THE DAWNING OF A NEW WORLD.

"I'm glad it's helping!" His hand slides to the back of his neck to rest there. "I'm happy to try. I'm not sure if it'll help, but--" Laios thinks about the rabbits more often than any of his friends would guess--About Marcille's face when she'd revived he and the others, her tears and frustration and the exhaustion that seemed to hang over her like a shadow. Laios may not be the most observant, but it's because she told him outright what was wrong that it's stuck with him. He reaches to pat her shoulder in a comforting, but the movement is a little stilted and awkward. Very Laios. Almost like he's trying to pet a unicorn. "Falin's far better at it than me, though. She'll be a much bigger help once she's back."

❝ well, ❞ words shaped around the quietest of sighs / once upon a time she had been embarrassed by how her tone softened and how her throat seemed to shift, to make SPACE FOR HER HEART whenever falin would be on her mind, whenever she would speak of her —— it had especially threatened at shaming her when she first met laios, the thought of him knowing, but. well. laios doesn't notice anything unless you put it right in front of him. and there's no room for embarrassment, anymore : not between grief and love. ❝ not many are even close to falin's abilities, ❞ marcille allows a smile to grace her face / a faint thing / an adoring thing, directed at her hands, recalling falin's gentle touch.

once upon a time perhaps she would have been embarrassed, but —— ❝ but !! ❞ a beat later, the distant yearning that overtook her tucking itself away once more, determination demanding to make itself known. ❝ your abilities will do until we get her back, ❞ it's a true enough statement. at least for the minor scrapes and bruises, marcille isn't at all convinced that laios would ever be able to reattach a limb, but THIS IS GOOD ENOUGH, FOR NOW. it must be / she has to reaffirm to herself the confidence that they will get falin back. they will. THEY MUST.

still, she finds herself blinking in mild surprise at laios's apparent confidence in herself and falin. ❝ probably, ❞ her head tilts, hair falling in a steady cascade, and she glances at a messy braid and makes a face, moving to unwind it. ❝ we would have to take a lot of breaks, though, ❞ unless they were somehow able to afford a plethora of mana regenerating potions, and those practically cost an arm and a leg. ❝ so it would be very slow going. ❞

Lelouch should be surprised when he enters his room to see C.C. sitting on the couch, holding that plushie to her chest like she always does -- she's been MIA for two weeks after all -- but all he feels is the vague cocktail of relief and irritation. She's like a stray cat. A stray cat who eats only Pizza Hut. To the chagrin of the student council's budget. Milly was beginning to give him an earful about it, too...

❝ you know what they say, ❞ voice airy, tone lackadaisical, leaning on cheese-kun and eating yet another pizza just because she can ( first one she's had in two weeks, thank you ), not bothering to spare him a cursory glance when he enters the room because, really : they know she wouldn't stay gone. not from lelouch. ❝ a girl must keep her secrets, ❞ an almost coy, coquettish smile, a slanted gaze, gracing him with her presence, et cetera.

c.c. drops the remaining corner of crust and rubs the crumbs from her fingers absentmindedly before rolling lazily, head dropping back, framing lelouch in reverse, up side down, almost more of a boy from this angle than manipulative "freedom fighter", but that's nearly a lie. lelouch always looks his age, which is the deeply hilarious part of it all / or would be, if it weren't so —— ❝ you've been keeping busy while i've been gone. ❞

"It wouldn't be you, you mean," he corrects, that droll monotone hiccuping only a little with the slight humor in the last words. "If you didn't say something, who would you be?" A pause, another drink. "You're the only one who has." And that's Nanami's prerogative — The exact reason nobody else has found him. He's sure someone he knows will eventually catch up to him for some reason or other, even if it's another miracle of happenstance.

