I like writing drabbles like these. Not very much to say, please read on.


Infinite.

by Tamashii


No, no, no. Now that wasn't quite right.

No matter which way he turned it something about it didn't seem quite right.

He was most disappointed in himself.

He'd considered himself to be something of an artist, an artist of the highest degree.

So even as he carelessly wiped crimson from his glossy tools, he noticed that he'd been flawed as of late.

So flawed.

Why?

He buried one of his precious tools into his failed work, disgusted with himself and not with the red that coated the entirety of his bulky frame.

No, his usual icy perfection had been tainted.

His work was art; it was so full of life.

Why had it become so lifeless now? (No pun intended, of course.)

The fall from perfection stung quite deeply indeed.

He could only stare at the thick redness that coated his hands, as if staring at the fresh stains long enough would give him the answers he sought.

Ha. How thin this substance was. It was funny, almost, and he had to fight to hold back the hysterical giggle that threatened to break free.

His art was ruined. He had no desire to stare at his failures.


The stench didn't even bother him anymore, he was too accustomed to it.

Humming to himself, he tossed his bundle away into the flickering flames. They ate his art without a second thought as if it were some sort of snack.

He hoped he wouldn't be making a habit of this, really now. The people deserved to see his art on display.


The clean up process was dull.

He didn't much like getting rid of all the red. Red was such a vibrant color and it was a waste keeping it all locked away.

There were chemical imitations of it but nothing was quite the same. It was all so dull, dull, dull and ugly in comparison.

It was like comparing a work by Monet to a child's meaningless scribbles. There wasn't even a comparison.


"I'm onto you."

"I'd expect no less."

"..."

"Please, when you figure me out, feel free to come observe. I'd love to have an audience."

His wide smile was met with a snort of disgust as he turned, eager to see his precious red once again.


If he'd thought red was beautiful beyo

nd comparison...

Why hadn't he considered that he himself could be a work of art?

He laughed, crimson leaking from the corners of his mouth, his chest, his arms and legs. Yet he laughed.

"You're insane."

He shook his head slowly, wiping away pinkish tears of mirth.

"Not insane, friend. An artist."

In a burst of color, he knew no more.


Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.


Um. I've got a bit of an idea for an AU multichaptered fiction based off this drabble.

Majority of it was from Ivan's point of view, if that wasn't obvious.

So if anyone wants to see the multichaptered version, let me know?

Also, yes, I realize I like writing morbid things. I don't know why when I'm not at all a depressing person in real life. I just like writing about darker things.

Anyway, please do review. Poetic things like this are my specialty.

I'm very tired. Physically, I mean. I'm writing this after being terribly busy all day. So it's not the best, but I had to put this up. Really.