explosive, corrosive

That seems rude, Wrath

[ @erimalai finished lunch, finally getting this up ]

     Sleep; Flight. These are difficult things. He’d thought rest, true rest, impossibly illusive, but if that’s possible for him, perhaps the latter is also not quite out of reach. The confines of Mementos are as quiet as ever, cold, calm. His hurried steps echo gently off the encroaching walls. He’d left Wrath’s home not long after waking, Morgana would be worried after all. But he’d promised to come back; and he has. 

When he emerges from Mementos into the rainy streets of Perdition, he pulls his wings in close, does not let them drag, the rain beads off the feathers and drips to the streets below, but does not soak them. Seems the preening he received last time has stuck. 

Seems something deep within his heart has taken Wrath’s words seriously; his form is more or less exactly the same as last time, but beneath the coat, careful as well not to drag, is a tail he has become familiar with bearing in other worlds. An agile, whiplike thing tipped in an ornate, heartlike spade.

     Does it always rain like this.

A cat mewls from nearby, emerges from the shadows and rubs against his leg once before padding off down the street.

He does not have these streets memorized, but he knows them well enough to seek Wrath’s home, the world behaves slightly differently around it he’s noticed, leaving it free from debris and graffiti, perhaps no one is daring enough to vandalize the prince’s proverbial castle.

In any case, he’s happy to see it, pulls his coat and wings tighter around him as he makes his way to the door. In the pit of him, he can feel Arsene’s disapproval, but he deigns to ignore it. And then he stands, hands in his pockets.

     A raindrop hits him square in the nose, and his expression becomes disdainful momentarily.

And then, it’s pleasant again; mostly neutral, save for a small edge of what might almost be something akin to hope.

Perdition is as dreary as ever; it rarely changes. Rain falls from the darkened heavens lit by dreary streetlamps and what little light came from the streets. Shadows and souls moved, hidden, just in ones periphery vision, just on the razor edge of existence.

Are they real, or not?

Regardless, the land around Wrath’s home is quiet, a stillness, the eye of the storm. Flashing eyes of myriad hues peer at Joker from shadowed alleyways and empty window panes, but they disappeared around the prince’s territory- his ‘castle’, a towering apartment building that really did not stand out so much from the rest of the city, except that it was free of vandalism.

The door is opened easily, for Joker, and towering above him is Wrath in his full glory- like a statue come to life, clawed and horned and monstrous, black stone skin cut through by veins of molten amber hue. Yet, he steps aside for the trickster, even invites him inside with a hand gesture and the flick of his long, tapered tail.

     There is another brief flutter of smoke gray eyes, the original comfort; fire, rain, touch, tightens, and relaxes, it is not entirely unlike the feeling of of so-much sake, his head lulls, then picks back up again with a small jolt. Arsene’s voice is muffled in the back of his head;           There is spellcraft upon you.

He cannot quite make the words out properly, instead, he lifts his head to ponder Wrath’s outstretched hands, he sways slightly. Sleep?           Sleeping somewhere foreign; new place; Don’t! his own screaming brain, not Arsene.

Another yawn. 

There is a small almost-stumble as he stands, offput by the weight of his wings, balanced by reaching out to grasp Wrath’s clawed hands. Warm under his touch.             Boy, you’ve been caught in an enchantment.

“I would be so grateful…”                        Foolish Wildcard.                                              “…Let’s see.”

He works to fold his wings up so they do not drag upon the ground any longer, holds them close like a cloak of black feather and fire-warmed heat. It’s a miracle he manages, he realizes, he’s having a hard time focusing on anything. Normally, he would not be nearly so trusting; But…

“Okay, I’m all right.”

    It doesn’t seem like he’ll struggle if guided or lifted.

The prince of Wrath regards his guest’s sleep-slow movements, watching him for just a moment, before he moves closer.

“Here, let me-”

There is a bump against Joker’s back, as the sin would loop one arm into the crook of his knees, and the other around the trickster’s shoulders, picking him up bridal style while being careful not to crush his wings.

“- There we go.”

His skin is warm, not like his true form, but warmer than a human all the same, like a blanket fresh from the dryer. He smells like a distant fire, like smoke that has lost it’s chemical sting drifting on the wind. He carries Joker upstairs, to a room that smells clean, in that way of rarely used motel rooms, well taken care of, but untouched. It is cooler, up here, where the fire’s warmth does not reach, and so there are thick, black blankets set upon the bed.

Joker is deposited on the mattress, easy and gentle, and Wrath is soon lifting his head and looking about.

      He leans forward slightly in his formal sitting position like a cat leaning in to an offered hand. A tail, he isn’t sure if he can shapeshift, he’ll have to figure that out before flight or simply make due without. There’s no rush however, for now, all is crackling fire, and beating drops of rain, and the grace of claws in his feathers.

     “Sometime else then…” he sighs, not resigned, but in his own way content. His head lulls slightly, eyes closing again,  or at least, almost closing, barely exposed through dark eyelashes. “This is my first time in this form–” he finally speaks again. “–It’s very foreign.”

