( at the message's first arrival, it seems as though it will not be accepted at the receiver's end.
makoto has been sparing in those that he has spoken with via Communion since the climactic events that occurred in Venera; to those whose (perceived) vested interests in reaching out to him that don't meet his internal standard, he either rejects or speaks very cautiously to. from those of the Pleroma, he's only spoken to dextera... but abel. there is something in him that reflexively recoils, an archaic and uncomfortable sort of panic rattling at his ribcage — it reminds him most of when he was still human, fearfully hiding macabre books in his room, knowing full well the blatant scorn he would receive when his parents found them.
the primary difference being that that boy hadn't wanted to hurt anyone; he would rather accept death himself than be compelled to kill someone else. pathetic creature. the demon M no longer feels the same, or at the very least he tells himself that, interring his past self in a coffin of plaster.
he feels no remorse because he tells himself he shouldn't; in his own personal context of leveling scales and inter-dimensional war, he was justified. so why is he... afraid to answer this call? couldn't he simply present himself to his good "friend" as he is, careless and confident, heedless of what he might say or feel? oh, if it were so simple. perhaps the veneer of makoto's demonic visage isn't so perfect as he wishes. there are still seams that he can't mend, and within them a latent seed: the knowing fear of rejection, paired foolishly with the undying part of him that still yearned for understanding... not that he would expect such a thing now, and from abel of all people.
and yet...
it's not necessarily a "response" to his previous inquiry, given a few hours have passed, but abel receives his own message pending from M. if accepted, it is heavily guarded, as if the channel of Communion had been narrowed to a single slot that messages could just barely be passed through.
cautiously: ) Abel.
( he just can't seem to turn his back on him entirely. a personal failing, perhaps. )
[ one could hardly blame him if the priest had thought he'd been rejected.
Abel did not attribute the silence to any malice on M's part, even if it made the sinking pit fall all the further where it sits in his stomach, hard and uncomfortable like a rock. perhaps he had been deluding himself, wanting to believe a version of events that differed from Estinien's recollection. Makoto having a hand in that man's dissolution...
...all of this - all of it - carries a weight that goes far beyond any one of their lives. it's larger than Makoto, larger than Estinien - larger than Abel, and Himeka, and Eustace and Kaeya and--
the first blood has been spilled, the first life taken in this war none of them asked for. it's inevitable that tensions continue elevating from here, isn't it? inevitable that more will suffer, bleed, in the name of their 'causes' - even if Abel fervently believes none of this is right, deserved, at all. the Aions are victims of circumstance, and for all of them to have been embroiled in this...
...Makoto. what have you done...?
imagine his surprise, then, when someone reaches out across that wall in return. perhaps it takes the gnawing press of several hours, but Makoto stretches a proverbial hand outward against the odds, and Abel... Abel, of course: ]
--Mr. M?
[ oh, wonderful! wonderful. they know one another's names; what a glorious source of relief!!! ]
...It's been a while. Hasn't it?
[ there is no trickle of emotion through the communion, this time. Makoto has kept it spartan; minimalistic. barebones.
it's surely impressive, then, if Makoto might manage to feel some pulse of the priest's unwieldy ruefulness despite those best efforts. maybe a hint of it passes through. maybe; just maybe. ]
( it's true that none of them had asked for this, but that didn't necessarily mean they universally rejected their involvement, did it? there is much to be said about the insidious nature of the Kenoma, the way it slinks into the cracks of one's psyche and ever-so-slightly pushes on their compulsions in ways that are hard to identify as influenced by an external force. but when it came to makoto and his snap decision to kill estinien that day, it had nothing to do with this war. not in its initial impetus, anyway. it had the added benefit of perhaps taking a powerful piece off of the board, certainly, but his motivation had been selfish — the dragoon had not only grievously injured him, but he had insulted him by turning his back on him and leaving him to die.
as ruthless as makoto likes to make himself appear, he likely couldn't stomach killing someone for no reason. but as revenge...
for such a cause, it became all too easy to justify.
whether or not any of the emotional color makes it through the connection can't be read from what's received back from makoto. there's a strained silence, a discontented thinning of the line that comes across like the narrowing of one's eyes. irritation and impatience jump beneath its surface like exposed nerves. )
I'm not much in the mood for pleasantries, my friend. What do you want?
