Moments Zero, a kingdom hearts fanfic

A/N: This is my brainchild, the very first fanfic I'm publishing. It took many damn months to happen and it was written in all kinds situations, weather and moods. Nevertheless, I managed to write something I would read myself. Hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: This story contains love and sexual situations between two men, clinic depression and a bike that doesn't have breaks. Those kinds of bikes are awfully dangerous.

Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me, and I'm not making any profit whatsoever with this story. The occasional lyrics belong to their respective owners.

MOMENTS ZERO

Nobody's here. For now.

It was approximately 7 am, cloudy, chilly, overall quite fall-like outside. Hollow Bastion was wrapped in mist and opaque lights, wind shook yellow and orange leaves off the row-planted trees just behind the window of the closet Zexion dared to call his apartment when feeling optimistic.

The single good thing the closet featured, in Zexion's opinion, was the window. Or rather the windowsill, as the window itself was nothing special to cheer about. It was just wide enough to support a lean young man with his thoughts, endless coffee cups and books, and although spending time beside the fragile glass of an old building could cause a never-ending cycle of sicknesses (starting from an ordinary flu and gradually turning into a chronic flu, as the doctor had so helpfully diagnosed and then charged 150 munny from the consultation) there was no way Zexion would've given up for it.

For a man of reason and science, sometimes he did foolish things. What most people didn't know was that right there, leaning on that dirty, unhealthy window Zexion was thinking about love, poetry and commitment with his usual cup of café au lait warming his hands and an advanced differential calculus book heavy in his lap.

 Mathematics is always crucial.

The subject of his thoughts changed eventually.

Zexion closed his eyes and let the scent of warm milk coffee make him feel at least a little bit better. And maybe somewhat more real.

Solitude, Demyx thought, was underrated.

As a social, outgoing and easily approachable guy he had acquired lots and lots of good friends and acquaintances among the overall Hollow Bastion University student population. In a way, the happiest moments of his life happened when he was surrounded by his friends.

No one just seemed to… leave him alone even for a moment. And along with people talking to him hour after hour after hour without a moment's rest came the strangling feeling that made Demyx want to scream and hit something. Or throw up. Preferably throw up, since he wasn't a violent guy, hated fighting and all.

At those times he had to leave.

It wasn't as if he was acting like an ungrateful bastard for the sheer thrill of it, just walking away from the best party of the year or an intimate conversation with his troubled friend because he was bored or didn't care. At least for the most of the time, Demyx, although few were aware of it, was a firm supporter of freedom of choice and path. If he couldn't be free, he couldn't breathe.

And at that moment he was free, free and confident and blissfully alone on a rock that marked the line between the vast ocean (that smelled horribly like an oil leak) in front of him and the filthy, littered shore behind. The rock stayed pleasantly still and silent as Demyx corrected his sitting position, an electric blue helmet hanging from his wrist and slightly chilly southern wind carrying the smell of fresh air - something that Hollow Bastion lacked for most of the time.

Smiling contently at the peaceful landscape, Demyx began to hum: And as the frantic cries of seagulls started to fade for the evening, the blonde young man stayed on his rock, enjoying the last silent moments before he had to go.

At 11 pm, the wind had gone down, Hollow Bastion's air was as clear as it would get and it was freezing outside. Most people wouldn't have opted to take a stroll at that time, but Zexion wasn't like most people. People in general disgusted him. Not that he cared about the rest of the universe that much, either.

Zexion found the universe to be a bitch to care about. As long as he kept his focus on thinking about how the Milky Way was doing and whether there really was any extraterrestrial life around, he was fine. The galaxy was probably doing just peachy and aliens could be only his wishful thinking or not. Those things in particular didn't piss Zexion off at all.

When he shifted his focus on the universe in proportion of himself, however, he understood that what he actually understood was nothing at all, that he didn't matter in the huge scale any more than the neighbour's obnoxious dog and - though he considered himself as a particularly intelligent individual - was about as smart as the moss in his favourite coffee cup (which he had left in the sink some weeks ago and still hadn't bothered to wash).

That made the quiet student suddenly hate the universe's existence so much it physically hurt. He had to be worth something. And he was. At least that was what his psychiatrist told him from time to time.

Sometimes Zexion completely lost the point of it all. That's why the mug was still there in the sink, developing new societies every passing second.

