The tempest is strong, but eventually even that must slow. The rain continues, more a drizzle than a downpour, and the city remains flooded as even now there have been no major chances to fix what has been broken. The water is murky, dolphins still scattered throughout and once in a while someone will see a floating robot head drifting along the surface. On top of that, all communications with CERES are still out and all that has been left for you to do is to adapt, to survive.
And then, there is a presence.
It is a presence that can be felt by everyone in the city; a chill down your spine, the feeling that there is someone here who does not belong here (or maybe that you are the one who doesn't belong). No matter where you are, you will hear his voice in your head, even as you cannot see him, not just yet. It seems there really is something strange about this weather, and the source has finally decided to reveal himself. Angrily.
 You wanted us out of your city! You wanted us gone from this stream and cast off elsewhere, to let you do as you please and play in your metal and blood! Yet when it comes to us, our needs, you have dismissed them. Well, now you'll pay for it, Julius Vincere. You and your stolen creatures! You think we know nothing of this place? We know everything and we would like what is ours back.
[ After a moment, quietly: ]
... Ah, was that too much?
|
PHASE IV [ 16 00 ] Days later and the rain continues to fall endlessly. It has lessened somewhat in intensity but doesn't show any signs of completely stopping. Rain, day in and day out until day four, when it quickly becomes clear that something unusual is happening with the water itself. Odd instances of the water not acting normal can be seen all over the city and may even start happening to you.
For instance, a whirlpool will suddenly appear out of nowhere, growing in intensity until it drags everyone down with it. Then it disappears as quickly as it appeared, fickle but seemingly merciful. There's no limit to where these whirlpools might be, striking in any place with enough water -- even inside buildings.
Then, there are the concentrated storm clouds suddenly appearing over the heads of certain people, dumping rain extra-heavily on them while everyone else carries on beneath what is still just a light rainfall. Even an umbrella won't help you since the storm cloud just slips on right underneath it! That's really rude, storm cloud.
And if you're not quick enough to get out of the water, you may also suddenly find yourself the victim of a mini-wave, water rising in an arc clearly directed at you despite the fact that there was nothing to cause the wave in the first place. These waves are certainly filled with a bit of malice. Hopefully you can get out of dodge quick!
And the targets of these... well, pranks, are mostly people associated with fire, though people who have the earth or air elements will also find themselves on the receiving end of such events. Strangely enough, those who have been graced with the water element will experience nothing of the sort. In fact, the rainfall may even stop as they move about, allowing them to progress without getting wet at all even as it pours down on everyone around them. Wait, how are you doing that?
PHASE V [ 1900 ] Aside from the pranks, the water still isn't completely... settled. Where there are no whirlpools or waves or storm clouds, the water is eerily still, and looking into it might cause some strange things to happen to you.
In fact, anyone who looks into the water for too long will suddenly find themselves feeling an easy, quiet peace. The rainfall overhead and the sound of anything around them will feel miles and miles away. Instead, you will be gifted startlingly sharp and vibrant visions of your home world being destroyed. Places you love are rendered to nothingness while friends and family are cut down by strange, alien creatures that all wear masks. No matter how close you try to look at them, processing the shape of these aliens will be impossible. All you will remember is the mask, each one having a crudely drawn smile on the front. You may even start to feel your face equally start to smile, edges of your mouth being pulled upwards and upwards and --
These visions will drag you further and further down towards the water as time passes, that eerie peace fogging your brain all the while. And if someone doesn't come by to save you, you might just get dragged right under. Which wouldn't be so bad, would it? At least you'll be home again.
PHASE VI [ 1200 ] And then, on the fifth day at noon, all of a sudden, everything stops.
The rain ceases. The air is still, as is the water still flooding the streets. Those trapped will be untrapped, those wet will... well, unfortunately remain wet.
Then, there is a message.
It's spoken aloud and the speaker can be found seated on the fallen platform in the Residential District. The speaker is a strong looking creature, sure and proud and most certainly inhuman with his horns and goat legs. Next to him is another being, human in shape despite being entirely made up of... cloud? The being hangs idly in the air next to the creature, both seeming entirely familiar with one another. But even so, the message can be heard no matter where you are -- almost more mentally than verbally -- and the voice is most certainly angry.
