Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Square Enix.

Warnings: AU and Genderswitch fic - meaning that Saïx has a lot of screentime as a woman. Also instances of violence, strong language and disturbing themes throughout, though the more severe instances of these will only be available on my LJ version.


THE DICHOTOMY BETWEEN ME AND ME

CHAPTER 1: WAKE UP


I don't even receive the dignity of a trigger. There's no romantic act that breaks the spell, like a kiss or a familiar touch of the hand or the right words said by the right voice.

It's more like this. One minute, I am sitting on the side of the bathtub and brushing my teeth. The next minute, my toothbrush falls onto the tiles with a clatter as the veil lifts. I realise that this isn't my bathroom, that these aren't my clothes, that I'm miles from home.

"Are you done?" someone calls. "I'm bursting here. Hurry up. Open the fucking door."

Carefully, because the voice sounds murderous more than impatient, I creep to push my back against the wall and pull on the handle. The acrid smell of medicine creeps through the tiny gap, and then the door flies open. Someone pushes me. I crash into something. I stumble out, bump into a wall corner, catch a tooth on my lip. There's blood mixed with the toothpaste in my mouth.

"I told you to hurry up, didn't I? You fucking bitch, move…!"

I want to go home.

"I'm Saïx," I plead, as a woman – a nurse? – takes my arm and starts to walk me back.

"I know," she answers, and I flinch at the bite to her voice. "You're also number seven. I know, I know. Get undressed."

I stare at her. And the more I stare, the more I feel the walls caving in on me and the floor leaving my feet. My room – I assume that's where she has taken me – shows signs of having once been tidy. But now, various cards are scattered across the floor and a bunch of carnations have been strewn across my bed as if it's a coffin.

"Yeah, the usual suspects," says the nurse. "They trashed your room. Get over it. Come on, get changed into your pyjamas. Now, Saïx. I don't have all day."

Every one of her words, especially the way she spits out my name, scald me like flecks of hot water. Across the hall in the room opposite mine, an old woman presses her face against the window and makes obscene gestures at me. I can hear screaming and shouting, and nurses retaliating by hollering for silence.

My whole body contorts against the pressure, and a ripple of fear runs through me, to escape in a single sob. I dart past the nurse, colliding with the doorframe to avoid her claw-like hands. I stumble into the corridor and run as fast as I can.

"Zexion!" The nurse's voice pierces through the acrid air. "Your favourite patient is being very difficult!"

I spot a telephone box ahead. There's two, but a middle-aged man is using the left one. I skid towards the right and lift up the handset. It shakes in my grip, becomes a blur of green as I burst into tears.

"Pretty lady," says the man next to me. He beckons for me to hold out my hand, and then drops in something. "You can call home now." He turns back. "Hello? Ma, it's me!"

I look down at my hand to discover there's nothing there; when I glance back up, I realise he hasn't dialled a number at all. I freeze up as I study the buttons, as the mechanical voice from the phone calls into my ear.

The handset moves from my grip and slowly, someone puts it back and with a gentle tug, he pulls me to face him. He doesn't look much older than eighteen, but he wears a doctor's coat and his visible eye studies me like he's doing a cross examination. His name tag reads Zexion.

"…Who were you trying to call, Saïx?" he asks. He's so gentle, yet every sound and sight burns me.

I shake my head. "Home. I'm so, so scared and I want to go home."

I don't know if I am coherent, or if the words have even left my mouth. It becomes an arduous task just to stay standing, and I sink to my knees, if only to try and make myself smaller, to make the bombardment of distress a little less hard hitting.

There's a sigh, and Zexion slumps against the wall by the telephone box. A slim hand goes to his hair and he pushes back his long fringe, cracking a faint smile. "Mrs Butler – welcome back."

~o~

I get whisked to an oak office at Zexion's insistence.

"We have to run standard tests, although no doctor will deny that you've been the most cooperative and friendly patient."

The office, thankfully, has soundproof walls and no nurses. My shoulders relax and when Zexion takes me to the sofa and pushes forward a cup of tea, I even manage a, "Thank you, doctor," and a smile.

