imaginarynetwork | 01, text | un: dearsunshine

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01, text | un: dearsunshine

hi everyone!!! ＼(＾▽＾ ⋈)／ if we havent met or u dont remember me yet my name is sayori!!!
i remembered i used to write a lot and parfaitgirls poem rly inspired me
so i wanted to make a VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!!! 《《o(≧◇≦)o》》

i went to the roswell center bc i wanted to read some baislan poetry
and while i was there i asked if they had a club where ppl could talk about writing
and it turns out they didnt! (￣ヘ￣)
but someone heard me ask about it and got RLY EXCITED
so we got some of the students together to start a literature club there!!! ☆*:.｡.__〆(⌒▽⌒ ⋈)

so if u like to read or write and talk about literature u should come to the roswell center in the afternoons for literature club!
i may not be there every day bc we have a lot to do LOL but i should be there p often (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)
and ur welcome to come by if ur just curious too!!! (⁀ᗢ⁀) writing is rly nice but u wont know if u like it until u try!!!

and since this is abt literature i thought itd be a good idea to share one of my poems here too
if u want to tell me what u think then consider it a trial run for the literature club wwwwww (⋈ ≧▽≦)ﾉｼ))

[As promised, there is also a photo of a page in a notebook! ~~it's in two images bc it was huge otherwise but it's one page i promise~~]

(transcription available here)

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[She's still a little absorbed in everything going on with her brain and her feelings, so she doesn't see as his expression changes. But she feels it. The warmth of the happiness that overtakes him. It's like a balm for the anxiety that the incomplete memories are slowly stirring up. It's just soothing.

This is out of order, she realizes, but — that's suddenly not nearly as important as his happiness and seeing whatever made him that happy. And. Well. It's easier to focus on this, anyway.

It hits her like a bludgeon within the first stanza: this is a love poem. The tips of her fingers brush the paper as she reads and almost, faintly, just barely remembers as she impressed her love upon the page with each letter. Her face starts to burn with a fierce blush about halfway through, but she doesn't realize it, too caught up in the fond fuzziness that's gradually forming itself into...moments. Not the whole thing, but moments.

She reads through the notes, but again, it feels unnecessary. In fact, it brings her more questions than answers (Sex Pistols? Shadowdale? A lot of stuff happened between us, but what?) Despite that, she's still more preoccupied with the echoing fondness in her chest which gets stronger as it reverberates through her.

Eventually, it bubbles out of her in a kind of watery laugh, and she says with some revelation:] You kissed me when I showed you this one.

[She'll feel it echoed back at her, all those fond fuzzy feelings mirrored through the Oath; when she looks at him, he's grinning, goofy and wide and lopsided.]

Yeah! 'Course I did. What was I supposed to do, not kiss you when you wrote something like that about me?

[Don't be ridiculous.]

[Shuffling a little, he pulls out his notebook from the inside of the couch. There's a bookmark in it, on a particular page.]

Uh, I realized that I'm pretty sure I did one about you, too. I dunno if you wanna read it, but . . .

[Well. He nudges it forward until it's balanced precisely on their touching knees.]

[Wow, him making that face makes her feel like she just got punched in the gut. Is that allowed? Who let him look like that?

She means to clarify about the kiss, but staring directly into that grin has rendered her brainless. Only him pulling out the notebook grabs her attention, and her eyes go wide with wonder as she regards the bookmark that peeks out from it.]

You...wrote about me? Really? [Awe and some disbelief, though not in bad faith. She's just— surprised? And it does something funny to her emotionally, something swelling and overwhelming before she even reads the damn thing.

Of course she wants to read it. She slips her finger against the bookmark to open the notebook up to that page.]

—hey, it matches mine. [Lights and Shadows. That's so cute. It's more than cute, actually, but she gets caught up in reading the rest before she can linger on that.

This poem says some things that catch in the back of Sayori's head. Loose threads snagging unpleasantly on sharp hooks as they drag across her mind. She ignores them, because this isn't the first thing on this island that's given her that feeling, and they're not as important right now as everything else. Everything else being the absolutely crushing mass of affection inside of her, of course, and things that she definitely starts to remember about this poem. Things that she remembers about Mista, because they're the same thing. Reading someone's writing is like getting to know them.

The feeling is like the first time she read it at the same time that it's comforting familiarity, the feeling of having read something so many times that you've memorized it.

