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[counteracts]

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[deusex]

[ 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.

[counteracts]

[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.]