And Minako has let him in enough for him to see that the bruises aren't only skin deep. She struggles to keep herself going. Thoughts plague her with an intensity that no one should have to deal with. He doesn't know the full extent of it, only that she's tired. Depressed. Not just sad, but what could maybe be clinically depressed. Akihiko's no doctor, but he thinks he can see the signs.

He sits next to her as she leans into the back of the couch, letting her shoulders drop and her facade slip. It's a side of her he knows she doesn't show to many, and he considers himself privileged that she lets him in, doesn't keep her pain tucked away from him. He wants to see it. He wants to see her.

The bruise on the side of her mouth is blossoming into something dark. He's had several of those in his years of boxing and can imagine how tender it must feel. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't starved for people to touch his injuries with a comforting hand and tell him that things are going to be okay. And Minako sits among the highest that don't let many people touch her in softly intimate ways - like fingertips to a bruised lip.

But he does. He's careful, gentle, as he raises his hand to cup the side of her face, his thumb softly brushing the corner of her lips. "I don't sleep well on the best of days," he admits quietly, shifting to sit sideways on the couch, curling one leg up on the cushion he sits on so he can face her easier. "After a night like this? Hell no." He might pass out just before dawn, his body too exhausted to keep awake, and he'll get two, maybe three hours tops, of sleep before they have to be up. Tomorrow's the weekend, but he's still going to push himself awake to go for a run, train at the gym, run back to the dorm, shower, study maybe...he's preemptively exhausted by it.

　𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐒 ( … ) 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐎𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂, 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐈𝐓 ? 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐖⸻ not on the first day of springtime as one would expect, but during the callous wintertide of her brief ( death - touched ) existence. the fool knows that these moments, so intimate albeit ephemeral in nature, should be treasured: carved and etched onto the pliable flesh of her fragmented heart with the sharp edge of her weapon, made eternal and unforgettable. and yet, each memory is also tarnished at the furthest edges by something rotten and all - devouring ; black as tar, heavy as lead. it is guilt, in its rawest and purest form ... because even now, she does not have a reason to live / to fall in love with life.

death perpetually exists within her / she solely exists within the embrace of death. mayhap, the truth is that she has never learnt how to be anything more than tragedy's heart - broken daughter: the pleasant and palatable survivor, as warm and bright as the sun itself, just as distant and impossible to reach.

and thus, when he suddenly reaches out, minako has to instantaneously quieten all those survival instincts that she had honed into swords, into shields. she yearns for his touch as much as she yearns for the sound of his voice and the certainty of his survival after a night spent in tartarus, so why is it so agonizingly arduous to relish the beauty of love ? the blithe flutters of her heart, whenever he stands near ? the impatience that has her jogging through the school's corridors, so that she may speak to him before he is stolen away by all his duties ? he touches her with such aching tenderness ( ... ) and the red fool fears that his hand will come out bloodied with all the agonies that she has forcefully swallowed in order to survive.

barely audible is the tremulous sigh that escapes betwixt barely parted tiers. her wet lashes flutter to a close, and minako instinctively crawls forward ; closer and then closer still, until she can comfortably nestle herself in his embrace. there, where his own heart - beat is the loudest, she burrows herself⸻ once more, death gives pigment to her thoughts, and she unconsciously realizes that she would like to be buried there: in the warmth of his arms, where she may haunt all the hollow spaces in his ribcage, eternally. instead, after a brief moment spent nuzzling her bruised cheek against his own, the naginata - wielder finds her smile once more. it is sweet but mischievous, much more similar to the demeanor that she is known to embrace at all times in the company of others. ❝ anything you can do to help ? do you really mean it, when you say anything ? ❞

she leans closer now, just enough to playfully brush the tip of her little nose against his own. maybe, she will never truly fall in love with life ... but she can allow her heart to genuinely and thoroughly fall in love with him. ❝ let's go somewhere far away from here. we can look at the stars, and then see the sun rise and find a bakery to have a delicious breakfast together ... for a little while, we can pretend that our bruises are flowers and that everything will be okay, in the end. shall we break some rules, for our first official nighttime date ? ❞

Original by Joe Bowler

SCULMASK: indie / priv / sel / Atlus multimuse Exploring grief, death, the pain of loss and how it never truly leaves you; depression, anxiety, confronting your true self and coming to terms with it; isolation, belonging, finding justice in an unjust society

because  he  is  so  very  polite,  shinjiro  resists  the  urge  to  call  their  leader  a  dumbass  outright.  it's  probably  obvious  in  his  expression,  though,  that  he's  thinking  it.  in  all  honestly,  he's  never  quite  understood  the  appeal  of  spending  money  on  claw  machines.  save  that  same  money  and  you  can  buy  the  damn  plushie  yourself,  if  you  can  just  find  it.  even  if  you  can't,  waiting  is  better  than  giving  all  your  hard-earned  yen  up  to  a  rigged  machine,  right?

apparently  not,  according  to  kotone. 

“  wait  a  sec.  ”  shinjiro  will  neither  confirm  nor  deny  his  approval  of  taking  an  axe  to  said  rigged  machine,  but  he  has  a  better  question  anyway:  “  how  much  money  did  iori  lend  you  that  you're  doin'  his  homework  for  three  weeks  ?  ”

　𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓, 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃, 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐄𝐒. her reaction to his words is almost immediate ; the red fool turns towards him, thin brows furrowed above the bridge of her nose and glossed tiers puckered onwards into a harmlessly antagonist moue, molding her entire expressionism into a brazen portrait of heart - break. why is he focusing on the money that she has ( wasted ) passionately spent, instead of empathizing with her desire to add the aforementioned plushie to her ever growing collection ?

whilst an indignant huff leaves her lips, the wild card defensively crosses her arms in front of her breastbone. ❝ that's classified information. ❞ she is certain that junpei won't keep this as a secret for long, a little curious question would be enough to uncover the precise amount, but ... but she shall stubbornly hold onto what little remains of her wounded pride, for as long as she can ! once more, she is turning her gaze away ; towards all those distant stars gleaming and glowing above their heads, towards all those dreams that have faded before they could be given voice. and then, when he least expects it, a playful nudge. ❝ will you come with me, next time ? i need your expertise with axes and maybe your wallet. ❞