yesteryear
disclaimer: not mine.
utter silence
It's how it always begins.
There are no words, for him and her live in different worlds. She might look his way, but he'll never notice, and he might glance at her, but she's too busy talking animatedly with somebody else.
From dawn 'til dusk, they kept on trying to glimpse at each other, the counter-part clueless, never knowing that they've got each other's attention.
And because nobody cares, Nobody notices.
Until now.
"… do … you… remember?"
And Demyx blinks, being pulled out of his day-dream, where he composes music and lyrics to fit his tunes, while hoping and hoping for the one answer that continuously eludes him.
"Um. Could you say that again?"
Larxene sighs, her fingers of finesse twisting a flower, transfixed while slowly pulling the pretty petals off. Her electric orbs seemed dull, glazed over in reminisce – something of which Demyx is jealous of. Her hair seemed soft, though he'd bet on his sitar that it wasn't as soft as her feminine form, although it possibly might be silkier, even when glistened in sweat.
She sat up, slowly, running her tongue across her lips, absent-mindedly biting them. "I said, Demyx: you've changed. Do you know, back when we first met, ages ago on that river, which you told me your name was…" She stopped, but pursued her topic nonetheless, "anyway, I met you, a long time ago," Her red lips twist into a forlorn smile. "When I was thirteen, we met for the very first time."
Demyx freezes, not looking up, patiently waiting for her to continue, for her to finish her question. Internally he's breaking, unsure of what direction this is going on, unsure if his gut is telling him to stop it. If she was—
"You…" Her voice nearly breaks, and Demyx knows he should say something. "You remember, right?"
(( You remember me, don't you? ))
But thirteen? When he was alive, seven years ago? (Roughly). (He can't remember). (He thinks she's twenty. Twenty-one.) Shouldn't he remember her? Shouldn't he remember her pretty smile, or the way that her eyes light up like watts of electricity spinning delectably on her fingers? Shouldn't he remember her laughter, of which he still can't remember which words to describe?
"Sweet, sweet daffodils." Larxene whispered, her fingers ripping off the last petal of the rose. If he looked now, he would have seen a tear threatening to fall, to slip and slide down her face. Nobodies can't cry, but they can – only – when they are still becoming used to their body.
He wants to frown; he wants to break her mood—he should make a comment that seems odd and quirky, that might send her into fits of laughter, or at least sound sophisticated in his ears. If nothing else, he should've remembered her smile—
"And what about the lemonade?" She asked quietly, eyes cast onto the falling de-petalized flower. "Tell me you remember."
He can feel the desperation, clinging on to each syllable that's produced from her. He could make a tune, based on the rhythm of her breath, the mere sound of her words, formed from a petite mouth and he could keep the memory of her forever because… because…
"You disappeared. You promised me – it would only be a short while, you'd come back and there was something you wanted to show me – something important – and that could only be done after that tour. You promised me that it would be your last tour."
It's getting harder to breathe as the seconds strum by. It's getting harder to swallow as the emotions are slowly being stirred up, fighting the lock and key that a twisted kunai is slowly lock picking, trying to open the door that has been remained shut for so long.
He wants to tell her to stop but he can't – he can't and it's killing him. Instead, he wonders where the hell Marluxia is. The Graceful Assassin wanted to talk to them about something.
"I waited, you know. Waited so long, wondering what was taking so long. And, and… the world ended while that happened. But still—" She breathed, and Demyx isn't sure whether she's looking at him or not. "—I had to find you."
(( I found you ))
Don't talk about him.
He can't stand to look at her. It's too painful – it's making him choke and his heart hurt far too much than is to be expected.
Please. Don't… just, don't.
And how can he tell her that he can't remember his past life? How can he tell her that he can't find the trigger that is supposed to return his memories?
"And when I did," Larxene shakily continues, "you changed. You… acted differently. And they said your name was Demyx."
(( It's not the name that I remember ))
It hurts. To think. To look. To breath. To be around her. He should get away, run run run away because he's a coward, that runs – only because he knows he won't survive. And if he keeps looking at her, and getting too close then… then he might disappear. He might fall into an area best left alone.
Don't ask me that—
"Do you remember?"
