A/N: Rawr! Have some cookies for staying with me this long, and then have a chapter! I just realised that I forgot to give review replies in the last one. OTL! I shall edit and give review replies as soon as I can! Thank you all so much for reviewing, reading, and generally bearing with my suckery!

-runs off and cries tears of joy and wimpiness-

Chapter Ten

"Dem! Get your laundry!"

That was the fantastic thing about the paper-thin walls of the apartment they shared: Marluxia's deep voice was remarkably all-encompassing in reach. Not even Demyx's room, a shut door and a pair of headphones blasting music to their full ability could shut out the playwright's calls.

Demyx groaned, shoving his old headphones out of his ears and sitting upright in his tangled mountain range of bedsheets, accidentally pulling along his old CD player and blankets as he pulled on out of bed and groped for the doorknob. They clattered to the floor in a disorganised jumble, making the musician groan and curse as he slipped his hands about, disconnected and untangling just to free himself from his snares of wires and cloth.

Another fantastic thing about the apartment was that in Demyx's room, you could pull the blinds and shut the doors and turn off the lights and it would be as good as night time, and there would be nothing in the darkness but the pleasant, distorted light emitted from the bottom of his fish tank across the room, even in the middle of the day.

Half-dressed and just as awake, the musician entered the blinding light of day beyond his room. Bleary eyes creaked open, to reveal the sight of Marluxia- duster in one hand and stack of clothing in the other. Dem wasn't quite sure what a duster was doing in his roommate's hand, but he recognised that clothing as his own. Mumbling gratefully, he outstretched his bare arms...

And flopped forward into thin air.

Marluxia gazed at the floor with one raised eyebrow and something of a frown. "You need to get out more."

"You looked closer in my line of vision," he groaned, attempting to push himself up by his forearms.

The pink-haired man shook his head impassively, though a small smirk threatened to make itself known on his lips. "What do you have, fish-eyes or something?"

"Nooo, I just..." Demyx stood at last, dusting himself off and feeling a little dismay at the amount of dirt his jeans accumulated. He realised he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually gotten about to sweeping or mopping the floor. "Oh geez bajeebuz, Marly, my legs look like dusters."

Marluxia followed his gaze, staring at the strings of blackened dust, finely rolled and sticking to the worn blue fabric of Demyx's pants, and this time both of his eyebrows raised and he remarked, quite matter-of-factly, "We ran out of cleaning agents weeks ago."

"Go figure," the musician groaned, anxiously leaning over and attempting to brush off the tiny dust-bunny spawn making nest on his pants.

"I guess this means a trip to the convenience store. Get ready to go in five."

Demyx barely caught the stack of folded clothes thrown his way, and he yelped when he did.

()(())()

"What happened to your hand?" Marluxia asked as he rewrapped the light beige fabric of his scarf around his neck, wavering momentarily in his balance as a small gust swept in over them. The ocean-side walkway was mostly deserted, except for the two young men, balancing delicately on the concrete balustrade that marked the difference between the seawall and the park walkway. It was a gloomy day, with dreary clouds hanging low over the island city and baleful, stark breezes blowing in from the restless seas, yet the flatmates walked in perfect casualness. A rusty maroon compact umbrella swung from Marluxia's wrist, the only assurance against getting wet in the evidently approaching rain.

Not like Demyx minded. Thanks to his 'insane, unnatural biological anomaly of an immune system', in Marluxia's words, he was susceptible to colds passed on by others, but never caught one from nature itself. In better days with more time, he'd even run out in the rain, just enjoying the purity of the deluge at it came down from the heavens. Smiling giddily, partially from reminiscing on good times and partially from the rain, he ran a hand over his injuries, where they sat raw on the back of his hand. A small arc of lines, looking perfectly like a bite mark, yet Marluxia had politely avoided from calling it just that.

"Nothing really," he said, self-consciously burrowing the hand into the worn fibers of his old, oversized grey hoodie, Hollow Bastion College logo, which was cheerful but seeming almost obsolescent in the way it was printed fadedly over the chest. The synthetic fabric paint was cracking and chipping away but it was still the most comfortable article of clothing Demyx owned (most of his wardrobe was composed of showtime, stage outfits prepared for all his college band performance, and the most of the other small percentage was lounging clothing, but he never divulged that to anybody. Especially when he couldn't afford a more practical medium between the two).

