Hello! First of all, I love your works--you're a very skilled writer! On that note, I was wondering if you've ever participated in a fanzine before? I started applying in December but it's been all rejections thus far, so I was curious if you had any advice about that? Anywho, I hope you have a great day :D
hi anon, thank you so much!
I’ve thought about working on zines before, but I haven’t had the time since I’m focusing on my degree right now. that said, don’t lose hope because of rejection! rejection is all part of the writing and art process, and my professors have even told me to frame rejections I get to use as motivation!
Do you know of any other blogs that write for hawks?
Planning on skippin’ out on me, eh?????
JK, I’m about to expose myself. I actually don’t follow very many other writers in general because of how picky I am with my content and managing my feed (there are a lot of writing blogs that are multi-fandom, and I just haven’t put in the effort to just download an extension and “blacklist” the tags from those I don’t care about).
Generally, I look through character tags on Tumblr to find content instead of following people because I don’t trust this hellsite to curate content for me, but that means my exposure to writers is limited to my own habits and activity; and THAT unfortunately means I don’t always pay attention to who is regularly posting what content that I really like - I just reblog it if I think it’s good.
I’m one of those “if you want something done right, do it yourself” kind of people (that’s actually mainly why I started this blog in the first place) and am always of the mindset as a creator in general that if I don’t like something I won’t recommend it to other people; but that isn’t to say that because I overlooked some works it means the author is BAD at it. Maybe they just don’t regularly check all the boxes that would make *me* feel like “committing” to a follow.
That just goes to show how important it is to reblog content creators in general! (This goes for *art* double-triple-especially! Even I’m trying to be better about that.)
I’m going to try and do my best to list some blogs that I think have put out quality Hawks content (by my tastes) and do so at least semi-regularly. Some aren’t very active on the writing scene anymore because they got bored, life happened, etc. but I think if they still do requests they’d be more than happy to take yours.
@bluesimba
@plusultranerd - not very active with writing anymore, but has a good backlog
@yandere-love-love-love - has done plenty of Yandere!Hawks work
@kazooli
@bnhascribbles
@nanadee
@shoto-todoloki-a-hoe
I’m sorry to all my fellow Hawks writers for not paying closer attention, but I hope to rectify that with a call to mention your own favorite authors in replies/reblogs to this post so they all can get some more recognition! It’s lonely enough for manga readers when it comes to getting good content of our favorite characters so we really should do our best to showcase those that do!
And also! If you’ve got your own fiction (of ANY HeroAca character!) and are trying to get it seen, PLEASE send me a link and I’ll be more than willing to share it if I think it’s well done and/or privately send you feedback! Fandom isn’t a popularity contest to me, it’s about sharing and enjoying a mutual love for a character/series together.
putting it under read more in case you want to go into the fic completely blind! here’s the preview ;)
The shiver that crawls along your arm whispers in your ear when you open the apartment’s door. No sign of Twice. Dabi sits in the chair you found him in last time.
His silence ruptures you.
The words die in your throat.
“Have fun, sweetheart?”
You ball your fists. “We need to talk.”
“Sure, tell me every detail about your date. I’m all ears.”
JDHDJDHSJHS DID YOU JUST CALL ME A BABY BIRD IM 💕💘❤️💘💕💘 I don't want to put any type of pressure on you, write whenever you feel you want to, I didn't send that ask bc I wanted you to write sth I just wanted to remind you that you still have that one tiny fan who doesn't have a problem waiting years for your updates, I would LOVE to talk to you but I am not talkative person COughand I kinda want to stay anon for nowCOugh, however I will send some asks from time to time :D have a nice day 💘
GOTTA SHOW YOU MY LOVE,,,,,
I'm sorry!!!!! no don't worry!!! I didn't interpret it as pressure. I just wanted to mention it since I'm really bad with posting life updates on here
that's okay!! appreciate you, anon, and I hope you have a good day, afternoon, or night!
ABOUT YOUR LAST POST I ACTUALLY REMEMBER YOU EVERY TIME I READ "baby bird" IN ANY HAWKS FANFIC,... Yee hello I am a very old follower of you but I don't send much asks bc I am shy af annndd I don't want to be annoying or sth I SWEAR I AM NOT A STALKER BUT I CHECK YOUR ACCOUNT EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE TO SEE IF THERE'S ANY UPDATES ahdhjdhdhshsjskd I just wanna say I lOVe your writing ok??? Ok...
