Marked and Hunted

by the.israel.project107

Driven from his home, Demyx finds himself in a world that hates him. Friends are few, enemies falling over themselves to hurt him, and all he really wants is to show them all he's not the monster they've been told. Zemyxness, AkuRoku

14. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Demyx panted to the only place he knew to have a running track: the area by the bleachers, which he'd left only twenty minutes earlier. Heart sinking, he approached to find the rest of the class already halfway around the field, Saix standing to one side with a stopwatch and his clipboard, a cap jammed over his long hair.

Hand tightening around Zexion's tardy slip, he slowed, Saix hearing his thudding steps and turning, already knowing who it was. "I see you're late," the man observed, in that deceptively soft, reasonable voice. "That's five laps. Get going, before I make it ten."

Holding up the coloured slip like a warding amulet, Demyx edged closer, saying, "Uh, Zexion, from the English department, he gave me this to give to you. It, it wasn't my fault."

Saix stared at him for a long moment, yellowish eyes flat, then snatched the piece of paper away, narrowing his gaze at it as he read. "…This was issued fifteen minutes ago." His eyes flashed up, studying Demyx for a moment, and despite whatever the man might once have said, Demyx felt like it was Saix who was the predator, far more than he would ever be. If he had to describe his own position in the circle of life, the blond would sadly have to go for something in the rabbit arena; Saix, though – he was like a hyena, only less amused. "Did you enjoy a leisurely walk to my class, mad-worlder?"

Demyx hardened his jaw, biting back his argument – damn it, Saix had heard him come jogging over, could easily see the slight pink in his features from the trip between the gym and the field. Demyx obviously hadn't been taking his time. Quietly, he attempted to explain, "It wasn't that, I didn't, it's just that I didn't know where –"

"I informed the class very clearly last week that this week we would be beginning track and field." Saix's tone was curt now, his long fingers scrunching up Demyx's tardy slip into a ball and dropping it carelessly to the grass. "Don't play coy with me. Twelve laps, for lying. Go."

Something reckless, born out of frustration and the last lingering scraps of impatience left over from Zexion's earlier behaviour, threatened to burst out of Demyx in that moment – he'd endured a tiring day, a tiring night, a tiring everything. His face ached, his elbows stung, he'd tried so hard to avoid precisely this, and no one was even around to hear it and vouch for him.

"Fifteen, for hesitating."

Demyx blinked, came abruptly out of his brief internal struggle to find a malicious glint in the man's eyes.

"Shall I continue to twenty, mad-worlder?"

This… was getting ridiculous.

Demyx got going, packing his anger down hard. It was bullying, plain and simple. Revenge, maybe. After all, Saix had it in for him, and had got his wrist slapped for being an asshole. He now even had to allow Demyx to participate in the general class activities, with track and field season starting up. Leaping hurdles wasn't exactly going to be categorised as a danger to society. And so, since he'd been robbed of all ability to unfairly torment the blond, and with Sora poised to complain vocally at a moment's notice, Demyx figured that this sort of control game was all Saix had left at his disposal. What was worse was that the only way he'd be able to successfully combat it would be to do exactly what Saix told him to, first time, every time. His cheeks burned at the degradation of it, but there was really nothing else to be done. Head-down obedience was the only way to stifle this guy's vendetta against him. He sure as hell didn't want to aggravate it any more than he already had done simply by existing.

This, Demyx resignedly supposed, was the flip-side of the Zexion coin. Find one man who wanted little more than equality for the freaks, and somewhere his polar opposite would be lurking, ire as intense as his counterpart's righteous indignation. The blond just figured it was something he'd have to put up with, unfairness and all.

He repeated this over and over in his mind, trying to smother the dragging unhappiness – the edge of depression – that was starting to settle in. He couldn't let Saix affect him like this; had to focus on the good, like Sora, and Zexion, even Axel – not to mention Axel's frighteningly tactile, pink-haired friend. Demyx had been cheerful not that long ago, resolving things with Zexion… but now, here he was – running.

At least it was something he was good at.

One foot in front of the other, arms swinging a little stiffly because of his injuries, each step sending a jolt through his various aches and pains – but Demyx could run all day. He was long, with a naturally athletic frame, and an instinctively deep stride that covered more ground than those who bounded haphazardly over it. He knew his perfect pace, knew his limits, knew to control his breaths and heart rate. Saix could give him twenty laps if he wanted, and Demyx would run twenty laps. He at least wouldn't have to suffer giving the man the satisfaction of watching him falter and fail.

