#my flat line inhibition⸴ is my ammunition— i'm just fighting to get by ⛾ post neo ; main

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( → bounced from @strawberry-barista !! )

Sanae pursed his lips tightly. Couldn't his other self sense somehow that he was a Fallen Angel? Or had he apparently struck it lucky, with either a world where his consciousness couldn't be poked into, or a version of himself who was sympathetic— if not downright aligned with his own beliefs? The implication that this guy might've already known about his presence — as per the "sooner" in "sorry I couldn't come sooner to meetcha" — certainly supported that second hypothesis.

With a sigh and relaxation of his stance, he decided he'd push his luck today. "...I do, don't I?" He rolled his shoulders and massaged the back of his neck. "Sorry— I'm a tad more used'a territorial cats, you see." Saying that he spat out into a laugh, because it was true. And in the way his laugh tapered off, it was audible just how much that truth had worn him out.

He stepped back, leaning against the edge, slipping his hands into his pockets, one surreptitiously messaging his keeper about his being spotted. "I don't exactly have any currency on me, so if you were thinking of having this proposed chat over at your place, I'm afraid I'll hafta decline." Well, he did have a bit left, but he'd wager that it wouldn't be enough to afford anything, and Sanae didn't really know himself to be the kind of person to pass handouts.

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{ itty bitty little tag dump, as you do—

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@strawberry-barista →

*Hanekoma worrying strongly in their general direction*

"Hey. I'm fine. I turned out fine." That's not the case at all, but at least it isn't because he swallowed a couple of coins that one time.

@catncore →

yeah that checks

"'Checks'?" He gives a slight, curious tilt of the head before his eyes shoot wide.

"God fuckin damnit Joshua— he told you about the Mukade thing, didn't he?"

Sanae huffs sharply. Josh would just never let him live this down, would he? "Listen: I was five, and I was inquisitive— just like any good Producer oughta' be."

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He clicks his tongue. (Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.) Taps his foot. (Tpp, tpp, tpp, tpp.)

Sanae whips his phone out of his pocket for the fifth — sixth? — time in four minutes, thumb swiping and tapping in the exact same motions as the last. He already knows that his messages still haven’t been read yet— that or purposefully unopened, and that him checking their history won’t make their recipient get to them faster. He also knows he could be putting his time to far better use, but he’s already prowled all over this Shibuya and he’s already put up a throw-up on one of its surfaces twice. 

He shoves his phone back in this time.

Well— looks like he's got some time here, still.