[Shinjiro lays Don Quixote's body to rest in the gardens, as she asked, and somehow he manages to stand up afterward. He doesn't move with any particular intention, honestly, half-dazed as the city's sky keeps turning split-pea green in his mind, Quixote's body mixing and blending with another woman's, inside a crushed house where a monster rampages, and all he can do is scream.
There are times where Shinjiro is forced to stop, whole body wracked by spasms he doesn't have the vocabulary to name as panic attacks, and his lungs feel as though they are on fire all over again, though any lingering trace of the wound on his back has healed over fully by now.
He stops, ultimately, in a place he recognizes -- though he could not verbalize even to himself why he came. He was just telling someone on the other day that there was no real cause for kinship between him and Kitsuragi; the older man was simply the sort of person who saw someone in need of assistance and offered it. They are not anything akin to friends. He has no cause to go inside, or ring Kitsuragi's doorbell, or any such thing.
He cannot bring himself to leave, either, though. So when Kim steps out for his nightly single cigarette, perhaps, he'll find a familiar teenager huddled there, breathing in uneven fits and gasps as he tries to hold his shoulders steady, face streaked with tear tracks he would have been humiliated for anyone to see, were he mentally present enough to be aware of them.]
It's not by nature of nightmares, or worries, or anything quite so dramatic. Quite the opposite. It's because for a man used to being overworked to the bone, to only fall asleep when his body absolutely demands it, mind abuzz with office politics, with paperwork, with his overburdened caseload, with the junior officers relying on his guidance, this sedentary life has him wandering lost. So he's taken to having his nightly cigarette later and later these days, wandering around the deserted streets of this godforsaken place as though he's just asking for trouble.
Which happens to be fortuitous for Shinji as Kim exits the apartment building he and Kamui have hunkered down in, patting his pocket to make sure his pack of cigarettes is still there, only to see what could practically be a pile of old coats and laundry, quivering. He pauses, taken aback, but eyes flitting over Shinji, he's immediately able to see what's going on: he's having a panic attack. A bad one. ]
Aragaki...?
[ Why he's having one doesn't matter. Not immediately, anyway. After all, why wouldn't people here be having panic attacks, those who believe themselves to be dead most of all? Stranded here without friends or family, or even a friendly face, nothing to do, nothing to see, just the same monotonous thing day-in, day-out as they wait for the other shoe to drop, surrounded by others just as suspicious and unhappy as they are -- if anything, panicking about this is a sign of sanity.
He doubts that's all there is to it. But he can deal with that later. Now, he does what he knows, which is to place both of his hands on Aragaki's shoulders, squeezing them a little too tightly; the weight will anchor him, steady him in this moment. ]
You have to listen to me. You're having a panic attack. Whatever this is, this will pass. I need you to breathe. [ He grabs onto Aragaki's hand and puts it on his own chest so he can feel its motion, an easier task than expecting Aragaki to be able to see clearly, leading by example. This, too, is a familiar gesture; how many times has he done this for the more receptive teens he's worked with, trying to calm them after some horrific crime or another? Too often, it's all he can do before returning them to Revachol's cruel embrace, a victim to the world around them. ]
Breathe in... and out. And in... and out.
[ He'll continue this for a while. As long as he needs to, frankly, until the world becomes less of a blur for Aragaki, until he's able to get his shit together. ]
[If the touch had been lighter, Shinjiro might have jerked away or lashed out, lost in the throes of flashback as he is. The tight grip is grounding, though, and with nothing else firm to reach for, the steady rhythm of Kim's chest is clung to like the last piece of driftwood in the ocean. Unconsciously, his fingers clasp tighter onto the fabric of Kim's jacket as his breathing slowly steadies to match the pattern.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually the older man's voice starts sounding like words again, losing their distorted, faraway quality. He blinks slowly, the haze gradually fading from his eyes as he comes back to himself. Even once he has, though, he uh...he stares at Kim like a deer in the headlights for an embarrassingly long time, is what he does.]
I...
["Thanks" sounds profoundly stupid, childish even. "Sorry" is similarly discarded out of hand. It might have been the easiest move to unceremoniously fuck off without a word, but his legs don't seem to have gotten that memo, since he simply remains rooted to his spot on the ground as though he could simply melt into the pavement and evaporate into the surrounding atmosphere through sheer force of will. Eventually, he does manage to tear his gaze away from the older man with some unintelligible grunt, though he still doesn't get up.]
