#꧕ 🇮‌ 🇱‌🇪‌🇳‌🇩‌ 🇹‌🇴‌ 🇾‌🇴‌🇺‌ 🇲‌🇾‌ 🇩‌🇭‌🇦‌🇷‌🇲‌🇦‌ 🇪‌🇾‌🇪‌ ꒰ ᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ 009 ꒱

[saiakv]

[ 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 ] : sender is apologising for appearing cold.

for you i would: accepting

See them, floundering in their sense of mine, like fish in the puddles of a dried-up stream — and, seeing this, live with no mine, not forming attachment to experiences.

OPENING THE DOOR TO PITCH BLACK DARKNESS offers a reprieve from the pungent stench of incense that lingers in every hallway of the compound. The others that live here ( ordinaries, acolytes and nameless sorcerers whose only distinction is the surrounding white ) still glower at their presence — an aura of ominosity that drags under the robes, no matter whether hand-crafted by the same hands that point fingers at the intruder. Once out of sight from all the others who don white and teal, Kenjaku pulls the veil up overhead, revealing the stolen visage; an immortalized youth, not aged a day past death. There's a lukewarm scowl on their expression, where usually an everlasting smirk settles.

Frankly, the anciency of this place is starting to seep under their skin, unearthing memories of ceremonial chimes and mumurs in the back of one's mind. Days of old, days of the cloth; Tengen's name uttered in reverance, a constant echo in the halls of the Gojo compound where their first guardians made a home. Back then, there was no pulchritudinous statues and opulent carpentry to fall back onto - they were naught but villagefolk up in the mountain, unrefined hands that only knew how to hold the shovel and toil the infertile ground. Now they cast their gazes down upon them — a Dhyani-Buddha, in the flesh.

At first, the anecdotal whimsy of it all had eased an affiliative smile on their features; these were no strange waters, after all. Meticulously, from the day the first rowan bloomed amidst the snow, they have watched each Eye run its cycle until its candle wick burnt out; or, sometimes, was put out by those same hands that now dust the ceremonial robes they have been dressed in. So, it is not the unfamiliarity, but the quietude of this last life that is starting to get to them; a being designed to swim upstream now caged in a stagnant puddle. Tengen knew this, all too well. The true purpose of a Six Eyes user was fullfilled as a guardian and this body, that was once a prized possession, begins to feel like a prison ( are you laughing, old friend? will this ill fate of mine be the thing that cracks the crust of a thousand years from your lips? ) as the tender pull of Satoru Gojo's soul grows brighter some days, like threads of a vagabond curse that was never quite tight-woven.

A calloused fingerpad massages the one throbbing on his forehead — its counterpart extended to turn the door handle. Once every so often, the clan will hold gatherings, commemorating glories past. Redundant; you ask Kenjaku, the entire sorcery world is wilting. But nevertheless these dimwits dress in their Chosen One in teal as though to bring out the electric blues of that cursed glare and bathe him in light in the common room - the one thing that holds their troupe together, the foundation of their breed. With a soft creak the entrance is paved in a pillar of candlelight from the corridor and Kenjaku slips inside just as silently as they had exited at the height of an argument before.

Which was an oddity in itself — because usually, they would not entertain such feeble time-wasters. Alas, the afforementioned frustrations of being a prisoner had piled up - shame, that they were only expressed to the one holding the key and not the one who built that cage to begin with. But one of these days, he will slip outside just as quietly, as well, and that long awaited reunion will be consummated with a stab to the back. Perhaps a second one, for old time's sake.

He would be found with his back to the wall, the heel of woolen socks sinking into a stack of pillows, expression nonchalant over the pages of some old book with dust still falling at the turning of each page. Sharp violet eyes snapped to a knock at the door, only to watch it slowly open in tandem with the arch of his brow. Satoru Gojo stands there, still in the same fancy gear as though he is rubbing the prevalent victory in his face — then proceeds to make the most ludicrous apology, all in a simple, childlike tone that's almost commanding a reconciliation. Ah, but he is — he is so simple, down to his core! Disbelief settles on Kenjaku's features before a whimsical smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

Did you really think I would care for the ways in which you offend me — I want nothing more from you than to be released from your gaze.

