Titolo: VON
Fandom: Zankyou No Terror
Personaggi: Twelve (Toji Hisami)
Genere: introspettivo, angst
Avvertimenti: spoilers, gen, death, in inglese
Parole: 546
Note: Prima fic per il #WRPG @maridichallenge! Considerando che la mia idea iniziale per il prompt settimanale era DEL CROSSDRESSING SOUGISA LERCISSIMO, diciamo che questa fic è venuta letteralmente dal nulla. E okay, sì, su questo momento ci hanno scritto circa tutti gli spettatori di ZnT. Anche sticazzi. E sì, sono ancora incazzata e tristissima. DON'T TOUCH ME. Comunque bon, questo è tutto quello che posso dare come contributo questa settimana "XD i prompt erano rosso | arancione | giallo | verde | azzurro | viola | indaco. E bon, adesso vado ad ascoltarmi roba trash anni '80 ballando in giro. AH COMUNQUE LA ICON QUI È UN CHIARO RIFERIMENTO AL FATTO CHE TWELVE E NINE = TRAUMA!REIGISA. Cioè palesemente. E sì, li shippo. Cioè, il contenuto dell'anime va ovviamente oltre le ship, ma li shippo. Platonicamente or smth. Also, ci ho inserito un riferimento a Jesus of Suburbia dei Green Day. Vabbè, comunque, vaffanculo al finale, cià.


Red. The impulses coming from the very center of his existence, from his broken spine and destroyed neural connections, their vivid colors were a violent, vomit-inducing, soul-cracking, almost blinding collection of reds. He looked inside his eyelids and only found beautiful, painful shades of red. As his whole body broke down and his knees suddenly gave up it seemed to him, for a fleeting moment, that he'd turned to dust and with him the trees and every other color around him. That the nuclear bomb inside of him, the little shreds of his lifetime long torment had detonated and erased the world around him in a righteous and Godly act of his own. Just like that crazy and scary and desperate plan of his and Nine's anticipated before they put the world before their own anger.
In the little time frame between the shots and the moment his body ingloriously hit the ground, there, hidden in that tiny, minuscule body, was an accurately folded and infinite tale narrating his hopeless lifetime, now unraveling itself inside of him. Pain wasn't even existing anymore in that insignificant frame of time. It was like his life was being spluttered on a wall backwards for him now, as his conscience went through a huge library and touched softly old dusty memories with wonder on his fingertips, caressing softly the signs of erasure left by the world on his name which he would never know himself, the scars he shared with Nine, the loneliness and hopeless state they had left Five in for their survival, fleeting in front of him as he focused on the dust dancing in slow motion in front of him. He'd thought about it so long, he'd almost touched the exclusive suffering the three of them had shared and then survived, the past that sucked any joy or sanity away from their tiny bodies, and then the empty days spent as empty shells on swearing for revenge, the guilt slithering and almost suffocating them in their sleep; the blind, dark, pitch black rage stemming from a hole filled with emptiness, their souls trying to fly upstream in a sky that now, out of the corner of his eye, he only saw as a blurred, red sea painted with the colors his brain screeched forcibly at him.
The world was red. His blood, his entire body and his dark, twisted thoughts. They were all red, now they seemed to be escaping from him like the red, dark and infected blood leaving his body which was so light and useless to him now.
Nausea came to him, but there was nothing left to puke against this dry world. There was nothing left to feel as his fingers lightly curled on the ground, there was so little left in this world. All there was left in that warm day in the outskirts of Tokyo were Nine's rage and Lisa's love, coming to him through lagged and defective sound and light waves now as, with the last fragments of his strength, he just dared to hope, for them. Everything else, up to the moment he stopped seeing, everything was red. And then the lights turned off, the stage cleared, his silent performance was over, the red curtains fell, and nobody was applauding.