❝ always so introspective, nanami-kun, ❞ both a strength and a downfall / all that saved nanami, really, was his own sense of vague self-protection, as far as suguru can tell. how humorous, how strange, that they have both ended up on similar paths, separated by degrees —— to some, far more degrees than to others, and as far as suguru would ever declare, there are infinitely more similarities than differences. but, he admits his own bias, and that their goals are far and apart from each other ( yet another reason why nanami kento would be a terrible recruit, not that he would ever listen to any proposal that suguru would even considering offering him, and it's something of a shame given how talented he is —— but who is he to judge a sorcerer who wants to live entirely separate from the sorcerer world, who has seen the sheer insanity of their existence? he, who raises his daughters APART FROM SORCERER SOCIETY, who doesn't dare to teach them archaic traditionalism that has no place in the world he wants to create for them ) and this may, in the end, be the first and last time they see each other in such a way.

nanami has always had a sense of self-preservation, of selfishness, but he is still a GOOD PERSON. suguru is certain it would take almost nothing to convince him to leave meaningless, menial labor for the meaningless, dangerous alternative. trauma works in mysterious ways / if someone is endangered nanami is the sort to help —— eventually.

but, only time will tell.

suguru laughs at the suggestion, offering nanami something so superfluous as fashion advice. flippant and meandering. ❝ well, i have always been partial to my creature comforts, ❞ he smooths his hands over well worn, comfortable fabric. ❝ and i hate to give recommendations that cannot be followed ; our styles just aren't compatible, i fear, ❞ some sort of hidden double meaning, a deepening of the curve of his mouth, a broad shrug of his shoulders. ( in the literal sense he would, truly, hate to wear any form of office clothing, business casual, the like —— he's always preferred athletic wear, loose and comfortable, easy to move in. ) suguru sets the coffee cup down gently, tilting his head, long hair falling in a graceful cascade, always forward facing with charm and appearances. ❝ i admit i'm almost surprised with how clinically you've divorced yourself from that world. you don't exert even a shred of your own cursed energy any longer, do you? ❞

❛ sorry about the sand. ❜ is the instinctual reaction, the expected thing to say. but there was no sincerity in the tone of his words, nor was there any genuinity to the apologetic smile still in place. to live and to die and to live again and to die again had hardened the gentle heart, molded something selfish within the cruel realities of quadratum. self - sacrifice was only noble when it was poetically written within the pages of a story — to abandon the people you treasure for the sake of a greater cause was too heartless an act for any true hero to perform ( it hadn’t been an easy lesson to learn, but sora did always flourish under a more hands on approach. ) sora remains stuck in place, unwilling to move away and ease the burden of having him on her lap.. because he doesn’t want to. the sun was warm and the breeze was constant and namine provided a quiet comfort the boy turned hero turned corpse turned monster was starved for. he would not move away, not until his company voiced it herself.

was that selfish? was that a cruel act, one encouraged by the darkness in his heart? so be it, then. 

apology discarded —— a silly thing, an unnecessary thing, what hero apologizes to the WITCH —— irrelevant? irrelevant : if said aloud, if spoken, if given voice / it would make his brows furrow, his smile fade away / IT WOULD WORRY HIM and they could not have that, could not allow that, could not —— could not —— neither here nor there ( nor anywhere, the hilarity of that, just like you ) a thought discarded like an apology : she concentrates on his hair between her fingers. sand gritty. the reality of it. the realness of it. his warmth against her skin, suffusing here, she feels alight in some strange, corrupt way, stealing his light for herself —— yearning for it ???

yearning.

yearning.

i called you here —— she watches him, unable to look away, unable to bear looking at anything else, unable to turn away from the center of her universe, center of the universe, center —— warm like the sun. bright like the sun. the sun has shadows too ; any worshipper loves those just as well as the light : she adores him. adores him.

❝ never, ❞ ( she does not take away nightmares / she provides them / she must / she / they / they are not good like —— like —— ) the slightest of curves of her mouth, gentleness feels strange on her face, misshapen and strange, a pull of her muscles, stretching of her skin. something racing in her chest / something she dares not give a name to —— it would be —— a burden on him —— so they adore him. ❝ you can sleep, if you want. ❞

a pause. the sun is not looking at her and she feels almost —— bold. ❝ i'll be here when you wake up, ❞ HOW DARING, the ghost — girl saying she'll stay, a novelty, as if challenging the universe / challenging herself.