He can hear the wind, he can sense it rushing past her hair, and he can feel it rushing past his. He can hear his nonexistent heart breaking and it's crumbling, falling and splintering before his very eyes. He can almost touch the rays of sunlight that are peeking through the trees, shafting the greens and emeralds and auburns and nearly brown leaves that threaten to fall, painting an odd shade of colour across his face. He can feel everything and everyone but he can't do a thing – frozen in time, anxiously trying to not hope that the next question is—
"Do you remember me?"
I can't… I can't answer that question.
Oh Kingdom Hearts, he doesn't want her to cry—he doesn't want her pretty face to be covered in moon-kissed tears, which paint her in such a melancholic caricature.
They… he… she… have to bear in mind that they're not real. They don't exist anymore.
"Yeah." His face cracks into a grin, goofy and playful, masking the doubt that eats away at him. "You really think I'd forget so easily? You're one of a kind. I'd never…"
If he'd had a heart, it would already be broken.
If he'd had a brain, it would've been made out of straw.
If he'd had courage, he wouldn't be making these ugly white lies.
But he can't stand the sight of her crying. Maybe – back when he existed – he made a different promise. One where he'd never see her cry. Unless it was tears of happiness.
She has to remember that this is all an act.
He has to remember that this is not a performance.
"Yeah. I guess so." She lets out a sombre laugh, while picking another flower – a blood red rose. "I feel so stupid."
"Don't be." The Nocturne murmurs, tracing a circle and the number twenty-one. "I'd never forget you, Larxene. I won't forget you."
Please. Don't ask that question – I'll give you nothing but lies.
Isn't what matters now instead of the past?
She waits for him to say something, but he says nothing. She sighs, closing her eyes.
(( after all, what do lemonade and daffodils matter?
you still haven't told me what you wanted to show me ))
"Hey, guys. The Superior wanted to talk to me about something. Sorry for the wait!" Marluxia calls, gracefully appearing, with the blonde Nobody watching him, before running up to the strawberry-maroon-haired Nobody and embracing him in a playful hug.
Never has Demyx been so delighted to see him. He stands up, going slowly – his own pace, before mumbling a shy greeting.
I shouldn't get attached. What point is there for those with no existence?
With Larxene and Marluxia, the sun sparkles and he can't remember when it started. Because his heart – and he swears it's not there – because it can't be – but now he's not so sure – he remembers just seconds ago, the world being so acutely vivid and realistic. Except, being away from her… being away from her side… his world is fading into shades of grey.
He's envious of Marluxia.
He'd never forget her.
And she's never looked happier.
He wishes he could make her understand. That something went wrong – the day of his 'creation', his spawning from the darkness. He couldn't remember a thing.
(( and I know you're lying ))
I like you. But…
I'm not him.
I can't be the "Demyx" that you knew from "before".
Keep on lying. Keep on running. Because he knows he's in for heartbreak in the end.
a world without you
It's Larxene who breaks the news.
Something is written in her eyes, fading and re-emerging like a storm that doesn't know when to quit. And he's always seen her in such a colourful light with rainbows and butterflies and the sun radiating her hair like fireflies leading the way on a midsummer's dream.
And yet, here she is, back facing his, sitting; arms wrapped around her legs, chin nestled comfortably on her knees. She's sitting on his bed like she always does, chatting placidly with a soft glow of… something. Something unknown. And the feeling of unease only appears, seeping in when she's left his room, the silence nearly overpowering.
"…I'm going soon."
"Oh."
(( I don't want to go – not yet – not until you… ))
She doesn't state it like a fact. She doesn't say it coldly and harshly like when she taunts her enemies, or even mockingly as if she glad that she's leaving. She says it so softly and so quietly that it might have been unheard between the strumming of instruments, drawn out like a vibrating sitar string, the echo left forgotten as a new note is made.
He can't see her – they are both sitting against each other, back to back; she's sitting meekly, he's sitting cross-legged while practising on his blue instrument. She can't notice the sad flush on his face, and he can't look for the lips that she tentatively bites and licks when she's feeling nervous or flirty.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah. Me too."
He looks up, fingers protectively wrapping around the strings of the sitar, imagining with care that he is holding the petite Nymph. She can feel his sigh as the music loses its lull, safely carrying her to the currents of The World That Never Was.
"Who will listen to my music?"
Demyx can feel Larxene stir, shoulder blades shifting, and the curve of her neck lowers slightly.
"…I will. I'll save you. Definitely."
