[Nothing's mattered when it's applied to himself. When he takes his hand, the calloused fingers grip his own, and Shoto's skin feels the scratch. Their rapid descent denies him time for a blink; and then they're falling before they're plunged, sharp air surging past the shapes of his ears, only to surface seemingly up and weightlessly light on their feet. The devastation—is what it is, given how far it's seemed to stretch—draws him quietly as a wisp of smoke. He feels the embers, yes; but this doesn't stop him from peering behind and half-distracted to watch...
All flowers—all bright petals littering scorched-earth dirt. Their blended minds mixed and matched—blurred too sudden then nearly seamlessly split. Shoto's bright against the smoke, Katsuki's glowing within its flames itself. Stark white flowers emerging from dark, burnt chaff. The blackened char of blistered wood, paired with livelier showings of lilies and grass, colors their still-insistent growth in its dust. Pale on moss, but gradually lessened in the soft, fuzzy thick of it.
This is the depths of the curious heart still attached: clusters of rindou, snapdragons and cloves; quietly shy, new-born orchids dotting its landscape pink as fat drops of paint. Whatever ugliness he's endured, it's seemingly lost to him where it's been drowned in the sea of it; moonflowers white out of trauma and burns... Iris, peony, edelweiss, rose. Wildflowers full in the gaps. Perfectly still, perfectly red, orange roses interspersed and mimicking tiny, still explosions themselves.
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All flowers—all bright petals littering scorched-earth dirt. Their blended minds mixed and matched—blurred too sudden then nearly seamlessly split. Shoto's bright against the smoke, Katsuki's glowing within its flames itself. Stark white flowers emerging from dark, burnt chaff. The blackened char of blistered wood, paired with livelier showings of lilies and grass, colors their still-insistent growth in its dust. Pale on moss, but gradually lessened in the soft, fuzzy thick of it.
This is the depths of the curious heart still attached: clusters of rindou, snapdragons and cloves; quietly shy, new-born orchids dotting its landscape pink as fat drops of paint. Whatever ugliness he's endured, it's seemingly lost to him where it's been drowned in the sea of it; moonflowers white out of trauma and burns... Iris, peony, edelweiss, rose. Wildflowers full in the gaps. Perfectly still, perfectly red, orange roses interspersed and mimicking tiny, still explosions themselves.
He doesn't know this place.]
What- [he offers him, tries again.] What's happening here, exactly?