( ensconced deep within the labyrinthine tangle of immense roots at the base of the Tree of Life, all is still and quiet. the air is just as thick and heavy with cool damp as it is with the gloom that fills the caverns as if they were submerged in it. but for the very first that arrived from horos — among which makoto had briefly been included — all Shard-Bearers find their way into the world at the end of all worlds here. they scratch and claw and emerge to cling to life as a drowning man would any piece of suitable flotsam, or perhaps at the expense of another poor soul lost to the heartless waves. for some time, if one was to travel beneath the Tree and search the tunnels, there is nothing to indicate that any new life has come to join them.
that changes rather abruptly.
after taking a sharp turn, scene of fresh activity becomes apparent, eerie in its contrast against the dark quiet. in between two roots, a wound opens in the earth; it has been rent with all the frenzied violence of a rat scratching and gnawing its way through the gut of a medieval torture victim as it tried in desperation to escape the flames that licked at its tail. the subject of this emergence is not immediately visible. instead, there are tracks within the soft soil, seemingly staggering in exaggerated zig-zag further down the tunnel — it seems that their instincts on which way led out of this place weren't strong enough to divine the correct direction.
the tracks don't lead very far. soon enough, they disappear, and it might lead one to cast their gaze around in the low light to try to figure out where the new Shard-Bearer managed to have gone. but it's just around this time that a voice preempts that confusion, cutting through the silence with all the precise severity of a thrown dagger, ) Well, it took you long enough.
( a familiar voice, though one worn thin with exhaustion.
the body tucked into the shadowed fossa tucked into a curling root looks for all the world like a corpse, given the deathly pallor of the skin, streaked with grit and dirt. the Tree of Life did not decide to grace him with clothing, but it's not as though makoto spares even a partial thought for modesty — this having been said, it's fortunate for his rescuer's sensibilities that he's crumpled in such a way with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee that he's not immediately scandalizing him. the demon rakes his fingers through the birds' nest that his emergence here has made of his hair, trying in vain to bring order to the chaos. he stares out at who has come across him, but he can't see many details in the gloom.
not that it mattered. he can already tell by the silhouette that it's not J, nor any other demon that he might recognize. in his exhaustion, his mind and his memories dull and leaden and indistinct, it means their only use is to (hopefully) get him out of here.
he heaves a dramatized sigh before he continues, ) I was beginning to think I'd wither away down here before I even got the chance to see where the hell I've ended up this time.
it’s in springstar, it’s in highstorm, and worry for the balance of the world has dextera going to what feels like the center of it all. it may be fate or just a cosmic coincidence, but someone is there—he sees them at the same time they see him, a familiar voice calling out. dextera’s breath stops in his throat, and his slow, cautious steps grow stumbling in his sudden haste. mud splatters the pristine hem of his uniform and nearly soaks his knees as well when he trips over a root and only catches himself by his palms.
although he knows now he can commune without removing his shard, it simply doesn’t occur to him here and now, in the face of such an unexpected reunion. ]
—!
[ his breath is ragged in his throat from surprise rather than exertion, as if his heart is beating so violently that air has no place to rest in his lungs.
unable to decide where to look, dextera is already clumsily unbuttoning his overcoat, glancing down at himself and at makoto a few times alternating until he’s shrugged it half off and has a wild look in his eyes.
it’s makoto, makoto. there’s no one else he’s thought of so much since the collapse of horos—makoto is one of the only names he’s kept etched into his heart, when so many others have faded from memory to spare him the despair of loss.
he wonders: is this a manifestation of hope? a sign that those lives aren’t gone, as meridian has promised? ]
( at least the contagion that has taken hold of the trees which took root in the Meridian and Zenith seats of power has not spread to this particular tree — or, at least, it hasn't progressed to the extent that it now rages throughout their respective city streets. the Tree of Life remains encapsulated within its own bubble of reality, the weather faintly cool and perfectly stable. perhaps it's a relief to see that at least something in kenos remains (at least visibly) unaffected by the slow and steady spread of the Blight, though more and more it seems like that is a relief that will prove to be temporary.
though there isn't much room to do so, makoto shrinks back in his tiny hollow as his discoverer's sudden haste kicks up dirt and mud for a few paces before he trips, just barely catching himself on a nearby root. the demon's face is a pale mask of faux horror, and his voice remains scathing in its dry criticism as he continues, ) Be careful. It's not like you're any good to me injured or out cold.
( there's a desperate fervency to the stranger's movements that gives makoto pause. he doesn't know how to interpret that, or the way that he keeps looking up at him wide-eyed and wild, as if he might dissolve into the humid subterranean air at any second. what was that supposed to mean? it's not like he's of any particular importance — if that was the case, he wouldn't have had to languish in this god-forsaken place for hours (regardless of whether or not it had actually been hours, it felt like hours to him) before he'd been found. he doesn't think he's at any immediate risk of death or dissipation, but, hell, from what precious little he can recall of what had happened prior to this (from his perspective), that might not be the case.
makoto's eyes narrow into a squint, and in the dim light his pale irises are almost luminous where they stand against the murky dark of the sclera. he searches the desperate young man's dirtied face, and he searches through what was available to him in his mind, in his heart. it's not — necessarily that he finds nothing. instead it feels like the terrible pause in-between a breath drawn sharply and whatever vocalization (a laugh, a sigh, a question, a sob, a scream?) it had been intended for.
there's a disconnect. his thoughts and memories full of cotton fog, he has no idea which of those options it should be.
but it should be something. that certainty comes to him with shocking surprise. is it because he is suddenly sure that he knows him, or is it because he's realizing that the only answer for the stranger's excitement is that makoto is someone to him?
he doesn't know. but if it gave the boy more reason to get him out of this place, then he's certainly not going to argue.
makoto's mouth parts with a few feeble chuckles; he struggles up onto one elbow. ) My, the clothes off your back? How very generous.
( the words are smooth, slick with the practiced half-hidden scorn that makoto is so skillful with. but they are beginning to temper with something less sharp, less visceral. curiosity, perhaps. in a somewhat swaying motion, he extends one hand, expectant. )
[ it’s little surprise that makoto is weak and pretending he isn’t. that’s the person dextera knows makoto to be—it would be comforting if it weren’t for the physical reality of it, that dextera is not a healer nor did he know to bring anything for makoto to eat.
in makoto’s absence, maybe he’s gotten a little jumbled. it’s what he does with memories he wants to hold onto. he takes pieces of others and makes them his own; what was once a similarity is now a visceral sameness, as if color could be restored to makoto’s skin with a hot beating heart. all dextera has in place of that is a coat, but it’s one he offers readily unto makoto’s expectant hand.
not quite generous, though it’s impossible to say what it might be instead. ]
…
[ rather than helping makoto to his feet in doing so, dextera meets him on the ground on his knees, unconcerned about dragging the white fabric across the ground or getting the rest of his clothes dirty in the process.
now that they’re close enough for dextera to try to put the coat on makoto himself, his little movements are more obvious: his eyes, turned down to avoid making contact before he’s ready, twitch as if his very muscles are overwhelmed with stimulation. ]
( 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. )
[ it’s not any surprise that makoto doesn’t remember. he, more than anyone else dextera knew in the transition, was someone poised to tear himself apart the moment he manifested. it could have happened countless times—maybe it had, and this is the first time his body was actually able to form around his shard. new, delicate, hopefully untainted by the unique influence of horos.
dextera doesn’t even have the sword he crafted anymore; there have been times he wished he did, just to have something tangible, but the crack in the stone would have been hard to see so many times over. ]
—?
