IC inbox

[discarding]

s p e c i f y : date/time for: text | action | voice | overflow

Comments

[bloomly]

( it's a respectful answer: an honest answer, given the way that he talks. it's slow, drawn out like the words come along with the thought, and for awhile, she just lets the silence rest between them, lets it stretch and pull and manipulate the feelings into words. he says he doesn't rely on people, that he doesn't need people, and doesn't everyone feel that way? in some way, in some sense, she can relate to that; the type that doesn't want to rely on someone to be a burden, the type that doesn't want to need anyone lest they become too affected by what she is and what could happen, but likely for him it's some sort of silly measure of strength, rather than the desire not to be too much for people around her. to not leave too strong of a mark, because it could leave something painful behind: she'd rather be something that can be scrubbed away, like the sticky residue left after a band-aid.

hard to understand? maybe that's true. maybe it's hard for him to parse someone so similar and yet so drastically different, in all the ways that matter. maybe she might say he's hard to understand, too, but he's not. not really, anyway. she's seen people like him before--some of them are even her closest friends, the people that she cares too deeply about to ever perfectly let go.

i don't know what you are--she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. in fact, her gaze dips, falls safely behind the weight of her bangs to her temples that she doesn't have to pretend like she's happy to hear it, or that she can just bounce back from it. why is it that one, in particular? it smarts, stings a little, and he doesn't mean it that way but it just cements the feeling that she thought she could escape from, in a city full of witches and monsters.

isn't she just something normal, boring, mundane here? unremarkable? )

...Back home, ( she starts after a moment, after her hands have relented to the fact that his arm will just stay stiff, like this, and that she has to put her elbows to her thighs so that she can hold his hand still, comfortably for herself. ) ...I was really only worth as much as I was useful. No one knew what I was, either.

( --which is incorrect, or misleading, a little, but it's the same sort of feeling. the same sense of otherness. )

I don't think I made them feel gross, though. Or disgusting.

( she can smile, tease a little, with that much; the alcohol is going to her head a little, making her braid swing slightly when she leans, tilts her head to stare at him thoughtfully. )

So what's the hard part? To figure out, I mean. About me, or my usefulness, or any of it.

[discarding]

[despite how Aerith is relating to Midousuji’s sentiment of not relying on other people, it’s for entirely different reasons. from a young, developmental age, the adults, though through very little fault of their own, had failed Midousuji; his peers had bullied him. Midousuji doesn’t rely on other people because he doesn’t trust them to understand or support him, nor does he desire it—Midousuji feels that way because other people are the burden. he moves, speaks, achieves—all much more freely, without them.

but that kind of rejection and hyper self-reliance is absolutely trauma born. it can’t carry someone for too long, and definitely not as far as Midousuji wants to go. but he’s too young, too unsupported, too out of touch with himself, to understand any of that.

all the same, also unlike Aerith, Midousuji wants to leave a mark on people. the very same things that had ostracized him are now weaponized, and he loves to force people into cowering beneath him for those very same qualities. how bullies become bullies. how people who are different obtain control. he’s one of the bad stories.

Midousuji watches her, carefully tumbling her every word in his head. curiosity does arise about her usefulness in childhood, what that means—but before he can figure out how to investigate that, she’s pulling the rug out from him again with another unexpected question. Midousuji’s expression drops, his mouth low and eyebrows high, pupils contracting in his lightless eyes. god. she’s still holding onto his hand, too. his arm twinges, his anxiety ramping, overheating him.]

I...

...don’t know.

[Midousuji swallows. he really doesn’t have an answer to that.]

You’re... Well.

[Midousuji glances away, feeling he won’t be able to say a thing if he keeps looking at her, especially with that expression. his fingertips perch on his chin, wide eyes whimsically distracted by the sparkling shattering lights of the stars.]

I feel like, anyway... though you seem like it, at first... you aren’t normal. Even people who aren’t normal, I can figure them out. But... the reasons why you confuse me...

[Midousuji scowls thoughtfully, and he hisses low through his teeth, frustrated. he doesn’t even know how to say it! and why should he say it anyway. what is he doing. why is this all so confusing and stupid. he knows he’s going against his own paradigms, but he feels helpless to it! how is this even possible]

Gross, [he mumbles, and he scrubs his free hand over his face, wincing his eyes closed.] Gross, gross, gross... I don’t even know how to describe it...

[which makes that subject a useless moot point, right. Midousuji’s expression, tiredly and exasperatedly, stares upward further; his eyes roll a little, the slight puffiness beneath his eyes pronouncing from it.]

Anyway... People are useless, and terrible. You shouldn’t worry about how you’re useful to them. You should worry about how they’re useful to you—how you’re useful to yourself. This is a relationship people neglect.

[Midousuji turns to face her, and pauses; there’s a distant chorus of crickets he notices then, chirring merrily in the still, pleasantly scented Summer night air.]

Loss is... less devastating, that way. [despite facing her, his eyes then dart away.] You’re the one who’s always going to be there.

[bloomly]

( it's almost, almost enough for her to want to answer back: but i won't be.

but that's going too far, too serious, too much for the way that his gaze darts around and the way she can practically feel him overheating, in her touch, yet she doesn't let go of him all the same. doesn't want to, really. it's not a warm night, not like it may get when summer starts to truly ramp up and make itself known, but it's nothing so frigid, nothing too overwhelming that he won't just naturally lose some of that heat, right? or maybe she's being a little bit greedy about it. if people are so useless, and so terrible, then why is he there with her at all? )

You're right, I'm not normal.

( that's easy enough to admit. and should she go a step further? it makes her want to laugh; the sound catches in her throat for a moment, and her gaze falls to the bottle, still nestled between her thighs, safe in her lap. she'll have to let go of him, if she wants to drink, which--is annoying, and she frowns for a moment. unfair. )

But neither are you, and it's not in all the ways you think you aren't. People aren't so terrible as you think they are, at least not all of them, and no one can do everything alone. Not even you.

( she nods her chin towards him, but politely, or perhaps forlornly, she doesn't meet his gaze either or study him like she would normally, with playfully owlish eyes. )

Remember? You could barely even drag yourself home. I helped you because I worried about you, because I cared about you, and that's gross, I know, but you would have been worse off without me.

( a shake of her head, once, but she doesn't like how it feels, slightly muddied with alcohol. ) I don't want people to be useful to me. They get hurt that way. I'm going to help everyone that I can, because I'm not normal, because that's what I'm supposed to do, that's why I'm here. There. Whatever, you know, back home. I guess here too...

( she wets her lips, once, and then, playfully, she gives his hand a squeeze. )

But if you're so eager to have me find other people useful, maybe you can help me have another drink? Hold the bottle for me? ( she rattles his hand a little, back and forth, in indication. ) I'm holding onto something that's going to get away if I let it go.

