— foreword.— ☆ —
like scatterings of stars, that's who chiaki is. maybe he's too bright. maybe he's a flame that burnt everything it touched.
maybe he's a supernova ready to explode.
and midori, midori is getting caught in the spark-shower, he is burning up, pulled into an obnoxious rhythm — he is catching on fire, when up until now he's always been a lump of coal.
what do you see in me?
just what is it, senpai?
...not every lump of coal can become diamonds, you know...?
— ☆ —
- — an experimental ficdump. unrequited midochia / requited chiakana / ryuseitai ensemble (big focus on ryuseitai ensemble). part of project [ butterfly's machination ], a series of experimental dabblings and scenes that i may or may not thread together. this is the ryuseitai-focused piece.
- mostly, it's me playing around and experimenting with writing styles. and to see if i can portray all my love for magical realism, for touches of the surreal mixed with the real — to see if i can do the thing that is my ultimate goal as a developing writer, and that is to make my readers feel something, something almost breathless with my writing, and yet, still have enough depth and solidity to it to not be flimsy. this is me finding a balance.
- everything below are unedited pieces. tags #magical realism / superpower / fantasy. tw's included when necessary. no synopsis yet.
- working title keep the silence, (give me the world.). final title, blood-red, fever-gold.
— ☆ —
i.
what is the feeling?
the kind that bursts within you, like bubbles pushing their way up your chest —
ah, stop it.
it's painful.
like fireworks, it's painful.
.
There's always the train.
Like life, running, crackling like a gold sparkler, it never stops to catch its breath, and the stations go by, one by one, missed windows of opportunity to rest. It's something that has become a universal constant as of late, appearing in each of his dreams without fail nor respite. He doesn't know where it goes, or how it keeps on coming back, but it just does, just like how he just exists, in three-dimensional space, living and breathing.
It's always sunset when the train arrives, too. Sunset, a warm vermillion splashed against the cold sky below.
Midori gets up, and closes the window.
Sometimes, Midori keeps the window open, and let the stars drift in. Stars, unlike people, were good listeners.
Other times, he would stand up straight after letting his eyes open and absorb the view. Not like the view changed: no matter what, he'd be looking at the ceiling, the window, the quaint little flowers that decorated the carpet of the train that knows no bounds. He'd look, and look, and look, and when he'd had his fill of looking, he'd walk to the end of the corridor.
Sometimes, Midori feels like he's always been looking for something.
Between train cars is a liminal space. It's that breath, that gap the train does not take; all that energy is contained in this very small space, this connector. Midori gulps, a hand pressed firmly to the wall, and stares very hard upwards, because he knows if he just let his eyes drop to the train tracks shuddering past beneath him then he'd start feeling sick to the stomach. Ah... why do I do this? I hate things like roller coasters and scary things like this.
A cautious step forward, then another, and he's thrown back into safety, into dim lamplight and warm, welcoming hues of red-orange-yellow. The dining car is always the next car, no matter which direction Midori goes from where he starts. There is chatter, the clinking of glasses, and yet, there's not a shadow to be seen.
The train is always empty like this.
Which Midori doesn't mind at all. He'd much rather prefer peace and quiet than loud and obnoxious any day.
(glasses against each other, like twinkling bells,
faint whispers of nightly gossip,
a tinny jazz melody, a silvery hum in the backdrop.)
But quiet is a near-absence of noise, and quiet is easily shattered. Midori's eyes flit to the end of the car, when suddenly, a raw pain tackles him in the chest, and his knees buckle. His kneecaps scrape on the hardwood floor, and Midori almost cries out.
The key word is almost. It's hard to yell out at the same time when your voice has already been muffled by sobs.
Can I lie down? He wants to. He wants to ignore the dream's progression, lie himself down and pretend none of this is happening, because it really isn't, it's all in his head. But sometimes, the things in one's head are the ones that are most feared, the most terrifying.
The train rattles.
He lets out a breath, and counts to three.
tag: blood-red, fever-gold
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cawaii 
