Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Color. They say that a painting is worth a thousand words, but really it’s the colors that are worth so much; arranged in a way that depicts emotion. Color is worth a million words, it’s those words that give emotion. Take black, for example, Black, Cold, Gloomy, Evil, Fulfillment. The color black, like the boy’s soft, full hair atop his head, that overflows with thoughts of self-degrading thoughts.

Blue, Clear, Bright, innocent, Sadness. Blue, like his eyes seeing through a dull, washed-out color, that sees the world with a haze. Blue, that has seen too much, that has been exposed to Life’s cruel events. Blue, like his eyes, filled with sadness.

The sound of waves pounding trash mounds and dirty sand is always sweet white noise to the blue-eyed boy. Clad in a baggy, muddy gray knit sweater and warm gray sweatpants. With red flip-flops that do little to protect small feet from the hard beach waters. Trash piles upon trash piles cover the once scenic coast of japan’s Dagobah park beach. Over the years it turned into a public dumping spot for locals and with the tide to bring in more, it's become nothing more than a memory of what once was.

A beach that no one visits became the ideal retreat for the boy when he just wanted to get away from the world.

Frail hands, gauze wrapped wrists, and lanky arms wrap around tucked in keens pressed tight to a thin 5’6 figure. With a full head of dark hair and washed out sky-blue eyes that stare out towards the darkening sky and the sun that sends its rays over the sea's surface.

“Today has been..” Horrid? painful? sad? stupid? dull?.... “truly perfect”. His soft whispering voice sounded as if never used. Dagobah beach had always been a safe haven for him. A place where he could relax after a long day, a place where he could be free to do as he pleases without repercussions. The peaceful waves and the slight breeze that ruffled his hair was peaceful, welcoming.

That was until they arrived.

He was sat criss-cross in the sand lazily strumming a few chords on his weathered western-style guitar, (it was a rare gift from his stepmother for his tenth birthday) on a warm afternoon. He chose that day to wear a light jacket with some faded jeans, a pair of red flip-flops off to his side nearly buried in the sand. His hands were free of medical tape, but his wrist up to his elbows were generously wrapped, gladly shielded from view by his jacket. Along with the forever present bags under his eyes, darkening his expression. He was calm, relaxed, and enjoying his solitude hidden behind the many walls of rubble that cover the beach. Then, he heard them.

The boisterous laughter rang through the beach and echoed off and round the mounds of trash that littered the beach. The sound sent chills down his spine, it confused him, the sound was joyous and filled with good intent, it was just...new, to hear something so happy in a place that was forgotten, filled with unwanted things, it was refreshing and annoying. He sighed in defeat, he might as well find out who it is exactly disturbing his peace.

Now with his newfound curiosity, with a pinch of annoyance, he stood and swung his guitar over his shoulder, slipped on his flip-flops (wouldn't want to step on a shard of glass… again) and snuck his way towards the origin of the loud, deep laughter. I was easier then one would think for him to decipher his way through the trash. With years of visiting the beach, he had caved many, many paths for him to travel, either of entrance or exits, fast or slow if need be.
He peeked around the corner of an old rusted filing cabinet, standing there next to a smashed metal… something. Was a tall, maybe seven-foot-tall man with shaggy messy blond hair some of which hung in his face. A few feet from him, sat in the sand, was a skinny maybe 13, 14 year old with puffy green and black hair. The kid wore shorts and a white t-shirt and the older man had long cargo pants and a gray short sleeve, both way too large for his frail frame.

They were talking in slightly hushed voices and he was too far to hear them clearly. Why were they here? what were they doing? He chose not to worry about it too much. It would just be one more thing to watch out for. plus the ones who do visit the beach never stay long and usually never come back. The only exception being him himself, and even then. It's not for sightseeing its to get away, to be far from anyone. That's the only reason anyone comes.

He slipped away unseen leaving the two new obstacles behind and let the thought of them slip away as he clenched the strap of his guitar. Instead of the beach, he thought about the day to come, about the perfect day that was to follow a restless night of fitful sleep. He gave fate the rains to his life years ago. He just hoped he didn't have to back seat drive.