[ Abel's gaze lingers on his company across the table for a moment - a moment longer than might be comfortable for the hint of something discerning and uncharacteristically sharp in blue eyes - before it passes. his attention drops to his cuff as he fiddles with some loose thread at his tunic, mumbling under his breath about things falling apart at the seams. ]
Suppose this wasn't entirely a social call, as I'm sure you've already gathered.
[ it doesn't take a genius to put as much together, after all, and Makoto is a smart boy. got a good head on his shoulders (heh) and all that, mm. ]
...It was you. [ even as he plays with that loose string hanging from his sleeve and even if that is where his gaze remains fixed, it is apparent his attention is on the Kenoma comfortably seated in his chair. ]
And I wanted to hear it from you, because... I cannot imagine this was some... some cold-blooded, callous act. I don't want to hear it from anyone else, Mr. M -- I want you to tell me why.
[ why...?
his eyes have finally slid to the demon's, ones that should be unnerving for their inhuman quality - but there is nothing unnerved or unsettled in the priest's attentive, probing expression. if anything, what is most glaring and obvious is the unspoken plea, the deep desire to hear a reason to justify his actions that day in Venera's frozen streets. ]
( it's very likely that others might have wilted or squirmed underneath the almost uncharacteristic intensity that's found its way into the priest's icy gaze, but makoto meets it with level certainty, unwavering and unblinking. despite what he had recently perpetrated in this city, he is no fighter, but before coming here he had sharpened his wit and silvered his tongue to do battle the way that immortal demons did. to subvert and unsettle and confound your opponents, you have to be multiple steps ahead or at the very least give the extremely convincing impression that you did. he shows no sign of faltering even as abel does, his gaze falling to his sleeve as he worries at a loose thread.
at first, makoto lets silence speak for him.
and it persists, even at the so-called accusation and his entreaty for an explanation, though there is some small alchemical change to his expression. the careful veneer of assumed impassivity ripples and creases at its edges, dubious at first and then darkly cynical. )
Can't you?
( unfortunately, getting to the heart of the matter will have to wait a moment, because it's now that the bartender has detached himself from his position to take their orders for drinks. considering the layout of the bar, this doesn't seem to be the usual way things operate, but... perhaps he is acting out of cautious deference, not wanting any trouble cast his way. as soon as he asks, the dark expression disappears makoto's face, replaced in the same instant with a bright and genial smile. he orders a local specialty — clear liquor flavored slightly sweet by a type of fruit they are known for — and then looks to abel expectantly until he similarly gives his order. they had come here to share a drink, after all. he's not about to get too entrenched in their discussion without having at least ordered one.
once the bartender leaves to fill the order, the demon's expression slowly resumes its previous configuration, like a curtain slowly falling upon the stage at the conclusion of the first act.
he leans forward, elbows and wrists resting upon the scarred wood of the table, his fingers interlacing loosely. ) You arrived shortly after I did it, Abel. I never tried to obfuscate this from you or anyone else. ( his voice is smooth and liquid, just as chimerical and insidious as the black ichor that had been forced down their throats in the throne room all those months ago. ) Is there really anything I can tell you now that would make it easier for you to accept? Like... if I said I was possessed of an overwhelming sense of duty or justice, or if I said that he was already in such a sorry and miserable state that I took pity on him and decided simply to free him from his torment... Would that change what you think about it? ( a beat, and he tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side, his strange eyes growing sharper. ) Would it change how any of your allies think about it?
[ it says a great deal that Abel almost fails to recognize the fact that the tender has come to their little out-of-the-way table; his attentions remain attached to Makoto even as the demon offers an all too easy smile, sociable and pleasant, to the Venerian. it comes to him with grace, a poise, that speaks to the familiarity behind this routine.
...Abel trips his way into a smile of his own belatedly as he's prompted for his choice, quickly and distractedly ordering whatever ale is on tap -- he isn't an especially picky man, and nor does he have much interest in the way of drinking, truth be told. it is a means to an end, a social endeavor, a pass time that brings people together. he had wanted an excuse to meet with Makoto -- and he'd gotten one. it served its purpose.
the man is forgotten before he can even fully retreat back behind the bar to see to fulfilling their orders; Abel once more has eyes for the demon and the demon alone. it's obvious that Makoto's answer to his prompting has left him... unsettled. uneasy. concerned, the sort that creases at one's brow and leaves something pinched in the eye. ]
The 'why'... it's important to me.
[ 'to me.' because he had not come here for his allies, nor would he be telling a soul of this meeting unless things should go terribly and horribly awry. he does not anticipate it to. it shouldn't; the priest is aware he can be a fool, but... to miscalculate that badly would be sincerely deplorable. ]
There is a difference between taking a life out of anger or hatred, or out of fear. There's a difference between defending yourself and putting one out of their misery, as well. It doesn't change the end result, and it won't change the inevitable consequences, but... it still matters, Mr. M. It does.
( it's the concern that makes him feel defensive and ready to lash out, like an animal backed into a corner. having only ever received it in limited doses from demons whose sense of "concern" were comparatively warped by their lack of human morality, he can't understand it when it comes from abel or anyone else like him. where is its origin? what is its source? hasn't he given him every reason to give up on it, to smother that traitorous fledgling of an emotion in its crib? even now he tries to frighten him off, to give him safe and logical "outs" to stop caring.
it's easier that way. makoto doesn't know what to do with someone caring about him; not unless their version of it entailed scarring his heart to the fullest extent that he could stand and then saying he's better for what it had taught him.
"to me" is the first verbal stab that finds its way underneath his guard, causing the faintest twinge of a reaction in his expression; a minute twitch at the corner of his eye. it blots out all of the grander arguments that could be had philosophically about what had happened and narrows the focus, limiting it to just the two sitting at this table. that's so much harder to discard out of hand for makoto; he can pontificate about the greater picture, but being asked to explain himself for the sole benefit of one other person, one who already knew more about him than nearly everyone else on horos...
he's silent and contemplative in the wake of abel's justification, his gaze just for a moment casting itself away from his companion's face. but then it returns, seemingly having steeled itself and the mind behind it; he leans a bit closer, continuing in a voice both low and confidential and yet seething with a rawness that still seems to ooze blood: ) A month prior in the Shrine of the Sovereign, he skewered me on the end of his spear, ( he unlaces his fingers and places two of his right hand against his chest, right beneath his ribcage, ) and left me to die there. Apparently, I was so little of a threat to him that I didn't even warrant the dignity of being finished off. Instead, I cursed and writhed and bled and just barely managed to stitch myself back together before returning back to Achamoth — had I not been so fortunate and lost consciousness, it likely would've been a corpse that arrived instead.
