#fragments.

[anthropoetics]

journal of an ordinary grief, mahmoud darwish

[leopardtie]

"something's not right about what i'm doing but i'm still doing it."

these days, it's all black. black in the sooty ground of this desolate, veiled warehouse. black beneath the keratin of his nails. black in faces of every man and woman he sees on the street. dull uniformity makes up their landscape these days; nanami understands this well, understands why, but so does the sorcerer in front of him.

hell, perhaps the sorcerer in front of him understands this better than all of them, himself included.

"at least you're aware of them — your compulsions, that is."

he tilts the younger man's chin upwards with the blunt side of his sword, can feel the weight of his head as it lifts, and he peers into a vacant sky. and then he replaces the sword with his hand, feeling skin, seeing the sorcerer's eyelids droop and body go lax, tuckered into its kneeling position.

"i'm sure you had your reasons for going over everyone's heads," he starts, firm but giving, the way it's always been — a palm, outstretched, ready for the man in front of him to grasp onto. "morality notwithstanding. but i'm going to need you to come back to us, gojo-kun."

[leopardtie]

"sometimes missions get to me. not that theyre- hard, or anything. i’m great at them. but sometimes i cant help but wonder if i should be doing more because im great. yknow? like, i should be wearing myself thin so other people dont have to..."

it’s rare when the boy doesn't deflect his more unsavory emotions via jokes. it draws the sleep off his mind and he huffs lightly at his last comment. "you already do more than enough, satoru," he retorts. he can imagine the boy's pout, his annoyance, his stubborn refusal to believe nanami's words whenever they took a comforting tone. "if you wore yourself thin all the time, you would not be able to give it your all where it counts." his voice quickly shifts. he's less interested in talking about gojo's duties as a sorcerer than he is about his needs as a person. "and -- you deserve to rest like everybody else, no matter how exceptional you are."

he remembers getting into heated arguments with the principal on the subject, demanding that they do not overburden the boy's schedule with missions that could be effectively handled by groups of grade 1 sorcerers. they talked about efficiency and logistics, and nanami talked about gojo needing time to unwind and be a regular nineteen year old human. he lost many of those arguments, but once in a blue moon the stingy bastards on top relented, and nanami took shoko and gojo to novelty cafés full of colorful pastries and terribly sugary drinks in commemoration.

he sighs, closing his eyes, and smiles tiredly at the sound of gojo's soft breathing on the line. "for the record, i've thought about you too," he adds. he's a little more uncertain when he admits, "if there's something i can do to help you sleep, you should tell me." the low flush on his skin manifests palpably warm on his voice.

*

its so easily at the forefront of gojo's mind to say you could come over. regardless of distance, regardless of missions or duties or responsibilities. regardless of who they are or where they are. come over, and touch me, and dont go away for as long as we can both tolerate it.

but hes half-edged and half-asleep and half-in love w nanami's voice so he just shifts in bed a little, mindlessly runs a few fingers up his softening erection. hums to himself, scrubs a hand over his face in contemplation.

"how do you think about me?" he'd murmur, sounding shy but feeling for all the world like something possessive and nasty. "do you marvel at how handsome i am, nanami-san? how special?"

he’s idly stroking himself again now, phone flat on the pillow beside his head. "that’s what i do. i think about the first time i watched you fight. i think about you finding me bothersome and giving me detention. not because i want you to do it again, yknow, but- well you always sound really hot when youre bossing someone around. mm and i-" he lets himself moan just a little, a breathy little thing, his hand quickening. one cups at his balls a little, smooths further as he hitches a leg up and rubs circles at his own hole. "-i think about.. things you havent done, either. things i want you to do, think you should do. bet i could get you to do them... bet i could bat my eyelashes at you and win you over, isnt that right. sir? always suspected i was nanami-san's favorite student. always tried to be so good for you..."

hes not hiding anything at that point, fucking into his own fist and teasing a finger in and out of himself until it makes him buck, makes him roll over and rut into his mattress so he has a better angle to work himself open. he doesnt usually finger himself when he gets off (not unless he’s got the time for it) but sometimes he cant help the reedy wire that coils in his gut and makes every touch to his cock feel half as good as he knows his hole would be instead. hes panting and whining quietly into his pillow and he knows nanami can hear a good portion of it, but he wants to gauge the blond's reaction before he really lets go. maybe he reaches around for the spare bottle of lube he keeps near his bed and uses some to get himself nice n slick but i also picture him not fully planning on using more than a finger or two w how leaky and sensitive his cock is atop the blankets already.

