Sanam

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 04:42:12 GMT

Part I: The End of the World
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Pairing: Not decided.
Summary: A multi chapter FFVII fiction inspired by the MMORPG RF Online (no knowledge of the game is needed). Three alien races scour the expanses of space, competing for the precious resources and the much coveted materia that have long since been depleted on their home planets. There is no room for mercy in this ever present and ever waging war. The battlefield is the universe itself.
Warnings: AU, attempted suicide, gore.
Rating: M

They were first sighted about a month ago, great glowing spheres thrown out in to the far reaches of the solar system. Somewhere past or just around Pluto, I imagined.

Pretty, really. Great flowers painting the sky in brilliant hues of pinks and oranges.

Children made wishes on them, hopping to stay up later or for ice cream before dinner.

But they were coming too close, too fast.

And then even the Shinra funded scientists began to publicly sweat. As far as they knew, they shouldn't be their. They imagined it couldn't be anything good.

Once the word 'extraterrestrial' hit the street fantasy rapidly faded to fear.

And fear fed the fanatical.

The count of world religions and cults surely must have nearly tripled just last week.

“It's the end of the world,” they whispered.

Wives broke down at the checkout line. Children sobbed as they sat beneath their desks, heads between their legs. Men drowned within themselves, attending personal drunken eulogies dedicated to their own insignificance, to everything they wished to do and everything they could of been.

I was watching the human race kiss its existence goodbye. And the masses repented.

“He's coming!” The zealot preached to his sheep, “Be ready for him, because he's coming for you and he's coming for me. Wash away your sins, he's coming for all of us.”

Live each day as your last gains a new meaning, because it is our last day.

“Bah,” I mouthed around the barrel of the gun I was currently trying to ingest, “Bah,” I repeated for good measure.

I wish I was capable of flocking with the rest of the good little, self-pitying and God fearing sheep as they prepared to weather out the final days of mankind.

The problem was I was a wolf with a bit of a mortality hitch. As it turns out, you can die once, but not twice. You can die three times, four times, five times, six times and maybe even seven times, but never twice.

The world gathered around their television sets, filling in pews, and parading in the streets. Everyone was preparing to die.

I locked myself in my house, preparing to be the last man left on Earth.

Eyes closed, brows furrowed, teeth gritted – a clench of the finger and I've pulled the trigger. No matter how many times I do this, there is no getting used to the initial sting of blowing the back of your head off.

'That is just foul,' I grimaced at the wet sound of gray matter spattering against the wall paper as my body seizes and falls heavily to the ground.

Just great, the result is the same as always. Why do I keep placing myself into these hopeless situations? Because I have such little faith in myself and my awareness of my physiology, I'm doomed to lay here for the rest of this forsaken day, hating myself as the back of my head slow begins to regenerate itself for the fifth time this week.

And its still only Wednesday.

And isn't that just lovely! I seem to have lost control of my bladder. I knew I probably should have gone to the bathroom beforehand.

1, 2 ,3 – the clock ticks. All I have left to do is count.

30 seconds passed and counting, 42 seconds passed and counting...

Someone knocks on the door at 5 minutes and 16 seconds.

No matter how much I really would have liked to have been left to to my own devices, it seems someone was determined to see me.

A polite knock was followed by the pounding of a much heavier hand and a not-quite muffled-by-the-door shout of “Vincent!”

Oh spare me the headache! Why bother, you usually let yourself in anyways.

The thud of the door being slammed against the wall 73 seconds later proved that the world is just entirely too predictable for its own good.

To bad it has too little time to really do anything about it.

“Not again, Vince,” a giant of a man, followed by a slighter, but still significantly large, young man, groaned as he stumbled upon the mess I'd made of my front room. I might have had something indignant to say in response to the man inviting himself into my home, but my tongue is always the first thing to go and the last to regenerate.

