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#THE PARTY CONTINUES
praetorqueenreyna · 13 days
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Tamlin is shocked (and a little scared) when his ex-girlfriend's sister stops by his flower shop. Featuring Florist!Tamlin and Tattoo Artist! Nesta.
For Tamlin Week Day 3: Flower Languages. Click here to read on AO3, or continue reading below!
@tamlinweek
“I have a question for you.”
Tamlin jumped and dropped his shears with an aggressive clank. He was trimming the ends of yesterday’s flowers, his headphones blaring Hozier as he focused on his task. He hadn’t even heard somebody enter his flower shop.
It took a second for him to place where he had seen the modestly-dressed woman before. It was Nesta, one of the three sisters that ran Archeron Tattoos next door. Immediately, Tamlin was on guard. A year prior he had had a disastrous relationship with another sister, Feyre, which had ended so badly he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had set his shop on fire. For months after, he had avoided even glancing at the door to the tattoo parlor. Things had settled down and Feyre even had a girlfriend now, but that didn’t stop her from giving him the stink eye whenever they crossed paths. He had been so busy deliberately not looking over there that he barely knew anything about the other two sisters.
“Um, yes?” he stuttered, aware that he had been staring blankly at her for way too long.
Nesta raised an eyebrow. She didn’t seem like she was here to murder him, but also didn’t seem like she was thrilled to be there. “I need reference photos for a piece I’m doing this weekend and can’t find any online. If you have the flowers here, I’d like to take some pictures.”
Tamlin could have pointed out that she didn’t actually ask him a question, but to be honest, Nesta was intimidating. She was almost as tall as he was and, though he outweighed her slim frame, she seemed like the kind of person capable of getting what she wanted. Besides, the request wasn’t unreasonable and there was nobody else in the shop right now.
“Sure. What flowers do you need?”
Nesta pulled out her phone and thumbed through it until she found the list. “Yellow hyacinth, foxglove, cowslip, marigold…” She rattled off about a dozen of the weirdest flower requests Tamlin had ever heard. He was used to people requesting orchids and roses, not wolfsbane. There was an awkward pause when she finished talking and was waiting for him to respond.
Tamlin cleared his throat. “I’m sure I have some of those. I’ll be honest, it’s a rather…unusual set of flowers.
“I’m aware. You know about florigraphy, correct?”
“Yeah. Flower languages.” As a florist, Tamlin had come to know the most common flowers used to convey meaning. Red roses for true love, white tulips for remembrance, etc.
“Exactly. My client just got out of a shitty relationship, and she wants a huge floral sleeve celebrating that. And instead of using flowers that represent love and peace and all that crap, she wants flowers that say ‘fuck you.’ Turning those negative experiences into something positive.”
Tamlin had never thought to use flowers to convey anger or spite, but he could see the appeal. He was certainly well versed in bad break ups. He led Nesta around the shop, pulling out the flowers from her list that he did have in stock. To his surprise, she asked for his opinion. They talked through each flower, Nesta taking pictures of them from every angle while Tamlin Googled its meaning. Nesta was extremely meticulous. She lined up the flowers next to each other, studying their color and shape against each other to make sure they’d make an aesthetically pleasing art piece. Many of the flowers with negative connotations were yellow, which she said didn’t tattoo as well. They finally settled on black dahlia (betrayal), narcissus (selfishness), and columbine (folly).
“I think I’ll frame them like this,” Nesta mused, placing the individual flowers on the table in an artful array. “With the praying mantis in the middle.”
“Why a praying mantis?”
“You know, that whole thing where the females rip off the males’ heads after they mate.” Nesta gave a devilish grin. “Very empowering.”
“That’s not true.”
The easy-going atmosphere that had developed between them collapsed. Nesta scowled. “What?”
Tamlin, who by now was wishing he had ever learned when to shut the fuck up, stammered, “It’s a myth, that praying mantises do that. A very common one, lots of people believe it!”
Apparently, his nervous explanation was pathetic enough to convince Nesta that he wasn’t trying to talk down to her. She tilted her head, appraising him with cool gray eyes, wordlessly waiting for him to continue.
“Well, um, the study where the females eat the males was done in a lab, and they were starving and stressed out. Afterwards, they were observed mating in the wild, and it doesn’t really happen.”
“So you’re telling me a bunch of people had to go out and watch bugs have sex?” Nesta asked in a deadpan voice.
“I guess? I don’t actually know all the details. It can’t be as weird as I’m making it sound, but—”
“Relax, I’m kidding,” Nesta grinned at his obvious discomfort. Tamlin noticed she had a dimple in her left cheek.
“Oh.” Although she didn’t seem like she was going to bite his head off anymore, Tamlin scrambled to find something to recover the conversation that he had derailed. “You could do a spider. For a lot of them, the females are way bigger and more powerful than the males. And the males have to bring them presents to avoid getting eaten.”
