2026-01-06: Your Dearest Fan
- Log: Your Dearest Fan
- Cast: Umie Akabane, Shiryuu Ryouhara
- Where: Umie's Apartment (AGAIN), Shibuya, Tokyo
- OOC Date: January 07, 2026
- IC Date: September 06, 2012
- Summary: Shiryuu Ryouhara is a mysterious young man. Why is he determined to ruin Umie's sleep? Why does he want to get rid of Umie's fan? Why does a little frog ice pack make him so sad? Why is Umie's pulse rising? Why won't he admit he doesn't want to be alone? So many vexing mysteries are presented by the Shiryuu.
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
It's nighttime, and fall can't get here fast enough.
The sliding glass windows are open for all they're worth, the frosted panels popped out on hinges to reveal a screened lookout of the next building over, which is a short enough distance to be able to reliably throw a paper plane towards, if Umie was ever in the mood to see what sort of person lived in the building next to hers. (She is not.)
The fan is giving Umie all it has as Umie lays on her side on the futon, dressed in her usual drawstring cotton shorts and tank top, hugging a pillow.
Her hair is wet from a recent shower, but the air is still too damn humid to allow it to contribute to the cooling process.
At least iit's not even as bad as it was two weeks ago.
She's even beginning to fall asleep, listening to the fan sweep back and forth... back and forth...
...
Soft, deep breaths soon fall as Umie stands on the twilight edge between wakefulness and sleep. Perhaps, tonight, she'll adopt a healthy sleep schedule?
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
It's a reasonable bet to take that Shiryuu knows exactly what type of neighbors she has. Luckily, the boy doesn't seem of the investigatory compulsion today, lest he have annexed said neighbor in the building over and set up a post for his shinobi to keep an eye on Akabane.
The thought had crossed his mind. Luckily, the young man is -- distantly -- aware of the term 'overkill.'
Well, that and...
For once, her windows are safe. Door locks, on the other hand -- tumbler bumped, chain shimmed -- are less so. He is at least polite enough to use the door, if not to knock. Curiously the onmitsu does not appear to be carrying the slender, red cloth bag that modestly hides his sheathed sword.
Instead, the shinobi carries a wider cloth bag, the color of burlap. He holds it under an arm as he shuts the door -- quietly.
All in all, the young man is still overdressed, dark slacks and a pair of burgundy Adidas offsetting a truly colossally plush cable-knit cardigan in hunter green. Turtleneck all the way to the throat and sleeves that half-hand his palms at the very least, the boy moves whisper-quiet by nature alone, as opposed to any discretion on his part. If it's easy to mistake him for a dream, it's only because he's not naturally a loud person. Mm.
He does pause at the half-wakeful figure wrapped around her pillow on her futon, not far, really, in the tiny living space. A tiny sigh escapes the shihaisha, who moves over to the window, absent any disagreement.
There, he'll set his bag down, carefully popping out the windowscreen to set it to the side.
If she doesn't before that, Akabane might wake up when Shiryuu carefully gathers her fan, unplugs it -- and goes to drop it out said window unceremoniously.
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
Brown eyes barely acknowledge the shinobi in the room, too far glazed with sleep to make it past the logical stage of 'it's Shiryuu, and he is in her room'.
It's fine. He'll wait. The futon is comfy and the fan is singing its swaying, monotonous, siren song.
"Mmmn..." Umie buries her head in her pillow instead, in order to make Shiryuu disappear.
...
......
Someone turned off the fan.
"That's unsanctioned..." Umie mumbles into her pillow, slowly beginning to resurface to wakey wakey land.
As Shiryuu is lifting the fan, Umie looks at him, her head surrounded by an impressive halo of damp bedhead. ".... Whater you doing with my fan..." she mumbles, through squinting eyes.
If he continues in his task, she'll try to raise up and stop him, but with her body still lagged by sleep, it may not do much beyond trip and fall right *on* him.
Shiryuu's future fate is in his hands... along with the fan.
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
Ryouhara is rather industrious when everything comes down to it, including being agile enough to dodge an attempt to make him not exist. He persists, in spite of sleep-addled birds, and crouches down deep to complete his work, palms flat as he sets the captured and disabled fan ominously by the open window, following the cord with an eye to its outlet, where it's still plugged in as Akabane stirs.
It is quite stifling, but aside from a single bead of sweat loitering somewhere at the onmitsu's right temple, he doesn't actually seem to notice. He is listening, despite the efficiency with which he moves. This is, in part, the problem, as the young man's head lifts in alarm. He is still wearing the round shades from the wedding, but they're now structural, holding onto his temples for dear life as they prop up a feathered mop of hair out of his eyes. They give a handy place for his eyebrows to hide when they rise in slow consternation.