“I'm not helping you redo the wallpaper again! Once is about all you'll get charity work out of me.” The larger man felt he had the right to 'tisk' as he sat on my couch, throwing his booted, mud crusted feet up on the coffee table that was also mine.

His companion hovered by the door, visibly sensitive to the gore as he stared uneasily at the involuntary twitching of my fingers around the gun they still clutched.

'Come here, Cloud' I would have sneered if my ability to do so wasn't painted onto the floral wallpaper in my living room, 'I'll give them to you if you are so fascinated by them, it's not like they won't grow back.'

“Go get the hose, Cloud.” The larger man, Cid, told our nauseated friend, who all but jumped as he eagerly grasped the opportunity to flee.

“They made contact,” He stated, apparently remembering his purpose for his rough entrance.

'Hostile?' I guessed, even though it was unlikely he could hear me in my head.

“A bit of a language barrier, but we could tell by the tone they were spitting out fighting words.”

'Nothing we couldn't have guessed.'

Cid slouched forwards, hand clasped around a lighter as he brought a cigarette to his lips. “No use worrying about lung cancer anymore. But tell me, are you scared?”

'More than you could ever know.'

“I won't leave you alone, so stop putting yourself through all this. It's pointless.”

'I'm planning on being very alone for a very long time, excuse me if I'm being a bit self-destructive.'

Cid took a drag of his lit cigarette as he drew his hand through gray-streaked blond hair.

We waited.

Cloud came trudging in not long after, a heavy hose wrapped around his arm.

“Rinse him off, he reeks of urine. ” Cid directed, “Then hose down the wall as best you can for now.”

I've made it pretty clear that I hate my life, right?

When the first wave came and went, leaving the world in total darkness and incinerating a third of its population, I was wet and cold and still smelling of human waste.

It was with a still slightly lopsided head that I decided that there would be no deliverance for me after all.

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 03:43:42 GMT

Title: Homogenous
Original Poetry
Summary: "My Beyond"
Rating: G?

Rubbing my clothed hands together,

My soul is balanced precariously at the tip of my tongue.

Paused before the Eye of the gods,

My immortality escapes with every visible exhalation.

I take a moment to peer at myself,

At time’s signature etched into my skin.

When I cross the threshold, the glass shatters at my back,

Stars dance beneath my feet.

I’m bid to shed my coat,

My external shell is left at the doorway to Paradise.

Advancing towards the dais,

A gaping void presents itself.

Willing a shape reminiscent of a hand into existence,

I reach into the depths of the heart of Time.

The gauzy membrane gives at my enquiry,

Feathers fleetingly flutter against the palm of my hand.

Questing further,

My conceived appendage meets resistance.

The hand that finally accepts mine is long fingered and smooth,

the fine boned appendages minutely hesitated.

Within my grasp,

I pull them forward.

The face of my enemy in life appears within the shallows,

A smile curved across their face.

The soul of my guide after life coaxes me towards them,

My being is swallowed.

Friend and foe in communion,

The differences blur in the beginning of the end.

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 03:40:31 GMT

Title: Fallen
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Pairing: Sora/Riku
Summary: An unhealthy obsession leads to more than one broken lamp.
Rating: PG

Peering through the keyhole, my eyes fixed upon that dazzling figure. A single star fallen from grace, an inhabitant of the chaotic room within. A choir of breaking glass filled the tense atmosphere as the final lamp was extinguished, swept from its position on the bedside table and sent to shatter against the adjacent wall. Water from a tipped glass was left to soak in to the carpet and the furniture lay upturned in disarray. It was truly a resplendent rage.

A sweat broke out upon the fair brow of the sky’s wayward child. That celestial son gripped the heavy tangle of his silver locks, knuckles white with the strain of refraining from pulling his hair out by the roots. The earth bound spirit cried bitter tears, screaming his confusion and frustration to his apparently audience-less surroundings as he sank to his knees. What a truly beautiful boy.