When she's done, she exhales a sharp, rattling breath. Lifts her head, lifts her hand, and then grabs his chin and turns his face toward her so that she can kiss him, deep and lingering.]

[The things she feels are complicated. That's no surprise. It's a complicated thing, this poem he wrote, even though it's made of words that he used to think were too simple to turn into poetry. I know you don't remember things like that rings ominous deep down to his bones, moreso because he doesn't remember what it means and is terrified that she'll remember before he does, leaving him unable to help.]

[There are other hard things in the poem. Callouts, kind of, but not really — things that are true about her, that he must have written because he knew and cared enough to put them down on paper, because they're things he loves about her, too. All the dips and peaks, lights and shadows.]

[All the complicated things she's feeling right now, he loves those too. They're part of her, so he loves them. As she rides the wave, down and then all the way up again, he leans against her gently, shoulder against hers just to feel the contact and the temperature of her body by his side.]

[He does and doesn't expect the kiss. Maybe more accurate would be to say he feels like any moment could metamorphosize into a kiss, and this one seems especially like a kissing moment. So she takes his chin in her hand, and he moves in at the same time she does, not surprised, not ready either, just there with her, following her lead.]

[His hand buries in her hair, fingers curving automatically to cradle the curve of her skull. They kiss, and it's like the first time plus the time after he gave her the poem, neither of which he remembers clearly, both of which he can grasp the feeling of with perfect clarity. Two types of tenderness, slightly different. This time is both.]

[It's not the first time they've kissed since they ended up on this island. Far from it, frankly. But it sparks in her like the first time; not the first time here, but the first time ever. A flickering echo of warmth and newness. She knows the steps a lot better than the first time, though, and it's so automatic that she knows she learned them with him. She shapes to him by instinct — softly, easily.

Her cheeks heat in a way that's sort of overwhelmed. Layers upon layers of familiarity, feelings and memories that come along with kissing him like this. She remembers other instances, and they're like the points of a constellation: nothing between them, but it's easy enough to imagine how the lines would connect it all.

And a picture of the two of them, somewhere in the shape those lines make. Together. Safe.

He holds her to him the way one might hold a treasure. It makes the idea of separating from him almost impossible. There's a part of her that just wants to sink into this and get carried away wherever it leads, but — there's so much in her heart, too many questions and answers both. Still, she lets herself feel the pull of the current as her mouth closes over his bottom lip and the tip of her tongue brushes against it, one slow second before she pulls back.

Not far. Just giving herself enough space to talk, still close enough to feel his breath. So close that her lips still faintly brush his as she speaks, murmured into the air between them like a secret.] You showed me this poem on our first date. And when I showed you mine was our first kiss. My first kiss.

[Do you remember? she doesn't ask. It's okay if he doesn't yet. Even if his mind can't remember, his heart does; she can feel it.]

[That she pulls back after all that sort of kills him. Logically he knew she would. They're here together to do something, to discover something, not to make out. It's just — when she's kissing him, it's hard to care about anything else. Her tongue brushes his lip and then she's pulling away, and he whines, actually whines.]

[At least she doesn't go far. At least he thinks he can still feel her heartbeat in the space between them. Brows furrowed in kiss-addled confusion, he looks at her and tries to decipher what she's saying. First date, first kiss. Her first kiss.]

[Does he remember?]

[Closing his eyes against the world, he leans his forehead against hers and breathes in. Remembers something, the shapes around the reality, then a moment in time; the world around it blurs, doesn't exist, a fog in a vast and empty world. But they're there, the two of them, curled towards each other on a blanket. He remembers thinking about her all night, how cute she was, how happy he was to be next to her — and then she gave him that, out of nowhere. Words in rows, all about him. About them.]

[His eyes open again, but only halfway, only to take in the sight of her again.]

. . . Yeah. You really got me, huh? Nobody ever said anything like that about me before.

[A beat; a breath.]

I really love you, Sayori.

[The corner of her mouth quirks up a little in amusement at the sound of protest he makes. That's kind of how she feels too. Having to be the responsible one isn't very fun!

She can still relish their closeness while he sits in it, at least. Ponders on whatever her statement has brought to the surface of his mind. His breath is warm against her face and the fabric of his hat is soft against her forehead.