It was a large field; the track itself ran in an ellipse further in, the warm-up run taking place around the grassy, level edges. The rest of the class managed to stay almost perfectly opposite him the entire way around; the only ones that seemed to slow so that Demyx might have caught up were predictably Sora and Riku, who Saix barked an order at, after which they reluctantly sped back up to rejoin their classmates. They only ran one more lap before finishing, the group trickling into the centre of the field to where Saix stood waiting by the rough, brown track. When Demyx passed them by, he felt the awkward mix of stares and avoiding gazes he'd been experiencing for so long now. However… it was the strangest thing: he had to swallow a sudden lump at the apologetic disappointment of Sora's expression, the subtle, regretful shrug that Riku sent over as the blond rounded the corner and left them behind to set off on his third circuit. It was really something he could confess to never having experienced before on this world. These people… had no obligation whatsoever to support him or stand by him. And yet, they did. They were… the good.

Demyx was almost wearing a smile, head lowering, motions becoming smoother as his muscles warmed. In the end, what was there to really complain about in all this? He was getting exercise – it had been so long since he had stretched out like this– and the sun was shining down on him, warming his perpetual chill away, blood rising to his skin. He let out a sharp puff of steamy air, feeling the fresh air against his face, through his hair, enjoying it for… pretty much the first time in memory. Except for Saturday mornings, coming out of the hospital as a free man after each session with Lucrecia, there really wasn't a time he'd ever liked the feel of Midgar, cold, strange-smelling and hostile… but this, he could get used to.

As he began his fourth lap, he saw the seniors doing exercises, running up and down one straight stretch of the orange-brown track. He passed them again, Saix keeping a sharp eye on him, deliberately swinging around to watch him, no doubt in an effort to be unnerving – but Demyx could have laughed at the weakness of it. Stares? Stares were nothing. Even if he spent a week practicing in the mirror, Saix couldn't measure up to some of the looks the blond had received.

He was – he was feeling almost light, believe it or not. Almost giddy. Almost giggly, with his temperature rising, sweat trickling down his body. He felt hot, because he was wearing fleecy pants while everyone else had chosen shorts, but Demyx didn't have shorts. Considering the sub-zero mornings, he could honestly say that it hadn't occurred to anyone to buy him a pair of gym shorts.

Now, he really did laugh a little. He made his way, shoes pounding the earth, past the seniors for a fifth time, and by now his heart was pounding pretty fast, but it was a controlled pulse. He laughed again, hot, slick with perspiration, gasping at the raw air with its odd taste and smell, gasping to get enough oxygen into his depleted lungs, gasping deeply and coughing out one final chuckle before stumbling hard.

His heartbeat burst suddenly out of control, racing with terror, because daytime was when they got you. Not just the mindless people, the zombies, but the terrorists that had sprung from every rotten hole in the country – insane people, bloodthirsty people, the people that thought you were a zombie, even though you were clean enough, and wore an expression of alarm and fear everywhere you went. These were the hours in which the raiders and looters and kidnappers and murderers struck, whether they wanted your food or shelter or just wanted to even up the odds a little. After all, the less people there were with pieces on the board, the more likely you were willing to win, right? Right?

That smell on the air, it was the sickly-sweet rot of bodies littering the ground mingled with smoke. It was enough to send a man out of his mind, if he hadn't needed it so badly to survive. Oh, Lord, the things Dem had seen, the odours he had inhaled, the sweat he'd poured as he'd sprinted through the eerily quiet suburbs.

For Demyx, the light was the lesser of two evils. Darkness would have been better for travel in another day and age, but since the advent of the zombies, the utter dissolution of society, he was just too damn scared to go alone at night. At night… you could hear the wounded crying, the families passing with what little they had left of their original group, and behind it all, the roar of flames. Everything seemed to burn at night: flames were always lighting the black sky, and death seemed to visit more often when they did.

Demyx had the kitchen knife in the front pocket of his hoodie, and he was running. He was good at running, good at ignoring the empty houses on either side of the narrow strips of road, staring straight ahead and only veering sharply at the presence of a body in the middle. The sky was the colour of a rampant infection, had been for nearly thirty hours now. The world was sick, it was dying,and all he could do was keep going, the knife handle bouncing against his empty stomach.

Numb inside, Demyx had to keep going, or he would be dead before dusk. He could only run, and run, and run to escape his inevitable fate; and maybe, as long as he didn't stop, he would be able to stave it off completely. He wouldn't be torn apart, wouldn't end up shot to death, beaten or eaten, burnt or starved. Running made it all seem distant. And yet, it was the fact the he had to run that made it all so real. He couldn't escape this. Couldn't escape anything. He was doomed, as much as the decomposing corpses littering the city; he wasn't going to make it out of this. He knew it, deep inside, deep down where he could be nothing but honest with himself. Because if the people here didn't get him, then the missiles from elsewhere would, slamming down one after another. The planet was being torn apart at the seams.

He would be one of the corpses, one way or another, and the resurfacing of society would belong to those that walked over his bones.

But Demyx, he… he kept running anyway.

.o.O.o.

