[ In the months that have followed the fusion of Mementos with reality, things have been quiet.
For a while, it was a profound relief. He hadn't realized just how taxing his work with Azathoth had been until it was no longer necessary. When the world shimmered around the edges one last time before finally settling into itself, when he could see his dream come to fruition and exhale for the first time in years, he'd fallen into a deep, restorative sleep. Just another kindness Azathoth did for him, ensconcing him safely in his Palace to finally rest.
Perhaps some would see it as a cruel twist of fate that utopia has no real place for him, but Maruki knew what the deal entailed when he made it. He's had years to get used to the idea of being forgotten in favor of a better world – Rumi's eyes passing right over him in a crowd as she laughed arm in arm with a friend, her happiness palpable even from afar. He experiences it now every time he ventures out of his Palace. Kawakami across from him on the subway with her nose in a book, Shibusawa standing next to him at a crosswalk with no reason to look his way, the former Phantom Thieves posing cheerily for a photo and thanking him with the politeness reserved for older strangers. It's a small price to pay for perfection.
With no work left to be done, no use for his former profession and no one who knows him, Maruki has been left with– himself. For the first time, he has nothing and no one else to direct his focus toward, and he's surprised to find how unsettling it is. Who is he, outside of the work he poured his entire soul into for so much of his life? He's not sure that he knows.
With the gift of hindsight and the sole custodian of the memories of their old, painful world, he can see that it wasn't terribly healthy of him. If someone had come to him for counseling with the same lifestyle he had, he would have told them to take more time to focus on themselves. And he has that now– he has that now.
It bothers him.
One problem still exists in this world, and it's his own crisis of identity and purpose. Sort of funny, really. The savior is the only one left imperfect.
He's taking small steps toward looking after himself. Trying out activities he never had the time for – last week it had been fishing, a truly spectacular failure that ended in him drenched and nothing but a minnow to his name. The week before, an attempt at a piano lesson after never touching an instrument in his life. A trip to the arcade where a child in a ridiculous hat soundly trounced him at every game he tried, a knitting workshop where he managed to make one uneven dishcloth, a turn on an intramural soccer team where he pulled something in his back and had to rest in the garden for weeks.
He remembers– Akira talking once about playing darts and billiards with his friends. He's never tried either, never been much good at any sort of game, but he figures it's worth adding to the list of potential pastimes. Penguin Sniper is crowded with loud, laughing groups of friends – and he finds himself at the one open machine, alone. The world moving as it always does, perfectly formed around him but never for him. It's fine, he's used to it.
Until–
The voice is instantly familiar – though not the one he heard in person, all barbed acid and barely-masked hatred. This was only ever on the television, the radio. Pleasantly polite, endearing in a slightly awkward sort of way that Maruki's all too familiar with himself. The perfect detective prince – but of course there's been no need to reassume that role here. Only an ordinary student, beloved by the people who matter most.
It startles him all the same. It isn't like dropping by Leblanc for a takeaway coffee and a quick glimpse at their happy, cobbled together family – Maruki knows what he's getting into there, can steel himself for the strangeness of being unknown. But this– he hasn't prepared for the possibility of being approached by one of them out in the world.
He jerks his head to look up from the darts at Goro Akechi, his eyes wide for a flicker of a moment before he catches himself. ]
Ah, sorry! I was so concentrated on this–
[ He waves the little pamphlet of rules and laughs at himself, sliding easily back into self-deprecation. They have never met. He has never threatened Maruki's life or his work, never trawled through his Palace to learn all his darkest secrets, never stood by in Leblanc to hear him plead with Akira one last time. Akechi has no idea who he is. Everything is right. ]
If you don't mind playing with a total amateur, then by all means. The more the merrier.
LITERALLY THE BEST THING THIS COULD BE CHRISTENED WITH THANK YOU AND ALSO I'M SORRY
For a while, it was a profound relief. He hadn't realized just how taxing his work with Azathoth had been until it was no longer necessary. When the world shimmered around the edges one last time before finally settling into itself, when he could see his dream come to fruition and exhale for the first time in years, he'd fallen into a deep, restorative sleep. Just another kindness Azathoth did for him, ensconcing him safely in his Palace to finally rest.
Perhaps some would see it as a cruel twist of fate that utopia has no real place for him, but Maruki knew what the deal entailed when he made it. He's had years to get used to the idea of being forgotten in favor of a better world – Rumi's eyes passing right over him in a crowd as she laughed arm in arm with a friend, her happiness palpable even from afar. He experiences it now every time he ventures out of his Palace. Kawakami across from him on the subway with her nose in a book, Shibusawa standing next to him at a crosswalk with no reason to look his way, the former Phantom Thieves posing cheerily for a photo and thanking him with the politeness reserved for older strangers. It's a small price to pay for perfection.
With no work left to be done, no use for his former profession and no one who knows him, Maruki has been left with– himself. For the first time, he has nothing and no one else to direct his focus toward, and he's surprised to find how unsettling it is. Who is he, outside of the work he poured his entire soul into for so much of his life? He's not sure that he knows.
With the gift of hindsight and the sole custodian of the memories of their old, painful world, he can see that it wasn't terribly healthy of him. If someone had come to him for counseling with the same lifestyle he had, he would have told them to take more time to focus on themselves. And he has that now– he has that now.
It bothers him.
One problem still exists in this world, and it's his own crisis of identity and purpose. Sort of funny, really. The savior is the only one left imperfect.
He's taking small steps toward looking after himself. Trying out activities he never had the time for – last week it had been fishing, a truly spectacular failure that ended in him drenched and nothing but a minnow to his name. The week before, an attempt at a piano lesson after never touching an instrument in his life. A trip to the arcade where a child in a ridiculous hat soundly trounced him at every game he tried, a knitting workshop where he managed to make one uneven dishcloth, a turn on an intramural soccer team where he pulled something in his back and had to rest in the garden for weeks.
He remembers– Akira talking once about playing darts and billiards with his friends. He's never tried either, never been much good at any sort of game, but he figures it's worth adding to the list of potential pastimes. Penguin Sniper is crowded with loud, laughing groups of friends – and he finds himself at the one open machine, alone. The world moving as it always does, perfectly formed around him but never for him. It's fine, he's used to it.
Until–
The voice is instantly familiar – though not the one he heard in person, all barbed acid and barely-masked hatred. This was only ever on the television, the radio. Pleasantly polite, endearing in a slightly awkward sort of way that Maruki's all too familiar with himself. The perfect detective prince – but of course there's been no need to reassume that role here. Only an ordinary student, beloved by the people who matter most.
It startles him all the same. It isn't like dropping by Leblanc for a takeaway coffee and a quick glimpse at their happy, cobbled together family – Maruki knows what he's getting into there, can steel himself for the strangeness of being unknown. But this– he hasn't prepared for the possibility of being approached by one of them out in the world.
He jerks his head to look up from the darts at Goro Akechi, his eyes wide for a flicker of a moment before he catches himself. ]
Ah, sorry! I was so concentrated on this–
[ He waves the little pamphlet of rules and laughs at himself, sliding easily back into self-deprecation. They have never met. He has never threatened Maruki's life or his work, never trawled through his Palace to learn all his darkest secrets, never stood by in Leblanc to hear him plead with Akira one last time. Akechi has no idea who he is. Everything is right. ]
If you don't mind playing with a total amateur, then by all means. The more the merrier.