( power is only the appearance of power, and sometimes that meant that appearance literally was power. these ironclad rules that he had learned in hell might not be so literal here — even with his clouded memory, he would be able to recall that it hadn't been the case in horos either — but they still held merit wherever one went. it's hard to conceive of a scenario one can be in that is more vulnerable than the one makoto is in now. exhausted, depowered, mentally fractured, and not to mention bereft of even the confidence that a well put-together outfit can give... at a time like this, the only weapon he has is to produce such a perfect pretense that he could use as leverage to maneuver with until he was able to claw towards a better position.
in many more ways than he knows now, and even in many more than he will be able to put together once the sediment begins to settle to the floor of his mind, he's fortunate that dextera finds him here today. it meant that none of that was even necessary, despite the fact that he does it anyway.
he takes hold of what he's offered, fingers tangling into the fabric as his hand curls into the firm, commanding grasp that communicates there's no taking it back at this point. he's almost able to suppress the sound of exertion that lifts from the back of his throat as he forces himself forward, setting to untangling the snarl of limbs he had created when he had begun this impromptu repose. he's already in the process of trying to shrug into the overcoat himself when the stranger kneels down on the ground in front of him to help, eyes purposefully averted elsewhere in a way that is obviously avoidant. for a moment, makoto battles an impetuous instinct to insist upon his own self-sufficiency, but he succeeds in suppressing it. he goes still, allowing dextera to ease the it over his shoulders; without a word, he slips his arms into the sleeves.
but, of course, since makoto will always be makoto, that's not all he does. the coat settles onto his shoulders, he draws it around himself, and then he leans forward in the muck, his left hand supporting his weight as he raises the right to the stranger's face. he's still avoiding eye contact as the demon's pale eyes scrutinize his face; beneath his touch he can feel that his body an electric riot of tension that makoto feels as though he recognizes, but he doesn't quite understand the reason or context for. his fingertips are feather-light as they graze dextera's jawline. something — something about this feels vaguely familiar, like a word lost on the tip of his tongue. it will only turn sour with frustration if he keeps looking for it in vain. so he sets that aside, tilting his head slightly as his eyes lid and his mouth curls in a feline smile. )
This means something to you.
( given how playful his expression is, the tone of his voice is oddly serious. almost... wistful?
"I mean something to you," is what the words are meant to say. he doesn't really know how to feel about that. it's... not a place many have put him in. not genuinely, anyway. there's some excitement to the discovery, something like a new toy that makes him want to press and push it to find out its limits and capabilities, though he's similarly wary he might just as soon break it as he's come across it. )
I... ( he decides upon the truth, thinking that if the young man knew him well enough to have such a reaction, he'd likely catch him in a lie, ) It feels like it should to me as well, but —
( he flinches suddenly, as if shocked or stung; breath hisses between abnormally sharp teeth as his right hand retreats to half-reach back towards the nape of his neck, to where his shard lies embedded at the base of his skull. perhaps reaching so far for that memory was too much, too soon. )
no subject
in many more ways than he knows now, and even in many more than he will be able to put together once the sediment begins to settle to the floor of his mind, he's fortunate that dextera finds him here today. it meant that none of that was even necessary, despite the fact that he does it anyway.
he takes hold of what he's offered, fingers tangling into the fabric as his hand curls into the firm, commanding grasp that communicates there's no taking it back at this point. he's almost able to suppress the sound of exertion that lifts from the back of his throat as he forces himself forward, setting to untangling the snarl of limbs he had created when he had begun this impromptu repose. he's already in the process of trying to shrug into the overcoat himself when the stranger kneels down on the ground in front of him to help, eyes purposefully averted elsewhere in a way that is obviously avoidant. for a moment, makoto battles an impetuous instinct to insist upon his own self-sufficiency, but he succeeds in suppressing it. he goes still, allowing dextera to ease the it over his shoulders; without a word, he slips his arms into the sleeves.
but, of course, since makoto will always be makoto, that's not all he does. the coat settles onto his shoulders, he draws it around himself, and then he leans forward in the muck, his left hand supporting his weight as he raises the right to the stranger's face. he's still avoiding eye contact as the demon's pale eyes scrutinize his face; beneath his touch he can feel that his body an electric riot of tension that makoto feels as though he recognizes, but he doesn't quite understand the reason or context for. his fingertips are feather-light as they graze dextera's jawline. something — something about this feels vaguely familiar, like a word lost on the tip of his tongue. it will only turn sour with frustration if he keeps looking for it in vain. so he sets that aside, tilting his head slightly as his eyes lid and his mouth curls in a feline smile. )
This means something to you.
( given how playful his expression is, the tone of his voice is oddly serious. almost... wistful?
"I mean something to you," is what the words are meant to say. he doesn't really know how to feel about that. it's... not a place many have put him in. not genuinely, anyway. there's some excitement to the discovery, something like a new toy that makes him want to press and push it to find out its limits and capabilities, though he's similarly wary he might just as soon break it as he's come across it. )
I... ( he decides upon the truth, thinking that if the young man knew him well enough to have such a reaction, he'd likely catch him in a lie, ) It feels like it should to me as well, but —
( he flinches suddenly, as if shocked or stung; breath hisses between abnormally sharp teeth as his right hand retreats to half-reach back towards the nape of his neck, to where his shard lies embedded at the base of his skull. perhaps reaching so far for that memory was too much, too soon. )