Demyx woke slowly at first, limbs and head heavy, everything feeling thick and indistinct. Then, very abruptly, it occurred to him that he shouldn't have been asleep in the first place, and as something cold and wet touched his forehead, his blue eyes snapped open.

Someone was standing over him.

Zexion saw the sudden contraction of Demyx's pupils as panic blasted through him, features and body seizing with terror, and without pausing to think, slammed his hands hard down on the teen's shoulders, fearful of him lashing out in his disorientation. If Demyx somehow managed to hurt him in his confusion, there'd be hell to pay, and Zexion knew that he wouldn't be the one to suffer.

Bringing his face down close, clear in the blond's line of vision, he said, voice hard and uncompromising, "Demyx, be calm."

Demyx was gasping, chest hitching rapidly up and down, head twisting from side to side as he tried to catch sight of his surroundings,but with Zexion pinning him down, all he could do was thrash for several seconds, before his strength, meagre as it was, drained away.

"You passed out on the field," the man told him firmly, "and Sora and Riku brought you here, to me. We're in the teachers' lounge."

Demyx came to himself gradually, awareness lagging but catching up the longer that the man's voice filtered through the fear and into his mind. He felt flu-ish and weak, like he'd spent a week in bed behind drawn curtains, and that familiar ache of every layer of skin having been peeled away, the ferocious, repulsive vulnerability, was intense enough to represent physical pain. He coughed a little, winced, and finally stopped struggling, his chin sinking. He began to shudder quietly, hands coming up to wrap around himself, turning onto his side. "…Zexion?" He was bewildered, faint, breaths still coming hard, but at least more evenly now. A measure of control had returned.

Zexion relaxed his grip, pulling back and noticing with a stab of guilt that he'd left red marks upon Demyx's upper arms – as if he needed more bruising. "Are you okay?" he asked evenly, inspecting the blond closely from behind the curtain of his fringe.

Eyes still vague, Demyx glanced around, groping absently at his stomach, swallowing hard and licking dry lips, before haltingly asking, "Where… where's – my knife gone?"

Zexion blinked, brow creasing, looked quickly around to make absolutely sure no one else was around. That wasn't the sort of thing you wanted a nervous eavesdropper to carry back to Ansem, or anyone else for that matter. What if that sort of question got back to Demyx's hospital? What would happen if people thought he was carrying a knife?

…Was he carrying a knife?

Zexion cleared his throat, asked neutrally, "What knife, Demyx? I didn't know you had one."

The blond's eyelids fluttered for a moment. He mumbled to himself, inaudibly, Zexion's concern growing by the minute. This wasn't normal behaviour, not even slightly. He'd had Sora come tearing in fifteen minutes earlier, panicking about Demyx passing out during an extended run that Saix had put him on, but no one had said anything about the teen doing or saying anything odd. It had been overexertion, pure and simple – Zexion had got right on the phone to the boy's ShinRa representative, informed Sir Auron quickly of the matter, and had Sora and Riku bring him to the teachers' lounge rather than the no-doubt occupied infirmary. Sir Auron had confirmed that it had been months since Demyx had undergone any rigorous exercise whatsoever. He'd got too hot, no doubt wasn't hydrated enough for the activity, and had passed out – not to mention he would have been weak anyway from the events of the previous night.

But this…

Zexion's gaze was fixed on the blond, on the pained expression of Demyx's face, the fingers still clutching at his front, but slower now. His eyes were blinking a little wider each time, but there was an unmistakeable air of… distance about him. He still wasn't really awake, by the looks of things – not coherently so. A thin frown set itself on Zexion's features. What exactly was going on in Demyx's head?

With a sigh, the man lowered to his knees beside the long couch that Demyx had been placed gently upon before Riku and Sora had to return to the remainder of their gym session. He gripped the sides of the teen's face firmly between his hands, the damp cloth he'd been dabbing his brow with forgotten on the couch's arm, sending little trickles down the brown leather, and steadied his head, directing his gaze forcefully into his own eyes.

"Demyx."

The blond blinked quickly, tried to glance around, stopping when Zexion carefully squeezed his face, flinching a little at the pain it brought to his existing injures. Zexion didn't want to have to hurt him like this, but if there was no other way to get him to focus, he'd slap him if he had to. In this public place, waking him up as rapidly as possible had to be the top priority. Besides which… "Demyx, I need you to tell me about the knife. Do you have a knife?"

Once again, Demyx's eyelashes fluttered, eyes rolling slightly. His breaths developed their ragged edge anew, dread filling Zexion's chest as he saw the confirmation coming.

"…Got it from… the kitchen block," he rasped, throat sounding dry. There was an unhealthy flush to his cheeks, heat under Zexion's hands. He was feverish. God, not only that, he was stupid. He had taken a knife from the home that ShinRa had supplied? What the hell could he need a knife for? Was it in response to last night's attack?

"From… the empty house," the blond added, voice beginning to fade. He closed his eyes. "Because otherwise, I had no way to fight off the zombies."

