( good. hate is a useful emotion. useful to serve as the bellows for your own ambitions, useful as one of the more predictable and malleable baser emotions. the longer he lives as a demon, the more he understands what J had told him when he'd lamented that hatred so often boiled over into explosive self-destruction or died a death as complacency. it's such a precious emotion — bright, fierce, honest, beautiful. it's a pity to see it die, either way that it might.
there is nothing in the careful composition of makoto's demeanor, appearance, or words that seeks to win others over to his side under the trappings of friendship and camaraderie — not honestly, anyways. allies were, after all, only useful as such until the moment that they weren't. he's a canny enough liar that he weaves truths and untruths with such deft alacrity that it was impossible to discard everything that he says out of hand or trust each and every word. that gen can so easily see through that candied deception is refreshing in the way that it cuts to the quick — in that, and in how it had been in-line with exactly what makoto had been goading out of him. he knew from the other young man's run-ins with the guards that he put stock in the power of physicality (for better or worse), and so each conversational move made had been poking at him, prodding at him, seeing just how far and how easily he could provoke him.
ah, and it had been easy enough. if makoto noticed what he was doing soon enough to do something about it, he pointedly decides not to. he gives in easily to the brusque demand of the hand knotting into his hair, following it to cant his head and bare his throat to the stranger. he has all the docility of a family pet with its head in the hand of its master. annoyingly enough, his smile persists, though there's something sharper and more feral in it now.
really, he is far gentler than he had assumed he might be. is that heart not quite so hardened as he wishes others to think it is?
it's a bold move to play at seeing who might be able to unnerve the other first, but this has been a game that makoto has been playing for the last three years. more and more often nowadays, he doesn't lose. the stranger's face looms close enough to his now that he can feel the warmth of his breath, but after everything that he's done and that's been done to him, there's nothing in that which would even begin to faze him. instead of replying with his words, just as boldly, he reaches for gen's other hand. he might pull it away, certainly, but he was the one that had reached for makoto first — with that in mind, he thinks it's a well-minded enough gambit to try. his thin fingers loop around his wrist and lift his hand to his neck, encouraging them to inspect the scar and the stitches there himself, so that there's nothing lost in translation.
because this isn't something makoto would give away so easily. not when there's fun to be had. )
Guess,( he breathes, the word a faint hum in the vocal chords beneath the thin skin of his throat. his eyes lid mostly closed; two bloody slits with something pale and inhuman peering out of their depths. )
ugh i just feel so blessed you're enabling him like this
there is nothing in the careful composition of makoto's demeanor, appearance, or words that seeks to win others over to his side under the trappings of friendship and camaraderie — not honestly, anyways. allies were, after all, only useful as such until the moment that they weren't. he's a canny enough liar that he weaves truths and untruths with such deft alacrity that it was impossible to discard everything that he says out of hand or trust each and every word. that gen can so easily see through that candied deception is refreshing in the way that it cuts to the quick — in that, and in how it had been in-line with exactly what makoto had been goading out of him. he knew from the other young man's run-ins with the guards that he put stock in the power of physicality (for better or worse), and so each conversational move made had been poking at him, prodding at him, seeing just how far and how easily he could provoke him.
ah, and it had been easy enough. if makoto noticed what he was doing soon enough to do something about it, he pointedly decides not to. he gives in easily to the brusque demand of the hand knotting into his hair, following it to cant his head and bare his throat to the stranger. he has all the docility of a family pet with its head in the hand of its master. annoyingly enough, his smile persists, though there's something sharper and more feral in it now.
really, he is far gentler than he had assumed he might be. is that heart not quite so hardened as he wishes others to think it is?
it's a bold move to play at seeing who might be able to unnerve the other first, but this has been a game that makoto has been playing for the last three years. more and more often nowadays, he doesn't lose. the stranger's face looms close enough to his now that he can feel the warmth of his breath, but after everything that he's done and that's been done to him, there's nothing in that which would even begin to faze him. instead of replying with his words, just as boldly, he reaches for gen's other hand. he might pull it away, certainly, but he was the one that had reached for makoto first — with that in mind, he thinks it's a well-minded enough gambit to try. his thin fingers loop around his wrist and lift his hand to his neck, encouraging them to inspect the scar and the stitches there himself, so that there's nothing lost in translation.
because this isn't something makoto would give away so easily. not when there's fun to be had. )
Guess, ( he breathes, the word a faint hum in the vocal chords beneath the thin skin of his throat. his eyes lid mostly closed; two bloody slits with something pale and inhuman peering out of their depths. )