king of the neon lights
_{wore the crown on friday nights}

What would I like to do? Now there is a question with a million answers, a million answers with a million outcomes— would I ever truly achieve what I want? (No) I'll try to, I'll push and I'll struggle to achieve the greatness I so eagerly seek (the childish dream I've upheld for so long). "Grow up." The simple answer comes, the most realistic idea, the easiest to complete. I want to grow up, to physically and mentally shed the skin of my childish existence and become something more. I don't want to be any kind of boy or baby, I want to be something greater than just a foolish child to look down on. Is that so wrong?

There's certainly more I want to do, more I want to be— but like hell I'm telling this stranger all about my hopes and dreams (I don't tell anyone about that kind of shit). So I'll let him mull over my response, let him analyze it all he wants (he won't find much there)— let him enjoy the nothingness behind my words, the emptiness of my syllables as I gaze towards the navy hide upon his shoulders.

"I can, just not in the way you may think." The subtle grin cracks wide, flickering mischief displayed in bubblegum eyes. I prance just a little further into the water, letting my weight part the sand as I settle back into a casual stance. He perhaps thinks I have amazing magic, or some awe inspiring talent that could blow his mind metaphorically— but no, I mean literally. One rock flying straight towards his unsuspecting skull and boom, nice shot. Instead I'm still and unresponsive, the grin fading and eyes drifting off towards the white caps that appear here and there along the ocean.

Bubblegum hardens, twitching as they lay over the unfocused figure— a figure I've become familiar to over the months of my life, the details of hardened ivory and cold ruby reflecting back at me. I want to look beyond the illusion, see past the smoky titan and tell him that no, I do not know this man. But I do, I know him too well. "Yes," it's quiet, almost silent. The words could be lost in the whipping winds and roaring waters, could be lost if one wasn't listening as they slipped from my lips. I admit to my heritage, that I am made from a nameless man and unknown woman, a forgotten son and with a lost sister.

Bubblegum eyes drag over the subtly cerulean figure, locking onto the passive features and my ears fall back— did he know Volterra? Or had he simply seen him in passing? "What of him?" There must be reason for bringing him up, for recreating a static image of him standing among the sands, features still and crimson eyes vacant (it's really creepy really). "Do you know him?" Perhaps they have crossed paths, have had a simple exchange of words or a deep conversation, maybe they only know one another by the way they look. Do I look like Volterra? The sudden idea of resembling the man I've so dutifully attempted to alienate myself from (the way Zhu has so easily done) makes my stomach churn and ears fall back.
"talk talk talk"