Black and White
By Sarah Koh
[Drabble, darkish-shônen-ai] Daisuke compares Ken to—of all things—a soccer ball. "Stuff" happens, not necessarily connected with the soccer ball. Strange little fic that demanded to be written.
Disclaimer: DGM 02 belongs to people other than I.
Note: Fixed a typo some reviewers caught.
Daisuke doesn't quite know what to make of Ken. Ken's his best friend, so by all the rights of nature and man, they should know each other better than the other does.
And he does—he knows the way Ken's hair shadows his face when he doesn't want to speak, the far away look in his eyes when he's remembering the Kaiser, the odd half-smile sometimes lingering on Ken's face when he's amused—but, at the same time, he doesn't.
Daisuke's no poet. He's just Daisuke, twelve years old, with goggles and gloves and the best partner in the world who doubles as the best best friend in the world.
Sakura-sensei, his Writing teacher, gives him an assignment.
"Compare someone to an object. Use at least ten similes or metaphors, and explain why you picked those descriptions," she writes on the board in neat, "teacher" handwriting.
Daisuke's no writer. He belongs out on the soccer field, dribbling a black-and-white ball down the field, passing it to a dark-haired boy with pale white skin and quiet eyes—or maybe in another world where monsters aren't "monsters", not really, and he's battling some evil guy ready to take over that world.
He doesn't like being in a classroom, learning about similes and metaphors and stuff like that. The room's always too hot and stuffy, their bodies too close together, and it's just weird to be away from Takeru or Hikari or Ken or any of the others.
But he does the assignment anyway, written in his illegible scrawl and he hopes he can just get out of this room, now.
Daisuke's no poet. He picks Ken—they're Jogress partners after all, their hearts beat as one, and Ken's his best friend—and says he's like a soccer ball. One down, nine more to go.
There's more logic to his statement than at first glance, but it's hard to phrase everything right. He doesn't want to tell anyone about the Digital World, but subtlety's never been his forte.
There's moments when Ken is Kaiser. There's moment when he is Ken. And then there are times when he isn't either of them, but someone else, someone in between the two personas—and Daisuke doesn't know who that someone is. That "someone" is like the gray thread stitching the black and white patches together1.
Daisuke doesn't write that down though—he's smarter than that. He just writes "Ken's like a soccer ball because he's cool and great to hang with and blah blah blah." Then time's up, and Daisuke's not done, but it's not like he really cares.
He doesn't tell Ken about his paper, because he knows Ken will look at him, surprised, and ask, "Why me?" And Daisuke won't know how to answer, because he doesn't really know, other than them being Jogress partners and everything.
Daisuke's better at drawing than he is at writing. He's okay at it, and Ken, being such a great friend, insists that he's not "okay", he's brilliant. But, of course, Ken's just being nice. It's not true—why else would he get a D in Art?
Ken also insists he has an inferiority complex—so Daisuke says if he does, then so does Ken. It's the only argument he's ever won, seeing as how Ken's so logical and precise in what he does.
All day long, the soccer ball simile haunts Daisuke, because it's disturbingly true, now that he thinks about it.
They dart down the field, yelling in friendly competition, then Daisuke goes in for the kill—it's the same trick he tried when they first met, and it ends the same way too. Ken's limping a bit, a cut bleeding on his shin—
But it's like he doesn't notice. He just smiles, waves away Daisuke's concern, and keeps on playing like there's nothing wrong. Like Daisuke's soccer balls—they get beat up all the time because he uses them for more than scoring goals with, but they keep on going until they fall apart.
Daisuke hopes that won't happen to Ken—prays—because he doesn't know how he'll live without his best friend, almost his only friend.
Ken always speaks the truth. Always, always, always. It's like a fact of life—fire burns, kindness is good, and Ken tells the truth.
But not all of it.
He's like that one guy with the braid in that one kids' show that Daisuke refuses to admit he's been watching, because he's too old for cartoons—Duo Maxwell, or something. Yeah, him—the "I run, I hide, but I never lie" guy.
See—Ken tells the truth. But not all of it, or maybe implies something different than what it actually is. Ken has a way with words, picking his way through them delicately, and uses them so you can't tell whether he's speaking half-truths or whole. But the ring of truth's always there, lying underneath his words, so you have to go along with him and hope for the best.
But it's not Ken—not really. Kaiser lies, Ken speaks the truth, and the "someone" who's a bit of Ken and a bit of Kaiser tells the half-truths.
The others don't know the difference. They think half-Kaiser is Ken, so they believe him. And when they fail, they have no one to believe but themselves.
Daisuke knows better.
Oh—sure. He's not that smart, not like Ken, he doesn't have the entire basketball star=popularity gig going on, like Takeru does, he's not well-disciplined and strong like Iori—he's Daisuke; wild, brash, brave, and Ken's best friend.
But he can see. He can see Ken and the odd little-half smile on his lips, the soft curve of a real smile that changes his entire face... He can see Ken-Kaiser, see through his half-truths and half-lies to the real core of the matter—and that's what counts, really.
Ken knows he can.
Knows, and doesn't care.
~*~
1. At least, there's gray thread on my soccer ball. :p
Um...review?