His head lifts, eyes opening again, now that the feathers aren’t a wreck, his wings are looking much more like wings and much less like a mess. “Thank you.”

A yawn, showing pointed fangs, he pulls his wings lazily into a folded position only for them to immediately slide back out of it when he ceases to concentrate, a hand raises, rubs at an eye sleepily.

     “…felt good” he murmurs, “…relaxing…” his eyes flutter, trying to blink himself awake again. “Ah– Sorry, I won’t fall asleep on your floor” he smiles, lazy but with that same almost up to no good look he always bears when poking fun at himself or others. 

“You’ve been so kind…”

     How funny, that demons prove themselves kinder than Angels or God.

“Of course.” Wrath’s eyes flick over the trickster, his winged halo, his horns of glass, his fangs. Magic reaches out for his guest, like grasping static, invisible, it is a curtain of comfort and sleep that tries to close over him.

“Perhaps, later, I can help you learn about this form of yours. It is a marvel.”

The demon prince’s voice comes low, like he was trying not to disturb Joker. Quietly, he stands, reaching out as if to pick the trickster up, but stopping just short, his sharp, black nails nearly close enough to brush skin. Wrath betrays no emotion but the genuine offer of help, theres something soft in the prince’s eyes, it doesn’t quite look as though it belongs in that bright cherry red, not really.

     “I suppose we’ll find out.” or not, hopefully. In any case, he simply allows himself to go quiet again, to enjoy the feeling of fingers through his feathers, the demon’s smile makes him run his tongue over his own teeth, slightly pointed in the canines, these could do damage, he’ll have to be careful when worrying at his own lower lip not to break skin.

A hum, soft, under his breath, pleasant. “…Thank you.” he had been mostly joking, but the offer makes something in his chest warm.

When the feathers in the back have been attended to, at least to his knowledge, he turns slowly, almost lazily, to face Wrath, wings still spread, hands upon his knees again, to allow access to the fronts of them. 

He gives one a lazy twitch.

     “…I wonder, if they work.”

The wings, he means of course, the idea has just come to him; he has wings. Does that mean he can fly? He should doubt he would do anything but fall with his current knowledge of their workings, but if he could pull himself together long enough.     “Do you know, how to fly?”

His head cocks, just slightly, partially in question and partially to look at his own wings. Would these even work?

Wrath sits back, letting Joker move how he wished, he looks up at the trickster once they were face to face with the slightest glimmer in his eyes.

“You really aren’t used to this form, are you?” He muses, before reaching out to begin preening the inside of his guest’s wings, starting again near the base, and moving outward, still ever so careful to make it painless. His claws part barbs, so soft and yet sure, one might wonder how many times he’s done this very thing, with whom.  “I can fly. But it is not a matter of physiology for me. I know how to fly. I could teach you. It requires some work, with the muscles of your back and wings, to fly physically, and I’d recommend a tail to help balance and steer. We would have to leave Perdition so as to stay dry. But... I could teach you, in the end.”

He strokes the feathers gently, taking a look over Joker’s wings again.

     He shivers, once, when Wrath begins to work at his wings, how gently he coaxes every fine feather into place, here and there where they are too damaged, a stray feather may fall free onto the floor below, but not an alarming amount, for the most part, they are easily brushed into place by Wrath’s tender claws.

Such sharp claws, every so often, he can just barely feel the tips against the paper-fine skin beneath the feathers above, the first time it happens, he inhales, sharp but for the most part silent–The skin is more sensitive than he had thought it would be, air catching in his throat until he exhales once again. His eyes flutter, and then, for a moment, they close.

Joker lives for physical contact, and it’s something he has not been indulged in for a long time it feels, not beyond things that are fleeting and more or less meaningless, no emotion; all physical need. This is not like that. It seems to soothe something aching in the pit of him. Slowly, his hands, formally tense in his lap, go limp.

     His head hangs forward, just slightly, the halo above him spins lazily.

“I wonder, if that could happen…      Even though I don’t usually have them.”

It isn’t worried, merely curious. 

     “feels good…” a murmur.

His eyes open slowly and not fully when Wrath states he may be able to see, and his head turns lazily to look over his shoulder once more, his eyes no longer hold the intensity of a hunting hawk, but are gentled, gray dawn after a storm. 

     “…Learn…” he seems to mull the word over, and then smiles, slight, almost sleepy. “Why learn, when you can do it for me” he teases.

“Perhaps it does not matter,” The prince conceded, “When you so rarely have them. But they habit may be good to keep, nevertheless.” Wrath does not change his pace when Joker reacts, he does not shift or stop, eyes only flicking up to his head, then back down to the wings again, feathers and soft, delicate skin.

     “…Mhm.” he nods slightly. “And, when I go-      -I may, come back, if you desire.”

It seems less to be asking permission and more admittance of a secret, like giving away a true name, if you like, I’ll return. Like a cat set loose to free roam, he will come back, always, if not eaten by some hungry predator or trapped elsewhere.

The change is so sudden, he has to blink a few times to be sure his mind is not deceiving him, but then, Wrath is not human, perhaps it’s normal he should slip so easily between forms, all the same, Joker regards him with a mixture of thoughtfulness and curiosity, weighing whether he will turn his back to the demon prince.

