#꧕ 🇸‌🇺‌🇳‌ 🇼‌🇺‌🇰‌🇴‌🇳‌🇬‌'🇸‌ 🇵‌🇺‌🇳‌🇮‌🇸‌🇭‌🇲‌🇪‌🇳‌🇹‌ ꒰ ᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ 001 ꒱

[saiakv]

Might there ever have been any lingering doubt of trust, it is absolved in this moment.

For when he told her he had something for her, this - a baby grand piano, sitting in contrast to the traditional realm surrounding it, mismatched and yet somehow remiss without - was not what she expected ( he listened, then ; what’s more, he remembered, he took to heart her confessions -- and what could that mean? ) . Clawed hands press over her mouth to suppress her gasp, Verona caught in a moment of rare, genuine astonishment, the prospect that he might go to such lengths for her leaving the savage woman rather staggered and startled, stuck in place, suspended in shock.

She steps cautiously forward ( lest it all might disappear as easily as own illusions conjured ) , hands slowly lowering, clasped tight to breast. Fair features sift between emotions, eventually donning a look of wistful joy. She gingerly grazes her touch over the keys, plucking a few notes. “I ought not accept something like this, you know,” Verona says at length, looking over her shoulder, her smile broadening into a grin; her features alit in elation, silvery eyes twinkling. “But I would hate to let such a gift go to waste. Especially now. What do you say, hm? Shall I play for you?” The olive branch taken and returned; seems less an offer and more a grace-given ( he has earned her faith ) .

Suguru might still be in his twenties, but he's fairly certain that he has experienced the larger portion of the emotion spectrum. Human ones, at least. Grief leaves a tangible weight in one's bones that he always seems to empathize with so strongly. He could not, of course, assume who or what that loss weighing on Verona's soul was. But it had been enough, in his mind, to excuse her transgressions — from one outcast to another, who else may have their backs if not each other?

His point was not so much to coerce, as to established. Naivety showed itself in the way he presented the gift, simply and without expectation. If she liked it, it would make her feel at home; and if she didn't like it, that was okay, too. Musical instrunments make excellent vessels for curses; an easy way to take out those few insolent monkeys whose bank deposits had waned over the last few months. Suguru tried to focus his smile on their interaction and not the sadistic contentment the thought of mailing a cursed piano to one of them would provide.

❝ Every member of my family has a place within our temples. What is mine, is yours; always. ❞ So the more that is made mine, the more will be yours — the implication rests on the curl of his lip. He watches her from a distance as she familiarizes herself with the gift; Suguru enjoys the dulcet pangs of a piano's strings, even if he never picked it up himself. He had only recently discovered the comfort of an instrunment's company, after all. His hands hide in the robes; when she turns, she'll be met with a tranquil gaze adoring the symbolism of this scene.

He knows then that he has earned something from her; a she-wolf's trust to have her fur brushed with a golden comb. She will fit right into his group and reserve her own place in the new world by his side — his confidence beams through crinkling eyes. A candid smile.

She opens her soul up to him on the keys and he watches, mersmerized, as deft fingers weave her story. There's always something eye-opening about moments like these — how brief the human life is and what little most people make of it by living caged behind their prejudice. But prejudice is just a symptom of their fear; and their fear so overwhelming that it rules over them, because of their weakness.

Again, it all comes down to his main reason for behind here, in the company of she who they call 'a savage'.

❝ I will be completely honest with you, Verona-san. Even from our previous conversation I was given to understand — that you are someone who knows what it is like to fall and be forced to make a long journey because of it. ❞ It's a reach, so he speaks the words tenderly as though not to spook a guarded heart. Empathy sweetens the tone when he sits up from his knees, light footfalls treading to the room's corner. A shamisen rests there, and unlike some of the other items in the half-vacant music room ( a room that is hers to decorate as she pleases from now on ) there is no dust collecting on its strings. Suguru fetches it with a playful smile before assuming the player's stance beside her.

❝ And people like this, like us... we tend to develop a taste for the finer things in life, I believe. Things that are said to speak to the soul. Like music. ❞ The plectrum trails over the strings; he plucks a few like greeting an old friend. With the newfound free time in his hands, he had practiced by the window overlooking his gardens on quiet afternoons; learning 'Moon over the Ruined Castle'. Suguru was well aware that his freshly developed skill was no way on par with the his comrade's; but this wasn't about writing the next big masterpiece, was it? He had seen it, in the gleam of her gaze, that music had once been her way of experiencing the world — of experiencing connection.

It was why his smile held an invitation when their eyes met again.

