Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to Squeenix.
Warnings: AAAANNGST. That's about it. Suitable for children.
I wanted to write angst. It comes like this sometimes. I realize this is not my best work. It is a one-shot, and I realize that too. I'm not too keen on editing this. It's kinda like a scrap, you know? But I haven't uploaded anything in a while, so there's this. So enjoy or something.
He closed his eyes.
He had been sitting here, in the dark, for almost a week. He hadn't slept; he didn't need to anymore. Sleeping had become a pleasure for him, no longer necessary, and there was no pleasure left anymore. He still cried; he couldn't explain it, and neither could the others, but he still cried. And he had been crying here, in the dark, for almost a week.
The others learned the tune quickly. It came drafting out of his room window the very first day, and the rain soon followed. It hadn't stopped raining for six days, and neither had the music. He sat in the dark with nothing but the cool sound of the notes and rhythms to soothe the aching emptiness inside of him. And he wept.
He had no visitors since that day. He couldn't decide whether or not he preferred it that way. He had often been the most outgoing, or the most extroverted . . . even the most friendly. When he was told, he went straight back to his room. He closed the door, locked it, and sat on the floor. He hadn't moved, and the door never budged, not even with the vibration of footsteps. Nobody.
He didn't know how he felt, or even if he felt at all. What is an illusion, he would often ask himself, and what is real? Is any of this real . . . or not? It plagued him, and his mind never slept. His life, or half-life, was nothing but a collection of fallacies and false dreams. He could never be sure of anything now, not even of his own existence. Or half existence, as he would remind himself, sitting in the dark.
The stench of dried blood clung to his fingers, his hands, and his mind. The steel of the instrument in his lap matched the cold he had felt since the blood drained from his face and body that day. The skin was raw from continuously strumming and keeping the song going, but he didn't believe he could feel it anymore. He didn't know if he'd ever felt anything at all.
Criieeack.
His eyes shot open, but his fingers never stopped. Someone was coming, maybe Death, but he didn't care. The comforting sound of the notes in the air was all he heard until the knock reverberated off of the walls and into his skull. The music stopped, and the door opened. He caught the running boy as he fell right in his chest. They cried together, and the rain stopped.
"I guess it's time, huh?" he said.
"Yeah," the visitor said and sniffled, handing him the key. He stood up to leave, then turned back. "Hey Demyx. . . . ?"
"Yeah, Roxas?"
"You want to maybe go for a walk?"
"That sounds nice," Demyx replied as he stood up, his joints cracking and stiffening from the many days they had not been in service. He tried to smile, but it came out half-twisted and insincere. He didn't really want to smile, not yet. He went to close the window and looked up at the clouds that would never dissipate from this half-world, which seemed to form a face. Or maybe it was an illusion of the face he had lost, smiling down on him. No, he thought, it's not time to smile yet.
By the by, I had Zexion in mind when writing this. Yes, I am a whole-hearted Zemyx shipper. Deal with it.