"I'm growing tired of these games, Julius Vincere. You've taken what binds us, our Bridge, and have given us gifts in exchange. The gifts have stopped and we would like what is ours once more so --"
There's an interjection, from another voice. It is light and airy, pleasant to listen to but as chilling as breath on the back of your neck. "You can keep the lights, the lights are nice. Especially the purple ones. Well, on occasion the purple ones are nice. Lights are acceptable."
Anyone watching this live will see the creature seem slightly baffled as he looks to his companion. The response that follows is a hushed, confused whisper, which is kind of... odd since they're talking telepathically. To everyone. "I-- What? When were we talking about lights? Wait, no, shut up. Now you threw me off. Look, just... just be quiet for a moment, Caeli."
"I don't really like purple."
This time, the interruption is ignored as the creature tries to fill his voice with the anger from earlier, but he doesn't entirely succeed. In the end, he just sounds annoyed. "We want what's ours. Give it back or this isn't going to stop. We let you have your little city and --"
"I don't really like lights either."
Then, silence. The creature just stares down at his hands and after a moment, gives a heavy sigh and closes his eyes. Still telepathically, to everyone, he asks his companion, "Why did you come with me if you aren't going to take this seriously?"
There's no reply after that, the two of them just sitting there in silence. The creature lifts his hands to rub at his temples while the cloud hangs there and despite the lack of face, seems entirely pleased with itself.
You can come talk to them, if you'd like.
BONUS [ xxxx ] One thing's for sure -- things are going a little haywire right now. But instead of it being code acting strangely, this strangeness is entirely physical. These changes may happen for an hour or two at a time or for just a few minutes, at least. Don't worry about it, perfectly normal!
➟ Air: You will suddenly feel incredibly weightless. What a nice feeling; it's as if all of your cares have drifted away... except wait, you're drifting away too! Someone may have to hold you down to keep you from floating off into the maws of those waiting monsters. Time to find an Earth buddy!
➟ Earth: Speak of the devil -- Earth people will suddenly find themselves feeling so weighted down they feel as though they could not move another step. On top of that, sometimes the ground opens up right beneath them, dropping them into a small pitfall. How did that happen?
➟ Fire: Any surge of strong emotion will light their hair on fire... but that doesn't appear to do any actual damage. Well, unless someone else decides to stick their hand in it. Phew. Go forth and look like the Dread Pirate Roberts or that one baddie from Hercules.
➟ Water: Suddenly you're able to walk on water. That's... actually incredibly handy, considering how much of it is around. Unfortunately, you can't help other people walk on water too; if they hold your hand, they'll drag you right down with them. Enjoy being able to stroll around flooded Cerealia as if nothing's wrong at all. At least, until the effects wear off quite suddenly.
[ Remember to apply proper warnings on threads with sensitive or inappropriate material and do let a mod know if your thread careens off into maiming or canoodling so we can lock the log. ] |
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a!
they existed on different hemispheres for such a long time.
so makoto's bewilderment holds more acutely, a depthless curve when he registers the vibrant shock of hair (sanguine red as sharp as chemical dye), with his childhood friend inadvertently bearing down on him. ]
Aaaa, Rin, wait —
[ one glimpse of rin's needled mirth, the dreary shadows pooling in his eyes, the upturned grin thriving off a joke makoto hasn't caught the punchline to, and
— thwack.
a one-way trip on the trajectory to immediate motor impulse. the vestibule for human distress in singular occupancy. a plague of panic is shortly accompanied by a solidly biting groan as makoto crumples down clutching his nose, sucking in a harsh breath, acridly clean around the edges. ]
O-owowow, that really hurt! Did you have to hit me so hard? I almost fell back in.
[ knees bent, he haggardly scrubs at his face, willing away the surmounting ache at the bridge of his nose and his right cheekbone. coaxed into a series of rattling hiccups that could've signaled forbearance or incredulity, makoto blearily raises his head, equally drenched in moisture. oddly enough, he soon drops his gaze, staring at the ground with perturbed focus. normally, he would've risen to his full height, given rin a firm lecture on the quantifiable obtrusiveness of smacking people upside the head with plastic oars, but he's more preoccupied with the stiffness his feet have taken on despite the unconscious tremor that should've sent him reeling back into the waves. ]
Is the floor sticky? I can't move my feet.