I'm okay. [Transparently false, but one does what one must for the sake of their dignity.] Just give me a minute.
You will be all right, yes. You just had a panic attack. Nothing you can't live through, [ Kim says crisply. A panic attack brought on by something, certainly, whether that's the demons in Aragaki's own brain or something he witnessed out in the City's streets, abandoned save for the people who were brought here, prone to conflict and violence and paranoia as they are. Kim reaches a gloved hand out towards Aragaki, the gesture as calm and deeply insistent as his voice is, as though he cannot imagine a world in which the other person would say no. It has taken years to master it, the sense of gravity that he knows what's best, but it's a skill he uses more and more as he grows older. ]
Come on. Up. You're coming inside with me. You need a glass of water and a soft place to sit. And perhaps when you've calmed, you can tell me what happened.
[ Kamui is out as well -- it will just be the two of them. ]
[Shinjiro thinks, somewhat in passing, that 'panic attack' seems too neat of a name for it, as though someone just runs up and punches you in the face with panic, rather than just being unable to keep your shit together without freaking out in front of people. Kitsuragi offers him his hand, offers him water and somewhere nice to sit and he feels his ears go warm in embarrassment.
(On some level, he knows this is why he came. Kitsuragi wouldn't turn him away, whether or not he could express a desire for help)
He wants to say something like, "you don't gotta worry about me", or perhaps simply "It's fine, I don't need it", but the words don't make it out. He's too worn out at this point for the front, and the truth is, desperately doesn't want to be alone with the images behind his eyelids tonight, as wrong as it feels to admit that even to himself. His own hand is still trembling a little as it reaches to meet Kitsuragi's outstretched one; it's too much to hope that the older man won't notice, but Shinjiro can at least pretend that he hasn't as the man helps him to his feet.
Before they make it to the door of the apartment building, though, Shinjiro hesitates again, hands shoved into his pockets. He can still feel the faint warmth of Kitsuragi's hands on his shoulders, still remembers the steady thump of his heart under Shinjiro's hand and it twists something in his gut. When was the last time an adult even looked his way when he was having a hard time? He can't even recall the nuns at the orphanage doing that--too many kids to keep fed and healthy to worry after their individual well-being.
It scares him. He feels like he ought to chase the older man off somehow, before Kitsuragi gets hurt. Knowing him always hurts, he's found.]
...Why do you care, anyway? Ain't even like there's shit all to patch up this time.
[No blood, no mostly-sealed bullet hole. Just some stupid kid having a breakdown. It's foolish. A waste of his time, at best.]
[That night, Shinjiro can't sleep. He gives it a good, genuine try, at least, but after staring at his ceiling in vain for an hour, he gets on his shoes and decides to go for a walk. Clear his head at least a little, maybe tire himself enough that he can properly pass out instead of fixating on Amada being here and apparently no longer bearing a grudge and staying at his place for lack of anywhere else to go.
It's hard not to think about it, though; the issue lingers right at the forefront of his mind and he keeps tripping over it, like a sore in your mouth which you keep accidentally brushing your tongue against. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, the traitorous whispers insist. Amada was supposed to get closure and move on when he bled out in that alley. Having the opportunity to mend fences, to start over? It's dizzying, terrifying.
(He doesn't deserve it)
Eventually, he gives up and heads back, and when he returns to his bed and still can't sleep, he fetches his phone so he can pass the time idly scrolling the network. Only -- he hits the wrong button, and a list of contacts comes up instead, with k.kitsuragi pointedly at the top of recents.
...]
yo you awake?
[If he isn't, Shinjiro can simply later deny having had anything he wanted to talk about, he figures.]
[ Kim is not, in fact, awake. When he's not plagued with insomnia - an unfortunately common event, as it is for most people of his occupation - he prefers to be in bed early enough so that he can at least pretend he gets a reasonable amount of sleep. It's an occupational hazard to be a light sleeper too, though, so when his phone buzzes in the middle of the night, he stirs, reaching blindly for his glasses on his bedside table and blinking hard until the notification on his phone comes into focus.
Aragaki. Kid's got a dramatic life. He gives himself a couple minutes before answering, sitting up in bed and stretching the kink out of his back before padding into his kitchen and opening the window for a breath of bracingly cold air to wake up for whatever's going on. It doesn't occur to him to ignore the message.
He prods at the screen's keyboard with his index finger alone. ] I am. What is it?