He doesn't ask what she means, and he knows her well enough ( perhaps not at all ) to know that she won't go into further detail, and probing deeper would be futile. But he trusts her. And he wants to believe that is enough.
"You'll come back, right?"
He can sense her smile, catlike and cunning, similar to the Cheshire Cat, but he can taste a tinge of bitterness, a bit of melancholy that the smiling Cat does not have. Whereas the Cat prefers to have no regrets, there is doubt growing in the Nymph. He doesn't mention it, for fear that it might be the last time he sees her.
"Yeah. You know I will."
"I'll be waiting for you."
(( Promise me… ))
Say it again and again
"That's good."
"When I'll see you again I'll…"
(( Tell me you… ))
and again and again and
"You'll what?"
"I'll give you a great big hug."
(( Even if it's a lie ))
and you know I'll be breaking your heart
"Anything else?"
"Yup. I'll say, 'welcome home, Larxene'."
(( Against all odds…))
so please, don't get your hopes up
"I'll be looking forward to that."
"Yeah…"
"Demyx, play that tune for me one more time?"
"Of course. Anything for you."
(( Tell me that you remember ))
because I just
"… daffodils…"
can't
"… lemonade…"
see
"… promises…"
you
"It feels like goodbye."
cry.
"I know. But we'll meet each other again."
"I'm looking forward to it."
And still he can't remember.
And I wish I could.
He doesn't know it's their last meeting; forever and ever and ever and so, in his ignorance the Musician plays in silence while she hums into his ear the tune that he knows he should remember, but bitterly, bitterly can't.
something so natural
Axel came back one day, smelling of burnt flowers and scorched lightning. Rocks crumble at his feet, and the ice that has frozen on his chakrams has been thawed.
Demyx doesn't see him, hands clinging on to his sitar, his fingers itching to play his—their—tune, and his mouth nearly humming the tune that he remembers so well from her cherry-coloured mouth. His lips part; tempted to say her name and embrace her; because that's what he does – he would always embrace her.
But something—
"Hey. Axel."
"What?"
—something isn't right—
"Where is she?"
He can hear the Flurry of Dancing Flames sigh, shifting from side to side, weighing down the pros and cons. But it's irrelevant to the Musician. He doesn't care what Axel does – he just—
"I want to see her."
"… You can't."
Demyx's hand grips the blue sitar tightly, shaking, trembling and he doesn't know why but something clenches inside of him. And it hurts and it hurts and it hurts and he wants to believe it's a dream but it can't be because… he's waiting for the inevitable—those words that he's dreading to hear, because their last moment together…
It sounded like goodbye.
"She—" For a second, Demyx nearly swears that Axel's voice choked, stuck on the words that are caught on his fiery tongue. The tongue that is used so frequently to jest and jeer and mock and taunt and banter and use pretty words to ensnare the enemy in traps beyond psychology seemed unable to mention those three words. "She… Larxene is dead."
Something begins to beat
The sitar falls to the ground, clattering. A string has already snapped. The silence, deafening.
"She can't be."
And the Nocturne cannot – he refused to accept it. Because Larxene is – was – the strongest person he knew. She was better than Saïx, better than Marluxia and far better than Roxas.
"You're lying." He nearly shouts, begging that it isn't true. He can't remember how he managed to grab Axel and push him against the wall – he can't remember ever doing something this violent – the moment happened too fast, too soon, passing too fast like a string plucked from sheer carelessness, the rhythm too hard to play. "You're lying!"
"No. I'm not." The Nobody of Fire whispers, his voice quiet but deadly serious, emerald eyes unflinching. "I'm not lying. She's dead."
"She can't be." Demyx pleads, not wanting to accept her fate.
Something begins to hurt
"But she is. Accept it. Move past it. Just carry on." Axel murmurs, his once fiery eyes dimming, the crackle of electricity gone in the air, no traces of a volatile Nobody left in the World That Never Was. "That's what we do. We carry on. Because we don't care."
And something…
Demyx lets go of him, hands shaking, pale blue eyes unable to meet washed out emerald. He mutters an apology which he isn't sure that the other hears. It didn't matter anyways.
"You're wrong."
((… you're…))
((… crying…))
"We do care. Because we have emotions."
"No." Axel replies, voice toneless, strained. "We don't. We don't, Demyx."
