I like new stories as they're very exciting. -Hides- I know I have others to work on, but I get an idea and I can't help but write it instead... Anyway, this is going to be an attempt at, well, something. Probably me trying to work on dialogue, because my stories are very shallow when it comes to conversations. Also romance, because I can't really do that either. And yes, this will be interesting. So just uh, stick with me. Give me a critique or two. I probably sound like a moron sometimes, haha.
Pairings: LexZex, DemZex
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts.
Warnings: This story is going to be YAOI. In this chapter there isn't much to be concerned over violence/swearing/sexual contest wise.
EDITED: 8/16/2011 : And man oh man, this needs a lot of work.
The uneven path did nothing to hinder his defeated footsteps, the steady 'tap tap tap' of heel and leather pounding ever onward. Though with every step a jolt of white hot pain snaked up his shin, rattling his kneecaps, matching the chatter of nervous teeth. To any onlooker it would have been deduced his teeth shivered due to the cold.
But in this particular instance, such was not the case.
Light from a towering street lamp spilled over his lilac hair, washing over a high forehead, shallow cheeks and a single aqua eye. He shied away from it, head tilting to cover as much of his face as possible with a sheaf of too-long bangs.
Deft fingers pulled back sleeves, rolling them to the elbow, unfolding a collar and pulling it close to a delicate jaw bone. A face like his was not to be seen. Especially, especially, tonight.
He continued walking, seemingly unhurried, hands tucking themselves into wool-lined pockets. But his heart pounded against his ribcage like a bird at the bars of its cage; frightened, desperate for repose.
He'd finally done it. He'd finally done it.
So maybe it had nearly cost him his knees, so possibly it could have cost him his freedom, but the temptation had been overwhelming, a sudden and insistent need that could not be ignored. A rythmic crooning at the back of his skull that refused to be silenced.
In other words, his mania had finally gotten the best of him.
A particularly foul part of the cobblestone twisted under him, nearly bringing him to his knees as he stumbled forward. The pain in his right knee outweighed the numbing ache in his left, and that simple thing alone gave him the strength to stand back up, to keep walking down the path with its dastardly potholes and its garish light posts.
He'd be home soon, and then he could curl up with his prize and sleep; sleep until the sun shouted through his curtains and the stifling heat of a room closed to the world became too much to bare.
Said prize was heavy against his side, tucked into a handmade pocket on the inside of his wool hide coat. The tails on said garment tapped the back of his thighs with every step he took; heavy, insistent, telling him that he wasn't walking quite fast enough.
But this was his limit, this casual pace beginning to falter as his knees began to creak.
The glass. The glass was in his knees. He had to get it out, but he couldn't stop here, couldn't stomach pausing for a much needed breath only to find that he could not get up again.
A sound in the distance caught his attention, but it was gone before his mind could register exactly what it was.
Clouds danced between his lips, mingling in the air for a heartbeat before dissipating. He was cold now, which only served to make his teeth clack harder.
The sound again... closer this time, a definite and shrill noise. The sound of silence breaking, shattering like a time-worn mirror into glittery dust.
Sirens.
He breathed a single word, a curse, and stopped.
Police sirens cut through the night, illuminating the sky in a harsh pattern of reds and blues and yellows.
The inner pocket of his coat became hot to the touch, seeping through his thin shirt, searing his skin.
The pain in his knees, the evidence of a crime turned messy, kept him rooted to his spot as the sirens in the distance grew from a pinprick in the night to a neon lantern that stabbed his eyes.
Even if he tried to run, he knew he wouldn't get far enough before they found him. It hurt to realize this, hurt to know that all of it had been in vain. Yet even so, he knew he couldn't just stand there. He had to try, had to attempt escape.
The path he stood on was stenciled with stone, lined with light posts and high power lines, followed up by dinky little houses; each looking just the same as the last, dingy, yellowed, some caving slightly in the roof. He knew that beyond them he would find a forest, but to get there in time he'd have to run, and fast.
He took a tentative step to the side, urging his brain to give in to instinct, and then bashing his instinct into submission as it too tried to keep him on the path. It was against everything he'd ever known, this rebellion that would surely be his greatest – no, his second greatest – crime.
The item in his coat was his first crime. The finale of a thousand others that seemed completely irrelevant to this one.
He was a kleptomaniac after all; his compulsion forcing him to nick things from socks to silverware to watches. Further still to electronics, clothes, and now, finally, books.
But not just any book.
He'd stolen the greatest document that this town had to offer. That any town had to offer, really.
And now the sirens were chasing him.
