if I ever tell you “lmk what you think if you read/play/watch it!” I am firmly inviting you to send me a play by play minute by minute cataloguing of your thoughts about The Thing
OMG MAYMAY WAS IT YOUR BIRTHDAY 😭 I HAVEN'T BEEN SEEING YOU ON DASH OUF TT nonetheless, happy belated birthday u(nc) !!! i'm wishing u the bestest most prosperous and happiest year ahead of u !!! you are an amazing person, and i hope everything around you reflects that wonder <3 love u !! ^^
MILAAA MY LOVEE THANK YOU SM 🥹🥹💗 yes i'm really feeling my age. back is hurting etc etc. thank u soso much for your sweet wishes omg i love u bad
in which you've managed to piss off your number neighbour after one single message & the asshole's gone right ahead & ... blocked you !?
ok so it does look like yn is telling herself good luck but that was a mistake levi was supposed to say that whatever icbb fixing it
mind u yn never saved his name & she STILL didnt clock the number was the same despite searching the first few digits in her phone every time she wanted to talk to him
pride and prejudice actually stressed levi out he did not think he would enjoy it at all fast forward he was yelling at the actors like they were 1) real people & 2) could hear him. did he watch the series or the movie or the other movie who knows?
levi texts nonchalant but he was actually Sweating bro. didnt get a single nights good sleep since she said Tea Instead Of Coffee. like ok yea that's me. sweating & SHAKING
yns coworkers were actually done with her like. him? Him??? wallahi
sorry if your name is gregory
he was also incredibly unimpressed at yn's transcription of his attempted confession like me personally i would kms
here’s to another year of being a lovely writer, and a lovely friend. i can only pray that the moon you embody never runs out of ink, and that we shall all get to witness your heart burning odes till the end of time itself. but even then, i’m sure that the letters which you carve onto this ever so flickering static shall outlive all of us— and in a way, that is beautiful as it is comforting, to know that such delicacies shall stay even when we do not.
oh, and, sucks to run out of your minor subscription. happy (miserable) adulting. ★
ohhh jiah this is so incredibly beautiful ... thank you so much 😭😭💗💗 lowk reread this so many times LOVE YOU BAD !!!!!!!!!!
happy birthday sweetheart!! may Allah bless u with another good year of your life 💕 in case there's stormy days coming for you , i pray so that you are able to withstand it ! (i know we are not close despite being moots but ily!!!)
AHH THANK YOU SO MUCH LOVELYY !!! & ameen to your beautiful dua 🥹💗
➤ DREAMING・01/05/26
ılıl The enemy of your enemy is your friend!
The room you were unceremoniously shoved into is dim and unpleasantly warm. The first thing you do is march over to the heavy velvet curtains and yank them apart, anticipating a waft of fresh air to assuage the scent of age-old fear—only to find a set of thick iron bars over the window, rusting in thin rivulets where water from the building must stream down its surface. When you pull your hands away in disgust, you find them covered in dust and layered grime.
The Capitol laughs in your face. You both know you have nowhere to run to.
The minutes tick on. You sprawl onto the lone, mangy couch pushed up against the peeling wall below the window, and wait. Solitude has long been your friend, but when enforced upon you it holds no comfort; worse, now, it serves as confirmation that there is no one in this world who holds you dear—not a single person who will wince and avert their gaze when you inevitably meet a gruesome death in front of the eyes of the entire nation—not one who cares to say goodbye, for what exactly are they bidding farewell to? Not a friend; not a lover; not a daughter.
It’s painful. It’s freeing. As is all true metamorphosis. Finally, you can start anew.
Movement catches your eye; on the other side of the closed door, a shadow falls over the strip of light cutting over the musty carpet and the handle turns, opened by a white-gloved hand.
“Three minutes,” says the Peacekeeper, staring you down warningly through her visor. Don't even think about giving us trouble. She retreats, shutting the door behind her with a resounding click. The room descends into silence.
The boy who has ducked inside is small, slight, twitching like a frightened bunny, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen with weeping. Oh, you should have expected this. He will leave disappointed.
Slowly, you rise to your feet to meet him and deliver the first and final blow, face twisted in sympathy that is not entirely false. “I cannot help your brother. This is where he dies, like the rest of us.”
“Don't,” the boy says, blinking away his tears as he stares up at you. “Don't attempt to group yourself with the rest. I know he is going to die, as surely as I know you will not.”
You scoff, shaken by the steadiness of his voice and the discerning look in his eye, as if he is seeing right through you. “What do you mean?”
“He might have had a chance if you weren't reaped alongside him. But I'm not coming to ask you to let him win. I'm asking you to be the one to kill him.”
You stare at him. He stares right back, unfaltering, as if it has long been his habit, as if to peel apart your layers is as simple as peeling a tangerine. How long has this boy been watching you?