[ Abel can feel that dwindling, shrinking connection that was already tenuous at best, and some part of him wants to stubbornly reach out - to clutch, grasp at Makoto and drag the Kenoma back to him. it's a childish urge, and an impossible one at that; it defeats the purpose entirely, doesn't it? Abel wants Makoto to want to be 'here,' as it were. that he had reached out at all... it says a great deal, and the priest realizes he has to take what he can get, cannot be needlessly greedy.
but suppose he has always been a greedy creature when it comes to such things.
there's a pause; for Makoto's sake, Abel is tempering and suffocating the tumultuous churn of sentiments - a tall ask for a man like him, but God if he isn't trying - before his reply formulates, cautiously bereft of anything but a well-mannered politeness. ]
Then... let's skip the usual song and dance.
[ Makoto is in no mood, and Abel, perhaps, feels no overwhelming urge to indulge in meaningless back and forth, either. if anything... perhaps the urge to get to the heart of the matter is bearing down on him with pressing need as well. ]
Tell me; how would you feel about that drink? Tonight, if you would.
( abel's usual circuitous pontification phasing out and being replaced by something cut-and-dry that cuts to the quick is the first thing to garner a faint sense of interest from the demon. perhaps it's just an innate intrigue into the changeability of things, of how the circumstances surrounding them have finally managed to shift to the point that the priest would adopt a new method of communication.
there is a cautious, tense pause. )
You have curious timing.
( makoto typically drinks with a purpose. though he often claims to be too young to legally partake (not that it matters here), it's just an easy "out" when offered — to drink with them had very nearly been the social imposition of many of his clients when working for datenshou, and for others... well, it had sometimes been a useful tool to make entertaining them less tedious or irritating. he's not really the type to drown his sorrows, preferring to keep his mind sharp in any moment of perceived vulnerability. the one exception to this was that one night over three years ago — the night after he'd truly been made a demon, and he'd been handed a bottle of liquor by the man who'd taken the last fragment of his humanity from him. they'd stood on the balcony in the chill air; he forced himself to drink from the handle, and fjord had given him advice that he uses to this day. "you have to use days like this. use them as fuel for your motivation, or nothing good will ever happen to you." before coming here, he'd been makoto's first and only friend, and his advice had been far more useful than the alcohol had.
Wherever suits you. I'd prefer you to choose, if you don't mind - I don't want you to think I'm attempting something underhanded or preparing something, you know?
[ for the meeting to transpire tonight with no pre-planning, having Makoto choose the venue - hopefully these are assurances that Abel has no malicious intention, nor is he orchestrating anything other than a means by which to talk.
the subject matter certainly will be heavy enough to necessitate some appropriately hard liquor, right? they both must know what it is Abel wants to discuss; it's as good a time to cash in a 'favor' owed if there ever was one, he figures. ]
( thinking about it critically... venera is really their only option. achamoth and greentruth are obviously out (if makoto even knows about greentruth, perhaps in name and rumor but not in detail), and though godsblood is technically more neutral ground, it would be far too uneven given that makoto has no familiarity with the place and it's all too likely that abel (and all manner of other members of the Pleroma) would have advantageous familiarity of it. it's not as though any of the shrines had bars, and he didn't know enough about any of the other smaller towns scattered about horos to feel them valid enough for suggestion.
and so... back to the scene of the crime, it seems. he can't decide if it's tasteless or ideal in its irony. both, perhaps. )
Venera, then. Could you make it there by tomorrow evening?
( with Inoseri passed and the contagion gone with it, the city should be on the slow road to recovery — given what they had all gone through, it seems almost a necessity that the bars would have their doors open. makoto sends abel the impression of a location; a modest and out-of-the-way tavern he had noticed in the brief window of time that he had been investigating, before the illness had started attacking the Aions in earnest. )
So long as you swear to me here and now that this is only a meeting between the two of us — that we will speak, and that's the end of it.
( were he still leashed to hell, both empowered and shackled by its laws, he would have demanded it in writing — a contract that would shatter abel body and soul if it was broken. without that ability, though... he has to bet on his gut instinct that the priest is unwilling to so brazenly lie. )
[ he's doing his best to inject some of the usual levity into their exchange, bereft the opportunity to convey much else in the way of emotion - but it's important that Makoto feel Abel is not here to drag him over hot coals, that his only interest really is in a discussion.
what comes after that... it will depend entirely on Makoto. ]
Just you and I, Mr. M. You have my word, my hand to the Lord, alright...? And if there might be anything I may do to put your mind at ease, then... you have but to say it.
[ Venera, tomorrow evening... their destination laid out. suppose it's good as a date, now, isn't it? ]
I will take that pledge for what it means to you and not what it means to me.
