Itagaki Rihito 板垣李光人 (2021) Hair, Makeup & Styling By Takae Kamikawa

Music Volume 8.1.12.1

a.k.a. The eight tracks of my life when it comes to you

(1) A recurring dream: you say to me, “It’s always been you. It’ll always be you.” Sometimes, with your mouth; soft bubbles came out of those lips, eyes shaking as if you were afraid that I won’t ever get to know; so I believed it was true. Sometimes, in a note; written in a hurry, tugging all of my fingers and pressing it onto me like a sacred promise; so I believed it won’t be broken.

(2) But I wake up, breathless and sweating, soulless and aching, and... you weren’t here.

(3) When I sit down for a minute and ponder about my decisions, I come back to those times when we have conversations past midnight. I would remember you looking at me like I were a secret you still kept, still deciding if you would let go or keep hold of. Those gentle touches in the soft light, more tender than everything illuminated by the moon.

(4) I wish I would have done something. Anything.

(5) Yet, you’re still a smoke that keeps on dancing through my nostrils I am yet to get out of my system.

(6) I used to love the first few times when you starred in my dreams. But ever since you closed your eyes each time I start to tremble out your name from my lips, I stopped wondering about the crinkles by your eyes. I stopped trying to miss the way you laugh, stopped trying to make you laugh. I stopped whispering prayers. I stopped altogether.

(7) At some nights, I don’t want to sleep anymore; I’m tired of sleeping. I’ll keep having dreams of you anyway. And I’ll keep having dreams of you anyway even if I’m awake.

(8) A recurring thought: I’ll ask you, “Will I keep holding on? Should I still love you?” I’ll ask you if ever get the chance.

It’s the first of September! The first day of spring, which is my least favourite season on account of its unpredictability.

Anyway, here’s a snippet of a fic request I’m currently filling for @stargazing-enby who submitted it two years ago aaaagh

The office is tucked away in the suburban sprawl of Bexley. It’s an old terrace townhouse; the original staircase, a hefty wooden beast, smells of furniture polish. The floorboards creak beneath Harry’s feet. The reception room is converted from the front parlour, and still has touches of the home that was once there: a lace doily over a dainty hall-table, and faded curtains framing the window. Harry glances at the wall, noticing the vintage brass light switch. This was once a Muggle home, then.

“May I help you?”

There’s an elderly witch he doesn’t recognise at the reception desk. She’s peering at him suspiciously over her spectacles, one hand resting on a typewriter which is furiously tapping out letters by itself.

Harry looks away from the typewriter. “Harry Potter. Here to see Malfoy.” It’s a little petty, he knows, but he won’t use Malfoy’s full title. Cursebreakers love that. They love the showmanship of it. The little flourishes of their wand (completely gratuitous), the dramatic pauses (unnecessary) and of course, their amazed and grateful customers (audiences; the only thing missing is the applause). It’s why Harry won’t see Levinson any more, or Sheldrake, or Vittily. It’s why he ditched Fromer after just one appointment, and why he left Clarkson’s office without even beginning the appointment. One glance into Clarkson’s delighted face — ooh, the great Harry Potter! What fantastic publicity for my little agency — and Harry had turned around and walked wordlessly out the door.

Now he waits for the usual reactions. But the witch doesn’t widen her eyes, or glance at his scar, or nervously smooth her robes. She just keeps squinting at him, and then she says, “Henry Potter…”

“Harry.”

“Harry.” She frowns. “Potter with a P?”

Harry can’t imagine what other letter Potter might begin with: he pauses, then says, “Erm. Yes.”

She picks slowly through a little wooden box filled with small white cards. “Ah. Here you are. Eleven o’clock?”

“That’s right.”

She puts a neat little tick onto the card and then moves it to another box. “Take a seat. Tea and coffee’s across the hallway.”

He sits down on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs next to the dainty hall table. There’s a little magazine rack nearby, with very well-worn copies of Cosy Homes for Country Witches and Enchanting Gardens of Magical Britain. Once Harry thumbs through them and then finds a copy of Knitting Patterns for Thrifty Witches, he begins suspecting the collection has been generously donated by the elderly receptionist. He glances up at her, then at the grandfather clock standing ponderously by the door. It’s only been fifteen minutes, but perhaps Malfoy is sitting somewhere in a comfortable office, laughing at the fact he’s keeping Harry waiting.