❝ Shall we see together, then, what song comes from our scars ? ❞

[saiakv]

From x : @limitlessscion

The phone is plucked from his grip with a heavy heart and Suguru spots his opening to exact revenge for the piece of corn that had been stuck in his hair until very recently. With an enticing smirk he dips to pester that other ear, first with the caress of a shuddering breath & next with devout attention from his mouth. He'd been preoccupied with trying to overstimulate him through licks and nibbles, confident that this phonecall would be kept brief. Satoru stutters over some name, Suguru lets out a self-satisfied purr; anticipates to hear the beep that would conclude this appetizer and let his smile grow like a cat who got the cream.

Your son? He got into a fight with...

At once, the hand that had been idly feeling up the space between his ribs freezes, pressing against Satoru's chest; for support, or to pin him down in indignation — Suguru himself can't tell in that moment. Thick lashes part a little wider, the heat leaving his gaze instantaneously as it snaps to meet the piercing blues already looking to him for a reaction. He sits up and pulls the curtain of ink that had been draped all over pale skin with him. And a coolness forms in the space between them now, where it had felt so torrid only seconds ago. Satoru keeps talking and Suguru stares at him with a slight cant to his head as if he can't understand exactly what he's listening to.

School? Sister? Of course, he had not come into this underprepared; he expected to be met with some changes. He had noted the subtle ones in his old friend as well as the obvious — that edge to his tone, the one honed under the weight of grief for how things used to be & the acceptance of what things must become. Surprisingly, it had been that shift that made Suguru think this would even be worth a shot to begin with. His stormy arrival that day spoke of newfound determination to hold onto this. Them.

His silence speaks volumes, he knows it from the way Satoru hastily tosses the phone aside and immediately provides a messy explanation; for a moment, Suguru debates the possibility of him trying to lie by omission. Was it possible that the Gojo clan had finally gotten their way and wed him by force? But the time-span between their meetings was too short for him to have sired an heir — and the clan children are homeschooled as per tradition. He mulls it over with a small pout whilst picking at the pebbled skin on Satoru's chest, the gleam of excitement in his eye visibly dimming.

'It's not a big deal' — with audacious despair he utters the words, as though to manifest them. It's almost as if he knows all the wrong things to say. The bile roiling in Suguru's stomach feels so putrid he thinks he might as well pretend; and let Satoru guide his weight when they sink back into squeaking pillows. But the loving touches that had so fervently been cherishing his blessed skin dwindle to idle reciprocations.

❝ -- you've taken in... a protégé? Where does he-- go to school... ❞ He mumbles quietly, deflecting Satoru's attempts at pulling him back into the heat. Because something is off. It couldn't be Tokyo. He would've recognized the voice or the number — and they couldn't possibly expect Satoru to fly over to Kyoto over a schoolyard brawl, either, right? Though, in hindsight, it was no surprise that his kid would be having behavioral issues.

He wants to surrender; he wants to focus on the lips sieging his own, on the hands running through his hair and down his back, but his mind is already nagging at him that it's not adding up. And that makes this attempt to tuck it under the rug equal parts offensive and suspicious; his body reflexively loses its flow, grows stiff into the embrace until it breaks. His seatbones rest atop the other's pelvic — the atmosphere slowly melts away. He shrugs the kimono closer to his form, fabrics still slipping off the shoulder. Where he'd been all yearning gazes and coy smirks before, now Satoru faces naught but the ink roughly covering up that scar that had split Suguru's heart.

❝ Satoru. Take me seriously, for once. Don't mock me with half-truths. ❞ The bitterness coats his tongue, old grievances spilling out uninhibited now that he's caught in a maelstorm of his own emotions — and he is no longer that reserved boy who thought twice before picking at the frost that glazed Satoru's heartstrings. Still, his hands are warm when they reach to take long fingers and tangle them between his own. He's not angry, yet. Confused and frustrated would be more like it. And yet... his heart braces. Probably, because it knows better by this point.

[saiakv]

Cont. from x ft. @chaoslulled ♥

From disembarking the train to Tokyo with a sightseeing guide tucked under his arm to scrunching his nose over the city stench at some penthouse in Roppongi, it felt like several lifetimes had passed. Suguru had grown so used to the quietude of reclusion, that the constant buzz embracing their duality was overstimulating. In search of solace, his mind would naturally gravitate towards the faint white noise of Limitless running beside him.

They stand side by side against the railing and his own aura ebbs and flows between them; taking a chance, withdrawing back into his mind. He's long stopped noticing the way cold has seeped in through his socks, snuggling into his haori — even with the ceremonial kasaya exchanged for a humble hakama, he still looked whimsically out of place in the urban scenery. The traffic ambience is dulled under the clarity of his own thoughts and the aftertaste of smoke at the roof of his mouth. His fingers twitch towards the pale hand coming to pry at the Mevius Light, handing it over and receiving it back with intimate synchronization.

