Disclaimer: I own few things. DNAngel is not one of them.
Warnings: Language. Oh, and there may be a shred of coherency in there. Somewhere.
Written for Scatter Plot's Damage Control New Year's Contest. Inspired by a duet between Norah Jones and the Foo Fighters. Strange, I know.
"I just…" Her voice shook under the weight of her words. So heavy. So undeniably heavy.
"What?" Unyielding, the certainty to compliment her uncertainty, his twined with hers like two sharply contrasting threads.
She shook her head, scattered her thoughts. Facing his eyes seemed impossible. She snapped up abruptly. "I need to sort things out. Alone."
He perceived the emphasis on the last word; he heard the cracks lacing through her cadence. God, she looked like stone. Her face was unmoving, frozen with a distorting permanence. Her beauty lived in her motion. He didn't understand why she tried to kill it so often. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette because he knew it annoyed her. "Fine," he replied, lighting it nonchalantly. "Do what you want." He placed it to his lips and inhaled deeply, wondering just how easily she could tear away his worthless façade.
She already stood at the door. Her features softened slightly, and for a moment he thought he could recognize her. "Don't smoke those things. You know what they do to you."
He stretched his lips into a faint crescent and let his lids eclipse the world. "Brave men only die once, beautiful." If he had been watching, he would have noticed her smile ruefully before she slipped out the door. Instead, he inhaled the smell of smoke-tinged lilacs for the last time.
-
Riku loved the snow and hated the cold. She was aware this made little sense and if prodded about this particular belief, jadedly responded that if it bothered so much, it could be added to the list of paradoxes that already existed. The world could use a few more of them. Start solving away.
Snowflakes twirled as the fell -some catching themselves in the ground, some ensnaring themselves in a few wayward auburn strands. Behind her, a television showed a crowd of people, headed by a blonde woman with a microphone uttering something incoherent. The crowed shouted, shook their fists in the air, waved mindlessly. Like animals. They were happy though.Maybe he relaxed somewhere in there. He always managed to be invited to these sort of things. She listened to her footsteps resounding emptily through the street before being drowned out by the ambience of the city. She tugged the edges of her coat closer.
Most likely.
-
In all honesty, Dark didn't know where exactly he was going. If one were to add another layer of honesty, they would find that he didn't even have a general idea. He enjoyed them– pointless walks where you immersed yourself in thoughts, let your mind asphyxiate in front of the backdrop of the world. His breath materialized in ephemeral wisps, held his attention, and lost it instantaneously. His feet pounded the pavement and his fingers jammed themselves into his pockets.
His body jerked forward as a cough racked through him. Damn. Hurt like hell. The cough, resilient in the cold, had rooted itself in his lungs for the winter. Its tendons ran deep. He sighed. Maybe she was right after all. He glanced at the sky, not quite blue, not quite black, slumbering somewhere in between. It neared midnight.
She had always tried to get him to quit. He dangled the pack of cigarettes in front of his eyes. Decision, decisions.
-
She threw her head up in frustration. Why wouldn't he leave her mind alone? She passed another television with the same blonde woman. "We're nearing the countdown!" she yelled loudly. The crowd pulsated vigorously, causing the woman to stagger forward. From her jostled appearance Riku read her inexperience like a book.
Why had she left? Because she was going places that she couldn't take him. Because he was headed in one direction and she was pushing through the other, and the string that held them together was tenuous at best. Because he wasn't the angel she thought he'd be. Because he was so damn human, you couldn't look at him without seeing yourself reflected in those windows to his soul.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her journalist against his gambler. She wanted to save the world while he lost himself in its intricacies. Forget that he was disgustingly good and could actually make a career out of it.
She'd met him at a bar two years ago. An obvious playboy who owned the uncanny ability to read your thoughts by staring into your eyes, she'd been somewhat shocked when he leaned over and introduced himself. The conversation started normally - shared trivialities about nothing in particular – till he'd lowered his voice to a gravely whisper.
"Wanna get outta here, beautiful?"
"Why?"
