『 R E Q U E S T S , C L O S E D 』AnimeCharacters x Reader

41. Kirishima Ayato x Reader | To Where They Don't Know Our Names

》character: Kirishima Ayato | Tokyo Ghoul

》requested by: Sasy_little_fox

》06212017

》Wherein Ayato's gone more hours than you can remember, that you can pick from the air with your fingers and ponder about it gloomily in your loneliness. The hours Ayato is there, for you to hold, for you to pour into, to melt the tall glaciers of your sitting bones, are the ones that matter- the ones you remember the next spring morning, when a feather sits where he embraced you the previous night.

❝Kills me, how you love me, then you,
Cut me down, I do the same,
We been living like angels and devils, devils.❞ —Why Try, Ariana Grande.

[a/n]: i hope you enjoy this, love! the writing i used this chapter might be a bit nonsensical but i hope it's enough for you to understand! <3 

{has just finished writing the chapter} oh god that was a fucking wild ride i just went berserk with this shit and i feel so alleviated after that. 

xx

The day was exhausting, even if you'd been sitting in the same corner, eating little, talking lots- to a plant that basked in the ripe sunlight more happily than you can ever remember doing. The things around you are colorful, yet broken, empty, and torn apart by the same hands you use to keep your hair back. Only a mosquito, appearing differently in the light, hovers in front of your face, around your head, like a crown. You never feel its bite, and none other come any closer.

There are messes- of the people, by the people, for the people, you exhale with your nose, a laugh that too is drained of any vigor that inspires a round of laughter. The darkest days are behind you, you tell yourself, and the future is uncertain, like a painting half-finished, a splash of features that only make sense to the artist that completes the image with their flowering imagination. The most solid wall, like a clap on the back from a father, keeps your back upright with the careful precision of an aged mother.

It's your room, where you live, and where you live that slowly twists its joints until it's as crooked and strange as you imagine yourself to be. Two beds, two chairs, a desk long enough you could lay on it like a slow-blinking feline in the afternoon and thrill your heart by swinging back and forth, nearly falling each time.

It's not too bad, you tell yourself whenever you make the mistake of raising and looking at the glass of a window that's forgiving enough to welcome the day with a warm tickle to your cheekbones, and cold enough that it reminds you of people unafraid. You see just enough in these curious glimpses, a slender woman with her hair held higher than her forehead, kept in place by invisible pins, leaving you to imagine the clack of her four-inch heels as she disappears. Sometimes, you imagine yourself in them, clacking your way up the pecking order until everybody in the streets wave and try their hardest to make you blush.

The day passes like that, fueled by eyes that wander and thirst for something that isn't a paper you keep lying on the second mattress just because. Everything has a story that's invisible to one that hasn't kept themselves in their own walls like you have, shivered through storms, evaded the sunny days inside a coldness you would later resent when the seasons change again. Everything has a story you lose yourself in, minutes at a time, backpedaling to an age that wasn't now, where you tried, stood, and sat back down again; the road that's behind you is one you don't want to look back to, ruins of frozen depressions and a happiness as rare as a shooting star that isn't the illusion of eyes desperate for a miracle.

The road ahead isn't one you want to look at either. The features incomplete, asking you to make your own picture, when you didn't even remember to bring a helmet-