( 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?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. )