“Why?”
“It’s the only way I can save him. I would rather he not take his last breaths alone, having his life snatched from him by a stranger. I would hope that... that when he dies, he thinks of strawberries, and the summertime, and the jam we made together.”
His eyes burn. He does not attempt to hide his grief; he brandishes it before you like a vow. Admirable.
You are motionless. “I can't promise that.”
Senjuro smiles humourlessly. For a moment, he looks far older than his years. For a moment, you feel as if you are the child, and he the reproving adult. “Don't be daft.”
As the Peacekeeper ushers him out, you taste blood.
Rengoku Kyojuro is a strange man.
He has a habit of staring without blinking as if he fears to miss a moment, when in truth all moments seem to converge around him. He has those same eyes as his brother’s; an unwavering gaze like a holy criterion, divining cleanly between truth and falsehood. You have no desire to let them rest on you for a moment longer than necessary.
There is a forced jubilation in his tone, or at least, you must assume it is forced, for no sane person would show an ounce of delight in speeding towards their imminent death. Yet Kyojuro eats heartily, praising the cooks as he wipes his mouth with a napkin, voice booming. Of course, chances are that Kyojuro is not all sane. There is something to be said in the way of his trembling voice and his tight jaw, the white-knuckled clench of his large hands on those delicate utensils, the fervour of his passion that balances between joy and something else, like a spider picking its way across a silken tightrope, though you cannot discern who the web is for; he is full of that which drives a man to madness.
You can use that.
What does he seek revenge against? The memory of his mother, for leaving him? The ghost of his father, for never fully returning to him? Himself, for neglecting his duty as an older brother, for leaving a young, vulnerable boy in the hands of his abuser?
I’m asking you to be the one to kill him.
Very well. Two can play at this game. You cannot leave him be; there is no triumphing over a man who fights for someone else, for he will fight relentlessly to return to them. No; you must take control, worm your way in, convince him you are indisposable. You will wield him, and then you will slit his throat when the pool begins to dwindle, just before he begins to suspect you and the gears begin to turn. You will have time; he seems the type who chooses to think kindly of a person regardless of how unmistakable the opposing evidence is. Perhaps you will apologise. Perhaps he will thank you with his last gurgling breath before he drowns in the blood flooding his lungs, and curse you with his eyes before they dim.
Winning over Rengoku Kyojuro proves simple; the hard work, it seems, is already done. He nods at you as you enter the train car as a comrade would, already bound by your shared fate, then proceeds to pay you no more mind with an air of respect, giving you space to process what he assumes is your grief. You pick at your plate opposite him and eat sparingly, despite the rich food with its tantalising scents; you don’t wish to train your stomach towards indulgence. Hunger is a weapon they use against you, and you like to have a firm hold on yours.
Kyojuro’s body language is open towards you, inviting conversation, but never pressing. Only when his meal is finished does he glance towards you openly, noting in passing your barely-touched plate with misplaced concern.
“Look,” he says, sincerity oozing off the corners of his words. “You’re not my enemy.”
You tilt your head in confusion. “Then who is?”
“Well, the Capitol, of course.”
Naive. And daring of him to proudly proclaim his sentiments in a place where microphones may as well be embedded in the walls.
“Good luck, I suppose. I’d hate to be pessimistic but that doesn’t sound like a fight you can win.”
“It’s not.” He looks thoughtful. “Even if I win the Games…it’s not really winning, is it?”
Rather a strange line of conversation, but you indulge him. “Isn’t it? It seems that way to me.”
“I’d rather have meaning in my death than live an empty life.”
You trace a circle over the tablecloth’s rich fabric, privately lamenting how much more moralising you will have to stomach in the coming days. “I’d rather not die at all.”
“Very well—you win, and then what?” Kyojuro leans forward. “You’re paraded around before the families of the children you’ve murdered. You become a mentor, a cog in the killing machine. Year after year, however indirectly, you are forced to participate in these sickening Games. Their greatest weapon is not hunger; it’s the way they never let you forget, the way they worm into your mind and convince you that this is the only way. You will never be free.”
There is a fierce glint in his eyes set like flaming jewels into the hard stone of his face, and he bears no resemblance to the cheerful, affectionate Kyojuro that District 12 knows—the man who rises before dawn to light the fires, who distributes loaves to hollow-cheeked children trailing after him in loving clamour, who allows birds to alight upon his palms and peck at old crumbs. He has thought about this before, and deeply. What a brilliant deception; so complete; and oh, how swiftly it unravels! Yes, under the love, there is rage. He is all instinct and emotion; come time, that will prove deadly enough.
Perhaps that boy should not have been so prompt to write off his elder brother.
“But your martyrdom costs them nothing. It's what they seek.”
Kyojuro exhales, softening. “No—no, I cannot die...I promised him I’d come back.”
