#and practically impenetrable. This is like the dark souls of conversation. I finally have The courage to kiss my bf because we were in my.

[wevegottogetaway]

A hundred percent (Part 2 of Crashing into you)

It looks like the same bottle you had reached for before all hell broke loose. You found it lazing on shore, in that space between water and dry land where objects greet the wet sand but still submit to the waves. Along with the plastic container, you’d encountered a wet blanket you’d immediately laid out to dry, a corkscrew and the ice bucket that had accommodated the champagne you turned down during the flight (you’d gladly have a glass or four now, but alas the Champagne bottle wasn’t accounted for in your scavenger hunt). All things considered, it’s a relatively good inventory; it seems the currents were in your favor.

It makes sense actually, that the waters would shepherd the lightest of items to you. Yet your heart remains heavy with doubts and fears. You’re not versed enough in geography to have the slightest clue as to whereabout you’ve strayed in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. And with that comes the big question: if you don’t know where you are, how the people meant to save you will? Then how much time will it take for them to figure it out and will you be able to hold on for that long?

Everything is a big question mark as of now, and you hate it. You’re resourceful and quick on your feet, but you like to be prepared; you usually study the situation ahead and plan in accordance for every potential contingency, positive or negative. This however, never in a billion years would you have thought, much less prepared for the appropriate M.O. to follow in response to a freaking plane crash.

If anything, it makes you twice as grateful to have Harry by your side. Once for obvious reasons; the mere thought of associating his name with death in the same sentence could make you physically ill. But also, if there were one person that could make this ordeal that much bearable and give you the strength to withstand the pain for that much longer, it was him. He’d done it before; granted times weren’t as critical as they may be now, but he’d always been your beacon of light in the darkest of times. You’d just have to be his as well this time. Like a planet reflecting back the light of the star it revolves around.

Speaking of stars, the sun is unbearably warm. It feels like it is sitting right on top of your shoulders and breathing down your neck, as opposed to hundred millions kilometers away from your sweltering form. You’ve been pacing up and down the shore for over two hours, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so uncomfortably hot. Your skull is throbbing from the heat,(though the brutal impact of the crash and your brief encounter with death probably have something to do with it as well) and your top is positively drenched in sweat. Harry’s shirt didn’t fare much better and is now rolled and folded atop is head in a makeshift hat. You’re both very aware that a sunstroke is highly likely in this sort of climate, and very much the last thing you need in your preexisting predicament.

"Think we should head towards the forest before this heat grills our skin to the crisp, love." It’s the first thing either of you have uttered in a while, but you’re quick to agree to Harry’s proposition.

"You’re right. Let’s see if we can find a water source nearby," you nod towards the stretch of green wildness awaiting you, before shooting one last glance at the ocean behind you.

Harry is closely watching you before putting a hand at the small of your back to usher you both out of the beach. "We can always come back later and see if there’s anything new on the shore," he guesses the reason for your hesitation. You swear this man can read your mind sometimes.

As soon as you cross the border into the forest, the sound of the waves quickly fades to be replaced by the chirps, squeaks and buzzing of the jungle’s inhabitants. It sounds like the all jungle community is in conversation, and you gulp as you wonder what kind of animals are also roaming this place. It’s clear the smartest option is for you to set up camp closer to the beach so you can be safe both from the wildlife and the unforgiving sun, as well as be in plain sight in case rescue is scouring the vicinity. For now though, you have no choice but to wander the very much alive woods if you count on fending dehydration off.

As you weave through the thick and luxurious foliage, Harry is staying glued to your side, not willing to let is sight off of you. His shirt finds its way back over his torso to protect his smooth skin from the somewhat hostile vegetation. From the way nature seems to prevail over every inch of this seemingly impenetrable space, it is clear this land has never witnessed the wrath of human activity. The realization is rather unsettling as it weakens your hopes of finding civilization in this godforsaken place.

Once again, you feel indefinitely grateful for the man walking by your side. You’d always felt lucky to have him in your life, but that soft tug in your chest from his hand grazing your shoulder blades as your tread the muddy earth, has never been so strong and comforting than in this moment.

"Careful, love," he is quick to tug you against his broad frame when you’re about to step on a small snake. The creature hisses as your footsteps disturb its tranquil existence but apart from shooting what you could swear is an annoyed glare, the serpent remains put and lets you go on your merry way.

It takes a second for your heart to calm down from the sudden movement and you realize your fist is still clenching the soft cotton of his shirt. You mutter a small but genuine ‘thanks’ as you quickly remove your hands from him, and despite the tropical heat you find yourselves in, Harry can’t help but feel a coldness on the spot your hand just abandoned.

An hour goes by and you’ve yet to be successful in your quest. The sun is finally starting to relent some of its intensity and the air feels slightly easier to breathe. At least in theory. In practice, every minute that ticks by without you encountering even the smallest of water source, feels like a new brick dropping in-between your ribcage to crush your lungs. You are running out of time for the day and the anxiety that comes with that realization is not one you can gulp down and just ignore.

As the sun slowly retires, so does the light of your surroundings, and it’s enough to have your own light start flickering before finally shutting down. You need to make your way back to the edge of the shore and set up camp before darkness engulfs everything in its black coat. Your hand find Harry’s before you shift your body towards his. "We should head back before it’s too dark," you utter dejectedly.

He nods with the same despondent expression before wrapping an arm across your shoulders and directing you both towards the beach. "Come on, then," a small kiss is pressed against your temple and your heart leaps back out of its gloom for a moment. You’re not a total stranger to gestures like this one, but they’re usually spurred by a drink too many or they occur for these special occasions where joy is so exuberant it pigments your cheeks and leaves you no choice but to show your affection in a more physical manner. You relish those moments as much as you can, wrongly assuming they mean more to you than they do him.

You don’t day anything back as you wrap your arm around his waist and start making your walking again. You’re both in need of comfort right now, is how you rationalize it. Still, it doesn’t stop you from staying as close to him as humanly possible, your body molding his curves better than a puzzle. He doesn’t seem to mind, on the contrary, his grip on your arm tightens briefly, and though you don’t see it, his lips also twitch in a side smile.

You arrive just in time for what must be the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever witnessed in your life. The ocean has calmed some, waves now gently licking at the sand and in the far distance, a large sphere of tangerine flares, rests upon a blue canvas whose only bounds stretch to the horizon. "S’beautiful," Harry softly comments before your eyes meet for a minute. You answer with a small smile, admiring the tenderness of his gaze. It’s partly due to tiredness at this point, which is what you surmise, but you’ve been on the receiving end of this gaze countless and non-tired times before, unbeknownst to you.

Fifteen minutes later, you are trying your best to light a dry piece of wood on fire while Harry endeavors to built some kind of shelter. It takes you both a few attempts and a lot of cussing, but eventually you find yourselves sitting under a makeshift branch-made roof in front of a small fire. Thankfully, the blanket you’d recovered from the crash had dried entirely - one of the few perks of the scalding sun, you suppose - and is now wrapped tightly around you both. If the situation wasn’t so critical, you’d rejoice at the opportunity of being cuddled up with Harry so closely. Every intake of breath he takes you feel against your ribs. Your bones ache from tiredness, thirst and hunger, but as your head lays on Harry’s shoulder, you also feel lightness in your heart. Things will be all right. Tomorrow you’ll go back to explore the jungle and you’ll find water, maybe even catch a fish or two and you’ll repeat the process until the rescue team comes to get you. Soon.

