[Do you think he's stupid? Dumb? He killed his father? He had a four year scheme to murder someone and overthrow the government???? And it worked??? Maruki????]
Hidden. For a reason. I'm not going to leave my personal information out for prying eyes to see.
No, not many, but I know how to operate in such dire straits.
Feel free to practice what you preach - please tell me where all your personal credit cards, IDs, koseki tohon, passwords, bank account and tax payer information is located in the apartment.
[ Fine! FINE. Maruki will find his own passport in his desk and send a picture of the photo. Nothing remarkable, aside from the fact that he's almost a decade younger in it . The passport's nearing the end of its lifespan; he'll have to renew soon if this is going to work. ]
[He could choose to go back to class at this point for additional time with the professor and leave Maruki on read.
Could. Doesn't. Fulfilling both sides of an exchange is a way to maintain trust in process.]
In my room, under the mattress, there's a small envelope taped to the bottom of the second to last bar of the bedframe. All my remaining personal documents are there. Do not look at anything except for the passport photo as discussed.
[Guess What! When he does? Akechi is in his purest bitch form for the photo. It's not Detective Prince quality. ♥]
He doesn't waste any time finding the envelope. Doesn't look at any of the other documents.
But he does write down Akechi's passport number.
The photo barely registers. That number was all he needed. A moment of hesitation, then he snaps a picture of the whole thing – just in case there's more info he'll need. When was the last time he booked a flight? He really can't remember what they ask for...
But this ought to do it. He replaces the documents, the envelope, the mattress, then moves to his laptop out in the living room as he taps out a response. ]
I've never seen a truer representation of you. They really captured your joy for life.
[SOMEONE LEARNED TO GET MOUTHY IN SOMNIUS!!! How wonderful! How nice! Die!]
My last class for the day starts in an hour. Afterwards, I'll likely take a detour to Kichijoji and then the grocery store. I'll be home before our normal dinner time.
Sounds good. I may or may not be home, but if I'm out, I'll pick something up for dinner.
[ He will be out. ♥
And whenever Akechi returns to that empty apartment, he'll find laying on the bar where he usually sits a print out of a flight itinerary. Tokyo to Athens, with a layover in Istanbul, round trip, nearly a year away in earlt June, the dates and times highlighted and circled with a note in Maruki's sprawling handwriting to put them in his calendar.
Akechi can have a little meltdown about it in private, as god intended. ]
[By the time light stops filtering through the sheer curtains in a dingy, too small apartment -
Akechi's eyes are dry. His vision spotty. Athens engraved into his eyelids - he knows it's going to be a long time before that printed sheet of paper leaves his mind. Every part of it memorized over the hours spent staring at it. As if he's not in reality. As if the world is going to crumble and the ideal reality Maruki claimed he would never want again had taken over his soul with every small bowl of soup, each 'you're okay' after moments gone too far.
In what other reality could Maruki Takuto afford this - in what world does someone remember enough about Akechi Goro to make this happen. He mentioned it once, in passing, in a late night text that meant nothing. Near his birthday, celebrated once, a note that Akechi still has hidden among the small pile of documents taped under his bed.
In the coming weeks, Akechi mentions it only in passing. Quiet confirmations of dates, of times. He works it out with his instructors and-
Halfway to the trip, there's another carbon copy itinerary stuck to the fridge. Tokyo to Athens. Istanbul layover. The money coming from the last remaining funds not sucked dry by the seizure of Shido's assets after his death. Akechi was never stupid enough to leave everything in his hands. A child with nothing knows to keep what's provided. Cash and direct deposits were moved to an account untouchable by anyone but himself, funds provided through shell companies have yet to be traced to him. Never will now.
And in early June, they go together. Tokyo's fading cityscape melts into ocean behind them, the cycled cabin air feels fresh with it. Nothing squeezes his lungs. His shoulders relax. He makes an offhand comment about whether Azathoth is still with Maruki, when the lights dim entirely and all Akechi sees is a vast world under them.
Of course he doesn't. Why would he? They can't access the Metaverse like they used to. No actualization. No ideal worlds. Just a broken, fractured, unjust reality they've come to accept as theirs. A world Akechi wants to see rot into obscurity - will never shake that. Could care less if he woke up to a reality ablaze and shattered until everyone is torn to shreds-
But sometimes -
He shuts his eyes in a too small room with worn furniture. It's cozy. Warm. Heated by virtue of being squished between multiple other shoebox apartments and a stove in use.
And it reminds him of apartments that felt huge through the eyes of someone who could only see his mother. It was cozy. Warm. Heated because his mother always made sure he was covered in blankets, comforters, fuzzy oversized clothes. Their stove was rarely in use.
He hears a man shuffling around - cabinets closing, dishes moving, sighs and hums that never follow the tune of soft record player and -
He hears a woman, shuffling around - heaving tired sighs as she rests against a tattered couch, a fatigued edge to 'Goro', humming to the memory of an advertisement that plays from the konbini to the right of the bathhouse he's about spend his night in.
Some nights he ignores it - sleeps for longer and longer periods until he's 'almost human' according to the sassy commentary of someone that shouldn't care, but does, after he sleeps through his alarm.
The rolling hum of the airplane drowns out his thoughts. He lets Maruki sleep. Watches clouds overtake land, a world coated fog, and takes out his phone to review a small, clipped plan of fantasy turned reality to figure out where to start when they land.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
No reason, it just popped into my head.
Out of curiosity, where is it?
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Hidden. For a reason. I'm not going to leave my personal information out for prying eyes to see.
