trait appealed to Yuna a great deal.

Still, he had to sleep at some point or another, right? Yet she had been left to sleep alone in the bedroom every night since the wedding.

On top of all that, she'd been introduced to the concept of a 'merienda' the day after when their private chefs prevented her from entering the study that afternoon.

"Our sincerest apologies, Yuna-sama." The head chef had said with a deep bow, standing beside his two compatriots to block the doorway she intended to enter. "Katakuri-sama is currently attending to his Merienda and cannot be disturbed."

She'd frowned, unfamiliar with the term. "Merienda?"

"You have not been told about the meriendas?" One of them questioned, and her head shook. "The Minister sets times aside each day to meditate and partake of his snacks and tea in peace. He cannot have his dignified mealtime sullied by anyone."

"I'm his wife." Was her incredulous response.

"Katakuri-sama insists upon it, no exceptions. Even for you."

"It is an incredibly important part of his day that cannot be disturbed. You'll be able to speak with him once he has finished his mealtime. We will let him know you came asking for him." Another chimed in seriously, and based on their collective expressions, no amount of asking or reasoning would change their minds. They were loyal to a fault to their Minister, and despite marrying into this life, she had yet to do anything to earn their undying loyalty. They would not budge. Yuna was powerless here.

With a sigh, she'd left to find something else to do. In the end, he hadn't even bothered to come find her to ask what she'd needed. Or perhaps the chefs had decided she wasn't important enough to mention to him after all.

Overall the first week of being married to Katakuri was more challenging than she had thought it would be; learning about and accepting all of his strange quirks, his strange rules, barely seeing him at all, and feeling less useful than a broken mirror. She'd anticipated differences of opinion, perhaps personality traits that would put her off a bit, not entire parts of himself that he refused to allow her to see.

Yuna was still trying to figure out where in the grand scheme of Totto Land she fit. It was obvious that Katakuri believed he had no need or desire for a wife. His avoidance of her thus far couldn't have made that clearer. The longest conversation she could remember having with him was the morning after their wedding, when he explained that she was not confined to the home and was free to explore the island as she saw fit. She was welcome to ask their home's staff for assistance should she need anything, but that she should be careful not to get herself into trouble or cause problems with the citizens in town, as he didn't have time to keep watch on her, given his responsibilities.

She'd nodded without much of a reply, blindsided by the blunt admission. At the very least, it was nice not to be confined to her room. Komugi Island was rather large, and the promise of exploring and meeting her people was a welcome one. Given she had nothing else to do, no responsibilities or jobs to complete, it would also relieve some of her boredom. And with luck, it would distract her from the mountain of a challenge that her husband was proving to be.

_____________________________________________________________

"I think I'll give Hakuriki Town a visit today." Yuna told Juno, one of the maids, one afternoon later that week. She stepped up beside the blue-haired maid as she neared the home's entrance. "I've only gotten to explore it a little, and there is nothing for me to do here at home. But I should return before dinner is served."

The short-haired bluenette looked up from her sweeping and flashed her a smile that barely reached her eyes. "Enjoy yourself, Yuna-sama." She dipped into a courteous bow, then continued on with her chore.

The former Princess sighed to herself, watching Juno work for a moment. As expected. Polite, but short, and straight back to work. Everyone here-the maids, the chefs, even the groundskeepers-seemed so intent to keep their distance from her. It was maddening! Back home, she'd had such a good relationship with all of the castle staff, being told when they married or had children, and met their families and knew many of them by name.

Here, talk was stilted. Formal and superficial. And while she no longer retained the title of Princess, Yuna had never been surrounded by such strict behavior than she did as a Minister's wife. She supposed a ridiculous degree of decorum was better than open hostility, but it left her feeling isolated. Lonely. Desperate for someone to talk to on a personal level.

Just one more thing she'd have to fight for: friends.

"I've heard the bakery in the town square is having a sale today. That's what a few of the chefs said, at least." Yuna mentioned with cheer, adjusting her dress sleeves to ensure that nothing peeked out from underneath. "They say they have the most delicious lemon tarts. Have you tried them before?"

"No, I'm sorry. With my duties, I don't have much time to visit the town." Juno's eyes stayed firmly glued on her broom as she continued sweeping the hallway. "But I'm sure if they say so, it must be true."

"Perhaps." Disappointment colored her tone. Juno still remained so aloof. No luck in getting her to open up. The shorter woman went about her cleaning, still listening intently but making it clear that she expected no other acknowledgement from her taller superior. Yuna's hand reached for the handle of the door, but it took a moment's pause before she fully pushed out into the open air.

No need to rush, or feel frustrated from a lack of progress so soon, Yuna told herself. One week was a remarkably short period of time in retrospect-considering she would be here the rest of her life it was a tiny blip, really-and Yuna couldn't expect everyone to immediately want to get to know her, despite her own enthusiasm to get to know them. Totto Land was not Seiiki, no matter how much she wished it to be. Maybe it was necessary to slow down, to let them become used to her presence on Komugi Island first before pursuing friendships. Yes, that sounded like a good idea. Slow and steady won the race, and this was no different.

Shaking off her dismay, she began walking the path towards the city's main street, enjoying the morning sun and turning her thoughts to her surroundings.

Yuna had long past gotten used to the sugary air that permeated everywhere in Totto Land. Even indoors, it somehow seeped through the cracks in the stones, or through the tiny space available in an almost-shut window. But here on Komugi Island, the ever-present smell of baked pastries overpowered even that.

At the height of morning when the bakers in town started fresh batches of their various pastries, Yuna liked to be outside or nearby a window to experience the aroma in full. It reached even Katakuri's home on the top of the hill from the city below. And as she headed down the path to town, her nose was immediately filled with the heavenly scent, and with the accompaniment of the sun's warm rays from the sky overhead, her disappointment from moments ago eased even further.

The path was lined with pastel-colored trees, their trunks twisted and fantasy-like. Seiiki was predominantly covered with thick maples and oaks, their leaves large and heavy. The leaves here were small but grew in excess, shielding her from the worst of the sun with their delicate green leaves and blanketing the ground in something of a carpet. Yuna was no longer surprised that even to the smallest details, Totto Land strove to be a picture of paradise, a fantasy land. Quite extraordinary.

The path wound gently around the base of the hill, until it deposited her at the very end of the main street leading to the town square. The well-maintained stone pathway that lead up to her home became much more ornate as she entered the town, the bricks arranged in such a way to create patterns and beautiful mosaics underfoot. One would expect them to be painted, but they all retained their natural reddish-tan coloring.

Her eyes finally rose to the town itself, the many buildings created from pastry- or bread-related foods. It had taken awhile to get used to the concept of using food or food-related substances as building material. Katakuri's home was made of wood and stone as any normal building would, though it's decor and style was still designed with food in mind. But as for the town itself, many buildings were literally edible. They looked and smelled delicious enough to eat, of course, but Yuna had quickly learned that consumption of the buildings was a strictly enforced law punishable by fines and even jail time for repeat offenses. Mama-she would have to get used to referring to the Yonko as such-was wholly intolerant of such crimes.

Those citizens she passed took notice of her arrival into Hakuriki. It was hard not to notice her, to be fair. Though she still stood several feet above the rest of the townspeople, it didn't affect the way they treated her in the slightest. Her height was as much a non-issue as the color of her dress or the cut of her hair. It was one of the things she liked about Totto Land over her own country.

Many sent her quiet, respectful nods. Or even the very occasional muttering of 'Yuna-sama' as she walked by. It was a general courtesy at best. Their faces lacked the excitement and joy so prevalent when she went out to greet the people of Seiiki. All they knew about her was that she was the wife of their Minister, and that alone granted her certain respect. Any goodwill past that, she would need to earn herself. A task she was more than willing to take up. Garnering favor was as second nature to her as breathing. It wouldn't take her long to view them as much her people as the former slaves of Seiiki had been.

Each greeting, no matter how stiff or superficial, she met with a bright smile and a bit of polite conversation. It wasn't even forced, as there were so many unusual and unique people that she was excited to know more about.

Eventually making her way to the bakery in question, she noticed a long line extending outside the shop. Dozens of people stood patiently waiting, chatting amongst themselves. Occasionally someone would exit the doorway with a bag of their goodies in hand, smiles marking their faces. News of the sale had spread far and wide.

Yuna's eyes followed the line of people until she finally saw the end further on, trailing off towards a few boutique stores several buildings down the street. She quickened her steps to hurry to get in line, knowing that the wait would be quite awhile already. No need to make it any longer by standing there gawking.

Reaching the very end, she stepped into place behind the last person in line. From the distance, the bakery was hard to make out. Ah, well. That was alright. She didn't have anything else to do that day and being among the citizens for awhile would surely do her some good.

The man standing in front of her, an orange-toned eel-like fishman from the looks of it, glanced back at her with surprise. He turned and tilted his head up to properly look at her, which garnered her attention.

"Yuna-sama...was there something you needed of me?"

The question made her frown, confusion evident in her expression. "I'm sorry?"

"You're standing there, so I figured...you must've needed to speak with me." The man gestured to her with a scaly hand. "I'm not sure what I might be able to do for you, but...Did you have a question?"

"Oh, no, I'm waiting in line for the bakery as well." Yuna pointed towards the front of the line further down the way. He turned to look where she had indicated, then gave her a shake of his head.

"But why?"

"Why?" Yuna couldn't quite understand his question, looking around quizically. "I don't know what you mean. This is the end of the line, isn't it? Am I in the wrong place?"

"No, you're not mistaken. It's just...There's no need for you to wait. You can go into the shop and get something whenever you wish. Those in Mama's family are very busy, and it would be demeaning for them to have to wait alongside us." He explained uncomfortably, gesturing back towards where the entrance to the shop was. "Why don't you go inside and get yourself something?"

"Hmm..." Her head tilted, looking ahead at the long line. They'd managed to move a few feet ahead, but it was still a slow go. No matter. Yuna looked back down to the fishman and gave a soft smile. "That's alright. I don't mind standing in line. Besides, food tastes so much better after you've waited for it, right?"

Her response made him frown even further, and even a few people ahead of him had now turned to see what the commotion was. "But..."

A tap on her dress-covered leg made her turn, and she spotted a round-shaped woman looking just as distraught as the fishman had been. She carried a bag of goodies from the bakery they were all waiting for.

"Here, Yuna-sama. Why don't you take my things?" She held the bag up for the seafoam-haired woman to grab. "A member of Mama's family and Katakuri-sama's wife should not be made to wait."

Her willingness to give away the things she'd just purchased was truthfully a bit alarming. Why were they so concerned about this? Yuna's hands reached out to the bag, but instead of taking it as the woman intended, she pushed it back towards her gently. "I cannot. You purchased these for yourself."

"They can be bought again."

"It is too much. It must have cost you a lot of beli."

The woman grew more adamant, pushing back against her gently rejection. "I insist, really."

"And I refuse."

Yuna's arms crossed over themselves and she held up her head. If this was their expectation of her, she would put it to rest immediately. "I am no different than you, Minister's wife or not. And I do not wish to be treated like rules don't apply to me. I'll gladly wait in line and enjoy this sunny day with the rest of you, and purchase my own treats. It is only fair, and it would make me happiest not to be given such special treatment."

A silence fell over those closest to her who had heard her speak. Most looked at her with shock or disbelief. Oh dear. Here she was, causing a scene. Katakuri had warned her not to, but this just wasn't something she felt right sitting back and allowing. If this was the precedent that she set, letting them treat her as if she were above them all, Yuna would never manage to make friends in her time here. She didn't want servants, she wanted companions.

A tinge of worry fell over her features. Perhaps her words had come across a little harsh. She softened her posture and twisted her fingers together in front of her.

"I don't want you all to be so stiff or afraid around me. It's already intimidating enough to be in a land that isn't my home country. Everything is all so different. Please, treat me as you would any of your neighbors, and we can all get along. Is that alright?"

Another few seconds of silence passed, until heads began nodding in reluctant agreement. Clearly they weren't sure how not to treat the wife of their island's Minister with deference. If it was her direct request, they would try, but the idea must have been extraordinarily alien. At least she had managed to ease the tension and calm them down. Surely Katakuri would be hearing about it either way, but she had handled it for now.

The woman who had offered her items finally relented, and hugged the bag closer to her body. Then, she gave a small smile up to the former Princess. "If that is what you would like."

"Thank you."

"Be sure to try the lemon tarts. This bakery sells the best ones you can find on the island." And with that, she turned and began walking down one of the smaller side streets. Presumably towards her home.

Slowly, the crowd began to turn away now that the spectacle had passed. Things had calmed down, and the line moved ahead several feet. The fishman standing in front of her, however, turned to regard her again when they could step no further.

"If it's alright for me to say...you're a strange person, Yuna-sama."

She smiled, making it clear that she wasn't offended in the slightest. "Am I?"

He nodded. "You were a Princess before coming here, right?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did your people treat you that way too? Like...a friend?"

"For the most part, they did." She explained, delighted that she was having an actual conversation with someone. The eel fishman actually looked her in the eyes, listening carefully. "There were some who refused to. Our Captain of the Navy always insisted he treat me in accordance with my title, but he liked to lecture me like he was my father sometimes too. He was very protective."

Her face took on a rueful smile, thinking of the salty seaman in particular. She let slip a small sigh. "I miss him. And everyone In Seiiki, of course. But I'm sure they are doing much better now that they are under Big M-...Mama's protection."

That was her hope, at least. She hadn't received any communication from them at all. Being a week after the wedding, Yuna had anticipated some sort of message from the king or her brothers. They would surely swear to find some way to rescue her or some other ridiculous promise.

Denji especially. He hadn't been pleased the last time they'd spoken, when she'd been departing with Daigon to leave for Totto Land. He'd made his negative opinion on Yuna's acceptance of the arranged marriage plain and clear. At least her father was there to keep their dissatisfaction in check and prevent them from doing something stupid.

"Well...I hope you come to like Totto Land enough that you don't regret leaving your country. This place is a paradise, in it's own way." The fishman said, offering a slanted smile. His teeth were short and sharpened as an eel's would be. "You seem nice...if a little odd."

Yuna laughed.

"Thank you. I appreciate the honesty, and the concern." She looked over the many people and the fantastical town once again, taking in the delicious scent of pastries heavy in the air. "I wouldn't worry, though. I have a feeling I'll grow to love this place."

_____________________________________________________________

Her newly-purchased pastries in hand, Yuna wandered further into Hakuriki Town towards a section she hadn't yet explored. Being Komugi Island's capital city, it was large and spread over a vast portion of the southern coast. It would take her weeks to fully learn the ins and outs of the place, and so figured a walk around the unexplored parts every day or so was a good idea.

The shopping district surrounding the main plaza slowly morphed into a residential zone the further she went, dango houses and bread loaf apartments lining the streets. They came in all sizes, some big enough for even her to walk through the door. Others so small she feared stepping on them by accident. What sort of race were as tiny as mice? None that Yuna had ever heard of. Remarkable.

Her bag of treats tucked under one arm, she rounded a bend in the street and noticed that the space opened up to reveal a beautiful lake, the water blue and crystalline. It wasn't large by any standard. One could see it in its entirety from where she stood on the path, but it was big enough to encourage people of all ages to play in it.

Yuna smiled, seeing parents sitting on the shore as they watched children splash around in the shallow waters, while teens and adults swam out where it was deeper. A few donut-shaped boats and tubes floated on the water, occasionally flipping over as people leaned too far over the edge to look below them, sending them cascading into the water with a mighty splash.

Spotting a nearby bench, Yuna went over and sat with her goodies, content to observe and enjoy the sunny day among the others. So caught up in their fun, most didn't even notice her presence nearby. Good. She didn't want to disturb the fun.

Setting her bag on the bench beside her, she reached in and took out of the the lemon tarts that she'd purchased from the store. It smelled light and sweet and sour all at once, and looked absolutely divine. Eager to have a taste of the so well-known pastry, Yuna leaned in and took a solid bite.

Just as delicious as it looked, the pastry itself was light and fluffy, perfectly balanced with the tartness of the lemon, but a dusting of powdered sugar on top made the sourness not too overwhelming. One bite turned into two. And then suddenly the whole thing was gone before she knew it. Oh, but each bite had been worth every minute of the long wait it had taken to acquire them.

Unable to help herself, she reached into the bag and grabbed the second tart that she had planned on saving for later. That one too followed the first, gone in just a few bites and just as delicious. Yuna hummed her delight, savoring the last mouthful before being forced to swallow it. Without having had any other lemon tart on the island of Komugi, she could confidently say that was definitely the best around. She couldn't imagine anything tasting better than that one had.

Yuna looked into the bag again, and saw the last tart she'd bought. The desire to bring it back for Juno to try dampened her desire for a third tart, but she did take a moment to seriously think otherwise. No, no. This one was for Juno. An olive branch and perhaps something they could both bond over as a first step towards friendship.

"Jeez, you eat like a pig."

Yuna swung her gaze up at the harsh remark, seeing two teenaged girls approaching her bench. Clad in pink dresses and horizontal striped tights, both looked so remarkably similar in more ways than one. There was no way the two brunettes weren't related, their near-matching outfits aside.

"Did you get lost or something?" The one with the poofed ponytail sneered in amusement, hands on her hips in a chastising gesture. She pointed behind her shoulder with a thumb. "You live that direction, in case you forgot."

"Poor Big Bro. His wife isn't just weak, she's dumb too." The other chimed in with a sad shake of her head. "Do you think Mama would let him divorce her?"

The blatant mocking and hostility took Yuna aback. Neither female looked familiar, and she was certain nothing she'd done had offended or hurt anyone in the week she'd resided in Totto Land. Recovering enough from her initial surprise, she blinked a few times but finally picked up on what they said after a moment.

"You must be Katakuri's siblings." It made sense, however who these two were was still a mystery. Yuna held her hands up in apology. "You'll have to forgive me, I don't quite remember your names."

The brunette who's dress sported a skull gave a disgusted scoff. "How rude!"

"I knew she wouldn't care enough to bother memorize them." The second one crossed her arms and gave a typical teenaged pout. Her expression made it clear that Yuna was no more important than the dirt beneath her feet. "What does she care? We're just here to protect her tiny little country."

"Actually, I hope to know all your names, soon enough. 85 names is a lot to remember in only a week." Yuna admitted, hoping her sincerity would calm just a bit of their annoyance. It would have been a vain hope to think that everyone-or anyone at all-would readily accept her as Katakuri's wife. And with how large and dangerous most of his family was, the odds were even lower that she would be seen in a positive light.

Of course, no one really anticipated having so many in-laws, but this was the life she had ahead of her.

The one with the heart on her dress and poofy ponytail gave a disappointed sigh and tilted her head. "Maybe, but now that you're part of the family-"

"Barely." The other interjected.

"-you have to know that sort of thing. And honestly, if you're really that dumb, it's an insult to Big Bro Katakuri."

