Demon Artist Angel
-and he considers himself an artist -riku x sora au- even as he forgets all the artwork he can-
X--x--X
He considers himself an artist.
Creating the most beautiful (perfect, ageless) works of art.
He calls them Heartless.
Little black creatures that crawl and bite and destroy.
But they're only statues.
Only tiny paperweights, no bigger then a cat.
So he considers himself and artist.
A man of hard work and determination.
An entity of neither good nor evil.
And he makes others;
(twisting, twirling) Light and Lonely pieces.
He calls them Nobodies.
Little dusk creatures that dance and hurt and destroy.
But they're only paintings.
Only splashes of paint, on a canvas of bone-white paper.
So he conciders himself an artist.
And the man forgets his works of art;
Lying in the window, collecting up particles of unseen dust.
Until a Stranger stops to see.
(demon demon)
He stays and chats, peculiar.
Buys nothing, but leaves owning it all anyway.
Artist calls the man a Demon.
Tall, strong and pretty.
Emerald blue eyes shining through endless silver bangs.
But he calls himself Riku.
And unlike the Heartless, the Nobodies...
The Demon is flesh and blood and tainted.
Artist sees the blood on Riku's hands.
Hears the drain in Riku's voice.
And he knows he needs a little of his darkness.
So he considers himself and artist.
Writes page apon page of the dark kind of poetry.
A man manipulated by darkness,
Enslaved by his Jealousy and Sins.
And the Demon keeps coming again and again.
Keeps bringing his past and his future and his now.
Dragging bag upon bag to the everwilling man.
And Riku is broken and a breaker.
A hurter, heartbreaker.
And he talks, and he screams, and he waits for something (anything) to save him from himself.
And artists notepads fill up.
So he considers himself an artist.
A storyteller, narrator.
And the book lays, fat and forgotten by the counter.
Until a stranger comes inside.
(angel angel)
And talks and watches, odd.
Buys nothing, but leaves owning it all anyway.
The artist calls this man an Angel.
Short, shy and pretty.
Baby-blue eyes wide under the carefree mess of brunet spikes.
But he calls himself Sora.
And unlike the Heartless, the Nobodies...
The angel is flesh and blood and beautiful.
Artist sees the light in Sora's heart.
Hears the oath in Sora's promises.
And knows he needs alittle of his Light.
So he considers himself an artist.
Sketches page apon page of the good kind of mess.
A man, steadfast against darkness/
Free to his promises and healing.
And Angel keeps coming, again and again.
Keeps bringing his hope and his dreams and his wishes.
Pulling stress upon stress from the everwilling man.
And Sora is healed and a healer.
And he laughs and he smiles and he looks around for something (anything) that he knows needs his help.
And artist fills up his sketchbooks.
So he considers himself an artist.
But as he reaches to pile it away,
Another addition to the Heartless and Nobodies and Demons-
The latter walks in the door.
And Angel sees the mess of blood and pain before he's turned.
Hears the sad and hate and repetition before he's spoken.
So he reaches out with two everhelping hands.
(two eversteady wings)
And rescues Riku from his pit of endless despair.
Promising and swearing and begging.
And artist watches, he himself forgotten in the corner.
And all the Heartless and Nobodies in store lay witness to the kiss of desperation Demon takes,
(angel gives)
And artist paints and draws and writes and sculpts.
Quiet and careful.
So he considers himself an artist.
Until Demon and Angel don't visit so much anymore.
Until Riku starts smiling,
Sora starts flirting.
And angel can't just count on them to pull him to safety.
So he stands tall on his own two legs and tugs on the rope above him.
Death is just another (different) work of art.
So he conciders himself an artist.
Wonders at it a moment, for the very last time.
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