( both in the quiet rancor of makoto's voice and in the furious pits of his eyes abel can begin to catch a glimpse of the ocean of anger at the core of the demon's person, an endless cycle of hurt and humiliation and indignation and defiance that keeps him in perpetual motion, regardless of what cost it might have. )
"Why," you ask? Because it was a debt of blood that I was owed, and because I wanted to show him how wrong he was to think that I wasn't even worth the time to dispatch himself. I killed him because I wanted to, Abel, and even after everything that happened, I don't regret it.
( the pain and the brush with death certainly would have given makoto an immense amount of ire to the man, certainly enough to want the same outcome, but it was the dismissal that fanned the flame to a new and personal intensity. his susceptibility to wounds to his so-called "pride" has always been his weakness, and one exploited both by the Regent and J himself. for estinien... the fates had merely conspired to make it play out against his favor. )
[ the small, subtle tells of Makoto's inner musings are things Abel absorbs with rapt attention, a slender finger lifting to gently and absently prod the old-fashioned lenses upright where they sit on his nose. the blue eyes behind them carry all the usual affability, no edge of hardness or condemnation as he listens and takes in the demon's explanation of events. but...
...there is a slow, telling slope of his shoulders that belies his dejection. whether it is in hearing the re-telling of Estinien's undoing from another angle, the violence that had broken out at the Sovereign shrine, or Makoto's perspective - his duress - that elicits such a response matters not. because it isn't any of these things, truthfully, that has the stirrings of grief and the slow sink of understanding settling in the priest's stomach. the thing that does it... it's the roiling churn of a bitter, insatiable rage - the sort that does not brew from one instance of indignation, humiliation, or agony. it is the kind forged through many. innumerable. unending counts of them all, stacking up one another, driving the last in just a little deeper than the one before it.
Abel is quiet in the wake of Makoto's impassioned explanation.
his gaze has managed to fixate at some unimportant, unseen point at the tabletop between them. the demon has made no effort to paint his actions as forgivable - in fact, perhaps there is some vitriolic pride in his actions, a lack of remorse that might make another listener bristle. but this, too, speaks to something laying beneath the surface... something that exists, resides, is swept up in the current of wrath burning in those inhuman eyes. the priest knows better than most precisely what it is, knows that in almost all cases... those whose actions are dictated by, demanded by that righteous, indignant, possessed fury--
are no less susceptible to being consumed, devoured, seared to ash in those flames. ]
...I believe you.
[ it is important to acknowledge this, first and foremost: he appreciates "M" was candid with him. he did not mince words, nor did he paint some favorable picture to garner the priest's sympathy - one they both know might've been rather easily won. the truth is not always pretty, but it is necessary, and contrary to what one might discern about Abel - it is important to look reality in the eye, to him. ]
And I believe you when you say you have no regrets, either. That... that frightens me for you far more than your ability to take his life - not because it speaks to any lack of soul, or because I hoped you felt remorse. But because I know you've tossed yourself right into the fire with such veracity I worry you cannot feel yourself burning, Mr. M.
( makoto had been a student in high school when he had decided to die. or, rather, he had been a student in high school when he had decided that there was no future for him in the life that he had on earth: he would rather summon a demon and sell his soul for a taste of what he had been illicitly craving for years, and then he would be erased, as of yet untarnished by what his desires might one day compel him to do. but... that isn't exactly the entire story. at the time, makoto had also lived in his father's house, and it had been the house of a man who made no secret about how much he despised his son. a morose and macabre child, a disappointment to him both in personality and academic ambition, he had been practical disposable after their elder child had already gone on to accomplish everything they could've ever wanted: makoto's father had wanted to kill him even before he'd summoned J. even before he'd been killed as a mortal and taken into hell. even before, after thirty years of stewing in his hatred, he summoned J in exactly the same way his son had and formed a contract with him to allow him to kill his dead son with his own two hands.
it hadn't been his intention for his death to be the ruin of his family, and yet he'd had that reality forced into him along with the knife that his father had plunged directly into his immortal heart. it was nothing new for makoto to disappoint those around him — just by the nature of being who he is, he's been a walking damnation to those around him since he was old enough to realize it. so he steels himself to abel's reaction, his jaw setting with resignation as he takes in the slump of his shoulders, the bowing of his head, the aversion of his gaze. he tells himself it doesn't mean anything. it had been the other man's mistake for expecting otherwise of a demon. how could he feel wounded for disappointing someone when it had been bound to happen eventually?
regardless of how much he walls off his heart, a change steals across his expression as abel continues. it starts a a twitch in the corner of one eye, then with a seam that forms between his brow and then spreads to crease his forehead. he... doesn't understand. he can't understand. concern, now? sympathy, now? he isn't aware of whatever relationship might exist between abel and estinien, but he has to assume that they are at the very least allies — he would look into the face of his ally's murderer and claim to fear for him, because his lack of remorse spoke more to what might end up befalling him rather than what he's already done or might do in the future...?
in hell, it would be considered a grievous mistake in demonic politicking to express open "confusion." when the perception of control is what literally gives one power, confusion is weakness. makoto makes that grievous mistake now. makoto shows his weakness now.
he doesn't give breath to it. not immediately, anyway. consternation smooths over into dull irritation. )
If that's the case, I'd tossed myself into that fire long before being brought here.
