ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF TOKYO , nestled among stretches of woodland , disguised as a temple , getō suguru finds his home . not because of the architectural prospects the traditional buildings hold , but for the people within its paper walls . when the world around holds nothing but uncertainty , you cling to what's closest , what's nearest , what's devoid of longing and full of warmth , and you call that place , sometimes in the shape of a person , sometimes in the shape of a memory , your home . so you take the bold step forward , you venture past the threshold that separates near from far , and you let yourself be welcomed by the lanky - limbed hospitality of someone like you .
when gojō satoru first removes his glasses in front of you with all the pizzazz of a superstar , you are met with the colour blue --- glacier , pure , elusive , piercing . blue like late - july mornings and untouchable skies , like things that cannot be captured , or owned , or held in the palms of your hands , like things that are remote ( misty - edged mountains , the blur of snowfall in a long - forgotten painting , the formless outlines of a city blue with distance ) , you think of places that cannot be reached , places that cannot be arrive at , you think of the way memory succumbs to blue , the way it scatters over a terrain that cannot be traversed , you think of the longing to reach , to arrive at , to touch , to hold , but you know that blue is reserved for the distance , never the location . 𝙱𝙻𝚄𝙴 . blue - charged emotions too subtle for a voice , too heavy for words , an infinite ocean made for drowning and cold clammy hands begging to be touched , held in a pocket of warmth .
two years later , gojō satoru brands himself a god after a constant making and unmaking and remaking of himself . you watch the strawberry - shaped rubber bounce off him , and you wonder if you'll ever see red bloom delicately across his skin , selfishly wonder if you'll ever find comfort in it again , in the finger - shaped crimson traces your clutches leave . that very same day you discover you've fostered your own line of blue --- no undertones to it , just the promise of a deepening towards black , in the pit of your stomach , heavy enough to pull you six feet under . you choose to ignore it . pretend the mausoleum carved between your ribcage was a snow - globed microcosm of a better world instead .
in an empty classroom , the sky a faded day in candy - soft pink , one hundred and seven missions and twice the amount of curses later , you meet . there's a habit of exchange : a hello traded for a how are you , a makeshift sense of normalcy forced upon the crater in your chest , an exit wound blocked by indigestion . you cannot bring yourself to speak about anything but the usual , the bile in your throat dissolving the edges of your words , turning your i think this is goodbye to this is good , the gnawing pencilling of a new tale . you bow your head , and then it happens : he reaches for the lone strand that obscures your eye , tucks it behind your ear with a playful smile , a smile that promises a secret , a smile and blind man's glasses instead of eyes . ( 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙴𝙴 𝙼𝙴 , 𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚄 ? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙴𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙴𝚂 𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙼𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝙰𝚃 ? ) . ❛ ne , you shouldn't be going around with your infinity off , you don't know what could be lurking around the co - ❜ but your sentence is cut off by a wave of a hand , glasses sliding down the ridge of his nose , the peak of untouchable blue playfully winking . ❛ there's only you here , and i can definitely best ya , ❜ it's a playful jest , which earns him a scoff from you . a challenge you'd have accepted in the past . but the blue stands between you , the blue of distance , the blue of memory , the blue that quarantines you on the other side , that leaves you in the claws of longing that close around you --- an infinite black embrace . ❛ you're right , you can . ❜
@atrophyd said : [brush] + suguru / * meme ( accepting )
