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before him, he was frail. struck down by lightening and gathered between his palms-- it was one dark place to another. but he had to admit, somewhere in the middle of pale hands and red eyes, he didn't mind. not the the treatment nor the rejection. he bled his honesty, after all, never too hasty to clean up the mess of his own words.
ironic, kurokichi thought.
what fell from his mouth, ran through his blood and gave him his pulse, was filth itself. it was the dirt he hated and he knew it; he only wished to be rid of it, but it wasn't that easy.
he could respect it, though. the ice of his tongue and how it felt when he bit. opposites in countless ways, they were, but they were closer in person than either of them would like to admit.
they were the jokers. the outlaws, the unforgiven.
but here with him now, was a sense of belonging. they carried the same name with different burdens, manifested in alternate ways that echoed from one malice to the other.
he wanted nothing more than to destroy that malice. to rid shirou and himself of this curse.
maybe then, they could really be friends.
ironic, kurokichi thought.
what fell from his mouth, ran through his blood and gave him his pulse, was filth itself. it was the dirt he hated and he knew it; he only wished to be rid of it, but it wasn't that easy.
he could respect it, though. the ice of his tongue and how it felt when he bit. opposites in countless ways, they were, but they were closer in person than either of them would like to admit.
they were the jokers. the outlaws, the unforgiven.
but here with him now, was a sense of belonging. they carried the same name with different burdens, manifested in alternate ways that echoed from one malice to the other.
he wanted nothing more than to destroy that malice. to rid shirou and himself of this curse.
maybe then, they could really be friends.