"...iih," the boy objects, peering over his shoulder. "Who taught you that," he complains mildly, without really expecting a response. What does she know about sanctioning things, that's not fair play. The young man returns to his work, lifting the fan to the window, and grasping the plug as he pushes it out. One smooth motion -- pop! And the fan will be lost in the night.
OR NOT
"Hey, wait, what are you--!!!"
What happens next is ...
It's hard to do something to stop a person bent on revenge when your hands are full. And unfortunately, stuffing the fan out the window is all Shiryuu has hands enough for. This results in a localized disaster, where Akabane manages to get to him just as he pushes out the fan but before he can unplug it. A fast reaction time lets the boy whirl on her just in time to catch her, but he has to let go of the cord to do so.
And now they're both under the window, Ryouhara flattened on the ground, with Akabane saved from sinking deep into his sweater only by the grace that he's caught her by the hips. The fan dangles out the window, suspended only by 9 ft of cord still plugged into the wall.
What happens next is ...
"... you're an unmitigated problem," Shiryuu informs Umie unceremoniously, tangled up. "This is not tenable."
The young man is frowning.
And his cheeks are warm and red.
And he is very hyper aware of where his hands are.
"Ii-..." Th, there's no time for this!
The ninja wriggles, reaching for the plug bitterly.
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
"... Why are you throwing the fan out the window?" Umie asks, as if this was the most natural question in the world.
See, this is why dealing with Phantom Thieves is so much easier. They don't show up at her apartment, they (probably) don't know or care where she lives, they just show up where they say they're going to, leave, and then boring, normal life resumes, which makes it easier to appreciate the times when things aren't like that.
Joker can be cool and dramatic and do those dramatic turns and she never has to worry about the complications of... doing anything besides having to act like he doesn't manage to make her feel a little flustered when she catches him at the right moment.
IN COMPARISON:
Umie frowns, her cheeks turning more than a little pink as she stares at the bespectacled young man directly. "And why are your hands there?"
And why is cord to the fan dangling out the window?
_AND WHY IS HE REACHING FOR THE PLUG_.
"_Oh no you don't_." Umie wrestles with Shiryuu with the determination of a half-asleep young woman wanting to get a rapided escalating problem under control so she can get back to sleep again.
Which is to say: 'not much strength, but the lack of concern, shame, and dignity amps up the tenacity meter quite a bit'.
So Umie's foot is likely going straight into Shiryuu's face as she grabs the cord, intent on hauling the fan back *into* the apartment.
"STOP BEING JEALOUS OF A FAN." If Umie were more awake, she'd think of some kind of wordplay, but she paid retail for this damn thing, and she's sure as hell not letting Shiryuu toss it out like it was one of her bento box specials.
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
"D--don't think about it like that," Shiryuu objects while holding her, his mouth threatening to collapse into a stellar anomaly if he presses his lips together any tighter. Eyebrows knit together like fierce crochet. "I'm just keeping you from being soundly destroyed by my defenses --"
Ow! "Aa, your knee is-"
He seems to be more or less completely immobilized as long as the devil Akabane is on top. He's still holding her by one hand, and is at a complete loss. Decision paralysis sets in; whether to push her off -- thereby mishandling her in ways he's not at all ready for -- or let her go entirely, and let her fall o--
"Y, you blonde knave!" She can't be allowed to run rampant as she likes, Shiryuu resolves, with newfound determination, and a face that is threatening to overheat because of all of this, this...
Lock in, Shiryuu. Don't let her win.
The onmitsu fights just as intensely to preserve the mission as his opponent does to preserve her night's sleep, as he gets a grip on the plug at the same time Akabane gets ahold of the cord, pulling it loose from the wall just as Umie hauls the fan back up over the sill. "Nrgh, it's got to go!" Shiryuu objects, "my word is law--"
The cord drops to the floor. And that's when the shinobi pulls a knife.
The onmitsu is a crack shot, and the moment the decision is made, the cord is as good as severed and the fan is done for. Lightning fast, the blade flicks into the air, caught in a flat handed grip, and cocked back to his shoulder, "Hyihh--"
'STOP BEING JEALOUS OF A FAN.' "--! What, how dare-"
Luckily, he doesn't knowmuch about the Thieves. Instead and more immediately, Ryouhara notices in that exact moment that he is now propping up Umie clambering over him by pushing her up by the belly. "--...!! '...!!'"
pow
The knife tumbles into the air, kunai flipping end over end in a shallow arc as it -thwock- sticks in the wall. Shiryuu's shades clatter across the floorboards. The fan is still intact.
Him, on the other hand... the shihaisha is dazed on the floor, sprawled out and only arguably conscious after being kicked square in the face.
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
'-my word is law--' "And this is *MY* apartment!"
(The old lady across the hallway is going to be so confused over wtf is happening, if she's even awake right now)
How stubborn can a person be, refusing to quit?!
