( makoto’s earnest reaction to that assertion is to recoil with obvious confusion, dubious, as though saying such a thing suddenly threw into question whether or not his friend was sane. he has the wild, errant impulse to laugh, because the ridiculousness of something so clearly wrong has got to be a joke, right? upon thinking about it more later, he might see how others could trick themselves into thinking he’s a good person. they only see what he does, hear what he says. but makoto knows he’s not a “good person” because he has full clarity on all the things he does not do, that he does not say, but sometimes really wishes he could. really, really wishes. there is locked within him a rabid beast which would inflict the cruelty of its desires wantonly upon anyone it could, but he actively keeps it in check. makoto is not delusional enough to think that that beast is separate from himself. it’s been “him” just as long as there has been a “him.” sometimes he wonders if that’s the truer version of himself, and he’s just some… relic of human society and morality, shackling him even though those rules barely even apply anymore.
he wants to correct kazuya. he wants to tell him that he doesn’t really care for anyone like that, because they’d never given him reason to—not his parents, not his brother, not any student he had been in school with or teacher or anyone else. but… that’s not necessarily true anymore, is it? and it’s not just fjord and datenshou; there were people here who have been kind to him, who have extended him far more compassion and understanding than he ever thought possible. no, he didn’t hate them. sometimes in his weaker moments, he mistrusted them, as if their kindness was simply a lie that would vanish as soon as they saw the full monstrousness of him. he would feel tempted to think the same with kazuya, if the other demon wasn’t already aware of much of makoto’s darker side.
or is he? does he even know that those desires had resided in makoto long before he’d become a demon? would he still think that, knowing how many months he had spent luridly painting the walls of his mind with increasingly vivid tableaus of imagined violence and vice?
he sits a little woodenly in his chair, food forgotten. his hands fall into his lap, shoulders tense, and he wrestles with how to respond. ) I… ( there is a far less diplomatic way he wants to respond; he wants to tear the words to pieces because he feels like they paint a picture that isn’t even really him. surely kazuya has to understand him better than that? or is it his fault, because he hasn’t explained himself well enough?
it’s hard. just as much as makoto wishes to be accepted and embraced for who he is, he’s terrified to reveal that truth to others, because the alternative is far too terrible to consider. )
I—just don’t want to become the kind of person they all assumed I would turn out to be. (“that i am.” his throat burns, feeling raw. his expression looks faintly pained. ) It’s not the same.
( it’s simply not true to say he doesn’t want to hurt people, because he does. he does desperately. the intrusiveness of the thoughts stick their fingers into his mind often enough that it has become second nature at this point. he just doesn’t allow himself to act on them except in ways that feel “right” because… well, if he did, then what was the purpose of summoning a demon in the first place if he just ended up that same monster he feared he would become? )
no subject
he wants to correct kazuya. he wants to tell him that he doesn’t really care for anyone like that, because they’d never given him reason to—not his parents, not his brother, not any student he had been in school with or teacher or anyone else. but… that’s not necessarily true anymore, is it? and it’s not just fjord and datenshou; there were people here who have been kind to him, who have extended him far more compassion and understanding than he ever thought possible. no, he didn’t hate them. sometimes in his weaker moments, he mistrusted them, as if their kindness was simply a lie that would vanish as soon as they saw the full monstrousness of him. he would feel tempted to think the same with kazuya, if the other demon wasn’t already aware of much of makoto’s darker side.
or is he? does he even know that those desires had resided in makoto long before he’d become a demon? would he still think that, knowing how many months he had spent luridly painting the walls of his mind with increasingly vivid tableaus of imagined violence and vice?
he sits a little woodenly in his chair, food forgotten. his hands fall into his lap, shoulders tense, and he wrestles with how to respond. ) I… ( there is a far less diplomatic way he wants to respond; he wants to tear the words to pieces because he feels like they paint a picture that isn’t even really him. surely kazuya has to understand him better than that? or is it his fault, because he hasn’t explained himself well enough?
it’s hard. just as much as makoto wishes to be accepted and embraced for who he is, he’s terrified to reveal that truth to others, because the alternative is far too terrible to consider. )
I—just don’t want to become the kind of person they all assumed I would turn out to be. ( “that i am.” his throat burns, feeling raw. his expression looks faintly pained. ) It’s not the same.
( it’s simply not true to say he doesn’t want to hurt people, because he does. he does desperately. the intrusiveness of the thoughts stick their fingers into his mind often enough that it has become second nature at this point. he just doesn’t allow himself to act on them except in ways that feel “right” because… well, if he did, then what was the purpose of summoning a demon in the first place if he just ended up that same monster he feared he would become? )