"We can't have you tarnishing his perfect reputation."

They nodded in unison, and Yuna decided to let them lecture her as they saw fit. She needed to make a good first impression, and seeing as they were teens at most, shutting down their claims of her stupidity-telling them they were wrong-would only backfire in the end. Teens were ruthless when they didn't like you. Better not to give them another reason to dislike her.

"I'm Akimeg." The skull-adorned dressed one introduced. Her rolled eyes made it clear that she felt it was a waste of breath. "And this is Allmeg."

"Akimeg and Allmeg. It's nice to officially meet both of you." She said, making sure she smiled in a way that wouldn't seem forced but repeating their names in her head a few times for good measure. While she understood their suspicion of her, the insults were a bit extreme. It wasn't easy to just let that go when it came unprovoked. "I'm Yuna. I'll make sure to remember your names for next time."

Allmeg gave another scoff. "Yeah, duh. We know who you are. We aren't dumb like you."

"You're not even who we're looking for." Akimeg threw a hand dismissively to the side. "It's just a freak coincidence that we ended up in the same place. Anyway...have you seen Big Bro Katakuri? We need to tell him something."

That explained why they were out here on his island. Whether it was due to their irritation in not finding their brother or simply her presence here, the continued ridicule stung. But now wasn't the time to say all she wanted to. Pick your battles, as Daigon would always say.

Pushing down her pride, Yuna shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure where he is. He didn't tell me where he would be for the day."

"Hmph. Figures."

"No use wasting our time with you, then. We'll find him ourselves."

"Not like we needed your help anyway."

"We'd better call the fan club. Maybe Pudding or Joconde have seen him."

Neither female bothered glancing Yuna's direction again as they turned and walked the way they had come. The former Princess watched them go, needing a few seconds to wrap her head around the entire conversation that had just occurred. Well, it had much less been a conversation than a one-sided lambasting.

Akimeg and Allmeg were one of many siblings Yuna would have to contend with, and if this was the average attitude they would have towards her...she was in for a hell of a time winning favor from her husband's family.

She turned back to observe the lake. Try as she might to still feel some enjoyment from the people playing in the waters, the whole experience from moments ago had stolen some of her enthusiasm away. Even the hint of the lemon tart's taste in her mouth had been sullied by their venomous and intentionally hurtful words.

With a heavy sigh, Yuna closed the pastry bag and stood from the bench, wandering off to return home.

_____________________________________________________________

"Welcome back, Yuna-sama." Juno greeted with the appropriate amount of cheer expected of her. Her broom was gone, replaced by a mop and bucket. "I hope your outing was enjoyable."

"It was." She replied automatically, deciding not to mention her run-in with Katakuri's sisters. She closed the door behind her and relished the cooler air of the interior of the home. After hours in the sun, the pleasant temperature had veered a bit on the hotter side. "I tried the lemon tarts everyone was talking about. They are just as delicious as they say."

"Oh?"

"Yes. In fact," Yuna held up the bag she had carried with her all the way here, "I brought you one so you could try it too."

As she predicted, Juno's eyes widened and she waved one hand in front of her in denial. "That is unnecessary, Yuna-sama. I'm not-"

"Come on, I'm sure you're just as curious to taste it as I was. I promise you, they're delicious." The bag was pushed closer to her open hand. Yuna tossed in a charming smile for good measure. "It would make me happy to have someone to share these treats with, and you have been doing such a wonderful job with upkeep of our home. Consider it a thank you."

Her composure in total disarray, Juno's expression was torn between slight horror and bewilderment. The lady of the house offering her a snack...was it really such a strange concept? Did Totto Land not reward their valuable workers? If not, Yuna hoped to change such a policy now that she was here. And if Katakuri disapproved...well, the former Princess wouldn't back down.

"But I..." Juno went on, however she never finished her sentence. The blue-haired woman finally glanced down at the offered treat, the fight in her posture easing as she delicately took the bag from Yuna's fingers. Adjusting the mop handle to settle in the crook of her elbow and free her other hand, she looked inside of the pastry bag to see the tart in question. "If you're sure..."

Yuna nodded once. "I am."

After a glance up at the lady of the house, Juno reached in and took out the lemon tart. She gave it an experimental sniff, before biting into it. Yuna could tell the moment her tastebuds fully translated the flavor, eyebrows shooting up in surprise and delight. Her hesitation momentarily forgotten, the maid bit off another piece, then another. Her pastry was gone in a flash.

"It's good, isn't it?"

"That's..." To her surprise and delight, she saw a timid smile lift the corners of her mouth. And this one was much more genuine than the ones she typically sent Yuna's direction. "I guess they were right. That was the best thing I've ever tasted."

Then, the fear returned to her gaze. "Oh, dear. I scarfed it down so quickly, I'm sorry for the poor manners. How rude of me..."

Yuna let out an amused laugh, taking the now-empty pastry bag from the maid. "Oh, don't worry. You should have seen me earlier! I couldn't help but stuff my face with two of them, right in the middle of the town. I imagine I looked like quite ridiculous."

She laughed again, imagining the expressions her face much have pulled while partaking of her own lemon tarts, and wondered if that had been Akimeg's and Allmeg's first impressions of her. No wonder they thought her a pig. It was a little easier to think about, now that she had time to dwell on the moment.

Her own laughter made Juno's small smile return, even giving off a quiet chuckle of her own. Her hands had returned to the handle of her mop, but the stiffness in her shoulders had eased a large degree.

"Thank you for the lemon tart, Yuna-sama. I appreciate that you thought of me while in town."

"Of course. If I see something particularly tasty, I'll be sure to bring you some to try." She promised, flashing a pleasant smile. With a light heart and the promise of being able to make a friend or two in the coming weeks, Yuna headed further into the home.

Chapter 5 ->

#one piece #romance #arranged marriage #multichapter story #eventual smut #princess #devil fruit #slow burn #katakuri x oc #whole cake island #charlotte katakuri #oc

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themurphyzone · 3 years

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Nova Ch 9

AN: I know it’s been two months since the last update, so thanks for your patience!

Ch 9: Gravity

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Brain didn’t remember walking back to the lab. While his thoughts meandered in many different directions, they all converged into one harsh truth.

He’d lost his only lead to Snowball.

If only he’d been faster. If only he’d noticed the Selenian camera sooner. So many ifs, so many actions he could’ve taken to prevent losing such a valuable item.

He’d allowed himself to be distracted from his goal. Terra was a fascinating planet, yet burgers and karaoke and sunglasses wouldn’t bring him closer to establishing his dominion over it. Pinky’s short attention span must’ve affected him too.

How else could he explain it?

His feet were on autopilot, his mind in a daze. Pinky tried to start a conversation several times, mostly about trivial things like the shape of a cloud or a flower that grew between the cracks of the sidewalk. But he trailed off once he realized Brain wasn’t interested in any of them.

His tears had ceased by the time they arrived on the lab’s doorstep, but the raw ache in his chest remained. The neck of his shirt was damp and slightly darker from where the tears had splashed down, and there were similar dark patches on Pinky’s lavender blouse.

No physical reminders could remain of his momentary weakness, so he quickly took off the shirt and shorts Pinky had given him, leaving them behind on the counter. Then he snatched up his black jumpsuit and pulled it over his body.

Though it didn’t make him feel better. Somehow, the jumpsuit seemed more restrictive than before. He unlatched the window and sat down on the protruding edge, the fabric pulling tightly against his limbs.

It was designed for efficiency, not for comfort.

Behind him, Pinky gathered up the crumpled clothing, and Brain tried not to feel guilty for treating the items Pinky had generously given him like trash.

It was Pinky’s fault for distracting him in the first place.

Find Snowball. Take over the world.

Two simple steps. Anything not related to the above was unnecessary.

“You want some tea, Brain?” Pinky asked. “I can put lemon and honey in it too if you want.”

Brain’s ear twitched, but he said nothing. He swung his legs over the edge of the windowsill, hoping Pinky would take the hint and leave him alone.

But Pinky was incapable of recognizing subtle cues.

“Brain?” Pinky called again.

Pinky’s footsteps increased in volume, then Brain felt a hand on his shoulder. It was a soft touch, but even so, Brain didn’t want it.

He didn’t need pity.

Brain shrugged the hand off, and Pinky made a tiny, surprised noise that was quieter than the vehicles rushing down the road, but was far too loud for Brain’s ears.

He knew what Pinky had done for him, even if they were strangers.

But Brain was going to rule the world soon. He shouldn’t feel guilty over this. This arrangement was temporary.

He looked at Pinky and caught the downturned blue eyes, the rejected hand still poised to comfort. Pinky’s other arm clutched the bundle of clothing Brain had discarded.

“Leave me alone, Pinky,” Brain ordered, turning away so he didn’t have to see that hurt expression.

“Narf…” Pinky whispered, and his sadness was palpable as he trudged back into the lab, leaving Brain alone with his thoughts.

It was what he asked for. He couldn’t take back commands once issued.

He had to be unyielding at all times.

Laying back against the cool surface of the windowsill, he stared up at the faraway crescent that was New Selene.

It was so tiny from his current location. Curiously, he raised one hand to the sky, and New Selene was hardly bigger than his own body part.

Though it was a matter of perspective, he found that it was a concept even his brilliant mind had difficulty comprehending.

Logically, he knew New Selene wasn’t big. Simply empty and barren, with life concentrated in tiny little pockets, which gave the illusion of largeness.

In the grand scheme of the universe, Terra was simply an insignificant body as well. Even the sun, the very star that all life depended on within this section of the universe, paled in comparison to the largest stars.

And if comprehending size wasn’t enough, there was also a matter of distance. While many alien cultures had developed technology that enabled ships to travel faster than the speed of light, the simple truth was that light was the fastest naturally occurring substance in nature.

Stargazing meant looking into a canopy of history, stars only appearing as they did millions or billions years ago. It was a sobering thought, that stars could exist for that long when recorded history for many civilizations was hardly a fraction of their timespan.

Then there was his life.

Though some part of him knew that nothing lasts forever, and no matter how much he wished to be remembered as a wise and powerful leader, there would come a day where his name would be forever lost and his legacy forgotten.

He just hoped that day wouldn’t come shortly after his death.

There was noise around him. Chirping from the vegetation, the roar of vehicles, Pinky humming from somewhere within the lab.

Though the background noise was more welcome than the near silence of New Selene, it still didn’t drive away all his spiraling thoughts.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring into the night, but a rustle from the bushes underneath the windowsill drew his attention.

Then he spotted a familiar tuft of amber fur, the stubby antennae, a flash of pink eyes—and Brain tumbled off the windowsill in shock, landing in the dirt with a painful thud.

Snowball?

Brain rubbed his head, clearing away the dizziness. Maybe he was just clinging to false hope. That he wanted to find Snowball so much that he imagined his presence.

Then the familiar chill hit him, and he knew Snowball was actually here.

The aisam studied his claws nonchalantly, letting a fine mist coat them and evaporate into the night. His control over his enhancements was impeccable. Perhaps the haughty, refined air Snowball wielded should’ve been a warning, but Brain was far too relieved and exhausted to care.

Snowball was back. Soon they’d rule the world together.

That’s what truly mattered.

Slowly, Brain got to his feet, wincing as a muscle pulled on his left thigh.

Snowball simply waited, and while part of Brain was annoyed at Snowball for not helping him up, he was also glad that Snowball allowed him to keep his self-sufficiency intact.

“I was looking for you,” Brain breathed, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. “Where were you? What happened to the rest of the Conquistador?”

Snowball draped an arm over Brain’s shoulders and pulled him closer, and Brain nearly stumbled over his feet. He sighed, the cold electron flow seeping into his antennae and body, but this was a special occasion, so he decided to put up with it just this once.

He must’ve been spoiled by Pinky’s warm and lively electrons. A shiver ran up Brain’s spine, and he clenched his fists together so his involuntary reflex would be less noticeable.

“Oh, how I missed you and all your idiosyncrasies, Brain,” Snowball said, patting Brain on the head. Brain scowled. The move felt awfully condescending. “You see, the Conquistador’s back section wasn’t structurally stable. It must’ve broken off when we entered Terra’s atmosphere.”

“That ship is my magnum opus!” Brain snarled, his fur bristling. He shoved Snowball off and crossed his arms. “My engineering skills are top of the line. There were no flaws in the structural integrity!”

Snowball didn’t look all that impressed. “I’m sorry, old friend. But even the most skilled engineer can’t salvage second hand equipment.”

Brain sighed, reluctantly conceding Snowball’s point. The Conquistador was built out of scrap metal, not the newest and flashiest pieces of technology. Deep down, he knew that the ship would never function as well as the most advanced fleet of vessels, though he’d never admit it.

“And what about you, Snowball? How did you find me?” Brain asked, deciding a slight change of topic was in order.

“I managed to land my portion of the ship without incurring too many injuries,” Snowball said, gesturing to his body. If he was injured at all, he hid it remarkably well. Brain looked for any telltale signs of bruising or bandages, but didn’t find any. Not a single piece of singed fur either. “The internal communication system was fried, but the landing gear was mercifully intact.”

Then again, Snowball could’ve spent some time grooming himself before he came here. He liked to appear his best.

Perhaps he should’ve refined the communication system more. Then they could’ve avoided this entire mess and gotten around to world domination sooner.

Though some tiny part of him protested that statement. If he hadn’t crash landed in the field, he wouldn’t have met Pinky.

He quickly beat down that notion.

Pinky was an easily distracted idiot. Just a mere convenience until he found his footing in this new world.

“And the cameras were in working condition as well. I figured you landed somewhere nearby, and I sent them to scour the city to find you,” Snowball continued. “Naturally, you can imagine my surprise when one of them located you in a public location, singing with some moronic Terran.”

“You witnessed that?” Brain asked. He felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

He didn’t know much about music on this planet, but when Pinky had dedicated his last song to Pharfignewton and Snowball, somehow he felt that he had to drop everything to listen.

It was a kind gesture for someone who never personally met Snowball.

And Brain felt uneasy at the scorn in Snowball’s voice. That simple action didn’t deserve mockery.

Snowball shrugged. “You can’t let anything distract you, Brain. Not fairy tales, not the whims and trivialities of this planet, and certainly not incompetent nincompoops who only care about stuffing themselves with food.”

This wasn’t how he’d wanted their reunion to go.

Somehow, he’d imagined it to be happier. He thought Snowball would be more concerned for his well-being.

It took all his strength to hold his ears high. He wouldn’t show any sign of weakness.

“Now, onto business…” Snowball clapped his hands together, but before he could announce what he planned, there was a sudden burst of activity on the windowsill above their heads.

“Braaa-aaain!” Pinky called. “Where’d you go? I made tea with lemon and honey! Wanna try some? Poit! I was gonna put in rainbow sprinkles or confetti but I didn’t know what you liked so I just left those out!”

Pinky came into view, holding a thimble out to where he expected Brain to be, but he paused when Brain wasn’t there. He paced around, his footsteps steadily growing more frantic and his tail twitching erratically.

Brain felt Snowball’s gaze boring into the back of his skull, obviously questioning why he’d acquaint himself with such a clingy buffoon, but he ignored it.

“Down here, Pinky!” Brain shouted.

Pinky looked down, nearly spilling the steamy contents of the thimble. The worry etched in his face vanished and was replaced by a ridiculous grin. “Oh, there you are, Brain! I was looking everywhere for you! And egad, you have a guest! Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gotten a thimble for him too!”

“Yes, Brain,” Snowball smirked, and Brain knew he was being irritating on purpose. “Why didn’t you tell him I was coming over? It’s really quite rude. Then again, I can hardly expect you to be tactful.”

“And I can hardly expect you to not be a nuisance, Snowball,” Brain grumbled.

Snowball just folded his arms, as if he were proud of that fact, and Brain scowled at him. Then Snowball turned to Pinky, who set the thimble down and began twisting his own ears in a vain yet valiant attempt to fly.

“So you’re Pinky,” Snowball said. There was a hint of disdain in his voice, but Brain assumed that was just because he wasn’t used to Pinky’s brand of idiocy yet. “I must admit, you aren’t quite what I expected.”

Pinky beamed. “Zort! Well, can’t say I was expecting you either. Brain’s told me so much about you! Won’t you come up for some tea? Oh, we can have our own tea party with Nicholas and Mr. Button! Hmm, maybe I should invite Madame Daisy too? Short notice, but I’m sure she’ll agree! She’s got the loveliest petals! I don’t think you’ve met her either, Brain. But this would be a good time to introduce you! And oh, you’ve never tried my no-bake cheesecake, have you? It’s very easy to make!”

“Before you run off with your inane ideas, throw something down so Snowball and I can get up there!” Brain shouted.

Saluting eagerly, Pinky scampered out of view, then brought back a pencil and threw it off the windowsill. The pencil landed a few inches away from Brain and Snowball. Unimpressed, Brain glared up at Pinky, who smiled bashfully and tried again.

“A rope or cord would suffice,” Brain sighed just as Pinky was about to throw a paper clip to them.

To Snowball’s credit, he showed little reaction to Pinky’s bizarre logic and casually studied his claws instead.

This time, Pinky tied a long, thick strand of yarn to the window latch and let it fall to the ground. Brain climbed up first, allowing Pinky to pull him onto the windowsill.

“About time,” Brain muttered.

Snowball pulled the yarn to check its tensile strength, but didn’t climb up. “Ah, I just remembered something,” he said, in a manner that suggested he didn’t forget at all and was just being dramatic. He disappeared into the bushes for a moment, then dragged out a large blue cap. It had been well-hidden among the leaves. Snowball took his end of the yarn and tied it around a hole in the back of the cap, one end of his lips quirked in a smug smile.

“Is that for me?” Pinky pointed to the cap in disbelief, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He clasped his hands and swayed from side to side.

It was the same cap from the electronics store. The one Pinky had earned through singing. It didn’t contain money anymore, though coins and dollar bills were considered valuable commodities on Terra and Brain would’ve been more surprised if they’d been left alone.

He never realized Pinky had left the cap behind.

“I thought you wanted that cap, Pinky,” Brain said. “Why leave it behind?”

“Well, I couldn’t chase after you and carry the cap at the same time,” Pinky shrugged, like it was no big deal that their trip to the mall had been for naught. “I didn’t wanna lose you. The mall’s a big place.”

Brain gritted his teeth. This was the second time Pinky had abandoned his goal in favor of helping someone else. He’d allowed the incident with the wallet a pass since Pinky wasn’t used to setting objectives yet, but he thought Pinky would’ve learned the second time.

Even if it was for Brain’s benefit.

But Brain didn’t need help. He was a self-sufficient mos.

Once Snowball set foot on the ledge, Pinky immediately wrapped him in an enormous embrace and danced around with him while the poor aisam’s limbs flailed in a futile attempt to escape. “Thank you, Snowball! Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Narf!” Pinky squealed. “I will never forget this as long as I live!”