The second time they had met in secret, he had found a head of white dusted with maple leaves at that clearance he introduced Satoru to — his heart had clenched with the realization that it was so pointless to find him slumped there and not be his pillow and the mattress all at once. A familiar saying about sorcerers and regret had been swimming around his mind, when Satoru had casually let it slip that he would be leaving overseas in the coming weeks. After that, his friend's voice had melted into word-soup whilst Suguru sat there frigid, as if struck by lightning. If he never came back again, how could he blame him? Selfishly, he had bit down on his pout. You want any souvenirs?

I want you to stay.

He hadn't mulled it over or memorized some elaborate speech; gone were the days when he played by the rules, anyway. And if nothing good came out of this, well — there was not much left to lose when they were already just another ghost in each other's past, was there? At most, Satoru would stop dropping by. Suguru's life return to what it was before this wary reunion; he would go back to caring for his family and tolerating cult hearings; accumulate curses until he could become one himself. Then Satoru might come back to stop him from realizing that vision; or might not; when at open war, it would cease to matter.

Though, these self-affirmations would sound so ridiculous if he could see his own expression in that moment. Eyes gleaming like amethysts reflect the pallid glow of a bashful moon as he holds that smile — the one laden with his bittersweet revelation.

The same smile that would once bloom when he caught his sunglasses just as they slipped off an angelic expression, Satoru dozing off against his shoulder on the car ride home. The same smile that lingered in the aftermath of roaring laughter when Satoru got furikake stuck up his nostril like a stupid idiot.

The same one that meets his six eyes now; and contorts upon the sight. Studying his features, there's so little to deduct beyond an initial shock that could mean anything, really.

❝ Eh? ❞ Suguru's expression draws a blank, just as heat licks at his middle finger — shit, it's burning out. He sneaks in one last drag, puts it out against the railing while Satoru turns to gawk at him like an owl. Momentarily they linger in comical juxtaposition; his calmly slanted face and Satoru's bulging glare, trying to read each other in tandem. Of all the things he had been expecting, an inquisition was hardly on the table. His gaze fell from penetrating blues to the crumpled filter he has been fiddling between his fingers; evidently mulling his words over.

❝ Relax. I was just thinking about it, is all. I'm not asking you to say anything back. ❞ A finalizing breath before he flicks it off the balcony, into the street below. Where once he would be the first to make a fuss about littering.

There's a pause. Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose and a pained smirk begins to grow on his lips. His eyes slip shut with the shadow of his palm hovering over them like a safeguard. It's not regretful, but he can't help confronting himself on his own hypocrisy. He had made that pact with himself to come into this without expectations, so what was that bitter taste in his mouth now that his affection wasn't reciprocated? Worse, that it had beckoned such a brazenly negative reaction too. Even though it was fair; and expected. And even though he was aware that he had no right to ask for anything more.

❝ Bah, Satoru — you could have at least tried to be more sympathetic when you're turning someone down. ❞ It's palpable that whatever it is he's processing has brought about a pang of shame; it can almost be heard under the awkward laugh he huffs.

[saiakv]

[ brush ]  –  for the sender’s muse to give the receiver’s muse a passing touch along the shoulder’s / back as they walk by. / verona

hands prompt : accepting

When they talk to him, he often finds his gaze wondering to their mouths. The yellow stains on their teeth, their tongues, the silver strings of spit on their lips threading each word; their joined voices crescendo in a chant that haunts his every step — oh, give us your blessing, Geto-sama! And with the ringing in his ears, Suguru's conscience has finally confirmed it, whispered it to him in the late night hours when he is all alone with no one else around to hear; he is insane.

Yet, this is unlike that stage before, when he was still thrashing for survival; losing it more & more with each gulp; each curse, another stone to the stomach. There was a panic, an unease to that state back then. ( GODS, I AM LOSING IT ) He'd dream of drowning and wake up in a puddle of his own sweat. Now, he sinks freely — finding his lifeline in little moments like this:

The woman before him, fragile and meek, had been quivering something about her late husband. Her eyes were wet, her lips flapping nonsense Suguru could have laughed about. So these are her troubles? Inherently, these apes are egotistical — how many friends, husbands, brothers does a sorcerer have to bury in their lifespan? And she weeps for some elderly man who had well lived his life, protected by those who stood vigil at the morgues. And it makes sense; his thread of thought unravels in contemplative silence, as a contemptuous glare lingers over her pleading features. Because they are so weak. And when you are so weak, your only priority is survival. So they are wired to think about their own safety on instinct. Like animals—