*

he can feel the way his heart skips at the question, at its tone,  the honeyed anticipation caught on the flat of his tongue. he'd had a clue about what the boy had been actually up to, it didn't take a genius to interpret the throaty, half hearted hums of acknowledgement and the muted rustles of fabric rolling off the skin. it was all pretty obvious. and far from an innocent party in the situation, nanami had been willing to entertaining it, undoubtedly deriving a subdued form of pleasure from it all. would it be so different, then, if he took on a more active role? he's already crossed so many lines with the young sorcerer, some would argue the most important ones — would another one really make it worse? 

he clears his throat and blushes deeper, swallowing back a soft swear as gojo continues to ramble and confess to the depth of his crush. it vertiginously takes on a more and more desperate edge, spurred on by nanami's complicity, and the blond would be amused if the blood in his cock wasn't latching onto every single word.

 he's not aware he's been idly palming it through his sweatpants until he seeks to free it from its constraints. he licks his lips and gives the half hard length a tentative stroke, and it quickly devolves to a self limiting squeeze as gojo's stray, distant pants pour over the line. "don't rush, sweetheart," he breathes into the phone. he closes his eyes, picturing it and not for the first time wishing he was actually in the boy's room,  controlling everything from gojo's voice and volume to the exact pace of his greedy ministrations. "don't rush, slow down for me. take your time.." a few more strokes, the languid pumps eased with the precum gathered on the head of his cock. 

"i do think about you a lot," he confesses to the dimly lit, increasingly stifling room. he pictures drawling it into the younger man's ear, rumbling it in between the certain drag of his hips with the similar sort of reverence he's exhibiting right now. "such a special boy, yes, but also just how gorgeous you are. and how even more beautiful you looked lying beneath me." 

it's a visual that replays in his head constantly, to the point it makes focus nearly impossible these days. what desire he thought would eventually bleed out of his system turned, without warning, into full blown ravenous longing.

"i think about your pretty mouth, too," he continues. "about fucking it until you can hardly speak in the end—" his hand picks up a bit more of the pace, thighs parting for greater ease of movement. "about how nice i felt inside you — how fitting, how hot you were on my cock." he's hardly thinking, lulled by gojo's moans into a state of perfect carelessness. "and how much i'd like to do it again right now —"

lube is poured along the length of his cock and turns the movements slicker, louder and possibly perfectly listenable to gojos sensitive ears. he figures the boy has set the phone aside, which is why it feels infinitely less daunting when the camera shutters and he snaps a picture of his cock in his hand, his sweatpants pooled around his lower thighs. he sends it without thinking, without asking for permission, heart lodged in his throat, and tries not to not to instantly regret it as soon as it he sees it delivered.

"i want you to see it, baby," he continues, licking his lips. "i want you to know what you do to me. check your phone." 

*

gojo splutters out a breath, fingers stilling in their current stretch of his hole as he tries to listen to nanami's words. slowing down, now of all times- will sex with the blond always feel so controlled? the boy cant say he minds it but... he rolls his hips, lets another throaty moan slip free. he cant say he minds it but that doesnt mean he wants to do it. he wants quick, blind release. wants nothing filling between the start and the stop. wants his head to stop buzzing.

but maybe thats what nanami is aiming for too, and gojo has to listen. its always listen with the older man. gojo could say typical if he had the spit in his mouth to speak. hes been rocking back onto his fingers, mindlessly fucking himself as nanami rumbles into his ear. numbed at the deep drawl of his voice, the catch in his throat around certain sounds. gojo whimpers as his knuckles brush an aching sweetness inside him and he lifts his ass higher in the air, spreads his thighs more.

theres one confusing moment where he cant decide if he wants to touch his cock as well - feels it hard and arched against his stomach, pre-cum dribbling steadily onto the mussed sheets below - before the choice is taken from him by the chiming of his phone. gojo collapses onto one shoulder, uses his free hand to check the message.

"fuck," he gasps, eyes fluttering at the heady flush that abruptly rolls through him, "fuck, i need you in me."

the greedy press of a third finger against his hole is as desperate as it is instinctual, and he whimpers when each plunge of his wrist spreads him just shy of what he needs. the churn in his stomach, whipping tendrils throughout his thighs and abdomen like licks of heat. he sits up, tries to grind his hand into the bed; whines and snaps his thighs closed at the way it almost works; almost gives him more.

a cool breath glides across the boy's warmed chest, free of his mattress, and he pinches a nipple absently.

"this is mean," gojo pouts, snatching his phone as he says it. "im trying to feel full on nothing but fingers and youre sending me this?" hes not mad, not really, but he needs nanami to know what state he has the boy in.

gojo leans back flat, spreads his thighs so easily; works himself open a few more times before snapping a picture knuckle-deep; mouth in view, a tight little o, cheeks rosy and shined against his pale complexion. the softening line of his cock peeks out of view across the plane of his stomach, but his own leaking mess is difficult to ignore. he looks like a mess. he looks like a mess already, without nanami here. gojo whines again, quickens his fingers with a plea and a sob, hits send.

