drop dead, gorgeous, a kingdom hearts fanfic

A/N: This is a threeshot. As in, a story in three parts. This will not have more than three parts, or three more. This is because it would be far, far too long to put all three perspectives into one piece and expect you not to grow tired of it. And anyways, I rather like it like this.

Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts. Nor do I own the song this is garnered from, "I know I Know I Know" by Tegan and Sara, or the title, which alludes to the oh-so-cool band Drop Dead, Gorgeous. Or that one line, which is from Search the City's "Son of a Gun".

I. i know i know i know: larxene

for heaven's sake, i see right through you.

First impressions aren't worth anything. It's stupid that anyone would base their impression of someone on anything they see. Because they wear a three-piece suit and part their hair to the side, they must be a well-rounded person. The human mind can't comprehend them beating their wives or running cockfights or stabbing their brothers. It's under heard of. It's absolutely absurd.

Absurd, actually, is what this is. This…boring system of this person must be that and must do this because she wears that purse with those shoes, and honestly, what could be wrong with her?

Namine had put her hand on your back, tapping her fingers against your spine until you turned around, fixing your mouth to form a coherent sentence. You nearly tripped over yourself, and smiled, "Hi, I'm—"

Your lips turned upwards like you might've smiled again, but lo and behold, your salutations were covered in vomit.

Fast forward to the next hour, where you're sputtering and crying in the doorway, forgetting to apologize and whining about your ex-boyfriend. He's gay, you told me. I mean, seriously. What the hell is going on, that he decides after two years that he's gay?

I remind you that I don't care.

You sniff, drawing mucus up your nose. Push me aside from where I'm washing off my sneakers in the sink and stare at yourself in the mirror. Pull your hair and say mournfully, "Do you think I'm pretty?"

"I don't think you're anything, Red. Get out of my face."

But you kept getting closer, and I could smell the Heineken from a foot away—it clung to your good-girl sweater, lodged itself in your hair and refused to retreat. You looked at me, and repeated, "Do you think I'm cute? I mean, I must be pretty ugly to make a boy gay." And you don't look like any sort of beautiful right now, honestly. Your hair's matted to the side, your shirt is too small and too low to possibly hold anything up, and your lipstick is smeared to one side and I open my mouth to tell you that you're Exhibit A of what parents don't want their kids to become, but I just thought stupidly

pretty

"Get out of my face, Red. I'm not gonna tell you again."

Fast forward to maybe four hours later, maybe not, it's hard to tell when you've got enough alcohol in your system and the world's spinning too fast as it is. We're up on Namine's roof, me and Axel and you and some other boy who's name I don't remember but I distinctly remember the way his lap feels. Axel's sleeping by the chimney, legs dangling over the edge—he looks like he might fall, but there's an emergency trampoline right below him; he'll be alright.

Maybe.

Namine's lounging over by the opposite edge, swinging her feet and dropping shingles onto the dirt. The boy next to her alternates between making her laugh and feeling her up, not that she minds. Or maybe she does, but doesn't feel like pushing him away. She's smashed, but not that smashed. If she needs to, she can push him off the side of the roof.

And then there's you.

You, with your stupid hair and your large eyes and your beer and your cigarette that's about to fall out of your mouth. You blew smoke into the wind and said, "Wanna make a wish-promise?"

"No."

"Okay, so this is how you do it." You continued, gesturing wildly. The cigarette collapsed on the pavement below. You stood up, stretched out your arms, and released a scream so loud that Namine's boy toy jolted and slid down a few shingles.

"I AM KAIRI, HEAR ME ROAR! AND THIS, DEAR UNIVERSE, IS MY MANIFESTO!" You suck in your breath so hard that you cough, wobble backwards, try to regain your balance. "I REFUSE TO BE STEPPED ON! I AM NOT WHAT IS BURRIED UNDERNEATH; I AM THE MAIN INGREDIENT OF WHAT CAN BE!"

You looked like you were close to crying. Mascara dribbled down your baby-cheeks, and you bent over at the waist. Almost tired. Almost feeling flat-out stupid. Almost down.

And I don't know if it's the booze or the pot or what, but I grab your hand and scream over you, "I AM LARXENE, HEAR ME ROAR! AND THIS, DEAR UNIVERSE, IS MY MANIFESTO!" We breathe in sync, we wobble dangerously. Almost scared. Almost in trouble. Almost delirious. " I REFUSE TO RUN! I REFUSE TO BE IGNORED!"

My make-up's running, but I'm not crying. I never cry. I never cry.

It's definitely the booze talking when I turn to you and gasp, "I don't think you're ugly."

You pressed your forehead to mine and said, "I know, I know, I know."

I can't remember your name in the morning. I can't remember anything we said or did, but I can remember (kinda) your face, the way you shape your mouth. Just you, waking up with the sheets twisted around you in a bed that's not ours, with me. Digging your face into my collarbone and mumbling, "I think I'm gay for you. Sorry, but I don't remember jack about last night."

I shrug. "Ask me if I care."

"Do you?" Giggles.

"No."

You roll over; place your sharp elbows on my stomach. "I think I like you. I think I like you a lot. Not 'cause you're nice or anything—'cause you're prickly, Larxene, you're like a, a, a, lemon or something. But I dunno, I like it. Or I don't mind. One of those."

"Why, thank you, dear. I'm honored that you hold me in such high esteem."

You laughed. "Conceited, aren't you?"

I grinned, pressed my lips to her forehead. "I know, I know, I know."

You said you loved me on October sixth, at 2:59 p.m. We were stretching out in Namine's backyard, backs balanced against the porch and feet in the pool. You turned to the side, slid down your sunglasses and whispered, "I love you."

I looked at the sky (blue, like your eyes, like your swimsuit, like the kind of color your heart would be if I could hold it in my hands) and muttered back, "IknowIknowIknow."

You left at precisely 7:45 a.m., bags packed and ready to go. You hesitated at the door, fidgeting in your work ensemble. You fiddled with your tie and said, "It's not like I'm picking this over you."

You sighed, "You don't have to be so childish."

You screamed, "This is your fault, anyways!"

Finally, you muttered, "It's not anything big. It'll be like I was never here."

I tilted my head towards the window, hand on my cocked hip. I smiled and reminded you to lock the door behind you.

You whispered, "I don't still not love you."

I bit my tongue. IknowIknowIknow.