"I never told her…"
"What are you talking about?" Axel's voice sounds thick, no longer containing that jeering voice, instead it sounded lacklustre and dull. Unusual for such a planning traitor to sound so guilty.
Something's coming back to me.
"That I…"
Demyx gulps, his tongue heavy. And when he admits it, for those three words, everything makes sense.
"I love her."
the memory beyond
If he closes his eyes, he can remember a time where a boy meets a girl, with shy gestures and a guitar that is slightly out of tune, although, truthfully that doesn't matter – doesn't matter if he can't play all the instruments he brings, although it does matter – to him – at least, that she would dance to his music, dance underneath a lemon tree and fields of daffodils, the beginnings of a smile always touching the corner of her mouth, almost tempting to smile full on, and in return, he would grin back, perhaps a little sadly, perhaps a little uncertainly, but it was a genuine smile all the same.
"Where will you go next?" She asks, each time with desperation creeping just a little more to her tone, just a fraction more anxious. "How much longer will it be, until you come back?"
And he can remember taking her hand, stroking her high cheekbone, amused and pleased at the faint blush that glows from her face, at his touch. And he says—
This isn't "me".
"Soon. Remember, I'll tell you all about the place I'm going to go to. I'll tell you about the people I meet, and how they dance and laugh and smile and sing, but remember… that none of them are as good as you."
This is a memory that I won't let go of.
"So, please." And he cups her face, brushing away the teardrops that threaten to fall, and their lips met, soft, warm, moist. He can feel the girl pressed tightly against him, clinging on with the fear that this might be the last time; the last time they'll be able to kiss and touch and feel and be in each other's presence because the world is a dangerous place, and they never know when they will die.
The warm rays of sun are nothing in her presence, dimming constantly when being compared to his girl, his princess, his dancing nymph who laughs and plays cheerful tricks with just a dash of violence and unpredictability. Her eyes are worth the sky, and her skin is made of pearls, flawless perfection.
Him. He's not you.
"Hey—" Ruby red lips part, contrasting from the pale skin, fairer than Snow White, but darker than Rose Red, "You won't forget me, will you?"
"Never." He replies, his voice rumbling in her ear, brushing against her skin teasing. Because they know it's true; for as long as he lives, he will never forget her. She's the girl who brought smiles and laughter and tears and fears to him. She's the girl who makes him feel alive, and far greater, far larger than life itself. Because living without her is hell, and so, for him to touch that piece of heaven, he must be with her; therefore he is compelled to be with her, returning to her side. Every single time. "Want to know why?"
Her breath hitches, caught in conflicting emotions. "Why?"
"Because I love you."
He loves her.
"And there will be no one… except you."
You don't.
"Nobody is as good as… no one is as pretty… as cute… as charming, vivacious, alive, playful, perfect as you. No one can fill the hole in my heart… like you. There is only one person for me – and that's you."
You can't.
"So… you'll come back?"
"Yeah. You know I will.'
"This is the last concert; the last time… that I have to go. And next time… I'll definitely tell you the thing that was on my mind."
"Well then, I'll be waiting for you."
Her lips meet his, both never knowing that it's the last time they see each other.
(( this is me. ))
(( this is you. ))
(( you remember now, right? ))
… yes.
something so simple
"Will…"
I remember everything.
"… you…"
you and me
"Will you…"
"him" and "her"
"Will you…" He tries to say the question, his voice stumbling and quivering over those four words. Two down, two more to go. Say them fast, say them slow, and say them again and again at the mirror. Just make sure to get them right. The right moment, the right mood. Get them perfected beyond comparison.
"m-m-ma…" His lips tried to force the words out, yet they died instantly on his tongue, shrivelling into nothing but drowned water rats, splashing out in a conundrum that was destined to fail. Still, he didn't give up, determined to say those words, in a perfect time, a perfect place.
"…r…ry…"
The rain outside pours harder, nearly muffling the footsteps that echoes, tracing an unheard tale of whispers and cyclones. It's faint, but he can hear them. It's her. Only her. Had it been anybody else, he would have no idea who was outside, lest he had fallen in love with them. Still, he had one heart, and one heart only, and he would be damned if he gave it to anybody else.
Only a creature of allure and liveliness deserved his love.
The door slid up, and he saw her, hair glinting from the soft glow of the waxed candles, her eyes, perfected jewels from the sky, gazed at him, her mouth nearly forming a question, twisting the words into an analytical prose, a witty remark that he in turn would struggle to banter with.