"wanna be stuffed on your cock again. dont think i'll ever get over it, dont think i can; fucked me so good, nanami-san. made me a perfect sleeve, made it fit so well. god, what do i do? tell me what to do, i dont- i dont have anything here, its just me."

he sounds like an idiot, he bets. he sounds like paid whore but he cant bring himself to care. wanting what hes getting for as long as he has? it'd turn any young man into a addled fool. gojo rolls onto his stomach again - gasping and moaning at the friction against his sensitive tip - but its short lived. he lifts his hips, holds the phone close to his lips.

"look at me," gojo breathes. "look at what youre not fucking."

and he takes another picture, doesnt even bother to look. loose hole, half-hard and untouched cock, gojo face down and panting. he knows how it must look. hes living it. and close to crying, in all honesty, as a result. the boy sinks his fingers in again, so, so easily, and silently wills himself not to combust at the sorry state of his prostate.

*

the pictures come one shortly after the other and so he has no semblance of a break for the impact they have on him. nanami feels his cock throb in his fist, feels the drum of arousal in the marrow of his bones, his hasty pumps turned slicker and even more desperate. there's a groan at the depth of his throat when he sees the second snapshot -- it's hard to focus on anything in particular when the full image makes him feel fucking feverish, but still, he manages to zero in on a few things -- on the bitten-red lips and the soft, pretty cock and the modest, mouth-watering gape of his hole, the rim glistening with the sort of pink evenness that can only come from lube and effort.

gojo satoru is gorgeous -- always has been. he's beautiful in a way that borders on impermissible and unjust. it's only recently, however, that he has allowed himself to really sit in with that fact, and to let it affect him the way it does, seizing his gut with a hunger he doubts will ever be satiated.

"-- fuck, sweetheart," he growls. his palm squeezes at the base of his cock hard, trying to ward off an almost certain orgasm just a few more minutes. that's all he needs. just a few more minutes of this. "i'll take care of you soon, don't worry," he purrs against the receiver, closing his eyes and licking his lips at the mental visual of gojo on his stomach for him, fully open for him, ass spread and cock untouched and face pinned down against the pillow as he lets himself get fucked to his heart's content.

"just come back to me soon and i'll do it. i'll fuck you until you're sore and i won't let you heal it afterwards. i'll give you everything, baby. i'll give you whatever you want," he continues, a rushed, breathless set of admissions, and wonders if he's remotely coherent, wonders if he even should say the things he's saying, if he isn't binding himself to something that could end up being far more than he can chew. the boy is gorgeous in a way that's dangerous and he does not know much in the way of boundaries, after all.

it's something he thinks about, briefly, as all things can be thought of in the cusp of climax, and he rids himself of it with a handful of strokes that makes his balls seize and a groan rip past his lips. "give it to me, satoru," he orders, doing his best to keep his voice focused, the growl in his voice rough and decisive. "cum on your fingers for me and show me the mess you make."

*

theres a guttural moan that follows at the command, gojo's thoughts growing cloudy with nanami's voice thick and desperate in his ears. he can feel his cock slapping his stomach as he rocks onto his own fingers, can feel each string of precum coat his skin until the slaps are tacky and loud, slick whispers slipping through the phone over his heavy breathing.

"gonna make me cum," he whimpers, so close his stomach is churning, and yet the stretch leaves gojo yearning for something more; a tease he cant follow, cunt sloppy and loose and wanting more-

he pitches forward on one shoulder, tightens a fist around his cock and pumps full, quick, just to ease the emptiness he keeps squirming around. the boy isnt quite hard enough to do much other than milk himself into the cup of his palm but its something, a distraction, an additional heat pooling in his gut as he feels his thighs tense and shake, fingers curling deep into his prostate. once, gojo moaning and trying to arch into it, and a second time so close to being sweet that he gasps against the phone, bites his lip to stop the wet pleas sticking in his throat.

"dont-" tries the boy, weight collapsing under his own need, landing on his side as he massages the base of his cock absently, "dont even wanna cum without ur cock. ruined me da- nng, damnit, fuck-"

gojo twitches in his palm, cock leaking onto the sheets, stiffened fully under the attention. he strokes, breath heaving so hard his chest hurts...

has a fleeting, passing moment of annoyance at how useless his dick is in a time like this. he'd take it off and fuck himself with it if it meant he had any dick up his ass. but the crest of his orgasms chases off any humor that could remain in the thought and he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth with a high whine.

