This city, so pretty.
Headphone does not own! (It should be obvious.)
Knuckles popped into place, and the rest were ignored. Silence engulfed the room, and neither of the two said a word. Neither of the two wanted to acknowledge that one of the two was soaking wet to the bone, and that said person had also walked thirty minutes in the rain to say one thing. His mouth opened, quickly at first, and then slowing to a halt, and he realized he didn't know how to say it.
He didn't know how he wanted to make this one sentence sound.
But, not knowing was just an obstacle to overcome, and while the drenched male was never any good at giving apology speeches, there was always a first. "I," He started slowly, causing the younger, youthful almost, of the two, looking at him in a way that spoke in units of curiosity - of expectancy. "I wanted to say I'm sorry." Stating his apology flatly was all it took for the younger male's curiosity to suddenly diminish like an over-due camp fire. "But I know that I can't really say how sorry I really am."
Curiosity was now replaced by a small pit of fire, a small burning emotion that screamed in volumes of 'hope'. Cue corniness. Cue fake stubbornness. Cue not wanting to really forgive and forget and pull on a fake smile that screamed a façade of 'it's okay'. Cue the real Roxas to take form.
The bedroom they were placed in shook lightly from the outside thunder, and the blond on the bed just covered himself a bit more with the comforter, just as a safety measure. The subject in front of him, soaked from head to toe in clothing that would give anyone who wasn't him the chills, just stood, staring lifelessly and dejectedly into the blonde's determined -but still shallow and emotionless- eyes.
"Then show it. Show me how sorry you are." Roxas's tone was cold, unforgiving, and he felt almost as though he was a spoilt queen by the way that the tall redhead was suddenly bending over, his knee placed up to his chest. The subject's liberally cold hands reached out to grasp Roxas's own, bringing the blonde's left index-knuckle to the redhead's lips, kissing them in a way that seemed more cheesy and Romeo-styled then it seemed creepy, or even in the rarest of cases, arousing.
"I'm so sorry Roxas."
In order for anything to make sense, in order that little caboodle up there to stop talking in riddles of horrible grammar, we would have to back track everything to the beginning, to when it first began, to when Roxas still lived with his mother and his creepy uncle Xigbar had not been a part of the pirate mafia.
Yeah, you heard that last part right.
But that's not important, what is important is Roxas. Roxas is what's important, most definitely. Because he is the true heir of this story, he is the only important thing that is not the sun and the moon. Scratch that, he is the sun and the moon. You wake up to his darling face, and fall asleep to him sleeping peacefully in his small twin-sized bed; it's like a never ending cycle of Roxas just because he is just that important.
Thus, without further ado, I, the wonderful narrator, give you the story of Roxas; the story of his entire existence!
The day began like any other would, get up, get dressed, get a cup of left-over coffee that his mother left, and leave before 8:47 so he could catch the bus. Roxas wasn't much of a person to dilly-dally, and he sure wasn't one to be found watching his feet so he wouldn't trip, and he most certainly did not count the amount of steps it took each day to get from his home to the neighborhood bus stop. Cue sarcasm on the last two statements. His lowest count as of this year was still at 2813 steps in exactly 11 minutes.
The March breeze was welcoming, with its own small hint of betrayal and secrets, like a pretty beach girl with blond hair and a skinny waist. Roxas paid little to no attention to the particular bounce in his steps, a little light-hearted pulse that made his feet feel jolly on the pavement and add a little bit of a happy mask to his steps.
When he finally reached the bus stop, he stopped and sat on the usual side of the park bench that stayed clean of pigeon-droppings via the mind threats that he sent the flying devils daily. They clearly avoided anything that Roxas planned on using on a day-to day basis, while everything else was oozing none-too-nicely with white filth that mother's had to tell to their children that it was not the sky raining marshmallow cream and that yes the idea of that happening was near to none.
He felt older then he really was when he waited at the station for transportation. He felt about twenty years older then the 17 years he had known that he had really lived. He felt as though he could have a conversation with his Uncle Xigbar and feel like they'd be on a similar level of authority.
He felt too old to not feel the stares on his neck.
But, ignoring quickly the non-existing aging, the count of steps he'd taken, the time he'd wasted every day waking to and from the bus stop to go to a job he hated, he took out a single cigarette that he smuggled from his cousin Cloud. This cousin that he stole the cancer stick from was not related to his uncle in which he knew and liked the fact that the hallucinogenic lunatic that claimed to have 'lost his eye in the war', though Roxas was there when he was wondering what would happen when he tried to shove a fork into his eye socket.