And yet.

The book slams shut, dust scatters on the robes. He puts it away and straightens up, one knee folding, one arm resting over it in a laid-back fashion.

❝ You are the worst punishment of them all, Satoru Gojo. ❞ A smile without teeth, but full of needles — one that borders on play, or a challenge, but the distaste is genuine as they come. When was the last time... ❝ — boring. Dreadfully predictable; and thus, boring. ❞

[saiakv]

Never lifting his eyes from the urushi brush; ❝ Do you remember how much mochi you've had in your life? ❞

      “Did  you  have  a  name  before  this  one  or  was  it  always  the  same?  I'm  curious,  you  rarely  speak  of  a  time  before  this  life, @saiakv”

[saiakv]

From x. | @kuraokcmi

We beings here assembled, whether terrestrial or celestial, salute the Accomplished Buddha, honoured by gods and men. May there be happiness! — Ring. —

CLAD IN SILK THAT ALLUDES TO LAVISH HOSPITALITY — battle-scarred skin that should not be ( there was naught but void where this arm once grew from once; now every fibre of dense muscle has been rebuilt into a meaty pauldron ) brings forbidden warmth to the mountain's peak. There, it coils around eternal frost like a serpent carrying the Sacred Flame, each heartbeat resonating through pebbled skin as their limbs entangle and claim all attention of the physical eye. The ridges between his shoulders roll languidly as a prowling tiger when he shifts to hover atop the lying demigod — an ethereal being captured in this mortal flesh; does he even know the reason why his question has brought a curl to Kenjaku's lip?

❝ Do you wish to escape? ❞ Teeth leer over his lips; parted to welcome the poison, innocently. ❝ Being on the run gets lonely, I'd wager. ❞ He nuzzles, dares let his fingers venture to undo the bind that holds thick white in place, run them through his mane and marvel upon the crafted beauty of his bloodline. Crafted; to perform this certain task. The sixth eye lended to them as the proverbial flame was to man so long ago — there are many versions of this story.

Or do they still delude themselves that the secret, the gift they hold was a blessing rather than a curse? No, not him; Kenjaku deducts, from the way thin brows furrow with that unspoken desire to be free; he has seen the light. He has felt the weight placed upon his shoulders. He knows that he was made to protect them -- but he knows not from whom. From what.

In the alluring peace of this tranquil morning, a crime is commited in a font of white pure as snow. Satoru Gojo's thoughts are stolen simply with a breath that falls tenderly over plush pink. A tender bristle of Kenjaku's fingerpads counts the honored one's ribs —reminding him, that in spite of the legacies they carry, they are still grafted to this mundanity. They exploit the sultry tenderness that had made a home in this man's throat; easy to invoke when his voicebox was already so thickly coated with unspoken yearning. Each word placed between them; another tap of the pawn on the proverbial shoji board. Like a wolf's maw watering over the lamb, he hovers — and they both know this is a willing slaughter. For one wishes to take; the other, to be taken.

Yet, Satoru Gojo no longer fits within that little pond of fish where the immature hearthrobs of a first love would once sway his tail to keep swimming. He has grown; into a killer whale that haunts the waters. Would it be any salve to the grief over his lost humanity, if he was gifted a seal to chase? A seal that leads his tail to ripple, to flap, until the water no longer flows in one direction — a chaos-maker, world-breaker that sees the boy and the God in tandem and with a finger to the chin points the seer's gaze to a certain direction ?

Careful now ; the Buddha eye warns them. There are six of us and one of you. And yet I know you all by name; the onmyoji's silence answers.

