i know they're losing, and i'll pay for my place by the ring // where i'll be looking in their eyes when they're down (mitski, i bet on losing dogs (2016))
DEAR DIRECTOR RIAN JOHNSON, WHY DID YOU NOT ADD A GRANDE REVEAL OF THE DEVIL TATTOO ON JUD DUPLENTICY’S NECK? (excuse my screaming but!!! i spent an ungodly amount of time looking for reference, until i realised the “thorns” that i assumed were those of roses were actually the “horns” of the devil. i only learnt through this article, that there is also an angel and the word serendipity involved. for a plot that revolved so much around devil-figures, it would have been, at the very least, interesting to see it on father jud’s neck again.) SHAME!!!!!!! >:-(
a (work in progress?) that re-imagines the discovery of the insulindian phasmid at night. tequila sunrise -- lighting up his world. inspired by la chimera (2023), alice rohrwacher.
CUNO - And just like that, the Cuno has fallen asleep. His head rattles against the window of the Coupris, and his arms slowly slip out of their crossed state as his body jolts. Awake, he'd have suited them back up under your gaze—unconscious, his body gravitates towards you.
YOU - A synapse suddenly connects in your brain. Blood flows through your chest. You remember this.
INLAND EMPIRE - Tired children, cuddled up on bunk beds. Ten minutes ago, they were begging for another round of hide and seek. Now, all they are hiding from is the cold. Your giant frame casts a shadow over their scrawny bodies, as you glimpse into their room. "Good night, Mister Du Bois," one of them murmurs. Your hand tightens on the door knob in surprise. "Good night, you little beasts," you grin and close the door.
CUNO - He will not remember you offering your shoulder to support his body. But he will remember waking up against it.
SHIVERS - THE BEAST IS YOURS TO PROTECT.
kuuno de ruyter, disco elysium.
***
to be honest, i was just doing a little warm up with a photograph, but then halfway through drawing the ginger boy, my mind went eepie cuno which led me to write this small fan......fic (?) to hopefully make it work!! :-)
thank you all for over 3000 (!!!) notes on my kim post! T_T it was overwhelming to receive so much kindness in such a short amount of time, because i'm still quite new to sharing my stuff online;; i hope i can continue to provide work to this lovely fandom!
simple comme bonjour
kimiko miyashiro x frenchie, part two of three
synopsis: and finally, nothing is a secret anymore; not the feelings, not the life, not the key to happiness.
wordcount: 2,743
genre: fluff
includes: cuddling, conversing, making peace.
To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring; it was peace.
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Frenchie and Kimiko lay arm in arm, the female’s face cuddled up into his armpit. It's become a ›thing‹ between them a long while ago, most importantly in the hospital, where Kimiko dealt with the fear of breaking her bones for the first and last time. But the warm embrace does not act only as a sign of protection, it now also is a sign of love.
There are four, tight walls around the two which today they call home, with some cheap, but still as equally homely lamps they bought from the thrift store casting a comfortable orange hue on them, the blanket they stole from their former HQ keeping their intertwined bodies warm, and a cheap TV murmuring smart words to a scenery of green (since Frenchie still doesn’t do well with utmost silence—ironically enough). It is not much money that they paid to live in these conditions, but the crushing affection Frenchie feels for the woman breathing into his chest, it is priceless.
The point of time for their small domesticity could frankly not be worse, they both know that, but when Kimiko starts to sign do you think Butcher, and Frenchie shuts her down by kissing her scalp with soundly pecks, he finally understands.
He tells Kimiko, with a kiss to the center of her forehead, don’t think about him. Don’t think about anything right now, mon cœur, and repeats the last two words, mon cœur; mon cœur; mon cœur continuously down her neck, until he hears her small sigh of defeat, the thud of her hands dropping down to the blanket. His arms tighten around her back, his forearms press into her flesh, and her fingers begin to caress his waist in idled patterns. No clear direction, no signs to be read, only the warmth of trust to be felt in the heart.
It is so little, Frenchie concludes, as he buries his nose behind her ear and closes his eyes, that is recipe for peace.
In another circumstance, Frenchie might’ve called it ›putain de bêtise‹ (roughly translatable into motherfucking stupidity) but at this moment, he can’t think of anything other than the sweet, addicting notion of bliss. Happiness in its purest, most innocent, selfishly stupid form; the very contradiction of how the greatest thinkers of old, ancient times, or war-scarred writers would’ve defined it, but Frenchie can’t find himself caring.
