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