Tumgik
#the tea they probably have....
steamclouds · 4 months
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Vinnie and Khaless having a little gossip session about the latest events at Arach-Tinilith
Vinnie the drow cleric belongs to @ervona !
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hinamie · 3 days
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post-graduation trip airport looks
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littlegayteaboy · 8 months
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thinking about how Zuko got kicked out of his home country and, by extension, all formal education, at age 13. and i'm sorry Uncle Iroh but you're not qualified to teach a freshly traumatised 13 y/o algebra. so Zuko only has like, an 8th grade level of maths at most.
... meanwhile Sokka's a literal genius,
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 3 months
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Thank you all for an incredible 500 days of love and support. I offer you: answers to questions that no one has asked.
(As always, more can be found in the tags <3)
#poorly drawn mdzs#mdzs#wei wuxian#a-qing#jin ling#wen ning#jiang cheng#“Hey wait this feels like there should have been way more content for questions” Yes. There was.#I was not strong enough to redraw *all* of what was lost. Rest in piece the original (lost to tea related accident)#But I'll tell you all the fun other things that would have been drawn out right here in the tags!#Did you know my longest posting streak was 61 days? And my longest hiatus was 6 days?#Did you know I missed posting on 92 days of those 500 days - meaning I posted 82% of the time on a daily basis?#I'm normal about collecting data. I have so much data on this blog for normal reasons. I'm also so normal about art. The normalest.#Honorable mention for the character rankings: Lan Wangji! for “Most improved in rank”.#Sorry Lan Wangji fans but until the audio drama I honestly was...pretty indifferent towards him.#I think a huge part of that was due to the fact he's constantly paired up with WWX; who has *so* much charisma and steals the scene#But I've really come to like him a lot more since starting this project. He rose from mid-tier to being in the top ten!#Dishonorable mention: Nie Huaisang. Who fell out of number 1 spot and out of the top 5.#He just hasn't shown up a lot! And my rankings are fickle! They will probably change once I finish the third season!#My favourite comics are: A lot of them! And the ones I have yet to make!#I'm very sleepy at the moment while writing this but I do want to give a huge shout out to YOU.#Yeah! you reading this! Thank you! If you've been here since the first week or just started reading: THANK YOU!#If you've only ever lurked and never even liked a single post but still read my comics: THANK YOU!!#In creating this blog - I have found 500 days of more happiness that I could have ever imagined.#Thank you for joining me on this journey. Thank you for giving me your time and your support.#It means more than any 'thank you' could say B'*)
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egophiliac · 3 months
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I feel like F/P/S was still a pretty weird one, even by Lance's standards.
sorry for (in an ironic twist) not doing much Ride Kamens art now that it's actually started; I've been pretty slow going through it and I feel weird posting about things I'm not caught up on! though I'm. definitely gonna have to set aside some time to actually get through episode 13, after what they posted today. (w-what did they do to my Leon) (NOBODY TELL ME I HAVE TO FIND OUT ON MY OWN) (LEOOOOOOOON)
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On average, what is the total MONTHLY amount that you spend on dining out*?
*(This doesn't only count going out to restaurants, but also stuff like picking up fast food to bring home, getting a coffee on the way to work, getting a premade sandwich from a grocery store deli during lunch, buying a quick snack from a convenience store or food cart whilst walking somewhere, ordering a pizza or any other food to be delivered to your home, etc.)
*(If you often dine out in groups/as a household: calculate and divide the costs so that you get a Per Person average. This is for YOU individually, NOT the total household/group costs)
(I'm sure polls similar to this have been made before (very common topic), I just haven't personally seen one that I can remember, so, I was curious to do my own! I was discussing this with a group of people today and it was very interesting to see how widely the number varied between individuals. :0c )
(Reblog for bigger sample size if you can, and feel free to explain your answer in tags if there's anything extra to add!)
#polls#tumblr polls#I'm mostly in the 0/1 - 25$ category. Maybe the rare month is a bit over $25 if there's something specific going on like birthday.#Which I'm NEVER eating in an actual restaurant (erm... covid... plus I just hate restaurant environments. i would rather pickup#the food and bring it home to a peaceful quiet environment that I control lol). But more typically like stopping by a grocery store deli#section or something. I don't have coffee that much. And I can't eat fast food much due to my health issues/diet restriction stuff#so if I'm out like coming back from an appointment and I start feeling really sick and weak. I know that a hamburger will just#blow up my system and cause nausea or something. So I try to pick the breadiest most#neutral looking turkey sandwich at the safeway deli to eat during the hour ride home or whatever lol#I actually kind of wish I could do stuff like get food more often vecause it would take the burden of cooking everything off of me#but.. alas... Money... and Health Things... T o T#I still wouldn't do it ALL the time but like... once a week instead of once a month or something.. or maybe turning into a coffee#person.. I do love drinks A LOT .. i am a drink person who will have 5 different drinks sipping on at all times#But i just have to make them all myself mostly lol#And I cant really have too much coffee since it will make me sick. so like.. teas and juice mostly#When I inevitably become a millionaire by never using social media never networking and only finishing one#sculpture every 5 months which I dont even post about or sell - then I shall... get more drinks..#I will somehow wean my body onto coffee and drink one a day solely for the ritual of it#Though even then... I would still probably just like.. buy the mateirals to make it at home or something#Like if you had a million dollars you could just buy a kitchen grade ice cream machine and other stuff to make your own milkshakes and#coffees and smoothies and bubble teas. Genuinely I think even if I were a BILLIONAIRE I would still look at playing likr $8 for a single#coffee and go .. uh.... I could just buy the equipment to make this and then save that money. PLUS. its in my house now so no need to#have to leave. I can make my own drinks in the comfort of home. .. ideal..#Like no matter how rich I ever got I would still have the lingering scroogey stinginess. like i am NOT paying for that. I will jus#make it myself. Especially if it was an Everyday thing. Anythign thats part of my routine I try to optimize and make as efficient as#possible... ANYWAY.. In an IDEAL world I would get treats. but probably not that much. as on a daily basis it would start to get#to me and I would just save up to buy kitchen machinery if I was rich lol
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benevolenterrancy · 27 days
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this description made me realise what one of my favourite MXTX character tropes is: Over-Worked, Under-Appreciated Employee Who Is Not Above Becoming Somewhat Evil About It
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b4kuch1n · 11 months
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red lion wizard !
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lovecoredeity · 6 months
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got around to designing an outfit for my little porcelain doll cat character! I think it turned out nice 🤍💙
♡ if you like my art please consider buying me a kofi ♡
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royalarchivist · 24 days
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Jaiden: Cucurucho, you have a lot of power, right?
