Intermission: Death's Laments

It was born inside a white, bland room.

It's not human. They call it Shadow, its name Death.

It doesn't have a purpose, but its body knows. It is here to bring the mother towards this place, and to do that, it must unite the scattered parts back into itself.

Before it could do so, someone set ablaze the place it was born, and it is separated from the rest. In its attempt to find the other parts of itself, something engages it. It knows such pitiable being couldn't stand against it, yet here the thing is, battling Death at full power without falter, without fear. Bullets are shed from its fingertips, strange manifestation of the thing's sense of self harming it, damaging it.

It dances, its lipless teeth stretch wide, frigid air following its breath as its twisted hand and blade react and cut and wound. The thing, a mere machine, is here to stop it. But it has a goal to see through, a goal to complete, to bring forth the mother. It roars and bellows, powers running wild like flame skidding across the surface, setting many strange contraptions, strange machines, alight.

Its hollow eyes then find a mere child crying, the boy's body full of wounds as he reaches out for someone inside the blazing steel and plastic. And it is upon this small moment of distraction that the machine turns it into nothing but a soul, its power scatters towards its separated parts.

It shrieks and growls, trashing and tossing as the thing walks it towards the child that pulled its eyes away moments prior.

And then, all it could feel is the endless dark and the burning flame.

The boy's name is Yuuki Makoto.

It still has a body, but unseen and untouchable. It might've been for the best; such unfathomable, hideous form would scare away many. It hovers in the small room, watching, as the boy's beaten and cursed at and picked apart. It doesn't understand why the boy doesn't fight back. It knows the boy can, the boy must've been able to. But he doesn't.

And when the boy's left with naught but wounds and broken sobs, eye devoid of what they call life, it could feel the urge to help, to stay.

So it hovers over, the dried, scrawny finger reaching to wipe away the drop of tear that makes its way past the boy's eyelid. The water freezes and shatters into little diamond dust, and the boy looks up.

It doesn't seem like he sees anything, but he must've felt it.

Because, much to Death's surprise, he says quietly, almost to the gods above and devils below.

"Thank you."

Makoto is wronged by so many people, so many times, that a part of it thinks that he deserves better than this sorry existence.

The boy is kind, infinitely patient, and undeniably broken, shards of his soul scattering across the floor like pieces of glass, ready to cut and bite his own two feet as he walks the path of kindness—kindness that none of these wretched humans deserve.

It could only watch, most of the time, its body nigh incorporeal, except for moments where it could wipe away the tears or touch the boy's shoulder lightly, carefully, as if to say that he is not alone. It seems Makoto acknowledges its existence, even if he couldn't see it, and would often talk of nothings to his dark, empty room when he's afraid or lonely.

Which is almost all the time.

Why didn't you fight back? It asks, receiving no words in return. But it knows. After watching, hearing, it knows just the reason.

Because the boy is infinitely kind. He's taught to be gentle, he molded to be kind, he's predisposed to be nothing but a sweet, sweet boy.

And it is this gentleness that baffles it.

Why be gentle, when they're nothing but cruel and mocking? Why be kind, when they're beating and sneering at you?

This time is just like uncountable moments before, where his gentleness gets him naught but hands and feet that bruise and beat at him, until nothing but ugly spots of blue and drops of blood and tears cover his body. After they all go away, and he's left alone, the boy finally breaks down, crying into his knees, as if to wash away the pain he's inflicted with.

Death reaches for the boy's cheek, wiping the tear away, the droplet shatters and scatters into the wind.

Then, quietly, like always, it says without hoping for its words to be heard.

I'm here.

Makoto looks up from his curled-up position, his steel gray eyes wide as he looks around.

Surprisingly, the speech is directed at it. "I could hear you… are you really there?"

It tilts its head, the clinking of chains drawing the boy's eyes towards it, even if he couldn't see. A finger finds the boy's cheek yet again, wiping away the drop of sadness that would often—too often—adorn his feature. It then whispers.

Yes. Always.

For the first time since that fateful day, the boy smiles. "Thank you."

It isn't often that Death could be heard, but when it is, Makoto seems so happy, despite everything else that has been going on around him.

But because of that, those people he's called family and friends are cold, disgusted, by his randomness, by his unpredictability, by their own inability to grasp the gentleness and the love this boy has to give.

And one day, it all falls apart.