( considering that swearing by God would have meant incredibly little to him even before he'd consigned his soul over to a demon and become one of them. but, really, what's important to him in this moment is that abel means this promise and not how the same words would weigh in his mouth. )
No, my friend, that's not necessary. I will see you there at the given time.
( and the line of Communion narrows to a close.
sure enough, makoto can be found in the same tavern that he sent abel the location of the previous evening. it's a smaller establishment, warmly lit and populated by a scattered crowd of patrons that are understandably subdued from what they and their city had recently weathered. the demon himself is sequestered away in a narrow booth against the far wall. he's made a concerted effort to dress more nondescript and in more drab colors, his hair tied back plainly, but there's not much he can do to hide his unique eyes. the venerans aren't to the point of ejecting him from the tavern if he's peaceable and paying jools, but they seem to be giving the table a wide berth.
[ Abel is - as ever - ""fashionably"" late, jogging in the door of the quaint establishment in a hasty rush and nearly plowing into some poor sod trying to make their exit; out goes a soft but audible exclamation of apology as he side-steps to let the other party though, ducking his head down in a repentant bob. he makes for a tall and sheepish shape among the demure patrons of the tavern, many of which are attempting to drink away their stresses after a harrowing few weeks; somehow, he sticks out like a sore thumb despite nothing about his dress nor person being remarkable - but most roll their eyes and dismiss him as little more than a buffoon rather than a worthwhile oddity.
it takes the priest a moment to locate Makoto, but a pair of blue eyes are soon falling upon the demon as Abel nudges back the hood of his cloak and begins his meandering approach. though there is nothing hesitant nor unkind in his gait nor his posture, it would be hard not to note the sense of... something. some sense of hesitation, something vaguely guarded - but not wary - about his disposition.
it doesn't take long for his footsteps to come to a halt before the booth that the other tavern-goers refuse to Perceive, and he offers his hand in the way of a shake down to the Kenoma. ]
You look much better than when I saw you last, Mr. M.
[ a collapsed heap, the Being's influence having rendered him unconscious.
( ah, but he can always rely on abel to make just enough of a ruckus that it's impossible to miss his arrival if paying even a modicum of attention. the brief hubbub at the doorway to the tavern is enough to cause makoto to look up from what he was doing — he has a small leather-bound journal in one hand and a pen in the other, and he seems to have either been reviewing old notes or jotting down new ones. as it is, he closes the book and stows it and the pen away within an interior pocket of his coat, pale gaze tracking ever-so-slightly halting approach of the priest.
that gaze slowly switches to the outstretched hand, then up to abel's face. he feels as though he can read some entreaty there, but... yes, he is being a bit more guarded today than he has been in their previous meetings, isn't he? well, it's probably for the better. he would be more disturbed if he was acting as though nothing at all had happened.
he reaches out to give the man's hand a firm shake, then dropping it and sweeping out into a gesture toward the seat opposite him. )
Please, Abel, take a seat.
( his mouth forms a somewhat grim smile, perhaps colored that way by the thought of that last "meeting" that they had had, over the broken remains of estinien's corpse and below the roiling mass of wings that was that entity of the Innocent.
yes, he is doing much better than he had been doing then, though that was very likely not the preferred outcome of most of abel's compatriots. )
I'm glad to see that you're none too worse for wear either.
( he takes glances toward the bar, signalling for its tender that they would be ready to order soon. )
[ the invitation to sit is accepted, and Abel slides to sit opposite his company after quickly shrugging out of his cloak, leaving it to drape over the back of the booth with careless indifference; once he's good and settled, he finds himself casting a glance over the interior of the tavern in earnest to take it all in. it is... mildly disheartening, perhaps, to see the note of dejection, the quietness of the din here. the Venerians are still bouncing back from their ordeal - and such things take time.
but it's also a comfort to see them slowly returning to the normal trappings of life. to enjoy a drink, to socialize with friends and family, to try and find some semblance of routine in times like these is important.
his gaze is absently following a man a few tables down, the fellow leaned over and talking in a quiet voice to a woman whose expression betrays she is Feeling Some Type Of Way about whatever he's saying. Abel's smile is a tad distracted as he leans his cheek in a palm, elbow atop the table. ]
It's funny, isn't it?