HYWFWHYDFHAYSFDHYSFSHYD ANON THAT'S SO SWEET!!! I'm honored that you associate me with baby bird,,,,that fills me with so much warmth ❤ Hawks is still one of my babies so I want write for him again sometime, but my keyboard broke. If you ever wanna talk, just message me on here or ask for my discord handle. I'd love to talk to you baby bird!!!! ❤💙💚💜🧡💛
Reblog if it’s okay for your followers to leave you an ask telling you what the one thing is they remember you for as a writer. Is it a scene or a detail or a specific line? Is it something like style or characterization? Is it that one weird kink they never thought they’d be into, but oh my god wow self-discovery time?
The receptionist at the front desk glances at you from under her bangs for the fourth time. She adjusts the collar of her shirt and types something with a flutter of her hands. From the corner of the waiting room, a member of your security team stares at her.
You pick up one of the magazines on the table in front of you. The glossy pages pass between your fingers, and several diagrams of the brain pop up with its functions outlined. Terms like depression and anxiety and trauma stand out on almost every page. They cycle through your head again, but this time it’s not three hours after you swallowed sleeping pills.
Breathing on beat with the ebbing and flowing of the waiting room’s music makes your head less congested.
A door locks the waiting room off from the offices, and a woman in a light pink dress steps through. Her voice carries your name. When you stand up and gesture for your security team to stay put, she smiles at you.
“Hi,” she says as she leads you to her office. “My name is Kaede. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She tells you her qualifications.
“Pleasure to meet you, too! I’m sorry I had to reschedule at the last minute. It’s been pretty hectic.”
By hectic do you mean being fused with the fibers of your bed? Or avoiding the growing mountains of clutter that sprung up in your room? How about how it’s taxing to grab your phone charger from the floor? Or worst of all, not being able to articulate why you can’t do anything, instead masking it with “busy” or “hectic” or “sorry, I can’t do that today.”
“That’s no problem. Our specialized program is very flexible with our clients’ schedules.” She opens her office door for you. You take the seat next to her desk, and while you marvel at the cohesion of colors in her office, she sits behind her desk, clicks her mouse, and brings up a tab on the computer. “Before we begin, everything we talk about here is strictly between us. Nothing will be shared unless you become a threat to yourself or others.”
“Okay.”
“So, I read over your personal statement, and you mentioned you made an appointment for therapy because you feel untethered. Can you elaborate on what lead to that feeling?”
Warnings: Heavy spoilers, explicit depictions of depression, intense grieving, and trauma.
Notes: Can we talk about how much trauma the Phantom Thieves have been through in canon
Dedicated to @ao3-actually-android <3
[I]
November 1st.
The receptionist at the front desk glances at you from under her bangs for the fourth time. She adjusts the collar of her shirt and types something with a flutter of her hands. From the corner of the waiting room, a member of your security team stares at her.
You pick up one of the magazines on the table in front of you. The glossy pages pass between your fingers, and several diagrams of the brain pop up with its functions outlined. Terms like depression and anxiety and trauma stand out on almost every page. They cycle through your head again, but this time it’s not three hours after you swallowed sleeping pills.
Breathing on beat with the ebbing and flowing of the waiting room’s music makes your head less congested.
A door locks the waiting room off from the offices, and a woman in a light pink dress steps through. Her voice carries your name. When you stand up and gesture for your security team to stay put, she smiles at you.
“Hi,” she says as she leads you to her office. “My name is Kaede. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She tells you her qualifications.
“Pleasure to meet you, too! I’m sorry I had to reschedule at the last minute. It’s been pretty hectic.”
By hectic do you mean being fused with the fibers of your bed? Or avoiding the growing mountains of clutter that sprung up in your room? How about how it’s taxing to grab your phone charger from the floor? Or worst of all, not being able to articulate why you can’t do anything, instead masking it with “busy” or “hectic” or “sorry, I can’t do that today.”
“That’s no problem. Our specialized program is very flexible with our clients’ schedules.” She opens her office door for you. You take the seat next to her desk, and while you marvel at the cohesion of colors in her office, she sits behind her desk, clicks her mouse, and brings up a tab on the computer. “Before we begin, everything we talk about here is strictly between us. Nothing will be shared unless you become a threat to yourself or others.”
“Okay.”
“So, I read over your personal statement, and you mentioned you made an appointment for therapy because you feel untethered. Can you elaborate on what lead to that feeling?”
“Sure, so I’ll start with the Phantom Thieves.”
[II]
August.
Café Leblanc’s red closed sign protects you from the swarming streets. Hives of reporters frenzy outside, lanyards around their necks and cameras in hand. Your hand knocks against the salt and pepper shakers as the others crowd in the booth, with Makoto next to you. Across from you, Ryuji inhales an appetizer.
Futaba glares at Yusuke, who sips tea from a white cup. She pushes her glasses up and scrunches her nose.
“Inari, acknowledge that your left leg is shorter than your right,” she says.
“Nonsense, my legs are symmetrical, that I can assure you.”
