i have this hc that tecchou writes poetry as a niche hobby but nobody knows that ofc cuz tecchou never bothered sharing it since he assumed it wasn't that big of a deal.
jouno loves the sound of tecchou's voice when he's reading his poems to him, but he doesn't know that tecchou's the one who wrote them.
he always did find them soothing because damn the poet really has a knack for describing everything like it's the next best thing they found: simply the sound of a chair rocking, micro-analyzing the sight of a lone park bench with chipped paint, the fragrance coming from a bakery at the corner of the street, the feel of leather and polyester weighing down on their body— mundane things one wouldn't pay their mind to. jouno enjoyed this little shared activity of theirs as he would pick the words apart in his mind, unsuspecting that he too had become a muse for tecchou's poetry.
he only realised it when one day tecchou was narrating how snow is such a paradoxical thing; so gentle and fragile, looking absolutely beautiful to the eye yet brutal enough to burn your skin. however relentless, it allows an incarnadine rose to bloom amongst the blizzard as if being offered solace by the snow itself. an odd concept, really, but who even really understood the biasness of it. jouno had almost assumed that the incredibly targeted description of the intricate complexities of the snow wasn't meant to be about him.
tecchou's eye for things is surely one of the seven wonders of the world, but who is jouno to complain— after all, the man has a way with words that even jouno himself can't fathom.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
izzy806
gummygunk
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
ellievsbear
blakekathryn
