Title;
His Saving Grace
Word Count; 342
Notes;
Kairiku. I do not own Kingdom Hearts.
He sleeps at her side like a faithful pet, curled up tight against her body even though she's cold as ice and her bosom is as silent as a grave. It had long ceased to bother him, the empty silence, his mind more caught up in the things of the dark, of amber eyes and soft antennae that nudges at his gloved hands. He whispers to her nonsensical sweet nothings, stroking her auburn hair, breathing in her dry, illicit scent.
She is not dead, though her eyes don't blink and she doesn't breathe, and he doesn't have time (doesn't want to, more like) to think about the illogicality of the entire situation (her heart is missing but she's still alive, she is alive, my dear boy, so don't fret your pretty head about it). He is more content to kneel by her bed, kissing her hand like a prince would for his long-sought-for princess.
Perhaps if he were saner (or braver, or stronger, or a thousand other things that he isn't right now) she wouldn't have been here in the first place, but then he wouldn't have the liberty of touching each of her delicate fingers with his lips, examine her perfect eyelashes up close, or feel her weight in his arms.
It was a little mercy, a little gratification then, enough to just barely dull the sharp edge of loneliness at times where clarity struck, that the three of them were as equally as far away from each other, that though he had her body, he hadn't had her heart, and Sora, well, he didn't seem to care much about the two of them.
So he whispers poison against her lips, warning her against Sora, and he waits for the day that he'll deliver the first, magical kiss (no matter that he had stolen so many, so many in her dead sleep, she wouldn't know anyway). And then she'll wake, and she'll smile, just for him alone.
And maybe, just maybe, selling his heart and his soul to the darkness would have been worth it all.