guess who’s back. back again :3
here to fulfill my monthly (?) laito quota, ofcc
okay sooo i’ve been having this thought of, like, the difference between laito before dark fate going on a ‘date’ with us and then laito AFTER dark fate going on an actual date with us. like he’d still be flirty and stuff, obviously. but lets say it’s the first date after everything dark fate has happened, and he sees that we’re on edge in the beginning of it because of how he’s acted in the past and he (tries) to fix that as best as he can (not that much-)
thoughts? 👀👀
~bay of fundy~
The neon hum of the arcade was a shallow wave, washing over the linoleum in ripples of synthetic pink and bruised purple.
Laito didn’t crowd you. Outside, the air offered no moon to pale his face; inside, no tidal force to pull your gaze. He stood by a defunct crane game, silhouette smoothed into the geometry of shadows like sea glass—scattered across a bay, common and dull. You found it easier to admire the indiscernible grains of the crumb-covered carpet.
The popcorn he’d bought you made your tongue taut with salt. You imagined that if he were to capture your lips just then, the brine would act as a conductor, making it easier to strike you into electricity.
"You're breathing like you've forgotten how to use your legs, bitch-chan.”
The laugh wasn't a caress of smooth sediment. It held only the grit of shifting sand—the kind that rasps irritably against the narrow neck of an hourglass. He didn't look at you. Only stared at a plastic trinket trapped behind the crane’s glass.
"It’s a bit pathetic, isn't it?" He tapped the glass. Clink. Clink. "To trade a voice for a pair of shaky feet, just to walk on knives.”
You popped another cold kernel into your mouth. The grease spread over your tongue like an oil spill, slicking the ocean iridescent with the potential for fire. It struck you then: the green of his eyes was murky, like deep water where the sun stops reaching. You wondered if his sight ever cleared enough to see the horizon. Future was its own reckoning, temperamental as the feet that walked toward it or dissolved into foam.
He leaned back, his spine making a soft, hollow sound against the metal. The distance was an agonizing stretch of shoreline: the slow-motion wait for high tide to wash over cheap lipgloss, rushed eyeliner—the salt-crusted heartbeat of a sandpiper.
"The prince never actually noticed her bleeding, did he? He just liked the way she danced. He was quite stupid, really."
A soft hum—a fog settling on still water.
"I’m trying very hard not to be stupid today. So I won’t ask you to sing for me.”
His gaze stayed buried, as if he were trying to remember the shape of a man, or perhaps just the weariness of visiting unmarked graves.
Mouth dry, your lips tasted the salt of his cheek anyway. He didn't move to hold you. He just stood there: a shipwreck settled on the floor of a quiet sea.
