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[/in front of your door is a dark brown basket in which something is soundly snoozing, securely wrapped in a white blanket. the handle is adorned with a band of red satin that ties a note to the basket, a note which reads "please don't abandon her like i did". the first thing you see upon approaching the basket is a tiny, pink hand that grasps for air in her sleep, maybe she is dreaming that she's reaching for a toy? perhaps it is her most favorite toy, and yes, look at that sleepy smile]

{`was that the mail? demento had a reputation of being inattentive, but when it came to this place he called home he was far from — to the point where he was pretty certain he could hear a fly breathe outside his door, should he concentrate hard enough. pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose he absentmindedly scratched a particularly itchy part of hiss ass while approaching the door. peering through the peephole in the door he found nothing, so he assumed it was the mail, but as soon as he opened the door he wished he hadn’t — he wished he hadn’t heard anything, he wished he was still sitting in his couch, lazying about, scratching his ass, poking his navel, drooling — whatever. but that wasn’t the case, and as soon as he saw the child he knew he was done for. it’s not like he could ignore it now that he knew it was there } Fucking bullshit, that’s what this is. {`muttering under his breath he crouched down, one hand turning the note to read what it said and cursed profusely — could someone rewind time? no? well, fuck it } Fuck. {`feeling his vocabulary disappearing at an ever so steady pace he reached out, though realizing that he shouldn’t touch the child and therefore tried to abort the mission, but before he could do such a thing he found tiny, warm fingers gripping around his index finger } … I hate this world. {`carefully pulling his finger back he rose, now holding the basket in a precious grip, as if he held something fragile — which he knew he did } … I fucking hate this world. {`returning back inside he didn’t really stop cursing everything in existence, but showing off his skills in multitasking he slowly but surely began to solve one of the biggest issues } … What the hell am I supposed to feed you? {`and then he started to think of possible places to dispose of leave the kid to make sure she was in good hands, because she was definitely not staying with him, and oh god, would he have to buy diapers? }

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to infinity and beyond

It's easy for him to think that he's alone. That he's the only one who suffers through a particular kind of bullshit no one should have to be cursed with. But once upon a blue moon there comes reminders that he's wrong. He's not nearly as special of a snowflake as he thinks he is. And that makes him as happy as it makes him curse under his breath.

Because sometimes it feels like he's nothing. As if he's insignificant to the entire world, regardless of time and place.

Perched upon a branch in his favorite tree he had one leg dangling in the air, the other pulled up so that he could rest his elbow on his knee. Keeping himself busy 24/7 seemed to be nearly impossible, especially since he didn't work, so he had no choice but to actually chill. And what better way to do that than up in a tree? Exactly.

Peeling a bit of bark off he didn't lose sight of the woman walking down the street. He had to patiently wait for her to come closer, but once she did he sent the organic matter flying through the air with the intention of hitting her head. Just calling out for her wasn't nearly as fun as throwing random things like an uncivilized person. And like this he could be certain she'd react.

"In a hurry, sweet cheeks?"

His signature smirk grazed his lips while he was gazing down at the woman below. He knew her from before, but they were merely acquaintances and a solid century had passed since then, so he decided against using her name. Perhaps she went by a different one now?

Demento didn't really have anything important to say, but when you ran into another immortal being you were allowed to disturb their piece without a good enough reason to do so. It's not like they were ever in any real hurry. What they didn't do today, they could always do a decade later if so be it.

They had all the time in the world.

Literally.

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In a sense, Demento envied him. He envied that he didn't remember anything. He envied that he got to age, but more importantly that he got to live in a way he never could. But at the same time he knew that a live that didn't permanently end with death wasn't worth to envy. Because regardless they remained alive in one way or the other.

It was a curse. And anyone who thought otherwise was deluding themselves.

"You're going to remember things..." he spoke slowly, his arms sliding up to cross in front of his chest to the point where his hands was gripping at his shirt in some sort of self-embrace. He didn't feel it, but the first tear trailed down his cheek after escaping the corner of his eye. Of all the things in the entire world, the thing he was most afraid of was being hated by the only person that had literally meant everything to him.

And it was knowing that such a thing was inevitable that made everything so hard, because surely Mon couldn't do anything but hate him once he remembered what had happened that day.

