No Posting

[x-Tariraritarara-x]

巡る, 巡る, 君を思うBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANK

{ H } i r o { M } a k i

BLANKBLANKLBLANKBLANKひとつ, ひとつ, 忘れながら

真希 広

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Bzzt... bzzt... bzzt...
Hiro scowled in his sleep and turned over, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the blankets on his bed. He didn't want to wake up. Not yet. It was too early and his eyelids felt heavy, even with the incessant buzzing. Suddenly, a blast of music sliced through the tranquility. The neglected cellphone, with this new burst of energy, fell into the floor where it continued its melody. Hiro shot awake. His breath was fast and his chocolate eyes wide. "Haa?" He peered over the edge of his bed and found his cellphone on the floor with a message blinking across its screen. With a spark of curiosity, he leaned down to scoop up the device while still sustaining balance in bed. He straightened again, feeling the muscles in his back protesting, and flipped the phone open.



あに！！まやがとてもこいしい！！
あらぁぁ．．．ママはたべているかといっています
まあぐっさりネンネしてくだしゃ〜〜い　　おやすみなさい！*



Machan... Hiro shook his head and smiled to himself. His sister had stolen his mother's phone, no doubt. It had only been a month since he had visited his home in Japan for the holidays, and Maya already missed him. Closing the phone, he decided he would answer the message later. Maya could wait. She was a patient little girl. He gazed at the clock displayed on the screen. 6:00, it read. That meant it was ten o'clock at night in Japan. Hiro laughed inwardly. His sister still hadn't come to understand the time differences. But she was still young. With a soft sigh, he gently set his DoCoMo aside and pushed the sheets off his body. The air was frigid in his room and nipped at his bare arms. He hated the cold. The temperature outside would undoubtedly turn him to ice. A shiver ran down his spine and his teeth chattered involuntarily. One of his hands reached for his blankets again, but he stopped himself. If he crawled back under the sheets, he knew he wouldn't get up again. So he reluctantly stood and walked stiffly to the bathroom.

Hiro had never been one to spend much time on his appearance, but that wasn't to say he completely ignored it. He put a little thought into what he wore and took some time to remove any tangles from his hair, which had grown quite long since he had moved away. A smile returned to his lips as he remembered his mother's face, contorted with shock, when he met her in the airport. She almost didn't recognize him and couldn't believe he had let his hair "get so unruly." The last time she had seen him, his hair had been neutral and rather plain, and he still dressed in "typical" Asian clothes. She had cried-- with tears of either joy or shock, he was not sure.

Hiro gazed wearily into the mirror, idly fingering the longer strands of his hair. After his abrupt awakening, sleepiness had finally returned. His eyes hurt, but he assumed it was probably because he had forgotten to take out his contacts the night before. And he wasn't going to take them out now. A few eye drops would ease the pain and take away the redness. He'd take them out that evening anyway. One day wasn't going to hurt. He picked up the bottle of liquid and tilted his head back, giving each of his eyes a couple squirts. Despite the frequency he used the drops, they still stung. His gaze returned to his reflection in the mirror, and then to the sink. He twisted both handles and the faucet opened up to let a stream of water spatter against the limestone and down the drain. It wasn't going to be quick to warm up, he knew that much, but he was definitely not going to wash his face with ice water. Not when the dorm was already below freezing. He slipped two fingers into the stream to test it. It wasn't hot, but it wasn't too cold either. It would have to do. He wasn't going to wait around for the water to heat up. Today was special: it was the start of the new semester and the day he met his American partner. Both required him to be punctual and diligent.

Catching the water in his cupped hands, Hiro leaned over the sink and splashed the water into his face. He gently massaged his forehead and cheeks before reaching for the hand towel. With his eyes closed, and his face buried into the warmth of the cloth, he was reminded of how nice sleep felt. He sighed and reluctantly removed the towel. All he wanted to do was crawl back in bed, but his desire to start the new semester in the best way he could overpowered the temptation. Konya wa hayaku neru,** he promised himself. He hated feeling tired almost as much as he hated being cold.

Hiro grabbed a pair of old cargo pants and an oversized sweater and tugged them both on. He checked himself once more in the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom. His eyes wandered to the opposite side of the dorm room and he wondered if his roommate was already awake. Or, if not that, in the process of waking. But he couldn't tell, so he grabbed his keys and cellphone and exited the room. He graciously welcomed the warmth of the hallway, knowing he would only feel it for a short while before he headed out onto the snowy campus. The school could have closed down for a snow day. Things would have been so much nicer, but no one really had to drive, so there wasn't much of a hazard getting to and from the school.

Unless it was really true a person could freeze to death.

Hiro almost didn't doubt it would be himself who ended up the poor soul broadcasted on the news as a team of firefighters and other community helpers chiseled his frozen body from a block of ice. He could see it: "College student frozen on school campus; Parents file lawsuit."
He braced himself as he pushed through the doors and stepped out into the wintery land. The icy wind hit his face hard and his breath billowed out in thick clouds. He couldn't even remember Shiga getting that cold. Wasn't California supposed to be warm anyway? He pondered the question as he trekked through the snow to the courtyard. The thought was suddenly replaced by one that made him stop suddenly. He would be meeting his American partner. Did he even know what she looked like? Of course he did. Hannah Houser. He liked her. A lot. She was cute, and her personality was fun. He felt his face heating up just thinking about her. Perhaps now he could finally have an excuse to talk to her.

As he neared the courtyard, he could see two female figures. He knew them both. After all, he was just a little girl-crazy. One he recognized as Naomi Hales, and the other he knew immediately to be his partner-- Hannah. His boots crunched in the snow as he approached. His mind spun with how to speak to her. Should he formally introduce himself, or casually strike up a conversation? He chewed his lip. The distance between Hannah and himself was quickly shrinking. He needed to decide on something. But what? Maybe she liked those cool guys. Hiro inhaled deeply and composed himself. His features relaxed and he let a small, subtle smile tug at the corner of his mouth. She was there, right in front of him-- no farther than a meter. His lips parted. He knew the perfect "suave" introduction. The instant he said it, she would fall deeply in love with him and they would ride away into the sunset to a romantic restaurant someplace off campus. Well, he wished. Only a short distance. "Ha--" He lurched forward suddenly, losing traction and along with it, his balance. His arm extended instinctively and his hand grasped the closest thing, which just happened to be Hannah's arm. Hiro gasped and withdrew suddenly. "Ah! I'm so sorry! That was stupid. I'm so sorry!"

So much for composure.


*text --- "Big brother!! I really miss you!! Ohh... Mama says are you eating? Please sleep well. Good night." [childish]
**konya...neru -- "I will go to sleep early tonight."

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I opened my |u m b r e l l a|, pretending to know y o uBLANKBLANK

傘をさしだし 君を知った降りでBLANKBLANK

BLANKBLANKそばによるとすぐに　足を撮られ

BLANKBLANKBut I got stuck as soon as I came c l o s e r to you

[x-Tariraritarara-x]

巡る, 巡る, 君を思うBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANK

{ H } i r o { M } a k i

BLANKBLANKLBLANKBLANKひとつ, ひとつ, 忘れながら

真希 広

BLANKxxxBLANKxxx

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Time froze as soon as Hiro's hand found Hannah's arm. Thoughts flooded his mind. What if he had accidentally grabbed her chest? What if he had fallen on top of her? So many things could have gone wrong. So many things that would have made her hate him. His dark eyes gazed at his fingers wrapped around her arm. He exhaled slowly, his breath billowing out in a cloud of smoke. Nothing moved around him. It felt like the entire earth had stopped turning. Subete umakuiku, he told himself, and his eyes slowly lifted to her surprised face. Suddenly, time caught up and his hand released her when he should have held longer. Her own balance had been unsettled, and before Hiro could react, she was sitting on the icy ground.

"Are you okay?" he gasped, his eyes wide. He extended his hand for her. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to knock you over!" He chewed his lip and his brow knitted. What a wonderful start. It was just his luck though. He couldn't impress a girl to save his life. "You aren't wet from the snow, are you?" he asked, his eyes shining with worry. He mentally kicked himself for coming across as so rude-- knocking a lady down on their first meeting! There went his chances of her ever loving him. He shivered and rubbed his arms. "It's not good if you're wet out here. I'm really sorry."

Hiro watched Hannah carefully, looking for any clues that might tell him whether she hated him or not. But she smiled-- perhaps one of the sweetest and most sincere smiles he had ever seen. Immediately, his body relaxed and he allowed a small smile to form on his own lips. His dark eyes still held worry and concern, however. His gaze drifted down her body as she turned in front of him. She was very cute, and even prettier up close. He suddenly realized he had never been so close to her before. He had always run away before she was within speaking range. She had a lovely figure and gentle eyes. Hiro didn't think it was possible to love a person any more than he did at that moment. If one could even call it love. It was appearance alone that made Hiro's heart race-- pure infatuation. He hoped her personality would live up to her beauty.

