Onions sizzle as they hit the pan, hot oil jumping from metal to skin in fits and starts. Zexion stirs slowly, head cocked inquisitively to the side as the vegetables brown. Blue hair is confined to two regretfully girly pigtails, pushed carelessly over narrow shoulders in absentminded concentration. A pink tongue, studded with metal bar and colorful ball, pokes through pursed lips as he grabs a pinch of spice form the jar beside the stove.
The thin rubber bands that twist around the ends of his tufts tug at tender hairs, and he pulls them out quickly. Zexion leans back gently, fingers working knots from tangled locks. His hair reaches almost to his collar. He is exceedingly gentle with it, the lustrous blue glimmering in sharp contrast to the graying white of his shirt.
His clothes are well-suited to the task at hand; he wears holey jean shorts, an oversized shirt, riddled with cigarette burns, and an ancient pair of once-white socks. Another quick move of the hand introduces peppers to the hot pan. He leans back this time reflexively, instinctively avoiding the oil's quick splash.
The bluenette turns to the bare counter at his left, and fetches several jars from the cabinets above to rest on the cool plastic. He unscrews multitudinous metal lids with practiced ease, before opening the drawer in front of her. His hands search for measuring spoons, passing irritably over beer-bottle caps and well-used corkscrews. Under a bottle opener he spies a flash of metal and talented fingers fish out his prize. In the process of extracting the spoons, the tip of his ring finger finds the sharp point of a steak knife, and a single bead of blood wells on Zexion's dusty skin.
His full mouth is pulled into a frown. He slips the offended finger between pink lips to suck away the pain as the other hand measures out teaspoons and tablespoons of powder that will add more flavor to his bland repast. He put the spoons in the sink, the powder away.
The boy's foot taps impatiently as he stirs, beating a lonely, staccato rhythm on the cracked linoleum of the kitchen's floor. Zexion lays the spatula on the scarred white stovetop as he moves to another counter. He begins to hum a popular tune. His fingers drum against the countertop, teal fingernails creating discordant harmony with the tapping of his toes. His wrist rises to push an irritating wisp of hair from before clear, purple eyes.
He turns to the refrigerator for ingredients, the thin cloth of his shirt falling back from even thinner arms as he reaches toward the top shelf. There is muscle there, yes, but not much. He is skin and bones, air and spirit draped over a hollow skeletal frame.
Keeping an ever-careful eye on the imperiously ticking clock, Zexion fights a brief wave of drowsiness with a shake of his head. His work is not yet done. He remembers the noodles from another pot that sit in a large ceramic bowl on the counter, jiggling gently in a heap of soggy gluten. His sore hands tip meat from the fridge into the pan next, dropping it in almost carelessly. He stirs a few times, mind on otherworldly matters, before leaving the mix to sit on the stove as He takes a seat on the floor.
Weary, Zexion makes a pillow of his arms, cradling his head with delicate hands perched on bony knees. He is infinitely tired. A jingling clink comes from the direction of the front door, and he springs to his feet. The boy quickly grabs two plates from the cupboard above the sink, scrapes the now-complete meal onto them, and drops the hot pan into the sink to soak overnight. With a painful smile, he picks up the plates and exits the room.