Brain pretended he was very, very focused on pulling the yarn until the cap was on the windowsill with them and ignored Snowball’s protests.

A bona fide Pinky hug was appropriate punishment for all the worry and stress Snowball had put him through for the past few days.

“Keep it up and you won’t have very long to live,” Snowball muttered once Pinky finally showed mercy and let him go.

Pinky just hummed and took the cap from Brain. “Everything’s perfect! Lemme set everything up for you!’ He skipped away, leaving Brain and Snowball alone.

“Snowball, you knew Pinky wanted a specific object,” Brain said over the incessant sounds of Pinky persuading Mr. Button to join everyone for the tea party, and it was a statement of fact. It wasn’t necessary to ask a question when he already knew the answer. “And you obtained that particular cap.”

Snowball shrugged. “I see the malfunction hasn’t dulled your keen observation skills, Brain.”

“Which suggests you were in the area. Why use a camera to spy on us? Why not come out yourself?” Brain asked.

He hadn’t known if Snowball was alive or dead. He chose to believe Snowball was alive, because if he could survive the empty, vast desert of New Selene, then surely he could survive a crash landing.

The alternative was unthinkable.

And Snowball didn’t care enough to alert Brain that he was-

No, that was ridiculous. There were simply extra factors at play. Limited communication range. Injuries to prioritize.

There were more variables to the equation. That’s all.

“Don’t you remember, Brain?” Snowball tapped Brain’s head with one finger. Brain scowled and shoved him off. “We planned to use the cameras to scope the area around our landing site for safety reasons. I simply stuck to the plan, though neither of us anticipated our unfortunate separation.”

Brain looked away. He refused to admit Snowball’s point. He was already smug enough as it was. “You could’ve attached a message.”

“And allow a hostile party to intercept it? Communicate our intentions before we’re ready to carry out the plan? Come now, Brain. You’ve engineered a marvelous ship out of scrap. You shouldn’t let a freak accident scramble your neurons.”

Brain bristled at the insinuation of his intelligence dropping as a result of the accident. He’d only been temporarily disoriented.

A harsh scraping noise interrupted him before he could retort. On the other side of the counter, Pinky arranged six tiny stools around an upside-down bowl. Then he seated Nicholas the Nickel, Mr. Button, and a potted specimen of Terran flora that Brain assumed to be Madame Daisy. Pinky’s blue eyes sparkled with joy, a frilly white apron tied around his waist. He was completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere between Brain and Snowball.

“Hello, narf! So glad you could make it to the tea party!” Pinky exclaimed, shaking Brain’s hand vigorously. Brain had to clamp down on his arm to stop the shaking as Pinky subjected Snowball to the same treatment. “Don’t be shy now, I’ve got some lovely neighbors to introduce you to!”

Too stunned to speak, Brain and Snowball took their seats on the wooden stools. Nicholas—and celestial bodies above, now he was personifying inanimate objects like Pinky—was lying on top of the stool to his right, while Madame Daisy was on his left. Snowball was trying to compose himself on the other side of Madame Daisy, but he couldn’t hide the annoyed tapping of his claws against the bowl. Brain assumed the empty stool between Mr. Button and Nicholas was meant for Pinky, unless he planned to invite more ‘guests’.

And Brain hoped there weren’t more. It was crowded enough already, even if only two beings at this table could stage an intelligent conversation.

He was mildly concerned at Pinky’s mental state. Surely naming inanimate objects couldn’t be conducive to one’s well-being.

“Nicholas and Mr. Button, I’m sure you already know Brain,” Pinky grinned.

“We’re acquainted,” Brain muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Pinky gleefully clapped his hands together. “Troz! Great, then you can help introduce them to Snowball! And Madame Daisy, did you do something with your leaves? They look so green and perky! Oh really, you think I could pull off Daisy Dukes? Stop that, you’re making me blush! Though I guess I do have the legs for it…”

He giggled, his cheeks coated in a light red blush.

“Yes, Brain. Why don’t you introduce me to your Terran friends?” Snowball grinned, casually leaning one elbow against the table.

“Fine,” Brain spat. “Nicholas. Mr. Button. This is Snowball. I believe you’ll find him particularly irksome.”

“Oh please, they already know you,” Snowball rolled his eyes.

“Madame Daisy, why don’t you tell them all the gossip you heard from the birds and the bees and flowers and the trees?” Pinky asked, kissing one of Madame Daisy’s leaves. “Now, now, Nicholas and Mr. Button, don’t fight in front of our visitors. Everything’s ready in the kitchen. I’ll bring it out to everyone in a jiffy! Brain, I’ll get you a hot thimble. Your last one’s all cold. Snowball, did you want anything extra with your tea?”

Snowball sighed. “A pinch of sanity, perhaps..”

“Double for me,” Brain added.

Pinky tilted his head. “Hmmm, I dunno if I have that brand, but I’ll look! Be right back!”

“And I require my beverages either cold or room temperature,” Snowball added. “My species can’t have hot food or drink.”

Pinky nodded eagerly. “One cold tea and five warm, coming up!” He skipped away, humming an upbeat tune under his breath.

And Brain was once again alone with Snowball. Unlike Pinky, he refused to count the inanimate objects as sentient creatures.

Pinky was an idiot at the best of times and a distraction at the worst. But he prioritized Brain over the hat he desired so badly.

An action Brain dared to describe as...sweet.

Then Snowball coughed, breaking the silence and Brain’s momentary lapse into sentimentality. “By any chance, have your broadcasts reached your target demographic?” Snowball asked, drumming his fingers on the makeshift table. “I’d hate for all that time you spent communicating our intentions with less than stellar technology to go to waste.”

From the way Snowball’s lip curled at the very mention of the radio broadcasts, Brain knew he wasn’t asking out of courtesy. Most likely, he’d figured out that nobody on this planet except for one incredibly stupid specimen had heard Brain’s long distance communications.

Nobody recognized the Conquistador, despite Brain giving detailed descriptions about his engineering pride and joy. He’d failed to garner the attention of the media when Terra was in a period of rapidly advancing technology.

And most damning of all, no human had come to sing his praises, genuflect on bended knee, or bothered to host a welcome parade in his honor. They showed no concern that their new ruler had crash landed instead of making a grand and powerful entrance.

But the sun would have to burn through the rest of its lifespan before Brain would ever admit it.

“Your silence is answer enough, Brain.” Snowball shook his head in disappointment. “And here I’d hoped most of our work would be finished upon arrival. Sadly, it appears nobody listened to-”

“Pinky listened,” Brain interrupted.

Snowball gave him a look of mocking sympathy, and Brain pretended the engravings on Nicholas the Nickel were very intriguing. He hated that look.

“Allow me to rephrase,” Snowball said. “It must be upsetting to find that nobody of importance listened to your broadcasts.”

Pinky bandaged his injuries, tried to help locate Snowball in his own ridiculous way, and introduced him to the wonders of cream cheese.

Those weren’t unimportant things.

But at the same time, Pinky didn’t have the influence to help him ascend to the throne.

“Cut to the point, Snowball,” Brain snapped. “Spare me the monologue.”

Snowball shrugged. “Then tell me our current location.”

“Read the sign yourself,” Brain retorted. Did Snowball believe he was so disoriented he couldn’t tell where he was? “It’s just above the front door. You can’t possibly miss it, unless you’ve somehow become illiterate during our period of separation.”

“Humor me.”

Brain gritted his teeth. “A primitive Terran laboratory known as ACME. I haven’t discovered what the acronym stands for.”

“Never mind the acronym.” Snowball dismissed the tangent with a flick of his hand. “As you observed, this is a laboratory. And do you know what they specialize in?”

“I can do without the condescension,” Brain muttered.

“Behavioral studies and genetics,” Snowball said as if Brain had answered properly. “Why else would that idiotic Terran be here? He’s the equivalent of a mos on New Selene. Approximately the same niche on the food chain and social hierarchy. Higher than parasites and bottom feeders, but not by much.”

Well, Pinky had shown him the gene splicer which doubled as a bagel warmer. It wasn’t that much of a surprise.

And it was a scientific wonder, even for a less advanced piece of machinery. But he had the suspicion that bagels weren’t the only things to go through that device.

“Why bring Pinky into this?” Brain asked.

“I’m only speaking out of concern for my associate,” Snowball replied. He stood up, kicking Madame Daisy’s stool out of the way as he marched over to Brain. The flower slid off the stool and fluttered to the floor. “Isn’t this setup enough proof for you, Brain? Having a useless tea party, surrounded by toys and drivel...why, if you’re not careful, you might end up just like...him.”

The him was spoken with such vehemence, it took Brain aback.

Brain leaned away from Snowball, a shiver traveling up his spine. It wasn’t the usual chill he got from Snowball’s natural physiology.

“I won’t end up like Pinky,” Brain said, as firmly as he could, which wasn’t as firm as he would’ve liked. “I’m his intellectual superior.”

“Then act like it.”

A claw jabbed the center of Brain’s chest. The jumpsuit’s insulation did nothing to protect him from the fine, icy tendrils that threatened to choke his heart.

Snowball stood over him, narrow pink eyes boring into his own. Then Snowball went back to his own seat, scoffing at the flower which laid lifelessly near its stool.

If it weren’t for the simple fact that Madame Daisy wasn’t sentient, Brain might’ve felt sorry for it. Then he mentally kicked himself for that notion.

He was an intelligent being. Plants don’t talk or have feelings.

Snowball was watching him. So Brain remained in his seat.

Then Pinky came back, oblivious to what transpired among his guests while he was away. There was a skip in his step as he balanced three trays, one in each hand and the third resting on his head. His balance and upper strength were impeccable.

“Narf! Sorry for the delay!” Pinky chirped as he set the trays on the bowl and passed the thimbles around, taking great care to ensure the cold tea went to Snowball. “I was looking for sanity, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. Not among the spices, the cupboards, or in that moldy ham sandwich they keep forgetting to toss out. So I just stirred in a spoonful of honey with a generous sprinkling of lemon for...oh, Madame Daisy! Are you alright?”

Pinky quickly set the last thimble at his place and rushed over to Madame Daisy, gently cradling the stem in his hands as he set her on the stool. He waited a moment, then wiped his brow in relief. “Phew, I’m glad to hear it! Anyway, drink up! I’ll join you lovely folks after I grab the cheesecake.”

Brain sniffed his tea as Pinky took the trays and ran back to wherever he came from. The thimble was pleasantly warm under Brain’s fingers, a scented trail of steam rising from the golden liquid inside. It was an oddly relaxing scent.

He picked up the thimble and took a tiny sip of his drink. And once again, Pinky had shown that he was full of surprises. The tea was warm, yet not scalding. Slightly sour, with a tinge of sweetness.

Snowball was entirely focused on his own drink. He didn’t give any outward signs of enjoying or disliking it though. Just as always, he was poised and controlled. Every movement calculated, no thought wasted.

Brain tried to replicate that level of control many times. But he’d never been able to figure out how to stop his ears from giving away his emotions.

A few minutes later, Pinky returned with the promised cheesecake in tow. Once again, he balanced one tray in each hand and the other on his head, carefully setting them on the table without dropping a single plate.

There were two plates on each tray, each one containing a triangular pile of cream cheese. There was a brown, crumbly coating on the back and underneath the cream cheese. A spiral of white fluff rested on top of the cheesecake, and within that fluff was a bright red fruit with tiny seeds dotting its surface. A tiny fork laid on the side of each plate.

“Bon appetit!” Pinky grinned as he passed the plates of cheesecake around. Snowball gave Pinky a curt nod and accepted his plate. “I call it no-bake cheesecake! It’s a family recipe. My mom passed it down to me, and she got it from her mom, who got it from her mom, and she-well, you get the idea. What you’ve got there is cream cheese at room temperature, laid on a bed of crushed graham crackers for that nice, crumbly texture. And I added a little whipped cream, topped with a juicy strawberry because everyone knows strawberries with cheesecake are absolutely delish!”

Pinky set Brain’s plate down, fussed over Mr. Button, who was apparently not sitting properly on his stool. Then Pinky finally sat down at the table with everyone else and began to chow down. He scooped as much cream cheese as he could fit on his fork and jammed it into his mouth, humming in delight.

Brain was struck with an odd urge to forgo the fork entirely and stuff his face with little regard for table manners or dignity. Logic and intellectualism didn’t hold a candle to the sheer heaven that was cream cheese.

He could feel Snowball’s eyes on him though.

And he forced himself to take small bites.

Pinky talked about everything and nothing between mouthfuls of cheesecake and tea. While Brain’s mind was well-equipped to handle large floods of information, the topics Pinky pursued were completely beyond his understanding. Even Snowball’s impeccable control was being pushed to its limit, judging from the eye twitch he’d suddenly developed.

“Troz! I’m sorry I never noticed your new polish, Nicholas! Very shiny!” Pinky smiled, his tail swishing happily behind him. “Mr. Button, have you tried vinegar and baking soda to get that stain out? No? Oh, well I use it all the time for my cage, and it really works. No problem! Egad, Madame Daisy, your son’s gonna marry the potted geranium? I always knew he had a thing for her!”

Perhaps Snowball’s concerns about teaming up with Pinky weren’t completely unfounded.

Brain was halfway through with his cheesecake when Snowball tapped his fork against his plate repeatedly, interrupting Pinky’s futile efforts to bring Brain into a conversation with Mr. Button. Brain sipped his tea to disguise his gratitude. He had no wish to debate philosophy with a button.

“This has all been quite...enlightening,” Snowball said. He put his fork down and pushed his half-eaten cheesecake away. “But I didn’t make this trip just for a first meeting or reunion. Rather, I came with a purpose and opportunity in mind.”

Of course. Snowball never did anything without purpose.

But Brain found it hard to ignore the lack of general inquiries into his well-being. Even so, he pushed the rising bitterness down. If Snowball had found an opportunity to take over the world despite all the setbacks, then Brain was going to hear this out.

“You went to the mall earlier today,” Snowball continued. Another statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes, we did!” Pinky exclaimed. “We ate burgers and sang karaoke and played on a boat-”

Snowball cleared his throat to stop Pinky before he strayed too far from the topic at hand. “The day before, I’d staked the mall as an area of interest due to its popularity among Terrans. While I wasn’t expecting to see you on my camera there, Brain, I decided to satisfy my curiosity and follow you. And during your excursion, you ran into a gentleman named Joe Lamont.”

“He was anything but gentle,” Brain muttered, recalling the cruel man’s shoe digging into his antennae and his total helplessness. And now he had the knowledge that Snowball bore witness to that incident.

“And he was mean!” Pinky added. “The meaniest meanie who ever meaned!”

Snowball’s eye twitched. “While Lamont’s actions were that of a brute, I assure you I did not mention him just to garner a reaction from you.”

“So why mention him at all?” Brain snapped.

“If I may continue without further disruption?” Snowball’s tone was carefully measured, barely concealing his impatience. “Now, I was able to guide the Conquistador’s front safely to the ground after the malfunction. From there, I sent many cameras to scout the area. Some to search for Brain, others to collect intel on the Terrans. And I noticed there was one figure in this city that everyone feared greatly. His vehicle is a common sight, given that at least five cameras I assigned to different areas had spotted him, and nobody dares to double-cross him.”

“We’ve heard similar,” Brain said.

The worker who’d admonished him after the attack wasn’t the only one who was afraid of Lamont, it seemed.

“Lamont is an influential figure,” Snowball continued. “So it’s prudent that we attend the elite party he’ll throw at his manor in two weeks.”

Pinky’s hands flew to his cheeks. “A party?” he gasped. “Narrrrrf!”

Brain glared at him. “Why would you ever want to attend a party thrown by this brute?”

“But it’s a party, Brain!” Pinky protested. “It’ll be fun!”

There was no way he was attending a party. The fact that it was thrown by that uncultured brute of a man was the least of his worries.

No, instead he would be paraded around and meant to socialize…

He shuddered at the very thought.

“Pinky, would you mind fetching the cap I gave you?” Snowball asked.

Pinky immediately scampered off, still tittering about the party, and Brain nearly dragged him back by the tail to force him to stay put.

“You may not be one for small talk, Brain,” Snowball said. “But several members of Lamont’s security detail mentioned that he possessed a powerful military weapon within range of my camera’s audio. Attending the party is necessary to gaining access to that weapon! Isn’t a little discomfort worth the world in the end?”

He could put up with some momentary discomfort, but…

“And just what are you intending to do with that military weapon?” Brain asked. There was something in Snowball’s tone he didn’t like.

Something foreign and out of place.

“What else would I use it for other than world domination? And don’t speak so loud!” Snowball hissed, slapping a hand over Brain’s mouth and looking over his head to make sure Pinky wasn’t coming back just yet. “That idiot won’t keep his mouth shut if he knew. It’s imperative for you to not mention that weapon!”

Brain wasn’t worried about Pinky blabbing. Instead, he got the feeling that Pinky would have something to say about using powerful weaponry to subjugate the populace.

Not that he was wholly comfortable with this plot either. But a little discomfort now would be worth the world later.

“Very well. We shall spend the next two weeks preparing for the party,” Brain said, pulling away from Snowball. “In addition to gathering more intel, of course.”

Two minutes later, Pinky came back, dragging the cap behind him and bouncing with glee. “Oh, I can’t wait for the party! Say, do you think there’ll be a chocolate fountain? I love chocolate fountains! Especially when they make you all gooey!”

Chocolate fountains didn’t sound particularly appealing when he put it that way.

Snowball flipped the cap over, revealing a small card attached to the inside. Then he tore it off and handed it to Brain with a flourish of his hand.

“Don’t show off,” Brain grumbled as he ripped it out of Snowball’s hand. Pinky read the card over his shoulder, growing more excited by the minute as he read the card.

Dear Mr and Mrs Clarke,

RSVP by 4/27 to 707-231-0009

Masquerade Ball at Lamont Manor

Event begins at 8:00 pm

Present this card to security at front gate upon entry

If Pinky was excited before, he was bouncing off the walls now. So the card contained all the information they needed to know. It wasn’t terribly exciting news. Just informative.

“It’s a masquerade ball!” Pinky squealed. Brain tried to dodge, but Pinky was just too fast for him. His legs kicked feebly in the air as Pinky danced around in circles, towing Brain like a ragdoll. “We get to be extra fancy and wear masks and nobody will know who we are!”

Well, that was one consolation if he got to hide behind a mask for this event. He broke out of Pinky’s hold, and took another bite of cheesecake to calm down. Having the creamy flavor in his mouth helped slightly.

“I already have my alias and invitation. Who knows? You might find this experience rather educational,” Snowball explained. He moved over to the table and downed the last of his drink. “Well, this was an interesting night. I’d love to stay and indulge your need for company, but I’ll be taking my leave now. Data isn’t going to analyze itself.”

He’s leaving already?

Snowball walked over to the window, preparing to climb down by using the yarn they’d left tied to the latch.