Wandering around autumnal Hollow Bastion in a thin jacket wasn't necessarily the best idea he'd ever had. But maybe, just maybe, there was a shooting star nearby when he made a wish that all of it would change starting from his mental state to the universe's laws, which in his opinion were too logical to actually exist.

"Just remember, Zexion, you are the centre of your own universe."

It was quiet and Zexion felt like breathing, his gaze fixed upon the horizon and as he sat - and further on laid down - on the dirt road he felt like something inside him eased up for a moment.

And that was enough for a while.

On those rare occasions that Demyx had to hurry, he moved abnormally fast, no matter on which media or vehicle he did it.

Running? Fit to join the track team

Bus? You wouldn't believe.

Bicycle? Lightning speed.

So, in a way, it was only natural that when in a hurry, Demyx lacked the fine control he usually had on his bike when he rode through Hollow Bastion's narrow, busy streets. Speeding up does that, no biggie.

But after a sharp turn, too much speed, braking too late (it was almost midnight and oh shit she was going to kill him with a spoon… right from here, or was it left he was supposed to go, no, wait, waitwaitwait-) he was bound to change his opinion on 'no biggie' because -

(Who the fuck lays on a strand road? No, really, that's just moronic.)

- he was in shitloads of trouble.

You might mean it.

At 3 am, Zexion woke up in a hospital bed and didn't wonder at all where he was. It was ridiculously obvious anyway, since he'd passed out from pain that still dully agonized his ribs, not head trauma.

If Zexion had gotten the chance to look upon his life, the first thing he would've done was to laugh, laugh and laugh himself to death. Really, it was funny: The first time he felt like everything wasn't spiraling downwards like a staircase to fucking Hell for at least some minutes, someone ran over him. With a bike.

And if Zexion's memory served him right, it had been a light pink women's bike, even more of a depressingly laughable detail - he'd probably caused a heart attack to some well-meaning pretty blond little princess and was facing charges for lying on a street in the middle of an autumn night like a damn homeless social case.

Technically he was a social case already, but that was not the point. Also, he remembered being overrun by a guy with a pink bike.

The slate-haired young man sighed and concentrated on breathing and watching at the patterns of the depressingly low hospital ceiling. The pain wasn't as bad as it could've been, which meant he was probably on serious painkillers. It felt distant, somewhat uncomfortable, like an unwanted rock concert next door - more like a minor annoyance than real, excruciating ache.

Someone on his right snored, twitched, groaned and smelled disturbingly like pavement dust and soil, and Zexion, though he was quite far from a curious individual, turned his bored, blue gaze on the young man who would've been staring at the ceiling, too, had his eyes not been shut and his brain in a blissful state of slumber.

Zexion continued to stare the slightly drooling blond until thoughts came back and he found his attention already quite elsewhere.

'Bony', Demyx had thought when he'd seen the guy he had ran over with a bike on a hospital bed, attached to a monitor and a bag of good ol' NaCl and H₂O. 'Bony and pale.'

The poor, albeit eccentric bastard had thankfully drifted into a state of unconsciousness soon after finding out his skull hadn't cracked. Which Demyx has appreciated, since he seemed like a vicious - albeit eccentric - bastard when not in a pitiful state of pain-medication and infuse.

Apparently his appreciation hadn't been strong enough.

The bastard - Zexion, the name tag pronounced alongside with a social security number and other necessary information - had clearly forgotten to take his meds in a while. He used fancy-sounding, probably nonexistent words to describe exactly how much Demyx owned him and how "fatuous individuals like him should not in any circumstances be blessed with a motherfucking BIKE".

Demyx wondered how bike-motherfucking was supposed to work in real life, but decided not to say it aloud. He was too old for that.

Instead, he apologized. Promised to pay anything this Zexion guy wanted him to. Apologized again and said how sorry he was and he hadn't thought-

"Of course you didn't", Zexion sighed and in turn promised not to press any charges if Demyx paid him 1150 munny, 150 of which he could use to pay for the chronic flu genius doctor, 500 to cover his medical bills and 500 to feed him for several months.

To be perfectly honest, Demyx didn't know how anyone lived months with 500 munny and just why Zexion felt the need to verbally barf all the facts about his financial situation to him. He had felt uncomfortable under the hawk-like, yet somehow mellow cobalt gaze to begin with, but after finding out he was apparently dealing with some social case the discomfort had turned into slight panic.

