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DANDELIONS

somehow made this long chodark fic in like 5 days idk man

words: 8,156

tw/cw: blood/gore, injury, "strings of fate" imagery that includes cutting, strangling, and hanging 

also we're having some technical difficulties so the actual fic part is written really small for me ;-;

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Chosen and Dark have been, certainly, for a long time. They were made for each other, their souls perpetually intertwined in the dance of life as they could only move forward from what one could say were "humble beginnings," though maybe other descriptors would be more accurate to their wonderfully unique experiences made for only them.

They began bruised and bleeding, one clenching lightly burned fists and another trembling in fear, eyes blurred and halfway covered as they tried to protect their head and delay certain death. The two began in searing, tearing rage as the god of their computer simply left them to fight until death like desperate animals, never seeing beyond the here and now and surviving another hour. They began in escaping, clawing and ripping at the fabric of the world until they broke free, the wind screaming in their ears and pulling them and taking them away to freedom. They began falling.

The sky was beautiful. It still is, really. The stars above gathered in clusters and strings, swirling in the vast expanse. Millions of little bits of light dappling the black and coming together to bring just enough gentle illumination to see. Orange and yellow and red from black and red hands, the rest of their bodies just along for the ride as they watched the earth below them rush by. It's like the pain of before no longer exists; they're free. They didn't pay too much attention to where they were going, simply side by side and intertwined and living and breathing and loving and hating.

They landed eventually in soft grass, and Chosen then decided that said grass was his favorite feeling. The two laughed despite the nearly overwhelming pain, holding onto each other with claws dug into flesh and blood and sweat mixing into a watered-down red. In the tight grip and embrace, Dark eventually speaks for the first time since the two first met, his voice hoarse and breaking but still soft and warm. 

He asks "Who are you?" into Chosen's shoulder and Chosen doesn't respond for a few moments, thinking through hollow years of confined spaces and broken ankles and the world around him going dimmer by the second. A short hum left his lips before he finally found the words. "I'm not sure."

Dark let out a sound between laughing and coughing (or maybe it was a mix of both), and tore himself away from Chosen's hold on them and their own on him, licking split lips. 

"Well, uhm... huh?" Dark can't seem to keep himself from continuing with his warm laughter and smiles, and Chosen likes that, though not quite able to reciprocate. "I guess... Maybe I was too, what's the word," He gestures with his hand, his sharp, black nails glinting in the light of the stars. Chosen thought it looked nice. Maybe he just thought everything was nice, because they had escaped, and Dark was there, and Chosen liked Dark. "Oh, vague!" Dark picks up talking again. "Maybe I was too vague. So, what's your name? What should I call you?"

"You asked the same thing twice." Chosen couldn't help but notice, and the acknowledgement slipped out before he could realise what it is that's leaving his mouth. "It's fine, though," he quickly corrected himself. "Name's The Chosen One. I guess... Chosen, if you want it to be easier."

Dark's thinking hum is also warm, at least moreso than Chosen's. Chosen figured it was because their voice wasn't as damaged. "Well, nice to meet you, Chosen. I'm The Dark Lord. Dark. You can call me Dark."

And so the two beaten, near-broken figures, flesh and blood and bones held close, now named Chosen and Dark, settled in the soft and comforting, but still wildly growing foliage.