Ah, thick lashes flutter, realizing the hollowness that has taken over their own expression. They must have gotten lost in the nuances of his ceruleans. The tone grows somber. Nature holds its breath to watch them conspiring on the futon and the snow begins to settle. The hand that was seized remains folded in his grip; dark hair slip from the curvature of broad shoulders and dangle like silken tendrils over the heave of a fluttering chest. Bolder still, the intruder

❝ You say that -- but there is a name on your lips, already. Perhaps I should remind you — ❞ That insurmountable distance between him and the man who used to live in this mind is closed within a blink. He bestows upon the chosen one the aftertaste of bitter coffee & tobacco, caramel notes that fade into musk. It's a momentary connection, enough for neutrons to snap, for the spice to set his captive's nerves alight. And like a spider sampling his prey, he licks his own lips with a hum and mulls over what slice of heaven he just tasted. He reaches out, combs silver away from that last sealed eye that can pierce through the veil of reality itself — open, the gleam in his gaze calls. He kisses him again.

❝ And what if I told you now that we have made the flame tremble with our union before — in another lifetime ? ❞

[saiakv]

The train station was thrumming with life.

Heads bobbed in every direction, people in a rush shoving past one another to get to the platforms; an organized chaos orchestrated by the announcements bouncing off of cavernous walls. Through violet eyes, they resemble fish making laps in a pond — the swat of their tails creating different currents to keep its flow going. The bakeries baking and the investors investing; the gears oiled in a system that already has every little fish placed in a pond, every little human life placed in a box. He watches them now, in company of a killer whale, wearing a dolphin's enigmatic smirk.

❝ Was it? — ❞ Pause. A sip of espresso that will do so little for the darkness under his eyes; yet heat seeps through the paper into his palm as the liquid stirs. ❝ I'd wager the villagefolk had made shrines from pebbles in their backyards. Superstition lays a fine breeding ground for curses — urgh. They hadn't cleaned out the machine properly. ❞ Full lips smack away the putrid aftertaste, the cup lifted to speculate on the coffee shop's name as though making a mental note to avoid it. Simple, mundane things. The stitch has long seeped under the skin and now a coarse thumb rubs the spot between his eyes, wrinkles the skin under a healed scar. Albeit not having lifted a finger back there ( he is but a detainee, after all ) their visage rivals one another for fatigue depicted, be it in the form of over three decades guarding graves or a thousand years digging them.

❝ Though I can't blame them for being simple. That would be pointless. ❞ A complimentary mumble, eyes rolling. There's an obvious distaste when speaking of non-sorcerers saved; effortlessly in line with the character. And what a blurry line that becomes, with time. Another train passes and their time to board is nay; the coffee cup crumbles under calloused fingers and that same hand digs in the spacious pocket of a modernized hakama ( a very Taisho sort of thing ) He takes a moment to inspect the board announcing departures, to measure the distance between where they each stand; to rub his temples and blow the dust off of memories picked up like treasured keepsakes — memories of another life stolen and added to the collection of their own. And just as smoothly as this intruder had glided into the pond, swimming under the shadow of the very same beast that is tasked with guarding the fish, do his lips part — and rattle the waters. With compassion.

❝ You should get some rest, Satoru. You're not a machine —❞

[ ... ]

The voice, the tone, the gaze; it's perfectly preserved throughout the passage of time. Suguru Geto's visage has not aged a day older than twenty-seven years and ten months; yet the voice that comes up his throat rings as a regurgitated curse pulled from the depths of time. It is not gentle, it is not kind. But few knew the man himself well enough to see past those facades into his darker nuances; few, apart from Gojo Satoru who had the exclusive taste of tasting his proverbial knife first. And there's something very intimate about a nasty stab wound like that -- the closeness, the weight of the blade ripping through skin. Geto had been the one who plunged that dagger between the Six Eyes' ribs. Kenjaku merely found it there, handle sticking out in the space where a heart would be; and with uncanny grace they grab it — and twist.

❝ What — are you flustered? ❞ Head cants with a playful smirk. With brazen insolence, his shoulder bumps into the other's. Chin heaves over the turtleneck, the smirk lingers — curling with mischief as it would when those lips belonged to a faux-prudent accomplice. ❝ Since when did you become so dutifully boring ? Doing your paperwork and whatnot — I thought that's what your window is for. ❞ Speaking as though they have known each other forever comes effortlessly; because they have. Though, in their true form, Kenjaku is less of a dolphin swimming beside this deep sea monster; and rather, the barnacle riding on it. An odd symbiosis that has allowed them to penetrate his defences — while his co-conspirators are ruffling the waters somewhere else.