The receptionist speaks then, as if sensing his thoughts. “Mr Potter? Mr Malfoy will see you now. Directly up the stairs, second door on the left.”

Harry dutifully goes upstairs. There’s a narrow hallway with a window at the end of it, showing a rather unspectacular view over the grey rooftops of Bexley. He passes by the first door, which looks like a cleaning closet, and then stops at the second.

D. Malfoy

5th Order HCJ (DefM)

Cert HM (C. II)

It’s a faded set of letters printed upon the frosted glass pane. The dark-blue paint of the door is beginning to slowly flake away. Harry’s annoyed, though he can’t pinpoint why. All the other cursebreakers he’s visited have had their name, bright and glossy, upon their doors, with CURSEBREAKER emblazoned in large letters below. They love that word. It’s exciting. Full of action and danger. Curse, and breaker. Destruction and glittering shards. Smashing spells to pieces and then getting called a hero for it. Of course Malfoy would love to call himself cursebreaker.

But instead Harry’s left to decipher 5th Order HCJ (DefM) and Cert. HM, C. II.

The door swings open suddenly, leaving Harry blinking at Draco Malfoy’s face. He’s seen him around in the years following the war — it’s hard not to, really, with the magic community as small as it is — but always a distant glimpse of a blond-haired man disappearing into a shop, or waiting for one of the elevators at the Ministry (and despite Harry firmly telling himself he’d outgrown schoolyard scuffles, he’d always elected to choose a different elevator instead).

Now, however, an awkward meeting seems inevitable.

Malfoy looks down his long nose at Harry and says, “Take a seat.”

Harry won’t give him the satisfaction of pausing. He walks into the office and sits down in the nearest chair; a squeaky relic from the seventies, by the look of the avocado-coloured vinyl and slightly rusted metal legs.

Malfoy closes the door and then sits at his desk, ignoring Harry and picking up a file instead. Harry had expected the cold shoulder, and anyway, it gives him time to look around. He’s been in plenty of cursebreaker offices. Large and grand affairs, with ceiling-length windows and bookcases lined with rare tomes, and little gold name-plates on solid-oak desks. And the trophies, of course. Cursed jewellery glittering in the sunlight. Beautiful dresses stained with unicorn blood. Portraits of subjects which whisper just too quietly to decipher the words.

But Malfoy’s office is small and neat and efficient as a Ministry cubicle. There’s two framed certificates on the wall, which give Harry his answer to the riddle on the door — Fifth Order of Defensive Magic specialising in Hexes, Curses, and Jinxes, and Certificate of Healing Magic, Class II. There’s no grand bookcase, but instead a simple row of tattered texts on a shelf above the desk. A filing cabinet, grey and mildly threatening, sits in the corner.

Malfoy says, without looking up from the file, “You’re here today because…” He turns a page, “…you’re not very good at your job.”

“What?” Harry asks incredulously.

Malfoy does look up then. His expression is blandly polite, which somehow only makes Harry more angry. “You don’t currently fill the criteria of your role as an Auror. Is that correct?”

“No, that’s not correct. I’m a fully qualified Auror — ”

“Says here,” Malfoy says, looking down at the page again, “That your supervisor has referred you here on the basis that…” He taps his finger against a line of spindly writing. “Let’s see… ‘Auror Potter requires further training in sensing areas of concentrated magic.’ Says last December, you walked directly into a ward and set off a Caterwauling Charm, which compromised the entire operation.”

“What? Well - what it doesn’t mention is that the ward was very well-hidden in a staircase — ”

“And in February, you tripped a jinx when you opened a door during another operation, which resulted in several minor injuries.”

“Yes, but it was — ”

Malfoy turns a page, somehow managing to do it loudly. The rasp of paper cuts through the air. “February again. Declared a room cleared when in fact it was still armed with a Severing Curse. Your partner suffered a significant injury.”

Harry looks away. That had been a particularly difficult incident, and the guilt still lingers. “I could’ve sworn that room was — ”

“March. Picked up a cursed wand, resulting in moderate burns.”

“I had to, I was trying to disarm — ”

“Which brings us to April,” Malfoy says, closing the file. The pages flutter shut. “Ran straight through a basic security ward, shattering it. Minor injuries sustained.” He finally looks up, his expression indecipherable. “Anything you care to add to these notes?”