In the same breath, Umie sees that knife, and doesn't even think about how Shiryuu could be using it to try to hurt *her*, because damn it, there's a fan dangling out there, and she's more focused on that than anything else!
(Like she can be just as stubborn as he is being, right now.)
And like that.... it's over.
Umie flops off to Shiryuu's side, legs bent, knees in the air, her gradually slowing breath keeping the strands of hair from settling completely on her face.
"You calm now?"
Brown eyes settle on the knife in the wall. Her security deposit.... gone. Just like that. Poof.
And she might have given Shiryuu a concussion, too.
".... Do you need me to call an ambulance? Concussions are no joke."
......
"... You could... just.... ask me out. Like a normal person. Instead of murdering my appliances."
Why did she even say that. What the fuck is wrong with her?! He's threatened to kill her!
"... Why did you come by, anyways?"
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
Mission failure.
The young man does not take it extremely well, laying on the ground currently wondering how many lights he sees out the window. Was it three, or four?
Laying next to her, he's breathing hard but forcibly slow, heart pounding like a kettledrum. Sadly, it's hard to tell with his dense turtleneck -- and based on the fact that his belt buckle can be seen, apparently an entire undershirt beyond that aside underneath. She asks him if he's calm, and he doesn't answer.
Really, if he's conscious, he's too injured to admit it right off.
Right up until --
"-- I used ninjutsu to absorb the damage into non critical areas," Shiryuu replies quickly, chest and shoulders suddenly stiff as a board inside of his sweater. "I'm not injured at all."
He has a big red mark in the shape of Umie's foot square in the middle of his face. And a tiny nosebleed.
'You could just ... ask me out. Like a normal person.'
Shiryuu's lips purse in annoyance. Two shades of brown eyes narrow dangerously. He's about to say something about that entire line of reasoning.
....he sighs, sword-long.
A hand waves dismissively over the girl's knees, towards and indicating the burlap-brown bundle just past the two of them. It's actually rather large, once one actually gets a look at it. Now that they're no longer in physical contact, he's much more relaxed.
"....Inspections," Ryouhara lies, finally.
"I'm doing inspections this week, that's all."
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
WIthout the fan going, one can hear the distant traffic outside, as well as the sounds of people passing on the sidewalk outside. While not as compacted and turbulent as, say, Central Street, it's not unusual for there to be *some* activity right up until the Dark Hour.
Shiryuu explains, in more than ten words, that he's not actually injured at all.
"..... so no ambulance," she breathes.
Shiryuu sighs, and Umie finds herself smiling at his frustration.
Well, no, she *embraces* it.
Shiryuu's gesturing hand grabs Umie's attention, drawing her to the large burlap bundle. "....?"
Raising her upper body up and shifting her legs, Umie then moves to get on her hands and knees, moving forward a few paces before stopping.
"Oh?" Shifting back so that she's properly sitting, Umie gives a devilish grin over her shoulder towards the flopped over shinobi. "Annnd what were you inspecting, then?"
She waits a moment, before adding, "The bento deals weren't good this week."
He will not have the pleasure of throwing out her past-sell-by-date food.
She'll just start combing through her blonde bedhead with her fingers instead of investigating his pack; maybe by ignoring it, he'll open it up for her and answer her silent questions right there and then.
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
Getting up is strangely difficult for someone completely uninjured by sub-par techniques, and Shiryuu decides it may be worth it to lay there for awhile to marshal his power un case she decides to go wild again.
"No ambulance," he agrees.
He is studiously unaware of her smiling.
Palms flattened -- luckily, his arm is out of the sling -- against the floorboard, Shiryuu's darker grey eyebrows scrunch in something approaching him becoming aware of stiffness as he starts to straighten after she's up.
He notices her looking back at him looking.
The boy becomes flattened again, staring at the ceiling -- intensely.
'What were you inspecting?' "Iiih! What a troublesome girl," Shiryuu complains, the red mark on his face momentarily subjectively disappearing. "Analyzing my methods isn't going to get you anywhere," he informs her pointedly. "They're not sub-par at all, unlike the texturing of this ceiling." Completely structurally unsound. There could be a cave in and she could die. He'll have to censure the management. Clearly.
His Adidas' heel skids across the floor, curling until his backside. "Hup." The boy flicks his weight briskly onto his ankles and heels with one snap motion. First onto one sole, then drawing the other underneath him, until the boy is crouched again. Getting up from there is..
Walking past her as she combs out her hair, on the other hand, is a bit more distracting. Absent the power of the Dark Hour, he can't move as he likes, so he's forced to smooth his sweater over his waist self-consciously, becoming nettled when he realizes his shades are no longer on his head, explaining why his hair is in his eyes again.
In short, he is trying very hard not to be overstimulated and upset when he picks up his bag -- as she refuses!! -- and sets it on the futon, releaing the clasp and flicking the fold over.
here were no manager clearance deals to get her sick. "I should hope so," Shiryuu replies quietly. His voice is not so cold as it was a few moments ago, though it has a lot to do with the fact he's rooting through his things. "I'll get to that in a minute."