( his tone almost dares to say... so what? can't he see that that's the whole point? makoto doesn't see past the pinnacle of his dreadful quest for revenge. perhaps at one time he had been enchanted by the idea of learning to live as a demon, of managing to find a life that he could be content and happy with, living in the mansion of a kind demon amidst the idyllic rolling hills of hell. but it hadn't even been a month before that had been shattered, and with it any hope of a meaningful "future." what sort of future could be promised to a creature like him? even if he did leave a wake of collateral damage behind him in his climb to reach J — isn't it still the kinder outcome for himself and everyone else around him if he were to disappear after it was accomplished? )
[ Makoto's inability to comprehend Abel's response is predictable, even if it only further speaks to the dissonance lurking inside the demon. with each passing second, with each minute alteration of the Kenoma's expression, with each faint and subtle twitch or tension, involuntary or otherwise - Makoto expresses what he would not put to words. Abel knew it, of course; he would not have said what he did without feeling confident on the subject. he would never presume to have the other man 'figured out,' or even claim to have some deep, solid grasp of his person--
but he knows what someone in pain looks like. he knows what it is to see someone who had been beaten down by his reality, discarded and deemed 'lesser' by others. the insecurity, the inferiority it brews is the truth behind that ruffled pride, Abel thinks; whether he's right or wrong - it doesn't matter. these are his beliefs today, sitting here at this table alongside his friend.
whatever Abel might offer in the way of answer to Makoto's statement is interrupted by the return of the barman who mumbles something almost too low to make out about 'not causing trouble,' sliding their drinks of choice onto the table for each before once more taking his leave. it seems none here are especially interested in lingering at the booth against the far wall.
the priest ignores this delivery for the moment, eyes still fixed somewhere unseeing upon the tabletop - and though the din of the tavern is little more than a subdued buzz of background noise, his voice is so soft as to almost become swallowed by it. ]
Do you believe you have nothing left to lose...?
[ that he had thrown himself into the flames, already found himself consumed by them in their entirety - perhaps even believed that he had done so willingly? does he believe he's mastered it - the feeling of his insides being rendered to a charred, spiteful content that only need survive long enough to see his objective through?
what a sad, horrid thought. ]
If that's the case... if that's truly what you think-- if you really believe that... I fear you'll discover there is always something more to lose, in time.
[ though his hands finally come to reach out and cup the frosted mug and to drag it toward him absently, it is apparent that his attention remains on the youth with those inhuman eyes. ]
Numbing yourself to the pain of being flayed alive-- it's issuing a challenge. It's asking the universe to teach you that you can feel a pain far worse. And... I don't want to see you suffer it. I don't want you to see what comes next if you continue down the path you've chosen.
( it's uncertain whether or not he knows that there's any other way to live. has there ever been any portion of makoto's short life where he's been genuinely happy? content? hopeful for the future? it's questionable — even when he had been young, he had been a withdrawn and strange sort of child, and one that didn't perform to the stringent social or academic standards that his parents had set out for him. living in his elder brother's longer shadow, a constant discomfort or disappointment to his family, he had given up trying to unearth some piece of affection from their scorn. and when he'd been brought into hell... well, if you ignore those days he had spent with his head sewn onto the body of a dog, living chained up to a doghouse outside of J's mansion (and it's rather hard to ignore or forget those days), maybe. maybe there had been a total of three or so days after he'd been given his new body and before J had thrown him into datenshou's brothel that he had felt happy. he thought he would be living in the lavish home of a kind demon — his own personal messiah — who would help him learn to live in this new world that wouldn't reject him like his last one had.
a maximum of three days he had felt that new, bizarre, heart-racing sensation of hope. and then J had told him he would be accelerating his studies on hell by working elsewhere, and he had thrown him to datenshou with the promise that if he proved to be too troublesome, he could be dismembered and thrown into different warehouses for the harm he'd caused. it had been a sobering lesson — whenever he felt the traitorous and fledgling feelings of optimism stirring in his chest, he needed clamp them down in a vice grip and brace for whatever fresh torment awaited him around the next corner. it always did.
once again putting on his cordial mask for the barkeeper, makoto accepts his drink and slides it over in front of him, fingertips tracing the cool glass until the moment that abel continues.
of course not is the obvious answer. their brush with that entity of the Innocent in venera had taught him a brand new sort of fear: that of losing himself, of losing his edge and his drive, of wasting away as exactly the kind of slovenly churl that he held in the greatest contempt. but as abel speaks, makoto likely has... a reaction that he doesn't expect. something seems to surprise him in what he says, and a bitter sort of smile squirms across his face; he starts to laugh, first as a chuckle and then escalating into a silent spasm that shakes his shoulders as he slumps forward onto the table between them, his head falling into one hand supported by an elbow.
it's one of makoto's more disconcerting social qualities, to be so chimerical — to fluctuate from deathly severity to tremulous vulnerability to a cascade of laughter from moment to moment. it's something that had even put seasoned demons of hell on edge. he ends up regaining himself, looking up at his friend through a fringe of wavy dark hair, replying in what sound like fairly good spirits, ) Ah, my apologies, my friend. It's just funny — you would be shocked to learn who told me something very similar just recently.
( though... the context was quite different when it came from the Regent, yes? less of a warning, more of a threat.
he straightens up enough to sample his drink; as he does so, he wonders how he gives off this impression. early on in life, makoto had been flung from the highest reaches of the canopy (or had he jumped?), and he'd managed to hit every miserable branch on the way down. he knows he hasn't reached the bottom yet, and he's sure he will discover new and exciting ways to lose, to feel pain, to steep in despair. isn't that just a given? isn't that just how life plays itself out?
abel acts as if there's some alternative. ridiculous.
he returns to how he'd been sitting a moment ago, leaning back against the straight back of the booth's bench seat. ) And how, pray tell, do you suggest I avoid that at this point?
( wrists resting on the edge of the table, his hands open, palms splaying upward in a gesture which seemed to suggest he'd asked abel to explain how storks managed to deliver every human baby to its parents — or something similarly absurd. )
There are many who would argue I deserve it.
( personally... it's not as though he doesn't understand that his actions are wrong, or that the path that he walks is one that is inherently self-destructive. but he doesn't really place much personal stock in the cosmic, karmic weight of thoughts, words, and actions. what he does believe in, however, are consequences. if they came to find him, then that was his own short-sightedness; it's also why he's been hastily plotting out no fewer than two or three separate contingencies. )
i had to use Brain Juice for this tag, pls forgive the delay 😔🧠⛔
[ the trickle of laughter that seems to leave Makoto of its own volition is... perplexing, to say the least. Abel doesn't quite understand, isn't quite in on the joke - but perhaps it's for the best, all things considered. if he knew just whose sentiments he had closely parroted...
ignorance is bliss, so the saying goes.
he shifts his weight as his company finally partakes of his drink, mimicking the demon and taking a tentative sip of his own as Abel raises the glass to his lips, cupped between both hands; it should be quite obvious he barely tastes it for the way his fixation remains on the Kenoma. the gears are turning, Abel permitting Makoto's question to ferment as he imbibes.
and by the time he's settled the glass back upon the tabletop, absently sliding the pad of his finger against the condensation beginning to bead... Abel's shoulders have briefly heaved with the weight of a silent sigh. his thoughts have been ordered as best they'll get, right now. he must shelf the question for now; all in all... if the only thing he can do right now is this? then... ]
Would you agree with them?