Suddenly, the thread is cut. The hair on his neck rouses and Suguru's eyes flash a little wider with the revelation that he was touched. Dread washes over him with a paranoid thought of what could have touched him; until he realizes there's nothing gross about the sensation. Just a tip-toe over his shoulder, enough to brush over the fabrics and send a pleasant tingle down his back. The unmistakable timbre of a pianist's hands caressing the keys — no, but she was supposed to be on a trip--

Violet eyes instantaneously part with the woman to embrace the passing frame of his comrade instead. And where a disinterested frown had been sat, his lips now curl. The robes shift about as he moves to catch her wind — the follower parts her lips as though to complain only to be thwarted by Suguru's palm hovering in front of her face. Just like that, he stops her, with the sheer audacity in his act. And walks off as though he had merely shooed some fly from the kitchen counter.

❝ — My, Verona, what a lovely surprise! You surely know how to make an entrance, my friend. ❞ Sneaking his way alongside her, the pitter-patter of his footfalls soon matches her stride. Suguru bumps into her shoulder in a playful fashion that casts a comical light on their notable size discrepancy. He knows she won't mind the monkey stench. If anything, he might be at risk of earning himself a nibble or two. ❝ Why didn't you text me you were coming? I would have had something to look forward to all morning~ ❞

[saiakv]

flower ( from nanako if you're still accepting these bad boys omg )

ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS: not accepting

He rarely speaks. In these rooms, in the hallways; he keeps his gaze high and his hands buried and he walks with the tranquility of a man who knows where he is headed. With each tap of his zori on polished floors, his mind repeats it ( 'I hate them. I hate them. I hate them.' ) and by the time he is sat inside the audience chamber, he can smile.

Then, it's over; and his ritual comes next. Washing his hands and face, spraying his clothes clean, sometimes dabbing perfume behind his ear — he gets meticulous about it, up until it is time to swallow and burn the taste away with a smoke on his porch. When it goes down, it leaves that fizzle like a big gulp of ramune sat at the esophagus. His eyes travel over the bowed heads of monkeys toiling at the temple gardens -- and he can smile.

But when her voice calls to him sweetly ( 'Geto-sama' ; no longer with the echo of an uncertain child reaching out for her mother's skirt, but with the effervescence of a teenager discovering wonders with one foot into the family home and one out there into the world ) it disrupts the quietude like a rainbow cutting through a summer downpour. Suguru's head turns before he has a chance to collect the smile that blooms now; without need for self-affimations or indulging his vices.

And what a smile that is — broad and deep and crinkling his eyes when a playful chuckle follows. Suguru does not always note it, but he's been told ( not much can get past his secretary ) that his voice grows softer when around them and that he should try to be more serious when he addresses them, because they are no longer children. Manami probably knew what she was talking about, but he had come to terms with the fact that he couldn't help it. Let them tease him for it; let them relish in making humor of his weakness for these girls and call him 'sappy' and lonely. Suguru might still be in his twenties, but he has lost enough people to know the value of these moments.

Hurriedly, he puts out the kiseru, hand wafting some lingering smoke away from Nanako's spotless visage — like the petals of the blossom in her grasp. His knees bend before she reaches him, even, head bowing to allow for purchase; she may pluck it among the strands of raven cascading down his shoulders or let it rest behind his ear.

❝ Ah, the camellias have blossomed before their time, I see. Thank you, Nanako. ❞ But his loving gaze studies her in a way that reveals the true meaning under his words. It tilts to a playful pout, his bottom lip sticking out with feigned petulance.

❝ It would be a good time to pick some for your sister's album. I suppose, though, since you already went on a walk on your own, I'll have to go alone... ❞ He looks pensively off to the side. It's one of those rare glimpses of showmanship — same as the times he'd change his voice over a bedtime story or make funny faces when Mimiko couldn't catch her breath. Through the crack between thick lashes, a glimpse of Nanako's face is stolen. And then Suguru has to hold back his smile; lest it give his silly act away.

[saiakv]

"Suguru..why..? After so long you became a monster!"

[From Namani to Suguru]

❝ You of all people should know the reason, Nanami. ❞

[saiakv]

“   you’re not making any sense .   ” mei mei

UNMPROMPTED || always accepting

HE HAD BEEN HONEST. Out of respect, for what had once been, or a residual of other, uglier things — for once, Suguru does not ponder too hard on it. It had felt good to take a breather from the affiliating smiles and wear a more melancholic, a more earnest hue. Yet some of the reverence for his former senpai had died somewhere along those endless hours staring at the wall — letting the water run until it grew cold. How can you live life without any moral standing? How can you ask me to make sense in a world that doesn't; in a world where the strong serve the weak and die by the dozens for people who never even hear their names? How can you simply refuse to take a stance when the lives of your juniors, your friends, your brothers were on the line?

