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[Nothing about the barrenness of the room surprises him. Mika had never had much to do with adornments or attachments; he was no slave to ostentation like Shino, not particularly sentimental or materialistic. Where some from as base a beginning as they might become entirely too prone to impulse when it came to material possessions, Mika had always been the opposite, finding anything unnecessary to who he was and what he did outside his sphere of interest. Orga was similar, though his living and work spaces inevitably became cluttered with everything involved with the ins and outs of daily work routine. Only the aftermath of what was necessary, things set aside to do later or to remind of something else.

Some might find the emptiness of the room alienating. To Orga, it just made sense, it was just indicative of Mika. In that way, then, it was comforting.

He walks closer as beckoned, a loose assembly of familiar shapes in the dim light filtering in through the window. Orga didn't need it. His right hand reaches out, moving behind the boy's back, pulling him a little closer. With the (opposite) disparity of height, sat as he was on the foot of the bed, Orga ends up around at the level of Mika's collarbone. It's strange - what strikes him first is that he smells different. Working with machinery rubbed off on you; metal and oil, sometimes the sharp acridity of electrical burn. It was replaced now with something utterly bizarre, and to someone from Mars, the scent of soil and foliage was almost impossible to place.

For a second it throws him off. Just a second. But it's just one aspect of a greater whole, and he accepts it, thinking that the earthiness of it was refreshing.

For the moment he rests his forehead against Mika's shoulder. His hands move, practiced, up and over the shoulder where his jacket was draped over the shoulder of his arm set in the sling. He follows this along the line of his shoulders, encouraging him to slip the other arm free of the heavy jacket. Next would be the sling itself, though that took a little more care, not only to make sure his arm was secured but also so that what was in it didn't get jostled or fall out...

He has practice, though.]

I was worried I'd be here without you. [Soft, barely audible, spoken next to the cloth of his shirt. It was a vulnerability that Orga rarely showed, for fear that it would be misconstrued, seen as either weakness or a gap in the armor of the infallible leader.

It wasn't either of these things before Mika. It was just truth, and one that he was grateful to have been dispelled.]

[ it was a change so gradual enough to escape his notice; the earthy, damp smell of soil that clings to him now, the tang of greenery that had been initially alien and surprising isn't something that registers to Mika as part of what or who he has become now in Orga's absence. even without his knowledge, unconscious or otherwise unintended, there are changes.

Orga still smells exactly the same, though, but for minor differences from the night spent outside, wandering. The one constant in Mika's orbit, the centred weight that grounds him.

He raised his arm obligingly, quiet and almost docile as the other works the coat off his shoulders, easing the sling over his head. The weight that lifts is more than physical.

I know, I was worried too, the words themselves aren't voiced out loud but Mika's fingers threading into the pale locks of hair speaks more than he could ever do with his mouth alone. The gaze turned downward to peer at his countenance softens, passing unseen in the darkness, in the warmth of his forehead pressing against his collar, the words breathed out. He just makes a soft sound of assent, of agreement in the back of his throat.

It's not a weakness he sees in Orga in moments like this; to Mika, Orga is many things — as many as the galaxies and planets dusted across the sky. But he is never weak. ]

[It was something that until this point Mika had only worn occasionally, while they were at their base on Mars, giving him the free time to go to Sakura's farm and help with their efforts there, occasionally trying experiments of his own to coax something else to a sustained life in the harsh, Martian soil. Without this it would've been far easier to keep from his mind the weeks' absence, to believe that Mika felt similarly to how he did, that they had only been separated within the last few days. But he had been on his own for that long, crafting himself into what he needed to be in order to survive here alone.

In a way, Orga is proud. They are two people irrevocably bonded, and he did not expect to live to see a point where they were functioning completely independent of one another. It was how they had always been, ever since their meeting which had marked the beginning of their shared existence. But... in a strange way, he's happy to know that Mika could make his own way, if need be. Call it the desire of a commander to know that there was at least the possibility for a contingency plan.

The coat slips off of his shoulders to crumple to the floor, the sling similarly discarded, though Orga is more cautious with this, lowering it by hand until it rest safely by the leg of the bed.

He didn't need to say anything. Orga probably hadn't needed to say anything either, but he did, feeling the impetus pressing against the walls of his chest. He could feel the answer more acutely: a sort of soft radiance of contentedness in the familiarity of it, a willingness to leave behind pains of the past so long as the future was different (something that they had determinedly lived by for nearly ten years). A(n admittedly slightly sleepy-sounding) grumble sounds in the back of Orga's throat as Mika's fingers twine through his hair, expert, spurring him to loop one arm around his waist, holding him close. Listening to the steady beat of his heart, counting without a goal, merely happy for the reminder.

