Eine kleine Nachtmusik Chapter 1, a kingdom hearts fanfic

Kingdom Hearts belongs to Square Enix and Disney. Direct quotes belong to their authors. Mentioned books, music, films, and props belong to their respective owners, unless I've made them up. The future of America belongs to the young people of this country. How about we decide not to screw it up, okay?

Obviously, this is an AU. It's also a slightly different world from our own; Disney just doesn't exist. Final Fantasy and the books which inspired the Disney movies don't exist either. Thus, the video game Kingdom Hearts doesn't exist. I tried to match the monetary system from Kingdom Hearts, which is why prices might seem wonky. Oh, and McDonald's doesn't exist either. Because. Ew Each part is a different state of mind, a different kind of vision - don't expect complete consistency (or coherency). Her brain is never in the same place, even when it is. Also, I hate Zemyx with a passion. It wrote itself in here anyway. I apologize.

Dedications: ironyofalostkeyword. You mean more to me than you probably know. And you're also awesome, so there. And Versace Frolic. She's probably not reading this - Larxene, and all. But just in case: I blame you, dear one, for the posting of this fic. Stop doing that thing where you say stuff that makes sense. It's bad for my resolve.

Eine kleine Nachtmusik

Roxas kicks you awake and Axel laughs when you fall off the bed. You just shrug and say, "Love you too, douchebag," because you know something's wrong and Roxas is looking for a physical fight.

You're not going to give him the satisfaction.

"You're operating under a rather alarming misconception," he tells you, and it's kind of funny because he got that from you. So you laugh and you're surprised when he laughs and as always, you're surprised by the thick purple ribbons connecting you. It's probably not right that you have them, but after everything...

And besides, nobody cares, except perhaps Axel because Roxas isn't in love with him. But love is hard to come by and he gets what he needs, so you're not surprised he never complains.

They stare and you stare a little too long and you have no idea why Roxas' face contorts unpleasantly when he asks, "Remember that time when we were kids and-"

"No," you say, because you're almost positive you don't. You don't remember much about Before and it's not like it even matters anyway. You might've just said no on principle. "Let's go to McDuck's."

You rarely go out with them; and you've only been to the small burger joint twice in your life. Roxas looks at you like you're from another planet and Axel looks at you like you're an idiot, and you're too used to these looks to be too terribly bothered. You are an idiot and sometimes it feels like you're from another planet anyway. You speak the same language, but finer nuances escape you, whoosh over your head like airplanes. You dance to technoclassics because Beethoven is so much fuller, so much wiser than the five-synth they play in second-rate clubs in this town. The Dungeon dance floor is your stomping ground because you feel at home amidst double-pumped Prokofiev and chains and pain and the beautiful grey-green sound of screams in the Underground – freaks like you go there to provide for freaks like them.

For a fee, which is why you live with Roxas and Axel in a two-bedroom duplex instead of in the Alleyway like before. What a nightmare that was.

"Larx," you hear, and you irritably bat at Axel's snapping fingers in front of your face. You space out too much. Miss too much.

"What?"

"I thought we were going to McDuck's."

You kick Roxas in the shin – payback for his method of waking you from a rare bout of sleep – and shrug delicately. It's nice that you can be sweet and still be utterly terrifying. Being bitchy all the time would get exhausting. "We'll go as soon as you asses get the fuck out of my room," you say, and then you wish you hadn't. You start to suffocate in the density of sudden emptiness as soon as the door shuts.

Calm down, Larxene, you tell yourself. Count to ten. Piss-soaked white silence won't kill you. They're just outside the door.

You don't much like people, but you hate being alone.

It doesn't take much time to shake your way into a little black skirt and pull on those thigh-high boots you're so fond of, but you spend almost three minutes searching for your Organization coat – the only major-label clothing you own. It was lying across the foot of your bed and why the fuck didn't you see it?

You need to wake up.

"Let's go," you snarl as you throw the door open and walk out. Your daily run can wait; something's wrong and you need some time with Roxas and Axel to make it go away. You don't pause to make sure they're coming; you know they are. Like dogs, they'll follow the one that feeds them without question. And you'll end up paying, because they took care of the rent last night.

"Kinda pathetic without her crystal on," says Axel quietly – as if you wouldn't hear. Ass.

You're about to turn and lay into him, but Roxas says, just as quietly, "Shut the fuck up, Axel. Nobody takes you seriously in those pants."

You don't laugh because then they'd know you heard. Axel's pants are pleather and lace and make him totally girly from behind, and…that was probably the nicest thing anyone's done for you in a while, really, and you think (as you push your way out and into the half-alley) perhaps you're getting too complacent. Things are bound to come crashing down eventually. You've a hunch it's already started.

Light hits your eyes. The kaleidoscope of outside life springs up in front of you and you sneer at it. Birds sing magenta teardrops into your ears and through the cracked window you see the kids across the way smiling at each other because U2 once told everyone it's a beautiful day and they're just now getting the message after something like a century. The smell of baking sugar and cherries wafts out of the window and why is the window cracked at a time like this? They're dancing with laughter and grey matter, souls and tones. It's a fucking beautiful picture, thick sweaters and frayed hems and stray snowflakes blowing off rooftops in the wind, and none of you belong there.

You press hard on your stomach so you don't puke. It's all so pointless, isn't it? You're only alive when you've got someone screaming under you. When you've got them begging for mercy. Or when you live on pulsing Mozart, pulling strength from bass beats and perfect rainbowed sonatas. The Dungeon doesn't open for another nine hours. Such a pity.

Along the way a little they're huddled next to a fire pit and a savior, this really old thing with a tape deck, and children laugh at old mix tapes. I bet Great Gramma Great never told anyone to kiss off. I bet she did, Kevin. Oh yeah? Yeah. Well I know Great Grampa Great never called anyone fucking special like two songs ago or even said fuck at all. You mean like what the fuck is kodachrome? Kelley! Language! Kids, where'd you find this!

It's all just old, curdled milk and you hate them. They hate you, too. You march past their families in your night clothes because you don't like shopping and day clothes are too expensive to replace. You cozy up to their husbands in corners they know about but don't dare explore. You give their kids looks of contempt – which they deserve, the little shits – and maybe you aren't so young any more after all. You're twenty-one years old now, but sometimes you feel like you're still seven. You passed fifteen years ago but you know you can pull it off if convenience requires it.

McDuck's is on the corner of Dusk and Creeper and whoever named these streets was a fucktard, but you knew that anyway. The whole third district is fucking retarded. You're just glad to reach the joint without any confrontation. You're pretty sure you could strangle someone right about now, but you don't fancy being jailed any time soon.

Laws fucking suck, sometimes.

You jerk open the door and inhale empty libraries, disappointment, thick and pale. Someone's thrown off your groove, and you can guess it's the little blonde in the white dress. She's saturated in melted margarine air, which makes you sick - even though you can see that underneath, there's a vivid blue swirling against glass walls, determined to escape. It makes for a pathetic picture, and you hate her on sight.

She can't stop looking around. She's not supposed to be here, you can tell. There are others in the place, but she's feeling so loudly your head hurts.

"C'mon, I'm starving," says Roxas, putting his hand at the small of your back. You push him away with your elbow and tear your eyes away from the girl. Axel hesitates for a minute and if Roxas is putting him through a diet you're going to kill him, brother or not – but then you wake up a little more and remember isn't much he'll eat at a burger joint, since he's a vegetarian. Fucking pussy.

Roxas bullies you into ordering some orange juice and you follow them to a table in the back. The girl is gone, and what's disturbing is the amount of hatred that brings up in you. You're choking on it, drowning in it, daffodil haze turning you around. Concepts like who is she and why the fuck do I even care swirl inside your head, each punctuated by shaking, volatile question marks, and you really are pathetic without your crystal on, aren't you?

The server brings your food and you waste minutes watching your brother eat. He looks beautiful this morning, radiant and full. It's probably Axel's fault.

Voices trickle into your ears, slimy strings of nonsense slithering downward and gripping your lungs.

"I hate people," you say with a sigh.

They laugh. Your boys laugh, because it's something you always say and they've never realized its truth.

"Yeah, let's get the fuck out of here," says Axel. He slings his arm around Roxas' shoulders and grabs your hand and he really is kind of girly, except anyone who's seen him in tight pants knows he's most definitely male. "People are stupid."

You don't comment – you can't, without being hypocritical in some way – but Roxas does. "You only think that because you're a failed genius, Axel." And oh, it's true. He's oh so smart. You can only wish to compare, but it will never be more than a wish. He was supposed to go to college and beyond and he could have become a mathematician or a lawyer or a psychologist – he could fit into any of those, really – but he was too poor and too selfish and he likes this. He likes roughing with you and your brother.

He gives you a knowing grin, too condescending to be genuine, and when Roxas catches it, he elbows Axel in the side. He's always sticking up for you, even when you don't want it. Especially when you don't want it. He's such a good brother.

It's all so foul you can't breathe.

The Dungeon's pulsing with color and sound; bass beats, electric violins, and fast-paced technoclassics translate bright and beautiful. The floor's rippling like waves and you think, absently, that you probably shouldn't have started so early. Your high will have completely run its course by the time he gets here and yeah, okay, you were jonesing bad, but –

Well, anyway, the floor's rippling and your three-inch heels send those ripples to your ears every time you move. Clack-clack, headless violets, sickly green sounds you find tragic. You swing your hips because you can, because turning heads is your forte. Because turning heads is the best way to hide away. In these heels you're almost as tall as Axel, but your clientele loves it. You're so much more impressive when you're got them on their hands and knees, crop tapping that crimson rhythm on your thigh.

Your poison eyes search the floor, but he's not there. Perhaps he won't come after all. You don't like that thought, even though you do.

"Hey, sexy. Dance with me." You pinch Axel's arm between your nails, because right now he annoys you and he's touching you and he likes pain anyway, so whatever. He likes it better from Roxas, but you do it anyway because this is about you, you feeling safe tonight. Then you put your arms around him and take the lead, because you refuse to be dominated by him. Roxas is meeting with a client. Axel's lonely and you've got nothing better to do. This isn't uncommon. Just a little physicality between friends.

It's probably supposed to be awkward, pressing yourself against your brother's boy, but fuck, Axel dances like that single moment of twilight and Roxas is only your stepbrother anyway so it's not like it's really wrong - not that you care.

Just a little physicality between friends.

Your head starts to hurt and you want to shut down. They're playing something new, something stupid, and why are they playing something new? Technoclassic is the secondary attraction of this place. You taste dandelions and it makes you want to throw up. It wouldn't be such an issue if you weren't coming down. Maybe. Fuck, this is going to be difficult.

