Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own this, that, and everything else.

Vanilla

Vanilla. He hated just vanilla, hated everything about it. It was unoriginal, plain, and ordinary. Everywhere he went, his sensitive nose would catch the whiff of vanilla somewhere, someplace, sometime. Usually, it was mixed in with the scent of berries-strawberry, to be exact-on the gigging, adoring adolescent girls he had the unfortunate luck to encounter, or perhaps with a hint of a cheap, light floral scent on the older women he'd met.

Vanilla ice cream wasn't much better. It always brought him back to the long-buried memories of his childhood, of the hot, sticky summer days he'd spent cavorting around the city. The crunch of the waffle as it was stepped underfoot by a large, sneaker-covered foot; the spilt, sticky white liquid splattered all over the sidewalk; the sickening salty-sweet taste in his mouth, from off-white to a pale pink.

He hated the color, too. A pale, creamy color, it was a pathetic imitation of white. It reminded him of hospitals, of sick patients: of death, essentially. It reminded him, too, of the moon, of nights that he laid turning and tossing, opaque eyes wild, mind running, heart pounding, his white sheets crumpled, hands clenched in tight fists.

But, maybe, somehow, vanilla had found some redemption. He breathed deeply, smelling the scent, mixed in with the harsh edge of gunpowder. He didn't mind it so much now, not anymore. Somehow, on her, it was different. It was like she'd taken the scent, made it her own so that he'd be able to tell, anywhere he was, who was the owner of that scent.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he'd stop hating vanilla ice cream. His gaze left the contours of her neck to rest upon the half-empty canister laying some distance away from him. It was dripping, making sticky splatters all over the hardwood floor. No doubt tomorrow he'd be grumbling as he scrubbed the traces of ice cream away, muttering darkly about the evils of sweets and insects, but for tonight, he was content, perhaps even thankful for its presence. And for her sweet tooth, of course.

A soft snort interrupted his thoughts, and he turned his gaze back onto her. A smile crept on his lips as he gazed at her, her features half-illuminated by the moonlight spilling in from the open window. Her golden locks were messy; spilling over her shoulders, most of the strands matted and tangled together. His eyes drifted over onto her bare, muscular arms, admiring her pale, off-white skin, which contrasted sharply to his own, tanned skin. It was a wonder how she kept herself so pale-once, just once-he'd heard her remark about "sun block", "lotion", and "skin cancer" to another co-worker. But he didn't mind, didn't care at all that her skin was the exact shade of the hated color.

Vanilla. Oh, howhe hated it, hated everything about and associated with it. Hated the smell, taste, and shade of it. He thought that'd he never, ever, ever like it, not with the connotations he had with it.

That is, until today.

He yawned softly, eyelids closing as he slipped into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Perhaps vanilla isn't so bad, after all.

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AN: Writer's block for 'Two Little Bars'. –cries- I'm not sure where to take the plot for now, so this is sort of a filler story to get those creative juices running. I'm really sorry for those who are waiting; I'm trying rather hard to like, yeah, write the fourth chapter. I keep on rewriting it, as I'm not satisfied.

Anyways, another little fluffy fanfic. Yeah, and I just realized I've never mentioned Roy's name in here, nor Riza's. Not once. -laughs-

I just love Royai.

- Chatte