[If Shinjiro knew, he'd be embarrassed and feel guilty, frankly, but from the message, he simply assumes that the older man is simply having an insomnia night himself. There's still a beat of hesitation before he actually dives in, though, because he's not sure he's ready to talk about this, or where to even start.]
can i ask you a personal question
[Completely normal things to text someone at 3 in the morning. There is no intense "asking for a friend" energy here, what are you talking about.]
[ In almost every single other situation, Kim knows precisely how he would answer. No, curt and without explanation. It's precisely how he'd treat his colleagues and is, in fact, how he has treated previous partners, though he is not proud of the fact. No. Go to sleep.
But none of them were teenagers in incredibly precarious positions battling with a death wish who had, for some reason beyond his comprehension, decided he was an acceptable adult in their lives. He breathes out a long sigh and despite his better judgment, types back: ] Sure, why not?
[ The lights of a convenience store are flickering.
There's been more peculiar sights in the city, and a store with a shoddy lighting system wouldn't be anything unusual anywhere else. But the fact that it is happening here, where the state of every establishment is more eerie for how put together it is, could raise an eyebrow for anyone trying to pass by.
Who would want to investigate what's more than likely to be trouble? When, if watching it for too long, one might catch boxes being knocked off from their shelving, ears may hear the sound of someone yelling something, just before the entire building falls into darkness. None of the other buildings on the street are affected, and doors are wide open, and though the night outside may not be entirely dark, the interior seems oddly hard to make much out.
[ Kim has not been immune to the aftereffects of the party, the numerous ways that the City somehow pried its way into their very brains, manipulating their thoughts and emotions to their liking. He's spent the past few hours fluctuating between the unstoppable urge to run to the university, spotting white-clad researchers out of the corner of his eye, and nursing waves of paranoia settling on his shoulders. But he's managed to compose himself, at least for the time being; he'd taken some time to sit down, breathe deeply, remind himself of his position as Lieutenant of the RCM. He's better than this.
With that in mind, he finds the nearest convenience store, hoping for a cold bottle of water and something to eat to settle his nerves, only to find -- something happening. He hesitates outside of it momentarily before shrugging, deciding that investigating this is at least better than going to that damned party. He unhooks the prybar he keeps on him at all times these days and grips it as he steps through the sliding doors, keeping to the periphery of the store. In and out, he tells himself. It takes some willpower not to reflexively yell: this is the RCM, state your business!
With things as they are, he doesn't announce himself, merely looking warily around for the source of the unrest. As stealthy as he intends to move through it, there's no disguising the whirr of the sliding doors, the thump of his boots against the sticky linoleum, the rustle of his nylon jacket. ]
[ There's some fortune--can it be called fortune?--that when Kim enters the store, those once flickering lights behave for him: they stay lit above head, their hum mingling with the noise of a radio in play of some distorted tune for the proper store experience. Yet what hasn't normalised is the state inside, the farthest aisle scattered of its products of snack bars and cereals, mints and other miscellaneous items most likely to be found close to the counter.
Because if Kim follows the mess, the counter isn't too far. A look down the side leading away from the counter and the mess, and there's no evidence of anyone moving through; but keeping his eyes down the other aisle, a larger part of the knocked stock can be seen. A more careful eye over the very edge of the most affected shelf, a torn scrap of fabric has caught on it, a red chequered pattern lightly discernible, usual for a shirt, if Kim's seen enough of the style to recognise it, or at least guess.
Except, there's nobody visible down the aisles. And on the walk through, none of the aisles would have revealed anyone. They could be around the corners, whoever (or if there's anyone) might be present, though there might be one area a detective would think to look if all signs lead to someone passing through a specific place.
...over the counter, where there will be one Robby Keene in a red-chequered shirt trying to get to the farthest left side of the counter, as if aware he might've given himself away to some kind of company by the mess left on the other side. Moving quietly, not even looking for anyone before he might be found--
though he will stop if he is found, and that's made obvious in any way. ]
[ Kim continues prowling through the aisles. It is not a reassuring sight; Kim is used to being the aggressor in situations like these, the skid and squeak of his boots signaling a relentless foe, projecting confidence as his shadowed silhouette drifts through the store. Once he makes his way towards the counter, however, it's easier to see the truth of him, if Robby is still capable: a small man, despite the weight of his footsteps, brow wrinkled in concern, the thick lenses of his glasses glinting with the sparse light coming off of the freezers that line the walls. Kim's fine brows rocket upwards as he catches a glimpse of the young boy hiding behind there, every inch of him reeking of fear and desperation. ]
...Robby? Is that you? [ He says incredulously, peering over the counter. It's me -- it's Mr. Kitsuragi. [ As though there's anyone else out there with his distinct voice. ] What's going on? Are you all right?