Cucurucho: ...I don't know. Maybe.
Roier: Ah... Yes, you know, don't act like a dumbass, you have it. You have it, man. Eh?
Jaiden: Is there a way for us to protect all the Eggs? Do you know? I don't want anything to happen to the Eggs that happened to Bobby.
Cucurucho: Ha ha ha
Roier: WHAT? [Smacks Cucurucho]
Jaiden: [Bops him] Headpats.
Cucurucho: Maybe.
Jaiden: [Continues to bop him] Headpats. C'mon, I can get it out of you! Headpats! Chin scratches! Belly rubs!
Roier: [Joins Jaiden in bopping Cucurucho, chuckling and laughs]
Jaiden: Yeah? He's comin' around!
[Jaiden and Roier both laugh]
#Jaiden Animations#Roier#Cucurucho#QSMP#Jaiden#Animations Family#There is. So much I could say about these three#and so much I could say about their relationship / interactions with Cucurucho and Osito Bimbo#Cards on the table... I really would have loved it if Cucurucho / Osito genuinely cared about Jaiden#I mean I know they DID care about her to some extent that much is clear#But they / the Federation were also ABSOLUTELY using her. I'm not arguing that they weren't#But how could anyone not be charmed by Jaiden? The boba the tea parties the head pats–#The empathy and kindness and everything that made q!Jaiden who she was–#Cucurucho and Osito were tools of the Federation but I do want to believe they cared about Jaiden. Albeit in their own fricked up way#I dunno. I know this sounds like massive copium probably but I watched all of her and Roier's streams interacting with them#and I personally think that conflict and duality makes for a more interesting story#But that's just me and my own personal biases. I dunno how to properly put it into words but I am cradling them all close to my heart#I loved Cucurucho / Osito and I thought they were interesting and I'm SO SAD we'll never know what Jaiden did for them in the past#Anyways. For anyone who's read this far into my rant– you know how Cucurucho saved the Eggs and Jaiden said she died in Purgatory?#I like imagining that she survived the bomb and wound up finding the Eggs in the aftermath#and she helped them survive until Cucurucho found them#I imagine that Jaiden was the reason they were able to escape from the Island / The Watcher / ElQuackity#She stayed behind to slow down their pursuers. And Cucurucho rescuing all the Eggs fulfilled his agreement with Jaiden—#A promise to protect the Eggs#Like I said a lot of this is copium but that's what I like imagining#TLDR: Cucurucho / Osito did care about her in a weird way but that doesn't mean they weren't manipulating her#May 31 2023#Idk man I got a lot of emotions about q!Jaiden#Roier too but I feel like I've done way more analysis posts about him and Cucurucho. Jaiden needs time in the spotlight#Anyways there's my monthly tag rant
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sunderwight · 1 year
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Thinking about the weird camaraderie that exists between demons but not angels in GO.
Have we ever seen two angels who are actually friends? Or even friendly to one another? We have met angels with a capacity to be friendly in general, but I think the closest we've come to two angels actually getting along would be Gabriel making a point to laugh at Sandalphon's terrible "can't have a war without War" line in S1.
Most scenes between the angels actually seem to have an undercurrent of absolute hostility. Teeth-clenched teamwork. No wonder it took them so long to notice that Aziraphale wasn't on the same page as the rest of them! The rest of them are barely on the same page as one another, either! When Gabriel goes against the majority vote, no one bats an eye at demoting him and wiping his memory. Michael and Uriel immediately begin vying for his job. The only times we've seen angels team up is when they're working together to bully someone else, like when they're trying to intimidate Aziraphale in S1 or going to the aftermath of the bookshop raid in S2.
Saraqael's overall neutrality towards Muriel is the closest we get to two angels in Heaven getting along, and it's more a lack of hostility than any kind of friendliness. At least until Gabriel loses his memories and Muriel shows up to spy on Aziraphale, and Aziraphale decides to be kind to both of them.
Demons, on the other hand, actually seem to form alliances and even friendships among one another. Hastur and Ligur are awful, but Hastur seems genuinely distraught over Ligur's death, not just fearful of suffering the same fate. Shax and Furfur conspire together and even though the 1940's investigation into Crowley's fraternizing doesn't work out for Furfur, it's not due to any double-crossing on Shax's part. Unlike the angels, who stick almost exclusively to making threats until the Metatron decides to try dangling a carrot at the end of the season, demons actually offer rewards to other demons when trying to work together. Beelzebub offers Crowley a promotion if he can bring them Gabriel, Furfur offers to back Shax up politically if she goes for the Duke position opening, and Crowley successfully stalls Hastur in S1 by pretending everything was a test and he's going to be put in charge of a legion as a reward for passing. They're still not great at socializing, but they're significantly ahead of the angels.
Of course, it's a fact that demons are awful to one another (Eric's treatment is really bad, they throw that random demon into holy water just to test it, "it'd be a funny world if demons went around trusting one another", etc) but they still seem more capable of forming friendships than the angels do.
I think that's because Hell cramps and crowds everyone together to try and increase their suffering and hostility, whereas Heaven isolates angels to decrease the odds of questioning or rebellion. Hell's methods are unpleasant, but it still ends up putting demons together, and some of those demons inevitably forge alliances and make friendships. Because as Crowley and Beelzebub demonstrate, demons are still social creatures with the capacity for love and affection, even if it's strongly discouraged and buried under nine million layers of trauma and a cultural mandate against kindness.
Angels are the same, but isolation makes is harder to form connections than overcrowding. Muriel and Jimbriel are both so eager to make friends, but Muriel's spent the past millennia shut in an empty office, and Gabriel has been distanced from his peers both through his position and also through Heaven's culture of fear and surveillance. He only breaks away from it when he finds something that's stronger than "choosing sides" (stronger than the fear of being rejected by Heaven and Falling, in fact strong enough that Falling seems worth it if he gets to be with someone he loves). Both Muriel and Gabriel are only able to start forming connections when they're away from Heaven.
I just think it's interesting that demons, despite being supposedly devoid of love, have an advantage in forming relationships compared to angels. Angels are supposed to love, but have far fewer opportunities to actually do so. Demons aren't supposed to love, but they make connections anyway.
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theglowingeyeballz · 9 months
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The Magnus Archives x Gravity Falls
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janadoesstuffwrong · 7 months
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Thinking abt the air nomads:
What if, after the war, once the dust has settled a little, Aang goes back to travelling, hoping that maybe he can find at least some trace of surviving airbenders. As an added bonus, he gets to do more of the exploring and wandering that he had to put on hold.