"I'm not a doctor," he replies, "just an assistant. Doctor Newcombe is recognised as your supervisor."

I glance over at the solid desk where Vexen Newcombe sits and attacks a file for relevant papers. "I'll be with you both in a minute," he mutters.

Zexion shrugs and sinks into the armchair opposite me. We fall into a silence, and I contemplate what 'standard tests' entail. I've been admitted to a ward for a reason; they obviously have to run a scan on my mind, make sure I'm not mad.

Vexen gets up from his chair and walks round. He sits on the edge of his desk, eight feet away from me.

"Saïx," Vexen begins. "Firstly, allow me to apologise for the fright that must have been caused when you suddenly found yourself in a psychiatric ward. There is no need to be too alarmed. You were admitted to the ward when you entered a fugue state. For two months – one where you went missing and one where you were detained here – you lost all sense of identity. Given your one act of self harm, we deemed it sensible to keep you here and work with you to re-establish your sense of self."

I repeat, "Self harm?" but no one grants me the opportunity to see what harm.

"We accept it was an act of frustration as opposed to acting on the desire for suicide," Vexen continues. "Overall, you have been a model patient. Very harmless, kind and cooperative, as amnesia cases generally are. Now, the same way you couldn't remember your true self while in a fugue state, you can't remember your fugue state now that you're out of it. In fact, it's likely you are still continuing to suffer from amnesia. But don't worry," he assures, as I squirm in my seat, because I really can't remember anything about myself at all. "Our job is to encourage your memory to come back, and hopefully solve the issue that caused your fugue to begin with."

"Hence the standard tests," quips Zexion, "just to see the level of amnesia we're dealing with."

"So, Saix. Perhaps you can tell me what these objects are." Vexen starts to pick up items from his desk.

"Um…a pen. Notebook. Phone." Vexen points to his lapel, and I try, "…Doctor's coat?"

"Excellent," says Vexen. "Why don't you tell me what you like to eat?"

"I don't know."

"Any favourite restaurants?"

"Botanical Palace," I reply. I remember the twisting ivy and sweet smell of honeysuckle.

"Why is that?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me about your friends," Vexen continues.

"I don't know who they are."

"Your family?"

"I don't know who they are."

This rally of questions and (lack of) answers continues for what seems like hours. Every time I admit I don't know something, I worry that it nudges them inch by inch to the conclusion that I have to stay locked up. On top of it, the nagging sensation of feeling so empty inside just worsens.

"Well done, Saix," says Vexen, when he decides to let me go. "This is what we'll do. It appears you are rational and coherent enough for us to loosen your leash, so to speak. We've asked your husband to visit you tomorrow morning."

"I have a husband?"

"Yes," answers Vexen. "If you feel comfortable enough, we'll let him take you home tomorrow evening. Otherwise you can remain here in our care."

"Don't worry, though, Saïx. If you do remain with us, we'll have you moved to a more pleasant ward where the focus is recovery over detainment." Zexion steeples his fingers, which doesn't really look right on a teenager. "We understand that it's distressing to have a blank past, and even more so to be locked up because of it. But we want you to consider your options carefully, and not rule out the ward. Remember that Vexen's and my primary duty is to restore you to health."

~o~

I stay awake for a good portion of the night, trying to analyse my own answers. Really, how can I not know who I am? How can I sit in the corner of my bed and have an empty head?

I trace the mark on my face – this cross shaped scar I apparently carved into myself – and let the nervous butterflies erupt in my stomach as stare up at the blank ceiling and wonder if it's a mirror.

The next morning, my nerves only intensify as I get cleaned up and handed a smock-like dress that's a faded grey at the hem, and a single hair band with which to look presentable. I wonder if my husband will mind me looking so drab but then again, the visitors' hall in the psychiatric ward isn't the number one spot for a first date anyway, so the odds are against me right from the start.

"Sit here," says Zexion. "Your husband is on his way. We have wardens supervising all visitor meetings from that booth there. Just give a wave if you feel uncomfortable or want to leave, okay?"