"How’s your leg?" Harry gently breaks the silence. You’d almost forgotten about your respective injuries, and the question has your eyes shift to the cut on your shin. There wasn’t much to do anyway, your fateful time in the angry waters had taken care of all the cleaning that could be done without proper medicine. It’s uncomfortable and the sort of wound that would linger on your mind if you were back home, but there and then, you’d minded the sting for all of 5 minutes before more pressing matters needed your undivided attention.

"It’s fine. I was too distracted to notice the pain, I guess," you answer just as quietly even though you are the only two souls breathing for hundred miles around if not more. The mention of your injury also reminds you of his, though you don’t quite need as vocal a reminder as the gash above his eyebrow is much more conspicuous. "How’s your face?" you decide to return the question even though you have a feeling his answer won’t me much different from yours.

"Itchy but it doesn’t hurt."

Your eyes once again focus on the cut, making sure that no dirt made its way on the damaged tissue. Your lips curls slightly to the side when you take in the probable reason for the itch. "C’mere, your hair keeps falling into it," you say while your hand reaches up to tuck the rebellious curl behind his ear. The strand goes straight back to its previous spot as it lacks a bit of length to obey your ministration. You reach up again, this time running your fingers towards the back of his head to get the curl out of the way. Harry doesn’t dare move an inch, air caught up in his throat as he revels in your tender touch. You’re oblivious to his intense stare, as always, while you inspect the cut. "Shouldn’t leave a scar, I don’t think," you offer in reassurance.

"Well, that’s a relief," Harry answers almost absentmindedly though there’s humor lacing through his voice. He couldn’t care less about a scar, not after everything you’ve been through. Hell, you’re both lucky to have escape the crash with just superficial wounds. Besides, he’ll take a thousand scars over having your unconscious body under his palms again.

The conversation feels much lighter than the ones you’ve entertained all day, so you keep the playful tone going. "I know right, can’t have permanent damage on that Grammy winning face," you quip back with a smirk. Mischief is distinct in your eyes and Harry has never been more thankful to see that sparkle lit up your iris. If he focus hard enough, the sand beneath him can disappear to morph into the fluffy cushions of his sofa back home, and this can just be a regular hang-out where you pretend to watch movies and banter over every character’s decisions.

That’s why it’s so easy for him to indulge in the oh-so familiar back and forth; it’s a dance he could do eyes closed. "My career would be over," he retorts with a faux distraught expression.

You giggle and give him a smile before copying is fake air, "the end of the world."

He chuckles and for a moment there is nothing but silence between you two. You can feel the playfulness dissipate as Harry’s eyes don’t waver from yours. They suddenly hold a fervor that tells you he’s gonna say something serious. And of course he does, you know him so well. "I think my world would have ended today if you hadn’t woken back up on that beach." The statement is uttered barely above a whisper but it echoes like a hundred church bells chiming Cinderella’s midnight in your head.

"Harry…" Needless to say, you are speechless. Neither of you have ever shied away from voicing your affection towards the other, but this, coupled with the intensity of his stare, has your heart stopping for the second time today.

"You have no idea how terrified I was," he continues quietly, like his own heart is threatening to jump out of his throat if he dares speak louder. It’s obvious it’s painful for him to remember, perhaps even more painful than it was for you to actually endure. "The longer you wouldn’t-"

"Shh, stop, stop," you quickly halt him with a hand to his cheek. "Don’t torture yourself with the could haves. I’m here, alive and breathing. All thanks to you. And you are too. Alive and breathing." You say it all in confidence though you have the same chocked up feeling he did when you think of the alternatives. "That’s all that matters right now. You have me and I have you and nobody’s losing anyone." Your thumb is drawing soothing circles onto his skin as he nods at your statements as if to make their truths stronger. A second passes and your eyes shift to the ground before you gulp, "my world would have ended too. Had you not made it to the beach."

It seems the sentiment strikes a chord in his chest too, as Harry pinches his eyes close as if to make sure he is not hallucinating your words. His body is taken by a strong pull to kiss you but he knows his lips can’t quite fall on their most desired destination. He settles for a harsh forehead kiss instead, taking your head between his two shaking hands.

When he leans back, his eyes frantically search your face and you can see his breathing picking up from the motion of his chest. "Y/n, I…Fuck it’s…" the more the words escape him, the more frustrated he becomes, running a hand through his wild curls even though they’d stayed in the place you had brushed them last.

"Shh it’s okay. Harry, you’re working yourself up," you try to calm him down with a hand on his heart. Just as you suspected, the organ beneath your palm is jackhammering against his skin, but Harry shakes his head at your suggestion.

"I just have something that I need to say," he gulps, "and it’s terrifying-"

You can’t stand the way his voice wavers ever so slightly. He looks exhausted despite the wild look in his eyes and you realize that’s probably not helping tame the stormy thoughts in his mind. "M’not going anywhere, Harry," you reassure him, "we can talk tomorr-"

"No. No." He shakes his head forcefully between your hands. "I need to say this now because I already should have done it a long time ago, and as much as it is scary for me to say, today was a hundred times more scary."

You take in his adamant look and realize this is far more serious than you were led to believe. "Okay, you know you can tell me anything."

He nods at your reassurance before taking a deep breath. "You’re my best friend, y/n. The one person I don’t ever want out of my life, the one person that understands all of me and that is besides me for everything." You try to remain impassive and not wince at the f-word as you listen to his sorrows. "And I can only hope that will never change, because like I said, my world wouldn’t be the same if I had you any less in it. And that’s the thing that is scaring me, because as much as I need you as my best friend, I’m also in love with you and that has the power to change everything." He barely pauses before carrying on, still locking eyes with you. "I used to be able to pretend, but earlier on that beach, when your life was hanging by a thread in my hands, all I thought was that I couldn’t ever look at myself again if you left and I was too much of a coward to tell you the truth. I don’t want to be that guy anymore, because now I know. Being that guy is more terrifying than telling you I love you."

The words are buzzing in your mind. Ones you’ve heard before in daydreamings and fantasies but that you never thought you would get to receive in the realm of reality. At least not from the person you wanted them from. "Harry," is all you can muster to say without tripping over the rest of your words. You realize your vision is getting blurrier by the second, and you could swear there were droplets pearling at the corner of his eyes too. You let out a nervous chuckle, quickly wiping a tear from your cheek with the back of your hand. "Fuck, you dumbass, making us cry when we’re already fighting dehydration." The exclamation has him mirroring your smile as his thumb replaces yours at the crease of your eye. "I love you too, Harry," you say shakily through your grin. "So much it is the scariest thing to feel for a best friend. But you’re right, today was much scarier and I don’t want to be that girl anymore either."

