Here are some snippets of my works with full-length links! All of the following can be found on my AO3 page here.
The Moribund Society
Kaedehara Kazuha is a recently graduated young man with a relatively uneventful life when he submits a poem to a publishing house's competition on a whim and wins.
Then, an old-money tragic artist by the mere name of "Kunikuzushi" invites him to his isolated estate as his personal, in-house poet. He leads an anachronistic, mysterious life of cocktail parties, unspoken sources of wealth, and boarded-off rooms that dare Kazuha to learn more about Kunikuzushi's past and, in an unsuspecting turn, his own.
They form an understanding more complex than the "love" they're both used to—and Kunikuzushi asks Kazuha to write him a new ending.
If revenge was a fruitless thing, then God wouldn’t have made it feel so good. I feel the Doctor’s trachea crumple between my fingers, a satisfying crack like opposing tectonic plates finally releasing. When he gives me the choice of which tools to kill him with, I use the most precise. He breathes. I breathe. I breathe again. My heart’s racing while I feel his slow, beat by lesser beat against the inside of my thigh. The Doctor’s hands grapple my waist as if to keep me steady as I kill him, as if to coax me into it. His hands are gloved, as they always are; he never touches me skin to skin. I bury my hands into his jaw and pull until the joint pops, the mandible dislocated by the condyle, until the skin of my fingers break against his teeth. I feel the way my pain receptors scream; it reminds me where I am, who I’ve become; it is a simultaneously sobering and addictive experience. Does my blood taste good? I lose myself in the warmth, the violence, the morbid delight of skin and skin and stomach acid because if there’s anything I’ve learned it’s that I have a propensity to lose things.I dig my fingers deeper but I’m too weak to tear the muscleBetween the two of us, I’m the only one making a sound—the Doctor has long since removed his capacity for pain—he tried to do that to me but it’s all I have left and I wouldn’t let him take it from me “I know something you’d like to hear,” the Doctor gurgled. His voice is unrecognizable, crude and hoarse and barely human between the blood and spit and bone. “May I speak, or are you busy with your little tantrum?”My arms shake as I try to make him feel something, a fraction of what he’s done to me. But he is unfeeling no matter what I do. He laughs“I don’t care what you have to say.” “Niwa Hisahide (don’t say) had a son (his fucking name).” The edges of his teeth are red with clumps of blood and flesh from his cheeks as he smiles. God sat perched on man’s chest and told unto him “silence” and mankind laughed, the Doctor laughs why can’t I get his laugh out of my head “I heard”shut up“he writes”shut up shut up shut up“poetry.” I bury the muzzle against his soft palate, and the bullet embeds itself in the inside of his skull before he has the time to smile. It feels like butchering a pig, stunning its brain to stop it from squealing. When the pistol slide rebounds and comes to a rest, I realize I have no future beyond this moment: within his death is mine, and with revenge unto him there is the promise of revenge unto me (will a Fatuus come to visit me personally, or will they send another dog because they know it will not take much?). I look down upon my subject and see dotted lines drawn along his skin, as if zoning out different cuts of meat. I see the grooves of his trachea pronounced through the muscle; I wonder how easily the flesh would tear away. There is still time to carve open his chest, from the clavicle along the sternum, like he taught me, and crawl into the home of his prayers to—like a wounded animal—die in. It smells like gunpowder. The shot still rings. His head rolls to the side and he is dead. But he is something so far removed from nature that the cadaversmiles anyway.
by the homeward path
Kazuha revisits his hometown and meets a certain wanderer along the way.