“Wait!” Brain said, bits of cream cheese and strawberry spraying out of his mouth. His ears flattened in embarrassment as he hastily swallowed. “You can’t be leaving already!”

The rusuprhi! In the light of all the information that had been thrust upon him, he’d completely forgotten to split the remaining bag with Snowball!

Snowball raised an eyebrow, and Brain cursed himself for sounding so desperate.

“Pardon me for not wishing to be a slave to the dominant species again,” Snowball said. “And I’m far more efficient with my tasks when I’m alone. You want accurate intel, don’t you, Brain?”

“Yes, although-”

But Snowball was already gone.

Again.

Brain stood on the windowsill, clutching the card Snowball had left behind. New Selene hung in the sky above him, no bigger than his finger. The faraway stars twinkled.

He didn’t want to be out here anymore. Slowly, he trudged to the bed in the cage, dropping the card and not caring what happened to it. Let Pinky take care of it since he was so eager for this party.

He ignored Pinky asking if he was going to finish his food and pulled the blanket over himself, unable to summon the strength to thank Pinky for the excellent tea and cheesecake.

Snowball had left again. And he didn’t know why.

AN: Poor Brain. Starts the chapter sad, gets hopeful, then gets the rug yanked out from under him.

Also since neither Brain nor Snowball are gonna say this, thank you Pinky for working so hard to be a good host for your tea party.

#pinky and the brain #patb fanfiction #patb nova

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imaginethebeautifulworld · 4 years

Text

Hello, everyone! A long while ago, I had this request sitting in my Inbox, and the entries proved too long to be all in the same post. I'd like to thank you all for your patience. This post focuses on Arthur and Lovino, but Ludvig and Gil's entries can be found here! Hope y'all enjoy~☆

England:

“Arthur?”

Curious eyes turned from the pile of papers on the desk before him, narrowing in confusion as he glanced between you and the clock.

“Everything alright, luv? It’s the middle of the night.”

Were you in better spirits, you would have pointed out the hypocrisy of his statement, the stacks of files, open ledgers, and cold tea all indication of his own insomnia.

But your nightmares kept tormenting you, Darkness tracing its finger along the fringes of every passing thought. You couldn’t shake the memory of the smoke, of the-

Weary, you heaved a sigh, your head dropping to rest at an angle against the bookcase. “Artie, I-”

His eyes flashed with alarm, recognizing immediately from your tone, from your inability to look at any one thing for longer than a moment- It was a haunted look that he had seen in the mirror far too many times.

You couldn’t believe that something so small and mundane had crippled you like this, shattering your defenses and leaving you piteously vulnerable.

You-

Arthur was surrounding you before you were even aware of his approach, the blanket that had been on his lap wrapping around your shoulders before he completely engulfed you in his warmth.

You resisted for a moment; you were surprised and unprepared for the sudden gesture. Slowly though, you let yourself collapse into him, face falling into his shirt and your eyes drifting shut.

For a moment, for maybe even an infinity, nothing existed except the blessed warmth around you, the familiar scent of shortbread and apple tea on each steady exhale teasing your neck.

His grip was firm, certain, strong, and so damned reassuring that your fingers were bunching into the fabric of his jumper, your own arms trying to pull him even closer.

You needed this assurance, needed proof that he was here, and he was yours, and that nothing would take that away from you.

Normally, he would tease you for your moments of intense affection, but he simply pulled you even closer, nuzzling into your hair.

You had no idea how long he held you, each breath tickling your skin, his heartbeat certain and steady beneath your ear. His grip never once faltered, the only change coming when he would shift his hand, fingers dancing with each new caress.

Your eyes had opened once more, and you found yourself staring mindlessly at the distant wall, watching the candlelight- he never outgrew the need of having one lit while he was working- dance with the shadows.

“What’s troubling you?”

His words were so quiet that you thought you had imagined them, going unacknowledged until he shifted once more, lips hovering near your ear. “Luv?”

You breathed a sigh, letting yourself cling to the temporary peace that was already starting to slip away, angling your own head to whisper your reply. “Just-”

You cut yourself off, a vivid, aggressive flash of your night-terrors breaking into your haven, stealing your breath once again. Your grip on his jumper, which had slackened considerably, strengthened once more, your passing panic having you bite your lip to keep yourself from reacting too severely.

“Dearest?” The concern in his voice nearly shattered you, your eyes slamming shut as you buried your face into his chest once again.

“Just hold me, please.”

You hated how pitiful you felt, how weak you must sound. You could only imagine his expression right now, could only imagine what he must think of you.

He said nothing, half confirming your fears. But when he sighed out your name and pressed a firm kiss to the top of your head, you felt them dissipate entirely.

You let yourself simply cling to him again, soaking his warmth into your bones.

He was here, and you were safe.

There was only this small bubble, the sanctuary of his embrace.

“I-” Your voice came out in a small crackle, throat drier than you had realized.

Arthur hummed in curious encouragement, drawing away enough to tuck his finger beneath your chin, drawing your gaze up to him.

The warmth, the concern, the love-

You cleared your throat before speaking once more. “I had a nightmare, and this one kind of-” You trailed off, searching for the right words, but nothing came to mind apart from: “It kind of fucked me up.” Your voice seized towards the end, words almost catching in your throat.

There was a flicker of conflicting emotion in his gaze, passing in merely a moment. His thumb brushed against your arm, his expression softening. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Part of you ached to do just that, to tell him of the eyes and flames that had invaded what had been an otherwise pleasant dream. Tell him that-

But you couldn’t find the words, thoughts instead shifting to your original goal, sudden bashfulness making your voice drop to near silence.

“Actually, I was hoping you could make me some tea? If you’re not too busy?”

Arthur offered you a pointed look, one fully conveying his disbelief. “As if I could ever be too busy for you.”

You felt yourself melt at the sincerity in his words, a warm wave of comfort enveloping you from the inside out.

Even these few moments with him were enough to soothe your restive heart, his words as he walked you to the kitchen weaving through your spirit.

Sitting on the countertop, listening to him recite a small spell into the electric kettle, measuring the perfect ratio of lavender buds and lemon juice, you felt your fears trickle away even more.

Whatever demons that had crept into your dreams were powerless, every lingering trace of their presence banished as Arthur pressed another kiss to your brow, gentle arms once more enveloping you in his warm embrace.

Romano:

You weren’t entirely sure how long you had been standing by the window, watching, yet unseeing, the city below.

Your dreams had been filled with darkness, ghosts that were beyond your reach, continuing to haunt you for what must have been hours.

Your only reassurances came from the hum of the room’s mini-fridge and Lovino’s breathing, a familiar not-snore serving as a steady melody in the otherwise too-quiet space.

You rested your forehead against the glass, eyes slipping shut once more as phantasms tried again to harass you, their words and accusations and remarks incomprehensible, yet still leaving you raw.

It was most irksome that they were from your distant past, memories weaving together and leaving you hopelessly vulnerable.

You huffed silently to yourself, unaware of the shifting figure in the bed behind you, oblivious to the exhausted, anxious eyes that had been searching for you, ignorant of the plaintive gaze that was steadily tracing across your form, the narrowed brow and worried frown as he vacated the bed.

Hearing your name pulled you from your thoughts, your companion’s approaching trudge making you open your eyes.

You frowned, upset that he had awoken to find you like this, almost ashamed of the amount of apprehension to his expression.

“What’s wrong?”

You offered a small hum, a tired shake of the head. “Just- nightmares.” At his look, you were hasty to reassure him, hand waving the concerns away. “I’m okay, Lovi.”

The deadpan countenance he cast your way revealed just how obvious your lie had been. “Certo. Of course you are.”

You huffed in irritation once more, yet again turning your focus to the overcast skies, taking in the brushes of light pollution against the low-hanging clouds. You tried to ignore him, but his footsteps only brought him closer, his warmth radiating against your back.

His arms eased their way around you, his fingers weaving with your own, before he tugged you back into his embrace. He was all-but surrounding you, his chin settling on your shoulder.

He began to hum, gently using his position to guide you into a small shuffle, slowly shifting your weight from side-to-side.

You felt your eyes close on their own accord, the smallest hints of a smile tugging at your lips.

The memory of your nightmare- the fear, the adrenaline- was fading away to a wisp, disappearing as his humming slowly shifted into coherent lyrics, each note teasing your skin, the tempo of the impromptu dance increasing ever-so-slightly.

Not that you could really call it much of a dance; if anything, it was more swaying in place, the city lights beyond the window twinkling with the passing traffic.

You weren't entirely sure how long the two of you lingered there, he pressing kiss after kiss to your shoulder, your cheeks, your neck- Any piece of exposed skin he could find fell victim, the soft brush of his lips accented with each line of the lullaby.

You guided his hands, still carefully intertwined with your own, to your upper arms, tugging him into a firmer hug.

He released a soft chuckle as you let yourself surrender entirely, standing only through his careful balance, his embrace tightening slightly.

His lullaby faded for a few moments, his temple resting against your own as you both watched the world beyond your window.

"Feeling better," he breathed, pitch deeper in his fatigue, the whisper teasing your skin.

You hummed in affirmation, closing your eyes and letting your posture droop, confident in his ability to support both of you.

Somehow, you weren't sure how, just being surrounded by his warmth, having his arms around you and another firm kiss lingering against your cheek, this was enough to chase the remnants of your passing nightmare away, all the echoes of the past crumbling to dusty ruins.

You offered a sigh, squeezing his hands in assurance; you could tell by the tension in his posture that he was still worried for you, unsure how else to comfort you.

Slowly, you turned to face him, dropping your head into his chest as you tugged him closer, sighing deeply in contentment when he started to massage your back.

Each light scratch with his nails brought another wave of sleepy pleasure, senses nearly overwhelmed when he started to hum yet again, his lips pressed to your hairline.

His swaying continued, steady, slow, subtly shifting so that you were making your way back to the bed.

You offered a small sound of protest, quickly swallowed as he shifted his fingers once more, intentionally massaging that one spot that always made you melt.

"Ass," you half-whined, half-sighed, earning another quiet chuckle.

There was nothing left of your dreams, consciousness scarcely keeping its fragile grip on you as he continued his ministrations, guiding you back down to the mattress, his words making you shiver as he whispered into your ear.

"Torni a dormire, amore."

There was still some sort of protest in your mind, some fleeting reason your mind wouldn't let you relax. But with each steady brush of his fingers, and the ebb and flow of his singing, you couldn't-

"I'm right here. You're safe."

You felt yourself collapse entirely at those words, unsure if your praise and adoration were even spoken aloud, or merely the final passing fragments of coherence, his singing guiding you into a peaceful rest.

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kareofbears · 4 years

Text

wither with you

Akechi raises a gloved hand and coughs, wincing ever so slightly. “I don’t want you here,” he says as bright petals escape through his fingers. “I don’t know how to make that more clear.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you want me here?” Sumire brings her knees up to her chest. It does little to block out the cold. “Being here, by yourself. It gets tiring, doesn’t it?”

Hanahaki Disease is a disease where the victim of unrequited love begins to vomit or cough up the petals of a flowering plant growing in their lungs, which will eventually grow large enough to render breathing difficult.

read on ao3 or below the cut

Tokyo is a busy place.

It’s constantly jam-packed with excited tourists and impatient suits and laughing teenagers. There’s lights, there’s cars, and there isn’t a lot of patience for those who can’t keep up. Eyes dart around, taking in the people, the atmosphere. It doesn’t matter how many times someone’s been there—there’s always something new to see. There’s always something new to miss.

There are spots, however. Spots that go under the radar of the hustle and bustle, of the city life so ingrained into the concrete and roads. They go undetected, and people can live their entire lives in Tokyo without knowing that these spots ever existed. With how fast life moves, these spots are respites; they act like small pocket holes of air for whoever wants it, or for whoever needs it.

Though the park is open to the public, very few people come to this section of the garden—it’s long been overgrown with weeds and tree roots make it dangerous for children to play in. When it rains, the ground turns into mud, making it unpleasant for strolls. The only plus side that it has going on for it is the aging, olive-toned gazebo with a bench that creeks whenever someone sits down.

In the end, it was the sound of retching that gave Akechi away.

He’s slouched over on the bench, eyes clenched shut. His breathing shakes along with his shoulders as he rasps for air, the rain doing little to muffle the noise. Even from this distance, she can see the petals fall and join the pile on the ground, bright and yellow like lemons.

“Would you like some water?”

He stills, and for a long moment, only the droplets ringing from the roof made a sound. Sumire lowers her hand, still clutching the bottled drink.

“Did you follow me here?” he asks, voice guttural.

There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

A beat passes.

“That looks painful,” she says quietly.

Slowly, he raises his head, jaw tight. “Are you mocking me?”

“No. I would never.”

“Bullshit,” a smile splits across his features, and she winces. With a bright yellow petal still stuck at his bottom lip, he’s an uncanny match to a cat who just ate a bird. “You follow me here, to the middle of a random park to, what? Hold my hair back? Give me water? Give me a break and fuck off.”

Sumire shifts the umbrella in her hand. She doesn’t want to enter the undercover area just yet. “This is a nice spot,” she remarks. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”

“And you won’t be coming here again.” His eyes narrow. “Are you really so bored that you stalk me all the way here for some chit chat? For small talk? Or are you just not getting the hint?”

“It doesn’t have to be small talk. I was thinking we can just...talk.”

“Talk?” he repeats, incredulous. “I don’t know how to make it more obvious that I have no interest, no willingness to talk to you. Why don’t you just run back to the little circus troupe and I’m sure that they’ll peel back some time out of their busy schedule instead of bothering me.”

“Are you busy, Akechi-kun?”

“What?”

She can’t help it anymore—her eyes flicker downwards to the small pile of petals by his feet, captivated by the vivid colors. He doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, I see now,” Akechi lets out a bark of laughter, the sound echoes against the trees. “There’s two things that you could possibly be here for: one, you’re here for a show. I don’t know how you found out, but you want to see it up close. You want to see the Detective Prince fall to his knees, for flowers to shoot out of his lungs and come out of his throat like a magic act—”

“That is not why I’m here.”

“Okay,” he shrugs. “Then we come to possibility number two, and to be honest, this one is much more infuriating and revolting than the last: you, Yoshizawa Sumire, pity me. You and everyone else in that ensemble of faux-heroism carry this guilt complex that gives you the drive to demean the people around you into believing that they need help, that they wanthelp, so you can show up, capes blowing in the wind, to feel needed. I don’t want any part of that—”

“I don’t pity you, Akechi,” she cuts in, stepping into the roofed area. He recoils ever so slightly. “And I’m not here for a show, either.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he reiterates, unwavering. “Because if you aren’t, then why are you here?”

“Because I’d rather be here with you than be back there with them.”

Akechi stares at her, and she stares back. After a moment, he shakes his head and stands, shoes nearly stepping into the delicate yellow pile.

“I’m done wasting my time,” he strides past without looking in her direction. “I don’t care why you’re here. I don’t care what your game is, or what you plan on doing. All I care about is you never stepping foot here again, so leave me alone.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving her in an empty gazebo. Despite having predicted that outcome, his rebuke still stung.

The rain was loud, then grew louder still. His footsteps on the mushy ground can no longer be heard from where she was standing.

Sumire takes a shallow, shaky breath, and lets out a cough.

A single, pink petal falls into the yellow heap as the rain continues to pour.

—

She was already sitting on the bench with a plastic bag at her side when Akechi arrived the next day.

He studies her, and she lets herself hope for a heartbeat.

Then he turns around and walks away.

—

Her bottled tea has long since cooled in her hands as she waits for him to show up.

When he doesn’t, she tosses it in the trash with a grimace.

—

Rain continues to pour down from the gutter of the gazebo, plastic bag swaying from her fingertips.

Sumire coughs, and again. Each time, a flurry of petals escaped from her lips. She doesn’t see him today, either.

—

“Are you going to keep doing this?”

She glances up from reading the label of her ginger tea to see him leaning against the wooden pillar.

“Yes, I think so.”

Akechi raises a gloved hand and coughs, wincing ever so slightly. “I don’t want you here,” he says as bright petals escape through his fingers. “I don’t know how to make that more clear.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you want me here?” Sumire brings her knees up to her chest. It does little to block out the cold. “Being here, by yourself. It gets tiring, doesn’t it?”

He doesn’t even wait for her to finish speaking—by the time she gets her question out, he’s already leaving tracks in the mud.

—

For three days, Sumire has the gazebo all to herself, with nothing but her drink and the autumn leaves to keep her company. Occasionally, a petal joins her. She doesn’t know if it’s from pity or punishment.

—

“Maybe you’re too stupid to understand what I’m saying.”

His cool mockery can’t be found anywhere today—with his open glare and tight jaw, it’s clear that annoyance has taken its place. Hesitantly, she calls that a good thing.

“I won’t mince my words,” Akechi runs a hand through his hair roughly. “I do not want you near me. I do not want you near this place. Every time I see you sitting on that bench, I feel sick. You’re a nuisance to me, Yoshizawa. I don’t know if your existence is to punish me, mock me, or worse, you’re here because your sad little heart feels sorry for me, but I do not care. Get out of my sight, or I swear I’ll—”

His voice falters, and his eyes flutter shut.

Sumire peers at him curiously. “Akechi? Are you—”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t look—”

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Don’t breathe, don’t move, or I’ll make you regret it.”

She stays deathly still, afraid of what’ll happen if she makes any movement. All she can do is stare as he clamps a hand over his mouth, brows furrowed, chest rising and falling shakily. In just a matter of moments, a light sheen covers his forehead. In the faint light coming through cloudy skies, he looks more exhausted than she’s ever seen him.

And just when she thinks that he’s got it under control, his eyes fly wide open and he lurches forward, his torso hanging over the edge, making the entire gazebo creak under a new weight as he vomits out a stream of bright, yellow dandelions. Petals burst forth and sank into autumn foliage in a grim way. She watches him heave up an entire bouquet, desperately clutching the railing to the point where there’s a risk it might snap underneath his hand. After what seemed like hours, Akechi finally slumps back, hair sticking to his forehead and sheer with sweat. The rain mingles in seamlessly with his stuttering panting.

Automatically, Sumire reaches forward to...what? Comfort him? Rub his back? She makes a fist around her plastic bag instead.

When he finally speaks, he doesn’t raise his voice above a whisper. “Was that what you wanted?”

Yes. No. “I don’t know.”

“I should have asked this the minute I saw you here,” his eyes slide sideways to meet hers, and there’s still a single petal stuck to his coat collar. “But why are you even here?”

When she doesn’t answer, he rolls his eyes. “Oh, I see. So you tail me, force me out of my own makeshift hideout, wait until I display a humiliating act of weakness, for seemingly no reason? And here I thought I was the sadistic one.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

“Then enlighten me, Yoshizawa.”

Before she answers, Sumire rummages through her plastic bag to pull out bottled hot lemonade (still warm this time), and places it next to Akechi.