Marluxia arrives silently and yanks you away from Axel with a tug of your hair which turns your vision a dim, dawn orange. It bursts into stained patterns, warped glass, and your broken eyes become wet when he pulls you out of the club that way. Axel looks at you like you're an idiot, and even though he looks like the idiot with those bloody hedgehog spikes and too-vivid green eyes, you know he's right. You are an idiot.

But you go along anyway. You get into the car, as always. Marluxia is the only one you defer to, the only one you'll let dominate you. You're the one that gets hurt, during these encounters, and mostly you hate him but he pays well and you've known him for a long time so that's what counts. It doesn't matter that he leaves you bleeding. It doesn't matter that spending time with him holds none of the original appeal…work should never be about personal satisfaction anyway. It just matters that –

This is worth one-eighty in single units. That's what gets you through the –

Fuck –

Fuck, why do you still enjoy this shit? You're over it. You've been over it for -

One-eighty. One-eighty. That's what gets you through this. That's what you tell yourself every time he makes you bleed. That's what justifies the limp you'll have if he beats you like you lie and say you want. One-eighty.

Nobody pays Axel that much, and he does this on a daily basis.

One-eighty. It can be okay. Your ex boyfriend can get his kicks and you can get a new corset. Your ex boyfriend can treat you like the dirt you are anyway, and you can treat Axel to a kick in the gut for bringing Marluxia back to you in the first place.

One-eighty. Then you can go back to the comfort of control. Then you can pretend you don't hate him. The door to room eleven is shut and locked, and you hate that you have goose bumps. Your nerves are singing in anticipation.

"Scream for me," he whispers, and the dawn gives way, sunshine yellow rising. You want to retch. You want to explode. You're shoved against the wall, and your head knocks against a picture frame. He's always so, so violent with you…it's sickening and what the fuck, you shouldn't be enjoying this, you're over it! You want to kill him. But that would mean losing your payment, so you –

You scream for him.

"Good girl."

The scream turns into a pathetic, needy whimper. You resume screaming, but only on the inside, vomiting sulfur clouds only you can see.

She's almost six years old and sitting in the left corner of the couch, the left corner of the living room. Arlene shows a man and a boy inside. The man takes Arlene's hand and they blend together, mint and pine, two apart and two together, distinct color. The boy sits beside her and looks at her curiously.

"You're a girl," he says. "I like girls, but I haven't met very many."

She doesn't respond.

"I'm Roxas. I'm eight. That's my dad. His name is Michael. Why won't you look at me?"

She doesn't look at him directly, because his color is so bright it surrounds her and fills her. He is the first red she's met. He looks like blood. She 'adores' blood - if that's the correct way to use the term she learned in books. She greatly enjoys looking at it. But she doesn't want to see the boy's eyes. They're scary.

"What's your name?"

She still doesn't respond, but she almost wants to. His voice is teal summer breezes and chamomile. She almost wants to compare what she hears in her head.

"Hey! Say something!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," says Arlene. "I forgot about introductions! This is my daughter, Larxene. Don't worry; she's not ignoring you. She just never talks."

She takes Michael aside and says, very quietly, "I don't know what to do...sometimes I think she's retarded. Is that going to...be okay?"

Roxas frowns. She knows he knows she can understand because he looks at her when he says, "I don't like that word. I bet you don't either."

She doesn't. But she likes (and is interested in) the boy next to her, covered in blood and singing Liszt into her ears. He gives her Liebestraumin waves, but nobody else mentions it and he doesn't make a sound.

Tuesday is your day off, since the club isn't open on Tuesdays. Bad luck, they say, to be open on the worst day of the week. It sucks - you live to dance, one way or another - but you refuse to go to any other club. You respect yourself - and your ears - too much.

So you ditch Axel and your brother at the house and wander into town. You hate being alone, but with the way they were eyeing each other…no way in hell. You don't understand how - doing what they do for a living - they can still find the drive on their days off. Goddamn satyriasists. Or whatever. They're not that bad. But still -

What a motive.

The Gizmo Café is always open, and you can usually find someone there. All those pretentious college insomniacs start to gather at about eleven, to discuss art and literature and psychology and to barf grandiloquent phrases into the air between them, just because they want to make some kind of impression. (You've considered telling them you suffer from sesquipedalophobia, just to be an asshole, but they'd just look at you like the moron you secretly are and you refuse to take that from just anyone.)

You don't care to hang about, breaking down beauty or tossing around psychological theory (you much prefer practical psychology),but some of them are wicked chess players and you need something to take your mind off…things.

Everything.

You're breaking, and you didn't notice until the girl refused to leave your head. Just like Marluxia. You hate her for shoving her feelings into the air. You hate her for forcing her way into your thoughts. You hate her for pushing you toward the edge.

So you close your eyes and breathe, make your way through the third and into the second district, and pretend you don't feel it. You don't feel the shift in the air. You don't feel the atmosphere go from light to heavy, from dreary to miserable. Everyone's miserable in this place, except those rich snobs at the university - they tolerate this filth because they know they're getting out someday. The discontent here is nearly tangible. It tastes like stale sun and rot and haze settles in like suffocating fog.

Lights are brighter here in the second district - but only for the protection of the citizens. The Gizmo Café stands out like a beacon, calling to you. The energy is high there. You can almost hear the laughter from the end of Dusk Boulevard.

As you reach the door, you brace yourself. You know that you'll be overwhelmed. The people…but you've got backup in your pocket and people to hate. It'll get better as soon as you get a feel for them.

A bell sounds as your eyes take in the room. It's packed, and you think you might want to leave, but where else will you go? At least here, the faint butterfly strains of Solfeggietto drip from the speakers and you take comfort in the fact that this place hates the new simple stuff almost as much as you do. There's just no life in repetitive five-note syntheses.

Bright color wraps around you, screams in your eyes, but you focus on the largish group in the back, on the couches. The chess table is back there - and luckily, it's unoccupied.

"He-hey, Larx!" Someone's waving to you and by now you don't have to search for his name. Dirty blond, aquatic eyes, honeyed autumn voice -

"Hey, Demyx," you say. He's not so bad, compared to the others. You recognize three of them; Zexion, Lexaeus, Vexen; they're all regulars, but Demyx is the only one you can stand, and you don't care about anyone else anyway. He's the best player you've ever met.

"I was wondering when I'd see you again," he says. His Holopad is on the floor; by the way they're sitting, you can tell he was showing Zexion how to use the program for sheet music.

Zexion is one of those intellectual bullshitters. Demyx must have the patience of a saint - you wouldn't be able to teach him anything without wanting to kill something. It's a good thing you aren't in a position to teach anything to anyone.

"Larxene," he says, not even raising his one eye to meet yours. Ass.

"Zexy," you reply. You like to jump on his nerves. One of these days he's going to break his calm, and you're going to be the cause.

"I'll be back in a few moments. Enjoy your friend, Demyx."

"Enjoy yourself, jackass," you say sweetly. You know he'll get the jab. He's a smart kid.

"Hey!" Demyx isn't very happy with either of you. His sad face might tug on your heartstrings, if you actually gave a damn about anyone any more. You used to, once upon a time, before…whatever it was. Whatever happened.

"I just came to say hi," you say, dismissing his subtle reprimand and watching Zexion go into the crowd and toward the bathroom. It's funny - Demyx is one of the only people you make nice with. You suppose it's because there's no pressure. He doesn't know you. He doesn't care about who you are or what you do outside Gizmo. If you scare the hell out of everyone else, he just laughs because he likes your sense of humor, no matter how bizarre and morbid it is. And he's a music major - you don't find many of those any more. That garners the respect you've never given to anyone, even Roxas.

"Sure." He smiles at you, pushing moonlight breath through his teeth, like water through a sieve. "The usual, then?"

"Yeah."

You sit down and wait for him to shut down his Holopad. It's the newest model. Someone has money. But you knew that from the start.

"Sorry about him," he says, sliding into the seat opposite you. "He gets pissy when he doesn't understand something. We have music theory together, and between you and me - he's not cut out for music anything. Pretty good with tech, though. He works for a big HolCom company in exchange for free schooling."

"You'd think he'd be able to work the program, then," you say dryly. You move a pawn one space forward.

"Well, it's not like that exactly," he replies, moving one of his two spaces forward. "He's not in the programming department. He actually works on the team that designs the hols themselves. It's too complicated for me - I just help him with MT because I'm afraid Lexaeus will break me in half if I don't. You're not very tech-savvy, are you?"

"I prefer the real world, thanks," you tell him. It's true - and someday, when you find the real world, you'll learn about Holotech. You're behind the times.

You focus on the game and on Demyx. One of the nice things about playing Demyx is that he's very sneaky with his feelings; you can't cheat by watching his color. You hate cheating. It's boring.

You just can't stand losing, either; that's why you react to challenges like you're fighting for your life.

There are twenty minutes of silence, in which you study the board and Demyx's moves and the energy in the café. If life was a game of chess, you'd be the Queen's rook - and he'd be your partner. But life is not a game of chess. People are not black and white. Murder is illegal. The world makes even less sense than you do.

Or perhaps it only seems that way; you can't understand it.

When Demyx takes your bishop, Zexion comes back with crepes and coffee. They're all ready for a battle of wit against vagueness and their own insecurities. This is your secondary motive; you may not like participating, but you love to hear others spew theory and bullshit. It amuses you; and one of the things you like most is laughing. No one's exempt. Everyone's ridiculous, especially here.

You take Demyx's knight and listen. The game goes on and they run through meaningless images, hypothetical nonsense. You roll your eyes and Demyx asks, "What?"

"Just…them."

He moves a pawn one square forward. "What about them?"

"It sounds like they don't even know what they're talking about. But it's so important…can't you see the way that chick's sitting? She's on the edge of her seat. You can just see how much she wants to tell us all about what she thinks. It's so fun to sound smart. I bet you anything she'll tell us she supposes something or other, but perhaps it's this way. Oh, and the author must have meant this particular thing, don't you think? It's so clear, here…look, I memorized this passage by heart." You snort. "It's fucking hilarious."

You move your queen three squares diagonally and fold your hands on your lap. You've got this game in the bag now. All he has to do is move one piece…it doesn't matter which.

"She never speaks that way, because she knows it just sounds stupid. Seriously, Larx. Suppose?"

"Fuck off," you say, forcing a smile. "Secretly, I'm just a snob. The phraseology sounds better." It's both true and untrue. You know you're snobbish, but that's not why you always sound awkward when you speak. You just forget to think better on occasion. To move the conversation forward, you add, mockingly, "The cloud is symbolic. And her prolonged stare is indicative of turmoil she refuses to voice."

