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[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...

[discarding]

I…inside?

[Midousuji pauses, fingers dragged down his face, the pink bottoms of his eyelids exposed and comically stretched as he lifts his face. never be able to dig…? her out…? inside?? inside him?

that’s the scariest thing she’s said yet.

immediately, his brain works backwards on that, trying to save himself from exploding into abrupt cardiac arrest—people weren’t like that. she’d dig herself out. people were fickle. he himself, as a person, was cold, and at times frightfully unbearable—and naturally, people had their limits with that, too. no one could get so close, and not for so long. and Midousuji doesn’t mind. he doesn’t care. he prefers it.

he’s not built like other people. he can do everything by himself. he likes being alone. he doesn’t need anyone. and unlike other people, he also, deplorably, is not fickle, even when he sometimes wants to be.

he exhales, hands still goofily clawed on his face, and his breath trembles.

Aerith, too, isn’t really built like other people.

when she begins to walk backwards, away from the roof, and towards him, Midousuji finds he’s still at a loss for what to even say, stuck in that elapsed spell of silence.

but there’s somewhere else he can put his focus. an opportunity. his knees drop, posture now in a flat pretzel with how his legs are folded, and he cranes his back to shuffle through his things. he notices his movements feel strange—too fast, and even less exact than usual. but of course he can’t actually be moving faster. his brain is probably suffering in cognitive parsing, he thinks…

but still, if clumsily, he procures a flask. he holds it out, but not up towards Aerith. wordlessly, eyes wide and expectant on her, he holds his arm in a straight line—and his other hand is clasped around the neck of the cursed bottle. no more booze. he’d make sure of it.

no sooner than his conniption had suddenly come on, it’s passed, because he can focus on something else. but his mind and his heart are both still certainly shell shocked beyond belief; truthfully, Midousuji’s probably just shutting himself away from any further exposure, refusing to look any closer for his own drunk-mangled sanity.]

Then sit. Alcohol tastes and feels nasty, which doesn’t help, but. Alcohol dehydrates you. Dehydration can make you nauseous.

[Midousuji’s gaze tears away as he goes on, still holding out his arm.]

And moving feels weird right now. That probably doesn’t help. So stop moving so much.

[bloomly]

( it's just the length of his arm there, stretched between them, that keeps them separated. she notices it, when she turns on her heels at the sound, when she sees him stretch out the flask towards her, and inside is likely precisely what she needs: water, and plenty of it, or at least enough to swallow down, to calm herself and to feel like the world isn't slipping right out from her grasp, isn't telling her things that she shouldn't think or even consider. she stares down at his hand for a moment, and wonders if it's worth it to push: to step past it entirely, to gather herself down next to him and seek solace in his company, but it feels almost like he's at the edge of some sort of cliff and she's meant to be the person talking him down from jumping. she can't do that if she goes too far, right?

so she nods, just a small, tiny movement--he told her to stop moving so much, after all--and reaches with both hands for the flask, instead. standing there, it takes a monumental effort on her part to remember how to get her fingers working enough to unscrew the top and then bring it to her lips; and what a ridiculous thought it is, to sit there drinking water and thinking did he have some of this before me, is this our first kiss, do i tease him about it? a swallow, then another, and one more, taken just after a breath, and she closes the flask back up, keeps it hostage between her palms and then looks at him, finally, her gaze watery but warm. )

What happens...

( she chooses her steps carefully--one, then another, and though she'd usually make a show of creeping up on him, she doesn't have the conscious effort available to be cute about it, or at least showy about it, or to try to dig into the way that she tends to antagonize him by being nice or by being playful or just by being herself. it's an invasion of his privacy, probably, to bring herself right next to him, where his legs lay twisted and flat and she can't quite get right beside him, since his big bony knee is there, but she still tries to fold herself in the best that she can.

they sit nearly hip to hip, and she plants the bottom of the flask against his nearest thigh, holds it there with both hands like it's a toy that's waiting to be acknowledged by him, twisting it back and forth slightly. )

...if I fall asleep, out here? Will you stay?

( that sounds scarily like foreshadowing. )

[discarding]

[it is odd—Midousuji truly isn’t the best person to summon for true comfort, but that’s not precisely what this is, is it? it’s some of the ways Midousuji specifically is incapable of comforting that Aerith has sought him out, but it feels like an ebb and flow between the two of them; an exchange of vulnerability and related crisis therein, and need of comfort.