She pulls out her phone and ignores her cup of coffee, which is four sizes too big for her. You and Makoto exchange glances.
You lean over the table to come out from the corner. “And what’s the point of arguing over Yusuke’s leg difference, Futaba? You’ve both been squabbling more ever since. . .”
Futaba halts trying to pull up Yusuke’s medical records. Sojiro stops waxing the bar just for a minute, his pink shirt now too vibrant for the solemnity washing over his face. The legs of the Phantom Thieves sit around the table, but Akira’s absence comes with its own ghost. Two years and his ghost still follows.
Makoto seems like she’s on the other side of the world, now, from you.
Akira who solves everything. Akira who acts as the unifying pillar. He makes you ache. He makes you lonely, untethered. The thrills, the disguises, the abilities, they all have his name on them. Everything about him scrambles you.
“Anyway.” You cough. “I’ve been thinking we should do something together since we’re all off right now. You know, like the good ol’ days.”
Silence resounds in Leblanc, but Ryuji grins and it warms your heart. “That’s awesome! Whaddya say, guys?” He looks around at everyone, and his enthusiasm brings everyone back together.
“That would be nice, especially since it’s been so long,” Makoto says. She shuts her eyes for a second. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”
You hum. “How about the beach? I think the last time we all went together was when we went to Hawaii a few years ago. We could pick up a game of beach volleyball!”
“And it’d be a good chance to get some sun!” Ann says.
Everyone takes out their phone calendars, and Makoto, the master of organization herself, makes quick work of it. “How does the last Saturday this month sound for everyone?” she asks.”That way we can avoid Autumn from September to November.”
November.
November.
November.
It takes you away. It stuffs your heart in your throat. Everyone else continues planning, unfazed, but Ryuji notices. And his smile dims.
Makoto calls your name, but it doesn’t register. So does Ann.
“Wendy.” Futaba puts down her phone.
You blink. Wendy. Wendy. Your real name doesn’t bring you out of it. Wendy, your alias, with a fishing hook on it tugs you out of Neverland.
“Oh, sorry.” You blink again for good measure and to reassure everyone you aren’t a stone statue. “It’s just been a. . .” Hard? Debilitating? Exhaustive for reasons you can’t articulate? “Busy time. I guess it caught up with me all at once.” There it is. Busy.
“Happens to the best of us.” Makoto smiles. “Does that date work for you?”
“Absolutely,” you say without glancing at your calendar.
Over the next fifteen minutes the Phantom Thieves disperse—Ann with a modeling gig she’s got to make, Makoto for a lunch with Sae, Yusuke to read up on art theory, Haru for a meeting, and Futaba to make memes. Ryuji is the only one who stays.
Leblanc’s quietness disturbs Ryuji to his core. You see it by the way he fidgets and leans back to yawn. When he knows you’ve caught him, he looks away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey. What’s up?”
Sticking his elbow on the bar, he puts his hand on the side of his neck. “You can talk to me if you need to.”
Right. November. Robin Hood. Goro.
“Thank you, Ryuji.” You avert your eyes downward. “But this is something personal.”
He leans back against the booth, putting more distance between you two, and he looks. . .he looks something you can’t decipher. Wounded? No, small. After a second he brings back his smile to mend the air. “No problem. Just gotta look out for one of my best buds.”
“Hey, do you know if Morgana is stil. . .”
“Upstairs? Yeah, I think he sleeps up there sometimes, since, you know.”
“Let’s invite him to the beach with the rest of us.”
“The cat? And sand ? Now that’s something I gotta see.”
“Don’t be mean, Ryuji!”
When he laughs you have to choke down your own. The light in Leblanc hits him just right, and he looks untouched by the corruption, by the palaces, by Yaldabaoth. Hope lives in his eyes and dreams light up his cheeks.
November’s weight sits on your shoulders. Akechi Goro’s death lingers. The Robin Hood to your Wendy is sleeping. And to think, he was eighteen.
Your brother would have been twenty this year.
[III]
The beach concaves away from the rest of society. Stray beach towels spot the sand and the waves edge up to reach for their ends. Cliff edges meet the ocean under the inky new moon sky.
Tiny lights hang up on a string and frame the entrance of the restaurant you eat at. Morgana peers at Ann from the stool next to her with hearts in his eyes. Sometimes he tries to steal a glance at Futaba’s phone, only for her to yank it close to her chest. If the beach behind you disappeared, no one would blink twice.
Morgana wanders over to you and Ryuji and hops on one of the two empty stools that separate you both from everyone else. His lip curls and a smile sneaks out. You shield your bowl of ramen in case he decides to pounce on the bar. There’s not a chance in hell you’re letting him knock over this art; a prepared egg sliced clean in half with its golden yolk on display, a spread of colors blended together, and flavors that glide over your tongue and keep you coming back for more.