[ makoto flinches, and dextera does too, his attention drawn out from his reminiscing to the physical reality of now—only belatedly realizing he had been touched, and missing it in its absence.
he’s afraid to commune or overload makoto with sensation, seeing this, so he reverts to a much more primal form of communication. so many of his earliest interactions, not just with people here, but in his memory, were all based on trying to convey something with his eyes and hands alone. so he shakes his head, taking his own hand from where he had been holding the coat closed and moving it to also hover over makoto’s shard.
again, he shakes his head, now seeking eye contact. an urgent request for makoto not to push himself; a worry that if he does, he’ll fall apart and disappear once again. ]
( 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.
[ dextera has been through a lot since that moment. he’s grown in unexpected ways; he’s found his footing in this world in a way he never managed in horos. his loyalty to pleroma had been a necessary plunge, but here, despite the archangel attempting to sway his heart, he’s firmly planted his feet in the lush soil of springstar and grown because of it.
that doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember his weakness or the way he’d held onto makoto. everything around them had been so dark and miserable, but his relationship with makoto was divorced from all that.
—but now, makoto has returned in the midst of escalating tensions. dextera doesn’t know where he will ultimately fall, and he knows makoto is achingly contrary. if dextera tries to sway him, it will fail, and so he’s more than happy to avoid thinking about their loyalties at all just as he did before. all he needs to worry about is cradling this precious, unwillingly fragile thing, something much easier than taking a stand when it might have consequences. for now, makoto is his responsibility as a person, not as a member of any faction. ]
…
[ he still hesitates to speak. part of it is the same concern from a moment ago, of overloading makoto’s shard, but part of it is simply hoping to hold onto this little moment.
he does soon, though, lift a hand to makoto’s back, one finger held like a pen against his shoulder blades. he writes, first the simple letter M that had been his initial introduction, then a moment longer and he chooses to reveal his knowledge in full. he remembers makoto giving him his name as if it was a shift in their relationship, and he hopes now it signifies that dextera is someone makoto once trusted enough to share it. ]
( makoto has so rarely been in a position where he can seek comfort.
comfort, compassion, succor, grace — these were not common gifts to be given in hell. hell, where love was damnation, and strength and power were extracted from an expectation of what misery one could expect should those that have it not be shown their proper respect. and even before those few, short years which had felt as though they'd hastily overwritten the lifetime of years he'd had before them, he had never truly been given these gifts by those from which they would have mattered most. his family had been a barren field, from which seeds had refused to sprout and grow. he knows he had not made it any easier on them — he had never been able to become anything more or different than what he was, and he had always ever been, as J had said, ill-suited to life on earth as a human being.
as a demon in hell, he had been able to flourish. but it had been hard. when he had been at his most frightened, his most overwhelmed, he had had to force J's arms around him and entreat him for comfort he felt he should have been owed. he had never been asked prior to being forced into situations he didn't want to be in. he had eventually accepted them, embraced them to the fullest extent of his ability, because he decided he would take any opportunity given to hone himself into a weapon. it's perhaps ironic that trading in intimacy and soft secrets had transformed him into such a cold, harsh, and remote creature. the reflections that he surrounds himself are that which others gravitate to, and they invite in, but they only ever get lost within the illusory fields that he surrounds himself with. there is a disconnect between this body that J had given him, one that he trades and sells at a moment's notice in order to further himself and get what he wants, and the wild heart that beats with reckless and furious abandon at its core. it's metaphorical and metaphysical — as fine and distinct as the difference between "M," the demon he had portrayed himself to be both in the courts of hell and across the scapes of horos, and makoto. a chrysalid thing who had not yet fully transformed into what he should (what he must?) become.
a name has weight, importance. the implication of an inherent power dynamic. makoto has always been jealous with his — in hell, there were no demons that might know it but J and datenshou. he might not remember with any real accuracy or acuity what happened on horos, but he knows he would not have been any more liberal with the use of his name there as he would have been back home, where a demon's true name was as lethal as a knife.
he feels the strokes of the "M" across his shoulder blades, and he understands, but as dextera continues, the demon grows more tense, breath at first catching in his throat and held in suspended animation for a long moment before it rattles out in a surprised confusion that thrills between fear and wonder. as he lifts his head once more, he moves his right hand to the back of dextera's neck; his thin fingers curve around the column of his spine to hang off of him somewhat. with the very border of a dirtied thumbnail, he can trace the corner of the young man's jaw.
makoto stares, both unblinking and vaguely disbelieving, at dextera as if he is some sort of miracle presented to him. in a way, he is. he represents something so wildly unlikely having occurred that he can scarcely believe it happened, even when presented with the evidence of it here and now. had he really found someone he would trust so much and so implicitly?
his fortunes have always been rotten. why does he find him again now? can he trust this? it almost makes him want to push it away, makes him want to not believe he could be so auspicious, but —
with a short, faintly hoarse laugh. ) You finding me here might be one of the only instances of genuine luck I've ever had.
( or would it be like all of the others? he had thought himself "lucky" after J had taken a liking to him, after he had offered him life and love as a demon in his so-called afterlife. that wine had turned to vinegar surprisingly quickly.
he breathes out a small sigh, trying to suppress the more internal of his demons. ) Will you lead me away from this place? I'm tired of feeling like I'm within my own grave.
[ knowing what he’s supposed to do is all dextera has ever asked of anyone, since the moment he stumbled out of the lab without even knowing his own name. things may have changed for him since then, but on the most fundamental levels, he simply wants to be told what to do to get the result he wants, and then be given a way to do it. makoto asking to be taken away is something he can so easily complete it almost seems unfair; the scales are a bit unbalanced, but to dextera, he feels just the same that this is genuine luck.
he nods, committing all these things to memory—the feeling of makoto touching him, the grateful look on his face—as something precious to hold onto in the event makoto leaves again, then he brings them both to their feet with a firm kind of strength most people don’t expect him to have.
he hadn’t expected it of himself, initially, but this world has been oddly kind to him. ]
…I can take you back to my home. And then, we can talk.
[ only now does communion seem like it can work, and makoto will feel dextera’s small but peaceable impression at his shard, offering this deal. he touches his own throat in both explanation and apology, since he knows how distasteful some people like makoto find the sensation of a voice in their intimate mind. ]
( no, it's certainly not a strength he would have expected from the stranger — before him now he doesn't seem so much bigger than he is, but he must either have a wiry sort of toughness to him that is not so easy perceived in the dim light, obfuscated under yet more layers of clothing. makoto is brought to his feet with ease, though it takes him a few moments to place them with full confidence that his legs might not buckle out from underneath him once more. physically, he feels weak, exhausted; his vision fades and his ears ring, and he has to lean to dextera for an extended moment until this fades.
he feels half-starved. this body of his really has suffered in pulling itself back together, but it does still seem to be holding up, even with its shortcomings and weaknesses. even when dextera finally reaches out to speak to him by way of Communion — something which causes makoto to separate away from him immediately, eyes flying wide with surprise and alarm.
his response to Communion is the same as it had been in horos: knee-jerk negative, recoiling away as if he had been stung. had it been anyone else, he would have rejected them with immediacy and intensity — he hates the feeling of presence so close to himself, so nearby his shard, which radiates with the sort of horrible tenderness that anyone might feel when they harbor a wound, either internal or external, which might very well spell out their end. but dextera's, his... it is feather-light and unassuming, gentle, and there's something past the voice and into the very substance of that feeling of self that feels familiar. more than his face, than his silhouette, than his hands or his voice, it's that metaphysical shape of individuality that soothes makoto's wary fear. dextera touches his throat, and makoto understands intuitively: of course he could only respond like this. he knows this — or he should have known it. he knows it now.
he sways somewhat on his feet, his mouth forming a thin line; he regains his composure. he accepts the presence of dextera alongside himself, both physically and beyond that, on the credit of what he feels — what he knows had existed between them in a time which feels very nearly lost to him. )
...Lead the way, then.