He had to get out.

He ran.

Around something close to 11 am, when Zexion got home, safely, without this Demyx guy mentally bugging him with his stupid explanations and apologies, he lay down on his bathroom floor, despite of the ache that set in his ribs.

It had almost felt nice, talking to someone who wasn't analyzing his every move with medical terms, masking it quite excellently as compassion; or returning him essays or tests he didn't remember doing accompanied with the words "good work".

"Good work" had been Zexion's curse since kindergarten.

"Good work" left him on that bathroom floor to examine yet another ceiling, now with stronger pain and a small scout of silverfish slithering beside his head.

Next time Demyx allowed himself on a bike, he was making his way towards the apartment of the dude he had ran over with the said vehicle (which wasn't even his - the gearless, brakeless thing he'd inherited from a distant relative long, long time ago when his real, beautiful racing bike had been stolen).

The hard wind blew right through his scarf and made his neck feel cold, a strangling effect that just wouldn't go away. It was accompanied by big, fat water drops that fell from the sky like little needles, ready to pierce through clothe and skin and bones. Demyx shivered and pedaled faster, trying to occupy his mind to get his focus away from the cold.

Though Zexion had been a real ass when they'd had their talk about money, financials and everything, he had hit some sentimental nerve deep within Demyx that caused him to feel like shit until he got the chance to explain just why things had happened the way they did and how he really, really wanted to make it up. In a way, he was scared shitless by his own behavior: It was not like he had killed Zexion's closest relative or anything, he shouldn't care too much about strangers, this was ridiculous, things like this didn't happen to him.

It wasn't like him to be this torn about things this simple. Either he empathized or didn't give a fuck, sometimes life was black-and-white like that.

Demyx slowed down and stopped lying to himself altogether. He couldn't run - or cycle - from this for the second time as the sentimental nerve would probably haunt him if he tried.

Zexion opened his door without thinking, a bit dazed after reading some good seven hours without a pause and on a strong dose of codeine the doctor had prescribed him. When he saw the rain-moistened, pink face of the idiot who had run the world record from beside his hospital bed to somewhere - 'probably Turkmenistan', his slightly drugged brain suggested - he stared.

"My bike doesn't have brakes. It's a fixed-gear", the blond huffed and dared to look sheepish, wiggling a blue helmet in his hands.

Zexion chose not to answer and continued staring.

"... and I'm really sorry. Oh, it was my friend from the hospital that gave me your address, I said I needed it so I could pay you, hope you don't mind 'cause I kinda managed to drop my cell to the ocean so I couldn't call and anyway my phone bill's kinda super huge already and..."

At this point, Zexion really felt like saying something, anything, but somehow the words got stuck in his throat and he gurgled instead.

That caused something of an awkward silence. After another failed attempt to say anything coherent Zexion stepped back, motioned Demyx to follow and hoped the silverfish would keep away for at least fifteen minutes so that he could deal with this madness.

The closet - apartment, whatever people wanted to call it - was bare and dusty, the scarce personal belongings, books mostly, in haphazard piles around the mismatched furniture. Zexion was sure his guest would ask about the coffee cup. He'd always assumed people would ask about the coffee cup if they wandered too close to his place.

The face Demyx was making at his kitchen suggested that the question - or bile - was coming up.

"It's been there for three weeks", the slate-haired man muttered with a raw, unused voice and vaguely pointed at the sink. "The lack of domestic work can lead to scary results."

For some reason, the blond opted to ignore the possibility that Zexion's sink had developed into a known universe to billions of organisms and sat down on a brown, leather-covered beanbag, clearly weighting his options. When he hadn't spoken up or even slightly moved for a while, Zexion resumed his base at the window bay and focused his lazy attention back to the book, not bothered by the silence at all. To be honest, he felt almost drowsy.

After forty minutes or so, he woke up to the door shutting, but the warm comfort of a blanket stopped him from moving anywhere until he really had to.

Demyx wasn't completely sure why he came back, but he assumed it had something to do with pity, which he was sure Zexion didn't approve of.

Then again, it was hard for him to determine what the man would've approved of or not, since even at the best times he seemed almost psychotic. Or something. Nevertheless, not normal - normal people didn't leave (coffee?) mugs rotting in an unwashed sink and then draw attention to them. Demyx himself, though not a complete neat freak, at least had the decency to focus his visitors' looks away from the mess.