Toph goes with him ofc. She only just got a taste of real freedom and it was overshadowed by ever-present impending doom. While she's on speaking terms with her parents, she isnt quite ready to be back under their roof on a permanent basis. The rest of the gaang have their individual homes and responsibilities that they get back to, though they join for the odd field trip or adventure when they can.
So anyway, they're touring all over the world and over the years they notice just how displaced so many people have become. EK citizens who barely escaped the blaze but lost everything; FN military now decommissioned with no idea how to carry on; people looking for a new start in the hard-won peace. Maybe it starts with Toph heading back to Earth Rumble, where a group of young runaways scrounge for cheap fights to make a little money.
At each turn they find more and more people with no homes to return to and no family to protect them; runaways escaping the roles the war forced them into. Gradually, Aang and Toph start to see that they aren't so different from themselves. They just want a new start.
So they decide to give them one. They clean up the temples and set up villages in the surrounding areas (helps to be master earthbenders), where people can arrive and stay as long as they need. Travellers and refugees pass through in droves, sometimes choosing to stay and rebuild their lives there, sometimes continuing in their wandering with a guarantee that they'll always have a place to return to should they have the need.
Over time, the lemurs grow in number and even some flying bison calfs (hybrids with a relative species maybe?), can be seen in the skies. Whenever the founders visit, it isn't the same but Aang feels a little more at home.
The first time someone asks Aang to teach him his philosophies, and expresses his desire to become a monk, how can he refuse? Maybe it's a former soldier, somebody who's done terrible things, looking for a path to redemption. So Aang teaches him, and then he teaches others. And though they may not be airbenders, they are as earnest and faithful as any nun or monk Aang knew before. The temples become filled with new faces: Firebenders, Earthbenders, Waterbenders and non-benders all wearing Air nomad orange and yellow.
Aang always feared that it would be his responsibility to have airbender children, and the idea of forcing that on someone he loved terrified him. Maybe that's why he waited so long before acting on his feelings for his best friend, his travelling companion, his fellow-village builder and temple-restorer. How could they have a truly happy relationship with this pressure hanging over them? He wishes he could be content with the new way of things that he and his friends have created. But he knows that he can't be the last airbender forever...
Nobody knows why some children can bend the elements and others can't. Is it blood? Is it blessing? Is it the land in which you're born? Or is it the simple allocation of fates decided by the values and norms you're raised believing in? Is it enough to be surrounded by the culture and beliefs of the Air Nomads? Nobody knows...
All they know is that nobody sees it coming when the six-year-old daughter of two non-bender villagers from the Earth Kingdom and Northern Water Tribe sends herself flying twelve feet into the air with a sneeze.
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 4 months
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Yue Qingyuan and Tianlang Jun having tea together ☕
[Commission for @absolmon!]
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Hello! I hope you are well, if you are no longer accepting orders you can just ignore! How about Shoko, nobara and tsumiki together?
(I'm sorry if it's not understood, please use a translator. 😭)
Always! Got inspired by @ceceru 's Artstyle! It was a delight drawing the girls.
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IF I FELL THROUGH THE FLOOR I WOULD KEEP FALLING ; SUGURU GETO
synopsis; geto knocks at your front door one morning ten years after leaving everything he knew behind, fully expecting to be met with a middle finger or a hand to the throat. when you invite him in, instead, he can’t help but feel somewhat perplexed.
word count; 7.5k
contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader, geto-typical angst with lots of yearning, hopeful ending (but also not really), geto’s pov, reader is a softie, intense mutual pining, tea as a metaphor for love <3, geto is terminally bitter and terminally lonely and also kind of a bitch but we love him
a/n; i’m extremely normal abt suguru geto and the debilitating loneliness he must’ve felt during the ten years after he left <33
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”it’s been a while.”
the smile on his face must be sweet, he thinks, illuminated by the blurry light of the morning sun. as charming as it’s always been. coated in a thin layer of lighthearted deceit, a cruelly projected sense of normalcy. with a hand raised up in cheerful greeting, geto gazes down at you.
admittedly, he’s a little underwhelmed by your reaction.
astonishment or bafflement was maybe a little too much to ask for — you don’t look very surprised to see him at all. almost as if you were expecting him to show up in front of your apartment, at the break of dawn. and, really, maybe you were. satoru must have told you already. why wouldn’t he let you in on their touching reunion, the promise of war that spilled so easily from his lips?
of course you would have heard of it by now.
still, geto can’t deny that it’s just a little bit disappointing. he would’ve liked to see your wide eyes, would’ve liked to hear you stammer a bit. the expression you’re currently sporting is something else entirely.
(you look sad.)
there’s a fondness in your eyes, though, unmistakable. a spark of it, entirely impossible to ignore, that catches him off guard. and there’s a softness in the way you raise your head to look up at him, a familiarity that flickers in the depths of your irises. something that welcomes him back.
geto is just a little bit put off by it.
it looks the same as always. you look the same as always. and geto’s heart constricts, where it rests, tucked away deep within the confines of his ribcage.
a moment passes. the sun peeks out from beneath the curtain of the horizon, the violet and indigo of the morning sky melting into that familiar burst of ochre. and geto is content, to silently admire the way that you glow in its light. he waits, patiently, for your expression to shift — to melt into one of anger, or repulsion, or any other kind of bitter hue.
it never does.
a sigh flows from your parted lips, instead. a soft little breath. in the bitter cold of a morning such as this, it turns into vapour as it drifts through the air.
you blink, tiredly, eyelashes fluttering with something akin to exasperation.
”you’re a cruel guy, you know that?”
geto blinks. a fickle moment passes.
then, he smiles.
you’re admonishing him, but you’re doing so almost gently — with an easygoing kind of disapproval. as if you’re still in high school, huffing over the teasing bout of laughter he lets slip when you trip over air.
geto’s lips curl up, smoothly, an action he’s grown awfully used to over the years. smiles are a form of currency, he has come to realize — smiles of deceit, of fondness, of barely contained disgust. all kinds of smiles, whether plastered on or genuine. a means to meet an end. a single tug of his lips, encompassing an immeasurable number of unspoken words.
the smile that geto graces you with is an amused one. it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s friendly enough. ”so i’ve been told.”
for a minute, you do nothing but observe him. there’s a turmoil behind your eyes that seeps out in the way you look at him, the way you shift from foot to foot and gnaw at your bottom lip anxiously. geto doesn’t interrupt, observing you in turn. waiting for one of you to move the first piece of this little morning game of chess.
in the light, he can almost delude himself into thinking that your eyes change colour, different shades and hues dancing around your dilated pupils. as you gaze over the contours of his face, a certain kind of affection blooms within them, one that geto expected to have faded over the years. 
but it’s still there. and it’s the same. a little more blurry, maybe, a little faded at the edges — more matured. but still the same, despite that. 
