this argument had lasted for too long now.

geto swallowed harshly, exhaling shakily. his fingertips held onto strands of snow tight as he pressed their foreheads firmly together.

“satoru,” he croaked, throat gone dry. geto missed the man who looked at him as if he’d hung the stars—not the man who now did with apathy.

geto’s practiced mask of composure began to chip.

his hands traced over gojo’s face; self-soothing.

“you’ve grown so beautifully.”

the windy storm shrieked and raged outside—but the silence of the man in geto’s arms was deafening.