“Mhmm, I like that. Thanks.” Nesta paused in the doorway. “You know, you’re not as much of an asshole as I had thought.”
“Thank you?” There was barely enough time to comprehend what she had said, then she was gone.
Tamlin spent the rest of the day thinking about her. And Feyre. He had assumed that Feyre had told her sisters plenty of stories about how terrible he had been. Some of them would even have been true. He had spent the past year trying to forget one Archeron, only to fall headfirst into another. It was so stupid. They had talked for twenty minutes about flowers and she had smiled at him. Still, every time he entered or left his flower shop, he couldn’t help but glance in the doorway of the tattoo parlor, hoping for a glimpse of Nesta.
***********************************
That weekend, he was closing up the shop when he heard a knock on the door. He had already locked it and was busy sweeping, and he approached the door ready to politely tell the overeager flower buyer to fuck off. His irritation transformed into elation when he caught sight of Nesta through the glass. He hurried to unlock the door and usher the tattoo artist inside, along with the petite red-headed woman that accompanied her.
“Hey, hope you don’t mind us barging in,” Nesta said. Before Tamlin could say that she could barge wherever and whenever she wanted, she nodded towards the other woman. “This is Gwyn. I just finished up her sleeve. I told her how you helped me, and she wanted to come by and thank you in person. And show you the final piece.”
Gwyn was wearing a tank top, and one of her arms was a riot of color. Tamlin couldn’t see the details of the new tattoo under the saran wrap that currently covered it.
“Oh. Of course, you didn’t have to do that. I’m happy to help,” Tamlin replied, flustered. Gwyn was staring at him with big blue eyes. They were a little puffy, as if she had been crying, which Tamlin assumed was the result of getting a tattoo for hours upon hours. She was grinning though, clearly pleased with the completed work.
“Well, thank you still. I really appreciate it. Especially the bug info. I would have been so embarrassed to find out the mantis stuff after I had already gotten the tattoo.” She stepped forward and held out her arm. “Do you want to see it?”
“Sure, I’d love to.” Gwyn pinched the edge of the saran wrap between her fingers and peeled it off. The surface of the tattoo glistened with ointment, but it was still breathtaking. The flowers that he had Nesta had picked out absolutely glowed, bright bursts of red and purple and yellow and green against Gwyn’s pale skin. In the middle of the flowers was a black widow spider, glossy black with the distinctive red hourglass on her abdomen. It was an absolutely stunning piece of artwork.
“Wow,” Tamlin breathed. “It’s incredible.” He lightly touched Gwyn’s wrist to tilt her arm so he could see more of the tattoo, then realized what he had done. “Oh shit!” He jerked his hand away. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you without asking.”
Rather than being annoyed, Gwyn was blushing furiously. “It’s okay, you can touch.” Nesta snorted, and Gwyn shot her a look that Tamlin couldn’t interpret. “Just not on the ink. It still hurts.”
“I bet.” With his fingertips, he rotated Gwyn’s arm back and forth, taking in every little detail. “Amazing. Just amazing.” He let her arm go. “That guy doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
“Yeah, fuck him.” Nesta slung one arm around Gwyn’s shoulders, careful to avoid the new tattoo. “You should totally have gotten to kill and eat him.”
Gwyn giggled. “No argument here. I should get going, my roommate is probably out front waiting to pick me up. She waved bashfully at Tamlin. “Bye, it was nice to meet you. And thank you again for all the help.” With that, she slipped out the door. Nesta watched her leave with an amused smirk. It felt like there was an inside joke that Tamlin was missing out on.
“What are you laughing about?” he asked, feeling bold.
“Nothing. Just that you’re challenging Gwyn’s new resolution to swear off men forever.”
“What? Me?”
“Yes, you. Being all cute and respectful like a Victorian gentleman.”
Now Tamlin was the one blushing, his ears were practically on fire. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And the little wrist touch. I’m surprised she didn’t swoon directly into your arms.” Nesta grabbed Tamlin’s hand in a mock imitation of his own interaction with Gwyn. She was rougher than he had been, jerking him forward into her. She had missed his wrist and instead had her hand wrapped around his palm, a mistake he was grateful for, since hopefully she couldn’t feel his blood pounding.
“I didn’t…I wasn’t…” Tamlin’s head was a buzz of static. He couldn’t even breathe with Nesta right there. She was so pretty and so terrifying, which apparently was exactly what he found attractive.
“Relax, I’m messing with you.” She released him and stepped back. “Seriously, you’re a good guy. Stop by next door any time. I promise I’ll tell Feyre not to bite your head off.” With a cheeky wink she left, the bell on the door tinkling faintly behind her.
