(no subject)
Marluxia keeps his gardens exactly as he keeps all his other possessions: well-coiffed. His ornamental cherry trees are groomed like poodles, his gravel paths neatly raked and free from weeds or invasive flora, falling water clinks gently in the air - there are no birds, no sonorous bugs. His is an insulated, a channeled place, not unlike Marluxia himself in that respect. In its sterility there is poetry, in its stillness and meticulous care a lightly written story that takes patience and time to decode.
Taking tea with him and Naminé in that garden is a terrible ordeal for Larxene. She always feels as though she's been sucked into Candyland, or Wonderland, without noticing, condemned to sip her drink with aching slowness, mumble surly compliments about Marluxia's thin cookies, and cross her ankles like a lady.
The graceful assassin is terribly good at faking graciousness. He is solicitous and cloying in his lengths to inquire as to the heat of Larxene's beverage, whether Naminé is comfortable, whether either of them requires a refill or a lump of sugar. The small circular table upon which he lays out refreshments crams them close together, nearly elbow to elbow, Naminé conspicuous as a Lotus floating over a black pond but trying to play down her, Larxene would say, glaring obviousness with a bowed head and whispered replies.
All in all it drives Larxene crazy, to sit wiling endless hours with Marluxia who vibrates with private amusement and the girl who could be her washed-out shadow, if Nobodys had nobodys. If it were possible, Naminé would be Larxene's nobody, and that would be the better place for her, as the dreary twin of a vibrant original. Which is what she is but Larxene has so much more somebody in her than Naminé does. It's almost ridiculous to count them as the same rank of being. Ridiculous. Unreal.
Taking tea with him and Naminé in that garden is a terrible ordeal for Larxene. She always feels as though she's been sucked into Candyland, or Wonderland, without noticing, condemned to sip her drink with aching slowness, mumble surly compliments about Marluxia's thin cookies, and cross her ankles like a lady.
The graceful assassin is terribly good at faking graciousness. He is solicitous and cloying in his lengths to inquire as to the heat of Larxene's beverage, whether Naminé is comfortable, whether either of them requires a refill or a lump of sugar. The small circular table upon which he lays out refreshments crams them close together, nearly elbow to elbow, Naminé conspicuous as a Lotus floating over a black pond but trying to play down her, Larxene would say, glaring obviousness with a bowed head and whispered replies.
All in all it drives Larxene crazy, to sit wiling endless hours with Marluxia who vibrates with private amusement and the girl who could be her washed-out shadow, if Nobodys had nobodys. If it were possible, Naminé would be Larxene's nobody, and that would be the better place for her, as the dreary twin of a vibrant original. Which is what she is but Larxene has so much more somebody in her than Naminé does. It's almost ridiculous to count them as the same rank of being. Ridiculous. Unreal.