"Okay." I sit down at a wooden table painted a stark cream, that very nearly melts into the equally pale walls and floor tiles of the hall. Every sound is followed by a resounding echo that bounces off the vast expanse of the ceiling; the sunlight that streams in from the high windows doesn't quite touch the top of our heads. It's crowded, busy; and yet, inexplicably lonely. Tens of other patients sit at tables and wait for their visitor to arrive.

For ten minutes, I fidget with the hem of my dress and try to think up of a good way to introduce myself to my husband. For five minutes after that, I debate with myself as to whether an introduction is even necessary. All the while, I survey the double doors where visitors come into the white world, and wonder if I will just know who he is when he comes in. Will my heart rate pick up? Will I suddenly feel so, so safe?

Once, there's a nice looking man in skinny jeans that gets my hopes up, but he sits at a different table. At eight thirty-three, a lanky man with greasy grey hair strolls in, and I nearly scream out loud that he better not be my husband. At quarter to nine, a middle-aged man with inch-thick glasses wanders in, and I keep my head down as if that will change the facts that have already been written. There's angry men, bald men, short men, bored men; and the whole time, I just hang in this limbo by a single thread and thought of hope – I hope he likes me.

At eight fifty-seven, a tall, tanned man comes into the hall. He has a haphazard bouquet of flowers in his hand. I find myself sitting up straight (suddenly and unconsciously), and I flush at the sight of my worn smock dress, which looks ten times worse when put against his creaseless pinstripe suit. It's difficult to decide if it's the flowers and the immediate beeline for me, that reveals his identity, or if it's something more. In any case, I stand up to greet him, outstretching a hand. My cheeks flare up to be a magnificent shade of red, but I don't know how else to tackle it.

"Hello. I'm Saix," I say breathlessly. We shake hands.

"Xemnas," he introduces. We sit down opposite each other, like it's a prison visit or a boring bank meeting about mortgages.

"I hoped you'd be my husband. A-after I saw you, I mean. There were a lot of old men, and some ugly too—" I ramble nervously, uncertain if I have a point or add value to the conversation, but he gives a light, worn smile anyway.

"Well, I'm thirty-six, so I am getting on a bit." His voice is soft and smooth, not unlike his cocoa skin, I find myself thinking. In fact, somewhere at the back of my nerve wracked mind, I'm absently pleased that I have done so well and snagged someone so handsome.

"How old am I?"

"You're thirty-one in July."

"And we're married," I say, trying to get used to the fact.

"This year's our sixth year."

"Then I went missing for one month, and then in a fugue state for another?"

"Or you were in a fugue state for the whole period," says Xemnas. "In any case, you've been out of action for two months. It's okay, though," he adds, "I'm just glad you're back. I'll take care of you."

"But I don't even know who you are." I stare at him, at that beautiful shade of skin, golden eyes and sleek silver hair, and I can't believe I'm married to him. He recoils at my statement, but he's surprisingly gracious about it.

"You can learn. We'll take it slow and you can relearn everything about yourself."

"Thirty years' worth?" I point out. "I've…Surely I've given you enough grief already."

"The worst thing you could do now is not even attempt it," he answers. The smoothness of his voice doesn't quite match his nervous expression. I stare at him blankly, and realise with a dull thud of my heart hitting the pit of my stomach, that that action – of looking like a woman not in love – is grief enough.

"…Are those for me?" I ask, tentative, encouraging. I point to the flowers by his elbow.

"Yeah. Yeah they are." He hands them over. "Those are from the kids. They picked them from the garden, which explains the lack of presentation."

"Oh." I take the bouquet, which consists of several wilting pansies and a dandelion. They're held together by a muddy ribbon, and it's all so terribly sweet that I feel a burst of warm pride, even if I know next to nothing about being a mother. Xemnas gives me a few minutes for the fact to sink in. "How many do I have?"

"Three."

I correct myself in a low murmur, "Do we have," and then go on to ask what's going to happen to me.