[ paralyzed in a crouch, makoto wraps the length of his hands around his ankles, then wedges them beneath the soles of his waterlogged sneakers, insistently tugging to no avail. teetering at the boundary of the platform as he is, he can't even manage another step forward. ]
no subject
it's easy to fall into a rhythm: it's the hallmark of an athlete, fifteen reps, twenty laps, a hundred breaths. moments, seconds, minutes.
rin keeps time with the stroke of his arms, water sluicing in past the oar, past his arms, soaking past skin to blood and bone. he hadn't been able to stay in the ledge where makoto and haru slept, restlessness buzzing through his body — after surviving death or near-death or whatever CERES and tellus considered an end of consciousness, he's ready to fight and win another challenge.
if the shape of that challenge is a flood full of whirlpools and water in his face, he'll take it. it's more than he has in his friends' uneasy silence. rin has always found the most clarity in action rather than thought; though he has the propensity to worry himself in circles, he unknots himself in adrenaline. every stroke of the oar loosens the tension in rin's spine.
he doesn't notice makoto, caught in a self-induced reverie. only after the blow has landed does he drop the oar, panic in the flurry of his hands. ]
Shit — shit.
[ he's already reaching out for makoto, tugging his hands away to check for breaks (the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, his chin), and then tugging again to pull him to his feet. when makoto doesn't follow, he pulls harder — only to be met with a greater resistance still. ]
C'mon, I didn't hit you that hard. You channeling Haru? Don't sulk.
[ the sharpness inspired by concern rather than annoyance: makoto's usual response to this sort of misstep would usually be a lecture or a disappointed look or a high-pitched complaint. surliness doesn't suit him. ]
no subject
more to the point, trial-and-error in rusting, off-tune metronome. gravitating to him for answers is as abstract as a head-on collision; every apology jumbles prematurely in his throat for never being overbold. makoto's scoured with wishy-washiness, with the appetite to please in any viable capacity, which stands at a contrast to rin, who only finds his resolve in absolutes. yes. no. someday, existing as a mental construct, wasn't something he ever needed to persuaded into: signifiers that never tolerated insecurity, which goaded haru on like nothing else. it was no wonder he'd been drawn in by the oxidizing quality of rin's smile, touch as jagged and cradling as impulse. quick to rashness, quick to amend, brazenness poised against his jugular as a birthright.
a localized sun, of sorts. someone altogether too bright to tolerate, even if makoto wasn't batting him off his prying scrutiny with a grimace, nose wrinkling, eyes scrunched up. generically helpless, even when rin takes ahold of him and wrenches in succor, once, twice, affording no breaks. he's no stranger to his friend's caprice, but it's one of the many few times in his life makoto isn't moved (even if only in physicality, which meant nothing in the larger scheme of things). exasperated, he shakes his head, penitence already issuing from him in waves, rising like the water line. ]
I'm not! Don't be mean. I'm serious.
[ his dependency on haru doesn't elapse as superstition with knocking tremors, like he can't leave his home for an hour straight without choosing the right pair of skins to wear. even back home, it wasn't imitation but fondness that plagued at him — deceptively heavy in him now, a weight he couldn't account for. a saline drip of misconstrued adoration seeping into his veins when haru occasionally turned his way and smiled back. underneath the drowning silence, a mirage of a grin, exhaustive, that endeared him to makoto.
but the immediate problem lay in waking up to find rin gone again, spirited away without a sign he'd left. stealing off to descry him from gradations of flooding deluge wasn't for haru's sake but his own. the lack of parasitical telepathy between them wasn't the issue.
it was how rin seemed predestined for departure. ]
Anyways, don't you think I'd choose a better time to joke around? I just found you!
[ besides the staggered disbelief strewn about his stubbornly protesting soles, it's makoto's intricate susceptibility to the old ways that haunts him. even past their penultimate encounter in the flood, he continued expecting rin to be the leverage, the proprietor, the leader between the three of them. but he's not a mere child crowding the bare perimeter of a mottling pier anymore, watching as the solemn funeral procession (rin made haggard by his self-ravaging grief, gou already sobbing at his side, both strangers at the time) went by.
with a concentrated effort, makoto heaves to draw himself upright, despite his frenetic posturing, he's no less capable of taking another step further as he distinctly leans forward. ]
Where'd you head off to, anyways?
no subject
he's a friend. but it's a friendship far and away from anything that rin maintains with his anchors from his ever-after life. blood and ash belong on movie sets and in foreign places, worlds away from the reality they've measured out for themselves. makoto and haru are misaligned even without heine's shadow falling over them.
maybe it's unfair of rin to take the decision from them, but life is unfair. heine's world is marbles in a jar, threatening to break the glass with every errant movement. and makoto is brittle as a pane of candy glass. and haru already is cracked and shattered at the edges.
if this is what it means to be a friend — to scour his edges of filth and wrongdoing and never let them see either — then so be it. he's the one who's forged trails of flame across oceans, he's the one who's lived a life away from sleepy sweet iwatobi. he can deal with this, even if they can't. ]
Just went to take care of something.
