( in a place he doesn’t allow himself to recognize, there is likely a part of him that recognizes something strange and kindred in this stranger as well. he doesn’t say so, however, and he doesn’t even admit it to himself—he tosses it away into a dark and wretched corner of the cavern of his chest, hoping that neglect would lead it to one day die, as any other fault or vulnerability might.
“pinocchio”… he recognizes the name as any young man from earth might, as interwoven into the fabric of international folklore as it has become. but, beyond that vague familiarity, makoto doesn’t think much of it. names are important, yes; they can also be symbolic, thematic. but he won’t allow himself to jump to any conclusions based on a name and only a name. )
Of course.
( he could be content to leave it there, thinking it one of the more interesting interactions he’s had through this system, though, as the other continues—
they are perhaps some of the few in this strange place for whom such a question might hold an odd sense of gravity. makoto had never really had what he would call “friends” prior to his death. the first friend he had ever made had been fjord, a relationship bartered with leveraging his “good behavior” after he had lost the last scrap of humanity he had to the selfsame demon. but fjord had offered him heartfelt advice when other demons would be hard-pressed to find such magnanimity, and he had been happy to think of him as such. in a place like hell, where kindness is never a guarantee and almost always a trick (or at the very least, a mirage), a friend is perhaps one of the most valuable things one can be.
others treat it so easily, so casually, so thoughtlessly. kazuya had been eager to call him a “friend” after half a conversation, all upon assumption, not even thinking to ask.
pinocchio seems to understand better. that flickering sense of kinship grows stronger. )
“Try”? ( it’s the choice of that word that stands out to him. ) Yes. Perhaps we could try.
no subject
“pinocchio”… he recognizes the name as any young man from earth might, as interwoven into the fabric of international folklore as it has become. but, beyond that vague familiarity, makoto doesn’t think much of it. names are important, yes; they can also be symbolic, thematic. but he won’t allow himself to jump to any conclusions based on a name and only a name. )
Of course.
( he could be content to leave it there, thinking it one of the more interesting interactions he’s had through this system, though, as the other continues—
they are perhaps some of the few in this strange place for whom such a question might hold an odd sense of gravity. makoto had never really had what he would call “friends” prior to his death. the first friend he had ever made had been fjord, a relationship bartered with leveraging his “good behavior” after he had lost the last scrap of humanity he had to the selfsame demon. but fjord had offered him heartfelt advice when other demons would be hard-pressed to find such magnanimity, and he had been happy to think of him as such. in a place like hell, where kindness is never a guarantee and almost always a trick (or at the very least, a mirage), a friend is perhaps one of the most valuable things one can be.
others treat it so easily, so casually, so thoughtlessly. kazuya had been eager to call him a “friend” after half a conversation, all upon assumption, not even thinking to ask.
pinocchio seems to understand better. that flickering sense of kinship grows stronger. )
“Try”? ( it’s the choice of that word that stands out to him. ) Yes. Perhaps we could try.
What exactly is a “friend” to you, Pinocchio?