Renting the skates had been fun, trying to pick up the color at the kiosk, and putting the grey-blue shoes on after some contemplation. Regardless, he had to admit it was a lot easier to enjoy the sight of Fibonacci below when he had nothing to worry.
Expeditions to Tartarus had taken away any possible fear with heights, not that there could have been in the first place — his fear had been less tangible, nearly impossible to discern. Even if he has never voiced it, it remains like a hazy memory, floating through the corners of his mind.
“Ryoji.” He says, his voice firm but gentle as he nags the other boy spinning near the edge. The guard rails are no problem and Death is graceful; nonetheless, he worries. He has always known how daylight suits Ryoji, how he carries a spring on his steps or how his eyes are gentle like water but under the night, Makoto remembers. He remembers too well. “Ryoji.”
@luneminary – spiralefes