Balancing precariously on my heels, my joints moan as I right myself and stand, tip toeing backwards, towards the stairs. I had to be careful about these things. The fury’s soul was at his lips with every cry and scream, streaming from his fingertips with every toss and swing. These tantrums were the expression of a deeply seated pain, and they were private. The angry soul fills the house with the sound of his rage. Destruction is oh so terribly pleasing on the ears.

The breath I hadn’t been aware of holding escaped past my lips the moment I crossed the threshold leading towards the outside world. What a truly laughable cliché - I was honestly stricken breathless. It’s a bitter day, I decide as I rub my bare hands together, hunching over to shield myself from the bite of the December air.

The lights hanging overhead were reflected within the glassy surface of street. My hair was deftly swept up by nature’s ire as I paused for a moment of reflection. Just a few more minutes, I decide.

It’s safe to say I’m obsessed, but that’s still a bit of an understatement. I love the boy as much as I idolize him, I know the man enough to understand that he needs to be seen through the eyes of an admirer and any of his weakness witnessed could shatter the prestige of being the worshipped hero. The truth is he’s lost without me; the fact of the matter is I don’t need him anymore.

But I do want him. Probably more than he wants me, but about as much as he needs me. And, oh, does he need me. Without me he’s vulnerable, without me he’s easy prey for the Darkness.

And he knows it.

In retrospect it’s kind of pathetic to think that the one series of events – that one unfortunate, undeniably traumatic turn of events – would become the point in which the entirety of the rest of his life was magnetized towards.

I know, though – oh believe me, I know – that sometimes he hears voices, disembodied voices that he felt he should have known if not for the fact that their identities were lost alongside their forms.

“It really is sad – I remember him being such a handsome youth,” they murmur to him, their words possessing an element of buoyancy as they choke back their tears. “No use reminiscing, it would have affected even the best of us,” spills forth as response.

And it was all truly terrifying to him.

Wed, 22 Nov 2006 07:14:30 GMT

Title: Singularity
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Pairing: Various (Mostly Sora centric, including M/M and F/M)
Summary: Reality is distorted for Sora as time and space takes a loop and alternate realities, decisions, scenarios, and relationships are presented to him.
Rating: Eventual M/R

[P R O L O G U E]

It was like any other Monday morning that preceeded it, really.

The world was distorted and hazy as bleary eyed students, whom were slowly trickling in through the schools erratically opening and shutting main doors, no one just yet aware enough to realize the practicality of an invention such as the "door stopper", a simple rubber wedge that the occasional student found themselves tripping over or even kicking along with them along their way as they trudged towards their scheduled classes and their designated seats therein.

First block Monday morning was a painful experience, with students bobbing in and out of awareness, quite literally, as the Spanish III professor loved to illustrate in great detail to his classes at the beginning of each new semester. The phenomenon, as he jokingly dubbed it, of seemingly serious and focused students inexplicably finding themselves tuning out the menial tones used for lecturing as they struggled to remain aware before, after moments of visible conflict as there eyelids became increasingly heavy, there sleep deprived bodies could be observed momentarily seizing before the students "jerk" and near rise out of their seats as they find themselves "oriented" and awake, before glancing at the clock, groaning over the possibly important material covered whilst they were caught up within their daze.

While any other instructor expected the occasional day dreamer, though some not taking its occurrence quite as lightly as others might, a few even going as far as to find the act of a student's mind wandering during lectures offensive, as though it was an affront to them as teachers and their subject as a whole, a lack of respect, really, as though it was something more sinister than a stressed students body demanding them to attempt to catch a few more minutes of sleep so their bodies can continue to function throughout the remainder of the day, but the head of the Social Studies department, a woman who taught Psychology to the "advanced" students, could tell you exactly "why" it happened.

