[ the weight of gojo's eyes crawls over his skin; it's like gravity if gravity were personified in a two-meter tall flesh brickhouse with the eyes of heaven standing with the absolute confidence of a god. there is pressure in the way he feels gojo observing him and fyodor stares right back. initially, his gaze had swept over gojo and dismissed him after getting a read.
what a curse it is, when you glance at someone and can dissect them—their entire life like a page of a book, memorized and dismissed. people are boring, and this newcomer is no exception but he is persistent, and he can--not really forgive that since he hates being intruded upon--but understand. the utter fluidity of gojo satoru is visible, fyodor can see it reflected in each taken breath: this man is a barely leashed thing, but still oh so human. except he's bumped into a man whose convictions rival the most immovable of objects and with his presence comes that stillness.
something bad happened before i came here-- and there is a lightbulb going off in that brain of his, as if fyodor has just come to some conclusion in another of the many trains of thoughts he has racing. something bad; the concept filed for later reflection. ] This place is not a reward, it is a prison of sorts. [ if only because fyodor feels distinctly uncomfortable by the logic that this could feel like a reward.
a pointed look at what gojo is wearing, versus what he is wearing but then the russian, with a minute shrug of his shoulders, toes off his usual boots, followed by his socks. he's not about to ruin these by wading into saltwater.
he hates sand, the way it feels on the soles of his feet, how cold the first touch of the water is, and how it quickly seeps into the fabric of his trousers. this was a terrible idea, and what possessed him to give in to this idiot of a stranger? ]
Not only us, there are many others here.
[ except--he parses the words again, then makes a face at gojo. sir, he understood the implication. ]
sir.....sir
what a curse it is, when you glance at someone and can dissect them—their entire life like a page of a book, memorized and dismissed. people are boring, and this newcomer is no exception but he is persistent, and he can--not really forgive that since he hates being intruded upon--but understand. the utter fluidity of gojo satoru is visible, fyodor can see it reflected in each taken breath: this man is a barely leashed thing, but still oh so human. except he's bumped into a man whose convictions rival the most immovable of objects and with his presence comes that stillness.
something bad happened before i came here-- and there is a lightbulb going off in that brain of his, as if fyodor has just come to some conclusion in another of the many trains of thoughts he has racing. something bad; the concept filed for later reflection. ] This place is not a reward, it is a prison of sorts. [ if only because fyodor feels distinctly uncomfortable by the logic that this could feel like a reward.
a pointed look at what gojo is wearing, versus what he is wearing but then the russian, with a minute shrug of his shoulders, toes off his usual boots, followed by his socks. he's not about to ruin these by wading into saltwater.
he hates sand, the way it feels on the soles of his feet, how cold the first touch of the water is, and how it quickly seeps into the fabric of his trousers. this was a terrible idea, and what possessed him to give in to this idiot of a stranger? ]
Not only us, there are many others here.
[ except--he parses the words again, then makes a face at gojo. sir, he understood the implication. ]