"Oh! Y-yes, I'm Hiro," he said, snapping back to reality. How embarrassing would it be for the girl to catch him eyeing her that way! He looked to the ground quickly and shoved his hands in his pockets. He wished he had brought a jacket, or at least a scarf with him. The cold was almost unbearable. Was it possible for blood to turn to ice? That was certainly a fear of Hiro's. But he scolded himself for being so illogical. Koujousei da. Boku wa itetsukanai yo! He shook his head and hunched his shoulders. That didn't mean he didn't feel like he was freezing to death though.

Hannah's bow and Japanese greeting caught him off guard. He blinked and tilted his head to the side before remembering his manners and returning the gesture. "Eh? O-ohayou... gozaimasu. Nihongo ga hanasemasu ka?" Though surprised, he couldn't mask his excitement. The simple greeting in his native tongue relaxed him substantially. Hannah was the first to speak to him in Japanese since he had reached America. It was a nice feeling, and it made him like her even more. His smile widened and his worry fell away. "Honto ni subarashii desu ne!" He paused and his smile faded slightly. With a sheepish laugh, he rubbed the back of his head and looked down. "But I really should work on English. My pronunciation is bad." Of course he wasn't going to admit to how quickly he had learned the language. He didn't want to seem like a show off in front of his crush, and potentially offend her even more. It wasn't a lie though-- he still needed to practice his English. His words were still heavily accented, but he had a good hang of the words and grammatical structure.

"Unless you want to be 'Flower' throughout this project," Hiro added with a laugh. "I'm sorry I don't say things right. I need practice. But that's what we're doing, right? This project is doing that."



****
*subete umakuiku -- "Everything is okay."
**Koujousei...yo -- "Homeostasis. I won't freeze!"
***Ohayou...hanasemasu ka? -- "G-good... morning. You can speak Japanese?"
****Honto...desu ne! -- "That's really great!"

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I opened my |u m b r e l l a|, pretending to know y o uBLANKBLANK

傘をさしだし 君を知った降りでBLANKBLANK

BLANKBLANKそばによるとすぐに　足を撮られ

BLANKBLANKBut I got stuck as soon as I came c l o s e r to you

[x-Tariraritarara-x]

巡る, 巡る, 君を思うBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANK

{ H } i r o { M } a k i

BLANKBLANKLBLANKBLANKひとつ, ひとつ, 忘れながら

真希 広

BLANKxxxBLANKxxx

✵xxx✵xxx✵xxx✵xxx✵xxx✵xxx✵xxx✵xxx✵

Hiro smiled at Hannah's hand on his arm. It filled him with such warmth that he felt he could shed his heavy sweater and walk around in the snow in only his tank. The light caught his eyes and turned them to two amber pieces, glowing with his inner fire. "Are you sure?" He let his eyes sweep her once more before I was convinced no harm had been done. He looked back up at her and into her own eyes, but only briefly before redirecting his gaze someplace else. "Okay, I believe you." He grinned. "Can I not worry?"

He stole a subtle glance. Something about her brought out his older brother instinct. He wanted to watch out for her and ensure her safety, even if the "danger" was just a bit of wetness from the snow. A shiver ran down his spine as the cold seeped back into his body again. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed his arms. "But a little is good," he assured her, his smile wide and his eyes warm. "It's good that you try." He nodded his head and shoved his hands into his pockets. He wished he had brought gloves with him, but it was too late now. He certainly wouldn't forget them again. "Slang is hard," he agreed. "It's also hard in English. Please tell me if I say something inappropriate." He laughed. "With Japanese, it's better that you use formal words. You won't offend anyone or embarrass yourself. That book looks like you have gotten much use out of it." His eyes followed her hands as she returned the book to her bag, and he smiled. Suddenly, his face lit up with realization. "So you have been teaching yourself?" he asked. "Impressive!"

Hiro's eyes widened and he flinched when Hannah hit his arm suddenly, but his smile quickly returned and he laughed-- a melodious, relaxed sound. "In Japan, it is required of the students to learn English. We learn it as soon as we know kanji well, but we learn the most in high school. But high school is optional in Japan. Those who don't go are hard to communicate with in English," he explained, and then laughed as he added, "Their English is much worse than mine."

Hiro stepped forward and peered up into Hannah's face, examining the pink tint of her cheeks. His smile danced on his lips and his eyebrows lifted. She didn't quite understand what he meant, he noticed. Perhaps by staring at her, she would understand? He grinned and leaned back. "What if I make that your Japanese name?" He traced the character for "flower" in the air. "I could show you how to write it, and then I wouldn't have to consciously tell myself how to say your real name. It sounds close anyway. Oh!" Hiro slipped his hand into his bag and pulled out a long, double-sided marker. He reached out and gently took Hannah's hand, pulling it towards himself as he used his other hand to uncap one end of the marker. He wrote out "花" on the back of her hand and smiled. "There. And it's a simple character, too. It's not hard to learn." He capped the pen again and returned it to his back.

Hiro's smile faded away and was replaced by a serious expression as he listened intently to Hannah's directions. "I'm so--" he cut himself off and his smile broke on his lips again. He nodded and grinned. "Okay. I will try not to make you cry, too." He laughed. "If I make you cry, you can make me cry, too." Another shiver shot through his body when Hannah mentioned the cold, and he quickly nodded his agreement. "I like that idea." He followed after her at a quick pace, hoping it would warm his body up. The cafe wasn't too far away, but he couldn't wait to reach it and thaw himself out. The snow crunched under his boots as he walked. He had to admit that he enjoyed that sound, just not the cold itself. The thought of a hot cup of coffee floated into his mind and flooded his body with warmth again. He couldn't wait.





((Short. >.< I'm so sorry.))

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I opened my |u m b r e l l a|, pretending to know y o uBLANKBLANK

傘をさしだし 君を知った降りでBLANKBLANK

BLANKBLANKそばによるとすぐに　足を撮られ

BLANKBLANKBut I got stuck as soon as I came c l o s e r to you

[x-Tariraritarara-x]

⌈x-x-x-x-x-x-BLANKTWOx✸BLANKTWOx-x-x-x-x-x-x⌉

⌜BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKxxx⌝x⌜BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKxxx⌝

xxxx

⌞BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKxxxi⌟x⌞BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKxxxi⌟

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❝xxძ і ѕ с ο m αxx❞

✗BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANK Hαʑαгї Պօгїօӄα----❚ ❚ ❚----

⌊x-x-x-x-x-x-BLANKxTWO✸BLANKTWOx-x-x-x-x-x-x⌋

U p ԁ а т є TWO•TWO ℰѕℂÅp℮

ʟøɢɪč BLANKxx•••

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Sha la la, says, says, says, says, koi da!

Hazari tapped his pencil with the beat and let the music fill his body. It played from a hi-fi on the counter behind him-- a giant black speaker with the rectangular silhouette of his iPod rising out of it like some sleek, glinting monument. It thumped and danced to the ambient bubble that rolled from left to right and back again as the chorus sang out:

Dare ni mo tsukaenai, kanjitai, tsutaenai...

The speakers buzzed with the treble of an artificial guitar and a drum machine, swirled with the effects of a synthesizer and a nasal voice to radiate the sound of the modern 80s. It came to an end and was followed quickly by a metallic scratch and a faster beat, which soon had the walls of the small kitchen throbbing with the resonance of an old decade. Music was a necessity to Hazari. He had been a DJ after all. But not only did it set a rhythm for his body, but it inspired many of his designs-- the modish figures with a breath of retro as he was known for. The collection of sketches he had been working on since four-thirty that morning possessed the same flavour. His dark, narrow eyes traced the outlines and the folds of the flounced balloon dress adorning the slender body of one of the faceless dolls before he set his pencil aside. He wasn't satisfied with it, but he needed a break. He took up his cellphone and flipped it open to check the time. It flashed 7:00 am and he snapped it shut again. "Nana ji..." he sighed and found himself laughing. If it hadn't been for such a persistent idea in his head, he would just be waking up.

Hazari leaned back in his chair and stretched himself until he heard his shoulders pop. His eyelids suddenly felt heavy, but he forced himself to his feet and opened his mouth in a wide yawn. He reached over the chair and gathered up his papers, pushing them into a tidy stack to the side of the table. They weren't quite good enough to be taken to the company yet, and so he would leave them there. The music continued to bounce around the kitchen, but Hazari turned it down and left it playing at a low volume. He made his way down one of the branching hallways and padded down the hard wood corridor in bare feet, his pajama pants billowing and swishing around his legs. After making a stop in his room and grabbing a set of clothing, he continued to the bathroom and slid the door shut behind him. The shower hissed on and released a stream of hot water and steam. After several minutes, the water was shut off. Hazari emerged, slicked his hair back, and dressed in all but a shirt. He slid his hand over the steamed mirror and uncovered his reflection, which was slightly blurred in the still-hot room. The hot water had helped to eliminate the fatigue he was already beginning to feel for having so little sleep, but he knew it would wear off as the day progressed. It wasn't the first time he had awaken before dawn to sketch out a plaguing idea.