She summed it all up as "selective attention" while eyeing the members of the male population who, as she continued on, were all the more prone to it in day to day circumstances than females were. "After awhile, you just start to not give certain things as much attention, like, for instance, the feeling of your foot within your shoe," at this, every student, even those currently experiencing a wide spectrum of states of grogginess and the likes in varying degrees of severity, paused for a moment to wiggle their toes within their socks and shoes, suddenly aware of their presence, recalling the fact that, in their haste to dress that morning, they grabbed two individual socks that did not exactly match, "this isn't a bad thing, really. In fact, it makes us all increasingly more effective and efficient beings. Really, if you were constantly aware of EVERYTHING, every noise, everything you see or smell, nothing would ever get done. Our brains would be constantly 'overloaded', so to say, with sensation."

Sora was sure he'd hear the words "selective" and "attention" at some point in his life, though he couldn't quite figure out when or in what context (of course, even though he was positive of the opposing, it was completely probable that he'd actually never had heard of the term, rather, his brain was just telling him otherwise, for, it couldn't see why it wouldn't have ever heard it used before in conversation or even within the words, syntax, and punctuation that composed something he'd read). But the idea of "selective attention" and its definition was the last thing dancing atop the surface of his conscious thoughts as blue eyes fleetingly glanced over the text written among the glaring whiteness that was the "New Document 1" opened in the word processing program that was installed on his schools computers ("New Document 1" would later be renamed "End of Term Paper - CLA11 - SORA" when Sora's teacher would glance in his direction and he would feel the need to make yet another revision to his document's title to at least make the appearance of being productive, when in actuality his mind was as blank as "End of Term Paper - CLA11 - SORA" with only small, simple thoughts forming at irregular intervals. Small specks of contrast against the glaring white.

"SINGULARITY" he read, the word not quite committing to LTM, as, a moment later, he was forced to remind himself: "What was my word again?"

The eleventh grade Challenge Language Arts (dubbed CLA11 by those who took the course) teacher was by no means fooled into thinking that the boy with the outrageously mussed and shaggy hair (which was currently sticking up at an odd assortment of degrees of angles) sitting at the last computer in the far right corner was actually making any sort of progress on his final project. And, quite frankly, he hadn't expected him to have just yet. After 6 years of teaching the course, and after 4 years of assigning this particular project, it always took the students assigned the word "SINGULARITY" just a little bit longer to begin.

The project itself was relatively simple, or at least he believed so. Students were assigned words from a preset list, and those words would prompt the paper they wrote that covered a unit they had covered within the course of the class. The results ranged from expository to argumentative papers; poetry to descriptive prose. No word limits were set, but it had to be something that could be graded on a 120 point scale and had to be centered around their particular word.

"SINGULARITY" was one of the wild cards among the list. In his mind, he expected something great from the student assigned it, for it could be approached from many directions within the guidelines of this assignment. As of yet, though, he found himself increasingly disappointed by the "SINGULARITY" students, having received 4 near identical expository papers paraphrasing bits and pieces of works by Asimov and Huxley and their critics and "spark notes" over the years. Boring, mundane, and in no way, shape or form another A in his grade book.

But he has high expectations this time around; expectations that entailed something new and unique from this boy with the unfortunate mop of hair. As of yet, based on the work he'd received from him, he'd come to believe the boy was best described as something "out of this world" yet not quite as outrageous or otherworldly or improbable as society's archetypes and schemas would label him as. There was something honest yet bizarre about the boy.

He was "SINGULARITY"'s last chance, really. He had fought an internal battle as to whether "SINGULARITY" should continue to hold a place on his list, not sure if he wanted to read the same paper for the 5th time, but something told him to give it another chance, because this time, it would be different. Because Sora was different.

[C H A P T E R 0 . 5]

The cracked, battered skin of chapped lips stretched painfully, sensitive flesh tearing as mouth and jaw and facial muscles struggled to accommodate the ragged, indiscernible scream that struggled forth from the very depths of his being.

Formless, yet there.

Inaudible, but ear splitting.

