If he wants to talk about overthinking then we need to talk about yesterd—
God, not now, okay? Aoba stood patiently in place, eyes closed for a few tired moments before opening again, realizing he’d better pay attention so that he could reproduce this all on his own later. Declan’s hands were efficient and no-nonsense, tugging things into place with all the efficiency of decades or centuries or whatever the hell he’d been a Guardian for, but while Aoba didn’t feel anything untoward about it all, he was still more attentive than professionalism allowed for. It was in a melancholic fashion, though.
Everything felt fine once it was on, though the helmet was strange. It gave Aoba a weird and irrelevant flashback, but his sense of vision was—remarkably unimpaired, despite how it had looked before actually putting it on. He flexed his hands in the gloves, unfamiliar with the way they were reinforced by the various space-age materials, but wandered off towards the mirror. There was a little more heel on the boots than he would have gone for on his own, but the steps didn’t feel too awkward….
And he literally could not recognize himself when he looked in the mirror. Even all of his ponytail had gotten tucked inside and hidden away the protective layers. He looked like some Hunter Guardian, unidentifiably masked.
“Throwing coins to a cat,” he muttered, making experimental little movements. Louder, he said, “I’ve never worn anything like it, but…as far as I can tell, it feels fine.”
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God, not now, okay? Aoba stood patiently in place, eyes closed for a few tired moments before opening again, realizing he’d better pay attention so that he could reproduce this all on his own later. Declan’s hands were efficient and no-nonsense, tugging things into place with all the efficiency of decades or centuries or whatever the hell he’d been a Guardian for, but while Aoba didn’t feel anything untoward about it all, he was still more attentive than professionalism allowed for. It was in a melancholic fashion, though.
Everything felt fine once it was on, though the helmet was strange. It gave Aoba a weird and irrelevant flashback, but his sense of vision was—remarkably unimpaired, despite how it had looked before actually putting it on. He flexed his hands in the gloves, unfamiliar with the way they were reinforced by the various space-age materials, but wandered off towards the mirror. There was a little more heel on the boots than he would have gone for on his own, but the steps didn’t feel too awkward….
And he literally could not recognize himself when he looked in the mirror. Even all of his ponytail had gotten tucked inside and hidden away the protective layers. He looked like some Hunter Guardian, unidentifiably masked.
“Throwing coins to a cat,” he muttered, making experimental little movements. Louder, he said, “I’ve never worn anything like it, but…as far as I can tell, it feels fine.”