[ what, pray tell, he's talking about might not be immediately evident - but Abel sends his gaze back to Makoto a moment later to continue, ]
They suffered rather grievously here. Didn't they? [ everyone did. ] But life goes on, and despite it all... they're getting back to their lives, picking up the pieces... going back to work... having a drink at the bar they've always gone to. Flirting with a pretty girl, maybe?
[ or, perhaps... talking with a friend across the table. ]
( there's nothing in their surroundings that gives makoto much pause. commiseration is often the first step of healing — to lick one's wounds and convalesce in both mind and body by banding together with survivors that shared the same experiences you did is exactly what he expected to find here. it would be far worse if the place was shuttered or near-empty, the inhabitants of the city so emotionally-scarred from what they went through that they didn't even want to open their hearts to the itch and burn that often came with healing. it's challenging to learn to live, but it's far more challenging to learn to live again, and again, and again — reforged and remade in the wake of each tragedy, finding which rules that were once taken for granted remain and which have fallen to the ground to tarnish and be forgotten.
or perhaps that's just from makoto's own experience.
it's difficult for him to care about these people. the most he can say he feels for them is a vague sense of gratitude for not causing any undue trouble to a couple of strangers in their midst; other than that, they're just another tangle of souls that will be swept into oblivion at the universe's inevitable end.
as abel voices the hypothetical, makoto's pale eyes slide over to fix him in their eerie gaze.
there's something dubious and unsatisfied in makoto's expression that seems to suggest he doesn't think they suffered nearly as much as abel seems to believe — not in comparison to what he had gone through, at least — but he keeps it to himself. ) No, that's not really the word I would use. It's "expected," is what it is. ( he leans back against the wooden booth, expression assuming an ennui that looks out-of-place given his youth but perhaps less so considering the depth in his eyes. ) Regardless of what they've suffered, they tend naturally toward the equilibrium of familiarity and routine. It's a survival mechanism.
( he cants his head to one side. ) I would hope we're not here to spy on first dates. ( his gaze rolls almost lazily toward the same couple that abel had spotted, whom makoto had already clocked when taking note of all of the patrons currently in the building. )
[ 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.
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makoto has been sparing in those that he has spoken with via Communion since the climactic events that occurred in Venera; to those whose (perceived) vested interests in reaching out to him that don't meet his internal standard, he either rejects or speaks very cautiously to. from those of the Pleroma, he's only spoken to dextera... but abel. there is something in him that reflexively recoils, an archaic and uncomfortable sort of panic rattling at his ribcage — it reminds him most of when he was still human, fearfully hiding macabre books in his room, knowing full well the blatant scorn he would receive when his parents found them.
the primary difference being that that boy hadn't wanted to hurt anyone; he would rather accept death himself than be compelled to kill someone else. pathetic creature. the demon M no longer feels the same, or at the very least he tells himself that, interring his past self in a coffin of plaster.
he feels no remorse because he tells himself he shouldn't; in his own personal context of leveling scales and inter-dimensional war, he was justified. so why is he... afraid to answer this call? couldn't he simply present himself to his good "friend" as he is, careless and confident, heedless of what he might say or feel? oh, if it were so simple. perhaps the veneer of makoto's demonic visage isn't so perfect as he wishes. there are still seams that he can't mend, and within them a latent seed: the knowing fear of rejection, paired foolishly with the undying part of him that still yearned for understanding... not that he would expect such a thing now, and from abel of all people.
and yet...
it's not necessarily a "response" to his previous inquiry, given a few hours have passed, but abel receives his own message pending from M. if accepted, it is heavily guarded, as if the channel of Communion had been narrowed to a single slot that messages could just barely be passed through.
cautiously: ) Abel.
( he just can't seem to turn his back on him entirely. a personal failing, perhaps. )
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Abel did not attribute the silence to any malice on M's part, even if it made the sinking pit fall all the further where it sits in his stomach, hard and uncomfortable like a rock. perhaps he had been deluding himself, wanting to believe a version of events that differed from Estinien's recollection. Makoto having a hand in that man's dissolution...
...all of this - all of it - carries a weight that goes far beyond any one of their lives. it's larger than Makoto, larger than Estinien - larger than Abel, and Himeka, and Eustace and Kaeya and--
the first blood has been spilled, the first life taken in this war none of them asked for. it's inevitable that tensions continue elevating from here, isn't it? inevitable that more will suffer, bleed, in the name of their 'causes' - even if Abel fervently believes none of this is right, deserved, at all. the Aions are victims of circumstance, and for all of them to have been embroiled in this...