"There aren't any significant clouds in Miss Minnie's Palace."

You raise an eyebrow. "They mentioned Lina Mina George and Kampala Rose. Those freaks are only in Twelve Miles. Is it a two-for-one? I wasn't paying very much attention - I was more focused on totally kicking your ass."

"Really the discussion is supposed to be about Miss Minnie's Palace. Are they still stuck on Lina? Apparently, I'm the one that wasn't paying attention."

"So you're reading a children's book."

"No, it's…well, yes, but I'm not. They're doing this weird thing on children's literature and the impact it has on society or…I don't even know. I'm not in that class."

"You're welcome to join," says Zexion from nowhere, and he's almost smiling. It's not a challenge - at least, you don't think so - but you're frustrated and there are too many people in here. You need some stress relief. So you take it as a challenge anyway.

"Well, when I was six, I thought Miss Minnie's Palace was charming," you say, giving him a sickly sweet smile. You don't have a problem with Zexion, per se - though you do have a problem with Vexen, the creepy chemistry major with chocolate-coated acid in his voice and a wheat color which seems to always hone in on you - but you do have a problem being around him. He's the same mint green as Arlene; you don't know whether you miss him or are repulsed by him. "But it lost its appeal when I learned there are no secret castles or happy endings." You smirk. "At six, we're so naïve…the impression is lasting. I can still taste sky candy."

Chew on that for a while, you think. You wonder if they know you're full of shit on purpose, and are just 'humoring' you…or if they're nodding because they think it means something real.

Fucking douches. Smart people, like these, are better toys than most - they can't understand you, because you're on such a lower level. It's ceaseless entertainment to watch them try to do it anyway.

You used to wish you could find an extra intelligent person, one who could put him or herself on your level, but it hasn't happened. You continue to pretend, and find amusement in it. If you couldn't laugh, you would kill yourself. Boredom is bad for you, and conscious self-loathing is absolutely toxic.

"My mom held it back till I was nine," says the eager girl. "The fight scene is incredibly graphic, considering the target age group." Her voice drags on the ground before it reaches you, dull despite its almost shrill quality. You want to erase her from the picture; even Vexen's crayon wheat is better than this girl's sick piss color.

"Mine didn't care what I read. She was just surprised I could actually read at all." You frown - you hadn't planned to say that. "Actually, I just realized I have to go do something. As fun as this was…yeah. Checkmate, Demyx. I may see you next week."

"Wait, stay. I want you to meet my sister," he says, and you stare for a moment. You don't understand why he would want you to meet her; you're not friends. You know more about him than he does about you, but only because you survive by observation.

"No, I really have to get going," you tell him firmly. Despite your sudden frustration and nervousness, you can feel your lips twitch. All of this is so fucking funny. "I'm going to work."

"Oh, really? What do you do?"

You give him a crude smile. "I kill babies."

Without waiting for a reply, you whirl around and leave the group. Just before you're out of hearing range, you hear the girl point out, "The abortion clinics aren't open after nine-thirty." You laugh out loud and wonder if she knows from experience.

As you push the door open, you decide you're just going home. You can't bear to be around that many people without music and movement. Your games didn't help at all - you feel worse than you did when you went in.

Despite what you do for a living, you're not a very physical person, but tonight is different. Tonight you need…something. You need the warmth of someone next to you, around you. You need to be able to relax, to close your eyes and know you're not going to wake up alone.

You need your brother.

He first touched me after the funeral. Arlene was in the basement, crying over Michael's laundry, and I told him he could never leave me. I'd liked Michael better than Arlene, and losing him was like losing a favorite pet. I didn't cry - I wasn't even truly sad, but then, Roxas wasn't either.

He told me he'd never leave me.

I told him to promise.

It was supposed to be a small one, because kissing a sibling was wrong. But I didn't think it was wrong, and neither did he, so it turned into a longer one. And then another. It was kiwi, halfway between bitter and sweet, until he bit my tongue and I started bleeding. Then it was sea-salt ice cream and lightning and freedom the color of frostbite. He told me to lie back and I did, because he wanted me to. I was willing to do whatever he wanted - he was stronger than me, and he would never leave me. I wanted him to bite me again. When he did, my vision exploded into sunsets and sunrises and midmorning skies.

He played my body like a viola, painted me with bruises and midnight and pleasure the color of old cherries. He told me to tell him if I wanted to stop. He told me to tell him if he was hurting me too much. But I didn't tell him anything.

Then we were both red. I stole his color for a moment, wrapped it around me like a blanket. The sight of his eyelids and the bite on my lower lip left me quivering and weak and he covered me with his body after he shot rays of bruised tangerines at imaginary targets and lost his energy.

He told me I could tell on him if I wanted. He told me I could tell Arlene if I didn't want to see him again.

But I didn't tell her anything.

I was fourteen. And he would never leave me.

You're on the couch between Roxas and Axel, in front of a genuine television set. Nobody can even find these any more, since HoloTech monopolized the market fifty years ago, but Axel has a knack for talking people into making deals they don't really want to make.

You don't have a Holoscreen, but you get to see old movies. This is why you know Grandma wasn't lying; this place used to be connected to other places. Your world used to be called 'United States of America,' before the reform. And it was just a country in a bigger world.

You don't really care. You don't want to see other 'countries;' this one is miserable enough. You want familiarity. You want Roxas and Axel and Roxas' fingers rubbing small circles on your hipbone. You want Axel being annoying and sitting on your legs because it's easier to be still if someone's holding you down.

Their eyes meet over your head and it's like you're not there. You're the third wheel here, even though it should be Axel because you were there first. Roxas is yours. But you really can't claim him because you really aren't here. You aren't the third wheel. You aren't…

Real.

You exist between them because you all make it so. Roxas is yours and Axel is Roxas' and that's the only reason you're alive at all. Axel's presence is the reason you haven't retreated into your hazy, colored world - you exist to beat him, to make things like they were. You exist out of spite.

You close your eyes and count the beats of Roxas' heart. You haven't gotten any sleep since Saturday and you don't want to be bored tonight. perhaps if you all stay like this forever…

Beat -

Veins of light the color of Axel's hair crawl through the air, meandering through the crowds and pulsing with the dark orange synthesized bass beats of a double-timed Moonlight Sonata. You know Beethoven's rolling in his grave, but at least it's music. At least it was built on feeling, scribbled in passion.

He used his hands to bring it to life, not some program. He used pen and ink and paper and. And. And heart.

These lights are turning your head upside-down. On the Holoscreen walls you can see explosions of colored light and it's funny, because they've got it all wrong. Or perhaps that's just you. You've got it wrong. You see those explosions, see those cracks and notes and colors which are being vomited out of the speakers, fired from cannons. But they're not the same as the ones on the Holoscreen.

It's turning you around. But you love it. As always, you love it. Your reality is mixing with theirs. Your reality could maybe lose this time.

"Hey, sexy. Dance with me?"

That's the wrong voice. Axel is with a client. Roxas is dancing with some girl, a girl with black hair and blue eyes - oh, no. You recognize her from Gizmo. She's the girl whose mother wouldn't let her read. Fuckfuckfuck. Her color is going to taint him.

"Aww, come on, Larxene," says the voice again. You've heard it before. You don't want to turn around until you know the voice, because you don't know if you want to see him. You don't know if seeing someone you can't stand will push you over the edge tonight. Your nerves are shot. You haven't had a fix in three days. Your salvation is the music, and…

Honeyed autumn. Filtered water flowing into a glass. Beautiful, beautiful aquamarine. You can turn around because it's Demyx. Demyx isn't irritating. Demyx is someone with whom you've connected, even if you'll never admit it out loud. He doesn't fit in either.

"Hey, Demyx." You throw your arms around his neck for no reason at all, and pull him a little closer when you realize you've done it. He asked you to dance - he doesn't have to know you're actually glad to see him.

Especially since you really shouldn't be.

"You're a hard woman to find," he tells you. He runs his hands down your sides and across your back and - he's such a gentleman. What's he doing here?

"I work here," you reply carelessly.

"When you're not out killing babies, I assume?" His tone is light, mocking, but not rude. "That was funny, you know. Xion figured you did abortions. I was…the only one who knew you were kidding."

"So what'd you tell them?" You're not curious - not really. But he's talking about the girl. You want to know if she's going to ruin him.

"Nothing. It started a debate about abortion, and…yeah, that's not my thing. As soon as Naminé came, I split. They can debate all they want - half our laws have been in place since this was still America. Whether it's right or wrong, it doesn't matter. Personal choice takes us so far, and laws make sure that 'so far' isn't 'too far.' So who fucking cares?"

"Xion, apparently," you say, deciding not to ask how he knows what this place used to be. "She doesn't seem very…uh. Good."

"Coming from you?"

"I'm not that bad." It's a lie. You're not sorry. You pull him closer and put your face in his chest - you're getting overwhelmed by the streams of light and color and the thick, grey-blue sounds of too much body movement. The smell of cheap detergent sends your head into the palest of shocks, pea-green, frosted with familiarity you just can't place. "Just tell me."

"…She's a little crazy," he acquiesces. "Her mom was, like, chemically impregnated or something in this weird…study. I don't know. Don't quote me. Anyway, her mom needed money and figured - hey, I want kids, but I'm a loser and nobody likes me, so…yeah, why not? It fucked with her head. Poor kid…when she's not medicated, she thinks she's a kid named Sora. A boy. She wants to learn more about that project and see if she can reverse the effects someday - we keep telling her it's impossible, but she keeps saying she wants to be a real person. As if she isn't already."

You almost freeze. You feel yourself going stiff. But you spin out with your eyes closed, trailing your fingers down his arms, catching his hand and pulling him toward you again. He's supposed to be leading. But you never let anyone lead you - other than Marluxia. But you won't see him till Saturday.

You want to be real, too. But nobody has to know that.

"Well, she rubs me the wrong way," you murmur. "She's messing with my little brother - I wanted to know if I need to go save him."

"Why's he here, if he needs protection? How old is he, anyway? You can't be more than…"

"He's twenty-three." You give him a laugh, half forced. "He's two years older than me. I just…call him my little brother because he's short."

"Yeah, she's pretty harmless. Don't worry." He laughs - but it sounds like the inside of a timpani. Hollow. Big sound, but only because there's nothing but space. "So you work here."

"Yep."

"And I guess that means I'm dancing with a…"

"They call us 'attractions,' when we're working," you tell him. You haven't opened your eyes yet; and now you don't want to. You don't want to see his face. You can already feel his skepticism and something you're afraid to label 'hope.' What is he hoping? "But don't let the name fool you. We're bona fide prostitutes, baby."

