#guy01

[hopeswake-blog]

You find yourself separated from Yuan, although you don’t fret over it; this is neutral ground, after all. Instead you wander the fringes of the room, content to breathe more open air and admire the decor until you stumble across your fiance again. Undoubtedly, with his worryingly low mood lately, it won’t be long.

It’s as you’re walking around that you spot a lost phone on the ground. Frowning, you pick it up and look around to see if you can spot a likely owner, and you notice a blond man nearby. 

“Excuse me? Sir!” you call to him, delicate voice straining to be heard over the noise of the party. When you catch his attention, you smile and wave the phone in your hand.

“Is this yours?”

[iruka-senseitional-blog1]

Iruka is a man of many talents. Teaching, fighting, cooking, witty comebacks—

and somehow always ending up on the day’s most crowded trains. This is what you get for being too lazy to walk to your Sector, his mental voice helpfully reminds him, and Iruka is left with no time to consider whether telling your own brain to fuck off is concerning before another wave of people crush him further into the car.

Lovely. He does so enjoy being penned in from all sides. But, Iruka reasons with himself, his risk of death is slim; there’s barely any room to exist, let alone use a weapon. 

So instead of bothering with attack and counterattack strategies that’ll do him precisely no good, Iruka turns his attention to the blond stranger who’s holding onto the same rail as him, and thanks gods he doesn’t believe in that there’s breathing room between them. Rush hour trains are tedious enough without being awkward on top of it. 

“I don’t know about you, but I can think of better ways to spend an afternoon,” Iruka jokes, figuring he may as well attempt small talk to pass the time. 

@gailardios

[kowaihito-blog]

He finds direction in the routine: roadside graffiti, business cards on napkins, and the rattle of a half empty can of spray paint in his ears. Godhood doesn’t matter much here-- not in the grand scheme of things, not when who and what he is no longer rests in the hands of the people.

He pulls his scarf up around his mouth, and casts a weary glance around the room, at the expanse of dusty old televisions and orphaned appliances.

“Place is a graveyard..” Words obscured by fabric, he pauses to examine his reflection in a foggy and cracked mirror. The glass is more a kaleidoscope than anything else with its discolored spots and distorted images. “Or, I guess fun house might be a better word.”

“You never really said--” His knuckles wrap on the glass, and his reflection receives no answer. “-- what you were looking for.”

@gaidios