(a memory comes to him. one of you, and him; sharing a bag of chips on the school’s rooftop when neither of you could sleep.
bathed in the light of the moon, your eyes glimmered with that very same affection, like a shooting star breaking out across the night sky.)
one long, careful, tender moment passes by. 
the intense contemplation on your features is almost enough to coax a chuckle from the depths of his throat. an urge to tease you creeps up on him, slowly, but before he can open his mouth you seem to come to a kind of conclusion.
and so, you step to the side — allowing him to see inside your apartment, catch a brief glimpse of the interior. you look oddly comfortable, at peace, having made your move; the next piece is his to place.
what a surprising move, though. geto can’t help it if his eyes widen just a smidge, if he blinks in a way that could almost be interpreted as briefly confused. out of all the possible scenarios he’s played out in his mind over the years, this wasn’t the one he expected to merge with reality.
”wanna come in?” you ask, tentative. your voice is inviting. a little clumsy, although he supposes that could just be because of fatigue. it is early, after all.
geto takes a moment to think.
as far as he can tell — and he always can, in one way or another — there is no deceit hidden in your expression. no signs of bloodlust, no spark of violence, no quiet resentment bubbling beneath the surface. earnest. that’s all it is. a little awkward, but candid. pure, in a way.
you aren’t trying to trick him. you’re genuinely, seriously, honest-to-god inviting him inside your apartment.
the next move is his to make.
and geto knows exactly what he should do. he should decline, politely, excuse himself with feigned remorse and a jovial invitation to his own personal hell.
(surely, you already know. the others have almost certainly told you by now. geto just wanted to personally invite you, himself. face to face.)
right. that’s what he should do. that’s the winning move.
and yet, he finds himself moving.
lips curling up on their own, without his approval, geto moves forward. one step is all it takes for him to cross the threshold of your home; a boundary he didn’t expect you to offer up so callously, truth be told, but who is he to deny the wishes of a dear old friend?
”why, thank you,” he smiles, voice pleasant, smooth like silk.
(for just a little while, he supposes he can indulge himself in the opportunity you’ve so graciously given him. just for a bit.)
geto doesn’t bother taking off his footwear, and he knows you couldn’t care less either way. allowing him to pass you by as he waltzes into your very own space, you close the door behind him. he half-expects to hear the click of the lock, but it never comes.
a particular scent envelops him, as he stands by the coat rack, unmoving — he has no intention of taking off his robes, heavy with his carefully nurtured devotion. a symbol of his choice.
the scent is familiar, but also unlike anything he can recall within the borders of his memory; a soothing blend between fresh laundry, and sunlight, and cat fur, and something rather sweet.
there’s more to it than that, though. a certain scent geto could only ever describe as you. 
(his heart aches with longing.)
as he ponders the intricacies of the fragrance, geto is acutely aware of the stare burning into his back. how careless of him, to leave it facing you, unguarded and vulnerable.
what a perfect opportunity he’s presented you with; the great curse user suguru geto, forever exiled and wanted dead, now merely a fly at the mercy of the web you’ve created. trapped in your apartment with his back turned to you, a mere lamb to the slaughter.
how easy it would be, for you to plunge a knife into his flesh. to curve your way along his spine.
you do nothing of the sort, though. and for some reason, the realization that you aren’t going to irks him, even though deep down he knew that would be the case. still, it crawls its way under his skin, along the arteries of his forearm, an itch he yearns to claw away.
how foolish. how very like you.
(what a cruel thing change can be, when no one else seems to succumb to it.)
unable to do anything but accept it, however, geto turns towards you once more. you stiffen, as if burned by his gaze, and a part of him delights in it.
”how have you been?” he asks, bright and courteous. there’s a genuinity to the question that geto can’t deny. something about this situation sends a spark of fondness running through his veins.
at the sound of his voice, your eyes soften again. it’s a subtle shift, but he doesn’t miss it. doesn’t think he ever really could, because even though the light inside your eyes makes him uncomfortable, down to the very marrow of his bones, he can do nothing but bask in it. in your attention, in that heavy gaze.
a single word could never hope to faithfully describe the emotion smouldering inside it — but if forced to, geto would humbly settle on resignation.
it’s almost as if you still haven’t fully accepted it, ten years down the line, that you’re only just beginning to. like even now, you’re convinced that it’s nothing more than one big joke; that he’s about to reveal a hidden camera, and gleefully tell you that it was all a prank to get back at satoru.
naive, naive, naive. but geto can’t deny that it tastes sweet, on his tongue — to imagine that you might still have some faith in him, after all this time.
a sigh leaves your lips. you sound a little bit exhausted. it sends a pang of ache to the very center of his heart, and a part of him yearns to soothe you. another part relishes in the pain he must have brought you over the years.
the rest of him smoothly tucks those stray thoughts away, as he brushes non-existent dust off from his robes.
then, your eyes take on a more tender hue. you ignore his question entirely, and speak in a low voice. raspy and sincere, and maybe just a tad bitter, given everything.
”those robes don’t suit you, suguru.”
— a shiver travels down his spine.
suguru.
(the way your lips form around the syllables is still so lovely.)
you’re full of surprises, as always. at least to a certain extent, he was expecting you to settle on geto, to draw a firm line in the sand between him and you. the ocean and the land, always meant to be separated by that thin line, kept apart in each other’s best interest.
but geto is beginning to accept that you’re going to do this your way — sincerely.
the statement is a veil, obscuring a million unspoken thoughts, double meanings that aren’t particularly hard to discern. a silent rejection, a quiet disapproval. there’s a grief to it that sits heavy on your tongue.
taking a moment to collect himself, geto meets your gaze, and all its weight. his lips curl up into a sad smile, a little fatigued. he wonders if you can hear it, in his voice.
(maybe it was stupid of him, to think he could keep this meeting professional.)
”… is that so?”
you continue to look at him, as if waiting for something else. but geto doesn’t give you what you want, that touch of tender honesty he’s sure you’re hoping for.
”i think they suit me just fine,” he playfully disagrees, instead, tone bordering on something childishly stubborn.
you wait just a single moment more, still clinging to that hope for something sincere, anything. 
then you huff. it sounds vaguely amused.