And of course, when Demyx said 'nothing really' and burrowed his hand away like that, he was lying and there always was a story behind that arcing line of deep bitemarks. But Marluxia didn't push it. He nearly missed the step of the next balustrade, though, and had to regain his stumbling balance as a new gust of wind whipped at them.

It was a day that felt like normalcy and routine, only embossed with the sudden turnabout in the weather- again. Tropical weather was constantly on a premenstrual cramp, burning the back of your neck one moment and then pouring on you then next. They'd come home from rehearsal early, Marluxia had dropped his messenger bag and all the script in it, took it out and sat down at his typewriter. It took only a few calloused keystrokes before he realised he wasn't going anywhere. Putting words on the paper took about as much effort as manually squeezing blood out of bone marrow.

So Marluxia had done laundry and dusting and some general housekeeping (which was, for the record, never enough for the paper dumpsite they lived in to be presentable but just enough for it to be comfortable), found his half-asleep roommate and decided it was time to get their asses out of their stinking, crowded, cracked-and-paper-thin-walled fifteenth-floor apartment and actually walked around somewhere. Of course, he hadn't anticipated the snarls in the weather, but beggers couldn't be choosers and the park was a nice, albeit underkept, place.

They walked in silence, the wind seeming to blow out any traces of a conversation that may have occurred on either of their minds. Neither of them seemed to mind.

Marluxia, however, nearly lost his balance when his phone suddenly began blasting a chipper ringtone. Grinning bashfully, he halted and drew it from his pocket, snapping it open and giving the billowing clouds an anxious look as he said, "'lo?"

Demyx stopped, stumbling to keep his own balance just a few feet away from his roommate, watching hesitantly as Marluxia nodded into his phone, giving out little 'mmm-hmm's and casting him furtive looks.

Finally the pink-haired man lowered the phone and looked at him clearly, now perfectly, gracefully standing atop the pinnacle of one of the balustrades. He smiled. "It's your sister."

Demyx froze. "Selphie?" he barely murmured the name out from between his teeth- not like he was gritting them or baring them or anything, but suddenly everything was pins and needles and he was afraid to move. He jerked unsteadily, before leaping off the paint-chipped seawall liner and landing on the rain-spotted pavement with a soft thud. Well, of course it was Selphie; Dem didn't have any other sisters that he was aware off. Feeling weak, he outstretched his hand to take the phone Marluxia offered him.

"Myde."

It was as if Selphie had known the exact moment when Demyx had pressed the phone to his ear. The pins and needles struck again, with shocking, toppling force, and Demyx reached his hand out to grab on the Marluxia, if only to regain balance. It had shocked him to hear Selphie's voice this time. He was a musically, aurally-inclined person who listened to the very rhythm of the world around him, but when he could only hear a person's voice on the phone, Demyx's ears picked up the tiniest things: cracks in the voices, small sobs that would have otherwise not been heard, or, in this case: the fact that Selphie's voice was not that of the child he had known. At least not wholly.

Behind that voice, there was thoughtfulness, pain, and a budding woman. It surprised Demyx to pick up a soft, deep tone in that girlish voice.

"Myde, you there? I'm picking up static."

"H-hey," Demyx muttered, realising that he'd clenched a loose fist in Marluxia's shirt. He let go, letting his hand fall limp against his body as he took another step on the railing and continued quickly, "No, that's just the noise around me right now. What's up?"

"Not much, really."

"Studies going okay?" Demyx grinned weakly.

"Ugh, don't even remind me. I'm acing Science as usual and getting my ass saved in tuition in everything else. Man, why can't they teach us Chem yet?"

It didn't feel anything at all like the heart-to-heart, sibling confiding-style conversations they had before Demyx moved out. It felt forced and slapped-on, like an old, worn-down jacket that was loose, worn thin, and not even his own. And what irked Demyx the most, what made the pins and needles subside and fade into the steady ache of the heart, was the fact that it only felt like that for him. He could hear the steady cheer of Selphie's tone; she was earnestly happy to be talking to him.

And he didn't feel anything at all but the vague semblance of dread and pain.

"You'd fly through Chem like the Road Runner on speed," he smirked, "that is, awesomely."

"Aw, thanks, bro."

