Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts. All rights to characters belong to Disney and Square Enix. All places mentioned in this story are real places. I don't claim to own them, either.

WARNINGS: Time Machines that aren't actually Time Machines and an emotionally-stunted man who's a teacher/scientist with a sadistic side (who happens to be a gay Catholic) as your narrator.

...

Part Two: One-Sided Love Sucks, AKA: How Zexion Lost His Cool

Have you ever wanted to relive a specific moment? Something that changed your life? A time when you were at your greatest? A moment when you fell the furthest? A day you don't remember, words you didn't hear, lessons you didn't learn? Yes. We all have them. It's human nature to want that which has already passed. It's been my life's work to recreate those memories, and only now have I accomplished this. However, as I worked my many hours to get the thing copyrighted and its technology in the right hands something happened that I couldn't plan for.

But before we get to that there are a few points of interests and a bit of background that I would like to impress upon you, the reader of this sick and twisted little story that has somehow become my life. For one, if you have ever thrown your shoes up on a power line in the out of the way semi-famous farming town of Walla Walla, Washington then there is a good chance that I have cut it from its acrobatic placement and incinerated it in a furnace for the purpose of powering my Machine of Time. If you loved those shoes, I apologize. Unless, of course, they were sneakers. Then I couldn't care less as those things deserved the premature, fiery, apocalyptic end in which I have so graciously bestowed upon them in place of global warming, arson, or God.

Now, if they were Chucks or combat boots I would like to profusely apologize in person and provide compensation. You had no doubt put them there in order to offset the aesthetically displeasing sneakers. However this is a public line, and it would not be wise to announce my contact information. Much less to what could possibly be a wide audience of sneaker-wearers. As such, you'll have to do without.

I digress, there is another point I would like to make. It is that my Machine of Time shall not be, under any circumstances, referred to as a "Time Machine." I get enough of that from my assistant, thank you very much. His name is Demyx. He's not the brightest crayon in the box, and it can be determined that the man is a few pennies short of a dime, if you catch my drift. In fact, I call him Demyx the Moron in my head sometimes. The only reason he's on the team- consisting entirely of the two of us- is that I don't have to repeat anything to him. Except for the obvious, "It's not a Time Machine," bit. Fact remains, he easily does the work of five assistants by writing my notes for me, working a wide variety of welding tools, and drawing up diagrams in minutes that would usually keep me busy for weeks.

Did I mention he had a fantastic memory? No? Well, don't tell him that. The less he knows- about anything- the less he can bastardize it with one of his stereotypes. It's part of the reason I pay him piss. (Don't tell him he's underpaid if you know what's good for you.)

But let's rewind. I'm Dr. Zexion Corazza. My colleagues call me Dr. Corazza, accordingly, aside from Demyx. He just calls me Sir. Sometimes I think he does it just to piss me off, because on a primal level it really, really does. Either way, the fact is that we've been sort-of friends since I first caught him masturbating in the boy's bathroom in High School. (I fear he's still holding that against me. I was laughing, after all.)

No matter, the man is an idiot. In retrospect I could have said that in as many words, but mental monologues really are all that keep you going when you're repairing a battery. That's what I'm doing right now. Repairing a battery. Brainless business, if you ask me. I'd have Demyx do it, but he'd probably melt the desk. With sodium. He'd manage it somehow. No doubt with an erection. Then he'd ask for a bathroom break.

Is it too much to ask for him to keep it in his pants?

Let's rewind again, though, because there is one final detail about myself that must be known before we continue this little tale. Though it is not widely accepted, nor is it appreciated or tolerated in the modern day, I- a man- enjoy physical pleasures outside of marriage with other people who are not married. Now, see, you wouldn't think that's so bad. But here's the clincher.

The people I approach, that I am attracted to, share a common trait with myself. They are male.

My name is Zexion Corazza and I am a Homosexual.

Now, if you're offended, highly religious, or feeling any bit of disgust right now, please read on. I promise you that it has little to nothing to do with my everyday life, seeing as I am single. That means I am without another man, with a penis mind you, to appreciate the joys of aforementioned out-of-marriage physical pleasures. (Because the closest place that allows gay marriage at the moment is Canada.)

