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notsodailykurudoro · 16 days ago

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Day 95

Dororo lacked an appetite.

Despite his flawless care habits, rigorous training that he glided through with ease, the extra attention he gave to others, his strong morals, and insistence on staying on the bright path after belonging to the shadows for so many years, it was a reality, an asterisk in his portfolio, a blue stain on the white cloak of hypocrisy.

Dororo didn't feel like eating.

Dororo, in fact, refused to eat.

Even though this affliction did not greatly affect his almost invincible performance, it exposed him to certain situations that were, at the very least, unfavorable and uncomfortable. A fake laugh accompanied by a hand gesture of rejection, a polite decline that, under insistence, turned into cold sweat and finally into the bitterness of giving in. He had always been weak to social pressure, weak to the pure of the heart, as he would say.

Kururu was not like that.

After constant, close inspection and very long sessions of trial and error, he realized how curious his nature was. He could spend entire days awake, with the occasional bite of a curry-flavored nutrition bar, too engrossed in whatever task or objective was in front of him, determined to finish it until the inevitable snap of reality fell on his shoulders and brought him to collapse, something that he eventually found out only happened when he was in total and complete solitude. Something that changed once the trained assassin settled into his routine.

Once he finished his endless days of leisure, hunger attacked him as if his stomach was demanding blood, and he ended up eating anything he had within reach with aggressive voracity, regardless of the time, as long as no one could see him. He tore up packages, skinned pieces of meat or chicken, gobbled up noodles, inhaled instant curry, and if the gods decided to take pity on his putrid soul and he happened to have access to homemade curry (or, in general, something more edible than the packaged garbage he got at any grocery store), there was no power on earth that could keep him from almost tearing off his fingers or eating part of the plate. It was a spectacle, one that he had been fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to experience more than once.

And from that moment on, the Ninja tried to get packages of food prepared by him to hand over. Once again, the extra attention to others was messing with his own well-being.

He loved Pekopon, he loved his friends, he loved his hobbies, and he loved Kururu, but that conclusion came only after an extensive period of deconstruction and a very severe identity crisis that cast a shadow over him, which he was still trying to leave behind to this very day. The things he saw and did during his time in the assassins' corps were only to remain in his darkest nightmares and in the most horrible of his intrusive thoughts, things so ruthless, immoral, unpleasant.

It wasn't until he tried to take a bite of a piece of undercooked ham that, the impact of the taste making him return to the darkest of his days, made him realize that perhaps, and just perhaps, the problem ran a little deeper than he had initially thought.

He grimaced in disgust, only reflected in his usually expressionless eyes, as he witnessed how the Sergeant Major noisily slurped what a moment ago was his almost intact soup without waiting for a concrete response from him. It wasn't like he would have denied it to him anyway, but the urgency with which he was devouring his food (and his, too) was perhaps starting to displease him a little, besides the fact that he was starting to consider it somewhat rude.

He sighed again, looking away at the rest of the event hall, which was also part of the underground base of the platoon, decorated halfway with lights and other Christmas miscellany for the season, and also with the mess that gradually grew while his companions argued and ran around the entire venue wrapped in the decorations. Completely oblivious to the conflict, he barely made an effort to put the pieces together of what he more or less found out before the situation escalated... Did the life cycle of geese have something to do with the color of the grass in the stadium? He had no clue.

It was horrible; he felt strangely melancholic, almost dizzy from the lights and the screams. Christmas was supposed to be a time to rejoice in the company of those you care about the most, to feel grateful for what you have in your life and what you have achieved during the year, to admire the decorated houses, the families, the friends, the lovers... None of that entered into the bitter feeling that built up in his stomach and made his chest throb.

He considered excusing himself and calling it a day, returning the next day or maybe in a week, clearing his mind with more meditation, having tea with Koyuki, but he had no idea when the next time they would include him in their plans would be and he did not wanted to risk cutting short valuable time in the company of...

