though makoto can, in certain encounters or conversations, briefly prop himself up and puff himself up, put on all the airs required to emulate the image of the most powerful demons he had ever known which he keeps firmly transfixed in his mind's eye, it's all artifice. most of the time, especially with how their time in these tunnels has grown long and Meridian's and Zenith's war within him has gotten deeply entrenched, he reclines crumpled against an earthen wall as he does now. the way that he stares up at dextera now is not unlike how he had done so a few short weeks ago, when the young man had found him contorted into a tiny hollow he had found in these selfsame tunnels, hiding from the harshness of reality and whoever might come across him.
fuck, he hates this place.
but his gaze as he looks up to dextera is relatively calm, level. he is not weathering the worst of one of his tides, but he is still so tired — he is exhausted to a point that exceeds flesh. the substance of his very soul feels punished and worn. )
Is that such a shock? ( he manages a keen smile for his dear dextera, a slash across his face studded with too-sharp teeth. ) Something about this has been feeling so familiar.
( his oddly metallic eyes focus once more on dextera, on his weathered face and the intent of his gaze. he... feels it, he thinks. a sort of resolution. a certainty. )
It seems you've decided for yourself... good. ( he heaves a sigh, his smile deepening, faintly worn around the edges with fondness. ) I'm glad.
( he isn't really sure why. perhaps there's just a part of him that's proud to see dextera so resolute, so decisive. )
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though makoto can, in certain encounters or conversations, briefly prop himself up and puff himself up, put on all the airs required to emulate the image of the most powerful demons he had ever known which he keeps firmly transfixed in his mind's eye, it's all artifice. most of the time, especially with how their time in these tunnels has grown long and Meridian's and Zenith's war within him has gotten deeply entrenched, he reclines crumpled against an earthen wall as he does now. the way that he stares up at dextera now is not unlike how he had done so a few short weeks ago, when the young man had found him contorted into a tiny hollow he had found in these selfsame tunnels, hiding from the harshness of reality and whoever might come across him.
fuck, he hates this place.
but his gaze as he looks up to dextera is relatively calm, level. he is not weathering the worst of one of his tides, but he is still so tired — he is exhausted to a point that exceeds flesh. the substance of his very soul feels punished and worn. )
Is that such a shock? ( he manages a keen smile for his dear dextera, a slash across his face studded with too-sharp teeth. ) Something about this has been feeling so familiar.
( his oddly metallic eyes focus once more on dextera, on his weathered face and the intent of his gaze. he... feels it, he thinks. a sort of resolution. a certainty. )
It seems you've decided for yourself... good. ( he heaves a sigh, his smile deepening, faintly worn around the edges with fondness. ) I'm glad.
( he isn't really sure why. perhaps there's just a part of him that's proud to see dextera so resolute, so decisive. )