( that is what he had put down for his thoughts on his ideal partner, isn’t it? the only thing he could have thought of. “someone who accepts me and loves me for everything that I am.” he had filled out the profile to humor the staff (who had been basically forcing him to do so), and he had humored this section to fill it out—the thought of himself even having some sort of ideal romantic partner is insubstantial and ephemeral in his mind. even someone like J… those words, that term just doesn’t really fit everything that their relationship is. but he had answered this section truthfully, even if he wasn’t sure it was a possibility for himself. it was the same for a friend, and it’s why he had avoided them for so long. with demons, he didn’t worry so much—he had learned in all of a week and a half in hell that his proclivities and desires were very nearly “normal” when compared to the debauchery demons indulged themselves in without a care in the world. but anyone else, to whom concepts and concerns of morality might still apply…
sometimes he wishes he didn’t care as much. he could just bare his teeth and show the world who and what he is, and damn all the rest—his ears would be deaf to the disgust in their words, his eyes would be blind to the horror in their eyes, his skin would be stone to the intensity of their stares. but he’s not. he’s soft, and he’s vulnerable—such things only too sharply remind him of how he gave up hope at life on earth in the first place.
they have only shared a short conversation, but its track gives makoto the impression that pinocchio (perhaps similar to his namesake) is not so simple in his relationship to humanity as many others he’s met here. but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still worried. his answer is something so tantalizing in its essence to him that it almost aches to consider, but he’s afraid to reach out his hand, unsure if it might be snatched away.
there’s a long pause before makoto answers, his voice tremulous and apprehensive. he has a question of his own before he moves on to ask the one pinocchio has posed. ) …And what if you don’t like what you find? ( unseen, unheard, he gnaws on his lip. ) What if there’s—more that isn’t, “easy to like” than there is the rest of it?
( he scares himself sometimes, with the things he thinks. the things he says. since contracting with J and becoming a demon, the things he does. he wonders if his control is slipping. there is much about himself that makoto doesn’t like, going so far as to hate it sometimes, when he’s entrenched most deeply in thoughts that J would belittlingly call “human.” and yet, with as self-secured demons seem to be with their cruelty and their morbid wantonness, he’s likely right—such a thing likely is uniquely “human.” )
no subject
sometimes he wishes he didn’t care as much. he could just bare his teeth and show the world who and what he is, and damn all the rest—his ears would be deaf to the disgust in their words, his eyes would be blind to the horror in their eyes, his skin would be stone to the intensity of their stares. but he’s not. he’s soft, and he’s vulnerable—such things only too sharply remind him of how he gave up hope at life on earth in the first place.
they have only shared a short conversation, but its track gives makoto the impression that pinocchio (perhaps similar to his namesake) is not so simple in his relationship to humanity as many others he’s met here. but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still worried. his answer is something so tantalizing in its essence to him that it almost aches to consider, but he’s afraid to reach out his hand, unsure if it might be snatched away.
there’s a long pause before makoto answers, his voice tremulous and apprehensive. he has a question of his own before he moves on to ask the one pinocchio has posed. ) …And what if you don’t like what you find? ( unseen, unheard, he gnaws on his lip. ) What if there’s—more that isn’t, “easy to like” than there is the rest of it?
( he scares himself sometimes, with the things he thinks. the things he says. since contracting with J and becoming a demon, the things he does. he wonders if his control is slipping. there is much about himself that makoto doesn’t like, going so far as to hate it sometimes, when he’s entrenched most deeply in thoughts that J would belittlingly call “human.” and yet, with as self-secured demons seem to be with their cruelty and their morbid wantonness, he’s likely right—such a thing likely is uniquely “human.” )