He could be ashamed of himself either way, for it is such a… boring scene he provides. It is not an ice-cold, herby glass of Pastis by the blue shore of Marseille’s most beautiful sites, with hot summer rays glowing down on their sun-screened skin, nor is it the highest skyline NYC can offer his moon-struck lover to gaze upon, while he tells her you are my little star with only his hands and his crescent smile.
No. Instead, it is a nameless place of two momentarily nameless people holding each other like they have so many nights before in a dingy apartment that only provides them the roof above their head and a crack of sky hiding between other buildings, only to fall asleep with a male voice narrating la nature in the background, and wake up in the morning with some white women sharing some tricks and other bits under forced laughter.
It is a pleasure so fragile. So incredibly fragile in fact, Frenchie’s heart could sink deep into his chest any second, if he lost a single thought about the days and deeds that inevitably follow the string of their future actions. Even now, sugar-rushed on Kimiko’s heavenly warmth, he can’t deny how his eyes lurk to their metal door every time he’s reminded, looking out for any potential danger. That is just their life, and it likely will be the end of it. A part of their daily that he has accepted, and Kimiko has accepted too. The fight is never won, and Frenchie can’t grow another limb. He can’t grow another pair of lungs, even if his last breath depended on it. Their time is limited, that is the truth of life.
And yet, they afford to bore each other. Above the passionate debates about men unable to change their minds, the endless musings of escaping from it all, of living a life that doesn’t take another’s, Frenchie and Kimiko treat themselves eternal, by simply taking a rest. Rest that goes beyond ›not giving a fuck‹ about supernatural disasters in form of blonde man-babies, killed presidents and betrayed friendships. It is rest in the form of dirty dishes in the sink, unwritten poems of hungry hearts, rest in the form of a hug that whispers, your existence in my arms is enough.
»C’est le paradis,« Frenchie murmurs into Kimiko’s ear, breaking the silence that both of them stopped counting the minutes for. It could’ve been hours of holding each other, a lifetime, and tomorrow, they’d do it again.
Pa-ra-di, Kimiko’s fingers echo, syllable for syllable from what she understood, and asks, what is that?
»Ah,« he chuckles, and it’s when he realizes the two of them have to freshen up their signed vocabulary. It’s been a while—they’ve gotten too used to SMS these days.
»Paradise,« he repeats, in English, and shuffles a little bit on the bed, to free his arms for movement. »You’ve heard of it, no, mon cœur?«
Kimiko nods—she has. Probably from Annie, on her boozed up, Christian ramblings, or… America.
»What does it mean to you; paradise?«, he asks, slipping a bit higher on the pillows, resting his shoulder there, and Kimiko takes the cue to turn around, her back pressed to his chest, her curves against his curves like the petals of a blooming flower. Now, they can talk better.
Nothing much. Sometimes it’s mentioned in music. Gun and rose, Frenchie reads, but quickly realizes, ah, no, Kimiko means to say, Guns N’ Roses.
»Oui, I think I know. ›Paradise City‹, huh?«
Yes. But I don’t like the idea of green grass. I wouldn’t be able to relax. Too quiet. Suspicious. Kenji and I fantasized a lot about going to Hanayashiki.
»Ha-na-ya-shi-ki?«, Frenchie repeats, reading her fingers closely. »Qu'est-ce que c'est?«
An amusement park. Like VoughtLand. But better. It’s over 100 years old.
»Ah, is that so? I didn’t even know they made parks that old,« Frenchie snickers. »What an exciting place to relax at… I figure the waiting queues at VoughtLand do take a lifetime, so might as well chill out, huh?«
It was shit.
»Indeed, it was. I will never get over the atrocities we have witnessed there; the donut-burgers? Mon Dieu, someone has to shut down that place, before it reaches Europe...«
Kimiko chuckles, and suddenly seeing a puppet Homelander blow up in blood is forgotten in a breeze.
»Eh bien,« Frenchie hushes quickly, before she can recall anything, »Paradis.« The male isn’t able to let go of the want to create the new word. It is not a requirement, not a need, but he wants the language he uses with Kimiko to include the truths of their relationship, even if most of them remain unspoken.
»Let us say…«
He grabs and guides her hands to knead them together, each finger intertwined with the other.
»This…«
Frenchie does it as well, arms caging her in circularly, and he feels like he’s praying now, but since he knows that Kimiko is not religious and also has bad experiences with churches, he figures that this sign is still free to use.
