[ oh good lord, no. is fyodor expected to indulge a game of twenty questions for the sake of dissecting what lies beneath the heaven-blue eyes? maybe this is his punishment of sorts for having aggressively avoided every living thing all day long. ]
So you'd like to play tourist?
[ this story starts like this: you're standing on a beach, and the wind and waves conspire to make you stumble and reach out—it's a test. if you fail you fall, but you've spent so much time learning to pick yourself up alone. even those you've learned to feel for do not touch you. physically yes, but not where it matters—the juncture of where your ability and soul lay entwined in that limitless void.
there is a man who wants to play a game, and you like games but aren't sure if this is the type to amuse you, so you consider leaving the other to their fate but the ocean is conspiring within its darkness, and this stranger illuminates it, briefly, you want to reach out and are forced to because the sea shoves—
fyodor grabs onto gojo again, a sour expression as he feels ever so wet, and the chill of the night creep along his shoulders. the calculations are made; fyodor dostoevsky has never trusted anything he can't control--a fatal flaw; in this place he has begun learning to extend that trust, somewhat, it makes bones creak until they break and are mended together. to change into another thing he must rewrite himself, bit by painful bit.
he leaves his hand within the other's. after all, if he can endure killing people he knows well and has been intimate with with crime and punishment, if he kills this stranger by accident it matters little.
casual way of address, fyodor is not bothered by it but he will always be polite--he might stab you but to drop honorifics with a newly met individual? never. ]
Correct, I speak it but that's not relevant here. [ does he want to know something fun? from this weirdo? he opens his mouth to deadpan, drier than paint wall and with just about as much enthusiasm. let's see if this man rises to the challenge.
(and then that fountain pen is picked up, and the author restarts: outside the confines of the new and old testament, heaven and hell, it’s always darkest before the dawn.) ]
Pterodactyl. Screeching.
So you'd like to play tourist?
[ this story starts like this: you're standing on a beach, and the wind and waves conspire to make you stumble and reach out—it's a test. if you fail you fall, but you've spent so much time learning to pick yourself up alone. even those you've learned to feel for do not touch you. physically yes, but not where it matters—the juncture of where your ability and soul lay entwined in that limitless void.
there is a man who wants to play a game, and you like games but aren't sure if this is the type to amuse you, so you consider leaving the other to their fate but the ocean is conspiring within its darkness, and this stranger illuminates it, briefly, you want to reach out and are forced to because the sea shoves—
fyodor grabs onto gojo again, a sour expression as he feels ever so wet, and the chill of the night creep along his shoulders. the calculations are made; fyodor dostoevsky has never trusted anything he can't control--a fatal flaw; in this place he has begun learning to extend that trust, somewhat, it makes bones creak until they break and are mended together. to change into another thing he must rewrite himself, bit by painful bit.
he leaves his hand within the other's. after all, if he can endure killing people he knows well and has been intimate with with crime and punishment, if he kills this stranger by accident it matters little.
casual way of address, fyodor is not bothered by it but he will always be polite--he might stab you but to drop honorifics with a newly met individual? never. ]
Correct, I speak it but that's not relevant here. [ does he want to know something fun? from this weirdo? he opens his mouth to deadpan, drier than paint wall and with just about as much enthusiasm. let's see if this man rises to the challenge.
(and then that fountain pen is picked up, and the author restarts: outside the confines of the new and old testament, heaven and hell, it’s always darkest before the dawn.) ]
Absolutely not.