Chapter Text
No matter your clothing, the air of Tartarus manages to chill your skin. It's not cold, just cool - like a 70s themed mall diner that needs to keep customers flowing. Merely discouragingly cool, a cool that stumbles its way into your unconscious rather than a cold that remains at the forefront. It adds an acidic bite to any physical strike taken, that feeling of being wholly unwanted by even your environs, the blood sickeningly warm as it runs past every raised hair. The very blade in your hand feels discomforting, for there is no love here.
One such blade awkwardly rests in the left palm of one Makoto Yuki. It's a crude approximation of a sword, a thing thought up by a child who watched soldiers. Still, it cuts, despite its user.
The wound at his left flank stitches itself back together alongside a languid warmth, contrasting harshly against the air's dearth.
His healer makes eye contact, wearing something approaching sympathy. "You know you're supposed to dodge those, right?"
He nods, the implied admonishment effective enough to stop a retort.
"Yoooo! Not a scratch on her!" exclaims his less-cognizant ally, having retrieved his bat from whence he threw it. He takes a practice swing, pivoting his back foot to emphasize the imagined contact.
Yukari remains unimpressed, a good-natured frown overtaking her visage. "Why'd you throw it in the first place? Are you stupid?"
Junpei stammers out a "H-hey!" before recovering, adding, "Like you'd understand dramatic flair." He takes a half-step back as he speaks, ready to dodge any haymaker his mouth may have caused, though Yukari's focus has shifted.
She gives Makoto a soft look. "Stick to the backline, Makoto. Let Junpei's thick skull take some hits."
Like water off a duck, Junpei assents, "Yeah dude! Save some for the rest of us!" He bends down, clasping a hand in Makoto's and pulling him up. "S'okay, you'll get a hang of the way of the sword eventually! Don't sweat it, bro."
Their comms crackle to life. "Stairs are through the left hall. Yuki, hang in there. I'm getting a reading of a teleporter on the next floor."
The impromptu-leader nods again. Back to it.
"Silky!"
For the thousandth time tonight, Makoto's head recoils, further upsetting the already-agitated vertebrae in his neck.
A spark of ice swiftly subsumes the lone shadow, locking it in place just long enough for Junpei to reduce it to tar.
"Alright! Home run!" he whoops, slinging his bat upon his shoulder. He moves to regroup, giving Yukari a not-quite smug look. Her expression is tired, if fond. She refrains from commenting, a tactic lethal to Junpeis everywhere.
He finally arrives at Makoto, clapping him on the shoulder. All at once, Makoto's perspective returns to him, once again seeing the world through his own two eyes. He looks to Junpei with an ounce of disarm, though he steels his expression before attention can be called.
"Yoo, dude! Way to keep the ball rollin'! You're like a damn Shippo Gyoja out there!"
Yukari scoffs, "Since when do you know historical figures? Did you get hit on the head or something?" She leans back against a railing, deftly unequipping her quiver.
Junpei mocks offense. "I pay attention in class sometimes!" He turns to Makoto, smirking, "So... how many Personas you got in there? They all as good-looking as Silkayy?"
There's a brief pause as Makoto takes stock of his Personae. "I currently possess Orpheus, Pixie, Angel, Nekomata, and Silky."
Junpei startles, "Woah! You're a chick magnet!"
Rolling her eyes, Yukari swats him on the shoulder with a bemused expression. Turning to Makoto, she adds, "He's got a point, though. Why do you get to have girl Personas- Personae? Ugh, Kirijo, what's the-"
"Personae?!? Oh, we're getting fancy out here?" Junpei interjects, suddenly donning an exaggerated Yamanote accent, "Indubitably, Yuka-tan, how preposterous! Indeed, I posit: How might that be- Oww!" He recoils, nursing his flicked forehead.
Makoto, trying to ignore their antics, shrugs, affecting to be lackadaisical.
With a knowing look, Junpei snaps his fingers and starts, "Oh-ho-ho, I get it! You're always thinking of pretty girls, aren'tcha Mak-kun?"
Yukari sighs. "Not every boy is as much of a horndog as you, Stupei. Besides, wouldn't that mean you're always thinking of armor-bound men?" There's a discomfortingly playful lilt to her voice that puts Makoto off-guard.
"Hell yeah I am! Nothin' cooler than a Sam-u-rai!" he proudly belts, pumping his fists like a child watching TV.
Breaking his silence, Makoto concludes, "I do not claim to understand the will of the sea of souls." He nods, confident he has resolved this matter.
Both party members send a concerned expression his way.
Makoto shrugs again, unwilling to offer more words. It seems they may never understand.
The walk to the nearby teleporter proceeds in relative silence, fatigue finally managing to overwhelm the adrenaline they had accrued. Again, Makoto finds himself alone with his thoughts. He'd never really considered it before, but he did seem somewhat drawn to the female Personas. Silky, in particular, called to him a way Orpheus did not - absurd, given that everyone else's default (and in every other case, only) Persona seemed to reflect their very soul.
