( he almost starts to allow himself to think of how things might have gone if there had been someone — anyone — to believe in him as much as abel does now before he had gotten to this point. when he had been human... would it have been enough to break his downward spiral of crippling despair? to make him think that there might be some place for him, somewhere, and that he wouldn't live a full lifetime of being trapped in a room with the wild tiger of his own thoughts and desires, desperate to break loose and satisfy themselves at his own expense? that he wouldn't end up one day killed by the man under whose roof he'd lived, willing to go to the point of murdering his own son just to destroy the possibility of an embarrassment to his family that he would never be able to move past? or perhaps even when he had been a demon, but freshly so, still not yet having lost all the trappings of his humanity and soft-heartedness.
he nearly thinks about it, but then he stops. there's no point. it simply hadn't been the case, and even if it had, would it really have changed anything? nearly twenty years have taught makoto that whatever unseemly and macabre fascination that he has, it's indelible and inextricable from who he is. was there really any good and hopeful end for someone like that? someone who would only ever want to live at the detriment of others, to whom perhaps the greatest kindness that could be extended was a compassionate death?
well. it's not to say abel would never have the chance to offer such a thing to him. the road into the future is long and ever-winding.
as abel had started to speak, makoto rose from the booth though, he pauses there at the man's words. his pale eyes fall to him, nearly hidden beneath the dark fringe of hair, and behind practiced inscrutability... there is something else. something so new to him that he can't really find a good way to prevent it from drifting to the surface. confusion. disbelief. even with all the evidence he's had of the man up until this point, doggedly attempting to carve out a place at makoto's side in an attempt to support him in whatever foolish way he could... he still can't find himself to believe it.
so the main thing that gaze says to him is, why?
abel speaks with conviction, and it robs makoto of his own. his voices seems to wither in his throat, and he buys himself time by reaching into a pocket and placing several jools on the table — enough for both of the drinks and a considerable tip.
and then he turns and moves to leave, only finding his voice enough to reply, ) Until next time, Abel.
as good a time as any to wrap this one up 😇
he nearly thinks about it, but then he stops. there's no point. it simply hadn't been the case, and even if it had, would it really have changed anything? nearly twenty years have taught makoto that whatever unseemly and macabre fascination that he has, it's indelible and inextricable from who he is. was there really any good and hopeful end for someone like that? someone who would only ever want to live at the detriment of others, to whom perhaps the greatest kindness that could be extended was a compassionate death?
well. it's not to say abel would never have the chance to offer such a thing to him. the road into the future is long and ever-winding.
as abel had started to speak, makoto rose from the booth though, he pauses there at the man's words. his pale eyes fall to him, nearly hidden beneath the dark fringe of hair, and behind practiced inscrutability... there is something else. something so new to him that he can't really find a good way to prevent it from drifting to the surface. confusion. disbelief. even with all the evidence he's had of the man up until this point, doggedly attempting to carve out a place at makoto's side in an attempt to support him in whatever foolish way he could... he still can't find himself to believe it.
so the main thing that gaze says to him is, why?
abel speaks with conviction, and it robs makoto of his own. his voices seems to wither in his throat, and he buys himself time by reaching into a pocket and placing several jools on the table — enough for both of the drinks and a considerable tip.
and then he turns and moves to leave, only finding his voice enough to reply, ) Until next time, Abel.