Hands prudently pat down on the kasaya and his features press into a smile; as if pulled up with an invisible string.

❝ I see. That's alright. ❞ Fingers gently roll the spoon that stirs his tea; down the whirlpool goes any nuance of dejection. It smells distinctly of cardamom and Geto can feel the steam tickling at his nostril; just as the people stench constantly pricks at the back of his mind. Mei Mei's frigid smile, however cunning, is a breath of fresh air. His head cants. ❝ To be completely honest with you, Mei-san, I was not expecting you to understand — when our world views are so far apart, after all. ❞

The words fall light-heartedly as autumn leaves on the wet earth. The tea he offers her leaves a note of bitterness on the palate.

❝ I know you are not here to interfere with my affairs, either. Satoru has to enact my execution and I doubt he had the foresight to save up and buy his way out of that... ❞ He was too proud for it. There would be no monetary gain from that. She could rival him for milking some of those weaklings for all their pockets are worth, but that would be too much effort for too little output, wouldn't it? Geto keeps twirling the spoon, even though the splice of lemon he had added has long dissipated. ❝ But since you have paid me a visit, please, join me for a cup of tea. Between the two of us we could make some interesting conversation. For one thing you could enlighten me as to what you do with all this money. ❞

[saiakv]

Every time they've had their ill-fated meetings, Satoru had resisted the urge to give chase. Like that day of their first final parting, Suguru's back retreating through the crowd as he refused to ask Satoru to join him and Satoru was incapable of asking Suguru to stay, Today he'd pour his pain into that gap between them, and it'd been acknowledged. It wouldn't change anything and it would not bring relief, but it was all he had needed.

He did not resist the urge today.

It was mere hours later when a crater would appear in the courtyard with him at its heart. He immediately confirmed the accuracy of his location from the thick swirl of his own residuals in the air, carried here through his freshly spilt blood.

He made for Suguru's location with single minded purpose, ignoring the confusion and alarm of any that might have spotted him on the way. He was clean now, in fresh clothes, bearing no marks of the cruel lesson he'd forced upon Suguru not so long ago. The moment he laid eyes on his friend, a barrier sprung forth around them with conditions focused on keeping others out.

"Fine, we'll do it your way. I'll try something different."

He closed the gap between them with unhurried calm, not stopping once they were close enough to touch, simply shoving Suguru back to slam into the walls of the barrier. The next moment he had Suguru's wrist pinned against the surface at his sides, no gentle concern for the existing bruise, their faces level, eyes locked.

If you kept praying for self-destruction, sometimes the gods would answer.

"Do you wish to die so badly?"

House of the Children of the Star, 6:57am

His personal relationship to Tokyo Tech was loosely understood by the members of his group. They knew Suguru was a young talent turned drop out, that he had been under Yaga's superintendence and most of them knew that Satoru Gojo had been of the same year. Granted, all of them knew who Satoru Gojo was. The unmistakable gravitas of his emerging presence was enough to point every suspicion to the strongest being of this world, when he suddenly emerged amidst the temple's atrium. Like a herald of the divine burdened with some heavenly message; the halo of Infinity illuminates him as a messiah. No one needed to see Suguru's blanched expression to realize who the stranger was.

He had been amidst the process of washing up, mundanely preparing to settle after a long night; sleep would not find him easy under daylight, but his soul itself craved it. The tips to his hair had still been moist when he stepped outside for a smoke break — and he could not have been more thankful to have done so in that moment. The girls were inside. Satoru appeared in a flash that gave no prior readings, so the element of surprise bought him all the time in the world to open the barrier and before he had managed to blink even, Suguru felt the air leave his lungs and a sudden bite over his wrist.

And at once, they find peace; like dipping underwater. The panicked screams of monkeys, Manami's gasp, the distant noise from the girl's TV reality show playing — it all becomes an ambience to the cadence of his thrumming heart. He looks to the eyes that threaten to swallow him whole and then to those lips that he swears have cursed him as though to read Satoru's question. He cuts in with a sharper tone; defiant, even when he is the one whose wrist is bruising worse.

❝ There's children here. Are you on a power trip, Satoru? ❞ Violets dart from one celestial field to the other, but it is not to be lost in them. Rather, he finds the memory of that stupid joke they had about Satoru activating his powers when his eyes glowed like some manga cliché; and that time a little girl on the street pointed at him and said 'owl'. Suguru feels his own gaze weigh heavier upon the reminiscence.