”you look like a con artist,” you deadpan, eyes flitting down to examine the outfit again. geto would be offended by your rudeness if you didn’t also happen to be right.
”how sweet of you,” he purrs, shooting you a smug smile. the words are lighthearted, mildly teasing. “that’s exactly what i’m going for.”
you give him an unimpressed look, that he mirrors with a perfect smile — and then you give in to another amused exhale, paired with a soft shake of your head.
there it is again, geto thinks. that sense of déjà vu. it’s equal parts eerie as it is comforting.
silence lingers in the air around you, as hazy sunlight flits in through the gap between your curtains and cascades across the floorboards. until you clear your throat endearingly, and walk past him.
”well, make yourself at home,” you murmur in passing.
considering the circumstances, the words are spoken fairly naturally, and geto has to resist the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this is. inviting a wanted criminal into your home, a literal mass murderer, and treating him with the same politeness you’d show to any other guest.
what would the elders think, he wonders, if they knew? would they brand you an accomplice, question your motives? put your head on the chopping block right next to his? he wouldn’t put it past them, the pieces of shit.
but despite his amusement, geto doesn’t laugh. he only watches as you make your way to the kitchen counter, a firefly catching his eye in the summer night.
(except you aren’t a firefly, and it’s not summer. it’s winter, and you’re someone geto wishes he didn’t still care for.)
”i was thinking of making tea,” you hum, voice soft but still easy for him to discern from his spot in the living room. ”do you want some?”
geto’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. his voice is teasing, as it flows out from his lips.
”how generous,” he chirps, still idly watching the way you move around the open space, your hair changing colour in the flickering light of the sun. ”satoru could learn a thing or two from you.”
he expects you to flinch. a suitable reaction, to how casually he brings up his reunion with his best friend, like it’s nothing. like it means nothing. like nothing’s wrong.
geto knows it’s cruel, which is exactly why he does it.
but you don’t flinch. you don’t even stiffen. and he senses no anger in your body language, in the silence that settles in the space between his words and yours. all you do is exhale sharply, a little exasperated.
”you shouldn’t be so cruel to him.” a beat. your voice sounds just a little smaller when you continue. ”he’s missed you, you know.”
the reply is nearly instantaneous, and it’s bare. honest. you sound like you’re scolding him, but it’s more protective than angry. and it’s gentle, like you’re patching him up after a mission, reprimanding him for not being more careful.
at this point, geto can tell you have no intention of playing along. how annoying. he wishes you would — that earnest sadness and regret of yours is almost unbearable, and the gentle bluntness you present him with cuts much deeper than his casual cruelty ever could.
you aren’t going to play along, aren’t going to pretend you don’t care. geto wonders why you won’t, why you’re the only one who still refuses to.
satoru certainly has no issue with it. playing along, putting up a front. attempting to treat him coldly, as an enemy. but geto knows him, knows his soul like the back of his hand, and he could tell it was trembling when their eyes met. from underneath those bandages of his, the thin layer of cowardice that shields those precious eyes from the rest of the world. from geto.
and shoko is just as unbothered as ever. always playing it cool, never caught off guard or shaken to her core. geto can’t even tell if it’s an act or not, anymore. but he knows that she was angry, when they spoke that day, ten years in the past. knows she wanted to tell him off, but chose not to.
both her and satoru are like that. always have been. closed off, accustomed to bearing an unbearable weight, resigned to the ache that it brings them. acting distant in a desperate attempt to mend it.
you, though?
you were always a little too sincere for your own good, a little too true to yourself. it must hurt you, he thinks. it must hurt you even just to look at him. yet you continue to do so, unflinchingly.
that’s simply how you are.
you’ve always enjoyed dipping your toes into the grief of it all, leaning into the pain. always the first to take that step into the abyss. content to tear yourself open for everyone to see, even if no one follows suit.
never averting your eyes. never taking the easy way out.
(unlike him.)
geto hums, smiling a little at the sickening irony of it all.
the gentle clinking of ceramic resounds throughout the kitchen, and geto’s ears perk up. his gaze follows your hands, as they move to grab two cups from the wall cabinet. floral designs, he dully notes. blue bells on one, red camellias on the other. a porcelain teapot rests on the kitchen table, but no flowers adorn it.
without your expressions to keep him entertained, geto decides to wallow in the fleeting peace and quiet. aside from your soft breathing and the occasional clinking of teacups, there are no sounds to be heard. 
a moment that seems to exist outside of time and space, where time passes backwards and your shuffling in the kitchen is his only concern.
eager to satiate the mellow boredom in his chest, geto’s eyes begin to flit across the space of your apartment. greedily drinking in every detail he can see, as if he’s trying to memorize it all. maybe he is.
everything he can see is a piece of your existence, in one way or another. every inch of the apartment is littered with your fingerprints, your choices and fickle tastes.
like the rich yellow of the curtains you’ve picked out to frame the glass of the windows, bright and stark and blending smoothly in with the cream colour of the wallpaper surrounding it. or the forgotten cup on the table in front of the tv, a faded green. he vaguely remembers seeing you drink out of it back when things were still good, when you both thought of the school as your home.
a book rests on the duvet pillows of your couch, but he sees no bookmark peeking out from between the pages. geto wonders if you still dog-ear your books, and thinks to himself that a crime of that calibre would warrant your own exile if the world was only fair. alas, it isn’t. war of the foxes, he reads from the cover. ironic.
along the windowsills are potted plants, stacked up next to each other, green and flourishing despite the snowy wonderland of the outside world. their leaves differ in shape and size, some accompanied by blooming flowers. he imagines you watering them, dutifully, nurturing them with gentle hands and sleepy smiles. 
there are many things to look at, more and more little fragments sprouting up the longer geto continues to do so. a knitted sweater thrown over the wooden armrest of a chair. colourful candy wrappers littering the table. an old radio tucked away in a corner of the room. 
geto drinks it all in — a home you’ve painstakingly created, that you’ve allowed him into. he examines it thoroughly, the way an art dealer judges a painting on display. turning the image over inside his mind, twisting it, burning it into his retinas. soaking in every little detail he manages to find. 
your home.
