fuck yeah anberlin don't judge
Title: It Means Nothing Now
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji, Soul Eater (crossover)
Status: oneshot; completed
Pairing: Death the Kid/Ronald Knox
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set in AU-verse wherein Ronald is a Weapon that Kid picked up in some London backalley. Probably time to drop it again like a bad habit. He wears his soles on his feet.
Warnings: morbidity. allusions to sex (very very vague).
Normally, I'd dedicate this kind of thing to one person in particular. In this case, it's just angsty self-indulgence. Written when running on two hours of sleep and not-beta'd.
"Telling on me to your old man is something of a low blow, Kid."
Kid doesn't say anything. He has lost the ability to form words in the presence of such a persistent parasite. Ronald's lost the right to call upon his limited empathetic abilities; he's been pushed to a brink and the only thing left to do is watch. Was this the precipice they'd been looking for? He can sense the writhing of white lines in his hair as they elongate and reach for their opposite ends. The world wants to be manipulated by his fingertips alone-there's more to him, now. Something greater that he never would have felt if he'd found any solitude with this Weapon.
"This hurts."
Kid doesn't believe him and he continues to hold his tongue.
The well is thirty feet deep and ten feet in diameter. The rock sides are black, seamless, and perfectly slick. In appearance alone, it's not dissimilar to a prison made out of Shadow Skull Arms and Kid wonders if his 'old man' did it for his benefit or his Weapon's. Where he stands at the outer ring is a good, solid position. Ronald will be able to see his shoes but not his impassive expression. He can imagine remorse or anger in the silence and drive himself to-
Madness.
How hadn't he known Ronald was infected from the start? They'd synchronized something close to perfection and he hadn't felt it licking at the back of his neck. Check after check had proved that Death the Kid wasn't contaminated in fiber or cell and-the reason Ronald is still alive is because they don't know how he's held it like this. They don't know how nobody picked up on it until he'd let Kid see in a moment of something like ecstasy.
When he'd begun to cave in and suspect his jail cell would eventually feel homey if he let it.
"I'm not working with anyone." Ronald's façade is cracking which isn't to say he's going from happy-go-lucky punk to super villain. More like rabid, self-possessed dog to beaten puppy. The mask has all these chinks now and Kid wants to make sure Ronald's able to see his feet for a long time yet.
At least there aren't stake through his hands, huh? Shouldn't he be glad he's only held spread eagle against the wall by power-lanced rock and not preternaturally thickened barbed wire? That was something Kid fought for not with words or actions, but a few looks that Death understood and was likely disappoint(ed) by.
"I wasn't trying to get anything."
Selfish bastard. After finding out about his-condition they'd had to remove Hero from class and toss him about from lab to lab until they knew for absolute that he wasn't like his uncle. Excalibur would never have his trust again-the way he'd held his arms behind his back as another professor fitted him for cuffs that could hold a Meister gone berserk with a survival-instinct he'd never shown before.
Hero was clean. Miserable. Hated his Weapon like nothing else in this world, but he was clean.
Death the Kid doesn't know whom to thank for that. He doesn't think any god-not even his father-bothered looking out for Hero or Ronald Knox.
"Maybe-a little something. But I could never get it from you. I thought-I had this inkling! I had this thought."
The way he speaks is so… Kid knows it's manipulative. All the short stops and the pleading lilt. In the past he might have been pushed to at least ruffle the man's bangs (to perfection, that is) or straighten his tie. This time, he wants to listen to him for long enough for Ronald to know it doesn't matter, put the lid over the well, and walk away for good.
"I thought maybe-"
The lid is one foot thick and eleven feet in diameter. Kid was sitting on the lip of it before he decided to let Ronald know he was there.
"Ah. It's really hard to talk to you when you're always hovering above me. It gives a boy an inferiority complex! That you're always so high up there."
Not a word for the one he'd wanted to make his Deathscythe. Not a breath.
"How am I supposed to ever reach that? I was mad a long time before we met, Kid! What was I supposed to do! Hang myself? Never tell anyone? I can't hold it forever."
But he'd held it so long that it was worrying. No one had an answer for how he'd kept it from his Meister. They'd suggested that it had something to do with Kid's origins-that he was untouchable.
No, though. Ronald had worked with a few Meisters in London before. They did a background check, you see. They found out.
And nothing. No insanity. Not even a sparkle of delirium to the lot of them. So what was it?
"It's gonna get out. I'm gonna get out of here."
It's time. He'd wanted another few hours, it's just-they've been moving in these concentric circles and Kid had a breakfast to perfectly prepare and agonize over.
The mechanism to control the lid and push it into place is damn complex. A work of beauty, really! There's a door in the top so food can be lowered down once in a while. The bolts are plentiful and strong and interlock beautifully. Even Kid couldn't find a flaw in its design, it was-
A masterpiece. Closing Ronald Knox into the dark. It was really very pretty. It pleased that part of his chest that had gone putrid the moment he knew the life sentence without parole for a rogue agent like his favorite Weapon was about to intensify.
Pity! Not that he could afford anymore.
"And when I do?"
Very quick acting, too. The lid. The mechanism for the lid. Even Kid could have taken some time moving that huge slab of rock by himself. The well is being shut up in seconds by the iron screws and forms that control it.
"I'll probably kill you. Love."
Then darkness and silence and Kid thinks he'll have a poptart-the kind where you squeeze and draw with your own icing (technically a toaster strudel but strudel is such an ugly word)? That should take up a good year. To forget-it'll only take ten minutes.