Then again, this entry is highlighting things that usually do not occur in my daily life so you might actually want to leave. Never come back and all that jazz.

So, I'm repairing a battery. There's a good chance you have never performed such an act, and thus have no idea of what the inside of a battery looks like, so I'm going to spare you that bit. And the bit I'm fixing. No need to explain something you won't be able to follow. If you're truly curious as to the procedure of making a battery look it up yourself. I'm not an encyclopedia. But I will tell you this; the battery I was working on was roughly the size of my head.

"Sir." For a few seconds I ignored the sound, if only to get to a safer part of the battery-repair process. "Sir?" Again, noise. Annoying. I continued with the work. "Sir, you have a phone call."

"It doesn't matter to me if you need to pass off a phone or herpes- it can wait a few precious seconds. Now, if you interrupt me again you're cleaning up the acid."

"But it's the Dean."

I then traded my pliers for the cordless phone, much to Demyx's surprise. "Bob's funeral supply; you stab 'em we slab 'em. How may I help you?" I mentally bet twenty bucks that the call was about the staff party.

On the other end a man laughed. "Hello Dr. Corazza."

"Dean Atkin-Downes. May I ask the nature of your call?" There was a little part of me that wanted to demand why he was calling so late.

"Well," he began, trailing off momentarily for effect. "Mr. Gallager has yet to receive a positive or negative as to your attendance of the upcoming social gathering."

"So the staff party."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Please continue."

On the other line Mr. Atkin-Downes scoffed. "But you see, Mr. Corazza, the point has been made. A positive or negative response has to be given."

I sighed. "Sir, I'm not-"

"Great!" he exclaimed suddenly. "It's on the ninth. We'll pick you up at six."

"But-" Then he had the gall to hang up.

That pretentious, under qualified, coddled old coot hung up on me! On me! The person garnering a majority of the research funds, students, government grants, and in a roundabout way the pay checks for that godforsaken university! He hung up on me!

"Umm..."

"What, Demyx?" 'Moron,' I added mentally.

"Do you want your pliers back?"

...

Four days later, not too long before the staff party, my phone went off around three in the morning. The street lights were filtering in through the window, laid across my eyes in a way that burned my retinas. It had been keeping me up all night. There was no sleeping with the nonexistent bustle of a dessert farming town. Nothing happened in Walla Walla. Ever. The silence was debilitating.

I scrambled about in the quiet of it all. My eyes screamed, and my body demanded rest. But all the same, I wasn't tired enough to fall asleep. Eventually my hands, groping around in the illuminated shadows, found the small buzzing electronic and pressed it to my ear. "You know," I grumbled, "it's far too early in the morning for anything to exist."

"How about a copyright?" a voice on the other end of the line responded.

Blinking through the night haze, I stood up straight and made my way towards the kitchen. There was no sleeping after this. "It went through?"

"That's right. Everything will be final in about six weeks, though. No more thieving assistants. No more hounding government associates- just you and the machine all day." One could almost hear the woman's grin. "And, most importantly, the FBI can't take credit."

A heavy sigh fought from my through, but I held it back. "Thank you, Larxene. It wouldn't have gotten through so quickly without your help."

"One problem, though," the woman informed me, no doubt examining her nails with the care she put into the words. "It needs a name. 'Machine of Time' isn't going to work. Stockholders won't invest. Needs to be family friendly. 'MT 2000' is a bit misleading, too."

A short pause followed. A title that would sell? I hadn't really thought of one before. But it made sense for there to be one. The nickname I had given it wouldn't roll with the current economy. It could be seen as a last ditch effort to relive one's life. "When do you need the title by?"

She sighed. "The end of the week, at the latest."

Glancing to the calendar by the cutting board, I stepped over to correct the date. It wasn't January any more, anyway. "Three days, then. I'll have it to you by tomorrow."

"Government goons are always suspicious. The sooner we get this done the better."

"Later today, then. Just hold on." My hands worked to start a pot of coffee.

"Zexion," the woman hissed in a voice that was beyond terrifying. "If you don't get that name to me in the next hour I won't have time to get it in."

"So much for the end of the week."

"That's the latest we can get the paperwork in. I'm giving you an hour."