There was a sort of silence that may have been awkward for her, but for Demyx it was filled with a leap from one pinnacle to another, watching the way Marluxia's shirt crumpled and stretched and ruffled in the intense wind. And grinning sheepishly when Marluxia looked over his shoulder and noticed, and winked jestingly.

"So, um, I guess you know what I'm calling about."

He felt a solitary raindrop hit his temple, and let it roll down his cheek. "Not really."

"The wedding reception, Myde... It's on Sunday."

Myde, more commonly known as Demyx, suddenly and urgently wanted to hang up and not think about it. But he inhaled, sharply, and whispered, "...Yeah. Okay."

He wondered if he'd even been heard, or if this was like all those other times when he'd both whispered and screamed about what he really wanted and his relatives never heard a damn thing.

()(())()

"This girl, Demyx," Axel said in admiration as he ran a greasy hand over the naked engine of the large motorcycle, "is a dear."

Demyx blinked vacuously as he watched the redhead gasp over tiny doo-hickeys in the motorcycle, completely clueless about the machine himself. Despite their five-year companionship through a handful of issues, Demyx knew nothing of the vehicle aside from the fact that it had a beautiful deep blue paint job, and that Cloud had done a pretty darn decent job in restoring it from the mangled mess it'd been.

It- or she- was a medium-sized, imposing vehicle, and mercilessly costly. And she was just one of the musician's many careless purchases that had led him to the eventual financial rut he was stuck in now. "Uh," he grinned, sticking his hands in his jeans pockets, "it is?"

Axel frowned at him from where he sat- cross-legged and worshipful before the great vehicle. "You really don't appreciate this glorious machine much, do you?"

The musician sheepish grin only lengthened across his tired face. "More of a strings junkie than a grease monkey, anyday. I, uh, sorta just got the first bike that looked good," he admitted, shuffling around nervously.

Demyx didn't hate a lot of things, but right up there in the tiny list were 'apartment car parking lots'. He hated how sound travelled with as much acoustic harmony as an army marching into war. He wanted to splash the whole bare stretch of concrete with paint if only to give it a soul. He wanted to fill the wide open spaces with people, because when were huge apartment parking lots ever filled with people? Sure, the heavy, sickly-shaded concrete was great, warm shelter from the deluge outside but at the same time the vast expanses of emptiness felt like nothing but an unwanted husk of a real building. The never-ending rows of crappy cars and rusted-over motorcycles did not improve the image. It all only made him nervous.

He made an attempt to distract himself from the way the clinking of metal against metal, gear against monkey wrench, sounded when it whispered across the large space. "How's the bike look to you?"

"Damn beautiful, that's what, so stop bragging about it," the guitarist's shoulders dropped and he turned back to the motorcycle, turning up his long striped sleeves as they had fallen down and readjusting his grip on the monkey wrench. Demyx honestly had no idea what he was doing, but Axel professed to be 'good with machines' and Roxas had at least been there to confirm it. Only a day before, after leaving a snoozing Zexion on the audience chairs and proceeding to watch Xemnas verbally tear poor Marluxia's script to pieces, Marluxia's phone had rung and it had turned out to be Cloud, solemnly informing him that Demyx's motorcycle had been miraculously restored to a presentable extent.

And today, Marluxia's phone had run again and it was Axel, saying something about Xemnas not coming tomorrow. And somehow that conversation had turned to Demyx's almost-new bike.

And here it sat, stripped of shiny blue protective plating and susceptible to the mercy of a certain redhead. Demyx only hoped Axel wasn't installing rocket jets in it.

He reclined against a large pillar, absentmindedly twirling his housekeys in his hands. Really, letting the redhead tinker with his newly-restored vehicle was nothing but an excuse to run away from the apartment for just a little while. While he didn't exactly feel good about it, a frazzled, stressed-out Marluxia was not something he was capable of putting up with on all hours of the day. Even if it did mean leaving his room, food and laundry at the happy mercy of the pink-haired pseudo-hippie.

Another reason to disappear from the home was the fact that the new month meant a new onslaught of bills to accumulate on the dinner table, atop the pencilled manuscripts and written showtunes. There was something unbearable in the sight of Marluxia hunched over the table, using the pencil he usually wrote with to scrawl small numbers over a scrap paper and add up figures the musician couldn't yet pay for. Of course, Marly had withdrew into his room this time, locked the door and sat silently out-of-sight, but Demyx found that even more unbearable.