He is there, with Death by his side, mumbling out his thoughts for it and it alone to hear. It doesn't mind; in fact, being talked to so calmly is… nice. But of course, humans are often as cruel as they are kind, and one of those Makoto had called friends has started picking on him, like some rabid dogs in need of attention.

It growls to nothingness, no ears to heed its call but Makoto's own, and its Life (this boy gave it this life, even unknowingly, even not of his own choice. The boy is its opposite half—it is Death, and he is Life) is smiling sadly, his eyes pleading it to stop, even without seeing it.

It does.

The mistreatment grows worse. It feels powerless, for the first time since its existence. Tears can be wiped, skin can be touched to soothe, but there is nothing it could do to stop them from breaking this boy into pieces. He's already at the precipice, and one more push would—

And then, Makoto's drowning, legs feebly kicking the air as the others laugh and laugh. It could see the light of life ebbing away, of fear, of pain, in those steel gray eyes that have always been so kind, so warm, so gentle.

I will save you.

Its hand touches upon Makoto's own, spurring his half-conscious body to action. The hands find this bastard's neck, and he's strangling the life out of his own tormenter. It finds no wrong in that.

But this breaks Makoto, to the point of no return.

Neither its voice nor its touch could reach him.

He's dead inside, no goals to drive him, no will to live, yet no will to die. An empty, pointless life as a reward for all the kindness he's shown others.

There is a brief moment where it thinks that maybe, just maybe, Makoto would be saved, that he would be able to hear its voice again, with its hand now occasionally tangible to the boy. Akari is the only human it approves of, her existence something the boy desperately needs.

Only for that hope to be reduced to ashes by the people it deems unworthy of even walking the earth.

And finally, when the fire has died down, when the boy finds himself in the charred room, he collapses, the woods creaking under his weight, under his scarred body and his shattered soul.

Tears come out like water through broken dam, and it could feel the despair that clings to the boy. And then, the boy murmurs, not to himself, but to it.

"Why do you have to cling to me…? Why would you always take lives away because I'm there…?"

He cries and cries and cries, shoulders shaking, voice trembling. It could do nothing, its words unheeded, its touch incorporeal.

"You cling to me like a goddamn parasite."

It feels something akin to… pain, perhaps. The sensation is new, and… unpleasant.

"Just take me, too. End me. I don't want to live like this anymore. I don't want to feel anything."

It couldn't bring itself to.

And in the end, it just… melts away, observing, waiting, for someone to save Makoto from himself.

The next morning, he forgets about it, completely, absolutely.

It hurts, but perhaps… this is for the best.

Pharos doesn't remember where he was from, who he actually is, or why he's there.

But he knows that he owes Makoto—this boy, so dead inside, so kind and so broken—more than a few apologies. He isn't even sure why.

He hands him the contract, and he signs it without a question asked.

Those gray eyes are distant, disinterest, as they regard him with not curiosity, but boredom. Even with his form gone, unable to manifest outside of the hour in which the world stands still, he could still watch. And Makoto—he doesn't care even when someone's reaching for a gun. Doesn't care to ask any questions of things that should've brought concern to him.

Empty, and broken, the gentleness buried deep into the pit of his soul.

But that kindness is only buried, not destroyed.

Are you that afraid of death? He had said to the girl in pink, the girl Pharos sees is tied to him in ways indescribable.

But even with that, when faced with her death, he acts without a care for his own soul.

Upon Pharos' suggestion, he pulls the trigger of the gun, no hesitation in his movement. And to his call is Orpheus, the Fool, the musician who dared to play a game with death itself.

But it isn't enough. Orpheus is still weak, its power holding not a candle to this mass of malice that is a Shadow.

He reaches a hand, and Makoto screams.

Ripping and tearing their way out of the Fool are his own hands, and he feels himself rearing back. His power, unholy and vile, surges forward, draining out every last bit of Makoto's already dwindling psyche as he rips the Shadow to pieces.

And then, his sense of self is separated from that body, from that mask, from that Persona that's now melting back into the night, back inside the pit of Makoto's broken soul.

His memories are still broken and lost, but he is certain of one thing, now—

—That whoever he is, he is far too dangerous.

During the next few months, after so many pain and anguish, Makoto finally seems more open, more alive, than he remembers.

He grins as he watches the boy smiles after the longest of time, after so much pain and suffering. He is always such a gentle soul, no matter how wronged he is, or how cruel the world has been. That kindness is so bright like the sun, beaconing them forever forward.

