[ the thing is— it does feel like a reward. this strange guy had said a prison, but gojo has envisioned a prison when he was dragged into that cube, and now, he wonders if his channels were crossed. if there was a glitch in an intricate system, and he was thrown into a place that is not there, is not home, and is certainly not where he is supposed to be. an amalgam of all three, a mimicry of one. a copy of another. some point between the points; like a dart thrown at a map. that has to be this place of all places. his ink has been smudged; the writer stood up from the table and threw away his work— now he's here; surely, the fountain pen is rolling across the table.
what story starts like this, he wonders. you're standing on a beach and there's a thin hand in yours. it's dark, and the ocean is darker, there are fires nearby—where are they really, he wonders.
is it selfish to not want to be back home? even gojo satoru, the strongest, steers clear of that thought (and should it still be a source of shame if you avoid thinking of it? who cares, there's no narrative anymore).
fyodor places his hand in gojo's, and he helps him stand in the waves, holding tightly to those bony fingers. ] Careful.
[ he shrugs at the thank you, and lets him go— steps back, tucking his hands into his pockets. fyodor's had been cold against his own palm, but not uncomfortably so. he'd asked him to come out here, so, it's only right that gojo stands close to him— he does now, glancing backwards as the wind crops up even more. silver hair is shaken when he shrugs, and he reaches up to run a hand through it, flattening it against his head, until it springs back straight afterwards. ] Show me around, then. I wanna ask some things.
[ boring things, mostly. where are we, what did you do to get here, are you from our world. where, actually, are you from. things like that. he doesn't, though, and he stretches out his hand again as another wave comes in. this is a game, isn't it, he supposes.
touch, then stop touching.
he should want to go home more than he does. he's always been undeniably selfish. ]
Eh, watch out, Fyodor. [ no honorific now, because this guy seems like a foreigner— but. gojo raises a silver eyebrow. ]
You speak Japanese. Ah, wait, the locals all understood me, weird, isn't it? Wanna know something fun?
love a wendys ♡
what story starts like this, he wonders. you're standing on a beach and there's a thin hand in yours. it's dark, and the ocean is darker, there are fires nearby—where are they really, he wonders.
is it selfish to not want to be back home? even gojo satoru, the strongest, steers clear of that thought (and should it still be a source of shame if you avoid thinking of it? who cares, there's no narrative anymore).
fyodor places his hand in gojo's, and he helps him stand in the waves, holding tightly to those bony fingers. ] Careful.
[ he shrugs at the thank you, and lets him go— steps back, tucking his hands into his pockets. fyodor's had been cold against his own palm, but not uncomfortably so. he'd asked him to come out here, so, it's only right that gojo stands close to him— he does now, glancing backwards as the wind crops up even more. silver hair is shaken when he shrugs, and he reaches up to run a hand through it, flattening it against his head, until it springs back straight afterwards. ] Show me around, then. I wanna ask some things.
[ boring things, mostly. where are we, what did you do to get here, are you from our world. where, actually, are you from. things like that. he doesn't, though, and he stretches out his hand again as another wave comes in. this is a game, isn't it, he supposes.
touch, then stop touching.
he should want to go home more than he does. he's always been undeniably selfish. ]
Eh, watch out, Fyodor. [ no honorific now, because this guy seems like a foreigner— but. gojo raises a silver eyebrow. ]
You speak Japanese. Ah, wait, the locals all understood me, weird, isn't it? Wanna know something fun?