[ For Ryo, he had never quite comprehended Akira's ability to trust.
Humanity had always found ways to take advantage tooth and claw. They had always found ways to better self-serve instead of self-sacrifice. They had always found anything odd to be worth abandoning, unless it could serve their cause. And in a way, Ryo had been the last of them. Ryo had given humanity an image, a cause. He had presented to them the truth of their world with Akira, but it would inevitably not be enough. Back there, in that place, Ryo knew innately that society would devolve until the threat was mitigated. He did not know if humanity had the ability to withstand at all. And through it, he'd promised still to protect Akira. He'd promised to keep him safe from what could cause him harm. He'd tried his utmost to do that still and here, but —
Ryo had always been this way since he could recall. He'd always had Akira at his side, until they were forced apart. He still remembers the way the tears had tracked down Akira's small face, the way he had clutched at his heart. He still remembers looking back until he could no longer see Akira at the door, Jenny's hand about his steady and cold. She'd felt familiar to him then, but there had always been that tightness in his chest until the day he'd called out to Akira at the docks. In many ways, it was an echo of their first meeting. A reversal of sorts, his hand held out to Akira to take as Akira once held out his own. In that way, in many ways — Akira had left his impression upon him. Ryo, in the aftermath of the first time Akira spoke, had been changed irreparably though he wouldn't know.
Not for a long, long time.
But, still, he watches as Akira mulls it over, takes his hand. He knows the answer before he says it and Ryo only nods once, silent. ]
Okay, [ he says, after the full of Akira's admission. He curls his fingers reflexively about Akira's hand. If that is what Akira wants, Ryo has trouble abiding to it.
Ryo doesn't need to tell him where they're going. He knows at some level that Akira would follow him anywhere, as much as Ryo would follow him. His pace keeps with Akira's naturally, winding through the dull corridors. No matter the manner of cleaning, the amount of travel and time — there was always something worn about the way they looked. Like the oceans back home, their surface were only at times reflective, the scuff of age blurring their forms, their faces. It's easiest to think in this way, against the drone of radio favorites. It's simpler to focus on the sound of his own footsteps, the weight of Akira's hand still caught up in his. For a moment, he wonders why he hasn't released it and realizes in equal measure there's no sense in doing it. It's always been comfortable this way. Since they were children, they'd been just like this: linked by the curve of their fingers, the meeting of the palms of their hands. He remembers in clear strokes the first time Akira had reached out to him, his grip assuring as it was warm. Ryo hadn't been able to fill that distance then, but he fills it now. It serves as an anchor, a distraction from all that torment them.
And in a way, it's like Akira said: you make everything quieter, even if Ryo does not permit himself to admit it. Not yet.
It's a quiet few minutes, but the door to the hydroponics must by now be familiar. Ryo doesn't hesitate to nudge the door open, to lead Akira through the rows of greenery to where it is the thickest. Amid the cheery heads of sunflowers, Ryo turns to him, the blue of his eyes somehow brighter against them and the omnipresent grey. ] Plant life provides natural sound absorption. [ He says, gesturing up with his spare hand. Sure enough, there is something more muffled about the quality in here. It isn't quiet, no, but the edge is gone enough to alleviate any pounding headache one might have. ] It'll be better here.
no subject
Humanity had always found ways to take advantage tooth and claw. They had always found ways to better self-serve instead of self-sacrifice. They had always found anything odd to be worth abandoning, unless it could serve their cause. And in a way, Ryo had been the last of them. Ryo had given humanity an image, a cause. He had presented to them the truth of their world with Akira, but it would inevitably not be enough. Back there, in that place, Ryo knew innately that society would devolve until the threat was mitigated. He did not know if humanity had the ability to withstand at all. And through it, he'd promised still to protect Akira. He'd promised to keep him safe from what could cause him harm. He'd tried his utmost to do that still and here, but —
Ryo had always been this way since he could recall. He'd always had Akira at his side, until they were forced apart. He still remembers the way the tears had tracked down Akira's small face, the way he had clutched at his heart. He still remembers looking back until he could no longer see Akira at the door, Jenny's hand about his steady and cold. She'd felt familiar to him then, but there had always been that tightness in his chest until the day he'd called out to Akira at the docks. In many ways, it was an echo of their first meeting. A reversal of sorts, his hand held out to Akira to take as Akira once held out his own. In that way, in many ways — Akira had left his impression upon him. Ryo, in the aftermath of the first time Akira spoke, had been changed irreparably though he wouldn't know.
Not for a long, long time.
But, still, he watches as Akira mulls it over, takes his hand. He knows the answer before he says it and Ryo only nods once, silent. ]
Okay, [ he says, after the full of Akira's admission. He curls his fingers reflexively about Akira's hand. If that is what Akira wants, Ryo has trouble abiding to it.
Ryo doesn't need to tell him where they're going. He knows at some level that Akira would follow him anywhere, as much as Ryo would follow him. His pace keeps with Akira's naturally, winding through the dull corridors. No matter the manner of cleaning, the amount of travel and time — there was always something worn about the way they looked. Like the oceans back home, their surface were only at times reflective, the scuff of age blurring their forms, their faces. It's easiest to think in this way, against the drone of radio favorites. It's simpler to focus on the sound of his own footsteps, the weight of Akira's hand still caught up in his. For a moment, he wonders why he hasn't released it and realizes in equal measure there's no sense in doing it. It's always been comfortable this way. Since they were children, they'd been just like this: linked by the curve of their fingers, the meeting of the palms of their hands. He remembers in clear strokes the first time Akira had reached out to him, his grip assuring as it was warm. Ryo hadn't been able to fill that distance then, but he fills it now. It serves as an anchor, a distraction from all that torment them.
And in a way, it's like Akira said: you make everything quieter, even if Ryo does not permit himself to admit it. Not yet.
It's a quiet few minutes, but the door to the hydroponics must by now be familiar. Ryo doesn't hesitate to nudge the door open, to lead Akira through the rows of greenery to where it is the thickest. Amid the cheery heads of sunflowers, Ryo turns to him, the blue of his eyes somehow brighter against them and the omnipresent grey. ] Plant life provides natural sound absorption. [ He says, gesturing up with his spare hand. Sure enough, there is something more muffled about the quality in here. It isn't quiet, no, but the edge is gone enough to alleviate any pounding headache one might have. ] It'll be better here.
[ And it is. At least, in part. ]