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Description
The melody of a clarinet.
Calloused fingertips.
Greased hair and sharp eyes.

Blake knelt there on the rooftop where he had stood--doing absolutely nothing--as gunshots were fired in the distance. He could still hear them, the resounding crack of a noise he now hated--he could still hear the echo of gunshots that, for him, had lasted decades and would last decades more, even when he became old and wrinkly and his ears were rendered deaf. After all, how could he ever forget the sound that killed him?

The redhead stared at the grey, cemented roof--cold and gritty beneath the palm of his hand. His usually fiery red eyes were blank, but his mind was in no such state. Within his mind's eye there was a constant reel of memories that he played again and again--rich and full and colourful.

The moment they had met.
The times when they were both convinced that they hated each other, and were not afraid to express it.
The first time the other's touch hadn't hurt them, hadn't meant to hurt them.
The glares and the insults transforming into smiles and into laughter.
The games they played--the antics they pulled each other into with no regrets, no regrets.
The arguments in warehouses and jewellery stores--
The secret conversations on rooftops--any random rooftop, it didn't matter to them--where they were free to be themselves without the eyes of society judging them.

Everything.
Everything that Blake thought hadn't been important but suddenly were, because now memories were all he had left.

Blake's glazed red eyes slid over to the bone that he had forgotten he was holding loosely in his hand.

...

A small jolt of his aching heart, a sudden spark of hope. The bone. The bone. It was what started it all! The very device that had allowed him to meet him, allowed them to steal bubbles of time that did not belong to either of them and spend it on each other. Blake's breath became ragged--excitement, yearning, desperation--and he steadily stood back on his legs. An echo of his brother's words rang in his mind, as if to try and stop him.

"You can't do this, Blake. You know you can't."

But Blake shook his head violently. He knew that! But--
But--

He held up the bone, his hand shaking.

Blake would not save him (like he didn't then, like he didn't save him then, when it really mattered). But in his hand he held a device that gave him power over time--and he was a genius; he should have thought of this sooner! He could still see him--still see his friend, his dear friend, his something more--alive and breathing and not dead.

Not dead.

The memories did not have to decay--Blake could still make new ones. He didn't have to accept that Buck was forever dead.

And so, back in time he went--further than he usually did, further still, before the birth of those fated gunshots and before the precious memories he had had even made--and he was there. Again. When the air smelt like industrial smoke and the streets were filled with the sound of sirens, and everything seemed to be filtered to vintage and vignette. Blake's heart pounded because despite the fact that this was before his time, this was his home--somewhere, right now, he was alive.

Blake flew, knowing the twists and winds around the city because he'd done it countless times before, knowing exactly where he would be. A smile stretched on his face, gleeful, happy, because cheating time is cheating death and there was no rule saying he couldn't go back further, further, to a time when him meddling didn't really matter.

But then, he came to a sudden halt. He hadn't known exactly at what point of time he'd come back into. He hadn't thought about the specifics. But suddenly, his euphoria came crashing down on him, and the smile that had spread across his face slowly disappeared.

Across from him, through the window of the warehouse, he did see Buck--alive, well, content. And accompanying the sight of him was the familiar picture of him with a clarinet, the air once again being blessed with the sound of surprisingly talented fingers and lips. But what was more, just behind the door where Buck played, there was a redhead, eavesdropping just as he was, his face flushed and his eyes awestruck.

It was him.
Blake saw a younger version of himself, and he remembered that this was the first time he'd--they'd--ever heard Buck play.

Realisation hit him like a brick and he recoiled, his chest heavy and his stomach twisting painfully. He dropped to the ground in order not to be noticed by either of them, although he knew that his younger self was too enthralled to notice much of anything but the way Buck played. Blake listened and trembled and he watched the two children--yes, they were only children still. They were so tiny, and he himself had grown so much. Blake compared it to the time when he had accidentally shrunk Buck, and the comparison was accurate on some level indeed.

He was stupid.

Even though he could go back to a time when Buck was still alive, he could not turn back time for himself--he was still grown, taller, and not the Blake Buck would have known.

Blake watched the two for a moment longer (he had been so silly, so lovestruck, the fool) before he tore his eyes away. He slipped quietly away, the bone still clasped in his hand, and returned back to his own time. Beneath a bright sky of magenta colours, he smiled bitterly at the bone, his vision becoming blurry.

He could not rewind, he could not repeat it again. His Buck was... gone.

He closed his eyes and listened--

and this time, instead of hearing the echo of the gunshots, he chose to remember instead the echo of a clarinet, timeless, unchanging, and more resilient than any gun had the power to destroy.

He would not forget it, not forget him--
not forget the things that could not be duplicated and were irreplaceable.

--

My CE for and 's Bluck Contest!

I won't say anything more smdlfkjewa Just know that these two I will ship these two to the ends of the earth

Sorry if I wrote Blake out of character smdlfkjwa
I triedddd

"Coloured" version: //LAUGHS
//cries

--
Blake and Bash (c) JKSketchy
Buck (c) DuckxDuck

Description
The melody of a clarinet.
Calloused fingertips.
Greased hair and sharp eyes.

