"I love you I love you I love you," Riku whispers with a hoarse, raspy voice. His ghostly fingers curl in the wisps of purple and black that flit off the face stealer's form. Sea-glass eyes are blank and unseeing as he looks past the sham and sees only the innocent baby blues of long gone days from before he sold his soul to a charming devil.
The skin stealer- the one who melded his shape to fit the fancies of his master- closes light bulb eyes and leans into an icy touch (because his master wants it because he feels he wants it).
"Oh, Sora," Riku utters, fingers digging in a manner that would've been painful to a real little boy.
The anti-boy, the boy made of syrup-y darkness and lacking any heart in his hollow chest, strives to make his master feel (feel happiness or just feel one fleeting moment of joy). The skinwalker pets silver strands and kisses cold lips with a black mouth. He wants to speak, but his vocal chords are nonexistent and he flounders for "I love you" with his stolen fingers and beckoning eyes.
Riku doesn't (never) responds. He only slides his fingers through musty tendrils of hair and looks blankly through the heartless boy who never felt a thing to begin with.
X
Sometimes the pain and the loneliness is simply too much. Surely that's the reason his master looks fragile enough he could shatter at the wind when his eyes turn angry and his hands turn to fists.
When Riku gets angry, which isn't too often, the face stealer reasons, Riku beats him hard with split knuckles and swift kicks and scathing words.
"I hate you this is all your fucking fault I hate you I hate you!" He yells and yells and hits and hits 'till his throat dies and he collapses against the boy's black form.
The false boy knows the pain Riku feels is great and he understands it. He really, truly does.
He holds his master close to his chest with his icy fingers curled against the sinew-y muscles of his back and wills away all the aching in Riku's heart. Deep down, he selfishly hopes that Riku will one day learn to love him, the sham of a boy who cared more then any superhero ever could.
X
It opens its mouth and no words come out. Its kisses are cold like some long-dead corpse rotting against his mouth. When Riku looks at his macabre creation he is sickened by the awkward likeness to his old friend. He is sickened by the black skin and the gangly limbs and those flashlight eyes that stare deep into his own.
Riku is alone. His mistakes have left him with only blackness and sorrow and a girl good as dead sprawled across his bed.
The false creature he created out of his loneliness and despair presses him against the wall with curling fingers and a searching mouth along his jaw and collar. With a flick of his limply hanging hand the vile creature dissolves into the stagnant air. It was not meant for the world anyway, nothing more then a soulless reminder of the kindhearted boy Riku never was able to have.
Xxx
My intention was to create something poignant and lyrical to illustrate the futility I saw in this pairing. I'm quite sure I failed miserably, but feel free to provide your own criticism.