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy and he makes a note to call his Mum as soon as his back on civilized land, to tell her she was right. Love does work in mysterious ways; sometimes you need to be the most lost to finally find it. And part of him hates that he wasted so much time with you everyday he wouldn’t say anything, but the other part of him also feels like it was worth the wait. "Fuck, promise? You’re not concussed from the crash and you really l-"

"I love you, Harry," you don’t let him finish vocalizing any doubt about your feelings. "Hundred percent sure."

"A hundred percent?"

"A hundred percent." He loves how confident you are when you reiterate the affirmation, looking straight in his eyes. Your faces a barely inches apart and your bodies still tightly embraced in the flimsy plane blanket.

"Christ, this is the best day of my life," he marvels before kissing the wrist of your hand still cupping his face.

You raise a brow at the statement, "the day you were in an air crash and found yourself stranded on a desolate island is the best day of your life?" You tease him in humor though you know exactly what he means by it and share the sentiment equally as strongly.

"The day I made you mine," he proudly explains with a smirk.

"Mmm am I?" you tauntingly bite your lip, though you’re not fooling anyone. You are absolutely and irrevocably, a hundred percent his. Knowing this perfectly well himself, Harry doesn’t even give you the curtesy of an answer and kisses the sass right off your mouth. It’s a fierce contact at first, as though he was kindly telling you to just shut up. Then he eases into a slow and emotional kiss, as your lips wrap around each others. He doesn’t pull back until you’re both out of breath and he’s had a proper taste from licking your supple lips. When he does, you only want to dive in for more, and it seems he shares the same desire as he barely retracts from your face.

"You most definitely are," he asserts with that same teasing smirk.

"Hundred percent?"

"A hundred percent, darling," he acquiesces before giving you the second best kiss of your life (the first having occurred a mere minute earlier). This time he drags his hand away from your face to wrap his arm around your small frame. "C’mere, come closer so we don’t freeze." It feels like close enough will never be an achievable concept for you both, but you’ll content yourself with the weight of his limbs intertwining with yours as you lay down besides the small fire. He brings the blanket high enough beneath you so you don’t have your heads directly on the sand, and you don’t realize how physically exhausted you were until your head is tucked underneath his chin and all your muscles loosen up some.

"Comfy?" He inquires as he hears you sigh in relief. You nod against his collarbones a small ‘yeah’ whispered against his skin and the feeling has him shoot a smile to the stars. He’s quite comfortable himself if he may say so.

"Good, now gimme a kiss."

"Making demands already?" You keep teasing him because let’s face it, you’ll never get tired of watching his reactions to your taunts. The cute crease between his brows, the twitching of his button nose or even better, the small pout enhancing the cherry color of his lips are probably the things that made you fall in love with him in the first place.

"You’re not complaining."

You laugh at his self-assuredness, sad not to see his precious pout though the newfound spark in his eyes makes up for it and then some. You can’t help but to confirm the bold statement, "yeah, a hundred percent not," and he smiles at the now familiar words, like it has become an inside joke that only belongs to the two of you.

For a while you just cuddle in silence, reveling in the embrace you’ve shared a couple times in the past but that now beholds an entire new meaning. You’re just about to surrender to Morpheus’ arms when Harry muses aloud, "imagine this was all a dream and we just wake up in LA tomorrow morning."

Paradoxically, the suggestion forms lump in your throat. Had he asked an hour ago, you would have let a wistful sigh and longed for a reality where you didn’t hop on a doomed plane and landed both yourself and you best friend in what can only be the hardest trial of your life. And yet, now you find yourself unsettled at the idea that your very much reciprocated feelings wouldn’t be out in the open if none of this had happened. You wouldn’t know the taste of his lips had you not plummeted in the sea only to wash up on a desolate shore.

"It doesn’t matter. I’ll still tell you." You affirm confidently. Now that you know; not about the mutuality of your feelings, but about how scary it is to find yourself on the precipice of forever regrets, you’ll take the chance every time. Wiser from the same tribulations, Harry just smiles softly before returning a faint ‘me too’.  

"Yeah?"

"Not that guy anymore, ‘member?" He is quick to remind you, eyebrow cocked upwards, to which you simply respond with a whispered ‘good’ against his chest. Harry kisses you on last time and then you both let your unconscious take over at last, still wrapped in each others’ arms and not even caring about your perilous surroundings anymore.

[megatentious]

Majin Tensei 2 and Shin Megami Tensei If… let’s talk about them

This past year saw the fan translation release of two 16-bit Megaten games, Shin Megami Tensei If… (lord help me if I need to type this ellipsis every time) and Majin Tensei 2. I am maybe the only person who decided to play through both of these games for the first time in English in one year, and so maybe it will be instructive to see how these two series black sheep (can you call a game a black sheep if no one has actually played it?) fit together in the context of the larger franchise. Or maybe this is just an ungainly excuse to cobble together months-old observations into blog content. Let’s find out!!

Both of these games come from a period when Atlus was still trying to figure things out from a game design perspective, testing how much they could push their console audience with PC dungeon crawler inspirations. There were no compunctions at this point about making unforgiving design choices, even in their crowning achievement mainline series games. Sometimes this worked, like the lack of guidance in Shin Megami Tensei 1 leading to perfectly tuned feelings of lonely exploration. Sometimes this didn’t quite work, like the tedious backtracking and brutally untelegraphed stat skill check requirements of Shin Megami Tensei 2. “Getting Megaten’d” is a message board expression meant to describe the sudden game overs that can occur in this series after hours of play, so it’s not as if unforgiving punishment is something that has been eradicated from the more modern games. But there’s a reason even many Megafans (yes i just said megafans, please deal with that) refuse to play anything in this franchise that released before the Playstation 2, and it’s because of choices that are perceived as promoting tedium and time-wasting. We’ve seen how this can affect their big marquis mainline successes, but what happens when you apply these principles to dicier spinoffs? Well…

Majin Tensei 2 is at least, quite conceptually ambitious. Spanning numerous worlds and time periods, showcasing political intrigue and explicitly defined characters with varying motivations, five distinct endings across light-dark and law-chaos axes, hidden events that depend on how many turns you take and which demons you have in your party, there is a lot (too much!) to keep track of. There are ideas in Majin Tensei that pre-sage much of what makes up Devil Survivor, from demon races with differing map skills to introducing demon fusion to a strategy RPG space that was mainly just Shining Force and Front Mission. In practice though, what you do repeatedly in Majin Tensei 2 is slowly s l o w l y clear fifty plus maps, maps that will occasionally provide fun challenges, but more often that not will repeat large not particularly memorable landmasses with simply hellish amounts of monsters. Seriously look at this screenshot I took, this is less than one third of the map!