Zexion's whole apartment had seemed neglected, and clearly it was a sign of everything not being right. Which brought Demyx back to knock on his door at such an indecent time he was almost ashamed.

Only, he couldn't knock. He stared at the door, wondering why he hadn't gone straight home after practice, but run off here instead.

And he couldn't knock because, well, he didn't really want to.

Unfortunately the occupant of apartment number 34 - straight opposite Zexion's flat - apparently loved neighbor-stalking and also seemed to mind Demyx's almost one-hour marathon of door-watching, giving him the evil eye. The musician felt nervousness strangling his stomach while the neighbor continued to glare him from the doorframe, not saying anything, and eventually Demyx left, feeling strangely empty for not seeing Zexion.

Weird, that empathy.

Zexion didn't expect to see Demyx ever again and he could've lived with that just fine. And he did for days, as he didn't hear of the man aside from the 2000 munny he got sent one blistery afternoon with a curt, formal message attached to it.

But, very uncharacteristically, he didn't even try to forget about him.

That didn't make any sense at all.

There were certain aspects in Zexion that made him generally below average with socializing with other people. That is to say he was far from popular, he knew it and actually pursued it by being an ass to everyone who tried to befriend him, simply because he could, not being a huge fan of humanity. Oh, humanity.

Then Zexion's neighbor sent him a note to inform slash scold him about the "stalker punk that frequently visited his door in order to stare at it, but not knock it, and sigh a lot in a frustrated manner". Zexion took his pills way more often than his neighbor, so he wasn't really concerned about it, but started to wonder why Demyx would actually bother.

Since it couldn't be anyone but Demyx, assuming the occupant of number 34 hadn't fallen into psychosis again.

Finding Demyx and talking about it with the man was out of question, so Zexion did the only thing he logically could: Put together a plan to calculate a pattern to predict the frequency and possible timing of Demyx's visits. Since, and this is what Zexion never grew tired of telling himself, mathematics is always crucial.

Mathematics predicted everything.

III

Were you tired of it all

Demyx continued his freaky and slightly stalkerish dating with Zexion's door for about three weeks. Then one day, when he was about to leave – his friends had already started to suspect something wasn't right with his new 'acquaintance' – the door opened, unexpectedly, and revealed a bit more lively-looking Zexion peering over slightly scratched reading glasses.

"You're stirring up a doubt about government stratagems in my neighbor. Come in."

Remembering the neighbor of apartment 34, Demyx could do little but take the offer and follow Zexion to the single-roomed apartment, his sitar's weight heavily pressing his collarbone and leaving red marks that would probably annoy him later on.

Both of them seemed to refuse to start a conversation about, well, anything, so Demyx sought distraction from anywhere, settling on the only window of the room. It took almost half of a whole wall, showing an average view over a standard Hollow Bastion patio and some trees, and the windowsill was covered in notes and calculations of extremely advanced mathematics, as well as used coffee cups and a half-eaten cheese sandwich, which seemed to be the only food-item in the whole apartment.

"You study math, huh?" Demyx asked and picked up a notebook full of messily written symbols and numbers.

Zexion shrugged and took his glasses off. "I study a bit of everything, really. English is my major but I don't find it necessary to limit myself to it completely."

"Uh-huh", Demyx answered, unsure of himself, and let his eyes roam over the integrals and vectors, of which he didn't understand anything about. "I wouldn't have time for that even if I had been accepted in any university."

The slate-haired man didn't seem all that interested in Demyx's failure in the academic career, but took a washed-looking mug from the cabinet and waved it idly. "Coffee?"

"Um, yes please?"

"I'm afraid I'm out of milk or cream."

"That's fine."

"Sugar?"

"If you have."

"I'm not sure."

"Are we having a bullshit conversation about coffee or do you think I'm a stalker freak?"

"I believe... both."

"Brilliant."

Zexion poured two mugfuls of somewhat lukewarm coffee, added sugar to the other and gave it to Demyx. "I'm not going to lie to you: I find it very odd that you came back. So why?"

Demyx took off his jacket and placed his bag and sitar below the windowsill carefully before warming his hands around the not-so-hot mug. "I dunno. Guess it was one of those wacky guilt things, 'cause you didn't seem to accept my apology or something. I'm not a psychologist, so the rest really beats me."

