[ open. ]

[epiprocta]

WHO: Gen & OTA TO KENOMA.
WHAT: Aftermath of the events of Soviseri.
WHERE: Around the Citadel.
WHEN: Late Soviseri into early/mid-Firaseri.
WARNINGS: None at the moment, will add if applicable!

i. citadel halls

[ Shortly after the Kenoma's return to Achamoth from their respective assignments (and though very few of them probably know what's coming, before the public reveal of their 'prisoners,') the Aions of the Citadel might hear some slight commotion. The sounds of an argument muffled past a door, it seems like -- though 'argument' might be a poor definition of whatever's going on, since one voice is definitely speaking far more than the other, and in a much angrier tone of voice. At least it doesn't last terribly long before there's the sound of a door being flung open, followed by the stomp of footsteps, then -- ]

I'm leaving. Don't follow me.

[ That latter bit is snarled in clear irritation, answered by a young man's meek 'Yes, sir.' Gen slams the door shut behind him as he skulks out out of his room and into the halls, giving an irritable click of the tongue. And only then realizes that he has an audience. ]

... what.

[ Gen scowls as he looks to whoever's caught him in that embarrassing little tiff with his retainer, though -- that's not necessarily the most alarming thing about him at the moment. He's clearly been having a rough go of things, face pale save the exhausted shadows under his eyes and hair a disheveled mess in desperate need of a trim. Not to mention his left sleeve, which hangs empty at his side. Though Gen reflexively tries to angle himself to keep that wounded side slightly out of view, there's really only so much he can do for such a glaring injury. ]

ii. citadel grounds

[ He can't remember the last time he got a full night's sleep. Certainly not since they'd been sent to Venera. In any case, it's starting to become routine that the unholy hours of night find Gen wandering about the halls of the Citadel, the sounds of his boots scuffing off tile cutting through the chilly silence. It's usually quiet at this time of night even with the random assortment of servants and guards that often flit past him, though he's not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. Maybe the quiet will help him rest, he thinks sometimes. But the quiet mostly ends up further muddying the turmoil of his thoughts. And given the general state of affairs around the Citadel these days, he struggles to even distract himself with familiar comforts. The lurid sights and attractions of the entertainment district just don't hold the same allure any more.

And so any other Kenoma awake in these small hours of the night might find Gen out around the Citadel grounds, the harsh black of his clothes almost melting him into the darkness. Sorry if he startles you during your peaceful nighttime rest.

a.

Bad days find him slowly trailing a meandering path down a hallway or a path outside, head ducked and hand clutching at his left shoulder. The injury itself might have been healed up, skin and flesh forcibly melded together where his limb ends short, but it still hurts sometimes. Hurts a lot. ... this is what they call phantom pain, right?

The tip of his boot catches on some uneven spot on the ground, sending him stumbling, and Gen groans as he comes to lean against something for support -- a nearby tree, a bit of fencing, whatever -- just so he can stay upright until this godawful sensation stops. Sorry not sorry if he's getting in your way.

b.

But (relatively) good days find Gen outside, staring into the middle distance -- maybe on one of the Citadel's many balconies, or out and about in the gardens. Though the heavy dark circles under his eyes indicate he's not awake at this ludicrous hour just because he's a night owl, at least he seems mostly calm, if tired.

There's the rustle of fabric as he withdraws a cigarette and his lighter, parking the former between his lips and flicking on the latter with a practice swipe of the thumb. Too bad the night air is cold, and the weather refuses to permit him even that small vice; turns out lighting a cigarette in anything but the calmest air is hard when you don't have an extra hand to shield that tiny fire. The lighter's flame sputters and dies once, twice in the face of a stiff breeze, and Gen huffs an irritated noise to himself. ]

Hey. [ Then, realizing he has company, he turns to whoever else might be up at this ridiculous hour. And, barely giving them the chance to respond to his brusque greeting, Gen tosses his lighter their way. Better move fast. ] Do me a favor.

[ He words it like a request, but says it like a demand. Like an order. Rude. ]

iii. wildcard

[ Gen can be found skulking around the Citadel and the streets of Achamoth looking generally exhausted and out of sorts, or in the training fields in the mornings still trying to stick to his usual routine, so please feel free to assume anything else if these prompts don't work for you! Otherwise, I'm available at databomb / inktrashing#5307 for plotting purposes if you'd like to plan something! ]

Comments

[epiprocta]

[ 'They appreciated it.'