"Oh, damn," the navigator says, eyes wide, looking down at the card game she'd just lost. That never happens! Granted, she does often cheat; she hadn't bothered this time, they're not playing for money and Nami had been confident she could win even without cheating, as she almost always does. ( she'd learned without much of a choice, and any skill you master under threat of torture or starvation is bound to be sharper than the same skill in your neighbor. ) This kid is GOOD.

an abashed chuckle, a scratch at the back of his head —— he always wins so long as he isn't actively trying to lose ( well, that's a bit of an overstatement, in truth, but he does win frequently and knows that he's good with games, always has been, it's just about the only thing he's truly excellent with ) but it's still ever so slightly embarrassing to do so. it makes people notice him, which is always a bit ( ... ) anxiety inducing, blush inciting, shoulders hunching, et cetera. all of the above occur as he glances at her and then away, fighting the urge to hide his face outright.

❝ ah —— yeah, yuugi's my name, ❞ mirth infuses his voice, a hint of laughter as he waves his hand, trying to wave away notice, or something like that. ❝ it was probably a fluke, but i do really like card games. ❞

it's a universal constant : that cheng xiaoshi will always be fine. a worrisome sort of thing, a heart lurching thing, something that lu guang wants to take from him to ensure him that it's fine to not be fine, after all —— but he'll always carry on. press on. be stalled and grieve for a time, but always, in the end, his heart wills him to continue to help people in such a way that only they are able to. that they will continue to do, until ( in some strange, impossible future scenario ) they decide to stop.

he wipes away another tear and another, holds cheng xiaoshi's face in his palm as though it's something precious because it is —— sometimes he can be cold and callous but never when cheng xiaoshi is weeping, leaning into his touch, accepting comfort in the only ways that lu guang knows how to give it. he's warm in his hands, as if he were holding the sun, itself, and lu guang squeezes his hand in return. ❝ couldn't sleep, ❞ he doesn't experience feelings and memories and physicality as cheng xiaoshi does, but images leave an imprint, and there are times when it dares to linger in spite of himself. ❝ i was thinking, ❞ a vague statement, too vague for cheng xiaoshi, perhaps / but there are times when his thoughts are amorphous and strange and he ponders and ponders and thinks in half thoughts and misshapen memories in a strange, viscous cycle with no true end nor beginning.

❛ you're only defending him because you rarely have to go through his work. stop taking the moral high ground and let me be petty. ❜ he kicks at suguru's leg defiantly, doing his best to stay looking dejected because that normally wins him favor.

❛ that's so mean. ❜ he considers the frightening possibility that he's getting too old for pouting to have any real effect —— which is especially concerning since he plans to live forever ( ahh!! aging!! if he thinks too much about how nanami looks nowadays he'll break into hives, he was supposed to stay a dweeb forever ). ❛ fine. i'll do my job or whatever. ❜ suguru sitting beside him / suguru existing in the same school as him was always privately thrilling, as if it wasn't the natural conclusion to their togetherness. he stretches his legs out alongside suguru's, pointing the tips of his shoes forward as if there were any doubt he's taller.

❛ i don't torture him!! i treat all my students the same. yaga played favorites and now my skull's dented. ❜ always prone to dramatics, he theatrically rolls his neck, hand raising to run across the space reserved for half-hearted punishment. it's a lie anyway; megumi is his favorite without a doubt, any attempt to convince the others he's not only further proves it ( and somehow always ends up with his bank account drained? this probably isn't an issue for the other schools with their … less fashionably inclined students ). ❛ just because he can't take a little ribbing doesn't make me the bad guy. ❜

a pointed roll of his eyes at the kick, returned with a jab of his knee, though nothing especially severe nor serious. the situation hardly warrants as much / and this is satoru, after all / he's let down infinity as he nearly always does around suguru, a fact that he doesn't think much on these days, though in the past he had practically AGONIZED OVER IT. now it's a simple fact of their existence, that satoru lets suguru touch him, and should that incite any measure of possessiveness or affection then that is between them. ❝ if i let you be petty every time you wanted to be, we'd never get any work done, ❞ his smile threatens to widen and does, incrementally, a small and warm thing, practically reserved for satoru and his absurdities.