Merry Christmas and a happy Noel to you! I'm here to announce who you'll be a secret Santa to... Your giftee is: Chesed!
Congratulations! Here's a few notes to help you pick or make the perfect present for them.
LIKES: Fun mugs DISLIKES: Bad coffee. Terrible. HOBBIES: Brewing coffee, brightening Gebura's day. All that frowning will leave terrible wrinkles, you see.
Remember we'll be having a Christmas party on the 25th, so if you want to give it to them then or just drop it off by the tree for them to find, well, you can do just that! We'll have a lot of traditional Christmas foods, plus smores, and I'm sure it'll be a wonderful little time for us to gather, sing carols, and be merry this cold winter season!
If you've got any questions, comments, concerns, or desires for clarifications... You got one chance to ask them, because I've got a bunch of people to contact and I don't have a bunch of time to entertain conversation! :)
( a picnic basket, specifically. there's so much glitter involved that it could probably be considered a fire hazard, especially with the amount of ribbon that's also present..
anyway, once he gets past all of that, he'll see a handle of whiskey and a box of cigars. ......... and a stress ball. and a cashmere scarf, keeping it all bundled together. it's soft and warm and also a light orange. all of which are laid atop a bed of daisies! because why not. )
you really should tell me what sort of things you like next time, or i'll keep guessing.
[Kim's secret santa gift will be waiting for him under the tree at Kromer's little holiday party and exchange. There's no message for him to find it there so uh, hopefully he knows to go look.]
[ if u saw me posting to the wrong inbox no u didn't ]
Good day, Mr. Kitsuragi, and a merry Christmas to you too~ Thank you kindly for your gift. I haven't owned a moka pot before, so I've been eagerly experimenting with it.
text (apologies for how late this is -- I was on hiatus! please feel free to drop if need be <3)
You're very welcome. I'll admit I didn't have much to go off of, but I didn't think I could go wrong there. That's how most households make it where I'm from, if they live alone.
text. @beanallright (NO WORRIES i've been fighting for my life too)
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action! post quixote murder
There are times where Shinjiro is forced to stop, whole body wracked by spasms he doesn't have the vocabulary to name as panic attacks, and his lungs feel as though they are on fire all over again, though any lingering trace of the wound on his back has healed over fully by now.
He stops, ultimately, in a place he recognizes -- though he could not verbalize even to himself why he came. He was just telling someone on the other day that there was no real cause for kinship between him and Kitsuragi; the older man was simply the sort of person who saw someone in need of assistance and offered it. They are not anything akin to friends. He has no cause to go inside, or ring Kitsuragi's doorbell, or any such thing.
He cannot bring himself to leave, either, though. So when Kim steps out for his nightly single cigarette, perhaps, he'll find a familiar teenager huddled there, breathing in uneven fits and gasps as he tries to hold his shoulders steady, face streaked with tear tracks he would have been humiliated for anyone to see, were he mentally present enough to be aware of them.]
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It's not by nature of nightmares, or worries, or anything quite so dramatic. Quite the opposite. It's because for a man used to being overworked to the bone, to only fall asleep when his body absolutely demands it, mind abuzz with office politics, with paperwork, with his overburdened caseload, with the junior officers relying on his guidance, this sedentary life has him wandering lost. So he's taken to having his nightly cigarette later and later these days, wandering around the deserted streets of this godforsaken place as though he's just asking for trouble.
Which happens to be fortuitous for Shinji as Kim exits the apartment building he and Kamui have hunkered down in, patting his pocket to make sure his pack of cigarettes is still there, only to see what could practically be a pile of old coats and laundry, quivering. He pauses, taken aback, but eyes flitting over Shinji, he's immediately able to see what's going on: he's having a panic attack. A bad one. ]
Aragaki...?
[ Why he's having one doesn't matter. Not immediately, anyway. After all, why wouldn't people here be having panic attacks, those who believe themselves to be dead most of all? Stranded here without friends or family, or even a friendly face, nothing to do, nothing to see, just the same monotonous thing day-in, day-out as they wait for the other shoe to drop, surrounded by others just as suspicious and unhappy as they are -- if anything, panicking about this is a sign of sanity.
