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...what, accepting that?

[ Mako's so fucking helpless against all of this, is the problem. That's what he hates the most: that Manabu is falling apart next to him and that Mako has nothing to offer him to fix it because he hasn't worked hard enough or smart enough to solve this place, or maybe it's a problem that can't be solved. What's the solution here? Is it what Wu says, banding together against the darkness? Is it something beyond his reach, some switch that makes it so that they can't hurt each other, so that Manabu doesn't have to fray at the seams because he did something they're all probably going to do?

What can he do except push heat into the air and watch Manabu fight with his own emotions, knowing what he's feeling?

Mako sucks in a small, hard breath and shifts closer, dropping his arm around Manabu's shoulders, tugging him close all at once. ]

[dimly, Manabu thinks it that no one can do anything to stop it, with 'it' becoming a more nebulous, hard-to-grasp notion the longer he sits there in the growing brain fog. he lets it go with an unintelligible mumble, giving up on talking now that there's fewer thoughts to voice.

with a little tug, Manabu slumps against Mako, his chin dropping to his chest. it's not unlike when that Waste died, except this isn't preceded by an outburst - not an immediate one, anyway. all that got taken care of by Childe's work.

it's easier to relent to gestures than try to think or feel anymore, and feeling a little warm is a lot better.]

[ Silence falls like leaves around them, bringing with it the rustle of breath and fabric, the quiet moans of the little ghouls at the nearby lamp, and the sounds of the city itself. They're nothing like the sounds of Republic City, none of the hum of Satomobiles, because of course they aren't home. They're in an alien city with merciless daily rhythms, blood-soaked and terrible.

How is anyone supposed to adjust to that? What is anyone supposed to do in the face of turning into a monster?

Depends, a little voice in Mako says, and he lets out a quiet sigh. ]

...what do you want?

[funny question. Manabu asks himself that a lot, but...not right now. he can't think about it right now.

it's probably worth asking, since Manabu would've likely wound up asleep without a prompt. he lifts his head, opening his eyes slowly and staring at the cobblestone street ahead of them.

what...should he be doing? what was he doing...before Mako asked to see him?

his eye flicks down to the gun in his lap. the gun...

ah. that's right. the saber. the harmonica. all his stuff...

while sitting up:] Lost it. Harm...mm, harmonica. Ssstill lookin'. Mm.

Your partner's old harmonica?

[ That little dented thing, small and old and so heavy with meaning?

No wonder he's so lost.

It can't be the reason, not entirely, but Mako can see the meaning behind it—has been clinging to the vestiges of his own lost home and watching them slip away for good at the same time. At least he is anchored here by the people he loves. Manabu doesn't have any of that.

He tightens his arm a little bit, frowning quietly at his own knees. ]

Not exactly what I meant, but. Did it wash up with you?

[what else could Mako possibly mean at a time like this! can't think about the options.

the arm over his shoulders keeps him anchored in place despite the minute effort to move away. he's also stayed by the question and the effort to think on it.]

...No? [washed up? what? his expression scrunches.] Didn't wash up.

With you.

[ The follow-up idiot isn't spoken, exactly, but it hovers there, affectionate and rough as Mako tugs on his shoulders a little bit. ]

Have you had it since you woke up here?

[Manabu is wobbled a bit by the tugging, head bobbing as he frowns and makes a visible effort to think on the question.]

Nn, no. N-nothing. Gotta look.

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