[ Abel once more scrutinizes the young man, expression schooled to give away little more than the priest's usual fare: a quiet concern. a gentility, all hard edges another might have in his place... softened. there is still no judgment or condemnation in his gaze, but perhaps there is that sharpness - something that makes one feel seen, inside. ]
...Would you answer me honestly if that's what I was to ask you next?
( 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.
[ there is some kind of terrible irony, here, in Makoto preaching about consequences. it's someone else's favorite word, that: consequences, and Abel can't help but find a little curl of mirth to hear it coming from the lips of another Kenoma. he can't refute the accuracy of the statement all the same - Makoto is correct, underlying amusement aside; one reaps what they sow.
but in Abel's mind, it isn't always as simple as that. once upon a time... perhaps it had been. he has grown, learned a great deal since those days; he would like to believe it has permitted him to broaden his perspectives and widen his ability to grasp nuance in situations he might not have, otherwise - but he doesn't believe it makes him any wiser or more astute than the demon seated across the table. if anything it merely means that he has come to accept a view of the world that Makoto's life experiences have not guided him toward.
whether it might, one day, or whether Makoto would be a victim of his circumstances, driven further and further down this hole to that lowest low... Abel cannot say. but he can hope, and yes - even pray for a different conclusion to the demon's tale.
there is something softly miserable in the priest's expression as he studies the liquid in the chilled glass between his hands; it seems he is well aware the potential consequences of Makoto's actions. but that isn't the point of this particular thread Abel has tugged at in asking if the Kenoma felt he worthy of those consequences; while some part of him, perhaps, is grateful to hear Makoto dismiss the prospect of self-loathing, it leaves something equally worrying in its stead. ]
Then, if you'll humor me--
[ it seems the glass and drink they are to share has been all but forgotten; it will surely grow an unpleasant lukewarm at this rate. but Abel cares little; he finds he is singularly interested in something else at this table, after all. ]
...How do you feel now, Mr. M? Do you feel you were... justified, in retrospect? Do you feel Estinien deserved what came to him as he was?
[ Abel's friend laid out the circumstances from his perspective, filled out the details regarding a motivation Abel had not been privy to prior to this meeting. but... when all lies in the rearview mirror--
did any of that give him the satisfaction Makoto had been so after? had it soothed bruised pride? does any part of him feel any regret, remorse, for the method by which the dragoon was undone - weakened and already suffering at the hands of those who had come before him? does any of it truly matter to Makoto at all? how far does this hole inside of him go?
and... was it worth it? would Makoto say it is worth what he's set in inevitable motion?
perhaps Abel is not interested in the answer insomuch as he is looking for something else, something he can find only through observing Makoto's deliberation before delivery of his reply. and it is one he is watching, waiting for, as beads of water slip down the forgotten glass in his hands, the rest of the tavern good as faded away to background static. ]
( consequences have always been a theme throughout his life, a through-line that if one grasped at the string at and tugged, they would find all twenty or so years of it spill out of their skein, painting a rather woeful picture upon the floor. fascinations that had come naturally to him as a child had been met with harsh criticism and consequence by his parents, and even after J had brought him into hell, whenever he had stepped an inch out of line and off of the narrow path he had seemingly set for him, he often faced a brutal course correction. though often impudent and impetuous, makoto does learn his lessons, or at the very least after a time. the only way to avoid consequences altogether is to make yourself powerful enough that no one could impose them upon you. this is, unfortunately, an impossibility for him (facing either harsh retaliation from the Pleroma or restitution from the Regent for his failure), so he just has to do his best with what he has.
and he already has roughly three contingencies in place for if (when) the worst does come to pass.
as he traces a fingertip along the edge of of his glass, he thinks bitterly that abel had much better applications for his overdeveloped sense of sympathy than the would-be killer of one of his allies. even with all that he's done and all that he's said, he still hasn't managed to alienate the priest. it's irritating. he finds himself wishing that he could — it would be easier that way, and he wouldn't have to feel that vague shearing sensation of internal conflict (something that he had tried to leave behind with his humanity years ago). that he must face both J being proud of him and despairing for him for something he couldn't even follow through on... it sours the alcohol in his stomach, slowly dispersing through to his veins.
he tilts his head. he's been humoring abel through many of these questions — what's another?
his eyes slowly narrow to bloody slits, pale irises like lodged shards of ice. he slumps back further against his chair, sighing audibly, seemingly at the intersection between irritated and disappointed. what, is he going to try to paint this instance as an example, to try to convince him at this juncture that there was no point in pursuing his primary or any other tack of revenge? he's already told him he doesn't have anything else. as much as abel might want to imagine a "good ending" for him, it's just a fantasy; it simply doesn't exist. what would that be for a creature like him? to go back to earth, with the substance of his being so irrevocably changed, with constant reminders that he had seemingly been made as a piece who did not fit into its machine? to hell, where the only way to climb its hierarchies to power and comfort was to use, abuse, lie, manipulate, possess, and destroy? ah, abel. can you admit you've met your match? with all of his sharp, mercenary edges, there's no clean or healthy place he fits in anywhere. even if the thrill of revenge is fleeting and would inevitably turn to ash in his mouth and lead in his heart, it doesn't matter; it's still the greatest thing he could imagine on any path ahead for him.
he at the very least respects abel enough to compose a thoughtful response, rather than responding with the first jagged words that lodged in his throat. still... that doesn't make them kind.)
That's a rather uncharitable question, Abel. How do I feel now? After having been nearly incinerated by your companion, assaulted by an inexplicable entity, and fallen under the Regent's scrutiny because of all of it? You asking me how I feel about what I did now, after all that's happened since, is like trying to ask me to separate water out of blood.
( he squeezes his eyes closed, takes a deep breath, and exhales. then they open once more, and he continues. )
You're not asking me the right question. It doesn't matter how I feel about it now. How I felt about it then, though... No. It wasn't necessarily justified. ( does he really need to feel that way to do something atrocious to another person? he had torn datenshou's life down brick by brick, and the man had never been anything but considerate to him — the only "justification" makoto had had then was contempt. ) It was vindicated. And yes, for the time, it did taste sweet.