…What?

Zexion blinked, shaking Demyx a little and demanding, "Care to repeat that? Zombies?"

Demyx's eyes flashed open, fear in their depths. "What? Where?" He resumed grasping at his stomach, desperate now. Zexion quickly released one side of his face and grabbed hold of the seeking hand, telling him sternly, "There's no knife there, Demyx. Where is the knife supposed to be?"

"In the pocket of my hoodie," the blond replied, sounding baffled. Zexion stared for a moment.

"…I thought you weren't allowed to wear those sorts of clothes."

Now, for the first time, Demyx looked at him, really looked at him. A small line appeared between his brows, forehead slowly crinkling. His respiration slowed back towards normal, as he again murmured, "…Zexion?"

The man had never heard anyone sound so small and lost in all his life. Meeting Demyx's gaze determinedly, he repeated, "Demyx. You passed out during gym, on the field, and have been brought to the teachers' lounge. You're safe. There are no zombies. You're not wearing a hoodie. And if you have a knife, for the love of God, tell me where it is."

Demyx blinked, eyes widening, body stiffening slightly with new tension. His stare slid to one side, but this time, instead of – of drifting back out of focus like it had last time, Zexion could see, actually see his mind taking things in: chairs, desks, plants, books. His face turning a little to the side, he noticed the couch, realised he was lying down.

"I… passed out? No, I…"

"The knife, your knife, Demyx," Zexion said stubbornly, refusing to let him branch into other questions before he got his answer. At long last, Demyx frowned, returning his eyes to the other man's.

"…I don't have a knife."

Zexion flicked his gaze from one of the blond's clear eyes to the other, measuring the verity of his words, weighing them with what he knew of the boy. At length, he let out a breath, sagging a little. He nodded, and let go of Demyx's face, the teen looking suddenly confused as to why he'd been holding him to begin with. Zexion dug knuckles into his eyes, rubbing hard as he attempted to steady himself after the intensity of the last few minutes.

"Are you… okay?" Zexion went still at Demyx's soft voice, worry evident. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" Now there was alarm building in Demyx's tone, Zexion lowering his hands, eyes slightly red from where he'd been pressing.

"No, of course not," the man told him, brows lowered. "Why on earth would you…?"

"…I had a flashback," Demyx quietly told him. "I didn't pass out, Zexion, I went back to – a memory. Of my world." Suddenly, he sat up, the leather creaking beneath him as he sharply added, "Shit." He grabbed handfuls of hair and tugged, frustrated, saying, "I don't believe it! Another subject down the tubes! And Saix isn't going to care, he won't understand – he'll probably make me run harder!"

Startled, Zexion lifted himself quickly up onto the couch beside the blond, demanding, "I don't understand – you suffered a flashback? What does the running have to do with it?"

"Everything!" Demyx had shaken off his lethargy like a dried skin, was now buzzing with agitation, leg bouncing up and down like it did when he was filling with nervous energy that couldn't be expunged. Resting his forehead on the heels of his palms, the blond bit out, "The running did it, it was a physical trigger, just like windows get me visually. But I don't know what to do! I can't just stop running, damn it, I don't want to have to – cut off pieces of my life bit by bit until there's nothing left to it anymore. God, I'm so pathetic." With this final sentence viciously imparted, the teen dug his face into his hands, teeth visibly clenching, the cords on his neck standing out.

All Zexion could do at first was stare, really. This was – the absolute greatest extent of emotion he'd ever seen Demyx display. Usually, the blond was too frightened of the effect he had on others to even dare more than a timid smile or that pleasant, utterly bland countenance – but now here he was, practically grinding his teeth with impotence, not just agitated, but angry, actually distressed and angry. The anger was entirely self-directed, but still – it was more than Zexion had even known Demyx could exhibit. It was – somewhat incredible to witness. He wondered how long it had been since the blond had been able to vocalise this sort of outburst.

He said nothing, did nothing, afraid to scare the rare spectacle away, when Demyx so obviously needed to do this. If only he'd been allowed some form of an outlet, whether it was through music or another avenue… but this was probably the most he was going to get for quite some time to come.

Eventually, the blond settled down again, the remembrance of himself and where he was occurring like cogs twisting in his brain. He hesitated, before inching one hand away from his eye, looking apprehensively at the teacher next to him. Zexion, inexplicably, was smiling a little. "Feel better?" When Demyx didn't respond, he went on, "I'll take it as a compliment that you can do that in front of me. I won't tell anyone that you acted human, I promise."

Demyx studied him for a silent minute, one bright eye exposed while the other remained hidden behind his fingers. After a while, he asked, "You're sure I didn't do anything… aggressive?"

Zexion shook his head slightly, leaning back against the leather. "You were unconscious, and then awake and confused. Nothing more."

