@princemasked liked for a Starter!
He feels better now, it’s funny, he should feel like garbage, or that’s what he tells himself. But he doesn’t. He has his answers, he does not feel torn anymore. He does not feel like he’s stepping away from something and into something else. When he leaves his apartment, it is not like a wild animal, skulking to its burrow with the rising sun, it is the languid, steady step of something not bound by things like dream or reality.
Mementos curls around him in welcome the moment he steps from that last apartment stairwell jut, rebel’s clothing coiling around the reality of his form along with the rising red of the metaverse, the short walk from the stairs to the underground subway is quaint, and done more of habit than remaining need, his hands dipping into his pockets as he dips down towards the broken lines of train track.
And he knows, even before he has spent more than a moment in wandering, that he is not going to spend this day in his reality, His Mementos, and it is His. Nothing here will touch him, they would not before unless he was especially careless, they would not touch him now even if he lay bleeding upon the floor. No. Even now, the shadows avert their heads.
In turn, he ignores them as well, making his way down towards the depths until he feels he has wandered for long enough, at which point he finds a place where the seams of this deep and endless dream are frayed, this spot, the veil thins, it is not a place he has torn open before, and that’s what he wants, something new, something interesting.
It gives way easily to his presence, and he steps from His Mementos into another, the feeling is always interesting, a little thrilling, he walks with an almost eerie silence, from one level upwards to the next, until he feels he is in a good spot to make his exit, and even this is simple, he does not even need to slog to the surface, he simply steps from one plane of existence to another, long rebel’s coat dissolving away into simple black blazer, clinging leather pants into dark black denim. Even in reality, he is so much shadow, black blazer, black jeans, black boots, the only true splash of colour is the pin he wears, a little rider-wait Fool tarot card, hardly larger than his thumb nail, in a ruddy red metal.
His shoulders roll in an idle stretch, hands still safe inside his pockets.
It would be a lie to say that he’s only human, but that doesn’t exempt him from faults, ironically, he is not omniscient, so when he emerges from the alley into the path of an oncoming person, well, it takes him off guard, a hand whipping from his pocket to catch himself, or to catch them rather, hand reaching out to rest upon their shoulder.
“I’m so sorry--”
Red eyes. Hair like molten chocolate. He had been so confident that morning, like this big apotheosis had changed him. As it turns out, it has not changed him that much.
“--Akechi-kun.”
The hand recedes with a gentleness almost apologetic to hang limply at his side.