»This, we will call… paradise, oui?«
Kimiko continues keeping her hands folded, and Frenchie taps her left hand, as he unfolds his own.
»This,« he whispers, lips planted against her temple, his stubble slightly scratching her skin (but she never complains), »c’est moi…«
His lover smiles, nods, Frenchie isn’t sure whether she understands yet, but he continues nonetheless.
»And this, mon cœur,« he taps the right hand, »c’est toi. This is you, Kimiko.«
He lifts his right hand, and Kimiko immediately threads them together. One and one... making one.
Frenchie hums in satisfaction, peppering some more kisses to her cheek—never getting or giving enough—squeezing her hand.
»And together, we are paradise, you know? Forget about Adam and Eve, huh…?«, he grins, and the woman in his arms disagrees, cringes—makes a face, which Frenchie cups with his right, free hand. »You… are so adorable, Kimiko,« he sighs, the words finally slipping out naturally.
We are sinners, just like Adam and Eve, Kimiko signs in return, and even though there is nothing that should crush Frenchie more than the weight of the forever damned life he’s led in the years he’s lived, his conscience is floating on the promise of true love. She knows, and she still loves him. This knowledge, that kind of ignorance, it is dangerous, he knows that, but it’s not like he is refusing to know anymore by snorting cocaine or ketamine. He will forever carry the name of the drunken man who kills, Serge, Sergei, Frenchie, but in Kimiko’s arms, he becomes a lover. Pure, clear, sober.
»Mmm… a sinner, huh. You may be right, mon cœur,« he answers calmly, holding Kimiko’s chin with the palm of his hand, stroking her skin with his thumb, his arm resting across her chest. Her heart thumps against his elbow, and his eyes close to focus on the feeling.
»And we may never forgive ourselves for the things we have done,« he whispers, continuing on with his caress in a slow, comforting rhythm, »but I want to believe… that if there is a God who forgives… who shows mercy on those tortured by remorse...«
Kimiko shifts uncomfortably, wanting to argue back, but Frenchie holds her still, the other arm snaking around her waist from below, pulling her ever-so-possibly close.
»If such a God does exist, and if He is good, then Kimiko, He has given me… you. And to hell with me if I didn’t take this chance.«
It is not that easy, but, she signs, when he opens his eyes again—Frenchie is talking to someone who’s once been unwillingly injected with drugs, after all—yet adds to her own doubtful thoughts the hopeful wish that, I want you to be right too, you know?
He smiles and nods. »It’s just… a faithful fool’s rambling, mon cœur. I agree with you, of course. With Adam and Eve, the first sin, comes the burden of our choices… And with the ones we’ve made, ah… our lives were never meant to be easy.«
I mean, Kimiko gestures, this is easy, though. Being with you.
»Oui? Is that how you feel, Kimiko?«, he breathes out, and meets her gaze, as she turns her head over her shoulder. She nods.
»I find it easy too,« Frenchie admits, »I feel that we don’t… well, we, bien sûr, finish each other’s sentences, as the Americans say, but… that is not what I cherish the most about us. It is that we don’t need many sentences to begin with…«
He trails off, losing himself in Kimiko’s smile of affection, her eyebrows raised to her forehead, the white of her eyes vulnerable to the dry air of their apartment. It should be embarrassing, wearing his throbbing heart on his sleeve like this, but if it’s Kimiko seeing him with those gentle eyes, it feels nothing but good.
Did you drink?
»Moi? I didn’t, not to my knowledge, pourquoi?«
Just asking.
Frenchie chuckles and squints, before he whispers, »you are a good person, mon cœur,« and, before she can even inhale for an outraged gasp, adds, »someone like monsieur charcuterier… you don’t tell him about Marseille, swimming at the beach. I am not saying he can’t do good things, but, ah…«
He chuckles, when Kimiko already agrees wholeheartedly. Don’t defend him. Butcher can go fuck himself. That asshole. Their shared rebellious distaste for the Briton has become quite comical over time, but Frenchie strokes over her wrists in a successful attempt to calm her down. She does.
»What I mean to say is, good people, they dream,« he says, »and for me, that is le paradis. To dream of tomorrow and still be content with today; what is that, if not heaven?«
Have you considered writing?
»Writing? Moi?«, the male smirks sheepishly but he knows better than to feed into that thought. He already falls into too many French stereotypes, but there’s also a bitter aftertaste, a voice taunting him for his wordy, gutful composings (don’t make me kill; it is like acid to my heart) wired in his brain like a thorn. However, it is Kimiko. And for once, Frenchie might actually consider it, when they do finally leave this place. The world looks like it is in dire need of a good dream right now, he thinks, but jokes, »we will become even broker than we already are,« instead.
