( makoto knows better than anyone else on horos not to engage foolishly with J in a combat of words, especially when he had to meet J's silvered tongue with a stolen one of his own that far more often than he wished lashed out in anger rather than the trademark premeditation and control of a highly-ranked demon.
so he doesn't attempt to correct him or re-contextualize his own statements, knowing there was no point to it; the sudden roar of his ire ebbs away like a retreating tide — still there, of course, but waiting for whatever would serve as its next beckoning moon, to cause it to once more surge past its bounds.
because ultimately, J is right. he had tipped his hand for something that went far deeper than what he had immediately responded to.
the silence stretches longer than would be strategically advantageous. it's a sign of weakness, after all, not to have a rejoinder ready and waiting, lining the arch of one's tongue like a silvered scourge. unbound by the laws of hell, he's neglected to continue to polish these skills in addition to the ones that he's picked up since arriving in horos.
eventually, in a low and overly-guarded undertone: ) I will not allow you to grow bored of me and toss me aside.
( thinking of that anxiety brings back memories of datenshou and how J had acted around him, controlling and cajoling, but perfect in his understanding of the other man's capabilities — makoto's former boss and J's former ward had at one point in the last hundred or so years stopped being interesting to the man, had stopped growing and proving surprising, and so he'd simply become another object in his life to be picked up and utilized when useful. that possibility, no matter how outlandish it might seem to J, has haunted him with increasing frequency of late. the specters of J's former wards had never tormented him so much in hell, not nearly so much as whatever lie in the man's past that seemed to distract his attention away from him, but —
perhaps it's a bit of both. makoto can't reach into J's mind and tear away whoever still conflicted his thoughts (not yet, anyway), so instead he redirects that anger and hatred to whomever is the current object of his attention, falling victim to a minor fault-line of insecurity that he hadn't yet realized he had. )
no subject
so he doesn't attempt to correct him or re-contextualize his own statements, knowing there was no point to it; the sudden roar of his ire ebbs away like a retreating tide — still there, of course, but waiting for whatever would serve as its next beckoning moon, to cause it to once more surge past its bounds.
because ultimately, J is right. he had tipped his hand for something that went far deeper than what he had immediately responded to.
the silence stretches longer than would be strategically advantageous. it's a sign of weakness, after all, not to have a rejoinder ready and waiting, lining the arch of one's tongue like a silvered scourge. unbound by the laws of hell, he's neglected to continue to polish these skills in addition to the ones that he's picked up since arriving in horos.
eventually, in a low and overly-guarded undertone: ) I will not allow you to grow bored of me and toss me aside.
( thinking of that anxiety brings back memories of datenshou and how J had acted around him, controlling and cajoling, but perfect in his understanding of the other man's capabilities — makoto's former boss and J's former ward had at one point in the last hundred or so years stopped being interesting to the man, had stopped growing and proving surprising, and so he'd simply become another object in his life to be picked up and utilized when useful. that possibility, no matter how outlandish it might seem to J, has haunted him with increasing frequency of late. the specters of J's former wards had never tormented him so much in hell, not nearly so much as whatever lie in the man's past that seemed to distract his attention away from him, but —
perhaps it's a bit of both. makoto can't reach into J's mind and tear away whoever still conflicted his thoughts (not yet, anyway), so instead he redirects that anger and hatred to whomever is the current object of his attention, falling victim to a minor fault-line of insecurity that he hadn't yet realized he had. )