( before he was so rudely interrupted... )
As for the state of him... ( makoto throws his head back, clearly aggravated by this particular line of inquiry. ) I lived as a former human in a realm full of monsters by learning that you take advantage of any opportunity given to you. Would you expect pity to stay my hand? The only true pity was that I had less time to prove my point before taking his life.
[ there is, as ever, a sort of detachment between the Makoto that sits at the table, animated and gregarious, and who this young man truly is inside. Abel knows it - sees it in the brief glimmers of the person lurking beneath the facade, one he cannot help but compare to a wounded child. bitter and angry and furious, writhing and violently striking out like a venomous viper, desperate to be seen and heard and feared--
lest his own fear, inadequacy, insecurity, consume him.
Abel's gaze remains absent, distant, where it sits on the demon across the table for longer than is comfortable in silence; there is a great deal Makoto has left him to digest and a great more that will take time to come to terms with despite that. it wouldn't be right to respond hastily, he feels. he will think on all of it - every last bit "M" has seen fit to give him.
but one thing must be clear. ]
This is not Hell, Mr. M. This is not your home, and that man is not a monster.
[ the gentility of the delivery has not vanished, but its edges are notably firmer, now. but the subtle flat affect of his voice is abnormal, now - and perhaps it makes him seem older, somehow. harder. ]
The war we fought in Venera was not one against one another, but ourselves - and they say a man shows his true colors in moments like that one. I fear the choice you made is not one that speaks to the strength of your character, but its weakness. He deserved better than you gave him.
[ his hands slowly loosen from the glass still left relatively untouched. ]
Estinien did not demean you half as much as you demeaned - continue to demean - yourself with this kind of talk. You deserve better than this, don't you?
( 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. )
[ the abrupt and sudden chill steeping into Makoto's gaze is met with unflappable neutrality. it doesn't touch upon indifference, but perhaps it comes close. for a man who is so thoroughly moved by the feelings of others, this lack of response to the palpably violent surge that springs forward from his company is... strange, perhaps.
but Abel's expression truly offers little about his thoughts, his position on Makoto's reply nor the effectiveness of the priest's statement. instead, Abel merely extends a brief bob of his head in assent, acknowledgement. he is a patient creature; he has said his piece and he has heard Makoto's in turn. whatever seeds this conversation had planted are more than enough for now.
in the end, the only thing Abel has to give is the slight, subtle, easy-to-miss creep of grief underlying the guarded veil. he is... admittedly-- sad. yes; he is sad - because he understands precisely what lies beyond this knee-jerk reaction of the demon's. the bitter sting of a wounded pride, the involuntary screeching cry of indignation, of perceived insult is clear as day in those inhuman eyes. Abel had not come here to hurt M, but... ]
Whatever you take from this table... nothing has changed for me. I will still fight for you.
[ that is his promise... and, perhaps, these are the first words spoken with any genuine steel in his voice - as quiet as they may be. ]
( 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.
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no subject
Suppose this wasn't entirely a social call, as I'm sure you've already gathered.
[ it doesn't take a genius to put as much together, after all, and Makoto is a smart boy. got a good head on his shoulders (heh) and all that, mm. ]
...It was you. [ even as he plays with that loose string hanging from his sleeve and even if that is where his gaze remains fixed, it is apparent his attention is on the Kenoma comfortably seated in his chair. ]
And I wanted to hear it from you, because... I cannot imagine this was some... some cold-blooded, callous act. I don't want to hear it from anyone else, Mr. M -- I want you to tell me why.
[ why...?
his eyes have finally slid to the demon's, ones that should be unnerving for their inhuman quality - but there is nothing unnerved or unsettled in the priest's attentive, probing expression. if anything, what is most glaring and obvious is the unspoken plea, the deep desire to hear a reason to justify his actions that day in Venera's frozen streets. ]
no subject
at first, makoto lets silence speak for him.
and it persists, even at the so-called accusation and his entreaty for an explanation, though there is some small alchemical change to his expression. the careful veneer of assumed impassivity ripples and creases at its edges, dubious at first and then darkly cynical. )
Can't you?
( unfortunately, getting to the heart of the matter will have to wait a moment, because it's now that the bartender has detached himself from his position to take their orders for drinks. considering the layout of the bar, this doesn't seem to be the usual way things operate, but... perhaps he is acting out of cautious deference, not wanting any trouble cast his way. as soon as he asks, the dark expression disappears makoto's face, replaced in the same instant with a bright and genial smile. he orders a local specialty — clear liquor flavored slightly sweet by a type of fruit they are known for — and then looks to abel expectantly until he similarly gives his order. they had come here to share a drink, after all. he's not about to get too entrenched in their discussion without having at least ordered one.
once the bartender leaves to fill the order, the demon's expression slowly resumes its previous configuration, like a curtain slowly falling upon the stage at the conclusion of the first act.
he leans forward, elbows and wrists resting upon the scarred wood of the table, his fingers interlacing loosely. ) You arrived shortly after I did it, Abel. I never tried to obfuscate this from you or anyone else. ( his voice is smooth and liquid, just as chimerical and insidious as the black ichor that had been forced down their throats in the throne room all those months ago. ) Is there really anything I can tell you now that would make it easier for you to accept? Like... if I said I was possessed of an overwhelming sense of duty or justice, or if I said that he was already in such a sorry and miserable state that I took pity on him and decided simply to free him from his torment... Would that change what you think about it? ( a beat, and he tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side, his strange eyes growing sharper. ) Would it change how any of your allies think about it?
no subject
...Abel trips his way into a smile of his own belatedly as he's prompted for his choice, quickly and distractedly ordering whatever ale is on tap -- he isn't an especially picky man, and nor does he have much interest in the way of drinking, truth be told. it is a means to an end, a social endeavor, a pass time that brings people together. he had wanted an excuse to meet with Makoto -- and he'd gotten one. it served its purpose.
the man is forgotten before he can even fully retreat back behind the bar to see to fulfilling their orders; Abel once more has eyes for the demon and the demon alone. it's obvious that Makoto's answer to his prompting has left him... unsettled. uneasy. concerned, the sort that creases at one's brow and leaves something pinched in the eye. ]
The 'why'... it's important to me.
[ 'to me.' because he had not come here for his allies, nor would he be telling a soul of this meeting unless things should go terribly and horribly awry. he does not anticipate it to. it shouldn't; the priest is aware he can be a fool, but... to miscalculate that badly would be sincerely deplorable. ]
There is a difference between taking a life out of anger or hatred, or out of fear. There's a difference between defending yourself and putting one out of their misery, as well. It doesn't change the end result, and it won't change the inevitable consequences, but... it still matters, Mr. M. It does.
