.like fire and powder.

/These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder…/

Colorless. His world is all black and gray and navy, night sky darkened with clouds the shade of ink, like a splash of blood across the stars. Between skyscrapers that tower above him, sentinels to his heinous crimes, he runs, boots pounding staccato beats upon the slick concrete, matching the frantic spacing of his heart. But his face, it betrays nothing—

He is a prince. He is a leader. His eyes scan the alley, and as rolls of thunder clog the night above, clouds threatening rain or sleet or hail or snow—it doesn't matter, really, it won't stop him—he finds himself wishing to see the world in hues other than reds and blacks. The sharp taint of metallic is following him, clinging to his person, and he wants it to rain, because it if does then the stench of blood from soldiers long dead, perhaps it will leave him then.

Their helmets hid their faces, but not their screams.

The alley is ending, up ahead; he can't seem to run fast enough, not for his purpose, anyway. He can hear more shouting, between the threatening noise from above, more screams, more death—are they ok? His friends? He shakes such thoughts from his head. All he can see is black and crimson and dark blue, stretching on into the future of forever, if there is a future for this bleak place. His thoughts are tainted with shadow, his being drenched in blood that isn't his, and he can barely seem to take in the breath he needs to. They come haggard, and broken, quick, unlike his normal calm. The alley ends and the skyscrapers spit him out onto a dark street lined with bodies, broken and strewn, from both sides of the war. He can see fighting at either end of the road, is debating where to turn and decides right is as good a way as any—

Color. His world is color; it is light and yellow and silver, stars shining through the inky black paint of the clouds to alight on her, only on her, where she stands like an angel amongst the bloodshed, back to him, faraway eyes looking down as if she senses the presence of another.

He pauses, unsure, now, if choosing right was a good way, is about to abruptly turn, for she hasn't caught sight of him yet, when she moves her head, quickly, spies his eyes trained on her, and rushes forward.

Her eyes are light, hopeful, he thinks, and he can almost, almost hear her speak his name with that voice that makes the hurt go away. He wants to say something, but as he opens his mouth she stops, glances back, and swiftly her countenance changes. Her mouth becomes a line, hard and unforgiving, mission and place and time and war suddenly remembered. He halts, watching the bright light of power emerge behind her, knows the same thing is happening to him—

Its funny, he thinks morbidly, crazily, funny that the only thing that could possibly bring him any salvation in this hell, the one thing that makes him feel human, the one thing that lets him see in glorious color—

her sword is pointed at her side, thin and deadly; his materializes, large and unwieldy; her eyes are hard; his resigned; the fighting around them seems to have stopped; its just them—light and dark, night and day, Noctis and Stella

--is the one thing that he can't have.

/Which as they kiss consume./

A/N: meh. i sorta like this? haha i'm sorry if it is run-on central, i was sort of going for a frantic feel. i'm also sorry if it was confusing--it was just suppose to be a short piece on when Noctis and Stella meet in the trailer fr FF versus XIII. i hope you did enjoy it somewhat, however, and thank you for reading! feel free to review.

BTW disclaimerohmygoodness: I don't own Noctis -sob- or Stella. The quote is by William Shakespeare, from Romeo and Juliet. Please excuse any typos.