"What I can't begin to comprehend is," Axel said conversationally as he began to attempt (and fail) to pull his shock of blazing red hair back into a black bandanna, "how in the world and heavens you could ever be related to 'Hell-Pikachu' Larxene."

Demyx quirked an eyebrow, listlessly filling the pockets of his abused, years-old hoodie with his sweaty palms. He still wasn't used to sticking his hands in his pockets and realising that his phone wasn't there; a constant feeling of slight panic, 'where is my phone?' plagued him at moments like these. "Larxene?" he laughed nervously, "to be honest, though I saw her today, before then we hadn't talked in years. I wasn't ever anticipating seeing her again."

But then again you're not anticipating seeing any family members ever again, and look what happened? You got a phone call from Selphie a few days ago... a voice that sounded suspiciously like Zexion's dripped through his head like water through loose wooden floorboards.

"She..." Axel began, back to Demyx as he began unfastening a bolt on the motorcycle braking lines, apparently fingering for something behind it, "you do know that a lot of... unpleasant business has been stirred up by her, right?" The tension in his voice lined it like stretches of thread across the border of a cloth; you only had to look for it and you would find it. "In the play."

"Dude, I think we both know I've got no idea what you're talking about."

"Right." The guitarist pried out the bolt with his long fingernails, teasing the metal roll between his fingers before setting it on the ground with a small clink. "She raised some hell before you joined- back when the play hadn't gained any momentum yet. You know, she's a professional electrical contractor, had done some real special effects before and the like- she had it in her head that she, Saϊx, Xemnas, Zexion... they made the 'professional league' or something," he chuckled, "and that's about as much as the whole lot of hubris that it sounds like." He glanced up from his greasy hands to get a look at Demyx's face, and found the blond gazing back at him with unsurprised turquoise eyes. "You're not surprised?"

Demyx shook his head, raising a hand to run through his hair. "Not really. It sounds like something she'd do."

"Yeah?" Axel chuckled, "Well, get this. It's not like it's any secret, since just around the production we're all pretty open about who's lap-danced who," he said casually, though the anxiety in his words were just waiting to leap out and rip at the atmosphere, "but one time, for a little while, she-" he smiled warily, "was in it with Marluxia of all people. It was like a daily conference of bitch queens of both genders. If you ask me, it wasn't a very healthy relationship."

The blond started away from the pillar, face blank with surprise. "But I thought Marls was-"

"Dating Vexen? Yeah, before that," Axel interjected with a sort of sour look on his face, like the whole topic wasn't something he liked touching on, "a few months ago, actually. She dominated over Marluxia. Left the evidence all over Zexion's little backroom, ticked off TerminActor like nobody's business."

"Uh, gross?" the blond began, before mustering a glare. "...And this is not gossip how?"

Axel shrugged dismissively, returning to his work. "Just so you know who's screwed who. Must be pretty awkward for your roommate to be roomin' with his ex's cousin," he flashed a cruel grin as he ran his hands over the long, rubbery black lines of the brakelines, silently admiring them. "And speaking of who's screwing who," he began, "what's up with you and TerminActor?"

The musician started again, but this time grit his teeth and leaned back against the wall, feigning at casualness. Seriously, it wasn't any of Axel's business what his relationship was with Zexion. Certainly, the guy could go and flaunt his relationship with Roxas for all Demyx cared, or inform him on the previous interrelations between his cousin and his roommate, but Axel couldn't speak one true word if Demyx didn't even open his mouth.

He apparently took the decisive silence with meaning. "I see how it is," he said lowly after a period of quietness, not even penetrated by the sound of metal against concrete, "you're dating?"

Demyx resisted a grin, bringing his fingers to his mouth in a gesture almost imitating the actor on his mind- only this time he wasn't pretending thoughtfulness, he was just hiding the small smile forcing itself on his lips. He'd only been 'with' Zexion in an uncertain little game of affections for a few days, but just the thought of taking him out on dates made his skin tingle with imaginative daydreams on what they could do on dates. Were they dating? Not yet. But the anticipation alone and the fact that he had Zexion made him smile.

