Most of what Jing Yuan pleads over quiet tones isn't anything that he hasn't already heard a million times before. Something to be waved off without thought beyond leaving it as something mysterious and complicated, to let appearances fall however they pleased when it came to himself rather than extend an argument beyond his reaches. Those that needed to know would get his reasonings, after all, and those that didn't had to often be left in the dark. Playing the villain, playing the scoundrel, playing it up so that intentions stayed as clouded as possible, for that was how one kept their head and kept their power in the realm of hell.
And yet...
...
The expression that passes over Jing Yuan's face twists at him. It's one he's been able to gently wave off before, but...
No matter their differing points of views, or their differing origins.
...
He would say it sounds like Diavolo. But Diavolo never presented it with hurt, with compassion, with genuine emotion. He presented as a leader. He presented as the king. They discussed not as equals, but as political relations who tied together only so much. Not mutually respected, but acknowledged as both good and bad in moments. Audible strokes of desires and ideals, but only so far - never pushing, never demanding, never quite making an agreement.
To paint it so simply, and to ask him in such a way to not feel like claws being dug in to redirect him...
...
How strange, to remind him of Ibuki at a time like this. It leaves him at an uncharacteristic loss for words, a dumbfounded openness to his eyes.
...]
...What? Oh, I...
...
I can't make any agreements, Jing Yuan, but... I'll speak with him. Outside of all the drink and tensions.
no subject
Most of what Jing Yuan pleads over quiet tones isn't anything that he hasn't already heard a million times before. Something to be waved off without thought beyond leaving it as something mysterious and complicated, to let appearances fall however they pleased when it came to himself rather than extend an argument beyond his reaches. Those that needed to know would get his reasonings, after all, and those that didn't had to often be left in the dark. Playing the villain, playing the scoundrel, playing it up so that intentions stayed as clouded as possible, for that was how one kept their head and kept their power in the realm of hell.
And yet...
...
The expression that passes over Jing Yuan's face twists at him. It's one he's been able to gently wave off before, but...
No matter their differing points of views, or their differing origins.
...
He would say it sounds like Diavolo. But Diavolo never presented it with hurt, with compassion, with genuine emotion. He presented as a leader. He presented as the king. They discussed not as equals, but as political relations who tied together only so much. Not mutually respected, but acknowledged as both good and bad in moments. Audible strokes of desires and ideals, but only so far - never pushing, never demanding, never quite making an agreement.
To paint it so simply, and to ask him in such a way to not feel like claws being dug in to redirect him...
...
How strange, to remind him of Ibuki at a time like this. It leaves him at an uncharacteristic loss for words, a dumbfounded openness to his eyes.
...]
...What? Oh, I...
...
I can't make any agreements, Jing Yuan, but... I'll speak with him. Outside of all the drink and tensions.
It's not my goal to start such a pointless fight.