ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Just a Color

Vignette - Just a Color
Red means red.
Dramatis Personae Tag, Jason (NPC)	2013-06-29 How can you leave the past behind when it keeps finding ways to get to your heart? (Trigger warning: implied abuse.)
Location <NYC> South Street Seaport
The mural is an officially sanctioned depiction of the neighborhood's early days, though the real history was almost assuredly less picturesque. It is also plainly visible from the crowded pedestrian walkways of South Street Seaport. The sudden appearance of dragons in the painted sky over above that idyllic harbor scene draws little attention at first, but the number of people staring and pointing grows steadily. Unlike the contemporary passers-by, the well-groomed 19th century longshoremen do not notice the perils above their heads. Nor do they notice the fairies and goblins that begin colonizing their street, peering out from behind barrels, riding on pigeons and cats, straining to upset precariously balanced crates. The style of these new additions, though whimsical, matches the original mural well enough that one could imagine the same artist being behind both, if that artist had suddenly changed hir mind about getting paid. Except there was neither artist nor brush to be seen. The mythical immigration has soon drawn a sizeable knot of admirers. In their midst, Tag perches on a concrete pylon meant to keep out vehicle traffic, wearing oversized sunglasses and a blue t-shirt featuring Princess Luna of My Little Pony fame standing in the unlit region of a crescent moon. His ear-length black hair is parted slightly off-center and kept out of his face with rapidly failing gel. Like so many others around him, he has a cell phone raised toward the mural. A tall young man with a scarlet mohawk and an unbleached but paint-splattered t-shirt--the words "bask in your thought crime" sloppily silkscreened in maroon across the chest--stops beside him. Tag's head whips around so fast that the glasses almost fly off of his face. "Jason?" "Tag," Jason replies off-handedly, then nods at the mural. "That's not half bad." "You /punched/ me," Tag grumbles, turning back to the mural. A large-eyed gremlin is stretching a twiggy arm out from his hiding place atop a carriage to snatch at a handsome sailor's hat. "You turned me /red/," Jason replies, harsh but quiet. "It's just a color, " Tag retorts. "It comes off--" Jason interrupts him, voice dropping to a dangerous growl, "Including. My. Eyes." Tag's mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. He lowers his phone slowly and turns to stare at the other man, as if he expects him to still be red. The mural stops changing. "I literally saw red," Jason continues, "and nothing /but/ red, for three days." "I was tripping..." Tag mutters feebly. "I kept /saying/ red but you wouldn't...you didn't..." He is shaking a little. "I'm sorry." "Yeah," says Jason, more calmly. "I bet you are." He looks around at the gradually dispersing crowd. "Show's over. We had better wander off." Snatching off the sunglasses so that he can dab away unshed tears with his sleeve, Tag nods and hops down from the pylon. He falls into step beside Jason, who heads toward the subway station. "You can come back to the house, you know," Jason says a block later. "The others guys thought it was funny as shit. You /were/ tripping pretty hard." "Does that mean you forgive me?" Tag asks hesitantly, not quite willing to turn and meet his eyes. He smiles at a trio of impeccably coiffed Yorkies in a passing stroller instead. Jason chuckles. "Not yet. You have to /earn/ it. If you come back to me, it will be a 24/7 ownership contract." He turns a wry smile on the smaller man. "Three-month term, to start out." Tag seems to subside under his gaze. "I have a place now," he protests, "I have other friends. I can't just cast them aside like that." "You won't have to," Jason says mildly, though there is a hidden edge in his voice, too. "As long as you obey me, I will let you hang out with your friends. But they can't give you what you need." "And what /do/ I need, Jason?" Tag sounds as though he wished to come across as sarcastic, but could only manage weary fatalism. Jason wraps an arm around Tag's hunched shoulders and leans in close to whisper in his ear. "Control. You need to be controlled." "That's not true..." It is hard to tell whether Tag is bristling or trembling in the embrace, but he makes no move to break free. "I can control /myself/ just fine!" Jason's laughs, deep and resonant. "Bullshit. Look at yourself. How much weight have you lost? Can you actually afford rent? And doing your thing in broad daylight in front of people? You're asking for a beatdown or an arrest--probably one followed by the other. Face it: you need a Master." He runs a calloused hand down Tag's arm and easily encircles his slender wrist. "You. Need. Me." Tag breathes rapidly, gritting his teeth and staring straight ahead as if trying to concentrate on something exceedingly vital. He stumbles against Jason when the latter brings them to an abrupt halt and pins him between a newsstand and a wall. A strong hand grips the hair at the base of his neck. "Three months," Jason reiterates in his ear. "I provide for your every need in return for absolute control over you. No permanent marks, no negotiation, and /no safewords/. Like you said, red is just a color." Tag makes a half-hearted attempt to shake his head, but Jason's hand holds him fast. Whatever he had intended to say comes out as a faint whimper. "Go sleep on it," Jason says. "You know where to find me." With that, he is gone, leaving Tag slouched against the newsstand. Tears flow freely down Tag's face to splatter on the sidewalk, where a chaos of colors swirl through them like living oil slicks. Ponderously, as if waking from long slumber, he gathers himself and heads uptown.