[discarding]

[Midousuji gives her an affronted, surprised stare when she tells him he can’t do everything alone. his breath catches weirdly in his throat, and temporarily, he feels—insulted. he’s never had any other choice. and even if he did, of course he can do it himself!! if he can’t do it himself, then he’ll fail—that’s not an option!

lip lifted in a snarl inspired by confusion, fear and irritation, Midousuji’s eyes fall on where her hand holds his. she isn’t insulting his integrity deliberately, of course, but Midousuji is reactive, emotional and stunted. none of this is territory he’s properly allowed himself to explore. sharply, his eyes look away, the heat a boiling roll in his chest as his blood heats—his thoughts are cooking, so thankfully, he doesn’t impulsively lash out per the top of his thoughts—because Aerith is different, as he’s said.

to her prompting, Midousuji’s eyes, wild and agitated, whip onto her—and despite his previous shyness, Midousuji does as suggested, yanking the bottle from between her legs, but very careful (and successfully so) not to touch her as he pulls it by its neck.]

Wanting to help people is normal, [Midousuji spits, his thoughts catching up.] You’re worried about hurting other people, but you should be worried about how they could hurt you! People are savages. Of course, of course, [Midousuji emphasizes, his voice raising, deep and rumbling.] not all people are bad! I’ve known a good person.

But it’s different, [he says, expression evening, like he’s accidentally stumbling on some epiphany—but it’s also still certainly quite mad.] for someone like me. People don’t think the same thing when they interact with someone like me versus someone like you, [Midousuji emphasizes, eyes widening as he leans his face, honestly, quite close to Aerith’s. he’s shy about personal space, unless engaged in some hostile manner.] and we aren’t talking about me. If you worry about every little person who floats your way, when you’re so nice and so amicable, the math is against you!!

[he leans away, tongue lolling out as he rolls his eyes, neck flopping back.]

...But, about your ”something”... it’s only going to get away from you if you don’t handle it appropriately. If it’s important, you handle it carefully. If you do that, you’ll probably be okay. If you hold on too hard, too scared, too desperate, you’ll lose it. Or worse, destroy it from the force of that grip.

[ugh. he’s put it back into perspective for himself. and he’s seeing it unfold, right now—he needs to calm down. he hasn’t been coy about his less charming traits, because he’s shameless, but they haven’t come up, either. and despite being shameless, he...doesn’t feel as relaxed as he usually does, being so transparently expressive in any whimsical way he pleases!!

so Midousuji mirrors Aerith, and just takes a swig himself—his broad back lurches immediately, the spiny fins of his scapula protruding under his shirt, eyes wincing shut as he slaps his hand across his mouth—when he recovers, pretty quickly, his eyes roll up, drool mixed with saliva streaking down his chin beneath the cup of his hand.]

Ugh. Gross.

You did it with such a straight face... I knew it...

[this isn’t a relaxing time. Midousuji never is really capable of providing that kind of vibe. his throat burning, Midousuji wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shuddering—and he peers at Aerith. it does indeed beg the question.....]

Aerith-chan...

[he swallows hard. the liquor burns in his belly.]

Why was I the person you asked for this?

[bloomly]

( he's always been expressive, though maybe that word isn't strong enough for it: maybe it would be better suited to say exaggerated, that his movements and his voice and even his feelings, as much as he may not want them to be, bleed into the way that he talks, the words that he uses, and how he flinches and twists and stretches this way and that when he talks. she sees it here, now, in the way it's almost like he's upset. almost, because he keeps talking, steady, almost frantic, and the way he leans in closer is nearly as close as they've ever been.

she doesn't have the usual edge of amusement, or even joy, that she might in the revelation: instead she stares right back at him, almost startled, her eyes round and wide and her mouth pressed tightly shut.

the bottle, he takes from her, but not to offer up like she'd wanted. no, he's taken it for himself, and for a second she can only watch helplessly as he swallows down a mouthful. a part of her wants to warn him; there's even the faint sound, in the back of her throat, but it comes too late and with too little. he's swallowed down what he can and it's obvious that he hates it, that it's actually gross, actually disgusting, and her tongue clicks against her teeth in dismay. he shouldn't have done that.

one of her hands, the one on top of his, lifts away--she's keen to brush some of that saliva off his face, too, wipe it with the back of her own hand, but he's peering at her and instead of risking it, she lets her hand hang there, fingertips slowly bending in towards her palm instead.

why was i the person you asked for this?

she's not expecting the question; it catches her with wide eyes. )

Because I felt safe, staying all night with you.

( likely he doesn't feel the same way, about how she's still gripping his hand-- gently, carefully, but she lets it go entirely. can't crush it, can't be too scared or too desperate, right? is that what he thinks she might be? both of her hands come back to her own lap, pressing down into it. )

You wouldn't expect me to be one way or the other. I could trust you. And I...figured you wouldn't care, to ask, to want to talk about it, so I could keep my secrets to myself.

( her chin bows down towards her chest. it's easier not to look at him. )

Because you think I'm disgusting. You wouldn't want to know more about someone disgusting. So...

[discarding]

[Midousuji’s head dips a little at that past tense, but he doesn’t say anything. he suddenly makes an uncomfortable expression, the alcohol in his throat feeling suddenly apparent again. Aerith lets go of his hand, and he blinks. he tilts his head at her curiously, seeming to calm down from his dramatic agitations.

funnily, when Aerith’s gaze dodges Midousuji’s, he finds it easier to look at her. go figure. but even that’s brief—he looks away again when she explains, and the hand that had been held in Aerith’s feels funny—like it clings to the memory of the pressure, and the warmth, but it doesn’t have the burning tingle it had when they were bonded.

Midousuji rolls her words around in his head again, blinking as he considers that. how he wants to answer. he squints, teeth grit again, annoyed he’s run yet again into something he doesn’t want to quantify. and should he? does it matter? if it does...why is that? what’s even happening to him anymore.]

Well, you’re right. I’m not the type to talk stuff out like that. I wondered if that was part of it.

[he reaches into his bag, expression evening out again as he rummages—and without looking at Aerith, he extends his palm towards her again, turned upward to present a clementine. Midousuji has a high metabolism, and this was going to be a long night—and he’d be an eel’s ass if he was going to let Aerith take care of him again when he was perfectly capable of bringing his own food.]

But you’re wrong, too—I don’t think you’re disgusting. [Midousuji finds it interesting that they both seem so sure in each other’s assessment of the other, despite being often wrong.] “Gross” and “disgusting” are different. A little. It’s hard to explain, but... “Gross” is like, a creepy feeling... I guess it means a lot of stuff, but probably most of the time, I don’t mean it the way you think I do.

[he tilts his head. it’s too weird to explain it as a verbal tic. he didn’t always have it, but he certainly developed it. he’s not even sure how to explain something like that. the compulsion for word repetition, for specific words—that it’s a reaction to too many broad things. standard traits in other people that Midousuji carries with negative connotations; society’s warped standards; his own feelings. that’s something Midousuji doesn’t much address. when he feels something for someone, something that makes him uncomfortable—it’s gross, and he says so, which the person often takes as being directed at their behavior, or their person. and sometimes it is.

but often, Midousuji is just reacting to the crawly, nauseating feeling of being cared for.

she’d even said it, too. that’s a normal thing, too. being honest, unafraid, and unashamed of those kinds of feelings. gross.]

