A/N: Ehh... This is just a little project I did while I was in Vegas this week. D: I'm a newbie so far at fan fiction... I mostly just stick to reading them. But I might start writing more stuff if people like this, I guess. Er. I don't know. .-.
Vegas is a lively city, with festive lights and buzzing excitement that thrums through the smoky air like flies. The clouds above the granduer hotels are tinged with the burnt oranges, dull golds and deep russets of the bright, dusty lights lining the eaves of numerous casinos. I watch him in the lobby of the Venetian, sitting with his back against a marble column, creamy tanned skin blending well with the peach parquet floor that glimmer under wiry chandeliars that resembled pale spiders brimming with light. He is waiting for someone, blue-green eyes apprehensive and just a little irritated, as he runs a few fingers through his hair, which is blond and brown all mixed up like birdseed, and spiked into a sort of mohawk. He draws his knees up to his chest, locking his arms around his knees and paying no attention to passerby: a Swedish man with a deeply tanned face and slicked-back hair; a hairy man whose stomach bulges against the front of his shiny double-breasted suit, a roll of fat squished out right above his collar, and a pimple-like mole on his left eyelid that I would have dearly loved to cut off; a woman as skinny and shapeless as an iron pole, with a checkered, low-belted top and milky pale skin.
He flutters his eyelashes nervously after a while, and slips a finger between chapped lips to nibble lightly on a fingernail. I'm tempted to ask him who he is waiting for, but as soon as I push my weight off the check-in counter I was leaning against, he stumbles hastily to his feet, and out the revolving glass doors. Without thinking, I blindly race after him, my heart thumping at the base of my throat. My head clears slightly from the crisp air outside and I shield my eyes from the torrents of yellow sunlight that winds through the air like pale wisps of ribbons. I see his slim back, and notice his thin shoulders are trembling. For the first time I take note that he has a suitcase with him - brand-new, orange, with gleaming locks.
I step forward and feel as if the very aura around him is boiling and stirring with anger and despair and broken shards of hope. I know not of what comes over me, but I take his limp, cold hand in mine. He flinches and turns to regard me with pupils that look to be as if dusted with frost. He's startled, caught off guard; his eyes narrow in distrust and the action draws attention to the slight, exotic slant of his thick-lashed eyes. He pulls his hand away quickly, and I feel as helpless and disappointed as a birdwatcher who has scared off a particularly rare, beautiful bird with overeagerness and impatience. Relunctantly I lower my eyes, feeling a dull heat spreading to my cheekbones. "I... I apologize. Really, I do not know what came over me..." He straightens his shoulders, cocks his head in a mildly cattish manner, and smirks stifftly, a corner of his lips lifting. "Don't worry about it."
I swallow thickly, noticing with even more embarrassment that my blush has not receded. Here I am, twenty-one years old and talking to a guy who has caught my fancy, and I am blushing and stuttering like a boy who has barely hit puberty. I scowl internally, chastising myself sharply before I gesture to his suitcase. "Are you staying here? I can take your luggage up; it's the least I can do." I offer.
He shakes his head slowly, beautiful eyes distracted now and brighter, and I notice they are the exact shade of the sea, speckled with emerald green. "No thanks. My sister will be here to pick me up soon."
"Ah..." I say lamely. I have noticed he acts a bit muted, but sense within him, bubbling just below a highly sensitive surface, is a lively, playful energy ready to burst forth like thunder when he feels more comfortable. He gazes mistily ahead, body turned away from me. I hear the silken purr of a well-oiled motor and the slow, smooth crunch of tires on gravel, and a sleek, black Lamboughini Murcielago accelerates onto the curve of the valet driveway, its growls swelling before it ended with a click. He steps forward, swaying slightly. The car door opens, and out steps a girl in cigarette-thin jeans, with a short, spiky blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. She has a distinctive feline's grace and strength, her skin so pale it is almost sickly, the bridge of her nose scattered with dusty freckles. Her lips are red as licked candy. "Larxene!" He says, taking another wobbly step forward. His sister grins, jerking her head in the direction of the car. "You ready, Demyx?" The blond boy - Demyx... a beautiful name - widens his eyes, as if conveying another meaning. Larxene nods sharply, obviously understanding him. She grabs Demyx's case from him and tosses it into the trunk, her slender arms slightly rippling with the aforementioned feline strength. She opens the back door for Demyx, and the blond hurries to get inside the cool, leather interior of the car without a backwards glance. I somehow manage to clear my throat and shout, "Wait!" Demyx freezes, before glancing over his shoulder at me, eerily fearful, his eyes filled with another emotion I can not recognize. Larxene crosses her arms in defiant strength, raising her arched eyebrows as if to urge me to get on with it.