A barely audible crackling shattered his daze as the mechanical sound of high pitched voices amongst radio interference reached his ears. Blue eyes dilated as they struggled open, his mind blearily trying to discern shape among the painful explosion of color that was his surroundings, light frequencies interchanging from blinding white to stifling black as colors and hues bled within themselves.

"...A COLOSSOL FORCE JUST AHEAD..."

"..RA"

"...NEVER SAW IT COMING..."

"...BLEEDING..."

"...COULD IT BE?..."

"...YOUR NOSE..."

"...IT'S DRAWING US IN..."

"...SORA, WHAT'S WRONG? YOUR NOSE IS BLEEDING!"

ON EPACSE.

TBC.

Sun, 06 Aug 2006 07:51:25 GMT

Title: Lacking
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Pairing: Roxas x Axel
Summary: Sex no longer held any sort of appeal to him.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 693

He used to know this routine by heart.

The listless form beneath him, the brilliancy of blue eyes dulled as they intently studied the chipping paint just below the window's sill.

Thin lips unmercifully scuffed against the tender skin of a pale neck, rough in its grating pressure. He hoped against all hope that a generous dose of manhandling would be enough to rouse even the barest of reactions.

"Roxy," He moaned, frustrated as he half-heartedly ground his hips into his unresponsive partner's frame. "You know, fucking dead people isn't exactly my idea of fun. Could you live’n it up just a tad?"

The languid gaze minutely shifted to stare blankly at the face - paled by the crown of violently colored hair about it to the extent that distinguishable features were lost to his weary, blurred vision – that hung above his, a sigh spilling from bruised lips as the blonde’s nose scrunched up in a show of distaste, "I can't. My heart...just isn’t in it tonight."

Glassy green eyes struggled to focus past the haze of lust, need, and sin that shrouded and dazed him, registering the words spoken moments that bordered minutes after they were uttered.

His chest constricted as it began to heave erratically, hands moved to clutch sides in an attempt to brace himself against the violent show of amusement that wracked his frame. "I can't believe you managed to say that with a straight face!" Pale, elongated fingers rose to brush the tears that welled at the corners of his eyes.

"I'm serious," Roxas glared at his mirth stricken- what? Friend? Too sentimental. Lover? Not in this lifetime (if he could be considered to be truly alive). Bed Partner? ...not right now. He wasn't in the mood.

The petite blond maneuvered himself from beneath the wiry frame, falling with a mildly disgruntled huff as he found himself sprawled in a haphazard heap on the cold, concrete floor.

"Fuck," Axel murmured as his laughter subsided, sobered by his lay- how base. Roxas meant more to him than just a casual fuck-'s withdrawal.

"I said 'no'," Roxas quipped as he crawled to where his pants had been carelessly thrown earlier.

Sourly, Axel scratched his aching balls as he leaned over to withdraw a cigarette and a lighter from the pants -his pants- that lay draped at the foot of the bed.

"Disgusting," The blond pulled a face, repulsed by the acrid stench of nicotine that molested his sense of smell, as he zipped his coat up to just shy of his collar bone.

Axel rotated his neck, sluggishly stretching the stiff, throbbing muscles that resided there, "What's your problem as of late? What has Xemnas done with my willing, adventurous, sexy little partner?"

Roxas moved to sit heavily next to the red head on the bed, prying the fag from between the other's lips to take a heavy drag of it. ‘It's just...’ He wanted to begin, ‘I've been feeling so helplessly and completely incomplete as of late...’ hesitating despite how desperate he was to unload all his insecurities onto the other, to make them someone else’s, not only his, burden -like people tend to enjoy doing because it's just easier if it isn't left to stew- "It's…nothing that I could ever hope to properly word." Frowning, he coughed from the sensation of ash and nicotine that invaded his lungs as he returned the stick of cancer to rest between the other’s pursed and waiting lips.