A swear fought itself from me, and Larxene's raised eyebrow was nearly tangible. "I'm going to have to call you back, okay?"

She heaved a heavy sigh. "Whatever."

Almost as if on instinct, the call was swiftly ended and I was dialing Demyx's number. There was a series of clicks, but aside from that no noise was made as the ringing came to an end. It occurred to me that he could have hung up. However, Demyx wasn't the type to do that, even if it was in the ungodly early hours of the morning. It was true; I was being rude for calling so late. Especially during the time when nothing deserved to exist. But between Demyx and Larxene I would much rather anger the man. His wrath was tolerable- it helped that he wasn't a woman.

It wouldn't surprise me if Larxene had been the inspiration for the phrase, "A woman scorned is a dangerous thing." Obviously whoever had coined the expression was a brilliant individual. Either that or they had somehow met the fear inspiring blonde.

As this thought was contemplated silence reigned. Before long I spoke, hesitant should I be talking to an empty line. "Demyx?"

"Yes?" the man managed through a heavy impairment. My call had woken him.

This inspired a small smirk. "I would like to inquire as to the possibility that you might have a name to present for the Machine of Time."

"If you want to why don't you just inquire away?" Snark. Sarcasm. It was not what anyone would expect of Demyx. Such things require intelligence and humor. The man, to my knowledge, had never displayed any form of either in the entirety of our acquaintanceship, aside from idle comments that, to him, made no sense. It seemed to me that the man was smarter the less aware of anything he was. Nevertheless, it was alarming to find that Demyx had a dry sense of humor. He had potential yet.

This thought was even more alarming. "Do you have a name for the Machine of Time that I could possibly use?"

"What's wrong with the 'Machine of Time?'"

"It's not 'catchy' or 'family friendly.'"

"Ah. Gotcha. How about TiM?"

Any points Demyx had previously managed to gear towards increasing his level of intelligence promptly died horrible deaths. "Come again?"

He yawned. "TiM. You know- 'Ti' from 'Time' and 'M' from 'Machine.'"

"TiM."

"Yeah."

My fingers reached up to the bridge of my nose, pinching it to offset my sudden headache. "It's not a Time Machine, Demyx, it's a-"

"Machine of Time. Right, right. However, that's not going to roll, right? So just call it a Time Machine!"

I swear, someday I'm going to kill that brat. Brat in a mental sense, not a physical. He is older than me, after all.

So I hung up, called Larxene, and the machine was labeled "TiM."

Now, I contemplate a great many things between calculations and classes in the odd hours of the day or night. Some would think they would be things that bordered on mathematical genius. This was not the case. Instead I considered things like, "How did polar bears wind up on the North Pole?" and "Why are pillows so fluffy?" It just so happens that my thoughts are not always as structured as many seem to think. Just because I am a genius does not mean I am a brilliant, above average individual at all times. In fact, there are quite a few moments I can think of at this very moment in which I portrayed a certain level of stupidity.

For example, shortly after I had phoned Larxene and hung up I had sat around drinking coffee demanding from my brain just what type of person Demyx was, all the while thoughtfully nibbling on a nail. It had already been established that he was honest. Uncommonly nice. Oddly submissive. Attractive. Good with people- to an extent. Really, the only other kind of being that could fit this description was some kind of exotic, foreign animal. Like a giraffe.

"He certainly is tall enough to be a giraffe," I whispered to myself, comparing our heights but purposely ignoring the fact that my five foot three stature was not to be considered impressive nor average. "Giraffes have orthostatic hair as well," the train of thought continued. "And since Elephants never forget maybe Giraffes can't either." At the time such thoughts appeared perfectly sane, even though Giraffe's hair doesn't actually stand up.

The thought was allowed to stew, taking some kind of horrible form in my head that was akin to a law. However, instead of, "Look both ways before crossing the street," it was, "Demyx is a Giraffe." And so, a few scants hours later I found myself admiring his neck when he showed up for work.

"Good Morning, sir," the moron greeted me. He looked tired. My doing, no doubt. However, my attention was elsewhere, observing the curve and distance from his collarbone to where it met his head.

It was rather long.

Demyx blinked. "Do I have something on my neck, sir?" he asked, swiping at his neck with one hand, then the other.

