Undertone
The main sounds are what you hear. The main sounds are what you take in, what you take for granted and what you don't even come close to cherishing. You focus on the whole; the basic, simple, overtone. You, you're an overtone; you're loud, bold, unafraid to get into trouble- you're an overtone. You're a flame; a beacon of light that drowns out the stars. You're a controller.
So what does that make me? I'm a whisper; a dark, sad, quiet whisper. You don't hear me- you can't see me. Quiet, fading, simple, passive-aggressive, barely-there me.
Sometimes I imagine your face if I left- If I wasn't complementing the rashness or holding you back just enough so that you wouldn't get killed. After all, what is a brook without the whispering stones to make it babble? What is a gust of wind in the autumn without the crinkling of dead, spent leaves? What is… What is illusion of a heart for an overtone without the undertone to complete the circuit?
Sometimes I think I'm filled with ice, more so than Vexen ever will be. Sometimes, I hear the soft, mourning cries of the waves as Demyx plays his sitar, his head up and eyes inquisitive as the soft, grinding growl of the sand protests against the waves. All you hear is the plucking of the strings, the caw of the occasional seagull. It makes me wonder if I'm needed here; the thinking pest; the quiet, inefficient, useless Keyblade wielder.
Even as I sit, ineffective, still as stone, I listen. I hear the hissing and jumping under your main voice, the heated anger accentuating your speech and making your gloves glisten as you clench your fists. How angry you are; how pathetically sad you seem to be. Under the anger, there's a desperation that spills out urgent stabs of pain between the hisses; Don't leave me, I'm begging you.
And the cadence slowly fades as your hissing, throbbing, pained voice rumbles back into your throat.
-oooo-oooo-
I tried to leave as you wouldn't realize; a whisper fading into the screams and pleas of the pouring rain. But I suppose my threat to leave taught you to listen. And the thing that scares me most about leaving; is even when you're trying to stop me from leaving… There is flatness. The undertone has already gone.
…And, my beautiful, hapless, crazy fire wielder, you are empty.