The absolute ignorance inherent in throwing out that kind of number so casually, and so confidently offering to triple it — though they both know it's facetious, the fact Gojo won't have the opportunity to make good on it if it wasn't doesn't mean he couldn't.
He easily could. 100k seems to Gojo a totally reasonable figure, and it is a little like regression, if a nostalgic kind, that his eyebrows could still be startled into his forehead as he stares, knocked off-balance and so less grounded in, stewed in all the shit.
When he sighs, it's almost too quick, too short, too — not fond, that's too much feeling, but really, nostalgia is itself a sentimental concept. Even if that concept stretches across a divide, a disconnect, loose and out of place where it's only been a month since last subjected to Gojo in the break room, but oddly, achingly rooted where death meant, should have meant, that was that was it. ]
I still wonder, are you being deliberately stupid about money? Though I don't think it should be called expensive to have no price at all.
[ The air shifts, fills, when Gojo rights the chair, sees whatever he was or wasn't looking for in the cut, and just
shoves the whole (third) piece into his mouth, proceeding to talk around it. His manners are as atrocious as ever, both with his food and by sitting this close, close enough Nanami can smell the fruit on his breath and have small but entirely legitimate concern that he'll spit flecks of pastry on him while talking with his mouth full. Which is the only noteworthy thing about that lack of distance — he hadn't bothered caring since coming back, some six years ago, sometimes barely noticed.
And he's not all that focused on it now, not with the preoccupying whiplash of Gojo spinning from compelling his labor to dismissing him. An exit interview, after all. The permanent break, because he'd done enough, hadn't he? Whether or not he had, he couldn't do anything more, right?
Staring again, but without surprise, muted. Nanami hasn't sat backup and doesn't, looks away only for the moment to catch the bartender's eye, nod at his empty cup, then back to Gojo. Only to close his eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning his head back after all. Just not as far, neck not bent over the chair back. ]
Yeah...
[ Maybe it's the unevenness of nostalgia, maybe it's the month, maybe its the freshness of remembering and retelling the whole of it, still raw in his throat. Whatever it is, or whatever combination of things — Nanami is rarely, if ever, so forthcoming about personal want, want deeper than a sandwich or to get off work before overtime. Not even to himself, as he tends to put this sort of thing away before it can distract or long affect him. ]
...but, it's also a mistake to want anything. For me, I mean.
[ House on the beach, books. Trying to have it here would be perverse, blind. Trying to pretend he could live normally, should live normally. That this was some removed, serene second chance, until or after conviction. There must be something inherently false, deeply wrong. ]
So... [ cracking open his eyes, but partway, looking again at Gojo, now half-lidded, ] ...it's annoying, but since you've never hesitated to make something my problem, don't start giving me the courtesy now. How's the tart?
no subject
The absolute ignorance inherent in throwing out that kind of number so casually, and so confidently offering to triple it — though they both know it's facetious, the fact Gojo won't have the opportunity to make good on it if it wasn't doesn't mean he couldn't.
He easily could. 100k seems to Gojo a totally reasonable figure, and it is a little like regression, if a nostalgic kind, that his eyebrows could still be startled into his forehead as he stares, knocked off-balance and so less grounded in, stewed in all the shit.
When he sighs, it's almost too quick, too short, too — not fond, that's too much feeling, but really, nostalgia is itself a sentimental concept. Even if that concept stretches across a divide, a disconnect, loose and out of place where it's only been a month since last subjected to Gojo in the break room, but oddly, achingly rooted where death meant, should have meant, that was that was it. ]
I still wonder, are you being deliberately stupid about money? Though I don't think it should be called expensive to have no price at all.
[ The air shifts, fills, when Gojo rights the chair, sees whatever he was or wasn't looking for in the cut, and just
shoves the whole (third) piece into his mouth, proceeding to talk around it. His manners are as atrocious as ever, both with his food and by sitting this close, close enough Nanami can smell the fruit on his breath and have small but entirely legitimate concern that he'll spit flecks of pastry on him while talking with his mouth full. Which is the only noteworthy thing about that lack of distance — he hadn't bothered caring since coming back, some six years ago, sometimes barely noticed.
And he's not all that focused on it now, not with the preoccupying whiplash of Gojo spinning from compelling his labor to dismissing him. An exit interview, after all. The permanent break, because he'd done enough, hadn't he? Whether or not he had, he couldn't do anything more, right?
Staring again, but without surprise, muted. Nanami hasn't sat backup and doesn't, looks away only for the moment to catch the bartender's eye, nod at his empty cup, then back to Gojo. Only to close his eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning his head back after all. Just not as far, neck not bent over the chair back. ]
Yeah...
[ Maybe it's the unevenness of nostalgia, maybe it's the month, maybe its the freshness of remembering and retelling the whole of it, still raw in his throat. Whatever it is, or whatever combination of things — Nanami is rarely, if ever, so forthcoming about personal want, want deeper than a sandwich or to get off work before overtime. Not even to himself, as he tends to put this sort of thing away before it can distract or long affect him. ]
...but, it's also a mistake to want anything. For me, I mean.
[ House on the beach, books. Trying to have it here would be perverse, blind. Trying to pretend he could live normally, should live normally. That this was some removed, serene second chance, until or after conviction. There must be something inherently false, deeply wrong. ]
So... [ cracking open his eyes, but partway, looking again at Gojo, now half-lidded, ] ...it's annoying, but since you've never hesitated to make something my problem, don't start giving me the courtesy now. How's the tart?