"cumming, oh- nanami- daddy, im cumming-" and gojo lasts just long enough to fit another finger, stretch himself with as much as he can fit and relish the ache, the protest of his hole even as he glides over his prostate and massages into it. he can hear himself distantly, loud and demanding and gone, and he can feel his cock throb as he cups his balls and presses behind them, kneading his taint; theres a thread of decency left in the boy that shrivels up at how easily he was reduced to this, though it means little to him now.

when it finally buzzes out of him, rich and heavy and thick like smoke, gojo can only swallow around the dry of his own mouth and groan. his hole twitches at the insistent stretch of his fingers, but he leaves them a moment, trying to tune into nanami's voice again. he grabs his phone as he does so, hikes his leg up to show both the splattered mess of cum and the still plugged, sore rim of his cunt.

gojo works himself open a few more times, lazy and almost unwilling to end it, before removing his fingers and sending the blond another photo, gape leaking lube. the boy looks loose enough to take nanami with nothing more than a nudge of the man's cock, and lord knows gojo would fruitlessly ride his fingers throughout the night if it meant he'd wake up stuffed, but as the messages send he keeps himself from prattling on much further...

"what a mess," he murmurs, suddenly shy at the loneliness of his room and the clear static to nanami's distant, mobile voice. "you really worked me up..."

*

it's cruel of him, he's sure, and completely unlike him, the way he enjoys every aspect of the boy's struggle. every whimper and shift in tone, every audible sign of strain and weakness — it all goes straight to his cock as he strokes to the same beat of gojo's growing debasement, all of which is encouraged, of course, in the consistent, persistent shape of praise and mindless dulcet words —

he thought himself above such kind of lowly obscenities for a long time. as it stands, satoru continues to teach him things about himself he hadn't thought to ask. 

"good boy," he rumbles around a hazy, mean and greedy smile. "such a good, obedient little boy for me. you sound so nice right now, satoru. i could get used to this." 

drunk. he's drunk on this man. dazed and reckless. his flushed cock throbs in his fist, threatening to cum any moment now, and nanami heeds it, spreading the precum beading at the surface with a seamless flick of his wrist. 

there's the release soon after, gojo breaking down vocally as he finally spills over himself, and it's so rich and clear he can almost see it as it happens. nanami gives it chase, cums hot against the rough of his palm and uses it for a few more damning strokes. leaves him growling, the keen bite of pleasure digging at his heels, but it's bearable next to the nothingness of allowing the moment to die out. 

at least for a few more minutes. at least. just enough for sense and rationality to make a feeble grab for the wheel.

he licks his lips at the last picture, feels a blissful sting of desire at the dewed skin (wants to lick it, get lost in it) and loosened hole (wants to fill it, wants to be the only one that enjoys it, wants to be the last one), and knows this is going to stay with him for a while and make everything infinitely more difficult for him for the upcoming days — at least until the young sorcerer returns. after all, how is he expected to focus when there's a password protected folder in his phone with things like this? 

he didn't ask to know this about himself but he's learning it either way. 

he takes a deep breath, willing oxygen to reach his addled neurons, and releases a quick, amused huff. "you're the one that called me." then, more warmly, dabbed with sleepiness: "i'm glad you did." 

if the boy had been simply lonely, he could have found anyone  (literally anyone, as there was no shortage of people who found gojo beautiful, man or woman alike) to mend it. the fact that he called, and settled for an arrangement like this? nanami wasn't one to let things go to his head, not even the most self indulgent realizations. he aimed to think clearly, but it was hard when it came to his former pupil.  it was hard to think — in general — when it came to how the boy made him feel. 

he bit his lip, tasted the words on his tongue. logic after such intense orgasms was not exactly his strong suit either way. he should just not try. he should simply go with what feels right.

 "and i do mean it as well — i want to take care of you when you come back," he confesses. "you should wait until then."

*

amidst the quieting sound of gojo catching his breath, the boy tugs a pillow close and curls himself around it. his nose wrinkles and twitches at the cooling sensation of cum along his stomach and cock but it passes in a moment, replaced instead by smooth sheets and plush feathers. he feels... sore all over, and worn out, and like a subtle idiot for the way he acted.

but nanami is still there, still murmuring into the line, so gojo lets himself listen. 

"i know i called you," he says gently. confessing almost, shy and sheepish and tired. "but id like if you took care of me. i think id like a lot of things with you."

the room feels larger than it did a few minutes ago, so gojo tucks a blanket loosely around his lanky frame and blinks at the light of his phone until his eyes grow heavy. he doubts he could stay up much longer, orgasm or not; everything feels like it needs to be slept on. still, the boy holds the pillow tighter against his chest and feels his heartbeat bleed through it.

"this was nice... im glad i didnt put you off. if-... if this is what you want more of, then i dont mind waiting. you should promise, if anything."

which is a subtly idiotic thing to say but the boy chooses to ignore it in favor of ignoring everything else hes revealed tonight.

