A/N: Okay, some words in my defense. Toudou really needs fics and... I have to vent. Toudou is something else to write. He's both smart and seriously messed up in the head, and thus easy to write when I get a little crazy.
'In lak'ech' was a recorded Mayan greeting that roughly translates to "you are another me".
Disclaimer: If I owned AnE, I would make Justicecadet do the art. Then Toudou would be stealing Yukio's milk and Yukio would wear a tutu. Simply because drawing the bullet jacket is tiresome. Yeah, that's the reason. Don't look at me like that.
In Lak'ech.
That feeling of having "seen" something happen before, what was the quaint French phrase... "deja vu", wasn't it? How curious it is then, that it is exactly what I think when I see you.
Standing there, you're weaving a story: a fairytale. The hero is a dashing young man who completes his task analytically and excellently. He decided he would become a professional at a young age and his painstakingly developed prodigious skills and discipline win accolades and admiration. He wasn't arrogant and isolated though. He seeks to live up to his father's reputed name and be a good man. He always moves forward, respecting those who have given him this chance, and will continue to achieve. He is admired by many and much is expected from him.
But humans aren't "heroes" and a fairytale is just a fairytale.
This well-crafted mask is a familiar one. Standing amid the amused and thoroughly blind crowd, I recognize the twisted mind it hides. You, Yukio Okumura.
We both know all humans desperately want a good fiction. Some are desperate enough to purchase these dramas with their soul, literally in this world of demons, and even fewer understand that price they pay. That price is what you pay every minute you wear the mask of the paragon.
Isn't it delusional? Out of touch, perhaps? The audience doesn't appear to know. Enthralled by the projection, they applaud you on stage. Yet, the projection is a lie. The applause dies behind the curtain, behind the mask.
In a second, you are not who they want. The play ends and you fade into backstage.
That is the nature of the enigma you are. Always limited, by others or by yourself. The praise following the performance is shortlived and ignorant. Your audience bought it, but not for long. Your family can't buy it, as they know you. You realize, don't you? Your false self, a semblance of a man, can't compete, can't live in the real world. You will never live up to anyone.
Knowing this, could I ever believe that mask you wear? Could I ever believe someone who, remarkably, chose the same false life that I had? You lay it all out before me. Son and student of one of the strongest exorcists in recent history. Brother of Satan's blood, a powerful weapon, destined to surpass you. Fully qualified exorcist at fifteen. Teacher. Scholarship student.
Then there's that twisted glare. That restrained voice. That twitch in your hand.
That final piece of the puzzle: fear.
Where you stand, I see a frightened child tightly clutching his teachings as a makeshift shield to keep the monsters away. But the shield is slipping, one stitch at a time from his weary fingers, as he averts his eyes from the monsters he fears. So much change is in store for him and he cowers from it.
It's so interesting! So fascinating! That I could find such a like-minded individual! Like me, when I was buried in lies and fear. Like me, destroying yourself, using every ounce of willpower to keep the monsters at bay and the fear that unfolds on your face as the monster within succeeds. Like me, locking myself in the unreality because I was so afraid of what I am.
You're a fearful child, admit it! I see you deny and run so much. Run from demons, run from me… run from yourself.
So, strange version of myself, I want you to stop it. The running, it's just useless. (And inefficient for my purposes.)
You know that you seem this way. You know you feel this way. And though you deny it, you know it is who you are.
Demon.
Liar.
Different.
'You are another me.'