Even though he is supposed to be under surveillance, he still has access to that burner phone -- to a calendar. And today marks an important day; one of those that would require all six eyes averted. Which is precisely what this distraction is about; among other things.

Gojo goes on to whine about his back as though the world's weight has left him stunted and a melancholic laugh escapes Suguru Geto's lips. Like Atlas and a sumi-e Sisyphus, they watch the clock turn a minute to the right — the train to another late night typing up reports in the quietude of a luxury hotel bar is about to arrive. 'Geto' turns abruptly, with a gleam to his gaze; they do not exactly succeed in mirroring the paradox of eyes in the color of a bruise beaming so tender, yet there's something about the sharpness in it that Kenjaku knows will throw bait for his companion nonetheless.

❝ Hey. Old man. ❞ His hand is stil warm from the cup when it reaches for a slender, pale wrist, and finds purchase on the space right above his coat sleeve button. ❝ Let's go to Nara, instead. Take a few days off. We'll grab a bite on the train and book the first room that catches our eye — and tomorrow we will go for a long walk in nature, take pictures with the deer. What do you say? ❞ He expects hesitance; so he takes a step closer in that forbidden space. The soft buzz of Limitless feels rejuvenating against Geto's dreadfully stagnant aura — the accumulation of curses, an anchor to the gut. Exploiting that opening carved by the element of surprise, Kenjaku is quick to add a saccharine smile and sweeten the deal even more.

Because he knows — he knows this will unearth all the questions they have been mutually pretending to ignore in this cold war. Ah, how invigorating it feels; to play with fire.

❝ If you leave with me now, I will play 'twenty questions' with you on the train. With a binding vow for truthful answers. ❞

[saiakv]

In the early morning his march finds purpose on glazed cobblestone paths through gates hoisted back when the world was much younger. Morning — because the dead of night holds secrets; but they have come baring gifts. Black clads the hide of a once-crusader, whose stolen features now settle in everlasting tranquility under the shadow of an ample hood. It shakes off winter dust when the stranger addles in and hovers by the entrance; taking in the space, awaiting the invitation.

Gripped under the weight of celestial oculi.

Eyes they have seen again in forgotten winters, gleaming in the trill of spring or droopy with the heat of summer; eyes they watched disguise tears amidst the first showers of autumn. Like a serpent cradling the apple tree, they have been watching; waiting, until the fruit grows succulent and hangs low on the branch. And when the prodigy's voice rings, jolting the dead heart of the man in whose body they have nestled, it finally breaks. The youthful jab Satoru presents them with; a wariness guarded behind brash amicability. The offering of liquor; another calculated risk.

Opportunity & danger live in tandem here; his eyes will see a revenant's visage — but in their anciency, Kenjaku does not expect an image will suffice. With motherly tenderness, Kenjaku's fingers strum the proverbial biwa then, and Suguru Geto's voice drags a sultry cadence over the crackling of dying coal.

❝ The white crysanthemum, is disguised by the first frost. If I wanted to pick one, I would find it only by chance. ❞

The curtain falls. Scarred skin flusters with the homey warmth; his hair falls into place much like every piece has landed where it needs to be on the shogi board — silky ebony over the monk's robes. He pats them into place. Geto's amethyst gaze lingers over the red coal crumpling into dust and nostalgia curls his lip; there's affection in that smile, the likes of which would take a milennia worth of practice to replicate. He doesn't move to take the drink — doesn't move that close yet.

A soft chuckle falls over that word; 'audience'.

❝ Forgive me for humoring you— but how else am I supposed to hope for a glimpse of your attention? I feared you may have forsaken my name already... Satoru. ❞

[saiakv]

' Superintendence ' ; of the Gojo clan.