Dark eyebrows rose, curious but not to the point were he could be bothered to inquire a more precise explanation from the surly, confusing boy. "Whatever. Besides, this may be for the better."

"Oh really?" Paler eyebrows mimicked the action of the other's as they formed a severe, albeit amused, arch.

"Yeah," Axel breathed, forcing sultry to an intolerable point as he leaned forward to caress a pale ear with warm breath before grounding out the butt of his cigarette against the leather of the other's sleeve. "I've always heard abstinence makes the heart grow fonder."

"That's not-" The concentrated expression eased as pale lips quirked at the edges, "Now who's the funny one?"

Thu, 08 Jun 2006 09:04:49 GMT

Title: And I'm Drowning
Fandom: Final Fantasy X (Pre-Video Game)
Summary: Auron knew he was dead. He knew it and was ready to embrace it, but he couldn't fade just yet. No, he still had promises to keep.
Rating: PG-13
WARNING: I haven't slept in 24 hours. AND I'M WRITING. Be prepared for typos galore. Oh yeah. And BL. But its very vague.

A pained groan and the distressed rustle of heavy clothing preceded the dull thud that announced the body’s introduction to the unsettled ground.

Wearily laughing to himself, bordering hysterics, strong hands gripped long hair, attempting to remove dark locks by the roots.

“I’m dead, I’m dead, this is death,” a shuddering gasp escaped gritted teeth. “Why haven’t I faded? Why am I alone?” Hands struggled, vainly demanding the release of the painful grip scouring a raw scalp. Spasmodically, tendons writhed beneath weathered flesh, fighting with themselves along with the powerful forces of “habit” and “reason”.

Wearied, beaten and scar mangled, the form twitched pathetically, shoulders shuddering as breath erratically fought to escape the very moment it was drawn in.

“I’m dead or I’m dreaming,” he sobbed into the sandy surface.

And then it came. In a tumult of excess anger, exasperation, unsettled dreams, robbed time and forgotten love a hoarse scream rose to shake the very core of all that was, releasing all his aspirations and worldly desires from the hollowed depths of his being.

In final resignation, the tension ridden muscles eased as limbs fell limp, wilting and laying placidly in an awkward array upon the ground.

Nothing was left. He’d banished all that was him, sacrificing his heart except for the fraction of it that remained necessary, the part that owed the fulfillment of two final promises.

With deathly determination, stiff limbs reasserted themselves, adjusting to pull themselves into position to turn the world around.

The setting and environment tilting as he rolled to lie upon his back, eyes desperately gripped shut for one final second before fluttering open.

Dead? Dreaming? He wasn’t quite sure whether it was the former or latter that he preferred.

Rapidly, eyes moved restlessly within their sockets, searching the formerly veiled heavens, following the patterns of gaily twinkling stars, looking for some indication, a symbol or maybe a sign.

But his vision was dimmed and he could see nothing but an averted, pale face as he felt what portion of his heart he allowed to remain split into two mangled, jagged and grotesque remnants.

With one final disconcerted and emotion ladened sigh, he forced his troubled mind to ease, endeavoring for a momentary rest before the long haul.

“It’s both,”he decided“I’m dead within a dream.”

Pale locks spilled, pooling in picturesque, liquid grace behind the willowy form and atop the white sheet.

But he tarnished that, both the crisp, cleanliness of the sheets and the silken hair, with the sporadic and forceful thrust of his hips and the merciless grip of his hand in long hair.

Despite it all, pale arms still embraced him, grounding him and supporting him. Yet even his constant was tinged with the same desperate force that drove him to taint and maul that which he respected and loved the most.

With a final shove and a cry of release, all motion ceased as sobs were muffled into a long neck.

“Auron,” warm, moist breathing caressed the crown of his head. “What do think becomes of us in death?”

“I don’t want to know.” Brawny arms clenched tightly around thin hips. “I…don’t want you to have to find out as immediately as you will.”

