#ncwmessage

— It feels real.

The way Akechi’s fingers press down against the table before him, not passing through or being pushed away, but experiencing appropriate resistance. The sound his feet make against the floor as he shifts his stance. That tell-tale little click in his wrist when he pulls back to rotate it, as though testing the reality of his own body.

It feels real. Off, certainly, but real none the less. 

If he ignored the way his senses felt too sharp— the fact he could feel the grain of the wood through his glove, was aware of every shift of his own clothing, the slight shift in the air when Mishima himself moves. If he were to ignore his uncharacteristically hazy memories. Perhaps he could believe it.

Fall in line with the rest of the sheep out there, blindly following the bright new paths set before them. Question nothing and revel in a life that seems tailored to ones desires. Mishima was right there, after all. It would be easy.

How unfortunate, then, is the disgust that fills his body to the final microcosm. Leaves him staring at the High-Definition Table before him pondering who, now, was responsible for puppeteering the population of Tokyo, if not Japan entirely. Who believed they had the right to control him.

— ❝ No . ❞

He can trust Mishima. Foolish as he may be at times, Akechi is well aware that at a minimum, what is said here will be kept between them. Things often were, harboured between the two of them and nobody else, despite what hints they may see. What spread to the others was controlled. Mishima would only speak when Akechi wanted him to, that much he was sure of.

Back straightens and head lifts with the sound of fabric-on-fabric that causes his lip to twitch with the volume. His senses are still operating in overdrive, as though experiencing the world for the first time, and he’s about ready to snap because of it. 

Though he holds, for now. Deep breath in and a turn so he can properly face Mishima. Gaze travelling over him as though assessing the reality of him as well, before settling on his eyes. (He would never admit, but they anchor him, in a way. A familiar sight that brings him down just enough from his building rage.)

— ❝ No more real than the Detective Prince was . ❞

A falsehood. Lies built simply to appease people— keep them satisfied and engaged enough to not question what else may be happening. Particular choices, pieces placed together in a makeshift puzzle that show nothing but a cheap imitation of happiness.

Goro Akechi is no more than his public personality was.

@ncwmessage is being forced into an interaction

— ❝ . . . is it dipper ? ❞

Her head tilts, just a little bit, as she asks the question to herself, staring closely at the side of the van. She’d seen the logo from a distance, and couldn’t decipher what it was supposed to mean. How it was supposed to be pronounced. Lauded dipper?

— ❝ maybe it’s european . . . ❞ she murmurs, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she ponders over the possibilities. European would make sense— she doesn’t speak that. Maybe it’s like a brand or something, then? Maybe the owner of the van would come back soon and be able to tell her. Otherwise, she may just die of curiosity. Like a poor little cat. 

「tender love & care ♡」 「@ncwmessage」

— It’s vulnerable. He feels it, that vulnerability, manifesting in his body as a sort of anxiety. Swimming through his blood stream in a desperate attempt to reach his brain and have him lash out, pull away,— something. Anything to stop the vulnerability he was feeling. To cut it off at the source and return to his usual state of mind. 

He doesn’t like it one bit. Feeling so exposed. Being percieved in a state he didn’t even allow himself to properly look at. Doesn’t like that he can feel Mishima’s eyes on him. Fingers tracing over scars he knows are messy. (It’s hard, you know. To stitch your own wounds. But Akechi hadn’t had a choice in that matter, really. He was a solo act, after all, and had no healing ability to his name outside the first aid kit awaiting him in his bathroom after every trip.)

But, he bites his tongue. Lets out a shakey exhale— the kind he would beat himself up for, any other time, because it would constitue a crack in his mask,— and sits there, with his eyes shut. Allowing Mishima to take in the scarred expanse of his body that his conservative clothing usually helped cover up. Well aware the sight of the messier ones, the ones on his back, were probably enough to cause Mishima to want to stop. To finally tear his gaze away from the mess the past years had left on Akechi’s body. 

He swallows thickly at the thought, catching in his throat for a moment. How odd.

— ❝ Impressive , isn’t it ? ❞ 

The question is posed with a clear tinge of bitterness. His years of working for Shido had resulted in more battle scars than one might expect, no? Surely, the Phantoms didn’t look nearly as bad, even with all their fumbling. They had healers, could keep each other from recieving unnecessary scars from their early activities or careless mistakes. And while Akechi’s mistakes weren’t nearly as plentiful as they could have been— he wasn’t covered in the scars, head to toe, they were just scattered across his body, a few looking particularly repulsive,— they were more than enough. Each one a reminder of his carelessness, his failure.

The bitterness wells in his throat, mixing with the anxiety, the discomfort of the vulnerability. He has to bite his tongue even harder to keep from snapping that enough is enough, show’s over, instead only tensing as Mishima’s fingers (leaving goosebumps in their wake, though he wouldn’t admit,) trail towards his back.

— ❝ Each one serves as a reminder not to lose focus . ❞ A bitter laugh, paired with a tight smile.

