( makoto has so rarely been in a position where he can seek comfort.
comfort, compassion, succor, grace — these were not common gifts to be given in hell. hell, where love was damnation, and strength and power were extracted from an expectation of what misery one could expect should those that have it not be shown their proper respect. and even before those few, short years which had felt as though they'd hastily overwritten the lifetime of years he'd had before them, he had never truly been given these gifts by those from which they would have mattered most. his family had been a barren field, from which seeds had refused to sprout and grow. he knows he had not made it any easier on them — he had never been able to become anything more or different than what he was, and he had always ever been, as J had said, ill-suited to life on earth as a human being.
as a demon in hell, he had been able to flourish. but it had been hard. when he had been at his most frightened, his most overwhelmed, he had had to force J's arms around him and entreat him for comfort he felt he should have been owed. he had never been asked prior to being forced into situations he didn't want to be in. he had eventually accepted them, embraced them to the fullest extent of his ability, because he decided he would take any opportunity given to hone himself into a weapon. it's perhaps ironic that trading in intimacy and soft secrets had transformed him into such a cold, harsh, and remote creature. the reflections that he surrounds himself are that which others gravitate to, and they invite in, but they only ever get lost within the illusory fields that he surrounds himself with. there is a disconnect between this body that J had given him, one that he trades and sells at a moment's notice in order to further himself and get what he wants, and the wild heart that beats with reckless and furious abandon at its core. it's metaphorical and metaphysical — as fine and distinct as the difference between "M," the demon he had portrayed himself to be both in the courts of hell and across the scapes of horos, and makoto. a chrysalid thing who had not yet fully transformed into what he should (what he must?) become.
a name has weight, importance. the implication of an inherent power dynamic. makoto has always been jealous with his — in hell, there were no demons that might know it but J and datenshou. he might not remember with any real accuracy or acuity what happened on horos, but he knows he would not have been any more liberal with the use of his name there as he would have been back home, where a demon's true name was as lethal as a knife.
he feels the strokes of the "M" across his shoulder blades, and he understands, but as dextera continues, the demon grows more tense, breath at first catching in his throat and held in suspended animation for a long moment before it rattles out in a surprised confusion that thrills between fear and wonder. as he lifts his head once more, he moves his right hand to the back of dextera's neck; his thin fingers curve around the column of his spine to hang off of him somewhat. with the very border of a dirtied thumbnail, he can trace the corner of the young man's jaw.
makoto stares, both unblinking and vaguely disbelieving, at dextera as if he is some sort of miracle presented to him. in a way, he is. he represents something so wildly unlikely having occurred that he can scarcely believe it happened, even when presented with the evidence of it here and now. had he really found someone he would trust so much and so implicitly?
his fortunes have always been rotten. why does he find him again now? can he trust this? it almost makes him want to push it away, makes him want to not believe he could be so auspicious, but —
with a short, faintly hoarse laugh. ) You finding me here might be one of the only instances of genuine luck I've ever had.
( or would it be like all of the others? he had thought himself "lucky" after J had taken a liking to him, after he had offered him life and love as a demon in his so-called afterlife. that wine had turned to vinegar surprisingly quickly.
he breathes out a small sigh, trying to suppress the more internal of his demons. ) Will you lead me away from this place? I'm tired of feeling like I'm within my own grave.
no subject
comfort, compassion, succor, grace — these were not common gifts to be given in hell. hell, where love was damnation, and strength and power were extracted from an expectation of what misery one could expect should those that have it not be shown their proper respect. and even before those few, short years which had felt as though they'd hastily overwritten the lifetime of years he'd had before them, he had never truly been given these gifts by those from which they would have mattered most. his family had been a barren field, from which seeds had refused to sprout and grow. he knows he had not made it any easier on them — he had never been able to become anything more or different than what he was, and he had always ever been, as J had said, ill-suited to life on earth as a human being.
as a demon in hell, he had been able to flourish. but it had been hard. when he had been at his most frightened, his most overwhelmed, he had had to force J's arms around him and entreat him for comfort he felt he should have been owed. he had never been asked prior to being forced into situations he didn't want to be in. he had eventually accepted them, embraced them to the fullest extent of his ability, because he decided he would take any opportunity given to hone himself into a weapon. it's perhaps ironic that trading in intimacy and soft secrets had transformed him into such a cold, harsh, and remote creature. the reflections that he surrounds himself are that which others gravitate to, and they invite in, but they only ever get lost within the illusory fields that he surrounds himself with. there is a disconnect between this body that J had given him, one that he trades and sells at a moment's notice in order to further himself and get what he wants, and the wild heart that beats with reckless and furious abandon at its core. it's metaphorical and metaphysical — as fine and distinct as the difference between "M," the demon he had portrayed himself to be both in the courts of hell and across the scapes of horos, and makoto. a chrysalid thing who had not yet fully transformed into what he should (what he must?) become.
a name has weight, importance. the implication of an inherent power dynamic. makoto has always been jealous with his — in hell, there were no demons that might know it but J and datenshou. he might not remember with any real accuracy or acuity what happened on horos, but he knows he would not have been any more liberal with the use of his name there as he would have been back home, where a demon's true name was as lethal as a knife.
he feels the strokes of the "M" across his shoulder blades, and he understands, but as dextera continues, the demon grows more tense, breath at first catching in his throat and held in suspended animation for a long moment before it rattles out in a surprised confusion that thrills between fear and wonder. as he lifts his head once more, he moves his right hand to the back of dextera's neck; his thin fingers curve around the column of his spine to hang off of him somewhat. with the very border of a dirtied thumbnail, he can trace the corner of the young man's jaw.
makoto stares, both unblinking and vaguely disbelieving, at dextera as if he is some sort of miracle presented to him. in a way, he is. he represents something so wildly unlikely having occurred that he can scarcely believe it happened, even when presented with the evidence of it here and now. had he really found someone he would trust so much and so implicitly?
his fortunes have always been rotten. why does he find him again now? can he trust this? it almost makes him want to push it away, makes him want to not believe he could be so auspicious, but —
with a short, faintly hoarse laugh. ) You finding me here might be one of the only instances of genuine luck I've ever had.
( or would it be like all of the others? he had thought himself "lucky" after J had taken a liking to him, after he had offered him life and love as a demon in his so-called afterlife. that wine had turned to vinegar surprisingly quickly.
he breathes out a small sigh, trying to suppress the more internal of his demons. ) Will you lead me away from this place? I'm tired of feeling like I'm within my own grave.