Amongst which are two new larger table-sized fans, covered in soft blue cloth to protect the finish. Once the cloth overpack is drawn off and they're set on the table, the fans are chunky ovals, warm cream in finish. They clearly had to be packed into the bag together with some ingenuity.
Another note -- they have panda ears, and the switch is in the left ear of each. They are, in fact, stylized to appear *like* pandas, with a panda face in the center of each poly blade cage.
There are two distinct faces. One is clearly behaving. One is not. They're a set. "The first thing," Shiryuu points out, bunching up the overpack in a hand, "this facility has the ventilation of a ninkou dungeon. In the event of another smoke attack, you could perish."
Well, you can see the mark on his face at least, now more red than the surrounding again. "Not acceptable. This is the latest technology from IRIS OHYAMA."
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
.... Umie's face dips a touch closer, squinting at Shiryuu in light of his comment before angling her head to look at the ceiling.
How many times as she stared at the ceiling herself since moving in here, unable to sleep? She could probably draw a map of every discoloration and unusual texture, then give a name each one like it was a study of the surface of some obscure moon.
'Beige Crinkle of Melancholy.' 'Wrinkle of Anxiety.' 'Shallow Ocean of Resignation.' 'Buckle of Anger.' 'Mount of Satisfaction.'
Her eyes flick down to Shiryuu's. "It could be better, but the bathtub was great. That's mainly what I was looking for."
She seems serious, here; it's not to further tease Shiryuu along. "There was another property that was a little nicer, but the bathtub was just so-so. How was I going to soak if I couldn't properly sink in?"
It's not like she can go to a bathhouse, after all.
(But what use is a proper bathtub if the ceiling caves in?!)
Ducking back as Shiryuu gets to his feet (impressive, considering the state he's in right now!) Umie realizes, around the same time as Shiryuu, his glasses are missing. "...." Shoot, she must have kicked them off.
So, as Shiryuu gets to his back, Umie is scanning around the apartment, using the wall to get up and, carefully, stepping around to find a telltale glint of glass somewhere.
The sound of something being set on the table draws her attention back behind her, and Umie abandons that objective, coming instead to kneel in front of the fans to gently poke a lavender-colored nail at a panda ear as her expression stays still, completely dumbfounded. ".... These are... adorable." She's already fiddling with the panda ears, an almost child-like smile on her face as she bends a switch just so, causing one of them to come on.
She looks up at Shiryuu, giggling as her hair scatters from the small cheeky-looking panda fan, before she realizes the mark on his face. "Sorry about the, uh..." She points a finger at her own face. "... You sure you don't want an ice pack or something? We also need to find your glasses."
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
"...."
Hands rest lightly on the floor as the young man listens. The grey-haired boy's gaze is normally rather elusive where she's concerned, but her concession attracts his attention, two-toned glance settling on and locking with her own.
Something about the admission pulls a string in him, somewhere. He can't fathom why, or what, or where. But something inside of his spirit is uncomfortably tight.
The direction of his glance changes. He gets up. And he unpacks the fans.
He doesn't seem to notice that her ginger step is an attempt to locate his glasses, teashades that may have well been kicked off and disappeared into a foot-based fissure in the time-space continuum. (They're actually around the side of the fridge.) He just assumes, like most times, that girls walk around strangely because of some fashion trend he's not aware of. He's trying not to pay attention, thus.
He is absolutely going to keep an eye on the circulars for this particular form of runway walking. Or whatever she's doing. It reminds him of crane stance. Or demon summoning. A fashion demon? Is she trying to say she doesn't like his shoes?
Focus, Ryouhara.
"Don't underestimate them," Shiryuu counters with a reserved, knowing pride as she recognizes the great aesthetics. "I tested them myself in the department store. There's not much to be done in this space, but they provide powerful levels of air regardless."
Already the little panda is vwooo'ing with a tiny ferocity. Well, he didn't lie. But Umie's apartment -is- the final boss of discomfort. As for the final outcome, only time may tell.
He does seem extremely satisfied to see her smile. Riiiight up until she points out his face. "...aa?"
"No, it's fine, I --" why is she pointing at his face? Ryouhara lifts a hand to his face, lowers it after a touch. Stares at the blood. Blink.
Well, instinctively, the onmitsu begins to pat his pockets for a napkin, dabbing his eye. "Yeah, no, it's ... eh?" The napkin's clean.
Shiryuu looks genuinely confused. His eyeline tracks over to the blank TV, catching his reflection in the dark glass. He's able to make out his face in the light from the window in the wan light. And the -shape- of ...