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ — Nose wrinkles at the accusation— something being wrong with Eric. In his humble opinion, he’s perfectly fine. It’s everybody else that’s all fucked up. They can’t take a joke, or are seriously fucked in the head, or just don’t get it. Not Eric. 

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ — ❝ Fuck you , something’s wrong with you . ❞

Arms cross over each other with a huff, and he narrows his eye at Kian. How dare he. And to top it off with a faggy request like that? Eric should hit him or some shit. Shove him into the dirt and tell him to piss off. Who the hell does he think he is.

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ — ❝ Even more if you wanna kiss somebody who’s fucked up . What , are you into that ? Freak . ❞

He shakes his head, as though disappointed with Kian. Glances away as though he can’t even bare to look at him— though, Kian would know, from the way Eric’s jaw juts out and his finger taps against his arm. He’s trying to figure out how to double back without negating the insults and denial he’d just dropped. Frown drifting more towards a pout. He wants the kiss.

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ — ❝ If you ever want to kiss somebody normal , maybe then try talking to me . ❞

— ❝ Watch where the fuck you’re — ! ❞

— The snarl that had been in Filmore’s voice before, ready to snap and insult as easy as breathing, dies down as soon as Kian speaks. The warning, the reprimand, causes him to quite literally step back, gaze shifting from the focus of his rage instead over to Kian.

Were he on his own, Filmore would have no reason to hold back. No reason to sit with the lump of anger in his throat and try to swallow it down, like a piece of food that decided to sit funny instead of going all the way down. Anger is a second language, a nearly native tongue for Filmore to speak in, and it bubbles beneath his skin against his wishes, begging to spew forth upon the object of his rage like a targeted volcano.

It takes a lot of effort to stamp it down, nearly impossible to control most of the time. Spilling over the edges no matter how hard he tries to contain it, burning anybody foolish enough to stay in his path. But Kian serves as help. Redirecting the flow to somewhere relatively harmless, saving the innocent bastard in front of Filmore who would otherwise be torn to shreds (to the best of Filmore’s ability, at least.)

Gaze redirected again, glaring at the ground. It’s easier, he’s found, if he doesn’t look at anybody. Pretends like he’s isolated, in some small way. Being alone always dulled his emotions down. A deep breath in, held as he shuts his eyes to let Kian’s words, tone, sink in— fists forming only to clench and unclench, redirecting his anger from verbal lashing out to idle physical movement. Manners. Be nice. Long, slow exhale through the nose. He’s fine.

— ❝ Sorry . ❞ He mutters— it’s not great, but he never has been good at this. It sends little sparks of anger through his body, the fact that he has to be the one apologizing. Something he tries to stop by glancing back up at Kian for reassurance. Only once received— some indication of “good job, Filmore!”— does he make himself spit out the rest of it.

— ❝ My bad . Wasn’t looking where I was going . ❞

— The show of appreciation is, at first, met with near silence. The sound of an exhale filling the air between them just like the warm smell of tobacco. Smoke dissipating into the air almost as though it had never been there in the first place, lingering only in the strength of the smell. Soft, among the sharp of the cold surrounding them.

The muted sound of a finger tapping against paper, and ash falls into the snow below. A little pile of grey and charred black contrasting against the pure white it had landed  on.

Eventually, a noise of acknowledgement makes it’s way out of Michael. A mix of a hum and a grunt, not quite dedicated enough to be considered one over the other. 

— Listening to Kyle vent was nothing new, by now. An unlikely situation spawned from an unlikelier act of near-kindness, wherein Michael had allowed the other to bum a cigarette under full expectation he would choke and fuck off, probably touting some health-conscious bullshit not unlike a certain “vampire” they all knew.

Expectations proven incorrect, Kyle deciding Michael was trustworthy and tolerant enough to listen, and before you knew it they’d ended up in their odd little arrangement. 

Michael used the experience to serve as a reminder why conformists truly, entirely, suck ass.

— ❝ You wouldn’t need somebody to complain to if you’d just do it . ❞

Multiple times over, Michael had suggested his tried and true solution to all problems. If it pisses you off, stop. Stop being friends with them, stop doing what’s making you miserable. If it’s something you have no desire to do, then don’t do it. None of these people will matter within a few years regardless, Kyle had multiple opportunities to free himself from the grasp of the conformists around him. Walk his own path, for once.

A deep inhale of his cigarette, paired soon after with everything escaping his lungs in one huff of a sigh.

— ❝ Unless you just like complaining . ❞

@ncwmessage actually asked for a starter this time from futaba for mishima >:3

— ❝ You’re a total fake fan . ❞ She says it as if he doesn’t run the Phansite, as if he weren’t one of the phantom thieves very first fans. As if there was any way to even know the information she was about to unload on him. 

Futaba’s hand raises so she can point at him, almost scoldingly. Finger shoved almost directly in Mishima’s face before she sits back in her seat. No need to worry, Mishima, your Phantom Thieves Guru has arrived! A smirk crosses her face, glasses pushed back up purposefully in an attempt to cause them to glint— witness her totally epic genius-level energy!