Maybe I’ll explain if I ever figure it out. But yeah, it’s not like I have the desire to learn more about you, or to pry, that’s true—but it’s not because I find you revolting...

I just don’t have to know people like that to...

[to what?? Midousuji’s jaw drops a little again, closes, then falls again.]

...be around them, I guess.

[bloomly]

( a part of her is startled, when his hand extends, and she wonders if he's going to give her the bottle back, or something else, or that he's going to keep his arm there again like some kind of barrier on the car of a rollercoaster, keeping her from moving at all. what his palm reveals is something so small and sweet--and surprising, that she glances from the little orange up to him, blinking owlishly, before she can't help herself. a tiny laugh escapes, soft and almost sad, and she plucks the clementine from him, holding it gently between her hands. )

That makes sense.

( she doesn't have to know people like that to be around them--or to want to be around him, which she realizes he hasn't said at all. she doesn't know why he's here, other than to offer her a favor, an equal exchange for whatever it is that he thinks he owes her, in the wake of what they've gone through together, but she should be grateful for it all the same. he could have turned her down: and then she'd be sitting on this roof alone, her head swimming, and no little orange to save her.

carefully, her thumb pinches into the top of the clementine, peeling away the skin to the bottom, but she does it slowly, methodically. like making a flower blossom, out of the peel. it's slow going, like she's rolling around her own words, like she doesn't know how to ask them anyway. doesn't know if she should. he's made himself startlingly clear, after all--she's almost proud of him for it, but doesn't say so.

she sets her blossom-peel on her knee, and splits the fruit in half, wordlessly holding it out to him: her arm outstretched, barred in front of him, just like he did to her. )

So you don't want to learn more about me. ( she says it like it's a guess, like it could be a question. her eyes are on the small bit of food; she picks off a slice and pops it between her lips. )

So you don't want to know me, like that.

( like what? even she doesn't know what she means. )

[discarding]

...Those kinds of things occur naturally, or they don't, [Midousuji tries to answer simply, his arm carefully withdrawn back into his own bubble, slack as its other. it's not as if Midousuji could ever acknowledge wanting to get to know another person so boldly, but it's legitimately true that he doesn't have the impulse to seek that out in the wake of fondness for someone. indeed, he likes Aerith—and that's enough. he'll learn more about her, or he won't; that's not a ball he likes to assume responsible for being in his court.

but he does have a careful, puzzled pause, clawing his hand against his chin and lower half of his face. he tries to discern her, like this. what she's feeling, or maybe more importantly, why she's making faces like that.

he doesn't find an answer, but slowly, he extends his hand, and carefully, with his forefinger and thumb, he plucks the fruit from Aerith. silly. that was for her... he has more, though, so he doesn't fuss. Midousuji cups the clementine half, cradling it in his lap as he tilts his head, and, regrettably, asks the thing she finds she doesn't know how to answer.]

But...what do you mean, "like that"?

[bloomly]

Like...

( naturally, he has to ask the question that she's uncertain of--and so far, she thinks she's done a good job of feigning comfort, or knowledge, even when she hasn't quite been able to muster it up at times, but this time, there's a certain lack of confidence, a faltering that even she doesn't understand. like that, like what? a fair question. she would have asked it, too.

her nose scrunches up in displeasure, and she busies herself with another piece of the orange, stubborn. )

Like a friend? Like someone you want to know more about? You know.

( does he? for the first time, there's a faint, pinking flush to her cheeks, partially in embarrassment, partially in something else. she's never like this: it must be the alcohol, the loneliness, the sudden fear and worry and the thousand other emotions that came with finding tifa gone. )

You should tell me about you, anyway. Your life back home. Tell me one interesting thing. ...And pass the bottle.

[discarding]

[Midousuji bites into his half of the clementine, not having the carefulness of his company, the way she delicately plucks and paces. he boggles at her in surprise, very nearly choking, the juice of the fruit down his chin.

friend??

he coughs a little, then covers his mouth, eyes wide as he swallows uncomfortably, having not really. chewed the quarter of the clementine he'd just bitten off. as the color arises to her cheeks, his hand clutches his throat, and he looks away. it's not the first time someone's expressed wanting to be his friend, and by some miracle (maybe because he's literally trying not to choke), Midousuji doesn't shoot back his verbal tic towards that sentiment. maybe it's because Aerith is obviously a little delicate right now, too.]

...I think people can...be...that. Without all that stuff. Can't they?

[Midousuji's never considered that. he hasn't even considered if Aerith is his friend, or if that was her motivation in persistently seeking him out. which, of course, is actually tremendously obvious—but Midousuji's far from a conventional thinker, and anything relating to connections, he's worse than an idiot. no experience whatsoever.]

About me? Something interesting?

[Midousuji tilts his head thoughtfully as he says that; it's certainly an obsessive control thing. he can't let people have one over on him. but Aerith, despite not really being that delicate of a girl, is in frailer form. normally, in a circumstance like this, he'd call it a personal problem that someone elected to be vulnerable around him and pay the state no mind, uncaring despite his awareness of their feelings.

he still doesn't feel confident the information, even with Aerith, couldn't be used against him at some point. and it's not because he has any ill perception of her character. rather, it's just because he'll probably never trust anyone fully—even if he were to end up dating someone for a long time, fall in love with them, all that stuff. the walls Midousuji puts up are colossal, and impossibly towering.]

Gross... "Interesting"... That's subjective...

[he rubs his throat a little as he swallows again, feeling his adam's apple flex against his hold, still not looking at her. his stupid brain is working so hard.]

What... kind of thing do you wanna know.

[Midousuji sort of clutches the bottle with both hands, indicating he won't surrender it until her imposed condition is satisfied. things like wagers, conditions—order, structure, helps him with this kind of thing. makes it less awkward.]

[bloomly]

( it's interesting, in a way, that he can't just come up with something off the top of his head. he needs more direction, further information, and that doesn't dissuade her, or even really bother her; but it does mean that she lets out a breath, almost a sigh, and adjusts her gaze on the horizon.

what to ask for, then? what wouldn't be immediately dismissed? but something that she would want to know? something that could be safely given, without him worrying about giving too much?

there are a few options; her head tilts, and she finishes off her half of the clementine, sets the blossom-peel aside at her hip and then draws her knees up to her chest; her fingers pluck at the skirt of her dress to keep it over her legs, keep herself decent. )

Well. Do you have any siblings? Are you an only child?

( she offers a soft, thoughtful hum. ) Let's do it like that. Ask a question, pass the bottle. Sound good?