Shadows took stronger hold of the couple as, with one final burst of light, the flame of the candle perched next to the wilted lilies on top of the white oak side table flickered and extinguished.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Flesh grew cold as ears were deaf to the gentle whisperings of admiration.

The sun came at the end of the darkness, piercing through the haze of memories that could never again be played out. Memories, both his and of him, that were distorted in the end

He didn’t recognize himself; he no longer retained the ability to recognize them.

In the epitome of his hopeless tragedy and at the very core of it all: he could no longer remember his face.

So, wounded and bleeding, he clutched those remaining promises to and with in himself.

He still remembered that Yuna was now safely situated in Besaid with her surly guardian.

He still remembered and was perfectly aware of the fact that he was now within the dream of all dreams.

He was dead but he didn’t allow that to hinder him as he found his feet and rose to them.

-------
feel free to add glitterpunch

WARNING: UNBETAED

Mon, 15 May 2006 22:48:51 GMT

Title: Starvation
Summary: Not only did he want him, he craved him. And despite his refusal to acknowledge him, he needed him. Warning: Shonen-ai (BL, Yaoi, Slash, ect. . .how ever you know it :D). Soriku.
Note: I am in no way, and will never claim to be, a writer. This is a regurgitation of a nauseating mix of varied syntax, an overload of figurative language (or at least. . .attempts to properly use it), and a mind-numbing display of my terrible grasp of the english language.
PREVIOUS PART: http://glitterpunch.livejournal.com/1007.html#cutid1

Part II of ???

With a lazy creak, the door met its frame as the light from the hallway was blocked out of the room.

Wrapping his arms around himself he sighed, eyes clenched tight as he slumped against the wall.

Slowly sliding down the wall, his breath quickened, chest working at an irregular pace as shoulders trembled and leanly muscled arms tightened their grip.

He'd broken down, slowly deteriorating into nothingness with only his own being as a means of support.

The shout of "Dinner." could be heard through the thin walls separating one room from the other, but he chose not to hear.

Chose to close his ears to all and to everything.

After several moments of ladened silence and thickening darkness, the boy was suddenly jolted out of his misery, freezing as a gentle 'tat' drummed a rhythm against his door.

The sudden and entirely unexpected 'tat' being the product of a concerned, controlled rapping of fingers against wood covered in white paint reached his ears.

"Sweetie, are you ok?"

A dull thud was the only form of response to be given as a head fell back to meet the wall.

"Riku? Did you not hear me call?"

"’M not hungry."

"Still, even if you don’t feel like it, you should eat something." The voice coddled through the door that acted as a barrier.

Nostrils flared as the disheartened boy exhaled heavily, long fingered hand rising to staunch the trickling flow of moisture and wipe away all evidence of such. With heavy-hearted acquiescence, weary limbs reluctantly pulled themselves up as the boy found his feet again, hand following the texture of the wall, questing for the light switch.

Green eyes blinked rapidly, squinting in pain as they were agitated by the sudden flooding of light within the room.

Impatiently, the woman at the other end of the door turned the door's handle, jerking it open to allow her self in and across the threshold.

"Riku..." She began just before halting, eyes rapidly moving as she paused to take in her son's distressed state, "Oh, dear…are you alright?" Cold hands reached out to cup a heated face, moving gently over the red tinted cheeks and forehead. "You're warm." She stated, the mild burning beneath the pads of her fingers and palms of her hands confirming her observation, "Are you feeling alright?"

Riku blearily shook his head in negation, perturbing long, untamed bangs as they to settled in disarray around his face, veiling it as green eyes fell shut. He leaned in to the compassionate touch of his mother, almost relieved at the contact. At the pure, unconditional affection found from it.

"Take a warm bath," She commanded, "then lay down. I'll wake you up after a few hours to check your temperature and to force feed you, if I must." She lovingly patted her son’s cheek before placing a maternal peck upon it, "Sleep well, Riku."