“Your brother?” You prompt gently.
“Yes. Though I suppose everyone makes such a vow in these circumstances. But I honour my word; I have never broken it before, and I do not ever intend to do so. No matter what it takes.”
He is so…serious. As if he lives in a world where words hold weight and promises have meaning, and honour is a tangible thing. An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. In the arena, if you make him feel that he owes you, he cannot turn on you.
You break the growing silence with your own curiosity. “Do you believe you have what it takes to kill a man?”
Kyojuro glances up. “What does it take?”
You shrug. “I couldn't say. Perhaps not much more than it takes to kill a squirrel, or a deer.”
“But it must feel different.”
“We are all flesh and blood and bone.”
Kyojuro’s brow furrows. “I believe it must be far more incomparable than what you describe.”
Feel; believe. As if he has had experience. You doubt those baker's hands creased with memories of kneading and the heat of the cradling oven have ever known true violence.
“Yes, perhaps it is crueller to hunt. The animal in the forest does not know why the tip of an arrow sprouts from its heart. The tribute in the arena expects it.”
From the way he stares at you, you suspect your tone has veered dangerously close to callousness. You flash a smile as you wrack your mind for an appropriate way to backtrack but come up empty. You are not accustomed to justifying yourself.
“I know I cannot escape the cruelty of the arena,” he says. “I will protect myself when I must. No more and no less.”
“Of course,” you agree hastily, and fall silent, though words unspoken spring to your lips: you are so concerned with what you do; you are grasping at straws; your attempt at control is meaningless.
Though this, you can understand. At its core the narrative has never been about grand, sweeping morality, or the eternal battle of good and evil; instead, it is simply what helps a person sleep at night: the path of least regret; that which allows one to die assured they have done everything they can. No more and no less, as Kyojuro says. You are no better, but then again, you will sleep at night regardless. Remorse holds no seat at your table.
Kyojuro clears his throat and, treading carefully, begins, “I would hope—”
The train car door slides open and Enmu oozes in, sweating and pallid, mucus-green squares crawling up his face like an ominously progressing disease. His fine clothes are stained and in utter disarray. In your periphery, Kyojuro draws himself together as if preparing for something. Wise. You wrinkle your nose; the cloying scent of those distinctive herbs is better suited to the dim corners of the Hob than the opulent riches the Capitol has drowned you in.
“Death is marked upon you,” Enmu rasps. “I can see it on your faces. You are weak. You are fearful.”
After a beat of silence, you venture, “I see.”
Kyojuro has chosen the path of dignity and is resolutely silent; you, however, would prefer to remain on good terms whenever the opportunity arises. Given the sneer curling Enmu’s lips, you’re not sure your efforts won’t be in vain, but there’s no harm in trying.
“Do you have any advice for us? Once we reach the station, what do you suppose is—”
Enmu leans closer and wags his finger an inch away from your face, then repeats the motion with great amusement. “No, no, no. I’m not the one to ask, no. Your mentor will help you. Or try to.” The corners of his mouth turn downwards in an exaggerated mime of despair. “But your mentor’s all the way back in District 12! What are we to do?”
“I’m really not quite sure.”
“Of course you’re not.” His eyes harden and his sneer returns, more profound than before. He stares you down as if through willpower alone he could pulverise you under his shoe. “Because you’re a filthy, uncultured rodent.”
You maintain a dimly agreeable expression. The man is contradictory enough when his mind isn't addled by drugs. You don't wish to add fuel to the flames by seeming provocative in any way.
Kyojuro, apparently, has no such qualms. “Do you happen to have anything to say that's of any benefit whatsoever? I'd be delightfully surprised to hear it.”
He speaks with such a pleasant tone that one can hardly interpret it as an insult.
“Allow me to delight you then, young sir,” Enmu drawls with a dry sarcasm that would be biting if his words weren't beginning to slur. “Whichever poor creature the Capitol assigns to be your mentor will meet you at the station and will guide you to your...accom...your staying place. And from there you're off my hands and into the arena.”
Of course, there are parades and training sessions and sponsors to organise, all of which will fall down to Enmu to manage, but you can hardly begrudge him his eagerness to relieve himself of you. God alone knows how bitter you would be in his position.
“Very well,” you say. “Thank you.”
He squints at you as if attempting to glean a double meaning from your words. You smile blandly in return. Satisfied, he spins loosely on his heel and picks his way out of the dining car in a manner that would be haughty if he wasn’t so precarious.
“Who do you suppose our mentor will be?” Rengoku ventures into the subsequent silence.
Enmu’s distasteful presence must have hastened the reality of your shared situation to dawn on him in its entirety, as his voice is suddenly tremulous and pitched slightly higher than ordinary. You glance at him to find he is leaning on the table towards you, closer than necessary. His pupils are dilated. Fear. Suddenly, you feel very, very tired.