Hazari shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Being so thick, water was a pain to remove. It often took hours for it to dry completely on its own. He reached over and plugged up his hairdryer. Some thought him effeminate for using one, or for caring at all about cosmetics, but he didn't understand why some men didn't use one. Of course, working in the fashion industry had him rather conscious of appearances, and he wasn't the only one. It was almost a pre-requisite to have such a career. He blasted his hair with heat so that it fell about his face in messy waves, akin to a tangled lion's mane. Messy, but it was the way he preferred it. He turned the device off and combed through his thick hair again with his fingers to loosen up any unwanted knots or curls. His hand trailed down the side of his face and found its way to his chin, which he felt had grown a bit prickly. But he decided he could wait another day for a shave. It wasn't that noticeable. Yet. He was Asian after all. Tousling his hair once more, Hazari reached for a black tank and tugged it on over his head and followed it with a beige mod-classical shirt that cuffed at the elbows and had a low V-neck.

Hazari slid open the bathroom door and the last remaining steam escaped and filled the hallway with the smell of warmth and soap. The smell of cleanliness. He had been told before, at a party in Japan, that that was "his scent;" that he always smelled like someone freshly cleaned. That wasn't at all a bad thing. A smile, slight yet dignified, danced on his lips at the memory of his home-country. He couldn't help but feel homesick every once in awhile, especially when he had to eat American food. There were Asian markets around, sure, but it wasn't the same as eating at an authentic Japanese restaurant whenever he pleased. With a sigh, Hazari returned to his kitchen, took up his cellphone, and slipped on a pair of faux-leather, snip-toe ankle boots. He checked the time. It had taken him a little more than thirty minutes to ready himself for work, which left him with plenty of freedom to take a leisurely route to work. But he felt like going directly this morning. And so he turned off his mp3 player, picked his keys off a hook, and stepped out into the hallway. His apartment was a small, cheap one, despite the money he had stockpiled with such a job. He didn't need many luxuries, and he was perfectly happy with what he had. Slipping his hand into his pocket and sliding his sunglasses on over his eyes, he made his way down the hall to the elevators and rode them down to the first floor.

Outside the weather was pleasant, but Hazari hadn't the time to enjoy it. He signaled for a taxi to take him straight to the Fame company building. There was plenty of time to spare, so he had the time to watch the buildings and pedestrians outside the windows for inspiration to finish the design back at his apartment. Although he owned a car of his own, and a rather nice one, he hated taking it to work. Parking and pulling out was such a hassle. He was willing to pay a little extra money to avoid that headache.

"Thanks. Here." Hazari handed the driver a handful of bills as he stepped out of the car. The heels of his boots clapped against the cement, and there was a noticeable sound change when the pavement suddenly cut to marble as he entered the large, prestigious building. He took the elevator up to that great white floor he called his home away from home. As always, it was a floor of activity. People moved back and forth, some talking away on their cellphones, others carefully perusing a stack of papers or photographs. Hazari took his sunglasses off and went to his own desk, where he placed them in a drawer, along with his keys. He noticed a stack of photos in a neat bundle on the corner. Untying them, a smile came to his gaunt features. They were from a recent photoshoot of a series of dresses he had designed. He liked the way they had turned out, and each new one made his spirits lift higher.

Hazari looked over his shoulder when he heard rapid, approaching footsteps. It was Bliss, delivering his coffee as she did every morning. As was his custom, he gave her a nod and a smile and watched her scurry off to attend to the other duties she had been piled with that morning. On this particular morning, Hazari very much welcomed the coffee. A shot in the dark had just the right amount of espresso to put him on a functioning level. Without bothering to let it cool, he took a sip of the bitter liquid and returned the collection of photos to the pile. Alena couldn't be left waiting.

He lightly knocked his knuckles against the doorframe to Alena's office to announce his presence before entering. "You called for me?" he asked in his naturally airy tone, his words heavily accented. But he stopped suddenly. There was Devin. He would have said a "good morning," but Alena seemed rather short with the photographer, and so Hazari decided to stay quiet until he was addressed.


* * * * * *
*sha la la...koi da! - "Sha la la, says, says, says, says, it's love!"
*dare ni...tsutaenai - "No one can use it, I want to feel it, I can't convey it..."
indent [both are lyrics from the same song, "Says, Says, Says" by goatbed]
*Nana ji... - "Seven o'clock..."





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[x-Tariraritarara-x]

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❝ xxGoing to Soap Land and dressing like a woman is p a r a d i s exx❞BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANK

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BLANKBLANKLBLANK❝ xxAs for the rest, it's | a l lx wx rx ox nx g |xx❞

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Shae Oren, biologically, was not a woman, but every other part of him was-- from the way he dressed, to his actions, and even his naturally ambiguous voice. He had always had an affinity for women's clothing ever since he was a young child without sisters to influence him. What started simply as dress-up became a full-fledged hobby. And his parent didn't give him a hard time for it. Like most Japanese, they believed their child was twice as healthy as the other children for embracing his feminine side so whole-heartedly. School uniforms prevented Shae from wearing anything more than makeup, and even then he put little on, for he still had his confidence to build up before he could do anything elaborate in public. But at twelve, he met Isamu Chiba, who was twenty at the time. Shae had always been one for mischief, and especially one for defiance. Had he had been the obedient sort, he would have never found his place as an adult. And had Chiba not been so understanding, Shae's life would have been turned in a completely different direction.

It was during finals, and Shae was made by his parents to stay home and study for them. But a drag show was in town that evening, and Shae was determined to go. He had always thought he would fit in the most with drag queens. He knew little about them, except for the fact they were men who dressed as women, but he was completely confident that was his future lifestyle. So, against his parents' orders and behind their backs, Shae slipped out of the house. The show featured "Mako Maneater," and was Chiba's first official debut as a "graduated" drag queen. It was this elaborate display of parodies, original songs, and skits that captured Shae's heart. He knew now what he wanted to become. And he thought he would start it early:

By climbing onstage with this Mako Maneater.

He didn't know the words of the song, but the dance was something he had seen before, and he performed as if he were part of the show. Mako, though surprised beyond words, kept his composure, and the audience was fooled into believing the twelve-year-old was intended to be in the act. And it was this that had locked in place Shae's future.

That song ended the show, and Shae was pulled backstage before he had a chance to run away. He knew he was in for an earful, but the adrenaline rush from being in front of so many people kept his spirits high, and he grinned all the way to Mako's dressing room. Much to his surprise, he wasn't admonished. He wasn't yelled at. He wasn't even told that he had ruined the performance.

"You're a bold one, aren't you, kid?" Mako had said, on the verge of laughter. "I like you already."

Had he had been chastised for what he had done, Shae might have grown up thinking all drag queens were insensitive jerks. But he was accepted instead-- fondly even-- by Mako Maneater. It was not until he was sixteen when he was fully allowed to join Mako, and it was then that "The Seductress Lysithea" was born-- named such by Mako himself, who was an avid reader of mythology and felt the name fit.


Lysithea stood now in front of the illuminated mirror in the small bathroom he and Mako shared. His reflection stared back at him-- batting long eyelashes, puckering red-painted lips, and making overall flirtatious expressions. He smiled vainly at himself. He wasn't one for modesty, and he certainly took pride in his beauty. Not many men could say they were prettier than biological women. Not even Chiba, he thought arrogantly, grinning at the mirror and showing off his perfectly straight, bright white teeth. With a long fingernail, he removed a stray mark of lipstick from the side of his mouth and then moved his hands to his hair. Unlike his mentor, he didn't wear wigs. His hair was completely natural, and he prided himself for it. Daintily, he placed a black pillbox hat upon his head and smiled once more at his reflection. He was satisfied with the way he looked now, and so he turned towards the door.
"Hey!" he shouted suddenly out of surprise.
The older man in the doorway laughed. "I thought I'd find you in here. What are you doing anyway? We're not booked for anything tonight." He slipped his hands into the pockets of his colorful pants and leaned against the doorframe. Lysithea tried to exit, but Chiba took a step to the side and blocked his way again.
"I'm booked," he said snidely, flashing a provocative smile.
"What? Since when? There's nothing happening tonight."
"Not for you." Lysithea placed a lace-covered hand gently on his mentor's chest and pushed past him. He smiled seductively over his shoulder. "But you know very well what I'm doing."
Chiba scowled and followed after Lysi down the long hallway. "You're actually serious about doing that? I told you it's off-limits."
"Is that jealousy I hear?" Lysi cupped a hand around his ear and batted his eyelashes. "Don't be mad that I'm pretty enough to get a straight man."
Chiba huffed and tossed his head back. "If I were as deceitful as you, I could win one out of costume. Just wait until he sees you in person."
Lysi wasn't fazed. He stopped at the entrance of the apartment and examined his collection of shoes. "He'll love me," he retorted with a smirk, bending down to choose a pair of black boots and pull them on over his stocking feet.
Chiba put his hands on his hips. "Only if he's some pathetic loser who doesn't get any action. Why else do you think he went to an online dating service?"
"There are plenty of trophies online." Lysithea grinned and fluffed his hair. "Like me."
Chiba rolled his eyes. "Right..." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I need to see this." He pulled on his own pair of shoes and followed the younger man out the door.

