( it's probably for the best that at the time his retainer answered the door for J, makoto had been fumbling through the loose gossamer folds of half-sleep, vaguely aware of the sounds at the door but feeling the pressure and weight of exhaustion trying to sink him back down once more. it had been the name "J" that had given him enough of a jolt of adrenaline to shake the worst of the drowsiness away — and, again, for the best of all of them, given that if kivander had continued to prevent J entry, he likely would have suffered greatly for it. the man was likely well aware of that fact, but he had been given the strict order to turn away visitors at the door, and makoto had neglected to make his one exception clear. achamites are no cowards when it comes to taking great risks for the sake of principle, and their soldiers perhaps even more so. it would have been a shame to lose such a useful man in such a way, but... well, fortunately it doesn't come to that.
simply a minor thing to have momentarily slipped his mind, given how in a hurry he'd been to collapse into bed. it wouldn't happen again.
physical injury is a temporary setback for makoto; he might have gotten used to this song and dance routine by now, but it still seems to unsettle J, who might have otherwise been lulled into a sense of security in hell given that the boy would not have the ability to die so long as he still commanded power over his name. in horos, that power dynamic was altogether shifted, and the brazenness that makoto came by naturally and which alternatingly manifested as foolhardy, bullheaded, or stunningly brave (depending on the situation and the lens it was viewed through) now actually ran the risk of landing him into genuine trouble. he doesn't seem to see the problem, either blind or willfully ignorant to the danger. it's always been in his nature, having so little naturally and having to grasp and steal whatever he might need to get by, to endeavor enormously. his unnatural tenacity is the only ability of his that is inherent and innate. given their circumstances, he doesn't think this is the place or the time for half-measures, and so he has often thrown himself into the teeth of conflicts perhaps outside of his ken — it's stupid luck that he hasn't faced more serious consequences for it yet. regardless, his situation doesn't seem to affect his demeanor; he's just as bratty and impetuous with his demonic master as ever.
his expression twists into a pout, nose wrinkling and eyes squeezing closed beneath a furrowed brow, and he grouses, ) I was sleeping,( as if that explained everything away. at this time of day, it's not really the prime hour for sleeping, but... well, in the hours between his reappearance in the Regent's throne room and the other Aions beginning to return back from venera and godsblood, he's been keeping a rather eclectic sleeping schedule.
when his eyes open, J is there, having approached with all the subtlety of a summer breeze. makoto's eyes go wide; there's something about seeing the man after any time they spend apart that feels like seeing him for the first time again, or like seeing him after three long years. it causes something wild and untamable and impossible to define to swell and billow within his chest, gently tugging the threads of his common sense (and common decency) even further loose than they already are. if J thinks that merely looming just out of reach is going to inhibit him in any way, he's dead wrong. it takes a few moments, but his expression once more contorts in irritation, and he sits up and leans forward to wrap his arms around the demon and try to drag him down into the bed with him, desires made more plain with his actions and his words. )
I said, come here.
( one of his arms wraps around J's back, hand splayed open over his shoulder, and the other encircles his waist, fingers finding their way into the nest of soft, downy feathers that cover the place where his wings conjoin to the small of his back. heedless of J's size and weight — he doesn't care if every wound he sustained rips itself open in tandem in the process (though that was rather unlikely). if he's in a mood to give makoto what he wants, this is what he wants: to hold him in his arms and be held in return, to feel and to smell the warmth of his skin, to lay his head against his chest and to hear the mechanics of life whirring within (thinking about what they must look like when removed from the privacy of their interiority, opened up to his eyes and his hands and his teeth—). )
Just rest with me a while.
( makoto hadn't lied to him when he had said that every minute he spent apart from him was a minute he'd spent thinking about him. when together, it only seems to get worse — an ensorcellment he couldn't unravel even if he wanted to, a fever that never seemed to break, a drug that had become a chemical dependency. when forced beneath a torrent of pain, despair, loss, hopelessness, and malaise, it had taken everything he had not to fall apart and dissolve into much the same. but he had kept himself together by force, and one of the things that he hadn't been able to stop thinking about was him. something more powerful and more pervasive than merely being the object of his quest for revenge. he still doesn't really understand it, and he might not for a while still. )
no subject
simply a minor thing to have momentarily slipped his mind, given how in a hurry he'd been to collapse into bed. it wouldn't happen again.
physical injury is a temporary setback for makoto; he might have gotten used to this song and dance routine by now, but it still seems to unsettle J, who might have otherwise been lulled into a sense of security in hell given that the boy would not have the ability to die so long as he still commanded power over his name. in horos, that power dynamic was altogether shifted, and the brazenness that makoto came by naturally and which alternatingly manifested as foolhardy, bullheaded, or stunningly brave (depending on the situation and the lens it was viewed through) now actually ran the risk of landing him into genuine trouble. he doesn't seem to see the problem, either blind or willfully ignorant to the danger. it's always been in his nature, having so little naturally and having to grasp and steal whatever he might need to get by, to endeavor enormously. his unnatural tenacity is the only ability of his that is inherent and innate. given their circumstances, he doesn't think this is the place or the time for half-measures, and so he has often thrown himself into the teeth of conflicts perhaps outside of his ken — it's stupid luck that he hasn't faced more serious consequences for it yet. regardless, his situation doesn't seem to affect his demeanor; he's just as bratty and impetuous with his demonic master as ever.
his expression twists into a pout, nose wrinkling and eyes squeezing closed beneath a furrowed brow, and he grouses, ) I was sleeping, ( as if that explained everything away. at this time of day, it's not really the prime hour for sleeping, but... well, in the hours between his reappearance in the Regent's throne room and the other Aions beginning to return back from venera and godsblood, he's been keeping a rather eclectic sleeping schedule.
when his eyes open, J is there, having approached with all the subtlety of a summer breeze. makoto's eyes go wide; there's something about seeing the man after any time they spend apart that feels like seeing him for the first time again, or like seeing him after three long years. it causes something wild and untamable and impossible to define to swell and billow within his chest, gently tugging the threads of his common sense (and common decency) even further loose than they already are. if J thinks that merely looming just out of reach is going to inhibit him in any way, he's dead wrong. it takes a few moments, but his expression once more contorts in irritation, and he sits up and leans forward to wrap his arms around the demon and try to drag him down into the bed with him, desires made more plain with his actions and his words. )
I said, come here.
( one of his arms wraps around J's back, hand splayed open over his shoulder, and the other encircles his waist, fingers finding their way into the nest of soft, downy feathers that cover the place where his wings conjoin to the small of his back. heedless of J's size and weight — he doesn't care if every wound he sustained rips itself open in tandem in the process (though that was rather unlikely). if he's in a mood to give makoto what he wants, this is what he wants: to hold him in his arms and be held in return, to feel and to smell the warmth of his skin, to lay his head against his chest and to hear the mechanics of life whirring within (thinking about what they must look like when removed from the privacy of their interiority, opened up to his eyes and his hands and his teeth—). )
Just rest with me a while.
( makoto hadn't lied to him when he had said that every minute he spent apart from him was a minute he'd spent thinking about him. when together, it only seems to get worse — an ensorcellment he couldn't unravel even if he wanted to, a fever that never seemed to break, a drug that had become a chemical dependency. when forced beneath a torrent of pain, despair, loss, hopelessness, and malaise, it had taken everything he had not to fall apart and dissolve into much the same. but he had kept himself together by force, and one of the things that he hadn't been able to stop thinking about was him. something more powerful and more pervasive than merely being the object of his quest for revenge. he still doesn't really understand it, and he might not for a while still. )
I wanted to ask you about something.