Another glimpse of Giroro hitting Keroro, who was on the ground with Christmas lights wrapped around his torso, with a comically large candy cane in his hand, erased his train of thought in a flash, and his grimace only grew larger. He prepared to stand up.

"Very well, this has been deligh-" he began.

"FFFWAAAHh-" A high-pitched, nasally voice exhaled from beside him, finally satisfied after having victoriously exterminated as many dishes as he could reach from what used to be the feast prepared for their small meeting thousands of meters underground.

"Now THAT is a Christmas miracle, Ne, Doro?"

"Ah..." Interrupted once again mid-sentence, he managed to blurt out, halfway up to leave.

"What? You gonna empty the tank?" Kururu returned, halfway to lying down on the ground.

"Um... Actually, I... I was just about to-" He tried to excuse himself, making inconclusive gestures, realizing it would be quite rude to take his leave without a proper goodbye.

"...N-Nevermind."

"Haaaah..." The yellow frog blurted out, scratching his stomach and looking away at the trio of morons who were now hanging Giroro from the ceiling with the same Christmas lights and preparing (or at least hinting at it) to use him as a piñata.

They both entertained themselves for a few minutes staring in mutual silence at the stupid scene before Kururu spoke up.

"Welp, I'm fed up. Wanna get outta here?"

Slightly surprised, he was able to return his gaze in time to process his request, take one last look at the rest, and nod firmly.

And once outside, he could finally breathe.

Their shared silence always seemed comforting to him, being able to lose himself in his own thoughts with the freedom of knowing that the other was doing exactly the same until one felt the eventual need to mention something before returning to calm, sometimes for hours, sometimes for minutes.

This was one of those minutes.

"You're quiet," Kururu spoke, bringing him out of his trance.

"What do you mean? I always try to reserve my words." He answered after seconds of stupefaction.

"More than usual, too much jovial charade?"

Dororo seemed to consider it, staring at the mechanical floor beneath his feet that constantly moved in tune with the machinery, saving them the tedious task of walking barefoot through the endless corridors of the base.

"...Maybe."

"Hm."

Another couple of minutes passed, seeming to stretch on for hours. Usually, they didn’t take the scenic route; by now, if they had wanted to, they would have already been in front of the metal doors of the amphibious lemonade lab. He supposed his autopilot got the better of him, unconsciously falling into one of Kururu's psychological traps.

He bristled a bit at the realization, doing a fleeting recount of all his actions during the day and the week while he was at it, failing to take a hint at the subject of the mental war that was approaching.

"You didn't touch your food."

Oh. Oh no.

"...You didn't let me."

"You haven't done it in a while."

Insightful, and honestly not surprising.

"A-Ah... Is... Is that so?"

"Listen, as far as I'm concerned, you can starve yourself if it means you're in the middle of some weird ninja starvation vow. I don't care what you do to honor the persona you created in your roleplay post-trauma, but believe me, I don't want to be the one to drag you once you fall face-first into the ground because of this stupid little antic."

He sounded oddly harsh, mad even, genuinely exasperated by something as banal as he believed his little intermittent fasting was. No matter how much he turned his claims over, he couldn’t fully understand his frustration or what at least resembled such.

"Such... thing is not going to happen, I can assure you. My health is above all in perfect condition." A half-lie, perhaps accustomed to the static in his vision, to the numbness of his words, and the slowness of his cognitive tramp.

"Sure." He spat, cynical as always in that mocking bite that adorned his own words.

Tense, he pressed his forearms together a bit, feeling somewhat scolded and remaining in cold silence for the rest of the journey. At least until the belts split, and the decision to jump to Kururu's or stay on his own to go off on his own presented itself to him. Panicking a little in the face of uncertainty, he opened and closed his mouth as he searched for the right words to ease the burden he felt he had placed on the hacker's crooked back. Finally, he opted to move from his spot, at least to beg for an apology, and if possible, a hug, any kind of physical contact, any pixel of validation. He took a step forward.

And that was the last thing he knew.

