#sarutobisms

Send me “Mun play” and I will play as myself for a thread with your muse.

There’s this cool little dive bar that serves the best fucking beer cheese soup. So they have beer, and soup, and bread, and it’s fucking amazing.

unspoken meme.what my muse wants to hear yours say.

he still visits the grave. he doesn’t know why he bothers ( lingering attachment, lingering guilt; it’s anyone’s guess which is stronger ), after all these years between him and the body beneath the ground. there’s nothing he can get out of this that he hasn’t already, nothing more than silence and a creeping sense of regret. 

he lights a cigarette. he’s still using asuma’s brand, asuma’s lighter, asuma’s rasping cough and asuma’s future lung cancer. 

is that how his teacher would have died, if fate had been kinder ? 

          ‘ i kind of envy you sometimes, ’ he says, smoke curling off his lips as he speaks to a mossy grave. ‘ it’s peaceful down there, i bet. no paperwork to do, no politics to worry about, just you and the worms. ’ 

something in his throat catches. he’s not surprised. it’s always like this, when he comes to visit his teacher’s grave; he thinks he’s over it, he thinks the wounds have closed, but his heart never stops hurting and his fucking GRIEF never, never goes away. 

his eyes sting, but he’s not crying yet.

          ‘ i miss you, ’ he says, his voice hoarse from remorse and cigarettes. ‘ i still expect you to come by and ask me to play shōgi with you sometimes. it’s been years now, and i still can’t move on. i thought i did, once, but that didn’t work out. ’ 

he rubs his eyes, and takes another drag.