It's a glint of fucking white that makes my skin crawl.
My cock twitch in all those embarrassing ways that flee my mind within seconds.
The coat is gleaming like it isn't and the white pulls out the tiny strands of something dying to be colorful, carmine pooling in the spaces between the threads.
The way that rolls and turns until it's kinda a little purple and racy and unrestrained and unrefined and wicked and saucy and fucking vulgar.
The heavy, clunking, swagger in his steps.
Roxas: weighted down with something kinda like shiny, metallic, emotional armor.
Something that could maybe be anger if we try hard enough.
Pull on the thin veneer of a doublethink veil.
Where the blatant sexuality trapped within our physicality is something worth thinking about.
That we're something other than bodies.
Which we aren't.
But let's pretend for a minute?
We're in this place where anger is the easiest one to fake.
Where smiles are the most versatile weapon in our arsenal.
Where muscles gain new meanings and their shifts are the only kind of art anyone appreciates.
The stress and strain of bodies, cause the souls don't mean shit.
The souls are to blame, the hot breathe of denial, accusation.
It makes the anger easier.
It makes the sex harder.
Cause it can always be something else's fault.
Or that's what we believe.
Roxas: has never been able to fuck with his own mind like that and sometimes his eyes are more verdant than mine.
Fiery and green, sneering at that fucking grass on the other side.
Cause he's the only with any substance, in all the ways he doesn't.
The life-giving waters of his eyes.
Hah, oh, poetic, fuck.
The way his soul means something because it isn't his to keep.
Funny how that works, the less you are yourself the more important you become to the universe because you're fucking up the temporal balance and the space-fucking-time continuum!
How's that possible when you don't exist?
Roxas: quietly understands.
Cause he's never fucked with his brain the way we have.
But he's ready to fight with that same soul.
That placid blue turns ultramarine and suddenly it's a battle.
That he knows he's gotta wage, and knows it's a waste of time.
Knows it's only to appease the ache in his muscles that calls for him to fucking do something cause he doesn't exist.
There's the call between here and there and it's so loud.
We can all hear it.
Except the one with the most substance and the least existence.
And I don't have to wonder why the fight is still on.
But we're bold enough to exist.
Fuck you universe.
We've got some Hell to raise.
So says the boy with the silent confidence.
The claret-invisible blood spattered across his face and dripping from his blades.
The emptiness of his veins, paraded like a fucking trophy.
Smiles about it like he can feel the battle euphoria.
Laughs like he's as old as he really is.
When he's not and will never be.
Reckless like only he can afford.
Because he's the only one with limits to test.
The envelope of emotion, sewn into his sickly orange skin like it can take the fucking kiss of the sun.
It's just like a second hide and I'm the one due to service his repairs.
The unsteady snap of reverse existentialism and the heady shiver of rapid kinetics make the sex harder.
And the ragged sentiments taste sour on my tongue.
Imbibing everything he doesn't release.
That he keeps inside until it's warped and twisted into the sort of affection that's nothing at all like amore and a whole-fucking-lot more like fear.
As the mind-fucks go deeper and the calls scream louder; it's a lot like me.
Almost as craven and deceitful and yellow as me.
Roxas: the sneaky fucker and his emotions…keeping him far away from me.
But he's the axis; fuck the continuum and the fabric of the time-space and everything else that wants to exist.
I'm bold enough to say I'm in love.
Just ask him.
He knows everything.
Roxas: a rainbow like you.