( makoto has always been, and especially after his being brought into Hell to learn to live as a demon, a slave to the violent whim of his moods. his narrow chest is densely packed with material that would serve as quick kindling to ignite into a furious blaze at the slightest provocation, at the smallest thing that might provide a spark. it's not as though dextera would be ignorant to this — once, long ago, he had leveraged his unforgiving ferocity at the other young man when he had pressed a palm to him in Purification.
somehow, this is worse.
the young demon moves without warning, without thinking, flinging himself with immediate and reckless abandon at dextera — he is not, and never has been, physically strong, but the suddenness and wildness with which he acts might catch the other off guard. he would force him to the ground, if he could — he would bare his teeth and clench his fists white-knuckled in the front of his shirt and shake him, slam him against the soft earth, anything he was physically capable of and perhaps even that which he wasn't, all the while thinking quickly and vividly about instead wrapping his hands around his neck and crushing the fragile windpipe within until he grew blue and still. something — something dextera had perhaps entertained in his mind for the briefest of moments in their first meeting, which makoto remembers with a sharp and painful jolt to his shard. the sudden detail and bleed of color into the context of their relationship doesn't help in this moment. this remembrance, aided by anger and pain, only serves to feed his anguish. )
You wouldn't even fight? You wouldn't even try?
( the Communion between them is rent asunder to pulse and surge with the brazenness of what he displays now with plain force and physicality: there is the anger, yes, a white-hot wave of blistering heat that fills his sails and sends him crashing against his friend as a rocky shoreline, but below that fury is a deep, horrible, maddening agony that goes down to the very core of him.
because this feels like abandonment. for this pathetic, wretched creature, there is nothing worse. for makoto, who had neither been granted nor earned the love or acceptance of a single human being while he was alive. for makoto, who had been drawn into Hell with the promise of attention and devotion but was ever denied both, all to forge him and hone him into a weapon that would one day slit the throat and spill the vital blood of the only person he would ever truly love. for makoto, who would never be enough to keep that man tethered to life and to him, as it had proven to be too arduous to do so even though he had been there to share it with him.
he doesn't seek the same from dextera. he knows there is none other he could find the same love — the same madness, as they often felt one in the same — with but J. but of all those he has ever met, human or demon, mortal or immortal, dextera has felt the closest to him in nature. from him, he craves understanding, familiarity, kinship. he wants to seek comfort in him, and for him to do the same in return. but there is also something inherent and inextricable from makoto that is twisted, and so that feeling of closeness warps into something possessive and controlling — ironically similar to that which dextera had just a moment ago verbally consigned himself to, should Zenith reign in victory.
he suddenly goes still, the wind not yet out of his sails but instead held back in the tension of potential energy, one that causes his thin arms and narrow shoulders to shake slightly in exertion. ) And if I claimed you from him? What then? ( his pale, colorless eyes are wide and wild like those of a drowning man grasping at whatever flotsam that might support his weight and save his life. )
(2/2)
somehow, this is worse.
the young demon moves without warning, without thinking, flinging himself with immediate and reckless abandon at dextera — he is not, and never has been, physically strong, but the suddenness and wildness with which he acts might catch the other off guard. he would force him to the ground, if he could — he would bare his teeth and clench his fists white-knuckled in the front of his shirt and shake him, slam him against the soft earth, anything he was physically capable of and perhaps even that which he wasn't, all the while thinking quickly and vividly about instead wrapping his hands around his neck and crushing the fragile windpipe within until he grew blue and still. something — something dextera had perhaps entertained in his mind for the briefest of moments in their first meeting, which makoto remembers with a sharp and painful jolt to his shard. the sudden detail and bleed of color into the context of their relationship doesn't help in this moment. this remembrance, aided by anger and pain, only serves to feed his anguish. )
You wouldn't even fight? You wouldn't even try?
( the Communion between them is rent asunder to pulse and surge with the brazenness of what he displays now with plain force and physicality: there is the anger, yes, a white-hot wave of blistering heat that fills his sails and sends him crashing against his friend as a rocky shoreline, but below that fury is a deep, horrible, maddening agony that goes down to the very core of him.
because this feels like abandonment. for this pathetic, wretched creature, there is nothing worse. for makoto, who had neither been granted nor earned the love or acceptance of a single human being while he was alive. for makoto, who had been drawn into Hell with the promise of attention and devotion but was ever denied both, all to forge him and hone him into a weapon that would one day slit the throat and spill the vital blood of the only person he would ever truly love. for makoto, who would never be enough to keep that man tethered to life and to him, as it had proven to be too arduous to do so even though he had been there to share it with him.
he doesn't seek the same from dextera. he knows there is none other he could find the same love — the same madness, as they often felt one in the same — with but J. but of all those he has ever met, human or demon, mortal or immortal, dextera has felt the closest to him in nature. from him, he craves understanding, familiarity, kinship. he wants to seek comfort in him, and for him to do the same in return. but there is also something inherent and inextricable from makoto that is twisted, and so that feeling of closeness warps into something possessive and controlling — ironically similar to that which dextera had just a moment ago verbally consigned himself to, should Zenith reign in victory.
he suddenly goes still, the wind not yet out of his sails but instead held back in the tension of potential energy, one that causes his thin arms and narrow shoulders to shake slightly in exertion. ) And if I claimed you from him? What then? ( his pale, colorless eyes are wide and wild like those of a drowning man grasping at whatever flotsam that might support his weight and save his life. )