She's smiling as he opens his eyes, quiet reverence in the way she looks at him. And she lights up as their gazes meet, cheeks gone a little pink with the kissing and the— the words. The everything. Her heart feels so full — it aches with complicated fullness, and she's kind of afraid she might burst from it all.

She laughs faintly, reflexive and fond.] I felt it. In your poem, I mean. All the love you put into it.

[Her thumb strokes a little line along his chin where she still holds him in a relaxed grip.] I love you too. It's crazy that I'm the first one to say stuff like that, because you're really amazing.

[Both of their hearts are complicated in their fullness. He doesn't mind it; more pain is coming, he knows, but that doesn't mean it won't be tempered with moments like these. There's so much love in her eyes when she looks at him, it makes him feel invincible, like he can deal with absolutely anything life throws at him if he's got her at his back. That's gotta be some kind of magic, doesn't it?]

You think? [That it's crazy, not that he is those things; he doesn't doubt her feelings in the least, wouldn't even if they didn't have the Oath because her verses speak volumes.] I guess I never thought about it before you said 'em . . . I thought . . .

[He can't help himself, leans forward incrementally and kisses her lightly on the lips, needing to feel that connection more than anything else.]

I wanted to say things like that to somebody. Real romantic. I didn't realize I wanted to be swept off my feet so bad until you were already sweeping.

[Him saying that reminds her of something else. He said something like that before. When did he say that? What were they talking about?

Before you? Nah.

She remembers that, and as she remembers the sound of his voice making the words, the scene comes back to her, in foggy bits and pieces. She remembers what followed that, I thought people'd just be mad I fucked up their clothes, what they were talking about, and—

He kisses her, and the delicate flush in her face ceases to be delicate as she remembers the sensation of his kiss elsewhere. She goes from soft pink to embarrassingly red — it's partially the memory, and partially what Mista says in the here and now, which is so ridiculously sweet that her heart does a dumb little flip in her chest. It makes her sound way more competent at this romance thing than she actually is.

A laugh, breathless and high as she flusters.] Th-that's— me? Sweeping? I just, I mean—

[It's kind of funny, the quiet way she loses her composure. Because she's reluctant to be too loud and disrupt this moment of closeness, but she's clearly vibrating as she turns the sentiment over in her head and struggles to meet his eyes with her goofy grin.] I just wrote it because it's true. And— I showed you because you are amazing and you deserve to hear it, and I'm not very good at saying that stuff on the spot, so— so I only knew how to say it in a poem.

[Her hand moves to his cheek, her knuckles brushing fondly along it as another bubble of embarrassed laughter escapes her. It's hard to comprehend what she feels from him: this...perfect, impenetrable faith. But it feels nice.] But you got to say it to someone like you wanted, too. So I guess you won twice, huh?

[She’s so fucking beautiful he thinks his heart might actually explode from it. So gorgeous. So good, so perfect, it hurts and he’s aching the whole time she reaches for the right words to say. His chest feels tight. She talks, and then when she’s done talking he kisses her, because the idea of not kissing her is a physical pain.]

[It’s a quiet, brief kiss, his breath coming slow and even when he pulls back. Not very far, but far enough; the space between them is so small that it creates some sense of secrecy, like they’re hiding out somewhere no one can see them, sharing stories no one else can know.]

[Maybe it’s kind of like that. Other people could know, but they wouldn’t know all of it. The two of them are the only ones who can feel the easy understanding and openhearted love of their Oath.]

Man, I keep winning. I can’t seem to stop. Every time you smile at me it’s another win.

[Cheesy. Honest. Another openhearted thing; he holds it out to her, entirely unassuming, because he loves her. Loving her is what he thinks he might be best at.]

Hey. I dunno if I ever said, but . . . thank you. For taking a chance on all this. Not even just me, but any of this — I know it’s hard, you know? It means a lot to me that you felt like taking that risk was worth it. [A pause before he clarifies:] That you trusted me that much. That means everything to me, Sayori.

[That soft, secretive kiss is soothing and overwhelming at the same time. It calms the roiling bubble of fluster, but now she just feels like the inside of a sealed pressure cooker, her heart crushed under the profound weight of the affection. She's felt this before. She's felt it so many times. Every time he holds his heart out to her with a look or a kiss or a sweet word, so easy and unguarded, she feels it. And it feels like—

It feels like home.

She smiles again as he says that, bashful but earnest. Another win.