He is like this long enough to forget he was counting, then straightening up, away from where he had momentarily rested against his collar, looking up to him as his free hand is lifted to brush somewhat wild hair from his face. Continuing onward to give him purchase enough, cupping his face, to bring him down to where his lips were parted waiting, eyes growing heavy-lidded in the way a curtain falls.]

[ a quite huff of laughter escapes him at that, a single sound that barely cuts across the silence that's comfortably fallen around them; protective, sheltering, something private shared between them. Mika doesn't show it often, the immovable impassive countenance shutting out most everything, the outward reactions muted and off-tune.

Orga is the only one who could bring up those things to the surface, dredging it up out of Mika, like reaching into his chest and pulling them out like they're some strange, unknown objects that he's unaware of. He's only ever like this for Orga, where Orga is concerned, in moments like this when he rests his head against him like Mika is someone that he could count on to stay. He is only ever — soft, is the closest word for it, there isn't anything soft about what and who they are, the life they chose to lead for themselves, but something most akin to it — for Orga and for him only.

Leaning into the hand threading into his hair, like flower turning its face to the sun, Mika slides calloused palm over the warm skin of the other's neck, drawing in careful and slow. His eyes are quiet, traces of the earlier mirth still flecked in the depths of it, rippling over with some unknown emotion that he would be hard pressed to explain, but — some sort of tenderness in his sternum, piercing through his gut.

Their lips fit together easily, half-parted, expectant, expected. ]

Edited 2018-01-17 20:55 (UTC)

[Orga likes that there's this one side to Mika that only he gets to see, that only he seems to be versed enough in the language (verbally and physically) to bring out. Part of the reason was that it was, in a way, so antithetical to who Mika was as a person, as stoic as he was, as blunt as he was, as sharp as he could be, as brutal as Orga had seen him be. That he was also capable of what could almost be considered gentle, certainly thoughtful and meaningful.

It's held as a warmth trapped within Orga's chest, light and flickering as a flame, somewhat vulnerable, but that's what safety always was. It was a common misconception that safety was ironclad, that it truly the sanctuary it promised. It's because the concept of safety itself was a misconception. One was never truly safe. That was just the way of the world. They had certainly pulled down those that might have viewed themselves as secure in their invulnerability, showing them the harshness of such an assumption. It was a lie that, shared between themselves, they preserved for one another, a veil of illusion that offered moments of peace where they usually would not survive.

It is a promise not to keep anything from ever happening, but being able to handle it when things did.

It's all paradoxical in nature, sure. But aren't they all.

They are mutually pliant to familiar touch. Though the movement is smooth, harsh work had rendered Mika's hand rough as it passes over the tender skin of his neck; it's a further pressing impetus to draw him in closer as their lips finally meet, the hand at the small of his back firm and guiding as he edges backwards onto the bed, until his own meets the wall.

With the movement, the kiss is momentarily postponed, more of a statement of a connection rather than the expression of it. But once he grows still again, and after waiting for Mika to settle, he presses forward once more. There's more of an intent in the kiss now, though it's still slow to a point of methodical, lips parted against Mika's as his actions seem to pose an unasked question:

What does he need to have to feel secure that he wasn't going to leave again?

And then Orga would fulfill it.]

[ Out of everyone he's ever met or ever will get to meet, the one who understands him best -- the one who will know him fully inside and out is -- always Orga. He is the point of beginning for Mikazuki, where he come from, where he will be, and over the years the other boy has seen the numerous varied facets of his personality all come together into a sharp, focused point, an edge of knife honed towards their goal, a ray of light turned in the direction of where they are heading towards.

For Orga, he has so many words, all going unspoken because it wasn't needed for him to ever say anything, because what they had went beyond simple words and neat little categories in which to pack it away.

Mika pauses, pulling back a little to let Orga make his way further up the bed without any hindrance, watching him with eyes that shine in the half-darkness, unblinking and focused to a point of what could be called unnerving by most others, but that's just the way he is. When it comes to Orga, he doesn't miss any single thing. Once the other has settled back against the wall, he crawls forward on his knees, his good hand finding the other's, intertwining their fingers together securely, tightly enough so that Orga may feel the slight prickle of insecurity that he may have felt in the month of separation, in the absence of the familiar shape and smell of him close by. The kiss is -- slow, again, with an edge of a question, some kind of uncertainty that Mika instinctively feels. ]

Orga, [ Mika sounds - no different from any usual, and he murmurs it close against the corner of the other's mouth, their breath shared, mingling, like he can't bear to lean away again. ] It's fine.