The cafe was only a few blocks from their apartment, and the two walked close together as if they themselves were the couple. Their conversations shifted constantly from heated arguments to joking and laughing like good friends. They weren't always fighting, and even when they were, they each secretly enjoyed it.
"It's here," Lysithea said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and pointing to a quaint coffee shop. He lifted his arm and checked the elegant silver watch adorning his wrist. "Just a tad early." He adjusted his hat and turned to Chiba. "Sit far away, okay? I don't want him to think you're my boyfriend or anything."
The older man grinned. "Like you'd ever have a boyfriend this gorgeous," he remarked playfully, running his hand down the length of his torso.
Lysithea shook his head and pushed through the doors of the cafe. The bell overhead chimed and alerted one of the waiters standing aimlessly around. His eyes flashed and he quickly showed Lysi to a table.
"Are you dining alone, ma'am?" he asked.
Lysi smiled politely, but cast an arrogant smile Chiba's way. "No, I'm waiting on a date."
The waiter visibly deflated. "Okay. What would you like to drink then?"
"Just water, thank you."
The man dipped his head and disappeared to the back, leaving Lysi to wait for his date. His chocolate eyes scanned over the small restaurant, assessing all of its customers. He found his mentor sitting at a distant table with a paper in hand, but not open. Chiba flashed a smirk, but Lysi pretended not to notice.




♥BLANKBL❤NKBLANK❤xxx ♥ xxx❤BLANKBL❤NKBLANK♥

[x-Tariraritarara-x]

❝xxIt's sort of absurd that my dreams haven't died 。xx❞

𝄞----------н е ʟ ʟ o 。--------»»»------------𝄂

My name is Ami Katagi, and it's pronounced ah-mee, not Amy. Mispronunciation doesn't really bother me much, but it also doesn't exactly bring up the fondest memories either. I'm called both Katagi and Idiot by my boss, and I'm known as Koel onstage, but I really just prefer Ami. I'm twenty-two years old, so I'm old enough to drink and smoke, but I don't. I'm a boy, but I've always been feminine, whether I like it or not. Despite all of the jokes involving both my name and my femininity though, I'm straight. I'm attracted to women, but that doesn't necessarily mean they like me. I'm half-Japanese and half-white, which isn't the most glamorous combination, and I was born and raised in San Diego, California. I have never been outside of the country-- or outside of the state, really-- and I only speak English, so don't ask me to say something in Japanese.

𝄞----------м үxxя е ғ ʟ e c т ɪ o и 。--------»»»------------𝄂

As I mentioned, I'm a bit feminine, but I'm undoubtedly a boy. I stand at about five feet and nine inches, but I slouch, so I appear shorter than that sometimes. I'm about one-hundred and twenty pounds, and I wouldn't consider myself a particularly muscular guy. My skin is definitely like a white person's; I'm pretty pale, and I burn easily. My hair is naturally black, but sometimes if I save enough extra money, I'll dye it another neutral color. My eyes are black, too, but I wish they had turned out blue like Mom's. When I'm nervous, I have the habit of either chewing my lip or rubbing my arm, and it's not that hard to make me nervous. I've been told before that I don't have much of a sense of fashion, but I just wear whatever I think is comfortable. There's nothing wrong with that. You will never catch me in anything brightly colored though.

𝄞----------ɑ ʙ o u тxxм e 。--------»»»------------𝄂

►xxx ѕ н үxx𝄇xx This is probably my most prominent trait, and I've always been this way, according to Mom. I can't talk to people face-to-face. I get nervous, and my conversations usually end up awkward and short. There's nothing more embarrassing than trying to talk to someone, but after only one or two exchanges, there's only silence. Unfortunately, that's what almost all my attempts at socializing end up like. And then that person usually finds something else to do, and there goes your chance at a perfectly good friendship. That's probably why I don't have that many friends. Thank God for the Internet though, or else I wouldn't have a band right now, and probably any friends either. Once I warm up to a person though, I can be a pretty fun guy. By no means am I outgoing, but I like to think that I'm not that boring either. I'm just not much of a risk-taker, and I hate doing things in front of people. I bet you're wondering why I have a band then. I perform in front of an audience, yes, but my band isn't all that popular. We get maybe five or six people a gig, so that's helpful for me, but I also keep my eyes on the microphone or my guitar. If I look out at the crowd, it's over for me. I'll start stuttering and messing up the song. And it has happened before. Several times, actually. That's how bad I am in front of people. I might as well wear blinders or something.

►xxx c ʟ u м s үxx𝄇xx Having motor dysgraphia is a pain. Be thankful you don't have it. If you're not familiar with it, motor dysgraphia is when your fine motor skills are off. You know, hand movements and things. I've been known to drop things, or knock them off of high places, most worth a good bit of money. I try not to touch anything now if I don't have to. I'd rather not waste my paycheck on things I accidentally broke. And now I bet you're wondering how I can play the guitar when my hands don't work right. Well, lots and lots of practice. It wasn't always easy for me, and it's still not as easy for me to play a guitar as it is for normal people, but I've worked hard over the years. I personally think my coordination has improved, but my boss is always yelling at me for dropping things. That's why I'm a busboy. If I were a waiter, I would probably be using my paycheck on broken dishes or disgruntled customers every month. On top of that, I'm not exactly the most steady on my feet either. I swear I could trip on air. Mom always said it was because my legs grew in too long. Maybe it's true. I don't know.

►xxx d e d ɪ c ɑ т e dxx𝄇xx I mentioned that I have motor dysgraphia, and so I can't exactly work well with my hands. That hasn't stopped me from trying though. And I've worked hard at it. If I hadn't, I would still be relying on someone to tie my shoes or button my shirts. When I was a kid, I was always ashamed that I still couldn't tie my shoes when everyone else knew how to. I say I couldn't rather than I didn't know how to because I knew every step in my head. I could tell you exactly what to do, but when I tried doing it myself, it never turned out right. I didn't want to live like that for the rest of my life, so I made myself work hard to overcome it. When Mom gave me my first guitar, I couldn't play it at first, but with hard work and dedication, I finally learned to play it. I guess with everything I've had to overcome in life, I don't get discouraged easily anymore, and so I can stick to what I say I'm going to do until I achieve it.

►xxx s u ʙ м ɪ s s ɪ v exx𝄇xx I'm definitely not the most forceful guy out there. I can't tell anyone what to do even if I tried. That makes me an awful leader. I'm a great follower though. Actually, I prefer to be told what to do as long as it's reasonable. My boss telling me what to do? Not so much. Mainly because he's constantly yelling at me for no reason. There's not really much I can do about it though. I just draw up and take it. I guess you could say I'm easy to take advantage of because I'm so submissive, but that doesn't mean I don't know a bad idea from a good one. Am I going to speak up about it though? Probably not.

►xxx s o ғ т - s р o к e ɴxx𝄇xx When I do actually talk, my voice is pretty quiet. Most people don't even hear me, and I'm not really much of one to raise my voice. When I do though, it usually gets people to be quiet, mainly because it surprises them to hear me talk at all. When I sing, it's pretty much the same: soft and quiet. People have told me I sound kind of girly, too. I don't exactly have a deep voice, but I wouldn't say it's that girly. Whatever though. Either way, you're going to have to listen to hear me speak.

►xxx ʀ e s o u ʀ c e ғ u ʟxx𝄇xx When you're poor, you have to know how to use things in ways that may not always be conventional. A couch for a bed; a door for clothes hangers; a cardboard box with a flashlight pointed toward the ceiling for a makeshift lamp... If you came to my apartment you would see all of these things. I just can't afford a ton of extra furniture, so I have to make due with cheap items. It's not that bad though. I grew up that way, so it doesn't really bother me. I've gotten pretty good at saving money and finding bargains. Of course, I'm going to have to figure out how I'm going to afford new furniture and whatnot now that my apartment complex has burned down.

