Curate, connect, and discover
face, sender turns receiver's face towards them. ( geto & gojo )
pulling himself back to a standing position is the initial intent, only stopped by the firm hands clasped on each side of his face: garnering his attention requires less than this, but he supposes suguru wants to make a statement of it. hand seeks leverage, placed flatly on the desk as his body remains arched, waiting, unsure whether to take this as a challenge, a warning, or a third secret thing that only suguru seems to understand and perfectly eludes satoru's wondering eyes. he allows the other man the benefit of the doubt, waits it out, only to be surprised by a bold statement.
'quit it out.'
their back and forth had escalated into a drawn out argument — though not entirely one-sided, it's clear that suguru wants no part in a battle of moral judgement. his views are cemented, a sense of justice buoyed in the philosophy that hierarchy exists as a parachute for the unlucky bastards right down south in the grand scheme of things. satoru, on the other hand, believes it a conspiracy led by the beliefs that their existence is taken for granted, though he needn't explain the specifics to suguru. it's easier to face the fury head-on, bathe in it, because that's what his body and mind are familiar with. power is intoxicating, sweeter than honey. gojo's sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose, his right hand holding geto's wrist mirroring the amount of strength used to turn his around and which he unlocks from the grip with a jut of his chin.
he's met with a surge of remembrance then: retainers, old enough to butt shoulders with his own parents, of whom he barely remembered anything, only bits and pieces like the smell of jasmine coming from his mother's kimono, the unmistakable scent of wood and smoke from expensive tobacco in a pipe, signature of his father's presence, and nothing else. though his birth had elevated their position within the household, truth is that they weren't bearers of the eyes but him, and alone he stood during morning trainings, and on most nights, a pair of small, curious steps testing the boundaries of his own jurisdiction, how much he could twist the rope before it snapped. he's yet to feel the draw back of its taut line. in a sense, suguru represents the line he shouldn't cross, almond-tinted eyes hooked confidently in place, two curses measuring each other — a truth untold in that fox-like smile.
' feeling like playing substitute teacher? count me out of it. as you can see i'm a little busy right now, ' he guides suguru's attention towards his phone screen, where graphics remained static although 8-bit music played in a cacophony of robotic sounds, ' don't get me wrong, i'd love to play along but my tetris streak? oh, let me tell you how much it can't wait.'
satoru manages a determined expression, thinks about making a funny face, tongue out, clowning the tension in the air away, but decides he's not in his best behavior and he really meant it when he said the match couldn't wait, seconds ticking and signaling the approaching lock screen mode on his device. gaze darts back, fingers deftly picking up and rising his score. new-found clarity settles, making him speak loud enough to be heard, before he notices.
'oh by the way, have you been training after class? your hands have gotten rougher. girls will go mad, you player. '
@gokunoban