Recalling the words exchanged between Kanda and Skin Boric at the end of their battle,I came to a (rather obvious) conclusion: Kanda doesn't think of himself as human. Then my brain gave birth to this fucked up thing. Just because.
Two fingers dipping in blue paint (blue, blue,deep cobalt blue like the waters of artificial koi ponds); index and middle fingers, not delicate nor beautiful; always gentle, always looking to please.
Those fingers,moving up up up to rest on a line of black and white (because it's a neck planned out strategically,geometrically) and it's a contrast that would make shivers run down anyone's spine- He believes.
So he trails after the shiver and chases it, until the first bump makes itself known as some sort of holy signal, a vertebral alert to those caught up in the romantic aspects of aesthetics. Hey, wake up. What are you doing? My God, what are you doing?
"What are you doing"
He's felt the slightest of shifts under that pair of fingers, skin slipping on bone just enough to let him see more blue (specially mixed to defy genetical law, a touch of spoiled mischievousness in an already spoilt act of humanity) staring back intently at him: "It needs to be covered"
It needs that indeed. Needs to be prettied up, or so he's been told at the beginning of this experimental kind of artistic work.
There's a shuddery moment of hesitation but the fingers don t know how to retreat,so they resume down down down over the bumps,leaving behind a trail which soothes the alarms going off inside him; and this seems enough because blue is not piercing him anymore.
With a final, desperate stroke the fingers reach the base of the line and he lets out a shaky breath; relieved, disappointed, and he's satisfied with the result but for once- he thinks it would have been so lovely to just let the blankness fill the canvas.
He still doesn't get why it has to be covered up; he can't begin to understand why they must conceal such a wondrous piece of art; but he. He knows better. Even if they've said it's the same; they made it the same, and exact replica of a reality he is sure won't ever; ever seem real enough. He doesn t have the time nor the patience to wait for a resemblance to appear anyway.
And even though it's just what's expected of him and what he should do, to try and grasp and turn and bend at his edges and make him try to realize because that's what parents do for their children, he complies in his adoration.
Because he will never be a father.
And nine years is a lifetime for a child and for a flower all the same.
...I still don t know what this is. Even after proofreading and editing mistakes, now that I have a bit more of time on the comp.
I felt weird and so does this. I took advantade of Tiedoll's fatherly adoration to make him a bit of a mindless servant-like lovesick pedophile. Yay!