satoru's legs stretch further than his, as if he hasn't been taller than suguru for years, since they turned 16 years old ( or thereabouts ) and suguru decidedly stopped growing and satoru simply continued, stretching up and up and up to ridiculous heights. he ignores this because he's the mature one ( which is saying something considering he's just as petty as satoru and just better at pretending to be a somewhat well adjusted adult / and shoko is essentially as bad as both of them, anyways ) and instead he sighs / tries to keep the humor out of his voice. "you do torture him," the lurking and ribbing and name-calling and childish behavior in the face of fushiguro's generally impassive exterior is rather funny, though there are certainly times when even suguru gets nearly tired of it —— and he's been dealing with satoru for years !!

and he sways with the nudge because of course he said, momentum carrying him back to press his elbow into satoru's side, a brief laugh ringing, warm and well used like their ( their in tandem, satoruandsuguru, never quite separated ) favorite blanket, ❝ reasons, ❞ satoru claims favorites the way that children claim seats in a classroom : clinging to them and proclaiming it from the rooftops. ❝ what a round about way of saying fushiguro-kun is your favorite, ❞ granted, he hilariously mum about stating outright that fushiguro was his favorite, for all that it was glaringly obvious in every other way. ❝ you're not subtle, satoru. ❞ suguru knows that better than anyone.

suguru leans back slightly, allowing himself to slump into a comfortable position, allowing this momentary pause in their workday when, really, they both have things to do, but —— he's always given in to satoru in one way or another, hasn't he? he leans back onto his palms, head lolling to the side to look at satoru, still / post briefly interrupted as he reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear, daring to stick to his cheek ( always demanding satoru's attention / as if he doesn't nearly always have it. ) ❝ but no, i don't have a favorite. ❞ which was : mostly true. sort of.

knowing like breathing —— like the familiar beat of his heart, like the familiar thrum of cheng xiaoshi's, knowing and hoping and thus acting : this nagging want to be witness. lu guang does and doesn't blame himself / it's complicated the way that most things are / when he's able to foresee and knows he must keep things from cheng xiaoshi and simply hope that he can convince him to exit in time, before bad things can happen —— and oftentimes, more often than not, abjectly failing at that. this is the consequence of that / action-reaction.

action : cheng xiaoshi reaching out. reaction : lu guang taking his hand, an automatic thing, like the beat of his heart, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. he steps closer, reaching for cheng xiaoshi's face, thumb brushing against his damp cheek ( an attempt at gentleness ), fingers twitching just so at the ticklish touch of dark curls. ❝ cheng xiaoshi, ❞ a warm palm against his, their fingers tangling. ❝ don't hide from me. ❞

❛ they're not grotesque. ❜ defiant for no real reason, too tired to offer any proper defense to the curses suguru's speaking about; his care for them stems only as far as their ties to suguru, as if somehow the second he spits them back out they're transformed. suddenly lovable, deserving to be pet and cooed over. the ugliness ( because he'd be a fool to deny that ) only serves to charm him further, hulking things, drooling, moaning from cool air across glistening skin; perhaps it's obsession, a desperation to soothe the sickness that overtakes suguru whenever he summons obviously foul things. perhaps it's because he's a digimon fan. ❛ but i'm not complaining. it's less stuff for me to look out for. ❜ he hums as fingers roam through his hair, knowing where to press.

❛ nee — dy ❜ chiming back, a singsong voice. spoiled regardless, it was different from suguru ( as most things were ). tiny gifts fed to him, handed over, lavished upon him; he never missed them, never forgot the subtle ways that suguru would soothe his need for overwhelming attention. dismissal came easy, rolling his eyes and teasing the same way that every else did, but only because he knew he understood — offered up the same in an overwhelming want to touch, to soothe, to make things right. the same and not, more of their common language that placed them above everyone else; never in the history of everything had it come so easy before, he figured.

