Little boy blue come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow the cows in the corn
But wheres the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haystack fast asleep
Will you wake him? No, not I- for if I do he's sure to cry.
Black or Blue.
The two colors he accepted, colors he loved. The colors of pens scribbling away on test papers and college applications.
They were marred by red, slashes of murderous grade-sheet red. A red pen was best shown against black or blue.
Black like the hair of his favorite student.
Blue like the eyes shared by his two prize charges.
Red, slashed between them like anger. Like the color of a letter jacket, like the design on his white shirtsleeve.
Not red like the bloodstains, those were deeper, rusty and dark, like a brown. Not black and blue bruises, those were more green and purple, only fading to black as they aged, as they dissipated.
Black and blue, violence he preferred to turn blind and deaf to. Red, a shot of passion, of desire he liked to pretend didn't exist.
Setting the pen down he stared at the pages, both littered with mistakes, problems that needed to be solved, wrinkles that needed ironing, and the aggressive, snide undertones were hardly befitting a research paper. Whose idea was it to pair them again?
They had chosen different colors, black and blue, like the saying about bruises that were rarely those colors. Like the eyes they shared, blue irises black pupils.
Ravens were black, their mascot, and their school colors were red and white. White like a paper. Red like a heart. Black like the shiner they both sported that morning, though again it was really purple.
They liked each other, they hated each other, they worked well together, they were both idiots.
When had it developed? When had the teasing and taunting turn into baiting and flirting? When had the picking on turn into the picking up? It was disturbing and disgusting and terrifying and not at all healthy. Probably not healthy. Definitely not normal.
Not normal for mouths to be torn and knuckles to be split. For words in gradable colors to tell him his favorites were slipping down a jagged slope together, like Jack and Jill but with broken bodies and battered understandings. Wrecked at the base of a knoll.
This was not right, this was not good. He had to do something, convince them of their folly, protect their futures.
He put pen back to paper and scribbled, correcting an error, revising a sentence. Such horrid essayists.
They fit each other well. If only it wasn't so violent, if only he could help them in some way.
Nevertheless, all he could do was slash the red between the black and the blue.
All he could do was correct what was already written.
Little Boy Blue did not make a peep
Under the haystack presumed asleep
Until they discovered the pitchfork to blame
And that's the true story behind blue boys name.
Um, hi there. It's the ever (un)reliable niKola here to post a valentine's day fic, and um…hopefully start updating the rest of Rin's stuff before someone decides to hire a hit man. (I've heard talk of a DeadPool cameo sometime in the Absence storyline. It scares me.)