“Looks like you got burned, Ryuji.” He licks his paw and glances at Ryuji from the corners of his eyes.
Ryuji’s lips screw, and he tries to cross his arms but winces because of the sunburn spread over his body. “It’s not like I knew the sun was gonna be raging today.” He looks at you. “And you knew and didn’t tell me!”
You laugh. “Sorry, but you should’ve brought the sunscreen anyway.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. At least I wasn’t afraid to get in the water.”
A smirk cuts your lips, and you cover Morgana’s ears. “Don’t make fun of him! Of course he wouldn’t get in the water!” Turning to Morgana, you coo at him in a voice you know makes his skin crawl. “That punk didn’t mean it, Morgana. Don’t listen to him. I’ll protect you.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t get in, either! And who are you callin’ a punk?”
When you uncover Morgana’s ears, he takes the chance to slip away.
“Oh come on, Ryuji, you were being a little punk-y.”
“Was not!”
“Really? Then maybe we should get everyone else’s opinions.”
Before you can call out to everyone and make Ryuji’s skin even brighter, he hoists you up and throws you over his shoulder. He winces but starts walking to the shoreline.
“Did you forget you were sunburned?”
Two beats of silence echo between you two before he answers. “It’s no big deal. Besides, you’re getting wet at least once today.”
The fool. The absolute buffoon. The heat under your face erupts.
“You’re hopeless, Ryuji.”
He says something you don’t catch because blood detonates in your ears over and over again. Your heart chokes on an overload of sugar. It’s buried in a sugary grave. You protest by muttering into his shoulder.
Only a few inches of space are between you and the water by the time he stops walking. He’s a few inches shy of being chest-deep. If you flick your foot down, you’d skim the water for sure, but there’s no fun in tearing his dream of dunking you away.
“Hold on, gimme a sec.”
That doesn’t sound good.
It isn’t.
He shifts you around and you flail, then you wind up in his arms. Your heart, stuffed with sugar, is revived by the way he looks at you. Light rosy tinges whip over his cheeks, and he turns his head away from you for a second.
Once he collects himself, he counts off with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“One, two. . .”
“Just do it already!”
When he lets go, you see him mouth the number three. The water floods over your face and body, and you seal your eyes shut.
It’s quiet, here. You kick up some sand with your heel while trying to get your bearings straight, but the ocean swallows the noise. All you have is how the grainy the sand feels.
How did Goro feel on that sinking ship? Explosive? Confused? Destroyed?
Helpless?
Did you even know your brother well?
How can you even attempt to understand the pits of helplessness and wrath he drowned in when something like this—going for a swim—sets you off? How can you grieve for so long and know so little?
Someone’s calling your name, but the sounds are muffled by the water.
Ryuji plunges his hand in and brings you back. The ocean’s surface breaks with your head, and your resurfacing looks less “majestic mermaid with perfect hair” and more “air exists and it’s delicious.”
After a second he brings you close to him, wrapping you in a hug. You press against his collarbone.
“Ryuji, what’s wrong?”
“I just got worried, ‘s all.”
You pull back. “Well, I’m all right. You made sure of that when you pulled me out. See? Nothing bad would’ve happened.”
He avoids your gaze. “I tried calling your name.”
“I think I heard that. You might’ve had better luck if you called me Wendy. Seems like I can hear that from around the world.”
Wendy tells you what to say, how to smile, what to wear, what to think, and who to be. If you do everything she says, you can stand next to Robin Hood and Peter Pan and all the other fairytale characters who are bound to the pages of their own stories. Wendy makes you worthy.
She was always the press’ favorite.
“I ain’t gonna call you Wendy. ‘s not who you are.” He says your name under the moonless sky in such a way that it might break if the ocean got too close to it. “You ain’t Wendy.”
You aren’t Wendy.
You aren’t Wendy.
“I—I appreciate that. A lot.”
He looks at the beach. “You don’t gotta thank me. Let’s get back before the others come lookin’ for us.”
Both of you tread in silence. After a minute the water slides off you, but the sand sticks to your wet feet as you climb out of the ocean. You both wander over to his beach towel; its colors were blasted dry by the sun earlier.
When you sit down, you sit close to him and your shoulders bump. Beads of water trail your neck, your arms, and your legs. You glimpse him staring out at the ocean.
“It’s nice being out here,” you say. You reel back the words “with you” when you think about Akira.
“Yeah? Can’t say I’ve ever had a sunburn this big before.”
You roll your eyes and bring your knees to your chest, but the smile sailing over your lips slips out. “Which is because you didn’t bring sunscreen.”