"You're proud of that?" His tone is only curious; it's strange. He's feeling. He's feeling so much it's making your head spin. He's curious and he pities you and he's upset. But he only sounds curious.

"At this point, it's the highest paying job anyone like me can get. I'm too stupid for college, and I probably couldn't concentrate on it anyway. They reserve places at restaurants for students. And…I know what to say and how to treat people. You could say I'm doing a public service. I'm good at what I do. It can be fun." You grin at him. "I guess I am proud. Do you think you could do it?"

"No, of course not." He pulls you in again and doesn't say anything more. But his silence tells you more than words ever could. He's…upset. He's angry. And he's sad. And you hate that it's because of something you said to him…and not something you did to him.

"Shut the fuck up," you murmur. "I'm better off than a lot of people. Go throw your pity flowers on their graves."

"I…didn't say anything," he tells you. He's being as loud as he can without shouting over the music. It's a club-whisper, aspen in a hurricane. Delicate.

"Yeah, I know." You frown - you slipped. You're not supposed to talk about things like that. "You were thinking it. I could tell."

"Well, sure." He grabs your face lightly and you want to push him away. But you don't, because you're curious. He's bringing you into the timpani, covering you in honey, filling up empty spaces with aquamarine and cheap detergent and suddenly you're inside him, cemented there in his heart. You can hear it, faintly lulling any feelings of safety to sleep with Hebrides Overture. "I know it doesn't matter to you, Larxene, but I like you. I'm not like my classmates. I'm not like my family, either. I've never fit in…and neither have you. We're alike, you know. Well, on the inside. On the outside, you're a sarcastic, sadistic bitch. But on the inside…you're just a scared little girl who wants to be kept."

You slap him across the face. A crack rings out, even above the music - it's an orchestral rendition of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody no. 2. The timing is messed up. The synth bass is messing it up even further. And the sound of your slap is rocks inside air ducts, echoing, hurting your ears. You still haven't opened your eyes, but that's okay. You can feel everyone around you anyway.

"You're a loser," you say. Once more, with feeling. "A loser."

"Yeah, I am. You know, the only reason I even said any of that is because I've got no pride. It wasn't an insult. It just is."

"Get the fuck away from me!" You try to push him again but he dances out of reach. You don't want to open your eyes, because you're afraid of what you'll see. You're afraid you'll see something familiar, and you're afraid you won't see anything at all.

"Larx? Is this guy giving you a problem?"

It's Axel's voice. Thank the stars. You've got something to ground you now. His voice is fire and sleep and the grit under boots in a warehouse. But you don't want him to save you. You're not some helpless little girl. Demyx is right, but you don't want him to be right, so he's wrong. You're not scared. You're not scared. You're not.

"No. Get the fuck out of here. Rescue your beloved jackass from that Xion chick he's charming."

"Yeah, whatever."

It's awful, awful, awful. You can't move too much without opening your eyes, because it looks stupid. Dancing with eyes closed can be sensual and beautiful. Walking with them closed tips them off. You're a grade-A idiot. You're not normal. Oh, fuck, why is Demyx ruining everything? He's supposed to be low pressure.

"Anyway," he says - he sounds unconcerned, like all this is just in passing, like he doesn't realize he's breaking you. "I'm worried about you. We're friends now, aren't we?"

"No. We're not."

He laughs. Laughs at you. Laughs at you. Laughs at you. "All right, then. Just wanted to come see you at work, like any other annoying friend. But, you know, since I was wrong…I'll see you at Gizmo, maybe. Till we meet again, then?"

"I…"

When you finally open your eyes, he's already got his back to you, slipping through the crowd like a pro. He doesn't look back. That's a good thing.

…It's a good thing.

We're drowning. We're breaking apart. We're stuck in slow motion, choking on Technicolor nothing, drawing deep breaths with our mouths wide open just to feel something white and cool in the backs of our hot throats. We're closing our eyes because I don't want to see it. I don't want to see the world. I want it all to be dark. Not this…

This frenetic, phantasmagorical fantasy - this cornucopia of color.

This is reality, isn't it? Isn't it, Larxene? You're going to wither soon. You're going to become nothing more than wisps of essence, dead, empty. We're going to die soon.

Shut the fuck up. This is me. I don't care. Note to self: stop talking to me so much.

Ah, fuck. I did it again.

They all think you're filled with hate and rage, but it's not true. You have a temper and you only hate most people because you're not like them. You want to be like them. You want to be real. What do they have that you don't?

You mother once said you see in color. She said it was cute, and perhaps even a gift, and isn't it a relief to find a reason you were such a different child? Different, as a compliment. Or not. You don't know.

Thinking about Arlene always makes you sick. You don't know what to think about her. Most days, you can't even remember what she looks like, until you see the picture Roxas took just before he left. You know she had blue eyes and blonde hair and a much bigger chest than yours, but you can't put it together. You never had the mother you didn't want. And you never know if it's a bad thing.

This is why you hate living in Suburbia.

You don't see it. You don't see a child with a mother. You see a child and a woman and too much color. Every kind, mingling but not mixing. This is far beyond your comprehension, always, always. You're looking at them through the glass, not quite blinded by the light. Not even Roxas can get you out. He can't understand it either. Sometimes he can't pretend he's not afraid of you.

Or maybe it's Disturbia.

He's willing to pay you two hundred to spend time teaching him the ropes. It's an odd request, one you've never gotten and you never expected, but it's easy money and the nice thing is that you don't have to keep your temper. He's all too willing to grovel.

Maybe you shouldn't.

It makes you sick, the way he reminds you of you, before that thing you can't remember. You didn't look people in the eye. You fumbled over words and apologies. You only felt validated when you were being pushed around. When they completely humiliated you. When they told you the truth about yourself - you're stupid. You're worthless. You belong on the floor with all the other dirt.

You almost want - as you meet his light green eyes and his downy, earthy color reaches out and over you, suffocating - to just tell him to grow a fucking spine.

But you will not do it. You don't care about him. And he's too frustrating to garner that sympathy you hate to give. You hate any kind of sympathy anyway.

"Two hundred munny," he says quietly, pleadingly. "Please accept it."

The picture is breaking apart. His request, spiraling ash and pale, looms up, trying to scare you. He's so irritating. He says 'munny.' What a stupid joke. Munny - the word calls out to you, taunting you. Your ears are screaming. You close your eyes to ground yourself.

"No," you say sharply. "I don't do shit like that. Go bother someone who cares."

He looks down.

"Now, fucker! Did you not hear me?"

He's startled - he shouldn't have been - and scurries away, spilling muttered apologies like raindrops from a raincoat.

You want to run after him, not to find him but to just get away, but you don't. Instead, you just lean back, right foot flat against the wall just beneath your ass, and fold your arms. You're frustrated - you always stand out. Always. Your bright hair, bright eyes, and height make sure of it. But you don't want to stand out.

You never did.

There's a girl with Demyx. You remember her very well; she's the one you saw at McDuck's, the one with melted margarine-yellow dripping over her blue, surrounding her, hardening and refusing to let her escape. She's wearing white - a poor attempt to absorb the sickness. She'd be better off using a knife to cut it away. But she'd bleed, and scream, and it would be…

Beautiful.

You hate her still.

"Hey! I figured you'd come back, sooner or later," Demyx shouts, waving you over to their table. It's six o'clock on a Tuesday evening and his voice is still beautiful and you hate him for it. You can't resist beautiful things. That's why you can't let your brother go and you can't let him fall in love with Axel. Their relationship is so dirty, so gritty, so excruciatingly sick under its purple veil. It could be something like the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. But you want it for yourself.

"Larx?"

You glare. You could be on the moon but all you need to do is give anyone a look, and they'll realize you were listening the whole time. Even though you weren't. "What now?"

"I figured you'd at least say hi. Maybe you didn't hear - this is my sister, Naminé. She's an artist too. I brought her here for her birthday."

You frown. The phrase 'what are the odds' runs through your mind before it's chased away by the miniscule practical side of you. The chance of sharing a birthday isn't exactly low. There are only three hundred sixty-five days in a year.

And what a fucking loser anyway.

"Disregarding the freakiness of your knowing that I used to be an artist," you say, stressing the fact that you haven't picked up a brush since Roxas stopped sleeping with you, "I don't really care."

The blonde girl shrinks into herself a little. She's scared of you. She should be; you could eat her up and nobody could stop you. It would be nice to see her bleed, to see the white dress steep in red like tea in water. Perhaps it could cancel out the nauseating yellow.

"Well, anyway," he continues, waving off your comment like a fly before his face, "Nam, this is Larxene. She's a ballin' chess player and she's pretty enough to frame, yeah?"

"Y-yes. I understand your song now." It's the first time you've heard such a pathetic, misty voice. She sounds sad and lost. Blue pushes yellow outward, and you refrain from holding up your arms, from shielding yourself. They wouldn't understand; and you hate being different. It wouldn't really protect you, anyway. Color finds its victim no matter what.

"…Pardon?"

You find some kind of useless vindication in the way his eyes dart to the side and her head hangs. You feel so powerful, so wonderfully mahogany. It's like a good crystal rush. For a few seconds, you feel so alive.

And then the feeling retreats.

"I wrote a song about you," Demyx says quietly. "I couldn't help it. You inspire me."

"Well…" You don't quite know what to say to that. It doesn't make sense, but you refuse to admit you don't understand. You're stupid. But you don't like to bring it to others' attentions, if you can avoid it. So you turn it back on him. "That was stupid."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're free to kill me. Anyway, I wanted you two to meet."

"Well, now we've met," you say dismissively. She frightens you. There's so much power in that nervous stature and frail-looking body. Slyly, you add, "I saw you at McDuck's on Dusk and Creeper about a month ago, didn't I?"

Naminé shifts nervously, and you laugh mockingly. "Wasn't that you?"

"…Yes," she admits softly, avoiding your eyes. "It was…"

"Riku again?" Demyx's face is unreadable, but his color is shifting almost violently. He's pushing worry into you. It's annoying.

"I just…wanted to see him again. He didn't come. I think it's too late."

Before you can ask what she's on about, Demyx sighs and says, "He was an old man. Too old to really live well anyway. So being sad is kind of pointless, right? It's over, and at least he doesn't have to walk around with a cane any more."

"That's so cold!"

Underneath the yellow taint, Naminé's blue roils, smashing against the barrier. She looks more helpless than you've seen anyone look - and you know she's not like that. It's aggravating in its mesmerizing quality. You're enchanted, and you only vaguely hear Demyx reply, "It's just true. C'mon, Larx. Back me up here."