"...." His mouth drops open in bald --
Shiryuu moves immediately out of Umie's line of sight, marching behind her to what passes for a kitchenette, or more appropriately the fridge. "I-- minor damage," he says simply, occupying himself with inspecting what's going on in that refrigerator instead of literally anything else.
"It's fine," he say, about his glasses. "They're just to keep the sun out of my eyes, is all." It being night, naturally it's not important. "If you find them, hold onto them." Shiryuu is surreptitiously looking for pear juice, among other things.
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
It's a mundane factoid from a mundane life, one that isn't usually shared with shinobi that invade apartments.
... Or ones that conduct bloody turnovers of families.
Umie just wants to have a nice place to take a bath in, and, as the unspoken part of it all shall add, it's another reminder of something she's just had to adjust around, if a mundane one. Scars, tattoos, birthmarks, stretchmarks... there's many reasons someone may do the same.
And yet, there's her Mark, just there, like Shiryuu's two-toned brown eyes, neither quite the same shade as Umie's own, nor as uniform. All are accepted here, in this place with the ceiling that may not be perfect, and the terrible airflow.
A place that is hiding his glasses somewhere, where she is trying her best to find them while he sets up. Maybe by her fan? She didn't kick him *that* hard, did she? (She was kind of half-asleep at the time.)
"They're cute," is what she says, pleased by that quality at the start. "I could probably position them around to get some airflow going... maybe hang them. Or..."
This is a gift, given to her, unbidden.
Is this to try to manipulate her later...?
Of course, Shiryuu's reaction to his face derails that train of thought completely.
Umie's cheeks slightly puff out as she tries to look away, both to hide her potential laughter, as well as preserve some of Shiryuu's.... dignity?
..... seriously, has he never gotten a bruise on the face before? Or is it more because it was her..... ..... oh
The tiny fridge is tiny; there's not much room for much of anything, including drinks. Umie gets up from her squatting position and steps over quietly, motioning for Shiryuu to move aside before she kneels down, opening the even tinier freezer compartment inside.
It's an icepack, in the shape of a little frog. She holds it out to Shiryuu. "I have to use these all the time. Sometimes, after the Dark Hour, I'll strain something and not realize until it's over." She hefts the small pack. "I've had this one since I was little. It's green.... like the.... uh, Dark... Hour." Her cheeks redden as she looks down. "I had different tastes in what was funny back then, okay?"
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
Honestly, anyone who's actually faced the young man on an actual, real battlefield would remark that actually yes, it's rather hard to hit Shiryuu in the face. Shinjiro managed it, once, and dislocated his jaw in the process. So no, Shiryuu does not have an incredible facial constitution.
"As you like," Ryouhara mentions, not paying attention to anything after the few seconds it takes to unbloody his nose, hide the evidence back in his pocket, and throw himself headlong into a whole new task. "You have to take care of yourself, so you can fight at the very highest level when I come to destroy you..."
This injury was something _entirely_ different.
Shiryuu does get through a few items of food, grimly evaluating the state of Akabane's fridge. First off, there's no pear juice, and that's depressing. However, Shiryuu seems to be sorting things, and checking expiration dates very closely. He's in the middle of critically eyeing a box when her proximity causes him to look up. Is he being ... shooed? "...Iih?"
Shiryuu makes a screwed face at the gesture, visibly stepping back to the side like an offended bird as Umie takes over.
"What are you doing," the onmitsu asks, with mounting suspicion. Standing up straight, the boy rams his hands in his pockets for want of something to do with them. He does warn her. "Don't hide anything sour from me... I'll just find it." Unless it's yogurt, it's going in the trash.
That's when Shiryuu is faced with a Kero. At first, he leans way back, as if she were holding him at gunpoint, one brow raised. "ehh....?"
She explains. And the young man's nominally severe expression ... cracks.
A long, slow breath outwards. ".. you're such a mess," he remarks, without really meaning the words in the way they sound.
Shiryuu takes his hands out of his pockets to accept the frog, taking her up by the wrist gently to lift the little frog from her offering with his free hand. It's her right wrist, and the chaotic scrawl of her Mark whirls under his fingertips.
"...thanks," he replies, more awkwardly than he'd like. But though the words are eager to get loose and be in the past, the onmitsu's hands -- a touch worn by the bite of a sword hilt -- stay. His touch along her wrist and fingertips lingers for a moment, the boy's expression softening to something that his discipline is ill prepared to contain.
".... Akabane-san," the young man begins, his eyes dropping beneath the shade of his grey hair. His voice is as tight as a nocked bowstring, and as directionless as an arrow shot without fletching. That sword-wearied touch follows the line of that Mark.
"....does it hurt?"
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
'-so you can fight at the very highest level when I come to destroy you...' "Will that be before or after you bring the moon on my head?" Bare feet step over to the fridge casually, with none of the caution that characterized their second meeting, or the violent acknowledgement of their first. (Umie *knows* Shiryuu *can* do as he threatens. He just chooses not to.)