There’s a reason that so many volunteer debuggers dropped out during playtesting, and there is a reason that 100% of the ones who persevered used fast forwarding emulation features to finish. This is because Majin Tensei 2’s sluggishness can be linked to the infamous Code Name: S.T.E.A.M. problem, S.T.E.A.M. being a largely unloved Intelligent Systems strategy game on 3DS that was raked over the coals in reviews for allowing enemy phases to go on for inordinate amounts of time. Majin Tensei 2 does that game one better by allowing literal minutes and minutes to pass as each enemy decides its action one by one. Do you remember that map in the screenshot above? Imagine twice as many enemies as that taking 10 seconds each to complete their own turn. Majin Tensei 2 makes it clear that you are absolutely not supposed to kill every enemy, through turn limit bonuses and appeals to your general sanity. But that still doesn’t stop the game from dumping demons haphazardly across each map in the manner of someone pounding the bottom of a trashcan to make sure every piece of refuse has tumbled out. So even if you are trying to be efficient, with each passing turn you’re going to be dealing with plenty of downtime.

So yes, the game is cruel. Just to take one example, Majin Tensei 2 spends the whole game teaching you that you need to keep someone tough at your home base even if you think you are safe, since at any moment some sort of aerial demon can sweep in from 12 spaces across the map to occupy it and end your game. And then in one level 40 chapters or so in, the game will punish you for keeping anyone behind at your home base by spawning multiple inaccessible dragon type demons who will one shot anyone who was trying to hold down the fort no matter what (did I mention that this game has instant permadeath for all demons and instant game over for any of your five human characters, five humans whom you cannot possibly level up sufficiently to all be able to survive multiple demon attacks?). Majin Tensei 2 is willing to mess with you to the extent that it absolutely wants you to cheat. After all, this is a game that in 1995, allowed you to save after every turn, which is another way of the designers telling you that savestate abuse (or in my case, copious use of the rewind button) is built into the design.

So why put up with this sort of nonsense? Well, for one, you’re dealing with the atmosphere of a 16-bit Atlus game, a combination of visuals, sound design, music and tone that is simply unlike anything else in the industry. And there is absolutely satisfaction to be found in slowly conquering the game’s maps. But those who scoff at something like, say, Soul Hackers, will find this game absolutely impenetrable, which likely means it will only ever be played through by advance Megatenists (okay i changed it to this, are you happy). Majin Tensei 2 tries to do quite a bit, switching up much even from its direct predecessor, and the play experience ends up suffering despite the ambition.

SMT If in comparion, well … If is by far the least ambitious game in the series to date. While Majin Tensei 2 lavishes you with cool unique digitized photo backgrounds, an extraordinary soundtrack with lengthy moody electronica from the late great Hidehito Aoki, and spectacular boss sprites, SMT if reuses all the most drab and uninspired wall textures from its predecessors, and offers absolutely nothing in terms of new music. Worse yet, many of the reused tracks have somehow depreciated in the conversion. Listen to the offkey shrillness of the iconic Ginza music here , seriously what did they do to it!?. If does feature some lovely new boss sprites, showcasing demons from rarer mythologies that were never again revisited (where are all my Persians at ATLUS???), but even some of the best of these are hidden in new game plus routes the average player will likely never see. The general fugliness of the overall game and relentless asset reuse gives the whole experience a very unfortunate rom-hack feel, and though it’s not hard to figure out why the game ended up this way (it was cranked out less than 9 months after SMT2) it doesn’t make things better.

I should note one important item here, however, and that is that the PSX version renders almost all of these complaints obsolete. It’s the version I first played actually, stumbling through the first few hours untranslated during a Japanese PS+ trial period. The PSX version not only offers very dramatic visual upgrades and some excellent needed remixes, there is a small measure of kindness built in for the player through the game’s Easy Mode. It’s only in this mode for whatever reason that Atlus offers a design “solution” for the most infamous portion of the game, a dungeon in which you are required to wait for hours of lunar cycles in order for students to dig your path forward. In Easy Mode the time requirement is halved for you. Behold the design advancements of the 32-bit era!

If is generally an odd game in the context of the series. There is a type of person out there who likes to call this game Persona Zero, and for people who have played the Snow Queen route of Persona One I can see why the comparison is made. But despite the initial high school setting and pseudo-selectable party members, it still feels strange and off-putting to play a Shin Megami Tensei game with almost no meaningful narrative choices (routes here are essentially locked in at the start). Guardians are seen as proto-Personas, but in this game they are earned only through dying and are associated with combinations of stat augments and skill lists that are frequently at odds with each other. What you end up with is a system that is interesting conceptually (should I die to gain useful spells at the cost of my current stats?) but unworkable in practice (it is almost never worth the steep steep battle count cost to experiment). The seven deadly sins theming is sometimes used to inform the map design and dungeon concept, but again more often than not these concepts simply lead to unfortunate tedium for the player (shout out to the final dungeon of Reiko’s route though, which very brilliantly mashes together traditional SMT dungeon design and a thematically cool map floor I won’t spoil for you).

If we look at SMT If through the prism of 16-bit Atlus design principles, having the foundation of SMT1 and 2 to work from should in theory have led the developers to refine their decisions in ways that ought to have helped the player experience. Instead, the game makes bold choices that result in remarkably less fun. For example, If understands that guns were ludicrously over-powered in 1 and 2, and tries to course correct by … making it much more tedious for the player to use guns? Bullets now cost money and can only be bought by slowly ticking up the counter to 99 one click at a time, with each bundle purchase of 99 filling up a limited inventory slot. The encounter rate is as insane as usual, Estoma takes a little bit more time to get than usual, and the game’s economy does not afford you that many useful things to spend money on in terms of equipment. Combine these three aspects of the game and every player invariable ends up large quantities of makka on hand to spend on bullets to your hearts content, and given that bullets are still far and away the best way to dispatch groups of enemies, you’ll find yourself engaging in this tedium in order to play the game efficiently.

I’ve spent a lot of time repeating the word tedium in these observations, and it’s unfortunate that this is the main takeaway most players will get from playing these two games. Both SMT If and Majin Tensei 2 devise interesting systems and then execute them as grimly as possible from a playability standpoint. There are aspects of true unique accomplishment in both games (Majin Tensei 2 has the funniest demon negotiation dialogue in the entire franchise! SMT If’s final dungeon really is super cool!) but the kind of player who is willing to experience them is essentially a rounding error. I don’t have any regret at all that I played through each of them in their entirety (FYI Majin Tensei 2 is longer than Dragon Quest 7 or Persona 5 and SMT If has a new game plus with all new dungeons that increase difficulty and dullness), but I might understand if you have regret. Then again who knows, you made it to the end of this aimless and dull writeup so maybe these games will be right up your alley! Be sure to let me know!!!

[junkyardlynx]

Pt. 6

“Why would I tell you? You were - fuck!” 

Miss Lewis’ words were cut off with her hiss of pain as she attempted to squirrel out under from Sarisa’s malingering foot. Her blood joined that of her associates, and the stench of death began to permeate the room, fresh as it was. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Self-loathing squirming in my stomach, I knelt down in front of Lewis, black mana gathering in my fingertips and running down my palms like a viscous ink. Sarisa took a few steps back, moving behind me.

“W-what are you doing?”

Her fear was justified, really. Most magical spells have an elemental component that tints the mana, and black was the realm of necromancy and bodily change - life reversed. 

“Shut up. I already regret this.”