[ if makoto pushes it further, rin might lash out. that much is certain in every tight angle of rin's body. waterlogged or otherwise. the shadow of a world ending reflected in the mirror of his gaze or otherwise.
this isn't about rin: for once, it's about makoto. ]
You conked out back there, though. Scared the hell out of Haru.
[ haru — rin's proxy, in this case. ]
he moves to makoto's side, drifting rather than striding with purpose. there's something odd in the way that makoto stands, balance settling without reason. like he's grown roots, and each step askance requires him to yank himself away.
it's not enough to bring out the worst of rin's concern, but his eyes have grown sharper in the days since his arrival. he's missed so much: minutes and hours and days of pain, lost to the sinkhole that is makoto's self-recrimination and haru's self-reliance.
both of them, horribly flawed.
rin plucks a stray thread from makoto's sweater, flicking it away. a moment of green in a flooded blue landscape. ]
Feeling any better?
no subject
the overwrought fever-dream of the olympics that catalyzed the temperamental shift in rin's disproportionate elation and grief entranced haru like nothing else. but as the perpetrator, rin wasn't the one at his side when haru worked diligently through his absence, wrenching makoto toward him with baited comprehension, aware that there would never be an outright refusal.
and then, the fall.
the stunning, lightless descent coaxed on as a cruel plague by rin, marked by the years haru stopped swimming entirely, paying penance for some undefined, nebulous wrongdoing. the grievous sin of talent that remained distorted and vulgar in him until rin's return. it isn't that makoto's harbored undisclosed resentment for his friend. he could never. there's only the insecurity that he wouldn't be able to keep up with them any longer. ]
Mm. Thanks for worrying.
[ he's fastidiously careful with his own concern, handling it with empathetic gravitas. makoto was never like haru in that respect, content with willful blindness for as long as it'll hold. he isn't remotely satiated with the awful recklessness of their mutual friend, heedless to nuance and harsh with even his apologies. but makoto smiles, obliging and soft, when rin betrays his concern.
they're at a reeling imbalance now, but it might not always be that way. tides changing. the reversal of currents. ]
I'm fine! I'd be a little better off if I could move my feet, but I'm not tired.
[ makoto flusters a bit as rin picks off stray lint, fingers clamped and discombobulated around the thin fabric of his duffle bag as he drops it by his feet, unzips it like an easy matter of convenience. it's partially soaked, but the canvas lining remains intact with a miscellany of medical provisions, gutted out from a nearby motel (regrettably, no dry tube socks). it was no clinic's repository as much as it resembled a paltry handful of items raided from a half-empty medicine closet, but he lifts the outer covering wide for rin's inspection nonetheless. ]
Look, I went out for supplies. Do you think any of these might help? I was thinking of finding some aspirin for Haru, but I don't want to make him wait for too long. He'll be sad if neither of us are there when he wakes up.
[ waiting until the gulf of space between them diminishes as the other boy peruses the stockpile, makoto splays a fist around rin's exposed wrist, pressing down against the angular bones. his intention is half-thawed with the distant promise of a threat, even if his lacks resilient severity, even if he'd sooner mutilate himself than consider potentially hurting one of his closest friends. ]
I know you're injured. Let me see your side, Rin.
wow, my HTML fail.... apologies
fact: haru's arm is broken.
fact: makoto can hardly move.
rin is the one with the mobility, the energy to keep forging trails, and so that's the role he'll maintain. he kneels to look through the bag that makoto brought, humming his appreciation as he goes. it's a good find. ]
Just bruised.
