picture perfect.
He stares at the thin, bone-white sheet. Taking care not to smudge the carefully chosen strokes that decorate it, he smoothes away the crinkles littering an otherwise spotless paper. His rough fingers threaten to bend the delicate page in half with unnecessary yet accustomed strength.
Letting his head loll to the side in leisurely curiosity, he keeps a gentle grip on the edges so it isn't whisked away on a salty, lilting breeze. It starts as a lazy examination.
Two figures stand apart, separated by blank space. The space looks expectant, as if it's waiting for someone to decidedly fill it in with another dark splotch. It's so destitute and lonely he vaguely wonders why such an experienced artist (she has fashioned many such sheets in the same way, with the vibrant imagination of a child, so pointedly with obvious purpose that he believes it must be the work of someone with vast knowledge on art) would allow so much white to greedily swallow up her artwork.
He knows the two in black; they bring sorrow at the most fleeting thought of their names.
So he keeps them nameless.
But the ivory in the center is so blatant and overpowering his eyes are subconsciously drawn to it. He tilts the paper as if it would change.
Yet somehow, it's not as achromatic as before.
There's another boy standing in that previously empty spot, closing the gap, and he blinks in confusion at the face identical to that of R- the figure on the far right.
He tilts it this way, and the armored garb transforms into a black cloak.
He tilts it that way, and the cloak's hood obscures a newcomer's face.
No longer some trivial game to pass time by, it puzzles him to the point where he holds it up to the sun's light. Orange and red streaks (red travels the farthest, he thinks absentmindedly with traces of bitterness lingering on his tongue) filter through the impurities in the pristine sheet.
Look for an encoded message, maybe some dusty, hidden secret, the childish part of his mind urges him.
You're just imagining things, the other half scoffs.
But he scrunches up his face and musters a concentrated squint through the fallen rays that dance across his cheeks in a warm gait. Innocent blue eyes search for an answer in the uncovered fibers of the paper.
There's a quick flash of turquoise and pale pink amidst the center coat, so quick it is only there from the open of his eyes to the brushing of his eyelashes against each other, long enough for him to see (but not really long enough for him to believe). His tongue coils back in his dry mouth, trying to form a word, a name, but regrettably finds itself incapable.
"she's a girl"
And now the space is empty again, sadly mourning its solitude and monochrome blend of white. He bites his lip in disappointment and lets out a small sigh, not at the sudden absence of the two's companion, but at himself (you can't remember my name? Starts with an S- but wait, no, that's his name).
"Hm." He gives it a last scan, with a faint spark of hope smothered by the dark pupils of his eyes. Almost struggling with himself, he folds it slowly, watching the colored side become more and more hidden with each new bend in the page. There are a few faded smudges where he -she?- used to be, solemn traces of a well-erased figure. "Guess I'm just seeing things."
"with black hair"
Neatly folded this time, a few creases appearing where the paper is pulled taut by the corners, it rests again in his deep pocket among empty wrappers and lost keys.
The white is once again flawless and unbroken.
"and she can use the Keyblade,
just like me."
A/N: I honestly have gone through nearly all of the stories that had Xion in them because I was bored the other day (I'm almost done, and of course I only picked out the ones I wanted to read. I can't read 800+ stories lol). And then this random drabble was born. I was doing Calculus homework and went "wait Calculus is lame I should write something instead" and yeah. I've noticed there haven't been as many Xion drabbles lately as there used to be.