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strikethrough) wrote2012-06-06 06:13 pm
strikethrough) wrote2012-06-06 06:13 pm
Entry tags:
fic: 6918 - so it's summer, so it's suicide,
Inspired by Siken and Verdi.
so it's summer, so it's suicide,
And sometimes the dull monotony of the everyday stops, and he can’t remember how he got to this place, in the middle of nowhere.
One glance tells him all he needs to know - there’s nothing that he can use here, and so with a sigh he picks his way across the shattered glass and the potholes in the ground, skipping over the twisted roots that climb and bulge out from the dry dust like so many snakes. it’s summer, the air is warm - he sees no need to be careful. the tenseness in him bleeds out slowly, spreading across the ground like intense sunlight over a lake’s calm surface.
He can hear the sounds of civilization in the distance - a faint murmur of traffic, but he’d rather stay here, where no one is crowding, and the sounds of the city are muted, than go back to that stifling apartment, full of old ghosts that only he can see. His phone battery is dead - perhaps that’s better, so that he won’t have to be bothered by anyone trying to call him. (herbivores, his mind whispers at him. He likes the sound of that.) Herbivores, he says, seeing how the word tastes on his tongue.
It’s bland, and he thinks it needs something else. Nothing comes to mind, though, and he lays down in the patch of grass underneath his feet, gazing up at the night sky. not so dark anymore, with dawn coming. He wonders what it would be like, to be free like the stars, staring down at the humans from their lofty perches. They’re as small as ants. Or are they as lonely as he is, longing for some kind of contact, but flinching away from everyone, simply because it’s in his nature? Those forces of gravity pull the stars together, but they push them apart.
And then this comes, when he’d thought he was alone out here.
My, this is certainly a rare sight. You’re not one I've seen around here before. Tell me, who are you?
He whips his head up and around, but no one’s there. Or, well, no one he can see, anyway.
who?
a mocking laugh.
why, I’m you. You’re me, and we’re everyone in the world~
he doesn’t like playing games. he’s never been good at them, and he hates what he’s not good at. another blunt question.
where are you?
everywhere, and nowhere at once. Dearest Kyouya~
get out of my head, herbivore.
(herbivore. herbivore. he likes the taste of it.)
I assure you, Kyouya, I’m a carnivore.
(a carnivore? was there even such a thing-
Ah, but he was one, wasn’t he? something that was out of the ordinary, different to those humans who never stopped to think, truly think)
Such as fascinating mind you have. Come, tell me. What makes you so different to those, ah, herbivores? (a hiss like a snake, the rasp of scales on a stone surface.)
He doesn’t know what this herbivore is trying to say to him, of course. Games are meaningless when you don't play them. Your name, he demands, like some petulant child.
My, my. Manners, Kyouya. (it isn’t fair that this mind-leech knows his name, and he doesn’t know. he doesn’t question if this is all a dream or--
fairness is only an abstract concept. life never worked that way.)
you can call me... hm, mukuro will do. (the flash of an indulgent smile, and the wisps of something that smellstastes like a fruit, something he’s had before)
One more second before the sun breaches the horizon, and he sits there, conversing with a voice in his head. (the thought that it might not be even real doesn’t occur to him - it’s something different from the usual monotony, and something interesting.
mere details.)
Then the sun breaks through the line of darkness that is the horizon, and the voice fades away, leaving only a lingering chuckle. Kyouya pouts, confused, but stays there until the golden orb has fully risen, tinting the clouds gold and shining right through them, transparent as skin.
His shoulders blot out the light, thin and fragile, a bird’s bones. Inside his dreams there’s something that only loves itself, when he opens his eyes it flies away, so much dust on a windowsill.
It’s more than he’s had in a long time.
end.
Title is from Richard Siken's Little Beast.
so it's summer, so it's suicide,
And sometimes the dull monotony of the everyday stops, and he can’t remember how he got to this place, in the middle of nowhere.
One glance tells him all he needs to know - there’s nothing that he can use here, and so with a sigh he picks his way across the shattered glass and the potholes in the ground, skipping over the twisted roots that climb and bulge out from the dry dust like so many snakes. it’s summer, the air is warm - he sees no need to be careful. the tenseness in him bleeds out slowly, spreading across the ground like intense sunlight over a lake’s calm surface.
He can hear the sounds of civilization in the distance - a faint murmur of traffic, but he’d rather stay here, where no one is crowding, and the sounds of the city are muted, than go back to that stifling apartment, full of old ghosts that only he can see. His phone battery is dead - perhaps that’s better, so that he won’t have to be bothered by anyone trying to call him. (herbivores, his mind whispers at him. He likes the sound of that.) Herbivores, he says, seeing how the word tastes on his tongue.
It’s bland, and he thinks it needs something else. Nothing comes to mind, though, and he lays down in the patch of grass underneath his feet, gazing up at the night sky. not so dark anymore, with dawn coming. He wonders what it would be like, to be free like the stars, staring down at the humans from their lofty perches. They’re as small as ants. Or are they as lonely as he is, longing for some kind of contact, but flinching away from everyone, simply because it’s in his nature? Those forces of gravity pull the stars together, but they push them apart.
And then this comes, when he’d thought he was alone out here.
My, this is certainly a rare sight. You’re not one I've seen around here before. Tell me, who are you?
He whips his head up and around, but no one’s there. Or, well, no one he can see, anyway.
who?
a mocking laugh.
why, I’m you. You’re me, and we’re everyone in the world~
he doesn’t like playing games. he’s never been good at them, and he hates what he’s not good at. another blunt question.
where are you?
everywhere, and nowhere at once. Dearest Kyouya~
get out of my head, herbivore.
(herbivore. herbivore. he likes the taste of it.)
I assure you, Kyouya, I’m a carnivore.
(a carnivore? was there even such a thing-
Ah, but he was one, wasn’t he? something that was out of the ordinary, different to those humans who never stopped to think, truly think)
Such as fascinating mind you have. Come, tell me. What makes you so different to those, ah, herbivores? (a hiss like a snake, the rasp of scales on a stone surface.)
He doesn’t know what this herbivore is trying to say to him, of course. Games are meaningless when you don't play them. Your name, he demands, like some petulant child.
My, my. Manners, Kyouya. (it isn’t fair that this mind-leech knows his name, and he doesn’t know. he doesn’t question if this is all a dream or--
fairness is only an abstract concept. life never worked that way.)
you can call me... hm, mukuro will do. (the flash of an indulgent smile, and the wisps of something that smellstastes like a fruit, something he’s had before)
One more second before the sun breaches the horizon, and he sits there, conversing with a voice in his head. (the thought that it might not be even real doesn’t occur to him - it’s something different from the usual monotony, and something interesting.
mere details.)
Then the sun breaks through the line of darkness that is the horizon, and the voice fades away, leaving only a lingering chuckle. Kyouya pouts, confused, but stays there until the golden orb has fully risen, tinting the clouds gold and shining right through them, transparent as skin.
His shoulders blot out the light, thin and fragile, a bird’s bones. Inside his dreams there’s something that only loves itself, when he opens his eyes it flies away, so much dust on a windowsill.
It’s more than he’s had in a long time.
end.
Title is from Richard Siken's Little Beast.