. . . a m e t h y s t
Demyx loved to play the delightful little sunspot to Zexion's rainy day, and even though the lilac-haired boy oftentimes pouted and frowned and folded his arms and said 'leave me alone, Demyx' he didn't mean it. It was obvious by the small curve of his upper lip and the way he turned his head so nobody would see 'Oh-em-gee is Zexion smiling? Is the apocalypse approaching? Or was there a half-price sale on at Hot Topic?' and the way he said a little too sharply 'that was NOT funny, Demyx' with voice hitting all the wrong notes. Off key.
He was trying not to laugh and Demyx knew it so he carried on a little more, elaborating with wild, slightly spastic hand movements that caught the little pint-sized teen in the side and made him sigh a little more because 'you just knocked me, Demyx! I'll have a bruise tomorrow!'
Truth be told, being best friends with such a clumsy haphazardous mish-mash of gangly arms and spidery longs and flailing limbs and 'MAYGAWSH he's so much taller than you he makes you look like a gummi-bear!' from similar sunspot Selphie was hard work.
Every day Zexion slouched home from school with Converse slapping across chewing gum covered grey sidewalk slabs mind filled with half-formed poetry lyrics about abysses and 'step on a crack, break your mothers back', clambered up the stairs with such a laboured expression on his face it looked as if his legs were about to snap in a gooey mess of gore and 'I told you eat your breakfast, Zexy, and stop bleeding all over the carpet, I just got that cleaned' from his mother and stand in front of his bedroom mirror, tugging down his collar and rolling up his sleeves and frowning slightly.
A beautiful array of deep amethyst to violet to purple to lilac stood out in a vibrant shock of colour against his pale skin, all the way up and down his spindly, sick stick arms and chest and stomach and then there were those permanently grazed knees because he'd tripped over Demyx's size nine shoes more times than he could count in flurries of cold hard floor and red hot pain and 'Oh my god I'm such a klutz walking into you like that, sorry Zexy!' and he'd help the boy up only to elbow him in his mouth and he'd gag and spit up red on the floor like his brain spewed bad poetry and Demyx would wail in despair and 'I'm a horrible, evil person! If you keep being my friend you'll end up in the general hospital!'
And Zexion turned his head towards his friend with a bloodied-up lip and smiled a true, proper, genuine smile of a smile without any awkward head-turning or looking away, amethyst bruise forming on the side of his mouth and;
'Demyx, it would hurt a lot more if you weren't my friend, I can guarantee that.' Pale fingers laced with his neighbours, feeling horribly impossibly small but it was only a small price to pay for feeling so safe and gooey and warm and bending at the knees and maybe he really should eat breakfast and stop skipping meals. But then again, Demyx was always there to remind him if his mother didn't because;
'You may be a stupid sunspot but you're my sunspot, after all.'
. . . p u r p l e.