"… you alright?"
"… me?"
He had finally said – stumbled – mumbled – whispered – asked the question, and yet she had not heard a thing.
something so difficult…
The ring, hidden in his pocket, glistened a pale sheen, wrapped in its cocoon of silk and velvet cover.
a creation born of ignorance
They met under a lemon tree, in the middle of summer, where the skies were alit with clouds of bubblegum blue. He could nearly taste it, the fragrance of daffodils tingling against his nose, tickling his senses, wracking his mind of untold tales, songs yet to have been sung.
But right now, he snoozed, dreaming of childish innocence, of sunshine and cherry blossom trees, swaying over skies of spun gold, broken dishes laced with pearls that sang a pretty hymn, and a beating heart that held a handshake, a promise that would haunt him like a melody that touched the tip of his fingertips, never to be remembered, with its sad tale of fluorescents tears.
The first time he saw her, she was picking the petals of the daffodils, humming a pretty tune from sun kissed hair and lips that would taste of lollipops dipped in strawberries. The first time she saw him, he was sleeping, presumably, under that single lemonade tree, surrounded by a forest of living daffodils that swayed under the breeze, singing whispered tunes with their muted larynxes.
"Hello," He whispered, eyes flickering open, light shifting from the beams that peeked through the emerald coloured leaves.
She turned, her face made of porcelain china, sky blue eyes wide and innocent, holding no trace of mockery or anger, merely childish playfulness and innocence, glittering so brightly that for a second he freezes, because he swears he can see stars in those two orbs.
He can't remember what happens next, a laugh, a giggle, a stumble, a fall, lips move, but…
He remembers a handshake, forever etched into his heart.
The start of something new. The start of a romance that bloomed into something beautiful.
And he says:
"Who are you?"
the secret place
She meets him, again and again, each time more excited, more enthusiastic, and beaming with a curiosity brighter than the lightning that dances its pretty tune, never letting anyone lead her, always willing to take itself its own path, its own direction.
It starts with a few touches, slips of the hand, or little outbursts of violence, merely child's play at his quiet protest, nearly shadowed by the whispers of feathered winds and birds that slip with a tune left unknown to the wildness that comes. It gradually grows, from taking his hand and pulling him towards her, eyes always twinkling, teeth always pearly white, sparkling from the miracle of toothpaste, her skin glowing from the radiance of happiness. Then it all makes sense when she leaps out to hug him, surprising him in a pleasurable way, her arms wrapped around him, her fingers scuttling to a unique pattern, placing their beating hearts in synch. He closed his eyes, his breath barely leaving him, but he says her name, and she hears, and he can feel, against his ears, her lips curving, twisting into something that only he could call perfection.
"You remembered!" She giggles; a pleasant sound.
(( you remembered everything back then ))
"Of course I did."
Usually it was her who surprised him, under their special place, where they thought no one knew of their hideout, their secret base, where anything and everything except grown up things could be discussed, with mock gasps and melodramatic acting that clashed with the musical instruments and elicited a blissful noise, laughter that touched their hearts from the depths of innocence and happiness.
It all ended, when he decided to surprise her.
He was sixteen; she was fifteen.
And he kissed her.
(( "you taste like lemonade" you said ))
'but you smell like daffodils' I thought
She avoided him the next day, blushing whenever she saw him out of the corner of her wide eyes, or whenever her hyperactive imagination danced pretty patterns in her mind, reliving the moment, the emotions over and over again.
He waited forever, always the patient one, strumming his guitar, his latest addiction. He was going to have to blame the heat, for only it could have made him act in that delirious manner.
He never saw her coming. Never saw her ambush him until he was aware that she was on top of him, giggling.
She kissed him.
(( "yeah, well, you taste like limeade" I said ))
It could have been so sweet.
And it was.
A passing thought came, whispered, but not heard. Neither one knew who thought it first.
I think I love you.
… until the darkness came.
his voice… it left me
"Demyx. Demyx, man, wake up." It's Xigbar.
At least, Demyx thinks its Xigbar. It sounded like him, but he's not sure. He hasn't been sure these past couple of days, remembering touches and laughter and eyes that resemble the sky at its best, disorientating himself with something that could only be explicable as a dream, a total recall for an amnesia patient.