But his self-deprecation, his warped memories of him blaming himself for each and every death that is in no way his fault, linger, collecting themselves like pools of tar and rancid blood under his feet.

He wishes there is something he could've done.

"Why are their deaths on you?" He asks one day, after a slow month of him enjoying his life for the first time since Pharos remembers.

He stiffens at that, his lips set into a thin line, his eyes hard and sorrowful.

"Because I live, while they're all six feet under."

"None of it is your fault, though," He says. "Maybe except for the strangled one. But you did it out of self-defense."

At this, he doesn't respond with words, instead he curls into himself, his knees against his chest.

He's afraid, of losing people close to him, Pharos knows this. But he still couldn't understand why those deaths would be his fault.

But then again… he was just a child. Having lies and hurtful words whispers to him like curses for ten long years would warp his perception of things, he supposes.

He wishes he could do something to correct that.

But he never wishes for that chance to be with his friend, with Makoto, at Death's door.

It is the Dark Hour. He knows Makoto can see him, can hear him, as his shadow is warped, cold air escaping between his teeth as he breathes. He looks at the boy, so dazed and so pale, blood splattering across his body and the floor like canvas of red, a painting of despair and fleeting light of life on the dark stones underneath.

Pharos has never been bothered by the blood pools during the Dark Hour, but seeing him like this, seeing Makoto so broken and so close to Death terrifies him.

So, when those distant steel gray meet his own, he questions, he prods, wanting Makoto to fight just a little longer, to bide the time for his friends, his bonds, the ones who give his life meaning, a bit more time to save him.

A bit more time, to let him see the truth.

A bit more time, to save his soul, too.

Time, as it turns out, can be as merciless as the wheel of fate.

While he's managed to save his soul, his body remains on the thin thread. Throwing himself into the jaws of Death, just for a single chance to save someone he barely knows isn't something any sane person would do. But then again, Pharos thinks it's not his place to comment on that.

He isn't tangible, but he could still see, as they try and try to stop the red that's gushing out like torrents of rain, unforgiving. He could still see them as the ambulance takes him away. He could see his friends, his love, crying and tearing their hearts out for him.

While he is glad that he's having his kindness rewarded, the situation is far, far from ideal.

But after the talk, after he has brought Makoto back to his memories, seen from Pharos' own eyes, he thinks… there's nothing mentally he should be worrying about anymore.

He watches as his friends keep their hopes high, waiting, praying, pleading. He watches as his love, the one who had helped him break out of his shell, cries and holds onto his hand like a lifeline. He watches as the man whose fate he's altered – the man who's supposed to die that night – stands right beside the bed, silently begging the gods above for him to wake up.

Pharos finds himself joining into their prayers afterwards.

Even if his memories are starting to come back together, calls of the Fall pawing on the inside of his ears, he still wishes for lives to flourish.

Living is painful, living is agonizing, and yet…

…He thinks, life is still as beautiful as ever before.

The first time Ryoji sets his eyes on Makoto, he could feel a strange pull, beckoning him closer.

Makoto looks like he remembers Ryoji, perhaps from time long past, perhaps from places forgotten, but he never gives him a straight answer. After a few tries, he just gives up; while Makoto is very, very easy to understand and read, if he's set his mind to keep something a secret, there is no force on earth (except maybe Yukari) that'd be able to pry the secrets from him.

Despite the rumors, Makoto is kind and gentle. He could see now why Yukari cares and loves him so much – the way he'd carefully pick his words, the way he'd read uneasiness off the expressions of others and try to diffuse it or to clear the negative thoughts away; it's not what people would generally go out of their ways to do.

Talking with Makoto feels so natural to him, like speaking to an old friend who knows him well and who he knows like the back of his own hand.

And yet, there's this… foreboding feeling in the pit of his stomach, that hisses into his ear of the role he has to take, of the sacrifice he has to make. He doesn't know what the voice's trying to say, but he's not going to let it distract him.

After a few days, he notices the shape of his right hand, crooked and scarred and blackened. When he asks, all Makoto says is that someone shot him.

And the longer he spends time with Makoto, the more he realizes that this boy has never let the injustice of the world changes the core of who he is — he remains kind, he remains compassionate, even if he's still broken. Ryoji knows this; Makoto still is incomplete, but he's getting there. And to see him helping others, to talk to him about nothing and everything, to see and experience his kindness first hand — it gives Ryoji what he thinks is a sense of pride.