"Just so you know, and you should know,"Axel began coolly, "there's nothing nice to him. You're fooling yourself if you start thinking there's some sweet prince beneath all that damned ice. He just cares about the play and whether or not it's a success; soon as the curtain closes, you're gonna disappear from his life." At this point, he'd finished whatever he'd been doing to modify the bike, and was currently fumbling for the bolt on the ground. "So, let's just hope you're just in it for the sex- even if I can't see why anybody'd like having sex with that guy. Okay?"

He turned, giving Demyx a self-assured, sympathetic little grin that showed the white of his teeth well, even in the darkness of the parking lot.

Demyx just stared back, face a decisive blank.

Now, there were a lot of things you could call on Demyx for. He was a pretty pacific, submissive guy, with an endurance for criticism about as good as a beach chair's chance against twenty successive typhoons. But if you teased him about his sitar, he'd proceed to artfully bludgeon you with a plant mister, borrowed liberally from a rather courteous, wanly-smiling Marluxia. If you had insulted his taste for low-profile, indie musical movies, he'd obtruncate you. If you told him he'd be better off giving up his musical aspirations and slouching back to his family, he'd probably make you swallow Francium.

And if you were so unwise as to imbrute the idea of his relationship with Zexion, he would bludgeon you with a plant mister, leave you at the mercy of a million angry carnivorous fish, make you swallow Francium and then obtruncate whatever was left of you.

Happily.

Because Zexion was slowly coming to embody everything Demyx was fighting and living for. Demyx was finding strength somewhere for the first time in his life, and he wanted to protect that.

That much was true, and for something true, Demyx would pull out the Francium anytime.

But Axel was a friend. The nasty little smudge of misdirected good intentions only served as a brick among the many that paved the little yellow path to Hell- lesser known as a little inferno called Demyx's true, scarce fury. It would take more to evoke Demyx's rage. And today, Demyx was feeling good. So, with all good intentions, he nodded. He opened his mouth, tongue rolling over glinting, suddenly incisor-sharp teeth, and enunciated clearly through demurely smiling lips-

"Thanks for your side on it, but Zexion's not like that. We haven't even screwed, Axel- pardon my language but, I'm pretty sure neither of us are in it for the fucking..." He uncrossed his arms, sauntering over to his motorcycle and brushing his hand across the leather of the seat, coldly.

And then, switching demeanors at the speed of light, he smacked on a bubbly grin and slapped the seat, laughing at nothing in particular and listening to the creepy way his voice reverberated through the parking lot. "But hey, thanks for working on her, thanks a ton. Even though I've got no clue what you did. Ooh, hey, what's that shiny doo-hickey thing you put there?"

()(())()

After a few months of sticking around the Final Limit crew, dealing with the semi-competent-but-mostly-just-bossy directing trio of Xemnas, Marluxia and Zexion, enjoying the prolonged company of a frazzled little crew of earnest amateurs, Roxas had somehow nurtured a meek little love for acting. Namine, Kairi and the rest had urged him. Axel motivated him. Zexion inspired him as an acting role model (and little else). Marluxia harnessed his admiration with his persisting passion, if one was so kind as to ignore all the mood swings and the almost obsequious devotion he gave to his play.

Demyx... well, at the very least Demyx inspired sympathy.

But sometimes, even Roxas could be frustrated with the confused interconnected-one-moment-detached-the-next little fraternity that the members of the play made. The awkward communication between everyone only made things worse when, one moment of a festering hot day in the stuffy theatre, standing and having just finished the scene, blinded by the merciless beams of the spotlights Larxene was fixing on him, he had the sudden urge to drop to his knees and claw his hair out in frustration.

Zexion, standing only two feet away from him, was frozen in the last gesture of his character, but his face said all: the light blush of angry embarrassment of having had to act out such a script, the small fist he made with the sheets of his new lines.

Surprisingly, it was Saϊx who broke the proceeding silence, by swallowing a savagely large mouthful of the banana he'd been eating and remarking, "That was the most lacklustre thing I've ever seen, even with an actor like Zexion playing it to its full potential." He spoke as clearly as if he were on the stage himself, basically dictating the thoughts of every other crew member in his one comment. Unceremoniously finishing his banana, he tossed the peel to a nearby garbage bin.