"I don't know," Xemnas admits. "You might get your memory back; you might not. Either way, you'll be welcomed with open arms. But if you want to stay in the ward, that too—you know, it's all right to choose that."

"No," I say quickly.

"Are the doctors all right? Are they good to you?"

"They're fine. I just…I don't know, it feels a little lonely, I suppose. I can't talk to anyone, and it's not like I have memories to revisit."

I glance at the gold wedding band round his finger, trying to be subtle about it. It's enough to convince me. Stay in a psychiatric ward and be analysed every second of the day? Or go home under the wing of someone who, six years ago, promised to take care of me, no matter what?

~o~

Vexen's standard tests on me reaffirm his suspicions that I have gone from dissociative fugue to systematised amnesia. In other words, I have gone from having no memory of my entire life, to only missing a specific category of information. Someone with systematised amnesia can usually get by without the need to recall the missing information. In many cases, it's a defence mechanism formulated by the brain to block out a particular person who may have caused severe trauma.

With me, though, my specific category puts me into an admirable position of loneliness. I seem to have a problem with people, and remembering who they are to me. My house, I know inside out. Give me a book, and I'll read to you. Ask me to draw a map from home to the nearest park, and I'll have it done in seconds.

But take me to school and ask me to point to my children, and I won't be able to. I don't recognise Xemnas, my own husband; I don't recognise Zexion, who apparently clocked more hours than anyone else in looking after me. I'm meeting everyone again for the first time.

Vexen and Xemnas come to a compromise. Where Vexen said that the psychiatric ward offered the best services for my recovery, Xemnas countered this by pointing out that integrating me with people was a sensible route to take.

"Besides, the kids have gone two months without their mother," Xemnas had argued, and the way his voice broke at the end hasn't left my mind, even now.

With the promise that I will make regular appointments with him and to ring as soon as I feel uncomfortable with settling in, then Vexen lets me go.

"Wait, Saïx." Zexion holds out a clear bag with my name on it. A gold band is inside. "We had to confiscate your possessions. We have to watch out for small items; people often have creative ways to—" He trails off and shrugs. "I digress."

"In any case, we're only a phone call away," says Vexen, and while he is meant to sound comforting, it comes across as a threat to Xemnas.

We leave the hospital together. The weight and pressure lifts off me, only to be replaced by a sense of giddiness and anxiety. So far, Xemnas has been very stiff and not particularly forthcoming, but when we head down the steps to the car park, his hand slides into mine and he makes a bland remark about the waning moon looking nice tonight. We behave like we're on a first date gone wrong, where neither party feels obliged to try and make amends, preferring to admit defeat.

I glance up at him, and I wonder how much emotion he is keeping back. I know he has missed me. In some way, I suppose he still is. I test the waters – my own courage, to care for this stranger I once adored enough to marry – and pull my hand away from him, only to come back to wrap my arms around his shoulders. He squeezes me tight, buries his face into my neck, and I feel his fingers shaking in my hair. "It's all right, love," he chokes, but I'm not sure who he's trying to reassure, "it's all fine now."

There's nothing familiar. It's new, like the crisp, unopened cover of a book. His smell – of birch leaf and cardamom – sends a ripple of comfort through me, though. I wonder vaguely how many times I have taken in this scent before; how many times the kind voice has whispered sweet nothings; how many hours these strong arms have held me close and safe; how many lazy afternoons I might have spent, tracing shapes on his bronze chest. The lapels of his grey suit feel cool and soothing against my forehead, and I clutch the front of his shirt. I don't want to lose this tall, dark and handsome stranger, who makes me lean and arch into his touch, as though subconsciously, I know very well who he is.

"We're going to be okay," he says resolutely, and I feel the rumble of his voice as I press my head to his heart. "You're going to be okay. It's just a matter of time. You'll remember us all eventually."

"I'll try my hardest."

The car journey home shakes off the initial flakes of frosty awkwardness. In the warmth and the soothing drive through the night, we become a little more accustomed around one another. We have a family car, and my heart flutters from an untraceable source of energy whenever I glance behind me (discreetly using the mirror) at the baby's car seat and the numerous soft toys scattered across the carpeted floor.