moving again, his forehead resting where it'd first fallen. maybe if he were better rested, if his head didn't throb from exertion, the sudden intimacy of them might've made him blush. rarely did he so broadly broach the space between them, instead lingering, pressing further, languishing in the distance until finally they slipped into some barely platonic space, remaining so only by the gymnastic thinking he implied. were anyone else to see them, they would appear as they always did: absolutely hopeless. ❛ he'll find something, he always does. ❜ his hands roam from their space on suguru's hips upward, holding his back, fingers pressing at the base of his spine concerned with some horrific future where he's left alone with his headache again.

he allows a quiet laugh, something gently carrying and familiar, the idea of shoko attempting to beat his ass for wounding satoru at all bouying his amusement, keeping worry at bay by sheer force of will. his affection for shoko is somehow gentler than his affection for satoru / the nature of the pair inherently separate, inherently different, so far apart from each other that there's no way to make them fit that is not TERRIBLY INCONGRUOUS, though suguru's fondness for shoko had been there first, as satoru so childishly proclaims, as well. ( satoru had been so bright, in those early days / so VIVID, so utterly overwhelming / and such a little asshole, too. ) ❝ right, ❞ a prolonged vowel for the fun of it, the sake of it, satoru wide eyed and playful and utterly deflecting from the issue at hand. well, it's not like suguru expected to be able to force satoru to sleep —— if only it were so simple. ❝ we're talking about the same shoko, right? ❞

well, maybe if shoko were here they would be able to strongarm satoru into sleeping. or force him to by other means. alas.

in truth, it had confused suguru, at first, how taken satoru had been and continues to be with the curses he carries within himself and outside of himself and all of the ones he's devoured in the days between. they had always seemed so ( ... ) ROTTEN in his youth, for all that he had been drawn to them / for all that he was the only one able to see them / and on learning truly what they were, they had almost REPULSED HIM until he reminded himself that this was what he had been born to do. that hardly meant that others would have to deal with it as well, though. even yaga had seemed repulsed on first meeting suguru / most people are with full context / BUT NOT SATORU. in this, too, he demands to set himself apart, emsnds to be different, demands to unmake the world under his own whim. as if saying they're not grotesque was as revolutionary an act as war. ( to suguru, deep down, it is —— and yet. ) ❝ yeah, it leaves it so that one of your eyes can rest, ❞ a chiding sort of joking / it doesn't really work that way and he knows that perfectly well, though that will hardly stop him from wanting satoru to rest his ridiculous, absurd, world rending six eyes.

six eyes that see all / likely even the softened expression on his face / the way that soft white hair brushes between his fingers / it occurs to him distantly to be embarrassed, flustered, to pull away and maintain some semblance of platonic distance between them, some form of deniability, to hold some distance between them, as they nearly always have, but. it's late, and satoru hasn't slept, and suguru won't sleep, either, not quite yet, and it's just the pair of them and no one to interrupt ( his lashes flutter and the void shifts and he checks on amanai and kuroi and his eyes open once again, reassured that they're asleep and safe ) or speak or judge. just satoru and suguru. satoruandsuguru, the strongest pair, curving around and into each other, where does one start and the other begin?

satoru's hands on his hips / on the small of his back / suguru does feel his face warm, a touch, a bare degree if that. he presses his fingers into the base of his skull, not punishing, simply pressing, an attempt at relieving tension / an attempt at distracting himself. ❝ maybe he'll chastise you over your lack of sleep. ❞ it's a weak deflection at best and a terrible attempt at redirection at worst.

it's easier to set aside distracting thoughts and partially conflicting feelings to talk about the present —— not that he avoids thinking about satoru, he never could, but their closeness is easier to bear without threatening to be swallowed into his own void when they're discussing other things. ❝ mmm ( ... ) ❞ he considers satoru's question genuinely, and offers a genuine answer in return / as if he could ever lie to satoru, as if it would ever occur to him to. ❝ i do pity her, in a sense. she's just a kid, and yet she's expected to give herself up to tengen-sama to reset their immortality, ❞ it is, in the truest sense, her reason for existing, as suguru's reason for existing is to protect the weak, much like her —— yet that makes it no less pitiable. he, at least, has chosen this path / amanai has never been given the same courtesy, which is why they will offer her a choice. doing any less would be a disservice to her, if not an outright cruelty. and yet, ❝ it's no small duty, and quite the weight to carry. ❞ and satoru was right : she had friends, and a life, and kuroi who is for all intents and purposes her mother / her existence is pitiable, surely.