Roxas was there when he burned his face on the stove while trying to use said device as a utensil to call aliens in one of his drunken stupors. But this wasn't a ramble about Roxas's retarded drunken uncle -from his absent father's side as it would be- it was about how Cloud, his mother's nephew. It was about how the 19, almost 20-year old bought cigarettes on a daily basis, and left them just lying around Roxas's house almost begging for the younger teen to take them.
He lifted the cancer stick to his chapped, cracked, lips, the simple smell of cheap nicotine radiating off of the small stick as though it was something free to the public. The stench of the cigarette, it reminded Roxas vaguely of how his own mother's mother was trailer trash, how her house smelled with a way that screamed of something similar to a wet dog, almost similar to a warm corpse.
And although he barely digressed, and proceeded to pull out a cheap 50 cent lighter he had also stolen from his unknowing cousin, he was then interrupted by a sudden flash in front of him. It seemed as though the first car on the street since he had arrived had an obnoxious color to pull the attention of those without eyes, of those lacking the ability to look. Just the though of it existing pulled their enthrallment by the strings of reality.
Roxas, however, wanted to not stare at the car and mentally will it into an accident for interrupting his early morning cigarette, his early morning get up. The one thing in the day that seemed to calm him down, and he wanted to pretend it had not just been stalled. He put pressure onto the small dial, and quickly pulled it down to a halt at the small red button at the base. The light that was supposed to have ignited didn't, and he just briefly rinsed and repeated.
The flame drew quickly, and the blond brought the ignited stick to his lips, a small little twinge of relieve ushering over him from the sudden withdrawing. He took in the sickening chemicals, all the harmful things that could easily destroy his entire being. He took it in with a smile since he knew that the next three minutes of his life would at least be that of a harmless and enjoyable variety.
Now take that entire sentient holding, all of the wonderful emotions, and now proceed to screw it over. That's what you would get by taking that cigarette, taking that one thing in Roxas's morning that didn't, until now, let him down. You have it in your hand. Now, what do you do with it?
Throw it to the ground.
Crush it, grind it, completely destroy Roxas's harmless fix with your right heel.
Flash him a look of your green eyes, and tell him through them 'it's okay'. Roxas, however, does not want to deal with your talking of riddles. Roxas, as it may more prominently seem, is more then obsessed with that single stick you threw down, shot thoroughly with your sneaker.
"Why did you do that?" He spat out, and now, everything seems to be happening not in the present, but more so as though you're looking at it from long ago. It seems like you're just standing back, kind of chuckling. Kind of like how you, the one with the red hair and green eye, would used to be made fun of with a way that spoke 'he is such a ----'.
Tune it out.
"It's bad for your health." You say simply, with a smile, as it would seem. That one grin, the type that speaks through itself yelling 'he's really sorry', the type of grin, obnoxious and fake, that just helps you get through everything. Roxas, however, is not as stupid as you are. Not anywhere near as stupid as those others that you have fooled with that strong-yet-sad smile.
Just keep it up and maybe he'll believe you. Kept it up and maybe you will be able to fool yourself, shoot yourself in the foot mentally and just keep on smiling a stupid grin that will no doubt be the one you wear to your deathbed. Just keep it up, don't ask questions.
Roxas, the blond, the furious little spunk, the 17 year old boy without a steady future, the one with the trailer trash grandmother. Yeah, it's that Roxas. It's the important Roxas. And you know what he's doing? He's currently glaring daggers into you. Sharp, sterling silver, daggers. With sharp points, too, since they're brand-new. His eyes of blue, sapphire, depths of the oceans, whatever other cliché you want to call it, he's staring at you with them. But it's not just a stare, no siree, that'd be too plain for this here chickadee. No, he's staring at you with a way that would cause holes to erupt into a person's head.
Those holes, however in your case, are already there, and he's just looking through you. And those daggers, that shrapnel? It also goes straight through, right through your brain that's no longer there, past the eye sockets that don't truly exist, and most of all that fake smile.
"Oh, who do you care?"
'For being such an important person, Roxas sure is a bit whiny.' You think casually, your smile faltering, your grin slightly splitting, to show something true inside of you. But Roxas, the sun and the moon, the key to everything, he's not concerned about you showing yourself, you showing any sort of character development, any sort of maturity. That oh-so-important blond is more concerned with the second to last cigarette he had left, the second to last thing in his day that is going to get his brain hitched onto a legal high.
Ignore this though. Ignore his spitting at you. Ignore the light scuffle you got on your right heel when you put out his fix. Ignore this all and sit next to him on the bus bench. Now, can you try to ignore the way that he looks at you when the wooden bench squeaks? Can you even begin to dismiss the stare on your neck that you know he'd like to wring when you pop a seat neck to him?