My voice was thick and heavy, and it seemed to bludgeon the air from her lungs. Nobody seemed to comprehend what was happening until a sound like a wet bandage hitting the floor reached their ears. Sarisa watched, halfway between amazed and amused, as ribbons of flesh began to peel themselves from the dismembered corpses, slowly and almost lazily drifting through the air. They hovered in front of my face for a moment before twisting and melting together into a wet and tumescent mass.

Diane’s face reflected only horror.

“I said, what are you doing? Don’t do it. Don’t do that, don’t you fucking put that in m-”

The mass of flesh leapt from the stagnant air, filling the sizeable hole in her knee and spreading through. Sickening sounds of crunching and squelching filled the sanctum, and Diane’s screams of pain and terror only served to heighten the horrifying atmosphere.

This was the healing side of necromancy, using the dead to preserve life. Considered an ultimate taboo by those outside of the necromantic arts, it allowed the caster to shape and repair most any body part as long as there were...materials around.

It bothered me in the past, but not any longer. Life is life, and the dead aren’t sticking around inside the shells. It seemed stupid and downright disrespectful to not use what was left if it was needed. My dad taught me that.

“Stand up.” 

Sarisa gave her the command, barely hiding her lopsided grin. For some reason she really, really loved watching me utilize that dark magic. Maybe it was the thrill of the unknown, or the bewilderment that ensued. Diane had time to process and deal with the event, but she seemed unsure. I rose, shaking my hands a few times to bleed off the excess mana.

“C’mon, coach. Those that can't do, teach. Those that can’t teach, teach gym. You should be able to stand up and give us some Suicides or some squats, at least, right?”

At Sarisa’s prodding, unsteadily and bracing for pain, Diane Lewis stood. 

It was rather uneventful.

“So what were you saying about Jeal and I?”

“You...were always complacent kids in P.E. You sure turned out to be cruel.” If you asked me, she seemed confused at her own words. Diane had been bouncing between terrified and vengeful so much that I felt exhausted listening to her. She’d screamed at us to stay away. Most people in a death cult under their own will weren’t reduced to hysterics after the loss of their fellow cultists. Something in them was broken. Unfortunately for Diane, her mind remained whole and mostly her own. 

There was just something directing it down the darkest path.

Deciding that this game of torture and treatment had gone on long enough, I fixed Diane with an almost impenetrable stare before reaching my right hand out, placing it on her neck.

I could feel the confusion and annoyance radiating off Sarisa. Was she...jealous? Wh-oh. Oh. I have my hand on the neck and shoulder of an adult woman. That probably looks pretty uh, tender from her point of view. Miss Lewis seemed stricken by confusion and hadn’t batted my hand away. That’s not. I. I better just wrap this up before it turns ugly.

Before she could regain her senses, raw mana pulsed through my hand with an ugly red and black crackle, prompting a new series of screams from Diane as it seared the Mark of Soritoroth off of her skin, leaving an admittedly ugly scar. With heaving breaths, I removed my hand from her skin, sweat collecting on my forehead.

I’d used far too much magic today. It felt like every nerve in my body was on fire. I’d be damned if I showed weakness, though.

Sarisa, having understood after the fact, walked up behind me and slung her arm over my shoulder before addressing Diane, unable to hide her lopsided grin any longer. It felt possessive.

I didn’t hate it.

“This big idiot just freed you from your Mark. No more dark whispers in your ear or weird dreams about fire and a never-ending queue at the DMV. He’s too kind, really. I’d have just left you locked in here with your fellow teachers until the Mark consumed you. Guess he figured it out because of uh, well, how scared you are. Real believers usually aren’t terrified out of their minds.”

We were met with a cascade of sobs. Slipping down to the blood-stained floor again, Diane was reduced to tears as pain and regret wracked her seemingly fragile frame.

“Let me guess. They knew you were a mage of some talent. Told you big things. Scared you, and right after, promised you safety. Then they dragged you into some pit, put that Mark on you and began to twist you. I mean, no one really likes P.E., but we all liked you. Didn’t really think you’d turn evil at the drop of a hat. Mr. Morrison though...man, we should have seen that coming. Haughty english teachers are the worst.”

I wonder how many times Sarisa’s penchant for humor saved me? I always ended up walking down dark lines of conversation, saying the wrong things at the wrong time to anyone but her. She managed to be my voice, and she understood me better than anyone.

Honestly, I don’t think I’d have even made it this far without her. I would have tried to save my parents if she wasn’t around. She was my guidepost.

“I gotta admit though, you made me really mad. So in exchange for all these wonderful things Jeal’s done for you, can you please tell us where our friend Thom is and what he’s told you?”

Diane was quiet for a time as the sobs shriveled up. Her head rose from her knees, and she looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

“They’re all dead, aren’t they?”

A barely audible whisper.

“Yes. Mr. Morrison, Mrs. Takao, and Mr. Krenick are dead. So are fifty people your little cabal brainwashed into raiding this place. So I really, really need you to tell Jeal and I what’s going on.”

Sarisa hid no facts, but a sort of warmth leaked into her voice, gently urging Diane on. 

“Please,” I said. 

“Thomas...he, two weeks ago, he came to us. Said he knew we were mages, and that you two were mages and that Jeal was actually a Culaine. Last thing he told us before we stuck him in that hole was...was that you’d be coming back around 7 today. Dunno how he knew that. Guess he was watching you.”

“Where is he, Miss Lewis?”

A long pause, as if everything that had happened since receiving her Mark was finally setting in.

“He’s in hell. He’s burning. He’s burning in hell. He’s gone, I think.” She stopped for a moment, eyes glassy and distant, finally free of that dark passenger and unable to collect herself in the aftermath. We were losing her.

“They already moved him. I don’t know where. Just the shell. Nothing left inside, all empty, ready to be filled up. The materials are still good...”

Lightning cracked on my fingertips, but I gripped my hand tightly. The torrent of images and impulses, no longer channeled and directed by the Mark, began to leak over every thought she had. They’d bleed out like mere bad dreams in time, but time was not on our side. 

“He was in that square hole. Seven feet deep, a tiny prison for a god. The abandoned observatory to the west. From the 80′s. I wonder if they knew? A cocoon as a prison for god. I wonder if we could have seen him...?”

Her voice trailed off as her head lolled to the side, shock finally pulling her consciousness under. I grappled with myself for a moment before flicking my wrist, a lash of red thunder removing the last traces of the three dead teachers. Leaning on Sarisa a little as she kept her arm slung around me, I made my way to the desk in the sanctum. Sarisa seemed to understand what I was getting at and began preparing one of the cots. My shoulder and neck seemed somehow lesser for the absence of her weight and warmth.

Penning a note to Diane on a piece of paper, I gathered a few materials and reagents from the cabinet beside the desk. Setting to work with practiced movements, I began to prepare a tincture using thornblood, the teeth of an imp, water, mint, and ethyl alcohol inside of a reinforced flask. She’d need it, after what she’d been through. For myself...well, for myself, it was going to be less pleasant than anything with alcohol in it. Too bad I also needed it.