“Pffft, there’s no way a stupid sunburn’s gonna get a leg up on me.”
Along the beach there are sandcastles, some in perfect condition, some folded in on themselves, and some that exist only as lumps of sand. A tiny red and white store-bought flag pokes out of a collapsing one. The tide rolls in and out and chips away at the ones along the shoreline.
“It’s kind of nice to be away from the world for a bit,” you say. “You know? Sequestered away from the reporters and everything.”
He puts his arms behind and lies on his back. “You’re telling me. Been hounding us ever since our identities were released. I mean, who does that! We were seventeen!”
“We were seventeen and arguably the most powerful force in Japan.”
“C’mon, we were kids. You should know how all that affected us better than anyone. You’re majoring in psych and all that stuff.”
“By affected you mean the stress it’d have on a developing teenage brain?”
“That! Someone should tell all those reporters to read up on that shit.”
Streams of conversation come from the restaurant. The rest of the Phantom Thieves tell jokes and bicker and bask in the restaurant’s lighting. Judging from that spilling sound, Morgana jumped on the bar.
“They’ve been hanging around my favorite places. It got bad a few weeks ago,” you say.
“Whadda they want?”
You shift. “An interview with Wendy.”
He makes a sound of disgust. “Tell ‘em to screw off. You don’t know a Wendy.”
Leaning against him right now would be nice. You’d fit next to him well, and he’d sling his arm over your shoulders. Under the moonless sky, you’d both be two halves of a complete moon.
But you do know a Wendy. If you were stronger, you could evict her right now with his help. She reminds you of the abilities you had and the times where it was you and the Phantom Thieves versus the world. She reminds you of Goro.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Waves continue to crash. Tiny sounds from the ecosystem of the beach wade between you both. He chews the inside of his cheek. When he breathes, it smothers the tiny sounds and the conversations from the restaurant.
“Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’,” he says.
“About?”
He sits up and rubs the back of his neck. “Everything we did, I guess. Changed a lot of stuff.”
You laugh. “It’d be kind of weird if nothing changed when we fought a god. Besides, I thought you’d enjoy the spotlight.”
“You kiddin’? I can’t even run in peace without someone on my ass.”
“Well.” A quick brush of your hands takes some of the sand off, and you get up and hold out your hand. “You can always try now. I’ll race you to fire up that competitive spirit!”
“For real?”
“Yeah.”
He clasps his hand in yours. “Yeah? Don’t cry when you lose.”
[IV]
Doctor Kaede slides a box of tissues to the corner of her desk and you pluck one to have something to hold onto. “What you’re feeling is valid. Have you discussed your grief with anyone else?”
“Only one person, Akira.”
“What about him made you open up?”
Kamoshida, Madarame, Kaneshiro, Futaba, Okumura, Sae, Shido. Hell, the collective social conscious of everyone wrapped up in the endless tracks of Mementos! How many times do you need to add Yaldabaoth to that list, too? Everyone talks about the humans the Phantom Thieves changed, but no one mentions the cosmic-defying entities you defied by daring to be your own people. Akira brought a rag-tag group of teenagers together to challenge the very fabric of the universe.
“I don’t know, really. I guess I thought if anyone could understand, it’d be him. He was the closest to Goro.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “Were you close to your brother?”
You fidget and rub the side of your neck. “We didn’t have that kind of relationship in the traditional sense. He had a hard time opening up, refused to, most of the time. I didn’t know anything about him other than that Shido was somehow involved, but there was something different when Akira showed up.”
“And how did you cope with Goro’s. . .actions?”
She might as well stamp the word “murderer” on his forehead. Is she wrong?
Of course! He was tossed aside by Shido and manipulated as a kid!
No, she isn’t. Goro did that of his own free will.
Come on, you of all people know the toll abuse and manipulation takes on a child.
I know. I know he was in unimaginable pain.
Then why are you sitting here and betraying him?
I’m not betraying him. These are the facts of the situation. I wanted to help him!
You can’t even imagine what he went through. Stop trying. You even admitted some guy got closer to your brother in one year than you did in your whole life.
We’re still family .
“I probably could’ve coped better.”
[V]
October.
Leblanc’s lights give you a headache.
“You gonna be okay, kid?” Sojiro asks as he unfastens his apron.
Hunched over with your forehead against a table, you groan. The bags under your eyes drag your face down, but hey, who needs concealer when no one can see your face?
“Wake me up when people obsess over something else.”
He walks over and pats your shoulder. “You can stay if you lockup. Remember to turn off everything when you leave this time.”
The door opens before you answer. Light, airy, almost, the bell rings. You lift your head, blinking, and turn toward the door. Who comes into a café five minutes before closing? His slim silhouette stands in the doorway while rain splatters on the pavement. Great, you know he’s the type to order something extravagant, expect it in two minutes, and stall closing.
