ocean foam
disclaimer: not mine.
one.
The first time he sees her, Demyx thinks that she's about to break into a thousand pieces, her broken shards of glass changing into crystallized flowers.
She's shaking and he's almost certain that if she talks, her words would be like velvet petals; crushed beneath Larxene's feet.
But as it is, her lips are muted and so a quivering leaf never falls.
And as he looks, she melds into shades of white; more of a ghost than the rest of them, her haunting gathering dust and pastel white paper ingrained in bittersweet smudges. Bruises come and go like the cracked china glazed on her skin, forgotten in smears of make up.
Larxene is murmuring things, in his ears, pretty words disguised as ugly torments, mocking his beliefs. Her slender fingers run through his hair, down this throat, scuttling like spiders that weave a web that he cannot resist.
"Pay no attention to the witch, Dem." Her breath is hot and heavy against his ear, tempted in ivy that promises to constrict and control the tree that it wraps itself around. "A pretty thing, perhaps, but she is not yours to have."
Blue eyes meet – cerulean and cobalt; electric flashes and strikes once more.
The witch looks away, cradling the pen in her corner, receiving the message as she averts her gaze. Crumpling like paper, she is so very small compared to the people before her.
"Who is she, Larx?" The musician asks slowly with sad sympathy in his eyes.
"Nobody. Naminé is nobody." The words reach his ears, and when Demyx finally looks at Larxene, his hand is in hers, and she takes him far, far away in the corridors that will eventually fade into grey roses.
And Naminé is left tangled in cobwebs.
—
two.
She hears his music singing in her skin, sweet lullabies that breathe reality into books and make her pictures move. When she sees him, he is soft and asleep, slumbering on the sofa that smells like Larxene. A small smile graces his face, teasing her in some ways, with innocent secrets and mystical melodies.
He whispers a name, and continues to drift in his mellow dream.
She traces his face with a delicate hand, a graphite pencil that is always here and never there. She feels the contours of his face, where his smile starts and ends, knows the curve of his cheek and the softness of his hair.
His hands, big and warm and cuddly, fit perfectly into her; and she wonders, letting herself feel this one thing, if he'll ever play a song for her.
She can't find his heart, but she hopes it beats for her. Lying there besides him almost makes her want to join him.
And somehow, she can't help but indulge in breathing his name, taste it on her own lips before she presses them against his.
When he wakes, there is nobody there.
—
three.
"I could make you forget. I could make you feel so much happier." Naminé whispers in broken tears that threaten to fall.
Larxene is dead.
Demyx refuses to believe that, cerulean blue eyes wistfully searching for the memory that glazes cracks onto his flesh. They are both bruised and battered dolls that the Savage Nymph has left behind.
When he listens to Naminé – small and fragile Naminé – he tries and tries to find the melody that wistfully wraps itself around her.
"No. I can't, Naminé." He shakes his head, captured in caricatures of agony. And she hates the look in his eyes, as he is still in the grip of the ghost who never loved him.
She wants a friend like Demyx. She wants his sweet smile and his simple melody and his unending patience when dealing with Larxene and his good-natured sense of humour that made her laugh quietly in the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry." She whispers, beginning to sketch, binding a spell that she hopes he can never break.
"For what?" He asks, tilting his head, his eyes wide and gazing into her cobalt blue ones, so different to Larxene's electric blue.
He is close, too close, barely millimetres away from her cold, cold flesh and he freezes, trapped in time, washed away in the fragment of her craft.
It breaks her heart to do this, but she misses his easy going smile.
The last pencil rolls away, her sketchbook falls onto the floor, forgotten as Demyx blinks and sees her; his mind is no longer trapped in spiders and ivy and things that bind him to Larxene.
After all, Larxene doesn't exist. Not for him.
And when he smiles, kisses her, takes her into his arms, Naminé feels happy.
—
four.
Except she doesn't, not really.