The aftershocks of his brush with the void make themselves manifest in many different ways; in one, he feels over-sensitive, so much so that when J finally reaches him and clutches his limp body to himself, that body in his arms cringes and nearly cries out at the sudden, sharp, grating sensation of mere physical touch, the sharp fingernails digging into his skin like the points of daggers being driven deep into his flesh. Despite all that’s happened, he almost feels cold to the touch, alternatingly inert dead weight and wracked with powerful spasms of shivers. For a long moment he can’t be sure what’s going on, who had arrived to intercept him, but — information slowly filters past the enormous obfuscation that the abyss has deposited in the center of his mind. Ah, but there’s no body in any universe or any plane of Hell that he would know better than this one, is there? The soft warmth of his flesh, the faint scent of his skin; he doesn’t even need to force open his eyes to know that J is once again here to haul his young ward out of the devouring flames of his own making.
How he feels in the wake of this discovery is lost, swallowed up by another powerful wave of paranoia and fear; he shakes, though he’s finally able to force his limbs to obey his command, or at least enough that he can cling to the front of his master’s clothing and curl in towards him as much as he is physically able to. For all of the depths of his despair, he doesn’t want to die yet, not here and not like this. He wants to feel relief that J had flown to his side, even if the last time it had happened he had more interpreted it as an invisible leash kept around his neck rather than a boon offered in good faith, but he can’t — not with the swimming in his inner ear still informing him that they are destined a terrible reintroduction to the ground, even with J’s wings attempting to catch as much air as they can to slow them down. He tries. He tries to do the same, but the jagged and unrefined movement of his wings isn’t enough to do anything at all, and in the end he’s gathered and bundled up against J’s chest, his hand pressed against the back of his head, sheltered on either side by his wings. In the last moment, out of a wild (and somewhat fortunate) instinct, Makoto withdraws his own back into his back, thinking that if they were going to be no help, he at least didn’t want them tangling up around them and making things worse as they hit the ground.
And they do hit the ground. Perhaps the most gracious twist of fate that is given to them as that J’s endeavoring against gravity and momentum had given them forward motion enough that they do so at an angle, rather than slamming directly into the ground with all of the force of terminal velocity. The initial blow of impact is enough to rattle his teeth (nearly causing him to bite his tongue), jar every bone in his body, and force all of the air out of his lungs. And then it continues — they roll over and over as they skid along the ground until at long last coming to a halt, much the worse for wear but at least alive.
The pain of landing has reignited all of the injuries he’s sustained both from the Sanctifier and his actions shooting himself through its chest, but it has strangely enough had one moderately positive effect: it’s shaken a bit of sense into him, returning more of his own agency to his thoughts and actions. As he opens his eyes and takes stock of himself, he realizes that he’s still in one piece, and he throws his attention to J to try to ascertain that the same could be said of him.
“J…”
His voice sounds far-away, a raspy sort of whisper caught in the back of his throat. Makoto tries to free himself of the tangle of their various limbs enough to get a better look at him, desperation in his darkened eyes, his raw and injured hands searching out various places on his chest, shoulders, and arms until they finally bracket either side of his face. Even having recovered more of himself, he’s still occasionally shaking.
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How he feels in the wake of this discovery is lost, swallowed up by another powerful wave of paranoia and fear; he shakes, though he’s finally able to force his limbs to obey his command, or at least enough that he can cling to the front of his master’s clothing and curl in towards him as much as he is physically able to. For all of the depths of his despair, he doesn’t want to die yet, not here and not like this. He wants to feel relief that J had flown to his side, even if the last time it had happened he had more interpreted it as an invisible leash kept around his neck rather than a boon offered in good faith, but he can’t — not with the swimming in his inner ear still informing him that they are destined a terrible reintroduction to the ground, even with J’s wings attempting to catch as much air as they can to slow them down. He tries. He tries to do the same, but the jagged and unrefined movement of his wings isn’t enough to do anything at all, and in the end he’s gathered and bundled up against J’s chest, his hand pressed against the back of his head, sheltered on either side by his wings. In the last moment, out of a wild (and somewhat fortunate) instinct, Makoto withdraws his own back into his back, thinking that if they were going to be no help, he at least didn’t want them tangling up around them and making things worse as they hit the ground.
And they do hit the ground. Perhaps the most gracious twist of fate that is given to them as that J’s endeavoring against gravity and momentum had given them forward motion enough that they do so at an angle, rather than slamming directly into the ground with all of the force of terminal velocity. The initial blow of impact is enough to rattle his teeth (nearly causing him to bite his tongue), jar every bone in his body, and force all of the air out of his lungs. And then it continues — they roll over and over as they skid along the ground until at long last coming to a halt, much the worse for wear but at least alive.
The pain of landing has reignited all of the injuries he’s sustained both from the Sanctifier and his actions shooting himself through its chest, but it has strangely enough had one moderately positive effect: it’s shaken a bit of sense into him, returning more of his own agency to his thoughts and actions. As he opens his eyes and takes stock of himself, he realizes that he’s still in one piece, and he throws his attention to J to try to ascertain that the same could be said of him.
“J…”
His voice sounds far-away, a raspy sort of whisper caught in the back of his throat. Makoto tries to free himself of the tangle of their various limbs enough to get a better look at him, desperation in his darkened eyes, his raw and injured hands searching out various places on his chest, shoulders, and arms until they finally bracket either side of his face. Even having recovered more of himself, he’s still occasionally shaking.
“Are you okay, are you — …”