Xemnas smiles a fraction and says, "They're not very good at cleaning up. A bit like me."

I alternate between fiddling with the seatbelt and the hem of my dress. "Do they like me?"

"They love you."

We fall into another one of our silences, and I use moments when Xemnas is caught in traffic and awkward manoeuvres to study his face in more detail. He really is very handsome.

When he pulls into the driveway of a corner house I recognise, he flicks off the engine, undoes his seatbelt. He takes a few seconds to decide on his opening sentence, and goes to rest on the wheel, raking a hand through silvery hair. "The last two months have been very hard on us," he says. "The kids are desperate to see their mama again. I'm sorry that I ask so much of you, so early on, when you have no duty or obligation to me. I know you are currently so fragile—"

"—but the children are even more so," I finish for him. I glance up from the car to the house. One of the downstairs lights is on. I wonder if the children – if they are awake and old enough to talk – are discussing me and my whereabouts, or if they are in a stony, nervous silence. "I know what you're asking of me. And I'll do it."

Xemnas' shoulders relax, and he leans across his car seat to do something to me. But he stops midway. "Thank you," he murmurs. We get out of the car. I know the route to the front door, how the second step is wobbly, how we have to duck on the porch to avoid being attacked by the clematis. The security light flicks on as Xemnas unlocks the door and leads me inside. Again, my heart flutters with the inexplicable, unfounded joy when I spot children's shoes littered across the hall and a wooden highchair in the dining room.

"They're sound asleep. Quiet as mice," says a voice, and I turn to the living room to see a middle aged man with an eye patch. Long black hair is slicked back into a ponytail at the base of his neck, and when his gold gaze rests on me, he pulls a face of disappointment.

"This is Xigbar," Xemnas introduces quietly, "my older brother."

"Nice to meet you," I reply. Xigbar doesn't return the formalities. Instead, he raises his eyebrow and utters to Xemnas, "You have to be kidding me. I worked four whole years to get your wife to finally tolerate me, and now I have to start all over again? Where's her memory? Did the doctors say how long this is going to last?"

Xemnas makes a gesture to the door. "Thanks for babysitting. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Fine. Talk to you then. I'd say something to you, Saïx, but I'm not entirely sure you'll remember it come tomorrow." Xigbar shrugs, squeezes my shoulder and wriggles his feet into his shoes. I'm torn between smiling at the joke or taking it seriously. Will it take me another four years to like him again? It's incredible that Xemnas can be so patient with me.

"He's a bit of an arse," Xemnas remarks, "but he babysits for free so that might be why."

"…What if I don't like my children?" I make the mistake of asking him. I can't be expected to get along with everyone, even if I had known and loved them before…can I? I've been thrown into someone else's life and expected to get on with it.

Xemnas and I freeze up on the stairs, mirroring looks of horror at the question. "…I don't know," he answers. "I never considered…"

Xemnas pushes open the door and the children's bedroom is just as I've imagined (remembered?) it to be. It boasts colours, innocent messiness, enough hanging displays to make Xemnas stoop to reach the beds.

"Demyx," Xemnas murmurs, rousing the eldest child. "Someone's here to see you." He leans across to the other bed, pulling the quilts down a few inches to reveal a mop of blonde hair. "Roxas, wake up."

I have three children. Demyx is six; Roxas is five; and Xion, who sleeps next door, is only one and a half. Xemnas advises that we don't wake Xion, as she is likely to not go back to sleep; so I just watch her in her cot, memorising her cute, chubby face and stroking her jet black hair. Both Demyx and Roxas cry for about three seconds, before their mood swings and they are crazily pleased. Demyx expresses curiosity with the scar on my face, asking if it hurts and did the doctors do it in order to reach my brain. Roxas berates me for not coming along to the school festival. He dangles from my shoulders and says, "Papa said you were in hospital…! Are you better now?"