Jealous immediately prickles at the back of his throat. But it's not just that. Gen watching Amos quietly as he speaks, and maybe Amos can feel the gentle lap of emotions through their shared Legacy. That ugly pinprick of envy, certainly, but alongside it are other emotions. A faint glow of relief at knowing that Amos had at least had that going for him, had people who appreciated his sacrifices -- and the colder, wispier tug of something pensive and contemplative.

Gen can't help the way his gaze goes distant for a moment as he wonders how things might have been different if Reiji had had any idea what he'd done for him. If he could have at least been granted Reiji's understanding, if not his gratitude. If he'd somehow managed to find the same sort of acceptance that Amos had.

(Not that it really matters, the pervasive crawl of the Kenoma's influence through his soul reminds him. Reiji wanted to be dead. And now Reiji is gone, along with the rest of his hometown. All that remains is making sure everything else is also fairly obliterated.)

He looks away as he takes a deep pull at his cigarette, hand lingering at his chin for a moment as he nurses the smoke in his lungs, willing that familiar, bitter bite to soothe his nerves. It's not really in his nature to talk about these things, and even this oblique discussion has his nerves fluttering uneasily. Still, just knowing that Amos is capable of speaking to him fairly like this, knowing that someone is willing to try and understand him -- it does ease some of that tight feeling that's been crushing his lungs for the past few days.

Ash drips off the end of his cigarette when he taps it to the side -- then Gen gives Amos a light jostle to the arm, almost a playful punch. As if to say 'c'mon, lighten up.' ]

That's good enough, isn't it? Being good to the people who you know deserve it?

[ It's about as close as Gen can ever get to being encouraging.

A few thin wisps of smoke wreathe from his lips as he continues, endeavoring to keep his tone of voice casual in his usual, careless, delinquent fashion. ]

Dunno about you, but I have a harder time trusting people who say they're good to everyone. Nobody can spend their energy like that forever -- something's always gotta give, and they'll have to drop something eventually. [ Lies, in other words. People who claim to be equally kind to everyone are lying, intentionally or not. And he won't let himself be hurt by that kind of thing again. ] So it's the people who know their loyalties that I trust more, y'know?

[ People like Amos. Because by this point, he really does trust Amos. It's just that this indirect admission is all he can manage. Gen gives Amos a faint, lopsided smile before looking off into the darkness of the gardens once more; he's just about reaching the limits of the sincerity he can muster for once evening. ]

As long as you know who's important to you and you do right by them, isn't that good enough for now? Nobody's perfect.

[baltimores]

[ Maybe it's the quiet of the moment, maybe it's how they've found a way to start being open with each other. If Amos had to pinpoint when that happened, it'd be after Venera, when Gen had dressed him down. A significant reason why he'd brought him to Godsblood to begin with; why they'd been able to share a moment on the boat up there without another Aion in sight. Whenever it was, though, Gen's emotions feel merely secondhand — not his own, but not that far off — and they're not that hard to sift through. They're not that hard to understand, take in for his own.

Of course he hadn't been appreciated. The relief is nice, though. For as tough a front as he wants to put up — Gen cares about him. The reverse has always been true, but it's a continually solidifying affirmation. He can't get rid of him, and Amos doubts he'd even want to at this point.

So, even amongst the Kenoma that's long since become a part of their systems, there's that.

He takes the jostle, lightly swaying to the side before bouncing back; hitting Gen back with his shoulder lightly in turn, mindful of the hazard that his cigarette can potentially become. ]

You really think so?

[ Amos tilts his head, studying Gen's profile. Of course he does; otherwise he wouldn't have said it, but it's more of a rhetorical question on his part, anyway. That's really good enough? That's all you need? I'm good enough?

He blinks, following Gen's gaze, and the wave of affection is probably impossible to miss from him. ]

Cap was someone who was good to everyone. He's the only guy I knew like that, but he was. The something he always dropped was himself, but he really was good to everyone. [ A Martyr, essentially. ] Guess those types are few and far between though, huh.

[ Gen's probably right to not trust anyone who sells that bill of goods. But it's more than that — it's him laying out that he thinks the aspirations Amos has regarding the kind of person he wants to be are impossible. More than that; that who Amos is actually is good enough. It's not exactly something he hears often, if ever.

Amos turns back to look at him. Everything Gen's been through — what he knows of before Horos, but everything lately in particular — and he still has it in him to try to see the good in someone like him.

He wants to never let him down. ]

Same goes for you too, then. As long as you know who your people are. And as long as they're the type to appreciate you, too. Anyone else isn't worth it.