The next part, though, she has to think about. Which is a little frustrating, because half of it's that there's still so much she can't remember. She has enough trouble articulating her feelings even with all the pieces in place — it feels desperately unfair to have to seek out the bits that make this feeling make sense.

A deep, thoughtful sigh follows as her eyes flick down between them, trying to dig the right words out of her head.] ...I never wanted anyone to worry about me, you know? I only wanted to make people happy. So it felt like it'd mess everything up if I stopped smiling.

But...you seemed so happy just to know me. Even when I couldn't smile. I— [She pauses, hiccups over a breath of watery laughter as facts about her home return to her. Chopped up memories of a club full of people afraid to show their true feelings. People she loves dearly, but was only just beginning to understand, because they all held so much of themselves back.] I don't think anyone ever smiled at me the way you did before I came here, ahaha.

Even after... [After what? After something. Something dark and terrible, the sharp hooks that the threads of their poetry snagged on, something that her brain still can't unravel just yet.] You saw something really awful, right? But you still said that I gave you something to believe in.

[That's what he said, isn't it? That's not all, but it comes out of her mouth before that part has even properly come back to her. Something she's held onto so dearly that her heart tells her before her brain does.] So— if knowing me made you that happy, then I knew it was okay, even if it was scary. It was worth it to get to see you smile so much.

[She’s trying so hard. He can feel the way she struggles behind her eyes in the magical current between them, her shifting gaze the only outward sign of the fight to articulate herself through all of these missing pieces.]

[Nobody ever smiled at her the way he did, she says. Not back home. But something about her home was wrong, wasn’t it? He thinks he knows that, although what kind of wrong is a strange half-opaque constantly-moving mystery, a messy beast that keeps slithering out of his grasp. Regardless, it shouldn’t be that way. She should always be loved, always be smiled at — when she’s dark and drawn more than ever. Someone has to be the sunshine when she can’t be, or at the very least an umbrella.]

[Even now, his smile’s lingering. A little sad, but very real, and all for her.]

I saw something awful, yeah. I don’t remember all the bits and pieces, but I remember how it made me feel. Sad and angry and . . . I dunno. It was one of those things where I knew I couldn’t stop it or really even make it better, which is hard. I hate when that kind of thing happens, ‘cause I feel so helpless.

But I do believe in you. All the things I learned about you before then, like how you were brave and strong and funny and cute, how you were kind and always made me smile even if I felt like shit . . . you know, every time I look at you I feel like everything’s gonna be okay. Just like you said. When I look at you I know whatever storm’s passing over is gonna pass by. No matter what bad happens, it’s not stronger than you. Even if you don’t believe that, I know.

[It's a struggle not to kiss that smile and just disappear into it. The further they get from the poems, the more tempting it is to abandon the idea entirely and leave the rest for another day.

The weight of their journals against her leg reminds her not to. Still, he says all that and she can't not kiss him, so she closes that small, secretive space and presses her lips to his again, short and tender and easy. He's just so— something about the way he says things is just so genuine. So wholehearted. It makes her want to believe him even when her brain tries to tell her that he's wrong about her. Like she'd told him a few weeks ago, she doesn't feel like she's any of those things, brave and strong least of all.

But...she feels more like she can be, with him believing in her. There's something so steady and reliable about him that makes it easier.

She still lingers close after stealing that second brief kiss and gives a bit of a bashful grin, flustered by the praise even so.] See? You trust me so much. I think you have for a long time. [What makes her think so, she doesn't know. She'll recall later, or he'll remember and he'll tell her. She can't get hung up on it right now.]

I wanted to trust someone like that too. I... [A small pause, and then, with some realization:] I think I needed to? So...you don't have to thank me for anything. I'm just— really lucky to get to love someone like you, ehehe.

[She kisses him. When she's done kissing him, she stays; doesn't move away except enough to breathe, to smile, to show him how pink she's gone at words that, to him, are common-sense truths. Leaning his forehead against hers, he huffs out a breath, overwhelmed and flustered himself.]

[See? You trust me so much.]

I — trust you with everything. [His nose brushes against hers with a slight movement, brow furrowing, sort of pensive.] Not just my life, but . . . all the bad stuff. I trust you're gonna still love me if you know all of it. Even if I don't remember it now, I remember the feeling of telling you and . . . you didn't go away.