"Uh…yeah." You sound dry. Perfect. You've trained yourself well.

"See? I'm totally right. Larxene said so."

"So Larxene knows it all?"

He grins - it sends something else out, distracting you even more. You don't understand the feeling; it's something you've never felt before. You've only seen it send flares of colorless energy into the air and mix with the rest of the world. Add to the existing color. "Pretty much. She's all full of profound knowledge and shit. Just ask Xaldin."

This brings you back to their reality. You didn't realize how much your offhand bullshit affected Demyx's study group - and you don't know whether to be pleased or horrified. You suppose it can be both; you're allowed to feel more than one thing at a time. It's just difficult to do.

You laugh anyway; it's funny. What a joke. What a punchline. "Wow. That's the biggest load I've ever heard."

He blinks. "Really?"

"I'm definitely not full of profound knowledge. Shit, though…that's debatable. At least, my brother will tell you-" You pause, and shrug. Talking about Roxas isn't something you want to do. Axel's face pushes its way into your inner vision and you don't want to think about how you refuse to let Beauty happen. It leaves the taste of yellow molded to your tongue like the clay you never use any more.

You can't break through and you can't peel it off.

It's breaking you.

"Whatever," you say. It doesn't make sense, but that doesn't matter. You don't owe anyone anything.

"Are you going to sit down?" The question is abrupt and quiet and unexpected and you frown at Naminé in confusion before it registers.

Oh. You're still standing. You need to pay attention. Normal people sit when they join others at a café. You pull out a chair and slouch into it exaggeratedly, as if it's a great burden to be sitting with them.

It's not far from the truth. But they don't know the burden's on them.

Night rush doesn't start until nine and it's really an inconvenient coincidence that you showed up at the same time they did -

"Larxene? Are you all right?"

You haven't even been paying attention to anything except the way their colors mingle - how brightly she shines. How calming he is. How inspiring they both are. It makes you want to -

Shit.

"I'm sorry," you say automatically. You're not sorry, though. You're only terrified of the effect the girl has on you. Pretty soon you'll be sitting in front of the easel you hate but never had the balls to burn. "I'm actually supposed to meet my brother sometime tonight. You're not going to die if I leave you, right?"

"Well, actually…I really wanted to just hang out," says Demyx. He's giving you a look you can't read. You can't feel it and you can't interpret his color at all. You want to scream, to lash out at him, but running scared is something you do much too often.

"Why?"

"Because you're cool. And because it's your birthday."

Sometimes it's very bad to not understand. Today, though…he's just returning what you gave to him. "How did you know?"

"You told me. The day we met, I annoyed you into telling me. Don't you remember?"

"Ah…yeah. I just figured you wouldn't." It's a lie. You don't remember. You most likely expected him to forget you existed after parting ways. "This is a surprise."

"I'm kind of a ninja like that." He grins. "Anyway, stay. Once we're finished here, I'm taking her to see Inland Empire. They finally made a version we can watch…it's an underground project, because…well, you know the laws about that shit. But still, it's playing at eight at Toxic Shock and they'll be selling copies after."

"I-Inland Empire?" Suddenly, spending time with Demyx and his scary sister seems like the best idea anyone's ever had. The film is one of your favorites, but you've never seen it on a Holoscreen. You were afraid you never would.

"Yeah. Do you know it?"

"Of course!" You're breathless and you're sure you have a stupid, dreamy look on your face.

"Ya scared?"

You laugh. "No, I'm fucking excited. I own it on DVD, but that's not very high quality. Laura Dern is fucking amazing in it. But I figured it was so old nobody really knew or cared about it. Fuck. This is fantastic."

"It's quite the work of art, isn't it?" Naminé still sounds quiet, almost watery. Perhaps she always sounds that way. She isn't feeling sad; you'd know if she was. The air would tell you. But you don't know what to do with her question. You've never heard that before - even if it is true. Roxas refuses to watch it with you; he says it fucks with his head. You never bother to point out its similarities to the inside of your head, and-

They're looking at you expectantly.

"Yeah," you say shortly. "I'm hungry. Have you ordered yet?" It's another lie. Being a chronic liar is a fairly recent development - lying about trivial things always seemed pointless, before. Now it feels as though you couldn't survive if you told the truth. In this new phase of your life - the one without Roxas' attentions keeping you away from the edge - you would go insane if you didn't keep yourself inside. You would spill out, tainting the air and forgetting how to feel.

"We just got drinks. She'll come back and we can all order together," Demyx replies. He is a good friend - you hate him for it. You don't understand what he could possibly see in you.

Naminé stares at you unashamedly. Her blue goes still, stops beating on the barrier, and the yellow retracts. It's almost as if she is trying to hide it from you. But that would be ridiculous; you don't have a color. Even if she could see them all, she wouldn't be able to see you, small and weak, cowering behind your hatred for her. It's possible she doesn't know about that hatred, either. She doesn't seem particularly frightened any more.

Maybe it was a bad idea to answer Demyx in the first place. You're just so sick of people that can't appreciate the finer things in life - the beautiful things in life. You have clients and you have your brother and you have your brother's boy, but beauty only applies when they're not paying attention to you.

And then there's Marluxia…

But he's too intelligent for a connection. He's on such a higher level…you bored him and you hated him and he found beauty in you. It never made sense, and now he hates you for hurting him. For leaving him when he starting being the kind of boyfriend Arlene wanted you to bring home.

But Demyx is different. He pushes you and challenges you and he simply doesn't give a fuck. He's a pacifist but he's not weak - you can tell. The way his hand felt when you met and he helped you up warned you and the way he never flinches when you hit him confirms it. Demyx is not the problem here; Naminé is.

"Hey! Larxene! You gonna order or what?"

Or perhaps…

"Ah, yeah. Whatever. Rose hip tea sounds fantastic."

Perhaps you're the problem.

Your appetite is nonexistent and you've a bitter taste in your mouth. Irritation and confusion and the irritating baby pink of anxiety. But you're going to eat. You want to look perfectly normal in front of Naminé…until you understand her.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"Yes, tomato soup and a side of honey."

She looks at you oddly - probably wondering why you didn't just ask for honey in your tea - but quickly smiles. "All right, then. I'll have that out to you A-S-A-P."

"She was creepy," Demyx comments as soon as she's out of hearing range. "Did you see her eyes? They looked like they were about to pop out at any moment."

It's a safe topic of conversation, but you don't say anything. You just nod absently and carefully watch Naminé peripherally…a test. You want to see if she's really distracting - or if you're just distractible.

It's so sick. And so beautiful.

It grows and grows in size, looming before you like sudden mist. No, like fog - the choking kind, which makes it difficult to breathe and almost impossible to see. The kind Arlene had to deal with when you drove through the Smoky Mountains on your way to Jamestown.

That was before Roxas left, and-

You're being stifled. You meet Naminé's eyes, and…how? How is it possible? She's so much bigger than you. She hasn't been growing; you've been shrinking. You can feel eyes all over your body and a feeling of lightness in the back of your head. Tight nerves and too little thought matter.

There's a lull in the slick peach sound of unimportant conversation and the radio opens up enough to let Für Elise drizzle onto you, into your ears. Deep blues and purples and the softest pine reassure you - this is real. You're only going crazy. You don't need to panic.

Colors come in from all around you, blocking out the sound of Naminé's voice. You know she's trying to get through to you, but -

"Ow, fuck!" At least your mouth works on its own, you think sourly. Tomato soup is running down your cheeks and neck and into the hem of your blouse and it's hot. A glance at Naminé shows her at your level. When did you grow? Or did the world shrink without your noticing?

"I'm so sorry!" The girl seems to be apologizing, though there's something wrong with her voice. It's all very far away.

You're stuck behind the veil again. You can't get out. The fog is crawling into your mouth, down your throat, into your veins by way of the theoretical heart in your chest. Demyx's eyes are melting. Oh, no…that's just his confusion. Eyes don't melt.

You're afraid to look at Naminé. You aren't sure what you'll see.

"It's…it's okay." Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can feel a tugging. That was the wrong thing to say. That's not what Larxene would say. What would Larxene say? What are the words you're supposed to use?

"I'm not very hungry anyway." That's not right either. "I'm just not paying for that." That's a little better. But you don't think that's how it was supposed to sound. Your voice is too soft. You're wringing your hands, like it's your fault. Like you're embarrassed. You -

That's right. You are Larxene Andersen. You don't take shit from people. This…this is ridiculous. "So anyway," you say derisively - the haze is somewhat cleared, thank the stars. "I figure we deserve some kind of compensation. It's Naminé's birthday today, so bring us a cake, little girl."

"But…" The girl looks shaken. You don't blame her - that doesn't stop it from being funny as hell, though.

"Oh, come on. I'm pretty sure this soup burn is going to leave nasty blisters. I could always report you…or you could fucking bring us a cake."

You don't even want a cake. It's the principle of the thing, really. Your days of being a quiet pushover are over. They've been over since…that thing you can't remember. It's petty and useless and that might bother you, but at this point you're just trying to get back on track.

"O-of course!"

The girl scurries off and you stand quickly. "I'm covered in soup, as you can see," you tell Demyx and his sister. "I'm going to head out. Here's ten for the tea."

"But-"

"Really," you stress.

"You said yourself, you just got burned pretty badly! Shouldn't you get medical attention?"

"Doctors are for pussies." It's not your truth. But it sounds like something Larxene would say. "I'm just going home."

The real truth is -

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

The real truth is that being burned, looking ridiculous, and having to endure curious, amused stares…are the only things keeping you grounded right now. You can't risk going out in front of a doctor.

You're just outside the door - how did you get here? - when you feel a hand rest softly on your shoulder. You didn't give anyone permission to touch you - but the hand catches your wrist when you try to lash out.

"Hey! I need my pretty face," says Demyx. He has, apparently, followed you out. He's such a good friend. You hate him for it.

"Well leave me alone then."

"I will. I just wanted to make sure you…uh, I wanted to see if you'll be okay? Or if you need us to give you a ride home?"

"I'll be fine. Just…go away."

You feel something like concern, and it's not coming from you. This is one of the best and worst parts of being in public; you lose yourself in the river of emotion flowing from one person to another.

"You seem really agitated. I mean more than usual. If you need anything…"

It's something like anger - but it isn't anger. Your throat is tight and your eyes are burning. They're too wide and it's much too obvious you're about to cry. But…you never cry. It just doesn't happen.

"I just…have you ever wanted…to just disappear?"

"Like die?" He's holding you tighter, like he's afraid you will disappear if he lets go. You're not certain it's unfounded.

