one second, he's standing, staring at the face of his oldest, dearest friend— back from the dead. the next, he's swallowed in time, spends a day on a beach as if nothing had ever happened, as if the rest of his life was the dream, instead. next, there's a pair of clever eyes and windswept dark hair standing in the dark, by the ocean, as if someone with a divine sense of humour had handed him a do-over. this russian is not suguru, but he has the same intensity. also, he's never met such a simultaneously pretty and unhappy face— or well. maybe he's just never been good at reading people. they've always seemed far away.
the sea pulls back on the sand, scoring it lightly, and gojo watches as fyodor steps in towards him. this whole day and night have been unreal— he feels like he's in a liminal space that he chose for himself; fyodor had called it a prison, hadn't he? prison realm is what the cube housed. he wonders if this is just his own mind, if really, this is a gift and a prison all at the same time. a lacuna, away from the brute force of everything that has happened, and everything that is about to happen.
the thing is— he's not sure he could have come up with this russian by himself, so. there are some doubts as to the legitimacy of his theory.
the sea sweeps in more strongly now, a wave knocking at gojo, and he reaches out a hand without thinking; palm up, in case the other is unsteady on his feet. he dragged him in here, he supposes, and he looks a bit—gojo shoots a glance fyodor's way—grumpy about the ordeal. funny. ]
I don't see any other people. [ gojo chirps, and sweeps a hand out at the beach (the way he ignored the fact that there are literally bonfires with tons of people around them...). ] And if this is a prison, then I guess it's not so bad, huh?
[ he looks back at the ocean, and those eyes have their own bioluminescence to them. strange; there's almost no light to pick up. he waits for fyodor to get closer, hand still extended.
gojo's rolled the pants of his uniform up already (he's been doing beach day ALL DAY) and looks perfectly suited to his surroundings (his job is beach, now), and he grins— abrupt and bright. ] I haven't gone to the city yet, I should probably do that sometime. You're my guide now. Deal?
:3
one second, he's standing, staring at the face of his oldest, dearest friend— back from the dead. the next, he's swallowed in time, spends a day on a beach as if nothing had ever happened, as if the rest of his life was the dream, instead. next, there's a pair of clever eyes and windswept dark hair standing in the dark, by the ocean, as if someone with a divine sense of humour had handed him a do-over. this russian is not suguru, but he has the same intensity. also, he's never met such a simultaneously pretty and unhappy face— or well. maybe he's just never been good at reading people. they've always seemed far away.
the sea pulls back on the sand, scoring it lightly, and gojo watches as fyodor steps in towards him. this whole day and night have been unreal— he feels like he's in a liminal space that he chose for himself; fyodor had called it a prison, hadn't he? prison realm is what the cube housed. he wonders if this is just his own mind, if really, this is a gift and a prison all at the same time. a lacuna, away from the brute force of everything that has happened, and everything that is about to happen.
the thing is— he's not sure he could have come up with this russian by himself, so. there are some doubts as to the legitimacy of his theory.
the sea sweeps in more strongly now, a wave knocking at gojo, and he reaches out a hand without thinking; palm up, in case the other is unsteady on his feet. he dragged him in here, he supposes, and he looks a bit—gojo shoots a glance fyodor's way—grumpy about the ordeal. funny. ]
I don't see any other people. [ gojo chirps, and sweeps a hand out at the beach (the way he ignored the fact that there are literally bonfires with tons of people around them...). ] And if this is a prison, then I guess it's not so bad, huh?
[ he looks back at the ocean, and those eyes have their own bioluminescence to them. strange; there's almost no light to pick up. he waits for fyodor to get closer, hand still extended.
gojo's rolled the pants of his uniform up already (he's been doing beach day ALL DAY) and looks perfectly suited to his surroundings (
his job is beach, now), and he grins— abrupt and bright. ] I haven't gone to the city yet, I should probably do that sometime. You're my guide now. Deal?