I doubt it, but humor us.
"I care," You begin, trying to form the words correctly in your mouth, pursing your lips for a sixtieth of a second. "Because you are a very important person." Bull shit. Saying that right then, with that arrogant 'I know more then you' sort of accent, it feels like talking pure and utter BS. Right from your lips and it leaves an unpleasant after taste that you are sure you won't forget for a while.
You know that fake smile you used to wear? That one accessory that went so nicely with the single small hoop earring and bangles that adorn your wrist, you still remember what it felt like to wear it right? It felt as though you could fake anything, get your way through life just because you could purse your lips this way, flatten that muscle like so, and in the end look like a snarky asshole. I'm sure you remember it, but here's my question; can you muster it up now?
You lost it, and now you can't seem to find it. Isn't that the case?
And how is this so?
It's happening, because Roxas is the only thing you're concerned with right now. You don't care if your social appearance is no longer within the terms of being on the 'social' side, but then again, who does? You don't care if you look like your about to fall apart, just so long as the sun, the moon, the blond on the bench who wants to strangle you cold, is alright.
"Oh, yeah, well," He says, and you can vaguely hear the amounts of concern over your sanity, the small hints of him wanting to push you into a pole. You can hear him begging without words to have some sort of magical force take you and whisk you away from there. "Screw you, you don't even know me."
You want to punch him into a nice solid wall, even if there really wasn't any form of a wall around for about 6 yards and was located on the other side of the road.
You want to say something, anything, just to shatter that small silence, just even a crack to it.
And you very well wanted the bus to not pull up so conveniently at that exact moment, and have the important little Roxas disappear inside of it. It's not because you don't want the blond to leave, it's that you don't want him to leave you with a broken mask, with a single bruise inside of your brain from his death glare, and the ground up cigarette about a foot away.
You wanted him to take you with. You wanted him to do something, maybe say a final 'don't talk to me', maybe even flip you off before leaving. Something else that wouldn't leave this empty hole in your brain, chest, and who knows where else that's screaming, yelling, howling as loud as it can 'you just fucked up'. Though it's mainly because you know it's true.
You don't like having your body, or more-so lack-there-of, figure things out before you realize it.
The bus rolls off, and you can't see anything besides the black smoke that is pumped out of the engine.
Inside the bus, Roxas is trying to entirely forget the incident. Forget the fact that he now only has one cigarette left, and is without his morning fix. He's trying to forget the split second that he noticed how the freaky male's face cracked ever-so-slightly. He's trying to forget the way that your face cracked ever-so-slightly.
Well, this little mental-forgetting, it really wasn't going so well. Because instead of trying to empty his mental trash bin into a dumpster, he would continuously look at it and wonder what the hell each and every little wadded up ball was. He kept on unfolding things he wanted to forget, but he just kept on forgetting the act of forgetting them, thus leading to a less-then-conclusive remembering.
He didn't want to remember the summer that he entirely blew off Hayner and the gang just to appease his own emo middle-school heart to sulk around all day.
He didn't want to remember watching as Hayner spray painted the far side of the school with horrible lingo of who's who and what's what. it was a sickening sight to wathc as people actually tried to make gossip out of the trash talk.
The act of remembering what happened to the little old lady's cat was something less then pleasant. After all, it's not like someone wants to remember what a cat looks like after being placed under their parent's car.
But most of all, he didn't want to remember what happened not even 5 minutes ago. He didn't want to remember at all the look of, or more so crack of, absolutely sadness, grief, whatever adjective could be used to describe the exact look of pure abandonment on the redhead's face.
'I never caught his name' was the only thing going through his mind as the bus turned a sharp corner, throwing off the perfect position that Roxas had sat in every day for the past half year. This however was a daily occurrence, and the blond brushed it off as nothing. But when the doors opened almost an entire minute before Roxas knew they were supposed to open, he couldn't just sit in silence.
But silence was exactly what he decided was best to hold, when he looked up.
And while this little silence-holding thing was mainly just a hunch he had, it was mostly supported because the next person getting on board had a very-real looking gun, and the next person after had a large, almost human-sized potato sac. Needless to say, the two boarders were not looking for money, since they'd have gone to a bank, but they were looking for people, hostages, a little reassurance.
"Where is he?" The one with the bag asked, and while they had bandanas over their faces, their hair color was un-fucking-dismiss-able. The gun wielder had pink hair. Not red beige, not a rosy orange, not a funny colored maroon that just shined pink will under florescent lights. No, just friggin' pink. Of al the colors Roxas so thoroughly hated, he had to set his eyes upon someone with pink hair wielding a gun.
How friggin' cliché and screw up all in one.