"Yeah, whatever he said," Axel said quickly and dismissively, as if he agreed with Saϊx but didn't want to look at him too long or let anyone else let the words ferment in their minds for a while, "Mar-lux-i-a," he dictated slowly and condescendingly, obviously biting back a pained grin, "what the heck was with that script? I mean-" he choked on a bit of laughter, catching the glares from the other crew members as well as you might catch rain in a paper cup, "I'm no good with anything to do with speaking lines off a paper, but even I could tell that that-" he gestured offhandedly to the stage, bracelet tinkling lightly, "was a mess."

By now, almost all eyes were turned on the playwright in question. Demyx, who was very cautiously still holding on to his instrument and sitting with folded legs on his chair, was the only one who risked a glance away from the pink-haired man, if only to cast a glance at Zexion on the stage; the actor was immobile, gazing at his script with dark eyes blazing with thoughts. Seeing how he wasn't about to make eye contact, Demyx's shoulders drooped and he followed everyone elses' gaze towards his room-mate.

At first glance, Marluxia was the perfect epitome of stillness. At second glance, he still was. It was only when Demyx narrowed his eyes and looked closely that he noticed that the playwright's hand, which was clutched around his script, was trembling.

The decisive neutral on Marluxia's face morphed- a spectacular and borderline horrifying sight to see- into a contrived, dark smile.

"I guess we'll just have to work on that, then," he spoke dully.

The proceeding silence that elapsed over the hall was every bit as unbearable as the first one. Demyx felt like he was being smothered by the lack of words.

It was thrown down by a blow in the the form of hands smacking together in a terrific, heavy clap of finality. Heads craned towards the stage, where Zexion's hands rested upon each other, and he clapped again. It was lesser applause than it was a call to attention. Even Larxene, behind her glass wall, pulled off her headphones in some indolent form of paying attention. Demyx felt his entire body stiffen.

Zexion's eyes narrowed as they trailed over small crowd beneath him, and he spoke, "Let's call a break for fifteen minutes. Demyx, Marluxia, a word."

()(())()

"I'd hate to quote Axel, but it applies, Marluxia..." Zexion enunciated coolly, hushedly as he drew Marluxia and Demyx in closer to a small triangle just below the stage, a safe distance far out of earshot from the rest of the slowly bustling crew, "what the heck was that." His voice fell flat to the floor, muffled by the musty carpet. Never once did his gaze avert from Marluxia, impassively staring over seemingly every single facet of the man in one flicker of the eyelash.

The much taller playwright returned the look with an almost tired glare of his own. "Would you kindly stop staring me down, Zexion? I know you like mind games, but currently I tire of them."

"As if I am playing mind games by asking you what went rotten in that catastrophe I had to act through just now," Zexion snapped.

Demyx flinched and slowly began to back away, already feeling cold animosity building up between the two, and yelped when the actor swiftly grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and pulled him back into the triangle.

He all but snarled, "You're involved in this as well."

Currently at a loss for words, the musician shrugged helplessly, hands clasping pleadingly at the small fist Zexion had made in the fabric of his hoodie. A bemused and frighted smile pulled itself over Demyx's features.

Zexion answered the look with alacrity. "You're the musical director of this play. You are also his roommate. If I cannot get answers from the man himself, you are my alternative."

Marluxia reached out and shoved the smaller man away from Demyx, growling, "Don't bring him into this, Ishida. I can answer for myself."

Zexion's glare was hauntingly chilling. "Then answer."

"It's simple, really," the playwright's lips pursed unpleasantly, "it's the stress factor. The inexperience. The unusual way in which we're running this play to begin with. I don't know where I'm taking this thing. So how can I write through the peak of the tension when I don't know where to take it?"

It seemed as if, as soon as the sort of calm warmth of Marluxia's low voice was gone, a barrage of ice fell over all of them. Demyx felt very short of ready to clear out. No questions asked, no talking to Zexion or Marluxia, no saying bye, just plain out evacuating. Somehow, even with Marluxia just looking, even looking down at the shorter Zexion, there was some sort of terror hanging perilously in the air.

"And how," Zexion spoke, "is it supposed to become problem of my own, or the rest of the people involved in this play, if you are incapable of writing the climax? Do you wish to make this a universal issue when its diameter only encompasses yourself? If you can't write the climax, then you cannot write the climax, Marluxia, so don't give us drudgery and plaster the name 'climax' on it."

Finally, the apparently implacable expression on Marluxia's face altered, if ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed, and he calmly pronounced every syllable of the following sentence: "I'm taking leave. For a month."