I turned to the computer. "Just get in the pod."

...

One tries to avoid thinking about work whenever possible, it seems. I myself rarely allow a short overview of the day's work while 'relaxing' at home. There wasn't much to consider. Had I mentally scarred anyone? Did anyone seem to be struggling? No and no. That was the end of it. No student ever hit me as special; no one asked me questions after class. Did I come off as pretentious or scary? Who knew?

Long story short, students didn't bother me. That was all there was to say. End of the line; nothing else to explore.

I thought wrong.

"Mr. Corazza, I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time." It was at the end of class. Most of the students had already vacated, and there wouldn't be another session for an hour. It was my prep period- the perfect chance for a student to approach me. The little fuckers.

Fixing the student with a bland expression of mild disinterest, I paused in the rearranging of my desk. "What seems to be the problem, Ms. Stoner?"

She winced. "Just call me Xion, please."

"That would be outside the professional capacity."

"Ah- yes. I know. Anyway, I just..." She trailed off, obviously weighing the importance of her next words. "I'd like to know if you were going to be transferring to a larger University with the new semester coming up."

Screwing up my eyebrows, I fixed her with a quizzical look. For some unknown reason, she flinched. "What makes you ask?"

"I just- your desk-"

"What about it?"

Xion took a deep breath. "Well, you're always reorganizing it, you don't have any pictures, and there aren't any charts hung around the room."

"That may be due to my lack of family or willingness to provide unnecessary visual aids that will only detract from the school setting."

"Right," she halfheartedly agreed.. "See, there have been these rumors that the University of Notre Dame has sent you an invitation to join their staff."

My next words came in wave of word-vomit designed to confuse anyone but myself. "That would imply that I have received a missive from said illustrious institution and responded to the information in a manner involving a thing most refer to as 'conversation.' Which I have not. And even if I had, such things are personal employment matters. As things stand, I assure you that I would switch to such a school in an instant without hesitation or a single second thought."

Xion blinked. "So you'll be teaching at Notre Dame?"

"No."

"But you just said you'd switch-"

"They haven't invited me," I simplified.

"Yes they have!" she blurted.

I fixed her with a look. "You state this quite confidently, though you claim the invitation to be a rumor." She shifted from foot to foot. "Explain."

"Does it matter where I get my information?"

"On thesis papers and when it has to do with my career, yes."

She hesitated once more. Glancing around the room to make sure no one was there, she leaned in a whispered, "Luxord Atkin-Downes."

I blinked, skepticism marring my face. "The Dean?" I scoffed. "And you are his what? Cousin? Niece? Sister in-law?"

"We're- um..." Xion coughed into one of her hands. "We're kind of dating." A pregnant moment followed, in which she was faced with a look of humor.

"You could have just walked away, you know," I mused. "Left me wondering. I couldn't have stopped you, and you've already made your point. What do you get out of this?"

She shook her head. "It's just..." Taking a moment for herself, Xion clenched her eyes shut. "I want you to stay here." My eyebrows rose as she opened her eyes, only to glare at the floor as her face took flame. "You're my favorite teacher. Please don't leave!"

"You're leaving?" Two sets of eyes raced over to the door, where Demyx stood holding a stack of papers.

"Hi, Demyx!" Xion greeted with a nervous smile. Demyx responded with a grin of his own and a wave. "How long have you been listening?"

He shrugged. "Only the last bit. Where is Mr. Corazza going?"

"He might be switching to the University of-" Xion began to supply.

"Well, I would-" I mused, cutting the girl off, "if such an invitation were to be sent to me. I'm sorry, but rumors of correspondence with the Dean don't mean anything without proof."

Demyx glanced between the two of us, taking stock of what we had said and weighing them in his head. "Okay. Right. Well, here are the photocopies you wanted!"

...

Demyx was insufferable.

Not only had the man appeared late to work but he had the gall to sing as he wrote notes.

And there were a lot of notes.

Nearly three hours into the man's "solo" I felt like killing him. I didn't even want to be creative about it. I just wanted the blond man quiet, and impaling him with some nearby instrument usually used for construction- such as a power drill- would surely do the job quickly enough.

