『Old Blade drabble from months ago that I finally have the motivation to finish』
<In which, Blade has existensial crisis while cooking dinner>
-◆ No ship pairings ◆ Other characters mentioned ◆ Barely any dialogue ◆-
〔No AI was used in the making and DO NOT feed my writings to it〕
Author Note: Ahhhhhh Idk if I managed to write this drabble well. Im just taking my shot and see how it goes...if you find it boring tell me what part bores u. (This was rlly fun tho.)
He once again ruminates, of his hands that are no longer dexterous.
The reminder not of a visceral tug that throttles him along with his cognisance dragged painfully. It instead flares like a series of gentle ripples barely noticed. Quite alike to a swamp that is congruous in essence with the repetition of mundane activities.
A gentle, gradual, dreadfully slow sink.
Only every now and then at least. This moment simply happens to be part of it, a slow dip.
The sink into the vacuum enables a silent crowd; Abruptly aware of the heel of his sole, of the soft high-pitched creak of his sandal as he shift his knees, the slight rough crease of his denim apron, and of the circulating cool breeze kissing his throat to brush past his tied up dark sea-blue hair.
With quiet restlessness, his attention flows to his tucked right hand which is currently gloveless. And his gaze shifts to his other hand, unhealed. It remains bandaged.
His fingertips prickle as he drums them leisurely, the sensation of stiff movement and strained tendons tickled the sweat of his nape.
The man with magenta tipped locks exhales without realising it. An undercurrent seethe gently blooming.
The disquiet follows the flare of this remembrance. A brief empty pondering later, he untucks his right hand in discomfort. Occasionally, the sight of his bare palm feels unfamiliar with how easy it is to be drowned.
To be reminded.
As he gazes upon his palm, tracing the shape of his fingers and the feeling of his calouses, scars, the roughness and softness of his weary skin–
The ghostly image of -------- flickers once more in brief.
Foolish --------...
And so did he lament. His heartbeat pangs and ache as every pulsate of it spread bile across his trachea.
He narrows his sight and attempts to focus on his breathing. Easier to be done unlike usual.
Humming noises of the outer space's vacancy pass through the walls of the spaceship as always. He became less and less aware of his own breathing as he registers faint noises from other compartment rooms within this spaceship. Melodies of a soft, classical music reverberates as he recognized it. Kafka's been humming this piece in their mission breaks, or when some particular climax of a scenario happens.
He seems to also hear... muffled screeches of frustration accompanied by solid tap sounds of Beep!...Beep-Beep! in fury. The screech overlaps with another voice of Firefly's sheepish laughter.
They are still playing...?
He thought he had reminded them to rest multiple times this evening which...was a few hours ago.
Yet he is unable to resist the subtle tug on the corner of his lips, sighing in exasperation as he is. These faint rackets are unable to overwhelm the tiresome flare. It is only a natural phenomenon that when the world floats in silence, it is the damnable thoughts of sentient creatures that rings the loudest.
But this...it is plenty in it's limitations.
It reminds him of the ground which his feet lays on top. It reminds him of the empty ingredients that he plans to write on the grocery list. The blasted wall of their training room caught in the crossfire of his spar with SAM, weary vintage phonographs that Kafka collects with content in her eyes, and Silver Wolf's tactless self-preservation yet strategic manouver in the battle which she calls 'a game'.
It reminds him of the name he gave himself, of the purpose he has been sentenced and therefore, of this place where he currently ends up.
The rackets dissolve in the remembrance, though anchoring him still.
Swept in the tides of it, bygone memories resurfaced and slammed him altogether with desperation.
Assaulting memories does not give him the grace nor the mercy of clarity.
What appears in the brief flickering memories has always been something less of a coherent vibrant scene, and far closer to that of vague silhouettes with huge blotched ink. A fragile, ripped and soiled draft of a paper; objects as the element of the scenery, colors from the weather and environment, scripts of conversation long gone, all aspect remains present and stagnant as ever, excluding clarity of the memories.
He inhales with a shudder, the ache reverberates in this lightless ocean that offers him no succor.
Yet, he somehow could taste a boisterous cackle from those vague recollections.
He could see a cup raised by the audacious white haired man as he flashed his companions an infuriatingly endearing grin.
An old man, wistful and whimsical in his imperious cheerfulness.
Ah. --------.
He could blindly trace the shapes of --------'s wrinkles and the abrupt choke in his throat as a mauve furred foxian lady smugly snicker with the owner of a viridian paired eyes by her side, tilting his horned head with feigned ignorance.
"—jie...!" He heard --------'s flustered groan. "—ot a k–– —nymore." He grumbled like a teenage brat instead.
The amused vidyadhara and master craftsman cocked their head sideways with curiosity along with the suddenly quiet foxian as they witnessed the arrival of another two.
The snow haired swordmaster with her white haired disciple had arrived.
Her face solemn and seething as one of her hands dragged the collar of her soon to be awake disciple. Bright red eyes flashed with danger before the golden eyed young adult yelps as he was manhandleld and thrown like a pebble through the air.
"Jing Yua—!"
That day, the joyful toast still carried on. Even in the series of exploded cackles and narrowly avoided danger.
The bygone dialogues are brushed blur and only fragments of it's scenery are able to be perceived by him. In good faith, at least the high-elder statue remained... unharmed until now.
Indeed. It has always been this scenery that has managed to be seared in his eyes, this nightmare of euphoric toast and laughter beside his companions. Of the tender banter and the sweet sigh as they discuss their reschedule of this many more to come meeting.
He watches these countless fragmented images drag on in numb acceptance until their voices and his voice, joy and laughter, fury and cries melts and intertwines with no way of identifying the long lost individuals.
When he returns, he is able to trace and feel his breathing. His red-gold eyes remains in their stoic stillness even as they waver, just like how the scenery of this kitchen remains unchanged in the faint smell of evenly cut coriander, shimmering fish soup, messy placement of the cooking utensils and—
Ctaak!
...The rice is done.
Leave it be for another few minutes...
He silently note, reaching a box of tissue to wipe the sweat on his forehead. He stares at the vacant view of the outer space with stable breathing.
Moments later, as he is about to call his companions for dinner, a lingering image of a toasted cup and disarming indigo eyes flashed.
Blade found himself musing with a rare gentle smile,
I want to get a drink.
【 End 】
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Thank you for reading this drabble ^^ Hope you enjoyed it and pls tell me your thoughts if you have any.