( he is ready to follow, though... after a moment he reaches out to dextera, one hand clutching at his clothing near his upper arm to stabilize himself. as much as he hates revealing such weakness, the earth underfoot is uneven in these caverns, and it would be that much harder to get wherever they must go if he fell and further impaired himself. )
[ leaving is only easier than arriving because he has a goal now that he didn’t before. the land is just as treacherous, just as muddy and uneven, but now he has makoto with him in tow. as much as he’s capable, he makes sure that nothing gets in their way on the journey back, and thankfully, a cornerstone is not too far to return them to springstar in a reasonable amount of time.
having makoto here and being reminded of horos, he’s quietly grateful that the physical obstacles between them don’t seem quite so insurmountable. even if makoto may ultimately find that meridian is not the side for him—and dextera is sure that he will—then, at least for now, their meetings don’t have to be held in secret meeting places as if they’re fighting on opposite sides of a war. what aggression there’s been, he reasons, has only been between the bearers themselves. he just has to hope it stays that way.
still, there are people in springstar who might remember makoto from before, and dextera doesn’t want to expose his face too much anyway. makoto is carefully led the long way around, protected in dextera’s jacket, until they finally get to the dormitories that most of his fellow meridians have long since moved out of. ]
…here.
[ the room dextera opens into is sparsely decorated. his few personal items are leaned up against the wall—his sword, the angelic rifle, a spare set of shoes—or hanging off a hook in the case of his other clothes. there’s one thin blanket laid over the mattress, to his credit smoothed out and unwrinkled as he made it before leaving. sunlight from springstar’s perpetual day filters in from outside to illuminate the bare floor. ]
( it's certainly a challenge to make their way out of the subterranean tunnels, especially considering the treacherous ground underfoot and the fact that makoto is physically exhausted from the process of reforming from the Tree and fighting his way up to the surface. there are a few occasions where he nearly loses his footing and dextera likely has to intercede to prevent him from falling, but in the end, they do make their way out of the dark and into the bizarre space that the Tree of Life exists in. makoto blinks owlishly, confounded and amazed, as he stares out into the swirling miasma of space. but as dextera makes his way to where the cornerstone is set up, he is sure to follow, not really wanting to spend much more time here even if it is an incredible vista.
though if the exterior of the Tree had been a shock, teleporting into springstar is like 10,000 volts applied directly to the spine.
makoto prides himself on his adaptability, his unflappable grace, his social prowess. but to feel as physically weak as he does and as mentally (and spiritually) discombobulated as he is, to suddenly be thrust into perhaps the most sprawling and densely-populated city in all of existence is a brutal offense to every sense that he has. it's all too bright, too loud, too rough, too much. the only thing he is grateful for as dextera guides him on a long, circuitous path through the city towards the Heliopolis is that the stone underfoot is at least flat and level, so he doesn't have to be concerned as before about tripping. otherwise, he ducks his head and focuses all of his attention on following along after dextera, ashamed of how he must look, dirty and disheveled as he is. )
( the dormitories are at least calm and quiet, largely empty as he's guided to a given door among dozens of others. makoto follows him inside, and... deep, very deep, inside of himself, there is a part of him that isn't surprised. it just feels understood that dextera's living space would be so sparse, so utterly spartan to the point of barrenness.
the rest of him is appalled, finding it completely abhorrent that he would choose to live like this. it's clean, at the very least, but the bed isn't even properly made, for crying out loud! he doesn't even have a wardrobe — does he only have two sets of clothing and shoes, total? as he steps within and looks around, makoto's initial look of shock slowly curdles into one of horror, and he faces dextera with a dark expression. )
Please tell me you've only been here less than three days, and that's why you haven't bothered to invest in even a simple duvet.
( the way he says it, however, indicates he already knows what the answer is. no... neither of them would be so lucky. )
Where do you expect me to sleep? What do you expect me to wear?
( does this place even have its own bathroom and shower? and, if so, what on earth is the status of it )
[ being chastised by makoto is better than the tense silence as they proceeded through the cornerstone and springstar proper, but only because it’s a reminder that makoto is here. it still makes dextera grimace, as if he truly doesn’t realize what a miserable situation he’s living in until people point it out to him—because, frankly, he doesn’t. it works for him, and when the people who would criticize the state of his room leave, he’s the only person who has to live here.
that has only changed now that makoto is here, and so the questions are uncomfortably valid. ]
You can use my bed.
[ that answers one question, but not even in a particularly satisfactory way. ]
( well. it could be worse. if dextera were, say, living in a dumpster, or on a pile of soiled straw in a livestock stable, or in a damnable doghouse, makoto would be far more critical (and deeply more concerned) than he is now, looking at this sparse room and its spartan amenities. at least it's enough to provide basic comfort and utility, though in the eyes of a demon accustomed to the highest extravagance Hell could offer, it is woefully lacking.
but, even though he isn't aware of it, he is dimly and distantly aware that these quarters make sense for dextera. this doesn't stop makoto from wanting more for him, of course. it doesn't matter what he's accustomed to in his past, in whatever world he originated from or the one they had shared before coming here... life can be a long, horrible, bitter thing. one of the lessons he'd learned fast and roughly from J in Hell is that, in the face of this, one should try to extract as much enjoyment and satisfaction from it as they can.
whenever they can. and at whatever cost to others it might incur. that's just the way of things.
at the reply, makoto frowns. he observes the bed, and then he looks back to his companion, shaking his head stolidly. ) And you would, what, sleep on the floor? Absolutely not. I'm not repaying your kindness by displacing you like that.
( call it kindness, but it's also just a very poor deal. given that makoto has nothing, not even his memories, to help him here, he already feels markedly indebted to dextera for all the help he's offered him. he doesn't want to be even further in the red.
as he considers this, he sidles a little closer to his host, smiling slyly as he asks him in a low and conspiratorial tone, ) ...Would you share it with me?
[ one way or another, they’ve settled into a routine.
dextera’s home is moderately more furnished than it was before, and sleeping arrangements have been just that—arranged, so that no one is sleeping on the floor or in too much discomfort. he’s never shared a room with anyone like this before, and it’s been an adjustment period, but it’s not at all unpleasant. even with everything going on outside in the town proper, and beyond that in alenroux and highstorm, there’s something undeniably comforting about this closed, private life with makoto.
he knows it can’t last forever, but that just means he needs to make the most of it.
in trying to get things organized, dextera ended up pulling out the chessboard he’d gotten as a gift from cetina some weeks ago; although he’s not sure if makoto plays or would want to, the possibility of playing is tempting enough for him to ask. on an evening when there’s little work to do as the sunset outside gets springstar as dark as it ever does, he wordlessly presents the wooden board and box to makoto by holding it up, pieces rattling inside. ]
( to makoto's credit, he's multiple times tried to convince dextera to sleep in the bed with him like a normal human being and not a dog. it wouldn't exactly be comfortable, given how abominably narrow the damn thing is (though his war of attrition in gradually furnishing dextera's rooms to an amount that actually verges on normal has yielded significant fruit, he'd never gotten so far as to convince him to invest in a larger bed), but it would be possible. and it's not like makoto cares much about the physical closeness, but... no, this is the arrangement that dextera had seemed most comfortable with, and so he usually sleeps at the foot of the bed like a dog. makoto, in turn, tries to give him as much room as he can by often sleeping curled up into a ball, a rumpled mess of light, gauzy pajamas and waves of freed dark hair.
still, makoto finds himself personally pleased with the progress he's made with this place. he isn't so deluded that he believes he might change dextera himself — that would be a neigh-impossible task, even for an accomplished up-and-coming demon such as himself — but he does believe he's at least done his damned best to better-equip his home with more amenities (and more than one or two sets of clothes...!). and he likes to think dextera has slumped into what might resemble a semi-regular bathing routine, though whether that's from personal impetus or inspired by the gradually darkening countenance of his demon roommate when he neglected to do so for too long... well, who's to say?
makoto is sitting near a small, unadorned mirror that he had bought for the room as dextera rifles through some of his things; he finishes brushing his hair, and he's in the process of tying it up with a pale length of ribbon when he can see in the mirror's surface dextera approaching with something in hand. a chess board. his mouth curves into a smile, and he turns to face the other young man, his hair properly affixed. )
You play?
