( perhaps there had been a long series of aborted attempts at his manifestation prior to this meeting they have now — the first had been when they had all awoken from their stone sarcophagi in the depths of yima's manor, when the wool had been pulled from his eyes too soon so that the despair of how he'd been manipulated and controlled and used had washed through him in a wave so sudden and so powerful that it had rattled apart the measures the lady of the house had gone through to piece him back together. it had been fortunate, then, that he had merely dissolved back into primordial essence rather than having his shard shatter completely. that would have been it, once and for all.
that despair is not gone, not fully. no matter how much metaphysical scar tissue had built up within the confines of his shard around where there had once been a seam, warping and muting the memories that had provided the impetus for the feeling, they still couldn't uproot it entirely. he feels a sort of raw and uncertain tenderness, the kind a wounded man might feel prior to putting weight on an injured leg and learning the full extent of its severity. he doesn't want to trust. he doesn't want to place himself in the hands of anyone or anything, knowing it is always in their base interest to want to try to use him to their own ends.
but — but this stranger...
the instant dextera extends his hand to approach his head, where his shard lies embedded in the back of his neck, makoto misconstrues his intentions. with a sharp inhale and a ragged shuddering of breath, his hand which had been hovering in the same location snaps out to grasp his at the wrist — he doesn't have much energy or strength in this body of his, but he manages to extract what little he has now and pour it into his grip, keeping the hand... exactly where it had intended to remain. he can sense that in how the stranger doesn't fight to push past his defense, in how he shakes his head, his gaze dolorous and forewarning.
the momentary strength that he had poured into this snap reaction, foolish and animal in its vicious immediacy, ebbs. something far more confusing than reflexive anger fills its place. it fills his chest and crowds upwards into his throat, causing it to constrict; his eyes burn with what threatens to become tears, though he mentally banishes them with enough impunity that he halts their approach.
of all that would try to reach for him, to control him, to wield him, to shape him, to use him however might best suit themselves and their goals... this person wouldn't. he knows it with immediate, alarming certainty, like the sudden shifting of ice and snow which would precipitate an avalanche.
he relinquishes the stranger's wrist, and he looks into his dark, pleading eyes. makoto fights a valiant war against his own emotions, all of which suddenly start to well up and break past the levies of callous distance that he has imposed between himself and this new situation he knows he's been shoved into the middle of; they batter and break themselves upon him, making him feel years younger (though those years feel like decades with all that has happened, with all that he's been through, what he's seen and what he's done—). for a moment, he looks younger too. it's a fleeting expression of vulnerability that steals in across his face and takes up residence in his eyes, shining for just a moment with a sheen that threatens to break into tears.
he breaks it by suddenly leaning forward, slumping towards dextera so that he rests his forehead on the young man's shoulder — just as he had, what feels like a lifetime ago, after he had expressed his gratitude to him in a way he hadn't expected. makoto doesn't remember that moment, not really, but... it does feel right to do this now. it feels... safe.
no subject
that despair is not gone, not fully. no matter how much metaphysical scar tissue had built up within the confines of his shard around where there had once been a seam, warping and muting the memories that had provided the impetus for the feeling, they still couldn't uproot it entirely. he feels a sort of raw and uncertain tenderness, the kind a wounded man might feel prior to putting weight on an injured leg and learning the full extent of its severity. he doesn't want to trust. he doesn't want to place himself in the hands of anyone or anything, knowing it is always in their base interest to want to try to use him to their own ends.
but — but this stranger...
the instant dextera extends his hand to approach his head, where his shard lies embedded in the back of his neck, makoto misconstrues his intentions. with a sharp inhale and a ragged shuddering of breath, his hand which had been hovering in the same location snaps out to grasp his at the wrist — he doesn't have much energy or strength in this body of his, but he manages to extract what little he has now and pour it into his grip, keeping the hand... exactly where it had intended to remain. he can sense that in how the stranger doesn't fight to push past his defense, in how he shakes his head, his gaze dolorous and forewarning.
the momentary strength that he had poured into this snap reaction, foolish and animal in its vicious immediacy, ebbs. something far more confusing than reflexive anger fills its place. it fills his chest and crowds upwards into his throat, causing it to constrict; his eyes burn with what threatens to become tears, though he mentally banishes them with enough impunity that he halts their approach.
of all that would try to reach for him, to control him, to wield him, to shape him, to use him however might best suit themselves and their goals... this person wouldn't. he knows it with immediate, alarming certainty, like the sudden shifting of ice and snow which would precipitate an avalanche.
he relinquishes the stranger's wrist, and he looks into his dark, pleading eyes. makoto fights a valiant war against his own emotions, all of which suddenly start to well up and break past the levies of callous distance that he has imposed between himself and this new situation he knows he's been shoved into the middle of; they batter and break themselves upon him, making him feel years younger (though those years feel like decades with all that has happened, with all that he's been through, what he's seen and what he's done—). for a moment, he looks younger too. it's a fleeting expression of vulnerability that steals in across his face and takes up residence in his eyes, shining for just a moment with a sheen that threatens to break into tears.
he breaks it by suddenly leaning forward, slumping towards dextera so that he rests his forehead on the young man's shoulder — just as he had, what feels like a lifetime ago, after he had expressed his gratitude to him in a way he hadn't expected. makoto doesn't remember that moment, not really, but... it does feel right to do this now. it feels... safe.
safer than he can even remember feeling. )