[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.