So I'm lucky, too. 'Cause I need to trust somebody with the bad things. I wasn't really alone before, there were a bunch of people around, but I felt alone, you know? And I don't anymore, not with you.

[All the bad stuff.

Her heart twists in sudden memory, some gut-wrenching thing that rattles noisily off the shelf as he explains. Her hand lifts to her chest, gripping the front of her shirt as if to hold her heart inside her own body. It doesn't all come back, but she remembers him crying like she'd never seen before. She remembers the fear she felt from him as he confided in her. And the bone-deep, raw trauma of— of whatever it was that had hurt him, that he'd been holding inside for so long.

She breathes out a shaky sigh, suddenly needing a release for the tightness in her chest.] You—

[What can she say in the face of trust like that? She feels like she already put all her best words into that poem, but she presses on, clumsy but protective conviction as she leans into him and closes her eyes.] —I promise I'll stay with you as long as I can. You won't have to be alone with that stuff again. Anything you want to tell me, even if I don't remember yet— you can, okay?

[She wants to keep him safe, this boy who believed in her right from the word go. She wants to be worthy of that trust.]

[He's so used to being the protector, he doesn't think of himself as needing protection. If he were presented with the idea of someone wanting to protect him, objectively, he'd probably say it'd feel weird. But the wave of fierce emotion that comes from Sayori feels completely natural. Like a space would feel empty between them if it weren't there. She's always kind of wanted to protect him, he thinks; she must have. Because that's just who she is. Down comes a bottle to save the day.]

. . . I know.

[As seems to happen so often, his feelings echo hers. Clumsy, soft, protective. His chest feels tight. To ease the tightness, he pulls her close again, squeezes her against him. Kisses the top of her head and nods, nods, nods.]

I'm not afraid of telling you stuff. Or I guess . . . I wouldn't be afraid anyway. But I don't feel like I have to protect you from it. I just feel like, I dunno. We're partners, right? You have my back, and I have yours.

[Which is somewhere between the dumbest and most earnest way he could have put that, so. On brand.]

[It's easy to tuck herself more snugly into the space beneath his chin as he nods, kisses the crown of her head and sends a wash of warmth down her body from the point where his lips touch. God, it's hot on this island, but she wouldn't trade the warmth of his embrace for anything.

She closes her eyes and breathes in the familiar smell of him, letting it out in a contented sigh after a moment of holding it in her lungs.

Partners.

Something about it feels secure in a new way. There's something concrete there, like she's been sifting sand through a sieve and finally chanced upon something solid. This is something else she doesn't understand, moreso because it lacks the well-worn familiarity of many of the other strange things she's been feeling. She doesn't touch it, because she lacks the context to make sense of it, but—

It does make her happy. She doesn't know why, but it does. A light, relieved sort of joy. A giggle bubbles out of her before she realizes, and she nods too, squeezing her arms around him in return.] Yeah, totally. You're the best partner I could ever ask for, ehehe~

That makes us sound super cool, too. Like partners in crime!

["Cool" is probably not the word most people would use to describe this, but sure.]

Heh. Yeah, it does.

[Whether or not it's accurate, her assessment is clearly something he agrees with, if the pulse of satisfied amusement through the Oath is any indication. If that doesn't do it, the way he wraps his arms tight around her and squeezes is another hint.]

We'd be good at that, too. Except you're way nicer than me, so I think we'd have to do, like, Robin Hood crimes. Or maybe mysterious dessert deliveries, if we wanted Natsuki's help. [A beat.] Or to just make desserts really badly.

[Wouldn't that go back to being a really awful crime at that point, though?]

[Huh. Robin Hood crimes.] I think someone said I was like Robin Hood once. Because of my bow.

[She blurts that one out without thinking and immediately feels a little embarrassed, because Robin Hood is a hero and Sayori is just Sayori. But, true to form, she pushes forward rather than sitting in it.] So I guess I have some practice, ahaha~

[She snuggles a little closer into his embrace, though the journals are kind of getting in the way. Which makes her think of something. And she means to say something about the desserts too, and not wanting to do awful dessert crimes on purpose, but the more immediate distraction wins out for the moment, as it often does with her. So:] Hey, can I sit in your lap while we read the rest? I just— want to be closer to you. It feels safer.

[It is an entirely innocent request, but she does understand that it could be distracting for him, so it seems polite to ask first.]

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01, text | un: dearsunshine

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