The actor grew still, breathing obviously very heavily. "You can't. This," he gently raised his hand to the script, held lightly against Marluxia's chest, "needs to be completed. This is a vital point for the play. You are not allowed."

Marluxia inhaled. Exhaled, very quietly. "I'm taking leave, Zexion."

"Did you hear me?"

But Marluxia had already turned away, skulking towards the audience seats. He picked up his bag from one of the front row seats, before nodding to Demyx and Vexen in a rough sort of acknowledgement, smiling morbidly even as he turned away and made his way up the aisle, towards the exit.

"Marluxia," Zexion hissed, low voice somehow carrying over the theatre seats, to the playwright of Final Limit, standing midway up the aisle to the exit, "you're not taking leave until this play is ready to be acted, from the beginning to the draw of the curtain. You cannot do that to this production. So turn around and finish what you have started." He paused, thoughtfully. "If you leave, it indicates your abandonment of all responsibility and ties with this play. You cannot take leave."

Marluxia kept walking, apparently impervious to the words directed his way.

For a moment, Zexion looked ready to yell out, snap and scream at Marluxia's back, over the audience seats, the crew, and the theatre. But then, the actor's fists clenched, and he breathed deeply, anticlimactically turning away and staring at the stage with an intense frown. Demyx could only uncertainly glance between the actor and the playwright, torn.

"Hey," he whispered, reaching for Zexion.

In response, he snapped into a ready position, jerking his head to look at Demyx with a heavy gaze. "Demyx, let's talk backstage," Zexion spoke quietly, quite calmly. Just over his words was the sound of the theatre exit door creaking to a close.

()(())()

"That was harsh," Demyx whispered anxiously, even as they were long out of earshot or sight of the rest of the production.

"That was completely necessary," Zexion negated flatly, pressing himself tiredly against the bare concrete walls and running both hands through his hair, lightly massaging the area of the bridge of his nose before settling on his temples. "And a complete headache."

The musician bit his lip, looking at the backstage door like it was, in some symbolic sense, Marluxia. "He might not, you know..." he murmured, arms dropping to his sides, "come back." He wasn't quite crying, but flashing back in his mind to the image of Marluxia turning away and walking with his back to the crowd made him feel surreal and heavy. "That was really harsh," he added redundantly.

Finally, Zexion's shoulders slouched in defeat. "Speak what you will, then," he said, sourly pressing his lips into a thin line.

Demyx sighed, and reclined against the opposing wall, shuffling his feet and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"I have to be blunt, you know. These rules and policies existed from the start," Zexion growled, staring into the slightly stained concrete wall. "Adults are expected to conduct their work efficiently and completely, or they will lose their job. If you have any goal, you must work towards it or you will never succeed. Our goal is the success of this play, and Marluxia's job was to write it. So it is standard that I am to correct any errors made, out of..." he paused, and Demyx could have sworn that he saw something about Zexion there. Something scrabbling helplessly and attempting to defend itself. Demyx smiled weakly, and patiently waited.

Zexion looked at the floor. "...Out of mainly benign intent, of course."

"No need to try to justify yourself so much. I know what you mean," the musician nodded at last, eyes fondly appraising Zexion in the strangely vulnerable moment. There, in the dim, musty privacy of the backstage hallway, the actor who had previously stared down a man much taller and more muscular than himself, had seemingly shrunken, withrawn and hid behind some sort of invisible shield of defence. Demyx pushed away from the wall and touched Zexion's shoulder, letting a stupid thought occur in his mind: If I touch his shoulder like this, right now, will I feel what he's feeling? Will I know what's going on in that mind? Will I understand him better?

Zexion shuddered in a breath, and stared at the hand resting on his shoulder as if it were an unusual, but not entirely unwelcome, intruder. "I just want what's best for the play."

Demyx grinned. "Maybe people would understand that better if you were nicer about things."

The actor smirked weakly. "So my intentions are grossly misinterpreted. Lovely. What else is breaking news?"

"Hm," he pretended to think, even though the answer had been irking, haunting him all day long. "There's a wedding. Sometime soon." Those five words made a lot of sense in his head, but from the blank, expectant look elicited on Zexion's face, what he'd said hadn't made much sense to anyone else. He'd been thinking about this too hard. Trying to balance Zexion and Selphie, on versus ends of a scale was about as easy as catching smoke with his cupped hands. Hesitantly he clarified: "And my parents are invited. And me. I want you to meet them."

