Clockwork boys

Most people move to an existing tune; some create their own. - unknown.

Gears shift and click unto space, until eyes whir clockwise sifting them into place

tick

This is his proof of purchase

Black swirls across a page signing his identity away like truth and motion and he pauses at the patpat-pat of white discordant feet tapping the tatami flooring of his ordered room, his ordered life.

He pauses a beat to beat in time and wonders why his lesser hand shifts to soothe a lesser mind and taps white forehead to set the rhythm right.

Black eyes swirl with uncultured emotion and he lets the quiet understanding in them curl his lips to form the endless lie, maybe tomorrow, otouto, we might.

tick

This is his outer shell discarded

Red metal falls to refract the dimming light in dying eyes and cast new shadows in their wake. He watches for the patpat-pat of frantic heartbeat heaving a tatami boy across the distance between them until its close enough to taint, to touch.

He does, grinding the beat to a halt and ponders why his breath curls warm and his blood runs hot (like a real boy's and that will not do) as the lesser's tears fall in reality's time.

Black eyes glaze with unadulterated truths as he let the memories whir into place to continue the chosen rhyme, run, hate, and learn to survive.

ticktock

Then there were two

Red rage twisting through blackened heart year upon year until it manifests at last, at last, and when the rhythm slows and becomes rusted and weary and almost real he turns to taptap-tap it back into line, unto ordered chaos so that it beats again in tune, in compliment to perfection, to orchestration.

He later finds the ripples most discordant and considers why his hands coil ever-tighter in absence of lesser throat's pulse under it, searching for lost harmony until the shifting of scales at the edge of hearing fall in his stead.

Black eyes simmer now with unbridled hatred and he whispers of words unsaid amidst notions already met, you are weak, yet.

Tocktick

Then the pattern turns

Red-black eyes meet his own with uncanny precision and he fades backback-back into memory and rekindled notions of contrast and comparison, have you not, grown taller.

He shifts the perspective and observes from afar the way time and design have cast a lesser echo of the boy he once was, and the hands set a future-past time and place for only kin fallen.

Echoes click thereafter of truths and deceptions, upcoming revelations and confrontations. He waits as ever for the gears to turn his assembled parts into a polished whole, a masterpiece making the prototype outmoded, so that his whirring can come to completion, to a stop.

Tick

(tock)


…Blame BeLuc for reigniting my obsession with these two and expect more procrastination on ITB while I try to find my Narusasu muse again –shakes fist- Damn you for your Uchiha, girl! They BURNT my BRAIN.