( he had the initial instinct to be surprised, but... no, on second thought, he thinks that it makes sense. it becomes him, actually. a quiet, thoughtful, methodical game for a quiet, thoughtful, methodical man.
he stands swiftly, approaching dextera with quick and light steps. in times like this, these quiet and playful hidden-away hours, he has a tendency of dodging ever-so-slightly within dextera's personal space, teasing him with a light touch across his hand before trying to take the box of pieces from him so he could take a look inside. )
[ it’s pleasantly easy to forget all the troubles of their lives both now and before, when the door is closed, and dextera responds with shyness to makoto’s casual invasion of his personal space.
he has friends, but not like this. he’s never had a friend like this, where quality time could be spent together in the home. even now, he’s not used to it, and it shows in the light tension of his shoulders as he relinquishes the box for makoto’s examination.
that he recognizes it is a good sign—dextera has learned not to take for granted a lot of things he knows—but it’s a better sign that he’s comfortable with teasing dextera. though truthfully, makoto seems like he could do anything with skill and elegance, dextera knows that he probably wouldn’t flirt about it if he was a complete beginner. ]
…
[ dextera nods.
it isn’t his usual, though, where he seems like he’s trying to fold himself away in the corner of the room and holding back his voice out of hesitation. in fact, once he’s recovered from makoto’s light touch, he’s brimming with one might say an uncharacteristic confidence. the communion space between them, where dextera leaves his heart open to makoto and hopes to be received in kind, hums with self-assurance. ]
( it's why he persists in teasing him in this way — he's adorably bashful in closed and private quarters as they are now, and there's something in that which triggers something in makoto to present him with an urge to continue to press him more, and press him further, which is nearly impossible to resist. it is perhaps makoto's quintessential nature, distilled down to the odd, familiar shape their friendship has taken; still, he never means any harm by any liberties he takes or any boundaries he might press, and if he ever did sense any true distress from dextera regarding anything he said, did, or asked, he was at least considerate enough to his host to relent without comment.
he takes the box in hand, opening it carefully so he can inspect the pieces. they are well-crafted and well-cared for, though leagues different from the elaborate sets that he had practiced on in J's manor and in datenshou's brothel. he plucks one of the knights from the pile, fingertips running delicately over the planes and curves, as if he could learn from such an inspection how often they've been handled and used. of course he can't, but there's something pleasant in handling them; he shuts the box again with a click and takes it in one arm, carrying it as carefully as he had noticed dextera doing before.
the confidence he senses in the other young man at his question is... new. bracing. exciting? makoto is surprised by this at first, showing in a slow and somewhat exaggerated blink, but then his lips part in a wide and brilliant smile of sharp teeth. he can't help but laugh, the sound buoyed by a sudden swell of warm jubilation which issues from somewhere deep and unidentifiable in the center of his chest. ) Well, look at you!( his unencumbered hand finds dextera's arm, squeezing it playfully; in recognition of the self-assurance he emanates in their Communion, makoto meets it with nothing but a brisk sort of pleasant surprise. this sort of communication is something he had been closed off to at first, but as days had turned into weeks, he had gradually found himself slipping into it more and more often with dextera, allowing certain things to be shared as formless idea or the impression of an emotion rather than siloed into words. now, makoto is very proud of his wordsmithery, but he has to admit... it is convenient to communicate in this manner.
even if he likely wouldn't be comfortable doing it with anyone else but dextera. )
Are you, dare I say, cocky about this? So I shouldn't try to argue for us placing bets on which of us might win?
( he separates from dextera and walks several paces away, approaching a small table situated near the window, its surface drenched in the brilliant springstar sunlight pouring in through it. he sets the box down on its surface, turning to face his friend with an exaggerated slowness. ) Hmm, ( he hums, the sound as playful as the sharp curve of his smile, ) It's sounding to me like we'll just have to play so you can answer that for yourself.
( makoto doesn't necessarily betray any more or any less self-confidence in this than he has for anything else, but that's not really saying much. he usually holds himself up relatively well in that regard, so it's hard to judge. )
[ for the moment that makoto stands to face him from the window, silhouetted by eternal sunlight, dextera is struck with an almost dizzying sense of déjà vu.
the mind reader has told him before that he sought his brother in the archangel, and he knows of himself that he looks to others for guidance on how to be himself. it isn’t a bad thing at all, then, for the comfortable ease of makoto’s smile with a chessboard ready to be set to bring him to a time that’s never existed—but one he’s fantasized about so endlessly that it might as well be real.
he’s happy now, because he knows he would have been happy if the moment had been lived. a small, subtle delusion. something so harmless it can barely be called a baroque, it goes unnoticed by dextera himself, and he instead responds to makoto’s challenge by crossing the room to sit on one of two chairs that luckily came with the table. ]
Heh.
[ his laugh is more like a breath with some force behind it, only distinguished from a sigh by the look in his eyes, and he shows makoto a white piece before he goes to put them all in their proper places.
he doesn’t have to say anything: he’s offering makoto the leisure of playing white, because he’s just that sure. ]
( if he had known, makoto would not be offended to think of dextera using him as a substitute for having this experience of playing chess with another given person. he had, after all, extensively used that same tactic to keep himself entertained while working for datenshou — he had fantasized about J, either by way of mental substitution or (barring that as a possibility) had focused instead on how he thought being with J might be different, might be far better and more exciting.
so, no, he doesn't mind being a stand-in, even unknowingly. he sits in the other chair with a silent, sly smile, thoroughly amused by this new, confident dextera that sat across the table from him.
he raises an eyebrow at the proffered white piece; were it someone else, he might have thought of this gesture as a slight, like it was being assumed that he would need whatever tiny handicaps the game could give him. but this is dextera, and he can read from his laugh and his smile that he means this more as a continuation of his own self-assuredness in this regard. in that case... more so than anything regarding himself, makoto wants to reward his gumption. and he wants to see just how justified it is. he reaches out to take the white piece, helping to arrange it and all of its brethren on his side of the board. )
I'm enjoying this new side to you. So, please. Don't hold back.
( to someone who has spent enough time with makoto as dextera, the way that he plays might come across as perfectly characteristic.
there's something to the first few moves that seems unpracticed; as if he feigns being a novice in order to entrench someone into the mistake of underestimating him. but he has awareness to the game and what future moves might come as others are committed that someone new to the game certainly wouldn't be able to manage. much as he does personally, he seems to be trying to provoke him into something daring or risky, regardless of whether or not he might be equipped to deal with it in kind.
perhaps he just wants to see dextera do something daring and risky. )
[ dextera, likewise, doesn’t have a playstyle that seems terribly different from the person he is in the day to day. he’s not too quick about his moves, treating each one—even the ones from makoto that seem green—as if they’re each worthy of consideration. he knows what he’s doing, and he shows it in a different way from makoto, but even caution doesn’t look like hesitation. ]
…
[ the latest move accomplishes what makoto seems to want; dextera could continue to play mildly defensive, or he could take what he’s learned of makoto’s approach so far and dive into the riskier play that’s being asked of him.
always a little restless, even when or especially because he’s having fun, he digs under his fingernail with the divot of the bishop he’s clearly thinking to use. he follows through on that idea just a moment later, placing it in prime position for sacrifice. dextera knows what he would do in response, if he were playing white, but he’s curious if makoto is going to take it.
the disadvantage is dextera’s, regardless; he’s merely following the clear urging to keep their game moving, and he glances up at makoto’s face from the board for the first time in a while to check his expression. is he having fun? does he recognize the play? what will he do next?