“Might help your throat,” she smiles slightly. He ignores it, so she pushes forward. “It’s what I said, from before. It must be tiring. Exhausting.”

“To what?”

“To be by yourself. All the time. Especially with what you have to go through.”

“So you do pity me?”

“Far from it.”

“Then what is it?”

The smell of petrichor seems ingrained in the old wood, but fresh rain only makes the smell of fallen leaves even stronger.

"You're in love with Akira, right?"

Akechi gives her an empty stare, not a single emotion leaking through. "And what about it? What does that have to do with you being here?"

Sumire opens her mouth to respond, when she feels something catch in her throat. Quickly turning away, she coughs, hard. Hard enough that her chest constricts in pain and her throat feels like it's on fire and full of water at the same time, like a dam imploded and now all the debris is stuck in one area. For each time she coughs, a flurry of pink flies from her lips—a macabre hanami in the middle of autumn.

By the time she turns back to him, his eyes are wide, before it dawns with understanding.

“Huh.”

She can’t help but smile, just a little. “Sounds about right. That’s...that’s how I found out about you, actually. With how you looked at Akira—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, and for the first time, his composed expression cracks; enough to reveal the hurt underneath. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

It looked exactly how I would stare at him, too.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I won’t.”

Despite everything, Sumire feels...good. Better. The seemingly-permanent weight on her shoulders eases as the words left her mouth. It felt inexplicably good to finally say it out loud, to let her thoughts leak into the world, and to have someone listen in return.

“Is that why you’re here?”

She glances at him. He’s staring at the puddles accumulating at the foot of the steps, the stillness constantly interrupted by the never-ending raindrops that seem to favor them to no end.

Does he mean the loneliness that comes with this? The isolation? The feeling of being stuck, unable to move forward and impossible to ever move back, despite being willing to do anything to get rid of this humiliating sickness? The fact that even her own body is ashamed of her feelings to the point where it wants to make it known to everyone around her?

It doesn’t matter. The answer won’t change.

“Yes.”

Akechi nods like he understands, like he really, truly understands. And he does. Sumire lets out a breath.

“Sorry, by the way.”

“What for?”

Sumire gestures vaguely. “For invading your privacy. For following you to a place that’s pretty much become your oasis, and forcibly taking it from you.” She rubs the back of her neck. “That was kind of horrible of me.”

He scoffs. “You think that was enough to bother me? That was nothing but a nuisance. A drop in the bucket.”

She lets out a sigh of relief. That had been a point of anxiety for her, and there was a good chance that—

“As for forgiveness, however, I have to put that on hold.”

Sumire blinks, and he continues. “You’re right. You invaded my privacy by following me, and persisted even when I told you to leave me alone. That’s not something I’m willing to forget,” he readjusts his gloves. “I might be an atrocious human being, but even I’m allowed to have reservations.”

He glances at her, and he must see something in her crestfallen expression. “I’m not asking you to grovel for my forgiveness. I don’t want that—dear Lord, do I want anything less than that. I’m telling you that’s currently where I stand in terms of your apology.”

In truth, she doesn’t know how to reply, or if she even should. Sumire’s hardly spoken to him before this, and she’s not sure if they’re speaking now. Akechi Goro is incredibly hard to read. She brought this on herself—still, this is better than the alternative.

“That being said,” Akechi twists his torso to face her. “Why did you go through such an ordeal just to sit in this garbage, over glorified bus stop?”

Sumire frowns. “I think this place is beautiful.”

“That was absolutely not the point of the question.”

“I know, but I feel the need to defend it.” After all, it was the only thing separating them from the never-ending waves of rain. “You’re lucky to have claimed it before anyone else did.”

“Not lucky enough to keep it claimed, apparently.”

She huffs out a laugh. “True.”

He stays silent, and it’s enough of a hint that she takes a second to collect her thoughts.

“I’m pretty sure you already know what I’m going to say.” Sumire says it like a plea, like she’s crafting her own olive branch, but she should know better than that. It’s the price to pay if she wants to stay here.

“I know. But if there’s one thing that I hate, it’s guessing games.”

Sumire leans back against the bench, the wood cold enough to be felt through her sweater. “This place really is beautiful,” she repeats softly. “But it’s lonely, isn’t it? Especially if it’s just you here. It doesn’t matter where I am nowadays. It’s the same each time.” She tugs on her sleeves. “Ever since I fell in love with Akira, it’s been lonely wherever I am.”

She rubs her hands together. “It’s another level of isolation that comes with this disease, don’t you think? It’s one thing thing to be rejected before you even had a chance to confess; it’s another to have it broadcasted—” a familiar tickle makes its way into her throat, and when she clears her throat she can feel a few petals shift in her esophagus. It’s tough to repress another cough. “For everyone to see.”

“So you hid?”

“By myself, yes. In my room, in alley ways, bathrooms.” It becomes unbearable—she turns the other way, and frowns at the pastel blossoms. “It’s exhausting. It’s like having to hide your existence for no real reason.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

“But then I saw something that I can say, without a doubt, shifted my entire world.” Sumire looks up. “I saw how you looked at him.”

He stiffens. If she closes her eyes, she can see that same, open expression that he wore when they were in Leblanc. “I thought at that moment, I wasn’t the only one dealing with this.”

“And here we are now,” he finishes.

“And here we are now.”

A bright orange leaf breaks off from a nearby branch, landing gently into their shelter. Akechi crushes it with his shoe.

“Compelling story,” he commends. “But I still want you gone.”

She can’t quite muster the feeling of surprise. “Why do you want me gone so badly?”

“That’s what the problem is, Yoshizawa. It’s not that I want you gone—it’s because I want everyone gone.” He grinds his shoe into the leaf. “I don’t care about you, or much else out there. To be frank, I hardly care about the person I’m humiliatingly head-over-heels for. You want to know what I care about? Myself. Me.” When he’s finished, he kicks it away, pliant and smushed. “And I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.”

It makes sense; it lines up with everything she believed Akechi stood for. It makes sense, and yet— “Isn’t it so, horribly lonely?”

“It is,” he nods. “But I’ve been like this before I’ve met Akira, or the rest of the Thieves.” Akechi shrugs. “You learn to overcome the silence. It’s long since it stopped being a real problem for me. I don’t mind anymore.”

“Just because you know how to overcome it doesn’t mean you have to live with it, Akechi.”

“Live with it? There’s a lot of things I have to live with. This is just another one.”

For a minute, Sumire can only stare at him; at his crossed arms, his defiant eyes, and when she speaks, her voice comes out soft. “You didn’t even try with him, did you?”

He laughs, the sound filled with scorn. “Of course not. Can you imagine? Confessing to Kurusu Akira, only to be laughed at? Or worse, pitied? There’s no point. It’s the epitome of a fruitless endeavor, with the way Sakamoto has him wrapped around his finger.”

It’s both a blessing and a curse: once flowers begin to bloom in your lungs, it can only mean that the one you love more than anyone else in the world does not hold the same feelings for you. Detached, unrequited love. It’s efficient—quick, swift, but far from painless. The only reason one may even try to confess is to convince the love interest to try and fall in love with them.

Strangely, she felt a sense of relief at his words. At the very least, two people out there can have a proper love story. She almost feels happy for them.

“Figures,” Sumire says. “I didn’t either.”

“Let me guess,” Akechi rolls his eyes. “‘How tragic would it be if I were to even create a possibility of splitting up these two idiots. I would never, because I’m Yoshizawa and I have eighteen guilt complexes to take care of.’ Am I close?”

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? There’s no reason to make it harder for him when I already know the answer. When there’s no hope of him loving me back.”

“See, it’s shit like that that pisses me off.”

“You think that I can make him fall in love with me?” she says, incredulous.

“No,” he clears his throat, wincing. “It’s the fact that you’re letting all of these people walk over you even when you’re clearly suffering and lonely and or whatever else came out of your poetry book. It’s the fact that you’re still somehow worried over Kurusu, when you’re the one in agony.” He coughs into the crook of his elbow a few times. “It’s the fact that you’re weak enough to push your pride aside and spend time with someone who doesn’t even want you here.”

Sumire watches a full flower land in between them, still bright yellow and horrifyingly intact. “You’re so obsessed with weakness, Akechi.” She glances at him. “But do you hate it more than being alone? Than being stuck here, in this gazebo, for who knows how long?”

When he doesn’t respond, she mutters, “Isn’t being here, in and of itself, weak?”

The rain slows down ever so lightly, unnoticeable unless someone’s been watching it for the past afternoon. Even the wind seems to be taking a break—the trees are no longer under vicious scrutiny, and the flowers around them don’t have to worry about breaking off from their stems anymore.

“I don’t know,” he says, and it’s the most honest Sumire’s ever heard him speak.

—

When she arrives the next day, he doesn’t say anything when she sits at the opposite end of the bench. When she offers him a drink, he firmly ignores it.

She considers it a win.

—

It’s quieter now. It’s always been quiet, but this is one she isn’t used to.

Instead of the white noise keeping her company, it’s a boy who barely looks in her direction, who coughs yellow dandelions up like he has a wild field growing deep in his lungs. Instead of the silence keeping her company, it’s the combination of rain and breathing that rings through the air. It’s not the still air of her bedroom, or an unfamiliar bathroom that she hides herself in; it’s fresh air, it’s the autumn chill, it’s a near-stranger sitting on the opposite end of the bench.

It’s a good kind of quiet.

They spend days like this. Quietly arriving, quietly leaving. Wrapped in silence and in each other’s company. Sometimes, one of them gets into a coughing fit, and the other knows to look away. The fits are mostly harmless, but sometimes they get rough. Intense. And it happens for Akechi more often than not. Every time she feels that she should reach out. Every time, she talks her way out of it.

Curiosity is enough to make the quiet step away for a moment, though.

“Does anyone else know?”

Akechi’s eyes slide from the horizon to meet hers, his gaze scrutinizing. “Are you joking? Of course not.”

“I should’ve known,” she shifts so that her hands are under her thighs. The weather is brutal, but she expected it. It’s better than the alternative. “I’m just surprised to meet someone else who has it too, given how rare it is.” Sumire pauses. “Then again, it kind of makes sense that two people who awakened inner monsters from our souls end up having to cough up a bouquet every once in a while.”

He doesn’t respond, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Usually, he likes to keep their small talk as short as possible. It doesn’t do much to discourage her. After all, it would be nice to befriend the boy she’s been seeing every day. There’s so little she knows about him, so many questions she wants to ask. There’s no one else she can possibly talk about this curse with, no one to share the burden of knowing how this feels. So she holds onto hope that he’d like to talk about this too. In terms of her odds in success though, she’s not holding her breath.

Still, she’s nothing if not resilient.

—

Every day, she brings a snack and a drink from the nearby convenience store and places a bottle of hot lemonade in between them. When he ignores it, she reluctantly throws it in the trash. It makes her grimace. What a waste.

On the fourth day, he sighs.

“Why do you do that?”

Sumire pauses in chewing her rice crackers, surprised—it’s the first time he’s talking to her without prompt. “Sorry, am I loud?”

“No. Actually, yes, but that’s not what I’m asking.” His eyes dart down at the cooling bottles and back at her. “Why do you keep trying to give me these cheap drinks when you know I’m not going to drink it? You obviously hate throwing them away, but you still do it.”

She’s about to answer when he holds up a finger. She pauses, knowing what it means by this point: Don’t you dare say anything about this.

He stands and leans over the railing, and she looks away just as he alternates between vomiting and wheezing. From the corner of her eyes, she can see him tremble ever so slightly. Her hand twitches towards him, but she stops herself. It would only do more harm than good. She hasn’t experienced this point of the disease—at least, not yet, but it’s inevitable. It’s a matter of how long someone’s been in love, rather than the strength of the love itself.

Questions pop into her head, and she isn’t as eager to ask these ones. Judging by the frequency of his coughs and his occasional tendency to get very sick, he’s been in this longer than she has. How long has he had it? How long has he been coming here? How long has he been alone?

Somehow, she knows that it was far before the disease took over.

When he finishes, he sinks back into the bench, hair sticking to his forehead. “The drink?” Akechi repeats, continuing as if nothing happened.

“It’s supposed to relieve throat pain. And you have throat pain.”

He squints. “Then why don’t you drink it?”

“I don’t like lemon.”

If she didn’t know better, it almost looks like the corner of his lip twitched upwards. “I don’t want you spending money because you pity me, Yoshizawa. It’s demeaning.”

“I don’t pity you,” she nearly sighs. “And fun fact: these drinks are buy one, get one free! So I can get my tea, and you can get your throat-healing lemonade.”

Akechi opens his mouth, a retort about to fly out, when he begins to cough instead. She gently inches the bottle closer to him.

When she looks away to give him any privacy an open gazebo can offer, she doesn’t miss the way his hands tuck the bottle inside of his jacket packet.

—

“You’re a liar.”

Sumire’s eyes widen and hopes it comes off right. “What?”

Today is a rare sunny day, and it gives the whole area a glow that she’s never seen before—the sun’s rays hit the still-moist grass in a way that’s pleasant to her eyes, and the colors of the autumn leaves strewn around the park had never been brighter.

“Your stupid ‘buy-one-get-one’ spiel? That doesn’t exist?” Akechi acccuses, looming over her. “Who lies about hot lemonade, of all things?”

She suppresses a sigh. Lying had never been her forte. “Okay fine, you got me.”

“I knew it—!”

“But I only lied because I knew you’d make a huge fuss over nothing!”

“This isn’t a fuss, Yoshizawa. You know how much I—”

“—hate being pitied,” they say in unison.

“See? I knew you’d say that,” Sumire groans. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have pity for you. We have the same problem.”

“Then why lie?”

“Because you’d never accept it otherwise!”

The exclamation jolts something from within her throat, and Akechi must recognize her expression. He huffs and reluctantly turns sideways as she coughs, paying no mind to the pink petals that must fly into his field of view. Once she settles down again, Akechi raises an eyebrow.

“Well?”

She tests her breathing before she speaks again. Clear, for now. “Look. I know what you’re going through. I probably know what you’re going through better than anyone else in this world. Me buying you hot lemonade isn’t an elaborate plan to make you look stupid, Akechi—it’s because I’m worried that your throat’s going to split someday.”

“I don’t need you taking care of me.”

“That’s why I lied,” she repeats, for what feels like the millionth time. “But you just had to use your detective skills on me.”

Akechi glowers at her, and she gazes right back. “Are you going to keep getting me shit lemonade?”

“As long as you keep coughing the way you do,” she shrugs. “Yeah, I probably will.”

After a moment, the tension leaves his shoulders. “I don’t like feeling the feeling of owing you.”

“It’s a hundred yen.”

“So,” he ignores her, rummaging through his jacket pockets before throwing something small at her. She catches it and peers down at her hand: a bottle of ginger tea. “Apparently this is supposed to help your throat, too.”

She stares at it with wide eyes. “You bought this for me?”

“In a sense. It’s more because I don’t want you to think you have one over me.”

She can’t help it—a smile splits across her face. “You bought me tea so you can sleep better at night?”

“‘It’s a hundred yen,’” he mocks. “Get over yourself. And stop getting me the lemonade so I don’t have to keep owing you.”

“But you like the lemonade?”

Akechi shoots her a look. “This isn’t about the lemonade, it’s about you unnecessarily buying the lemonade. So, I am asking you politely: don’t buy me lemonade.”

—

When she places a bottle of lemonade the next day, he immediately stands up and leaves the gazebo.

Five minutes later, he returns with hot ginger tea and a fierce scowl.

“Stop.”

“It’s good for your health,” she argues, accepting the bottle from him. It’s almost a little too hot, given the lingering tingle from her palms.

“It’ll be bad for your health if you keep pissing me off like this.”

Sumire realizes something as she unscrews the lid. It should’ve been obvious from the very beginning. From the way he acts, to his hatred of weakness, to his actions and even something as simple as accepting convenience store drinks:

Akechi Goro hates to lose.

—

“You’re bullshitting me.”

She sets down a full plastic bag on the bench. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I ended up getting a lot.”

The heat of his glare almost stings her cheek. Ignoring him, she continues to rummage through her groceries. “Are you more of a chips sort of person? Pocky? I like rice crackers myself, but I’m willing to share if you—”

“I don’t want any of this,” he hisses, coughing a little. “Why are you bringing a pantry into my gazebo?”

Our gazebo, she almost says. To be fair, it’s hardly his gazebo either.

“A few reasons.” Sumire starts setting down the contents of her bag onto the bench. Maybe if he sees something he likes, he’ll take it. Like a stray cat. A feral cat. “We’re here pretty often, and other than the drinks we keep forcing down on each other, we don’t eat.”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“And I stopped by the convenience store to get your drink—”

“That I never wanted.”

“When I saw this poster on the wall that said something along the lines of,” she stretches her arm out, painting a grand picture for him to imagine like a second-rate salesman. ‘Hot pot: the meal that warms the heart and body.’ And I thought since—oh, warning, I’m going to be blunt for a second—we’re both pretty heartbroken and diseased, that maybe we could use some of that healing hot pot.”

Akechi blinks slowly. “I don’t even know where to start with that one. That ad actually worked on you?”

“Why on earth would they lie to their customer base?” She frowns. “Obviously, I can’t just bring an entire hot pot with me to a park, so I had the idea of buying a bunch of snacks instead. So,” gesturing at the pile of junk food laid on her seat, and threatening to topple to his side of the bench. “We feast.”

The rain that starts to fall only works to emphasize the silence between the two of them.

And then he tilts his head. “You’re sort of chatty, aren’t you?” Akechi says, his tone surprised.

“It’s fine if you don’t like the snacks, but you don’t have to be rude about it.”

“No, it’s not about your sack of low-cost goods—it’s an observation.” He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t think you’ve ever been this chatty.”

She stills, hand frozen over a bag of seaweed. The weight of the petals suddenly seem heavier in her throat, making sure that it isn’t forgotten. Her stomach twists slightly, and she feels sick. A foreign sick, not the one she’s used to.

He’s right—she’s not chatty. At least, not anymore. Not since the loneliness took over. And Akechi doesn’t hesitate, nor does he miss anything. The minute he saw a shift in her, he picked up on it like it was nothing. Like he’s starting to know her.

This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? To stop having to hide? To know someone who understands what she’s going through? That’s why she chased Akechi down the way she did; it was stifling to have to live with this curse by herself, to have a secret that’s literally too big to keep inside. And now that it finally, finally seems like it’s going in the right direction, a realization looms over her like a shadow from an impossibly tall structure. For the first time, she understands what Akechi’s been saying to her, with venom and a sureness of his words: I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.

Not hiding comes with something she forgot to account for—making herself known.

A wave of nausea settles inside of her, stronger this time. The first time she made herself known, she lost her in an infuriatingly avoidable car rash. The last time she made herself known, it made flowers bloom from within her lungs like an inescapable garden, a siren call that she’s paying the price for.

And here she is now, again.