"No. Just…never mind. Let go. I need to get cleaned up."

"You can always-"

"Get. The. Fuck. Away from me." You're surprised at the lack of satisfaction you feel when he lets go your wrist. It's an almost invisible sadness - you're still going to cry and you have no idea why. This isn't Larxene.

"Demyx? Are you coming back in?"

As soon as he turns toward his sister's voice, you take the opportunity to slip away. You don't understand what his motive is and you don't understand why he's affecting you so much today. This has never been an issue before, and you've known him for at least three months.

Everything's frustrating. It's to be expected; today is your birthday.

You hate your birthday. You don't care about getting older; you just hate the date. Because of Roxas. He has to choose between celebrating your birthday or celebrating Valentine's Day. There never used to be a difference.

Until Axel.

Leaving was one of the worst ideas you've ever had, but you can't focus on that. The world is shifting around you and for the first time in a long time, the change gives you an immense sense of peace. You can hear the whispers of light snowflakes as they pass each other by your ears. It smells exactly like eleven fifty-seven at night on the fourteenth of February, light and foamy and so, so pale. You can feel midnight coming and there's a patch of starry sky peeking at you from behind the curtain-like clouds. It's almost midnight but because of the thick clouds, the empty square looks more grey than black.

The cold pecking of snow on the tops or your ears and on your cheekbones sends something like hot chills through you, forcing you to open your mouth wider. The cold air kisses the back of your throat and you smile, for no reason at all.

You're in the first district, in the front corner of the open-air restaurant they close during the winter months, but this is also too hard to process. The pristine white sound of snow falling lulls you into a state of semi-consciousness - whatever you stole from Roxas has done something amazing to you.

It's almost like disappearing - you're shut away in a place nobody can see. You're allowed to breathe. You're allowed to listen. You don't need to be nervous; no one else is here. You're free to be nobody. You don't have to pretend you have a definite role in the scope of human existence.

You are nothing. And because of Roxas' pills, that's okay.

Your body is shaking and your fingers are stiff. Why? This relaxed state makes it difficult to find answers. But you don't really want answers. You don't want to think. Thinking only makes things more complicated, and you've never been able to stop before.

So you lean your head back against the wall and close your eyes and just…

Just breathe.

In, out. In, out. Your throat sings and although the snow has stopped, you can still hear the pale whispers. You are not alone.

"Oh, fuck, Larxene!"

Your eyelids are too heavy to raise, so you don't bother to try. The startled voice is melodic. Soothing. Like honeyed autumn, and you don't really wonder if you've heard it before. You're drifting, even now that you're awake again.

"Larx? Say something."

Now the voice is borderline frantic. You don't care why. You just want it to go away.

"Shut up," you slur. It's hard to speak, so you decide to stop.

"Heh. Still the same, even in a situation like this. Here, take that arm. I can't carry her by myself."

"It's probably not a good idea to move her," another voice remarks. This one is also tentatively familiar, knocking against the calm barrier surrounding your brain. It's a nice voice - soft, deep blue, salami on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Why?"

"We don't know what caused the injury on her head. She may be injured in other critical areas."

"Dude, she's probably…like hypothermic. At this point I don't care. It'll take them three hours to process a care request, since all I know is her first name and her birthday. Even your influence won't do anything. So if you're not going to help me, I'll do it myself. But that just makes you a fucking heartless asshole."

You hear a quiet sigh, and then feel someone moving your arms. It's not a nice sensation; you just want to stay in this spot. You're shaking, but it's a nice warm feeling, and your arms hurt now. "Stop."

"Sorry, Larxene." It's the autumn voice again. "The hell'd you do to yourself? I knew I should have seen you home…"

Suddenly there's something soft under you, and something else on top of you, and you can hear murmurs of something Else. Someone's playing a piano somewhere. Or maybe you aren't hearing anything at all. Something's screaming fire red into your ears and it's impossible to make out words.

You're still tired. Why did those people wake you?

"Don't go back to sleep," the voice says - not the autumn voice, but the other one. The softer one. It's right by your left ear. That person could bite you and you wouldn't be able to stop him.

"Tired," you say. Your mouth feels awkward, like it's grown or shrunk since you last used it. Or perhaps it's your tongue. It's the wrong size.

There's nothing but the insides of flames now. It reminds you of something. Someone. You don't know names or faces and you don't care to - it's just a familiar discomfort. Yellow and thick, just red enough to be tolerable.

"Hey, help me get her out of here," says the autumn voice. You try to open your mouth and swallow the honey, but you can't reach and you can't even breathe in the smell.

"I still think this is a bad idea."

"And I still think it would be stupid to take her to the hospital. The ER is always packed and we're already doing what they'll tell us to do. I've got cure shots at the house, so it's not like she'll die or anything, because of the warming side-effects. Traverse Town's hospitals are useless anyway."

"And her head?"

"We just have to keep her awake. I'll ask Nam to keep her company when I have to leave for school."

School. You don't like the word, or the feeling it presents. You don't know why - but it doesn't matter. He hasn't said it again, and he probably won't. You're being moved anyway; it's cold and then hot and then cold again, and you have yet to open your eyes.

You don't want to do it. You just want to sleep. Sleep is a rare pleasure.

"Larxene! Open your eyes!"

The voice is insistent and this time, the urgent tone affects your resolve. You're half awake now anyway - but when did you fall asleep again?

A figure slides in and out of your vision, vague and misty and trapped behind a veil of something like aquamarine and thick, suffocating concern.

"Demyx?" You think that's his name. Everything is fuzzy and you don't even have enough energy to hate him for depriving you of rest.

"She speaks! She knows me! Sweet!" You think he's joking, but you can't tell. Fuzz. Everywhere.

"Dem…?" There's a fainter voice. A girl's. It's thick and blurry with sleep and it makes you feel cold inside. It's a completely different kind of silver mist and it invades your ears with excessive force. A hostile takeover of your brain.

"What the…what are you doing?" Shrill cry. You want to push it away.

"Calm down, Nami! It's just Larxene."

"Just Larxene? Demyx, she's bleeding on your pillow and you've undressed her!"

You're bleeding? Why? And when did he remove your clothes? You don't remember feeling that at all. You feel something pull tight around you - tighter, rather - and you realize it's a blanket. Something is wrong here.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Take her to the hospital? She's cold."

"So basically you brought her here because you thought you could take care of her better than professionals? Dem, what the…what is going on?"

Your ears can't take any more. That voice is getting louder and louder, echoing, bouncing around the inside of your empty skull. It's so potent you can taste it on your tongue.

You've never tasted anything so sweet. It's disgusting. You can't stand to look at the scene any more, so you close your eyes.

"Shut up!" There's only the sound of breathing, and your voice still sounds shaky. You couldn't pronounce 'shut' properly. You stuttered over your consonants. It's…

You're sick. You've not been sick in years, but you're sick.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. It's still a sick, sweet sound. Like strawberry soda, only silvery and freezing and not bubbly at all.

"…I'm gonna take him home," says Demyx.

"And you want me to take care of her?" That voice…

It's Demyx's sister. Naminé.

Fuck.

"Yeah, if you can. If you can't, then…well, I guess he gets to sleep in your room. He's got an early class. We can call Doc in a couple of hours. What do you say?"

"Of course I'll do it! I just…Demyx…"

"You'll be fine. Just keep her warm. And awake. I'll be back soon."

You don't want to hear any more. Detaching from coherency is so much easier than trying to be coherent…so you let sound and smell overwhelm you. You watch Naminé's color boil and tentatively reach toward you -

And you don't react to it. You're already slipping away.

Much later, you're still shaking slightly, but there's someone called 'Doc' shining a light into your eyes and asking questions. You do your best to answer them without drawing out of your special full state, where you can only see, smell, hear and taste. Color. There are no words or faces or personal smells. But the light brings you out of it. He has bunchy white hair drawn around the sides of his head like a broken halo, presenting a very bald crown. He's short and he looks kind.

"Other than being hypothermic," he says, rubbing his hands together, "you seem to be okay. There's no concussion. The shuts are callow - tucks are lacko - you don't have to worry about bleeding out. May I ask - why are there cuts on your body?"

"No idea."

"You don't remember anything?"

"Just wanted to paint. Then I fell asleep."

"There may be a case of assault in this situation, but more than likely, they're shelf-lificted. Sell-flickillid." He sighs. "She did them herself, probably on a whim prompted by the drug in her system."

"Drug? Larxene's not a druggie. She doesn't do drugs. Someone probably gave it to her. She's too cool for drugs."

"Well, it looks like Zenthrax, something new that kids sell on the streets…I'll see what I can find out, all right?"

"Yeah, any suggestions?"

"Keep her warm. She's allowed to sleep, but keep an eye on it. If she seems to be getting worse, or can't wake up, ring me immediately."

"Okay, Doc. Thanks. I'll see you next month, for annual spring checks?"

"Yes, Mr. Nocturne. Pleasure to see you, as always. Doog-bay. Dude-gay." He sighs once more. "Good-day."

You could die of shame. When you went out, your intention was not to get sick. They're giving you too much attention. You want to disappear.

The word of the day is milquetoast. Definition: Naminé. Age twenty-one, saturated in melted margarine yellow. It covers the box she wears to keep herself and her true color safe, dripping down the sides. It battles with the blue. But so far -

That repulsive, consuming color is still there.

But she doesn't notice. Somewhere in a small corner of your mind, you know she can't see it because it's not there. But you see what is not there. And in another place, another time, you'd be in some kind of institution. Alice Liddell used to call it seeing auras, but that was only when she tripped all the way to the Land of Wonder and back. Your mother, constantly trying to make up for her mistakes, called it a 'gift.' Marluxia told you that you see in color and it was absolutely beautiful. You left the next day - just refused to see him and refused to pal around with Alice and refused to open the door to that other girl, the one that kept thinking she was a mermaid when we shot up - what was her name? Ariel? Ariel Triton.

"Why are you staring at me?"

You jump - you weren't staring, you were just unfocused in a random direction - and say, "It's because I'm completely enthralled by you. You're such a charming, beautiful person. I want you to know that. I can't stop looking at you."

You flutter your eyelashes for effect, pulling the blankets tighter around you. At this point, after so many days, they're no longer needed; but they make you somehow safer. From her.

"…You're not a very nice person," she replies.

"No, I'm not a nice person at all."

It seems that she doesn't have a response; but it's not as if you were expecting one. You're afraid of her, so you hate her, and the glare on your face should be enough to tell her than words, from her, are unwanted. Unnecessary.