( mute as he is, dextera gives the impression of his personality in other ways. it's something of a beloved fascination of makoto, and one that feels nostalgic where it roosts in the hollow of his chest, so he has to assume he felt similarly about the other young man in horos before this. dextera is an individual, in makoto's mind, characterized by an earnestness that is somewhat contradictory in how it is bold and yet fragile all at once. this is a picture that he has pieced together of him over the past few weeks, assembled by his demeanor, his reactions to makoto's (more than occasional) provocation, the brief cascades of conversation they find themselves entertaining one another with. the way dextera plays chess is yet another non-verbal lens with which he can peer into his psyche, and he takes to it eagerly; he always is when it comes to opportunity to better understand him.
there are many that would take these moves at face value; there are just as many that would underestimate or take for granted dextera or his positions based on their own personal misconceptions. one thing that he took to heart when better learning this game in Hell is that, in chess, you do not play the pieces on the board — you play the personality of the person sitting opposite you. it is a contest of wills abstracted through the game's rules and restrictions; it's why he had learned to play so differently against J than datenshou (and why he can't even imagine kieran, or maybe even fjord, having the patience for a game).
makoto knows how to play the slow, cautious game. he's done so many times, and they could continue to plot out the steps to that laborious waltz, or they could accelerate things just to see what happened. he responds only with a subdued arching of a brow, giving a similar thoughtful pause as he considers what to do next.
he senses dextera's eyes on him, so he looks up to hold his gaze for a long, unblinking moment. then he gives him a faint smile, reaching out to take the bishop that had been so tantalizingly offered to him; whether or not he recognizes the play and plays into it knowingly or not is just as hard to read as the demon is by default, but one thing is for certain: he is having fun. he doesn't particularly mind if he loses, especially if it's in the event of playing a little loosely — all the better to tease out a bold dextera, a risk-taking dextera, one that he can basically sense inwardly glowing with contentment.
he is very fond of this version of him, he thinks. )
[ the bishop is taken, but that really only means so much. what dextera likes about chess is the myriad ways a game could go with every new move. a perfect game is possible, but it isn’t fun—like a greater metaphor for the world in which he lives, what makes the game a game are the human foibles that lead to imperfect, rational decisions. ]
…
[ dextera lets out a small exhale, less a sigh and more a release of pressure, another wordless sign of his pleased restlessness.
the move that follows the sacrifice of his bishop is quick, and dextera seems happy with himself for pulling it off. it puts his queen into play; the game, with makoto’s acceptance, has finally turned aggressive. he’s drawn into the board, eyes back on the game after looking down from makoto’s smile, and there’s the slightest smile set on his own mouth curtained by his hair. ]
I know what you want.
[ flirtatious, almost; as much as dextera has ever gotten, at least, when it comes to makoto. ]
( there is no one move that wins or loses a chess game. there can be a cascading array of misplays or opportunities left untaken, but there is almost always room for one player to take the upper hand or for another to allow their hubris or thoughtlessness to take theirs from them. if one were to play chess purely on logic, with little more than mathematical precision and probability to guide their moves, it would be a soulless and artificial experience. the spark of humanity, of something that is so emotional and irrational and unpredictable and alive, is one that flashes brightest in the moments when it behaves outside of how one might expect. to risk big and to open oneself up for an immense victory or a crushing defeat...
though makoto has been slow to start in this game, teasing and provoking at his opponent, this is often the tactic he devolves to. he believes the game is most fun, after all, when it is at its most dramatic. indeed, just like in life.
the demon's response to dextera's ensuing move is just as quick and decisive as the move itself; a smile spreads across his face like wildfire, bright and sharp, to see the daring of dextera moving his queen into play. exactly the sort of move he likes to play at a critical junction himself, though it's just as enjoyable to have it reflected back towards him. )
I have no idea what you're talking about.
( he says, blithe, as he makes his next move. he is not reckless, yet... but gone is his own protracted passivity and defensiveness. the shape of his strategy is animal canniness, quick and clear, subtle and reactive, with teeth bared to snap at dextera in the instance of any perceived weakness or uncertainty.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for dextera | late pelu | tree of life
that changes rather abruptly.
after taking a sharp turn, scene of fresh activity becomes apparent, eerie in its contrast against the dark quiet. in between two roots, a wound opens in the earth; it has been rent with all the frenzied violence of a rat scratching and gnawing its way through the gut of a medieval torture victim as it tried in desperation to escape the flames that licked at its tail. the subject of this emergence is not immediately visible. instead, there are tracks within the soft soil, seemingly staggering in exaggerated zig-zag further down the tunnel — it seems that their instincts on which way led out of this place weren't strong enough to divine the correct direction.
the tracks don't lead very far. soon enough, they disappear, and it might lead one to cast their gaze around in the low light to try to figure out where the new Shard-Bearer managed to have gone. but it's just around this time that a voice preempts that confusion, cutting through the silence with all the precise severity of a thrown dagger, ) Well, it took you long enough.
( a familiar voice, though one worn thin with exhaustion.
the body tucked into the shadowed fossa tucked into a curling root looks for all the world like a corpse, given the deathly pallor of the skin, streaked with grit and dirt. the Tree of Life did not decide to grace him with clothing, but it's not as though makoto spares even a partial thought for modesty — this having been said, it's fortunate for his rescuer's sensibilities that he's crumpled in such a way with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee that he's not immediately scandalizing him. the demon rakes his fingers through the birds' nest that his emergence here has made of his hair, trying in vain to bring order to the chaos. he stares out at who has come across him, but he can't see many details in the gloom.
not that it mattered. he can already tell by the silhouette that it's not J, nor any other demon that he might recognize. in his exhaustion, his mind and his memories dull and leaden and indistinct, it means their only use is to (hopefully) get him out of here.
he heaves a dramatized sigh before he continues, ) I was beginning to think I'd wither away down here before I even got the chance to see where the hell I've ended up this time.
no subject
it’s in springstar, it’s in highstorm, and worry for the balance of the world has dextera going to what feels like the center of it all. it may be fate or just a cosmic coincidence, but someone is there—he sees them at the same time they see him, a familiar voice calling out. dextera’s breath stops in his throat, and his slow, cautious steps grow stumbling in his sudden haste. mud splatters the pristine hem of his uniform and nearly soaks his knees as well when he trips over a root and only catches himself by his palms.
although he knows now he can commune without removing his shard, it simply doesn’t occur to him here and now, in the face of such an unexpected reunion. ]
—!
[ his breath is ragged in his throat from surprise rather than exertion, as if his heart is beating so violently that air has no place to rest in his lungs.
unable to decide where to look, dextera is already clumsily unbuttoning his overcoat, glancing down at himself and at makoto a few times alternating until he’s shrugged it half off and has a wild look in his eyes.
it’s makoto, makoto. there’s no one else he’s thought of so much since the collapse of horos—makoto is one of the only names he’s kept etched into his heart, when so many others have faded from memory to spare him the despair of loss.
he wonders: is this a manifestation of hope? a sign that those lives aren’t gone, as meridian has promised? ]
no subject
though there isn't much room to do so, makoto shrinks back in his tiny hollow as his discoverer's sudden haste kicks up dirt and mud for a few paces before he trips, just barely catching himself on a nearby root. the demon's face is a pale mask of faux horror, and his voice remains scathing in its dry criticism as he continues, ) Be careful. It's not like you're any good to me injured or out cold.