Demyx slowly rubbed his hands over his face before letting them drop down between his knees. Zexion left him alone, didn't poke, didn't pry. He let him recover, all the while running through his mind the fact that Demyx had suffered an actual flashback. Right here on campus. He hadn't expected it – had assumed that surviving the math class meant that nothing would set him off. Physical triggers, visual? Why was there so much going on here that nobody knew about but Demyx himself, and probably his mentor? Were the rest of them supposed to just learn as these things happened?

Feeling a flash of irritation, but knowing better than to let it out, he leaned forward again, mimicking Demyx's elbows-on-knees pose, and looked hard at the blond. "We need to get you home," he decided, noticing that the flush had yet to fade from his cheeks, a burnt sort of look to it. "The day is practically over anyway, and you can't return to class, or stay here in the lounge."

Uncertainly, Demyx eyed him off. "Are you sure? If I leave without permission again…"

Zexion snuffed a slight laugh, eyebrow arching as he indicated himself. "I'm a teacher, aren't I? In fact, not only am I giving you permission –" he stood, turning to Demyx with hands in pockets, "but I promised Sir Auron that I'd walk you home."

Demyx's eyes widened, alarm and surprise crashing together. "…Walk me…?"

Zexion inclined his head. "When a student faints on campus, the parents are always called, and the student sent home for bed rest. You are no different to any other teenager in this school. Understand this. Please."

Demyx stared. "Why can't Auron come get me?"

"He could," Zexion replied wearily, "if you were willing to wait until after closing hours for him to arrive. He said he's been called over to ShinRa's main office at Sector Zero for 'important negotiations'. It would take him at least an hour and a half to get back here, if he left immediately. Since you were going to be fine, he allowed me to take care of things." With a grimace, he added, "Of course, that was when things were straightforward… perhaps I should call him again, inform him of the flashback."

"Um…" Demyx was looking uncertain, nervously twisting a long lock of hair. "Didn't you already call him twice today? Snooping about my injuries –"

"It wasn't like that," the man objected, stung.

"– and then this last time… I don't know. He might get annoyed."

Zexion scowled. "Isn't his job to be putting your welfare first?"

Demyx glanced away. "Well, mine and… the rest of Midgar's…"

At this, the teacher seemed to lose some of his energy, shoulders slumping a little as Demyx continued to tug at his hair in a nervous manner. Dragging a hand out of his pocket, Zexion darted a look down at his wristwatch. "Honestly, Demyx, it's up to you. I have no qualms in walking you home, but if you'd rather Sir Auron, I can call him again, or you can, if you'd be more comfortable with that. I only want what's best for you, whatever you're happiest with."

Demyx's hands went still, fingers pressing into the blond strands, a strange look crossing his face. "…Me?" He watched Zexion for a blank moment, before shrugging haltingly. "Then… in that case, it, it's okay. I don't mind you walking me, I guess." Demyx felt awkwardly warm all of a sudden. He self-consciously laced his fingers together between his knees as Zexion faintly smiled.

"I'll gather my things, then, and we'll stop off at the locker room so you can change back into your street clothes."

Standing up, Demyx felt shivery, feeble. Now that Zexion had finally stopped talking, his mind began replaying the theatre of horrors he had relived in those fifteen unconscious minutes, the images rushing through one after another. As he paled and wobbled, Zexion grabbed at him, seizing an elbow and a shoulder, steadying his bony frame. "Heavens, you're thin," he muttered, momentarily distracted, before demanding, "Are you okay? Do you feel well enough to walk?"

Demyx hunched up stiffly, expression tightening, Zexion worriedly wondering why until the blond went, "I – ow. Ah. You're hurting."

The man blinked, looked down to see that he was gripping Demyx's gashed left arm with all his strength. He released instantly, shocked, apologising rapidly, the blond waving his words away tiredly. Then, Zexion went quiet. More gently, he returned his hand to the teen's elbow, hesitating to ask, "May I?" Frowning with confusion, Demyx gave an open-to-interpretation motion of his head, at which the man delicately wrapped his fingers around his left arm and lifted it towards the light. His eyes slowly scoured the tattoos swathing Demyx's arm almost all the way to his collarbone.

He released the teen's shoulder, the hand travelling lightly down to his wrist, a finger trailing along the lines with a scowl of concentration in place. After several moments of it, feeling the tiny scratch of the man's fingernail against the marks on his knuckles, Demyx began to fidget, eyes wide. "Um… do… do you have to…?"

Zexion shot him a glance, paused, then carefully lowered the arm back down to his side. "Forgive me," he said. "I didn't mean to be rude. It's just – I only ever get to see it in passing, normally. I just wanted to see…" His mouth twisted down at the corners, disapproving. "I wanted to look closer at what separates you so much from the common man."

"Huh." The sound from Demyx's lips could almost have been classed as bitter. He traced the black ink as Zexion had, with a dark, lonely familiarity. "And into the realm of monster."