[The nature of their origin and their survival was unique, allowing then for the uniqueness of their relationship: a companionship that was not so much necessarily a partnership as it was a kinship, a kind of closeness and instinctual familiarity that was sooner offered by two systems working seamlessly in tandem within the same mechanism rather than two separate machines at all. The truth of it showed in their function, in how they always only pursued the same thing without a single screech of dissent.

Tekkadan had evolved rapidly into something Orga had not quite expected: a family, a further reason for pressing their advantage and pressing on. To each and every person within their ranks he owed gratitude and also something greater, a future which would make memories of fear and pain evaporate like the nightly rain in the fresh face of the morning sun. This was an imperative that would become him, in a way, but there was another side to it: that without Mika in that selfsame equation, it would all become hollow, the brittle facade of a promise that had already been broken.

They were to one another primary objectives, something precious to be safeguarded at all costs.

Mika is always about intent, about the tenuous edge of potential energy ready to be transformed into kinetic. It's why Orga's never intimidated by the sharp acuity in his gaze; it's who he is, and it's something he depends upon him for. In the same breath his actions are always economical. Where Orga could be circuitous in either word or action (if it suited him or, more likely, suited the hive of thoughts presenting themselves as he worked through something mentally), Mika cut through that, laconic yet precise, following Orga as he settled, fingers wasting no time in interlacing with his own. He can't help but smile faintly against the kiss.

A mm of response sounds in his throat, similarly disinterested in disengaging. He weighs the response that follows, his free hand moving to the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, thumb brushing for just a moment across the cheek below a sightless eye.]

Okay.

[He knows Mika doesn't bother lying. Especially not to him.

Using that hand on his face as gentle leverage, he guides the two of them down to the bed. It moves, though, as soon as the intent is established, traveling to take his other arm, carefully folding it into a comfortable position as they settle once more.

Exhaustion was a tricky thing, and it tempted one to be lost in a grey area between where either sleep attacked you at your soonest moment of weakness or where it retreated into (often frustrating) distance. Oftentimes Orga sought out the latter, trading anything for more hours in a day, but here he believes things will be markedly different.]

[ some people might believe that Mika was incapable of lying simply because he had no capacity to do so - that the very simplicity in the way he thought and acted upon said thoughts, direct and without any compromise or tact, was somehow a direct indication of his intelligence. but what's the point of lying? it just made things more complicated for everyone. he approaches everything in the same way, wholly and without any deception, his intentions as clear as day. this makes it difficult probably in terms of strategy or negotiating, with Mika sometimes acting too honestly to a fault.

when people respond to him the way as orga does, without any unnecessary falsifications in the way, it makes it easier. when it comes down to orga, there's a certain sort of understanding, perhaps, that maybe this directness, his uncompromising stance to things, could come in useful for him.

but for now, in this moment and time Mika is docile, letting orga arrange their limbs to his satisfaction on the small bed. it's a tight fit for the two of them, but this was more like what mika was used to; huddling for warmth or some kind of unspoken comfort, some reassurance. ]

Sleep. [ he can feel that the other is exhausted, in the edges of his voice, the corners of his eyes, the languid, sluggish movement of his limbs as he guides them to lay on the bed. ]

We'll talk more tomorrow.

[As he'd proceeded through life from their troubled and difficult roots to where they were today, Orga had recognized something. There was something reflected of humans in the things that they made: from tools to vehicles to weapons to architecture, the form was always indicative of the function. In a way the same was true for people, though it wasn't so much the physical form as that of their mentality; a person's mien shaped the space around them, created the shape that they would form to fit with others in a unit — even if the fit was good or poor. Mika was blunt. He always had been. Direct to the point of severity, though those who knew him best knew that the words that could sometimes seem cutting were, in truth, emblematic of his concern or even affection. He suffered no errors in those he cared for. Orga knew this better than most, having so carefully crafted himself into the pillar that Mika could rely on, a lens through which he could discern the ways best to utilize his strength.

If their form matched their function, his was made specifically to match and augment Mika's, though he knows the same was not true for the other. No one had ever affected the way he existed in the world. He had always been a fixed point, an immovable piece in an entropic universe.

It's not to say that they didn't fall into such easy and comfortable patterns physically as well; even in the narrow bed it was a retreading of dozens if not hundreds of nights scattered throughout the past, clinging to one another as lifelines in a turbulent present, an uncertain future.

He isn't sure what is true for them now, but then again right now it didn't really matter.

Perhaps a low,] mm, [of agreement could be heard within the breaths that were growing more and more regulated, but with the how swiftly sleep stole the animation from and leadened his limbs around Mika, it might be argued it was just imagined.

Yes. It would all have to wait for tomorrow. For now, there was just this.]

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