[ does Makoto believe otherwise...? ]
no subject
it's easier that way. makoto doesn't know what to do with someone caring about him; not unless their version of it entailed scarring his heart to the fullest extent that he could stand and then saying he's better for what it had taught him.
"to me" is the first verbal stab that finds its way underneath his guard, causing the faintest twinge of a reaction in his expression; a minute twitch at the corner of his eye. it blots out all of the grander arguments that could be had philosophically about what had happened and narrows the focus, limiting it to just the two sitting at this table. that's so much harder to discard out of hand for makoto; he can pontificate about the greater picture, but being asked to explain himself for the sole benefit of one other person, one who already knew more about him than nearly everyone else on horos...
he's silent and contemplative in the wake of abel's justification, his gaze just for a moment casting itself away from his companion's face. but then it returns, seemingly having steeled itself and the mind behind it; he leans a bit closer, continuing in a voice both low and confidential and yet seething with a rawness that still seems to ooze blood: ) A month prior in the Shrine of the Sovereign, he skewered me on the end of his spear, ( he unlaces his fingers and places two of his right hand against his chest, right beneath his ribcage, ) and left me to die there. Apparently, I was so little of a threat to him that I didn't even warrant the dignity of being finished off. Instead, I cursed and writhed and bled and just barely managed to stitch myself back together before returning back to Achamoth — had I not been so fortunate and lost consciousness, it likely would've been a corpse that arrived instead.
( both in the quiet rancor of makoto's voice and in the furious pits of his eyes abel can begin to catch a glimpse of the ocean of anger at the core of the demon's person, an endless cycle of hurt and humiliation and indignation and defiance that keeps him in perpetual motion, regardless of what cost it might have. )
"Why," you ask? Because it was a debt of blood that I was owed, and because I wanted to show him how wrong he was to think that I wasn't even worth the time to dispatch himself. I killed him because I wanted to, Abel, and even after everything that happened, I don't regret it.
( the pain and the brush with death certainly would have given makoto an immense amount of ire to the man, certainly enough to want the same outcome, but it was the dismissal that fanned the flame to a new and personal intensity. his susceptibility to wounds to his so-called "pride" has always been his weakness, and one exploited both by the Regent and J himself. for estinien... the fates had merely conspired to make it play out against his favor. )
no subject
...there is a slow, telling slope of his shoulders that belies his dejection. whether it is in hearing the re-telling of Estinien's undoing from another angle, the violence that had broken out at the Sovereign shrine, or Makoto's perspective - his duress - that elicits such a response matters not. because it isn't any of these things, truthfully, that has the stirrings of grief and the slow sink of understanding settling in the priest's stomach. the thing that does it... it's the roiling churn of a bitter, insatiable rage - the sort that does not brew from one instance of indignation, humiliation, or agony. it is the kind forged through many. innumerable. unending counts of them all, stacking up one another, driving the last in just a little deeper than the one before it.
Abel is quiet in the wake of Makoto's impassioned explanation.
his gaze has managed to fixate at some unimportant, unseen point at the tabletop between them. the demon has made no effort to paint his actions as forgivable - in fact, perhaps there is some vitriolic pride in his actions, a lack of remorse that might make another listener bristle. but this, too, speaks to something laying beneath the surface... something that exists, resides, is swept up in the current of wrath burning in those inhuman eyes. the priest knows better than most precisely what it is, knows that in almost all cases... those whose actions are dictated by, demanded by that righteous, indignant, possessed fury--
are no less susceptible to being consumed, devoured, seared to ash in those flames. ]
...I believe you.
[ it is important to acknowledge this, first and foremost: he appreciates "M" was candid with him. he did not mince words, nor did he paint some favorable picture to garner the priest's sympathy - one they both know might've been rather easily won. the truth is not always pretty, but it is necessary, and contrary to what one might discern about Abel - it is important to look reality in the eye, to him. ]
And I believe you when you say you have no regrets, either. That... that frightens me for you far more than your ability to take his life - not because it speaks to any lack of soul, or because I hoped you felt remorse. But because I know you've tossed yourself right into the fire with such veracity I worry you cannot feel yourself burning, Mr. M.
cw mention of suicidal ideation
it hadn't been his intention for his death to be the ruin of his family, and yet he'd had that reality forced into him along with the knife that his father had plunged directly into his immortal heart. it was nothing new for makoto to disappoint those around him — just by the nature of being who he is, he's been a walking damnation to those around him since he was old enough to realize it. so he steels himself to abel's reaction, his jaw setting with resignation as he takes in the slump of his shoulders, the bowing of his head, the aversion of his gaze. he tells himself it doesn't mean anything. it had been the other man's mistake for expecting otherwise of a demon. how could he feel wounded for disappointing someone when it had been bound to happen eventually?
regardless of how much he walls off his heart, a change steals across his expression as abel continues. it starts a a twitch in the corner of one eye, then with a seam that forms between his brow and then spreads to crease his forehead. he... doesn't understand. he can't understand. concern, now? sympathy, now? he isn't aware of whatever relationship might exist between abel and estinien, but he has to assume that they are at the very least allies — he would look into the face of his ally's murderer and claim to fear for him, because his lack of remorse spoke more to what might end up befalling him rather than what he's already done or might do in the future...?
in hell, it would be considered a grievous mistake in demonic politicking to express open "confusion." when the perception of control is what literally gives one power, confusion is weakness. makoto makes that grievous mistake now. makoto shows his weakness now.
he doesn't give breath to it. not immediately, anyway. consternation smooths over into dull irritation. )
If that's the case, I'd tossed myself into that fire long before being brought here.