Slowly but surely, coarse fingerpads faintly brush over pale skin as he begins to fidget his way out of the hold. But it comes off as half-hearted. His free hand moves between them, resting on his adversary's chest. Once again time stops as though frozen before the farcical hubris that ensues; Suguru swallows every notion of an apology and lets the thunder in him flare. You cannot hope to outrun an omen; and this is exactly what they have been doing.

His palm finds the other's chest, pressing flat over Satoru's revived heartbeat as he leans closer; in that same way they often did when they opted to cheat their way out of staring matches back then. Until his weight is on his toes and his chin brushes over a hunched shoulder. His eye crinkles, a smile plays on his lips when he brings them over the other's ear to let the words fall like the first leaves of an autumn that never came for them.

❝ You're not here to kill me. So don't be a tease. ❞

[saiakv]

@limitlessscion: is at fault for this :/

The three sectioned staff is a capricious weapon.

An amateur would find themself caught up in between the compartments, unable to comprehend the utility of a third bend. But for one who holds genuine appreciation for its art, it can be the masterful partner leading them into a lethal choreography. Very few cursed tools could claim such simplicity and effectiveness all at once, encompassing the powerful stream of a river that has freshly been re-awakened by the kiss of spring. It is with that same surge that its three parts whirl around each other, in the deft hands of one Suguru Geto. He rides the wave with teeth bared into a smile, moves like the wind gaining momentum in between each blaring clash against Infinity.

If the men splattered around them were in any state to see it, it would be made clear; which one of them is the river and which the mountain. Especially when that sudden grip electrifies taut skin and red reflects in the whites of Suguru's eyes. He knows to expect the unexpected. He knows not to hold back and give him everything in the sense that matters most. Once they would have lost themselves into the brawl like elemental forces caught in an eternal war dance. But now — when cerulean blues dim he feels his own fall from grace catch up to him in an instant. Did I paint your bluest skies the darkest grey?

The staff connects and terrified his eyes follow the movement, as fabrics soak in darkness and Suguru loses his footing, held up by that same hand that sealed his fate. Their gaze meets next in what seems to be a fleeting second stretched to eternity. Satoru holds his pain between his teeth and yet for all his absent expression Suguru knows he saw everything. The panic — the guilt. It was a blow so powerful it could shatter time and bring back a glimpse of that same expression he wore when their roughhousing would leave a bruise back then.

❝ Sato— ... ❞ It's only a hushed whimper. What follows next wipes every trace of nostalgic innocence from his features, however. He watches speechless as broken bones weave themselves together again, as battered viscera shake off the impact and flesh rebuilds.

In that moment he knows what a sailor feels like when a strong gust of wind humbles him to the ocean's true power; reminds him that he's only afloat because the sea wills it. There is a feeling engraved in every human mind that speaks for that fear for things far greater than their comprehension. And Gojo Satoru has become one of those things.

All Suguru fixes on is the acidic taste of bile sat at the roof of his mouth when he comes to; released, finally allowed to take that much needed step back. He blinks away a droplet of crimson, Playful Cloud rattling at his feet. But he's just as quick to straighten up and guard himself behind the cool facade that lets his friend know, silently, that the message has been received. It won't change anything.

❝ I worry you might get bored. ❞ Suguru retorts quietly, with one hand clasping the weapon and the other wiping a bloodstain from his cheekbone. ❝ But it seems like this isn't enough to make things interesting for you anymore, huh. ❞ It smears to a dull red over his thumb. He examines it for a moment, ichor straight from a divine heart, before lapping it clean. And a smirk plays on his lips as he begins to stumble backwards - the same stubborn one that refuses to go out.

❝ That's alright. ❞ Only when he starts heading for the window at the hallway's end does his body begin to alert him to his own injuries. And yet teeth bare even as he limps. There's something to be spoken here, something about the ways in which they've hurt each other, something about the things Suguru is not willing to forgive anymore; but it would be futile, wouldn't it? They have never been the type to rely on words, after all; for Satoru he could never quite find them and for Suguru they could never quite contain what he felt. So he settles for gestures, letting the sleeve to his robes slip and expose his freshly bruised wrist under that iron grip.

❝ Let me know when you're ready to try a different way. Until then... ❞ He steps on the window, back to the coagulated traffic beneath. And with that newfound flair for showmanship he presses his lips to that bruise, violets burrowing into rekindled bright orbs even from this safe distance. ❝ At least I'm taking something home. ❞

Yes, it hurts; he of all people would know it. But what else do they have left to share, aside from this pain?

He steps back into the void.