Fading in the process, a deafening pressure enveloped his senses and took his breath away, effectively falling face-first to the ground.

Still dragged by the moving platforms, Dororo remained motionless.

The yellow devil let out some sounds of urgency (and annoyance), condemned to the irony of his predictions always coming back to bite him in the ass. Cursing under his breath, his hands gripped the ninja's pits and dragged him to a more optimal area on the belts, at least while they arrived at their destination.

"I told you, I told you, I fucking told you. I always tell you, and you never listen to me. You're a…" He muttered between pushes, the mechanical statue with its face rising imposingly behind him.

He huffed, wiping sweat from his forehead, before slapping it after remembering that he could make robotic limbs emanate from his gear to make the task of carrying a body in the solitude of his mechanized cave easier… For once, without malicious intent. He supposed his autopilot got the better of him.

Still grumbling, he held Dororo suspended in the air, supported by six spider hands. The statue's teeth raised upon detecting his presence and emitted a few extra beeps upon recognizing the shinobi's. His own hands clung to his churning stomach in an attempt to ease the nausea caused by the scare and physical effort previously used. It was his fault for overdoing it like that anyway; he could only hope that he didn't end up throwing up that night.

He gently positioned his partner in his Gaming Chair™, manipulating buttons, commands, and medical equipment with his mechanical hands while he rubbed his face in eternal tiredness and stress, sitting on the floor next to the blue-hued frog. He connected small tubes to his arms that led to plastic bags with strange liquids, serums, and alien substances that perhaps, if he were in the right mood, he would take the trouble to explain in excessive detail. Withdrawing assistance once everything was in order, he shrank a little in his place when he noticed that the discomfort was only getting worse.

He let out a shaky sigh, looking up at one of his huge screens to see the time: 1:05 AM, December 25th. Christmas.

"Tch… Ho, ho, ho, motherfucker." He tilted his smile, staring at the sleeping frame of his partner.

This was nothing out of the expected; he had gotten used to the idea that sooner or later, he would end up tying him to a chair and forcing him to eat, or maybe take a rag and cut off his breathing until he fell asleep and proceed with the same idea. Even suddenly attacking him with syringes while his guard was down, taking advantage of moments of closeness, or simply going all in and stabbing the poor bastard. But he never thought that the moment would come so quickly, or much less in such an easy and, he would be lying if he didn't admit it, anticlimactic way.

Nevertheless, a failure in his almost precise calculations was a failure; there was no denying that. This was not what he expected from his night when he left the room with a full stomach. Yes, his emotional instigation was a stone in the road, and yes, maybe he also got a little bit carried away with the "scolding." But it was nothing that couldn't be smoothed out with a little more time, nice words, and a grope here and there.

Dororo was easy to manipulate, and it just so happened that Kururu almost always got his way out of things. He wasn't even leading him toward committing illicit acts! Everyone had a win on this!

…Had one.

Christmas was supposed to be about freebies, food, and consumerism, and basic decency and kindness, no matter how many war crimes and hate crimes you committed over your long career in the scumbag chain of the worst of spatial scum. Endless speeches about love and peace and giving, the hopeful looks of idiots rejoicing at the most futile of gestures, the smallest of compliments, the most meaningless of gifts…

To become uncomfortable under the coldest of touches…

He shuddered all over, his stomach churning with the aggression of a miniature typhoon, twisting and bending his organs until he felt the gags graze the back of his throat, flesh sizzling against the acid.

Oh no, he definitely wasn't going to be able to hold this one, he thought fleetingly, unable to find a trash can in time. Grabbing an unfinished helmet attached to a myriad of cables, he emptied some of the contents of his stomach inside.

Making a mess of the unfinished apparatus, he remained in that position for a few seconds before regurgitating again. His gags and whimpers echoed too loudly in the lab's silence, as he threw up another slice of turkey and stew.

"Nnngh..."

He hated food.

He hated Dororo.

