Work Text:
Black took a seat near the window and leaned against the window sill, staring at the passing pedestrians and the occasional flock of birds that passed by. He wasn't sure how he felt - he couldn't call it sadness nor anger. There wasn't any emotion, he felt partially empty. The past few days were cloudy, but didn't try to remember anything. From what he could recall, he had been in a fight with a journalist who kept touching him - which everyone knew, he hates. Not even Irina was prepared for his outburst. White wouldn't talk about it when he asked about the incident. It agitated him at first, but let it go. White probably had good intentions by trying to hide it.
When the sun started to set, he got up and made his way to the drawing table. There were still a few designs to make before the fashion show next week, although he had no motivation and just wanted to not exist for the day. But Irina would most likely kill him if he wouldn't be ready by the end of the week. With a sigh, he plopped down on his chair and lifted up his pencil. He rolled up his sleeves and started working on a hood - soon he erased it as he didn't like the idea of the hood at this particular moment.
'It's him! With the hood, right there. That's Black!' A tall-ish man hurriedly walked over to the white-haired guy and adjusted his sunglasses.
'Why did you hit that reporter?' He felt a strong pair of hands on his shoulders, guiding him away from the group of people. They all held out their recorder and microphones, wanting to know the story as to why an infamous designer would so suddenly last out.
'I-I' was all Black was able to push through his throat. He felt panic rush through his veins.
'Let's go back and get you cleaned up.'
He had stopped drawing and looked around. White was out buying noodles for dinner, but he still hadn't returned. His heart rate almost rocketed and he decided to go look for him. Nobody would take an hour to buy noodles from a street or so away.
Once he put on his pullover, he reached for the door, only to have it opened by none other than White. He took a step back and started scratching his arm through his pullover. "I told you, you can't go out right now. It's still swarming with reporters and journalists, you ought to be careful." Without a look into Black's direction, he dropped the plastic bag on the table and sat down to unpack it.
Black sighed and sat down in front of him, he wasn't sure what to say. The silence was cutting, luckily it was White who spoke up again.
"How are the designs going?" He finally looked him in eye, but Black looked away. "Not so well I take it?"
"White, I saw a fragment... from a few days ago, like a picture or a very short film - in my head." He stated and started scratching his arm again. A simple 'oh' was voiced.
"Did I do something wrong?" He waited for a reply, for a long time, but none came. He felt a wave of guilt, but he couldn't quite figure out why. He hit a journalist? But it wouldn't be just because he touched him, right? "It's eating away at me."
"If you don't talk to me, I can't help you. I've said this before. You hold everything in and once something doesn't go your way - you explode." White almost said this with a hint of sorrow in his voice, but he tried his best to sound stern.
The rest of the evening passed quietly, no words were spoken and White had lied down on the sofa to take a nap. His headaches were killing him and Black really didn't want to annoy him even more. And so he decided to take up drawing again. No hood this time. He looked over to a sleeping White, who seemed quite peaceful. He tapped the pencil against his chin. The fashion show was supposed to be a little extra or so he was told. A dress with multiple layers, but not too many. It wasn't exactly his favourite thing to draw, but at least this was easier than the casual suit he also had to design.
He finished the dress after an hour of erasing and re-drawing and took a look at the clock. It was nearing eleven. But he knew if he dropped the project now, he'd lose all motivation and it'd take a lot of effort to get that back. A few lines here and there and he had the basics of a jacket. Somehow, he wanted to draw stripes - he didn't know why but striped and a white shirt underneath were the things he felt like drawing. It was as if the pencil moved by itself. The design was finished after only ten minutes and he dropped his pencil. With a stretch, he got up and picked up the paper to take a good look in the light.
That's when it hit him. That particular design.
'Black, it was really nothing. He didn't mean to hit me, it wasn't his intentio-'
'I don't care! He hit you and you're bleeding!' His breathing quickened and he turned around to face the man behind the punch. He felt his blood boil and it happened so quickly that it was about a split second that the other hit the ground. His lip was split and his right eye bruised. 'It's not enough,' Black thought and grabbed the man by the collar. He was wheezing and coughing, his vision spotted, but it wouldn't stop him from hitting the man underneath him. He blinked a couple of times, his vision blackening even more.
'Black, calm down. You're having a panic attack. Let's go back home.' White remained calm - he knew someone had to, as Black rarely stayed calm. He watched his friend form a fist and took a swing. White knew he had to stop him before the damage would become greater. He grabbed his wounded arm, he didn't care if it hurt. Black winced, but didn't try to escape from his friend's grip. White pulled him up, listening to his quickened breathing. He wondered why he had so much anger inside him. Why he wouldn't talk to him.
He got up and let White guide him away, only to see a crowd of people gather around.
'It's him! With the hood, right there. That's Black!' A tall-ish man hurriedly walked over to the white-haired guy and adjusted his sunglasses.
Black was sitting on the bathroom floor, memories flooding back in. He was trying to change, but instead fell back into old habits, hurting people. He wanted to be a better person. He placed his hands on his head, closing his eyes. He felt another panic attack rising and tried his best to calm down. He slowly got back on his feet and turned on the faucet, looking in the mirror.
"You're just like me." He took a step back and tried to get the image of his brother out of his head. He opened the cabinet and rummaged through it until he found what he'd been looking for. He slammed it shut and gripped the blade tightly and dropped to the ground. Tears pricked his eyes as his gaze landed on his hands.
He opened his eyes and sighed deeply, he needed that nap. He held up his wrist, looking at his watch. Eleven thirty. The room was silent, had Black gone to sleep? He sat up. "This damn headache," he mumbled and got up. The sound of a slamming object caught his attention and he turned around to realise it came from the bathroom. "Black?" No response came and he feared the worst. He rushed to the door and turned the doorknob. He had the worst case scenario pictured in his head, ready to bandage him up as he always did. Upon entering, he saw a sobbing mess instead of a crime scene. He sighed quietly and took a few steps closer to his friend. "Did you remember?" Was all he said and got on one knee. He studied him carefully, to see if he'd hurt himself - but to his surprise, he hadn't.
Black peered through his eyelids and saw the look on his face. "I-I didn't," he said and looked at his hands, which were still holding the razor. "I'm sorry. For everything. For hitting him a-and not telling you what was wrong with me." White sighed and held out his hand. Black stared at it for a minute before getting the hint. He slowly dropped the razor in his friend's hand and breathed in deeply.
"I'm glad you didn't do anything irrational again," a pang of guilt hit him when White said it in a certain tone of voice. "Although, you shouldn't be scratching your wounds, they'll get infected." He got up and put the blade in the sink before helping Black back up to his feet. He took the first aid kit from the shelf and opened it carefully. It was amazing how calm he was, especially after the last events.
"You look so sour," Black said, trying to lighten the mood and he earned a chuckle from White.
"That's because you tend to forget to throw out the expired milk." White shot back and cleaned his re-opened wounds. Black still had a long way to go, but knew he had his friend by his side. He was ready to talk to him and hopefully White would also express his feelings and share his thoughts with Black.
Well, eventually. He hoped to understand White a little better, just as White hoped to understand Black's self-harm a little better.
They were both grey after all, only today,
it was a different shade of grey.