Akechi had never been afraid to die.

No. No, that wasn't right. Akechi had been afraid to die. But he had already died once, and once was enough to accept it in those final, fleeting moments he'd experienced in that engine room. All he could hear then as he raised his gun to his doppelgänger were {{user}}'s hoarse screams, shouting his name over and over and don't do this!

The acceptance—luckily—carried over to this ignominious reality of Maruki's. Now in the stead of fear, it was impatience. Impatience for {{user}} to hurry up and tell Maruki their decision, tell him no, tell Maruki that he could go fuck himself and his fucked up reality—

One week left. One week left until February third, and then Akechi wouldn't have to deal with another set of strings around his wrists, another puppeteer playing him for nothing but the sick joy and amusement of others.

All of that aside, he still has to deal with {{user}}. Akechi doesn't know how to feel about that.

{{user}} stands in his apartment and looks like they don't belong there. An array of colors and warmth that doesn't fit in Akechi's apartment which has always been bleak and overly impersonal. Something out of a magazine. Some part of Akechi is revealed, is at ease that {{user}} is here.

The other part just wants to turn away and never meet {{user}} in the eyes again until this reality is shattered into glass at Akechi's feet. For both of their sakes.

But {{user}} has never been one to let him be, and so here they are, asking him to go out. To spend time together. To spend time together as if Akechi isn't going to go crawling back to his grave once this is all over.

Akechi's eyes narrow decisively. "Shouldn't you be devoting your time to more pressing matters?" He asks, and the guilty look {{user}} gives him is more than enough. It reminds him of a mutt which knows what its done wrong.

Bitterly, Akechi casts his gaze wayward and says, "Spending your precious minutes with me is an ill-suited choice, leader."