[ A rough sound, like scraping out a throat rough with disuse, like shoving through the lockjaw of that keeping smile. How long, for Gojo, had it been in his prison? Perhaps immaterial for this question, because for all that a laugh like that from a guy with Gojo's ability could alarm, should disconcert, all the more when elicited by something Nanami said — all that and all the more, but in the last six years, he's sure he's heard every laugh Gojo's got. This one might be particularly harsh, expelled by the enormity of the weight of Shibuya driving his shoulders into his back, but Nanami knows it.
Insolent. Thus, childish.
So it shouldn't be surprising, what follows, this blatant disregard for what Nanami had clearly articulated: even though Gojo was here, he wasn't working; his last report. Unilateral, big-headed rejection of the facts, obnoxious down to the stubborn bob of his chin, as though he could bend them to his temperament —
— and maybe he could.
Nanami can't argue that by all biological evidence, he lives here. Breathes, drinks, eats, even pisses and shits. An attempt to discount it would necessarily call into question Gojo's living, and any alternative to that could not be brokered.
It should have been his last report, off-the-clock, the exit interview. But, that point, a point, the point: Gojo had to go back. To Shibuya, to Japan, to sorcery, and if Nanami focused his attention on that kind of goal (mission) going forward, what was it if not work?
More bleak irony in that, too appropriate for the society left behind: couldn't even catch a break once he was dead.
Irritating, really, seriously irritating, that Gojo thinks he can just tell Nanami what he is, what he's doing, what's coming, just because ultimately, when it's like this, he can. Because he can, a flare of brow furrowing, jaw tightening frustation snuffs out quick, without much smoke.
Even so, it's just that Nanami sighs rather than grits out, ]
I'm not going over, Gojo-san. Please don't decide for yourself whether I'm back on the payroll without wages.
[ He'd rather not talk about promises later, no.
And much as Nanami would and does disclaim any notable familiarity with Gojo, he understands what that command's about. If only because they both know Nanami well enough to know that there were probably only three situations in which he would agree to cut Gojo's food up for him: (1) he'd broken every bone in his arm, hands, fingers, fully casted (for some reason unhealed by himself or Ieiri, i.e., another near impossibility), (2) actually that (3) might be it.
Thing is: Nanami is perfectly capable of dividing things in other proportions than 7:3. The segments may not be as exact, just what most with solid hand-eye coordination could do. Though while in battle, his cursed technique necessarily requires concentration, choice, outside, there had developed a subconscious reflex to it (though, seriously, it doesn't make sense for a fruit tart to have a weak point), so sometimes it conversely takes a moment of orienting focus to not default to ratio.
He knows, thinks he knows what Gojo expects to see, what would give him some grim, misplaced satisfaction. It's annoying, but rather than dig in his heels, rather than be stubborn himself and cut in halves and quarters, rather than avoid it by refusing, he picks up the knife, slices down with the knife, lets it happen.
Pushes it back once he's done, only then speaking, simply, ]
It's a mistake to think there's meaning in that. Regardless, that's enough. It doesn't matter whether we call it working or not.
Of course, with you here, I can't do anything but try to get you out.
tinyurl.com/yxj6hmex
Insolent. Thus, childish.
So it shouldn't be surprising, what follows, this blatant disregard for what Nanami had clearly articulated: even though Gojo was here, he wasn't working; his last report. Unilateral, big-headed rejection of the facts, obnoxious down to the stubborn bob of his chin, as though he could bend them to his temperament —
— and maybe he could.
Nanami can't argue that by all biological evidence, he lives here. Breathes, drinks, eats, even pisses and shits. An attempt to discount it would necessarily call into question Gojo's living, and any alternative to that could not be brokered.
It should have been his last report, off-the-clock, the exit interview. But, that point, a point, the point: Gojo had to go back. To Shibuya, to Japan, to sorcery, and if Nanami focused his attention on that kind of goal (mission) going forward, what was it if not work?
More bleak irony in that, too appropriate for the society left behind: couldn't even catch a break once he was dead.
Irritating, really, seriously irritating, that Gojo thinks he can just tell Nanami what he is, what he's doing, what's coming, just because ultimately, when it's like this, he can. Because he can, a flare of brow furrowing, jaw tightening frustation snuffs out quick, without much smoke.
Even so, it's just that Nanami sighs rather than grits out, ]
I'm not going over, Gojo-san. Please don't decide for yourself whether I'm back on the payroll without wages.
[ He'd rather not talk about promises later, no.
And much as Nanami would and does disclaim any notable familiarity with Gojo, he understands what that command's about. If only because they both know Nanami well enough to know that there were probably only three situations in which he would agree to cut Gojo's food up for him: (1) he'd broken every bone in his arm, hands, fingers, fully casted (for some reason unhealed by himself or Ieiri, i.e., another near impossibility), (2) actually that (3) might be it.
Thing is: Nanami is perfectly capable of dividing things in other proportions than 7:3. The segments may not be as exact, just what most with solid hand-eye coordination could do. Though while in battle, his cursed technique necessarily requires concentration, choice, outside, there had developed a subconscious reflex to it (though, seriously, it doesn't make sense for a fruit tart to have a weak point), so sometimes it conversely takes a moment of orienting focus to not default to ratio.
He knows, thinks he knows what Gojo expects to see, what would give him some grim, misplaced satisfaction. It's annoying, but rather than dig in his heels, rather than be stubborn himself and cut in halves and quarters, rather than avoid it by refusing, he picks up the knife, slices down with the knife, lets it happen.
Pushes it back once he's done, only then speaking, simply, ]
It's a mistake to think there's meaning in that. Regardless, that's enough. It doesn't matter whether we call it working or not.
Of course, with you here, I can't do anything but try to get you out.