When Zexion failed to answer anything, his focus concentrated on the coffee, the musician continued on: "I feel really bad, you know. It's a wonder you didn't sue me or anything, though you were laying on a road, you know?" The silence that ensued made Demyx anxious.

"You didn't brake", Zexion finally said in a low tone. "And you were cycling very fast." He finally looked the blond in the eye with a blazing gaze that made him seem oddly alive – Demyx hadn't been really sure whether the guy really existed, but now it seemed he did. "So you can't lay the blame completely on me."

"Yeah, and I'm sorry."

"Accepted."

"Good."

They both raised their respective mugs in a mockery toast and downed the contents - the strength of the coffee so intense Demyx's eyes watered and he could've sworn his head exploded a little.

Zexion seemed pleased.

He couldn't figure Demyx out all that easily - that's what made it interesting. The blond certainly wasn't trying to measure him in any cognitive way, force him to talk about his relationship with his mother or try to gain further knowledge about his logical, linguistic and social abilities.

Thus, he wasn't sure how to act. He'd done absolute shit in the social ability and ethics test.

Zexion had sat on his windowsill and listened to Demyx's slightly awkward monologue about pretty much nothing until the other man had checked the time and cried out in surprise about someone – a 'she' – possibly murdering him in his bed. That had happened four days ago and, though Zexion dutifully checked the hallway at those times his calculations suggested Demyx could appear, he didn't see any sign of the man.

Strangely, Zexion didn't worry all that much, as he was sure they'd meet again.

The slate-haired student smiled for the first time in a while as, on the fifth day, his door was hesitantly knocked. His calculations didn't have the tendency to be wrong.

Feeling a little warmer – the lack of fortune had caused brutal re-prioritizing in his housekeeping and the heat had been cut off, which was a kind way of saying he was fucking broke and on top of that forgotten about the damn bill – Zexion opened the door to see somewhat lost-looking Demyx with a carton box in his hands.

"May I come in?" the blond asked.

Zexion settled for nodding slowly.

Shuddering at the cold room, Demyx made his way on the cramped kitchen counter and dug a small pie from the box. "Um. I thought you didn't really seem to have all that much food when I last visited so I brought this."

"... oh", the student answered and stared at the pie. "Thank you, I guess. You didn't have to."

"I did", Demyx said quietly and eyed the pile of small pill bottles with Zexion's name in them. Luckily he didn't seem all that interested to find out about dark secret illnesses or anything, and resumed to cut two generous pieces of the pie. When he turned to hand Zexion the larger portion, something in the other man's eyes challenged him in a staring competition.

Zexion knew Demyx wouldn't decline. Zexion was also very right.

They held eye-contact as they ate, neither of them feeling like laughing or even smiling, so nobody had won by the time Zexion scooped the last bit of raspberry jam from his plate.

Nobody had won after three hours of intensive staring, until Demyx asked Zexion if this made them friends.

How do you feel about the universe?

The question came out of nowhere and Demyx had no answer. So he had to make one up.

"Well, um. It's big?"

Zexion snorted and adjusted his hold on the huge, black umbrella that sheltered him from the blowing rain. "Quite."

They didn't talk much, which never really bothered Demyx. Although Zexion had proved his capability of talking about things he himself was interested in – like the role of pensionary-aged women in Soviet Russia – for hours, they rarely held any deep or informative discussions, and proceeded to either preoccupy themselves with their respective pastimes in Zexion's flat or go wander around Hollow Bastion aimlessly.

Which was exactly what they were doing right then.

"I mean, I don't really get these overly huge or small things like space and atoms, you know? They just kinda make me anxious, I never get the part where something goes on forever or expands without any limits or is infinite. Guess I haven't got the smarts." Demyx smirked half-heartedly and watched as Zexion fought with his umbrella. The guy was graceful but holding an umbrella on such a day was far from eloquent; To be honest it resembled a Struggle match of some sort and Demyx felt a bang of nostalgia even thinking about those days as the kid who just couldn't beat his friends unless highly tempted.

It was funny. The whole thing, it was hilarious in its own way.

Zexion was the sort of guy who didn't really have anything common with Demyx's kind. And it was fine. It didn't stop Demyx from knocking on Zexion's door once or twice a week and just relax for a moment from his otherwise socially hectic life. He actually sometimes looked forward for it.