"Yes, much better," I lie, and I hold onto Demyx tight with one arm and Roxas with the other. I try to memorise their smell, the shape of their tiny bodies, the look in their bright eyes.

"Mama, are you back forever now?" Demyx asks. "Because Uncle Xigbar said you left us."

"No, I'm back forever," I respond. Neither of them look convinced.

"Don't worry." Xemnas' hand grazes the top of Roxas' head in a smooth, well-practised motion. "Mama will still be here in the morning."

It takes some talented coercing on Xemnas' part to get them to go back to bed. They keep grinning, calling me back and pleading for me to stay with them. And I nearly do, because although I have only known them for five minutes, I'm convinced that they make me whole. I'm certain that even with a full memory, I wouldn't be as complete as I feel when I am with these children.

Something is missing in me, and it's not my memory.

When Xemnas takes me to our bedroom, I pretend to be oblivious of the implications. It doesn't help that a double bed dominates the room, with expensive silky sheets that glisten in the dim light. It looks so inviting that I feel compelled to collapse onto the coolness and sink into the pillows.

"Your pyjamas." Xemnas hands me a small blue bundle. "There's an en suite bathroom. But I shouldn't assume you want to sleep straightaway. Are you hungry? I can cook you something."

"No," I say quickly, and I cringe at how tense we both sound. "Um…I'm just tired."

"…All right." He straightens his tie, only to shift his gaze from mine. "I'll sleep downstairs. You can take the bed."

"Oh." My other words get caught behind that flat, heartless word.

"Goodnight." He pauses at the door, manages a smile. "I'm really glad you're back."

"…Goodnight."

I start to get ready for bed. Slowly, I peel off my dress and pull my pyjama top over my head. As I get changed, I rummage through the drawers in the room, getting a feel for who I am. What kind of clothes do I like to wear? Am I frumpy or fashionable? What are my hobbies? Am I tidy or disorganised? Do I wear makeup or don't I bother? What books do I read before bed? Are Xemnas and I close, or do the children dictate our lives?

I open the top right drawer of my dresser to discover an array of hair accessories. The next drawer down is dedicated to Xemnas' cufflinks. I move on to investigate my clothes. I seem to like tunic tops and jeans. At the base of my wardrobe are boxes upon boxes of designer shoes and tops, yet to be opened. I'm either spoilt rotten, or am about to spoil someone.

My underwear drawer makes me blush and slam it back shut again, despite the room being empty and despite it being my underwear. Some of it is frills; a lot is lace; most have matching bras. One set even has suspenders. (That one I shove away very quickly.)

I wander to Xemnas' side of the room. He has a pile of jigsaw puzzles on his chair, and stacked on top is his fresh laundry. When I search through his dresser, I expect to come across some incriminating evidence so that I can call Vexen and escape the pressure of this role; but the only interesting things I find are a broken watch, a small bottle of lubricant (no condoms in sight) and a keepsake box full of cards. Xemnas appears so normal that I wind up disappointed rather than pleased.

My entire family is wonderful.

So why would I have chosen to one day get up and run away?

The guilt eats at me like a swarm of merciless flies. I curl up on the bed, turn down the intensity of the light and hug a pillow. It's been a long night and an even longer two months for some other people, but the ruthlessness of my mind carries on. I think about crying, or phoning Zexion and Vexen, or throwing something at the wall – anything to vent my frustration and the need and desire to recollect the story behind my beautiful family.

Instead, I pull a comforter out from under the bed, fold it over my arm and tiptoe out the room. I sneak downstairs, feeling like a thief in my own home.

Xemnas isn't really sleeping. He's sitting in the armchair in a daze, illuminated by the moonlight. I approach, nervously at first, but then quicker when he tries to get up.

I feel a little too big for his lap, but I persist and he relents. I curl up against him and his arms lock around me to form a secure hold. I don't know if it's the first or umpteenth time I have done this.

We feel a little better, though. It's evident in the way we quickly succumb to sleep.