The one with the bag, however, seemed to be a bit bitchy, if not eager to get her human specimen. She – and Roxas only guessed this from the girly voice and small lumps on her chest that indicated some for of breast-tissue – had blonde hair. And now this may seem a bit cliché, or maybe even just retarded to sound in description, but it was just blonde it was perfectly yellow, not a single hint of anything less then or more then that one solid color. And to top it off, her hair was pulled back entirely into the back, leaving not a single hair on her forehead from what Roxas could see from his seat.
That was, everything except two little strands of hair, which were pulled up and off of the rest of her hair, but were still shot back. Roxas hinted at a muse that she looked like a bug, but ignored it as they were suddenly standing next to him.
The air in Roxas's lungs hitched a little, as a gun was pointed into his face, and an eager hand of the woman was placed onto his shoulder.
"Are you Roxas?"
There were all kinds of things wrong with this situation, and from what Roxas could tell from, he didn't want to mention a single one of these things. One of the many screw up things was that the sterling silver gun placed about three inches away from the middle of his brows was, in fact, loaded with a total of 4 bullets from what the darling blond could see. Another little thing to add to how screwed up this was, was that the wielder of said gun wasn't even paying the least bit of attention to the ever-important Roxas; he was having a little chit-chat with the blond haired insect-women with the potato sack.
'Fuck my life' was the only thing going through the blond male's mind when he realized that he was now being forced into the brown sack of vengeance. Okay, so maybe not vengeance, but probably something similar to that, just a tad bit. Roxas hooped and hollered, twisted and squirmed, but with every little flinch, he was pushed farther and farther into the rucksack.
Farther and farther away from humanity, he told himself when the lights in the bus were no longer present. Farther and farther away from any chance of anyone getting up dramatically and helping me out, he thought as the kidnappers took the mouth of the potato sack into their hands, presumably heaving Roxas over their shoulder like he really was a big lumpy potato. But Roxas, the ever-important, ever-glistening Roxas, he was just not going to be having any of that, and tried to kick his way out of the bag.
With every kick came a sudden realization of Roxas being kidnapped. With every kick, came a liable pain that told him loudly and proudly 'this isn't a dream, princess'. Roxas mentally cursed himself for using such a crude and whimsical joke at this time of peril.
He assumed that the captors were either inexperienced when it came to kidnapping people, or they were just extremely clumsy when lugging around a person in a goddamn potato-sack of all things, or maybe even a wonderful mix between the two. Since on their way to where-ever-the-hell they were taking Roxas, they hit his shinny little head clean on something. Roxas just cupped the soft spot for a few moments with his pale hands before realizing he was probably given brain damage.
Cue a holler from the princess to the captors.
Now, you can also cue the male kidnapper yelling back at him to 'shut the fuck up' and 'get over his whiny ass'.
Go ahead and cue Roxas, the important Roxas, the sun and the moon Roxas, to start brooding in a goddamn potato sack of all the cheap things you could have thrown him in.
Don't you feel like a movie director now? With all the cues and all of the perfect staging. Go ahead and cue some sarcasm there, since you can't exactly pull that one little thing off without make-up and actors your paying on a trust-fund.
All you need now is to pull everything together and hire some actors who aren't clumsy as shit. Now, all that you need is a budget larger then 20 dollars and a ham sandwich.
But that little problem doesn't make you digress any more or less then you already do. That doesn't discourage you to get mad at your actors because they obviously don't have anything more to do then sit around on their asses. Although, personally, in my professional opinion, I believe your wonderful 'actors' and 'actresses' are better of lazing around all day and night snorting coke off a puppy's ass and getting high to the point that they can touch the moon with their tongue then they are working for you.
But, now, Cue some more shots of Roxas in the humiliating sack.
And you know that one, the one particular tape of screenplay you have of Roxas in that oh-so-degrading sack, the one that you seem to laugh at every time since the important blond accidentally gets his head hit by a telephone pole? Yeah, that one, I'm sure you want to play it in front of everyone just to show Larxene that she needs to be more careful with the important hostage. What? You already showed it off to the whole world?
And Roxas was there to watch it?
Oh, how lovely.
It must have been wonderful to see everyone's reaction.
I'm sure you're getting a kick of ruining the important Roxas's life.
You're a sick, sick jerk, you know that?
A/N: If you can't tell, i had to edit almost ALL of the swear words in this thing so that the parental control thing my mom installed on her computer wouldn't pick this up as 'bad' and have to have me explain as to why it's bad. (Because i really don't want to.)
Also: Please reveiw, or else i won't write.
(If you guys catch any spelling errors or grammar errors or error errors, just let me know and i'll happily fix them.)