I don’t care! You know what I’ve always wanted to learn?
»No, tell me, mon cœur.«
The piano.
The piano?, Frenchie repeats, his fingers dangling in the air, his smile widening in excitement, as he cuddles her closer. That idea alone, his Kimiko, making sound through the ebony and ivory tiles, is music to his ears.
»Mon cœur… that would be magnifique!«
I could play so many songs.
»Even Guns ‘N Roses, huh?«
Imagine all the movie soundtracks!
She’s so thrilled, and it moves Frenchie to absolute joy. Every time her eyes widen, her hands shake in small, giddy movements, it’s like she’s adding five exclamation marks to an SMS, or writing in all caps; Frenchie wants to capture these small expressions of excitement for eternity, but for now, he promises himself to make this simple sequence a good memory.
»You could play all your favorite musical numbers... The Sound of Music, Singing in the Rain…«
Yes! And you sing along!
»Me? Sing? Oh, mon cœur, you expect so much of me…«
You sing!
»Ah… you know what? For you… I am willing to try.«
It will sound so bad!
Frenchie gasps, »Mon cœur!«, and grabs his cœur in question by her shoulders, looking into her eyes in feigned hurt, and Kimiko just laughs soundlessly, shrugging by saying, because of your smoking!
»Oui… but I quit it with the hard drugs, non? The therapy groups have helped— it’s what you said, too,« he retorts, pouting at her, but secretly just enjoying her having fun at teasing him.
Sure, because snorting cocaine was the problem.
»What do you know about snorting coke, huh?«, Frenchie grins, and flips the female once, twice, so he’s now on his back, a flailing, giggly Kimiko clenched tightly in his arms.
Do you not remember how I had to clean after your blood last—
»Non, non! Lies! I remember no such things!«
Frenchie cuddles her until he’s snuggled the breath out of his lungs, and grunts, when she shifts on top of him, stomach to stomach, Kimiko’s ear listening in on the heart that beats for her.
»You will learn to play the piano,« he muses under his breath (the likelihood of you going through with things is higher, when whispered to yourself, he learned somewhere), brushing through her locks, »et moi, I will sing for you, as best as I can. Like a duet… Judy Garland, Gene Kelly? With a very bad Gene Kelly, huh?«
I was joking about you not being able to sing.
»Ah, mon cœur, I was joking, too. Last time I checked, Louis Armstrong was a pothead, and the great Nat King Cole, he—«
Lung cancer?
»Ah, you already know, huh? Oui… smoked three packs every day, c’est incroyable,« Frenchie chuckles, kissing the top of Kimiko’s head, wrapping himself around her and her arms like a gift. It is the equivalent of silencing her, in a way, but it’s not like she wouldn't be strong enough to pull herself away. (She doesn’t, and that’s all Frenchie needs to know.)
»I will try,« Frenchie grumbles, »I will try to sing and I will try to live long.«
Kimiko kisses his neck. You better, she seems to say, and it tickles a chuckle out of him.
»Look, mon cœur. The penguins are cuddling in the cold.«
She raises her head, looks to the TV for a second, eyes heavy by the soporific that is Frenchie’s body and his voice. She smiles, nods, and leans back down, missing the words ›the ice is melting in Antartica‹ on the screen. Frenchie inhales deeply through the nose and sighs. Quelle chance.
With Frenchie kissing Kimiko’s forehead, interlacing his fingers into hers, they spell it again, paradise, and for a moment, the French man doesn’t feel lost in all what has become of him. He feels whole, content, and wishes for an eternity that shows nothing but the same scene.
What a blind, selfish, yet lucky journey it is, the road back to Garden Eden.
His stubble scratches the skin of her curled hand, and his lips wrap around each of her knuckles, when Frenchie begins to count the days in Kimiko’s eyes; not those that’s passed, but those to come.
»Tu es mon paradis, Kimiko,« he whispers, and Kimiko kisses him silent.
hello there! :-) this had a lot of prose in it that i dedicate fully to the feelings and thoughts about my own love life and reading of the book the unbearable lightness of being. it is both a love letter to the humanity of this pair and lovers painted by milan kundera, and i feel full having written it.
(full, if it wasn't for the fact i could not find any better cuddly scenes of kimiko and frenchie.........v_v)
dededos
annaxmalina
kaledo-art
pixelskylines
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
origamiaround