"Xig… Xigbar…" The words die on his lips, crushed like petals that a girl with hair of sun kissed daffodils, and he can't see, his head still wrapped in memories, not relinquishing their hold on him, and he laughs, a giggle not quite twisted enough to be called crazy, but enough to be pitied, and Demyx wonders what's wrong with him. What's wrong with him? "… do you know I have a heart?"
"That's impossible, mate. You've done nothing, how can—"
Something is beating
I – I can hear it.
"So, why can I feel these emotions? Why can I… still sense her?"
"Her?" Xigbar asks, befuddled with the question, letting the Nocturne go, unaware that his 'heart' is twisting in agony, tearing itself into shreds over a memory best forgotten, but to do that he would not exist. Because… for Demyx… everything begins and ends… with her. Always her.
"Don't. It's best if you leave him alone." Axel – the scent of burnt flowers and frayed splatters of lemon and lime, comes, his lips contorting into a half-smirk, half-frown. "Larxene's dead."
"Don't be mean, Axe. She's not dead. She's still here."
"She" is still "here" with "me"
He can see emerald eyes glint, pale embers compared to the burning fire that once scorched belladonnas and roses, and fragranced flowers such as lilies and lavenders. It's shattering him, breaking the illusion that has woven itself around Demyx; perhaps for the better, but the effect is that it's killing him.
Whatever 'nullifying' effect that Axel has, pale skin stretching out to an ashen grey, it isn't working anymore. The effects that once snapped him out of his trance, his 'sickness', are fading, ebbing away like the darkness that drives him mad.
He, Demyx, can see her, blurrily, lingering like a ghost, touching his memories, always staying at the corner of her eye, moving, swaying, that sad smile never leaving the curve of her blood-red lips. Sometimes he swears that she's talking to him, her lips moving soundlessly, her words, whether they may be taunts or regrets are to be forever a mystery.
but…
"I – I have emotions. I'm sure of it."
"I'm" forgetting
Pale eyes barely flicker, the sheen of bliss glassy against orbs that require dusting and polishing. He can hear the Nobodies whispering, he's been left, pushed aside from all the rest. what's happened to him? what… who is he? master? slave? one of us? or has he gone crazy?
"I do. I have emotions."
"Dem…" Axel whispers, his voice scorching the Nocturne's ears.
"Don't call me that." That privilege was reserved for a beautiful Nymph.
"… You're a broken record." And still the flames burn, brighter and brighter, not stopping the silent girl who is hazily seen in the background; but enhancing the effect, like pheromones. Maybe he stopped caring. Maybe he moved on. Maybe… maybe nothing happened.
"I think… no. I've lost it." He laughs, bitterly, a ripple on a frozen pond.
"Lost what?" And he swears, that her head tilts, glancing sideways, eyes almost innocently wide, lips parted, almost daring to be kissed.
"I've lost the sound of her voice." So simple, so desperate, so… helpless.
And Larxene isn't there anymore. She's not there to beat sense into them, not there to make life more amusing despite being a hardcore bitch with an attractive "cuteness" at an odd glance, forever trapped in a moment, sealed in leather and lace, left uncared for as her heart-shaped face colours and her lips twist into a snarl. Larxene had her uses… but she's not here any more.
She never was. They have no existence, therefore how could they be "there"?
what
"Slipping…" Demyx mumbles, eyes closing, overcome by a sudden sense of tiredness.
He's been falling all this time, never realizing, never wondering why he's being plummeted down a rabbit hole of yellow keys with tapered fingers and spindled cobwebs brushed against silver moonlight tears. The Nocturne's never noticed that he's been thrown down this abyss of darkness until the innocence finally corrodes, driving him into a state of savageness.
The memories are fading.
Returning.
Disappearing.
(( who are you? ))
(( who am i? ))
(( remember, i love you ))
He speaks, but he can't hear the sound that he's producing.
I sound like…
The only memory of my previous life.
what's he like?
Nobodies can't see their own reflections in the cracked mirror.
this time… I'll fight
Again, Larxene hides in Demyx's room, not seeking lust or desire or secret kisses that would remind her of the past. She joined him simply because no one else does, thinking him odd as he often locks himself in his room, tinkering away with various instruments if he's not playing in the garden with a broken smile and a shaking hand. Trying… to help him… remember…
(( me ))
Usually she sits back to back, each of them gazing in different directions, never meeting with their eyes, preferring to be more sensual and exploring the abstractness that the darkness has given them, making them more perceptive to the things that go around them. Instead, she's resting her head on his lap, eyes fluttering from open to close, with a quirky smile pulling the corner of her red mouth.