[discarding]

[oh god. small talk. Midousuji's hand claws down his face, eyes half lid, dragging down his eyelids to expose their pink undersides. right. this is how people to get to know each other?? right? it feels so inorganic. and boring. and gross.

it's maybe just the nature of how boring the question is itself, he thinks. Midousuji's expression evens out as he tilts his head, pursing his lips as he considers. but it's true that he doesn't want to give away anything too revealing, either. his fingers tap his chin, and he extracts another clementine from his bag as he thinks, settling it then on his lap. Midousuji slips off his gloves.]

I'm an only child, [Midousuji answers. in the truest sense possible, almost... he begins to peel the little orange, its thin, soft skin discarded in ribbons by the bottle and messily over his lap.] and I lived alone. I have—had...two cousins.

[Midousuji scowls, reflecting on her offer of the game premise. Midousuji doesn't want to drink, per se—his nerves are a little calmer. but he doesn't want to leave the bottle to Aerith's consumption alone... would she overdo it that hard? he didn't know her well enough to say. and besides, what Aerith said is true—it's not that Midousuji doesn't like her, but he doesn't particularly want to know her, either. he grinds out a sigh. does that mean he has to drink, now that he's answered.]

If it sounds good to you, then that's sufficient, [Midousuji decides, distantly wondering what the hell he's doing. he doesn't have to humor her this far, right? as he's already considered, his only obligation is to be present. but...

Midousuji squints, thinking. questions about back home... wasn't that pointless, now? what was the point in looking back, if they were truly stuck here? until they disappear as mysteriously as they'd arrived... how grim. Midousuji doesn't want to think there isn't a way to do it himself, of his own free will, but it's harder to hold onto that hope. he'd held onto it too hard, maybe, and crushed it.]

Your favorite tea.

[said more like a statement than a question, but it suffices. Midousuji passes Aerith the bottle without looking at her, though he doesn't drink from it this time.]

[bloomly]

( her eyes, drawn to the movement, seem focused on the clementine: he peels it without much care for the rind, enough that she wrinkles her nose and reaches, neatly, with two fingers, plucks at the ribbons of orange peel and then pulls them off of his lap onto the roof instead. there's not much use for them, although perhaps they could be useful for cleaning: not good for compost, the acid could hurt the plants. her fingers toy around with them, circling them around in lazy patterns; better than up and staring at him, right?

but the way he speaks: an only child, living alone...she imagines that must mean that something happened to his parents. but what? she doesn't want to ask about it yet, doesn't want to prod when he's already being cagey about things, already seemingly displeased with the question. that makes them more similar than she'd really realized--her chin lifts, hands drawn back into her lap, and they only lift once he passes the bottle back. she takes it, between both palms, lifts it up and takes a hearty swallow: a little too much, given that she gives a petite little cough and then nestles the bottle back down into her lap. )

Jasmine. Chamomile. Usually cold, though, the both of them.

( that's likely not a very surprising answer, or very interesting: she gives a laugh, almost apologetic, and then lifts the bottle again, sneaking just one small, tiny little swallow before she seeks to pass it back to him. she has to consider it--trying to maintain the balance of what he's willing to share, without boring him to sleep. well, there's a thought: )

The last dream you had.

[discarding]

Cold?

[Midousuji reals curiously; he doesn't drink a lot of herbal tea... not often. but he finds both jasmine and chammomile so subtle, the idea of drinking it cold is legitimately baffling. a lot of that is, of course, cultural—but he doesn't think that far, or that deep.

rather, Midousuji watches the rolling shudder in the wake of her little cough pass through her body, and something in him twists inside that's new, small and strange—something perhaps like pity, or concern, but he can't know how to diagnose it, so unused to feeling other people. as it stands, as uncalibrated as he is, Midousuji just considers it as another uncomfortable feeling to put him on edge and cast his glance away. so that's exactly what happens.]

Dream... My last dream?

[his gaze unfocused, Midousuji's jaw drops just a little, and his mind is immediately thrown into a static, nothing buzz. he doesn't tend to remember his dreams—it's very rare that he does. from his perspective, he doesn't dream much at all. but when he does (as in, when he remembers—as no one simply "doesn't dream"), they're usually chaotic, silly, and complex—not ways he ever bothers to analyze, or pick apart, and absurd enough he doesn't give them any credence.

but Midousuji does quite vividly remember his last dream. his mother's face, blurry like a hazy, distant memory, though in actuality, it's one of the things he remembers with the most clarity. distance. hazy, and awful. it was Mother's day, recently, and Midousuji didn't even have a proper shrine to mourn her, as he usually would.

but that dream wasn't just the manifestation of despair from being apart from his preferred ways of coping... or only known ways, perhaps more fair to say. a lot of this dream was memory, too.

as he comes to remember this dream, Midousuji finds it harder to quantify, despite the developing quality of the reoccurence.]

...Smothered...

[Midousuji's eyes dip, and he rolls the bare little clementine with his fingertip. he wishes he hadn't already peeled it.]

...by the unbearable... humid heat of Summer... like a blanket. In the evening. Then...blue lights... all empty and blinding. [the harrowing, overlapping sounds of too many EKGs, so unlike the true memory. deafening. Midousuji doesn't share that, and instead, he swallows.]

The smell of anti-septic... Bright, clean walls... A floaty, warm feeling, in that same humid Summer heat... Close to...

[close to happiness. it's a memory he carries and remembers over and over again, but it's continually distorted, without an experience since to compare it to.]

...something uplifting... Light. A feeling of purpose... The stinging burn of flesh scraped by the bite of the road... The way your bones feel shocked, from falling hard. But it doesn't matter, because of the light feeling... I didn't feel the pain.

The feeling of searching...

[Midousuji isn't just looking away with his eyes, by this point; his head and his shoulders are turned away from Aerith, unaware of his withdrawn demeanor. he tilts his head, thinking. at some point, though he was a child through much of the dream, he was searching for the Hisaya family grave pillar.

he didn't find it. again, Midousuji doesn't disclose that part...]

Soft, gentle hands... All blurry. Like old memories, old feelings.

[Midousuji didn't think he could miss his mom more, honestly—and he doesn't let himself miss her, typically. not proper. but in a world where he can't visit her grave, or pay respects to her portrait—it's indeed true, disturbingly, he can feel more empty than before.

still partially turned away, Midousuji extends his arm to take the bottle, and he drags it into his lap, between his thighs. he doesn't drink, yet. it's unclear if he intends to.]

Happiness. What it means to you.

Define that.

[again, intended as a question, but, er. presented poorly.]

