he smelled like October the third.
rain dipping down green hills on a cold autumn night, mud and grit squelching beneath his boots. the smell of ozone and dirt, overflowing river and of damp cornstalks, of sun-warmed pavement cooled by night and dark and wet.
he smelled like electricity. t
(more)he scorching burnt tang of alchemy, rich with oxygen, with metal, with sparks. he smelled like blood, rich dark and flowing blood, painting a concrete floor, sweet salted youth with flesh torn asunder. he smelled like death, and innocence, and that twisted his gut like the violent wringing of rags.
he smelled like fallen leaves. spice. his hair, warm, faintly exuded the scent of crushed cinnamon, of honey, sweet and light and homey; he smelled like clean cotton, and beneath it all, the subtle notes of oil.
Edward smelled like the October third that was a distant catastrophe, a fever dream, yesterday's perfume. and Roy would not change that. (less)