[ a verbal sidestep as definitive as the physical steps he'd taken. rin wraps an arm about his waist, the posture defensive without him feeding intent into it. he's still thinking about losses. about vulnerabilities. about the white expanse between chin and clavicle that a simple knife-edge could sully with arterial blood.
he knows, because he's seen it. not only in visions and smoke. that day when heine's blood had slithered into the creases of his palm, staining them irrevocably. that's something that never leaves. a first death. a first kill. the knowledge of what it feels like to slide a blade into human flesh.
ultimately, that's for rin to bear. he won't let makoto shrivel into anything quieter than tellus has already forced upon him. of the three of them, rin believes himself the strongest.
it's unlike him to clutch pessimism in hand, but tellus has changed them all in a prism of ways. this is only the start.
he ducks down, looking away from makoto. the water is a placid mirror, hiding from their gaze all that lurks below. rin almost expects to see another burst of terrible images, lies or truth or lies-and-truth he won't ever know.
there's nothing. only water, only the reflection of the sky. ]
I asked a friend of mine - Korra - to go see Haru. She can heal his arm pretty quickly so he can start swimming again.
[ because that's always the end goal when it comes to haru and rin both. ]
That way you won't need the aspirin. Take this with you when you go back to him. [ he bites down on the inside of his cheek. unbeknownst to him, his hair flickers into flame. ] When you go talk to him.
it's a-ok! ♥
[ his disbelief is humorless. a flicker of intemperate hurt percussing on his sternum, stuttering and faint, when rin wrenches past his reach. courage in rinsing dilution.
they're long past the days of scribbling their aspirations on stacked clay bricks but they've never entirely kicked the habit of avoiding the essential. there's more to it than just the ministered plea (urgent and burst open) even as makoto regularly manifests as the portent of insufferable cross-examination, adopting the behavioral tics of a personal therapist in lieu of a friend. it just takes the suggestion that something's amiss for makoto to beseech rin of something he can't — or isn't entirely willing — to give. their relations haven't corroded, but the distance between them wasn't manufactured by makoto himself. the mortal flaw of remaining passively subdued instead of wrenching lacerating rationale from the shattered vase of rin's throat is that he won't react until it's too late. nowadays, their silence resembles a stalemate more than a painless lapse in conversation.
distended with growing dissatisfaction, he drops his gaze.
the rigidness jostles through his nerves as makoto diligently works on retracting his left sole — fidgeting out of the pronounced lack of leverage, one index finger barely squirmed beneath dripping synthetic rubber. it serves as a half-adequate distraction to the backdrop of rin's perusal, just enough to stave off the questions immediately dredged to at the surface.
rin's sights have been stubbornly affixed on haru for so long. it hadn't taken the callously empty threats hailing rin's return from australia in their second year to understand the fricative vehemence that dwelled between his two closest friends, the grandiose vow of confrontation. the potentially life-threatening nature of their imbalance as polarized rivals had always been there, unceremonious and blistering with attrition. velocity with the decoded incentive of riling each other up at peak condition. he wouldn't have left haru's side in that haggardly washed-out state unless it'd been benignly purposeful — the guarantee that matsuoka rin could make good on a promise, whether scavenging for supplies, gathering help, or ascertaining the safety of others.
certainly, rin hadn't been abducted, eerily calm in the midst of his forced complacence. oar deserted, he carries nothing but words already stripped of the extraneous, vowels snapping, consonants carded thinly. something's wrong. changed, somehow, the rest of what went unacknowledged blurring through his speech. a diverging, self-induced ache, like rin took on an ill-fit burden to carry all on his own.
but maybe makoto's only ascribing subjective values to short-lived paranoia. it wouldn't be the first time he was wrong. makoto hadn't understood haru that night either, heavy with depressively lightless adoration, mistaking intoxication for addled longing. no matter rin's judgment on the matter, feelings so (vile, disgusting, repulsive) perverse couldn't have ever been reciprocated.
the relief that rin found assistance disrupts his reveries with an erratic start as makoto spares a glance at the other boy's side. ]
You've finished what you were doing here, right? Why don't you come back with m —
[ almost instantaneously, his face unabstracts when his eyes travel the vertical expanse and catch a brilliant, illuminating glimpse of fire. it's enough impetus for him to lurch into a stumble, face sallow with distress, and flat-out bodyslam rin to the ground. set too closely to the platform's edge, they both end up tumbling into the ocean. there's a moment of ungainly clumsiness where he may or may not have almost gouged rin's eyes out thrashing about, but makoto manages to resurface with just as much undeterred, wheezing alarm as his initial hysteria. ]
Your hair! I-It's still on fire!