Forcing a gelatinous black mass into my dry mouth, I began to chew hurriedly, ignoring the bitter taste and oddly crumbly texture that followed the jelly-like outside as I pawed around blindly for a bottle of water, draining nearly the entire thing in one gulp. I turned around to find Sarisa on the verge of laughter, having just set the bloodied Diane down on the cot.

“Oh my god, did you eat that? You actually ate that dragon eye? What the fuck, Jeal.”

“Everything hurts, Rissa.”

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t sound so annoyed. I mean, I know it’s a really good pick me up, but oh my GOD, that had to have been like, 800 years old! And you just ate it! In one bite!”

“... probably still kiss me.” 

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

I don’t know if she actually heard me or not, but it didn’t matter. We needed to check out the old observatory, even though he was probably gone. Thomas had been wrapped up in all of this, somehow. He knew who I was, what I was. He knew who Sarisa was.

Everything hurt. Body and soul.

[yuri-or-death]

Forget Me Not (Fiction)

Characters: Matsui Jurina, Kodama Haruka 

Summary: Separation brings forth a fondness that routine once left obscured. Jurina and Haruka were invincible together, it was a fact. But the gears of destiny were finally moving towards a path only one of them could take. 

Kodama Haruka sat before her study table, her glasses reflecting the medals, the magazine and newspaper clippings detailing every victory the Power Stones accumulated through the years. She inhaled sharply, the feeling of emptiness slicing through her chest. 

 "This day would come." She whispered. Their chief informed her a few days ago that she was to be dropped from the next matches. Afterwards she would be sent overseas—a decision that would soon be known to Jurina herself.

At first she was alarmed, offended even but now Haruka felt numb, her professionalism was grounding her emotions. Nevertheless, the thought of being left behind by the one person she ever cared for in this entire career left a void in her heart that would not be filled. 

 Resignation and redress were warring inside her and she could not make up her mind whether to protest or let things go. The vision of Jurina's fading back haunted her. 

 Matsui Jurina was a hurricane, will unbent; spirit unbroken. She would set a goal and then surpass it. She chased no one's back; like a queen atop the tower, people admired her tenacity from afar but only a few understood her loneliness. 

 This is exactly what drew Haruka in, like a moth chasing the flame. She was always a follower; quiet, submissive, unsure but stubbornly determined. Except for the first time in her life, since she became partners with the blonde beauty, Kodama Haruka wanted to see the view from the top--together. 

She has been fighting to grow stronger, to not be left behind, from the moment she first learned Jurina's name. Now everything was crumbling like a sand castle crushed by the waves. At what point did she feel this immeasurable sense of loyalty to protect the other girl? She had been searching herself for the past days. ‘Would this be better for Jurina?’ ‘Was she holding her partner back?’ Haruka's thoughts were interrupted by the distinct chime of her phone.

"Hello?" She waited for her caller's purpose. 

 "Eh?" Her brows furrowed, "She hasn't been responding since morning?" Haruka repeated what was said from the other line, tone tinged with concern. It was 8 in the evening, and highly unlikely for Jurina to not pick up for so long. 

"Yes, I have a key to her apartment. I'll pass by." She set aside her glasses before rubbing her eyes. For a moment, confusion clouded Haruka as she fumbled through her wallet to look for the duplicate of her partner's access key. "Why is she shutting herself off again?" As proven by their last predicament over her partner’s injured knee, it was clear that the aforementioned blonde had the habit of carrying everything alone even when people were practically begging her to rely on them. 

Haruka could only thank the heavens that sleepovers after their intense trainings for key matches gave her unlimited access to Jurina’s flat. After finally taking hold of the black card, she motioned to leave without any qualms--such was her devotion. 

Circular glasses lay forgotten beside a Polaroid of Jurina and Haruka smiling after their very first match. “Let’s aim for the top!” Was clumsily written. 

The 20 minute taxi ride to Jurina's tower felt longer than usual. Without speaking another word, Haruka alighted from the automobile and entered the grandiose 60-floor serviced condominium at the heart of Tokyo. Uneasiness crept inside her as she waited to pass each floor on the elevator until the 48th. 

It has been a few days since they last spoke together after she was relieved as the blonde’s partner. It seemed they both had all the convenient reasons to avoid each other it was almost ridiculous. Haruka internally debated how she would open up a conversation. 

Finally arriving in front of the 5th room, she rang the doorbell out of courtesy. In all honesty, she felt like an ex-girlfriend trying to rekindle some sort of romance. "Jurina?" She spoke via intercom. It was clearly in vain, she swiped in her access card and found the spacious unit shrouded in darkness, save for silver moonlight dripping in from the gaps between the blinds. 

 "Jurina, what are you...?" Haruka found the girl sprawled on the King-sized bed, white sheets almost devouring her lithe body. Blonde hair glistened against the moonlight and Haruka could make out a pained expression as Jurina stirred, still unconscious. Haruka strode toward the mattress, laying the back of her hand on the other girl's forehead to check her temperature. 

 Tired eyes met Haruka's own as the blonde girl groggily woke. "I-I'm so...rry." Jurina murmured almost deliriously. 

"You're burning up." Haruka frowned, brushing away sweat-damp strands of hair from her partner's disheveled face. She realized that Jurina’s unresponsiveness the whole day was most likely due to her sickness. Sometimes she felt like an apprentice, and then a mother, other times she was a stranger. Though she would never admit it out loud, there were also times she felt like a lover. "You won't even let room service in, what's with you?" Her voice cracked with worry, it was the first time she saw her partner in such a feeble state. 

Jurina was supposed to be proud, collected and impenetrable. She was a goddess in the ring that people seem to forget she could still break and bleed. Yet now she could barely stand--reduced to a pile of flesh and bones under silk sheets that seemed heavier than they should be. "Sorry." The ailing girl could only repeat her reply. 

 Haruka found her way to the kitchen, in haste, fetching a cooling gel pack from the freezer. "You could've called me, you idiot." Haruka's eyes welled with tears, completely shaken by Jurina's affliction as she offered the gel pack. "Why do you always insist on suffering alone?" Even when injured and worn out, her partner stood proud like a beast. It unsettled her deeply that this girl before her was closer to an empty shell, utterly vulnerable. 

 Jurina tried to come through, "I'll be fine." Shirogane dojo’s ace coaxed, finally realizing how shaken Haruka was. It took great effort to speak with conviction. "It's just a fever. You're overreacting Haruka." She delicately wiped the lone tear drop Haruka could not suppress. 

"I can't help it, you look half dead for just a fever." 

The ace struggled to let out a chuckle, motioning for Haruka to sit on her bedside. "You're such a baby." The short-haired girl acquiesced, helping Jurina as she struggled to sit upright. The pristine sheets slid down her torso, revealing a black sports bra that contrasted with her pale body. Jurina set aside the cooling pack and reached for the glass of water on top of the drawer, the liquid effectively soothing her parched throat. Haruka took the empty glass from her before she could lose her grip. 

Without warning, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Jurina nuzzled at the crook of Haruka’s neck, basking in her partner’s warmth. Haruka always offered her a feeling of stability; she was the safety net Jurina never intended having. 

