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• The wind crests in their hair, and for a moment, Gojo wants to remember a memory that is sure to turn into a curse.

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• After all, Oikawa isn't bored, but sometimes the cat just gathers the mouse into its maw, squeezes down tight for a few moments just to feel it squirm beneath the sharp inject of teeth, and it never does anything more than that. Making a move, or getting what it fully wants off the table.

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• He's so close. It's been forever and a day - he can't come back here, but he's here now. Not for you, Gojo reminds himself, but he's here and there is a temptation to make it worthwhile. To say fuck it to the limited amount of contact, to demand something more. But, Geto stops, and the thoughts spill away, like rain water, and Geto is only human and Gojo is only this: sick and dizzy from the near promise of contact. Hazed over for a moment, pulsation quickening, atoms vibrating, this space sinking, non-expanding, liminal spacing itself into Geto and his intelligent eyes, his warm touch - it's almost there, soft like a dream.

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• Like an empty city, Gojo's deathly silent, and he watches Geto test him and try to unfold him, his gaze boring into him like his hands would if he were any closer. And crazy, he thinks, you're so fucking crazy - the way you kissed me all those nights ago like everything was okay, and the way I pushed forward despite knowing it wasn't.

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• It's so weird - even now Oikawa feels drawn to him. He wants to snatch his hand away. He wants to belittle him and make cocky, simpering, smug jokes over his feelings and poke and poke, and hurt and hurt. He wants to lean in and soak in the hearth of his warmth greedily, but he does not.

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• He was an island when he first came here, an indestructible, unbreakable island in the vast openness that was Tokyo, Japan. And little by little, its waves eroded his being and shuttered over his strength; scraped out his unending will to go on. Sand drop by sand drop - until eventually - he moved into the more comfortable quiet lush of Yokohama and found some sparse of peace there.

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• Oikawa wonders if Iwaizumi notices this, if he's as oblivious as he looks beside him right now - but then they're entering the rainbow streamline of the alleyway, lapis blue on orange peel, cotton candy blue on autumn stark pink, the phosphorescent orange of railings enough to rival a forest fire; colors and colors of saturation and vibrancy that some have never seen before - enough to make the eyes hurt. And it's beautiful as music trembles in the distance, like a promise, where the tango dancers seem to be readying themselves for a performance on one of the end stages, down the road.

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• It's otherworldly - Artists have their paintings up, food carts with street food, fruits, and vegetables all lined and ready for the taking. But what catches Oikawa's eyes are the festivities on the left side of the street near one of the hole-in-the wall-cafes.

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• He is victorious. Gojo never loses, with the exception for one time and one time only, and that was six years ago.

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• Gojo mirrors Geto, because his smile is small but bursting with uncontained fondness, and he feels warm all over, inhuman and inexplicably human all at once. Years are imprinted in the hook of his lips at the left corner, and sixteen, seventeen, he's reminded of the time they first met and all the times that have transcended. Gojo wants to be a stain on Geto's life if he thinks about it, but more intimate, less disastrous, like the drop of chocolate on a shirt's hem or the smear of blood from a long day out that's latched onto one of his favorite sweaters, that he'd still wear because it's his favorite.

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• And then Gojo kisses him, soft and slow, endless like pursuit. Until Geto's lips tingle with the onslaught of feeling, until his chest erupts. There are no teeth and tongue, just unspoken love, and here is what you mean to me in the shift of their mouths; this is the emotion you bottle up inside of me as their lips smack, and here is how I love you as Gojo's thumb rubs along his chin, getting Geto to feed him more.

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• Gojo wants to take that time-bomb part of Geto and plunge it into the ocean. Let it blow up beneath the goliath of cresting waves. Let the expiration date become razed away by time, the grains of sand, but Geto could implode on himself without the busy schedule. The routine could very well be a part of him; he's been working his whole life with strict parents, and Gojo knows the decade old weight of carrying expectations on your shoulders. That rocks become a part of the child's body. Parents' burdens become children's.

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• There's just something between them he can't put his finger on. Each time they kiss, it's like a dam opening in the center of Gojo's chest, and it's spilling everything onto Geto, the emotions and feelings he stirs inside of him, as he kisses him against the empty street's sunlight, chest starting to burn with the slow drag of their mouths, instinct compelling him to thumb against his ear.

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• "Yeah," and he quiets again, lingering on their adjoined hands and how they fit just right. Gojo feels overcome by something he cannot name; like when his eyes drag back up to Geto's this time, it's inevitably and unquestionably real, because there's something that he wants to do in the moment - and he's looking at Geto, hoping he knows the answer. Almost as if silently asking, do you feel it, too, the soft reverb of a heart quickening, the magnetic draw between them, the consequence of understanding. Of being a teenager, curious and alone.

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• This is different, Gojo can't mistake the intention behind it. There are no adults here. There aren't tall figures with looming eyes hidden in the walls expecting more out of him, and there is an unmistakable, mind-melding, quiet warmth. Warmth - spilling down into his fingertips from the point of contact like the sinews in his body are made up of a furnace. And warmth, from actual care, dutiful consideration - Geto unspools it onto him, and it's astronomical. A volcano bursting beneath the sea after 300 years of dormancy, like sun dogs, and red moons. Gojo will construct a relic of it in his mind after this moment, brick by measly brick.

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• "I wish I could always be here," Gojo says quietly, like he's in a confessional admitting to a sin, because it's awful. Selfishness in this line of duty makes him sound like an elder, like he only cares about what is important to him, no matter who he gets killed.

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• But perhaps this is the calculus of aging, you lose the accumulation of who you once were by unidentifiable objects, then you lose some more.

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• "I failed. Won't get into the details of why, but I did." Because Geto in his arms, decades away, feels a lot like failure to Gojo, somehow. Geto is so much better than all of them - and he's slipping through the cracks. How can Geto confidently say he didn't fail him.

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• At the last minute, every intricate detail that they've come to know with each other is wrong and ugly and hazardous, and perhaps Geto is right with approaching the truth of the foundation they've been told about, but Gojo wants to believe it's not that easy for him to let shit fall to the wayside, because it's been years, and Gojo fucking loves him, deep and nearly volatile.
• I don’t know what to write down now that I actually have the time in my hands, and honestly, this feels like a young thing to do.