[saiakv]

There is something to it, to the idea that music soothes the wounded spirit ( and verily verona keeps close her scars, burdens them with a quiet, remorseless pride most oft not find ). And ever since the room has been designated her own, not a day has gone by when the woman could not be found there; as if a ghost given new haunt, in truth, the place is alive, anew, all at her behest.

She has gone so far as to bring in a relic - a gramophone from own estate - and play vinyls with various melodies. As she does now, letting a lively chord swell through the room as she turns about, hips swaying and hands extending in offering to her companion nearby. "Do you dance?" Asks, though leaves little room for the younger to answer before plucking gently at his sleeves and ushering him forward to join her in an impromptu little jaunt. But at least, this is a pleasant occasion, and that must mean something.

Before he entered the room, he had been holding wrath between his teeth — it dissipates as he crosses the threshold and his jaw loosens to an affiliative smile. Not yet amicable. For as much as Suguru would love to claim that he finds peace within these temple walls, for a soul such as his it is always fleeting — the fetid taste covering his tongue serves as a stark reminder of that. He can still taste it, even through the mint and the cup of sake Manami so generously fetched for him shortly after his latest audience. And though he does not pity himself for it, it is still a horrible thing; to live with such putrid taste engraved on the pallate.

True to his word, though, he turns to the soothing scratch of the gramophone ( a thing he has not seen in quite some time ) Briefly, his hate taints that, too; there's a persistent thought that haunts him, knowing every note that soothes his restless spirit could have been birthed from a monkey's paw — he is quick to attribute all sorts of mystical properties to the music itself then, elevating it to a being of its own accord and the non-sorcerers merely its means of production. And with that hasty excuse and his companion's calling, Suguru lets his rage subside back to a quiet summer's downpour.

Verona is a forward woman, he has come to learn. For that reason, her friendship is an acquired taste — Mimiko seems reserved around her, while Nanako is more open to talking about all things 'woman' that Geto-sama simply could never understand. They are at that age, he hears. And they seem to enjoy the lively touch upgrading this room has brought; as music carries through the temple hallways and pitches an illusion of serenity to the followers.

❝ I must say, I did not expect you to warm up to the idea so quickly, Verona-san. This must be a priceless antique you have installed. It is an honor, that you entrust it in our home. ❞ Suguru wears a candid smile after familiarizing himself with some of the decor. He won't have much of a chance to stroke the piano keys, however, seized by the ample sleeves to his kasaya as he is. The faintest pink diffuses in his cheekbones with the motion, if only for being handled so abruptly. But there's no sign of protest. If anything, a flustered chuckle is all that comes. His gaze averts bashfully to the floor when their palms meet.

❝ Ah — I'm not that familiar with western ones. But I suppose I might be entitled to a lesson, I hear? ❞ Mischief dances on his cadence; a rare glimpse of playfulness that only his closest companions are privy to nowadays. Yet, something about the proximity causes him to stiffen. It is not often that he is approached so closely nowadays; and there's something equal parts intimidating and comforting in it. From this close, the smell of sanitizer and tobacco becomes very pungent. His robes shuffle with each motion as he places a hand on her shoulder and begins to follow, reluctantly at first.

And they do dance. At times, his sock brushes a bit too close to her foot, salvaging a misstep at the ultimate moment. Those clumsy instances are shortly followed by timid laughs that crinkle his eyes under thick lashes. He did not lie about being out of practice with such a thing; but a body honed through meticulous callisthenics is quick to adjust. And soon, Suguru even grows bold enough to attempt to lead her into a turn, that has him nearly bump into the piano's corner and be pulled closer in turn.

As the music eases them into a languid sway, his head cants and black cascades onto her hands in heaps. He's still wearing that smile that brings out an insinuation of dimples. But the foxy gaze begins to lose its gleam; replaced by something else. Something colder.

❝ — this ... might not be the most appropriate time to ask this, so, I apologize in advance. But I came here to ask for your opinion on something. As my comrade, I was looking for your thoughts. ❞ His grip remains steady, firm; eyes violet as a bruise fix on her visage in a hollow expression. The one she must have seen him wear around them. ❝ In your opinion — without the use of curses, what would be the most effective way to make one disappear completely and leave no trace of theirs behind to be found? ❞

[saiakv]

❝ i miss the way you smell. ❞ *satoru ~

yet another angsty meme : accepting, i have a problem y'all

Ever since that night in Roppongi, they have only gotten worse.