╔┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╗

In this iron city with its rugged edges,
The dreams I've gotten used to dreaming are slowly withering 。

╚┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╝

𝄞----------м үxxʟ ɪ ғ e 。--------»»»------------𝄂

I was born to a single ex-stripper who never married, but I didn't know that until I reached my junior year of high school. When Mom told me the truth after all those years, it was earth-shattering, to say the least. I didn't love her any less though. I actually admired her more for becoming such a responsible woman. But let me back up to the beginning...

My father was Hotaru Katagi; a Japanese native-- age twenty-one-- traveling to the United States on vacation. He was the ambitious type. He wanted to see the world so he could return to Japan and brag to his colleagues about all of the weird things he experienced while visiting the West. My mother, Catie Jackson-- age twenty-five-- was a dancer at a strip club in California that Hotaru visited one night. He fell immediately in love with her. Of course, he had been drunk, but Mom said he had enough sense to return to his hotel and sleep off the alcohol first before doing anything stupid. Completely sober, he still loved her, and went to all ends to learn everything he could about her. He spent most of his travel money bribing the staff at the club for the address of her day job, and when he got it, he went to find her. After some coaxing, he managed to convince her to go to dinner with him, and after a few hours of eating and drinking, she admitted that she loved his accent and agreed to return to his hotel with him where they... you know.

Weeks later, Mom discovered that she was pregnant, but was too afraid to tell Hotaru. When he had saved up enough money again to return to Japan though, she felt that telling him her secret would somehow make him stay. Their relationship had been slowly falling apart, and they were drifting, but the news of her pregnancy severed whatever was left. Mom told me that Hotaru had never had any intention of settling down with a family, and that he had been dating another girl for a week already. He left for Japan immediately. Mom lost her job at the club and was forced to earn all of her money through part-time jobs. She considered having an abortion, but realized that her life had already fallen apart and an abortion wouldn't bring it back together.

When I was born, Mom gave me dad's last name. She wanted me to live as normal a life as she could provide for me. We were poor, and I didn't have many luxuries. Mom told me that I was quite a low-maintenance child though, which made things easier for her. She worked extremely hard for each evening's dinner, and I was the top priority in her life. She made time at night to spend with me, and she made sure I always had her attention while she was home. She said she had never imagined herself as a mother, much less a good one, but I had a happy, though modest, childhood.

At the age of four, when I really began speaking, my speech impediment showed itself. Mom worried about it. I began to get the impression that something was wrong with me, but I didn't know what it was. She did all she could to improve my speech, such as telling me to stop and repeat what I was trying to say slowly. It didn't really help. She was afraid I had contracted something awful from her, so she made an appointment with the doctor to get both of us checked out. Mom never told me her results, but I was completely fine. My stuttering was simply a speech impediment that would improve with time and patience, although it was not guaranteed to completely go away.

When I started school, I wondered about my father for the first time in my life. It had never even crossed my mind that most people have two parents who raise them. When I asked Mom, she lied for the protection of my "normal" life. She told me Dad had died right before I was born. Of course, I believed it, and the question never entered my mind again. Kids at school would still ask me about it though, both mockingly and out of pure curiosity. Being teased for not knowing my dad wasn't as bad as the bullying I received every time I opened my mouth. My classmates laughed at the way I talked. I didn't have many friends either, and even they would mock me on occasion by pointing out the words I had trouble saying. It bothered me when they would finish my sentences when I blocked. They tried to tell me they were just trying to be helpful, but I didn't believe them.

Things just got worse when we started writing in school. That's when another problem was discovered: motor dysgraphia. My teacher noticed I had trouble copying the letters in my handwriting book and that my handwriting was much worse than any other student she had had before. I mixed up my "d"s, "p"s, "q"s, and "b"s. Most children do, but not usually when copying the letters directly from a book. I was the kid who couldn't copy. The size and shapes of my letters were constantly changing, too, and sometimes they weren't completely illegible. My teacher decided she would try to help me one day after school. Mom agreed to it. I usually stayed in an after-school care service anyway because Mom worked until about five in the evening. So my teacher made me write... a lot. My armed started aching before I had completed more than a page or two from my book, but my teacher thought I was simply trying to get out of the work. She kept drilling me, and my arm kept aching, and I kept failing until it was too much for a seven-year-old to handle. It wasn't until I started crying and refused to write anymore did my teacher finally call Mom... who was furious that she had been so cruel to me, might I add. Had Mom had any power, my teacher would have been fired.

After that, Mom was worried that I really did have a disease or something, so she scrounged up enough money for another check-up. "It's motor dysgraphia," the doctor had said. Of course, I didn't know what it was, but I could tell Mom was relieved, and so I felt better. She took me to buy new school supplies with the rest of her money. She gave me special pencils and paper, which were designed to help people like me write easier and with less pain, and she demanded that my teacher give me extra time in class to complete assignments. My classmates began to think I belonged in the special ed. class because of all this special treatment. They called me the "Stupid Chinese Kid" (as a note, I'm not Chinese). I began to think I was stupid, too. I stopped trying in school. I let my grades slips. I stopped doing my homework. I became depressed, and there was little Mom could do about it.

Mom bought me my first guitar for my ninth birthday. You would think I would have been really happy with it. But I wasn't. I became so frustrated with the first lessons that I ended up smashing it. I didn't try the guitar again for a while. My self-worth was at its lowest when I entered middle school. I began to notice girls, but they never noticed me. Actually, they did, but not the way I wanted them to. I was clumsy in front of them. I'd trip, embarrass myself, or somehow end up spilling something on their clothes. Middle school is the year most boys enter an awkward phase, and I was no exception. I was caught somewhere between tall and short, and I was still laughed at in school. I became withdrawn. I hated myself for falling in love, but I still did. There was a girl though, named Giselle, and I fell hard for her. I overheard that she wanted a musically talented boyfriend and my heart skipped a beat. I begged Mom for another guitar, and when she finally caved and spent her vacation money on one, I worked extremely hard to learn to play it. I often made my fingers bleed, actually, and progress was painfully slow, but after a couple of months, I learned my first song. When I performed it in front of Mom, singing the lyrics with it, we both realized I didn't stutter. This gave me a confidence boost, and so I decided it was time to try and ask Giselle out. When she agreed, I was speechless, but extremely happy. I took the melody of the song I had learned and wrote my own lyrics for it about Giselle, and I planned to perform it for her. The date itself... It wasn't what I had planned it to be. I was nervous in front of her, which made my stuttering worse, and I was clumsy. At the restaurant, I ended up knocking her drink into her lap, and, as I was attempting to help her get cleaned up, I pushed her food off the table. It was the most embarrassing day of my life. She insisted on going home immediately, even when I had told her that I had written a song just for her. Needless to say, I was heartbroken. I was depressed for days, but the sadness and heartbreak fueled more songs. In those few days, I wrote and composed the music for eight songs. My interest in music escalated, and I began to dream of one day having a band.

I began to look for one in high school. There was a small garage band, called MoSS, looking for a rhythm guitarist, so I agreed to fill the spot. We were pretty good, and those were my first real friends. Luckily, we all went to the same school. My junior year was when I turned all of my focus to music. I was struggling in school, and I knew college would only be harder, so I decided I wouldn't go. I don't know why though, but my English teacher was furious to hear this. She told me I'd end up "no better than my stripper mother who was nothing but a pathetic woman working for minimum wage." What the hell, right? And in front of my class, too. As if life couldn't get any worse. So I asked Mom about it, and she told me the truth. The real truth. She said my teacher had worked with her once at a fast-food joint, but Mom had stolen all of my teacher's boyfriends. That's where all of the animosity came from. She then told me everything she had kept hidden for so long-- her old job, how she and my father met, how my father was actually still alive... I was shocked. At first, I couldn't talk to her. Not entirely because I was mad at her for keeping that from me for so long, but because I needed time to process what she had told me. I began to feel a newfound pride for her. She put her life in order without the help of a husband. I admired her for that, and it only solidified my decision not to go to college.

MoSS broke up at the end of my senior year. They all wanted to go to college, and I didn't. Reluctantly, I decided I should find my own apartment. Mom didn't need me hanging around her all the time. I found my own cheap, run-down apartment in a poorer part of the city. Just like home. I looked for a job that could take up my day time and bring in money, so I found an opening for a waiter at a nearby diner, but the manager, noting my clumsiness and my stuttering, thought I was incompetent and gave me the job of busboy. I was a bit miffed by the injustice at first, but not for long. I didn't need to waste my energy on it. I searched around some more for another band, and found a few other musicians through the Internet. Sleeping Children was born, and I played rhythm guitar and sang. Unfortunately, Sleeping Children was not as well-liked as MoSS, so the best we could get were late-night gigs at close-to-vacant coffee shops. The members changed a lot, too, and most of the time it was just me on stage. My dysgraphia caused music production to be slow, which frustrated some of the old members, but I think we're stable now. I sing and play rhythmic guitar, Juju's our bassist, Ambour's the drummer, and the lead guitarist calls himself Aku SHOK. Of course, we all use nicknames. Life was pretty good for a while.