*

nanami hums softly at the boy’s words, efficiently tending to the mess smeared over his stomach and thighs before it dries uncomfortably on his skin. part of him wants to tease gojo for this odd bout of reticence, but the other understands it far too well. knows that that is the last thing he should do. that it is simply far too precious.

“i promise, satoru,” he assures into the speaker of his phone. his orgasm has left him boneless and sated, warm underneath the covers, but it has also made him all the more aware of the pointed absence in his bed, of how lacking even this bliss feels without practical, grounding weight of another body pressed close to his own. “i’ll look forward to it every day until your return.”

he signs the boy off with a warm goodnight, and hopes that, if nothing else, he succeeded at helping him achieve a night of proper sleep.

[leopardtie]

theres always that one moment of disbelief. the shuttering effects of black and white, sepia, amaro, lark- dazzling behind his eyes. the clicks of old film. one at a time as he stares, for what must be tenths of a second if not shorter, at the blood blooming through nanami's shirt.

disbelief. immediate processing. denial, then brutalized acceptance, and gojo pressing his palm against the wound so hard nanami chokes on his breath and shouts.

"what are you-"

"its shallow," gojo breathes, crowding the shorter man into the corner of the room, onto the counter of the bathroom sink, against the wall and the mirror and back, up, down, "dont worry."

nanami is still processing, still stuck in the stage of nothing making sense, and gojo takes advantage of it; feels the blond pant against his lips, smells the beaded sweat lacing his skin, tastes the coppery tease in the air. he presses his hand closer, gasps at the gentle budding of blood between his fingers.

nanami drops his head back, grits his teeth.

"satoru," he growls, "what are you doing?"

gojo licks him. chin to the curve of his jaw, under his ear. its quick, reckless; nanami's eyes are so tight with pain, so black and petaled and unsteady. gojo licks him again, across his throat, a dirty swipe of gnashing teeth and tongue, and he curls his hand around nanami's shirt.

"you shouldnt have rushed in like that. you shouldve waited."

"i was- ah- satoru, i was-"

but nanami sobs, abdomen tensing and rolling so sweetly as gojo tugs, pops a few buttons loose. he slides his hand under the stained fabric, mucks it aside to see the injury stream over slick, paled skin. its a mess, this close and personal; sliced clean and yet large, scraped around the widest edges like a bad abrasion. peppered with blood trying to clot, and then, deeper, blood still eager to flow.

nothing bad, nothing too bad. nothing nanami wont heal from and yet- gojo grabs the younger man's chin suddenly, his bloodied hand.

kisses him, hard, ignoring the shocked tension until nanami opens up, nearly chokes on gojo's tongue and biting, sharp teeth. they leave his lip red and tender. gojo pulls back.

"this could have been worse. what would i have done then? rush you home? fix you myself? i cant do that, ken, you know i cant. i cant fix you."

"you dont have to," nanami tries, but gojo grips him tighter and eases between him, between his thighs, hips pressing and firm. "satoru, you dont have to fix me."

"good. you know i cant."

"so what- fuck-"

blood is always metallic. oldest taste in the book; licking your finger after a paper cut, biting your cheek during dinner, lapping at the tattered skin of the man you need to possess and yet cant, ever, because possession is an impossible act for humans and humans are the curse of this life. gojo wants to sink his teeth into it, wants to rip nanami deep enough that the wound scars to look like him and not the accident that caused it, not the stupidity of their jobs. he wants to tear nanami apart, but doesnt, and stops, and holds him back with a hand tangled in his collar and tie, the other hiking his thigh over the counter just enough for gojo to rut against him and moan.

"fuck," nanami spits, face crumbling. "fuck, that hurts."

so gojo pauses, rubs his lips over the hills of the blond's clenched torso, smears a trail of gore along the way.

"want me to stop?"

slurred, breathless. its on his tongue and teeth and cheeks and nose and lips; every breath tastes like him. its in his lungs.

nanami's chest is heaving. he has his fingers tight in gojo's hair, the coat on his back; he drops his head down and looks nearly sick with the black in his eyes. he shakes his head.

"no. no, do whatever you want. take what you need."

and gojo sinks his teeth in.

[leopardtie]

"do not waste my time."

like its some sort of challenge. gojo huffs, insulted. he leans back further in his chair, listens to the plastic backing creak under his weight. he cant tell if the desk is too short, or if hes too tall, but he swears the floor is inches from his fingers.

it saps the nervous warmth of his hands away, tile cool and untouched by the afternoon sun. he rubs his nails with his thumbs and tries to ignore the clammy nerves.

"or what," he sighs, "you'll ground me?"

the teacher blinks, slow; gojo cant see it but he can sense it, the tired gaze of an adult too bothered to be unbothered by his exasperated attitude.

