( makoto tends to react just as any might to certain irritations that J can give him on a day-by-day basis — he vividly ideates murdering the man, of tearing through his flesh and spilling his blood and entrails, of throwing them against the wall and painting with him a macabre tableau throughout the entire room. once he had gone so far as to even say as much aloud in the demon's presence (knowingly, mind), and when J had brought attention to it, he had stood his ground.

"stop talking about it and learn how to do it."

as if it were that fucking easy.

perhaps it was a reflexive memory of that moment that causes makoto to take such ire in this moment; his whims have always been fickle things, and there's something dark and mocking in his strange eyes that seems to beg the ribika to do just that. dig those sharp claws into the stitched wound of his throat. tear the stitches, spill his blood, make him gasp in pain. would that fix the situation he awakens to now? would that make him feel better?

he doesn't move, doesn't so much as flinch at the spit. he does frown, just a bit, and only after the fact. he drops leaks' hand as if he were a child discarding a toy that had fallen out of favor, reaching up to swipe the saliva away with the pad of his thumb. he looks at it thoughtfully before wiping it away on his lapel. )

Well, you at the very least have some fight in you.

Tell me, ( he still has a fistful of the cat's hair, and he forces it back further still, pale eyes burning as they return to him. ) What did you hope to see before you opened your eyes in this place?