Usually I would not take offense to something as trivial as humming. Well, I would, but not to such a degree. See, that morning had been terrible. For one, that morning I just so happened to run out of creamer. And seeing as I am what many would term a "Coffee Snob" this is just one of many layers of Hell. Not to mention we began work at six in the morning and no one deserves to be that happy at such a cursed hour. Not even Demyx the Moron.

To be honest, there was even an entire hour in which I desperately begged whatever deity existed out there to either smite him where he hummed or afflict him with an erection so that I would be free of his noise for at least ten minutes- maybe longer considering his mental state after such an event. It didn't even make sense! Vocal chords could only safely handle approximately three hours of excessive use- much like his incessant humming- a day, so how could this man go on for hours on end?

Much to the awe of my future self at my own incredible stamina, it wasn't until Noon, over some coffee in the sitting room, that I snapped. "Just what on Earth could have you this elated first thing in the morning?"

I received a grin for my troubles, along with a, "Nothin'." It wasn't the lack of a proper response that most irked me about his reply, but the way he held out the "o" like a five year old who had a secret they desperately wanted to share. Surely the best way to disappoint him was not to ask.

Or I could be direct and ruin his mood that way. "Tell me now before I strangle you with a plastic shopping bag." Demyx stared at me for a bit after I said this.

"You're unusually straightforward today, sir."

"You're unusually annoying. Answer the question."

The blond seemed to weigh his options, his blue-green eyes racing around the room, settling on something before moving on to something else. After a good few seconds of this, I crossed my arms. I could only hope to look intimidating, because I was anything but. I wouldn't really hurt him- just threaten his job and everything else I had access to in his life. And even then, I wouldn't actually fire him or drop his from my class. That would just be childish. And strangling him with a plastic bag? No; my threats were always pretty empty. With every threat I made there was a silent accompanying hope that maybe, just maybe, the other person was cliché enough, stupid enough, to fall for the facade of little ol' disgruntled Zexion.

It only worked on Demyx.

Eventually he turned his eyes back to me before blushing and turning his gaze to the floor. "I had a date last night."

My eyebrows rose. "Now this is a development!" Demyx bristled.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," I mused, admiring my chipped, chewed, and all-around abused nails with mild disinterest. Demyx had a date, huh? Strange. "Who was it? A girl from class?"

He shook his head. "No, no- they're all too young for me anyway." Good. If he had fraternized with one of the girls from my class I would have felt obligated to scold him- most of them were eighteen. "She's an editor for a local farming magazine, actually."

"How old?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Does she have a thing for idiots or something?" I chuckled mentally, trying to imagine the type of woman that would date Demyx. Bleach blonde, no doubt. Pencil thin with little to no clothes on her body and reeking of cigarettes. Probably lived her life according to the Vegas code, only dating tall men with diminished IQs. The image was entirely far too amusing, and I took pause at this. Demyx dating a tramp?

No. Even Demyx wouldn't date a tramp.

When the mental image faded I was left with a hollow feeling in my chest. The kind you get after making fun of someone you didn't know. In all honesty I felt like a dick. She was probably a very nice girl with a cute little accent and dimples. Her name could be foreign and sweet on the tongue. Pretty, nice, smart; the whole nine yards. And just like that jealousy began to bud somewhere in the pit of my stomach, because I knew that was the kind of girl that would fall for Demyx. The kind that grew up next door and remained in your life forever, 'til death do you part.

And it made his next words so much more biting, because during my entire thought process- from rise to fall- he had been giving me a long look. One that read of disgust and disappointment. Over the period of a night he had changed, and I had missed it. Maybe it hadn't even been a night. Maybe he had been growing up for a long time and I just failed to notice.

When he opened his mouth the words weren't in defense. They didn't have to be. "You know what? Fuck you." Maybe his response was a bit out there. Disproportionate. But I had brought it upon myself.

After a few seconds I managed a small, "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to hear it," he hissed, turning back to the notes. The pencil raced across the page, and I almost told him to slow down in case he made any mistakes. But that would be a lost cause. Demyx didn't make mistakes; that was my jurisdiction.

"Demyx, I..." Trailing off, I found myself with nothing to say.