 “What’s with you all of a sudden?” Haruka glanced down at the girl resting on her shoulder, a tinge of red starting to rise up her cheeks at their proximity. “Are you delirious?” No response from the ace. 

 There was a pregnant pause, “I thought you’d never talk to me again. You won’t even say good bye?” Jurina mumbled out of context but Haruka knew well what the blonde was alluding to. 

“So the Chief finally told you.” Haruka feigned apathy despite every fiber of her being screaming discontent, silent indignation was blossoming inside her. She was being replaced and she loathed the feeling that they were mere puppets in his game. 

“I don't want this.” Scarcely did Jurina let her emotions leak out and this was one of those instances. Her eyes downcast and defeated, she did not even bother to conceal how conflicted she was. 

On regular days it was Haruka who need consoling, she was, after all, the unsure one, the delicate one, and the insecure. But tonight, as if finally reaching a full circle, Haruka understood that Jurina would only break her carefully built façade in front of her—and she treated such trust with care and devotion. “It’s not something we can stop.” She started, “And besides, it seems the Chief thinks I’m holding you back.” 

Jurina frowned severely; she was tired of answering to the chief’s beck and call. What more did she need to do to prove herself? “Bullshit. It wouldn't work out right if not with you.” 

“It’s not like you to lose your cool.” She held Jurina by the shoulder so that they were facing each other instead of the blonde girl burrowing into her neck. “Look at me.” As they locked gazes, Haruka could feel Jurina’s brown eyes piercing through her soul. 

“And how can you be so calm? I can’t believe this.” The atmosphere between them was the same as the last time Haruka refused to let Jurina enter the ring because of her injury. The blonde’s wrath that day was unrivaled but Haruka held everything in. Now the air was equally heavy and the tension between them was palpable. 

“This isn’t my decision to make, don't you understand? What’s done is done.” Haruka said matter-of-factly. She would not yield this time. 

Jurina held her arm with all the strength she could muster. “The hell—stop acting like a martyr, Haruka!” 

“But it’s the truth! You don't need me anymore.” Haruka’s voice cracked ever so slightly as she fought to contain her emotions. Her hands fisted on the bed sheets. 

 “You know that’s not true.” 

 “Look, I may no longer stand beside you.” It took every ounce of Haruka’s self-restraint to not falter. “But don't let that lead you astray,” She smiled a delicate smile that was painfully sad yet so beautiful. Being taken out of the team; losing her place; losing her partner—everything hurt a thousand times more than she would allow others to perceive. But her pride as a fighter would not let herself be pitied upon. She would face this farce created by their chief with grace. And she will face Matsui Jurina with the same kind of compassion she always had. “The top will always be yours.” 

 Jurina felt her walls crashing down, she was very careful to not form attachments in their career. Each match was a competition against everyone so she turned from ivory to steel—always professional, aloof like an untouchable queen. Haruka was the only person Jurina would let it in. She was more than a teammate. Haruka was like the other half of her soul. The thought of suddenly losing that sense of stability, the connection, the unspoken understanding; it suffocated Jurina. 

 “Please don't leave me.” It was the first time Haruka heard the other girl sound like a lost child, so uncharacteristically fragile. Jurina’s vision was slowly failing her, she felt like melting candle wax. 

Before the ace could utter another word, she collapsed in Haruka’s arms. Jurina’s fever was yet to break and Haruka felt a new kind of panic settling inside her. 

“Ju-Jurina?” Haruka tried to rouse her but she was completely out. Haruka disentangled the girl away from her and gently pushed her back to the bed. She laid the cooling pack on the blonde’s forehead a thousand other thoughts muddling her mind.

 “I don't have a choice, do I?” 

When Jurina woke the second time she felt the cool sensation on her head. A glass of water, some medication and a bowl of warm congee was on her bedside table; but Haruka was nowhere to be seen. She was alone again amid the large expanse of her suite and she felt smaller than ever. The silence cut through her like a knife. 

Jurina tried to rise and as she regained the feeling of her limbs, she noticed a crumpled paper inside her right fist.

“How lucky I am to have known someone who was so hard to say goodbye to. - Haruka”

Jurina’s eyes welled, “Damn it, Haruka.” She choked on a sob, the void in her heart expanded.  

Author’s Note: Hey y’all here’s my attempt to make a juriharu drabble based on their tofu-pro characters. Tried romantic undertones first than writing them as a full blown couple. 

[salvia-plathitudes]

Not season 12 finale divergent.

"You, me, and Sam. We're just better together." Dean said it with such confidence, a surety like no other. When Dean believed something was settled he followed that ethos until it's illusion was shattered, and then he usually found it again some time later when he forgot to learn his lesson.

If a man doesn't have principles to live by and fall back to, he is aimless and can't define himself. Long term evolution has nothing on a hard head or beating heart that abides to strict decision.

Dean believed this. He also believed pop culture was that or this, and he delivered this say-so on what was cool and what was lame and what was an absurdly stupid action or phrase if anyone were doing it, but when Cas was doing it there was slightly less derision for the fact that Dean loved him. Doubtless Sam, Dean, and Castiel would exist until the end of time if that's what they wanted to do, because Dean believed them infinite to Sam's reluctant worry that they would end up dead or worse some day, overdue on cosmic repercussions as they were. No one had asked Castiel's opinion on the matter. He had one, of course. Not a single being mulled over in his head as much as Cas ran himself in circles, a creature of limited sleep and excellent coffee making abilities.

Cas thought he was going to die. He wanted to live, generally.

But on a regular basis Cas prepared to die. He made peace with it. He forgave himself for having any regrets in life and accepted that was just how it was going to be. He loved, and it was good, and he helped sme people where he was able, and let his rigidity and explosions of anger ruin or justify plans and he forgave himself for that, too. Unlike Sam who dreamed of a life worth living by dying a martyr sacrifice, Castiel imagined his own sacrifice would be purely selfish. In the end no one would have him to thank. The people of the earth would wake up, run late to work, and interact with people they'd rather run from or fall into and make coffee that might be better than Castiel ever made in his life.

Castiel has never had a caramel macchiato.

If there was anything that Cas wanted to die for most of all, it was to ensure Dean or Sam kept going. They'd given him a lot, and were hard not to love. It was an abstract, unimaginable event the night Cas spent the night alone. He could have been anywhere. If they'd been in another town... caught wind of a happening in a town nearby to somewhere else... maybe they would have stayed there for two weeks. Gone to a local coffee shop that served the best cinnamon rolls Dean had ever tasted. And so it goes, where depending on the news that filters in and catches the eye, consequently a month away from home until the day it is finally returned to. Then the closets are supplied and Sam turns two chairs into a makeshift couch for his long body to rest comfortably while he uses his tablet while he waits for Dean to shower or sleep.