(it’s so like you that it hurts.)
finally, geto thinks he’s had his fill of the living room. so he ventures into the kitchen, only a couple long strides away.
the scent that greets him this time is comforting, homey. the aroma of coffee grounds, a touch of leftover curry, a strong fragrance of blooming hyacinths and dried lavender sitting contentedly by the windowsill. through the translucent glass, geto sees layers upon layers of snow on the rooftops, and the gradual rise of the glittering sun. 
the quiet buzzing of the electric kettle is the only sound he hears, along with the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, as his eyes wander along the kitchen.
the shelves are stacked with a variety of different spices, and glass jars of honey and jam. along the counters rest a wide array of kitchen appliances, from blenders to rice cookers to french presses. mugs with silly designs are stuffed into an opened wall cabinet, and geto recognizes some of them, to his silent delight. 
there are colourful post-it notes stuck to the fridge, messy scribbles of recipes and reminders. meetings, birthdays, grocery lists. even just little doodles, smiley faces and napping cats that make his lips quirk up. and polaroids — he tries not to let his gaze linger on the picture of satoru sleeping in the most uncomfortable, inhumane position he’s ever witnessed, nor the blurry image of shoko smoking by a balcony railing, sleeves cuffed and expression forlorn. he can’t imagine either of them noticed you snapping the photos.
(no polaroids of him. of course not. why would there be?)
geto tries not to look over at the fridge again, examining the floor and furniture instead. over in the corner stands a bowl of cat food, seemingly untouched. the kitchen table is covered with a checkered cloth, kept down by a plate of chocolate chip cookies. 
your kitchen is fairly small, but it’s cozy. rays of fresh sunlight envelop it in a giddy, ruminating glow. like something out of a dream.
when geto enters the space, your eyes flit over to him briefly, and he shoots you a friendly smile. your eyes do that thing, again, where they crumble a little at the corners and get a tad softer. like you’re looking at an old friend.
(he supposes you are.)
you clear your throat before speaking, as he takes in all the sights.
”what kind of tea do you want? i’ve got, uh…” 
with gentle movements, you open a wall cabinet, eyes swiftly scanning over the different labels of the many boxes, jars and sachets of tea inside. dutifully, you list off the ones you can see. 
”earl grey, chamomile… oolong, rooibos…” you continue, seemingly never running out of options, fingers tapping at the handle. ”ah, this one’s kinda weird. it’s supposed to be, like, cherry flavoured? don’t ask, satoru picked it out — but it tastes more like laundry detergent.” 
a pause. 
”it’s pretty good, though.”
geto can’t help it. the comment coaxes a chuckle from out his chest, and he’s surprised at how genuine it sounds when it spills from his lips. 
you seem to notice it, too, seeing as you perk up where you stand by the counter. out of the corner of his eye, geto thinks he almost catches the fleeting glimmer of a tiny smile on your lips.
and for a moment, everything feels familiar. eerie and comforting, in equal measure. a sense of nostalgia drifts throughout the kitchen, mingling with the scent of tea leaves and sunshine and freshly baked cookies. 
this is the opportunity you’ve given him — a slice of normalcy. as close to normalcy as one can come to in a situation such as this. a soft bout of laughter, shared between estranged childhood friends, one of which is a mass murderer. it’s really not normal at all.
normalcy is no more than a fever dream. that much has always been the case, but —
there’s a comfort in it, in this. the familiarity of it all. the way you settle into old roles, share knowing looks and cycle through old memories he knows you’re both haunted by.
it’s soothing.
he’s changed, and you’ve changed, but there’s still a sense of belonging between the two of you. in this moment, this sole flicker of nostalgia. in this kitchen.
and for a moment, geto almost forgets why he’s there. almost forgets the unforgettable, the inevitability of a choice he made long ago. it stings, and he wonders how you can bear it; this thin line between longing and awareness.
”so? what’ll it be?”
your voice rings out across the open space, face angled towards the table to meet his stare. 
geto hums, absentmindedly, and takes a step closer.
the narrow distance between you two lies heavy, as he shuffles up right next to you, haphazardly sweeping his eyes over the wide assortment in front of him. he can almost, almost hear your breath hitch when the fabric of his clothing grazes your shoulder.
he wonders if the tea is just an excuse, to be able to come so close. to bask in your warmth.
you don’t move away.
”oolong,” he firmly decides. he doesn’t really need to think about it.
then he swiftly turns on his heel, and takes a seat by the kitchen table. confident and graceful — as if this isn’t your kitchen, but his. unconcerned over table manners, his elbows resting on the wooden board, as his jaw meets the heel of his palm. he bites into one of the chocolate chip cookies, the sweetness crumbling on his tongue.
this time, you finally do stiffen — though geto doesn’t see it. he does, however, feel your lingering stare, and when he tilts his head in your direction he catches a glint of sorrow passing through the depths of your irises.
geto blinks. he tilts his head questioningly, a cue for you to follow.
and finally, finally, you stammer. barely, but it’s there. that nervous shiver of your voice.
”ah — sorry,” you mumble, gaze falling down to the floorboards. you seem almost flustered. ”it’s just…” 
there’s something raw in your voice, something that wavers. 
”back then, you’d always choose earl grey.”
a long moment of silence passes.
there are a million unspoken words in that sentence, geto knows. words you’ll never say, words you’ve always yearned to say. though he has no intention of digging them out. 
the sentiment is more than enough.
a bitter taste settles on his tongue, but he smiles, careful to keep his voice light.
”well,” he hums. ”some things change, i suppose.”
to that, you huff out a breath of amusement, turning around to face the counter once more. but not before eyeing his robes again, expression rich with humour.
”yeah,” you hum, lighthearted. something close to a chuckle. ”i suppose they do.”
geto grins softly, in tandem, from his spot by the table. like you’re still teenagers, sharing a look over an inside joke no one else is privy to.
after that, he simply watches you work, chewing at the treat while he waits for the tea to be done. the light of the electric kettle flickers off, and your hands curl around the handle, bringing it to rest next to the teapot on the tablecloth. he watches, expression mildly bored, as you grab the ceramic cups and the silken sachet bag of dried tea leaves.
a strong scent of oolong tea wafts through the air, when you flick your fingers to pour some of the leaves into the teapot. there’s a certain elegance in the way you pour the boiling water, slowly, in a smooth circular pattern. geto follows the movement, the rise and fall of the leaves as water fills the strainer.
you’re unhurried, methodical. there is care in the motion of your hands, the intense gaze you bear as you perform it. every slight twitch of your knuckles, the soft exhale you emit when the teapot has been filled. 
geto can do nothing but watch, in silent admiration. 
you put the porcelain lid back on, blocking the steam rising up in a flurry of warmth. while the tea simmers, soaking up the flavour of the leaves, you busy yourself with readying two teaspoons. 
”how do you take it, these days?” you ask him, as you languidly pour hot tea into the cups. ”any sweetener? milk?”