He loves the way Makoto talks, soft-spoken and gentle and careful, all words and thoughts meticulously crafted to suit each one of his friends, him included. He loves the softness of Makoto's touches even as he chides and pulls Ryoji away from chasing Mitsuru's skirt (yeah, sorry, I didn't really mean that). He loves the way Makoto laughs and smiles, always so gentle and so warm.

He loves everything about this broken but gentle soul.

It still surprises him how easily Makoto uncovers his secrets to him, confides to him things he's pretty sure even Yukari wouldn't have known, something deep and dark and twisted, like a maze. He gladly listens, he enthusiastically helps him through the pain he's had to experienced, because he knows that Makoto deserves much, much more.

And then, there's Kyoto.

To see the extent of his scars is… disturbing – cuts and burns and bites scattering across the pale surface of his skin like marks of war, the twisted mark on his chest and the bullet wounds far too big to not be painful. He winces, but doesn't comment much on it. He couldn't, not after he's promised that it's okay to show Ryoji his wounds.

He doesn't say much, but he gives Makoto a subtle smile that says that I'm here, and Makoto replies with a smile of his own that says I know.

He'll be there for him, that much he's certain.

It all starts with a pang of headache, and flashes of broken, forgotten memories.

Of burning cars, of mere boy looking up at him with wide eyes, terrified. Of times he'd see Makoto, so small and defenseless, crying in the corner. Of times Makoto would curse and spit at him for not taking him to the plane of oblivion like everyone else, too.

Of his time, taking a form of a child, talking, soothing, laughing with Makoto.

Of his time as a timeless, formless existence.

Before he knows it, he's already found himself at the Moonlight Bridge, the place where his shattered memories come together. He only remembers that he is Death, but no more. Not why he's here, not his purpose. Just the name, and his connection towards his best friend.

He was there, when Makoto was crying and left to the shadows, abandoned, unloved. He was there, when his parents perished in the flames. He was there, when Makoto's left drowning in his own blood during the full moon.

He was always there.

He is a Shadow; a being that shouldn't have walked the day, a being that's destined to forever clash with mankind, a being whose existence spells disaster and death and pain for all around it.

He doesn't want to hurt anyone, especially not Makoto.

So, when Makoto runs up to him, his face full of recognition, his eyes pained and lost, he knows that his best friend remembers. Everything they've shared, every word they've said – he remembers, and he knows Ryoji is a Shadow.

And yet, he decides not to say anything to anyone.

Why?

They could no longer bring themselves to stay in each other's vicinity, too terrified of the change that would soon come with the moon. Ryoji wishes his memories would bring nothing else to the table, but a part of him, deep down, knows what is going to happen.

And on the night of the Full Moon, his memories return in full, just a few minutes after Aigis' own recollection.

He gasps, tears prickling at his eyes as he remembers everything, as he feels and knows what he is and why he's in the world. He doesn't want it to be true, but it is his reason of existing; the voice of the Dark God above whispers and crawls around inside his head like a spider, telling him of his roles, reminding him of his duties.

He doesn't want to do it.

His power acts on its own as Aigis charges forward, and he fails to stop her. He cries out as the barrier of light and vileness reeks out of him, wisps of black stretching beyond arm's reach and aiming to end Aigis' life—

—But then, Orpheus is there.

He gapes, eyes darting towards the sound of footsteps approaching, to see Makoto smiling sadly at him, with the strange, metallic gun in his grasp, trail of smoke coming out from the barrel. He doesn't seem to rush, but his eyes say that he saw everything.

"I'm so sorry, Makoto," He gasps, he breathes, he wants none of this to be true. "I'm sorry, I—"

Instead of screaming at him, or cursing him for harming Aigis, or whatever else, he hasn't expected Makoto to say; "You didn't choose this fate. You simply are."

"…No, I didn't," He confirms. "I simply am."

"What are you?" Makoto breathes softly, his voice calm, not a trace of anger underneath it.

Ryoji doesn't understand. Why would Makoto remain so collected, so kind, even after he almost killed his comrade, even after it all? So, he explains, or at least tries to, his words tumbling out a mess, his mind too scared and too jumbled up to say them carefully.

Makoto doesn't say anything, and when the others arrive, he tries again—

"Ryoji," He whispers tensely, but his eyes are so, so kind. "You have to rest first. I'll tell them what I know."