( there's a desperate fervency to the stranger's movements that gives makoto pause. he doesn't know how to interpret that, or the way that he keeps looking up at him wide-eyed and wild, as if he might dissolve into the humid subterranean air at any second. what was that supposed to mean? it's not like he's of any particular importance — if that was the case, he wouldn't have had to languish in this god-forsaken place for hours (regardless of whether or not it had actually been hours, it felt like hours to him) before he'd been found. he doesn't think he's at any immediate risk of death or dissipation, but, hell, from what precious little he can recall of what had happened prior to this (from his perspective), that might not be the case.
makoto's eyes narrow into a squint, and in the dim light his pale irises are almost luminous where they stand against the murky dark of the sclera. he searches the desperate young man's dirtied face, and he searches through what was available to him in his mind, in his heart. it's not — necessarily that he finds nothing. instead it feels like the terrible pause in-between a breath drawn sharply and whatever vocalization (a laugh, a sigh, a question, a sob, a scream?) it had been intended for.
there's a disconnect. his thoughts and memories full of cotton fog, he has no idea which of those options it should be.
but it should be something. that certainty comes to him with shocking surprise. is it because he is suddenly sure that he knows him, or is it because he's realizing that the only answer for the stranger's excitement is that makoto is someone to him?
he doesn't know. but if it gave the boy more reason to get him out of this place, then he's certainly not going to argue.
makoto's mouth parts with a few feeble chuckles; he struggles up onto one elbow. ) My, the clothes off your back? How very generous.
( the words are smooth, slick with the practiced half-hidden scorn that makoto is so skillful with. but they are beginning to temper with something less sharp, less visceral. curiosity, perhaps. in a somewhat swaying motion, he extends one hand, expectant. )
no subject
in makoto’s absence, maybe he’s gotten a little jumbled. it’s what he does with memories he wants to hold onto. he takes pieces of others and makes them his own; what was once a similarity is now a visceral sameness, as if color could be restored to makoto’s skin with a hot beating heart. all dextera has in place of that is a coat, but it’s one he offers readily unto makoto’s expectant hand.
not quite generous, though it’s impossible to say what it might be instead. ]
…
[ rather than helping makoto to his feet in doing so, dextera meets him on the ground on his knees, unconcerned about dragging the white fabric across the ground or getting the rest of his clothes dirty in the process.
now that they’re close enough for dextera to try to put the coat on makoto himself, his little movements are more obvious: his eyes, turned down to avoid making contact before he’s ready, twitch as if his very muscles are overwhelmed with stimulation. ]
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. )
no subject
dextera doesn’t even have the sword he crafted anymore; there have been times he wished he did, just to have something tangible, but the crack in the stone would have been hard to see so many times over. ]
—?
[ makoto flinches, and dextera does too, his attention drawn out from his reminiscing to the physical reality of now—only belatedly realizing he had been touched, and missing it in its absence.
he’s afraid to commune or overload makoto with sensation, seeing this, so he reverts to a much more primal form of communication. so many of his earliest interactions, not just with people here, but in his memory, were all based on trying to convey something with his eyes and hands alone. so he shakes his head, taking his own hand from where he had been holding the coat closed and moving it to also hover over makoto’s shard.
again, he shakes his head, now seeking eye contact. an urgent request for makoto not to push himself; a worry that if he does, he’ll fall apart and disappear once again. ]
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. )
no subject
that doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember his weakness or the way he’d held onto makoto. everything around them had been so dark and miserable, but his relationship with makoto was divorced from all that.
—but now, makoto has returned in the midst of escalating tensions. dextera doesn’t know where he will ultimately fall, and he knows makoto is achingly contrary. if dextera tries to sway him, it will fail, and so he’s more than happy to avoid thinking about their loyalties at all just as he did before. all he needs to worry about is cradling this precious, unwillingly fragile thing, something much easier than taking a stand when it might have consequences. for now, makoto is his responsibility as a person, not as a member of any faction. ]
…
[ he still hesitates to speak. part of it is the same concern from a moment ago, of overloading makoto’s shard, but part of it is simply hoping to hold onto this little moment.
he does soon, though, lift a hand to makoto’s back, one finger held like a pen against his shoulder blades. he writes, first the simple letter M that had been his initial introduction, then a moment longer and he chooses to reveal his knowledge in full. he remembers makoto giving him his name as if it was a shift in their relationship, and he hopes now it signifies that dextera is someone makoto once trusted enough to share it. ]
no subject
comfort, compassion, succor, grace — these were not common gifts to be given in hell. hell, where love was damnation, and strength and power were extracted from an expectation of what misery one could expect should those that have it not be shown their proper respect. and even before those few, short years which had felt as though they'd hastily overwritten the lifetime of years he'd had before them, he had never truly been given these gifts by those from which they would have mattered most. his family had been a barren field, from which seeds had refused to sprout and grow. he knows he had not made it any easier on them — he had never been able to become anything more or different than what he was, and he had always ever been, as J had said, ill-suited to life on earth as a human being.
as a demon in hell, he had been able to flourish. but it had been hard. when he had been at his most frightened, his most overwhelmed, he had had to force J's arms around him and entreat him for comfort he felt he should have been owed. he had never been asked prior to being forced into situations he didn't want to be in. he had eventually accepted them, embraced them to the fullest extent of his ability, because he decided he would take any opportunity given to hone himself into a weapon. it's perhaps ironic that trading in intimacy and soft secrets had transformed him into such a cold, harsh, and remote creature. the reflections that he surrounds himself are that which others gravitate to, and they invite in, but they only ever get lost within the illusory fields that he surrounds himself with. there is a disconnect between this body that J had given him, one that he trades and sells at a moment's notice in order to further himself and get what he wants, and the wild heart that beats with reckless and furious abandon at its core. it's metaphorical and metaphysical — as fine and distinct as the difference between "M," the demon he had portrayed himself to be both in the courts of hell and across the scapes of horos, and makoto. a chrysalid thing who had not yet fully transformed into what he should (what he must?) become.
a name has weight, importance. the implication of an inherent power dynamic. makoto has always been jealous with his — in hell, there were no demons that might know it but J and datenshou. he might not remember with any real accuracy or acuity what happened on horos, but he knows he would not have been any more liberal with the use of his name there as he would have been back home, where a demon's true name was as lethal as a knife.
he feels the strokes of the "M" across his shoulder blades, and he understands, but as dextera continues, the demon grows more tense, breath at first catching in his throat and held in suspended animation for a long moment before it rattles out in a surprised confusion that thrills between fear and wonder. as he lifts his head once more, he moves his right hand to the back of dextera's neck; his thin fingers curve around the column of his spine to hang off of him somewhat. with the very border of a dirtied thumbnail, he can trace the corner of the young man's jaw.
makoto stares, both unblinking and vaguely disbelieving, at dextera as if he is some sort of miracle presented to him. in a way, he is. he represents something so wildly unlikely having occurred that he can scarcely believe it happened, even when presented with the evidence of it here and now. had he really found someone he would trust so much and so implicitly?
his fortunes have always been rotten. why does he find him again now? can he trust this? it almost makes him want to push it away, makes him want to not believe he could be so auspicious, but —
with a short, faintly hoarse laugh. ) You finding me here might be one of the only instances of genuine luck I've ever had.
( or would it be like all of the others? he had thought himself "lucky" after J had taken a liking to him, after he had offered him life and love as a demon in his so-called afterlife. that wine had turned to vinegar surprisingly quickly.
he breathes out a small sigh, trying to suppress the more internal of his demons. ) Will you lead me away from this place? I'm tired of feeling like I'm within my own grave.
no subject
he nods, committing all these things to memory—the feeling of makoto touching him, the grateful look on his face—as something precious to hold onto in the event makoto leaves again, then he brings them both to their feet with a firm kind of strength most people don’t expect him to have.
he hadn’t expected it of himself, initially, but this world has been oddly kind to him. ]
…I can take you back to my home. And then, we can talk.
