[mod] thirteen floors - for a dusk--
for dusknobody, upon reaching the thirteenth floor. ♥
title: for a dusk (a sentence drablet)
rating: pg-13
word count: 249
pairing: marluxia/naminé
notes: thank you to miss lindskaba for a wonderful beta. ♥
prompts: dusk, time, shells, glass, dance
She fumbles in her colorbox, hesitating over greys, sensing the silentwhite presence behind her (when she asked, he told her to draw, murmured to her of memories and loneliness and how she might feel whole) and wonders what her fingers could shape to promise sanctuary to something so ephemeral, and thinks of what could complete her.
She had never realized what was missing - she was just there, drawing each day in twilight colors, until the moment they took shape, surrounding her as she scribbled, giving weight and voice to her loss and then there was nothing - not even nothing, not until he promised her a garden that would someday blossom with memories all her own.
He tells her, without memory, she is only breath and light, her body just a cage - and so he cages her, and only lets her open under his fingers (his lips, his body) to color white pages walls pages in images of him.
So she waits, and clings to his promise: if it were to break and shatter into scattered shards of color, she could never draw them together again - and then what's left of her, if these fragile memories disappear?
Her fingers start to draw to move to draw and the room fills with quiet scratchings, bird feet (borrowed memories) tracing patterns pale petals flying far and fast and free on paper white as empty sky and she whispers, soft as his breath on her throat, these colors will shape a promise someday too.
title: for a dusk (a sentence drablet)
rating: pg-13
word count: 249
pairing: marluxia/naminé
notes: thank you to miss lindskaba for a wonderful beta. ♥
prompts: dusk, time, shells, glass, dance
She fumbles in her colorbox, hesitating over greys, sensing the silentwhite presence behind her (when she asked, he told her to draw, murmured to her of memories and loneliness and how she might feel whole) and wonders what her fingers could shape to promise sanctuary to something so ephemeral, and thinks of what could complete her.
She had never realized what was missing - she was just there, drawing each day in twilight colors, until the moment they took shape, surrounding her as she scribbled, giving weight and voice to her loss and then there was nothing - not even nothing, not until he promised her a garden that would someday blossom with memories all her own.
He tells her, without memory, she is only breath and light, her body just a cage - and so he cages her, and only lets her open under his fingers (his lips, his body) to color white pages walls pages in images of him.
So she waits, and clings to his promise: if it were to break and shatter into scattered shards of color, she could never draw them together again - and then what's left of her, if these fragile memories disappear?
Her fingers start to draw to move to draw and the room fills with quiet scratchings, bird feet (borrowed memories) tracing patterns pale petals flying far and fast and free on paper white as empty sky and she whispers, soft as his breath on her throat, these colors will shape a promise someday too.