Rhythm
The syncopated caws of the raucous crows outside your bedroom window, the low bass of cars passing on the street below, the tuneless song of rain pounding porcelain in your shower, the paradiddle your friend Rose taps out nervously with a spit-shined oxford, the periodical humphsyour foster-mom sighs out while watching the news- you could go on. The beats swarm in your head, and the orchestra gears up, each and every morning, ready to play out the symphony; and, through it all, the back-beat of your heart doing it's thing and thu-thumping away.
All day every day.
And fuck, if you aren't annoyed by it. The sound of your heart, that is. You think it's because it muffles the other beats, tries to monopolize the songs and drown out the orchestra; it's just plain selfish, the sound of you heart.
Rose's looking at you, the nervous beat paused, as she looks, no, kinda stares as you walk into the room. Her beat itself isn't nervous, but the beat she creates around her is. You try not to listen too closely to Rose's real beat. It's fuckin grimdark, and you think it'll make your ears bleed 'cause some shit ain't meant to be heard.
The rhythm of your world skips and scratches for a second, like someone sorta jiggled the player and the needle hopped up for a second, before resuming it's complicated beat.
You deadpan something about there being a 'Disturbance in the Force'. And damn, if that wasn't so ironic it would be lame afff. But it's actually not that ironic, because truthfully you really did feel something shift in the main beat. But you meant it sarcastically- and honestly, this personality you have
(Created)
can be hard to keep up, with all the sweet, sweet irony and shit.
You eat poptarts for breakfast. Listen to the morning beats you've heard a million times before, a song that's been playing itself over and over for as long as you can remember.
You do trig on the bus, listen to the hustle-bustle-bugaloo your classmates make. The rhythm is a quick-time-shuffle of blown glass, hard and fragile like the teens that make it's backbone.
You space in first period, letting the void left by your conscious brain fill with aggressive horns and sickly-sweet viola's and deep, resonant basses that sounded like slow-poured honey or deep sea fish.
You don't know if it's because you're naturally melancholy, or almost theatrically unimaginative, but you've always liked the bass the best. To you it's the slick undercurrent of all rhythms, the dark spines that hold every song together.
And suddenly you're snapping our of a haze that you've, honestly, been in all morning, as someone jiggles the player. Jiggles it quite a bit, so hard that you force the needle back onto the player, dislike the silence to which even your own selfish beat relented to.
It's a new kid. And he hasn't just stopped the beat.
He is the stop beat.
A/N: Subsonic is this fyy song by Excision. It's hardcore dubstep, so if you dig that, check it out. So this will be a multi-chaptered fic. Personality wise, I've got a more vulnerable Dave, a less derpy Egbert, an angrier Jade, and a less intrusive Rose. I'd like to think that this makes the characters a bit more believable, but it's whatever.
Disclaimer: Hussie owns Homestuck. I'm just weaving my own tapestry with his characters~