Aerith had almost walked off the edge of the roof, in foolish drunkenness—that reminded Midousuji he had a job in this event. he’s here for Aerith, who of course, isn’t acting right, given her circumstance. he feels, though tipsy (heavily), Aerith has confirmed the hand he’d suspected; she truly believes her friend is gone. she thought that before she summoned Midousuji. and that solidifies one thing: despite that, though it’s the worst-case scenario at its core in actuality, he’s still the one she called on. for some reason. he kind of gets her reasoning, but still finds it confusing and half baked. but the strongest point is this: he was chosen regardless. he doesn’t get it, but he has a job.

and that’s not to get out of control, to get emotional, to get vulnerable; it’s to support this other person. this is what gives him some relief when he watches her drink, though thankfully, partially perhaps due to inebriation inhibiting his exhaustive overthinking, because he owes her (and surely not for anything else. like how he likes her, and can’t figure out how to seek out her company outside of utilitarian means).

and, finally, indeed, when she settles beside him like this, Midousuji’s eyes widen—he makes a funny, strangled gasp of a glottal stop in the back of his throat, turning to face her with wide, wild eyes. his eyes then fall to his canteen, wrung anxiously between their hands—he feels her proximity; the searing heat between their hips, and the highlighted distance between them because of his own posture.

Midousuji’s eyes roll away, and he dips his head, rubbing the back of his neck. his knee, between them, knocks towards its brother, giving her a bit more room to come closer. his face is hot. he’s drunk. he thinks. it’s the drink.]

…Don’t be stupid. That…was the agreement. Wasn’t it?

You can sleep if you want to. I won’t…

I’m not going anywhere… s-so, do whatever…

[bloomly]

( how many times has she heard something like that and believed it? i'm not going anywhere, like there's ever any control over such a thing, like there's some way to firmly cement them into the future just as they're rooted in the present. she believed that, once, believed that someone would come back safe and sound--and instead she waited for years and years for someone who would never actually return. it's not that she's jaded by it, or even that she expects the worst; it's just that it's easier to steel her expectations for something that could potentially go south instead of always believing blindly in the good of everything. mostly she gets by with it. sometimes, though, small things: they dig in and make her want to readjust her expectations.

oddly, she believes him in this moment: maybe it's because of the alcohol, or maybe it's because it's him; maybe it's because she knows it's not like he has anywhere else to go, that he might be rough with her or might not know the words to say but he's a good person, she thinks, or judges, deep down inside there. maybe it's because she thinks there's more to whatever this is between them that neither of them are willing to say.

either way, he essentially gives her permission. if he's upset about it, then he can get upset about it, but it's his own fault, right? with a soft breath, a sigh, almost, she leans in--his knee moves out of the way to give her more space, and it's not like she has to be propped up against him, but she wants to be, wants the comfort of being beside him, of knowing that her cheek has the tall shelf of his shoulder to rest on. gross? probably. she doesn't much care, eyes falling shut like she can will herself to some other place just by not seeing the lights of aefenglom out around them. )

I'm not going anywhere either. ( will he believe her? or does he have his own reasons for doubting something like that? )

I'll be right here... For you.

( the quiet that she falls into doesn't mean that she's asleep, yet--but her hands do go loose, relenting the canteen to him, tucking them instead into her lap more comfortably. if he's going to try to get out of having her doze up against his side, then he better do it quick: she's well on her way. )

[discarding]

[Midousuji jumps a little when he feels Aerith settle against him, entire body going (even more, somehow) rigid and tense.] I—! D-don’t be stupid; I meant right now! Gross! Gross. If you’re falling asleep, of course you aren’t going anywhere.

[it’s likely that he means indefinitely as well as “right now,” having had the gumption to say it at all, though. maybe Aerith knows better by now than to take Midousuji for his word. Midousuji, however…]

…Just… if you f-fell asleep, I wouldn’t just leave you up here.

[he’s a little too dense to anything other than take her too literally and at face value, though he should know better by now. those cues are a little harder to parse when he gets all shaken up by the things that she says, and the weird feelings those incur in him, more startling than anything Aerith can really do herself, honestly, even if she’s responsible for inspiring those feelings in the first place.

the alcohol probably doesn’t help his social fluency much, either.

it does, however, help him to relax; she can likely feel it. soft slopes return to the holding of his posture, instead of all rigid and hard like a bunch of metal frames. he lets go of a slow, shaky breath through his nose, and his heart races as he takes the canteen. after placing it by his side, his hands fidget uselessly, twisting as they curl into fists, flexing as they uncurl, repeating the motion over and over. like he’s antsy to let go of some kind of weird energy he’s being charged with (which he certainly is). he stares out into the darkness, at nothing in particular.

his mind swimming less coherently than usual, but more fluidly, Midousuji remembers nights spent with his family in Kyoto, as a child. the weather isn’t too different. a little less humid. distantly, finally less trapped in his own head and body, Midousuji becomes aware of the merry, distant chirring of crickets.

his eyes are wide, and encountering that familiar feeling from that memory—beneath his embarrassment and shock and fear—Midousuji realizes he’s experiencing it now. usually, he just remembers the feeling—but somehow, he realizes it’s actually happening again.

baffled, Midousuji’s head tilts.

how gross. why is he like this?? he’s even more gross than Sakamichi. Or Ishigaki. maybe not Aerith, though. his voice comes out in a slow, quiet drawl, partially because of the alcohol, but because he’s sort of spacing out, stuck on that realization. distracted.]

Yeah… Sleep as long as you need…