After a decision made in only a couple of seconds, he chose to skip the recommended bathing. Choosing to instead fall back into the welcomed haven that was his single-sized bed, to curl up onto his side, to pull the sheets and hand made quilt up and over his head ... to allow himself to fall into a state where nothing existed and nothing mattered as he was lulled into a sense of peace.

A peace in which all he knew was the back of his own eyelids and the numbness that settled over his body alongside rapid eye movement.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The unpleasantness of the sun piercing through his blinds, of birds croaking just outside of his window, and the damned-be blaring of his alarm was what Sora woke up to.

At precisely six thirty a.m. he rolled out of bed, murmuring something about men and mice and kings, who continued to dance and frolic in a frivolous affair within his mind, having crossed the bridge constructed over his night time reveries, leading to his current state of awareness.

By six thirty-five he was rummaging through his closet, trying to find something that wasn't two years too old, two sizes too small, or something he'd worn less than two weeks ago, finally deciding on a stripped collared shirt and baggy shorts.

Having donned his selection of clothing for the day, he continued through his morning rituals with a leaden heart and weary head.

When the minute hand of the black, leather banded wrist watch strapped around Sora's left wrist halted momentarily at the black, bolded '10', the dark haired boy sat down at the high-legged kitchen table that took up the near entirety of the quaint, detached dining room.

"G'morning." Sora managed in a groggy, rubber-tongued slur as he absent mindedly poured milk into his red bowl, followed by general brand corn flakes.

"Morning." His uncle murmured in acknowledgement, fingers digging into and worrying a crack on the black lacquered face of the table's top.

Sora eyed the plain and simple meal set forth in front of him, the very same meal he consumed every morning as a means of breaking his fast.

The spoon in hand was spun in half circles, alternating between clockwise and counter as he sat still and contemplated.

With a troubled mind, he dipped the spoon's head into the heterogeneous mixture of milk and cereal contained within his bowl, catching some to be shoveled up to his seeking, gaping mouth.

At first, he hadn't thought he was hungry. Now, he felt beyond famished.

He continued the shoveling motions rapidly, in a desperate, raving fashion.

The older man ceased his investigation of the grooves forced onto his table as he stared, open mouthed, and observed at his nephews actions.

Once the entirety of the cereal was consumed, Sora only stared wistfully at the bowl, eyes searching, seeking.

Looking for more.

For something.

For sustenance.

For substance.

"Kid. . .you hungry?" The man inquired of his nephew, bordering amusement in his astonishment.

Sora nodded, wordless.

As his uncle stood up, muttering something about the possibility of some bacon being in the fridge, the boy's posture sagged, slouching heavily as he slumped far within his chair, head coming to rest on top of the table.

Breathing rate increased to a gaping, stagnated rate as a trail of moisture made its trek down tanned features.

Feel free to add glitterpunch

ALSO:
Anyone interested in doing some beta reader work for me, drop me a line :D

THANK YOU ♥

Drabble

Mon, 15 May 2006 22:44:43 GMT

Golds, browns, and some reds too.

With precise, rhythmic strokes of a colored pencil, the child hummed quietly too himself as he carefully, painstakingly, colored in the lines of the intricate design. Habitually brushing aside doll like curls tawny in color, he smiled omnisciently, the smile of an enigmatic in every aspect.

I color because I like to color

He'd been wheedled and goaded by a reasoning touch, a companionable smile, a questioning tone Why? but he just did. He just did

Thoughtlessly, in an awkwardly childlike, mechanical motion devoid of grace he pulled himself up from his reclined position, slender hands grasping the edge of a desk to aid his rising. On his feet, he gently rocked back and forth. Singing softly to himself, eyes blankly following the detailed pattern of the wallpaper, deftly studying it. The charmingly mysterious smile ever present, he sang. He stood. He stared.

Mon, 15 May 2006 22:34:06 GMT