( his tone almost dares to say... so what? can't he see that that's the whole point? makoto doesn't see past the pinnacle of his dreadful quest for revenge. perhaps at one time he had been enchanted by the idea of learning to live as a demon, of managing to find a life that he could be content and happy with, living in the mansion of a kind demon amidst the idyllic rolling hills of hell. but it hadn't even been a month before that had been shattered, and with it any hope of a meaningful "future." what sort of future could be promised to a creature like him? even if he did leave a wake of collateral damage behind him in his climb to reach J — isn't it still the kinder outcome for himself and everyone else around him if he were to disappear after it was accomplished? )
no subject
but he knows what someone in pain looks like. he knows what it is to see someone who had been beaten down by his reality, discarded and deemed 'lesser' by others. the insecurity, the inferiority it brews is the truth behind that ruffled pride, Abel thinks; whether he's right or wrong - it doesn't matter. these are his beliefs today, sitting here at this table alongside his friend.
whatever Abel might offer in the way of answer to Makoto's statement is interrupted by the return of the barman who mumbles something almost too low to make out about 'not causing trouble,' sliding their drinks of choice onto the table for each before once more taking his leave. it seems none here are especially interested in lingering at the booth against the far wall.
the priest ignores this delivery for the moment, eyes still fixed somewhere unseeing upon the tabletop - and though the din of the tavern is little more than a subdued buzz of background noise, his voice is so soft as to almost become swallowed by it. ]
Do you believe you have nothing left to lose...?
[ that he had thrown himself into the flames, already found himself consumed by them in their entirety - perhaps even believed that he had done so willingly? does he believe he's mastered it - the feeling of his insides being rendered to a charred, spiteful content that only need survive long enough to see his objective through?
what a sad, horrid thought. ]
If that's the case... if that's truly what you think-- if you really believe that... I fear you'll discover there is always something more to lose, in time.
[ though his hands finally come to reach out and cup the frosted mug and to drag it toward him absently, it is apparent that his attention remains on the youth with those inhuman eyes. ]
Numbing yourself to the pain of being flayed alive-- it's issuing a challenge. It's asking the universe to teach you that you can feel a pain far worse. And... I don't want to see you suffer it. I don't want you to see what comes next if you continue down the path you've chosen.
no subject
a maximum of three days he had felt that new, bizarre, heart-racing sensation of hope. and then J had told him he would be accelerating his studies on hell by working elsewhere, and he had thrown him to datenshou with the promise that if he proved to be too troublesome, he could be dismembered and thrown into different warehouses for the harm he'd caused. it had been a sobering lesson — whenever he felt the traitorous and fledgling feelings of optimism stirring in his chest, he needed clamp them down in a vice grip and brace for whatever fresh torment awaited him around the next corner. it always did.
once again putting on his cordial mask for the barkeeper, makoto accepts his drink and slides it over in front of him, fingertips tracing the cool glass until the moment that abel continues.
of course not is the obvious answer. their brush with that entity of the Innocent in venera had taught him a brand new sort of fear: that of losing himself, of losing his edge and his drive, of wasting away as exactly the kind of slovenly churl that he held in the greatest contempt. but as abel speaks, makoto likely has... a reaction that he doesn't expect. something seems to surprise him in what he says, and a bitter sort of smile squirms across his face; he starts to laugh, first as a chuckle and then escalating into a silent spasm that shakes his shoulders as he slumps forward onto the table between them, his head falling into one hand supported by an elbow.
it's one of makoto's more disconcerting social qualities, to be so chimerical — to fluctuate from deathly severity to tremulous vulnerability to a cascade of laughter from moment to moment. it's something that had even put seasoned demons of hell on edge. he ends up regaining himself, looking up at his friend through a fringe of wavy dark hair, replying in what sound like fairly good spirits, ) Ah, my apologies, my friend. It's just funny — you would be shocked to learn who told me something very similar just recently.
( though... the context was quite different when it came from the Regent, yes? less of a warning, more of a threat.
he straightens up enough to sample his drink; as he does so, he wonders how he gives off this impression. early on in life, makoto had been flung from the highest reaches of the canopy (or had he jumped?), and he'd managed to hit every miserable branch on the way down. he knows he hasn't reached the bottom yet, and he's sure he will discover new and exciting ways to lose, to feel pain, to steep in despair. isn't that just a given? isn't that just how life plays itself out?
abel acts as if there's some alternative. ridiculous.
he returns to how he'd been sitting a moment ago, leaning back against the straight back of the booth's bench seat. ) And how, pray tell, do you suggest I avoid that at this point?
( wrists resting on the edge of the table, his hands open, palms splaying upward in a gesture which seemed to suggest he'd asked abel to explain how storks managed to deliver every human baby to its parents — or something similarly absurd. )
There are many who would argue I deserve it.
( personally... it's not as though he doesn't understand that his actions are wrong, or that the path that he walks is one that is inherently self-destructive. but he doesn't really place much personal stock in the cosmic, karmic weight of thoughts, words, and actions. what he does believe in, however, are consequences. if they came to find him, then that was his own short-sightedness; it's also why he's been hastily plotting out no fewer than two or three separate contingencies. )
i had to use Brain Juice for this tag, pls forgive the delay 😔🧠⛔
ignorance is bliss, so the saying goes.
he shifts his weight as his company finally partakes of his drink, mimicking the demon and taking a tentative sip of his own as Abel raises the glass to his lips, cupped between both hands; it should be quite obvious he barely tastes it for the way his fixation remains on the Kenoma. the gears are turning, Abel permitting Makoto's question to ferment as he imbibes.
and by the time he's settled the glass back upon the tabletop, absently sliding the pad of his finger against the condensation beginning to bead... Abel's shoulders have briefly heaved with the weight of a silent sigh. his thoughts have been ordered as best they'll get, right now. he must shelf the question for now; all in all... if the only thing he can do right now is this? then... ]
Would you agree with them?
[ Abel once more scrutinizes the young man, expression schooled to give away little more than the priest's usual fare: a quiet concern. a gentility, all hard edges another might have in his place... softened. there is still no judgment or condemnation in his gaze, but perhaps there is that sharpness - something that makes one feel seen, inside. ]
...Would you answer me honestly if that's what I was to ask you next?
[ do you really believe you deserve it, Makoto? ]
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.
kissy faces at u disgustingly
but in Abel's mind, it isn't always as simple as that. once upon a time... perhaps it had been. he has grown, learned a great deal since those days; he would like to believe it has permitted him to broaden his perspectives and widen his ability to grasp nuance in situations he might not have, otherwise - but he doesn't believe it makes him any wiser or more astute than the demon seated across the table. if anything it merely means that he has come to accept a view of the world that Makoto's life experiences have not guided him toward.
whether it might, one day, or whether Makoto would be a victim of his circumstances, driven further and further down this hole to that lowest low... Abel cannot say. but he can hope, and yes - even pray for a different conclusion to the demon's tale.
there is something softly miserable in the priest's expression as he studies the liquid in the chilled glass between his hands; it seems he is well aware the potential consequences of Makoto's actions. but that isn't the point of this particular thread Abel has tugged at in asking if the Kenoma felt he worthy of those consequences; while some part of him, perhaps, is grateful to hear Makoto dismiss the prospect of self-loathing, it leaves something equally worrying in its stead. ]
Then, if you'll humor me--
[ it seems the glass and drink they are to share has been all but forgotten; it will surely grow an unpleasant lukewarm at this rate. but Abel cares little; he finds he is singularly interested in something else at this table, after all. ]
...How do you feel now, Mr. M? Do you feel you were... justified, in retrospect? Do you feel Estinien deserved what came to him as he was?