The glass in his knees was a sharp and brutal pain, and only three steps from the path he was already panting in despair. The trees standing just beyond the trailers to his right taunted him, waving hello as he fell against a lamp post. He couldn't make it, couldn't.
The sirens in his ears made his heart race, his pulse spiking as a lump formed in his throat.
Why... why had he thought this would work? How could he even think, for the fraction of a second...
No, no he'd gone through too much, he'd waited so long.
It was a strange thing that he did next, his eyes slipping closed as he lurched into a loping run. The pain in his legs shone like a beacon behind his eyelids. He ignored it. Ignored everything around him as he ran blindly for the trees. He was an animal, a creature, a beast set forth into a world to wreak havoc and blind destruction.
Escape was in his grasp, freedom tasted sweet on his tongue.
He failed to notice that the sirens had stopped, and as he let his eyes flutter open, he realized that the trees were just within his reach.
He extended his hand, fingers reaching for bark and the sticky sap needles he'd always detested, the sound of silence pressing against his ears, deafening him.
And quite suddenly, as if from nowhere and yet everywhere at once, pain was ricocheting against his spine and the ground was rising up to meet him in a hearty hello. Before he'd had time to blink his nose was in the dirt, his hair falling askew as he twisted and writhed.
"Let me go, let me go, let me go!" He cried, desperate for the trees and his home and the book laying quietly in his coat, burning like a scarlet letter that alerted all to his crime.
The silence broke and he flinched at the venomous voice shouting in his ear for him to stop screaming, threatening to hurt him if he didn't stop goddamn squirming.
And then, most vividly, "Why are you even trying? You can't get away!"
With those words he twisted again, letting forth a feral growl that warped into nothing short of a battle cry.
With a strength he didn't know he had, he scrambled out of his pursuers grasp, screaming at the top of his lungs. All the while scratching and biting and punching at anything he could reach. The shards in his knee met resistance, tearing through his pant leg and into the flesh of the stranger. A grunt, male and heavy, sounded in his ear, then quieted as he put as much distance between himself and the man as possible.
Overhanging twigs and leaves and briars snatched at his face, but he paid them little mind. His entire body felt numb, lifeless, and there was no pain as he stumbled into the forest. There was only freedom, and the pressure of his feet flying against the earth.
A creek appeared beneath him, reaching up with cold fingers to soak him to the bone. His entire body shuddered, but he kept running, because behind him he could hear not just the man that had tackled him, but the heavy footfalls of many others, screams of protest echoing in the night.
But they wouldn't catch him again. Or so he hoped.
His coat snagged on a bramble patch, and like a wild animal he twisted out of the plant, wrenching away despite the blooming pain in his cheek as the branches snapped back to slap him.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins, aiding him in his escape, working through the crunching glass in his knees.
Despite it all, he couldn't make himself regret stealing the book in his pocket.
As his instinct kicked in and the animal-like need to flee took over completely, he let his mind wander, let his feet carry him through the pain. The shouts behind him were meaningless, all that mattered was that he was less than a minute from breaking through the other side of the forest, and when that happened, he would be home free.
Or, well, that was the plan.
What he hadn't planned, however, was the figure crouching in the shadows, the man whose cleverness outweighed his own. A man whose intelligence, at least in the moment, was greater.
Like a cat pouncing for a mouse, the man threw himself from the underbrush, easily overpowering him and taking them both to the ground. He snarled, nearly foaming at the mouth as the man flipped him over, straddled his hips, snapped cold weights across his wrists.
Cuffs. He'd just been cuffed.
'no no no this isn't happening no so close i was so close!'
His thoughts, almost like a furious mantra, aided him in no way as the man atop him laughed breathlessly and patted his lilac hair almost tenderly.
"Slippery one, aren't you?" Was all they said, and while he continued to writhe against the dirt, mucking up his clothes and face, he was reminded of the book in his pocket and stilled. He wouldn't ruin his treasure as well.
There were words being spoken to him, questions perhaps, but there was no inclination to answer. He simply lay there, dumbfounded, senses reeling as he finally, finally realized that he'd been truly caught this time. The metal cast about his wrists stung like ice, feeling like a thousand pounds holding him down.
Another question, one he was capable of discerning despite the haze, "What's your name, kid?" and this time he did answer, if only because he'd nearly forgotten it himself, nearly lost everything in his blind flight.
"Zexion." He whispered, rolling the word around in his mouth, testing it on his tongue. Yes, that was his name. "I'm Zexion."
"Interesting name." The man grunted, but Zexion ignored it in favor of listening to the static voice of a hand held radio, one that the man astride him took into his hands and spoke many strange words.