“Oh, very funny.”

His words pull her out of her spiral, and she blinks into focus. “Sorry?”

He crinkles something plastic in his hand, his expression incredibly unamused. “You think that bribing me with jewelry is going to make you more superior to me? That it’ll make me buy you three more of your silly drinks in an attempt to get the upper hand? This ploy won’t work.”

“I’m not following,” she admits. Jewelry?

Sighing, he opens his hand to reveal a Ring Pop in his palm. “Even by the usual standards, this is an inept method of strategy. It makes me feel almost sorry for you.”

The rain picks up, a pleasant pitter-patter of droplets hitting the roof of their aging gazebo.

She can’t hold it in anymore.

Sumire bends forward and snorts, the sound echoing unappealingly across the park, but she can’t even bring herself to care. And when Akechi quickly turns his head away from her, all sense of self-control breaks loose and she’s gasping so heavily that she feels light-headed.

“I understand that we have an unspoken agreement not to mention the sickness,” Akechi starts, looking vaguely uncomfortable and still avoiding her gaze. “But I’d really appreciate it if you...did your business outside of the roofed area—”

A burst of laughter cuts him off, and her side is starting to seriously hurt. “Akechi—” Sumire tries, before a fit of laughter overtakes her, the sound so loud that she swears she’s probably disturbing the wildlife in this area.

“You’re so,” she gasps out. Her lungs are burning, and for once, she doesn’t want it to stop. “Funny!”

“I’m what?”

“This isn’t the petals! I’m just laughing!”

Just as she was starting to get her breathing back in control, he turns in her direction, brows furrowed. “Why are you laughing? This is a serious matter.”

That’s all it took to send her back into a spiral of hysterics. She’s laughing so hard that she can hardly see past the tears in her eyes. She’s laughing so hard that the sharp intake of breath hurts her throat, but it isn’t enough to discourage her. She’s laughing so hard that she forgets what she was so worried about.

In the back of her mind, she wonders when was the last time she smiled so intensely that her cheeks hurt.

She wouldn’t have felt this if she hadn’t come here. If he wasn’t there to say those words, or if she didn’t get oddly competitive with Akechi for no good reason.

If it meant laughing like this, talking like this, smiling like this, then maybe she can find it in her to make herself known again.

—

It doesn’t matter how many times it happens.

He could have a hand over his mouth, a narrow finger held up. He could be gripping the edge of the bench like a lifeline before running to a nearby tree. He could be leaned over the railing, knuckles white as he pukes out wave after wave of bright, yellow petals.

It doesn’t matter how many times it happens—Sumire will always have the desperate urge to reach out towards him. She isn’t even a particularly tactile person. In a way, they have that in common; neither of them seem to be in need of physical touch, and they’ve both been firm with each other about scrapping together whatever privacy can be offered in the wall-less architecture of their established gazebo. So she doesn’t reach out.

But today is particularly bad.

By the time she gets there—jeans soaked from the rain and shivering through her coat—it only takes her a moment to realize that his retching wasn’t normal.

Akechi’s sitting at the very edge of the bench, his head between his legs as he vomits. Again. And again. The stream of petals were there, except now there're the occasional fully in-tact buds that were so large that it makes him choke. It’s as gruelling to listen to as it was to catch a glimpse of it—a sound torn between a wheeze and a groan, interrupted only by more coughs. His body was curled in on itself, seemingly without his permission. With the way his entire form juddered, she can only guess how straining it was for him to carry.

She swallows. As slowly as she can, she sits beside him. If he notices her presence, he doesn’t say anything.

The rain continues to pour, unaware of two teenagers taking refuge in a spot that was never theirs to claim. Raindrops make a sort of haze that takes over the park, making it difficult to discern anything past a few meters from where she is. It gives their spot the feeling of a snow globe: encapsulated. Familiar. A stream of water drips down from the roof, to the gutter, and eventually makes its way to an ever growing puddle.

Sumire raises her hand and, before she thinks too hard, lightly rests it on his spine.

He stiffens, taking in a sharp breath. It’s entirely possible that she’s imagining it, but it almost feels like he might be leaning back.

And then the retching resumes, more punishing than before. Her hand gently slides up his back, and down again in what she hopes is comforting. Grounding. The whole time, she’s watching for minute changes in his expression, wanting nothing less than to decrease his discomfort.

She doesn’t find any.

After what seems like hours, he finally slumps forward, exhausted. Too worn out to muster much other than his breath. When she offers him his drink, he silently takes it, downing it all in one go.

The rain pours on.

—

Sumire hasn’t even stepped onto the wooden platform when Akechi bluntly asks, “Do you even do anything?”

“Please try to be more specific if you’re trying to hurt me before I even get to say hello.”

“Hello,” he sighs, impatient “And I’m not trying anything. It’s a question—what do you do when you’re not, I don’t know, crying in your bedroom and whatnot?”

He passes her drink as she passes his, repressing the urge to throw it at him instead. At least it seems like he’s feeling a little better than yesterday. “You’re rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been made aware, yes.”

Sumire flops down onto the bench, thinking. “Lately I’ve been keeping up with school. I’m having a little trouble with history. There’s this new anime I’ve been watching, but I have to say, it’s a little boring.” A pause. “Um, is there anything specific you’re wondering about?”

“Not at all,” he breaks open his seal and takes a sip. “Is that it?”

She scratches her head, strangely embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to learn how to cook smaller portions, since I’m not moving around as much lately. “ Not exactly easy to do her routines when she’s in constant fear of adding petals to her cartwheels. “I need new boots, considering my old ones are falling apart. I see everyone at school, too. They always ask me to have lunch with them.” She doesn’t mention the part where she declines every time. Shame and guilt bubbles inside her, but it’s less painful than what would happen if she says yes.

Sumire shrugs. “Between that and coming here, there’s not much going on.”

“I see.”

She breaks her own seal and takes a long drink. “Okay, I give up. What was that about?”

To her surprise, he looks genuinely caught off guard—his brown eyes widen every so slightly, and he raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve never done that before,” she says. “Small talk, I mean. It’s kind of strange.” That’s an understatement.

“What’s so strange about this? Just because I never made conversation before doesn’t mean I couldn’t. I’m fairly good at conversation when I need to be.”

“I can imagine.” In the few episodes of Good Morning Japan that he caught with him as the guest, he had no problem being charismatic and lively and enchanting to the audience. It’s weird to even imagine that now. “But you don’t do that anymore.”

“And thank God for that,” he scoffs. Tightening his scarf, Akechi turns to her, condescension clear in his eyes. “Am I not allowed to wonder what you do outside of the confines of this muddy park?”

Sumire blinks, before a smile stretches over her face. “Don’t tell me…”

“Ugh, you have the wrong idea,” he rolls his eyes.

“Akechi—”

“Stop.”

“You care?” she feels herself absolutely beam at him. It’s oddly endearing, witnessing his roundabout way of compassion.

He shifts so that he’s turned away, arms crossed. “Nevermind, you’re too annoying to put up with. Leave. Begone. Get out of my sight.”

Tapping her feet on the wood, she can’t stop grinning. “No, you’d be too worried about me if I just left you here.”

Akechi throws a dark glare behind him, and she holds up her hands. “Kidding!”

It’s more fun than she thought it would to tease him. Too bad he’ll probably go off if she keeps this up. “And how about you?

“What do you mean?” he mutters, still turned away.

“What do you do? Other than bullying people and buying me drinks, I mean.”

Akechi shrugs. “Nothing noteworthy. Since I don’t do detective duties anymore, I’ve had no obligation to make public appearances or work cases.”

“Well, you must have a lot of free time, then,” she presses. It’s something she hasn’t considered until he had bought it up—it’s not as if the world stops and starts whenever they’re both sitting here together, despite what it may feel like. “Do you have hobbies, maybe?”

He stays silent for a second, before: “Reading.”

“Reading,” Sumire repeats, considering his answer. “It suits you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, spinning to give her a look. “How do I look like I read?”

She gives him a once over; from his tawny coat and his green scarf, it always makes him look sharp, but it’s more in the way he holds himself; his back is almost always straight, his shoulders pulled back. Akechi always seems confident in what he does, so sure of himself that it might take people a second to realize what he’s actually saying instead of being pulled along blindly. She coughs, a petal escaping her lips. “Just trust me.”

“Whatever.” He leans back into his seat, his expression curious. “Do you read?”

“Mangas, mostly? I used to read more when I was younger, but then gymnastics took over my life.”

“I’ve never been interested in that genre,” he admits. “It seems a little too close to make-believe to be enjoyable.”

She huffs out a laugh. “I can understand that.”

They lapse into a silence, and she can’t tell if this is weird. If this were anyone else, it wouldn’t be, but she’s pretty sure this isn’t normal. Sumire’s grown accustomed to Akechi’s distant demeanor, his emphasis on privacy. This is an oddity, a confounding variable she hoped they would eventually head towards but she still isn’t ready for.

Sumire doesn’t know what this is, but she knows she doesn’t want it to end.

“Do you have a favorite book?”

Akechi’s eyes slide towards hers. “I have a few.”

“Can I borrow one?” she asks. “I’ve been wanting to get back into reading for some time now, but I don’t know where to start.”

He stares at her, and Sumire almost laughs—only Akechi can be this wary about book sharing. After a moment, he looks away.

“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” he says quietly. A gust of wind blows, but all she feels is warmth.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

—

The bench is empty.

She studies it, scrutinizing the empty space where Akechi sits. It’s not the first time that she arrives before he does, but it’s rare. A tinge of smugness sets in her chest as she makes herself comfortable on the bench—it’ll be fun to tease him about winning today.

It starts to drizzle once again. The smell of wet grass and moist wood slowly fills the air, only adding to the atmosphere that she’s come to memorize and appreciate. The soft pitter patter makes itself prevalent on the leaves, so relaxing that it almost never fails to comfort her. Before, rain had brought her nothing but repressed memories and puddles of red. Rain had been a source of tragedy, a reminder that mocks her whenever cloudy skies loom above.

Now, rain can only be a source of pleasure. The smell clears her mind, and the gentle sounds are company that she looks forward to greeting. Even in silence, all she can associate with it is snarky remarks and quiet confessions. Of arguments and hot drinks. Of brown hair and sharp eyes.

And then her world starts to spin.

A horrible sensation takes over her without warning, a crossbreed between nausea and suffocation infects all of her senses, forcing her to lurch forward and retch so hard she can feel tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. It doesn’t stop there—the minute she thinks she can catch her breath, a wave of petals rises up her throat, choking her, demanding that she coughs and coughs until a hint of blood begins flooding into her mouth.

This is a torture she doesn’t recognize, an unfathomable overencumburance of agony. She retches again. No, that’s not true. This is familiar, but it’s evolved to a new level that she can’t even begin to comprehend. It makes her coughs from before feel like butterfly wings flapping in her throat. is a merciless tidal wave that shows no signs of stopping.

Her hand grips the edge of the bench, trembling. This is insane. The sheer amount of pain makes her nerves throb, her heart pound. It’s nearly on par with her Persona awakening; two different types of fabled events that no one should ever have to experience. Feeling lightheaded, she leans on her knees and concentrates on breathing, eyes clenched tight though she has no trouble imagining the flurry of pink falling between her boots.

For a time, Sumire stays like this: choking, coughing, retching, alternating between suffocation and sharp pains in her esophagus. It’s like she’s floating, tether snipped away, and now she’s drifting in an endless open space, with nothing but the petals keeping her company.

And then she isn’t.

A weight rests on her back, warm and present. She can’t bring herself to look up, and she doesn’t even have the strength to twist her head, but the presence is familiar enough that she doesn’t need to.

The touch is light, hesitant, and Sumire finds herself leaning into it before she can stop herself. It’s warm, enough that she feels heat through her coat, and he starts to gently drag his hand up and down. The feeling of that warmth spreads through her. She exhales shakily.

Sumire gets it now. Why Akechi had let her comfort him had been a mystery, but it’s clear. Obvious, even.

When you don’t want to show the world what’s wrong with you, you hide. Keep the world at arm’s reach, so that nothing else can get to you, to protect what little you have left. But in the process of maintaining that distance, you lose what you didn’t even know you had. That loss, it builds and builds, festering. And Sumire doesn’t doubt that Akechi’s been building it for longer than she has.

In the act of defending themselves, they’ve forgotten how nice it feels like to be comforted.

It still hurts, and she’s still suffocating, but she’s not floating anymore. Her petals aren’t the only ones who stay with her anymore.

It could have been minutes, or hours, but they both stay like this. The downpour continues, droplets intermingling with the sound of her choking and coughing. He doesn’t say a word throughout. If his hand wasn’t there, she wouldn’t have thought there was anyone beside her at all.

Finally, Sumire collapses back against the bench, mildly sweaty and shivering slightly, as if she had just run a marathon. She feels disgusting, and slightly unnerved—the sheer amount of petals at her feet is unsettling to say the least. Like the remains of a massacre taken place in the middle of a flower field.

Too drained to fill in the silence with conversation, she leans her head back and closes her eyes, enjoying the chilling breeze that hits her overheating cheeks. Akechi presses a cold bottle into her hands, and she has just enough energy left not to let it slip from her fingers.

“Your flowers aren’t violets, are they?”

Sumire opens an eye to find Akechi peering down at the petals, curious. “Though it would be amusing if they were.” He looks up. “What flower is it? I don’t recognize them.”

“Oh,” she rasps. “Cyclamens.”

He hums. “I’ve never seen them before. They’re an interesting shape.”

She can only nod. “Yours are nice, too.”

Akechi’s face twists. “There’s no need to pretend. We all know dandelions are barely considered flowers, if ever. Bottom of the barrel weeds, frustrating nuisances. I don’t even get the wishing type, only the yellow ones.” He smoothes out his features, turning it carefully blank. Her chest tightens. “Pathetic.”

“Pretty.”

He blinks, before turning towards her. “What?”

Sumire clears her throat, wincing. “The yellow ones,” she whispers. “I think they’re pretty.”

“No, you don’t.” He rebukes, measured and sharp.

“Nice colors, self-sustaining. Resilient.” She shrugs. “What’s not to like?”

When he doesn’t respond, she glances at him before looking away. There’s something so open about his expression, something vulnerable that she feels like she shouldn’t be allowed to look.

The air tasted wet and heavy with rain.

“Is it too late to accept your apology?” he asks, and she didn’t know he was capable of having a voice that soft.

Delight cuts through her fatigue long enough for her to scoot towards him, shoulder to shoulder. He’s surprisingly warm.

“You’re just in time, I think.”

—

She’s about to leave when Akechi stops her.

“Here.”

Sumire glances at the plastic bag hanging from his fingertips. “My birthday’s in March.”

“It’s the book, you massive hassle,” he rolls his eyes, impatiently shaking his hand. “I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.”

“Oh! Thank you!” she takes it, peering inside. “Are you sure you want to lend me this? If it’s your favorite book—”

“It’s fine,” he waves a gloved hand. “It’s doing nothing but collecting dust anyway. Take it.”

Sumire nods, and considers putting it in a sealed plastic bag to keep it safe. He’d probably make fun of her for it. “It’s not very long,” she notes.

“I wanted to start you off light. That’s only one of the ones I liked, if you want more—”

“Give me those too!” There’s something exciting about seeing Akechi’s interests, similar to seeing someone’s bedroom for the first time. “They’re probably really good, too.”

“Hold on, see if you like this one first,” he says. “I’ll give you the others when you finish, so you don’t have to carry around all of them.”

She gives him a wide smile. “You know, it’s really sweet to see you care this much, Goro.”

The name slips out without her consent, and even though she was the one teasing him, Sumire feels a rush of heat floods her cheeks. “Um, sorry, that was—actually, it’s fine, right? Unless it isn’t, but I mean, I feel like we can start—well, it’s up to you but—”

Akechi lets out a sigh, striding past her, boots sinking into the mud. “Let me know when you’ve finished the book, Sumire.”

Her chest constricts, not unpleasantly. “I will!”

She waits for him to leave her line of sight, before sitting down on the wooden steps. Pulling out the book, she begins to read.

—

“What on earth is all of this?”

“Paying my debts,” he replies, four full paper bags threatening to topple off his lap and off the bench. “You didn’t think I’d forget about something like that, did you?”

“No,” she says, staring as he struggles to reign them all in. “Because a normal person probably would.”

“A normal person would forget because they’re weak.”

“Yes, and you didn’t forget because you’re not very normal, Goro.” Finding it too hard to keep watching, she finally moves forward to catch them before they hit the ground. They’re lighter than she thought they’d be. “Snacks?”

“In that one, yes. But in these ones,” he gestures to the other two bags, a smirk settled in his expression. “I have legitimate food. Onigiris and sandwiches—none of that processed trash you keep feeding us.”

“Onigiris?” she throws his bags back at him forcefully (“Ow?”) and dashes to the others. “Salmon filled! Oh my God, you’re amazing.”

Akechi rubs his shoulder, but he’s still smug. “Aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Sumire bites into the onigiri, a burst of flavor seeping into her mouth. Amazing. “The greatest in the world.”

“Alright, that’s enough.”

“The best friend I could ever ask for!”

“Calm down, it’s just an onigiri.” He sighs, exasperated, but a little pleased—his own version of smiling. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “Pass me some, I’m starved.”

“I thought you don’t get hungry?”

“Just pass me the damn sandwich.”

Sumire huffs out a laugh and starts rummaging through the bag (Does he want an egg sandwich? Teriyaki? This is more stressful than she thought it would be) when he makes a noise of interest. “Is that a new sweater?”

“Huh? Oh, sort of.” She decides on the teriyaki, and he takes it from her hand. “I found it in the back of my closet the other day. I’m surprised you noticed.”

He shrugs. “Of course I would.”

Sumire blinks, but before she can ask what he meant, he’s already taking a bite.

She chews her onigiri, relishing in the flavor. She forgot how good these taste.

—

There’s a lot of things she’s been noticing about Akechi lately.

Once you get him to start talking, he won’t stop. He has an opinion on everything—from school (“A waste of my time, but I would never be a high school dropout”), to the police force (“Incompetent idiots”), and convenience stores (“Convenience, indeed. I’m a supporter of their existence.”)

He hates getting cold, so he has an alarming three layers under his coat. It makes her wonder how he’s even able to move with all the fabric he’s hauling around. It’s sort of cute, in a sea otter way. (He didn’t believe her when she told him that they have the thickest fur in the world, producing a forty minute debate. It was brutal.)

Akechi hates wasting food, so they have to eat all of the snacks that they buy for the day. It’s not easy to impress Akechi Goro by any means necessary, but the way his eyes bugged out of his head when he watched her swallow an entire onigiri whole is probably one of the funniest moments in her life. On the other hand, Akechi barely eats. He can’t stomach anything more than a sandwich and half a bottle of hot lemonade. She’s pretty sure she can eat three times that much without breaking a sweat.