“I do my job,” Harry snaps. “And I do it well.”

“Mm,” Malfoy says, and it’s maddening exactly how much condescension he manages to fit into a single syllable. “Well, that particular judgment is up to me, isn’t it?”

A little bit messy but it’s true

a.k.a. A Simple ‘How I Met You’

The floor made a sound to my feet’s kisses as I hurried through the quiet hallway.

                      There were whispers breaking out from these thin walls,                       and I felt my ears bleeding.

One second after reaching the corner, a pair of ocean blue eyes drowned me.

                      There was a series of a beat of drums,                       and then it felt as if it was raining.

Maybe his breathing hitched, and if it was my imagination that his eyes suddenly were burning like an ember,

                      I would never know.

No words were exchanged between us. But I felt like dancing to the music radiating from his sun-kissed skin.

                      That’s when I realized I was in trouble.

(eusie.)

Counting Cars

Synopsis

Koichiro Ugumori was 23 years old when he died because of a car accident. Ever since then, he has been a wandering soul inside the halls of the hospital where he was announced dead on arrival. One day, he suddenly wakes up in the body of a 20-year-old guy named Soichiro. He soon meets Ayako, Soichiro’s sweet girlfriend, and his circle of friends that includes the demure(ish)ly attractive, Chiho, who quite seems to be distant when it comes to him. As Koichiro struggles to “adjust” with his mysterious second chance to live, he tries to face the revived aftermath of his death and Soichiro’s complicated (love) life.

One day, you'll understand

My mind is a storm. Yet my words are drizzles, unnoticeable when they touch your skin. Not because you are numb, but because their metaphors are unsharpened. Because I don’t want to hurt you even if I can. I can drown you the way my demons drown me in whirlpools. But I wouldn’t, if you just run away from me.

My lips are shut like how my heart is. Because I don’t want to stab you with the pain you’ll hear from my voice. I don’t want to let you in and be a part of my dark and gloomy heart. I am a chaos. A walking disaster, ready to swallow and eat you up when you come near me, so you should just let me destroy myself.

My life is empty and dull as darkness is. I am nearly death. I can kill you. Please, just save yourself. Save yourself.

Save yourself from me.

(eusie.)

Let’s put it like this

a.k.a. I changed ... a couple of times

Your presence can be heard in every shut of the eyes and in every nightmare turned into screaming out of beds while sweating like there had been a storm that poured down on our naked skins on every morning in the month of December. The afternoon radios that sing the saddest of lyrics are snowflakes in our noses melted into small amount of water that tickle our spines — they are like you. You numb the tears out our of hearts and hold our cells and wrap us in ice, not to slowly constrain the happiness hiding in our bones to conquer our veins, but to carve us into like you, to become sadder and colder, and to become a blizzard.

(eusie.)

Here’s to someone, pt. 3

Dear (h    n),

You should know by now that this is about you

But if you’re not in love with me too then I doubt that you do

There were no fireworks or violins playing beautifully the heaven didn’t open its gates and set out its angels to sing love songs

No when my eyes first landed on yours I got stranded on the crooked smile on your lips and on the calm sea surrounding you

I think that’s when I realize that I might end up sinking that I might end up drowning

And I didn’t know if I should be afraid

But this feeling this magical feeling each time I saw the sparkle in your eyes when I glanced at you

But this feeling

I knew it won’t run away from me but stay and hide in each of my veins and my heart will explode with this feeling of you with this feeling of wanting you

I knew I knew I would fall for you

The second time my eyes landed on you the crooked smile was back but the calm sea was now a storm

And I was already sinking

And and and then

You said my name

I think that’s when I realize that I might end up drowning next

And I still didn’t know if I should be afraid

But this feeling this magical feeling was still there each time I saw the sparkle in your eyes when I glanced at you and as if you stitched my soul my heart craved and craved for your attention and for you to say my name again

But this feeling

I knew it won’t run away from me and my heart will explode from every word escaping your lips each time you speak to me with every hair on my skin you lit up each time you smile at me my heart will definitely explode with this feeling of you with this feeling of wanting you more

I knew I knew I was falling for you

The third time my eyes landed on you

I, I, I

I think I was already crazy but there were fireworks there were violins playing on the background and the heaven opened its gates to let the angels sing their love songs

And with the clouds smiling at me and the wind whispering a happy melody

I got stranded I sank

And I definitely was drowning and already falling

And I wasn’t afraid

Because this feeling this magical feeling did not run away from me and my heart will continue to explode with this feeling of you with this feeling of wanting you endlessly

I love you I love you I’m in love with you

And you should know by now that this is about you

But if you’re not in love with me too then I doubt that you do

Yours sincerely,

(eusie.)