She makes for an amazing picture. That blue…you've never seen something like her before. She has beautiful eyes, but even they pale in comparison. You've seen plenty of blues before, in people and in tubes of paint, but this is…

You'd call it cerulean, but it isn't. You'd call it cornflower, but it isn't. It's closer to cobalt - and sky on a Friday afternoon in the middle of summer - and thick veins under thin skin - and a view of the ocean from the top floor of a beachfront hotel.

It's really impossible to classify.

And it surrounds her person, holding her tightly, glaring at the yellow intruder. It seems as though something has dimmed - there's more blue, less yellow. She's different. No one changes like this - but no one has two colors, either. Only invaders when they lie.

She's staring at you now, curious and tentative. You notice - for the first time - when she reaches out, the yellow doesn't go anywhere.

Perhaps she does know about it. Perhaps it's intentional - a barrier to keep people at a distance. You don't know if that's possible at all, but it's not as if you have a color to manipulate anyway. She feels wrong, but you think she might know. Her eyes are pinned to you, pinned to yours, and you're so angry you don't react. You want to jump up, throw away the covers, and slap her out of the chair, knock her over so you don't have to look at her.

It's funny. You're thinking like an abusive spouse. You're thinking like a playground bully. You're thinking like the thugs who -

It's funny, so you laugh.

It feels good to laugh.

As if your laughter was some kind of invitation, Naminé's lips quirk up at the corners, and her chest heaves a little. Small, almost nonexistent noises escape her. She's laughing. You don't know if she's laughing because of her nervousness or because you're being stupid and she can't help it, but the sound is chimes in major keys and silver, like her voice. Cold, like her voice. Sweet. You hate it, even though -

It is beautiful.

You still hate the feeling developing between your brother and Axel, so you can still hate her. Beauty doesn't have to be loved. It just can't be destroyed, unless destruction makes it even more beautiful. Like the woman on the news, found by the owner of the House of Merlin. Brunette, brown eyes, with the most beautiful lips anyone could imagine. Hands artfully resting on her heart.

She had been made doubly beautiful, however, by the blossoms of blood on her chest and stomach.

You're not laughing any more. Naminé is quiet again, eyeing you like a small animal would a predator. How can one person switch feelings so much? How is she able to function?

And she's still so captivating…

"Do you want to see it?"

The question catches you off-guard. Through the haze of your imagination, you realize her lips had been moving - you just hadn't heard. Her presence, the screaming of your nerves and the shifting of her color…you were overwhelmed. You still are, but now your ears are working.

"What?"

"The picture. I drew it while you were asleep. I couldn't resist." Her voice is still misty, still watery, still absolutely terrifying and gorgeous and if you can't pull out, you'll be stuck inside her heart forever. You'll suffocate and she'll never know. She'll kill you.

"Sure." At least interacting will keep you from sinking under. It's so difficult.

It doesn't look much like you. The form curled under the covers is peaceful, and her bangs are as obnoxious as yours, but Naminé has…made her beautiful. You know that with the right posture and the right amount of makeup you can pretend you're beautiful - you can even convince others of your beauty - but it doesn't exist. Mirrors never lie to you. It's a matter of projection, but you can't fool yourself. You can pretend, but you can never be.

But Naminé…Naminé has made you beautiful in her drawing. It's flattery of the crudest sort. How - how dare she.

"Doesn't look a bit like me," you say. Your tone is full of derision and you raise one eyebrow - again, only for effect.

"What do you mean? This is exactly what I saw. I know it's not perfect, but-"

"That's not me. That's just a sleeping chick with the same hairstyle. You've really got to get your eyes checked, little girl."

"Not that little," she murmurs, and it's almost melancholy. Ridiculous and not quite annoying, but close enough.

"Whatever. That's not the point."

"I think you look remarkably beautiful when you sleep," she informs you. It's like fire in your blood and ants on your skin.

"Whatever," you say again.

After a long pause - painfully full of nameless feeling and silence heavy enough to clog your throat - she speaks again, quietly. "Demyx said you're an artist?"

"I used to be." You're not as indifferent as your voice makes you sound. It's Axel's fault, all of it. You miss the feel of a brush in your hand, splotches of paint on casual clothing you've now thrown away, the absolute peace which comes from shutting yourself in a room and bringing canvases to life. But since Roxas has focused on him, everything you create is superficial, childish. Color is superfluous and your eyes can't bear such atrocity.

"Once an artist, always an artist," she remarks. She's got a small smile on her face - so small, in fact, that you don't think she knows it's there.

It lights up her eyes in a distinctly familiar way. You can tell what she's feeling, what she's imagining. You want a part in it and you want no part in it and this paradoxical impossibility makes your head spin.

But it's nothing to worry about. You don't believe in paradoxes. The whole world flows too smoothly and so gracefully - nothing is truly contradictory. Phrases like 'paradox' and 'impossibility' are simply convenient. You can ignore the shifting of the universe when you use them, even silently in the privacy of your own consciousness.

Something feels distinctly familiar about this scenario. It makes you nervous.

"I can imagine you with a little splotch of green on your forehead, where you accidentally brushed your hand when it had paint on it," she continues, as though you actually approve of the subject. The feeling only gets stronger and you have to quell the urge to run out of the room.

"You've got a red skirt on. It's a little short, but it looks great on you. Your black shirt is unbuttoned at the bottom - you just got your belly button pierced and someone told you it should be shown off. You don't really want to show it off, but you want to please this person. You're late to meet someone, so you start running."

She smiles at you. "It's such a pretty-"

But you're falling, vision blurry, so full of intense fear and hatred that you don't notice when -

There's a defining moment in life - everyone has one. Some people have two or three, but there's always one you look back on and think damn. Because it changed your life. It changed the way you thought, the way you felt, the way you looked at things. And even if you don't remember…you can't forget.

I was standing there, blood on my clothes, one booted foot on the ground and the other on his chest, head cocked to one side. Looking at him. There was a little smile on my face, the amused kind that comes with too much adrenaline and too little seriousness. The kind that means you're going to cry when it's all over.

"Please," he said. "Please, stop!"

I laughed. I thought it was because I found it funny. In some ways, I did find it funny. And in others, I still do. There I was, almost seventeen, six feet tall and just over a hundred pounds. There I was, a junkie, a slut, an ugly bitch who got attacked because she bowled over and immediately mouthed off to the wrong guy. The one I had spent a month avoiding, because he wanted me and even if I'd wanted him, I had a boyfriend that wasn't two years older than me and treated me like I really deserved to be treated.

There I was, standing in my little red skirt over that six-foot-four sack of solid muscle - and he was begging me to stop.

I wasn't strong. I wasn't brave. I'd never fought anyone alone, never cared about working out or…anything like that. Addicted to running, sure, but he could definitely take me. Anyone could take me. It was perhaps because I was afraid to hurt people, or because it wasn't my place to act that way, or perhaps even a little of both - but I'd never even considered doing what I did to him.

Until he'd pinned me down. Girls like the girl I was - eager to please, pacifistic, weak - are easy. Girls like that are the kind you go after if you don't want a challenge. If you're looking for a power trip as attainable as an A in kindergarten. If you're looking for someone you can scare into doing things for you, since even when you're her rapist, she feels that urge to cater. She needs to do what you say, to be your slave.

She needs to have orders, because in the end, she's too weak to take care of herself.

She knows because she's been told.

But I didn't want it to happen. Adrenaline kicked in and by the time I was finished, I had a black eye and a bleeding cut on the back of my head. I would eventually be told I had a concussion, and I would eventually be punished for going out alone, because haven't you learned how weak you are? Haven't you learned that you can't take care of yourself? You're so stupid.

But he looked like something out of a bad horror film. His mouth was full of blood, from the bite in his tongue and his broken nose. I had blood in my mouth and on my palm, from those. His ribs were cracked from the kick I'd given him. The back of his head was bleeding from the knock he got when I pushed him down onto the pavement. And he was having trouble breathing, since my foot was crushing him.

And he begged.

"Please," he said. "Please, stop!"

This is the point at which I considered killing him.

This is the point at which I had a choice, a life-changing choice. This was my defining moment.

When the authorities came, I was hysterical and his eyes were closed. They took us both to the hospital, even though I didn't really need it. I explained the situation with agitated passion born of two days without a fix, and the tremors were explained away as adrenaline and shock.

Nobody ever pressed charges. It was self-defense, after all. And as for him…well, he's dead. He died on his back, head against cement, drowning in his own blood.

I'm very upset that I wasn't the one who killed him. But back then, I was still the weak little girl who needed orders and safety and the comfort of getting punished for being stupid. Back then, I was appalled at my actions. I never fully explained it to Marluxia. I only took out the ring and pretended it was never there in the first place.

I clung to him desperately but I couldn't look him in the eye. I lost myself in our latest experiments and our tried and true stress relievers. I couldn't pay attention in classes, because of all the drugs, but I went anyway, because I had nothing distracting at home and I wasn't allowed to skip by myself; it was one of Marluxia's rules. I pushed Alice - Allie - away and I pretended Ariel didn't exist and I only spoke when told.

A year later, Roxas came back and…something.

- you're on your hands and knees over a mess of your own vomit and trembling. You're horrified and exhausted and how the fuck did you even forget that. And why can't you remember the rest.

"Larxene? Come on, please talk to me!" It's a silvery voice and chills run through your entire body and oh yes, it's Naminé, of course it's Naminé, this is all her fault anyway. She's fucking psychic or something and she has no right to see you like this.

No right.

You grab her hand anyway, and squeeze it until she cries out in pain. The sound brings you back and you only let go when you're sure you can stand without difficulty.

"I'm leaving," you say.

"But-"

"If you try and stop me, I'll kill you." Your voice is extra harsh, and she shrinks away. She believes you.

It's probably the truth anyway.

The first thing you do, after showering and brushing your teeth, is pull on your old sneakers and go outside. It's not yet morning, so the world is dark and quiet and for once, the quiet is so soothing you want to thank whatever's out there. The universe, maybe.

The moment is gone, however, before it's properly registered, and you're off. It's a route you know so well you could trace it in your sleep; but you don't want to sleep. You never want to sleep. And it's probably stupid to be out, in the cold, exerting your body like this.

You don't. Fucking. Care. You need this. This is the only thing you can do to get your mind off the things you saw at Demyx's house. This is the only way you can keep yourself from going back and apologizing. Larxene Andersen doesn't apologize to anyone any more. Silence is a virtue; distance is a gift.

The cold air seeps into your cuts and you sigh in pleasure. It's like healing water or toothpaste in the eyes. You know why they're there, but you'll never tell a soul - they don't need to know just how fucked up you really are. They don't need to know you tore your own skin open in an attempt to block out the silence, before giving it up as a bad job and swallowing Roxas' pills dry.