Kaedehara Kazuha is thirteen when the world decides he will grow up. He remembers the day: the polite smiles, the congratulations — though, Kazuha is the youngest of his audience, consisting of only his father and his father's friends. He feels the weight of nobility climbing him, as if a spark catching on his kimono's frayed edges. They are not here for him. It is either formality, pity, or an attempt to take advantage of the clan early. His father is not blind to it, but there is nothing he can do. Like a dying breath spread across thirteen years, Kageharu spends it trying to raise a son. Traditionally, the father gives his son a blade as soon as he turns fifteen, at the same time he is sent to be trained as a samurai. But Kaedehara Kazuha is thirteen when he is given his first real blade, and he is thirteen when his life begins to end. Kaedehara Kazuha is eighteen when his father dies. He remembers the day: the healers, the veiled attendants that came soon after, the funeral held after what seemed to be moments. Kazuha stays the longest. He is the only one to pick his father's bones from his crematory ashes, and his hands shake as he does so. He watches the dark clouds swell, the scent of the earth raising to him like an apology, and the autumn rain dappling his haori in worthless consolation. He does not return down the mountainside to collect his father's things — they stay there until they are abandoned by Kazuha and seized by the Shogunate. Kazuha knows nothing makes that residency any more of a home than where his father resides: somewhere upon the mountains, where Kazuha hopes he is happy. Kazuha sleeps in the rain under the guise of a samurai's vigil until a shrine maiden wakes him, now stricken with fever. Kaedehara Kazuha is eighteen when he is forced to survive, but he is only eighteen, and he doesn't know how. Kaedehara Kazuha is twenty-one when he meets the face of god. He remembers the day: the war, the glory doused in lightning, his face reflected in the shattered blade, the burning pain of that dying vision against his bare skin. He is twenty-one when he should have died, and he is twenty-one when god decides he won't. When she looks at him, he feels the hairs along his neck raise, the static ripping through his veins in anticipation. But nothing comes. She could have killed him with as much ease as she did his friend, and yet through some divine miracle, Kazuha lives to board the Alcor and flee his only home. When the thunder surrounding Inazuma's islands roars, he thinks: Did she choose to spare Kazuha? Did she find it dishonorable to kill a man with his back turned? Did she find him too insignificant to waste her energy on? He searches for a reason in her brutality — but all he sees is pain. His friend is twenty-one when he is executed, and Kaedehara Kazuha is twenty-one when he understands what grief brings people to do.
home is where the heart is
(Post-Sumeru AQ; the Wanderer reconciles with his past through the personifications of his trauma)
“We can’t all be perfect. A will to live built only on rage and spite is better than none. It’s by this fuel that the brightest fires burn.” “It’s only a pyre of martyrdom.” “I’ve seen too much—felt too much—to ever be at peace again. I don’t shame myself for my hatred. For the time being, this desire to settle my own debts is all I have to keep myself afloat. I will allow myself just that. I doubt I will ever come to truly make things right. I cannot forgive myself as much as I cannot forgive those who have wronged me.” “Is that why you wish for me to hate you?” Kazuha’s breath was soft. “Do you want me to validate your self-destruction, prove that you deserve your self-hatred?” “There was one thing the Traveler told me when they revised my great-grandfather’s letter. They said your life was one of betrayal and subsequent revenge, before telling me to wait until the day I could hear the rest from you, yourself. I didn’t think that day would come so soon.” Kazuha put a hand to his chin. “As I think about it, you’re different from what I anticipated. I envisioned someone who sought pleasure from violence, enabled by their entitled sense of power. Now, I only see a pitiful man who cannot cope with the fact he has none.” Kunikuzushi pivoted, extending a hand as if it were a muscle routine burned into his memory, and grabbed a fistful of the Kaedehara’s scarf. He met Kazuha’s eyes with a twisted glare of weakness and an overcompensating force of authority appearing as pure defensive rage. Though, as he opened his mouth to curse at him, he found himself absent of any reason to do so. After a moment, he blinked—and relaxed. “I see,” Kazuha said, readjusting his scarf as soon as Kunikuzushi’s hand dropped away. The cat hidden away atop his shoulder gave a befuddled purr. “This idea that you want me to hold a grudge against you isn’t out of justice. It’s only your self-hatred saying that you deserve it. Kunikuzushi looked at his hand as if to process what he had done. He imagined there was blood on it; he felt the anger dissipate, only for its space inside his chest to be filled by remorse. It was a foreign feeling. [...] “When I look at you, there’s a part of me that sees you as another wonder of this world. That is to say, when you claim you knew my ancestors, I… can feel it: that string of fate woven between us.” He makes a movement to reach out to you. He stops himself short, the Puppet said. Intuition