"When... when will I see you again?" I manage to croak. This time he turns fully to face me, the fear and other emotion in his eyes replaced with something that resembles mischief. "I don't know." He says simply, with a polite smile, before he turns back to enter the car. I gaze at as his slender, golden calf at last pulls through the doorway, Larxene slams the door with a note of finality before getting in the front seat herself, and the car speeds off, spewing oily exhaust fumes into my face, along wth a vague, delicate scent of sea breeze and salt.
I didn't see Demyx again for a month.
I feel as if I lay dying without him.
I gingerly roll over in bed, so my chest will not burst from the convex blows.
"Can't go on like this..." I mumble into the pillow, forlornly curling my legs up to my chest. I lay on my back, peering at the ceiling, at the wan gleam that has penetrated the slotted Venetian blinds, as piercing as my ribs. When I close my eyes again, silent sparks start to glide on the inside of my eyelids, unwinding infinitely transparent spirals. Demyx's snowy-green eyes and fiery mouth flash past, then sparks and spirals again. For an instant my heart retracts into a leaden knot, before it swells and gives a thump.
I can't go on like this. I can't. Not like this. I'll go crazy. Just a black wall, no future left. There's nothing left.
Each wingstroke of my clock thunders and resonates between my ears. My skin feels clammy with chilled sweat, itchy as if covered with mites of dust. The lunar ribs on the flaking plaster has imperceptibly moved. Soft footfalls sound outside, along with a mumbled word. A light ringing flys past. Then gradual cooling silence all around, only heart oscillating, taut and heavy. I turn my stuffy pillow over, then reach to my bedside table, grasping the handle of a porcelain pitcher and taking a deep drink from its spout. Cold water spills over the chipped edge and scalds my neck and collarbone. My stomach rumbles with a sudden wave of hunger. I remember dully that I have not eaten properly in three days.
I sit up, sweeping my legs to the side of the bed, the bedsheets pooling in a pile at my feet. I stumble blindly in the dark till I can flip the switch for a single lightbulb that illuminates my clastrophobic kitchenette with cracked linoleum and water-stained wallpaper. I fling open the door to my pantry and examine the contents with a small degree of expectancy: a few meager apples; broken earthernware cooking pots; a red-checked tin can of preserved fruit. seven months over the expiration date; a dried banana peel sticking to a box of long-forgotten saltines, and an empty bottle of painkillers. The fridge is not much better; it's nearly empty save for a nearly-finished bottle of ketchup, two can of cheap beer, and a box of unnecessary baking soda.
I grope for a can of beer, my head feeling light and dizzy, as if it is about to float away and bump against the dirty glass of the single window above the sink. I take a seat at the Formica table, shivering a little. Compared to the stifling bedsheets, the rest of the apartment is filled with a certain humid air as if it has tiny crystals of ice suspended in it. I crack open the beer can and take a few hearty sips. I immediately regret it; the beer is sickly sweet, overly bubbly. My stomach clenches in protest and I choke, before regurgitating the golden liquid onto the kitchen floor. The beverage splashes across the checkered tile, sizzling forlornly before leaking into various cracks. I stare at the puddle, my vision blurring, the colors merging and swirling like oily watercolors in front of me. My fingers curl involuntarily around the metal can. A single tear trails jaggedly down a side of my face; it feels hot enough to leave burn marks.
In a distant room a clock strikes the hour, and I, dreamer that I am, imagine someone is knocking on my door. They knock eight times, then pause expectantly. I open my eyes groggily; they feel gritty and sticky, and a sharp pain throbs in my left eyeball where my contact has shriveled up.
"Zexion! Open up!"
"Door's unlocked..." I growl. My head pounds with a white-hot heat; my mouth feels dry as sandpaper and my throat is alight with a fiery itch. My body aches in places I failed to acknowledge before. The door knob rattles noisily, before a tall, lithe man dressed in all black strides into the kitchen. His eyes are shaped like a cat's, sharp and slanted, seafoam green, with a small, black, upside-down triangle under each. He has a mane of red hair, usually spiky and gravity-defying, but today limp upon his narrow shoulders, as if the gel has worn off.
"Hello, Axel." I mutter unenthusiastically, standing and stretching, feeling my limbs and bones pop into place in my limbs and muscles stretch in satisfaction.
"Dude, you look like shit," Axel says eloquently. There is something about his entire attitude that seems benevolent, brilliant, and disagreeable.
