dextera can see him against the backdrop of the outer world, standing in a line of people dextera has already purified or was planning to when he next returned. a man so repulsed by the blood on his hands that his very neck lengthened away from them until it resembled a second spine; a girl so agonized by her memories that she traded away her very perspective to only observe herself from the outside; and then makoto, a demon…
makoto, a human so ostracized by his own kind that he could only find acceptance in hell.
he’s never spoken all that explicitly of his past, and dextera has appreciated that. from some people, he doesn’t mind recollection, even craves it like he can sustain himself on someone else’s life. with makoto, however, he worries how the details might paint too clear a picture, might make it hard to impress his thoughts and feelings. this pained display—something dextera meets with the cold mercy of maria—is abstract, it’s easy.
but dextera doesn’t enjoy makoto’s torment. the part of him that’s human, personal, wants to recoil in sympathy from the drip of tears onto his shirt and collarbone, and the heat of his misery pulls dextera’s expression from placid dissociation into the moment. he stares up at makoto in apology, eyes creased and lips barely parted. ]
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dextera can see him against the backdrop of the outer world, standing in a line of people dextera has already purified or was planning to when he next returned. a man so repulsed by the blood on his hands that his very neck lengthened away from them until it resembled a second spine; a girl so agonized by her memories that she traded away her very perspective to only observe herself from the outside; and then makoto, a demon…
makoto, a human so ostracized by his own kind that he could only find acceptance in hell.
he’s never spoken all that explicitly of his past, and dextera has appreciated that. from some people, he doesn’t mind recollection, even craves it like he can sustain himself on someone else’s life. with makoto, however, he worries how the details might paint too clear a picture, might make it hard to impress his thoughts and feelings. this pained display—something dextera meets with the cold mercy of maria—is abstract, it’s easy.
but dextera doesn’t enjoy makoto’s torment. the part of him that’s human, personal, wants to recoil in sympathy from the drip of tears onto his shirt and collarbone, and the heat of his misery pulls dextera’s expression from placid dissociation into the moment. he stares up at makoto in apology, eyes creased and lips barely parted. ]
…I won’t. I’m sorry.