Suguru's subconscious is plagued by the thought of that red thread and the ghost of it looped around his finger; pulled taut when they are apart, weaved into a warm blanket when they join. In many ways, it was everything he'd wanted — Satoru there by his side in the grand realization of his utopia; in others, it was a feeling worse than the taste of a thousand curses. Suguru remembers being secretly judgemental of addicts back in the day; so there was an added layer of hyprocrisy to pitching the burner phone idea amidst an episode of ( what could only be paralleled to ) withdrawals.

It came with a binding vow attached; the rules for which they negotiated thoroughly under the sheets, on the hotel carpet, in the shower and several other surfaces. The conversations were contained in a barrier held up with their individual energy — otherwise they'd end up carrying each other's residuals. If either party withdraws from the pact, they would be burned from their minds. There had been something oddly calming in working together to imbue the curse, little by little, with cheeky smiles under convening glances. Suguru didn't say it then, but he felt it deep in his bones that they are so hopelessly, helplessly entangled with one another; they'll end up walking like blind men, hand in hand, towards the cliff.

Honestly, it would have been more sufferable if Satoru had just hated him.

And yet, alarming as it was, leaning agaist the doorframe with Satoru's voice pressed to his ear came so naturally. He latched onto every vibration from the phone brushing against his lobe like a parched man folds over the fountain. Suguru could go on for hours; listening to him talk about his day, some movie he had recently watched, what K-pop songs were overrated and if there had been updates on their favorite manga. But there was a high output to maintain those barriers; it wouldn't be discreet if they pushed it.

How was it fair? Satoru had his personal time wholly suspended in the service of people who should be revering him. When the sliding doors to his audience chamber would part, that thought only served to fuel Suguru's hatred. For each monkey dead would be one moment longer with the man he loved, so, so deeply.

It came with conflicted ease, when he drip fed him that love under the palm covering the phone's speaker, lest he drown from it. The conversation had derailed this time, one step further into the madness — playing pretend that this was just a casual phone call in their reality; that they were bickering over what's for dinner. That once they'd hung up Suguru would chop the pork loins and Satoru would start on the soup. And from that, inevitably, to tender confessions of yearning — the sort Suguru had made it a principle to avoid; and then went against his own word.

❝ Is that why you had that pack of Mevius on you? Pft, you're lonely, Satoru ~ ❞ The playful lilt trails off into a soft chuckle. His forehead presses to the wood as he faces towards the sunset, envisioning those long legs folded atop some table and Satoru leaning back in his chair to where you'd think he's going to fall on his head — but it never happens. It's an image Suguru wishes to live in, with guilt. And that guilt manifests into a pang to the left side of his chest when his eye catches a glimpse of Manami motioning for him around the room's corner.

He's quick to hold up a palm to her, to press his lips in a reassuring smile as if this is just some random phone call and he'll be coming along shortly. And he can see the shadow of concern crossing her features before she silently takes his word for it and walks off — to prepare the ground for that next audience. There's a pregnant pause on the line and Suguru belatedly realizes that his beloved asked some question that he never registered; instead, his hand burrows in the folds of his sleeve and procurs a piece of folded paper.

❝ Hey, can I read something to you for a moment? ❞ Eyes squint over his own crumpled handwriting where the ink has bled into a splotch from something wet dripping on it — reads the haiku as though he's reciting some theater monologue. With its true meaning held between his teeth, with its yearning coating his tongue.

The fishing-boats are tossed about, when stormy winds blow strong; with rudder lost, how can they reach the port for which they long?

Pause.

❝ Satoru ? — I have to go now. We'll talk another time. ❞

[saiakv]

“  okay,  so you’re a monster.  so am i.  lets be monsters together.  ”  | she means well I PROMISE-

angst prompt : accepting

The first thing he had noted; an output of cursed energy that far exceeded the capabilities of this supposed sorcerer. Like an overspilling glass, she radiated the power of someone many times her age -- but that was an assumption drawn from a quick garner of her looks. Suguru had spent enough time at the school library with his nose buried in books to understand that the rulebook of jujutsu was empirically structured — there were oddities out there that had yet to be recorded in jujutsu society archives.

His first guess would be that this girl had tapped into something she shouldn't have touched. And now she was cursed — that, Suguru could clearly tell, because he felt it in his bones and the wetness pooling under his tongue.

Briefly, eyes violet as a bruise traversed over the toiling monkeys at his gardens, regarding them with less interest than one would a rake. Then he addressed her again, hands hidden deep into the folds of his kasaya as the morning sun sparkled on fleshly mopped marble stairs.

❝ We are hardly similar. For one thing, I do not consider myself as such. And for another, I am standing at the top of this stairway. ❞ And you aren't, is implied.

❝ If you are coming to me for help with your symptoms, miss, I suggest being more careful with your assumptions. ❞