”one cube of sugar. no milk.”
at that, your eyes flit up, recognition blooming in them as you hear the familiar sentence. but geto keeps his gaze glued to the hyacinths on the windowsill, never meeting yours.
truthfully, he says it mostly to appease you. he figures he can give you this one thing, at least — this one hope that maybe everything hasn’t changed, after all. that he hasn’t changed, in his entirety, that there’s still some remnant left of who he used to be. even if all that’s left of him is just one single cube of sugar.
it’s kind of funny. but geto doesn’t laugh. 
you place a cup in front of him. the one adorned by red camellias. geto racks his brain, flitting through past conversations with florists and paragraphs memorized from non-fiction books on botany. what was it, again?
eternal love. long-lasting devotion.
the petals and the calyx of a camellia always fall together.
geto bites back a laugh. some part of him wonders if you’re making fun of him, if this is how you’re planning to release your pent-up anger — in such a petty, roundabout manner. but deep down he knows it was no more than an absentminded choice, on your part.
(you always hurt him most when it’s not your intention to do so.)
as you take a seat on the opposite side of the table, he gingerly touches the rim of the cup. soft steam rises from the liquid, its colour marigold-esque, and geto breathes it in deeply before bringing the ceramic to his lips.
you watch, in anticipation. intensely enough that he can feel it even when his eyes flutter shut, your gaze prickling his skin as he sips from the cup.
the warmth of the tea is comforting, a distinctly floral taste spreading along his tongue. there’s a slight nuttiness to the taste, a rich sweetness. as it runs down his throat, geto hears himself hum softly. a satisfied smile slips into the curve of his lips. inside the depths of his chest, a light nostalgia swirls, pleasant and tingly. 
he remembers moonlit nights, whispered secrets you could only ever tell each other, the glimmer of aluminium and rush of caffeine as you gulped down the too-sweet coffee that the vending machines had to offer.
he remembers sunny mornings, muffled laughter shared in the solitude of the kitchen, basking in the floral scent of chamomile and lavender and everything in between as the world woke up around you.
with a clink, geto sets his cup down on the table, pinkie raised lightly. smile a tad bittersweet.
”this is good tea.”
a moment passes. you break out into a genuine smile, nearly beaming, delighted by his approval. 
”isn’t it?” you chirp, fingers curling around your own cup, the little painted flowers adorning it. blue bells. geto recalls that old wives’ tale — how wearing a wreath of blue bells compels one to tell the truth. ”nanami got this one for me, actually.”
he smiles, perking up ever so slightly. a little more animated. ”oh?” he takes another sip. ”he always was a snob, wasn’t he.” 
that makes your own smile grow, lips twitching upwards, and an amused exhale flows from your lips. a gentle breath. you always were very fond of your grumpy underclassman. ”yeah.”
there’s something familiar about this, geto can’t help but think. eerily so. an acute sense of déjà vu, the same one that’s been plaguing him all morning.
the way you’re treating him isn’t how one would treat an enemy, nor a stranger — it’s how one would treat an old friend. that, and nothing more.
(geto wishes he could say it didn’t soothe his heart so terribly.)
he allows himself to sink deeper into the rotten sweetness of it all. indulges in this one fleeting moment, before everything crashes and burns. 
the world outside your kitchen is a cold one, he knows, blanketed by snow and frost that has yet to be stained red. the pure white is a warning, not a consolation — a reminder that there are still things to be lost.
the world of curses is an empty promise, the promise of suffering being rewarded. the idea that the sun will melt the frost around your legs if you wade through enough snow. 
(but geto knows better.)
outside your kitchen, only one path exists for him. it isn’t a kind one, nor is it particularly comforting. but, unlike those empty promises, that path has a truth to it. an end point, that isn’t just wait and see what happens, maybe the sun will rise if you’re lucky.
he isn’t a fool. the world is as cruel as it is beautiful, which is a false simile because cruelty is only ever beautiful when you aren’t a part of it. another one of those empty promises. geto has no idea how they kept him going for so long.
but here, in this moment — the world feels rather kind. kind in the sense of being just enough, the kind of brief solace that used to give him enough hope to get through the day.
for now, this aching gap of yet-to-be-ruined is enough. it’s all that he cares about, all that exists.
— but all good things must eventually come to an end. 
geto knows it better than anyone, so he isn’t particularly surprised when he looks up to see your face set into hard lines.
you meet his eyes with a certain flickering determination, a conviction — and geto knows you’re about to cross the comfortable line he was hoping you could both maintain for just a little longer.
”suguru.”
he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. a smile is enough. so his lips curl up, silently.
”can i ask you something?”
every move geto makes is calculated, a performance, as your words sink into his subconscious. dragging the silence out, as if trying to waltz around the inevitable end of this sickeningly sweet game of morning chess. 
the slow circling of his spoon, creating a vortex for the oolong tea to follow, as it catches the light falling from the window. the way he leans back, to make himself comfortable, letting his jaw rest on the heel of his palm as he dissects your expression from across the table.
there is something almost taunting in his eyes. 
but he smiles. courteous, bright. ”go ahead.”
for just a second, he sees you falter. just a smidge, but the way your nails dig into the skin of your palm is telling, just like the way your eyes choose to linger on the tablecloth a second longer than they need to.
then you meet his eyes once more, and begin to speak. geto hangs on to your words, as if they even matter.
”i’m not expecting you to be honest with me,” you state, bluntly. he’s glad to know you’re on the same page for once. ”but i’d appreciate it if you could. just this one time. i won’t ask for anything else.”
another long and tactful sip of his tea. he wasn’t lying, before — it really is very nice. the flavour is strong and thick on his tongue, sweet and bitter all in one. expensive. the pads of his fingers tap along the ceramic of his cup, right over the red flowers that seem to taunt him so.
here it comes. your lips part, but no sound comes out, and geto knows you’re thinking of how best to phrase your inquiry. it doesn’t take you long to decide, a firmness blossoming in the scope of your iris. a sense of finality.
”are you happy?”
despite everything, his breath hitches in his throat. the movement of his fingers halts.
your question comes out clear, candid, sincere. the look in your eyes makes him feel a little like he’s being devoured. vaguely aware of how his smile wavers, for just a split second, geto can only hope you don’t notice it — but he doubts you do, because you only continue to speak, unperturbed.
”i’m sure you’ve changed a lot, these past ten years. and i’m sure you’ve had more than enough time to convince yourself that you’re happy, even if you aren’t.” you bite your lip. ”i should’ve asked you this a long time ago. but now — i’m asking.”
geto’s eyes never leave your face.
