COLD. It’s cold. Winter by the ocean–that’ll do it. Thankfully, he wasn’t braindead enough to meander out here in his sleepwear, unlike that poor shivering fuck currently in the process of giving himself hypothermia. Said poor shivering fuck is the only reason why Leon even bothered.
If anyone could successfully navigate their own personal shoddy misadventure and still come out on top, it’d be him. Living through the apocalypse and having nothing to show for it besides a trap of hit-’n-miss testimonies. What a hero. After the fact, the survivors had all been praised for their innate ability of harboring Japan’s hope on their shoulders as if bearing crosses. This would be their legacy, now.
But he? Leon Kuwata? He didn’t want the defeat of despair and rehabilitation of the Remnants to be where his own story ended. Even in this healing world, an authority will stand back up against all odds, and people will feel they have no choice but to follow. Therefore, justified revolution will still need to worm its way into the hearts and souls of many. Just as there will always be hope and despair, so too will those outside the binary exist for opposing both.
Where better to start searching for purpose than where it all began?
Smuggling aboard the ship containing former class 77 wasn’t an issue–reappearing to Nagito, now that was a challenge. He found an opening shortly; beachside at night ain’t a bad haunt. So there he stands, half a foot taller and a whole century wiser, mask displaced and hair grown over brown and crimson. Fiery blue eyes search–for what is anyone’s lucky guess.
“Long enough for me to kick your ass over it, Nags.”
::『♟』υlтιмaтe lυcĸy ѕтυdenт ::
Komaeda isn’t sure what does it, exactly.
Why he shoots up in the sand, his hair giving a weak bounce of knots and grit stuck to the strands, whipping his head to the side and stilling almost as if the wind had frozen him on contact.
Was it the voice, the name? No one on the island called him by his given name. No one cared enough to. It was always Komaeda, or something else. Like insults, carefully veiled behind the closest they would all ever step towards civility. And he didn’t want it. Any of it. They didn’t need him, and he wasn’t necessary. And yet, and yet and y e t...
Pale eyes search the others face as if he’s seeing a ghost. Lingering on the scar over lips, the way his eyes were too blue to be real. Was it how his hair fell over his eyes just so, the set of his mouth and the way the moon glinted off metal along his ears and a few other places. His mind had always been unreliable these days, maybe he was hallucinating. And yet, some tiny part of him wants to Hope instead.
All at once, his skin becomes even more clammy even under the cold temperatures; fingers digging into the sand as he tries to will his voice to work or his legs to move. Moreover, he doesn’t know if he wants to run forward or run away. Slowly, almost painfully so, he staggers onto uneasy legs and stares.
It’d been so long, or so it felt. Was it months, weeks, days? All he knew is he didn’t think he’d see him alive, or that he’d ever... Still be here. Why was he here? Didn’t he...
The word tumbles out of him without thinking, his feelings at war with themselves in a sense that they’d never gone away; but it had seemed so unlikely. His chest hurts, and yet he finds himself wrapping his arms around his own middle and shaking from the wind that he’s finally remembered. And taking shaking steps forward.
“Why are you here? How are you here?”
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