Work Text:
His whole life is choreography. He hasn't had a shred of autonomy when on his own, not since the day he was born; everything had its set path, set by someone who wasn't him. His father, mainly, but it almost seems like - even now, out from under his father's thumb - he has no control over his own actions. He wakes up, he goes to school, he talks with others sometimes, and he breaths... all part of some hard coded choreography in his mind, while he's busy thinking on other things - or, nothing at all. He's easily distracted and, despite being intelligent, not doing so well in his academic life. Not terribly, but not as he should be performing; going about tests and the like as if he were only breathing.
It's an odd feeling. He would hate it, loath it, but everything seems so distant and he really is quite tired. When he isn't tired, he gambles, but that isn't the wisest thing to do; especially as a way to simply kill time. Well, not enough was at stake, anyway; money and all those other inconsequential things bored him. He just wanted something... more. More dangerous, more risky, more fulfilling.
He's just... numb. His legs move, he breaths, but his mind seems to be shrouded in smoke or fog; something thick and thought disrupting. His food tastes like ashes, so he can't really bring himself to use any energy on it, preferring to lay in bed and simply sleep; though not too much, that will worry his sister.
The only time he truly feels alive is when a blade is in his hand. A knife, a razor blade; he can't cut with scissors, and doesn't see how anyone can. The most a scissor blade can give you as a scratch, a few beads of blood, if you get it just right. A razor blade makes nice, neat lines on his forearm; red, raw and throbbing. Stinging. Something with sensation. A knife can cut deeper, has the ability to kill him. He has the power to die, but decides against it.
Even if the choreography is stale and boring in this moment, he will create his own climax. He has a goal, a plan; something impossible, something with risk. He laughs and laughs as he thinks of the destruction of his father's empire; blood running down his arm, his his hand, and smearing on the bathroom tile. He's lightheaded, probably a little manic, and it's the most intoxicating feeling he's had in such a long time. He's sharp, focused; it doesn't matter how small his waist is, how dizzy and out of breath he gets. This is against the choreography; his own beautiful improvisation. The crowd clamours for more, he's certain; he always did think of himself as the theatrical type. It's a crescendo, a climax, something beautiful but it fades so quickly; vision fading into black and the dull sound he makes as his body hits the floor.
He awakes, and once more he's following his script. Oh, will someone please shoot the director and let him fret his hour on stage by himself without needless assistance, before he is heard no more? Evidently not.
He can plan and scheme and improvise as much as he wishes, but there is always that set path, that monotonous choreography. He supposes that only makes him all the more willing to die for his cause; a tactical advantage, perhaps.
Not really. He just wants to die, there isn't any strategical value in that.
He can dance and strut and improvise, but he is a mere, poor player, after all. There is no evidence of that changing.
Surely.