(no subject)
Title: Eulogy
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters: Simon, Kamina and Kittan references.
Genre: Angst. So fucking angst.
Rating: PG
Summary: Spoilers for ep. 8, if they can even be called that anymore. *was spoiled*
He couldn’t look; he knew it would end, that he couldn’t delude himself once he did. So his fingers dug into the mud, drew it out even when it slumped in again. A man never quits, no matter the odds; a man finished what he began.
Simon coughed and choked on a sob.
They’d tried to take him away before, tried to drag him out and put him somewhere that Simon couldn’t see. There was a flash of green and suddenly Kittan was on his back, stunned but uninjured, and Simon was clinging to the cold, slick arm, screaming at him, at all of them, and they only stared. They didn’t understand. How could they? Who could?
The only one who could was gone.
Simon’s fist squelched the mud, splattered it against his cheek as his forehead met the ground and his teeth clenched, tasting grit. The rain pitter-pattered on his jacket; it was heavy, but Simon couldn’t take it off. Never, never never. He needed it now, needed it. Like air. Like water. Like sunlight and breath and belief.
All of that was gone, gone. He couldn’t breathe. So instead…Simon dug. The mud fell back in, but he dug. A nail broke off on a rogue stone; his finger started to bleed, and mud and water stung the wound. Simon dug. The water swirled with beige foam in the hole, filthy and thick. Simon dug.
Simon dug. And dug. And dug.
And it wasn’t until the hole was gone, the lake beneath the muck and the stone with his nail and his blood buried with his brother that Simon let himself scream again.
Fandom: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Characters: Simon, Kamina and Kittan references.
Genre: Angst. So fucking angst.
Rating: PG
Summary: Spoilers for ep. 8, if they can even be called that anymore. *was spoiled*
He couldn’t look; he knew it would end, that he couldn’t delude himself once he did. So his fingers dug into the mud, drew it out even when it slumped in again. A man never quits, no matter the odds; a man finished what he began.
Simon coughed and choked on a sob.
They’d tried to take him away before, tried to drag him out and put him somewhere that Simon couldn’t see. There was a flash of green and suddenly Kittan was on his back, stunned but uninjured, and Simon was clinging to the cold, slick arm, screaming at him, at all of them, and they only stared. They didn’t understand. How could they? Who could?
The only one who could was gone.
Simon’s fist squelched the mud, splattered it against his cheek as his forehead met the ground and his teeth clenched, tasting grit. The rain pitter-pattered on his jacket; it was heavy, but Simon couldn’t take it off. Never, never never. He needed it now, needed it. Like air. Like water. Like sunlight and breath and belief.
All of that was gone, gone. He couldn’t breathe. So instead…Simon dug. The mud fell back in, but he dug. A nail broke off on a rogue stone; his finger started to bleed, and mud and water stung the wound. Simon dug. The water swirled with beige foam in the hole, filthy and thick. Simon dug.
Simon dug. And dug. And dug.
And it wasn’t until the hole was gone, the lake beneath the muck and the stone with his nail and his blood buried with his brother that Simon let himself scream again.