A Heart like Fool's Gold
Characters: Dino, heavily implied Dino-Hibari
Rating: PG
Words: 796
Summary: "Dino is a consummate fool. He is drawn to pretty things, dangerous things like whips and sharks and the taste of bittersweet poison on his tongue." Dino, Hibari, and fools.
There's something in this skylark's eyes, something heated and hungry; something yearning and fierce, like a tiger and muzzled for so long that he no longer knew what it is to be free, to be happy. It is something the draws Dino in – something that strikes a chord in that fool's gold heart of his, tugging him closer and closer and it doesn't matter that it is all so dangerous, this attachment. The skylark is a dangerous one, all teeth and bite with barely any bark – there's no need for a bark, for the glint of his teeth in the light – any light – was warning enough.
Dino is a consummate fool. He is drawn to pretty things, dangerous things like whips and sharks and the taste of bittersweet poison on his tongue. It makes his blood rush, his heart pound, and his head swim and it is exhilarating. He reaches out to an open flame and does not flinch when he is burnt – he relishes in the heat.
There is always something in the flash of pain. It chokes him like smoke; embraces him like a lover and he craves – craves – for more. He has not always been like this – once he had loved only pretty things, tripping over his feet to chase after them. It might be a ring, a diamond, or a flash of silver hair, but he always trips, and he always falls. When he falls and scrapes his knee, the pain comes again.
Perhaps this is how he learns to love it. It is a persistent suitor, chasing and dogging his heels ever since he was born. He has simply given in, after all, to the white-cold embraces and the hot kisses on his skin. Perseverance would get anyone anywhere, really.
But the skylark-
It is more than the pain; more than the beauty; more than the danger. It is something visceral, like Dino has a magnet inside his skin and it draws him inexonerably to the skylark. It is the sharpness in those dark eyes, Dino guesses, or perhaps the delicacy of those hands, or the moon-paleness of his skin. Or maybe it is all that in a sum of all that and more. Dino doesn't know.
The steel doesn't return the magnet's attraction. It- he- It is winter frost-incarnated, standing tall and alone. And yet- his beauty (its, its, Dino reminds himself; keep the distance, don't get too close) draws many to him, draws Dino to him. One has the urge to wrap him in soft furs, warm him up, and watch as pink replaces white and blue. Or even just a veil of black, to cover him from the world, to keep him all to oneself.
Of course, skylarks are free, and steel is cruel. There is nothing else in his (distance is no use, Dino thinks, and smiles wryly) mind then the kiss of steel against flesh and the crackle pop of bone, like fried skin. Dino has never met a skylark before that thirsts so much for battle and blood, but he supposes that it is what makes his so special, but-
But the skylark is not his, just as the shark wasn't, isn't. Dino can only chase after it, chase after its shadows and gets burnt by its flickering brightness once in a while. Dino is a horse chasing after the moon, over mountains and rivers and skies and oceans, getting closer-farther-closer-farther-closer and it never ends. He loves the chase too much, because it is danger and it is pain and the one he is chasing is so beautiful that he stops in his tracks whenever he manages to catch sight of him.
Dino smiles as he runs past the worlds and worlds of cages, leaving them behind. He is not one to watch to clip wings, because it is those wings – gliding along the wind, snapping against his own skin – which he had fallen for and will keep falling for. Why cage a skylark and mute it when you can watch it fly and sing? Even if every flap of those wings sends pain through him like crashing against a wall of steel, when it turns his blood cold and his breath short, when it causes his skin to split and bruise and bleed...
He has given into the pain long ago, he realizes. He has given in, and it is something he is used too and perhaps grown to love. It is something familiar, this burn, and he honestly does not mind chasing after his skylark forever.
Yet-
Yet sometimes, he wants terribly badly for his skylark to rest his wings – on a branch, on a leave, on even his own shoulder. He dares to hope – he always hopes.
He is a fool, after all.
End