( makoto would, of course, argue otherwise. he would like to believe that he is truly separate from who and what he had once been, or at least as much as a snake might be from its shed skin — that the demon he was now had invaded, devoured, and metabolized the hesitant, conflicted, and soft-hearted young man he had once been, leaving nothing behind but what one saw now. if he could sit across from his own self of four or so years ago, he would pick him apart for his weaknesses — cowardly, deluded, pathetic. he would do this and claim not to be self-loathing, as if he'd purged that tendency towards self-deception from himself as well.
abel is not wrong. a careless eye might look at makoto and see one grasping for power for power's sake, but the truth of the matter is that it's always been a means of an end for him. his world was a very narrow one — narrow enough that it essentially tunneled toward one individual, and no matter what did, no matter what he tried, he couldn't seem to get that man to look at him. to really look at him, and to see him for what he was and not just some toy to be played with until it broke, and then discarded.
when others turn such a dismissive eye to him, it provides a spark for kindling they might not have been aware is there. and then it all becomes a matter of desperation: if he is to be thrown away out of hand, he might as well make such a fucking mess of whatever he can that they wouldn't dare to do so again.
his eyes and ears are far too trained not to pick up immediately on the subtle shift in abel's demeanor, the way he seems to have removed the guard from the edges of his tone. it's like a shock to the system — a sudden splash of cold water that caused the lungs to seize up in an unbidden gasp. he maintains his composure far better than that, but there's a slight gap, the faintest amount of uncertainty beginning to creep into his unnatural gaze. that is, of course, until it begins to war in earnest with anger. an anger that flared up and boiled with such sudden, white-hot intensity that its violence was clear and inherent.
for a moment he entertains himself with hypothetical notions. he imagines himself tearing free the long dagger he keeps hidden in one boot, of lunging across the table and finding the man's heart with its lethal point, just as his father had once done to him before expiring in a gout of bone and ash. he paints the walls of his mind with this vivid, macabre tableau for just a moment, and then he takes a deep breath, dispelling it.
he drains the rest of his drink, setting the glass back down on the table and carefully pushing it across its time-scarred surface toward its edge. buying time.
he looks back up to abel once this is done, eyes as cold and harsh as chips of ice, his voice made impersonal by its over-measuredness the surgical way with which he lines up his words, enunciating each syllable clearly, ) I no longer think about what it is that I deserve.
( once, he had, and his only solution was death. again, he had — he had thought that maybe, after exchanging his circumstances and doing he was told, he might deserve something better. again, he had been wrong.
no. there's nothing anyone inherently deserves. there is only what one can claim. there is only what one can take.
wittingly or not, abel has pried at some of makoto's most tenuous wounds, aggravating his sense of ego, undermining what he had painstakingly learned over the last few years, attempting to speak broadly about what he deserves when he has no idea what he's done and what he's ultimately capable of doing. bitterness crawls up his throat, overtaking the sickly-sweet aftertaste of alcohol. he looks away. )
Are we done here?
( he's come and answered abel's questions. he doesn't want to sit any longer, just to be insulted — that, and he doesn't want to think about why those "insults" sneak beneath his guard and burrow so deeply into him as they do. )
no subject
abel is not wrong. a careless eye might look at makoto and see one grasping for power for power's sake, but the truth of the matter is that it's always been a means of an end for him. his world was a very narrow one — narrow enough that it essentially tunneled toward one individual, and no matter what did, no matter what he tried, he couldn't seem to get that man to look at him. to really look at him, and to see him for what he was and not just some toy to be played with until it broke, and then discarded.
when others turn such a dismissive eye to him, it provides a spark for kindling they might not have been aware is there. and then it all becomes a matter of desperation: if he is to be thrown away out of hand, he might as well make such a fucking mess of whatever he can that they wouldn't dare to do so again.
his eyes and ears are far too trained not to pick up immediately on the subtle shift in abel's demeanor, the way he seems to have removed the guard from the edges of his tone. it's like a shock to the system — a sudden splash of cold water that caused the lungs to seize up in an unbidden gasp. he maintains his composure far better than that, but there's a slight gap, the faintest amount of uncertainty beginning to creep into his unnatural gaze. that is, of course, until it begins to war in earnest with anger. an anger that flared up and boiled with such sudden, white-hot intensity that its violence was clear and inherent.
for a moment he entertains himself with hypothetical notions. he imagines himself tearing free the long dagger he keeps hidden in one boot, of lunging across the table and finding the man's heart with its lethal point, just as his father had once done to him before expiring in a gout of bone and ash. he paints the walls of his mind with this vivid, macabre tableau for just a moment, and then he takes a deep breath, dispelling it.
he drains the rest of his drink, setting the glass back down on the table and carefully pushing it across its time-scarred surface toward its edge. buying time.
he looks back up to abel once this is done, eyes as cold and harsh as chips of ice, his voice made impersonal by its over-measuredness the surgical way with which he lines up his words, enunciating each syllable clearly, ) I no longer think about what it is that I deserve.
( once, he had, and his only solution was death. again, he had — he had thought that maybe, after exchanging his circumstances and doing he was told, he might deserve something better. again, he had been wrong.
no. there's nothing anyone inherently deserves. there is only what one can claim. there is only what one can take.
wittingly or not, abel has pried at some of makoto's most tenuous wounds, aggravating his sense of ego, undermining what he had painstakingly learned over the last few years, attempting to speak broadly about what he deserves when he has no idea what he's done and what he's ultimately capable of doing. bitterness crawls up his throat, overtaking the sickly-sweet aftertaste of alcohol. he looks away. )
Are we done here?
( he's come and answered abel's questions. he doesn't want to sit any longer, just to be insulted — that, and he doesn't want to think about why those "insults" sneak beneath his guard and burrow so deeply into him as they do. )