[ Abel's friend laid out the circumstances from his perspective, filled out the details regarding a motivation Abel had not been privy to prior to this meeting. but... when all lies in the rearview mirror--
did any of that give him the satisfaction Makoto had been so after? had it soothed bruised pride? does any part of him feel any regret, remorse, for the method by which the dragoon was undone - weakened and already suffering at the hands of those who had come before him? does any of it truly matter to Makoto at all? how far does this hole inside of him go?
and... was it worth it? would Makoto say it is worth what he's set in inevitable motion?
perhaps Abel is not interested in the answer insomuch as he is looking for something else, something he can find only through observing Makoto's deliberation before delivery of his reply. and it is one he is watching, waiting for, as beads of water slip down the forgotten glass in his hands, the rest of the tavern good as faded away to background static. ]
☺️
and he already has roughly three contingencies in place for if (when) the worst does come to pass.
as he traces a fingertip along the edge of of his glass, he thinks bitterly that abel had much better applications for his overdeveloped sense of sympathy than the would-be killer of one of his allies. even with all that he's done and all that he's said, he still hasn't managed to alienate the priest. it's irritating. he finds himself wishing that he could — it would be easier that way, and he wouldn't have to feel that vague shearing sensation of internal conflict (something that he had tried to leave behind with his humanity years ago). that he must face both J being proud of him and despairing for him for something he couldn't even follow through on... it sours the alcohol in his stomach, slowly dispersing through to his veins.
he tilts his head. he's been humoring abel through many of these questions — what's another?
his eyes slowly narrow to bloody slits, pale irises like lodged shards of ice. he slumps back further against his chair, sighing audibly, seemingly at the intersection between irritated and disappointed. what, is he going to try to paint this instance as an example, to try to convince him at this juncture that there was no point in pursuing his primary or any other tack of revenge? he's already told him he doesn't have anything else. as much as abel might want to imagine a "good ending" for him, it's just a fantasy; it simply doesn't exist. what would that be for a creature like him? to go back to earth, with the substance of his being so irrevocably changed, with constant reminders that he had seemingly been made as a piece who did not fit into its machine? to hell, where the only way to climb its hierarchies to power and comfort was to use, abuse, lie, manipulate, possess, and destroy? ah, abel. can you admit you've met your match? with all of his sharp, mercenary edges, there's no clean or healthy place he fits in anywhere. even if the thrill of revenge is fleeting and would inevitably turn to ash in his mouth and lead in his heart, it doesn't matter; it's still the greatest thing he could imagine on any path ahead for him.
he at the very least respects abel enough to compose a thoughtful response, rather than responding with the first jagged words that lodged in his throat. still... that doesn't make them kind. )
That's a rather uncharitable question, Abel. How do I feel now? After having been nearly incinerated by your companion, assaulted by an inexplicable entity, and fallen under the Regent's scrutiny because of all of it? You asking me how I feel about what I did now, after all that's happened since, is like trying to ask me to separate water out of blood.
( he squeezes his eyes closed, takes a deep breath, and exhales. then they open once more, and he continues. )
You're not asking me the right question. It doesn't matter how I feel about it now. How I felt about it then, though... No. It wasn't necessarily justified. ( does he really need to feel that way to do something atrocious to another person? he had torn datenshou's life down brick by brick, and the man had never been anything but considerate to him — the only "justification" makoto had had then was contempt. ) It was vindicated. And yes, for the time, it did taste sweet.
( before he was so rudely interrupted... )
As for the state of him... ( makoto throws his head back, clearly aggravated by this particular line of inquiry. ) I lived as a former human in a realm full of monsters by learning that you take advantage of any opportunity given to you. Would you expect pity to stay my hand? The only true pity was that I had less time to prove my point before taking his life.
no subject
lest his own fear, inadequacy, insecurity, consume him.
Abel's gaze remains absent, distant, where it sits on the demon across the table for longer than is comfortable in silence; there is a great deal Makoto has left him to digest and a great more that will take time to come to terms with despite that. it wouldn't be right to respond hastily, he feels. he will think on all of it - every last bit "M" has seen fit to give him.
but one thing must be clear. ]
This is not Hell, Mr. M. This is not your home, and that man is not a monster.
[ the gentility of the delivery has not vanished, but its edges are notably firmer, now. but the subtle flat affect of his voice is abnormal, now - and perhaps it makes him seem older, somehow. harder. ]
The war we fought in Venera was not one against one another, but ourselves - and they say a man shows his true colors in moments like that one. I fear the choice you made is not one that speaks to the strength of your character, but its weakness. He deserved better than you gave him.
[ his hands slowly loosen from the glass still left relatively untouched. ]
Estinien did not demean you half as much as you demeaned - continue to demean - yourself with this kind of talk. You deserve better than this, don't you?
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. )
no subject
but Abel's expression truly offers little about his thoughts, his position on Makoto's reply nor the effectiveness of the priest's statement. instead, Abel merely extends a brief bob of his head in assent, acknowledgement. he is a patient creature; he has said his piece and he has heard Makoto's in turn. whatever seeds this conversation had planted are more than enough for now.
in the end, the only thing Abel has to give is the slight, subtle, easy-to-miss creep of grief underlying the guarded veil. he is... admittedly-- sad. yes; he is sad - because he understands precisely what lies beyond this knee-jerk reaction of the demon's. the bitter sting of a wounded pride, the involuntary screeching cry of indignation, of perceived insult is clear as day in those inhuman eyes. Abel had not come here to hurt M, but... ]
Whatever you take from this table... nothing has changed for me. I will still fight for you.
[ that is his promise... and, perhaps, these are the first words spoken with any genuine steel in his voice - as quiet as they may be. ]
Even against yourself.
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.