"But I—" He tries, but his body fails him, exhaustion he shouldn't have felt taking over.

The last thing he feels is Makoto's careful, warm arms around his body as his consciousness slips away.

He gives them a chance to think—

But for Makoto, his choice is already made.

He doesn't want Makoto to suffer, he doesn't want him to face the inevitable, the indestructible. But it seems like his beloved best friend still thinks there's a way to defeat the embodiment of Death, of Nyx, who's as absolute as the flow of time or the continuum of space.

Just before the decision date, Makoto calls him.

He's afraid of what Makoto wants to say, but before he knows it, the receive button has already been pressed, and the other speaks before he could. "Nyx is undefeatable, but is she unstoppable?"

It's his worst fear, his greatest nightmares. He knows what Makoto will have to do, if he's going to stop Nyx. To Seal a power so great, one would need a miracle. And Makoto, who's forged so many bonds unbreakable, so many connections irreplaceable, is already qualified to achieve such power—

—The power that would allow him to mold his own life and soul, weave them into the barrier that would prevent Nyx and humanity's call for deaths to ever reach one another.

The power that would mold his soul into a seal.

He doesn't want that, selfish as his wish is.

He's willing to let the whole world die to save Makoto from pain – what kind of best friend is that?

You see him as more than just a friend already, Ryoji. You love him.

Ryoji chokes back the sobs that's threatening to rip out of his throat. Irrational as it is, he realizes that these feelings aren't just love for a friend. He sees Makoto as more. And it scares him. He doesn't mind that Makoto doesn't know how he sees him, and he wants nothing more than to keep it that way. But he realizes, now, that when he thinks with his heart, he both wants him to forget in order to not suffer… and wants him to fight, because it is who Makoto is, it is who Ryoji falls in love (Hah, Death falling in love) with.

Even so, he doesn't want Makoto to go through with this. He doesn't care if Makoto will curse him for an eternity for it, but he doesn't want to see him suffer. He's been through enough, and asking him to mold his very existence into the Seal, that would have to stand firm for eternity, is not a fate he'd want for him. Ryoji doesn't want him to be forever in pain like that, even if he has to kill everyone in the world to do it. To him, Makoto is worth much, much more than any other person out there.

But he also knows, better than anyone, just how important his friends, his bonds are – it's far beyond any normal human's comprehension; his dependence on them is far too great. And Ryoji knows, better than any living soul out there, that Makoto would rather die a thousand deaths or be condemned to an eternity in purgatory rather than even letting a single friend die.

That's just how absurd he is. How kind he is—

—How broken he is.

In the end, he couldn't bring himself to lie. He just tells Makoto what he knows, but not the part where he'd stretch his soul across space itself. And Makoto, being himself, figures that bit out anyway; or at least, figures that something close to that is going to happen.

It pains him to let Makoto do this.

Because his life belongs to not him alone, but to everyone he's forged his bonds with. Ryoji knows he will not let any of them come to harm. He knows that if Makoto forgets them, it will break him.

But, despite his earlier resolve to let Makoto retain his reasons of being, he still tries, pleading on deaf ears to kill him, to forget about everything and live his final days in peace.

Because he doesn't want his beloved (love is beautiful, and it hurts so much he wants to curl up and cry) to be in pain, to suffer. He wants him to at least be at peace, when the time comes.

Peace based on lies, lies, lies.

"Makoto, please—" He tries again, desperate, voice trembling. "I don't want you to be in pain."

"Neither I you," Makoto says instantly, firmly, and Ryoji looks up. He hasn't expected that; why would Makoto still care so deeply when he's just a Shadow, a Harbinger, the bringer of the end? "You're a dear friend, Ryoji. I don't want to fight you, either, but you're already chosen as an Appriser, and I can't allow you to complete your role. And trust me, I don't want to die. But my desire to see them live and prosper, to see the world blooms and blossoms, outweighs such things as fear of death."

I love you, is what he wants to say, deep down.

"I'm sorry," Is all he gets out.

Makoto then shakes his head. "You didn't choose this, you simply are. I hold no grudge against you."

He cries.

I want you to live. I want you, who's so kind yet so wronged, so gentle yet so broken, to live longer than this. I don't want you to suffer anymore.

I don't want to see you in pain.

He nestles the warmth of Makoto's arms around him near his heart as the Promised Day comes ever closer.