They were in Ames, Iowa. They were heading back home and didn't find anything else to run to on the way. Sam bought cinnamon cocoa for himself and his family to celebrate the Equinox in a small building that had only four tables. Leaves were browning on the outside pavement, immobile until the winds would pick up the next morning, drifting lazily with the promise of crisp-tasting atmosphere. It wasn't serene inside. There had been bumping elbows and nervous grinning at the proximity and lack of conversation. Sam's face pores were impeccably detailed, perfect to the last oily stretch, a creation his Father should be proud of, and Cas took the time to drink in the details of the shop and his companion and the lacking outdoor scene with rigorous wonder just as Dean brushed his shoulder insistently against Cas' and held it there. After they paid they walked out, separately aware of the cooling weather. Two men holding hands passed them to enter the building. Not one of the three men bothered to track their movement, but Sam took two larger steps to get ahead of Dean and Cas to lead the way to the meter.

When they eventually found the underground bunker, unpacked the little they carried, and followed the ritual, a lot of time had passed since the cocoa. Dean was done showering. Cas loitered outside of Dean's bedroom. He knocked and waited for a response. Dean didn't answer, but he looked up with a grin as Cas brushed the door open some.

The man Castiel loved was soft sometimes. Hence the abstract and unimaginable.

He was lying restless-- in his own bed-- the inner machinations working so hard that when he turned his head he heard the audible creak in his forehead that usually happened when he was trying too hard to not get turned on. Too much focus. And the truth was, he'd much rather be turned on. He'd much rather Dean be kissing him than the traitorous thoughts he was compiling against the man sleeping two doors down. He didn't get to kiss him at all tonight or during the duration of the trip. Sam didn't know. Dean didn't even know. And if Dean didn't know, how the hell was Cas supposed to know? He measured everything against what Dean wanted, so how the hell was Castiel supposed to presume? He remembered the still concrete world outside of the little building and the two men holding hands who walked up to inhabit it.

Castiel remembered every single slight he'd felt in the past couple of days, whenever they'd been out of the car. He remembered old slights. He remembered pieces of pop culture he'd been made aware of. Of the promises he'd made Meg. Of the existence he'd led Before, when he was just like an impenetrable marble carving in the Galleria dell'Accademia museum to anyone who mattered. When Hell was the worst culmination of wretchedness in all of the time since its first fiercely blinding droplet was forged. When he wasn't anyone at all, to the people he mattered to, before he walked into their lives. When he wasn't anyone at all to his Host or maybe even God, who had been churning out celestial dominions as a broker shuffling cards, which is to say He gave attention to the results of the game rather than the impressively performed, but random riffle he broke to start it all. A game He abandoned rather than face up to accidentally including a Joker. Everyone he encountered insisted Castiel was the Joker. "Whenever you have to pick between us or them... you pick the Winchesters."

Castiel turned on the light and spoke into his tablet. Voice control recorded his morning vocal chord words into typed text on imitation yellow legal pad. He spoke softly.

"I'm in love with a memory. Of another time, another place."

"I have changed so much since the angel I was. I could have changed more. Differently. But I have become a man I think I am proud of. I consider myself a man now.

"Once Sam and Dean thought I would lose my vessel. I don't know what I would do without it. I could enter into a vessel whose soul is leaving it. The Winchesters would have to accept this, as would I. Or I could accept this as a signal to move on from earthly existence. I could resume the role of a guardian, for another thousand years. It would be better to return to heaven than be tempted by this. Would that be running away from my problems? Ignoring the plight of my family?" Cas chuckled. "No. My place will always be by--"

The tablet screen went dark without a voice to pen any more.

Castiel turned it on again and started voice recording. "I have changed. Perhaps my personal growth is delayed... perhaps..." Cas remembered Dean yelling at him to not do anything stupid, dammit! "Dean and Sam have led me through life. It can be hard. There are choices... consequence. I haven't known any men like the Winchesters. I... haven't...

"... known any others at all." Gabriel, Balthazar, Anna. They knew how to interact with the world. They could weave in and out of the bulk of humanity with practiced ease, gluttonous pleasure, simple life building, love for parents and pets. Before the supernatural and hunters came and crashed the reverie. Before they were killed fighting a war that is over.

Castiel stared at the room door. Quiet surrounded him, filled him with unease. He crept up to it, and watched the handle, daring himself to open it. His hand struck forward and he turned it swiftly.

The vents usually blew gentle cool air into the hallway, a comforting sound, but the turn of the season left the underground bunker at a temperature it could indulge in.

With socks on his feet, because Dean insisted he not wear shoes to bed, he stepped out and started the trek along the floor plan. He entered the war room, paced a circle around the enormous telescope, ignored the kitchen-- too many pots and pans, the image of clanking sounds was enough to turn him away from entering in the middle of the night no matter how silly the thought of accidentally disturbing something was-- the rational part of his mind did wonder, if he made noise here in front of the book shelf, if he entered Dean's room, would he be greeted with a gun in his face? Yes to the latter.

That night, in a dawning enormity of how much growth there was left to do, Castiel made his decision. It was time to stop trying to please, to become another Winchester. Hunters had given him a good start. But Dean would never hold his hand. He would never return to the man who asked questions first and tortured only with the greatest stake on the line. Oh, how ironic that it was Castiel himself who convinced him to take his technique to Azazel's rack. Where Cas had taken slow steps to gain the advantage of humanity, Dean had let his slip away behind an exterior he wouldn't let anyone into. The last person he cared for with all of the softness he had inside had been Charlie, murdered, and before that Lisa, and Cas took her away from him, too.

Maybe Castiel was the one who broke Dean.

Maybe Dean didn't even want him. Not all the way. It is not enough to love someone, Castiel surmised while sitting at the top of the stairs mere feet from the bunker entrance in his white dress shirt and black socks. It's not enough if you can't love them right. You have to let them in. You have to be capable of being soft at any moment, not abrasive.

He returned to his bed and ignored the memory what it felt like to occasionally feel the presence of Dean's former longing from this very spot. It was a homing beacon for every instance when Cas was too far away.

Castiel slept resolute.

In the morning, he told the brothers he was leaving. For a long time. Both sensed that his stressing "for a long time" was significant, and Dean always had trouble saying goodbye at the same time he feigned nonchalance. Sam, forehead creased in concern but still grinning, said, "Careful out there, Cas." He tapped his fist on Cas' arm.

Dean stood back with his coffee. "Come back in one piece. We'll call you if we need anything."

A month later, when Castiel speaks to him on the phone, Dean says, "You, me, and Sam. We're just better together." Castiel disagrees.

He is careful to speak in these phone conversations these days, his reflection in the mirror running a hand through his hair, getting it right. "If you ever want to retire... I think civilian life would suit you."

Dean is obviously panicked about the separation. "Nah. It's Halloween. Lots of stuff to do out there. You find anything?"

"Nothing has come across my path," Castiel responds plainly. "For a long time, the town has been perfectly natural."

"Well... keep an eye out."

"I will."

They both wait for the other to speak, and when neither does, Dean continues. "Some day... when Sam trains other hunters.. and Jody's got her girls.. if the nasties are under control, some days I feel like I could retire."

Cas thinks that would be a good idea. His phone pops up with an incoming call, either a telemarketer or Reina. "I have to go. Goodbye, Dean."

"Seeya 'round, Cas."