At one point, she made him laugh. She remembers the way his eyebrows raised in disbelief, the way his hand flew to cover his mouth, but there was no muffling the snort that escaped through his fingers, a complete absence of his usual poise. Or the way his shoulders shook and his eyes were glowing with mirth, his laughter quiet compared to his normal speech, but it captivated her all the same. She remembers laughing with him, even though she couldn’t remember what she even said. That’s fine—she doesn’t really care about that part anyway.

He’s still rude, he’s still snarky, and he’ll still find a way to make sure he ends up on top. But she sees more than that, the layers hidden underneath.

Akechi is incredibly kind, as long as you can pick up on it. He’d never give out compliments, but he picked up on her favorite drink right away. He’s annoyingly smart and clever. He’s resilient, he’s proud (more proud than anyone she’s ever met), and he’s, without a doubt, her best friend.

He's also observant.

He scoots over when she’s shivering without saying a word. He asks her how her test went even when she forgot she told him about it. He knows what jokes make her laugh the hardest and which ones make her smack his arm. He can tell when she’s feeling distant, quietly opting for silence to give her space.

This doesn’t surprise her.

After all, it only makes sense that he sees her just as much as she sees him.

—

“Do you like the rain, Goro?”

“Not really. It slows down the city, makes everyone take cover and cram under roofs and random nooks and crannies. It’s nothing but annoying, really. I used to hate it.”

“But you don’t anymore?”

“I’ve come to appreciate it.”

A long beat passes.

“I think I know what you mean.”

A begrudging smile. A swooping feeling in her stomach. “I knew you would.”

—

Akechi reminds her of autumn.

Maybe it’s his hair, the shade reminding her of the leaves that fall to the ground when they snap from their branches. Or it’s possible it might be his green scarf that’s the same color as damp grass after light rainfall. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

But it isn’t the chill that reminds her of him—at least, not anymore. He’s too much like the ginger tea he gets her, too much like the warm shoulder that she’s grown used to having. He isn’t like the outpour of rain that flows down from the roof either. He isn’t slippery, he isn’t incalculable. He’s a constant, he’s the one thing she knows she has, one that won’t just wash away once the clouds clear up.

The truth is she doesn’t know why Akechi reminds her of autumn. All she knows is that for some reason, when he asks her what her favorite season is, only one comes to mind.

—

“Taste it.”

“Ugh, no thank you. I told you I never liked that.”

It’s storming, probably.

“Then why did you buy it for me if you think it tastes like trash?”

“Because unlike some people, I care about the well being of others.”

She can tell that the raindrops were hitting much harder than it usually did. The splash is bigger with each drop that falls from the deep-gray sky, creating dozens of other, tinier splashes—a domino effect, a never-ending cycle.

“You’re foul, Sumire.”

“Oh, so you’re saying that to me?”

Thick tree branches shook and shuddered under the onslaught of the torrent, quivering and swaying. A curtain of water flow is coming down from the roof of their gazebo. Like a protective sheen that makes them invisible from everything else.

“I’m not mean, I just don’t like to lie to save someone’s feeling from being hurt. That’s an issue that they have to take care of.”

“That’s really nice of you. I’m still not drinking it.”

She’s not too sure if it’s storming though, because all she notices is the boy in front of her—the way he’s pushing his bottle of hot lemonade into her hand and speaking loud enough that the rain ceases to exist.

“A single sip.”

“No,” she bats away the ever-inching hand reaching towards hers. “I’m happy with my tea.”

“Yes, that I got you. My judgement is good, so drink it.”

“Why are you so bad at listening?”

“Why are you so bad at taking directions?” he mocks, shifting towards her. She shifts away. Sumire’s keeping herself an inch apart, though she doesn’t know why.

“Goodness, you’re something of a headache, aren't you?”

“What did you say?”

“I said that you’re a pleasure to be around!” She’s physically incapable of keeping the smile off her face at this point. “If it really means so much to you, fine. I’ll take a sip.”

“Finally!”

Triumphant, though she has no reason why, he offers the drink. Sumire stares at it with a frown. “Why do you care so much?”

“I already told you—it’s only fair that you drink it after you practically force it on me.”

“I did not force it on you.”

“Yes, I perfectly recall you lacking the capability of minding your own business—”

“Hey!”

“And I’m not saying I mind it anymore, but that’s when you really started irritating me—”

“You are being so unfair,” she pulls a face at him. “I wasn’t doing it to irritate you, and you know that. I did it because…” It clicks, and Sumire feels her eyes widen. “You!”

“What?” he asks, bewildered.

“Don’t try and act dumb, Goro.” She snatches the bottle from his hand, inspecting the sloshing liquid inside. “It’s interesting how you’re still trying to lie to me even if you know you won’t get away with it.”

When did they start leaning into each other like this? When did they stop taking the edge of the bench, shifting so deep into the middle that they can’t even lean on the handle anymore? When did they start talking like they’ve known each other for years, jumping off of each other’s banter like it’s nothing?

“Stop being difficult, and get to the point.”

“You’re making me drink this because you know it’s good for my health, even if I think it tastes like bleach.”

Akechi crosses his arms. “And what if I am?” he challenges her, his eyes twinkling with defiance.

“Then I’d say you should’ve been straightforward from the start.” Unscrewing the bottle, she finishes it all in one mouthful. A grimace twists her features. “It tastes like sewer water.”

“What kind of sewer water are you drinking?” he asks, incredulous.

“That’s no concern of yours.”

“Hmph. Whatever’s in it is probably the reason why you’re like this, Sumire.”

“Excuse me, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

Sumire. Sumire. She’s heard her own name thousands of times, relearned it in dozens of different ways, found herself time and again, but she feels like she’s never heard the right way to say it until now. She wonders if he’d make fun of her if she asks him to say it again. It would be a price she's willing to pay if it means hearing it roll off of his tongue one more time.

“It means that I don’t think anyone else could be as strange as you.”

“You’re one to talk. Goro, please listen to me. You are, and I’m not exaggerating here, the absolute most unusual person in the world.”

“You can’t say that unless you’ve spoken to everyone in the world.”

“That is such a you thing to say.”

When did she get to the point where she can say that and mean it? She should’ve kept track of it. Day X: Sumire gets to know Akechi better than she did yesterday. Tomorrow? More of the same, hopefully.

Instead of responding, he bumps her shoulder hard enough that she almost topples over. “Hey!”

“It’s not my fault,” he sniffs. “Perhaps if you were to wear six inch heels, you wouldn’t be having this problem.”

When did she get to the point where she never wants to leave such an old, abandoned gazebo?

“I mean in this in the kindest way possible, but are you out of your mind?”

“You know you shouldn’t be asking me that question.”

When did she stop seeing a gazebo whenever she came here?”

“I know, I know.”

Akechi glances at her. “I know you do.”

When did she start seeing only him?

A lull passes through them, and from the distance, thunder rumbles. She pays it no mind.

Sumire yawns, the rain making her sleep. His shoulder is only inches away, looking irresistibly soft. She straightens up, instead. Lack of sleep can be pretty dangerous.

They haven’t exchanged any words for a few minutes now. Sumire’s never felt the urge to break the silence with Akechi, but this is different. It’s not out of fear of making things uncomfortable, but it’s more like she wants to keep talking to him. She wants to see how he’ll react to what she does, or what she says. To see him furrow his brows, or roll his eyes. To have him complain about the world but praise the veiled corners of it. She wants to hear his voice.

She racks her brain for something to say—it would be too obvious if she brings up the arguments again, right?—when she becomes aware that it wasn’t between them at all. Not completely, at least, because Akechi was humming.

The tone isn’t one she recognizes, but her heart swells all the same. At the very least, that’s one thing she has over him: he’s a pretty bad singer. It’s off-tune and he misses every third beat. It can only ever be endearing to her.

Her eyes wander around, taking in the park for the upteenth time but feeling like she isn’t taking in anything at all—she’s too busy committing the hum to memory.

The foot of their gazebo was almost entirely surrounded by a few inches of muddy water, and it’s almost mesmerizing to see the large puddle react to being disturbed by rain drops. She lets her eyesight trail to the splintering beams that support the roof and cover their heads, and she almost wonders if there’s ever been anyone like them who sat on this bench. It would be impossible to tell.

And then, tucked into the aging floorboards, something makes her squint. After a moment, she realizes what it is.

Her heart stops.

Akechi pauses in his humming. “What?”

Sumire opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes are glued to it in a hazy, half-lidded state. The kind where you just can’t seem to pull your attention from it, no matter how hard you try.

“Did you see a squirrel somewhere?” he huffs. “What’s gotten into you?”

Her fingertips tingle. She feels her lungs beginning to burn. Taking a breath, the burn goes away.

“...Sumire?”

“Goro,” she mutters. “When…?”

Akechi glances, and he must see something because he immediately turns towards her. “What is it?”

“When was the last time,” she takes a shaky breath. And then another. When she speaks, it feels like she’s loud enough that the entirety of Japan can hear her.

“When was the last time that either of us let out even a petal?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Their eyes lock onto each other. Sumire stares at him, and he stares at her. Brown and red. Both filled with disbelief.

Akechi breaks the silence, standing to saunter over the edge of the railing.

Gripping the edge hard enough that she can imagine his tendons stretching taut, he coughs. Nothing comes out. He does it again—still nothing. Then he tries coughing, forcing himself to retch, squeezes his torso with the tips of his fingers and tries to shift any part of his lungs for something to happen.

But nothing does.

Slowly, he turns around. His expression is unreadable.

“Did you do this?” he asks, voice trembling. “Did you do this to me?”

“Huh?” It’s like she can barely hear him, like there’s a glass wall between them that nullifies his words until they’re nothing but goop by the time it reaches her.

He gestures wildly at himself, eyes wide and crazed and something she doesn’t recognize. “You. Did you do this to me? Did you fucking do this to me?”

The rain was loud, then grew louder still. “Did I do what?” she quietly says. “You’re not being clear—”

Akechi takes a step towards her, teeth bared. “Don’t shit with me right now, you know full well what I’m talking about.”

“Then stop dancing around it and ask me the question.” She needs him to say it. If he says it, maybe her world will stop spinning for just one second. After a second, she recognizes the odd expression, so strange and foreign on him that it was hard to recognize: fear.

Even the wind takes a break from its howl to hear his words.

“Are we in love?”

Sumire studies him, studies the person she’s come to fall in love with. “Are you asking if I planned this?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She can pinpoint it. The moment Akechi snaps. “I don’t know, Sumire. I don’t fucking know, okay? First, I’m alone, and that’s fine, that’s fine and goddamn dandy, because what can I do about it? Then I mess up, commit a couple of atrocities to make sure that I stay alone, and you know what happens instead?” he lets out a laugh, so loud and unhinged that it almost makes her flinch. “I fall in love with him, because of course I do, because of course I latch onto the first person I meet who didn’t treat me like shit. Then I’m alone again, and good fucking riddance because I can’t stand anyone else around me. And I was fine. I was good. I was alright, and then you come out of who the hell knows where and—and—”

Akechi tips his head backwards, shoulders sagging. “And before I knew what was happening, I’d let you take anything from me. Anything.”

Absently, she realized she’d been crying. When had they gotten here? Slowly, she wipes away the stream of tears that have cooled on her cheeks, only for it to be replaced by a fresh one.

With wobbling knees, Sumire stands, and takes a deep breath.

“I need to go,” they say in unison.

They blink. And Akechi huffs out a laugh, but the sound comes out hollow. Fake.

Sumire smiles with him, but it doesn't come out right. "I need time,” she says, even though she feels her heart break when she does.

"So do I," he mutters, before his eyes flash. "But—"

"But not too long," she finishes. "I know. It's just—"

"Stop." Akechi cuts in. "Don't try. It's fine, you don't need to understand right now. I don't either. Just…” he hesitates, and it looks like his heart is breaking alongside hers. “Just be back here when you do."

Sumire opens her mouth, and the words are there, at the tip of her tongue. The words her body understood before her mind was able to catch up, a sentence so true that she never stopped to consider it's possibility. She can say it, and it would be much faster, much easier than this. She wouldn't need to go.

"I'll see you in a bit," she whispers instead.

Turning around, Sumire opens her umbrella, and walks away. She doesn't know if he's left, or if he's watching her go. She doesn't check.

The rain continues to pour down, drop by drop, falling from each cloud like it's inevitable that anything else were to occur.

—

The ground is littered with orange and brown leaves, a gentle breezy picking them up and taking them somewhere they’ve never seen before. It’s sunny, but for some reason, she can hear the sound of rain.

True to her word, she doesn’t see the gazebo the next day.

—

Or the day after that.

Sumire considers calling, before realizing that she doesn’t even have his number. That wasn’t something she considered, before all of this.

—

She considers buying a drink from the convenience store, and immediately dismisses the idea.

Instead of taking a left to the muddy path, she keeps going.

—

It takes her four days.

Four days before she can muster up the courage to see the bench, to see the gazebo. Four days of imagining this scenario, of seeing it from every angle, from every possible outcome. In every scene, she knows Akechi won’t be there. At least, not yet. And that’s fine—more than fine. He’s been in this hell longer than she can imagine, and that’s not something you can just walk away from.

She’ll sit on the bench everyday if she has to. He’ll show up eventually. She’s done this before. They’ve done this before, in what feels like a lifetime ago.

Rounding the corner, she stops walking.

Akechi’s leaning against the far support beam of the gazebo, just under the roof so that he stays dry. He looks ethereal like this, still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes flicker to her when he hears her footsteps.

“Making me wait, Sumire?” he says, ever arrogant. It does something to her pulse.

“That depends,” she replies, though her pulse is so quick that it's distracting. “When did you get here?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Hasn’t been long, then.”

“Long enough, I’d like to think.”

She lets out a laugh, mostly to release some of the flutters she’s harboring in her stomach. (It feels so different from the clogging in her lungs and the suffocation in her throat.) “Still so demanding, Goro. I’d say our timing was on point for this one.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile only gets wider. She can’t help but think he looks so good when he smiles. “I can’t help but agree.”

“Can—” she hesitates, and then steels herself. “Can I be clear? With you?”

“You don’t even need to ask.”

Sumire needs to say it. This isn’t something she can just hope he understands, not something someone can say for her. It’s the reason why she needed time, time to unjumble the words in her head and resting in her heart.

She swallows. Does she look as wretched as she feels? Can he feel her heart race a mile a minute?

“I followed you here because I was scared of being alone. Because I couldn’t stand to listen to silence anymore, or the white noise that everyone gives off. I was scared to live my entire life having to hide, of having nobody that understands what’s happening to me or what I’m feeling. That all changed recently.”

Sumire tucks a strand of hair back, letting her gaze fall down. “It’s because you were there, Goro. You let me stay with you, you let me be with you. You let me be seen. Now I’m not scared to be alone. Now I’m just scared of losing you.” She looks up, feeling unmovable with the strength of her words and the truth behind them. “And if you’re not ready for anything, that’s okay. I’ll still be here. I wanted you to know that, no matter what happens, I'm here.”

By the time she finished, her voice had fallen to a whisper. Nerves overtake her moment of bravery, though it does nothing to quell the lightness in her shoulders and stomach. It feels impossibly good to say it out loud, to put her love, her feelings, her thoughts, her everything into words for him to hear.

A beat passes between them, so heavy that it feels solid.

“Hey,” he quietly says. “Come closer.”

She blinks, before doing as she’s told. When she comes under the roof with him, he raises his far hand—gripped between his thumb and index finger holds a single bright dandelion paired with a soft pink cyclamen.

“I’m in love with you, Yoshizawa Sumire.”

He speaks simply and to the point; he doesn't feel the need to coat his words at this moment.

Her eyes widen, but he isn't finished. “Being alone was my plan. Dying alone was my plan. To rot here, to live my days here. I’ve come to accept it. I had already decided that this was my future. But, if it’s okay with you…"

Akechi Goro does not get nervous, nor does he feel the need to emote strongly if it isn't necessary. Yet right now, he shuffles his feet, and the fondness in his gaze threatens to overwhelm her. “I’d like for you to be my future, instead.”

He says it in a breath, as if eager to get it out, or terrified to keep holding it in. She can't tell—she's too busy trying to comprehend despite the sheer ringing in her ears. But even if she were to lose her hearing in that moment, or lose her sight as he spoke, she still would have understood the meaning in his words. The impact of it pierced her heart ruthlessly in a way she'd never forget for as long as she'll live.

A sharp intake of breath and three strides was all it took for Sumire to throw her arms around Akechi’s shoulders. He stumbles back, surprised. “What—”

“I love you,” she cuts in, unable to wait any longer. He stiffens. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Akechi Goro.”

Slowly, gently, he wraps his arms around her waist, and squeezes back just as tight. “I know that.”

“Good.” She’s so close to him that she can hear his breathing, his intake of breath—rhythmic, stable, and healthy. “You better.”

“But…”

She waits for him to finish. “Yes?” she says, when he doesn't continue.

Sumire feels him shift, uncomfortable. “But can you say it again?” he asks, not quite shy, but small, almost. Like if he said it too loudly, he might get in trouble.

Pauses, she arches back, confident that he would never drop her. “Are you sure?”

“Confident.”

Grinning, she says, voice clear and deliberate and tinged with defiance:

“I am so in love with you, Akechi Goro.”

He throws his head back and laughs, delighted, and she can’t help but laugh with him. In his arms, she is warm. She’s so, so warm.

It only makes sense that it all leads to this. It only makes sense that they fall in love with each other, in the midst of a gazebo that’s falling apart and an area of the park that everyone’s forgotten about.

It only makes sense that they have each other.

—

The two of them bypass the line (Akechi with a smug expression and Sumire with an apologetic one) to enter the busy restaurant. A rush of steam comes at them, mouthwatering broth and the scent of spice wafts in from all angles—a staple of hot pot dishes. Waiters and servers bustle around, hustling to every seated customer. They make no move to call attention to themselves—waiting isn't a hassle.

“You like it?” she asks. Her stomach grumbles and prays he can't hear it. “I thought it would be a pretty good first date idea.”

He sniffs. “It passes.”

“It more than passes! This is an A to me, and it should be an A+ to you.”

“It passes,” he repeats, conveniently looking away when she starts frowning at him. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I approve wholeheartedly."

“Good,” she puffs out her chest. “I was really looking forward to this.”

“Were you?”

“Absolutely. I mean, this is the first time that we’re not eating outside in a public area.”

His lips turn downwards. “While I can agree, I’ve grown fairly attached at our bench, as feeble as it is.”

Our bench.

“Oh, that reminds me." Sumire unbuttons her jacket, pulling out a book from the pouch inside. “I’m ready for the next one.”

Akechi glances at it, surprised. “Already?”

“It was a good book, but it’s sad.”

“Only in the beginning,” he argues. “It needed to be slightly depressing, don’t you think?”