A farcical idea, if one has ever been conjured; to let the wolf into the manger and expect canines to eat their fill on hay. Though currently, they have assumed a much different form, as six eyes peer through the pelt and unravel the lifetimes sacrificed in pursuit of that singular quest — the one that plagues mankind since its birth. Curiosity; same as what probed the fist man's fingers to reach for the flame, now has these calloused ones delicately reach through the proverbial mire to pluck from it the perfect hide; and it was found in the soft thunder of Suguru Geto's cadence, as it falls over the prodigal one's weary shoulders like the rejuvenating kiss of first winter's snow.

They could have met him in the bristle of pressed linen on satin flesh; through bite or claw. But compared to this ( the nostalgic warmth of early morning banter, the intimacy of quietude ) that would have been mercy. There is mercy to be found in the celerity of a wolf's bite; when juxtaposed with the meticulous spin of an arrachnid's web. Each thread wraps around Satoru Gojo's silvery mane as his old friend circles him, first with the inviting steam of a tenderly nursed coffee mug, then with the mouth-watering scent of red bean pancakes served with hand-whipped coconut cream.

Through these stolen eyes they watch him enter as seamless & fluid as the roll between a white tiger's shoulders, through these stolen lips they reciprocate the dimpled smile with an affiliative one. And then settle down to nurse inky coffee in turn; leaving a seat's space between them. Be it to offend some lingering spirit or instill a sense of longing in the hollowness between them.

❝ Well then— ❞ Fingers fold under an appetizing smile. ❝ If your expeditions last night are anything to abide by, I don't wager you'd be well suited for a life of abstinence. ❞ Head cants, sweetly releasing some raven strands from their loose hold. ❝ I called a cab for your friend. Extended an invitation of course... they didn't seem that eager to stay for breakfast, though. ❞ An incospicuous roll of his eyes compliments the guileless pout; an expression that won't confess much about how that conversation truly went — but he knows Satoru would read it. In the motions, in the timbre. Kenjaku had sent them off with beguiling smiles and all sorts of insinuations as to the radical risk that was Gojo Satoru.

So they sit by the kitchen's warmth for a moment; and where usually the occuli reverberate their question ( who are you, who are you, who are you? ) now there is quietude. The wind circles them like a pack of hungry wolves and yet in the warmth of these mugs they find their shelter; Kenjaku's faint whisper of an answer ( I am the womb that carries a calamity for this world and the next one ) will be lost in their shared serenity. There's only bubbly smiles and lazy stretches and a small curl to full lips when his chopsticks cheekily snag a chunk of pancake from the offered stack.

It is then that the silence between them reveals itself for what it is; a curtain. As the blessed one takes his seat on the balcony, clad in that scandalously half-fastened robe, the puppet show commences; no, not in futile hopes to present an illusion before the all-seeing one. He will convince him as naturally as the river stream does the fish — because Kenjaku knows, deep down, that the divine longs to be tainted.

❝ Four, five hours; that's probably sufficient to replenish some dead cells here and there. ❞ He lets out a pensive sigh, bite caught tight between the sticks. The gaze traversing every glimpse of drowsy skin they offer holds that peculiar balance between longing and jealousy; it is the gaze of a long lost lover and petulant mother all at once. ❝ I envy your skin, if that's the case. ❞ The darkness under his eyes would attest, never quite wearing off as though they're badges of that man's uphill climb to the inevitable descent.

❝ But it's not enough time to dream. And dreams are important, are they not? Be it a revelation or a journey; or the things we so scarcely confront when we are awake. ❞ Absently, they examine the bite with a familiarly pensive expression. ❝ — go without them long enough and you might even forget how to. Hm. ❞ Some thoughtful hum is lost under the bite; languid, leaving a dusting of dark crimson that he's quick to wipe with his thumb and pop between his lips. A grind; another, a swallow. There's a playful quirk to his brow when he leans closer with an elbow on the table. And his smirk lingers, even he exaggerates a scandalized grunt when Satoru's uncouth yawn cuts through his timbre.

❝ I'm saying — maybe you've yet to find the right bed -- cover your mouth, you savage. ❞

[saiakv]

❝ Not really, no. But for the sake of the argument, would you say you remember the texture and flavor of the first as well as you remember that of the thirty-fifth? ❞ He was pretty sure he saw that thirty-fifth one being devoured this very morning. Horrendous dietary habits.