Sojiro whistles and puts one of his hands on his hips. He smiles. “Finally decided to show your face around here, huh, kid?”
In one second he goes from being a stranger to someone who causes the ache in your heart; a curly black head of hair and glasses. Now, though, he’s taller, and the blazer he wears looks like it was plucked from a high-end fashion designer’s wardrobe.
“Akira,” you say. The table wobbles under your hands when you jut up. His very presence reinforces the chronic loneliness, the hollowness everyone tried to patch up with promises to get together, and the messages you and Ryuji and Makoto and Futaba—and everyone sent that were left on read or met with a single word response.
Shock registers on Sojiro’s face when you storm up to Akira, and in some place deep, deep, deep down in your head, a twinge of, what is it—shame or fear?—rears its head. But fuck it. If you looked away, Akira could pull one of his disappearing stunts.
“You asshole!” You jab a finger at him, grind your teeth, seethe, and do all the things that say I hate you, I hate you, I hate you .
Wide-eyed, Sojiro steps in to break you apart. “Hey, hey, hey—”
Akira holds out his hand. “It’s fine.”
“Two years, Akira! You could have called or texted or something, but you didn’t.” You ball your fists. “You vanished.”
Him being here means you need to answer a question: how much can you matter to someone who up and leaves?
“Both of you sit down and cool off,” Sojiro says. “I’ll make you a drink.”
Being a foot and a half away from Akira who now sits across from you makes your jaw tight. The pot in the back brews coffee.
Akira looks you in the eyes. “You’re right to be angry.”
You cross your arms over your chest.
“I needed to make sure no one would cause you any issues,” he says.
“We’ve been followed for the last two years by reporters, Akira. Anyone we know has been hounded, too. Sae’s gotten so much more shit outside the courtroom. We scrubbed Mementos, but there will always be bad intentions.”
Sojiro walks over with your drinks in hand, sets them down in front of you both, and gives you each a glance.
“Thank you,” Akira says. He picks up the mug and brings it to his lips.
“I’ll be in the back. Don’t burn anything down, kid.”
When Sojiro disappears into the back, Akira sets the mug down.
“I wasn’t talking about the press,” he says.
Oh.
“You should’ve told us. We could’ve worked together so you didn’t have to do it on your own.” You look down. “We needed you, too. I needed you, Akira.”
He places his hand on yours. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
Tears line the bottom of your eyes and spill over. “It’s hard when everyone asks about him, you know? And it’s been two years so I feel like I’m supposed to be over it, but I’m not . I keep feeling it again and again and again.” You place your other hand over his. “You have to know how it feels, Akira. No one else gets it. You have to know.”
He says your name, and if your sniffles were any louder, you would have missed it. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Yeah, you need this.
“Where?”
“Trust me.”
He offers you his arm when he gets up, and you cling to him with the skin on your arm and hand touching his blazer.
“Always.”
Quiet streets listen to your footsteps as you take the back alleys. When you're here with him, will the portals come back while you round the corners? Your grip on him tightens. Rain pelts the umbrella.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“And whose fault is that?”
He smirks.
You pass the little red arcade nestled away from the world where you met Akira for the first time, the old bookstore with a joined café where you ran into him the second time, and a closed movie theater where he got your number the third time. Then, a park comes into view. The wet grass bends to your feet as you both walk to the bench with an overhang.
The wooden bench squeaks when you both sit down, and Akira folds up the umbrella, then leans it against the bench. Ducks waddle out from the pond hidden by bushes.
“I was starfished out on the grass here and screaming when you asked me to join the Phantom Thieves,” you say.
“Morgana thought you were in pain.”
“Oh, I was. I was cramming verb and adjective conjugations. That time feels close and far away at the same time, you know?”
Whenever he casts a glance at you, it’s distant. You could lean against his shoulder, intertwine your fingers, and have your skin on his, but the barrier between you holds. Your heart remains content in your chest instead of lurching in your throat.
He whispers your name. “You talked about Goro earlier.”
Wailed, more like it, but yeah.
“You’re grieving,” he says. “I think seeing a professional would help you.”
What? Your eyes open wide. Does he think you can’t handle it? Does he think you’re broken? Stop. You take a deep breath. You’re not broken. Seeking therapy doesn’t make you broken or fragile. It makes you strong.
“Why?”
“I’m concerned about you. I know an office. They helped me with my trauma.” He puts his hand on yours.
Trauma? Was it trauma? Okumura’s death. Goro’s insatiable craving for revenge. Your brother looking at you, red blood vessels popping in his eyes, like he’d kill you. He said he would. Sweeping away the terrifying sides of Goro let you file everything you don’t like away and lock them up.