[ what a mood killer. ]
♥♥
plus, he doesn't want to go around asking people for help. it's not that he's too proud, nor that he fears judgment for his fragility, but simply because he's tired of being the recipient of aid. for once, he wants to be the provider.
all thoughts of responding to any questions are ripped away when fear jackrabbits across makoto's eyes, blotting out all else. rin has barely a moment to respond, his heart clutched between his teeth. he knows that expression all too well, but usually haru is here to harness it. ]
Wha—
[ rin spits out half the word before he's attacked by a load of bricks. or at least that's what it feels like, his brain knocking into the inside of his skull, water in his nostrils. he resurfaces spluttering, one hand braced on makoto's chest lest temporary insanity take him again. ]
Fire? Makoto, are you sure you're --
[ okay is what he'd meant to say, but what comes out instead is an odd wheezing sound. he can see the flames rising from his eyelashes. he yanks a lock of hair forward, only to find that he's holding a flicker of live flame.
take the temporary insanity plea off the table, unless it's communicable — rin tosses himself back into the water, scrubbing his fingers through his hair to douse the flames. he can already tell it hasn't worked before he surfaces, though what inspires the uncertainty on his face is the fact that he feels no pain.
he tries again for good measure. the result is the same.
and since the definition of crazy is to repeat the same action and expect a different outcome -- rin stops there. ]
It's not hot.
[ he sounds curious rather than afraid, peering at locks of his own hair, flicking his hands through the flaming mass. he finds that the flames slither to his fingers if he lets them linger long enough, but as soon as his hands disengage -- he has a few seconds to watch the fire dance from knuckle to knuckle before it fades.
he holds a palmful of fire out to makoto, eyes wide with amazement. it's the same childish gleam of awe that had come upon him when he's watched an olympic match. when he's lost to haru yet again. amazement, not fear. ]
Try it! C'mon.
no subject
[ in other words: to reputably die and come back like it's meta-commentary on their current state of affairs. still, there's no real use asking charming answers out of broken semantics. neither of them are particularly good for campy humor unless it reeks of serial melodrama. a token similarity between them in these grim, inhospitable times.
whatever nomenclature rin ascribes to types of support, or the lack thereof, fizzles out into irrelevancy with his hair lit on fire. makoto wades in anxious, nervous circles around rin as a terribly neurotic vigil of one, waiting for the ploy to become apparent, water exposing the artifice with an array of malfunctioning holograms or a canister of hyperrealistic silly string. a couple of seconds later rin resurfaces, still infected with flickering tendrils of heat, light gleaming in his lashes and along his eyebrows, warmth enthralled and dripping from his head and into his open, probing hands.
the soft-pedaled idea of smoke and mirrors rescinded, the flames are cool (oxymoronic or not), if utterly terrifying. undeniably, fire fit him, eating lungless in his hair and devouring either his singleminded focus or rin's vise grip over his own sanity, judging from the lopsided grin tearing his mouth wide with unmitigated fascination. otherwise a mere technicality on any day of the week he'd race with haru, there's only makoto presently staring at him like he's crazy (or another rough proximation of mentally deranged). same difference. gou always struck him as the type of matsuoka who disinherited irrationality on a regular basis, unless her current subject of interest came with strapping, toned deltoids. ]
What?! N-No! It'll probably burn me!
[ an existence carved out of mild disbelief, as he lives and breathes.
as makoto isn't in the habit of inducing second-degree trauma on his flesh at any given day of the week, he recoils (without actually moving away), maintaining just enough distance that rin can't stretch out, clap a small bonfire on makoto's shoulder, and wait for him to catch ablaze like desiccant underbrush at the height of summer. trust was long-since indebted between them, but he wouldn't put it past rin to inadvertently turn makoto into an inferno, as if watching one of his closest friends gradually metamorphose into a human zippo lighter wasn't disconcerting enough. ]
Were you cursed? I met a guy here who could do something like that too, but he was a g-ghost! I'm not kidding. Every time I ran into him, all he did was scare people ...