It's with this same energy that she shooes him aside. "What, you don't like sour?" Shooting him a sharp knife of a smirk, she turns her head back to the freezer compartment as she teases, "you must be someone who likes sweet things instead."
The gel pack is in the shape of a cute cartoon frog, and thankfully, not a kappa. (ppappaaaa!!)
'You're such a mess.'
There was once a smaller, younger Umie, who used this same gel pack. Somehow, that kid survived, becoming the person in front of Shiryuu.
Umie's cheeks flush as she feels a touch of Shiryuu's fingers against the Mark. It's an expression caught between the recognition of lingering fingertips to skin (and welcoming it) and the pit in her stomach that yells at her that this skin is not, and should never be, touched by someone else. It shouldn't be touched, it shouldn't be seen, it shouldn't be acknowledged.
It's the undercurrent that lies beneath the mask, the codenames, the hiding, and why Umie gave that melancholy look at Joker when they said they don't know why she bothers.
On the surface lies the NWO, and all it can do and affect. Underneath that is the primal, intangible fear of being Perceived by Something she can't put her finger on, that crawls outside her perception.
'Does it hurt?' Oddly, it was Shinjiro who had asked the same questioon. As experienced with pain and tragedy as he was, she couldn't tell him what she knew, especially the parts that remain clouded, only partially illuminated by Akechi's words. It wasn't a matter of trust, but a matter of wanting to give Shinjiro one last thing he needed to worry about.
Besides, the correct answer remains:
"... No." It's the cruelest answer, because Umie can't really say she'd know.
....
In the dim, quiet apartment, Umie asks back with a similar softness:
"... Does your eye hurt?"
And then, quieter, she asks, ".... Did they do that to you?" 'They', being the NWO, though Shiryuu may not realize that implication.
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
He absolutely does need to crush her, it's true.
It is also, perhaps, one of the few times in life that Shiryuu will be okay with letting Umie Akabane have the last word.
Less so that he doesn't mind -- really, there's no way Shiryuu would knowingly concede in a battle of wills -- and moreso that the boy's mind sits with another idea entirely. A small, sad idea of a child, painted in kegare, lost and alone in a dark space.
Even if today was different, ghosts from the past make him ...
It seemed to be the time for those.
The young man is quiet, the cool press of the comically small frog between their hands the dimmest possible pretext for the wandering touch with a free hand, an engineer's precision to trace the whorls of dark that Should Not Be Seen. Thoughtless, dauntless, gone in dust is that harsher soul when illuminated by that creeping light, the cool lick of staggered rays rendered in pale yellow light across his haunted face from the window.
"...I'm sorry," is all he can say. "... You should have lived an easier life."
The boy finally surrenders, reining in his touch to lay his hand flat along her wristline.
But.. Shiryuu is disinclined to actually release Akabane's company for some time. Only when the moors of propriety -- finally -- reach him and the boy realizes himself does he do so, hands dropping away from her with swift, efficient awkwardness, to hold the comical frog like a lifeline between his hands.
It's supposed to be for his face, but the young man is paying no attention to that at all, squeezing the poor icy frog as an occupation for his hands entirely. It's a little strange, when you consider he's still got a fighting game worthy kick-mark on his face.
It's one of many things Ryouhara pays no attention to.
"...ah?" Shiryuu asks, stirred from a long look at the floor. Eyes appear, fixed to hers in surprise. A storm of emotions cross his face -- wariness, confusion, exasperation -- all in the space of a second, his first impulse subtled only as his eyebrows unknit, smoothing out with a quiet, solemn concession.
"It's ... fine," is his reply. "It's nothing I can't handle."
His suffering isn't much, compared to hers.
He breathes outward. "'Kyotosaigan,'" he names it. "An ocular ninkou used to focus a miracle through the iris. Types like this are very old, and I was the only one able to use it, so..."
He leaves part of the matter unsaid, part of the question less than answered. If she looks closely enough, she can see why his eyes are two different colors. The eyewrights did passable work in matching the color of his natural right eye, but the lens permanently bonded to his left eye is not natural at all. This close, she can see where the tiny silver filaments puncture into his sclera.
At least, she'll have a moment or two before the boy reflexively steps back, his eyes half-lidding.
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
It's an odd feeling, to feel someone trace the lines of that mark so digiliently, leaving no room for it to be an accidental brush or a comedy of wills, with two people rushing towards a goal, like earlier. Yet she has no doubt that the young man isn't thinking just about the Mark, but who has it.
Hasn't she done the same, when she was younger? Before she learned to associate it with her sins.
... Every lie she told about the sinless world, every time she gave in to anger, every time she looked away from the truth and hid in shadows.
'You should have lived an easier life.'