When Akira touches you, why do you wish he was Ryuji?
Your nails leave imprints on your palms, little crescent moons. “Can you send me their phone number?”
“Sure.”
All of Akira’s attributes line up with what you want on paper: charismatic, intelligent, sociable. So, why, when he scoots closer to you, do you want him to be Ryuji? Why do you want Ryuji’s arm slung around you and for him to pull you close?
“Akira, what do I mean to you?”
You watch the ducks. He looks at you.
“Everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
He squeezes your hand. “I know.”
[VI]
You puncture holes in the tissue and avoid Doctor Kaede’s eyes.
“Before we end our first session, are you aware of the model the Five Stages of Grief?” She pulls out a piece of paper with the stages of them in one column—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.
“Yes.”
“Are you practicing self-care strategies?” She runs her finger down the other column, and you hone in on one or two of the thirty or more strategies.
“Sometimes, but it’s hard to talk about when I don’t know how to put the words together.” You jam your hands together.
She nods. “Grief is especially difficult to navigate because we’re not taught how to cope and understand what we’re feeling. If you’re comfortable, talking about how you’re feeling with people you trust could also help. Sometimes we seek external understanding because we’re unsure of how we feel on the inside.”
Akira—you poured and projected on him. He became your only emotional outlet.
“Grief comes in stages and everyone processes it in different ways. No matter what, you’re not alone.”
“Thank you, Doctor Kaede.” You smile. “Can I make a follow-up appointment for next week?”
You’re not alone. You’re never alone.
[VII]
November 2nd.
You hole yourself up in your apartment, as per usual on the second of November. Glimmering stars peek through your closed curtains. All at once, numbness takes you and keeps you suspended from the rest of the world.
Rings from your phone don’t bring you down. Each minute passes on lethargic legs, and you don’t need anything or anyone to tell you it’s 12:34 a.m. As soon as it was 12:01, you knew. Packets of candy litter your nightstand. You sink into your bed.
Someone raps their knuckles against your door. You turn away from it.
Ryuji calls your name.
You slug one leg out from underneath the blankets, then the other leg. The cool doorknob sends a shiver up your spine.
“Hey,” Ryuji says. He takes a moment to catch his breath. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. I had to run.”
One blink, then two, then three. He’s here for you. He remembered, and your throat constricts.
“Hey. Thanks.”
“Wanna sit outside?”
“Yeah, I do.”
You step out, closing the door behind you. Autopilot takes over when you lead him to a sitting area with two foldable chairs next to each other. Instead of sitting, you wander over to the gray railing and peer down to the busy street. He stands next to you, and you let the silence talk between you two.
Akira is everything you want on paper, but Ryuji—Ryuji is real and here. You touch his hand and trace the veins.
“Thanks for remembering, Ryuji.”
He catches every flutter of your eyes, and when you lean into him, he laces your fingers together. His hands, steady and warm, ground you.
“‘course, I’d do anything for you.”
You ask him a medley of questions: Why are you putting so much effort in? Why do I feel this again and again and again? Why can’t I let go?
Please, will you stay?
But they all roll themselves together when you look into his eyes, hands still intertwined, and breathe his name: “Ryuji.”
His name is air for your lungs. His touch is the sun walking on your skin. His closeness is a catharsis you’d only ever caught in Neverland before.
He brushes the side of your face with his free hand and kisses your forehead under the half moon. “Anything for you.”
Together, in time, you both could make a full moon.
I’ve always struggled with tagging dialogue. It’s such a small part of the story, that it seems like an easy thing to get right.
Which makes it easy to get wrong.
I know other people really struggle with tagging dialogue, too. I was in a workshop with a kid who received feedback saying he used too many attributions with adverbs and that he should generally only use said + an action.
He submitted another piece, and they said his habit of using said + an action at the end of every line of dialogue was too repetitive and that he didn’t need to use that many dialogue tags at all.
He submitted another piece, and they said he didn’t use any dialogue tags and they never knew who was talking.
Then, he had a full blown meltdown in the workshop. Over dialogue tags.
I want us all to avoid a situation like that, so I thought I would illustrate dialogue tagging rules with a sample from what is probably the piece of writing for teaching dialogue: Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants.”
The scene is of a man and a woman sitting at a table, drinking:
Wasn’t that bright?
That’s good dialogue. It’s concise. It’s clear. It’s interesting.
How does it manage that? Let’s separate the components of this except and find out.
Here is just the dialogue:
It’s comprised of eight lines, with the woman speaking four times and the man speaking four times, in turn.
Here are the dialogue tags.
There aren’t very many at all. Three “she said”s and one action.
This dialogue works well because Hemingway lets the dialogue speak for itself. Pun unintended.