”are you happy? are you genuinely satisfied with your life? are you happy with your choice?” 
there’s something desperate in your eyes, now. something geto can’t look away from, despite himself. all he can do is touch the ceramic beneath his fingers, hot enough to burn, and listen to you speak. 
”if… if you are, then —” 
you take a deep breath, a sharp inhale that geto would mimic if he wasn’t dead set on maintaining his composure.
”— then i won’t get in the way. i’ll let you live your life the way you want to. just as long as that’s true.” 
geto looks at you, smile nowhere to be seen. time itself seems to halt, in the space of your kitchen. the current center of the world.
he doesn’t dare to even breathe.
”… but,” your voice trembles. you stare intently at your own cup, surely beginning to grow lukewarm at this point. what a waste of good tea. ”if you aren’t happy, then —”
a pause. no one says a thing.
”then what?” geto spits. his voice comes out sounding just a tad sharp, cold like the frost outside your apartment. more so than he meant it to.
your pupils waver, before you lift your head to look at him. the resolution in your eyes makes his breath hitch. an unflinching kindness, one he can’t remember you ever not having.
”— then i’ll do whatever it takes to change that. no matter what.” a beat. “even if it makes you hate me.”
such immense honesty.
geto wonders why he came here, in the first place.
to declare war. was that his genuine desire, though? or was it just another excuse?
with satoru, he can pretend. with shoko, he can pretend. with himself, he can certainly pretend.
but with you?
his fingers leave the ceramic, eyes burning with a decision mirroring yours.
geto’s burned many bridges, in his life. but this particular bridge is one he’ll miss. the cinders that follow won’t keep him warm, that much he knows.
but in the face of such honesty — such genuine kindness — he couldn’t bear not to give you a serious answer.
(it’s the least he could do for you.)
”i am.”
a moment passes. the center of the world shifts. 
”i’m happy with my choice.”
it was the only one worth making.
as they fall from his lips, the words taste heavy, absolute. in the light of a morning still yet to be broken by the passage of time, your eyes shift. for a moment geto wonders if you’ll close them. if you’ll give yourself that one relief.
you don’t.
instead, you bite your lip, eyes stubbornly never leaving his own. now you look a little angry, a little frustrated. he’s glad to see that flicker of fury directed at him, at last.
”but are you happy?” you persist, frustrated in a way that buzzes with kindness and concern. a way that makes him feel rather lost.
geto hears himself speak before he has a chance to think about his answer. the voice that comes out of his throat sounds oddly soft.
”that doesn’t matter.”
”it should.”
your reply is equally instantaneous. and geto feels a tremor run through his heart.
”are you happy, suguru?” you try again, pleading. that hope of yours is back, the hope that he’ll be honest just this once. sincere, even just for a syllable or two.
the clock on the wall ticks, hands moving methodically and cruelly, second by second. another moment of time burned to cinders. geto knows what must be done.
this mindless self-indulgence was nice, for a while. but geto has more bridges to burn. more wars to brew.
one final touch. that’s what he’ll give you, in return for your generosity. one final touch of tender honesty, even if it burns his tongue.
”i will be,” he exhales, breathless. ”once all this is over.”
then he gets up from his chair, the squeaking of wood against the floorboards signaling a parting. your eyes never leave his face, as he dusts off his robes absentmindedly, glancing at the half-finished cup on the table.
then geto smiles at you. there’s a fondness to it, one he’d only ever show you. his eyes crinkle, just barely, and the dark brown of his iris shifts into a mellow amber as sunlight cascades down the contours of his face. a genuine smile.
”thank you for the tea.”
there it is. your eyes soften, again, helplessly. 
you aren’t satisfied. geto doubts you ever will be.
but you’ve always been the only one to tear yourself open, the only one to step into the abyss. geto has always admired it, just as much as he’s always found it foolish. not once has he ever followed suit.
things like honesty and tenderness don’t suit him. he doesn’t think they suit any sorcerer, except maybe for you.
at last, that grieving resignation finds its way to your eyes again. it doesn’t hurt him as much this time, perhaps because he was waiting for it.
”… you’re welcome,” you breathe. a sad little breath.
geto allows himself to look at you for just a moment more.
then he turns on his heel.
”well, this was nice,” he hums. ”but i really must be going now.”
pleasant and jovial. a voice unsuited for a situation like this. geto wonders if it hurts you as much as it hurts him.
rubbing salt into wounds is all he seems to do these days, anyhow. so he smiles. ”i’ll see you on the battlefield, i hope —”
”suguru.”
deep down, geto knows that there’s no going back from this. that the moment he moves his feet, the moment he leaves your apartment — the moment he steps over the threshold in front of him — he can never return.
your kitchen was never his to walk into, in the first place. he was never meant to set foot into your home. that was your choice. geto can’t help but think that it’s every bit as cruel as the one he made ten years ago.
your voice is the same as always. sad and fond. familiar, in how it twists and tugs at his heart in a way nothing else can anymore.
geto waits. he’ll let you have the final word. the final piece moved into place. checkmate.
he’ll let you be the one to devour that aching gap.
curse me, he whispers to the confines of his mind. resent me. i’ve caused you so much pain.
curse me yourself, so i can hate you properly.
”if you ever want another cup, i’ll be here.”
silence falls upon the kitchen.
geto stands still, feet rooted in the spot by the threshold separating the kitchen from the living room. the ticking of the clock is the only sound he hears.
there isn’t a trace of resentment in your voice.
(he wishes you would play along, even just once.)
a low hum buzzes in his throat. the seconds stretch on; more hands moved, more time burned into nothing. the silence is deafening, thick and heavy. an intense moment of contemplation, as geto tries not to shiver under the warmth of your constant gaze, burning into his back.
the center of the world shifts, once more. the gaze of fate falls upon the two of you, bathed in the rays of the rising sun, in a kitchen where normalcy is a little more than just a fever dream.
it doesn’t mean anything, anything at all.
geto knows it. he knows it better than anyone. but maybe he can allow this mindless self-indulgence to carry on, for just a little longer. if only to give him the excuse he needs to see you again, to stand in your kitchen like this, like the view of the rising sun is something he’s allowed to behold.
how greedy. how callous. hasn’t he always been, though?
just for a little bit longer.
”… you know,”
geto takes a step forward, robes fluttering with the movement, heavy and pious. he crosses the threshold, words just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear.
(in the space between the words, laced together with the silence, lies the ghost of a smile.)
”it’s been a while since i had earl grey.”
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