There was a brief silence. "They must have hurt a lot," the man remarked quietly. At this, Demyx rubbed his wrist, gaze flicking down and away.

"We should probably get going, right? If you're walking me? I'm not feeling so hot. Flashbacks are… bad news."

Zexion looked slightly shamed as he quickly agreed, "Yes, of course, you're right. Like I said, just – let me get my things."

The trip to the locker room was quiet, the halls silent, voices drifting out from the classrooms they passed, the two of them walking side by side. Demyx listened to the squeak of his sneakers, the clip of Zexion's harder-soled shoes. Throwing over a glance at the man, he asked, "So, how come you don't have class?"

"Study period," Zexion replied. "It's a tough year for the seniors, they need all the time they can get. Your class is scheduled for one on Friday."

"Ah." Demyx nodded absently, unable to imagine life that far in the future right now. He felt jagged, like the ends of his nerves were so many exposed and broken bare wires, ready to catch on the walls and sleeves of passers-by, scratching and shocking and stinging. Having Zexion around was helping to keep the memories at bay, but they were in there, leaving him feeling shaken and frail.

They eventually arrived at the lockers. With thirty minutes of class still on the clock, the cavernous room was empty, echoing as Zexion offered, "I'll wait here at the door while you change."

Demyx was conscious of every amplified rustle as he took off his gym pants and swapped them for the feel of denim. It felt weird, being here with someone else, knowing that Zexion could hear each and every little noise, and was just standing there, waiting, while Dem got semi-naked around the corner. If he hadn't known it would only make things feel weirder, he might've started whistling to drown it all out.

Finally, he was able to push his small locker shut, the clang sounding out loudly, and, with his bag hooked over his shoulder, arm sock back in place up his right forearm, beanie tugged on, scarf wound around, Demyx returned to where Zexion stood. The man raised a querying eyebrow, asked, "Ready?" Together, they headed out of the building, past the silent gymnasium and out into the brittle air. Distantly, Demyx heard the shrill of Saix's whistle travelling along the crisp wind, imagining the class of seniors jogging up and down the brown track.

Softly, he said, "I hope I didn't make Sora and Riku worry at all."

Zexion shook his head a little, swinging the hair briefly out of his eyes. "You did, but only because they wanted to. Only because they care what happens to you." He sent the blond a sideways smile, but Demyx couldn't return it, was feeling queasy all of a sudden. He couldn't handle the thought of people caring about him, right now. Not after seeing what he had, so clear, so vibrant, so terrifyingly real. His body was in Midgar, he was awake and aware, but – his mind was still buried deep within memories, heinous memories. To clash the two worlds together was too much to cope with.

Zexion's smile faded, the sudden flatness of Demyx's expression evident even with the hat Sora had given him pulled low. "Demyx?"

The blond's head jerked a little towards him, a bland smile in place. "Everything's fine," he automatically said, sounding like a tape recorder had been set up inside his throat, programmed to repeat custom phrases at the press of a button. It was his pretend mood; plastic expression, plastic voice. But only moments ago, he'd been fine – Zexion didn't know what to do, what to say – didn't know how to keep up. Was he supposed to call the boy out on it, or let him continue like this? Was this what usually happened after a flashback? All he could do was frown, unsettled by the blond's change in manner, and continue to walk alongside him.

They headed out of the school, Demyx seeming to curl in on himself the second they stepped over onto the pavement, hands winding slowly around the black strap of his bag, chin lowering into the revolting scarf of Sora's. Zexion made a mental note to ask the boy to, for the love of all that was good and holy, snatch it back and exchange it for one of Roxas' black-and-white ones. That shade of green did nothing but draw attention, something that Demyx did naturally all by himself anyway. And if Roxas complained, Zexion would shut him up by buying a new one. Anything for peace.

Out here on the street, Demyx was even quieter than usual. There was a different air about him, a jumpiness that had been tamped down – an unmistakeable sense of hiding within one's own skin. Of course, this was impossible; wherever they went people stopped, gawped, not even noticing the anger in Zexion's glares as he attempted to silently set them straight. No – all eyes, forever, were fixed firmly on the blond. It was unnerving just to walk beside him. Not even being the focus of so many stares, Zexion could feel the way they pierced, the fear, the horror, the anger and accusation. Demyx, however, didn't seem to notice; he kept walking, as steadily as he could considering that he'd passed out less than an hour ago, had been brutally beaten the night before, and was, by the looks and feel of him, generally malnourished.

Zexion had never really had the chance to get a good, close look at the teen. They were always at school, always caught up in either an argument or a guessing game, or distracted by work or other people – it had never just been the two of them, one on one, in a neutral environment. He was beginning to see, the longer that they walked, that there were going to be many aspects of Demyx's life that he hadn't even considered yet, let alone brushed upon in his conversations with the blond.

