Like Liquid
He played it soft, and low. Notes and chords spilling from his fingertips like rain off a rooftop. It had always sounded a little like water, liquid, fluid; hypnotizing, he'd been told. Even when he'd been Somebody. So now the metaphor was more literal, so what?
It wasn't his happy music -- wasn't the wild rock and roll he played when he was keyed up and hyper, or the slow, lazy jazz he settled into on Sunday afternoons when there was nothing else to do, no orders to follow, no hearts to...
But Demyx didn't like to think about that part of it.
He played it like he'd played it a hundred times before, maybe even a thousand. One of the things he missed most about being Somebody was the way the other members of his band would argue with him, pick apart his melodies, change his lyrics -- add their own -- the way the process of creation came in a rush and then ebbed, sputtered and dripped, the way it moved like a living thing, until the song was better than it had been. And no song was ever set in stone, because they didn't have any CDs out yet, so there was always room for improvement. Always the chance that, before their next gig, someone would want to strike a line, add a verse, turn whole sets inside out.
He still wrote sometimes, but it wasn't the same. None of his songs changed anymore. And none of the other numbers contributed much besides an occasional chorus of, "Shut the hell up, we're trying to sleep."
Not that he minded, or really wanted any of their opinions anyway. Their loss. Besides, the Dancers were the best audience anyone could ever ask for, attentive and silent and full of ripples of warm affection whenever he finished (which, he supposed, could've meant they just liked the part at the end where he stopped playing, but they did like the beat of his happy music, and they were pleased anyway, so what did it matter really). He didn't need anyone else to like his songs.
And, after all, it wasn't like any of the other numbers were really artists. Mostly they knew how to move, could have made great dancers themselves if they'd bothered (you could tell that kind of thing by watching someone fight), and what Marluxia could do with a few stray seeds showed he had the potential for real creation, but Demyx had always sort of assumed no one else really cared much for his music.
Which is why he was so surprised when he eased off his sitar, leaning back in his chair and letting the last echoes of noise, the reverberation of the bass, wash over him -- and saw Number Two standing in the doorway opposite. For a moment, he froze up completely and came close to falling right out of his chair. Two Dancers were already half-poised to save him from the embarrassment when he recovered his balance and settled the chair back on the cold stone floor with a loud thunk.
His composure, he found a little trickier to regain. Number Two was crisscrossed in scars and totally scary-looking just on his own, but more than that, he was one of the big guys, the top dogs. No one lower than Vexen had ever even talked to him before, and Vexen had done it with a clipboard in hand, making furious notes and not bothering with eye contact. Lexaeus and Zexion talked around him, like he couldn't be expected to understand their strange earth language.
And Number Two? He didn't even know Number Two's name.
But the silence was really, really, really uncomfortable.
"So, uh, are you here to tell me to stop before I make your ears bleed?" Demyx asked him, smiling a smile that felt horribly unnatural.
Number Two blinked, and smiled back. His didn't look forced. He seemed to take his time replying, although that could have been an illusion created by the fact that Demyx's otherwise-nonexistent heart was keeping six-eight time, easy. "Actually, I think you're pretty fucking good. You played before, too, right? What's your name?"
"I, uh." He couldn't make his mouth work properly. He licked his lips, swallowed, and tried again. "Yeah, I did. I'm -- I'm Number Nine."
The older man laughed, shook his head, and right away you knew he was different. "I asked for your name, kid, not your designation." He jabbed a thumb at his chest. "Mine's Xigbar."
"...Demyx," Demyx said in a tiny voice, feeling stupid. He found himself hoping irrationally that Number Two -- Xigbar -- didn't think he was retarded. Everyone thought he was retarded; he was used to it, didn't care, knew that some of them liked him anyhow, in their own ways. Maybe it was just that he'd never talked to anyone so important before. Maybe it was just that he'd never talked to anyone who looked at him that way, like he was a human being instead of a fly or a source of amusement.
Actually, Xigbar was looking at him kind of intensely now. It made him shift, suddenly uneasy. He wasn't used to being the center of attention (anymore?). And despite himself, even knowing it was dumb and possibly suicidal, he couldn't help hunching down a little in his cloak and snapping, "What? What're you staring at?"
He laughed again, and it wasn't a bad sound -- slightly rough, with age and maybe cigarettes or something. Demyx thought he might have liked the sound of it, if it hadn't been directed at him, right then. But what Xigbar said next washed all of that away. "I was just wondering," the older man told him, grinning, "how much better the music'll be when you have a heart again. It's got something, even now. Something I didn't think we could put into anything we do."
Of course, Demyx had to ask, but the Dancers were distracting with their pleased waves of, He likes it, he has taste, we like him, yes we do, and, to be honest, he was kind of distracted on his own with some of the same thoughts. He silenced them hastily. "What are you talking about?"
Xigbar's grin would have been more at home on the face of a shark, if sharks could somehow look friendly even while they looked dangerous as hell. The effect was kind of scary. "Sincerity."
He wasn't quite sure how to take that, really. Part of him wanted to brush it off, demand to know if sincere wasn't really just another way of saying stupid, gullible, naive, like it would have been if anyone else had said it, but Demyx only rubbed the back of his neck, and felt something in the hollow of his chest go soft and swirly like water round a drain. "Oh," he blurted, stupidly. He was smiling again, and couldn't stop. "Okay."
Yeah. Number Two was different. Cool and clear and clean somehow, even with the scars and cigarette-hoarse voice.
But Demyx thought he could get used to it.