amaranthh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2014-02-22 01:44 am
greenling) wrote in rainbowfic2014-02-22 01:44 am
Canary Yellow #6, Famous #17
Name: Greenling
Story: All Great Things
Colors: Canary Yellow #6 (The loss of reason in war seems to me honorable, like the death of a sentry at his post.), Famous #17 (Stop calling, stop calling, I don't want to think anymore)
Supplies and Styles: Canvas, Feathers (Squander, bones, theory. Pick three or more.)
Word Count: 645
Rating: PGish
Warnings: Homophobia, bullying, violence.
Summary: Dmitry gets into a fight.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
Notes on additional inspiration:
"Well let me just say that it's not true, because I don't hate you. I do, it is true, believe that almost all of you are probably homophobes. But, I'm a homophobe. I mean, it would be incredible if we weren't- I mean, to grow up in a society that is overwhelmingly and stiflingly homophobic and to somehow escape unscathed would be miraculous. Ao I don't hate you because you're a homophobe. I actually admire you- admire you because most of you are only a bit homophobic and to be honest considering the circumstances that is pretty good going. but I do sometimes hate myself. I hate myself because I fucking check myself when standing at pedestrian crossings, and sometimes, I hate you for doing that to me."
From a recent speech by Panti Bliss.
A sharp crack echoed over the field, a lot like the iconic sound of a baseball bat hitting a long ball into the stands. Just as suddenly, the unnatural quiet was replaced by an explosion of voices, shouts of surprise and screams of excitement all around, which didn't hurt the comparison.
He went down, and Dmitry went with him, gripping the collar of his jersey with the hand that wasn't busy turning the guy's face into lumpy red jelly. Several seconds in, after the initial shock had worn off, Dmitry felt hands on the back of his own shirt, fingernails in his shoulders, things he swatted away with a guttural sound. There was a blow to the back of his head, but his vision was already cloudy; someone grabbed him around the chest and yanked at at about the same time he realized his arm was stinging badly, and in anger and in pain he twisted around and jammed his elbow in what he hoped was an eye.
His hopes were well-founded, and he fell prone on the ground, attempting and failing to catch himself on his stinging arm. It slipped, and some dim awareness told him something was broken over the dawning horror that the eye belonged to his brother. His resolve faltered, and a scrum of hands reached for him, someone winging him with a badly-aimed kick in the ribs before a whistle sounded, calling attention back to the presence of the coach.
In the nebulous hours afterward Dmitry sat in the hospital waiting room in an air cast, distinctly not listening to his mother and some loud fucker who was probably the guy's father arguing. His brother was still there, also sitting in silence; Dmitry had given him a thick bruise on his cheek, and at some point another had formed on his ribs from running interference for Dmitry while the coach called an ambulance and several sets of parents while trying to keep the whole thing off Youtube. There wasn't much part of him that didn't feel guilty, except the part that had kind of wanted to be on the team. That was mostly Rudeth's idea. Getting popular and getting dates was more his thing than Dmitry's.
Of course, since they'd moved to someplace that didn't know their family as the weird borderline-hill-people on the outskirts of town, the only problem he'd had with that was Dmitry.
Not for the first time that year, he contemplated ripping the air cast off his arm and just running off and leaving everyone be.
"Why?"
It took Dmitry a second to realize his brother had asked the question and not him. He glanced at his brother, but couldn't meet his eyes. Dmitry could barely meet his own thoughts right then.
"Is it what he said?" Rudeth said, his anger fading into resignation. "Calling you a fag, is this about Hitoshi?"
Dmitry sighed. The only reason they, and their mother, and their uncle for that matter, hadn't descended on the boy and dragged him off somewhere- or the assholes that had begun tormenting him- was because Hitoshi himself had refused. It wasn't "that bad" by the standards of middle school boys, hadn't been physical until they'd held him down and hacked off his hair with scissors, but he was family. He at least couldn't stop his sister, and Dmitry and Rudeth had given her some tips in that regard, but...
"Just... he was an asshole," Dmitry finally and weakly replied.
"Well." There was a brief pause before Rudeth found his "channeling Mom" voice. "I'm seriously pissed at you. You put him in the hospital, and we're going to get in serious trouble for this- Mom might get in trouble the way that guy is yelling about arresting us-" Rudeth looked sour "-and we're probably not getting on the team."