A fire started somewhere in my apartment complex though. I didn't really care to get the details. I had a late shift at the diner, and when I came home, I saw a fire truck parked in front of the building and the entire place smoking. I recovered what I could (luckily my part of the building hadn't been too damaged), and when back to Mom's until I could find another place to live. I was lucky enough to find an ad for a house with an even cheaper rent than my old apartment, so I took up the offer immediately. Unfortunately, it's a bit farther away from the diner than I'd like it to be, but beggars can't be choosers. So here I am now, going to live in his old house. Supposedly its haunted. I don't know. I've never been one for ghost stories.

𝄞----------x-Tariraritarara-xxx||xxd i m g r e y--------»»»------------𝄂

[x-Tariraritarara-x]

╔┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╗

In this iron city with its rugged edges,
The dreams I've gotten used to dreaming
are slowly withering 。

╚┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╝

❖BLANKBLANK❖BLANKBLANK❖BLANKBLANK❖

The room was throbbing-- deep, indistinguishable songs beating against every wall with the force that made one's bones quake. It pulsated like a heart ready to burst, and the air was thick in it with the smell of alcohol and sweat. There were no windows; only a single door. And there was no circulation. The stale air accumulated and hung heavy from the ceiling, draped like a damp tent over the hundred intimate bodies below. The dimmed lights pulled the shadows and turned the place into an insect nest, where voices climbed and crawled upon one another, each striving to be heard above the din. But there was only noise. The swarm of people mimicked their voices as they pushed and shoved each other to the exit, and their excessive breath as they screamed back and forth to each other only made the air thicker. This was chaos. Complete, drunken chaos. And Merit wanted out. His hand slipped off of the microphone and he turned to disappear backstage. It was so loud. He couldn't hear his own thoughts, and he felt like he was suffocating. His pay wasn't as important as simply escaping the hell that was the Pike. He could always get it later. The steel door leading to the alleyway was right in front of him; a small, fluorescent light illuminating it like an entrance to some sanctuary. And to Merit, that's exactly what it was. He was almost free, but he could hear his own labored breathing in his ears. The crowded bar had him feeling dizzy and lightheaded. He needed fresh air, and it was only an arm's length away. He could reach out and touch it...
"Hey, thanks for everything, man." A young man with long, dirty blond hair grinned and grabbed Merit's shoulder. His teeth were crooked and yellow, and Merit could smell the alcohol heavy on his breath when he leaned in close to his face. "Rockin' as always. Here. Red already added up tonight's revenue." The man shoved a fistful of bills into Merit's hands and gave him a rough pat on the back. He laughed and draped his arm over his shoulder, grinning into his face. There was no doubt he was as drunk as the rest. Merit folded up the money and slipped it into his pocket. He could tell it wasn't much, but it was good enough for cheap (but warm, which was an important factor) dinners for a while. He smiled politely, though it was slight and weary.
"We have another show again next month. Same songs. No problem for you, right? NRGE's got a gig here next week, and they're still lookin' for an extra man. I'll tell 'em to hit you up." The man pulled away and his eyelids drooped lazily. "You're ********' awesome, man. Always. Catch ya later." He gave Merit a final shake and returned to the stage where he greeted the crowd once more before they all dispatched. The band typically stayed long after the bar cleared out to help clean up, and Merit occasionally offered help when it was needed, but there seemed to be more than enough hands this evening. That was good. He didn't want to spend any more time in that place. Closing his eyes, he pushed through the door and welcomed the cool, crisp air that greeted him. It was like coming up for air after a battle with the ocean. Merit even felt himself gasp.

The door clattered shut and then silence followed. There was the sound of cars in the distance, and a few streets down a dog barked. Merit leaned against the frigid brick and watched his breath billow out in thick clouds. His ears were ringing and his chest felt tight, but the tranquility of the streets was relaxing. There were a couple of steps leading down and out of the flickering glow of the caged light bulb over the door, but he didn't want to move. It was almost too much of a hassle to even breathe. Bars and clubs had never bothered him before. He usually enjoyed the atmosphere: the partying, the drinking, the smoking-- it was what he lived for at the end of the week. He loved the city's nightlife, and he was rather popular. It was with these people that he really felt that he belonged. Not with the crazy old homeless he often found himself housing with, or the simple workers who went about their mundane lives with the same routine day-by-day, and certainly not with the upper-city royalty who thought they were entitled to the air they breathed and the ground they walked upon simply because of the jobs they held. No. It was the thrill of sunset and the vibrant neon lights the darkness brought out that truly made him feel like more than some broken, dirty vagrant living like a rat beneath the city. But tonight was different. Something was wrong. Merit let the back of his head rest against the wall and his eyes close. He exhaled slowly, completely emptying his lungs of pollution from the bar, and then he gratefully inhaled the crisp, fresh air. The cold had felt good at first compared to the heat inside, but it was beginning to seep in through his thin clothes. They were his "nice" clothes, which he wore all year long whenever there was an occasion that called for them, such as a performance on stage. In the winter, they were too cold; in the summer, too hot. He couldn't wear his normal attire in the public eye. It was much too trashy, as street clothes should be. But they were comfortable, and he wished he had them to change into. His snip-toe boots ("borrowed" from a shoe store's shipping crates) were crushing his feet. One, at least. The other he couldn't feel. Reluctantly, he cracked a tired eye and looked down at his legs. His hand slid down to the top of his knee and he gently hit it until he could feel the toes of his right foot again. But he regretted it immediately. They were in the same amount of pain as his left, despite not actually existing. His fingers drifted farther down and brushed the top of his prosthesis, and then moved up again to massage his knee, which had begun to ache. It was nothing he wasn't used to. The cold had always bothered his right leg. But the pain in his chest-- and his entire body-- only multiplied it.

Merit slipped his hand into the front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and found his lighter in the pocket of his jeans. He took a stick with his teeth, and then lit it and returned the pack to his pocket simultaneously. There wasn't anything a quiet smoke break couldn't fix. He removed the cigarette from his lips and blew out a thick grey stream, but a cough stopped him midway and he covered his mouth with his hand. His shoulders shook when he doubled over, and his lungs felt as if they were being crushed by the hands of a giant force. But then it was over. He slowly straightened and looked at his hand. No blood. He wasn't dying, or anything melodramatic. He put his cigarette to his lips and leaned against the wall again. Pneumonia... or something like that, he thought. It wasn't the first time winter brought him a respiratory illness, and so it didn't worry him. He pulled his cigarette away, coughed once more-- though much less violently than before-- but instead of returning it, he continued to hold it between two skeletal fingers. He let it smoulder as he closed his eyes and breathed out the remaining smoke in his lungs. He needed to go home soon. "Home"-- that's not what it was. It was simply shelter. Shelter from the cold, from hunger, from death. It wasn't welcoming. No one there smiled and greeted him when he came through the doors, and no one cared when he left. He was just another useless body. But he was different from the rest. His brain hadn't been melted from extensive drug use; he had something of a job; and he provided for himself. He only needed a place to sleep-- when he slept, that is. But he was tired this evening. Reluctantly, Merit pushed himself from the wall and slowly made his way down the small staircase. His prosthesis was somewhat of a hinderance, but he had lived with it since he was only thirteen and he had grown used to it. He knew he was lucky that he hadn't lost his leg above the knee. Life wouldn't have been quite as easy. He probably would have had to give himself up to a hospital. And, although he had experienced one when he was a child and liked the comfort and food it provided, he preferred living on his own. He hated the thought of being dependent on another individual.

Merit walked, with a slight limp in his step, to the end of the alleyway and stopped. He sighed and put his cigarette to his lips again. Something stopped him from stepping out to the main street though. He listened, but it was the headlights he saw first before he heard an engine. It was a quiet car, most likely an expensive model, and it was too stealthy to belong to one of the nearby gangs. But when the lights flickered out and a car door slammed shut, curiosity overcame him. He stepped out into the pool of orange light cast by the surrounding buildings and looked down the street. There was the car, its engine killed and its headlights off. It was shiny and new-looking, even in the dimness, and it was a "clean" car-- it didn't have any decorations or an enhanced body. That meant it definitely wasn't a gang's car, and Merit relaxed. But there was no doubt that they would want a new one. Merit's eyes surveyed the area. It was clear, but there was a figure beside the vehicle. A young woman, it looked to be. Cautiously, Merit approached. He didn't want to frighten her. Pepper spray to the eyes, knee to the crotch, accused as a rapist... Certainly not things Merit wanted. And it wasn't like it hadn't happened before. Women were always so on edge, but he guessed he couldn't blame them. He knew firsthand of the creeps the city released at night. And he was no different than they were at first glance.