He signed. "You know what? Sometimes I wonder if you're even human." I glanced over to the blond man, confusion written on my face. "I mean, of course you're human. You've got oppose-able thumbs and everything. It's just that sometimes you make comments like that. Ones that scream, 'I am a self-important genius who happens to be an asshole,' but no one cares! That's the thing- everyone who takes your class loves you! I wouldn't be surprised if one of the girls- like Xion Stoner- has a secret crush on you or something."

I scoffed. "Xion Stoner does not have a secret crush on me." She likes them blond, British, and a good twenty years older than her.

"Have you seen the way she looks at you? Of course she does!"

"She doesn't."

"And how would you know? Did she tell you today or something, which would make it an open crush? You would pick at a detail like-"

Heaving a sigh, I interrupted the man with, "She doesn't like me." When the blond quieted I continued, nearly on the brink of laughter. "I am in her confidence about a matter that makes such a thing quite impossible."

"But if she did, would you date her?"

Then I really did laugh. "Of course not!"

Demyx then scoffed, and I realized that what tension had been in the room before his little- inaccurate- observation had left. "Right- so you're saying if Xion came up to you and asked you on a date you would say no?"

"Without hesitation and with as few words as possible."

"You're a dick."

"No, I just take them." A lengthy, very awkward pause followed this comment. Turning away from the blond man, who was openly gaping, my fingers sought to straighten a stack of papers on my desk. The silence was heavy, seeming to weigh down everything in the room. Even the papers seemed to have been made from sheets of iron. "I assumed you knew."

"Uh..." He cleared his throat. "No. I- I didn't know. Have you..." He paused. "Have you ever thought of me like-"

"Huh? Oh- no. No- that would be entirely unprofessional of me." The question took me entirely by surprise, and more than anything I wanted to turn it back on him.

"Zexion?"

I internally flinched. Could he tell I was lying? "Yes?"

"We've known each other since High School."

"And?"

He heaved a long sigh. "And you were a healthy teenage boy who- you know- happened to be-"

"Demyx?"

"Yeah?"

"You're my best friend." We both laughed at this. He laughed because there was no way that was possible. I laughed because I'd only then realized it. "But I am sorry. I'm sure she's a great girl."

The man grinned. "Yeah- she sure is something." And just like that, all was forgiven.

...

Saturday morning I went out to get my built-up mail. Seriously; who had time for mail these days? That's right; no one. It was an archaic invention that needed to be done entirely through e-mail. Although it did come in handy for sending things like DVDs and Christmas Sweaters, usually you had warning for things like that. Like, you know, ordering a DVD online. But aside from such events, the postal service was a cruel institution enforced on the human race. What once was a blessing was rendered useless by the internet, and therefore made no sense. Like many before me I remember a day before internet and cell phones.

They were such dark, dark days.

Moving right along, I had gotten mail in the last few days. Lots of it. This is strange since my bills were all paid online, and automatically at that. First there was a letter from my cousin. He wants to get into contact. My guess is that he wants to gloat about his shiny new seat of power in Microsoft. The bastard. Second came a missive from my lawyer, who was running away with my wife.

I joke, I joke. She just told me to send her a copy of my blueprints in the return envelope. You may recall one Larxene-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Last-Named. Third was, oddly enough, another letter from Larxene informing me that she checked her e-mail and found the blueprints and was working on a patent for each individual piece of the Machine of Time. You know- just to be safe.

Fourth was an invitation from the University of Notre Dame requesting that I join their staff.

I quickly located a box. With only two weeks left in the year there was no reason to stall.

...

Later that day we were going to do a long term test with the machine, with three hours planned instead of the usual ten minute span. Every precaution had been taken. Machines were dragged out into the open to monitor the cerebral cortex. They would monitor for change and possible damage. The moment anything flickered the memory would be aborted.

"And you're not going to look at the screen?" Demyx asked.

Heaving a tired sigh, I fixed the older man with a look. "No, Demyx. I am not going to look at the screen. The last thing I need is to see you jerking off in some bathroom stall."

"I didn't choose that memory, you-"

"Save it for someone who cares, and stop pitching your infantile fit and get in there."