(It had been going on for months and he'd never seen even a trace of anyone else in Zexion's life. Anyone.)

Zexion looked somewhat troubled for a moment and then responded: "Yes, I think I know what you mean."

He told Demyx exactly three months after the blond had appeared on his doorway, while the sitar's music slowly filled his single-room apartment. It was already snowing outside, and although nothing stayed exactly pristine white in such a big city, it made Zexion feel like Hollow Bastion was just a little bit brighter.

Demyx hunched over his instrument, smiled uncertainly and nodded.

A lot brighter.

While driving back to is own flat, Demyx didn't think much. There was nothing to think about, his mp3 player was filled with new songs he was dying to learn to play and streets were delightfully molten.

When he got home... well.

Demyx decided to do the dishes and remember.

Apparently, Demyx had thought about the universe question, because he produced a difficult question of his own.

What did you fear the most when you were a kid?

Zexion, residing in his usual spot on the windowsill, abruptly stopped the coffee mug he was about to sip from. Demyx continued to write something in a little blue notebook he always carried around, as if he didn't notice he had just managed to startle the one person who didn't know how to deal with him.

"What makes you think I was frightened by anything in particular?"

"Come on, every kid's freaked out by something."

Zexion sent a glare at Demyx and took a sip from the mug the blond had brought him a few days earlier – and disposed of the one in the sink. "I can't remember."

The musician raised his eyebrows and put the notebook aside. "You have a good memory. Anyway, it was a simple question and I'm not your shrink or anything so fine, you don't have to answer." He looked at Zexion and smiled cheerfully.

Zexion didn't see any reason to return the smile. "Silverfish."

"What?"

"I was afraid of silverfish."

"You mean those little bugs your bathroom is kinda filled with?"

Zexion nodded slowly and looked out of the window. "I've never been fond of insects, but the way they specifically move is disgusting." He was aware of Demyx standing up and coming to see what was happening outside.

"They're putting up the Christmas lights", the blond said, sounding excited.

The chipper tone made something lighten in Zexion's chest. "Seems like it." The silence between them grew, until he finally managed to ask what Demyx would like to have for Christmas.

It was Demyx's turn to get baffled. "Me? Well, I don't need anything, really."

Zexion stared at him. "Alright. Good thing I asked then, because-", he started, but refrained from continuing when he saw Demyx's face. "... maybe I'll figure out something."

Your soul will stay the same.

For Demyx, everything was alright. Christmas was coming, he had a new, shiny job, he'd finally managed to find a somewhat common note with Zexion and his friends had stopped guessing where he went once or twice a week without any warning whatsoever.

Then Zexion's chronic, not to mention extremely annoying, flu turned into pneumonia and Demyx's anxiety levels came soaring up.

The man hadn't actually gotten around to leave for the hospital himself, so the blond musician was faced with what seemed to be an intelligent zombie when Zexion opened the door, coughing softly and looking just as grey as he probably felt.

Demyx didn't really know what to say.

(So he didn't, at least to Zexion. He called an ambulance instead, as his bike wasn't really designed to carry sick people around the town when it was snowing heavy flakes outside and just driving any bike at all was considered suicidal.)

And when Zexion was sound asleep on a hospital bed – looking maybe even more fragile and pale than he had the first time this scenario had happened – Demyx closed his eyes and let himself relax in relief.

He wouldn't do it now either. He wouldn't run away.

Demyx smiled and opened his eyes to examine Zexion's sleeping face. The man, when you saw past the greyish tint on his skin and deep shadows under is eyes, had certain, almost attractive boyish dignity, though it was clear his life was a mess, what with all the pill bottles, sicknesses and coffee cups full of old coffee and mold.

It was given that Demyx still had guilt problems. But what surprised even himself was the affection.

Staying in the hospital, again, was one of the most boring things he had to go through.

Demyx wasn't anywhere to be found or summoned – it was funny how Zexion had just always relied on the man to show up and not ask for a phone number or address or anything, not like him at all – so he couldn't get his books, and the hospital staff was most unhelpful with the subject of keeping him at least somewhat entertained.

That meant he had to rely on his imagination. Never a good sign.

