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[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…