Something different. Something new. And Demyx isn't sure where this is going to lead.
"De-myx." She said in a sing-song voice, eyes opening to meet his. "Can I ask you something?"
Slightly unnerved, Demyx freezes for a second, because Larxene rarely asks anything, preferring to snatch and take while sneering and taunting and making other people lose their temper before they shout out what Larxene was waiting for. But… whenever she was around him, near him, in his peripheral vision… she changed, into a less volatile creature. She still lost her temper, but she didn't take the bait as easily as she used to.
Demyx didn't know; how could he? He just thought that Larxene… was Larxene.
None the less, he complied. "Sure. What is it?"
Electric orbs sparkled, yet retained an empty gleam. "Let's die on the same day."
"W-What?"
"There's a one in seven chance of it happening. Anyway, I want you to give it your all. Give it everything you got." A smile rose to her lips. "Don't die because you're weak, and I know you're not. You're the Melodious Nocturne, who is…"
(( my hero ))
"…?"
"… my musician." She finished, with a sigh of contentment escaping her lips.
"Thank you." Demyx quietly said. It meant a lot to him, being appreciated. Especially by her.
"So, what am I to you?" The petite Nobody said, closing her eyes as Demyx gently began to stroke her hair.
"You? Um, let's see…" Demyx let out a nervous laugh, having not thought about it before.
my princess
"You are my princess." The Nocturne decided, speaking what he thought.
Oblivious, he never noticed the blush that spread through the Savage Nymph's face, touched by the sentiment.
"So, I promise to you, that if and when I die, I will die with a fight, and a damn good one at that, and I'll die the same day as you."
Larxene reached for his hand, entwining it with hers. Then, with a fleeting moment of reminisce, sat up and gently pressed her lips to his.
a world between worlds – a forgotten world
She waits; beneath a sky of thunder and rain and lightning flashes. She waits; despite seeing nothing but darkness that surrounds her. She waits.
For him.
(( where are you ? )) She wants to ask.
right here
When she blinks, a flash of brilliant white passes, wiping the memory of what just happened.
the gathering
As Nobodies they first met under Marluxia's garden, the musician strumming his sitar, while experimenting on other instruments, such as cellos, violins, guitars, ranging from orchestral to twangy tunes that held an offbeat tune to the normal ear.
Demyx was there, humming along to his tinted blue instruments, due to a request of Marluxia, wondering if plants really did grow faster if music was played to them. So concentrated was the Nocturne, melodious as always, that he never noticed…
A gasp.
Running.
A leap.
Her.
She soared, momentarily acting as like a daffodil, possibly a dandelion, her very essence scattered through the warm wind, rising and soaring, two lips curling, gracing a pretty pattern on her face, her shell's flesh glowing, radiating more that ever, a giggle touching the drumbeat of her fingertips. She pounced.
"Oof!" And Demyx was tackled to the ground. He barely had any time to think.
Laughing, the blonde haired beauty turned him over, murmuring under her breath ( a pretty tune if Demyx knew any, and he did ) "I knew it."
"Wha—"
"I found you!"
And she kissed him.
for a second
(( for a second… ))
I kissed back
(( I know you did ))
His first thought of her: she's beautiful.
Her eyes widened, the gorgeous blush that spread warmly on her cheeks, lightly showing her pleasure darkened, frozen in time, in space, something dawning that the Nocturne never even realised. "Oh, fuck."
But he didn't hear that.
back then, you still smelled like daffodils
"You… you…" She scrambled off him, away from straddling him, the blush rapidly metamorphosing into mortification and embarrassment to what she had done. "Oh, Kingdom Hearts." But he could still tell she had enjoyed it. "You… really don't…" He didn't see why she was so upset, it wasn't as if they'd met before, although, there was a small chance, just a small chance, that he looked like someone of her past. If that was true, then he was envious. At least she had a past that she could recall. What did he have? A piece of blank paper, the notes of the previous life erased, waiting for the right moment of inspiration to be found, and carry out the haunting duet, a waltz, that carried his memories on the banks of reminisce.