Chasing Stars

Synopsis

I learned that sometimes, when soulmates meet, they’re just destined that way.

He said he’d always choose you. That he had always chose you. In every lifetime. And that you always chose him too. But this time... this time... you think you won’t because you want to fall in love with someone else.

Don’t even think about it

The two of them are on top of the world, and with only a little bit more, they’ll be on the edge. No one else knows where they are. Instead, the music circulating on their veins take them away from the fact that she is with him. No one else knows that the town will forever be dripped in red starting from that night. No one else knows.

She looks at him though, as if he created the universe with his smile. Her ribcage breaks from how fast her heart beats. It is chaos to be in love with him, but she doesn’t know it yet. Tick tock — Her breathing halts  — tick tock  — after he sings her name  — tick tock  — and she thinks her whole existence will rupture —  tick tock  — with the sound of his voice. She barely hears someone screaming at the strike of midnight. And with another tick of the clock, her mind becomes a black hole.

He knows he has this effect on her, of course, and his soul rejoices with it. But does he put his lips on hers? No. Instead, he caresses her fingers slowly and softly. Then he whispers, “Like waves crashing on your shores.” He reaches for her neck, and he sucks in her smell. “Like a storm coming your way,” he continues. Then as his nose ventures from her jawline to her cheeks, he goes, “Like a gun sketching on your face.”

The night appears to be calm. Both of them appear to be calm. She appears to be calm. But —

The night feels flustered. Both of them feel aroused. She feels dizzy. And he feels victorious. He starts —

He tells her she is a treasure chest that shouldn’t be hidden from the world. So he opens her up like her insides are gold. She feels like glowing. He kisses her curves in between like knives cutting through skin. It’s a ticklish feeling, she thinks, as a satisfying warmth flows down to her stomach. He pulls her out. And if she was struggling to breathe ever since he kissed her skin, she struggles more so as her lungs die from his touch. But she still feels like glowing, as if she is the sun. She is the sun to his universe.

This time, he finally he kisses her lips as his fingers linger on her cheeks. She notes to herself that he tastes painfully delicious. He looks down on her and she blushes. She covers her heart, embarrassed that maybe he can see his own name on it. But he can see it, and so he travels in between her heartstrings, planting his teeth. He smiles at her after, and her heart stops right there. But she manages to kiss him, and she gets dizzy again. She feels him punching something, but she calls out to the universe. Her moaning harmonizes with the night’s melodies.

And then, “I’m in love with you,” comes out from her abused and wet lips as it reddens more than a red sea. “I’m in love with death,” comes out from his as he horribly presses hers together. “Then I am too,” she continues, but her words disappear with the wind’s cries.

Tick tock — There is silence, then a couple more exchange of murmured words — Tick tock.

The two of them are on top of the world, and after crawling gracefully on this starless night, she finds herself on the edge. And she falls down. No one hears her groaning as she lands on the scattered stars on the ground. No one even notices. Until everyone does. But no one knows what happened. No one.

Six hours later. Six days then. Six weeks after. No one still knows. And no one knows that someone knows. That he knows.

He remembers their last words. He remembers his heart dancing on fire. “Don’t mention it,” he says after she thanks him. He remembers her eyes bleeding and burning. “Won’t even think about it,” she says before she closes her eyes.

No one else still knows what happened that night. No one even notices his murderous eyes prying on everyone who asks him about her. Because, no one will ever admit it, but everyone is probably in love with him too. So no one else questions when he answers, “It’s suicide.”

(           k & eusie.)

“You look at him like the story of Icarus is a lesson you’re never gonna learn. Oh, but maybe some things were just meant to burn.”

— like he’s the ocean and it’s a goddamn shame that you never learnt to swim | via p.d