This is just my take on what it must be like to live in Traverse Town.
Anyway, this is my first stab at fanfiction, so I hope it doesn't suck as much as I think it does. You don't have to review but it is very much appreciated.
They called this place a safe haven.
They called it a sanctuary.
But Leon didn't consider it that; not Leon, never Leon.
It seemed frighteningly wrong, that in the town where the only light came in a soft neon flickering, where he should be overcome by sorrow, that he could only feel anger. At himself, at the Heartless, at everyone around him, even at the shadows which made up so much of who he was.
But eventually, Leon could only hate this town. Hate its false promises of hope, of change, even while all it did was suffocate those who remained here too long. And he watched as everyone's skin grew pale and their eyes grew dark, and so much time passed- years- but here time ceased to matter, for time was simply a ticking of a clock, a steady descent of sand, an ongoing ringing of a far-off bell, that carried away seconds and minutes which, in the end, simply wouldn't mean anything. Their world would still be consumed by shadows, their loved ones still deceased, and they would still be here in the land of hopeless pretenders.
And as the meaningless years slowly passed and stacked up all around him, Leon resigned himself to this life, a life of false smiles and brittle alliances, because beyond that, there was nothing else for him to believe in.
But there still came days when the lonely swordsman would stare out his window into the never-ending gloom lit only by multicolored phosphorescence and the smiles of those who dared to believe things might change, and cry. He cried because he missed the sun, missed blue skies, missed sunrises and sunsets. He cried because he ached for the countless friends and family members who he would never see again. Most of all, he cried because he knew that no matter what he did, this perpetual midnight was all that was left for him.
Over time, his tears grew bitter and few, until the day that they stopped altogether. What was the use, really, in crying over something that would never change? He could weep for the rest of his life, and still the sun would never rise on this city of broken spirits, and this would still be what he had to put his last dying faith in.
But for now, Leon listened to the endless ticking of the clock, and felt an acid smile mangle his face at the futility of it all.
They called this place a safe haven.
They called it a sanctuary.
But Leon didn't consider it that; not Leon.
Never Leon.