[ only now does communion seem like it can work, and makoto will feel dextera’s small but peaceable impression at his shard, offering this deal. he touches his own throat in both explanation and apology, since he knows how distasteful some people like makoto find the sensation of a voice in their intimate mind. ]
no subject
he feels half-starved. this body of his really has suffered in pulling itself back together, but it does still seem to be holding up, even with its shortcomings and weaknesses. even when dextera finally reaches out to speak to him by way of Communion — something which causes makoto to separate away from him immediately, eyes flying wide with surprise and alarm.
his response to Communion is the same as it had been in horos: knee-jerk negative, recoiling away as if he had been stung. had it been anyone else, he would have rejected them with immediacy and intensity — he hates the feeling of presence so close to himself, so nearby his shard, which radiates with the sort of horrible tenderness that anyone might feel when they harbor a wound, either internal or external, which might very well spell out their end. but dextera's, his... it is feather-light and unassuming, gentle, and there's something past the voice and into the very substance of that feeling of self that feels familiar. more than his face, than his silhouette, than his hands or his voice, it's that metaphysical shape of individuality that soothes makoto's wary fear. dextera touches his throat, and makoto understands intuitively: of course he could only respond like this. he knows this — or he should have known it. he knows it now.
he sways somewhat on his feet, his mouth forming a thin line; he regains his composure. he accepts the presence of dextera alongside himself, both physically and beyond that, on the credit of what he feels — what he knows had existed between them in a time which feels very nearly lost to him. )
...Lead the way, then.
( he is ready to follow, though... after a moment he reaches out to dextera, one hand clutching at his clothing near his upper arm to stabilize himself. as much as he hates revealing such weakness, the earth underfoot is uneven in these caverns, and it would be that much harder to get wherever they must go if he fell and further impaired himself. )
no subject
having makoto here and being reminded of horos, he’s quietly grateful that the physical obstacles between them don’t seem quite so insurmountable. even if makoto may ultimately find that meridian is not the side for him—and dextera is sure that he will—then, at least for now, their meetings don’t have to be held in secret meeting places as if they’re fighting on opposite sides of a war. what aggression there’s been, he reasons, has only been between the bearers themselves. he just has to hope it stays that way.
still, there are people in springstar who might remember makoto from before, and dextera doesn’t want to expose his face too much anyway. makoto is carefully led the long way around, protected in dextera’s jacket, until they finally get to the dormitories that most of his fellow meridians have long since moved out of. ]
…here.
[ the room dextera opens into is sparsely decorated. his few personal items are leaned up against the wall—his sword, the angelic rifle, a spare set of shoes—or hanging off a hook in the case of his other clothes. there’s one thin blanket laid over the mattress, to his credit smoothed out and unwrinkled as he made it before leaving. sunlight from springstar’s perpetual day filters in from outside to illuminate the bare floor. ]
(1/2)
though if the exterior of the Tree had been a shock, teleporting into springstar is like 10,000 volts applied directly to the spine.
makoto prides himself on his adaptability, his unflappable grace, his social prowess. but to feel as physically weak as he does and as mentally (and spiritually) discombobulated as he is, to suddenly be thrust into perhaps the most sprawling and densely-populated city in all of existence is a brutal offense to every sense that he has. it's all too bright, too loud, too rough, too much. the only thing he is grateful for as dextera guides him on a long, circuitous path through the city towards the Heliopolis is that the stone underfoot is at least flat and level, so he doesn't have to be concerned as before about tripping. otherwise, he ducks his head and focuses all of his attention on following along after dextera, ashamed of how he must look, dirty and disheveled as he is. )
(2/2)
the rest of him is appalled, finding it completely abhorrent that he would choose to live like this. it's clean, at the very least, but the bed isn't even properly made, for crying out loud! he doesn't even have a wardrobe — does he only have two sets of clothing and shoes, total? as he steps within and looks around, makoto's initial look of shock slowly curdles into one of horror, and he faces dextera with a dark expression. )
Please tell me you've only been here less than three days, and that's why you haven't bothered to invest in even a simple duvet.
( the way he says it, however, indicates he already knows what the answer is. no... neither of them would be so lucky. )
Where do you expect me to sleep? What do you expect me to wear?
( does this place even have its own bathroom and shower? and, if so, what on earth is the status of it )
no subject
that has only changed now that makoto is here, and so the questions are uncomfortably valid. ]
You can use my bed.
[ that answers one question, but not even in a particularly satisfactory way. ]
no subject
but, even though he isn't aware of it, he is dimly and distantly aware that these quarters make sense for dextera. this doesn't stop makoto from wanting more for him, of course. it doesn't matter what he's accustomed to in his past, in whatever world he originated from or the one they had shared before coming here... life can be a long, horrible, bitter thing. one of the lessons he'd learned fast and roughly from J in Hell is that, in the face of this, one should try to extract as much enjoyment and satisfaction from it as they can.
whenever they can. and at whatever cost to others it might incur. that's just the way of things.
at the reply, makoto frowns. he observes the bed, and then he looks back to his companion, shaking his head stolidly. ) And you would, what, sleep on the floor? Absolutely not. I'm not repaying your kindness by displacing you like that.
( call it kindness, but it's also just a very poor deal. given that makoto has nothing, not even his memories, to help him here, he already feels markedly indebted to dextera for all the help he's offered him. he doesn't want to be even further in the red.
as he considers this, he sidles a little closer to his host, smiling slyly as he asks him in a low and conspiratorial tone, ) ...Would you share it with me?
( he's mostly teasing him. ...mostly. )
backdated to happier times (early erqu)
dextera’s home is moderately more furnished than it was before, and sleeping arrangements have been just that—arranged, so that no one is sleeping on the floor or in too much discomfort. he’s never shared a room with anyone like this before, and it’s been an adjustment period, but it’s not at all unpleasant. even with everything going on outside in the town proper, and beyond that in alenroux and highstorm, there’s something undeniably comforting about this closed, private life with makoto.
he knows it can’t last forever, but that just means he needs to make the most of it.
in trying to get things organized, dextera ended up pulling out the chessboard he’d gotten as a gift from cetina some weeks ago; although he’s not sure if makoto plays or would want to, the possibility of playing is tempting enough for him to ask. on an evening when there’s little work to do as the sunset outside gets springstar as dark as it ever does, he wordlessly presents the wooden board and box to makoto by holding it up, pieces rattling inside. ]
…?
no subject
still, makoto finds himself personally pleased with the progress he's made with this place. he isn't so deluded that he believes he might change dextera himself — that would be a neigh-impossible task, even for an accomplished up-and-coming demon such as himself — but he does believe he's at least done his damned best to better-equip his home with more amenities (and more than one or two sets of clothes...!). and he likes to think dextera has slumped into what might resemble a semi-regular bathing routine, though whether that's from personal impetus or inspired by the gradually darkening countenance of his demon roommate when he neglected to do so for too long... well, who's to say?
makoto is sitting near a small, unadorned mirror that he had bought for the room as dextera rifles through some of his things; he finishes brushing his hair, and he's in the process of tying it up with a pale length of ribbon when he can see in the mirror's surface dextera approaching with something in hand. a chess board. his mouth curves into a smile, and he turns to face the other young man, his hair properly affixed. )
You play?
