blood, sender cleans blood off of receiver. ( Gojo and Nagumo )
truth be told, neither are in any position to be wasting time cleaning up the mess, and by mess he means this: blood-splattered clothes, indented weapons, empty cartridges. his mouth fills with the metallic aftertaste of it all, muscles finally itching as if to ask for attention and to be wrapped and tended by the same cloth that nagumo used on satoru’s cheek. (he makes it his life purpose to catch the asshole that bruised his face)
‘ you’re good at this, i didn’t think you’d actually take me seriously and mend the wounds. guess i owe you one. ’
in the span of one second, the atmosphere shifts into something more… comfortable, whatever comfortable was. for men of their profession, anything remotely close to peace is a far-fetched dream, so he snatches the moment and makes it his own, eyelids coming down and encapsulating sky-blues from the world, albeit briefly. nagumo’s presence is still palatable, impossible to ignore.
his fingers move methodically and almost as impersonal as the moment a knife slices through a target’s throat. if there’s something to respect about the man is exactly this: the commitment to his brand, expertise that’s only attained from the perfect combination of talent and a life on the field and not behind the monotony of a desk and a computer, aiding or sending out orders to the souls on the front.
cold liquid presses against his temple, the aching propels him forward, hands wrapped tightly around nagumo’s wrists.satoru’s eyes snap open, ‘ whoa! what was that?! are you trying to kill me? i thought we said no ethyl alcohol. ’
@tearenere