Zexion thought a lot. He actually thought and wallowed inside his own head so much it wasn't considered healthy anymore, but there was nothing that could prevent it from happening, and truth to be told, Zexion felt very secure when his consciousness was wrapped around itself. Sure, it prevented him from getting too familiar with the art of socializing, but if he gave a damn, it didn't show anywhere.

Demyx, though, was the exception to the rule, since every rule needed one.

Had Zexion been one of those sappy teenage self-proclaimed poets, he probably would've described Demyx as the ray on light and hope in the darkness that was his life and past, as the only subject of joy and happiness in the black void of depression and apathy.

Or then he could stop lying to himself and admit that Demyx, as loud and invading as he could be, was quite a nice man and Zexion thought he was totally hot and apparently was at least a bit infatuated with him.

There, he admitted it. Without purple prose.

Zexion turned around in his hospital bed and tried to smother himself with a pillow.

When Demyx started to talk to her about his situation with anxiety and running away and general exhaustion, the subject of Zexion came up. She reacted understandingly (she always did that and made Demyx feel horrible, because she could take anything from him and try to understand), worry about a man she'd never even met apparent in her eyes and a dozen questions ready.

She was just too sweet and perfect to be there for him and it made Demyx almost hate himself.

He told her everything he knew, conscious about the fact that Zexion probably wouldn't be thankful about this nor approve it in any way, but he needed guidance and she was the most understanding and gentle and wise of all the numerous people he knew.

"There's really nothing you can do but to be there for him, Demyx."

Oh, and he knew the irony.

Things returned to their relative normalcy that was Demyx appearing irregularly behind his door and Zexion himself trying to scrape his life back together.

Well, not quite.

The blond started to visit a whole lot more often, to help him out with paying bills and cleaning up an everything: and Zexion didn't know what to think, since it made him real and not a proof that the slate-haired man was indeed more disturbed than anyone could've guessed.

And one day, after Demyx had left with a cheerful promise that he would come back in a few days, Zexion lay down on his bathroom floor, smelling the various chemicals that had been used to polish his tiles, and noticed there was no silverfish in sight.

It seemed to grow on him, smiling.

In March, when Demyx thought Zexion had started to improve a lot and they were gaining trust in each other, the slate-haired man kissed him.

Demyx ran.

It kind of makes me very happy.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He'd screwed it up. He always screwed bloody everything up. Always.

Sometimes Zexion could've sworn he saw Demyx outside his house, looking at the wide window and through it, but in the next blink he was gone and finally a proof that his imagination had won. And in a sad way, Zexion was glad.

At least his love wasn't real.

Demyx had no idea what to do, but after a while he found himself cycling towards Zexion's flat anyway, cursing his own stupidity and Zexion's habit to randomly do things that really didn't make sense until he bothered to explain.

Not that Demyx had given him too much time to explain, which made him feel horrible, but Zexion hadn't seemed too fond of him. Then again, Zexion didn't seem to be too fond of anything else than learning and coffee.

He'd told her. She'd smacked him, treated him a cold shoulder for a while and told him to grow up.

So the first thing he said to shocked and quite tired-looking Zexion was: "My sister, she totally thinks I should take responsibility or something, so... this is me taking responsibility." Then he pushed a plastic bag full of coffee towards the student.

Zexion, for the lack of a more eloquent way to respond, seemed even more puzzled and took the bag. "Thank you, I guess." He didn't move out of the way, but immediately shut down when he seemed to realize what was going on. "You did not have to."

Demyx seemed uneasy.

"I dunno, I reacted pretty badly and really want to make it up to you. I mean, I don't care if you're gay or something, you just totally surprised me-" He cut down the ramble when he saw the blank look Zexion was giving him. "I'm sorry."

"Accepted."

"... you always accept everything."

Zexion sighed. "I don't have the patience to start fighting with you over minor things like this."

They stood uncomfortably on the doorway, Demyx vaguely afraid that the scary neighbour would start with the stalking again, when he heard himself asking: "What kinda power is knowledge, really? I mean, if you know enough shit to win a million in a TV show, how does that make you better?" Zexion's expression softened and he shrugged.

"Not everyone wins a million, but winning a battle without knowledge relies too heavily on strength."

Sometimes, when Demyx seemed to think he wasn't looking, Zexion caught the blond musician staring at him intensively, hints of curiousness written on his features. He treasured those moments, as they made him feel warm, giddy and just a little bit hopeful.