“We’re District 12. I don’t suppose it matters.” You rise, brushing out your skirts. “I’m going to sleep.”
Kyojuro shoots an alarmed glance out the window; late afternoon sunlight flickers over your discarded cutlery and traces the rim of your glass. “But it’s… Well. Yes, of course. You should, uh, gather your strength.”
He likely assumes it’s a poor attempt at an excuse, and you have no wish to explain yourself to him. What should it matter to him? All of a sudden the very sight of the man repulses you, staring owlishly at you with wide, pity-filled eyes as if he himself is not trembling like a deer locked under the point of an arrow.
Stop looking at me, you wish to snap.
“Yes,” you say instead, and you can hardly remember what you are agreeing to. With acceptable courteousness, you take your leave.
Your bedroom, or whatever the train equivalent of it is called, is distastefully adorned with a myriad of technologies you have no wish to examine, and so you head straight for the bathroom—which is unfortunately not much better. There's a vase of unfamiliar flowers beside the sink that you take brief respite in before you remember the sweet scent and rich colour are likely engineered, and revulsion rises in your throat.
There are so many things around you that you don't understand. It's unnerving. Of course, there is no way for you to have the upper hand when you are actively being carted towards the arena like cattle towards the slaughter grounds... No matter. You will accept that you cannot control your environment, and redirect your efforts to controlling yourself. First: a scalding bath, as it seems there is no need to wait for water to heat up in this luxury. And you need to make a plan.
You strip your clothes and lay them neatly over a railing before sliding into the silky water with a long exhale. When you open your eyes you can almost imagine the endless sky above you, a puff of a cloud drifting like a boat on the sea, long, reaching branches outlining the peripheral of your vision. Yes—yes, you are firm, now. It is always easy to calm yourself because the initial emotion never seems to have any roots, and if you wish, it can simply slide over you like water—and you realise you never really felt that way in the first place; you only acted as if you did.
It used to concern you that you never felt the range of emotions that your peers seemed to succumb to so often, that your companions were either rage or fear or the numbing absence of them both, but then again, you did not have it in you to be concerned for very long. You have always been so disconnected from yourself that you can be anything at all. And now you must be in turn sweet and earnest, and cunning and ruthless. Kyojuro will have no clue. You will win, and you will return to District 12, and you will continue as you always have.
Despite the rhythm of your life seeming so painfully unremarkable, it is precious to you. No, that is not quite right. It is comfortable; convenient. No, that is not correct either. Why do you fight so hard for it?
You laugh to yourself sourly. What a silly question. All you do is fight. You don't know anything else. Foul animal that you are, indeed.
That night, when you finally fall asleep, you see the boy. Red-rimmed eyes and resolute: “I’m asking you to be the one to kill him,” he says.
You feel a surge of annoyance. “I told you I will.”
The axe is hefty, the wicked blade sharp and gleaming, the helve propelling it forward, embedding in the back of a skull. The body drops like a puppet with its strings cut. Next, you take your turn with the bow and arrow. You are perched in a tree and feel poised to burst out of the leaves like a startled bird. Cannons fire in your eardrums. There are three arrows nocked and they all meet their target. The sword, and then a mace, and brass knuckles like the girl from District 1 with blood splattered on her teeth. Then there is a knife not long enough to do the work from afar. You hold it loosely in your hand.
“What are you doing?” he asks, turning, confused.
“Tell your mother…” You can’t think of anything. You twist the blade in further for good measure. He’s trying to speak and you don’t want to hear his voice so you leave the knife wedged hilt-deep in his chest to wrap your hands around his throat. His fists come up to scratch at you, scrabble, weaken. He has no voice but his eyes are doing all the speaking. What a shame that he did not suspect this at all. You have killed a good person. It leaves a foul taste in the back of your mouth like medicine, like a necessary evil.
The next morning, you awaken feeling slightly unsettled, though the exact contents of your dreams have slipped away from you with the water from your shower swirling down the drain. Only when you walk into the train cart to find an array of luxurious breakfast dishes and Kyojuro’s plate already half-finished does it return to you.
“Good morning,” he says, then looks up. Such discerning eyes. “How did you sleep?”
You smile, as if you didn’t spend all night dreaming of killing him. “Like a baby.”
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"expect the next chapter in a long long time" i said in my first note... coughs. one year later. and only 3k measly words ?!? sorry guys
i will be taking my time with this one ! hopefully not another year for the next update though
i really enjoy writing this so i hope you all enjoyed reading asw, please do lmk what u think, leave a comment or rb, it means a lot !!!! ><
i'm just sooooo excited for like. the character dynamics. mmph. everything is so yummy. ask liv i have yapped to her abt this fic endlessly instead of writing it. thank u liv
i can never get this formatting to look up to my standard it's so chopped & i heave to deal with it :(
