(no subject)
Challenge: [166] Drink Me
Title: the democratic art of persuasion
Word Count: 511
Summary: axel and roxas. one empty can of soda.
Warnings: first time poster, and all that entails.
You never knew when to give up, even when the other children ran home crying and you stayed in the middle of the street, baseball bat in hand, broken glass littering the driveway. Even when she told you to leave, get the fuck out of here, goddammit go, you stayed and in the morning after handed her a glass of water and some painkillers. Because even then, you didn't know how to let go. Not really. Not the way you were supposed to learn in between scrapped adventures and scraped knees and growing up the hard way.
You won't remember this until it's too late, but your beliefs are carved into your bones, pumped through your veins, wrapped within the strands of your DNA. No matter how many lives you cycle through, they'll kill you in the end. Because you let them. Because you will always let them (only you don't know that yet).
Once, you wake up with sparks behind your eyes and soot beneath your nails. Alone and trembling on a dark beach, the moon choking not too far up above, somebody wraps you in a slick black coat and drags you home.
Once, you meet a boy with empty eyes and sweet smiles. You call him your best friend because you don't know any better. He calls you an idiot and nobody argues the point.
Once, you sit on top of a clock tower and watch the sun go down. You are not alone up there.
“Find me,” the boy says, lost in one of his rare moods. You crinkle your popsicle wrapper. You don't like it when his mind drifts too far away.
He twists around to face you, his fingers frantically tugging at the threads on his sleeve, says, “If I'm gone, if I ever leave this place, you have to find me. Promise you'll find me, okay?”
You stay silent, stubborn. So still it hurts.
Until he opens his mouth and pleads, “Okay? I don't want anyone but you. Because, see, you're -”
and you throw the open can of flat soda neither of you bothered to drink. You throw it and it splatters across his face.
He gasps, sputters. His eyes go wide like he's seeing you for the first time, like a blindfold is being ripped off. His hair is plastered to his face in limp curls and you want to kiss him, taste the artificial syrup on his skin, dig your fingers into his bones until they snap and you can replace them with your own.
You smile and promise to never be the first one to leave. You lift up your empty can for a toast neither of you can drink to.
He tells you to fuck off.
But you don't.
Title: the democratic art of persuasion
Word Count: 511
Summary: axel and roxas. one empty can of soda.
Warnings: first time poster, and all that entails.
You never knew when to give up, even when the other children ran home crying and you stayed in the middle of the street, baseball bat in hand, broken glass littering the driveway. Even when she told you to leave, get the fuck out of here, goddammit go, you stayed and in the morning after handed her a glass of water and some painkillers. Because even then, you didn't know how to let go. Not really. Not the way you were supposed to learn in between scrapped adventures and scraped knees and growing up the hard way.
You won't remember this until it's too late, but your beliefs are carved into your bones, pumped through your veins, wrapped within the strands of your DNA. No matter how many lives you cycle through, they'll kill you in the end. Because you let them. Because you will always let them (only you don't know that yet).
Once, you wake up with sparks behind your eyes and soot beneath your nails. Alone and trembling on a dark beach, the moon choking not too far up above, somebody wraps you in a slick black coat and drags you home.
Once, you meet a boy with empty eyes and sweet smiles. You call him your best friend because you don't know any better. He calls you an idiot and nobody argues the point.
Once, you sit on top of a clock tower and watch the sun go down. You are not alone up there.
“Find me,” the boy says, lost in one of his rare moods. You crinkle your popsicle wrapper. You don't like it when his mind drifts too far away.
He twists around to face you, his fingers frantically tugging at the threads on his sleeve, says, “If I'm gone, if I ever leave this place, you have to find me. Promise you'll find me, okay?”
You stay silent, stubborn. So still it hurts.
Until he opens his mouth and pleads, “Okay? I don't want anyone but you. Because, see, you're -”
and you throw the open can of flat soda neither of you bothered to drink. You throw it and it splatters across his face.
He gasps, sputters. His eyes go wide like he's seeing you for the first time, like a blindfold is being ripped off. His hair is plastered to his face in limp curls and you want to kiss him, taste the artificial syrup on his skin, dig your fingers into his bones until they snap and you can replace them with your own.
You smile and promise to never be the first one to leave. You lift up your empty can for a toast neither of you can drink to.
He tells you to fuck off.
But you don't.