[ dextera doesn’t know how. no one seems to know how, exactly, except the archangel—and a part of dextera still trusts that man, no matter how much he shouldn’t, and without anyone else to rely on for his memories it’s inevitable that he would hear the truth that’s given to him. he killed the world, and it’s the only explanation for the crushing guilt in his chest. ]
…
[ he breathes hard, wet and miserable, against noctis’ chest—but continues to sign against his back. ]
no subject
…
[ he breathes hard, wet and miserable, against noctis’ chest—but continues to sign against his back. ]
I’m sorry. [ a quiet sigh. ] You too.