...Makoto. what have you done...?
imagine his surprise, then, when someone reaches out across that wall in return. perhaps it takes the gnawing press of several hours, but Makoto stretches a proverbial hand outward against the odds, and Abel... Abel, of course: ]
--Mr. M?
[ oh, wonderful! wonderful. they know one another's names; what a glorious source of relief!!! ]
...It's been a while. Hasn't it?
[ there is no trickle of emotion through the communion, this time. Makoto has kept it spartan; minimalistic. barebones.
it's surely impressive, then, if Makoto might manage to feel some pulse of the priest's unwieldy ruefulness despite those best efforts. maybe a hint of it passes through. maybe; just maybe. ]
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as ruthless as makoto likes to make himself appear, he likely couldn't stomach killing someone for no reason. but as revenge...
for such a cause, it became all too easy to justify.
whether or not any of the emotional color makes it through the connection can't be read from what's received back from makoto. there's a strained silence, a discontented thinning of the line that comes across like the narrowing of one's eyes. irritation and impatience jump beneath its surface like exposed nerves. )
I'm not much in the mood for pleasantries, my friend. What do you want?
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but suppose he has always been a greedy creature when it comes to such things.
there's a pause; for Makoto's sake, Abel is tempering and suffocating the tumultuous churn of sentiments - a tall ask for a man like him, but God if he isn't trying - before his reply formulates, cautiously bereft of anything but a well-mannered politeness. ]
Then... let's skip the usual song and dance.
[ Makoto is in no mood, and Abel, perhaps, feels no overwhelming urge to indulge in meaningless back and forth, either. if anything... perhaps the urge to get to the heart of the matter is bearing down on him with pressing need as well. ]
Tell me; how would you feel about that drink? Tonight, if you would.
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there is a cautious, tense pause. )
You have curious timing.
( makoto typically drinks with a purpose. though he often claims to be too young to legally partake (not that it matters here), it's just an easy "out" when offered — to drink with them had very nearly been the social imposition of many of his clients when working for datenshou, and for others... well, it had sometimes been a useful tool to make entertaining them less tedious or irritating. he's not really the type to drown his sorrows, preferring to keep his mind sharp in any moment of perceived vulnerability. the one exception to this was that one night over three years ago — the night after he'd truly been made a demon, and he'd been handed a bottle of liquor by the man who'd taken the last fragment of his humanity from him. they'd stood on the balcony in the chill air; he forced himself to drink from the handle, and fjord had given him advice that he uses to this day. "you have to use days like this. use them as fuel for your motivation, or nothing good will ever happen to you." before coming here, he'd been makoto's first and only friend, and his advice had been far more useful than the alcohol had.
for the moment, he only asks: ) Where?
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[ for the meeting to transpire tonight with no pre-planning, having Makoto choose the venue - hopefully these are assurances that Abel has no malicious intention, nor is he orchestrating anything other than a means by which to talk.
the subject matter certainly will be heavy enough to necessitate some appropriately hard liquor, right? they both must know what it is Abel wants to discuss; it's as good a time to cash in a 'favor' owed if there ever was one, he figures. ]
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and so... back to the scene of the crime, it seems. he can't decide if it's tasteless or ideal in its irony. both, perhaps. )
Venera, then. Could you make it there by tomorrow evening?
( with Inoseri passed and the contagion gone with it, the city should be on the slow road to recovery — given what they had all gone through, it seems almost a necessity that the bars would have their doors open. makoto sends abel the impression of a location; a modest and out-of-the-way tavern he had noticed in the brief window of time that he had been investigating, before the illness had started attacking the Aions in earnest. )
So long as you swear to me here and now that this is only a meeting between the two of us — that we will speak, and that's the end of it.
( were he still leashed to hell, both empowered and shackled by its laws, he would have demanded it in writing — a contract that would shatter abel body and soul if it was broken. without that ability, though... he has to bet on his gut instinct that the priest is unwilling to so brazenly lie. )
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[ he's doing his best to inject some of the usual levity into their exchange, bereft the opportunity to convey much else in the way of emotion - but it's important that Makoto feel Abel is not here to drag him over hot coals, that his only interest really is in a discussion.
what comes after that... it will depend entirely on Makoto. ]
Just you and I, Mr. M. You have my word, my hand to the Lord, alright...? And if there might be anything I may do to put your mind at ease, then... you have but to say it.
