( in a way, set calls his feint; rather than remaining resolute or fighting for distance away from him as makoto strikes out to close it, he steps inside of his guard in a way that causes a distant, buried martial instinct (one half-forgotten, which he had learned in a place he no longer remembers) to clamor with sharp alarm. but as the god surges forward to meet him, pressing willingly into his body along the pull of his grasping arm, bent over his shorter form, it's makoto's first instinct to flee. he needs to break away, gain distance, reassess — but it slowly becomes apparent over half-seconds, bleeding through the conjoined morass of their shared Communion, that set does not do this with the intention of hurting him. instead, it is curiosity; it is the most full-fledged attempt that one can muster to know another. in this... makoto can find some understanding. this is a lesson that had been taught to him relatively early, in Hell — for all the illusions and reflections that demons can put up around their true selves in speaking to you, silvered tongues weaving the image of who they wanted you to believe they were (because your belief made it so), there are certain lies that the body cannot perfectly replicate.
in recognition of this, makoto remains where he is. it is an acknowledgment, and acceptance, and but there is still his characteristic youthful indignation still inherent in the strength of his stance.
beneath the cascading curtain of the war god's hair, makoto stares at him with narrowed eyes that glint metallic in the low light. )
He is mine. Regardless of whether or not we are apart.
( one assertion he has been able to sift from the vagueness of his memories of horos: J had been there, and he is certain he had been the one who had found him. with everything that has happened to him — to the two of them — the unfortunate byproduct that impresses itself upon the young demon is that he believes, to a certain extent, that they are destined. as soon as he had heard that it was possible to win the shards of others to this world, his restless drive had calmed, willing to see just how far he could push certain unspoken rules. if his master's shard were to be plucked from the Timestream at any time, makoto would prefer to prepare before he made a move to acquire it. it's an advantage, after all, to learn about this place and collect some more strength (regardless of what he had bitterly said earlier about power) out of his sight, all to better use against him later. )
All the stage does is arrange the rules for my assailment against him. ( there is a part of him that wants to despair, to discard the whole factor out of hand because it doesn't feel purposeful enough. but he thinks it through further, tactically. ) Were we to return to Hell, he would be restored to all of the power he's built over centuries... and I would be back to clinging to the lower rungs of the ladder, chasing after him.
( he feels determination that he could catch him, surpass him even, but he's not sure if those are delusions of grandeur or... something else. )
If I had a hand in writing the rules of engagement myself, however, with a new world... ( his words are hesitant, begrudging, ) Perhaps that would be an advantage worth investing effort in again. ( even if he's so worried it will all be for naught again.
his gaze had wandered the deeper his thoughts had gone on this, but the gentle, methodical touch at his jaw, fingertips tracing down the tender arch of his throat, cause his eerie eyes to return to set's own. they seem to glow like low embers in the dim light, as hypnotic as his decorated words; wariness creeps along makoto's spine in a protracted prickling tread, knowing full well from his time in Hell the danger of creatures like this. he is one of them. but as he speaks, he finds himself for the very first time drawn to him in kinship rather than repulsed by the disparate difference of their existences, their experiences, their placement here and in their own worlds. but it's not as though something like that is new or unexpected. makoto has learned in his second life as a demon to embrace contradiction; hatred and devotion, compassion and cruelty, desire and violence... even if they are each an inhale or an exhale, they are still the same breath, are they not? ever-so-slightly, makoto leans into him; the hand twisted in the gold hung around his neck pulls tighter, intending that, if set is to loom over him like this, he would at least have him crane into slight discomfort to do so. ) That's the first thing you've said to me that makes sense, ( he presses the words warmly into the close space, fervent, ) I am the same. To achieve my goals, I will do whatever it takes — I have done whatever it takes. ( and yet, as much sacrifice as it had taken, of his mind and his body and his dignity, he wants to make one thing clear. his eyes flash, teeth baring dangerously as he continues, ) But I will make one thing clear: I am no sacrificial lamb.
no subject
in recognition of this, makoto remains where he is. it is an acknowledgment, and acceptance, and but there is still his characteristic youthful indignation still inherent in the strength of his stance.
beneath the cascading curtain of the war god's hair, makoto stares at him with narrowed eyes that glint metallic in the low light. )
He is mine. Regardless of whether or not we are apart.
( one assertion he has been able to sift from the vagueness of his memories of horos: J had been there, and he is certain he had been the one who had found him. with everything that has happened to him — to the two of them — the unfortunate byproduct that impresses itself upon the young demon is that he believes, to a certain extent, that they are destined. as soon as he had heard that it was possible to win the shards of others to this world, his restless drive had calmed, willing to see just how far he could push certain unspoken rules. if his master's shard were to be plucked from the Timestream at any time, makoto would prefer to prepare before he made a move to acquire it. it's an advantage, after all, to learn about this place and collect some more strength (regardless of what he had bitterly said earlier about power) out of his sight, all to better use against him later. )
All the stage does is arrange the rules for my assailment against him. ( there is a part of him that wants to despair, to discard the whole factor out of hand because it doesn't feel purposeful enough. but he thinks it through further, tactically. ) Were we to return to Hell, he would be restored to all of the power he's built over centuries... and I would be back to clinging to the lower rungs of the ladder, chasing after him.
( he feels determination that he could catch him, surpass him even, but he's not sure if those are delusions of grandeur or... something else. )
If I had a hand in writing the rules of engagement myself, however, with a new world... ( his words are hesitant, begrudging, ) Perhaps that would be an advantage worth investing effort in again. ( even if he's so worried it will all be for naught again.
his gaze had wandered the deeper his thoughts had gone on this, but the gentle, methodical touch at his jaw, fingertips tracing down the tender arch of his throat, cause his eerie eyes to return to set's own. they seem to glow like low embers in the dim light, as hypnotic as his decorated words; wariness creeps along makoto's spine in a protracted prickling tread, knowing full well from his time in Hell the danger of creatures like this. he is one of them. but as he speaks, he finds himself for the very first time drawn to him in kinship rather than repulsed by the disparate difference of their existences, their experiences, their placement here and in their own worlds. but it's not as though something like that is new or unexpected. makoto has learned in his second life as a demon to embrace contradiction; hatred and devotion, compassion and cruelty, desire and violence... even if they are each an inhale or an exhale, they are still the same breath, are they not? ever-so-slightly, makoto leans into him; the hand twisted in the gold hung around his neck pulls tighter, intending that, if set is to loom over him like this, he would at least have him crane into slight discomfort to do so. ) That's the first thing you've said to me that makes sense, ( he presses the words warmly into the close space, fervent, ) I am the same. To achieve my goals, I will do whatever it takes — I have done whatever it takes. ( and yet, as much sacrifice as it had taken, of his mind and his body and his dignity, he wants to make one thing clear. his eyes flash, teeth baring dangerously as he continues, ) But I will make one thing clear: I am no sacrificial lamb.