"Just like you know to call me hyung..." his brows pushed together as he looked at the man, while his outer appearance was unfamiliar at best, he knew that his brother was in there, his memories resting somewhere deep inside. "Things will come back, and—"

Upon hearing the words "try again" he realized that tears were silently streaming down his cheeks, wetting the ground in small, dark spots as they separated from his chin. His bloodied, wounded hand was already numb enough for him to not feel it. If only the mental part of his entire being could go numb as well. "And I don't know if I can be around when that happens."

Things had always been unbearable since he lost his brother, and he wasn't sure he could take more than that. He had tried to take his own life for weeks after that, but ending his misery didn't seem like a valid option.

And now he was here again. In another body, but he was still alive. What if he didn't have the power to make everything up to him once he remembered? What if he had to live with the fact that the most important person in his eternal life hated him?

He'd lose it. He knew he would.

So it was better to get it over with before he allowed himself to give in.

Wiping the tears away with the back of his wounded hand, leaving a small trail of blood across his cheeks he cleared his throat, the lump in his throat still hurting like hell. "I abandoned you at the shore. I watched you die. You cried out for me but I didn't do anything."

There had been a reason he hadn't been able to get to his brother that time, but a century or two of bashing down on himself had made him forget that small detail.

"I failed you."

Drowning Beneath the Waves

"Let’s just try again, hyung…"

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Even if this was what he currently lived for, the boredom never failed to settle in far too quickly. It was like a curse he had no power to escape from. And it had only become worse in later days. Or later months, really. It was just so hard to find something new. Something exciting. Even dying wasn't exciting anymore to the point where he'd rather abandon his creativity and simply put a bullet in his head. And if Demento couldn't bring himself to die in creative days, you'll know that whatever he's suffering from is bad. Fucking boredom.

Upon locking eyes with the person on the wall he decided that he had some time to spare. He had always some time to spare, unfortunately, and he had already been here a few hours. Instead of standing in the crowd, why not sit above it?

Yeah, sounds good.

With his usual vigor, something that seemed to be a natural part of his physical body, he flashed a smirk while lunging towards the wall. His hands gripped the edge and his body followed swiftly, feet running along the flat surface until he was perched upon the wall itself within a matter of seconds. He was like a monkey whenever the time allowed.

"Enjoying the show?"

Not even out of breath he quietly inhaled small parts of the smoke that escaped the man's lips instead. Feeling like he should give the other a chance to be generous he waved his hand in that specific "let me take a huff of your joint"-wave.

Because sharing was caring and caring was good, yes?

Whatever, as long as it worked.

to the beat of your drum

He was looking in Jun’s direction. All jun could do was nod and give him a thumbs up and one word “Sick"

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i am a taxi driver in—

Kim Soon Jae.

He had wrecked his brain trying to understand what he saw, but at the same time things like these were fairly common. Some grandchildren did resemble their grandparents a lot, but this man was the spitting image of his... what?

How old had his boss been when he died? And when exactly did he die? And this man across the street? How old was he? Twenty-five? Not over thirty, at least.

Then—

Counting on his fingers he tried to make sense of generations and such, coming to the conclusion that, if his calculations had been correct, Soon Jae out to be this man's... great-great-grandfather? Or something like that. He was done with math for today.

Not looking twice before crossing the road because, really, that was for boring people and what did you call them again? Ahh, yes, mortals. Locking eyes with another man that was seemingly out for the same taxi as himself he had to act quick. And unprofessional. And immature. But it's not like you could expect anything else from Demento in the first place. And if you did, well... then you'd be fucked.

So in conflict with whatever reputation he had left he dashed forward, literally lunging towards the car to get the first because hell no, that was his taxi. He even got the stranger to pick up the pace as well, perhaps by instinct, but that didn't really matter since he had already slipped into the backseat of the car.

Closing the door, all while sending the man on the outside a piercing glare through the constantly narrowing opening he closed it shut once and for all. He didn't exactly have a plan in mind, and he wasn't sure how thick his wallet currently was, but he could always improvise.

And so he leaned forward to rest an elbow on top of the edge of the front seat besides the driver, the oh so familiar man, and spoke.

"Sory city, please."

Of course he deliberately chose the farthest away (accessible by car) city he could think of.

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you look like an adorable hamster

you don't look at all :|

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to the beat of your drum

His lips moved rapidly to convey his message, the rhymes and lines leaving his mouth as if he was a poisonous slingshot. All up in the other's face he weighed back and forth, his eyes locked with his competitor for the night as he almost pushed at him with his chest, being as intrusive of his personal space as he possibly could.