"Considering that they are your parents, you don't seem all that happy about it," Zexion remarked, gently shrugging off Demyx's hand and pacing towards the backroom.

"Yeah, well... We're," the blond laughed, "We don't get along. I... they did a nice job raising me, yeah, but- the sort of kid they want was a marine biologist, a millionaire, and a nerd. I tried, I swear, but I just didn't fit the mould." The mirth in his expression stiffened into a slightly mad look as he said hushedly, "I really tried, Zexion."

At that moment, Zexion looked like he wanted to say something like 'I tried, too', but then the moment flicked away with the certainty of an illusion and the actor shook his head. "I'm glad you didn't bend and break yourself to try and fit it," he said, smiling dryly, "it would be a terrible shame."

I'm glad you didn't bend and break yourself to try and fit it.

It would be a terrible shame.

What was that supposed to mean?

Was it supposed to mean what Demyx wished, with all his heart, blood, body and soul, it did?

Demyx didn't know what to say, only knew that the words caught his breath like a sudden, slapping downpour, and it made it hard to speak, and still harder to breath.

"...I... Thanks. So... can you please come? I won't lie; I want you there to support me when I face them, because... it hurts a lot when I talk to them. And it's been years. You're kind of good at taking all the awkwardness and just- helping me. Yeah. I'm sorry I gotta ask you to do this," he found his eyes watering again for some inexplicable reason, and sniffed as he raised a hand to wipe away the excess pooling around his eyelids and distorting his vision. What the heck, Dem? There's nothing to cry at, you weirdo...

"It's fine. I'll come," Zexion said distractedly as he stopped just outside of the backroom, gaze fixing on Demyx through the darkness. His blue eyes widened when he seemed to notice the unusual glitter of tears glazing over Demyx's eyes. "Is something the matter?"

Except there was everything to cry at; Zexion accepted him for who he was. How could anyone have so easily wrenched a hand into Demyx's heart and pulled out the his most fundamental, almost subliminal desire, and place it so calmly before him? As if it were nothing but a passing truth, a nonchalant word spoken in honesty?

Zexion politely said nothing as Demyx felt the tears freely roll down his cheeks, pooling at the outlines of his chin before dripping onto and being absorbed by his rapidly dampening blue shirt. Zexion just nodded serenely and said, "Come here," voice spare of all the resignation Marluxia would sigh with whenever he and his flatmate pulled into consoling embraces, and held Demyx's temples, and pulled the musician towards him. The musician's body wracked with an isolated sob as the tears intensified, and Zexion seemed to elevate as he went on his tip-toes and pressed his lips to Demyx's temple.

And Demyx finally complied, crumpling like paper and falling into an awkward hug with Zexion as they both collapsed against the wall. He cried desperately at nothing at all, feeling the pressure of all the past months cascading out of him with every hot tear that stung his eyes.

()(())()

That evening, sitting in the apartment with only the sound of rain to comfort him, Demyx's hands idled with the pink phone- his flatmate's phone- as the pink-haired man slept deeply in the nearby room, Vexen hovering over him like a hawk. No words had been exchanged that evening and none needed to be: the understanding was clear as clean glass. Demyx understood that Vexen would remain there for as long as he wanted, probably until Marluxia was feeling better, and in the meantime the musician was going to be nothing but an unwanted third wheel.

He flipped open Marluxia's phone almost dutifully when it vibrated with a message.

Demyx bit his lip and felt the weary ring around his eyes, and then smiled with earnest happiness.

"Demyx- Be it a wedding or to meet your parents or both, as your friend I would happily go with you anywhere should you only need me to. P.S. Get a phone of your own. It feels awkward to text this to your flatmate's number. Is he all right? -Zexion"

He texted a reply. "He's fine, I think. Thank you, Zexion. So much. You've got no idea what this means to me. -Dem"

The response came a minute later, and the minute felt like a hesitant pause- one filled with wishes to say a million things, only to condense all the wishes into two words. "Sleep well."

end of chapter ten

A/N: OTL So uh. Uh. Yeah. We're getting near the end, now, actually. Yeah really. We're getting there. : ) Thanks so much for reading, once again. Reviews are munched upon with relish. Thank you all!