[bloomly]

( it feels like the sort of thing that she's meant to be quiet for--so she does just that, sits with her legs folded together under the weight of the skirt of her dress, with her hands in her lap, with her gaze focused on the horizon which, rather than betray any hint of light, has become something so dark that it's starting to get impossible to see the lights of the city proper, in the distance, or maybe it's just that it's that late. she's never liked the sky: it's a terrifying thing, having that wide expanse of nothing stretched out above her; she's used to the metal shadow of the plates in midgar, to feeling neatly concealed, covered, as though nothing could swoop down and take her. troubled, her gaze falls to her lap.

the way he says it almost sounds like poetry. the words come out soft and slow, measured almost, by a meter that she doesn't know and likely he doesn't, either; the flow of his thoughts put to his tongue and then out in the air to be shared between them. she knows some of those feelings: some of them, but the rest are foreign, almost forlorn in a way that makes her want to reach out and touch him, but she hangs back. she doesn't want to interrupt him, doesn't want anything to get in the way of him getting this out.

a sad dream. mostly? not entirely. but it's like the way a book gets damp and the pages start to bleed into each other.

at least, with the way he's turned, she can lift her gaze to stare at him instead. it takes a lot of effort to hold herself back, but she does it out of respect for him, respect for his feelings, and her hands wring together in her lap, twisting her fingers over each wrist over and over. at least he's taken the bottle from her. )

Happiness? ( she blanches a little at that--only because it's a surprising question. )

...The people I love, smiling. Unharmed. The planet, healthy. Freedom, to make choices, for others to not be weighed down by fate or what's been decided for them. I don't know what some of these things are like, truly, but they would be happiness.

( there's a soft laugh, but she's looking down at her lap again. )

Do I make you happy?

( that's not the question she meant to ask, but it's the question the alcohol has her blurting out despite herself. )

[discarding]

[Midousuji is peering at the bottle with owlish curiosity, his behavior suggesting he's completely forgotten about the raw feelings and imagery of his dream of a memory, the stinging hollowness of being unable to find his mother's grave. that's one nice thing, at least; Midousuji doesn't stay stuck on a feeling for long. most of the time.]

That's right, [Midousuji confirms to Aerith's question, not looking at her, and he leans his long neck forward, giving the lip of the bottle another curious sniff—and he frowns so hard that the chords of his neck protrude, and he leans his head back. his long tongue extends when his neck relaxes, like one does when they've tasted something awful. he peers a wide eye down the barrel, and despite how he seems, he is indeed listening.]

I thought you said you didn't believe in fate, [is all Midousuji says as an indication that he's listening. he tips the bottle back, giving it another try, despite his revulsion prior. he's considering her answer—he thinks he agrees, with some of it. it's a shame the planet is doomed—his planet, anyway, in slow motion, but he's as unfeeling as the rest of the people who live on it are. he has freedom, he thinks. and there was almost no greater comfort than his mother's smile, even when it had become so tired. weary.

knowing, Midousuji thinks, in retrospect.

just as Midousuji swallows once, Aerith prompts her question, and his eyes widen—he nearly drops the bottle, setting it down hard, and sputters, choking on the alcohol as he clutches his hand over his mouth.

the audacity!! to ask a question like that! to someone like Midousuji, especially! especially especially when they haven't even known each other for very long! they haven't even spent time together more than three times!!

gagging, Midousuji rubs his throat, then wipes his mouth, an unflattering chord of drool hanging from his chin from his episode, throat burning. his eyes are watering from the sting of the alcohol, some of which he's pretty sure he's accidentally got into his nasal passages.

with a thin, subtle ring of tears clung to the bottom of his eyelids, still holding his neck, Midousuji peers at Aerith in affronted wonder.]

No, [he answers in a way that would be registered as too easily, had he not choked half to death first. he wipes his mouth, shuddering, his eyes rolling away.] But it's not because it's you. Not some reflection of you or your worth [a keyword Midousuji picked up today and intends to mindfully keep tucked away in his mental Aerith dossier] or character.

[it doesn't mean he doesn't like being around her. he does. but he's not there yet—the point of being able to admit that even privately.]

No one does, nothing does. It's been that way for years.

But I'm not unhappy either, so relax, [Midousuji shoots at her, dreading some dramatic, pitying reaction. he's just...empty. most of the time. but lately, the emptiness isn't simply a hollow; lately, it has its own gravitational pull. it's worse, in Aefenglom, with no shrine or grave to honor in his mother's wake, no goal line to cross. it's like that abyss now hungers, and Midousuji worries that Aerith is a casuality in its orbit. or maybe Midousuji's more worried he's the casuality, actually. he doesn't know what's happening, but he's been sensing a change. a pull.]

I get a redo. Asking something like that so abruptly... Nasty...

[Midousuji takes another bottle shot—and besides, he's also bigger. Midousuji shudders, then the tension in his body collapses, shoulders dropping as his tongue extends again.]

Gross... [he wipes his mouth again. it really tastes and feels terrible. but he's starting to feel it. kind of tingly. a little floaty. also kinda burny and gaggy, though. so far, his unfavorable opinion remains.

Midousuji taps his fingers on the bottle, debating his question that will prompt his passing of the bottle to Aerith.]

I'm starting to feel a little weird.

[bloomly]

( it should be exactly that: that it's not because of her worth, or her character, or really a reflection on her at all. but people are people because they're selfish, at times, because even someone who tries so hard to think of the people around her sometimes falters and thinks of herself; because he says no and her eyes go round, even as he continues, even as he meets expectations for the answer to a question she hadn't really meant to ask at all. and sure, normally she would laugh and tease and reach out to punch him in the shoulder, or to playfully declare that he's just lying to himself, rather than anything that's really true. but maybe it's the alcohol or maybe it's that tifa won't be coming back, that now she's left without the deflection of her existence here or the cushion of her friendship--either way she nods her chin, pretends to listen but all she really hears is no.

and gross. and that no one does, nothing does and her eyes go down to her lap, where the wrinkles in the skirt of her dress are stretched out with the way she has it draped over her legs. she shifts, moves to sit with her knees up, wraps her arms around them and then sets her chin to the top. )

I'm sure you could find something out there.

( she did, didn't she? once upon a time. but then that happy thing disappeared into eighty-something odd letters that could never be sent and never delivered; then her life fell into a series of habits that would only bring her closer to a glass room and the reminder of her mother's body, cut up into little pieces, and then after that, what? did they really even do away with fate? or is that why she's here to begin with?

her eyes swim a little, but it's not because of him. it's not even really that his answer was rude, simply honest, and she's fine with honest. but sitting on the roof of a strange house that she's struggled to make a home, in a strange city that she's struggled to make something exciting, with a stranger who probably wants nothing more than to climb back down and take his bike home--all that, and the alcohol? she's starting to feel a little weird, too. )

If you feel weird, that just means it's working. Drink more.

( a bright laugh that she musters up out of nowhere. )

And hand it over, you hog. Cheater.

[discarding]

[Midousuji glances at Aerith through the corner of his eyes, a little uncertain as to why, though the answer is that a part of him is a little bit nervous of displacing himself from Aerith from his unapproachability. not that he's realized it, nor could he admit it—but everyone has their limit with him, he thinks, and that's fine. being by himself is what he prefers.

but...

Midousuji's head tilts slowly, expression going from blank to sort of baffled.]

Ha??

No. I don't think so. Or maybe when I'm a lot older, and I win Tour de France. But I'm not betting on even that—it could be I'll just die like this, which is fine, as long as I accomplish my goal.

