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ROXAS. ([personal profile] keylock) wrote in [community profile] fares2016-12-14 04:25 pm

once more, with feeling!

[ Again, the sea. The sand corroded by curdled foam and gentle waves, the soft roll of it swelling up as it ate away at the shoreline; the outline of low tide is painfully familiar, considering he's seen it a thousand times before when plunged in the nestling depths of Sora's memory, sun-bathed and emanating warmth. It seemed brighter then, but he knows better than anyone how well the subconscious deceives, the rose-colored dream of what he's seen only a pale echo to the reality he's left with, sitting on one white dune and tracing listless circles into the silt. With how many sticks he's left half-buried in the sand, he could erect a sandcastle — pillar up the ground with sculpting fingers and water and impale it with at least thirteen pieces of driftwood for posterity's sake.

Well, not to be too melodramatic with his intent in rebuilding and burying his past.

More absurd than his need to systematically torture the dirt into compliance, though, is his very real, very tangible presence in and of itself, waking up on the shores of Destiny Islands with sand gritting his hair, streaks of sand on his clothes. It's only been a day since Sora returned to his hometown in last-minute preparation of the impending conflict. Maybe less. Roxas's sense of time is skewed, tilted far off-kilter when he's only half-awake and observing everything through the ever-changing kaleidoscope of Sora's hopes and far-flung aspirations. Up to this point, he'd resigned himself to the dream-like haze of nonbeing, drifting in the undertow. Now awake and utterly aware, Sora's fatalistic optimism has never been more present than now, a vivid contrast to his own brand of brow-beaten cynicism.

Like most things that happen to him these days, Roxas wasn't given much of a choice in the matter. Estranged from his other half for no discernible reason, he's foregone responsibility for making mountains out of molehills. One way or another, someone's bound to eventually find him, whether it's the newly-minted Keyblade Master (the same person that strangled him to unconsciousness and thereafter failed to apologize for it, the jerk), Sora, or Kairi. Between the three of them, Kairi's the best option. She was nice enough, the same way Naminé was, bereft of misunderstanding. Even erasing his memories of his time in the Organization was never as bad as any attempt to tear him apart at the seams.

As it stands, all he needs to do is deal with the apoplexy of the wait, the salty air leeching the color from his face as Roxas abandons his lethargic sand-drawing for skipping stones. But apparently emotional constipation hasn't run its inevitable course and abandoned him just yet, the toss of one flat pebble far too heavy-handed on the upswing. It doesn't so much as skip once before it's tumbled to the ocean's depths, which might've filled him with indignation if he wasn't already insufferably caustic, drenched to the bone in incomprehension.

Nothing makes any sense. Like it ever did. ]


What a joke.

[ One vicious, brute-forced throw. Another. Another. Roxas's narrow shoulders bow which each sunken toss into the shallows until he's left gutted of any stone-like projectiles in the immediate vicinity, at which point he bears no compunction in flinging the salt-bitten driftwood he's collected, kicking at beach sand. Having this fit over his incompetence is just par for the course. Better that he's throwing a tantrum of his volition than biding his time until predestination comes and smacks him upside the head yet again. Whatever. No one's around to see him yet. It's fine. ]