( makoto isn’t sure wishes are supposed to come true at all.
this world simply isn’t that kind. no world is. no matter how much he might have hoped or wished or prayed, nothing had changed about the internal configuration of his thoughts and desires when he had still been human. and even after he had left his mortality and earth behind when J had taken him into hell, even when he thought that he had been promised everything he’d ever dreamed of (someone who accepted him, who didn’t find him disgusting, who promised to care for him and love him and attend to desires…!), he should have known by way of his short lifetime of anecdotal evidence that it would all be for naught. if fate exists, it is cruel; if God exists, He is harsh and judgmental—the demon J, archduke of hell, does exist, and he had lied. if makoto meant anything to him at all, it was as a passing amusement, a fucking joke. he had given him the tantalizing taste of what life living together might be before heartlessly tossing him into datenshou’s brothel to “learn the ways of hell.”
“if he’s useless, just dismember him and toss him in your storehouse.”
he’s angry. he’s furious—and rightfully so! but something twists his gut into a mutinous contortion when he thinks of burning this small wish for a petty vengeance, something along the lines of… fear. guilt? sorrow. pain. it still hurts. J had been like a messiah to him; the worst part of this betrayal is that so much of makoto desperately wishes he could pretend it hadn’t happened and still live in the dream he had been promised. such a delusion would all but ensure his demise in hell, but… no, he’s not there anymore. he’s here—wherever this odd place takes up metaphysical space.
he would need several more moments of internal conflict to figure out what he wanted to do with the wish he held tight in one fist. but the person next to him interrupts that process completely, turning to grab makoto’s thin wrist with a suddenness that causes his breath to leap into his throat. as guanshan prises open his fingers to deposit his own wish, makoto looks up to him sidelong, his oddly metallic eyes searching his face for his intention. what he finds there instead is a tableau of hardship written into mending skin—of tightly-wrapped bandages, old wounds, and dried blood. the ugly wound encircling makoto’s own neck itches, though he suddenly fears drawing attention to the stitching there.
makoto is the type to question everything. never having truly been given anything unconditionally, it’s by his very nature. “are you sure?” he would ask, “people are saying that burning wishes together will be fated together by it.” is this kindness? what if he ends up cursing it unwittingly?
he looks down at the two pieces of paper in his hand, one crumpled and the other tightly folded. questioning his intention might offend him. he might take it back. the scraps, for just a moment, feel as fragile as a bird’s wing.
his fist closes, this time more carefully, and he deposits them into one of the glass jars. he reaches for one of the matches next, about to strike one when—he stops. he can’t, not without warning him. the guilt claws too eagerly at him from the inside. ) I-If it happens… I, I just don’t want you caught up in it if you don’t…
no subject
this world simply isn’t that kind. no world is. no matter how much he might have hoped or wished or prayed, nothing had changed about the internal configuration of his thoughts and desires when he had still been human. and even after he had left his mortality and earth behind when J had taken him into hell, even when he thought that he had been promised everything he’d ever dreamed of (someone who accepted him, who didn’t find him disgusting, who promised to care for him and love him and attend to desires…!), he should have known by way of his short lifetime of anecdotal evidence that it would all be for naught. if fate exists, it is cruel; if God exists, He is harsh and judgmental—the demon J, archduke of hell, does exist, and he had lied. if makoto meant anything to him at all, it was as a passing amusement, a fucking joke. he had given him the tantalizing taste of what life living together might be before heartlessly tossing him into datenshou’s brothel to “learn the ways of hell.”
“if he’s useless, just dismember him and toss him in your storehouse.”
he’s angry. he’s furious—and rightfully so! but something twists his gut into a mutinous contortion when he thinks of burning this small wish for a petty vengeance, something along the lines of… fear. guilt? sorrow. pain. it still hurts. J had been like a messiah to him; the worst part of this betrayal is that so much of makoto desperately wishes he could pretend it hadn’t happened and still live in the dream he had been promised. such a delusion would all but ensure his demise in hell, but… no, he’s not there anymore. he’s here—wherever this odd place takes up metaphysical space.
he would need several more moments of internal conflict to figure out what he wanted to do with the wish he held tight in one fist. but the person next to him interrupts that process completely, turning to grab makoto’s thin wrist with a suddenness that causes his breath to leap into his throat. as guanshan prises open his fingers to deposit his own wish, makoto looks up to him sidelong, his oddly metallic eyes searching his face for his intention. what he finds there instead is a tableau of hardship written into mending skin—of tightly-wrapped bandages, old wounds, and dried blood. the ugly wound encircling makoto’s own neck itches, though he suddenly fears drawing attention to the stitching there.
makoto is the type to question everything. never having truly been given anything unconditionally, it’s by his very nature. “are you sure?” he would ask, “people are saying that burning wishes together will be fated together by it.” is this kindness? what if he ends up cursing it unwittingly?
he looks down at the two pieces of paper in his hand, one crumpled and the other tightly folded. questioning his intention might offend him. he might take it back. the scraps, for just a moment, feel as fragile as a bird’s wing.
his fist closes, this time more carefully, and he deposits them into one of the glass jars. he reaches for one of the matches next, about to strike one when—he stops. he can’t, not without warning him. the guilt claws too eagerly at him from the inside. ) I-If it happens… I, I just don’t want you caught up in it if you don’t…