Well, then we're on the same page. [ A glance at Megumi, the lights of Shinjuku glancing off of Sukuna's as they drive past the entertainment district. ] See? I can be pleasant. We'll get along just fine.
[ Sukuna's brows arch, and he sits back in his seat, slouching like the oddly casual creature that he is, and his fingers steeple. Whatever that Gojo's lot are up to with this, he doesn't intend to find out. He'll have his fun with the boy, and if he develops a liking for him (too late for that, he supposes; it's the eyes), then he'll keep him. Whether or not Gojo wants him back is besides the point; he'll have to, in Megumi's words, reacquire him.
It's the twitch in the boy's hands that he notices.
Though they are not alike, not in any wayโ if anything, Sukuna would be the perfect converse to Megumi's gentle calm. Rooms flicker to life or dim as his mood changes; his impression of Megumi is that that atmosphere must turn to a lull; not one of boredom, but one of calm. Though they are not alikeโ Sukuna knows a stray when he sees one. Having no name himself, having come from a family without history, without a legacy, he was the violent converse of Megumi's path. He'd take it over this sort of un-resistance any day; Sukuna has only ever known how to be a bloodied sword in a crowd; it seems Megumi knows how to be whatever he must be. The twitch in the boy's hands is the quiet tell; he hates this, the whole thing, all of itโ perhaps, Sukuna muses, even Sukuna himself. He wonders then, if it is Megumi who will be the one to slip the final knife between his second and third ribs; upward, and to the right.
He leans forwards; sitting up very suddenly, movement like an animal's; acting on a whim that came to him as quickly as the coil of muscle propelled him.
He speaks to the driver, only ever with that lilt of wryness in his tone: ] Take us to the Shinjuku place, not the house.
[ All good yakuza keep a grand estate just outside of Tokyo. He had assumed that Gojo would assume that he would take the boy out there; like a beast dragging something to its den. Well, not so.
Sitting back, he looks over at Megumi, and reaches out, a hand closing on the boy's hand, stilling that very slight tremor. ]
I'll show you the apartment instead. You must be tired of estates and lawnsโ
[ A beat, then, a stroke of his thumb against the boy's soft wrist. ]
โGojo's property.
[ Bad joke. He smiles at it (no matter what, he always seems to find himself terribly funny). He takes up that hand in his own, but not to hold, to look at; as one would do with property, his words only ringing truer. ]
Well. Something you have in common with his house, I trust. You enjoy that?
no subject
[ Sukuna's brows arch, and he sits back in his seat, slouching like the oddly casual creature that he is, and his fingers steeple. Whatever that Gojo's lot are up to with this, he doesn't intend to find out. He'll have his fun with the boy, and if he develops a liking for him (too late for that, he supposes; it's the eyes), then he'll keep him. Whether or not Gojo wants him back is besides the point; he'll have to, in Megumi's words, reacquire him.
It's the twitch in the boy's hands that he notices.
Though they are not alike, not in any wayโ if anything, Sukuna would be the perfect converse to Megumi's gentle calm. Rooms flicker to life or dim as his mood changes; his impression of Megumi is that that atmosphere must turn to a lull; not one of boredom, but one of calm. Though they are not alikeโ Sukuna knows a stray when he sees one. Having no name himself, having come from a family without history, without a legacy, he was the violent converse of Megumi's path. He'd take it over this sort of un-resistance any day; Sukuna has only ever known how to be a bloodied sword in a crowd; it seems Megumi knows how to be whatever he must be. The twitch in the boy's hands is the quiet tell; he hates this, the whole thing, all of itโ perhaps, Sukuna muses, even Sukuna himself. He wonders then, if it is Megumi who will be the one to slip the final knife between his second and third ribs; upward, and to the right.
He leans forwards; sitting up very suddenly, movement like an animal's; acting on a whim that came to him as quickly as the coil of muscle propelled him.
He speaks to the driver, only ever with that lilt of wryness in his tone: ] Take us to the Shinjuku place, not the house.
[ All good yakuza keep a grand estate just outside of Tokyo. He had assumed that Gojo would assume that he would take the boy out there; like a beast dragging something to its den. Well, not so.
Sitting back, he looks over at Megumi, and reaches out, a hand closing on the boy's hand, stilling that very slight tremor. ]
I'll show you the apartment instead. You must be tired of estates and lawnsโ
[ A beat, then, a stroke of his thumb against the boy's soft wrist. ]
โGojo's property.
[ Bad joke. He smiles at it (no matter what, he always seems to find himself terribly funny). He takes up that hand in his own, but not to hold, to look at; as one would do with property, his words only ringing truer. ]
Well. Something you have in common with his house, I trust. You enjoy that?