[ Anyone else can drop dead. He hopes he gets that. ]

[epiprocta]

[ The return bump to his shoulder earns a muffled huff in feigned indignity and a backward stumble of half a pace before Gen gives a soft laugh. It's barely more than a dry exhale, the sort of thing that would barely count as anything coming from most people. But maybe Amos can tell that there's something meaningful to that subtle noise -- he might be able to feel the faint, warm wave of relief that comes rolling through the connection forged by their shared Legacy. Genuine relief, soft at the edges with goodwill, completely free of any derision or defensive edge, at least in this one moment.

Accustomed as he is to the prickly nature of those who've been wounded in the past, maybe Amos can sense the gravity of that little flicker of light before Gen reflexively draws the curtains around it once more.

Like so many wounded people do, Gen holds his emotions close to his chest, bound by too many secrets to ever be honest. But at least Amos will have caught a glimpse of what he hides beneath that tough-guy front -- tiny fragments of a boyish attitude, the ability to still care for people, and a fervent desire to do right by them.

They're really not that different in that regard, are they. ]

Yeah, yeah, I know.

[ Gen takes one last drag at his cigarette before ditching the stub and snuffing it out under the sole of his boot. The smoke lingers bitter on his tongue as he exhales slowly.

Maybe there are people like that, who really do care about everyone. (Abel. He tries not to think about Abel.) But Amos is right that they're a dying breed, and he doesn't belong with types like that, anyway. He grew up surrounded by people who only care about their own, and he knows he's of the same breed. ]

... s'what I've always wanted to do, anyway. Just keep an eye out for the people who I care about. My old man was a piece of shit, but at least he taught me that much -- to be good to the people you work with, to treat'em like family. So.

[ He'd been idly kicking dirt over the cigarette stub to get it out of the way, but Gen looks up to meet Amos' eyes for just one moment. ]

For those people [ like you ] I'll always be rooting for'em. It'd be lame otherwise.

[baltimores]

[ He will cradle that light for as long as he possibly can. Amos gets the need to shelter it, close it off from others. It's none of his business, but with what he knows Gen's been through, he really gets it. It's hard to come back from something like that. Even harder when people don't appreciate you for it.

But that flicker of light still exists inside Gen, and Amos felt it. Almost wonders if that's what Gen feels from him sometimes — everything he's blind to that still manages to make its way out anyway, if only because he doesn't know it exists for him to do everything he can to preserve.

Something he probably wouldn't keep close, anyway. It was nearly beaten out of him so young that he's spent a lifetime craving it, not knowing that he still has it, too faint to really do much of anything with most of the time.

But he knows Gen still has his, so it's something that needs to be protected. Fuck; Amos will appreciate him and it every step of the way.

And he knows it. They both know it. So they're good.

Even if Gen is going to close it off again, Amos is still going to respond to that soft laugh with one of his own, a compassionate tilt of his head, a light smile. He watches easily as Gen tampers down the dying remnants of his cigarette, something warm and gentle in him when he meets his eyes again.

If Gen will close off that light, then Amos will subconsciously reciprocate it anyway, instinctual in all the ways he wishes he could be and can't appreciate how much he actually is. ]

Lame's one way of putting it. [ There's a tinge of good humour in his voice; he gets it. The downplaying. If anything, it serves as a reminder as to how young Gen still is, and he's glad for it — despite everything, there's a part of him that's still just a kid. ] But yeah. I hear you. Never met my dad, but I had someone else to teach me that. [ He pauses, and then... fuck it, actually. ] Her name was Lydia. She was kind of like my mom growing up, I guess. Not a good person, but she tried to be; taught me to live that way, too. I'd've probably ended up gunned down in the middle of the street if it wasn't for her. Probably would've hurt a lot more people along the way, too.

[ But he doesn't want to. Amos will; he knows that. But he actively tries not to, and that has to be enough for someone like him. ]

Just as long as we keep following that advice, right? Then they'll be alright.

[ Everyone they care about.

... He also gets what Gen is doing. Things got real and while Amos is the type to lean into it, not everyone is. Plus it's kinda late. And they're both a little fucked up. His throat isn't bothering him anymore, though. Maybe Gen's doing alright too now.

So he's gonna go for it. Amos brings up his left hand, moves to ruffle Gen's hair a little before he can completely dodge out of the way, smile a little too big for the reaction he's pretty sure he's gonna get. ]