[ he watches those strands get caught up in narrow fingers. it's strange. some faces feel like a lifetime away, and then they reoccur. not in shape, but in the feeling they give. just a glimmer of it— but in the same breath, fyodor is the newest thing he's ever seen. more new than this place, more new than anything he's seen recently, and he's very inured to newness. it's a refreshing face. pretty in a sad way; there must be a word for that, he thinks— but he can't grasp it. gojo satoru has never been one for words, always one for action. words serve him, sure; but when he needs them for something like this? they slink away.

he's better with blood and fast movement— he's a creature of all kinds of kinetics. but here, weirdly enough, on this foreign beach, wherever they are, there's a sense of stillness. maybe it's the man beside him.

he huffs a soft laugh at fyodor. ] Hm, you've explained it, that's fine.

[ incarceration. the cube.

this must be that place.

he thinks of that shock of power before he was sealed, and then the shock of sentimentality that ruined him. oh, but it had felt good, hadn't it? the weight of heaven in his hands. if he'd been a cruel man, he'd have won. what a pity to have been born a lover and not a fighter, but given a fighter's prowess! annoying! so mean. he sighs, audibly, enough so that fyodor can hear him (he did that on purpose). ]

Something bad happened, before I came here. But now I feel like I'm getting a reward, so. Ah, strange, isn't it. Please walk with me? [ those blue eyes are so pleading.

gojo's clearly feeling garrulous today (more than usual?)— he continues, stepping out, into the rush of the shallow waves: ]

It's a nice night, and I guess, it's only us in the world, huh? Come here. Come.

[ he has a way of saying things, sometimes: like there are no other alternatives— the only direct line forward. ]