After much coaxing, Demyx climbed into the Machine of Time, settling into the gaudy pillow his girlfriend had donated for her boyfriend's "unfortunate backside." I had spared it a glance on the way in, but I couldn't help but disagree. He may be a giraffe, but the man had anything but an unfortunate backside. Especially in those jeans.

When he was comfortably seated- there was a lot to be said about shuffling- I set the machine to run, and turned the computer monitor away from my station.

It was going to be a long three hours.

"Don't worry- you look fine." The words caught me on edge. Had I left the speakers on? Of course I did. That hadn't been on the list of things to do. Pressing the button in on the right speaker, my eyes glued themselves to the brain monitor. No change.

In the following half hour there proceeded to be no change.

Another half hour. Nothing new.

I got a soda. This in retrospect was a terrible idea, as it is far from professional to leave one's station during a monitoring session to watch for the possible formation of protein tears. However, I have expressed before that I am not always the most brilliant of people, and I will again impress this upon you at this point. Besides, when I came back nothing had changed.

Sometime into the third half-hour I got curious. The desire started as a seed, and slowly grew into something larger and far more imposing. Eventually it took over my entire thought process and threatened to block out my monitoring status.

What was Demyx reliving?

Without acknowledging just what I was doing, my hands shot out, turning the monitor and pressing the button on the speakers for sound.

It was a date.

A nice restaurant that I recognized. The staff had gone there for the party. Across from him sat a pretty girl. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, petite, soft features, and pale skin. She was quite a sight to behold.

"How's your chicken?" Demyx asked, glancing from the woman's plate, then back to her face.

"Fantastic, thank you," she replied, eagerly sharing a grin. She took another bite from the dish before fixing him with a look. "Are you enjoying your pasta?"

"Very much," he answered. It all seemed very natural, but something about it seemed strained. Then subtitles appeared. 'If only Zexion was half as considerate as Naminé'.

One could say that I visibly flinched. It was a low blow- one I hadn't expected. Had he been thinking of me all evening? Comparing me to this beautiful woman? Is that why Demyx didn't want to me look?

Well if he didn't want me to look then I wouldn't look.

The monitor was swiftly turned off and the speakers muted. My eyes were once again turned to the machines off to my right, checking, double checking, and triple checking all of the older man's brain functions. I wouldn't need the computer monitor at this point. Everything was going perfectly.

Suddenly, a single bar shot up above the rest of the graph, startling me from my seat with a high pitched series of beeps. I shot to my feet, looking over them carefully. What was going on? Were lesions forming? Was his cerebrum under too much stress? My fingers flew to the computer, but I didn't know what to do with a blank screen.

The monitor took a while to boot up, and I was losing valuable time. The machines weren't telling me what was going on, and I wasn't a neurosurgeon. Scientist? Yes. Surgeon? Not so much.

Eventually I was faced with an empty player. The memory had stopped itself. I commanded the program to abort. Nothing happened. The program didn't close, there was no billowing smoke from the machine- nothing. I commanded it to abort again, and this time it responded. The beeping hadn't stopped. I raced over to the Machine of Time, harshly yanking the door open. There sat Demyx, unchanged since I last saw him.

"Demyx," I hissed. He looked up at me with his eyes squinted, peering beneath his lashes as if to protect himself from some harsh light. The man groaned. Tugging a small flashlight from my pocket, I reached forward and tugged one of his drooping lids open, checking for light sensitivity. The pupils on both sides reacted accordingly. "Demyx, are you okay?"

"Fine," he moaned.

I scoffed. "Perfectly fine, or 'just shut up' fine?" He rolled his eyes, which was a plus. Holding up a hand, I asked, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Five."

"No, four. The thumb isn't a finger." Offering the man my hand, I pulled him out of the pod, only for him to collapse onto me. He heaved a heavy sigh as I tried to accommodate his weight. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, jeez." Lifting himself off my shoulder, the man straightened. He fixed me with a look of confusion, one that was both expected and terrifying. "Who are you, anyway?"

That was the moment my world froze.

Demyx, staring down at me, utterly clueless. Me, staring up at him with an expression that even now I can't begin to fathom. This seemed to continue on forever, a pocket in time that repeated itself the moment it ended. He wouldn't joke about something like this, would he?