“Maybe, if that’s how you see it.” She’s about to pass him the book when she remembers something. Flipping to the last page, she pulls her bookmark. “Oops! Almost forgot. Can't lose this.”

“Oh.”

“You like it?” she twirls it between her fingers, the pressed cyclamens and dandelions pairing spinning together, intertwined. “I love it. It's almost like you're reading along with me.”

She relishes in the way his eyes widen before flickering away. “I’ll give you the next one tomorrow.”

“Hurray!” she exclaims, sneakily moving her hand so she can hold his. But just before she can go in for the kill, he pulls away.

Akechi removes his gloves, shoves them into his pocket, before twining his hand with hers. “You don’t have to use stealth strategies in order to win my affection, you know.”

“I know,” Sumire says, swinging their hands back and forth. “I was just seeing if I could get away with it.”

“You know you’re not very sly.”

She shrugs. “I guess I’ll just have to keep practicing, right?”

The host finally greets them at the door, apologizing profusely and ushering them further into the restaurant.

Tokyo is a busy place.

As they’re being led to their table, she feels him tighten his hold on her hand. Her heart leaps.

This restaurant is a different spot. It's loud, crowded, and filled with people who don't look past their own bubble. But in the end, the restaurant isn't her spot. Their gazebo wasn't her spot, either.

She glances at Akechi, and when he catches her eye, he tilts a brow up, curious. Unable to hold back, she smiles, wide enough for her cheeks to hurt.

Sumire finally found a spot of her own.

#sumire is a second year here #im finally free of this fic #hanahaki disease #fic tag #akesumi #goro akechi #sumire yoshizawa #persona 5 #persona 5 royal #p5 #p5r #fanfic #mine

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thecaffeinebookwarrior · 5 years

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A Writer’s Guide to Viewpoints

Most of us know that there are three major viewpoints from which stories are told:

First Person -- “I tell my own story with the pronoun ‘I’ because I’m just so damn awesome.”

Second Person -- “You are a character in this story, and you can’t do anything about it. If it makes you uncomfortable, tough shit.”

Third Person -- “He muttered himself and pulled the blankets over his head, wishing this asshole would stop narrating his life.”

Those are the three viewpoints, and that’s all there is to it. Just pick your favorite, and you’re ready to go. Right?

Well. Not exactly.

You see, my fellow scribblers, there are actually multiple sub categories of each viewpoint -- beyond even the “Third Person Omniscient” or “Third Person Subjective.”

To be specific:

First Person:

First Person Informant

First Person Reminiscent

Unreliable

Second Person:

Reader as Character

I Substitute

Third Person:

Objective

Limited

Multiple Selective Omniscience

Omniscient

This might seem overwhelming, but fear not! Each perspective is fairly easy to break down, and ultimately, apply to your own work and understanding of literature. This post will elucidate each.

So let’s take charge of our narratives and delve in, like the active protagonists we are.

What is the First Person?

I’m sure we all know this, but a First Person narrator tells their story from the pronoun I (or sometimes we, though this is quite rare.)

The different factions of First Person narration are somewhat under-discussed -- certainly not as widely known as the Third Person Omniscient versus Objective viewpoints -- but, as these examples prove, they do exist.

As you read, you’ll likely think back to your favorite narrators, and realize that not all First Person viewpoints were created equal.

The First Person Informant:

“I’m telling it like it is. As it’s happening. I’m living in the moment, and watching it unfold with you. Look at us, charging blindly into the future together. Isn’t it exciting?”

This dude conveys the events as they transpire, or appear to transpire, in the present. There’s no “once upon a time” for him. Merely the unfurling now.

Examples:

“Vampires in the Lemon Grove,” by Karen Russel

“In every season you can find me sitting at my bench, watching them fall. Only one or two lemons tumble from the branches each hour, but I’ve been sitting here so long their falls seem continuous, close as raindrops. My wife has no patience for this sort of meditation. “Jesus Christ, Clyde,” she says, “You need a hobby.”

Russel’s narrator – a world-weary vamp navigating the tribulations of eternal love and insatiable bloodlust in an Italian lemon grove – is an excellent example of a first-person informant. He isn’t telling us about the lemon grove as it was, but as it is. The lemons fall before his eyes as they fall before ours. We are in this lemon grove together.

“Natural Selection,” by Jacob M. Appel

“The stolen baboon. On the evening news, she’s an irrelevancy -- a simian mug shot tucked between National Hairball Awareness Day and an interview with the Boston Strangler’s Children. Six hours later, she’s lounger on the sofa in our living room, smacking together her protruded lips, scratching her back on the damask. Suburban Tampa is apparently far more fun than a lab cage in Atlanta.”

Here, we are transported directly into a father’s dilemma after his well-meaning yet painfully naive and somewhat spoiled daughter “liberates” a mistreated lab baboon -- a decision that could effectively ruin both of their lives. The informant perspective amplifies the reader’s suspense, as we are in the moment with him and can only discover the outcome by watching events unfold (or skipping pages.)

“What I Do All Day,” by Hellen Ellis

“Inspired by Beyonce, I stallion-walk to the toaster. I show my husband where a burnt spot looks like the island where we honeymooned, kiss him good-bye, and tell him what time to be home for our party.”

This one is just great. We are transported into the perspective of a seemingly chipper, affluent housewife as she quietly goes insane from suffocating domesticity and the horror of a meaningless life. And, emphasized by the informant perspective, we feel all of this with her! It is characteristically brilliant and hilarious satire from Ellis’s brilliant and hilarious collection, American Housewife.

The First Person Reminiscent:

“It was on a dark and rainy night when I decided to tell this story. I tell it as I remember it, after these events have transpired. Let’s look back on them together.”

In this perspective, the narrator is looking back on events after they have happened. He isn’t describing these events as they unfold; he is telling a story.

Examples:

Life of Pi, by Yann Martel

There are actually two reminiscent narrators here. The titular Pi, and the author who has elected to tell his story.

“This book was born as I was hungry. Let me explain. In the spring of 1996, my second book, a novel, came out in Canada. It didn’t fair well. Reviewers were puzzled, or damned it with faint praise. Then readers ignored it. Despite my best efforts at plating the clown or the trapeze artist, the media circus made no difference. The book did not move. Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kids standing in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine was the gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on their team. It vanished quickly or quietly.”

So opens this immensely clever novel, which, in all regards, blurs the lines between allegory and reality. However, most of it is narrated by the eponymous Pi, who becomes this author’s muse.

“I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. The pain is like an axe that chops my heart.”

Here we have Pi, reflecting on his spiritual and allegorical companion, Richard Parker (an oddly named tiger whom we come to love as much as Pi does.) Pi’s retrospective narration allows for the clear-sighted view of his complex feelings that can only come with time and distance. Thus, this reminiscent narration enhances the power of the narrative.

The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

My feelings towards J.D. Salinger are somewhat negative (I recommend you watch the documentary Salinger to figure out why) but this book is timeless for a reason. This opening line offers up countless questions that leave you thinking long after you turn the final page. Moreover, it impeccably establishes the voice that will carry us throughout its meandering narrative. Catcher in the Rye would not be the same without its reminiscent narration, and this line establishes that.

Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov

“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.”

This opening line makes me somewhat sick to read, because, of course, it is the floral soliloquy a frothing, rabid pedophile, about a “four feet ten” twelve-year-old girl. But, as a piece of art, it is still remarkably done -- the perspective of a monster, putting himself on trial before an imaginary jury, and telling a story that is invariably partial towards his warped perspective. Once again, the retrospective is integral to this grotesquely fascinating narrative.

The Unreliable Narrator:

“I am the King of the Lizard People, and no one will acknowledge it but me. Don’t believe me? Too bad. I’m the one telling this story, and you have no choice but to believe my dubious rendition of these events.”

It’s widely debated as to whether this should be its own category. Why? Because all first person narrators are inherently unreliable. We just have little choice but to take their information as it’s denoted to us. Oftentimes, they win our trust; but other times, it is their unabashed unreliability that makes the narrative memorable.

Don’t believe me? All of the past three examples were unreliable narrators. And I examine several more in my post on types of unreliable narrators here.

In the meantime, let’s move on to the oft-underrated Second Person.

What is the Second Person?

This highly controversial viewpoint uses the pronoun “you.” Most people associate this perspective with amateur fanfiction or pretentious purple prose, but let me tell you: when this perspective works, it is stellar. And I’ll explain why.

The Reader as a Character

“You’re walking down the street, and you realize the narrator is talking about you. Maybe you like this. Maybe you don’t. The narrator doesn’t care. The narrator is a cruel and indifferent god. You put in your headphones to tune the narrator out. The narrator finds this incredibly rude. You can’t escape me, motherfucker.”

This is what most people think about when they picture a Second Person Narrative. Okay, not this specifically -- being frank, most people probably think about reader-insert fanfiction (which can be amazing as well.) This viewpoint asks the reader to imagine themselves as a character -- usually the main character -- in the narrative.

Examples:

“This is a Story About You,” from Welcome to Night Vale, by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Craner

“‘This is a story about you,’ said the man on the radio. And you were pleased, because you always wanted to hear about yourself on the radio.”

Even if you’re unfamiliar to this podcast, I highly recommend you listen to this episode (or read the transcript) immediately. It shows you virtually everything reader-insert can be, and what a remarkable effect it can have. It virtually envelops you in this perspective, this town, and this surrealistic reality.

“The Young Immortal,” by Brooksie C. Fontaine (me!)

“When it started, it was the February fourteenth of 1945. An American plane was hit in the engine by Japanese fire, fell from the slate gray sky like a shooting star. Its blazing red reflection ignited the swell of colorless water. And then it was gone, taking with it all the color in the world.

In that plane was my fellow air force pilot. The love of my life.

You.

I know what you’re thinking: you weren’t alive in ‘45, and you weren’t a man. Well, I’m gonna tell you you’re wrong on both counts. You’ve been a man before. You’ll be one again. It doesn’t matter to me, so long as it’s you.”

This one is unique, because it includes both the First Person Reminiscent (the eponymous immortal narrator) and the Second Person Reader as Character. The reader is in the perspective of the narrator’s oft-reincarnated love interest, and so I decided to include it as an example.

The “I” Substitute

“You were fifteen when you realized you could only get hard if you were thinking about carnivorous dinosaurs. Not me. You. This has absolutely nothing to do with me, and I resent the insinuation that it does. This is your problem, dino-fucker. This is your story. This is about you.”

This one’s interesting. The narrator is in denial, and using the second-person to distance themselves from the events of the story. It is a substitute for the First Person, and a thinly-veiled one at that.

Examples:

“Freaks,” by Alden Jones

“From the cluster of mourners, Kristen’s mother had emerged; she strode towards you. Her straight brown hair was limp and flyaway. She wore the expression of an animal who wanted to devour you. Her eyes were cushioned by the bluish puffed skin beneath them, but they flashed hot with fury.

‘You,’ she said. She pointed her finger. She began to gallop. ‘You think you see something no one else sees?’ she called. Mourners turned to watch her progress towards you. Heather took a step away.

You dangled the camera by your side. You froze. You did nothing but watch the thing happen.

‘YOU,’ the mother said, charging. ‘YOU. YOU.’”

These are actually the concluding lines of this haunting story from Jones’s collection, Unaccompanied Minors. I had the pleasure of hearing her read this story for my graduate program; in the Q&A afterwards, she explained how the narrative, and the characters’ mentality throughout the story, depended on the Second Person. “It was a different story without it,” she said.

“The Other Person,” by Nathan Leslie

“You write the story in the second person. It’s your go-to point of view now. You like it’s edge, its resonance of irony, even if your story lacks said irony (it adds irony). You makes anything possible. You is the new me.”

This one is simultaneously hilarious, sad, and strangely invigorating. It encapsulates the deep trenches of insecurity that come with being an author, and whittles them into sharp, sly satire. The “I” Substitute doesn’t just emphasize the story; it is the story. This story would not exist without it.

Now that I’ve successfully changed your mind about the Second Person (and if you still don’t agree with me, you’re wrong), let’s move on to the ever-popular yet difficult-to-master Third Person.

What is the Third Person?

You know what the third person is, but I’ll suspend my disbelief and pretend you don’t. It uses the pronouns he, she, or they, but the perspective can be virtually anywhere. Which makes the Third Person such an interesting thing to explore.

Third Person Objective

“She slaps him. He touches the red mark her ring left behind, and stares at her with wide eyes.”

This one is also known as The Dramatic, The Camera Lens, or The Fly on the Wall perspective. It describes the events as we would view them, with no inside information into the thoughts or motivations of the characters. What we see is what we get, and we have to discern the characters’ feelings based on what they say and do.

Example:

“Meanwhile. A Conversation,” from American Gods, by Neil Gaiman

“‘Miz Crow?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are Samantha Black Crow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, ma’am?’

‘Are you cops? What are you?’

‘My name is Town. My colleague here is Mister Road. We’re investigating the disappearance of two of our associates.’

‘What were their names?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Tell me their names. I want to know what they were called. Your associates. Tell me their names and maybe I’ll help you.’

‘...Okay. Their names were Mister Stone, and Mister Wood. Now, can we ask you some questions?’

‘Do you guys just see things and pick names? “Oh, you be Mister Sidewalk, he’s Mister Carpet, say hello to Mister Airplane?”’”

In this unique and hilarious chapter, we witness an exchange between (bisexual icon) Samantha Black Crow and a minor villain who has been assigned to track down the protagonist. We aren’t privy to either of the characters’ emotions or thoughts, or even their actions, yet we can discern all of it from dialogue alone.

Third Person Limited

“She’s had enough of his bullshit. Something in her snaps, and her open palm collides -- hard -- with the side of his stupid, stupid face. He touches the red mark she left behind, staring at her like he can’t believe she actually did that. Good. Maybe that’ll teach him to stop being such an pugnacious fuckwad.”

This one is tethered to a specific character, whose thoughts and feelings we are aware of. However, we are not inside the mind of the character in the same manner as a First Person narrator.

Examples:

American Gods, by Neil Gaiman

“Shadow had done three years in prison. He was big enough, and looked don’t-fuck-with-me enough that his biggest problem was killing time. So he kept himself in shape, and taught himself coin tricks, and thought a lot about how much he loved his wife.”

Though American Gods features an impressive diversity of perspectives, we spend most of the book tethered to the lovable ex-con Shadow Moon. We are never trapped inside his head, as we would be if the story were First Person, but we know what he is thinking and feeling. He is our viewpoint character.

The Giver, by Lois Lowry

“It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be frightened. No. Wrong word, Jonas thought. Frightened meant that deep, sickening feeling of something terrible about to happen. Frightened was the way he had felt a year ago when an unidentified aircraft had overflown the community twice. He had seen it both times. Squinting toward the sky, he had seen the sleek jet, almost a blur at its high speed, go past, and then a second later heard the blast of sound that followed. Then one more time, a moment later, from the opposite direction, the same plane.”

Lois Lowry’s timeless, haunting dystopia is introduced through the guileless eyes of twelve-year-old Jonas. We are aloud to see the world from his perspective, but the distance of Third Person Limited allows us to feel the horror of each situation with more clarity. Lowry demonstrates how to utilize POV to one’s advantage, similar to how Neil Gaiman uses Third Person Limited to enhance the horror of his masterful modern fairy tale Coraline.

Multiple Selective Omniscience

“She decides she’s had enough of his bullshit, and slaps him. Hard. Hard enough that her ring leaves a red welt on his cheek.

He feels his eyes go wide, and he touches the side of his face. He keeps waiting for her to apologize, but her eyes are narrowed and her lips are pursed. She doesn’t look sorry.”

The viewpoint shifts between characters. It can be extremely effective, as long as we are aware of when the proverbial camera changes angles.

Examples:

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith

First of all: if you haven’t read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, do it. Do it right now. It is the piece of classic literature I recommend to everyone who hates classic literature, because it’s devoid of all of the traits that make people hate classic literature to begin with. It has oodles of complex, idiosyncratic, autonomous, and tough-as-hell female characters, bad language, and frank discussions of sexuality, poverty, and classism. Read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

Anyway. Though its protagonist is Francie Nolan, who, like the eponymous tree, perseveres and thrives against insurmountable odds, the viewpoint bounces around an immense deal, between Francie’s family and neighbors to the most minor side-characters. Because of this, many people believe that the true protagonist is Brooklyn itself, and the people in it.

The Twelve Tribes of Hattie, by Ayana Mathis

This is a captivating, gut-wrenching book, similar to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn in its highly effective depiction of poverty. The book follows the children of Hattie Shepherd, a formerly young and optimistic mother, who lost her firstborn twins to an easily preventable disease in the aftermath of the Great Migration. The viewpoint changes with each chapter, showing the perspectives of each of her children and how they are haunted by this loss.

The Vacationers, by Emma Straub

A far cry from its poverty-focused predecessors, this book focuses on the problems of the affluent and privileged. It is, however, a deeply interesting read, as it swerves between the perspectives of the titular vacationers after a patriarch’s fore into adultery threatens his family and marriage.

Omniscient

“She decides she’s had enough of his bullshit, and to his surprise, she slaps him. Hard enough that he feels her ring leave a red welt on his flesh.

He touches his cheek in shock, and stares at her, awaiting an apology. But she isn’t sorry. All she feels is satisfaction.”

Just what it sounds like. The character is an all-knowing entity. Or Lemony Snicket. Perhaps both.

Examples:

Everything I Never Told You, by Celeste Ng

“Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet.”

Celeste Ng’s beautiful and haunting novel begins with the wordless affirmation of the narration’s omniscience. The narrative knows things the characters don’t, though it doesn’t always choose to relay its secrets. In this case, it doesn’t answer the mystery of Lydia’s death until the very end -- an answer that the characters themselves will never discover.

The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

Tolkien’s book shows us how useful omniscience is for worldbuilding. He doesn’t need to cleverly sneak this exposition into Bilbo’s dialogue; he can tell it to us outright, and immediately draw us into this world while doing so.

Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

“Current theories on the creation of the Universe state that, if it was created at all and didn’t just start, as it were, unofficially, it came into being between ten and twenty thousand years ago. By that same token the earth itself is generally supposed to be about four and a half thousand million years old.

These dates are incorrect.”

This delightfully Pratchett-esque opening immediately puts us into a -- literally -- godlike perspective, in which we are given insider information about the start of the universe. It immediately establishes the tone of this amazing novel: one in which life and creation are too important to be taken seriously. And for this purpose, this uniquely omniscient perspective is the only way to go.

That’s all I’ve got for now, my fellow scribblers! As you contemplate perspective, just think about how different the same events would look from a two disparate viewpoints. Even if two people are sharing a moment, that moment is different for both of them.

The perspective isn’t something you tack on to your story. Oftentimes, it defines your story. So choose carefully, and don’t be afraid to explore!

Happy writing, everybody! <3

#writing #writing tips #caff's writing tips #the author speaks #authors #writing resources #perspectives #writing perspectives #first person #second person #third person #pov #fiction

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