"...!?" Umie makes a confused sound, her mind still circling around the mantra she's established for herself, as if trying to deny the feel of Shiryuu's fingers against her wrist. She looks down, dark eyelashes obscuring her eyes. "You say that like I never had a choice, or that I didn't benefit." Just the allure of a cursed power, offered to a child with a gaping void in her life. (No one would know anything about what that's like, right...???)
... And just like how, when Shiryuu's hand withdraws, her skin feels briefly colder for the absence.
Or how they're both looking at the floor now, and the plain tiling that decorates this part of the hallway/kitchen.
"Oh." Umie frowns. "Kyotosaigan?"
There's the sin of being 'chosen' because you were there, and then, the sin of being 'chosen' because you were the only one who could.
"You mean they... did they do surgery?" In a smaller voice, she adds, "To your..."
....
Her face comes in close, pausing at an almost unbearable distance, close enough for the breath of her slightly open lips to fall against his cheek.
... But her eyes are not fluttered closed. She's looking at his eye, trying to judge what it is by the light.
And in that moment, Shiryuu reflexively steps back, and Umie does the same, face flushed red.
Her heart is pounding. Like excitement, but also fear.
(That's always how it starts, isn't it? It wouldn't be the first time. How many times does Umie have to learn this lesson?)
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
Throughout the entirety of time, in which Shiryuu has lived a comparably easy existence, he cannot pretend to have known what those children had gone through, the decisions that were made. His expression is winnowed to its absolute, a failed attempt to frown broken over the back of a failed attempt to smile and settled somewhere on the miserable between.
He young man's mood matches his words: "Do you know why children are chosen?" Shiryuu starts calmly, evenly, a silver spike of 'broken' somewhere between his eyes that he can't quite dislodge. Consequently, he doesn't offer any particular clarity as to who is doing the choosing.
She might not even realize there's a distinction to be made. For him, it isn't particularly important. Morose, he continues.
"It's because children can't make choices for themselves, and they rely on the strength of their guardians to protect them."
They both were chosen, but only one was even close to being strong enough to say 'no.' At what point is the knife even relevant in comparison? All of these thoughts and more whirl in the shihaisha's head, as he locks in place, nigh paralyzed as she comes entirely ... entirely too close.
His left eye twitches under the examination, despite his will to lock it in place. Her lips are so very close to him, and every nerve in the boy is hyperaware.
He would have preferred, if he were truthful, to stay in that horrifyingly close moment. But his isn't that nature, and the boy breaks contact quickly, almost automatically. Like two people caught in the middle of some grand sin, the next moment is all knotted up with only the sound of their breath, the heat behind their faces.
Shiryuu looks down, slowly.
The poor frozen frog is getting tormented by Shiryuu's anxiety.
"... I was old enough that it doesn't matter," the boy points out, finally, firmly, as if making that decision would be the first step to something correct, and whole, and right. His eyes flick upwards -- guilty, as if he had done something he really shouldn't have. He seems to remind himself of something -- a thought, a memory.
He takes a step back into that uncomfortable space. Three fingers raise: His ring, middle, and index fingers. These he presses against her -- just above her chest, so that his middle finger is notched directly into the notch in her collarbone. He's ... feeling her heartbeat?
She would be able to feel his own in that contact, if she were focused just so. If.
He stays on her for a moment, and during, she is subject to the whole entirety of his attention, though he no longer meets her eyes, his expression flat and serious as he counts off the beats, sequence, and regularity. It's a second, or a moment, or a minute. It stretches off far longer than would be normal, than would be comfortable. And yet when he lifts his hand, it's far too fast.
"....the Dark Hour is soon," Shiryuu decides, turning away from her to pull his knife from the wall. "Go back to sleep, Akabane."
He sits on the floor, in the absolute farthest corner he can pick out from the futon. Knees to his chest, knife is on his knees, held tight in his hand. Eyes, locked forward. "You're in no condition to defend yourself," he says. "To make sure you don't die before I destroy you, I'll stay here. Complete my inspection at dawn. Then, I'll return to Sumaru and issue new decrees. Please look out for them."
Decisions. Fast, rattled off like machine gun fire.
<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.
".... I wasn't chosen." Umie swallows, trying to assuage a drying throat. "I spread lies about the NWO's precious sinless world, because I wasn't getting enough attention. I just... refused to stop."
(Because her mouth, one day, refused to stop speaking, and she carried on with it, even though those words felt like they weren't quite hers anymore. But it's okay, because her parents paid attention to her, and she was the darling of so many's eyes...)
Shiryuu's words work, because he's hit on the thing Umie's turned away from, whether he realizes it or not. The synchronization of two pasts, like two drums slowly shifting into a rhythm of one pounding beat, amplifies the sound of Umie's own heart.
"... That's why I was thrown in front of Gozen. It's that simple." None of Umie's records made note of any such 'lies', just that she had a Mark. (... And that she was nowhere close enough to being able to say 'no'.)
