Her favorite to draw is Zexion. His profile is on the more masculine side, with half his fringe draping over his steel-grey eye, and an unsmiling pair of lips, and pale skin typical of their world without sunshine, Castle Oblivion. He had no need for sleep, though she if he had, he'd certainly have what Larxene called her eyebags, panda eyes. His face is the closest to emotionless out of them, and it makes it much easier to draw him.
Today however, he has a leather-bound book, one that has hundreds of pages, each page clearly worn though few creases mar it. She looks at the volume, a slight irksome imitation of feeling welling up. She's planned to sketch Zexion, and since she has a rotation of guards, changing often, she can't rely on it.
Thus her annoyance, which is already slipping away, Zexion hasn't been back for a few days. And Demyx's profile, perpetually smiling, Larxene's features, eternally in some expression, never being the same for more than a few minutes, too little to capture a portrait and Axel never obligated for any of her requests unless it was an obvious addition to her room, such as a sculpture or a large painting. It irks her, to have this cumbersome addition when she wants to have an unfettered visual of him.
She bites the inside of her right cheek for a moment, the pain escalating until she deems it warning enough for her. She rarely interacts unless they initiate it, which lately they have been. Strange. She notes it, absently, picking out a pen.
She merely draws his face then, and for some reason- no it was because his features kept moving – it was impossible to capture. She scowls, the unconscious slight gritting of teeth and knit of her eyebrows, and crumples up the paper. She uses ink, only ink for Zexion, since it fit him so well.
He was precise, factual, succinct, what he said never contradicted his previous statements, sometimes taking his time to reply. She never draws him with lead or paints him, and drawing him with ink fits him to the point where she reflexively grabs it from the pile of neatly sorted supplies.
She takes an easel, plus a boxed set of paints, and a few brushes, plus a container to hold water in and neatly holds it so that the easel has everything propped on it. She pops the map into her mouth for safekeeping and walks out.
Zexion closes the book, and dutifully follows her to the balcony where she sets down her things and sits on the ground to paint. She hasn't finished this painting yet, an abstract, odd project she's unsure of what means, or if it would be at all relevant.
It's three mirrors, with a trio of duos, making six of them in all. In the first, clearest mirror, is a healthy bunch of flowers that Marluxia's grown in her room, out of sheer boredom, with a strange fruit in the middle of the delicate blossoms. In the second, more indistinct, is a bird, with purple streaks, with skeleton wings. She doesn't know what to make of it, but it irritates her if an idea is left in her mind without any respite, so she pours it out into new works. There's dozens of unfinished works in her room.
She paints smoky edges, glass melting into mist, because the third mirror is a total mystery to her. It eludes her, unlike the mist, which she feels should be more difficult, and she leaves the third a bland white compared to the colorful others.
When she deems the project as complete as it can be, because it needs to dry, and she takes the easel carefully, not to move the painting. Zexion follows her like a shadow, his steps either silent or mirroring hers eerily.
The next day when she wakes, all her creations are gone.
a.n. so, I remembered this fic and wow, has it been three months? I added a few lines, edited bits and pieces that I'll fix up later. Everything does symbolize something, and no, pairings will be in the backburner. Reviews would be fabulous. Just like you.