***********************************
He could do this. He was not going to chicken out, like the last three times he had tried. The cowardly part of his brain was screaming at him to turn back even as he locked the flower shop behind him, but he ignored it. For the first time since his breakup with Feyre, he entered Archeron Tattoos.
All three sisters were there. Feyre, thankfully, was working. She was bent over someone’s ankle, carefully sketching lines with her tattoo gun. There was a brief flash of regret, but nothing more. They were never meant to be, and they were both happier now. Feyre looked up when the door opened and did a double take. She took a few seconds to properly glare at him, then returned her attention back to her client. Tamlin exhaled in relief; a part of him had fully expected her to attack or yell at him.
Elain was behind the counter. She had revved up a formulaic greeting before she realized who he was, and cut herself off mid-sentence. Tamlin gave her a distracted wave, not wanting to get sidetracked. Nesta was in the shop, organizing bottles of colored ink. He cleared his throat to get her attention.
“Hey.”
She looked up, and smiled. “Hey.”
Tamlin looked around, painfully aware that Feyre and Elain could hear everything they said. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“Sure.” Nesta led him to the back of the tattoo shop, where they at least had a little more privacy. She turned to him and folded her arms. “What’s up?”
Tamlin had rehearsed the next part a million times. And instead of saying any of that, he pulled a flower out of his pocket and offered it to Nesta. “I brought this for you.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Nesta carefully took the flower, which now had a crumpled stem and smashed leaves.
“It’s a pansy,” he explained. His mouth was inexplicably dry and his voice sounded weird in his ears. When they had been doing their florigraphy research together, they had run across the pansy on multiple sites with multiple meanings. One meaning had stuck out to him, and he hoped that Nesta had remembered it as well.
“You occupy my thoughts,” she murmured. She smiled that dimple smile that left Tamlin weak in the knees. “You’re cute.”
“Oh good, you remembered,” was all that came out of his mouth.
“I did.” She laughed and tucked the pansy behind her ear. “Tamlin, would you like to go out with me sometime?”
“Yes. Yes. Definitely.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at six.” She lifted herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, then darted past him. Tamlin stood there, stunned, waiting to wake up.
On his way out the door, he stopped. “Bye, Feyre,” he said loudly.
“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you. Asshole,” she said in reply.
It wasn’t great. But it was a start.
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cervicrazed · 1 month
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Southern Cream Salted Caramel in the Applejack shot glass
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djevilninja · 5 months
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While ya’ll ride Matchbox, I push the Hot Wheels - Don Chi-Chi with the mass appeal. Lettin’ champagne spills on my house in the grill, And all I’m about is the dolla’ dolla’ bill.
Jermaine Dupri feat Da Brat & Usher - The Party Continues (Video Version)
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kennahjune · 3 months
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ALRIGHT BUT
I’ve been having flustered Steve thoughts.
The Party has NEVER seen Steve flustered. Steve’s always the one flirting and no one ever flirts back anymore so Steve’s never actually flustered.
But then Eddie Munson comes slithering along and he flirts with everyone just cause he can but nobody’s flustered by his attempts because he’s not trying to actually fluster them.
But for some reason he really flusters Steve.
Eddie uses this to his advantage and actually puts forth effort when he flirts with Steve.
Steve is flustered, bashful, embarrassed. He’s twirling his hair and giggling and he does this thing where he taps his fingernails on his front teeth when he gets distracted.
The Party was NEVER seen Steve like this.
Not even Nancy when they were dating.
Steve has described what he was like when he was flustered to them, calling himself stupid and saying he acted like an idiot to try and get them to just lay off.
All anyone sees is an absolute sweetheart.
Steve blushes really bright, starting with his ears and it just travels down from there. And also he’s really bad at hiding his smiles and he smiles so BIG when Eddie flirts with him. Like you can see every tooth and his eyes crinkle so much they basically close and his nose scrunches up.
And Eddie fucking THRIVES in it.
Because NO ONE else gets Steve like that.
Eddie’s witnessed Steve flirting with the girls of Hawkins. Has seen them all flirt back with varying degrees of bluntness.
None of them have gotten Steve nearly half as flustered as Eddie has.
UNTIL.
Eddie has Steve come over to the trailer to hang out. Steve by some turn of events ends up cooking and making grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Wayne comes home right as Steve is playing everything and Steve is DISTRAUGHT. Like “no Wayne it’s alright, really. I can make you some to it’s ok I like cooking you’re really doing me a favor.”
So Steve makes Wayne a grilled cheese to and refuses to let Eddie eat until they can eat together.
So they’re all sitting and then they start eating. And obviously it was a damn good grilled cheese— Eddie knew Steve could cook but good GOD.
And then Wayne puts his grilled cheese down, looks between Steve and Eddie, and tells Eddie “If you don’t marry ‘im I’m adoptin ‘im.”
And Steve BEAMS.
