( it’s a distinction makoto would struggle to see as he had never had the opportunity to try to hide what he was available to him. even if rumors hadn’t spread with virulent alacrity throughout the upper crust of hell’s hierarchy that archduke J had taken in another stray, and this time a former human, even, it’s not as though his appearance would have allowed him to fool anyone. demons that look as human as even J are rare in hell—typically a mark of power, beauty, and influence. it’s a bit less so for a creature like makoto, who had largely had it grandfathered in from his previous mortal existence. a bottom-rung demon underling whose name scarcely any demon would have trouble forming the syllables for, he’d had no power to speak of, and whatever influence he’d only received transferred by his tangential relationship to J. and as for beauty, well. he wasn’t fool enough to take any of the honeyed words of silver-tongued demons to heart (not again, anyway); that he was physically human was novelty to them, and that he was technically a possession of J’s even more of an incentive. he tends to leave it at that.
so here in the resort, he’d never bothered in trying to hide what he was currently or what he had been previously because it didn’t really seem to benefit him. there were plenty of other secrets within that story, however, that he is fiercely defensive of. it’s strange how few seem interested in the “how’s” and “why’s.”
it doesn’t stop makoto from finding it annoying, how obvious the shape of the truth feels in the weighty attention he senses from charlie as he finds a vein with the tip of the needle, wincing ever-so-faintly as he pushes it through skin to tap into the flow of blood. his hand trembles a bit as he makes certain that it’s all right, but, sure enough, the vial slowly begins to fill with dark red. though he’s gotten fairly accustomed to ghoulish things like re-suturing his head onto the stump of his neck, this is actually new to him—there’s just a level of detachment from it which he would need some time to fully unpack. it’s something in how all the events since his becoming a demon has taught him that this body of his is a commodity, and that’s literal—it’s not even the one he’d been born with, instead one ordered by J. it gives him a complex relationship to it, but he at the very least figures that if it’s going to be of some use to him, he might as well use it as he must.
a line of tension snakes its way through the muscles of makoto’s neck and shoulders at the shift in conversation; he sends a narrowed look over his shoulder to charlie, just a little venomous that he doesn’t get any of his questions answered, so why should he return the favor? sure, it’s not as though it had been part of the contract to begin with, but it’s just the principle of the thing at this point.
it’s a crackling heat of vexation that lasts for just a few heartbeats before dying down. it’s not as though it’s sensitive information for makoto to divulge. he’s just going to have to trust that’s not the case for charlie—a rather generous good faith read, in his opinion. he had offered some information, makoto supposes. even if it’s not what he’d originally been angling towards.
he hesitates, mentally compartmentalizing the stinging pain in his arm before replying, ) No… They changed to look like this after I died. I think. ( his mouth presses into a small, thin line—due to extenuating circumstances, he hadn’t really been able to look in a mirror for a few days after J had taken him into hell, but he has to assume they changed either before that point or during. )
But they’re the only thing that really changed. ( it sounds like a grousing complaint because it is. he still can’t keep the disappointment out of his tone, one that adds on an unspoken “unfortunately.”)
no subject
so here in the resort, he’d never bothered in trying to hide what he was currently or what he had been previously because it didn’t really seem to benefit him. there were plenty of other secrets within that story, however, that he is fiercely defensive of. it’s strange how few seem interested in the “how’s” and “why’s.”
it doesn’t stop makoto from finding it annoying, how obvious the shape of the truth feels in the weighty attention he senses from charlie as he finds a vein with the tip of the needle, wincing ever-so-faintly as he pushes it through skin to tap into the flow of blood. his hand trembles a bit as he makes certain that it’s all right, but, sure enough, the vial slowly begins to fill with dark red. though he’s gotten fairly accustomed to ghoulish things like re-suturing his head onto the stump of his neck, this is actually new to him—there’s just a level of detachment from it which he would need some time to fully unpack. it’s something in how all the events since his becoming a demon has taught him that this body of his is a commodity, and that’s literal—it’s not even the one he’d been born with, instead one ordered by J. it gives him a complex relationship to it, but he at the very least figures that if it’s going to be of some use to him, he might as well use it as he must.
a line of tension snakes its way through the muscles of makoto’s neck and shoulders at the shift in conversation; he sends a narrowed look over his shoulder to charlie, just a little venomous that he doesn’t get any of his questions answered, so why should he return the favor? sure, it’s not as though it had been part of the contract to begin with, but it’s just the principle of the thing at this point.
it’s a crackling heat of vexation that lasts for just a few heartbeats before dying down. it’s not as though it’s sensitive information for makoto to divulge. he’s just going to have to trust that’s not the case for charlie—a rather generous good faith read, in his opinion. he had offered some information, makoto supposes. even if it’s not what he’d originally been angling towards.
he hesitates, mentally compartmentalizing the stinging pain in his arm before replying, ) No… They changed to look like this after I died. I think. ( his mouth presses into a small, thin line—due to extenuating circumstances, he hadn’t really been able to look in a mirror for a few days after J had taken him into hell, but he has to assume they changed either before that point or during. )
But they’re the only thing that really changed. ( it sounds like a grousing complaint because it is. he still can’t keep the disappointment out of his tone, one that adds on an unspoken “unfortunately.” )