Maybe he's missing something. Maybe Silky reminds of his mother, maybe she simply was the best tactical pick - regardless, the reason matters not. It simply is, and anyone that cannot understand doesn't need to.
Still, the thought aches. He shelves it to be filed at a later time, and resumes command.
'Later' ends up being that same night, as the hours dwindle away towards a new dawn.
After parting ways with the rest of his team, he found himself lying in bed with thoughts too heavy to enable sleep, so on went the headphones. Music bridges the empty parchment between detached thoughts, and the words begin to flow.
Simply put, these feelings were not new.
It's not that he hadn't noticed he mostly had girl Personas, he just didn't think it mattered. He should be allowed to have whatever Persona he wants. Gender should hardly be relevant when fighting shadows in an alternate dimension, and yet highschoolers continually find ways to bring everything back to social politics.
Hell, he'd never even thought about a girl in that way - at least, as far as he's aware. Romance always seemed like an adult thing to be approached with an adult mindset, frivolous to be considered at a time when survival is all that matters. Relationships formed now would scarcely last, anyways. Bonds mean nothing when they're destined to be broken.
But now two of his party have called him out on something so mundane, and he's left with no choice but to confront it.
Offhandedly, he contemplates the form of Silky.
She wears a long, flowing red dress, contrasted with a pale green complexion and even more verdant hair that seems to ride the air itself. There's a simple elegance to her design, an attire that suits her very nature and bolsters her form. There's a part of him that envies her luxury to wear such freeing clothing - why can men not wear such things, as they once did? Did western influences really overwrite centuries of culture, are polo shirts and pants and suits and ties and jackets simply the height of masculinity, or was something lost along the way? Was he becoming like that of a fascist for thinking so? Surely, though, he cannot be alone in these thoughts. Surely, every person his age dreams of finding their style and feeling at home in their body at last.
Surely, he was normal.
In a rare move, Makoto walks home with Yukari.
Not that Makoto had any agency in the matter, of course. Yukari merely walked up, said, "Junpei's an idiot", and motioned for him to follow.
What followed was a six-minute rant about Junpei's impropriety with regards to the feelings of women, of which Makoto absorbed less than a quarter. As they board their train, they find but a single seat, which Makoto is happy to offer to Yukari.
Most of the ride passes in relative silence.
"Do you ever think it's weird how much culture we've ceded to American influences?"
Makoto doesn't even realized he's spoken until Yukari bemusedly responds, "What does that have to do with anything?"
He feels his cheeks go warm, but nevertheless he defends his point. "Well, before the Meiji Restoration, clothing was traditionally gender-neutral, but with the advent of western influences, the definition has shifted to be rather distinct between men and women."
Yukari blinks, wide-eyed. "Wh- what?"
Makoto barrels on. "I find it a distinct shame that attire has become so segregated by gender in ways in which it never previously was. Men's fashion is lacking in any cultural significance, while women's fashion at least maintains a microcosm of its roots."
There is silence for a nearly a minute, Yukari completely lost in thought, before she annoyedly replies, "So what, you want everyone to wear kimonos? We already have uniforms, Makoto, don't rock the boat."
"That's not really my point. I find it disappointing that women can still wear flowing silken garments while men are unable." He stews in the reciprocal anger for a moment, finding immense disappointment in the fact that his point was so quickly taken as hostile - though, perhaps an ounce of that is owed to his gender. He makes a note to take care for tone when speaking in the future, lest he dissolute his point through perceived aggression.
Yukari laughs. "I think this is the most you've ever spoken."
That shuts Makoto down a bit. He slinks down against the train's wall and ponders for a moment, before eventually countering with, "It's something I have been giving a lot of thought to. The clothing and armor I wear in Tartarus, for example, seems ill-fitted to my role as a magic user - as does my sword. It limits my range of movement while providing me very little material benefit."
Another blank stare. "So you'd rather wear, like, a robe?"
Makoto shifts uncomfortably. "I find what Silky wears to be adequate."
An uproarious laugh breaks free from Yukari, attracting the gazes of a few passengers. She apologizes openly, then addresses Makoto, "I'm sorry, the thought of you wearing that is hilarious. You have no curves, it'd just look wrong. You're so... lanky and pointy. Dresses are made for girls for a reason."
It hurts, hurts in a way no insult has in a long, long time. Every inch of his skin is crawling, as though trying to molt and leave him bare to the world. He feels his schooled neutrality begin to slip, so he redirects more effort into maintaining his guise. He smiles, "Yeah, it was just a joke."
Yukari shakes her head, exhaling loudly. "Geez, you really had me going there. I thought you were about to start crossdressing."
Makoto forces a laugh. "I do want to get rid of the sword, though. Not enough range."
She half-smiles, tilting her head back in thought. "Yeah, you definitely don't have the muscle for it." She taps her foot, idly playing with the strap of her phone. "I could see you with a spear, though. Something where you can sit in the back."
He nods. "I'll ask Kirijo." There is nothing more to be said of the ethereal pain in his soul.
The conversation stalls, the train ride stretching on for eons.
When they arrive at the dorm, Makoto goes straight to bed, and feels absolutely nothing.