When he was done, the man stood, hands firmly grasping the link between Zexion's wrists. He pulled the thief to his feet, steadied him when the boy swayed, and then asked him if he was feeling quite alright.
"You look pale."
"Indeed. I suppose anyone who had been through what I have would be a bit flushed. Enough with the small talk, arrest me while you can, lest I manage to escape once more."
The man made a noise in the back of his throat, something resembling an annoyed huff. After that neither spoke, and when the other men arrived, flashlights in hand and expressions gruff, Zexion let himself fall against the man that had taken his freedom and crushed it in the palm of his hands.
As they hauled him away, telling him things he was too occupied to pay attention to, the feeling returned to his body, filtering in like a steady waterfall. And like the cartoons he'd watched as a child, he assumed his color simply drained away. Or, at least, what was left of it. His knees buckled.
Zexion screamed.
When next he awoke, Zexion refused to open his eyes. Refused to realize that when he did, the dingy old quilt an ex lover had bought for him would not be tucked around him, that the red and black curtains he'd made himself would not be drawn across a window with an unusually high arch. He was frightened that he would find himself in the corner of a dingy jail cell, wrists tucked together, mouth gagged, body trussed up like a Christmas hen.
The smell of anesthetic was strong in his nose, though. The scent of pure and true cleanliness, a pristine aroma that could only mark the white-washed walls of a hospital.
Aqua eyes creaking open, hindered by the dust of a sleeping soul, Zexion was primarily blinded by the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. Lights that, once adjusted to, gave him an immediate migraine. Zexion groaned and rolled onto his side, but stopped when a flash of pain wound through him.
The glass, he'd forgotten all about the glass.
But as he struggled to prop himself on his elbows, lifted the thin sheets away (noting the fact that his clothes had been discarded in favor of a trademark hospital gown) and found that his knees were heavily bandaged, found that when he pressed very, very lightly at one that there was no crunching glitter beneath, he sighed.
They'd fixed him up.
Weird.
Zexion wanted to stand and leave, perhaps even climb through the window and scale the building itself to escape, but he knew he couldn't. Because, even with the glass gone, his legs still ached, and just thinking about getting up and walking away made tears sting his eyes.
Sighing, he laid back down, drawing the sheets to his neck. The pillow beneath him was thin and offered little support, but he found himself drifting off regardless.
And perhaps he might have slept for days on end if a bustling nurse hadn't ambled in and shook him awake.
"You have a visitor." She said stiffly, and before he'd had time to wipe his eyes and lick the dried spittle from the corner of his lip she was gone. In her place was a finely dressed man, tall, firm, and handsome. His unruly chestnut hair springing up as he removed his hat, head tipping his way. Zexion watched as the nurse hustled past him, noting how, even as the man tipped his head at her as well, he didn't turn to watch her leave.
So he was either a gentleman, or, well, just uninterested.
When his eyes landed on Zexion, however, all traces of kindness left him, and the boy shrunk into the covers. Regretfully, it didn't keep him from glaring.
"I'm here to ask you a few questions." The man said, yanking one of those horribly uncomfortable hospital chairs from its position in the corner, setting it instead at Zexion's bedside. The lilac-haired boy recognized that voice, and with the recognition came a shudder of fear. A shiver of submission. This man had taken his liberty. But instead of showing just how afraid he was, Zexion calmed himself, kept his poker face as firm as possible.
"That seems to be all you've done so far. Asking me questions."
"So you remember our previous encounter, I take it?"
"To an extent." Zexion said with a sigh, raising his hand to inspect nails that were dirtied with tree bark and soil. He grimaced.
"Tell me all that you can remember then."
"And why should I do that?" He found himself asking. "I don't even know you. As far as I'm concerned, you're a stranger from the street, overly concerned with poking your nose into business that isn't yours."
Instead of words, Zexion found a hand invading his personal space. "My name is Lexaeus. I work for the Twilight Town Police Department. I am the one who detained you last night. I am the one who suggested you be brought here first. I am the one who is keeping you from going to jail."
Zexion, nearly faltering, swallowed around the knot in his throat. "Out of jail? And how do you plan to do that?"
"Tell me what you remember from last night first. Starting with the beginning."
He huffed, rubbed his temple, then settled into the sheets. Realizing that his migraine would only get worse from here, he ground his teeth and decided that it was only for the best. Anything to keep himself out of trouble, he supposed.
"When I awoke yesterday afternoon, my roommate was gone." He began, not really sure if he should divulge any names. He decided that his roommates name was irrelevant anyway, and continued with, "I don't typically sleep in that long, but lately I've been having a bit of a... problem. A nagging, so to say, at the back of my mind." Zexion paused to see if Lexaeus was paying attention, and when he found the supposed officer staring at him like a hawk, he sighed.