"youre already in detention, gojo-kun. all youre managing to achieve is more time."

which makes the boy's face screw up, tongue souring. who cares about time?

its a poorly immature question because, in the same thought, he knows nanami does. overtime, on-time, timed quizzes, time for lunch, time to get your head in the game, satoru, time to figure it out... he groans, scrubs an angry hand down his face and kicks his feet off the desk, lets them land on the tiled floor with a quick, ringing smack. he shoots the teacher a chilled glare.

"you put me in time-out to begin with. we could both go home right now if you werent so-"

"ten minutes."

"-determined to make me-"

"ten more minutes."

"-hate you."

and the creeping summer curls through the cracked windows, billows into curtains and makes them sweep, swell, plume between gojo's stare and nanami's. it smells sweet, and warm, and gojo briefly thinks that it must be such a treat to grow fruit on a day like this.

orchards cooking in sun-ripened smells of apples and pears and stone-fruits eager to burst in their own dying desperation to reproduce; sugar cooking within painted skins; pinks and reds and greens and yellows; thick, cloy wafts of pollen that fatten the bees humming through buzzing air.

he can almost see it. can almost focus on something far away and not nearby and not his; an existing experience that infinity invites him to know and learn but never live.

the wind blows back through, spring still cool and snip enough to chase summer away, and the curtains suck against the windows with a loud whistle. gojo turns his face away abruptly, all at once sick to his stomach, and scratches his fingernail over a groove in his desk.

its a bit blue, now; the room. a cloud has passed near the sun and the light filters with it.

"do you hate me?" nanami asks quietly. hes leaned against the front of his desk, ankles crossed, hands wide and splayed and weighed down by the scorching gold of a wedding band. how hot it must be. how white it must burn.

gojo cant see it, nor him, but he can sense; every line of energy and every waver of curse. how easily he could curse. he flicks his glasses off suddenly, crushes the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"no," he murmurs, tired and nauseous and too bad a person to be sitting here. "no, i dont hate you."

"you hate today, it seems."

and gojo snorts, ugly. "parts of it. other parts arent... quite so bad."

nanami nods, unseen, and looks out the window. gojo cant sense what hes looking at, so he simply imagines.

prickling spring leaves. warm concrete. flowers shivering in the wind and passing students, some peeking in to see if gojo is still there.

"tell me about the parts that arent quite so bad, then. it'll pass the time faster."

save.

[leopardtie]

"You went to dinner with Ino-kun."

Nanami doesn't open his eyes, but they still twitch under the lids. When he speaks his tone is flat and subdued, the same one he uses when talking to innocent bystanders that may have seen a little too much of his hunt. "I did," he concedes. "I told you I would. On Monday."

It is Thursday night right now. Gojo's been gone for three days.

And because Nanami did notify, because there's a text proving it, he can feel Gojo switch tactics, cursed energy condensed to his immediate surroundings in place of geyser-like pulsations. The couch across from him thuds at the younger man's weight and Nanami blinks his eyes open.

"Right," Satoru says, and smiles at him. Over the years, Nanami Kento has grown familiar with the wide collection of smiles, smirks and grins in Gojo Satoru's repertoire, and his temple throbs with recognition of this particular interance. "How was it? Did you have fun?"

Though his tone is cheery, and could likely fool many a clueless sorcerer, Nanami can see the ice spikes pointed at him through the coal-toned silk. Nanami folds his legs at the same time as Gojo extends his, crossed over at the ankle on the coffee table, and despite the tense atmosphere, the blond can't help but pause and appreciate them.

"It was a work dinner," he explains nonchalantly. "Ino-kun wanted me to give him pointers about his performance on our last mission together."

"He could have just read your report on it. You're always thorough," Gojo adeptly points out, and Nanami nearly cracks a smile. The idea of Gojo skimming over the stuff he writes when he isn't busy pretending it makes him snore shouldn't compel him as much as it does.

So, lightly, he offers, "I actually agree," in acquiescence, and enjoys the subtle abate of the sorcerer's shoulders. "I told him as such. But he explained that was only part of the reason he wanted to meet me."

Gojo's jaw sets. His blindfold hollows with the quirk of raised brows. "Is that so?"

Nanami nods. He's not dragging this out on purpose. He doesn't derive amusement from Gojo's jealousy, except for how unfounded it is, so he lets the other shoe drop quick and without ceremony. "When he's ready, he wants my recommendation for his promotion to a grade 1 sorcerer. He just wanted to personally request it."

He can see Gojo process the information, and then how it branches out in typical algorithmic patterns. "He really holds you in high regard, then!" His smile widens. "That's cute. You must enjoy him, don't you?"

The question makes him blink, tilted a little off base. "Ino-kun is... an excitable, but competent coworker. I don't dislike his company, if that's what you're asking."