The sharp, grey sounds of your feet connecting with salted pavement is a familiar comfort, and - without pausing - you pull out your pocket player and switch it on. Now you can listen to real music. Mozart and Beethoven and Liszt and Mendelssohn and all the great artists, the way they should be. Raw and beautiful. It took you years to track down the original versions; and you're never truly proud of anything you do, though you can pretend very well in front of others, but you're proud of your collection. You have other music, too, which was easier to find. But classical music is so beautiful. It's the only beautiful part of you, trapped inside your soul.

It floats into your ears like colored clouds riding on the breeze, and you know when you lose yourself in it, you won't notice a thing. You won't remember brutalizing your attacker. You won't remember your stupid mistake on your birthday. You won't remember you're running, even.

It's just you and the only natural high you've ever found.

I had a dream, once, which was mine. I'd only dreamed of others, before - as though I was that other person, and I never knew who that person was - but I dreamed of myself. It was right after Roxas left.

In my dream, I told my mother the truth about my fall down the stairs. She became angry and started shouting - in general. She wasn't shouting at anything specific.

After, she grabbed her chest. It ripped open and her heart fell out, through her hand and onto the floor. Then, she looked at me and held my gaze until she died.

Roxas came into the room. Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony crept over my frame.

He moved his mouth and said, "You were supposed to sit tight and let me find a way. Now you've killed her and we have to stay here forever!"

When I opened my eyes, I was puzzled. The entire dream had been written. I'd read my dream, in my dream, and I'd seen the pictures in the same way I saw pictures when I read books.

I wondered why I even dreamed in quotes.

But then I decided to forget about it. This was the day I was going to become a person.

Axel's attempts to get Roxas' attention might make you laugh, any other time, but you are not amused. You aren't annoyed, either, like you would be on a bad day. You aren't anything. You're nothing again, just part of the world, an observer of beauty and soul and humanity at its finest.

It never ceases to amaze you. Every person in the world is ridiculous and stupid. And your observations are not hypocritical because you are even more stupid than they are. You just know how to pretend.

Mostly.

Axel wants Roxas to at least look at him, but Roxas refuses, because he's focused on you. He wants you to tell him what the fuck is going on with you. Why were you missing? Do you realize you stiffed Marluxia? Why are you sick? What did you do to yourself? Do you realize how worried I - Axel was?

You don't understand it. You left because sex between your brother and Axel is nauseating and they were going at it when you got home. You thought they'd appreciate the alone time - and you didn't do it for their sakes, but you don't understand why he'd worry about you.

You don't understand a lot of things. You don't understand because you're not part of them. You used to worry about things like this, but it's different now, and you were under the impression that Roxas had always been the way you are now.

"What the fuck," he says for what has to be the fifth time in the last few minutes. He looks at you and he looks…hopeless. He thinks he's useless.

And it's so unnerving that you speak without your own permission. "I was with a friend and his sister. We went to dinner and then saw Inland Empire at the theater. I went home with them and-"

"Don't be stupid, Larx." He gives you a critical look. "You're a great liar, but you can never lie to me."

Axel extends his hand, like he wants to touch Roxas on the shoulder or the face, but he draws it away. He looks so pathetic and needy that you…

You feel…sorry for him. You pity him. That hasn't happened in years.

"I…really was with Demyx and Naminé," you say quietly. The atmosphere is suffocating you with rosy pressure, like a bag over your head. Neither Roxas nor Axel notices. It's maddening, but you've come to expect ignorance. They aren't crazy. They don't see things that aren't there.

"Yes, Larxene, I got that." You resist the urge to kick him in the ribs. You're not a child. You're really just a stupid girl, but you can follow a conversation. You don't appreciate the condescension in his tone and the way he slowed the sentence.

"You guys were fucking when I got home. I didn't feel like sticking around, so I left. Went to the first district. Got cold. Went home with Demyx and some other guy I don't know. At least, I didn't recognize his…" You stop for a moment. Roxas can't know you got sick. He can't know you were careless like that. He can't see you weak. "His face."

"Well, I believe you. I know you're not really telling me everything, but I'm not your keeper. Just figured I'd make sure you weren't cornered in an alley somewhere." Lines of deep red venom fall out of his mouth and make lines to your ears. He hasn't lost his temper - he doesn't have to do that. The sudden shift in atmosphere is enough to throw you off balance completely.

"Speaking of," you hear yourself say, "what do you know about the time I fucked up a guy when I was a teenager?"

"I…" He looks at you oddly. He's confused. How can he be confused? The subject is straightforward enough. "What do you know about it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," you shoot back. "I have a pretty good memory. I just wanted to verify some things."

"You don't remember," he says. "You don't fucking remember. How can you not remember something like that?"

"How could you forget your family? Huh? How could you forget your promise? It's probably the same reason, brother dearest." He's such a hypocrite. You wish you could hate him.

"You're not being fair! I hit my head. I couldn't remember anything for two fucking years. What's your excuse, huh? All that shit you put in your body finally fucking your mind up?"

"I just don't remember, okay?" You feel that tight, nasal sensation again. It's…you're going to cry. You're going to lose it. You are absolutely ridiculous and there's nothing you can do to stop irrational hysteria from shooting out of your mouth like steam from an ancient train."I don't remember! And I don't remember why I don't remember but mocking me isn't going to do anything! Why can't you just be a normal person and tell me? Tell me what happened when you came back!"

Suddenly there's nothing except white silence coated with a thin layer of pale pink anxiety and the taste of anticipation. It's sickly sweet, like Naminé's voice. You'd love it, if the sweetness was milder and something bitter like annoyance was added. Roxas isn't speaking, but Axel's hand is being held and there are ribbons forming slowly, slowly like rocks being worn down by time and rushing water. It hurts, in your chest and in your head.

Roxas makes a thick, wet noise with his throat and tongue before speaking forests, healing green and life and darkness. "You were in really bad shape after that second guy. Marluxia was pretty good about keeping you safe, but…well, you know how it was back then. You weren't…able to take care of yourself. You pretty much invited trouble - subconsciously, probably. You were the biggest pushover anyone had ever met, and-"

"I already know that." Verbal reminders of your weakness, which hasn't truly left you at all but looks much different now, send bolts of electricity through your body, under your skin, following bone and brushing against veins like teasing or like death.

"I just…I didn't want to see you go through that. I didn't want you to…be like…how you were. So I told you things. I made you hurt and I made you angry and I finally got you to attack me. I thought you remembered and just never said anything…and perhaps that's true, I wouldn't know…but that scar on my collarbones is from you. You lost it and grabbed Arlene's paring knife off the cutting board."

"I wasn't strong enough to overpower you," you say flatly. The story is off. You don't understand.

"No, you weren't. I could have fought you off, but I didn't. I wanted you to attack me. To see how strong you could be. To realize you didn't have to bow down to people - you're different, Larx. Special. I wanted you to stop being that person, because you're too good for that and anyone with eyes can see that."

"I'm not fucking special," you snarl, scooting to the corner of the couch. He's issuing a challenge, or…something. It doesn't make sense. You don't understand it and if you really were special, at least you would get the hidden meaning. "I'm just crazy. Just stupid and crazy and-"

You don't see it before it comes. You do hear it, though, sunset and candy and thunder. Your mouth hurts and he looks like he'll kill you. Slick, beautiful somethings slide around inside you, and you hate yourself when you have to bite your lip and close your eyes to hide the effect it has on you. He's never hit you before, outside of acknowledged stress-relieving squabbles, but you've always hit him back. Until now. This…this is different.

"You're not crazy. You're not. Just...shut the fuck up."

"I wish we knew where Arlene was," says Axel, voice soft like old slippers.

"Why?"

"Because I'd really kind of like to tear her apart for doing this to her."

It's so unexpected and so strange and…he's telling the truth. You still don't understand. You've been rivals for Roxas' attention ever since Roxas came home with Axel in tow like a bitchy, violent duckling.

"It'd be easy." Roxas is agreeing. And unlike Axel, Roxas is always absolutely ruthless. It's a viable scenario and it's the most frightening thing he's ever said.

"You'd…get thrown in the sky prison," you say, cursing the shake in your voice. It's from something like adrenaline or dread and you can always see feeling in the air, shooting arrows and flowing like magma below the surface, mushroom clouds or pain or even bubbles like water. Pockets, and -

But you can never see your own feeling. It's because you don't have a color. You're not truly alive. It's like you have no real emotions in the first place - you obviously do, but it never seems that way.

"Axel would probably kill himself trying to get you out of there. You'd fucking disappear forever and to be honest, I'm not-" You stop, backtrack. He doesn't want to hear you say you're not worth it, and you don't want to say it anyway. This has never been a problem, but…perhaps he thought you were joking before. "I'm not sure she's even worth it. I don't hate her. I don't feel enough for her to hate her. She's not available anyway, so it's not even an issue."

And it's not her fault, but you don't say that. You were born this way. You've always been defective…it's just easier to hide it now and he's still not used to the change.

"I'd only be imprisoned if they could prove it. And I don't really have a functioning conscience. Love is stronger than regret, and I wouldn't regret it anyway."

"Shut up. You don't love me." The ribbons are still there, but they've got to be yours only. They can't be mutual. It wouldn't make sense. "I can see more ri - you're falling in love. With him."

Axel looks bewildered - he is - and Roxas doesn't look to be feeling anything at all, on the surface, but you can feel it. You can see it. He's embarrassed and angry and it's not like it should come as a surprise to him. They're his feelings.

Finally, Roxas replies, "I wouldn't cut ties with you, even if he somehow wormed his way into my little black heart." But he squeezes Axel's hand and shifts closer to him, like he's some kind of strength, some kind of backup. On the couch in front of the black screen of the television, it's suddenly clear. It's you, and it's Them. There's no room for you any more.

You don't bother to tell him it's already happened. He's easily twice as smart as you, and if you can see it…then he already knows, and it's just a matter of time before he stops lying to himself.

"I'm hurt, Roxas," Axel says dramatically, putting the hand not connected to Roxas' over his heart and making a convincing pained face. It's convincing because it's real and it's not real because he always expects that kind of thing.

You laugh at the absurdity, against your own advice. Roxas laughs at what he thinks is a joke and Axel laughs because it's required, if he doesn't want to scare Roxas into leaving him.

The tension isn't broken for you, but it is for them, and it doesn't even matter any more, does it? It's always been this way. You're separated from the rest of the world, behind a veil of color and light and music. You're alone. And it shouldn't hurt, because this is routine.

This is your reality.