Backing down with the last word of his freestyle rap he threw his head to the side to absorb the applauds the tight crowd showered him with. With a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips he found himself still in motion, his body moving despite the fact that he was standing still, the beat flowing through his entire being.

This. This right here was a perfect temporary escape.

Here, surrounded by those who felt as passionately as he did for the underground culture he could forget about living or dying, about losses and even more losses. Because he never gained more than he lost and it was starting to seriously mess with his mind.

But here, in the midst of the rap battle taking place he felt free. Here he didn't give jack shit about his shitty immortality. Here he actually enjoyed every breath the took — or perhaps lack thereof.

Deciding to fade back into the distance to simply observe he crossed his arms over his chest, his head bobbing back and forth to the beat as person after person stepped up to show what they were made of.

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Demento didn't know whether he should cry or laugh upon learning that his own brother didn't remember him. That his everything wasn't able to recall his existence. But then again, if he was here now it must mean he's been around for quite some time. Perhaps even longer than himself.

Maybe he had made more lasting connections in other lifetimes.

Maybe he hadn't been that important after—

... No.

He felt his legs crumble beneath him, but before it was physically visible he backed up against the nearest wall to lean his back on it, shying away from the man's touch yet again.

If the other knew what he had done the only "touching" he'd do ought to be a fist in his face, not anything nearly as soft as his last approach had seemed.

Gritting his teeth he felt the familiar lump in his throat, and while it hurt it was nothing like the burn in his shredded palm. But all of that felt like soft caresses compared to the ache in his heart upon stumbling upon what should be his dead brother. His dead brother who he didn't save. His dead brother who he killed himself for, because a life without him would just be too unbearable.

"At the shore" he began, his voice throaty and raspy as he spoke, because he knew that as far as he stopped, if he'd come to remember everything, he'd surely hate him. Maybe even loathe him.

With his wounded hand instinctively gripping harder around the shard of glass, its sharp edges cutting into his flesh to remind him how painfully alive he was, he was instinctively ready to slit his throat and completely disappear for if just a little while.

Because if it was something he didn't want to see, it would be his brother's hateful eyes directed towards him.

But at the same time he knew it was inevitable, and he needed to face this. At some point he needed to face the consequences of his actions, and it could very well be tonight.

"They caught you... and I didn't... I didn't..." ... save you, he wanted to say, but he couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to explain. He didn't want to break a second time, but that seemed inevitable now.

Drowning Beneath the Waves

“Hyung… what happened?"

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what goes around, comes around

RLS REQUEST | ANY GENDER, ANY AGE, ANY CITY, ANY FACTION

Demento became good friends with a woman once. They trusted each other on a level he had almost forgot was possible, and he came to bond with her boyfriend as well once he entered the picture to the point where the three of them grew inseparable. He was appointed as their child's godfather when the time was ready and overall cared for the family as if it was his own. Several years have passed and his friends are no more. But one person still remains: their child. This child had early on been told that no matter what, they could rely on Demento. What I'm looking for here is a character whose parents are dead, obviously, and perhaps doesn't lead the easiest life in the world, in which he/she needs help once in a while — help they'll turn to Demento to get. He thinks highly of this person and would do everything in his power to make sure they are not harmed in any way, and if they are he'll avenge them accordingly.

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The word "again" literally knocked the air right out of his lungs, his feet stumbling over one another as he desperately tried to get out. His heart would've shattered into a million pieces if it wasn't for the fact that it was already broken. Ever since that day he had failed to heal it, if even just a little.

Something told him that he wasn't running away from the ghost of his past, but rather that his past had become a part of the present.

And that scared him — it scared him to the point of devastation.

His body almost lost the will to compute, so instead of breaking free he stopped and turned around, dark eyes never leaving the man once he got within his field of vision. But the darkness within his gaze wasn't born out of hatred or contempt, it was stained by emotional distress and grief. It all came back, just like that.

That one sentence broke him completely.

"I've seen enough of your blood already!" he snapped, his bloodstained hand (palm still embedded with tiny shards of glass) reaching out to snatch the piece of glass the other was holding. He had seen too much of everything.

He didn't recognize the man, because his physical appearance wasn't the same, but he felt it. He felt him. He felt home. And that tore him apart even more, because he had done something so terrible— so vile

"Why are you alive..." he said, his voice almost pleading as if he prayed to a higher power to rewind time, to stop him from meeting him, to stop this— because he was ashamed of himself. So horribly ashamed of himself to the point where he couldn't face the other. But at the same time he was forced to do just that.