Merit moved around the car and into the middle of a pool of light. The woman could see every bit of him now, and he kept his distance so she wouldn't become nervous. His eyes, concealed behind his dark hair, looked her over. She wasn't bad looking, and she dressed nicely. Rich, no doubt. He decided he would try her anyway. "Do you need any help," and almost as if he had suddenly remembered a few gentle manners, he added, "Miss?" and took his cigarette from his lips. He suppressed a cough and let a small smile play on his lips. If it were too wide and enthusiastic, he knew she wouldn't doubt for a moment he was a creep, and so he kept it casual. "A woman like you shouldn't be out here at this time of night. If it's your car, I can probably fix it for you," he offered. His leg was giving him quite a bit of pain now, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he simply shifted his weight to his left and slipped a hand into his pocket. "It's not safe out here at night."






❖BLANKBLANK❖BLANKBLANK❖BLANKBLANK❖




BLANKBLANK╔┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╗

BLANKBLANK"I'm home,"
BLANKBLANKI told the room even though I knew no one was there

BLANKBLANK╚┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╝


╔┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╗BLANKBLANK

"Welcome back,"BLANKBLANK
Was the answer of the room now illuminatedBLANKBLANK

╚┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅╝BLANKBLANK

[x-Tariraritarara-x]

❝ xxa r a r axx k o r a r axx❞BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANK

BLANKBLANK

BLANKBLANKLBLANKBLANK❝ xxi k e n a i n ' d axxx i k e n a i n ' d axx❞

✷BLANKBLANKBLANK✷BLANKBLANKBLANK✷

【xxc ӓ ʟ ʎ ҳxx】

Sunlight of early morning trickled in between the holes in the old metal blinds, which were bent in places where previous patients had tried to look outside. But there was no pleasant scene-- no green vista or wide stretch of blue sky with its lazily drifting billows of white cotton-- behind those broken shades; only a dismal image, marked by black iron bars, of concrete and bricks where the opposing wing rose high to block the sky. But the sunlight forced its way into the stark white room anyway and cast a square of grey light on the off-white linoleum. There were no morning sounds to accompany this sunrise, however. No chirping songbirds, no gentle cooing, no sweet "good morning." Only silence mingled with the quiet rainfall. Not even calm tranquility, as it was a maddening silence where one, sane or not, could easily imagine sounds that did not exist.

"That's twenty-three, isn't it?"
The inhabitant of the room was a young man, small in stature and childish in disposition, whose tinny voice made a small cut in the deafening quiet. His skin was milky white, though slightly transparent from inadequate nutrition and care, and his small, narrow eyes were a pair of black coals set in a ghastly face. The way he sat on his bed, the sheets still carefully made up, with his legs crossed yet slightly drawn up gave one the impression of a young child. Yet he was no boy, but indeed a young man on the cusp of adulthood. Words circulated though. "He's mentally challenged," one might remark, tone sympathetic, or in some cases, dismissive or patronizing. "I can't imagine living with autism," another may say in a voice filled with pity. But he was neither of those things, and there were IQ records to prove that he was quite gifted. No one ever bothered with him though. They assumed one thing and did little to truly know the subject of their assumption, who was quite literally a genius. But he bore a lifelong curse-- the curse of an Axis-I mental illness; a mental illness causing a deterioration of function; a mental illness well-known, but not quite as well understood; a mental illness by the name of schizophrenia.

He was known as Calyx, his birth name now only existing on a few papers and documents that were stuffed up in a dusty cabinet somewhere. It was his very own-- a name he had picked out himself. He had no other nicknames; no other names. Simply Calyx. This young man, who proudly called himself Calyx, sat in the very center of his hospital cot, a completed Rubik's cube held between his skeletal hands. He slowly turned the cube over, inspecting each colorful side. He had never liked it completed. He found it to be much more appealing when the colors were in disarray, but he solved it for the joy he got out of mixing it up again. And then he would solve it again, and the process repeated itself. He couldn't say he knew algorithms to solve the puzzle. But in fact, he did. And each game he discovered a new one. But he didn't know what an algorithm was, thus he couldn't say that was how he solved the cube.

"Right?" Calyx twisted himself so he could look back at the bedside table. A doll sat there, its body bent over to the side. Frizzy auburn hair, once smooth and beautiful, fell like a tangled mane around the plastic face where a pair of lifeless emerald eyes stared blankly out. A long, deep gash scored the center of the otherwise perfect, though old, plastic, and two fingers were broken off of the left hand, which rested gently upon the folds and billows of its faded forest green dress as if supported by a pillow. The doll was approaching its tenth birthday under the care of its schizophrenic owner, and it certainly looked it. But Calyx treasured it-- or rather, "her"-- regardless. He looked her over with curious black eyes. "You're quiet today," he observed. "Is it because the sky is sad?" He paused and listened for an answer. "I wonder why...?" He turned and looked out the window, only managing to see from where he sat the droplets of water on the glass. The silence returned and enveloped the tiny hospital room again, and Calyx felt his eyelids grow heavy.

Suddenly, there was a rapid knock on the door and Calyx's entire body shook. Every morning it was the same routine. He had grown used to it, but that still didn't protect him from occasionally being startled by the wake-up call. Convulsions seized control of the muscles of his shoulders, neck, and arms. On occasions such as this one, the nurses seemed cruel for so suddenly waking a boy with stimulus-sensitive myoclonus and doing nothing to calm him. But after eight years, they were very well used to it and took it into consideration when approaching Calyx. But sometimes startling him was either unavoidable or unintentional. Calyx shut his eyes tightly and waited for the spasms to subside. And then the switch flicked on and he could hear the familiar buzz of the florescent lights overhead. It was only then that his body relaxed and he blinked opened his eyes. His room was now bathed in the sickly pale light produced by the ceiling, rather than the pleasantly cool coloration of the cloudy sunrise. But it wasn't anything new. The daily routine never changed, and after so long, Calyx felt as if he knew nothing else. After gazing for a moment at the metal door marking the entrance to his room, he looked down at the colorful cube in his hands and proceeded to solve it for the twenty-fourth time that morning.

"Good morning, Calyx."
Calyx started. He thought at first it was his mother's voice, but when he looked to the half-open door, he saw only a grey-haired nurse with powdered, sagging skin and cold grey eyes. Small black glasses rested at the end of her hooked nose and her thin lips pulled back into a weak semblance of a smile. He looked down at his already half-completed cube. He knew what she was going to say-- as she only cooed on these days-- and so he pretended to be preoccupied.
"It's time to shower. It's been three days."
Unlike most of the other patients at the institute, Calyx lacked a sense of personal hygiene, as was often the case with schizophrenics. The staff found it particularly frustrating to push him to bathe in the mornings, and even more frustrating to have him brush his teeth on a regular basis, or comb his hair, or wash his hands. It took only the most patient nurses and staff members to herd Calyx to the shower, and he needed constant reminding to actually wash. How Calyx saw it though was as a waste of time. He couldn't understand why he needed to bathe when he could be solving a Rubik's cube one hundred times in a row.
"Come on now." The nurse clapped her hands as if summoning a dog or some other trained animal. "Come on."
Reluctantly, Calyx turned and dangled his legs over the side of the bed. His pale hands found the edge and he idly distressed the mattress until a stern look from the nurse had him moving again. She took the Rubik's cube from his hands and replaced it with a stack of clean clothes and bath supplies. "This stays in the day room," she said sharply as if scolding a child, but then she smiled again and her voice became softer. "It's not fair if you keep it to yourself. No one else can play with it."
Calyx simply stared at her. He couldn't say he felt angry or indignant, but December was there in his ear.
"That old hag. What the hell's her problem? Why don't you take that back from her and tell her upfront you're not taking any ******** shower?"
A dark shadow tumbled out on December's angry words. It took the form of a disembodied head and floated to the other side. Crooked, yellowed teeth flashed. "You're too pathetic to do that," the Nameless one cackled.
Calyx cast a glance to his left and then looked down. "Be quiet."
"Excuse me?"
Calyx's eyes lifted suddenly, realizing that the elderly nurse had heard him. She gave him a hard look, but dismissed the outburst. She placed a bony grey hand on his shoulder and pushed him down the hallway to the bathroom. "I only had to tell you twice to come this morning," she told him. "That's good." It was a poor excuse for a rewards system, but the staff thought it worked phenomenally because they didn't have to spend extra money on snacks and new toys for the patients. In truth, it wasn't that successful. It was simply a way to save money.

