( desperate hearts seek answers wherever they can, even in the most unlikely or unhelpful places, and as much as makoto would try to claim otherwise, there's still shards of desperation driven into the matter of his withered heart like shrapnel. on some level he seeks to rationalize and contextualize the suffering he has undergone underneath J's sway through the placebo of the archangel's answer. as if a single answer which could make it all make sense in his mind would lift the warping weight from where it slouched, draped across his shoulders.
for reasons that are obvious enough, dextera has never been particularly open about himself, the world that he came from, or his past in it. the glimpses that he gets through the archangel's own memories playing out in the metaphorical space around them are of welcomed interest. labyrinthine tunnels, writhing masses of monstrous pursuers, violence, pain, and death. the demon that makoto is now is unfazed by the macabre scene that plays out, though whatever tiny shadow of the human he'd once been shrinks back in sympathy for one of the only "friends" he has in this new world.
the obvious contradiction in the archangel's reply doesn't stick out as problematic to him as it might to many others. when he had still been human, J had told him that, "mortals are the only ones who struggle with contradiction." maybe that's where his own personal answers lie. to love or to hate someone were not mutually exclusive: it had to do with possession, with ownership — of claiming the right to every emotion and outcome. thinking about it makes the gall rise in the back of his throat; having been smothered from a similar enough desire from J, he knows how much it rankles, how little personal agency it leaves behind.
it leaves them no choice.)
He betrays you, ( he speaks with the unswervering certainty of personal experience; venom drips from his words, and they strike together with incendiary feedback, ) and he always will, because one person cannot be everything to another. Beneath those conditions, there are only two options: you lash out, or you break.
no subject
for reasons that are obvious enough, dextera has never been particularly open about himself, the world that he came from, or his past in it. the glimpses that he gets through the archangel's own memories playing out in the metaphorical space around them are of welcomed interest. labyrinthine tunnels, writhing masses of monstrous pursuers, violence, pain, and death. the demon that makoto is now is unfazed by the macabre scene that plays out, though whatever tiny shadow of the human he'd once been shrinks back in sympathy for one of the only "friends" he has in this new world.
the obvious contradiction in the archangel's reply doesn't stick out as problematic to him as it might to many others. when he had still been human, J had told him that, "mortals are the only ones who struggle with contradiction." maybe that's where his own personal answers lie. to love or to hate someone were not mutually exclusive: it had to do with possession, with ownership — of claiming the right to every emotion and outcome. thinking about it makes the gall rise in the back of his throat; having been smothered from a similar enough desire from J, he knows how much it rankles, how little personal agency it leaves behind.
it leaves them no choice. )
He betrays you, ( he speaks with the unswervering certainty of personal experience; venom drips from his words, and they strike together with incendiary feedback, ) and he always will, because one person cannot be everything to another. Beneath those conditions, there are only two options: you lash out, or you break.