With his eyes now downcast he gently pried his wrist out of the man's grip, every breath he took more painful than the other. He didn't want this. He didn't want to see the look on his face when he realized who he were. What he had done. But most importantly, what he hadn't done.

And so he spoke, his voice lacking any actual strength.

"Hyun Koo..."

Oh, how he wished he had died instead of him.

Drowning Beneath the Waves

"Just tell me who you are…"

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What the fuck... fucker?

Could someone remind him why he had been, well, not downright awful to the stranger from the beginning? Because if he knew this was how he would be treated he'd start by knocking the asshole off the stool to prevent something like that to happen in the first place.

"Hey, fucker", he repeated with a sneer, far too not-sober and suicidal to take such crap from someone he didn't even know, and seemingly unprovoked at that, "I don't need to pretend shit."

When it became evident that his name, no, his true name was on the agenda he shut like a clam. This person didn't deserve to hear that. No one deserved to hear that. The only pair of lips that he wanted to give sound to his name was long gone, never to return. His name was sacred for that reason alone.

This fucker didn't deserve— wait, what?

The nickname cut through his heart like a knife, the jab of emotions so overwhelming his whole system stopped for a second. Demento couldn't do anything but simply stare at the man in front of him for a good minute, seemingly calm if you didn't count the iron grip his hand held the glass of whiskey in.

That wasn't true. That couldn't be true.

Whoever thought it was funny to play such a twisted prank on him was going to pay, hell he'd fucking kill the bastards if he had to. But at the same time he understood it wasn't possible. It couldn't be a prank because no one knew.

It had just been him and his brother from the start. Their contact with the outside world had been so limited. So scarce. They knew no one and no one knew them.

So why was it that this man in front of him, in the most random of bars, took that name in his mouth as if it was actually true? He wanted to punch him. He wanted to hurt him. Disintegrate him. Make him go away. Because this was clearly some sick game his mind was playing on him. This wasn't a real person. This was merely a figment of his imagination.

He didn't need this reminder.

With a snap the glass shattered, shards digging into the palms of his fist as he didn't even bother unclenching it. He was done with this shit. So extremely done with it.

"Leave me the fuck alone."

His voice was supposed to be cold, hard, sharp— anything to drive the haunted memory away, but instead it came out forced, unbalanced and shattered — much like the glass that was no more. But he didn't stop as he got off the stool and marched straight towards the exit.

He needed a gun. A knife. A saw. Heck, he'd even kill himself with a spoon if he had to.

He needed to disappear for even an hour, if so be it.

Drowning Beneath the Waves

"They call me Blue Monster."

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ಠoಠ like this to plot with demento

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He didn't know why he still tried, he really didn't. Especially upon knowing that it would never, ever work. But that didn't change the fact that his favorite past time as of late consisted of getting drunk, overdosing and putting bullets into his head — it depended on his mood, really, what kind of poison he wanted to fool around with. He would always wake up unharmed the next day, so who cares.

He did. But his opinions doesn't seem to matter.

No, he was immortal. Was god above laughing mockingly each time his heart stopped? Each time he opened his eyes after being murdered, committing suicide or suffering through a tragic accident?

Demento wanted to say that he was.

And what the hell was this guy's deal?

He had been sitting with his fingers curled around his third glass of whiskey for the night. Being stared at wasn't something foreign to him, but tonight it irked him like no other. He had stubbornly ignored it to the best of his abilities, not wanting anything to get between him and his nightly ritual of suicide — but then the man spoke.

It's not like he could ignore that. Unless he wanted to come off as a douchebag, and while he didn't particularly care most of the time he felt like he could be somewhat agreeable.

So instead he turned his head to face the stranger, silently trying to remember if he was supposed to know the other. But nothing clicked and he was too drunk to humor him. While the question was as straightforward as it could be, he didn't understand what he was supposed to say.

"Says the stranger," he said, scrutinizing the man in front of him, "it's not like I can answer that without knowing who you are."

It's not like they had a— ... connection.

He felt it. He didn't feel it, but he felt it nonetheless.

... But no, that was out of the question. Surely it was yet another prank of his drunken state of mind.

It couldn't be anything else.

Drowning Beneath the Waves

"Yah. Who are you?"