"You have fifteen minutes," the nurse said as she assumed her spot by the door. "And don't forget to use soap."
That was a regular reminder. Calyx had heard it so frequently that it almost didn't register as a real phrase to him anymore. And so he stepped through the doors of the shower room without acknowledging the woman. Although Calyx didn't care much for bathing, he typically took up the full fifteen minutes, primarily by letting the warm water run over his body. The time he spent actually washing was negligible, and on this particular morning, he spent less than thirty seconds with the soap. It wasn't too much of a problem. Calyx didn't get dirty or sweaty on a regular basis. His hair needed the most attention though, but he rarely gave it any. Most of the time-- if he remembered-- he simply used the bar of soap on his hair as well, completely ignoring the small bottle of shampoo he was given on each shower day.

Calyx heard the knock at the door, which was his signal to shut the water off, and he did so gratefully. He dried and dressed quickly. The clothes he had been given today were a size too big and draped off of his thin shoulders, but he didn't mind it. He didn't mind wearing anything as long as it was comfortable. He was more concerned about the colors of the outfit. He liked bright colors, but today the nurse had picked out something plain and white. If asked for an opinion of the day thus far, that would be Calyx's only complaint: he had to wear white. The color only made him look even more ghostly and washed-out, but he didn't like it simply because he thought it was boring.

Calyx dropped off his dirty clothes and bath supplies with the elderly nurse, and she allowed him to return to his room. He went back anxiously, and it wasn't until he was safely back in his room did he feel relaxed and happy again. Shower time was usually one of the most distressing parts of his routine, falling second only behind medication time. Calyx rubbed a hand roughly across the side of his head, not liking the fact that his hair was damp. It was cold and uncomfortable, though one of the few times one could see his hair fairly tamed. But it was exactly that which made his hair wild in the first place-- he wanted to remove the water as quickly as possible, and so he rubbed it, pulled at it, played with it until it was a disheveled mess. But he got it dry, and that was all that mattered to him. He climbed back onto his bed and reached for the Rubik's cube, but remembered it had been taken from him. He sat still for a moment, contemplating what to do next, but a smile broke upon his lips and he spoke quietly, "Are you awake, March?"

Another clatter at the door made Calyx jump and shake again. This time a young man in a clean white coat stepped in. Calyx knew exactly what that meant. He drew his legs up and waited anxiously as the man, his face unfriendly and stern, pushed a cartful of vials and bottles into the room. "Hold still and we can get this over with," he said coldly, filling a syringe with a pale yellow liquid-- the first of three. Calyx never struggled against the medication. He sometimes complained that it hurt, but the staff rarely listened. He sometimes asked questions about it (as he wasn't quite sure why he needed medication in the first place), but the staff rarely answered. Closing his eyes, he felt the needle in his arm and the sharpness of the liquid as it was being injected. The other two were pills, which he could handle better. Calyx took them without question like the obedient little puppy the place had turned him into. His dark eyes, already becoming blank and dull, lifted as if expecting some sort of praise, but the doctor only took him by the arm and showed him to the door. "Go to the day room," he directed, and Calyx did as he was told.

The day room was one of the nicer areas in the hospital. There were soft chairs -- though worn out -- to sit in, and a few games, most with missing pieces, to play. It wasn't much, but it was better than the patient rooms. Calyx took his spot by the wall below the window. He preferred the floor to a chair despite it being cold and probably dirty. He drew his legs up and rested his chin on his knees, a hand idly playing with the plastic charms on his shoes.

✷BLANKBLANKBLANK✷BLANKBLANKBLANK✷

BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANK

BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKThat's right, that's because the dream I had earlier
BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKWas black and white and boring.
BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKDon't make such a pained face.
BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKI'll always be by your side.

BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKIf we go on a walk in the soft breeze,
BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKWe'll see the flower field red, white, yellow
BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKBLANKAnd all smiles, so let's go out and play.

Whyx won'tx you xs m i l ex atx me ?

[x-Tariraritarara-x]

Ⓜⓔ, ⓜⓨⓢⓔⓛⓕ, ⓐⓝⓓ, Ⓘ----------

Like I had a c h o i c e Hazari Morioka
Let's make it e a s i e r You can call me anything you like
M y D a m n J o b I am the professional designer
I'm not o l d December 14th
C o u n t i n g to t o d a y Twenty-six years old
T u r n i n ' me o n The lovely ladies
In a more s c i e n t i f i c term Heterosexual without a doubt

Ⓐ ⓒⓛⓞⓢⓔⓡ ⓛⓞⓞⓚ-------

Am I s h o r t? 175 centimeters (five feet and nine inches)
The s c a l e says 56 kilograms (one-hundred and twenty-three pounds)
Isn't it s h o c k i n g that I don't s e e in the c o l o r of Onyx with a hint of topaz
It's the g e n e s It’s black, but as of late, I have been noticing a bit of grey here and there
M i r r o r, mirror, on the w a l l



Ⓢⓣⓐⓝⓓ ⓑⓐⓒⓚ, ⓨⓞⓤ ⓜⓘⓖⓗⓣ ⓕⓘⓝⓓ ⓞⓤⓣ ⓢⓞⓜⓔⓣⓗⓘⓝⓖ ⓨⓞⓤ ⓓⓞⓝ'ⓣ ⓛⓘⓚⓔ----------

I'll t a k e ten
♥ disco music || I have a weakness for any music that can be danced to, and nothing beats disco.
♥ 80s new wave || Many artists from my home country have this style mastered, and it is very good. Like disco, it can be danced to.
♥ designing clothes || I have always had a passion for designing for as long as I can remember. My mother, who was a model, introduced me to fashion magazines when I was a child, and with her death, that passion only grew stronger.
♥ Pyrenia || She is my sister after all. I see her on occasion, but she still lives in Japan.
♥ parties || Music and fun. What more can a person ask for?
♥ retro and 80s fashion || Neon, flashy clothes; bold, stark colors-- this is fashion at its finest.
♥ smoking || It has been a habit of mine since I was only seventeen. I find it relaxing and I have no intention of quitting.
♥ my home country || As much as I enjoy the West, homesickness cannot easily be overcome. I visit when I can.
♥ nightclubs || Back in Japan, I worked a couple of years as a DJ. I fell in love with the atmosphere immediately. Although I no longer DJ, I still love clubbing.

I t h o u g h t I said n o.
✖ rain || With rain comes humidity, and I hate humidity.
✖ homesickness || It is not a very pleasant feeling.
✖ bread || Bread is not so much of a staple food in Japanese meals as it is in Western meals. Although I will eat it, the only bread I really like is steamed bread.
✖ metal music || It is a lot of loud noise. What music is that?
✖ creative slumps || Having such an art-based job makes slumps devastating. Sometimes they are unavoidable.
✖ being unfashionable || I have always been fashion-conscientious. For a person to tell me that I have no fashion is a nightmare of mine. Because of this, I try not to judge others so harshly.
✖ showing my age too much || I feel that I look older than I really am, which I don't think is a very good thing for a bachelor like myself. My hair is already greying, but I am good to keep it dyed. Although every so often I will keep some grey for style.

The r e a l me

I like to think of myself as an enigma. I am certainly not the type of person to tell my life-story to every stranger who walks past me, and I do not like to dominate conversations. I am a listener, not much of a talker. I can assure you that I will listen to everything you have to say, and I offer myself to that service. After all, there are many people in this world who only want someone who will listen to them. I am that person who will listen. Unfortunately, that means not many know much about me. That does not particularly bother me though. As I mentioned, I think of myself as an enigma, which I do not think is a bad thing. I try not to isolate myself and I do actually quite enjoy socializing. But one can carry a conversation without giving much information about his personal life.

Those who know me know that I am pretty laid-back. It takes a lot to bother me. What's the point getting angry all of the time? Disappointments do not bother me much either, and I have certainly had my fair share of disappointments in this career. I can take criticism with a smile as well. Criticism is criticism after all-- uplifting or not. I can guarantee that I will take that criticism and improve myself. Of course, there are some things that I will not easily change, such as my style of dress. I like to think that style reflects the individuality of the person. I take care to choose clothes and accessories that display my own person, and so if I am told that my style is atrocious, I take it as a very personal insult. I am well aware that I do not always follow the trends and norms of fashion, but that is what makes me who I am.

Although I have lived in the West for quite some time, I have not entirely adjusted to these customs, and my English still needs improvement. I apologize if I sometimes am not clear. The habits I learned in Japan as a child are still with me. For example, I treat everyone with respectful courtesy, and I cannot easily say a direct "no." Please bear with me, but I am trying.

Ⓐ ⓛⓘⓣⓣⓛⓔ ⓟⓐⓡⓣⓘⓝⓖ ⓖⓘⓕⓣ-------
I L o v e The Model
Puppet m a s t e r x-Tariraritarara-x