"I suppose first I should let you know that I'm a Kleptomaniac. I steal things, and usually I don't even realize I'm doing it. I'll just be walking past someone and before I know it their wallet is in my hand and there's nothing I can do but return it with an embarrassed smile. But when I say I don't realize I'm doing it, I only mean most of the time."
"Sometimes... I think of something I'd like to have. Sometimes, someone plants the idea in my head for me, and after that, well, I can't forget it. The item presses on my mind constantly, day in and day out, over breakfast and in showers and even when I'm taking notes in lectures. I go insane over it, can't begin to think straight."
He thought of the itch he'd begun to feel, how he'd sweat and sweat over the book, something of which he'd heard of from a friend. A book that held the towns history in it, a book signed by the mayor of Twilight Town himself. One that held secrets no ordinary citizen was allowed to know. Zexion knew he'd had to have it, convinced himself that it was all in the pursuit of knowledge and just gone for it.
A connoisseur of books such as himself would have understood his plight. Memories enfolding him, taking him back, he began to speak; all the while Lexaeus sat, staring, enraptured by the creature of involuntary disease on the hospital bed before him.
He'd stood there outside Twilight Town's central hall, debating whether or not he should go in. It was madness after all, all of it madness. His disease was getting the better of him and he knew it, but at this point it didn't matter.
The book was right in front of him, just waiting, waiting for him, Zexion.
His fingers itched at his side.
So he'd snuck around the back, sticking to the shadows as best as possible. The guards around the building could not see him, partially due to his small stature, partially due to the fact that Zexion did not want to be seen. And when he did not want to be seen, he usually wasn't.
At this, a flush spread across Zexion's cheeks, "Well, I guess that's no longer the case now though, is it?"
Lexaeus allowed himself a small smile, hand gesturing, "I assume not. Now, continue if you please?"
Ivy grew thick on the back of the building, a part of the ivory monument never seen by the public view. It was shrouded by trees, one of which he scaled, and then leaped, squirrel-like, to the ivy covered building. He'd slid a few feet downwards, an act that scared him to the very center of his being.
It was a long fall, after all. One he did not think he'd survive.
But he made it to the top of the building, found a window cast open to welcome in the breeze, and squeezed through. The guard in the room lay against the wall, a gentle snore passing from his lips as Zexion tip-toed past.
It was too easy, it was all too easy.
When he'd left the room he'd found a corridor trimmed with gold and layered with an ivory rug. He'd followed it to the end of the hall to an ornate door, one which could only house something of great importance.
There were no guards. Zexion eased the door open, stepped inside, closed the door behind him and froze.
The book sat on a pedestal only a few feet before him. A light shone down on it, illuminating the books silver-lined cover. The pages poked through the side cover, dog-eared and worn. It was a book well loved, well read, and Zexion wanted nothing more than to join the masses of people who had had the opportunity to indulge themselves in its delicate script.
So he'd stolen it, filched the book right from the pedestal and run from the room. What amazed him the most was that this couldn't be real, that this thievery had been so incredibly easy. Easier than anything else he'd ever stolen, be it gum or a five dollar bill. Almost laughing, almost feeling ridiculous, Zexion's spirits rose, and he allowed himself to be overcome with ego enough for ten people. And it was this cockiness that led him back to the room he'd snuck in from, and the swelling ego he was now sporting made him trip and fall, right into a drop-leaf table that clattered anxiously under his weight. The vase and various decor atop it rattled on delicately spun bottoms, and to Zexion's horror fell to the floor with a crash.
Needless to say, the guard had awoken, shouted for backup, and then proceeded to chase him all about the room.
"I never ran so fast in my life." Zexion said, coming back from his reverie. "I didn't want to be caught. Especially not since the book was right in my hands."
Lexaeus nodded, grunted again for him to continue. Zexion noted the small notepad in his hand and scoffed at just how cliché it all was.
The window was still open, tempting him as he darted about the room, trying to shake the guard and his pistol that he was toting now with an angry expression. Threats to shoot whizzed past him faster than the already flying bullets themselves, and Zexion didn't even hesitate at the window sill.
He threw himself right out of it, barely dodging a bullet that was aimed for his skull. It broke the glass above his head, the glass in the window pulled open for breezes and thieves.
He'd fallen straight to the ground, the book hugged tightly to his chest. The earth had risen up to meet him, burned the soles of his shoes when he landed. The glass fell after him, pattering the ground in a flurry of diamond dust. He'd lurched on his feet, unsteady, and fallen to his knees, impaling them on the glass laying haphazardly on the concrete and dirt. With an agonizing yowl, Zexion had fled the scene, the buzzers and alarms shouting after him not even giving him pause.
