#unmap

Literally some ungodly hour in the morn. Hour hand can’t even canoodle the number four in peace without these two knuckleheads being conscious at this hour — except Makoto’s bleary-eyed and staring through the crack of her apartment’s door, Majima’s sternum an unfocused view that resembles a muted floral futon than muscle and bone.

“I… Huh?” Face buried in her hands now, Makoto stifles a yawn before easing up on the door, allowing it to part from her side, offering a little view of the entryway behind her.

“… I don’t understand… Can you come in?“ Listen: it’s been weeks; he’s all startling and star bright with that impromptu visit; she may as well be straight up dreaming right now with how dopey she’s feeling. Give her a moment to wash up ( and be momentarily horrified at her bedhead, eye gunk galore ) and she’ll be back to some semblance of normal.

“Nah, s’just I been thinkin’ about it is all. And disappearin’ an’ all. It’s garbage.  I’m garbage.  Y’know.” Sweet and cloying, the stink of whisky clung to his breath - a sign of a man who’d had a snifter too much to drink half an hour ago and was now acting on whatever impulse it had charged him with.  Despite this, he stood firm, not swaying, and staring seriously down at Makoto.

Though he refused the invitation to enter her home, he hardly seemed in a rush to leave - though it looked more like he’d lost his train of thought than anything else, like he’d forgotten why he was standing here, what was so important that it had brought him up from the belly of the underworld with such a missive.  Message delivered, he hung on his next thought as if he hadn’t considered what came next after the attempted apology.

HES DONE HES DONE