"I mean his attention," Gojo clarifies in a buttery smooth voice — interestingly, the same one employed when he's overselling a dangerous plan. "Must be nice, having a cute puppy follow you around like that while I'm working."

So that's where it's going. Nanami is careful to maintain his marble expression, knowing the other man loves a reaction. He adjusts his jaw, idly twists his foot, and does not look away from the venomous smile.

"You know how I feel about abstraction, Satoru," he starts, slowly. He's had years to rehearse this specific intonation, not quite lecture or reproach, but clad in similar clothing. "If you wish to share your concerns about something, I'd appreciate clarity in your speech instead of insinuations."

It doesn't detract from Gojo's cutthroat glee. He too has had years to get used to Nanami's incisiveness. It is as though they each keep mental logs of the other's cues, yet cannot help but retrace the same steps in these conversations over and over, like a Kata or ballroom dance.

He expects Gojo to shrug, make some kind of deflective comment, something innocuous to ameliorate the gravity he, himself, has imposed upon their exchange. Alternatively, he expects the knife of Gojo's escalatory comments to graze yet a little further into the actual skin. He expects a nick into his earlobe or at the hollow of his throat. In true sacrificial fashion, he expects lamb blood.

One or the other or both, in no specific order. What he doesn't expect is for Gojo's face to fall as he sighs and rubs his eyes through the blindfold. "Nevermind..." he lets out a soft, deflated chuckle. "I'm — I'm just taking things out on you."

Nanami looks at the man sitting across from, all impossibly long limbs and incomprehensible strength, and beauty so overwhelming Nanami sometimes finds it difficult to breathe, and he witnesses in full, intimate manner the way he nearly seems to shrink.

"Come here," he says, quick and unequivocal. Gojo tilts his head at him and Nanami unfolds his legs and pats at his thigh. "You're too far away. Sit with me."

The younger man seems to consider it, but thankfully, for as long as the two have been together, Gojo has never denied him closeness — a remarkable thing, really, for someone who thrives on being untouchable.

He sits carefully on Nanami's lap, and immediately, the blond pulls him into an embrace. Gojo was never small, but he's not light anymore, all gristle and corded muscle. Nanami got the privilege of seeing him turn into this, someone large enough to fill every room he is, to become the room and everything that transpires, the speech and the very space between the lines.

Never small, always large, but Nanami still feels him unspool on his lap. Feels him soften under his touch, his expression pinched into sincere exhaustion when Nanami tugs the cloth off from his eyes.

He reveals one, kissing the thin cover of its lid. Then he kisses the other one, then his forehead, then his nose. This too is a ritual. This too is blood.

"I only have eyes for you," he murmurs at the younger man's softened expression. "I only look at you. Do you honestly think I see anybody else?"

Gojo parts his lips, closes them, traps the lower one between his teeth and shakes his head. He looks younger like this; he still looks nearly the same outside crucial details, but this expression washes them all away, leaving Kento with the blue boy that stared at doors for too long willing people to walk through them and come back to him.

It's only silly if you don't know, and if you don't know then you can't see it for what it is. So he holds Gojo close, kisses his lips, and lets him gather his bearings sufficiently until it's Gojo the one who energetically kisses him and steers the direction of their fates.

Afterwards, as they lay together on the futon, Nanami suggests he reheats the Korean BBQ he got from the restaurant for him, and Gojo accepts.

[leopardtie]

"say," gojo starts, "did you ever keep in touch with nanami-san?"

beside him, tapping her cigarette and dusting his empty plate with ash, shoko raises a slim brow.

"the teacher?"

"former teacher," gojo corrects, but he nods. "i was thinking about him the other day, is all. wondering if maybe he ever thought of checking up on his students. we've come so far, y'know..." he covers up his own emotions by mocking them, pretending to wipe a tear, sniffling dramatically. whether or not nanami actually cared about their current skillsets meant nothing to the sorcerer; he simply wanted to know if nanami thought about him, ever, and to what extent gojo could capitalize on it.

shoko shakes her head, swapping out her cigarette for a straw, sucking down the last of gojo's soda. he lifts his lip at her, she scrunches her nose right back.

"i don't talk to him, if that's what you mean, but i might still have his number from an old case we worked together. you could call and see if he changed it."

the boy grins, holds his palm out expectantly. shoko rolls her eyes but hands over her phone, and gojo quickly enters the contact information into his own. there's a brief moment of hesitation. he flips his mobile around between his forefinger and thumb in quick circles. he licks his lips. he tastes salt, and fries, and sugary bubbles.

maybe this is dumb, but what's the harm either way? never one to be called the overly sentimental type, it wouldn't be impossible to pin gojo's ego on such a call; "nanami-san," he might coo, "wasn't i your favorite student?"

easily dismissed. easily shrugged off. easily annoying, and nothing deeper than that. whatever might aid the boy in getting over his former teacher faster than he is now.

gojo dials and lets it ring.

