Disclaimer: I do not own Neon Genesis Evangelion

Posted June Twenty-Eighth, 2008

Derelict.

He’s been left here, with the glass of the bottle touching his lips, with the fluidity of motion. The keys of the piano sifting through him, with waves of static. Eyelids daintily covered from the sun, fingers threading through a mound of sand, grains in his hair, in his clothes. Humid, sticky, suffocatingly immobile. Kaworu doesn’t quite mind, lying. Throat raw. The scent of rotting seaweed, the calling of the gulls. His own palms slick with sweat, just as salty as the ocean water, just as cold, just as warm. There is something, after all.

And, it’s pressing. Weighted on his chest, forcing its way through sinews and bones, reaching and reacting and compressing and contracting and the sun is blinding against his - and there is something - and there is something. Fingertips, the rustle of clothing, skies dripping down.

He met Ikari, yesterday. Tomorrow. Today. He can taste it, heavy crème on the tip of his tongue, and he decides that maybe, he is beautiful. Was beautiful. Will be beautiful. At one point, there had been brunet. Stuttered protests. Something impossible to be desired, swelling, bursting, reluctant glances and a feeling of complete tractability. It left words, woven seamlessly into the pattern, slipping in and out of conscious thought with eloquence and oxidation.

His lungs are burning: he has forgotten how to breathe. Smoothe, easy smiles. Grit against his fingertips, light touches. Bangs plastered to his skin, the sweet, sweet taste of the bottle at his lips, of sea-green transparency and forgetfulness and forgetfulness. Once upon a time, there had been a boy. A thin existence. Quiet murmurs in the dead of night, soft utterances. Nagisa’s mind runs, catholic, while the world remains as is, and there is dizzying -

He could place a name to it, if he wanted. Tried. He met the third, today, tomorrow, yesterday, and he leaned forward, surreptitiously seeing the truth. Replaying. Static, waves, mud to quench his thirst. The beating of a heart, immobility. Science, indistinguishable from the magic that - he is grasping here, grasping - and, there is something. He’s been left here, trousers wet, sand conforming. There are ways.

Fall and rise, air heavy as lead, cotton on the roof of his mouth. A word, pallor, strings of sentences. Broken syllables, the trembling of piano keys, the excitement of pins, of nothings. Linguistic capabilities. He’ll miss it, (misses it, missed it) the texture.

Choking in the (5.1480×10-18) and yes, methods of absolution, and he can feel it coursing through like antibiotic silver, painless doses of delicious insanity like twilight-daylight hours: however, he is sane. Twice, he has said it. Says it. Will say it. Oppressingly hot, blood too heavy for his veins, rhyme schemes disappearing and appearing in the span of blinks not taken; he can feel it.

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I don't expect you to get all the references, although there is a lot, so try!