[ read: scare me.
arrowing a restive glance at the duffel bag still suspended on the platform, which luckily avoided being offered up as tinder for the alchemical pyre, makoto carefully edges closer, scalp already itching at the thought of spontaneous combustion.
it didn't seem to hurt rin, but then again, his childhood friend was always a little off-kilter, driven in a way he couldn't entirely comprehend. maybe charisma served as a physical deterrent to the searing agony of complete incineration. rin always had a periodic tendency to defy the odds. ]
... It really doesn't hurt? Not even a little bit?
[ a small tinge of doubt exudes through his inflection; a moment of consideration while the rest of him shied away at the first sign of unnecessary risk. completely derailed by the inscrutable sight, even his questions lacked a strong pulse. ]
no subject
[ had rin known that the flames only consider him to be nonthreatening, he would have stepped back and back again, giving makoto and his fear the wide breadth they deserve. he knows about fear, after all. even if he doesn't wear it on his face for all the world to see, rin's bones have become brittle with the constant weight of fear. it's a snake in the grass, hidden but for their knowledge of its existence. day-to-day humdrum, knowing that the future won't be mascots at video arcades and afternoon shifts at the pool.
but the fact is: he doesn't know. this is something he can share with makoto, a "magic trick" that will keep his mind away from the haunted house that his friendship with haru has become. he's not putting it in so many words, hardly even shaping the thought as such, but rin acts on instinct. there has been something manic living in him since he arrived. not only accomplish something! but protect them.
this comes with the territory. a momentary distraction.
so he moves towards makoto instead of away, carelessly flicking locks of his own hair into the hair just to see the flames dance.
cursed.
maybe he is, but this isn't necessarily a bad thing. flamines come flying in? he has a readymade weapon. like this, he won't even need the gut-clenching apathy that comes hand-in-hand with heine's style of throat-slitting efficiency. ]
Maybe it's contagious. You touch me and you go up in magic flames, too.
[ which is clearly a plus in rin's mind, given the grin he won't shelve.
how will haru resist a guy on fire? one could even say that makoto would be too hot to handle.
rin doesn't voice that particular thought. he's still hoping that makoto will reach out and take the metaphorical plunge on his own accord. ]
Pretty good first line of defense, if you ask me. Level two achievement bonus.
[ think about strategy here, makoto. rin's not the one who grows fangs and claws when video games are in the vicinity. ]
no subject
vietnam once handed him a loaded gun and put him through the wringer as dead weight, a clear juxtaposition to her prowess at target shooting and following a trajectory that hit its mark when tellus and vivid were melding. it never served as a turning point, but a realization, tempered and disheartening: he's worlds away from a killer or assailant or even a good meat shield. one of these days, makoto will be the death of them both.
anyways, his type of video games follow the visual analogue of mario kart and wii sports over the vicious linearity of battlefield or mortal combat. kiddy games with a pg-label still stuck to the cartridges and cd cases. nothing that'd leave him with years of repressed trauma and monthly visits from a local psychiatrist. ]
Cut that out. This is a big deal. You can't stay like that forever!
[ paying homage to rin's tendency to revert to smart-aleck comments when ostensibly provoked with a tolerant grimace, makoto dredges up whatever remains of his self-preservation and yanks back, abandoning the chance to become the world's second human match in the name of common sense. when push comes to shove, he's not the one to take flammable disorientation out on a joyride. makoto is the afterthought of his mother's concerns, his father's sense of compunction. the short-lived gratification of becoming a bundled coil of fairy lights and lucent sparks continues to elude him.
in another couple of dwindling seconds, he's hauled himself back onto the platform, scrubbing stray drops of moisture out of his eyes. the motions are lengthy, exaggerated. it gives him time to process rin's distance, talking around the matter like distraction alone is enough to make amends.
there's no subtlety in engineered retreat, even as he pushes a particularly belligerent clump of hair out of his eyes, staring down at rin with worry that always manages to prevail even when his courage flatlines. the raw investment of camaraderie, not obligation, already festers in him. but even on makoto's good days, there's the looming cavity behind his ribs to account for: the gutted interior of cowardice capable of cleaving bone. he made a pact with his transpiring fear; it's the same lack of impulse that keeps him moving, turning aside before haru has a chance to look away first.
fingers dragging along the slope of his neck, he sighs, a weighted and leaden sound. ]
For now, why don't we find what caused it? Did you touch anything weird earlier? Eat something suspicious?
[ his gaze loses its glassy detachment as he clamps a hand around the duffel bag, tugs it closer to his side. ]
How do you feel right now?