[ Yato knows instinctively what Yamato means by that god, and he doesn't know if he wants to protest that he isn't that god, that he doesn't want to be that god, or that he might be that god already whether he likes it or not. They're important distinctions, and yet hopelessly futile.
But Yamato is right. Yato won't ever own Aki, no matter how much he does for her. It's common sense. His friends aren't possessions; he doesn't do things for them to put them in his debt. As a human, he always valued agency and individuality in other people. He would never have claimed ownership over another.
As a god, other people are beginning to run together. He can only be so invested in a populace that treats him like air. An old part of him remembers what it was like to burst into someone else's life and tangle himself up in it in an instant; even if he wasn't always wanted, he was at least there to make a mark and carve a space out for himself. Now, the lives of normal people are intangible, cordoned away from him to see and not touch. Just blips on a radar. So foreign, so ill-defined. Is it a wonder that some strangers have little value to him? Is putting down a rotten human really much worse than putting down a rabid dog?
Yato looks at Yamato sitting across from him and sees his turmoil. Even if Yamato's argument is confused and grasping, he wants Yato to be happy with his decisions -- that much is clear. But had Yato not committed this crime, and had that man gone off and done more awful things because of it, Yato would be even unhappier than he is now. This is, he thinks, the happiest he could be with the options given, even if he isn't happy with how Yamato has been affected.
No matter how many moral questions get thrown at him, Yato doesn't feel regret over his actions. It's a fact of the heart. Even if it makes Yamato sad, Yato can't change how he feels. Maybe there's nothing to discuss beyond that. So in answer to all of Yamato's questions and concerns, Yato only says gently: ]
I'll never regret acting in a friend's interest. What's done is done.
no subject
But Yamato is right. Yato won't ever own Aki, no matter how much he does for her. It's common sense. His friends aren't possessions; he doesn't do things for them to put them in his debt. As a human, he always valued agency and individuality in other people. He would never have claimed ownership over another.
As a god, other people are beginning to run together. He can only be so invested in a populace that treats him like air. An old part of him remembers what it was like to burst into someone else's life and tangle himself up in it in an instant; even if he wasn't always wanted, he was at least there to make a mark and carve a space out for himself. Now, the lives of normal people are intangible, cordoned away from him to see and not touch. Just blips on a radar. So foreign, so ill-defined. Is it a wonder that some strangers have little value to him? Is putting down a rotten human really much worse than putting down a rabid dog?
Yato looks at Yamato sitting across from him and sees his turmoil. Even if Yamato's argument is confused and grasping, he wants Yato to be happy with his decisions -- that much is clear. But had Yato not committed this crime, and had that man gone off and done more awful things because of it, Yato would be even unhappier than he is now. This is, he thinks, the happiest he could be with the options given, even if he isn't happy with how Yamato has been affected.
No matter how many moral questions get thrown at him, Yato doesn't feel regret over his actions. It's a fact of the heart. Even if it makes Yamato sad, Yato can't change how he feels. Maybe there's nothing to discuss beyond that. So in answer to all of Yamato's questions and concerns, Yato only says gently: ]
I'll never regret acting in a friend's interest. What's done is done.
[ He stands slowly. ]
Thanks for dropping by, Yasu. I appreciate it.