Dmitry waited for the rest. "But... yeah, he was an asshole." He almost didn't want to hear it.
Story: All Great Things
Colors: Canary Yellow #6 (The loss of reason in war seems to me honorable, like the death of a sentry at his post.), Famous #17 (Stop calling, stop calling, I don't want to think anymore)
Supplies and Styles: Canvas, Feathers (Squander, bones, theory. Pick three or more.)
Word Count: 645
Rating: PGish
Warnings: Homophobia, bullying, violence.
Summary: Dmitry gets into a fight.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
Notes on additional inspiration:
"Well let me just say that it's not true, because I don't hate you. I do, it is true, believe that almost all of you are probably homophobes. But, I'm a homophobe. I mean, it would be incredible if we weren't- I mean, to grow up in a society that is overwhelmingly and stiflingly homophobic and to somehow escape unscathed would be miraculous. Ao I don't hate you because you're a homophobe. I actually admire you- admire you because most of you are only a bit homophobic and to be honest considering the circumstances that is pretty good going. but I do sometimes hate myself. I hate myself because I fucking check myself when standing at pedestrian crossings, and sometimes, I hate you for doing that to me."
From a recent speech by Panti Bliss.
A sharp crack echoed over the field, a lot like the iconic sound of a baseball bat hitting a long ball into the stands. Just as suddenly, the unnatural quiet was replaced by an explosion of voices, shouts of surprise and screams of excitement all around, which didn't hurt the comparison.
He went down, and Dmitry went with him, gripping the collar of his jersey with the hand that wasn't busy turning the guy's face into lumpy red jelly. Several seconds in, after the initial shock had worn off, Dmitry felt hands on the back of his own shirt, fingernails in his shoulders, things he swatted away with a guttural sound. There was a blow to the back of his head, but his vision was already cloudy; someone grabbed him around the chest and yanked at at about the same time he realized his arm was stinging badly, and in anger and in pain he twisted around and jammed his elbow in what he hoped was an eye.
His hopes were well-founded, and he fell prone on the ground, attempting and failing to catch himself on his stinging arm. It slipped, and some dim awareness told him something was broken over the dawning horror that the eye belonged to his brother. His resolve faltered, and a scrum of hands reached for him, someone winging him with a badly-aimed kick in the ribs before a whistle sounded, calling attention back to the presence of the coach.
In the nebulous hours afterward Dmitry sat in the hospital waiting room in an air cast, distinctly not listening to his mother and some loud fucker who was probably the guy's father arguing. His brother was still there, also sitting in silence; Dmitry had given him a thick bruise on his cheek, and at some point another had formed on his ribs from running interference for Dmitry while the coach called an ambulance and several sets of parents while trying to keep the whole thing off Youtube. There wasn't much part of him that didn't feel guilty, except the part that had kind of wanted to be on the team. That was mostly Rudeth's idea. Getting popular and getting dates was more his thing than Dmitry's.
Of course, since they'd moved to someplace that didn't know their family as the weird borderline-hill-people on the outskirts of town, the only problem he'd had with that was Dmitry.
Not for the first time that year, he contemplated ripping the air cast off his arm and just running off and leaving everyone be.
"Why?"
It took Dmitry a second to realize his brother had asked the question and not him. He glanced at his brother, but couldn't meet his eyes. Dmitry could barely meet his own thoughts right then.
"Is it what he said?" Rudeth said, his anger fading into resignation. "Calling you a fag, is this about Hitoshi?"
Dmitry sighed. The only reason they, and their mother, and their uncle for that matter, hadn't descended on the boy and dragged him off somewhere- or the assholes that had begun tormenting him- was because Hitoshi himself had refused. It wasn't "that bad" by the standards of middle school boys, hadn't been physical until they'd held him down and hacked off his hair with scissors, but he was family. He at least couldn't stop his sister, and Dmitry and Rudeth had given her some tips in that regard, but...
"Just... he was an asshole," Dmitry finally and weakly replied.
"Well." There was a brief pause before Rudeth found his "channeling Mom" voice. "I'm seriously pissed at you. You put him in the hospital, and we're going to get in serious trouble for this- Mom might get in trouble the way that guy is yelling about arresting us-" Rudeth looked sour "-and we're probably not getting on the team."
Dmitry waited for the rest. "But... yeah, he was an asshole." He almost didn't want to hear it.
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Thanks for reading.