sockathan drabbles

in the dark

You're not big on confrontation.

You're well aware that probably comes as a shock to most, considering your sarcastic nature and complete apathy, but it's the truth. For all you can give, you'd rather silently receive. It's how you handle your dad when he's a little too drunk and a little too frustrated, how you handle assholes on the bus or slumped against the wall outside of school, the kind of kids who get their rocks off asking when you're gonna knot the noose. In your experience, nothing is the best response - obviously Sock is the only exception, because all of your nothing wasn't nearly enough to drive him away.

Sometimes, though, the silence doesn't satisfy. They want more, riled up and chomping at the bit. They want to see you burst, see you lose it, push you past your breaking point. So when your blaring music is abruptly cut off and a fist curled in your hoodie spins you around, you're already well aware the usual "nothing" isn't going to cut it.

The knuckles against your nose catch you off guard and you see stars instantly, Sock's panicked shriek at your side sounding far off. You reel with the impact, stumbling backwards before hunching over, a hand flying instinctively to your face. Your vision swims but the scarlet on your fingertips is clear enough when you pull the hand away.

You don't like confrontation but when it's inevitable, you do what you have to do.

It only takes a moment for you to leap forward, slugging relentlessly at the upper half of your aggressor. He sounds surprised, the sound masked by Sock's panicked cries. You don't have the time to look away but he seems absolutely frantic. If you could turn, he'd probably be flitting anxiously around you, grabbing uselessly at your coat, trying desperately to drag you away. The kid gets a solid swing in at your ribs and it knocks the air out of you, but you come back twice as hard. He quickly abandons his aggressions, reverting to full defense mode to shield his head with his forearms. The whole situation almost seems manageable and you consider backing off until another fist hits you square in the jaw.

You topple to your knees in the snow - had the snow really gotten this high in just a school day? The jeers and shouts of students gathering around the fight amplify the ringing in your ears. For a moment, you can clearly hear a voice calling your name.

"Jon! Jonathan, please, let's go! You're bleeding everywhere!"

It's only a second before the bustle of the scene swallows up the shrill pleading. It registers that another asshole kid must've joined in as a hand in the front of your shirt drags you to your feet before something pummels you square in the stomach. You gasp for breath, feeling nauseous, as another swing nails you under the chin. The hand relinquishes its grip and you lose your footing again, catching sight of your own blood spattering the powdery blanket over the schoolyard. You go from your knees to your stomach when a swift kick catches you in the spine. The cold stings your face and a groan escapes your lips when the kicks keep coming. Your backpack does little to protect your sides and you want to stand, need to stand, need to fight back, but your legs have turned to the slush lining the streets and your head is murky and full of cotton. Pain dulls to a steady throb rather than sharp stabs. You could almost fall asleep, although you might just be passing out.

You don't know how long it takes for them to back off. The noise fades away eventually. Nobody bothers to help you to your feet. It might be minutes and it might be hours before you drag yourself into a sitting position. Your clothes are soaked; you can feel the pinpricks of cold pinching at your skin. There's a sizeable stain of crimson where a face-shaped imprint lays in the snow.

And then there's Sock.

He looks absolutely distraught, tears streaking his transparent face. Hovering crosslegged in front of you, his hands flutter nervously to your face. Maybe it's phantom pain because you know from experience it takes extraordinary effort for Sock to maintain any sort of corporeality, but you can swear your feel his fingertips anxiously grazing your skin, trying to wipe away the blood and check for damage. His hands should be cold, but your entire body is far too numb to notice that detail. It takes all of the energy in you to muster a smile, half-hearted and weak with blood lightly staining your teeth. Sock only seems to grow more unsettled.