[ Venera, tomorrow evening... their destination laid out. suppose it's good as a date, now, isn't it? ]
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( considering that swearing by God would have meant incredibly little to him even before he'd consigned his soul over to a demon and become one of them. but, really, what's important to him in this moment is that abel means this promise and not how the same words would weigh in his mouth. )
No, my friend, that's not necessary. I will see you there at the given time.
( and the line of Communion narrows to a close.
sure enough, makoto can be found in the same tavern that he sent abel the location of the previous evening. it's a smaller establishment, warmly lit and populated by a scattered crowd of patrons that are understandably subdued from what they and their city had recently weathered. the demon himself is sequestered away in a narrow booth against the far wall. he's made a concerted effort to dress more nondescript and in more drab colors, his hair tied back plainly, but there's not much he can do to hide his unique eyes. the venerans aren't to the point of ejecting him from the tavern if he's peaceable and paying jools, but they seem to be giving the table a wide berth.
which works all the better for them. )
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it takes the priest a moment to locate Makoto, but a pair of blue eyes are soon falling upon the demon as Abel nudges back the hood of his cloak and begins his meandering approach. though there is nothing hesitant nor unkind in his gait nor his posture, it would be hard not to note the sense of... something. some sense of hesitation, something vaguely guarded - but not wary - about his disposition.
it doesn't take long for his footsteps to come to a halt before the booth that the other tavern-goers refuse to Perceive, and he offers his hand in the way of a shake down to the Kenoma. ]
You look much better than when I saw you last, Mr. M.
[ a collapsed heap, the Being's influence having rendered him unconscious.
yes... decidedly better today, Makoto. ]
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that gaze slowly switches to the outstretched hand, then up to abel's face. he feels as though he can read some entreaty there, but... yes, he is being a bit more guarded today than he has been in their previous meetings, isn't he? well, it's probably for the better. he would be more disturbed if he was acting as though nothing at all had happened.
he reaches out to give the man's hand a firm shake, then dropping it and sweeping out into a gesture toward the seat opposite him. )
Please, Abel, take a seat.
( his mouth forms a somewhat grim smile, perhaps colored that way by the thought of that last "meeting" that they had had, over the broken remains of estinien's corpse and below the roiling mass of wings that was that entity of the Innocent.
yes, he is doing much better than he had been doing then, though that was very likely not the preferred outcome of most of abel's compatriots. )
I'm glad to see that you're none too worse for wear either.
( he takes glances toward the bar, signalling for its tender that they would be ready to order soon. )
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but it's also a comfort to see them slowly returning to the normal trappings of life. to enjoy a drink, to socialize with friends and family, to try and find some semblance of routine in times like these is important.
his gaze is absently following a man a few tables down, the fellow leaned over and talking in a quiet voice to a woman whose expression betrays she is Feeling Some Type Of Way about whatever he's saying. Abel's smile is a tad distracted as he leans his cheek in a palm, elbow atop the table. ]
It's funny, isn't it?
[ what, pray tell, he's talking about might not be immediately evident - but Abel sends his gaze back to Makoto a moment later to continue, ]
They suffered rather grievously here. Didn't they? [ everyone did. ] But life goes on, and despite it all... they're getting back to their lives, picking up the pieces... going back to work... having a drink at the bar they've always gone to. Flirting with a pretty girl, maybe?
[ or, perhaps... talking with a friend across the table. ]
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or perhaps that's just from makoto's own experience.
it's difficult for him to care about these people. the most he can say he feels for them is a vague sense of gratitude for not causing any undue trouble to a couple of strangers in their midst; other than that, they're just another tangle of souls that will be swept into oblivion at the universe's inevitable end.
as abel voices the hypothetical, makoto's pale eyes slide over to fix him in their eerie gaze.
there's something dubious and unsatisfied in makoto's expression that seems to suggest he doesn't think they suffered nearly as much as abel seems to believe — not in comparison to what he had gone through, at least — but he keeps it to himself. ) No, that's not really the word I would use. It's "expected," is what it is. ( he leans back against the wooden booth, expression assuming an ennui that looks out-of-place given his youth but perhaps less so considering the depth in his eyes. ) Regardless of what they've suffered, they tend naturally toward the equilibrium of familiarity and routine. It's a survival mechanism.
( he cants his head to one side. ) I would hope we're not here to spy on first dates. ( his gaze rolls almost lazily toward the same couple that abel had spotted, whom makoto had already clocked when taking note of all of the patrons currently in the building. )
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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. ]
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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?
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...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...? ]
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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. )
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...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? )
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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.
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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.
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as good a time as any to wrap this one up 😇