Started: 12-21-06
Ended: 12-21-06
Summary: It's a city with a different type of night. And Roxas can smell the difference. (Can taste the difference.) One-shot, ficlet, Roxas centric
Rated: T for swearing, a bit of adult content, insulting terms and a bit of cannibalism.
Parings: None. Roxas centric.
Disclaimer: I, Masterday, do not own Kingdom Hearts.
Word count: 503
..City/start
He can taste it. He can suck and lick his way around the ice cream, but he can taste more than just salty-sweet.
He can smell it, too.
The burning (Of flesh and wood and hair and metal and lives, they're all going up in smoke and he can smell it.)
The blood (from people and heartless and dogs and rats and ducks and Him, and oh god, he can taste that sweet, sweet blood.)
The sex (Of fags and dogs in heat and lesbos and fucking so-called normal people and cats and he can taste the sweat and cum.)
The drugs of the night are making him fucking happy, 'cause he can smell those too, can snort them and inject them and he doesn't care, doesn't care, 'cause he's high off the smell of the burning and the blood.
The city's up in flames, and he can hear the screams of the people trapped inside, the cries of the raped, the pleads of the dying, he can hear them and taste the horror.
The city's all red now, red with fire and blood, the sky is black from mixing with the smoke, and the sunset looks like night all over again, minus the stars, (minus the other worlds he knows are out there, knows can't smell the horror and taste the sex) even though it's twilight and he can see the pink and orange, all he can smell is the black and the grey and the red. (All he can taste is the white of crack and cum, and it's beautiful, that city.)
He's drinking now, bitter beer and sour wine, any alcohol he can get his hands on, and he's taking more pills and he's snorting more crack and dancing the night away to the music, to the harmony of the screams and the crashing of the city. (And can't you hear it? Can't you taste it?)
They're toasting now, (The ones who aren't burning or bleeding or fucking—although some are multi-tasking with the dying) toasting their melted sea-salt ice cream to the good music (of screams and wood that crackles as it burns, fails and falls) and the feasting (of flesh and blood and blue, blue popsicles) and the fucking (willing or not) and the smoke. (Would you like one?)
Laughing, laughing, dancing and smelling and tasting and drinking and raping and watching as the city goes up in flames. (And isn't it grand?)
He's running now, 'cause it's over, the sky's turning pink again and the air's clearing and the blood running in the gutters is mixing with the waters of the sewage and the screams are halting and that euphoric high is wearing off and he's got a hangover—but clutched in one dirty, bloody, salty hand is a dirty, bloody, sweet popsicle stick. (And it's all he's got, 'cause he won't remember anything in the morning.)
He can taste it. He can suck and lick his way around the ice cream, but he can taste more than just salty-sweet.
He can see more than those blues.
..City/end
I have nothing against homosexuals, nor do I usually use those terms…but they went with the story. Sorry.
Reposted it when I saw some errors…heheh…
Yeah, I don't really know where this came from. Any questions about my sanity, just put them in a review and I'll be happy. Yep. :D
And for those who can't read between the lines:
Review!