So lost was he in contemplation, Zexion found himself startled when Demyx suddenly stopped, turning to him with a dully expectant smile. "Well, this is me. It was nice of you to walk me, Zexion. I'll make sure to let Auron know you kept your word."

It had to have been about twenty minutes since they left the school, Zexion barely even taking note of his surroundings, too intent on noticing all he could about the agonisingly vulnerable male beside him. He looked up with interest at the aged building they'd paused in front of. "This is where ShinRa has you set up?" Demyx eyed him for a moment, saying nothing. "Can I come up?" Zexion asked.

A measure of surprise entered the blond's face, Zexion silently grateful. After the earlier outburst, it felt hideously unnatural to see him acting so distant. He was just – Demyx was all over the place. One minute angry, the next pleasant, the next, cold as ice, and always in the most non-threatening manner possible. It couldn't be good for him to be so unstable, neither for his mental state, nor his image.

"…Okay." Demyx looked like he couldn't think of a reason to say no. Just as well – Zexion wouldn't have been happy just letting him wander away into the dim building, not knowing for sure whether he'd made it safely all the way to his apartment. After all the unpleasant looks the blond had been receiving on the way over, it wouldn't have shocked him to see Demyx tackled the second he was alone and dragged away to be beaten all over again. He was beginning to see, now that he was experiencing it firsthand, how Demyx could be so blasé in informing him that the violence had been an expected development. It had been so much easier, within the school's confines, to be outraged by such a placid approach to so much aggression; but, restricted as he was, what else could Demyx do? In all honesty, what could he rationally do?

After a slight hesitation, the blond turned back towards the door, pushed his way into the building, leading Zexion up several flights of stairs. They took a turn at the third floor, walking along a dim passageway, Demyx pausing at the furthest door along and taking out a set of keys, slipping the foremost one into the tarnished lock and clicking it sideways. A breath of sharply clean air swirled around Zexion as he stepped over the threshold, the blond silently holding the door open until he was through, before shutting it again and re-engaging the locks.

The place was small, bare, and incredibly cold. It had a quiet atmosphere – there was something contemplative in the air, though it was perhaps difficult to detect beneath the powerful scents of cleaner and Mako. Demyx must have been living in the path of one of the cross-winds from the reactor – housing was cheaper along that stretch, Zexion knew, and most probably ShinRa-owned to prevent any complaints from the inhabitants. Something twitched inside him, wanting to voice an objection, because nothing had been proven yet definitively regarding the long-term effects of the direct exposure to Mako fumes like occurred to those living in the cross-winds – but one look at the drawn blinds, the sealed-off feel to the place, and at Demyx's similarly closed face, changed his mind.

For the moment.

Demyx, while the inspection took place, had dropped his bag on a tattered green sofa over against the wall, and passed into the small, square collection of benching that represented the kitchen. He clicked on the kettle, the sound of heating water rising to gently disturb the hush that clung to the walls. Shoes making only slight sounds against the floorboards, Zexion tentatively stepped further in, eyes flicking from Demyx to the rest of the apartment and back again. He saw the blond put two white mugs from an upper cupboard down on the counter, plucking up a yellow slip of folded paper from beside the sugar and opening it, reading silently for a moment.

"Is that from Sir Auron?" Zexion asked, moving deeper into the sitting room, eyes passing over an ancient television on a small cart in the corner. Demyx gave a non-committal noise, and replaced the note on the bench, beginning to spoon coffee into the two cups. Zexion hid a grimace, continued exploring with his gaze. "…It's chilly here. Does the building have a heating system?"

The blond lifted his shoulders, saying nothing. As he added sugar to the mix, the kettle boiled, clicking off automatically, allowing silence to flood in its wake, the type that was – oppressive, and awkward. Zexion's sigh was audible, Demyx's shoulders twitching slightly as he said, "Demyx – if you're not comfortable with me being here, I'll go. I didn't want to irritate you with my presence, I only wanted to make sure you got up here okay."

The blond's motions faltered for a brief moment, half his face turning towards the man. "…No. It's fine. I've already put out the coffee, and Auron won't drink it." He turned again, his back once more to Zexion as he stirred. "Auron doesn't like my coffee." After a moment, he added, "Sit down. Don't… don't hover."

Unaware that he had been, Zexion nevertheless did as bidden, taking the corner of the green couch and trying to look comfortable. Evidently, his presence had the blond as unsettled as he himself was beginning to feel. It was disappointing, in a way – he'd spent a reasonable amount of time with Demyx at school, getting to know him as much as he could, but upon actually being in the blond's own territory, the place where he'd imagined he could work the most good… he suddenly felt like an interloping stranger.

