heartache
Axel can't remember what it feels like to have a heart.
Sometimes he thinks he can feel a dull ache in his chest (sort of like a paperweight) and sometimes he thinks he can hear a slight fluttering in his ribcage (sort of like a butterfly) but he doesn't remember what it feels like to have emotion, not really.
Demyx remains annoying optimistic, an unwelcome burst of sunshine that burns the eyes and skin, pretty damn painful. His voice is certainly painful enough, skilful fingers strumming his sitar - "we do to have hearts" – and when Axel folds his arms he grins, albeit a little sheepishly – "don't be mad?".
Axel glares, eyes narrowed, and Demyx's body all-over shudders like the crash of cars. His smile fades and fingers tremble, jerking like spiders about the sitar strings, sharps and flats falling against one another in rapid succession.
Maybe, just maybe, if one closed their eyes and thought really, really hard, the reverberating symphony of fingers on strings – twang, twang, twang – could morph into the beating of a heart – thump, thump, thump.
Axel frowns, cocks his head to one side and says, voice commanding, "Show me."
So Demyx does.
Axel wakes up surrounded by sticky sheets, eyes bloodshot, skin ashen, body trembling, red hair spread across his pillow; fingers twining gracefully through his hair, resting on his chest, pressing up and down at regular intervals (and he feels sort-of-kind-of-maybe like he has a heart…)
"See? You do sohave a heart," Demyx whispers in his ear, fingers tugging at his hair and digging into his skin and Axel shudders and feels so empty – so fucking empty-
-because he knows he doesn't really.