brings him close, but you are still untouchable to him. To him, you are neither god nor mortal. He is not one to assign definitions to the world around him—but with you, he does not define you because you are undefinable. He will come around to calling you a monster like the rest, eventually, the Balladeer answered. —But he is different! the Kabukimono cried. All mortals are cut from the same cloth. It is in his nature to fear that which he cannot understand. … Even Niwa, in his final moments, feared death, the Kabukimono conceded. Make him fear you, the Balladeer craved. Make him fear losing you, the Kabukimono pleaded. The Puppet’s invisible eyes, sitting within empty, unbiased sockets, bore upon his soul like something darker, more twisted, than divine judgment. You are the only one afraid. To make people fear you is only a means to assert your authority over them, to assert your position as separate and unbothered by the world below. He has bridged the gap and brought you down to earth. You fear that. It continued: He knows you like he knows himself. He knows you are afraid of your own vulnerability. He is holding his hand out, not to wrap it around your neck, but as a genuine offering. To him, he is looking in the mirrored waters of a still pond. To him, he is reaching out to himself: the version still stuck beneath the surface. “I would like to get to know you better,” the Niwa boy said. His hand crossed his chest and rested just above his heart. It ached as if to say there was something missing. “To hear your story is an opportunity I cannot let pass me by.” If you take that hand, you are worse than scum, the Balladeer said. You do not need a mortal’s pity.It is not pity.If you take that hand you will feel all that pain all over again, the Kabukimono said. You will break.It is worse.It is understanding.
in the wings
(Honkai: Star Rail; Jing Yuan/Dan Heng)
“General.” Jing Yuan hummed. Then, staving off the inevitable topic, he commented, “It feels so impersonal when you address me like that.” “What are you so afraid of?” Dan Heng asked forthright. Jing Yuan wandered the higher platform, his hand tracing the back of his seat, until he reached the center of his desk, to which he planted his palms against its surface and peered across his array of maps, files, scrolls, loose papers, and every other material form that bureaucracy came in. “I don’t even allow myself to answer that question,” he said. “Because of the mara?” Dan Heng did not have a habit of sugarcoating his words, though his sincerity was there. He nodded. “I cannot afford the mental strain of dwelling on it,” Jing Yuan answered more honestly than he had ever been with himself. “I say I fear annihilation—a very human thing, yes? But even then, I know I’m lying: There are worse things than annihilation.” It was easy to understand who he was talking about. “What happened, then?” Dan Heng asked. “To everyone.” The introduction of the topic didn’t worsen the weight on Jing Yuan’s shoulders; it gave it a name. Jing Yuan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Looking to apologize and close himself off once more, he glanced upwards to Dan Heng’s gaze and was suddenly struck with the same furrowed passion he was met with that day in the Shackling Prison: a promise deeper than words. Tell me, Dan Heng didn’t say. “I watched you all grow farther and farther away from me,” he began. “I thought, to save everyone, all I had to do was lead us to victory.” He continued, “We might have won, then, but… First it was Baiheng, then Yingxing, then my master, then… Dan Feng.” His eyes flashed towards him. “One by one. I saw the boulder begin to roll, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.” “I lost.” A tired, tired sigh. “I lost, Dan Heng.” “I’m sorry.” Dan Heng stepped to the desk, closing the distance between them. “No, I’m sorry. These are all past trifles,” Jing Yuan responded. “I never meant to include you, as I thought you’d have no wish to have anything to do with me. But… it seems it was inevitable.” “And you’re wrong. I care, with both an innate feeling and honest truth, about you and the part of yourself you hide from me.” The inches between them were harder to part, tension thick like brick and mortar castle walls still yet preventing them to touch. “You shouldn’t—not now.” “The first thing I did as general was read the sentence—of molting rebirth, and in my eyes, an execution—of my own friend. Though, even then, the Ten-Lords Commission held you hostage for the sins of your predecessor. I didn’t know what left I could do—there was nobody left of my old friends to honor, and only you to save. So I signed an order against the Preceptor’s wishes to exile you and supersede the unfair imprisonment. “Ever since, I questioned if it was worth it. I knew—and I hoped—that I would never see you again. That you were somewhere forever beyond this place, somewhere that wouldn’t treat you like a monster. And imagine my surprise, seeing you appear again? I couldn’t decide if I was worried or relieved.” “Your decision gave me everything. It did save me.” “Mmm,” he hummed. “I’m glad. Thank you for saying that. It heals me to know that my actions then—and what little it felt like—did something… And isn’t that ironic? The general, feeling so little with so much.” “Of course not. We’re all merely men.” Jing Yuan’s breath staggered. “We’re all merely men,” he repeated, voice low. “We were all merely men.”
