Riku & Sora OOC, disclaimed.
Toying with an idea for original characters, but for now, I cling to Square.
Just a bit of nonsensical drabble to clear the brain. Un-beta'd.
His palms are sticky and warm with the summer-yellow mandarin juices. Each finger clings dependently to the next, segments of skin connected like piano keys that have melted together in the sun. This is our opus, our time together. Midday is twenty minutes away, and so is the rest of the world - beyond their New Year Shangri-La, this empty plot of rapture and jade-coloured angel eyes, where the sun makes the earth beneath their hands look like el cielo.
'My mother cursed me forever,' he remarks, licking his hands with all of his mouth, and he thinks it must taste bitter like the rinds. 'They were five-dollar bills. Can you believe? Now none of my wishes will come true.'
It will only last as long as a sad song. 'You make many wishes?' The pork buns are not warm now, but they are still sweet with honey and like dough.
Up, up, up. There are clouds where your face should be! It bubbles and glitters from the ground, leaping into flight like a long dragon, that sound inside. 'I wish for - oranges, for all the lovelorn,' he says, and every flat and pointed tooth is visible. 'Today, though! Tomorrow, the oranges' properties will be no good. It's only for the second day, you see, the second day of the moon.'
He rolls and lazes on his back beneath the swooping grass, little fingers crawling beneath rigid skin, like worms, and arching, like birds, to lift away the fruit's cage. Please don't fly too far too fast today; it feels good to be remembered. They are friends and conspirators, pilots steering the earth towards the sun and under seas of nickel. The next time he looks up, his smile is orange and too wide for his face, but it fits like a picture in a window.
'What pretty dresses,' he whispers now, 'she always wears.'
They are the same, orange boys with orange smiles and yellow stick dribbling down their chins to their canvas sneakers. The moments slipped away this time, into the cracks in the soil and deeper. Perhaps it will come out on the other side, where it will be available to some other accident who wants that other half bad enough to take it. Opportunities never flutter twice in the same face, though, and watch the butterflies flee the kingdom.
It takes an extra day to say, but he tells him, 'There are many wet spots in the sky today, right? I counted twenty-three. Twenty-three bells that didn't ring.'
Sora knows too well sometimes. 'It is a perfect day for rain.'