In the meantime, he inspects the other, pale as moonlight, hair not so unlike Joker’s own, spilled India ink. And that too is surprising in its own way, are demons not meant to be hideous? He has known many a Demon Persona, they have all been strange, twisted things. This is not like That.

His eyes slide to Wrath’s claws, watch how he runs them delicately over his wings. Joker’s muscles tense, shift, a wing folds inwards, lifts up, extends again, he can’t seem to bend it as elegantly as Wrath does just yet. 

     His gaze seems, for a moment, tired.

Slowly, uncertain as a rabbit who cannot tell if a shadow conceals a fox, he turns, letting fire-warmed wings splay wide lazily, he sits upon his knees, hands placed politely upon his legs, it’s a little formal, a little tense.

     “…Please” he pulls slightly at his lower lip with his teeth, turns his head to just look over his shoulder. Half-closed eyes focused less upon Wrath’s face as perhaps his chest or a shoulder. Like he cannot handle the eye contact at the moment.     “…Apologies, for the trouble.”

And he is looking away again, watching how the firelight plays against his own cast shadow.

The admission seems to strike Wrath, he hums, eyes flicking up to the Trickster, after a moment, he replies.

“I would like that.” His voice is lighter, no longer the rumble of a creature of fire and fury, reflecting his change, so much more human than he first appeared, and yet still his own. He watches Joker shift, eyes scanning over the wings in detail now that he could see them, his gaze jumping back up to his guest’s face. “It is no trouble,” Comes his low voice. “I am only teaching what should have been taught to you. I’ll begin at the base, and work outwards.”

That was the trickster’s warning before Wrath began gently parting down feathers with his thin claws, combing through them gently. “You’ll likely need someone to do the bases for you, anyway, as you can’t see them, it might take years to get a good sense of how the feathers should lay by touch alone.” Carefully, the larger, better defined feathers were separated, each quill made flat, each barb carefully returned to it’s own shaft, and laid down in order.

Concentration is clear in the focus of his eyes, he works to make sure each feather is perfect; if he finds a broken or bent barb, he coaxes it back into form. His claw tips may brush against skin from time to time, especially as he moves up to the top of Joker’s wing to start on the next section, but never enough to harm, they are gently warm, like one who had just emerged from a warm shower or bath.

     “Oh…” he downcasts his gaze, raises a hand to tuck a lock of his own dark hair back though it does little and soon the damp locks fall back into their place. The fire sinks into his wings, his skin, his hair. He considers Wrath’s words at some length.

     “No one sent me…”

He is alone, he learned he could wander, and so he wanders, the possibility of wings never occurred to him, but many things didn’t occur to him. But as Wrath continues to speak he stretches idly, hands above his head, fingers curled into his palm gently as he does so, it makes his wings spread that little bit wider, lift that little bit off the ground where their soaked ends touch, and then, sink back down as he relaxes, his raised hands falling, pausing at his own face.

     “Ah–           –I’ll stay a bit, if you’ll have me.”

The porcelain of his mask feels cold still against his gloveless fingers as he allows himself to pull it from his face, setting it aside where it will be safe before he looks to Wrath again. Unmasked, his eyes do not lose their stormy nature, that fog-hewn gray is as cool as ever, but it reveals his face in full; youthful the way one might expect, a fine line straddled comfortably between handsome and pretty without actually being truly androgynous.

He blinks once, twice, to get used to seeing without the shadows of his mask cast across his gaze.

     “…They’re dry.”

His wings, he means, though the feathers are in chaotic disarray, pushed out of place being first soaked then dried, they do not look dirty by any means, but rather like he has been caught up in some tiny whirlwind. 

     Arsene, he thinks, would laugh if he could see him.

“‘Course I’ll have ya. Wouldn’t've asked if I didn’t.” Wrath taps his fingers on the glass of his mug, casting a look down into it, before setting it aside again. His eyes fall on the dried feathers at Joker’s admission of their being so, his voice quiet, but light with some strange emotion. “Are they now?”

Suddenly, he is smaller. There is no shift, no flashing light, one moment, he’s a giant creature of rock and stone, and the next, he is soft, porcelain-skinned and raven-haired, covered in modest clothing, a shirt and sweatpants. His nails remain sharp, and his tail has thinned to a spade-ended whip, but his wings do not burn any longer, and all are coal-black. You would not think him human with anything more than a passing glance- even more so if you looked into his eyes, which retain a bright, unnatural red color.

The change in appearance is not without a purpose, and the Demon Prince is speaking, even as he comes to sit beside Joker. A smaller form may be less invasive in the small space of the room, if nothing else, and he does not give off heat like an active furnace any longer.

“They’re dried, so now, they gotta be preened. The feathers should lay flat, and in order, like these,” He draws his wing around himself, drawing one sharp, black clawtip over coverts and primaries. “It’s most important with your flight feathers, if y’leave ‘em tangled, shit could start growin’ in the mess, and it won’t take kindly t’ya. Not t’mention it could get painful.” He pauses, his hand stilling at the end of his feathertip.