his weight shifts / satoru's hands on his back bracing and yet not / he feels steady and yet not / suguru presses into his hands incrementally and cards his fingers through satoru's hair again, ❝ but, it's not you caring that's unfathomable, satoru, ❞ satoru cares, even if others wouldn't assume so —— suguru himself hadn't assumed so, when they first met, had been overwhelmed by GOJO SATORU in his presence and his attitude, but he cares deeply. about suguru, at least / about shoko, as well. yet still : satoru is a callous boy, he knows this, too. ❝ i've never seen you so amiable with someone like her, is all. ❞

❝ okay,❞ an automatic response, given without thought / it puts him in mind of trying to calm a frantic animal or perhaps a fearful child —— qiao ling says he speaks to cheng xiaoshi like a child, sometimes, but he doesn't quite ( ... ) understand what she's getting at. he hears cheng xiaoshi shuffle and sit up and he sits up, too, an automatic response / pushes himself to the ladder and then down without a word, agreeable and not at all tired, hitting the switch with practiced ease. for a moment he almost hesitates before turning around again, but : he'll always turn to cheng xiaoshi, always. turn to and gravitate to, an inexorable thing, unavoidable and absolute, helpless as a moth to flame. ❝ cheng xiaoshi, ❞ the floor is hard and cold beneath his knees / cheng xiaoshi's hands are warm in his ( he's always run cooler, colder, hands pale and almost frigid ) ❝ you'll get a cold, ❞ how nonsensical, really.

She's met with a drowsy smile and half-lidded eyes as Oyun sits up, idly stretching out its arms. They look at the package with faint confusion and curiosity. Had they mentioned need something in the past few days? Although there's no recollection, the mere fact that Kyo took the time to take note of what Oyun had said and acting without being asked—

Their grin is toothy and bright as they carefully take the bundle (a present, they think. no matter how simple it might be, a gift is a gift and treasured as such), gingerly undoing the knot without being off put by the blood. Inside lays... scales. Dark upon first glance and—the dark rust of blood aside—shimmering faint colors under the flame like light meeting a Starling's wings.

their joy is —— something ( ... ) something, something unsettles in her chest, or maybe resettles, or maybe none of the above / it's a strange discomfort ( or maybe it's comforting and she has no place to put something like that, such a thing, unwieldy and strange ) and she looks away from it / FROM OYUN / sense memory rears its head every time they are around it, every time they're near each other. the smell of fires, of cooking food, the quiet that enveloped their encampment every night, laying beneath the stars and gazing up at them, seeing and seeing and SEEING.

she buries it.

she buries a lot of things, lately. love and wanting and memories and other useless, fragile things.

[ 𝐈'𝐌 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐃 ] she signs back, still not looking at oyun —— looking at it hurts, sometimes, looking at them aches, something smarting and sharp, a blade lodged between her ribs. she watches the moon / but that hurts, too / and then the shadows and then the dust particles floating in the air and then oyun, again.

at them, into their eyes, unflinching and absolute as she must always be ( there's a small amount of shame, having looked away at all, this sickness / weakness inside —— it's FOOLISH to be here at all, to bare herself at all, to reveal herself at all but —— but —— that sense memory, sensation of home, of a dead girl long buried / she's always been WEAK FOR LOVE, foolish creature ) and blink slowly. [ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐀. ]

a half lie —— she had been within range, or close enough, within several days' travel, at least, and so she had simply done it. for oyun. another prickle of shame, cut at the quick.

suguru had made it look so easy, had calmed him from every wild tantrum, every momentary brush with mania; a well-timed hand on the curve of his back, the right words mumbled against his ear. an impossible task asked of him carried out with the confidence of someone who knew, innately, how to soothe / how to fix things. nauseating guilt wet against him, he stumbles onward, only ever almost making things worse; if his arrogance didn't seem to charm suguru, there would be no point having ever bothered.