(( remember me remember me ))
tasted of lemonade
"Um… I'm Demyx." He had said, a little breathlessly, periwinkle orbs gazing at the sky, an illusion that Zexion had created, experimenting on how his illusions could affect 'real life'. The sky seemed so much more alive at the moment.
"L-Larxene." The petite blonde ( but incredibly good kisser ) stuttered, hastily rushing away from the Nobody. "I – I gotta go."
instead of wilted flowers
His thoughts that day always returned to her.
What an interesting meeting.
They both forgot each other's names, one swept up in mortification; the other trying to paint her picture among a sea of lonely lullabies.
They didn't talk for a long time after that.
we go together
The Keyblade Master. A reckless fool who thought he had to play hero.
Honestly, Demyx thought cynically, eyes narrowed gleaming as the water madly danced, like Nymphs sashayed and slithered, trying to lure the Keyblade fool to their demise; he was only fighting the idiot because he killed Larxene.
After a long time of denial, tears, remembering and forgetting… Demyx had accepted the truth.
Decided to hold his tongue, decided that it was best to continue living like them. Who knows, maybe it would be better if he hadn't known that Sora, an unfitting name for the boy who ends lightning, ( murderer, murderer ) taking away the peaceful life because he decides it. Life isn't sweet, and sometimes the things that were right in front of him, the people and emotions that he thought he always knew about twisted into something different. What if his 'beloved' didn't feel the same way? What if she died?
Why can't he understand that the Nobodies are just trying to live their dream? Who says he has the right to exterminate them, picking them off, one by one, a goofy smile with a naïve heart that knew nothing of bittersweet tragedies?
Why can't that wretched Keyblade master let him believe what he wants, instead of name-calling? Moron.
And then, at the corner of his eye—
I saw you
And he slipped. Messed up. The Nocturne became too tired.
Fighting… being an insomniac… living without her… knowing the far too late truth…
I love you
And the blade came too fast, and for a split second he saw her, a crackle in electricity, and the blade came too fast, too fatal, too furious for it to be avoided.
A headache, her voice, repeating over and over again.
He doesn't want to—
He wants—
(( I love you ))
Her hand taking his, he faded into the darkness.
he looks just like you
He doesn't know where he is. But, everything… everything is real.
"I" am "me"
There is nothing but darkness surrounding him, but he can still hear, with clarity, and touch, with compassion, and smell, with sensitivity; and taste, with the lemonade tang tingling at the tips of his tongue. The only 'sense' he hasn't regained is sight. But he's beginning to, his irises dilating, gradually becoming used to the dim sense of light, making out the movement that ripples in waves, and flickers in lightning.
He wants to speak, scream, and shout. The isolation is nearly unbearable. He thought—he thought once he had died, he would be with her – the love of his life, his future… the girl of his dreams that never left him. Even in death, she followed; a fool for her heart, but then, so was he, and they both died, for want of a heart, for want of love.
He can smell daffodils now, the taste of lemonade almost too strong and too sweet to bear.
He reaches, clumsy, but finding something.
(( who's there? ))
Startled, he lets go, before pulling those – limbs, fingers, hands, arms – towards him, tracing the patterns of the flesh, not a shell anymore, recognising the map of the body… smooth, creamy, porcelain. He can see clearer now, distinguishing her features, two eyes that conjured so many emotions, a flurry as always, noticing that even in darkness, even in light, her hair still has so many shades of yellow.
He can see the confusion written clearly in her eyes, twinkling with shock, flickers of doubt and uncertainly flashing occasionally. He can see her biting her lip, nervous as she was long ago, tearing off the petals, disbelieving the fact that he might be a dream, or at least her imagination… conjuring an image that looks like him.
She whispers his name.
He whispers hers.
(( you? ))
(( is it really… you? ))
He looks her into the eyes, his pale grey orbs reflecting the emotions that had been pent up. There is no need for words.
It doesn't matter if they're crying… the overflowing emotion pours out of them like a storm, the eye of it over.
I'm… here.
With you.
And he takes her, gently, with care and precision, into his shaking arms, both of them sobbing, her hitting his chest, murmuring "my musician"; him taking the beating, humming the word "princess", clutching her closer to him; her clinging on to him for dear life.
They have hearts. They can feel.
They are together.
Everything is as it should be.
Almost.
everything is coming back to
"Will you marry me?"
me, the true
(( he kisses her ))