|fayriefox (fayriefox) wrote in kinkfest,|
@ 2008-11-05 17:03:00
|Entry tags:||a: fayriefox, f: d.n.angel, november 05, p: daisuke/dark|
From Red, D.N.Angel (Dark/Daisuke)
Title: From Red
Warnings: End of anime. Mention of alcoholic beverages.
Prompt: D.N.Angel - Dark/Daisuke - Bonds – There isn’t a word yet/For old friends who just met.
Summary: From the start, the moment he was born, there was a part inside of him, a place solely for Dark.
A/N: It took on a mind of its own. (Why does that keep happening to me?) Not really sure if it fits… -.-;; BTW, liqueur is an old alcoholic drink that is sweet and is usually drunk after a meal.
The canvas on the easel was blank for the third week in a row. His art teacher was asking more and more about his entry for the art festival in two weeks.
It wasn’t the same though, not without Dark in the back of his mind, criticizing his artwork. Sometimes commenting on how that color reminded him of a statue he’d stolen once, or that his great-grandfather four generations back had met his future wife helping out at a flower shop the day she'd come in to buy a bouquet of these flowers here.
A part of him was empty. In so many different ways a piece of him, of his soul, was missing. It seemed almost as if a part of him was a glass. Empty at first, then Dark had come and filled it like some old liqueur. He wasn’t trying to be cliché, but Dark really was. At first all you see is alcohol, but then you take a sip and get hit with the sweet taste and burn slipping down your throat. He wouldn’t take any lip from anyone but Dark about just what the meal beforehand was. Then the liqueur is gone eventually and all one is left with is the empty glass.
Dark had always been a part of him. Like an old friend, from the time he was born Dark had been his friend, there at his side. Daisuke couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put a name to it, but there was just a feeling where that empty glass was inside of him that Dark had always been an old friend. That the two of them had always been braided around one another was a fact branded into each of their psyches.
Slowly, Daisuke lifted a brush, and two paint tubes: purple and red.
Three hours later Kosuke came up to get Daisuke for dinner, only to find him asleep in front of the easel, his formerly blank canvas, now full of purple feathers twined around red, and red around purple. No matter how long he looked at it, Kosuke could find no end or beginning to either one. They were never-ending bonds, tying two together as one. In a way, though, the painting’s symbolism was pointless.
After all purple had always been, and always would be, bonded to red in its rawest form.