It’s that same smile he gets when Eddie flirts with him and Eddie is only somewhat livid.
Cause he totally gets the rush of having Wayne compliment you for the first time. He’s just such an honest man.
And it goes from there that the only people who can fluster Steve are Eddie and Wayne (Eddie romantically and Wayne platonic-fatherly).
They both go out of their way to compliment him constantly just to see him smile like that :)))
Aaahhhhh this makes me so happy!!!!
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yourtongzhihazel · 2 months
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Me if I got a medal for every time I got called a psyop:
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practicing for scares, i imagine!
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"Mike is the 'excuse me, he asked for no pickles' boyfriend" "No, Will is."
Counterproposal: They are both the 'excuse me, he asked for no pickles' boyfriend together.
Mike talking to the customer service boy: Excuse me.
Will: I asked for no pickles.
Mike: Yeah, he asked for no pickles.
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hypnotic-kink · 17 days
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Cute new dress to wear for my birthday weekend celebration 💞 pic quality is terrible but it’s about the dress! :)
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ryllen · 5 months
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.+💚. Green .💚+.
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HAPPY 16TH BIRTHDAY!!! To this elderly bapy boye!!! he...!!!
#cats#ghhbbb this is the first time I've genuinely considered tumblr blazing a post lol but no.. i shant.. I feel too weird putting financial#information into tumblr or whatever unless I made like a seperate bank account or something not associated with anyhting else lol#but I gave it serious contemplation which is really sayng something (the evil magical spell that all cats cast over u by their perfection)#ANYWAY.................... old man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#it's technically like march 8th but I did his party a little early. I have other pictures to post later maybe too..hrmm#The '1' candle is actually a '4' candle with the side part cut off because they didn't have any 1s#I went all out (like under $15 still lol) and got new birthday decorations for him instead of using the same old#ones from the past like 5 birthdays that I've done for the cats lol..#His theme was rainbows mostly in as light of colors as I could find#The legal age to drive a car in the US is 16 so.... honk honk beep beep.. I shall go out and buy him the most expensive car on the market#as soon as March 8th comes. then he can run little errands (probably mostly getting kibbles or chicken somewhere)#stealing the rotisserie chickens from walmart or something lol#AND they would let him have them. He would drive up and walk inside and they'd call the manager to come over#and they would be so moved by his presence and his big goofy stare that they would just be like..... okey.. have all the chicken in the#entire store. Actually. have the store. it's yours now. And This would continue all the way up the chain until he was handed#the entire walmart company. And every other company. a boy who owns everything. probably wouldnt use it for evil. he'd just abolish#everything and then focus on eating chickens.. ........ chibken son...
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agnes-draws · 1 month
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damn these tall buff men with big hazel eyes who make us do things we don’t want to do 🙄
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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 (platonic or romantic, up to u!!), gn!reader, geto-typical angst with lots of yearning, open-ended, geto’s pov, reader is a softie, mutual pining kinda, 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. after all, 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.
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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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 9 months
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Bestie Deficiency
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#poorly drawn mdzs#mdzs#a-qing#xue yang#xiao xingchen#Xue yang is cold because cold blooded creatures can't generate their own body heat#I am skipping over drawing the stories they tell due to the fact this arc is already really dragging#but I think they are very key in understanding the yi-city characters#Even if they are stories that really bring down the slumber party vibes A-Qing was hoping for.#I mentioned some of my thoughts in the tags of no. 76 but to continue on a bit more#I think xxc and xue yangs stories inversely mirror each other on the meaning of sacrifice and what it means to 'deserve' something#to xue yang he has only ever sacrificed - therefore he is in his right to 'deserve' what he wants. And he wants everything.#xxc leaves song lan thinking its the best course of action to atone but my god. No it wasn't. Poor communication crown actually goes to xxc#but it's what xxc he feels he deserves - continued sacrifice to atone. He wants to want nothing.#both are very stuck in the past in ways that are not actually accounting for their actions#It's easy to look at xue yang and go 'dang you need to get over your childhood trauma'#but that very much ignores that fact that we - real human beings - define so much by our childhood pains.#Growth is having to come to terms with it and trying to move past it...and not everyone is ready for that.#I have a lot of thoughts on that matter but I'll let it be for now.#Anyways. Amiguito appears to be one of those words whos meaning change depending on speaker and contextual factors#So as far as I can tell it slides around on the scale on romantic and platonic. Which works for this dynamic. I think.#Native Spanish speakers I am so sorry.
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artharakka · 1 year
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A commission for @sorry-i-forgot of their D&D party 🐉⚔
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toxooz · 6 months
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been sick as a mf dawg but i managed to draw the ol Ollie n Kari halloween costumes for this year🤘
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sinlizards · 1 year
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ihihihi moment ⬅(he who has finished ep/chp 1 of umineko)
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