Every so often, Nanami Kento is confronted by the granite reality of their fates. The world of sorcery is small and tightly woven, a perfectly synergic microcosm that subsists off a mere handful of people's resolves. Even when Nanami left he still existed beneath the umbrella of its influence; he still saw the damned ugly creatures on every dark corner and narrow alley, he just wasn't allowed by law to do anything but walk away.

He had found it a decent compromise at the time — your ability to fight in exchange for the possibility of peace — but at the time, he had been in a pain induced stupor. It's nothing sort of a miracle a more drastic vow didn't take place.

"I see," Yaga Masamichi starts. He's tapping the arm rest with his pointer finger — even, leisurely stops. Nanami knows it to be less nervous habit and more idle expectation. "Are you sure about this?"

Nanami looks at the man's calloused hand, looks at the green, perfectly manicured grass that expands around them. They must cut an odd, intimidating figure, donning dark tinted glasses and clothes so early in the morning. They're taller and wider than most of everyone around them, and Nanami knows this must be part of why they keep their distance, the other part chalked up to what must be the oppressive feeling of their concentrated cursed energy.

Sorcerers are a small, tightly knit society. They need not to intimately know one another to see one another, and in turn, to be misunderstood and singled out by everyone else. It's in the fine print of their contracts, Nanami wagers. A discreet little line right above the liability clause.

"I'm sure." He wants to reach for his pack of cigarettes, but he remembers the older man's distaste for smoking. He keeps his hands in place and checks his watch, adjusts the angle in which his legs are folded. "It's been long enough."

"I thought it was meant to be permanent, though," Yaga replies. "People don't usually unretire."

"You can think oof it as more of a sabbatical, if that makes it easier." There's a curt edge that uninvites further scrutiny. "I've done what I needed to do."

"I don't contest that," Yaga says. He stays silent a few seconds after, watching a mother push a stroller across the the park. She's holding a phone against her shoulder while gripping the stroller's handle with both of her hands. The toddler, in turn, seems transfixed by the outside world, and for an infinitesimal second, it seems to lock his dark little eyes with the brunette before he is rolled away. "I'm wondering about what you plan to do next, now."

"About the same you do nowadays, Yaga-san," Nanami replies, and the older man turns to look at him through his sunglasses. "Make myself useful for as long as I can."

Yaga Masamichi huffs. The two of them are contemporaries, similar in more than one way, but Nanami doesn't think of him as a friend so much so as a close, trusted colleague. They work best that way. In his eyes, friendship would necessitate they helped each other through difficult times, through their own respective sorrows, and they are at a stage where they know each other too well to do anything close to that.

"Fair enough, then," Yaga concedes. "I'm sure your decision will be well received by the higher ups."

As if either of them cared about their opinions. They do not need to say it to know it's what they're both thinking, and to know it's simply protocol, because even in sorcery you cannot escape the soul sucking clutches of convention.

He's about to reply when his phone starts to ring. He instinctively looks at the caller ID, an unknown number, though he doesn't miss the way Yaga's eyes shift when he manages to peer briefly at the display.

He's not ready for the saccharine notes that fill his ear. The voice is the same, although perhaps slightly clearer, smoother, and it's the same playful tone, the same cheerful timbre, and it briefly transports Nanami several years back.

"Nanami-san!" it coos. It's loud enough that Yaga's suspicions seem immediately confirmed. "Is this you? You didn't get your phone stolen, did you?"

"Gojo-kun," he replies slowly, sounding it out. It's a name he hasn't said in a long time, though it's been often on his mind. "It's me, yes. How did you get my number?"

"Ah, does that matter? I was thinking about my favorite sensei all of a sudden, and then I remembered I could just hit you up and see how you were!"

There's not really any reason for him not to suspect foul play, yet he looks at Yaga and he seems about as nonplussed as he feels.

"I'm fine," he replies, and finds it to be a honest answer. He expected it to be jarring, knew it would be, but what he wasn't expecting was that he would feel comforted by the younger man's voice — to hear him sound as light as he remembered. "I'm still wondering how you got my number."

There's a whine, and predictable deflection, and Nanami concludes the call after a few seconds of chatter and the assurance that Gojo can call him again at a latter time.

Just as quickly as it shifted with Gojo's call, the environment around them regresses into a more familiar, duller setting, and Yaga sighs. "He works quickly, that boy."

"I don't think he was working at all," Nanami counters, though he doesn't lace his words with much certainty. When it comes to the six eyes, fate seems to be as much a sense as sight and smell, and just as intrinsic, just as inalienable. "He's just luckier than either of us."