He doubts that's all there is to it. But he can deal with that later. Now, he does what he knows, which is to place both of his hands on Aragaki's shoulders, squeezing them a little too tightly; the weight will anchor him, steady him in this moment. ]
You have to listen to me. You're having a panic attack. Whatever this is, this will pass. I need you to breathe. [ He grabs onto Aragaki's hand and puts it on his own chest so he can feel its motion, an easier task than expecting Aragaki to be able to see clearly, leading by example. This, too, is a familiar gesture; how many times has he done this for the more receptive teens he's worked with, trying to calm them after some horrific crime or another? Too often, it's all he can do before returning them to Revachol's cruel embrace, a victim to the world around them. ]
Breathe in... and out. And in... and out.
[ He'll continue this for a while. As long as he needs to, frankly, until the world becomes less of a blur for Aragaki, until he's able to get his shit together. ]
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It takes a few minutes, but eventually the older man's voice starts sounding like words again, losing their distorted, faraway quality. He blinks slowly, the haze gradually fading from his eyes as he comes back to himself. Even once he has, though, he uh...he stares at Kim like a deer in the headlights for an embarrassingly long time, is what he does.]
I...
["Thanks" sounds profoundly stupid, childish even. "Sorry" is similarly discarded out of hand. It might have been the easiest move to unceremoniously fuck off without a word, but his legs don't seem to have gotten that memo, since he simply remains rooted to his spot on the ground as though he could simply melt into the pavement and evaporate into the surrounding atmosphere through sheer force of will. Eventually, he does manage to tear his gaze away from the older man with some unintelligible grunt, though he still doesn't get up.]
I'm okay. [Transparently false, but one does what one must for the sake of their dignity.] Just give me a minute.
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Come on. Up. You're coming inside with me. You need a glass of water and a soft place to sit. And perhaps when you've calmed, you can tell me what happened.
[ Kamui is out as well -- it will just be the two of them. ]
cw bad attitudes toward mental health
(On some level, he knows this is why he came. Kitsuragi wouldn't turn him away, whether or not he could express a desire for help)
He wants to say something like, "you don't gotta worry about me", or perhaps simply "It's fine, I don't need it", but the words don't make it out. He's too worn out at this point for the front, and the truth is, desperately doesn't want to be alone with the images behind his eyelids tonight, as wrong as it feels to admit that even to himself. His own hand is still trembling a little as it reaches to meet Kitsuragi's outstretched one; it's too much to hope that the older man won't notice, but Shinjiro can at least pretend that he hasn't as the man helps him to his feet.
Before they make it to the door of the apartment building, though, Shinjiro hesitates again, hands shoved into his pockets. He can still feel the faint warmth of Kitsuragi's hands on his shoulders, still remembers the steady thump of his heart under Shinjiro's hand and it twists something in his gut. When was the last time an adult even looked his way when he was having a hard time? He can't even recall the nuns at the orphanage doing that--too many kids to keep fed and healthy to worry after their individual well-being.
It scares him. He feels like he ought to chase the older man off somehow, before Kitsuragi gets hurt. Knowing him always hurts, he's found.]
...Why do you care, anyway? Ain't even like there's shit all to patch up this time.
[No blood, no mostly-sealed bullet hole. Just some stupid kid having a breakdown. It's foolish. A waste of his time, at best.]
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oh man i love that icon
hehehe TY!!!
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Back at the bowling alley?
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try again?
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Don't make me guess forever. We'll be here all day.
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standing on the train tracks!
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text; like 3 am the night ken arrives
It's hard not to think about it, though; the issue lingers right at the forefront of his mind and he keeps tripping over it, like a sore in your mouth which you keep accidentally brushing your tongue against. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, the traitorous whispers insist. Amada was supposed to get closure and move on when he bled out in that alley. Having the opportunity to mend fences, to start over? It's dizzying, terrifying.
(He doesn't deserve it)
Eventually, he gives up and heads back, and when he returns to his bed and still can't sleep, he fetches his phone so he can pass the time idly scrolling the network. Only -- he hits the wrong button, and a list of contacts comes up instead, with k.kitsuragi pointedly at the top of recents.
...]
yo
you awake?
[If he isn't, Shinjiro can simply later deny having had anything he wanted to talk about, he figures.]
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Aragaki. Kid's got a dramatic life. He gives himself a couple minutes before answering, sitting up in bed and stretching the kink out of his back before padding into his kitchen and opening the window for a breath of bracingly cold air to wake up for whatever's going on. It doesn't occur to him to ignore the message.
He prods at the screen's keyboard with his index finger alone. ] I am. What is it?