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji, Soul Eater (crossover)
Status: oneshot; completed
Pairing: Death the Kid/Ronald Knox
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set in AU-verse wherein Ronald is a Weapon that Kid picked up in some London backalley. Probably time to drop it again like a bad habit. He wears his soles on his feet.
Warnings: morbidity. allusions to sex (very very vague).
Normally, I'd dedicate this kind of thing to one person in particular. In this case, it's just angsty self-indulgence. Written when running on two hours of sleep and not-beta'd.
"Telling on me to your old man is something of a low blow, Kid."
Kid doesn't say anything. He has lost the ability to form words in the presence of such a persistent parasite. Ronald's lost the right to call upon his limited empathetic abilities; he's been pushed to a brink and the only thing left to do is watch. Was this the precipice they'd been looking for? He can sense the writhing of white lines in his hair as they elongate and reach for their opposite ends. The world wants to be manipulated by his fingertips alone-there's more to him, now. Something greater that he never would have felt if he'd found any solitude with this Weapon.
"This hurts."
Kid doesn't believe him and he continues to hold his tongue.
The well is thirty feet deep and ten feet in diameter. The rock sides are black, seamless, and perfectly slick. In appearance alone, it's not dissimilar to a prison made out of Shadow Skull Arms and Kid wonders if his 'old man' did it for his benefit or his Weapon's. Where he stands at the outer ring is a good, solid position. Ronald will be able to see his shoes but not his impassive expression. He can imagine remorse or anger in the silence and drive himself to-
Madness.
How hadn't he known Ronald was infected from the start? They'd synchronized something close to perfection and he hadn't felt it licking at the back of his neck. Check after check had proved that Death the Kid wasn't contaminated in fiber or cell and-the reason Ronald is still alive is because they don't know how he's held it like this. They don't know how nobody picked up on it until he'd let Kid see in a moment of something like ecstasy.
When he'd begun to cave in and suspect his jail cell would eventually feel homey if he let it.
"I'm not working with anyone." Ronald's façade is cracking which isn't to say he's going from happy-go-lucky punk to super villain. More like rabid, self-possessed dog to beaten puppy. The mask has all these chinks now and Kid wants to make sure Ronald's able to see his feet for a long time yet.
At least there aren't stake through his hands, huh? Shouldn't he be glad he's only held spread eagle against the wall by power-lanced rock and not preternaturally thickened barbed wire? That was something Kid fought for not with words or actions, but a few looks that Death understood and was likely disappoint(ed) by.
"I wasn't trying to get anything."
Selfish bastard. After finding out about his-condition they'd had to remove Hero from class and toss him about from lab to lab until they knew for absolute that he wasn't like his uncle. Excalibur would never have his trust again-the way he'd held his arms behind his back as another professor fitted him for cuffs that could hold a Meister gone berserk with a survival-instinct he'd never shown before.
Hero was clean. Miserable. Hated his Weapon like nothing else in this world, but he was clean.
Death the Kid doesn't know whom to thank for that. He doesn't think any god-not even his father-bothered looking out for Hero or Ronald Knox.
"Maybe-a little something. But I could never get it from you. I thought-I had this inkling! I had this thought."
The way he speaks is so… Kid knows it's manipulative. All the short stops and the pleading lilt. In the past he might have been pushed to at least ruffle the man's bangs (to perfection, that is) or straighten his tie. This time, he wants to listen to him for long enough for Ronald to know it doesn't matter, put the lid over the well, and walk away for good.
"I thought maybe-"
The lid is one foot thick and eleven feet in diameter. Kid was sitting on the lip of it before he decided to let Ronald know he was there.
"Ah. It's really hard to talk to you when you're always hovering above me. It gives a boy an inferiority complex! That you're always so high up there."
Not a word for the one he'd wanted to make his Deathscythe. Not a breath.
"How am I supposed to ever reach that? I was mad a long time before we met, Kid! What was I supposed to do! Hang myself? Never tell anyone? I can't hold it forever."
But he'd held it so long that it was worrying. No one had an answer for how he'd kept it from his Meister. They'd suggested that it had something to do with Kid's origins-that he was untouchable.
No, though. Ronald had worked with a few Meisters in London before. They did a background check, you see. They found out.
And nothing. No insanity. Not even a sparkle of delirium to the lot of them. So what was it?
"It's gonna get out. I'm gonna get out of here."
It's time. He'd wanted another few hours, it's just-they've been moving in these concentric circles and Kid had a breakfast to perfectly prepare and agonize over.
The mechanism to control the lid and push it into place is damn complex. A work of beauty, really! There's a door in the top so food can be lowered down once in a while. The bolts are plentiful and strong and interlock beautifully. Even Kid couldn't find a flaw in its design, it was-
A masterpiece. Closing Ronald Knox into the dark. It was really very pretty. It pleased that part of his chest that had gone putrid the moment he knew the life sentence without parole for a rogue agent like his favorite Weapon was about to intensify.
Pity! Not that he could afford anymore.
"And when I do?"
Very quick acting, too. The lid. The mechanism for the lid. Even Kid could have taken some time moving that huge slab of rock by himself. The well is being shut up in seconds by the iron screws and forms that control it.
"I'll probably kill you. Love."
Then darkness and silence and Kid thinks he'll have a poptart-the kind where you squeeze and draw with your own icing (technically a toaster strudel but strudel is such an ugly word)? That should take up a good year. To forget-it'll only take ten minutes.