he follows the little light down, red until it's crushed under suguru's heal like it means nothing at all ( like it doesn't prove devotion, like it's not an act satoru wishes he could perform in a myriad of other ways ). the smell of ash lingers until it doesn't, the air cleaner, smoke no longer hovering around them like tiny storm clouds; satoru coughs anyway, proving some point he's not entirely sure of himself. ❛ that was easy, ❜ always leaning closer, a boy careening until pulling back is as impossible as staying. ❛ here i thought you were going to make me beg. ❜ though of course he wouldn't, the thought of debasing himself for suguru like that makes his skin crawl. persistence is close enough to pleading anyway.

that irritation again, coarse, insulting: we can't be first and second years forever. how to explain it / how to explain it in a way where he actually says nothing at all. nostalgia already chasing him, clawing at him from the comfort of summers long enough gone that everyone else seems to have forgotten them, as if they didn't form him. molded in the sun and warmth of another body, the ever-present knowledge that he exists there and here; it's easy to slip back, to persistently be sixteen, to never know what the right words. ❛ who says? ❜ slumping, childish, all but pouting; it's silly and he knows it but can't stop himself.

the classrooms are the same, their rooms a fixed point in time and —— suguru is here, pressing their knees together. familiarity in everything and nothing, the world refuses to make sense. what would he be chasing in idle daydreams if not suguru?

his eyes flutter in response to the cough / not a flinch / a subconscious response accompanied by a quirk to his mouth. ❝ maybe i should have, ❞ but he'd never make satoru beg ( well —— a bleak heavy curtain that refuses to let light filter through / the thought ( the thought, the oh my god you thoughts, the he's pressed against me thoughts, the i could kiss him right now thoughts ) doesn't even get the chance to spark, as though the mire of misery seeping its way through him has wetted the ground and no fire could even think of starting ) and satoru would never beg. begging is below him / or maybe just beyond him / it never would have occurred to suguru for the simple reason that the concept is an INHERENT IMPOSSIBILITY. instead of pleading satoru demands ; gives no room for anything else. ❝ figures i don't get any thanks, either, ❞ added around a sigh / skin tight / he doesn't yearn for another cigarette, exactly, but ( ... ) something. something.

suguru's body slumps, a shoulders curving, caving, chest cavity cavernous and yawning. satoru is pressed close and he presses closer, slightly, there's not much closer they could get unless he climbed into satoru's lap outright, but he presses his palms together and listens to satoru being childish and laughs, a quiet huff of a thing, a puff of smoke thing, a tired thing. ❝ time, ❞is the obvious answer he offers, ❝ and the higher ups, ❞ he doesn't sound bitter because he isn't, but the taste of rot in his throat intensifies and he's nauseous again. but : when isn't he?

peering back a year before feels like glancing through a warped, fogged mirror. part of suguru wants to stubbornly remain the same, to go back to the boy he had been, then, to go back to soft springtime days and lounging beneath the languid summer heat, tangled in satoru and oddly, INCANDESCENTLY HAPPY —— stupidly, foolishly oblivious. —— no, not that, not quite but / his mind careens, unsettled, and he presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. staves off sickness with that stubbornness, instead / he can't go back, he's tried and tried : the applause rings, ear shattering.

❝ weren't you excited to become a special rank sorcerer? this is a natural progression of that, ❞ he nudges at satoru's ankle with his foot, prodding and poking, not exactly trying to motivate satoru but, perhaps, trying to cheer him up. something along those lines. he's been spending a lot of time alone lately / but so has satoru, hasn't he? SATORU IS THRIVING, the strongest, getting stronger every day, nearer and nearer to outright teleportation, doing impossible things as the impossible boy, but —— but.

satoru isn't as sensitive or emotional as suguru by half ( much to his own chagrin ) but he's strangely child—like, at times. ❝ they need to be diligent about how best to allow us to utilize our abilities, ❞ the words FEEL HOLLOW, empty, carved out, just like how he feels / chest cracking open, a sad and desolate thing. ❝ and keeping us together for assignments is inefficient. ❞