Somehow, they both survived, and one of them tries to examine the other's own 'mark', her lips close.
... And in the next, the two separate, no contact ever made, their sin lying in a fog of plausible deniability.
In his next breath, Shiryuu is now the one to deny. Like a pingpong match, Umie's reply is sharp. "That didn't make it right. What age does it make it right?" Perhaps it's to deny some element of powerlessness on his part, Umie thinks.
.... ah. That's quite a painful mirror, that Shiryuu is holding.
Before Umie can think on it more, the grey-haired young man closes the distance, pressing three fingers just above her chest, where her heart sits, beating a steadily increasing rhythm under his fingers. A quip would be on her lips at any other time, or one of her terrible smiles, as if daring Shiryuu to explain himself.
Maybe, she'd be angry; she could easily step back.
Unlike that child, or Shiryuu, whatever age he was, Umie can choose, and she chooses to stay right there. Her eyelids slowly lower until they sit halfway closed, where they remain. Her pupils focus on his arm.
As if to make it clear, there's a slight resistance to Shiryuu's fingertips; a nudge that she's not frozen. She can count the rhythm of his own heart, almost, entirely in that contact.
And her own, sinking past the initial surprise, begins to slow--
The hand is gone, disappearing to Shiryuu's side.
"I guess... that'd be in my records too." Umie rubs a heated cheek. "My parents were all about how thankful they were when their precious group ensured I got the best care. So... try not fight me when I'm in normal, boring adult mode, okay?" That smile is a wan imitation of the crescent-shaped ones she'd pull in other situations. "It'd be an unfair fight, with the blood and everything. Unless you slip, but then... that'd be a skill issue, wouldn't it...?"
'Go back to sleep, Akabane.'
.... why is Shiryuu standing over there like that, is he intending to--
"You're... going to watch me sleep." Umie squints back at the commanding Shiryuu. She sighs, and relents with a shrug. "Finnne. Do you, uh, need... a blanket? A pillow? Surely you brush your teeth. You can't have my toothbrush, though."
Whatever. She'll just let him figure it out himself, if he's going to be like this.
Flopping back onto the futon, the blonde tries to close her eyes. Still, it's hard to ignore that there's a *person* in the *room*. It's distracting!
..... About as distracting as the thought of what just... DAMN IT, UMIE. WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS.
Her neighbor across the way will have *so many* things to say about this, if she catches Shiryuu.
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
It's hard to deal with a problem crystallized. One turn, and it reflects you. Another, and it could reflect someone else entirely. Someone else like...
She demands to know what age is 'the right age,' the right age to make it right, and the boy's expression turns from tightly regulated to something softer, sadder. He doesn't have an answer for it...
In that turned up, tuned tight moment, Shiryuu is aware of the subtle shift of her weight against him, but is too busy counting off her heartbeats to do a lot about it.
She'll notice in that moment, as her heartbeat slows, calming, his never does -- the same tumbling rattle of percussion behind his fingertips from the first second to the last. What he does is not done thoughtlessly -- even if it's terrifying, he's not the type to avoid it.
"....it wasn't your fault," Shiryuu says, after entirely too long a while. His hand lifts from her, and perhaps only then does his heartbeat slow -- she'll not know it, not beneath the voluminous layers the boy wears. The thought was clearly the one that was sitting in his head for the longest.
"Someone should be there for you," Shiryuu replies, terse. The frog is his captive -- there's no escape at all for the poor thing, now held between two hands. "That no one was there for you until..." Gozen, the word goes without saying, the word that could get any of them killed on the spot. Shiryuu doesn't say it for an entirely different reason.
"...we are the sum of the legacies our guardians set out for us."
"I didn't see it there," Shiryuu finally explains of the condition she assumes he saw in her record. Though it may very well be, the copies of the documentation he acquired didn't have that particular detail. He is, however, much less forthcoming as to where he might have picked up on it otherwise.
He's already sitting in the corner, bunched up with arms looped around his knees, knife in one hand, cold frog in the other. He's very effective this way.
"...I'm fine like this," he replies, after giving her the smallest of blinks when she asks if he needs a blanket. The boy in a sweater at the raw end of summer. Even he couldn't be that cold. Right?
"...anyway, it's not like that," Shiryuu objects lightly, softly, as she says he's going to watch her sleep. "It's just a precaution... my hearing is sharp enough. I'll leave before you wake. No one here has the necessary ability to detect me when I decide to go.... it'll..."
Be like what? Like he was never there? Why is he overexplaining it? Trailing off, the young man sighs quietly, as if defeated by some rogue notion inside his own head. Leaving many things unsaid, he rests his mouth against his knees, looking down as he eases into the dark.
"Good night, Akabane," he says, almost too quiet to hear from the other side of the apartment.
Yeah... it'll be like he wasn't there at all.
The panda fan *vwooooo*s helpfully.