He does what every writing manual says to do. He follows THE RULES:
THE RULES
Use “said.” Exclusively. “Asked,” is fine for special occasions. No adverbs. No fancy attributions. Just said the character. You know all of those lists with titles like “words you can use instead of ‘said?’” DON’T DO IT. DON’T TRUST THEM. SAID IS A PERFECTLY GOOD WORD.
Only tag your dialogue enough for the reader to see who’s speaking. Once you’ve established who’s speaking, you don’t need to say ‘he said,’ ‘she said’ anymore, because it’s no longer very useful to your reader.
Only describe actions that are important to the scene. * Don’t feel the need to illustrate your characters’ every action. Only show what’s important to the understanding of the scene, the actions that build character and inform the dialogue. The girl putting down her glass shows us that she doesn’t like the taste of liquorice. It adds meaning to her words. Sometimes you can replace a tag with an action. For instance, you don’t really need “she said and put the glass down.” If you say “she put the glass down,” the reader will understand she’s the one speaking.
Describe thoughts sparingly. When do you do most of your thinking about a conversation? When you’re actually speaking to the person? Or when you’re on your way home wondering if those words in that order means he likes you, or if he likes you? Or lying in bed that night trying to figure out why IN THE WORLD YOU SAY SUCH STUPID THINGS? Most thoughts can be saved for after the dialogue is finished and your character actually has time to mull things over. If the dialogue is doing its job, we’ll be able to see the characters’ gears turning by virtue of their words.
I personally find it difficult to learn from just the good stuff. So now I’ll show you why these rules exist by completely ruining this dialogue:
This is so much worse than Hemingway’s version. I haven’t messed with the actual dialogue, but my tags have ruined it all the same.
Let’s go through just why it’s so much worse.
It’s redundant. If the girl is saying “yes,” we already know she’s agreeing. If she’s saying it tastes like liquorice and putting the glass down, we can see that she’s complaining about it. Saying that she hates liquorice just furthers that redundancy. This is why most attributions other than “said” are frowned upon. We don’t need “I am responding to your point,” they replied. Or “I LIKE CAKE!!” he exclaimed. Or “Really?” he questioned.
It assumes the reader isn’t smart enough to understand subtext. When writing, assume you’re readers are as smart as you are. “That was bright,” the man said sarcastically. “Cut it out,” the man said angrily. If you think you’d understand that the man is angry when he says “cut it out,” trust that your reader will, too. Because I assure you, they are smart enough to understand it, and when they do, that “angrily” is redundant and insulting. This is why it’s best to avoid adverbs at the end of your dialogue tags. Like fancy attributions, they tell what your dialogue has already shown.
The pace is wrong. Putting tags at every line slows down the dialogue. It clogs up the scene. This is a quick interaction. Most dialogue is quick. When we talk to someone, very little time tends to pass between our responses. This speed should be mimicked in the way dialogue is written and read. This is why you should keep your dialogue as streamlined as possible, and keep thoughts, actions, and tags to a minimum.
It puts a focus on the writing. All of those fancy attributions, adverbs, and additional tags say: “this is not being said by these two people. I am the author of this text and I am describing what they are saying to you.” That’s a lot for an adverb to be saying. It takes attention away from what the characters are saying and draws attention to the fact that this is fiction. “Said” works well because it’s all but invisible to the reader. It keeps the attention on your characters’ words.
Hopefully, this has convinced you that when it comes to dialogue, you should let your characters do all of the talking. (Pun intended.)
This isn’t a definitive list of the rules, though. There are others. For instance: keep your speaker’s action with their dialogue. Don’t pair one character’s action with another character’s dialogue.
If you don’t exactly trust someone who admits to getting their dialogue wrong**, here’s a list of other resources that can help you improve your dialogue tags. These also go heavier into the grammar of tagging dialogue.
He Said, She Said: Dialog Tags and Using Them Effectively
Keep it Simple: Keys to Realistic Dialogue (Part II)
Writing Fiction: Dialogue Tag Basics
Also:
A list of attributions to never, ever use
*Many people will tell you that actions work better than “said” attributions in dialogue. People get this advice, like my workshopping pal, and end up putting “he/she smiled” after every line of dialogue. Action as attribution works, but can easily clutter the scene with unnecessary choreography. It’s more complicated and trickier to pull off than just putting “said x” after the first few lines of dialogue. This is why my advice is to only use it where the action is doing work for your scene.
**I can correct it by the 3rd or 4th draft. Usually.
This is accurate. The tag “said” is used because it’s invisible to the readers. If you use another word like “demands” or “interrogates,” then the readers are automatically drawn to it and it takes your attention away from the crucial part: the dialogue itself.
Your readers are smart; they’ll understand your subtext.