Makoto is so warm. He wants nothing more than to freeze that moment into a globe of indestructible snow and crystal and instills it into his heart forever. But this — remembering, that is — is all he could do, now.

Soon, he'd be reabsorbed into Nyx, becoming naught but an Avatar that'd act according to her will. He knows this, and he doesn't want to. But the choice, this choice, is not his—

—He wonders, is there anything else he could've done?

"Perhaps there is."

He blinks, surprised, and finds himself in the blue elevator that's forever ascending towards the unknown. His shoes scruff the soft, velvety carpets, his back against the cold, hard wood, his eyes looking at two figures; one with deep blue dress, golden eyes, and a thick leather-covered book. The other, the speaker, is in a suit, hands clasped, long nose as prominent as his soul-piercing eyes.

"What—"

"Welcome, to the Velvet Room," He says, bowing slightly. "It is quite a surprise, but still within our expectation, for us to meet, Mochizuki Ryoji-san."

"…Who are you?" He asks, unsure.

"I am Igor, and this is Elizabeth," He says. "We're the ones who've been providing aid to your other self, Ryoji-san. And you have a part of him with you—which is why, during these final days before the end, you're allowed entry here."

A part of him—

"You… you've been helping Makoto," He whispers, more a statement than a question.

"Yes, and this time, you shall be the one to help him," He says, snapping his fingers and calling forth the Arcana of Death – his Arcana. "Your bond with Makoto-san is as real as any he's shared with others, do not ever doubt it. And with this bond, you may be able to aid him, just once more."

"I'll do it," He says quickly, afraid of letting this chance go. "I'll help him. No matter what."

"You're Nyx, and yet, you're still you," Igor says. "Do you know why it is so?"

It doesn't take him long to piece it all together. True, he should've been reabsorbed into Nyx by now, but he's still him, his attachments to the world is still here—

"Because… I do share a part of me with him, and his with me," He breathes.

"Indeed," Igor nods. "You're connected by Fate; he harbored you inside his soul, which makes a part of you seeped into him, and vice versa. This connection might allow you to aid him just yet. I'm only here to remind you of its existence; whether you stand by and let him fight by himself, or push him forward with the humanity he's given you, is entirely your choice, Ryoji-san."

He doesn't even need to think. "I'll help him with all I can. After all… that's what friends would've done, right?"

That's what you'd do for someone you love so dearly, isn't it?

Igor smiles, but says nothing.

"The time has come," The woman, Elizabeth, says. "Farewell, Mochizuki Ryoji-san. And do greet Makoto-san for me, when it is his time."

"I will."

He's given a chance to help him carry out his miracle.

And he'll gladly do it, even if it hurts, even if it's painful.

Because they're connected. And he'll not allow Makoto's bonds – his life – to bend and break.

He couldn't help but usher Makoto back down to the world of the living, to carry out his promise, just one more time, because he knows Makoto would want to.

Still, he wishes there's something he could've done, some miracle he could've conjured.

Then, he remembers something—

Nyx and Erebus aren't the only Primordial Gods out there.

There may be ones who'd have the power to alter fate, power to give life, power to give Makoto a chance just yet.

He isn't even sure where to begin, how to look, or what steps he has to take. He doesn't know if one month will be enough time for him or not, or even if it'll be in this lifetime.

But he wants Makoto to live—just like a normal boy, broken yet so kind. He deserves a better fate than living most of his life abused and scared, and finding love only for it to be stripped away a few months later like this.

Fate is cruel, and he wants to change it.

Ryoji (Hah, he's still referring to himself as Ryoji, somehow) doesn't know if it'll work or not, he doesn't know whether striking deal with a God would be wise or not, but he has to try.

For Makoto's sake.

He regrets so many things in his short life; from his inability to help while Makoto was crying and in pain, to his inability to preserve his happiness, to his powerlessness to let him live. He regrets not being able to act out on his feelings, to tell him so. He regrets not being able to stay by his side until the very end.

So, this once, he'll try to the best of his ability. Even if he has to trudge through hellfire itself, he wouldn't have cared.

He wants Makoto to experience more than one spring.

Maybe in a month, a year, a decade, a lifetime—

—If Makoto wants it, then he'll make it happen.

His life has been full of kindness and sorrow, of joy and suffering. He just wants to tip the scale a little more, just once, for the man who gives him his humanity, for the man who gives him his heart.

Once more. This time, he will be the one to find that miracle.

No matter how long it may take, no matter how steep the price.