[he looks towards her as her chin sits atop her knees, and stares emptily, looking like he's searching for something. and he is. he's trying to diagnose how he's feeling, because he has no idea. the answer there is that he's a little worried—worried because he likes this person, which means he'll worry about her feelings by his actions and words (unfamiliar territory), and he'll worry about her feelings towards him.

he blinks, then sheepishly looks away. is she sad? she hasn't even confirmed that her friend is gone yet. is it because of him? anxiously, Midousuji picks off a few ribbony orange peels from his lap, piling them neatly beside him, still gripping the neck of the bottle. why is he feeling like this??? what is this feeling in the damn first place? is this because of the alcohol? what's it doing to him?? altering him? to what shape?? should he stop?

his mind sort of spirals until Aerith prompts him, and he whips his head up.]

—Wah... [Midousuji's eyes widen, snapped out of his train of thought, though he still boggles at nothing in particular. he blinks at the bottle, then at Aerith.]

You're right. That was your question.

[oops. he didn't mean to cheat. Midousuji says this in a way that indicates it hadn't occurred to him, so he gives her the bottle with an awkward thrust of a too-straight arm. Midousuji squints, head tilted and lips puckered as he tries to think of a question, awaiting Aerith's reception of the bottle.]

Do you...

[Midousuji's eyes are wide, arm still weirdly straight out, even if Aerith has taken the bottle by then; he doesn't seem to notice, probably because he's desperately looking anywhere else, and his mind is a buzzing, chaotic, anxious mess right now. he feels sweat bead on his cheek, despite the mild air, and his face feels a little hot. she hasn't even caught up, to have the drink that one awards themselves for asking a question, but he assumes once she's had her bottle shot, she'll hand it back to Midousuji for his question to rebalance.

but my, he feels. awfully off balance.]

...really... trust me?

[bloomly]

( he thrusts out the bottle to her like his arm is something mechanical, like he's pushed a button inside of himself to make it move rather than thought the movement into existence. her gaze lifts, follows the length of his arm curiously, from his wrist to his elbow to his shoulder, and when she looks at him, he's not nearly as indiscernible as he has been, before. is she starting to understand his patterns? to get to know him better? or is it the alcohol making her feel like she gets things that she has no idea about at all? he looks--oddly, almost troubled, as though his own thoughts are spiraling out of control, or perhaps he's thinking things or wanting to supplement his own words though she knows that he wouldn't do something like that. he says what he wants and it's always honest, at least as far as she's known, as far as she can tell.

she reaches with both hands, takes the bottle and gently pops it out of his mechanical arm grip.

for a moment she thinks maybe he isn't going to be able to get out a question, which is fine, and which means that she can prop the bottle up against her lips and try to weigh with how much more she thinks she can really handle versus how much more is left in the bottle; she should likely drink more than him, given that he doesn't drink much, but he's so tall, shouldn't that make a difference? he's thin, too, wiry but strong...

do you, he starts, and her eyes lift to watch him, the bottle pressed to her open mouth.

really trust me?

she doesn't take the drink, lowers the bottle with some amount of surprise. )

I do. ( it's an odd question, she thinks. perhaps he doesn't get trusted often. ) I think even if you don't like me, or don't want to be friends... If I got up and walked off the roof, you'd grab me before I could do it. If I told you a secret, you wouldn't tell anyone. If I were in trouble... You would help, if you were there. And I trust that you're honest with me, because that's the kind of person you are.

( a laugh, then--embarrassed, she brings the bottle up, takes a swallow, suffers, and then takes another swallow, before she holds the bottle out to him with her nose wrinkled, licking her lips. she might be at her limit soon, but she's not going to tell him that. )

I guess that sounds stupid from someone who barely knows you, right?

[discarding]

[it’s true. Aerith is getting to know Midousuji—a little bit. barely at all, but especially given they’ve only known each other so many months, it’s actually incredible headway. something others have taken a year or more to achieve, with patience versus a far more hostile, distant version of Midousuji. which is why this is all so strange. Midousuji’s a little bit aware of how things feel a little different; of how there’s a hard to describe magnetism occurring, but with an indiscernible origin, not knowing who to hold responsible… and even less is there a hope of coming up with reasonable justification to stop it for the intrigue (and fear) it provides. or maybe he could, but he caves to the curiosity.

it’s always been: if it’s not conducive to winning, cut it away. sentimentality, bonding, friendship—all useless, perilous sentimentality that distracts from efficiency and utilitarian philosophy. thus, to be discarded.

but what is there to win, here? what has he to prove?

he feels a relief that makes him feel strangely weak when she takes the bottle, and with curious (and nervy) trepidation, he watches her take the bottle from him, his irises nervously bunched at the corners of his eyes, not quite facing her.

when she answers, though, he faces her fully—his mouth drops open just slightly in stupefied surprise, which he feels foolish for. like Aerith’s every response doesn’t go against what he expects! he should expect she should say something unexpected, and to some degree, he does—but that doesn't mean he can predict, thus nor can he prepare for, what she actually ever says. his heart twists in a clench, and releases in a flutter. his eyes cast sharply away, and he feels the tips of his ears burn hotly.

how can she just say things like that, so candidly? how gross. how unscripted. how honest, how sweet. and how too, really, misplaced. Midousuji suddenly feels a queasy wave of a certain reality coming to light: he knows he’s careful around this person, even if he hasn’t yet accepted it’s because this is a person he likes. usually, his instinct is to challenge that positive bias with his unlikable characteristics. but with someone like her, he can’t bring himself to exaggerate that ugliness to test her. not in its totality, at least. he’s never experienced this kind of desire to connect. and that’s why she’s having him play this game, isn’t it? to get to know. to connect. for some reason. is that normal? is she feeling what he’s feeling, which he isn’t sure how to diagnose, for its unfamiliarity?

he glances at her perilously as she sputters over two chugs (cheater! unless that question was just that embarrassing, but there still weren’t Rules!! outlined around that outlier!), then forcibly yanks the bottle from her. his heart is still racing, and now he’s staring at her again, the bottle corralled in his spidery grip, between his knees, which are tensely, nervously, pressed together.]

It does, [he says plainly, in a way that may have been similar to the way he’d admitted she doesn’t make him happy. but… boy, does she ever… incite all kinds of odd things, within him, like a storm never before perceived.] And, on top of it: you’re wrong.

[Midousuji’s eyes roll away, and he antsily strokes a finger across the shilling of her roof.]

Yes, I would grab you, probably, though I’m clumsy, and my reaction time can be slow. If you told me a secret, I’d only keep it because there’s no benefit to me using it against you—but I’d do that with other people. [okay, maybe this is some of that pushback, where he can’t believe, deep down, anyone could like him so much past his superficial charm. but he isn’t lying; he fights dirty. but there’s no fight here. that’s why it feels odd. so again, what is his goal?? what is he trying to accomplish, here?]

