by Sandpiper
Notes: I suppose it's rated PG just because I can't write G. It makes my teeth hurt more often than not. And of course, the whole underlying message isn't really all that kid-friendly. Might be a teensy bit squicky. Might be...
Trowa absently fiddled with the keys, noticing for not the first nor the last time how the metal seemed to be grubby and soiled (from his own hands?) Up close, the smell of it- vile corruption of elements and alloys- seemed to soak into the pads of his fingers, and the greasy mechanical oil from the keys and rings slid with the natural salt and oil of his hands.
It wasn't as much the texture as the smell that nauseated him, laying thick on his tongue and trying to gag him. The keys would clink and chime together in some twisted parody of music box and ballerina, spinning and pirouetting round on their chains, reeking like dirty old coins. Like the hundreds of hands they'd been passed through.
But no, these keys- these disgusting gateways- were all his, and he had no one else to blame for the addictive sordidness. It was revolting but intoxicating, and he once more found himself lifting his fingers to overload his senses in the perfume of decay.
Humanity's decay.
Well, that's that. I've had the 'old money scent' bugging me to write it a little ficlet for a few days now, so I finally had to give in.
-Kristen