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can i ask you a personal question
[Completely normal things to text someone at 3 in the morning. There is no intense "asking for a friend" energy here, what are you talking about.]
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But none of them were teenagers in incredibly precarious positions battling with a death wish who had, for some reason beyond his comprehension, decided he was an acceptable adult in their lives. He breathes out a long sigh and despite his better judgment, types back: ] Sure, why not?
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onto action?
action!!
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cw: suicide discussion
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( timeframe: october event )
There's been more peculiar sights in the city, and a store with a shoddy lighting system wouldn't be anything unusual anywhere else. But the fact that it is happening here, where the state of every establishment is more eerie for how put together it is, could raise an eyebrow for anyone trying to pass by.
Who would want to investigate what's more than likely to be trouble? When, if watching it for too long, one might catch boxes being knocked off from their shelving, ears may hear the sound of someone yelling something, just before the entire building falls into darkness. None of the other buildings on the street are affected, and doors are wide open, and though the night outside may not be entirely dark, the interior seems oddly hard to make much out.
this is fine. ]
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With that in mind, he finds the nearest convenience store, hoping for a cold bottle of water and something to eat to settle his nerves, only to find -- something happening. He hesitates outside of it momentarily before shrugging, deciding that investigating this is at least better than going to that damned party. He unhooks the prybar he keeps on him at all times these days and grips it as he steps through the sliding doors, keeping to the periphery of the store. In and out, he tells himself. It takes some willpower not to reflexively yell: this is the RCM, state your business!
With things as they are, he doesn't announce himself, merely looking warily around for the source of the unrest. As stealthy as he intends to move through it, there's no disguising the whirr of the sliding doors, the thump of his boots against the sticky linoleum, the rustle of his nylon jacket. ]
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Because if Kim follows the mess, the counter isn't too far. A look down the side leading away from the counter and the mess, and there's no evidence of anyone moving through; but keeping his eyes down the other aisle, a larger part of the knocked stock can be seen. A more careful eye over the very edge of the most affected shelf, a torn scrap of fabric has caught on it, a red chequered pattern lightly discernible, usual for a shirt, if Kim's seen enough of the style to recognise it, or at least guess.
Except, there's nobody visible down the aisles. And on the walk through, none of the aisles would have revealed anyone. They could be around the corners, whoever (or if there's anyone) might be present, though there might be one area a detective would think to look if all signs lead to someone passing through a specific place.
...over the counter, where there will be one Robby Keene in a red-chequered shirt trying to get to the farthest left side of the counter, as if aware he might've given himself away to some kind of company by the mess left on the other side. Moving quietly, not even looking for anyone before he might be found--
though he will stop if he is found, and that's made obvious in any way. ]
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...Robby? Is that you? [ He says incredulously, peering over the counter. It's me -- it's Mr. Kitsuragi. [ As though there's anyone else out there with his distinct voice. ] What's going on? Are you all right?
[ What are you running from? ]
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TXT | un: theonewhogifts
Congratulations! Here's a few notes to help you pick or make the perfect present for them.
LIKES: Fun mugs
DISLIKES: Bad coffee. Terrible.
HOBBIES: Brewing coffee, brightening Gebura's day. All that frowning will leave terrible wrinkles, you see.
Remember we'll be having a Christmas party on the 25th, so if you want to give it to them then or just drop it off by the tree for them to find, well, you can do just that! We'll have a lot of traditional Christmas foods, plus smores, and I'm sure it'll be a wonderful little time for us to gather, sing carols, and be merry this cold winter season!
If you've got any questions, comments, concerns, or desires for clarifications... You got one chance to ask them, because I've got a bunch of people to contact and I don't have a bunch of time to entertain conversation! :)
12/25, a package!!!
anyway, once he gets past all of that, he'll see a handle of whiskey and a box of cigars. ......... and a stress ball. and a cashmere scarf, keeping it all bundled together. it's soft and warm and also a light orange. all of which are laid atop a bed of daisies! because why not. )
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Yeah, yeah, there's no currency here, but what else can he do? ]
Secret Santa
text. @beanallright
if u saw me posting to the wrong inbox no u didn't]Good day, Mr. Kitsuragi, and a merry Christmas to you too~ Thank you kindly for your gift. I haven't owned a moka pot before, so I've been eagerly experimenting with it.
text (apologies for how late this is -- I was on hiatus! please feel free to drop if need be <3)
text. @beanallright (NO WORRIES i've been fighting for my life too)