[ It's not the first time he's been to Akibahara, and it's far from his last.
There are teams here, after all. American football players aiming for the Rice Bowl tournament to spy on; to scout. In one of the most shopping-oriented cities in the fucking region. Figures, is one of many thoughts as he trots down the steps into the subway, messenger bag tucked securely under-arm, camera slung around his neck.
Hiruma makes for the train that'll take him downtown, only stalled by the turnstiles leading to the tracks. It's a tight squeeze, jamming himself in with the rest of the population, reaching high to secure himself to the bar overhead. It all seems a little bigger, this place — everything does. The buildings, the transit... sharp eyes watch it all speed by. Hard to believe he's breaching his twenty-first year.
One wasted, another gained.
Really, getting back into the swing of things at his University was easier than he's expected, but, of course, the doubt still remains.
Was that all real? The magic, the events, the people? God, he'd spent so much effort on it all, so many months wasted, nothing to show for it other than a stiff arm, and a whole lot of useless knowledge. If it all ended up a twisted dream, what then? Should he be happy, or as conflicted as he is; leaving behind things he'd worked for leaves him restless at night, more so than usual. Shaking it off is a temporary fix for an infuriating problem.
One he's been trying for a long, long while now.
With a large bubble snapping under sharp canines, Hiruma ignores the nagging questions, the scenery blurring into one grey colour, the bustle around him. He'll focus on his schedule, his plans for the day, the money he has and the money he'll spend. That's enough, isn't it. Just for now.
Or at least until the next stop, and the fresh flood of city-goers. ]
[ 'flood' is a good way to put it; train crowds in Tokyo aren't anything to kid about, which is something Kurisu wished she'd thought about before she decided to organize her schedule around them. Sure, they were always on time, but being squished in here at rush hour was never a pleasant experience, and there was always the fear that she'd get recognized by someone less than savory.
Ironically, that's about to happen anyway, but not at all the way she thinks it will.
Unlike Hiruma, she has no recollection of it at all. Not the lessor, not her house, not the town, not him - none of it. It was all an alien memory, lost forever in some other worldline where she couldn't remember it anyway; dead people don't think. There were flashes here and there in her dreams, but didn't everyone dream about crazy things? She didn't give it a second thought. Okabe had explained some of it all to her at this point; time machines, string theory, memory transmission - all fascinating, and all entirely without proof. Though she, as always, expressed her skepticism loudly just to ruffle his feathers, she actually did believe him simply because she was fond of him. More than she'd like to admit. Why else would she still be in Akihabara more than a month after she was scheduled to leave?
That was actually exactly what she was here to do. She had determined that today she was going to sort out her travel plans. So she was on the train back to her hotel when she met him again. The crowd is big, and she has no choice but to move with it; she ends up bumping him by accident. ]
Ah -- my apologies, [ she says, glancing up at him neutrally - and then glancing up again. Not in recognition, but just because he had an unusual look. ]
[ When the doors open, people file in, people file out; his arm is bumped, naturally, several times in the process. He thinks nothing of it, calmly averting his eyes from the passengers who seem to shy away. He squeezes his messenger bag to his side, free hand reaching for the strap above his head for balance.
It's the gentler disturbance, a harmless elbow to the ribs, that Hiruma heeds — shorter girl, slight, russet hair, grey eyes, familiar eyes.
Strange, how memories that seem to fade can be triggered by something so trivial. A nostalgic scent, a taste on the tongue. But it's her voice that reaches his ears first, and he remembers how fond he was of listening to it. Huffing at people's antics, scolding him and his mockeries, a rare ego when she knew she was right, the smile in it when she was happy. A voice he never thought he'd hear again. ]
You...
[ His fingers itch to grab her arm, prove to himself she's tangible, but there's no recognition in her look, and it throws him off. But the name that springs up in his mind is what he latches onto tightly, and it takes him a moment to process it; even longer to say it. ]
[ Being recognized wasn't anything new for her; she was slightly famous in some circles, mostly amongst other scientists and hobbyists. Neither of which seemed to match this man's description, but who was she to judge?
It was his tone which struck her as unusual - like he was seeing a ghost or something. There's a momentary pang of remembrance, and she really hopes and prays that this isn't someone else who'd been going through hell because of all the time travel. Someone who'd known her before. It had been difficult enough the first time. ]
[ When he's gripped by emotion, sentimentality, it's in the moment Hiruma blinks, remembers to inhale, that it's over.
He was right — sometimes he really hated that about himself. Makise Kurisu didn't remember him, and opening the door to one insecurity let in several more. She was here, real; she bumped him, she acknowledged and spoke to him. But without the memory, Hiruma was just another face. A foreign one, something alien. So he looks away, down at his hand. ]
No. [ His voice is detached, expression schooled into something neutral. ] No, that'd be impossible, even with your stubbornness.
[ It comes off a bit snippy, the curt tone a result of his turmoil — what could he even say? If she didn't remember, why should he bother even making a case for himself? "You and I were trapped in American suburbia in an alternate dimension"? Yeah, fucking right. ]
We met. Once. But even that seems like a long time ago, now.