"Maybe there's a whole new world I could show you."
"Maybe doesn't mean much."
"Your decision."
Somehow it had all started there.
-
Dark Mousy continued walking down the street minus one pack of cigarettes. The next few weeks would border on insanity. His digits twitched anxiously. It better be worth it. He paused. No. It would definitely be worth it. He laughed bitterly. She constantly did these kinds of things: saving him slowly even when he declared he stood beyond help.
He knew he suffocated her. She was his godsend, his angel from heaven. She reached into his world and forced him to see so much more. Things existed beyond the day-to-day; no matter how terrible it seemed, someone out there wished for your life. He remembered stroking those short brown locks, watching her eyes dance when he called her a tomboy. He clung to her with everything he had. But for all her celestial eccentricities, she possessed an unexpected fragility: humanity. Fortunately she stormed out before it was too late, before the strain he put on her could break her, raging with the calm of a tempest.
She'd save the world one day. It's what she wanted to do. And he'd often been told that the only ones who could save the world were those crazy enough to try. She didn't have time to waste on one person.
-
He leaned over her shoulder casually. "Whatcha doing?"
She frowned, bringing the pen to her lips. "Editing a story."
"Really?"
She sighed and held his gaze. "Really."
"What's it about?"
"Nothing as of now. The family refuses to talk about it."
"Oh…is this the story about the –"
"Yes." She cut him off. She hated the word murder.
"I could see why. They tell it and it's out there in the open for everyone to rip apart. To treat it like it's worth nothing. At least if they keep it to themselves, it's something that belongs only to them."
Her brow creased slightly.
"Death porn is the street term. It's kinda sad really." His gaze was empty.
Riku was surprised at that memory. That tone of voice, the way his eyes misted over, was this a side of him that she'd grazed over? God, did she even know him?
-
No, he didn't know her. He was aware of this, had admitted it quietly to himself a long time ago. He neared a bench, weathered away to discomfort by wind and time. He sat. Nearby, a blonde woman in a television proclaimed loudly, "I hope you've got your New Year's resolutions ready!" He did, in fact. A song came to mind, an obscure little number about new beginnings. He began to sing.
-
Riku's eyes widened. There he was. Singing. "Time to start anew." The tune had a rough intonation to it like stones rubbing together, and - she noted to herself with a wry smile - was completely off key. It was a side of him she'd never seen. No. She corrected herself. It was a side of him she'd seen but missed. She joined in with him. Did he know? She sang too.
-
The woman on the television screen yelled excitedly, "Time to start the count down!"
Their relationship was based on misconceptions, on things not known.
"Ten!" The woman and the crowd screamed in unison.
They ripped through that relationship in so many places, clumsily sutured it back together, and shredded through it once more.
"Nine!"
Half-hearted words threw themselves with false conviction, arguments over small things soon matured into something greater.
"Eight!"
Their "Us" grew into a severed, frayed thing before either had realized what had happened.
"Seven!"
She had left while there was still something to salvage – some good to look back on and frame in a smiling memory.
"Six!"
They both were aware of this.
"Five!"
He stole a glance in her direction, visibly shocked at her sudden appearance. She closed her eyes.
"Four!"
Her practiced voice melted into his jagged one, guiding it through the tangle of notes and scales, skillfully embroidered like a needle through thread.
"Three!"
They smiled genuine smiles. That hadn't happened in a long time.
"Two!"
The field of himself, of herself soon sprouted into a universe of terra incognita.
"One!"
And that made it worth a second try.
"Zero!"
Maybe the people that stumbled past would pause as the cold seeped through their skin. And perhaps looking back on it, they'd say it captured an odd, symbiotic beauty. It looked unusaul: two strangers united in a song whose words only they knew. The song repeated itself, continued on indistinctly.
But for now, he sang, she sang, and that was more than enough.
"Happy New Year!"
Here's to new beginnings.
And so it concludes. Apologies for the lengthiness. I hope your eyes weren't burned. Comments and critique would be muchly appreciated. Happy New Year…a couple of days early.