[ fushiguro megumi, once zen'in, and likely zen'in again if not for the events that are about to spiral from this night's meeting alone, is well acquainted with this underworld because no matter his name, the domain is not so changed. satoru's benefaction has seen him and tsumiki through many years and promises years ahead, supposing his sister ever wakes up to see them, supposing megumi himself does not die before they can happen. not that satoru would ever let that happen, but sometimes the pride of infinity is as much a weakness as a strength.
long fingers curl on his knee and he sighs. they've spoken about this before: it's childish and there isn't any need. satoru's way of reminding of a claim that goes deeper than convenient finance and choiceless blood; satoru's ...satoruness. megumi's sigh in this half-light is completely lost but it does happen and the slight pull of his expression is its substitute. it is not that he minds the touch; satoru is one of the few individuals, in fact, the only one left properly sentient on this plane, who he both permits and, privately, invites. an attempt at distance is futile with satoru who is the one to both make and break the rules whether of their own contract or that of one left behind upon megumi's shoulders by a father who died too young as if chasing the mother who died even earlier. rather than touch, it is satoru's falsified drunkenness. can he not tell that sukuna-dono can see through it? no. megumi is sure that he can. so why the farce?
a sigh dies premature again and when sukuna addresses him, megumi looks up at him through long lashes and a veil of green suited to winter more than summer. ]
I β
[ somehow the way that sukuna leans in is both slow and fast, composed, measured, reminiscent of certain animals megumi is familiar with because he has always gotten along better with them; understood them. megumi himself is reminiscent of a rabbit stunned or a deer in headlights, conscious somehow without thinking about it too much, that to not move is preferred. even his inhales and exhales have a stillness like some kind of externalized dead sea. he neither smiles back nor frowns despite feeling the inclination to do so. being brought into this life early, he does know vaguely how to keep up appearances, and when entering certain environments is prepared to do so. it is the opposite rather of how he is day-to-day, where caught off-guard, his lies are transparent, but more often than not, megumi simply does not traffic in them to begin with. ]
what does he know already of ryomen sukuna? not much. the man keeps his enigma only tandem with his power in the known circles as well as the lesser articulated. there is a reason satoru meets with him tonight and megumi knows before he is asked that he will be enlisted to do more than bow his head and say hello; not that he bows his head. sukuna is too close for that, and there is the excuse of decorum and the weird unwritten rule of who megumi 'belongs' to that both controls and protects him. but he is not newborn nor stupid. he lets his gaze fall in a way that somehow conveys the right amount of respect and acknowledgment, the calibre of elegance reserved in another life for a palace court. ]
There is nothing secretive about it, Sukuna-dono.
[ 'megumi'. blessing. he's not sure it suits him; but it is his, regardless. ]
y e s
long fingers curl on his knee and he sighs. they've spoken about this before: it's childish and there isn't any need. satoru's way of reminding of a claim that goes deeper than convenient finance and choiceless blood; satoru's ...satoruness. megumi's sigh in this half-light is completely lost but it does happen and the slight pull of his expression is its substitute. it is not that he minds the touch; satoru is one of the few individuals, in fact, the only one left properly sentient on this plane, who he both permits and, privately, invites. an attempt at distance is futile with satoru who is the one to both make and break the rules whether of their own contract or that of one left behind upon megumi's shoulders by a father who died too young as if chasing the mother who died even earlier. rather than touch, it is satoru's falsified drunkenness. can he not tell that sukuna-dono can see through it? no. megumi is sure that he can. so why the farce?
a sigh dies premature again and when sukuna addresses him, megumi looks up at him through long lashes and a veil of green suited to winter more than summer. ]
I β
[ somehow the way that sukuna leans in is both slow and fast, composed, measured, reminiscent of certain animals megumi is familiar with because he has always gotten along better with them; understood them. megumi himself is reminiscent of a rabbit stunned or a deer in headlights, conscious somehow without thinking about it too much, that to not move is preferred. even his inhales and exhales have a stillness like some kind of externalized dead sea. he neither smiles back nor frowns despite feeling the inclination to do so. being brought into this life early, he does know vaguely how to keep up appearances, and when entering certain environments is prepared to do so. it is the opposite rather of how he is day-to-day, where caught off-guard, his lies are transparent, but more often than not, megumi simply does not traffic in them to begin with. ]
what does he know already of ryomen sukuna? not much. the man keeps his enigma only tandem with his power in the known circles as well as the lesser articulated. there is a reason satoru meets with him tonight and megumi knows before he is asked that he will be enlisted to do more than bow his head and say hello; not that he bows his head. sukuna is too close for that, and there is the excuse of decorum and the weird unwritten rule of who megumi 'belongs' to that both controls and protects him. but he is not newborn nor stupid. he lets his gaze fall in a way that somehow conveys the right amount of respect and acknowledgment, the calibre of elegance reserved in another life for a palace court. ]
There is nothing secretive about it, Sukuna-dono.
[ 'megumi'. blessing. he's not sure it suits him; but it is his, regardless. ]