When the coffee was brought over, he accepted it with polite thanks, trailing off as Demyx didn't join him on the couch, instead crossing the short room and sitting on the floor with his back to the slatted blinds covering the one light-giving window. The teen was gripping his mug tightly, staring down into its murky depths, no doubt stung by the heat but showing no signs of pain. A long, embarrassed silence passed between them. Embarrassed for Zexion, at least.

At last, Demyx gave a little cough which could have been a clearing of the throat. "I'm… sorry. For not being… better. At this." He dipped his head a little lower, and now Zexion could see that he wasn't the only one – the discomfort, the cringing, passed in and out in minute shades of the teen's expression. "I – you're… You chose a bad time to try something that… I haven't…" He reached up, slowly pulled the hat from his head, dropping the woollen creation to the ground and self-consciously spiking his hair. "You're the first person other than Auron to be in here. I wasn't… ready. Today." Darting up a half-frightened look, he said, "I don't even know if you're supposed to be allowed to come in. We've never really… covered the subject of visitors. It's never been an issue."

Zexion's eyes widened suddenly, coffee almost slopping as he quickly placed his mug down hard on the floor. "Demyx! I'm so sorry, I should never have imposed, I should have thought –"

The blond, however, merely waved his fast words aside, looking tired. "If Auron had thought it would be a life-or-death situation, he'd have made sure you knew when he was talking to you. It's okay. They're not exactly going to… going to lock me back up for having someone over. Plus, you're my teacher," he added as an afterthought, as if this proved all credibility beyond a doubt. He drew his shoulders up, knees lifting and knocking together, hands lacing together under his thighs while the coffee steamed beneath them, and looked boyishly alone.

Zexion stared for a moment, then slowly placed his fingers around the rim of his cup, lifting it back up, and lowered himself to the floor, back resting against the sofa's hard edge. Folding his legs neatly, replacing the mug just in front of his crossed ankles, he said, "I'm still sorry, anyway. I should be responsible for thinking of that sort of thing as well as you. I should have realised." Again, Demyx shook his head, an impatient crease between his eyebrows dismissing the apology.

"It's okay. It's fine. Don't worry."

A new silence developed, slightly easier than the last one, broken after several minutes by Zexion offering, "If you want, you can come sit on the couch. You don't need to worry – I'm not afraid of you, Demyx. You know that, don't you? Not at school, and not here alone with you, either."

The blond hesitated, chin swivelling to the side, eyes remaining downcast. "Yeah. Thanks. I know. It's just… I can't sit over there right now. I can't… I don't think it's a good idea for me to be facing the window. Not before Auron gets here."

The man blinked, brows briefly rising, gaze darting up at the shuttered light. "The…?"

"Visual trigger," Demyx shortly explained. "I'm more susceptible after an episode."

"…If you don't mind my asking…" Zexion's voice was cautious. "What was it that caused it at all?"

A hollowness reached Demyx's words, expression slackening. "…The running. The running around and around like that. Saix made me run because I was late, even with the tardy slip. And… it took me back," he stated, flatly matter-of-fact. "I was running through the streets, after everything had happened."

"A knife in your sweater pocket…" Zexion softly supposed. Demyx nodded.

"Yeah. That's what was happening to me. While Sora and Riku were carrying me to the teachers' lounge to you, I was back in my home world, running like hell." He stopped speaking, the memories swelling, and took a stabilising breath. "They're not going to let me drop gym. They – they've already made an exception for math. If I start to make them think I can't operate in the outside world, they'll…" He stopped, looking sick, Zexion helplessly unable to think of anything to say that might reassure the boy.

Gloom settled through the apartment, the very walls seeming to react to the blond's will, as if Demyx had truly spent enough time between them to let his nature soak into the bricks. Zexion gazed at him steadily, eventually saying, "I'll help as much as I can. It's true that you can't keep stopping parts of your life to suit your condition." He smiled over at the blond. "But there will be ways around it, I'm sure. Don't worry, Demyx. You've got people supporting you."

Demyx toyed with the rim of his mug, sliding his index fingers around in half-moons, listening but not quite registering what was being said. It had only been a week; it was still too soon to believe he could rely on anyone but Auron. People like Zexion… they were nice. And they trusted him. But he was like any one of the nurses at the hospital; supportive because he had to be. Because it was his job. That didn't make the support any less effective, but… it was ephemeral. Once Demyx was gone from their everyday routine, so too would the support, because it wasn't their life's job to be that way – it just meant that they cared enough to help him out while they could. And that was fine, he was grateful for it – but in the end, he only really had Auron.

So, Demyx briefly lifted his blue eyes for the first time, and smiled for the man. He said, "Thanks. I appreciate it." And even though there was a dull edge to his words, Zexion didn't know any better, and smiled back, feeling that, finally, like he was really beginning to help the teen.

They each took a sip of cooled coffee, and when Zexion had finished his, he took his leave, Demyx remaining in the cold, quiet apartment, waiting for the appointed hour of Auron's arrival, just like he always did.