"I don't feel well..." I meander. I don't want to give Axel any glimpse into my cracking mind. Axel detests any weakness, especially in himself. He will only taunt me, see how far he can drive me to the edge before pulling me back. That is not to say he's a bad person, but merely a joker, one who enjoys entertaining himself and others. "I fainted last night." I finish tiredly, gesturing at the dried beer on the tiles and the crumbled can cowering in a corner.
"Depression will do that to a person." Axel smiles, throwing his hair back. Even he has noticed the sudden fatigue and disinterest I showed in reality recently, along with the sudden spurts of insomnia and nearly non-existant appetite. "You know what you need to do?" Axel says confidently, with an air of authority as he tosses the beer can into our overflowing trash can and grabs a mop to wipe up the beer spill. "You need to get out of the house. Go do something fun for a change. And stop omping like an old lady who's missed her stories on TV." He adds with a conspiring wink. "Whether you want to or not, Zexy, I'm gonna pull that nine-foot pole out of your ass and I'm taking you to Club Dubassex tonight. Xiggy says there's a new band he wants to see..."
"Club Dubassex? That sounds like a gay club." I sneer darkly. I scowl at my roommate as he whistles an off-key tune, bobbing his head to an internal beat as he cleans, before he tosses the mop into the hall closet with a clatter, as if it had offended him.
Nonetheless, I am being dragged forcefully by the elbow to this "Club Dubassex". Although Axel has yielded to my wishes of having something to eat first, agreeing that drinking heavily on an empty stomach is to invite a messy, painful disaster. We stop at a small restaurant on a street corner, and I order a salad. I glare poisonously at Axel when he orders two drams of Dutch gin. After ordering, he leans over the spindly, glass-topped table, tap-tapping cigarette ash all over the place as he talks excitedly about college, the band, and, most often, his new-found "love". I sigh, rubbing tiredly at my red-rimmed eyes as I take a sip of the bitter, strong alcohol. "Another one, Axel? Which one is this, number sixty-three?"
He grins wolfishly. "Sixty-eight. Besides, he won't end up like the others. His name's Roxas. He's the bassist for the band I was talkin' about. You'll see him tonight. And he always smells like Dr. Pepper, and he has huge blue eyes, real pretty. He's just... different."
"How is he different?"
"He just is." Axel says dreamily, fluttering his lashes at me before smirking. I know he is being sickeningly sweet just to annoy me, and I scowl before tossing the dregs of my gin at him, which he dodges, cackling, and scrambles out of the sticky plastic booth to lead me to the club.
"Really, Zexy. You need to lighten the hell up." He says delightedly as he saunters down the sidewalk, rarely glancing up to check street names. We still have an hour, so there is no need to hurry. The sky swarms with stars, the asphalt glistening like smooth water, absorbing and lengthening the magic lights of Las Vegas. We pass a large cinema whose golden radience floods the street. A sudden peal of childish laughter causes me to raise my eyes and glance at the noisy, overeager crowds of tourists, eyes bright; bulging and expectant as they examine detailed maps with muddled expressions and having lewd posters shoved into their faces as they walk clumsily down the Strip. Having lived here for several years, I no longer feel any shock coming upon transvestites hitting on me or small groups of underaged hookers on street corners, displaying their wares.
The club is typical of all others in this wretched town, except maybe a little higher-class, more expensive. The windows shake from the music loud enough to make my eardrums bleed. Bass thunders through the smoky, dim air. Axel pushes open the door and holds it open for me, waving me in. "Ladies first." He smirks lazily.
"Fuck you." I growl back as I duck under his arm, again surprised at how quickly my eloquency abandons me whenever I am around my excitable roommate, who at times acts like a ticking time bomb. We step into a violet-lighted room; the scent of alcohol thickly coats the air, along with a delicate, sticky aroma that I recognize somehow, and it instantly makes my heart swell and beat against my already bruised and battered ribs.
At the back of the room crowded with tables and sweaty partygoers and dancers is a raised platform. "There's the band!" Axel yells over the music from the speakers, which serves as temporary as the band sets up. He points at five figures on the stage, leaning down to tune guitars or replug cables, paying no heed to the jeers and leering catcalls from the crowd.
A spotlight attached to an iron girder above suddenly swings in the direction of the stage, illuminating a corner of it with a fierce red light, and I notice the lithe shadow in the center of it. Tall, slim, eerily familiar hairstyle...
My heart swells and thumps, pumping hot blood through my veins, and nearly shudders to a halting stop when sea blue eyes shot with green find my gaze and don't let go.