DRABBLE - Sunk
Fandom: Tekkonkinkreet
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Notes: I found this in an old folder and thought I'd post it, since Writer's Block is still a RAMPANT PLAGUING BEAST.
Black is one of my favorite characters, I often use him as inspiration for Tora.
For as long as he lived, it was only ever about the two of them. It was so much simpler like that, live each day in the moment, looking for food whenever they got hungry, stealing from anyone they came across without a moment's hesitation, thinking only of themselves, because no one else really mattered. No technicolor was necessary. Not even gray-scale. Just Black and White.
When they took White out of the equation, it shot everything straight to hell.
If he had held onto enough sanity to think in comprehensible thoughts, Black would've likened the change to the earth splintering from its axis and careening out of the suns orbit. Without that life-sustaining warmth, and light, all that's left is darkness. Without anything to keep the planet on a steady course, all it can do is grow colder and drift away, only a shadow of the living organism it used to be.
Even though Black couldn't float off into space, he made some pretty valiant attempts.
Unchecked, his hair began to grow long, messy and unwashed. It hung past his ears, and eventually down to his chin. His clothes got increasingly filthy, not that it bothered him. He only abandoned them when they became so tattered they nearly fell off. Days, weeks, and months ceased to have meaning. He would go countless days without eating or sleeping, as though he'd forgotten that he ought to be caring for himself.
His eyes clouded, and it wasn't long before the people he passed on the street stopped having faces. His line of sight shrank, until the only points of focus left were the physical pains of hunger and the bruises, scraped knees, and split knuckles from fighting whatever the hell he continued fighting.
Pain, and White. He didn't think about getting White back, making plans and following them through had long since escaped him. He thought about White's tree, and the smack of pavement underneath their shoes when he ran with White through their town, and he thought about cats, and yakuza, and the monster that drew closer just outside his peripheral, and White's face on the other side of the glass and plastered in half-dried blood.
People spoke to him occasionally: "-the hell out of my way you little fuc-", "-what's he doing in the street, mommy-", "-would you like some bread, son-", "-city's going to the dogs." But the faceless lumps of flesh spoke in a tongue that Black no longer had ears for.
He was untouchable - a wall of detachment from everything around him that wasn't White. He couldn't feel the right pain from blows, emotions and sensations swirled together and began to dull. It was important to live, if only because it was important to protect the city that belonged to him, and his brother. The city, the fighting, the monster.
When the monster came to a stop beside him, it was easier to fend off the other fighters. They were big, but the monster was stronger, and Black found himself grinning for the first time in a long while, because the strength fit into his joints and his fingers like gravity had finally decided to renew a claim on him. The pull was new, and compelling, and promised that he could be free from the empty he'd steeped himself so deeply in.
The pull was not like White's gravitational light, it was not a pull to be just and loyal to any important person. It was a pull that said fuck 'em all, and it made so much more sense to settle than work for the light that was always just out of reach. Black could see why it made such perfect, crystal clear sense. The monster laughed, edgy and condescending, as though it knew all along that Black never had a choice.
Laughed, and laughed, until Black's throat was sore and he crumpled against the nearest wall and laughed some more.
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Notes: I found this in an old folder and thought I'd post it, since Writer's Block is still a RAMPANT PLAGUING BEAST.
Black is one of my favorite characters, I often use him as inspiration for Tora.
For as long as he lived, it was only ever about the two of them. It was so much simpler like that, live each day in the moment, looking for food whenever they got hungry, stealing from anyone they came across without a moment's hesitation, thinking only of themselves, because no one else really mattered. No technicolor was necessary. Not even gray-scale. Just Black and White.
When they took White out of the equation, it shot everything straight to hell.
If he had held onto enough sanity to think in comprehensible thoughts, Black would've likened the change to the earth splintering from its axis and careening out of the suns orbit. Without that life-sustaining warmth, and light, all that's left is darkness. Without anything to keep the planet on a steady course, all it can do is grow colder and drift away, only a shadow of the living organism it used to be.
Even though Black couldn't float off into space, he made some pretty valiant attempts.
Unchecked, his hair began to grow long, messy and unwashed. It hung past his ears, and eventually down to his chin. His clothes got increasingly filthy, not that it bothered him. He only abandoned them when they became so tattered they nearly fell off. Days, weeks, and months ceased to have meaning. He would go countless days without eating or sleeping, as though he'd forgotten that he ought to be caring for himself.
His eyes clouded, and it wasn't long before the people he passed on the street stopped having faces. His line of sight shrank, until the only points of focus left were the physical pains of hunger and the bruises, scraped knees, and split knuckles from fighting whatever the hell he continued fighting.
Pain, and White. He didn't think about getting White back, making plans and following them through had long since escaped him. He thought about White's tree, and the smack of pavement underneath their shoes when he ran with White through their town, and he thought about cats, and yakuza, and the monster that drew closer just outside his peripheral, and White's face on the other side of the glass and plastered in half-dried blood.
People spoke to him occasionally: "-the hell out of my way you little fuc-", "-what's he doing in the street, mommy-", "-would you like some bread, son-", "-city's going to the dogs." But the faceless lumps of flesh spoke in a tongue that Black no longer had ears for.
He was untouchable - a wall of detachment from everything around him that wasn't White. He couldn't feel the right pain from blows, emotions and sensations swirled together and began to dull. It was important to live, if only because it was important to protect the city that belonged to him, and his brother. The city, the fighting, the monster.
When the monster came to a stop beside him, it was easier to fend off the other fighters. They were big, but the monster was stronger, and Black found himself grinning for the first time in a long while, because the strength fit into his joints and his fingers like gravity had finally decided to renew a claim on him. The pull was new, and compelling, and promised that he could be free from the empty he'd steeped himself so deeply in.
The pull was not like White's gravitational light, it was not a pull to be just and loyal to any important person. It was a pull that said fuck 'em all, and it made so much more sense to settle than work for the light that was always just out of reach. Black could see why it made such perfect, crystal clear sense. The monster laughed, edgy and condescending, as though it knew all along that Black never had a choice.
Laughed, and laughed, until Black's throat was sore and he crumpled against the nearest wall and laughed some more.