Naminé lives in her pictures, not her words. For a very long time, she has seen very little meaning in words. A voice is different - voices do matter, the way they fluctuate and inflect and have a sense of knowledge and familiarity in them. But Naminé could do without the words they say.
The sad thing about words, though, is that there is yet no suitable alternative to them in terms of communication.
So, Naminé uses words when she is made to deal with others. But she uses them sparingly, out of habit for a large number of reasons - and, amongst the Organization, she speaks only when she is spoken to.
It's for this reason that one day, the Flurry of Dancing Flames takes it upon himself to remark to her what they have all thought about her at some point in time:
"You're quiet."
Naminé's eyelashes flutter heavily over cloudy irises of forget-me-not blue, curtaining her view of the picture coming to life in the sketchpad on her lap. "No I'm not," she counters softly, because she knows Axel is the only one who will take her disagreement without offense, without some punishment of her person.
His brows arch high over the hollows that house those suspiciously empty green eyes. "You don't think so?" he presses, not without a lightly patronizing note to his tone.
She inclines her head to look him in the eye, something she will not do for the likes of turncoats like Marluxia and Larxene. Then she looks around, at the pictures on the walls, the pictures on the floor, the varying degrees of color and completion and complexity among them. "I don't," she affirms at length.
He follows her gaze with the lazy curiosity of a feline, like he's expecting to discover something she's keeping hidden. "Well, you don't exactly speak a lot," he points out, eying her with what might be scrutiny. "You wouldn't consider that quiet?"
She looks back to him, making sure to meet his gaze before shaking her head, as this is a better alternative to spending more words on him. "I just think we're speaking different languages," states Naminé, perhaps the longest sentence she's spoken of her own accord to any of the Organization.
His head rotates to take in the scattered array of illustrations once more. If he's perplexed about what she means, he hides it well as he absorbs the visuals of people, worlds, memories. When his attentions return to her, they make eye contact again. Naminé thinks he is not perplexed; has not been since she explained herself in so few words.
His lips quirk in remembrance of amusement. "I think I get it," he finally says to her.
Whether he really does or not, Naminé isn't sure.
He's certainly the closest out of all of them to understanding, though, by mere virtue of actually listening to her sparse words.
So, in lieu of elaboration, she offers him a faint smile. It's the least she can do, she thinks.
A/N: the alternate (and original) title for this: "in which the author repents for her sins of fanfictions past". but i didn't think that was appropriate, even if it is quite true. i have to say i have pretty much moved on from the Axel/Naminé pairing, and i have deeply-rooted shame and dislike invested in my old fics for the pairing, so this is basically my way of proving i can do it right, without gimmicks and shoddy characterization. i've only left the fics up for the people that happen to enjoy them (and i suppose to remind myself in a masochistic way how far i've come). tl;dr, my ramblings aside, this will probably be the last Axel/Naminé piece i write unless i get massive inspiration, which i probably won't. apologies for babbling about stuff you guys probably don't care about, and thank you very much for reading.