I wouldn’t help if you were in trouble, mostly because there’s no guarantee I could. And I may be blunt, but I’m not really all that honest. I tell it how I see it, but I don’t tell how I feel. I don’t…

[why is his face so hot. is it the alcohol?? he swallows.] I don’t…let people… see that, too much. Not really.

[anxious, as Midousuji tries to quell his ornery mind, he takes a generous swig himself. and another! cuz she’d done it. and a shiver shudder down his entire body, most prominently in his shoulders and in an involuntary shake of his head. he feels his mouth salivate gushingly from the sting of the alcohol, and he wipes his mouth preemptively.]

… So then, [he prompts once he recovers.] Are you aware? [Midousuji isn’t looking at her, again, but to the point where all she really has view of is his wrist still nervously bent near his mouth, fingers curled tense and erect, and the shell of his ear, with most of the back of his head.] …of how… you affect people?

[how intuitive, even if sometimes off mark? how charming? not that he’s bold enough to name any of it so specifically, but he can’t be the only person pulled in by this spell. there’s no way. there’s probably so many. he’s a drop in the ocean.]

The way you are… with me. For example.

[which doesn’t really clarify much. but it’s the best he can do. sweating, Midousuji raises his knees, lowering his head, still stubbornly turned away, his eyes wide. a clarity he doesn’t like is slowly coming to him.]

[bloomly]

( she's growing a tolerance: the sort of tolerance it takes to be around people like cloud and not get upset, to face blunt words and even blunter actions with a smile of understanding, an air of nonchalance, tempering down any kneejerk reaction to take things personally or too painfully. she's never really been that sort of person, the kind that's easily chased off, the kind that doesn't stick heels into mud and refuse to budge. she doesn't take a lot of things personally; she doesn't let them get to her, at least not in front of the person. slowly, those things pile up inside of her, behind a wall, perceived only by herself and no one else.

but tonight is the kind of night where she fumbles, a little. maybe it's because tifa isn't coming back, and with it comes a whole domino effect of bad things that she has to try to anticipate and fix. maybe it's because she's already in over her head with the liquor. maybe it's because she'd called midousuji to sit on this roof with her, and not someone else. but the weight of his words, and how easily he picks at her own, knocks holes into them and tears at the stitching of them, makes them seem stupid and even ridiculous: it makes her go unnaturally silent, lips pressed together, head bowing with a nod.

he asks if she's aware of how she affects people, and the question feels strange: how does she affect people? that's never really been something that she's considered before: it's always been just the idea that her worth centers around being the last of her kind, and that that is what drives people to do things around her. nothing more, nothing less. )

No, I guess I'm not.

( simply, honestly. and he said he wouldn't rescue her, wouldn't be able to catch her because he's clumsy or because he can't or doesn't want to? or maybe that's just the way she's convoluting it. either way, it means that she's bringing her knees up, pushing palms to the roof to get herself onto her feet; she wobbles a little, catching herself with one step forward. )

How do I affect you, then?

( is that her return question? or what? she doesn't go for the bottle: she goes for the slight space on the roof in front of them, walking one foot in front of the other like she's on a balance beam, heading for the edge but certainly not stupid enough to walk right off of it. )

[discarding]

[her honesty isn’t nothing, of course—Midousuji is perceptive to bullshit, and it tries his patience easily. combing briefly through his memories, with how his head strangely, warmly swims, he can’t think of a time where she ever truly set off those sensors. he can see bits of it—even as awkward as he is, having honed in on weakness and insecurities in other people as a means to exploit for the sake of getting an edge in competition, it’s made him more attuned to people than he’d probably end up being naturally. he’s not an emotionally sensitive person, by any means—but there’s touches of it, and he realizes as he processes her answer, he isn’t sure what it is. an obfuscation, for sure, some aspect of hiding her true feelings.

based on her personality, and now that Midousuji has finally (not too long ago) accepted she isn’t some demon cloaked in sunshine with darker intentions, he decides, curiously, it’s probably pain.

his eyes slide back towards Aerith, and the way he looks at her, he searches with intent cast by that thought. it makes sense she’d be in a sore spot; he does truly believe Aerith is already believing and accepting her friend is gone, so she’s probably worn a bit more thin than usual when it comes to that obfuscation… if that’s indeed being accurately perceived on Midousuji’s part, he caveats to himself.

his eyes widen when she suddenly stands, and he notes the way she has to catch herself. normal clumsy stuff, perhaps, but Midousuji hasn’t noticed that Aerith is a clumsy person. with her question, his back straightens, neck craning upwards as his jaw drops a little, eyes wide, watching as she walks.]

What are you doing? Sit down. You’ve been drinking. That’s dangerous. Are you trying to test my answers?

[if he’d catch her successfully, that is. Midousuji feels nervy, and though even if he weren’t on edge about Aerith’s decision to get up and walk around, he’d probably lean into it anyway as a way to avoid that question.

and it’s so…annoying! he isn’t above lying, he isn’t above giving half-truth answers where the discomforting part of his reply is conveniently omitted—but Aerith is one of the few people he’s ever met who’s hard to be that way with. it also feels a little less risky, right now, because Midousuji is certainly approaching tipsy.

his heart hiccups, and pounds. he uneasily clutches around the bottle with both hands, definitely not about to pass it to Aerith if she’s drunk and mobile. his head drops, eyes wide.

it wasn’t obvious?? he supposes it wouldn’t be. using himself as an example was a bad, stupid idea. also, it was a bad, stupid question. why is he digging this hole?? what’s his motivator? there’s something, something he can’t see. annoying. gross. it’s gross.]

I…

Well…

[he doesn’t want to answer this. he doesn’t want to. he’s coming into more clarity, despite that he’s becoming intoxicated, and that’s puzzling—Midousuji doesn’t realize it’s because he’s largely inhibited, even alone. even about his own feelings, even to himself, even when distantly, deep down, he’s aware of them. he just carves them away, puts them away, ignores them.

and yet,]

I wouldn’t…do this for [almost] anyone. Especially not someone I haven’t known for so long. Like you said.

[Midousuji’s eyes are wide, staring so hard at the frayed shilling below him it almost hurts.]

I’m—it’s. Different. Around you. I am.

[his eyes widen a little further, panic coursing through his body. why won’t he shut up??? why is this happening]

I can’t…I can’t believe—think—someone like you doesn’t have that affect on everyone. If it has an affect even a little bit on someone like me.

I don’t like people. I’m not gentle with people. I don’t try to be. I don’t care about sparing feelings. I don’t desire connection with others. Ever.

[shit. careless, Midousuji’s revealed that that’s the way he’s different around her, implicitly—and it’s something he hasn’t even admitted privately, even so indirectly. Midousuji slaps a hand against his face, and nervously bites the glove of his other hand.

he’s about a minute away from a nuclear meltdown.]