Blake knelt there on the rooftop where he had stood--doing absolutely nothing--as gunshots were fired in the distance. He could still hear them, the resounding crack of a noise he now hated--he could still hear the echo of gunshots that, for him, had lasted decades and would last decades more, even when he became old and wrinkly and his ears were rendered deaf. After all, how could he ever forget the sound that killed him?

The redhead stared at the grey, cemented roof--cold and gritty beneath the palm of his hand. His usually fiery red eyes were blank, but his mind was in no such state. Within his mind's eye there was a constant reel of memories that he played again and again--rich and full and colourful.

The moment they had met.
The times when they were both convinced that they hated each other, and were not afraid to express it.
The first time the other's touch hadn't hurt them, hadn't meant to hurt them.
The glares and the insults transforming into smiles and into laughter.
The games they played--the antics they pulled each other into with no regrets, no regrets.
The arguments in warehouses and jewellery stores--
The secret conversations on rooftops--any random rooftop, it didn't matter to them--where they were free to be themselves without the eyes of society judging them.

Everything.
Everything that Blake thought hadn't been important but suddenly were, because now memories were all he had left.

Blake's glazed red eyes slid over to the bone that he had forgotten he was holding loosely in his hand.

...

A small jolt of his aching heart, a sudden spark of hope. The bone. The bone. It was what started it all! The very device that had allowed him to meet him, allowed them to steal bubbles of time that did not belong to either of them and spend it on each other. Blake's breath became ragged--excitement, yearning, desperation--and he steadily stood back on his legs. An echo of his brother's words rang in his mind, as if to try and stop him.

"You can't do this, Blake. You know you can't."

But Blake shook his head violently. He knew that! But--
But--

He held up the bone, his hand shaking.

Blake would not save him (like he didn't then, like he didn't save him then, when it really mattered). But in his hand he held a device that gave him power over time--and he was a genius; he should have thought of this sooner! He could still see him--still see his friend, his dear friend, his something more--alive and breathing and not dead.

Not dead.

The memories did not have to decay--Blake could still make new ones. He didn't have to accept that Buck was forever dead.

And so, back in time he went--further than he usually did, further still, before the birth of those fated gunshots and before the precious memories he had had even made--and he was there. Again. When the air smelt like industrial smoke and the streets were filled with the sound of sirens, and everything seemed to be filtered to vintage and vignette. Blake's heart pounded because despite the fact that this was before his time, this was his home--somewhere, right now, he was alive.

Blake flew, knowing the twists and winds around the city because he'd done it countless times before, knowing exactly where he would be. A smile stretched on his face, gleeful, happy, because cheating time is cheating death and there was no rule saying he couldn't go back further, further, to a time when him meddling didn't really matter.

But then, he came to a sudden halt. He hadn't known exactly at what point of time he'd come back into. He hadn't thought about the specifics. But suddenly, his euphoria came crashing down on him, and the smile that had spread across his face slowly disappeared.

Across from him, through the window of the warehouse, he did see Buck--alive, well, content. And accompanying the sight of him was the familiar picture of him with a clarinet, the air once again being blessed with the sound of surprisingly talented fingers and lips. But what was more, just behind the door where Buck played, there was a redhead, eavesdropping just as he was, his face flushed and his eyes awestruck.

It was him.
Blake saw a younger version of himself, and he remembered that this was the first time he'd--they'd--ever heard Buck play.

Realisation hit him like a brick and he recoiled, his chest heavy and his stomach twisting painfully. He dropped to the ground in order not to be noticed by either of them, although he knew that his younger self was too enthralled to notice much of anything but the way Buck played. Blake listened and trembled and he watched the two children--yes, they were only children still. They were so tiny, and he himself had grown so much. Blake compared it to the time when he had accidentally shrunk Buck, and the comparison was accurate on some level indeed.

He was stupid.

Even though he could go back to a time when Buck was still alive, he could not turn back time for himself--he was still grown, taller, and not the Blake Buck would have known.

Blake watched the two for a moment longer (he had been so silly, so lovestruck, the fool) before he tore his eyes away. He slipped quietly away, the bone still clasped in his hand, and returned back to his own time. Beneath a bright sky of magenta colours, he smiled bitterly at the bone, his vision becoming blurry.

He could not rewind, he could not repeat it again. His Buck was... gone.

He closed his eyes and listened--

and this time, instead of hearing the echo of the gunshots, he chose to remember instead the echo of a clarinet, timeless, unchanging, and more resilient than any gun had the power to destroy.

He would not forget it, not forget him--
not forget the things that could not be duplicated and were irreplaceable.

--

My CE for and 's Bluck Contest!

I won't say anything more smdlfkjewa Just know that these two I will ship these two to the ends of the earth

Sorry if I wrote Blake out of character smdlfkjwa
I triedddd

"Coloured" version: //LAUGHS
//cries

--
Blake and Bash (c) JKSketchy
Buck (c) DuckxDuck