[ the testy reply makes her wrinkle her nose; clearly, she finds that sort of attitude a little distasteful, and she would have been more than willing to end this conversation right there and continue on her merry way. But, again, he goes and says something unusual.
Her dreadful curiosity always gets the better of her. ]
Once? Where? Were you at a convention? Forgive my bluntness, but you don't look like the scholarly type.
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wrote this half asleep so gomen, also teels
There are teams here, after all. American football players aiming for the Rice Bowl tournament to spy on; to scout. In one of the most shopping-oriented cities in the fucking region. Figures, is one of many thoughts as he trots down the steps into the subway, messenger bag tucked securely under-arm, camera slung around his neck.
Hiruma makes for the train that'll take him downtown, only stalled by the turnstiles leading to the tracks. It's a tight squeeze, jamming himself in with the rest of the population, reaching high to secure himself to the bar overhead. It all seems a little bigger, this place — everything does. The buildings, the transit... sharp eyes watch it all speed by. Hard to believe he's breaching his twenty-first year.
One wasted, another gained.
Really, getting back into the swing of things at his University was easier than he's expected, but, of course, the doubt still remains.
Was that all real? The magic, the events, the people? God, he'd spent so much effort on it all, so many months wasted, nothing to show for it other than a stiff arm, and a whole lot of useless knowledge. If it all ended up a twisted dream, what then? Should he be happy, or as conflicted as he is; leaving behind things he'd worked for leaves him restless at night, more so than usual. Shaking it off is a temporary fix for an infuriating problem.
One he's been trying for a long, long while now.
With a large bubble snapping under sharp canines, Hiruma ignores the nagging questions, the scenery blurring into one grey colour, the bustle around him. He'll focus on his schedule, his plans for the day, the money he has and the money he'll spend. That's enough, isn't it. Just for now.
Or at least until the next stop, and the fresh flood of city-goers. ]
shhhh it's delicious
Ironically, that's about to happen anyway, but not at all the way she thinks it will.
Unlike Hiruma, she has no recollection of it at all. Not the lessor, not her house, not the town, not him - none of it. It was all an alien memory, lost forever in some other worldline where she couldn't remember it anyway; dead people don't think. There were flashes here and there in her dreams, but didn't everyone dream about crazy things? She didn't give it a second thought. Okabe had explained some of it all to her at this point; time machines, string theory, memory transmission - all fascinating, and all entirely without proof. Though she, as always, expressed her skepticism loudly just to ruffle his feathers, she actually did believe him simply because she was fond of him. More than she'd like to admit. Why else would she still be in Akihabara more than a month after she was scheduled to leave?
That was actually exactly what she was here to do. She had determined that today she was going to sort out her travel plans. So she was on the train back to her hotel when she met him again. The crowd is big, and she has no choice but to move with it; she ends up bumping him by accident. ]
Ah -- my apologies, [ she says, glancing up at him neutrally - and then glancing up again. Not in recognition, but just because he had an unusual look. ]
u /////u
It's the gentler disturbance, a harmless elbow to the ribs, that Hiruma heeds — shorter girl, slight, russet hair, grey eyes, familiar eyes.
Strange, how memories that seem to fade can be triggered by something so trivial. A nostalgic scent, a taste on the tongue. But it's her voice that reaches his ears first, and he remembers how fond he was of listening to it. Huffing at people's antics, scolding him and his mockeries, a rare ego when she knew she was right, the smile in it when she was happy. A voice he never thought he'd hear again. ]
You...
[ His fingers itch to grab her arm, prove to himself she's tangible, but there's no recognition in her look, and it throws him off. But the name that springs up in his mind is what he latches onto tightly, and it takes him a moment to process it; even longer to say it. ]
—Kurisu.
[ Where the fuck have you been. ]
[ugu]
[ Being recognized wasn't anything new for her; she was slightly famous in some circles, mostly amongst other scientists and hobbyists. Neither of which seemed to match this man's description, but who was she to judge?
It was his tone which struck her as unusual - like he was seeing a ghost or something. There's a momentary pang of remembrance, and she really hopes and prays that this isn't someone else who'd been going through hell because of all the time travel. Someone who'd known her before. It had been difficult enough the first time. ]
@ u@
He was right — sometimes he really hated that about himself. Makise Kurisu didn't remember him, and opening the door to one insecurity let in several more. She was here, real; she bumped him, she acknowledged and spoke to him. But without the memory, Hiruma was just another face. A foreign one, something alien. So he looks away, down at his hand. ]
No. [ His voice is detached, expression schooled into something neutral. ] No, that'd be impossible, even with your stubbornness.
no subject
... Have we met, sir?
[ He looked like a punk. She'd remember meeting someone like this; her memory is good. But there was nothing to recognize in his features. ]
no subject
[ It comes off a bit snippy, the curt tone a result of his turmoil — what could he even say? If she didn't remember, why should he bother even making a case for himself? "You and I were trapped in American suburbia in an alternate dimension"? Yeah, fucking right. ]
We met. Once. But even that seems like a long time ago, now.
no subject
Her dreadful curiosity always gets the better of her. ]
Once? Where? Were you at a convention? Forgive my bluntness, but you don't look like the scholarly type.