He didn't expect anything. That was for the best and, as Zexion had learned, a pessimist is never disappointed. But hope was not expecting anything, per se, it was just... hope.

Zexion knew Demyx wouldn't come over that day, so he brewed enough coffee to suit himself and then sat on his windowsill, a book in his lap and rays of spring sunshine warming the cold arm that was squeezed against the chilly, misty window.

He had gained weight. His hair was growing faster. Sometimes, he fell asleep without pills.

Sometimes, he caught himself fantasizing.

To make matters worse, Zexion wasn't sure just what to make of those absurd moments when he had to face Demyx after thinking about all the possible interpretations to his dreams of having the blond tied up and writhing in pleasure as Zexion bit bruises on that body...

... no, there weren't too many interpretations, to be perfectly honest. But it was disconcerting and sometimes, sometimes Zexion was sure Demyx could read his mind.

And that was way beyond disconcerting.

Sometimes, Demyx had the feeling he understood Zexion even a little bit too well. Mostly when the slate-haired man planned his actions carefully so that he didn't touch Demyx in any way that had the slightest chance to insult the personal space of a nun.

That both interested and infuriated the musician and one day he was going to say something about it.

Not that day, though, because on that day it was mostly interesting.

It was almost summer, and they had returned to the beach to sit on the same large rock Demyx wrote most of his songs on. The sky was mostly orange and peach with some carefully added violet staining it and, well, they had been sitting there for hours already, passing a bottle of red wine between them.

"Is it morning already?" Zexion asked lazily.

Demyx shrugged and yawned. "Seems like it."

"Should we get back?"

"Nah. Not just yet."

Two raised eyebrows. Demyx thought it was quite cute that Zexion couldn't lift one at a time. "Your sister will get mad again."

"She's not in town."

Zexion grinned and leaned back to lie on the rock, his head upside down while Demyx took a swing of the mostly empty bottle. They didn't speak or move for a while – Demyx started to hum, though – before Zexion broke the silence.

"You know that I love you, right?"

"Yup."

"And it doesn't bother you?"

"... nah."

It was getting too weird to understand, but Zexion decided not to care – except that he did – because, and this is what he told himself, things were as good as they would ever become and he didn't need anything more. Except that he did, but didn't ask.

He was washing dishes when Demyx proved that no, he didn't have to ask.

"I've been thinking about infinity and it still doesn't make sense but... you know, it doesn't have to."

Demyx was scared of the impact he had on Zexion. There was something slightly frightening in the way the usually extremely cautious man dropped every defence he held up and just trusted him to do the right thing; And it captured him, took away some of the freedom he'd been so eager to have.

But it was captivating, too.

Zexion answered clumsily to his touches, as if he wasn't sure if this was really happening or not, but answered nevertheless, kissed him carefully and Demyx knew he couldn't stop even if he ever wanted to.

The still way too thin body beneath him stayed still, although it was clear Zexion was holding back for some reason. He told the man not to, bit down to cause a small bruise on that pale neck, removed a shirt slowly and smiled, smiled all the way. He felt strangely alive around Zexion, and even more like this, sweaty and aroused in the apartment while the Sun continued to roast everything outside alive.

Demyx ran his hands on Zexion's bared thighs and enjoyed the impatient gasps he drew from his partner, saw the scolding look those cobalt eyes sent him.

Could you be bothered to hurry the fuck up?

He was happy to oblige.

It was still somewhat unclear to him – not to mention to the guy drawing shaky breaths under his body – whether he was doing this because of their friendship or because he truly loved Zexion. Demyx wasn't introspective like that: In essence, if it wasn't at war with his morals, he usually took the nonchalant opinion.

When Zexion bit down his shoulder to stifle the groan of discomfort, Demyx was starting to get the idea.

When Zexion scratched deep marks into his back, Demyx knew.

It was approximately 7 am and his bed was snoring.

Zexion sat on his windowsill with a cup and a book, just watched as the blond man roll and toss around, grunting each time he didn't seem to be pleased with his current position, and thought about the fall that was slowly painting the trees yellow, brown and red.

Again, his thoughts ended up spinning around love, poetry, commitment. But also his new job at a research team, the possibility of moving into a larger apartment, maybe getting a new coffee maker while was at it and had time and energy to earn funds. And Demyx.

He sipped his milky and overly sweet coffee and chuckled. Yeah.

Zexion was real, after all.