"Dazai's Expression As He Placed A Finger On His Forehead And Approached The Enemy - That Of A Child

I saw a video once that tried to claim that Chuuya accidentally became popular, and I actually laughed. Like no. Nobody gives a character a hat, gloves, red hair, and a choker without at least expecting they'd be popular. No one makes a character short, a wine lover, loud, and a Mafia executive if they didn't suspect they'd be popular. you don't make a character the ex partner to the other most popular character and have them bicker like children if you thought, "eh, no one cares about this guy." No one gives a character the power of gravity manipulation and the power to create black holes when they go feral if they thought, "yeah, pretty mid-tier character" NO ONE MAKES A CHARACTER JUMP OFF A PLANE AND FIGHT A DRAGON—

— Langston Hughes

Francis visits Henry’s grave every year. Alone.

No one else does — no one else wants to. Charles avoids the topic entirely. Camilla sends Francis clipped replies when he brings it up. Richard pretends he never gets the messages. But Francis marks the day like a liturgy. Like a holy feast. Like penance.

He books the same suite in a faceless hotel. Wears the same black coat. Packs the same silver lighter — an old one Henry once admired in passing. It’s all performative, of course. But what is Catholicism if not grief wrapped in ritual? He fasts before the visit. Doesn't drink the night before. He makes the trip feel like confession.

The grave is unmarked, just a patch of earth in a neglected corner of a rural cemetery, the kind no one visits on purpose. Francis had to dig to find out where Henry was buried. Had to call someone’s widow and lie. But now he knows, and he treats it like a secret shrine.

He kneels every year. Gets the dirt on his trousers, on his coat, lets the damp seep into his bones because suffering feels closer to prayer when it’s physical. And he talks.

Not to Henry. Not really. To God. To himself. To something between the two.

"You ruined everything, you know," he says once. "And so did I."

He breaks off. Lights a cigarette. Doesn’t smoke it. Leaves it burning at the grave like incense. The first year he did this, he left a bottle of scotch. Last year, he left a page torn out of a Latin prayer book. This year, he doesn’t bring anything. He just sits.

And he waits. For something. A sign. An answer. Forgiveness.

But Henry is silent. Always was. Even now, dead and buried, he’s still the one with the upper hand.

And Francis — Francis goes back to the hotel, vomits in the sink, lights another cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn’t cry. Not anymore. It’s been years. But his hands won’t stop trembling.

That night, he goes to mass. Sits in the very back. Doesn't take communion.

He knows better.

я люблю смотреть лекции Еремина по химии на ютубе а сейчас я осознала что мой справочник по химии подаренный химичкой составлен им. Моя жизнь полна забавных и милых совпадений😭😭

Little sketch of little friend

good morning secret history nation

heartbreaks do not get easier as you get older. you just learn to put yourself first. you won't dwell on whether you'll find happiness again. instead you'll wonder if you'll ever be happy staying in this loveless relationship.

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Kill me I am doing something that is so not related to my studies but I HAVE TO finish it

Today i was so productive. I cut my hair, pet puppies, studied physics, contemplated on my age and decided to go to sleep early