He hated the way he always bragged about being nice and good, with his old-fashioned sayings, his well-kept garden, his almost perfect physical condition, and the pretentious advice he gave, as if he knew him or at least had a rough idea of what was going on in his head.

He snorted, idiot, he couldn't even take care of himself. He was just as mortal as everyone else, just as miserable and pathetic.

He laughed to himself, in a fetal position, waiting for the nausea to pass. His congested breathing made him snore and sound unpleasant as he tried to boast.

Poor thing, of course, he needed him. What would become of Dororo if he wasn't there to drag him out of his misery bubble?

"... Yeah..." He found himself muttering, turning his permanent smile upside down.

"Kur-... uru..."

He jolted upwards, how much time had passed?

He rushed to Dororo's side, who was beginning to stir and show signs of consciousness. Kururu tried to hide a sigh of relief.

"Don't strain yourself, dumbass." He warned, rubbing one of his eyes, still dizzy from his earlier vomiting.

"What... happened...?" Dororo tried, attempting to bring a hand to his face, only to notice his restricted movement.

"Don't move." Kururu said quickly, holding down his arm with one hand, carefully

They finally locked eyes.

“... You passed out because you are a crybaby who doesn't want to eat his fruits and vegetables.”

"I'm... sorry."

"You're a moron." Kururu frowned, tempted to hit him behind the head, without taking his hand off the other.

They held their stare for a while, one crystallizing and the other softening.

"Tch... Fine, apology accepted..." Kururu looked away, crossing his arms.

Dororo, in all his exhaustion, couldn't help but muster a hidden smile.

"I... suppose you did end up being the one to-"

"Drag you once you fell face-first to the ground, yeah, I know, very funny, Doro..."

A pang stabbed through his chest and stomach. He remained silent before trying to move one of his arms again to reach out for Kururu.

"I'm... sorry." He repeated, his hand in the air stretched towards Kururu's direction before being held by the wrist by an alien touch. A touch that, even coming from annoyance, was nothing more than a gentle squeeze.

"I said don't move, you braindead?"

"Are you mad?"

"What kind of question is that? Of COURSE, I'm ma-..." Kururu cut himself off, falling silent and looking at the floor for a few seconds before returning his gaze.

"No." A blatant lie, as he led Dororo's hand to a more optimal position and let him go.

Resigned, the ninja stood still, losing his sight in some dead spot in the room while Kururu walked away to lean on his desk and let his weight fall on his arms, exhaling a sigh between his teeth, still dizzy.

Dororo tended to make him sick.

"Would... it make you feel better if..."

"Just don't do that again..." Kururu interrupted, bringing a hand to his face to rub his eyes again under his glasses.

"What thing?"

There were a few beats of silence.

"... Scaring me."

The Shinobi's empty eyes opened a little more, worry settling on his features. Before he could properly process it, he began to tear up.

"... I'm sorry..."

"Ah, it's alright..."

Normalizing his breathing, Kururu finally turned to see the ninja practically tied to the chair, approaching to check the bags connected to him. Not yet.

He gave him a few playful pats on the cheek.

"Ne, cheer up, it's good now."

"I-Is it...?"

"Yeah, you just caught me in a bad mood."

Dororo sniffed.

"Is there a difference?"

"You're stretching it."

"... I know."

He weakly laughed, Kururu stretched his smile.

“... I'll start eating more,” Dororo added, his blurry vision showing signs of determination as he tried to focus on his partner's face.

“Do I believe you?” Kururu asked skeptically.

“I implore you to trust me.” Dororo replied.

“Only if I see it.”

Even through the haze of his own tears, Dororo could make out their faces drawing closer with each passing second. For the first time, he took the initiative to disobey previous orders and reached out to grasp the smaller frog’s face. He took the edges of his own mask with his free hand, attempting to pull it down. Until suddenly, Kururu shuddered violently, puffed out his cheeks, and vomited all over both of them.

… Merry Christmas, he guessed…

#kurudoro #keroro gunso #kururu #dororo #sgt frog #merry christmas

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