He didn't look back.
"I thought I was going to get off scott free." He admitted. "I had the book and the sun was going down. I thought that I'd be able to read it all that night, and then maybe return it before dawn. I mean, I may be a thief, and I may be sick, but I fully intended to bring it back." Turning icy aqua eyes to the cop at his side, Zexion finished with a, "But you ruined that plan."
"A pleasure." Lexaeus grumbled. The two sat in silence as the man finished what he'd been writing. Placing the pen to his chin, which Zexion had admired only moments before, the man said, "So you were just walking home when we caught you, correct?"
"Precisely."
"Alright, so just to clarify... you're a Kleptomaniac, which I understand borders on a notion of OCD. Therefore, you're compelled to steal things of varying values, and this led you to filch the Lexicon of this town. You had no ill intent, but all the same you've been detained and are, at this moment, the perpetrator of a crime. I also find it, admittedly, a bit funny that you planned on returning it. As if this whole scheme was just a menial library visit."
"A crime you said you could get me out of." Zexion reminded him, ignoring the other comments. "But yes, otherwise, you are correct."
"I see..." Raising his eyes, Lexaeus pinned Zexion to the spot. The boy could do nothing but stare back blankly, all the fight draining out of him. His head ached but he ignored it. Lexaeus, even as the abysmal man that had stolen Zexion's peace, freedom, and near sanity, was, as he stared so intently, quite handsome.
Immediately his mind quashed the thought. Of all the things to be thinking of at a time like this... he resisted the urge to shake his head free of such thoughts and focused instead on those dark, narrow eyes.
"I'm going to go speak with a few people. For the time being, you try to rest." And then he stood, towering over Zexion as he scooted the chair back to its original position. Zexion watched him take three steps before letting out a noise of indignation.
"Wait, that's it? You come in here and make me spill my guts, my story, my secrets, then just leave? What are you up to? Who are you? Why do you think you can get me out of trouble for a crime that Twilight Town apparently deems a serious offense?"
"I already told you who I am." Lexaeus said gently. He was tucking away the notebook and his pen, his hat once again taking residence upon his head to hide that springy chestnut hair from sight. "I have a friend somewhat like you. He's not a Klepto, no, but a Pyromaniac. I've had to get him out of trouble quite a few times, and now that I understand what your predicament is, well..." He paused, buttoned the top two buttons of his coat. "Things like this really aren't that uncommon, and I want to help you, Zexion. Will you let me?"
He watched and waited as the boy lay back in his bed, eyes thoughtful. None of this made sense to the lilac-haired boy at the moment, but he was hardly complaining. It was all so strange, though. Everything was so... so strange. His Kleptomania had only grown worse in the past few years, but until now he'd never been in quite so much trouble. He'd stolen something very important now, not just his roommates socks or his ex's old gameboy. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to get help.
But only because next time Lexaeus might not be the one to tackle him out in the middle of nowhere; he wouldn't be the one pressing his hips down into the dirt and shoving his nose to the ground in submission.
"You can trust me." Lexaeus added as an afterthought. But the last thing on Zexion's mind was trust.
"Do whatever it is you feel you need to do. I don't exactly want to spend my time in jail, nor do I feel like going to some sort of rehabilitation for my... well, you know. But I need help." He scratched at his cheek, realized his hair had been tucked back behind his ear, and quickly repositioned it over the right side of his face. "I'll let you help me. But if you fail I'll never forgive you for getting my hopes up. And remember, I'm an expert when it comes to looting. If my jail cell has a keyhole, I will acquire a key and escape. You'll never see me again."
"In other words, you don't really need my help. But you'd prefer it."
"It'd be less troublesome, to say the least. But I find your choice of words a bit poor." Zexion grinned, and with his tone was the sound of finality. He was tired of speaking, his eyelids drooping dangerously low. Lexaeus watched him for another moment, then nodded.
"I'll be back." He said, and then he was gone.
With the room to himself and nothing to do, Zexion let himself relax, huddled under the covers to hide the stupid garment he was being forced to wear. His thoughts were muddled, his hopes high, but he tried not to let his imagination run too wild. Things were serious now, and very different, so at the very least he had to at least try to keep some semblance of dignity.
Yawning, he let his eyes fall closed and grimaced only briefly at the headache burning behind his eyes.
But as Zexion fell to the dark clutches of sleep, he was completely unaware of the inexplicable knot that had just bound his destiny to the mysterious officers.