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If there's a fire and one of us has to rescue our personal documents, we should both know where they are.
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Feel free to practice what you preach - please tell me where all your personal credit cards, IDs, koseki tohon, passwords, bank account and tax payer information is located in the apartment.
In case of a fire, of course.
no subject
You're killing me.
Fine. I want to laugh at your passport photo.
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My photo looks great, for the record. I know how to take a good picture. It was part of my job.
Send me your photo.
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[ That's not even what he was doing this for, but now it's about the principle of the matter. ]
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[ Fine! FINE. Maruki will find his own passport in his desk and send a picture of the photo. Nothing remarkable, aside from the fact that he's almost a decade younger in it . The passport's nearing the end of its lifespan; he'll have to renew soon if this is going to work. ]
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I may still have samples of an eye cream given to me when I was a celebrity. Would you like to have them?
no subject
Sure. If they haven't expired.
Photo, please.
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Could. Doesn't. Fulfilling both sides of an exchange is a way to maintain trust in process.]
In my room, under the mattress, there's a small envelope taped to the bottom of the second to last bar of the bedframe. All my remaining personal documents are there. Do not look at anything except for the passport photo as discussed.
[Guess What! When he does? Akechi is in his purest bitch form for the photo. It's not Detective Prince quality. ♥]
no subject
OH, MARUKI WINS. MARUKI TAKUTO WINS.
He doesn't waste any time finding the envelope. Doesn't look at any of the other documents.
But he does write down Akechi's passport number.
The photo barely registers. That number was all he needed. A moment of hesitation, then he snaps a picture of the whole thing – just in case there's more info he'll need. When was the last time he booked a flight? He really can't remember what they ask for...
But this ought to do it. He replaces the documents, the envelope, the mattress, then moves to his laptop out in the living room as he taps out a response. ]
I've never seen a truer representation of you. They really captured your joy for life.
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It's stupid of you to take so many anyway. What's the point? No one's going to look at them.
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What time do you think you'll be home?
[ HE'S GOTTA WORK FAST ]
no subject
My last class for the day starts in an hour. Afterwards, I'll likely take a detour to Kichijoji and then the grocery store. I'll be home before our normal dinner time.
no subject
[ He will be out. ♥
And whenever Akechi returns to that empty apartment, he'll find laying on the bar where he usually sits a print out of a flight itinerary. Tokyo to Athens, with a layover in Istanbul, round trip, nearly a year away in earlt June, the dates and times highlighted and circled with a note in Maruki's sprawling handwriting to put them in his calendar.
Akechi can have a little meltdown about it in private, as god intended. ]
🐓
Akechi's eyes are dry. His vision spotty. Athens engraved into his eyelids - he knows it's going to be a long time before that printed sheet of paper leaves his mind. Every part of it memorized over the hours spent staring at it. As if he's not in reality. As if the world is going to crumble and the ideal reality Maruki claimed he would never want again had taken over his soul with every small bowl of soup, each 'you're okay' after moments gone too far.
In what other reality could Maruki Takuto afford this - in what world does someone remember enough about Akechi Goro to make this happen. He mentioned it once, in passing, in a late night text that meant nothing. Near his birthday, celebrated once, a note that Akechi still has hidden among the small pile of documents taped under his bed.
In the coming weeks, Akechi mentions it only in passing. Quiet confirmations of dates, of times. He works it out with his instructors and-
Halfway to the trip, there's another carbon copy itinerary stuck to the fridge. Tokyo to Athens. Istanbul layover. The money coming from the last remaining funds not sucked dry by the seizure of Shido's assets after his death. Akechi was never stupid enough to leave everything in his hands. A child with nothing knows to keep what's provided. Cash and direct deposits were moved to an account untouchable by anyone but himself, funds provided through shell companies have yet to be traced to him. Never will now.
And in early June, they go together. Tokyo's fading cityscape melts into ocean behind them, the cycled cabin air feels fresh with it. Nothing squeezes his lungs. His shoulders relax. He makes an offhand comment about whether Azathoth is still with Maruki, when the lights dim entirely and all Akechi sees is a vast world under them.
Of course he doesn't. Why would he? They can't access the Metaverse like they used to. No actualization. No ideal worlds. Just a broken, fractured, unjust reality they've come to accept as theirs. A world Akechi wants to see rot into obscurity - will never shake that. Could care less if he woke up to a reality ablaze and shattered until everyone is torn to shreds-
But sometimes -
He shuts his eyes in a too small room with worn furniture. It's cozy. Warm. Heated by virtue of being squished between multiple other shoebox apartments and a stove in use.
And it reminds him of apartments that felt huge through the eyes of someone who could only see his mother. It was cozy. Warm. Heated because his mother always made sure he was covered in blankets, comforters, fuzzy oversized clothes. Their stove was rarely in use.
He hears a man shuffling around - cabinets closing, dishes moving, sighs and hums that never follow the tune of soft record player and -
He hears a woman, shuffling around - heaving tired sighs as she rests against a tattered couch, a fatigued edge to 'Goro', humming to the memory of an advertisement that plays from the konbini to the right of the bathhouse he's about spend his night in.
Some nights he ignores it - sleeps for longer and longer periods until he's 'almost human' according to the sassy commentary of someone that shouldn't care, but does, after he sleeps through his alarm.
The rolling hum of the airplane drowns out his thoughts. He lets Maruki sleep. Watches clouds overtake land, a world coated fog, and takes out his phone to review a small, clipped plan of fantasy turned reality to figure out where to start when they land.]