Instead of answering the man's terrifying question, I raced to the monitoring system. It had been beeping for so long, it seemed. Fifteen seconds can mean the world to the human brain, and it had taken that long for me to shut down the program.

"Hey-" Demyx began. "What- Oh God- sir I didn't know."

The pocket in time began to turn itself inside out as the implications of his words seemed to sink in. Slowly, I turned to face him. "What," I hissed, "did you say?"

"I-" His voice cut out, and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry- I thought it had been three hours. It never occurred to me that something had gone wrong. I'm-"

"Sorry?" Fury built in me. Demyx visibly swallowed, bright green eyes staring down at me in what could only be fear. "You're sorry?" I paced towards him.

"Sir-" Without warning, even to myself, my hand flew forward and smacked the blond right across the face. He stood there for a moment, too shocked to move.

Words were forming without my bidding, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. "You're in there for an hour and a half, everything seems to be going fine. But then alarms are sounding and when I check the screen it's black! Can you comprehend just how terrifying that is?" He looked properly ashamed at this point, but there was no stopping me. "Then you come out, all loopy and weak, and ask who I am!" Insecure in my fury, I tried to keep from yelling. "We've known each other since High School, you little shit!"

"But, Zexion, I thought-"

"Don't you 'but Zexion' me! Get out!" I was holding back tears at that point, and I had no idea why. He stared at me uselessly, seeming to take in just what was happening. "Get out right now!" Then the green-eyed man did the only thing he could do. He ran. And only after he was long gone, and the sounds of his truck starting up and driving away into the distance, did I allow the tears to fall.

That was when I realized that I was in love with Demyx.

...

"I don't want to end things like this." I glanced up, surprised.

Demyx had been silent during the entire drive to Oysterville. I don't know what compelled me to come back here. The exact spot where I first set off to look into cheap locations for tidal power- Willappa Bay. Maybe it was the view. Maybe it was the lack of people. Maybe it was the fact that I could use it as an excuse to spend several hours with the male without having to speak to him. "Like what?"

"Tense. Angry. Disorienting."

"How is this disorienting?"

"I don't know- I just wanted to use a big word." A plain lie. He was confused. Something to do with me, as always.

This Demyx was different from the one I knew. This Demyx spoke his mind and didn't bow to my insults. It was an odd change. "We're not going to be here for very long. I just need to take a few water samples." I actually didn't. However, I had a lot of money just sitting around in my budget with nowhere to go and in three days I'd be at the University of Notre Dame. No more Walla Walla. No more sneaker-powered Time Machines. No more Demyx. "Go back to the car. I'll be right there." Taking a beaker from my pocket, I lowered it into the water, careful not to get my fingers wet. He hesitated for a bit; that much was obvious. But when the squelching of Demyx's feet up the muddy hill was plain to my ears it was one of the most depressing things I'd ever heard.

I stood, tugging a napkin from my pocket wipe the side of the beaker before capping it. My knee was covered in mud, and it was just beginning to rain. The first few drops fell not far from me, pattering against some leaves. Retreating to the car, I motioned with my hand for Demyx to get in. The rest of the trip was spent in silence.

...

Three days left. Three days to pack, move, and never see that town ever again.

They passed quickly, with far too many interludes with teachers and students and not enough spent alone away from the crowd. When I finally saw Demyx he was talking with the woman- Naminé. It was strange, seeing them together. They looked good. Matched, even. It was a slap in the face, but I couldn't argue with it.

After those three days I was packed and gone. Moved into a new apartment and prepping for a year with better funding and more students.

I didn't see Demyx for another six years.

...

End Note: A big fat "Thank you" to everyone who took the time to leave a review. You are the wind in my sails, and it's because of that motivation that I've been able to write part two and three so quickly. As things stand I had to post this part early because I have a truckload of homework to finish the the next week and a half. (About thirty-nine hours worth, rounding down. No, I am not kidding.) Part three should be out soon- I'm just waiting to get it back from the beta, and then it should be up.

Quiz: Guess what year this chapter was placed in. (Good luck. Trust me- you'll need it.)

Reviews are very much appreciated and always responded to. They also motivate me write faster.

Love,

Besieged Infection