[bloomly]

( it's true that she doesn't really know what she does to anyone. it's true that she doesn't really notice those things, doesn't really see anything beyond the way that people are and the way that she thinks, somehow, perhaps they want to be, or that she's the kind of person with the patience of a saint who will sit for hours on a beach coaxing a crab out of its shell. it's just the way that things have always been: the way that she has always been, the kind of person that doesn't really change for anyone else except in the small ways that might encourage them to allow themselves to breathe. and maybe that's what it comes down to: that she sees people like this, people like midousuji or cloud or even tifa, at times, knotted up inside, stiff behind their walls, and she tries to find the small gaps and holes in the brick to try to help them out. it's not even that she wants to drag someone's secrets out in the open, or that she's obnoxiously desperate for information, curious as she is; it's that she wants to help, wants to create a haven of safety, protection, something that perhaps, subconsciously, she's always wanted herself.

she doesn't interrupt him, but with her back to him, there's less effort to control her face; it contorts, scrunches up, lips pursed together, and she gets it, she does. the weight of his words, the effort he's taking to communicate it to her. the fact that he--inadvertently, maybe, but all the same, admits that he wants something with her. that he wants a connection. and ridiculous as it is, stupid as it is, her heart pounds in a way that feels strange, makes her steps stall for a moment, balance shifted between feet that feel unsteady even though she knows nothing could ever happen here.

she can't die in this place if she's meant to die somewhere else, right? )

So...

( her hands come together, fingers laced in against the front of her dress, and her chin turns up, lets her eyes fall on the sky and the stars and the thousands of possibilities beyond. )

You mean that you like me.

( as a friend, as a companion, as someone else in this strange city to come and talk to. those things. right? )

You want a connection...with me?

( there's not that warmth of teasing, the kind of plying, annoying thing she might do just to get him to growl gross at her or push her away. it's an unearthed kind of voice: like she's recognizing it for the first time herself, that she can have whatever effect it is that he claims she's had on her. like she doesn't know where that leaves her, or him, or even them.

but he's admitted something important, and so she does, too-- )

I miss it, you know. Maybe you hated our Bond, but...I miss it sometimes.

[discarding]

[Aerith isn’t quite as transparent as Midousuji had maybe assumed, which is odd—at first, he found her so pleasant he couldn’t believe that she could really be like that (and if she was, gross—he’s known good people, like Ishigaki, a total martyr—a moral pervert, as far as Midousuji’s considered). then, deciding he could trust her, Midousuji simultaneously decided that Aerith was kind of an open book.

and now, it’s somewhere in between. the gears turn in a sluggish wobble in Midousuji’s head, his eyes wide somewhere between his knees, head hung with his jaw held open, slightly, in very un-slight disbelief.

he’s drunk, he thinks. but somehow, clarity is coming increasingly—he’s not sure if it’s that, or the alcohol, that’s making him feel queasy.

Aerith isn’t dishonest, per se; she’s relentlessly herself, but has some related to other people. just like Midousuji, however, Aerith is brutally authentic. it makes her pure. like Midousuji. but Midousuji’s lack of authenticity—the things he can't let himself even look in the face, or think about, come from straying away from things that he deems will make him weak.

which, he's beginning to see, is something he fears.

when Aerith poses her query, Midousuji's eyes widen, pupils quivering to pinpricks. certain he might get sick, Midousuji curls his hand against the bottom of his face. he isn't that drunk—not that Midousuji has any frame of reference—he's just unbearably overwhelmed, emotionally, under the onslaught of something unfamiliar and terrifying.

right now. he's scared, as they speak. as Aerith so easily and so bluntly discerns him in a way that makes his skin crawl; asks him a question he’s so terrified of answering he might be the one who throws himself from the roof instead just to escape the situation. but he keeps himself planted, not frozen in fear—but rooted, with purpose.

what purpose??

what is it, anyway? that purpose? is it connection? to bond?? bonding?? closeness? closer? come closer??

his knees tighten by each of his temples, the bottle, now released, falling softly against the rigid sinew of his inner thigh. Midousuji’s hand is clenched tight against his mouth, thin, rigid fingers pulling in a grasp against either of his cheeks, breathing heavily through his nose.

his mind buzzes in a hot, agitated fury, but he’s still hearing her. he moves his hand from over his mouth to instead claw through his messy, dark hair, joining its twin. he’s looking away, hard, through the corners of his eyes.

his face is hot, and it’s visibly obvious. Midousuji tells himself it’s the embarrassment. the alcohol.]

I…

[Midousuji, suddenly in a frenzied fluster, gives a growling shriek of frustration and overstimulation. his hands move so rapidly and vigorously over the top of his head that it incites static, his breathing audible and ragged, like he’s just won some long course in record time.

then his body goes slack and still, hands resting limp against his ruffled crown, though Midousuji’s still panting.]

…I didn’t… hate it.

I should have… Gross, warm feeling… Tepid, niggling… Like a seed, planted inside…

[she’s changing him?? is that the seed? the origin of the roots keeping him in place in this moment, despite his panic?]

…I feel…

…like that…too.

[Midousuji’s hands then rake down his face, denting his petal-pinkened skin. he lifts his head, but not completely.]

Wh…what’s…happening to me… It’s groooosssssss… Gross, gross, gross, gross…!!

[bloomly]

( she should probably be more startled by it: the way that he escalates, picks through his words and then, abruptly almost, like it's reached some kind of boiling point after simmering steadily for minutes, continues that mantra that she knows doesn't really mean what she thinks it should. it's not like he's insulting her, not like he's declaring that she's some pox upon the world, or maybe just his world, but the feelings inside of him--feelings she didn't know really existed, or maybe just didn't really understand yet--make him feel like his skin might crawl, maybe, or like they're the ones that will crawl, make their way right out of his mouth and wind themselves around his thoughts and be too stubborn to pull or erase away. she knows better than to round on him and tease him; so there they wait, in silence for a moment, midousuji with his meltdown on the outside, and aerith with her meltdown on the inside.

a few steps: just a few steps, that's all it takes, really, just another lean in the right direction, and there's the edge of the roof, the path to her front door that she can see from where they are, the garden that she still hasn't finished. some of the flowers are sprouting, but not as many as she would have liked; she hadn't had many seeds to start with, anyway. seeds. something she planted inside of him, too? is that where they all went? past the path of the cottage there's the little fence and then the road and all the other cottages, along the path, the strange city out in the distance--so many unknowns, and tifa lost among them, gone from this place. )

Maybe that's right.

( a small nod, confirming to herself, as she stands on that edge. )

Maybe I'm inside of you now, maybe you'll never be able to dig me back out again.

( that thing that she'd always wanted to avoid, isn't it? telling cloud not to do this or that, not to blame himself, not to get too wrapped up in feeling her because it would just hurt him later. )

... I don't want to dig you out, either.

( one of her hands moves, closes in against her chest, but there's no necklace there to reach for tonight. )

I feel... strange...

( sick, almost. is it the alcohol? or is it the realization? she takes a step back, and then another, shaking her head; that just makes it worse. ) I think I need to sit down...