The Lighthouse
(Modern AU; Kazuha is a lighthouse attendant on an isolated island)
“Hey Kaz, you on?” Beidou would call an hour into nightfall. She—or whoever was staffed for the latest shifts—would do so over the radio at least once every day, an unsaid precaution that coincidentally began one year ago. They both knew why she did it; neither knew when she wouldn't have to anymore. “Yes sir,” he responded. “Just wanted to check up before I leave the station. Got home safely, as I know you were just oh-so worried about me. Remember that bear we were talking about? Crazy thing is, I think it was trying to get into some of our boats. And maybe the break room refrigerator—(A second voice cut in.) That was just you! (Beidou laughed.) What? I’m being accused here. Anyway, Kazuha, goodnight. Team will keep you company if you need it.” “Thank you, Captain. Goodnight.” As the call returned to static, Kazuha found himself within the familiar cold silence of his own thoughts. Tama, carrying her own fears of thunder, sat on Kazuha’s journal obstructively—not that he was using it—until deciding to settle on his chest, her head tucked beneath Kazuha’s chin. Throughout the rest of the night, the pages would remain blank, littered with nothing but Tama’s shed hair. The storm that wrecked their island that night was the worst they would see that entire year. Kazuha clutched his hand as he passed in his sleep, but help, rescue, salvation—whatever there was left to call it—never came. The storm functionally severed all access to the mainland, and vice versa. Nobody could come for them until the next morning, after the storm cleared. Beidou and a couple other members of the station stayed through the night shift to talk to him, but at some point, all their voices mended into one overwhelming cacophony of noise in the speaker—then disappeared into the sound of the rain beating against the window above their bed and wind testing the walls of their once-home. He remembered burying his head into the sheets, listening to his own breathing, and imagining classical songs sung by the dilapidated gramophone sitting in the corner of the room. At some point, everyone but Beidou remained on the line. A woman named Death would emerge within the shadow of each lightning strike’s glow, the cold emptiness where life—the light—once remained. A short-lived moment, and the proceeding bitter lingering. She was the end; she was the act of taking; she was the taken; she was a thousand undeniable things and more; she was everything that stirred in the mystery Kazuha refused to confront, and it was from that same mystery she emerged. When he looked out, raising his head from his lover’s side for the first time since his last breath, he watched her appear on the foundation poles of the old dock between flashes of lightning. Her skin was pallid with a deathly blue undertone, her thin figure’s silhouette obscured by the tentacles twisting around her body. As lightning struck where she stood, she disappeared instantaneously, leaving only wooden shrapnel and torn dock boards in her wake. The fear kept him from tears. When the storm settled, Beidou had to nearly break the door off its hinges just to get inside the house. Kazuha didn’t hear her knocking. They buried him in the garden, saying a couple of prayers—whatever those were worth in the ears of someone God abandoned, and left before the sun reached its midday throne. And, a perfect year later, Death’s second coming appeared in the same place she stood, perched upon the foundation poles of the ruined old dock. From the ocean, he came. The clock struck midnight. And a knock resounded throughout the empty home.