( the strange silver-and-crimson gaze bores into abel, unblinking, at the question. his composure is near-perfect, a pristine mask hand-crafted for the purpose of politicking with demons in hell, where ironclad law declared that the perception of one's power breathed it to life. sadly those rules do not apply here (if they did, makoto would have far greater of an advantage), but old habits die hard — there's the sense of a reptilian sort of calculation occurring behind those eyes, even if he gives no expressive hint of it.
after a moment, he moves, shifting so that he leans with one arm onto the table between them. his mien suddenly grows intense, as if a lens had been lowered to focus all of the beams of his attention into something harsh and laser-like. his words have an edge like a knife, cutting and steel. )
Never once have I lied to you, Abel. Not in any of the conversations we've shared. ( his gaze averts for a half-second, as if something occurs to him, and then he amends, ) Well. Not unless you asked me to.
( their first meeting: abel had vastly preferred the nonsensical hypotheticals that makoto could spin over his brusque stabs at what he thought their harsh reality might be.
this seems an important point for him to make right now, as if it was a point of pride or... something else similarly important. if one was to take him at his word, it would mean that he had been telling the truth in calling the man his friend — and though that term can be a little foggy when it comes to this particular demon, he wouldn't call it inaccurate. in his eyes, he respects him by speaking with him honestly, but... that only went so far. specifically: it only went so far as the truth might, though that wouldn't be the case if a lie suddenly made things easier or more beneficial for him. all of this, too, he would expect in return from a "friend" of his, but... he's spent his last five years among demons.
all that momentary fire and severity leaves him as he conversationally pivots to answer the other question; it's actually with surprising nonchalance that he cants his head to one side and replies in a rather flat tone, ) Did you expect to prise self-loathing from me? Ugh, it's nothing so tiresome. ( he leans back in his seat, reaching out so that he can take another long sip from the drink. he sets it back down and makes a gesture with the other hand. ) I don't waste my time in thinking that there's some universal moral structure we must judge our actions by, made either by man or society or handed down by God. ( he had, once. back then he had still been human, still gentle-hearted enough to feel conflicted over what he wanted, to feel overwhelming fear and aversion that it might one day cause him to hurt or kill someone. needless to say, that version of him was long dead — or so deeply buried that it would be a mercy that he never resurfaced, lest he come to realize the monster he'd grown to become. )
What I do believe is this: there are actions, and there are consequences. Had I recovered the dragoon's shard and disappeared prior to anyone — or anything — appearing on the scene, things would have gone very differently, but that simply wasn't the case. I accept that what I face now are the consequences of both my actions and my failures. ( it doesn't mean he has to accept any of it quietly, mind you, but he's not foolish enough to think he hadn't authored this situation entirely himself. his thin shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. ) It's as simple as that.
no need to apologize!
after a moment, he moves, shifting so that he leans with one arm onto the table between them. his mien suddenly grows intense, as if a lens had been lowered to focus all of the beams of his attention into something harsh and laser-like. his words have an edge like a knife, cutting and steel. )
Never once have I lied to you, Abel. Not in any of the conversations we've shared. ( his gaze averts for a half-second, as if something occurs to him, and then he amends, ) Well. Not unless you asked me to.
( their first meeting: abel had vastly preferred the nonsensical hypotheticals that makoto could spin over his brusque stabs at what he thought their harsh reality might be.
this seems an important point for him to make right now, as if it was a point of pride or... something else similarly important. if one was to take him at his word, it would mean that he had been telling the truth in calling the man his friend — and though that term can be a little foggy when it comes to this particular demon, he wouldn't call it inaccurate. in his eyes, he respects him by speaking with him honestly, but... that only went so far. specifically: it only went so far as the truth might, though that wouldn't be the case if a lie suddenly made things easier or more beneficial for him. all of this, too, he would expect in return from a "friend" of his, but... he's spent his last five years among demons.
all that momentary fire and severity leaves him as he conversationally pivots to answer the other question; it's actually with surprising nonchalance that he cants his head to one side and replies in a rather flat tone, ) Did you expect to prise self-loathing from me? Ugh, it's nothing so tiresome. ( he leans back in his seat, reaching out so that he can take another long sip from the drink. he sets it back down and makes a gesture with the other hand. ) I don't waste my time in thinking that there's some universal moral structure we must judge our actions by, made either by man or society or handed down by God. ( he had, once. back then he had still been human, still gentle-hearted enough to feel conflicted over what he wanted, to feel overwhelming fear and aversion that it might one day cause him to hurt or kill someone. needless to say, that version of him was long dead — or so deeply buried that it would be a mercy that he never resurfaced, lest he come to realize the monster he'd grown to become. )
What I do believe is this: there are actions, and there are consequences. Had I recovered the dragoon's shard and disappeared prior to anyone — or anything — appearing on the scene, things would have gone very differently, but that simply wasn't the case. I accept that what I face now are the consequences of both my actions and my failures. ( it doesn't mean he has to accept any of it quietly, mind you, but he's not foolish enough to think he hadn't authored this situation entirely himself. his thin shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. ) It's as simple as that.