( the words shock him like an electrical current had instead passed through the Watch on his wrist. his heart staggers, and sweat immediately begins to bead near his hairline. he struggles to swallow around a lump that has suddenly risen in his throat, and when he manages to squeak out even half of a reply, it only comes out as a stammer of breath, a hh-hh-hh into the receiver, that might have been construed as heaviness of breath or a sigh exhaled through a quaking chest.
for makoto, however, it had been a question he hadn’t been able to get himself to voice: how did you know?
having put up with J’s mind games as much as he has, his immediate paranoid instinct is to think somehow he did know. but—just a few seconds’ thought makes him realize that’s ridiculous, that he doubts even J had picked up on all of the broken shards of emotional glass that lie as a field between himself and his father. he hates thinking of him, and for a split second, he hates pinocchio for making him think of him, but he knows that it was ridiculous to blame him for such a thing. “they become disappointments to their fathers who wish for good sons.” the words echo in his ear, blotting out whatever pinocchio is saying further; instead he is once again seated uncomfortably in the family room, his hands clasped on his knees, the knuckles white through thin skin. his mother stands conspiratorially close to his father, who has just arrived home from work—he can’t hear what she says over the sibilant whispers, but he knows what she’s telling him, because she can only take away and scold him for the books and things he brings home to try to satisfy his morbid fascinations so many times before she makes good on her threats to tell his father.
terrified, he stares at his hands. but some sort of ill instinct causes him to look up, and in that instant he sees it—his father’s gaze cutting through the air between them, ice cold, nothing but black hate behind his eyes.
“he’s going to kill me.” it was the first time makoto had ever thought it, but it stuck with him. even as he thinks of it now, he feels certain that he was right. )
…Yes. ( he had fallen silent for a long moment, but he rejoins the conversation with this word, shaky and quiet—it’s hard to say whether or not it answered pinocchio’s reply or his comment about the timbre of this exchange between them.
he’s quiet for a moment longer. then he clears his throat, speaking up again with a little more strength behind his words. )
To answer your question… Someone who will accept you for everything you are, who will see you for everything you are. Someone—who will offer advice, even when they don’t need to, ( he thinks of fjord for a moment; that conversation between them in the cold of the balcony had been a lifeline he’d clung to for a long time, ) who will be honest with you, when you’re making a mistake. But not cruel. Someone who won’t just throw you aside, even if it might be the easiest thing to do.
I… think that’s what a friend is, to me.
( he’s not sure he’s ever had one like that. it would be expecting a lot from someone. even fjord. )
no subject
for makoto, however, it had been a question he hadn’t been able to get himself to voice: how did you know?
having put up with J’s mind games as much as he has, his immediate paranoid instinct is to think somehow he did know. but—just a few seconds’ thought makes him realize that’s ridiculous, that he doubts even J had picked up on all of the broken shards of emotional glass that lie as a field between himself and his father. he hates thinking of him, and for a split second, he hates pinocchio for making him think of him, but he knows that it was ridiculous to blame him for such a thing. “they become disappointments to their fathers who wish for good sons.” the words echo in his ear, blotting out whatever pinocchio is saying further; instead he is once again seated uncomfortably in the family room, his hands clasped on his knees, the knuckles white through thin skin. his mother stands conspiratorially close to his father, who has just arrived home from work—he can’t hear what she says over the sibilant whispers, but he knows what she’s telling him, because she can only take away and scold him for the books and things he brings home to try to satisfy his morbid fascinations so many times before she makes good on her threats to tell his father.
terrified, he stares at his hands. but some sort of ill instinct causes him to look up, and in that instant he sees it—his father’s gaze cutting through the air between them, ice cold, nothing but black hate behind his eyes.
“he’s going to kill me.” it was the first time makoto had ever thought it, but it stuck with him. even as he thinks of it now, he feels certain that he was right. )
…Yes. ( he had fallen silent for a long moment, but he rejoins the conversation with this word, shaky and quiet—it’s hard to say whether or not it answered pinocchio’s reply or his comment about the timbre of this exchange between them.
he’s quiet for a moment longer. then he clears his throat, speaking up again with a little more strength behind his words. )
To answer your question… Someone who will accept you for everything you are, who will see you for everything you are. Someone—who will offer advice, even when they don’t need to, ( he thinks of fjord for a moment; that conversation between them in the cold of the balcony had been a lifeline he’d clung to for a long time, ) who will be honest with you, when you’re making a mistake. But not cruel. Someone who won’t just throw you aside, even if it might be the easiest thing to do.
I… think that’s what a friend is, to me.
( he’s not sure he’s ever had one like that. it would be expecting a lot from someone. even fjord. )