only the seam which forms in the parting of skin — the sensations of subcutaneous layers of fat, of ruptured blood vessels still thrumming with pulse, of taut sheets and strings of muscle. each and every human being is made of the same, even if it was rare enough that it was forced so abruptly to the surface of one's awareness. as for makoto, he doesn't seem to care in the slightest that a rivulet of bright blood was running down the pale sweep of his neck and beneath the hem of the white robe he had been given. so what if it did? he will not be wearing this stupid thing forever — either circumstances will change and he will be able to find some real clothes, or they will all imminently perish. until then, the scarlet bloom of blood staining the fabric is something he would wear with pride.
he expects the consequences, both positive and negative, of each and every thing he does. he knows there's only so much he can push this human before he breaks rather than bends — it's just finding where that line lies. his search didn't go on very long. there's precious little makoto can do in this situation to minimize damage, but he recoils as best he can at the sharp and sudden movement; even still, there's a sharp hiss of pain through his teeth as several more of the stitches are disturbed, either loosened or altogether ruined. it wouldn't be that much of a concern if he had his effects on him. without needle and thread, he wouldn't be able to appropriately fix this issue. until he could, it would only scab and ache.
a calculated risk. recovering from the snap of pain that the withdrawal had caused, he reassumes his serpentine smile, balling the long end of one sleeve of his robe so he can press it to the seeping wound. he doesn't take his eyes off of gen's face, even as the other teenager wipes his hand off on the front of his own robe.
no fun. but, then again, he's already gotten more surprise and enjoyment out of him than he expected at this point, so he decides to give up the ghost of the charade for now. he doesn't think there's anything he loses from sharing at least some information, though full and comprehensive pictures were things that makoto jealously kept for himself.
the other boy is kind enough to let him go. makoto gingerly recovers his composure, not wanting to further traumatize the stitches; one of his hands presses the sleeve to his neck and the other combs his fingers through his hair to rectify whatever dishevelment gen had inflicted before sweeping it over his shoulders and away from the blood. he keeps his silence, instead watchful as he observes the way the stranger ruminates over his bloodied hand for a long moment before speaking up once more.
for a moment, it seems he might keep his secrets. then, seemingly apropos of nothing, )Demon. That's your correct answer. ( he takes a breath, ) And this, ( his eyes flick downwards then, toward his throat, ) means I wasn't always one.
( he surveys the guards appraisingly; one might think he was seriously considering it, but, really, he has no affinity for the pain that comes along with this, but arguing would be lying — especially given the last reason he'd had for having to re-affix the stitches around his neck. not that he was above lying, of course, but only when it had a positive outcome for him. instead he resolves to return his unusual gaze back to gen, replying, ) And face the ignominy of one of those whips again? I think not. ( he rolls his thin shoulders in a shrug, continuing in a tone that verges on "long-suffering," ) No, if I decide it's time for another divorce between my head and shoulders, you've already proven yourself more than apt to wrench it off for me.
no subject
only the seam which forms in the parting of skin — the sensations of subcutaneous layers of fat, of ruptured blood vessels still thrumming with pulse, of taut sheets and strings of muscle. each and every human being is made of the same, even if it was rare enough that it was forced so abruptly to the surface of one's awareness. as for makoto, he doesn't seem to care in the slightest that a rivulet of bright blood was running down the pale sweep of his neck and beneath the hem of the white robe he had been given. so what if it did? he will not be wearing this stupid thing forever — either circumstances will change and he will be able to find some real clothes, or they will all imminently perish. until then, the scarlet bloom of blood staining the fabric is something he would wear with pride.
he expects the consequences, both positive and negative, of each and every thing he does. he knows there's only so much he can push this human before he breaks rather than bends — it's just finding where that line lies. his search didn't go on very long. there's precious little makoto can do in this situation to minimize damage, but he recoils as best he can at the sharp and sudden movement; even still, there's a sharp hiss of pain through his teeth as several more of the stitches are disturbed, either loosened or altogether ruined. it wouldn't be that much of a concern if he had his effects on him. without needle and thread, he wouldn't be able to appropriately fix this issue. until he could, it would only scab and ache.
a calculated risk. recovering from the snap of pain that the withdrawal had caused, he reassumes his serpentine smile, balling the long end of one sleeve of his robe so he can press it to the seeping wound. he doesn't take his eyes off of gen's face, even as the other teenager wipes his hand off on the front of his own robe.
no fun. but, then again, he's already gotten more surprise and enjoyment out of him than he expected at this point, so he decides to give up the ghost of the charade for now. he doesn't think there's anything he loses from sharing at least some information, though full and comprehensive pictures were things that makoto jealously kept for himself.
the other boy is kind enough to let him go. makoto gingerly recovers his composure, not wanting to further traumatize the stitches; one of his hands presses the sleeve to his neck and the other combs his fingers through his hair to rectify whatever dishevelment gen had inflicted before sweeping it over his shoulders and away from the blood. he keeps his silence, instead watchful as he observes the way the stranger ruminates over his bloodied hand for a long moment before speaking up once more.
for a moment, it seems he might keep his secrets. then, seemingly apropos of nothing, ) Demon. That's your correct answer. ( he takes a breath, ) And this, ( his eyes flick downwards then, toward his throat, ) means I wasn't always one.
( he surveys the guards appraisingly; one might think he was seriously considering it, but, really, he has no affinity for the pain that comes along with this, but arguing would be lying — especially given the last reason he'd had for having to re-affix the stitches around his neck. not that he was above lying, of course, but only when it had a positive outcome for him. instead he resolves to return his unusual gaze back to gen, replying, ) And face the ignominy of one of those whips again? I think not. ( he rolls his thin shoulders in a shrug, continuing in a tone that verges on "long-suffering," ) No, if I decide it's time for another divorce between my head and shoulders, you've already proven yourself more than apt to wrench it off for me.