( he had the initial instinct to be surprised, but... no, on second thought, he thinks that it makes sense. it becomes him, actually. a quiet, thoughtful, methodical game for a quiet, thoughtful, methodical man.
he stands swiftly, approaching dextera with quick and light steps. in times like this, these quiet and playful hidden-away hours, he has a tendency of dodging ever-so-slightly within dextera's personal space, teasing him with a light touch across his hand before trying to take the box of pieces from him so he could take a look inside. )
Are you any good?
no subject
he has friends, but not like this. he’s never had a friend like this, where quality time could be spent together in the home. even now, he’s not used to it, and it shows in the light tension of his shoulders as he relinquishes the box for makoto’s examination.
that he recognizes it is a good sign—dextera has learned not to take for granted a lot of things he knows—but it’s a better sign that he’s comfortable with teasing dextera. though truthfully, makoto seems like he could do anything with skill and elegance, dextera knows that he probably wouldn’t flirt about it if he was a complete beginner. ]
…
[ dextera nods.
it isn’t his usual, though, where he seems like he’s trying to fold himself away in the corner of the room and holding back his voice out of hesitation. in fact, once he’s recovered from makoto’s light touch, he’s brimming with one might say an uncharacteristic confidence. the communion space between them, where dextera leaves his heart open to makoto and hopes to be received in kind, hums with self-assurance. ]
Are you?
no subject
he takes the box in hand, opening it carefully so he can inspect the pieces. they are well-crafted and well-cared for, though leagues different from the elaborate sets that he had practiced on in J's manor and in datenshou's brothel. he plucks one of the knights from the pile, fingertips running delicately over the planes and curves, as if he could learn from such an inspection how often they've been handled and used. of course he can't, but there's something pleasant in handling them; he shuts the box again with a click and takes it in one arm, carrying it as carefully as he had noticed dextera doing before.
the confidence he senses in the other young man at his question is... new. bracing. exciting? makoto is surprised by this at first, showing in a slow and somewhat exaggerated blink, but then his lips part in a wide and brilliant smile of sharp teeth. he can't help but laugh, the sound buoyed by a sudden swell of warm jubilation which issues from somewhere deep and unidentifiable in the center of his chest. ) Well, look at you! ( his unencumbered hand finds dextera's arm, squeezing it playfully; in recognition of the self-assurance he emanates in their Communion, makoto meets it with nothing but a brisk sort of pleasant surprise. this sort of communication is something he had been closed off to at first, but as days had turned into weeks, he had gradually found himself slipping into it more and more often with dextera, allowing certain things to be shared as formless idea or the impression of an emotion rather than siloed into words. now, makoto is very proud of his wordsmithery, but he has to admit... it is convenient to communicate in this manner.
even if he likely wouldn't be comfortable doing it with anyone else but dextera. )
Are you, dare I say, cocky about this? So I shouldn't try to argue for us placing bets on which of us might win?
( he separates from dextera and walks several paces away, approaching a small table situated near the window, its surface drenched in the brilliant springstar sunlight pouring in through it. he sets the box down on its surface, turning to face his friend with an exaggerated slowness. ) Hmm, ( he hums, the sound as playful as the sharp curve of his smile, ) It's sounding to me like we'll just have to play so you can answer that for yourself.
( makoto doesn't necessarily betray any more or any less self-confidence in this than he has for anything else, but that's not really saying much. he usually holds himself up relatively well in that regard, so it's hard to judge. )
no subject
the mind reader has told him before that he sought his brother in the archangel, and he knows of himself that he looks to others for guidance on how to be himself. it isn’t a bad thing at all, then, for the comfortable ease of makoto’s smile with a chessboard ready to be set to bring him to a time that’s never existed—but one he’s fantasized about so endlessly that it might as well be real.
he’s happy now, because he knows he would have been happy if the moment had been lived. a small, subtle delusion. something so harmless it can barely be called a baroque, it goes unnoticed by dextera himself, and he instead responds to makoto’s challenge by crossing the room to sit on one of two chairs that luckily came with the table. ]
Heh.
[ his laugh is more like a breath with some force behind it, only distinguished from a sigh by the look in his eyes, and he shows makoto a white piece before he goes to put them all in their proper places.
he doesn’t have to say anything: he’s offering makoto the leisure of playing white, because he’s just that sure. ]
no subject
so, no, he doesn't mind being a stand-in, even unknowingly. he sits in the other chair with a silent, sly smile, thoroughly amused by this new, confident dextera that sat across the table from him.
he raises an eyebrow at the proffered white piece; were it someone else, he might have thought of this gesture as a slight, like it was being assumed that he would need whatever tiny handicaps the game could give him. but this is dextera, and he can read from his laugh and his smile that he means this more as a continuation of his own self-assuredness in this regard. in that case... more so than anything regarding himself, makoto wants to reward his gumption. and he wants to see just how justified it is. he reaches out to take the white piece, helping to arrange it and all of its brethren on his side of the board. )
I'm enjoying this new side to you. So, please. Don't hold back.
( to someone who has spent enough time with makoto as dextera, the way that he plays might come across as perfectly characteristic.
there's something to the first few moves that seems unpracticed; as if he feigns being a novice in order to entrench someone into the mistake of underestimating him. but he has awareness to the game and what future moves might come as others are committed that someone new to the game certainly wouldn't be able to manage. much as he does personally, he seems to be trying to provoke him into something daring or risky, regardless of whether or not he might be equipped to deal with it in kind.
perhaps he just wants to see dextera do something daring and risky. )
no subject
…
[ the latest move accomplishes what makoto seems to want; dextera could continue to play mildly defensive, or he could take what he’s learned of makoto’s approach so far and dive into the riskier play that’s being asked of him.
always a little restless, even when or especially because he’s having fun, he digs under his fingernail with the divot of the bishop he’s clearly thinking to use. he follows through on that idea just a moment later, placing it in prime position for sacrifice. dextera knows what he would do in response, if he were playing white, but he’s curious if makoto is going to take it.
the disadvantage is dextera’s, regardless; he’s merely following the clear urging to keep their game moving, and he glances up at makoto’s face from the board for the first time in a while to check his expression. is he having fun? does he recognize the play? what will he do next?
each question is as important as the other. ]
no subject
there are many that would take these moves at face value; there are just as many that would underestimate or take for granted dextera or his positions based on their own personal misconceptions. one thing that he took to heart when better learning this game in Hell is that, in chess, you do not play the pieces on the board — you play the personality of the person sitting opposite you. it is a contest of wills abstracted through the game's rules and restrictions; it's why he had learned to play so differently against J than datenshou (and why he can't even imagine kieran, or maybe even fjord, having the patience for a game).
makoto knows how to play the slow, cautious game. he's done so many times, and they could continue to plot out the steps to that laborious waltz, or they could accelerate things just to see what happened. he responds only with a subdued arching of a brow, giving a similar thoughtful pause as he considers what to do next.
he senses dextera's eyes on him, so he looks up to hold his gaze for a long, unblinking moment. then he gives him a faint smile, reaching out to take the bishop that had been so tantalizingly offered to him; whether or not he recognizes the play and plays into it knowingly or not is just as hard to read as the demon is by default, but one thing is for certain: he is having fun. he doesn't particularly mind if he loses, especially if it's in the event of playing a little loosely — all the better to tease out a bold dextera, a risk-taking dextera, one that he can basically sense inwardly glowing with contentment.
he is very fond of this version of him, he thinks. )
no subject
…
[ dextera lets out a small exhale, less a sigh and more a release of pressure, another wordless sign of his pleased restlessness.
the move that follows the sacrifice of his bishop is quick, and dextera seems happy with himself for pulling it off. it puts his queen into play; the game, with makoto’s acceptance, has finally turned aggressive. he’s drawn into the board, eyes back on the game after looking down from makoto’s smile, and there’s the slightest smile set on his own mouth curtained by his hair. ]
I know what you want.
[ flirtatious, almost; as much as dextera has ever gotten, at least, when it comes to makoto. ]
no subject
though makoto has been slow to start in this game, teasing and provoking at his opponent, this is often the tactic he devolves to. he believes the game is most fun, after all, when it is at its most dramatic. indeed, just like in life.
the demon's response to dextera's ensuing move is just as quick and decisive as the move itself; a smile spreads across his face like wildfire, bright and sharp, to see the daring of dextera moving his queen into play. exactly the sort of move he likes to play at a critical junction himself, though it's just as enjoyable to have it reflected back towards him. )
I have no idea what you're talking about.
( he says, blithe, as he makes his next move. he is not reckless, yet... but gone is his own protracted passivity and defensiveness. the shape of his strategy is animal canniness, quick and clear, subtle and reactive, with teeth bared to snap at dextera in the instance of any perceived weakness or uncertainty.
just like makoto. )