~x~

Saïx can accurately recall the smell of the husband and the feel of the cool night air on her sheets. There's a shocking level of detail to which he can describe the corner house in Radiant Garden and all of its contents. He knows that there are five jigsaw puzzles stacked on the husband's side of the room; that the armchair in the living room is made from leather and the cushion has fallen to the floor.

Dreams aren't meant to be that vivid; and madness isn't supposed to make so much sense. By this reasoning, Saïx realises that he has a problem that needs to be addressed. He's still new to the inner workings of the Organisation so he isn't in a position to be demanding the help of others, but given his track record in mission completion, he is one of the Superior's favourites. Maybe he can ask Number One for a little advice.

He's a Nobody, just like everyone else in the Organisation, but is this alarmingly intense connection to a universe common for all Nobodies, or just those with the moon as his ruling element?

When they gather in the Round Room, Saïx promises himself to approach the Superior afterwards to voice his concerns. This determination is only encouraged as the meeting's purpose is revealed in the form of a new member, the Organisation's Number Nine. He's a skittish youth who has a slight problem in keeping quiet, and he boasts a mop of untidy blonde-brown hair, and his name is—

"—Demyx," Saïx guesses in a whisper aloud, before Lord Xemnas actually announces it. Saïx knows his name and his face because they've met before, and it's all the weight he needs to tip the scale from uncertain to certain.

"Sir." Saïx catches up to Xemnas and dodges Demyx as the new member tries to get acquainted with him. (Saïx isn't going to have any of it. As far as he's concerned, understanding the link to an alternate universe is far more pressing than making friendly with a neophyte who fails to see his incapability.)

"Number Seven. The meeting is adjourned," Xemnas says to me. He's cold and aloof, and Saïx doesn't expect this version of him to be hugging him any time soon. "If you had any questions, you would have voiced them at the meeting."

"It's not a question, more a concern."

"All the more reason to utilise the advantage of group discussion."

"It's personal."

Xemnas slows to a languid pace. There's a bubble of power around him that Saïx finds difficult to penetrate. He can only follow his Superior, his toes just grazing the tip of Xemnas' shadow before it pulls away.

"It's personal," Xemnas repeats. There's no bite to his voice, but Saïx feels the dull thud of a mental dead end. Xemnas stops and turns, and a well-rehearsed deadpan expression works its way onto his face. "Number Seven. When you approach me with a personal problem, you are making two assumptions."

"I know," Saïx says in response. "One, that I am assuming I have the capacity to feel concern and two, that I assume you are willing to listen and assist."

Xemnas' eyelids flutter and he glances up at the ceiling, which could pass as complacent more than bothered, but Saïx struggles to discern his boss, even in such proximity. "If you are aware of this, then why do you approach?"

"Because I believe it may be your field of interest. It will contribute to your research into the heart and its workings. You wish to regain what you have lost but on top of it, you want to understand and learn and discover." Saïx darts forward, overtaking Xemnas to stand in front of him. "It's another universe, Sir. I'm connecting to one, and I want to know if this is standard or not."

It's all right for someone to have a moment of madness. But a madman having a second of normalcy, isn't so convincing – or forgivable.

Saïx is mad; he always has been. Tiny things distract and irk him, and greater things push him into a frenzied spell that the others have labelled as berserker. He's primitive, animalistic, driven insane by his own element rather than soothed by it; everything he says, unless is he is pragmatically repeating what the Superior has fed into his mouth, is in the voice of a lunatic.

Xemnas looks him up and down, perhaps trying to locate where the madness is most abundant. "…You have a duty in the Organisation," he says finally, and Saïx witnesses him slip from his grasp. "Churning out ludicrous proclamations – you are starting to outdo yourself – is far from this duty."

"Sir, I knew Demyx's name before you even thought of it. I know Demyx. In the alternate world, he's—"

But Xemnas just portals away, and Saïx experiences the prickling sensation of frustration. He wonders if holding high regard for his Superior is his biggest sign of madness.


A/N: Thanks to the lovely people who have reviewed/fav'd this fic. I'm hoping it gets a bit better from here on as it does have a bit of a slow start. Any comments/feedback will be very encouraging. Thanks for reading!