Four minutes until midnight. Three cups of coffee for supper. Eleven hours since the last meal. Two days without a shower. Thirty hours without sleep. Zexion had no time to wonder how much longer he could sustain such a lifestyle. There was too much work to do. Roxas was dangerously close to dropping that creature where he stood. Vexen was still missing. His comrades were beginning to panic. Twenty-two tired eyes on eleven worried faces looked to him for reassurance and he had nothing. No answers, no solutions. Not a damn thing to quell their fears or their doubts. After all, it had been thirteen days. Thirteen days since Vexen's disappearance. Thirteen days since he'd spoken to Demyx. Thirteen days since everything went to shit.
Counting was the only semblance of order Zexion could find among the chaos. Six health reports in the backlog. Two staples in Xaldin's scalp. Five stitches in Luxord's wrist. Two scans of Larxene's sprained ankle. Another dose of pain relief for Roxas. The numbers lined up in neat rows behind his eyes, stacked in sequential lists, a perfect representation of structure. The closest thing to a routine he could come up with. Zexion had to assume that Vexen wasn't coming back. That he really was dead. That the Organization now trusted him with their health, and that it was his job to pick up the old man's slack. His job to take care of Roxas. His job to put Axel at ease and to hold Saïx together. His job to fix everything.
Midnight had come and gone, and Zexion was buried in another report, riding the backspace, erasing every mistyped letter his shaking fingers produced. Shoulder injury is healing well. No surgery required. Could return to combat in the next 1-2 weeks. He slammed the print button before he could second-guess himself. Roxas' contractions are infrequent and mild. Standard pain relief is marginally effective. A few exaggerated claims. A little fluff and padding here and there. What else could he do but tell them what they wanted to hear? It was all he had. Countless well-meaning lies. Countless reassuring smiles. Countless promises that everything would be okay. Not one of them honest, not one of them sincere. But to his relief, his comrades ate up every word. Their modest approval was all the validation he could get. One nod from Xemnas. One hug from Axel. One sigh from Saïx. He could fool himself into believing that he was helping them. He could set his own baggage aside for another day.
It was nearly one in the morning. Saïx had ordered him to bed hours ago, and far be it from Zexion to disobey, but the last thing he wanted was to sleep. Not alone. Not with his mind racing like this. Counting was helpful until he wanted to turn it off. Despite his efforts to quiet the numbers, they persisted, bombarding his consciousness with their rapid, overlapping noise. Only a handful of times had he managed to achieve total silence of his thoughts. Every one of them had to do with Demyx. Hearing his voice, listening to his music, even just falling asleep to his steady breaths — being with Demyx was always enough to block out all the clamor. This was the one activity Zexion couldn't count — the number of times his mind fixated on that musician and refused to let go for anything. Even while he had work to do, he was stuck on Demyx. Even as Roxas was threatening to burst, he was stuck on Demyx. Even when he should have been worried sick over Vexen, his own father, he was stuck on Demyx. That sense of selfishness left a bitter taste in Zexion's mouth, and all the coffee in the world would not wash it away.
He dragged himself out of his chair, taking a moment to stretch his sore joints. His eyes were aching and the air had long since grown stale. He could go mad in this room. He probably had already, several times over. He didn't even bother to tidy up his workspace before he powered off every computer and every machine in the vicinity. No more whirring, no more humming, no more beeping, no more blinking lights, no more noise. He flipped the light switch until he was standing in almost pitch blackness. He basked in that serenity for a moment, absorbing the silence, the total lack of sensory input. If he had it his way, he'd live every day in this beautifully empty void, navigating entirely without sight or sound, just like he used to. He could recognize any one of his comrades from miles away by their scent alone. He had the entire castle mapped out in his photographic memory. He could sense so much more than he could see or hear. What use were eyes and ears to him then?
He walked around the lab in glorious blindness, letting his fingers brush over every surface as he passed. The equipment was smooth, cold, and still. Plastic, metal, glass. He could identify every object with only touch. He knew exactly where he was. He'd made it back to his desk. The rough texture was unmistakable. This desk was the first place he'd made love. This was where Demyx had laid him down and shown him just how close to another person one could get, just how vulnerable he could let himself be, and how euphoric an experience that was. Zexion still felt a shudder in his hips whenever he thought of that night. He could remember so vividly that very moment when all the noise had ceased as he reached the apex of the most intense pleasure he'd ever felt. It always happened during sex. Sex hushed the numbers. Sex halted the counting. It worked every time, without fail, and some fretfully guilty part of Zexion missed that the most.
He was getting carried away. There wasn't time for thoughts like that. He hurried out of the lab before the stuffy atmosphere could suffocate him. He was quick on his feet as he made his way back to his bedroom, hoping Saïx wouldn't catch him awake. This is ridiculous, he thought. Sneaking around like a teenager. He was a grown man, and he required neither Saïx's permission nor his approval to be awake at night. And furthermore, Saïx had a wealth of hypocrisy to answer for if he was going to get on Zexion's case for inadequate sleep.
He paused and took a breath. A little agitation was to be expected, he guessed, but was ultimately not helpful in the least. He endeavored to calm his nerves as he finally made it to his destination. Back to his room, out of his coat, and into the shower. Twenty minutes under the water. Clean, but not relaxed. Wet, cold, and naked — the others called this peaceful. This was a break to them. A luxury that Zexion had taken for granted. His comrades were out on the front lines, searching for a man who was more than likely just a corpse by now. They were risking their lives, getting hurt, collapsing in exhaustion, and here Zexion was, the lowly medic stuck in the castle, living in relative comfort and safety, free to shower and eat and sleep at his leisure. And yet, in a way, he envied them. Solitude had always been a relatively favorable fact of life for him, but there was always someone nearby. Vexen was always in the next room. Demyx was always just off doing recon somewhere harmless and familiar. There was never any real sense of loneliness until now when all he had were his thoughts. He could neither befriend the numbers nor converse with a cup of coffee. The fantasies were not real company. He was alone. Truly alone. Always alone.
As expected, he could not sleep a wink. His restless brain continued to count anything it could set its sights upon. Fifteen minutes staring at the ceiling. Two hundred and forty breaths. It had been a fortnight since the last time he'd shared this bed. Fourteen days since he woke up beside the most handsome face he'd ever laid eyes on. Fourteen days since he'd lay under the man, writhing and begging as all the numbers faded away into pure bliss. It was almost amusing to think that he'd gone his whole life without a sexual encounter of any kind, but now to be deprived for even two weeks was unbearable. He could either thank Demyx for that change or curse him — Zexion wasn't sure which would ease the ache in the moment. He could do it himself, he supposed, except that he'd never done any such thing. He wasn't entirely certain if he knew how. But he'd try anything for just a glimmer of relief. He was desperate.
He wasn't exactly in the mood. He couldn't have been less in the mood, in fact. He shivered as he lowered the sheet, his body shocked by the sudden chill. His hands were shaking, and his eyes kept darting to the door, as if expecting someone to walk in on him. Don't be silly, he chided himself. Everyone is asleep. He blew out a sharp exhale — two sharp exhales — and was ready to begin. He didn't like looking at it. It always looked weird to him. He flinched as he touched it — his hands were freezing. Only a few seconds in and he'd already begun to feel very exposed. He'd never had to watch himself before. He used to watch Demyx. He caught a glimpse of his reflection and cringed at the sight of his nude form, lying stiffly on the bed with his legs open for no one, too shy to touch his own body.
Well, this is going well.
He closed his eyes, trying to imagine what Demyx would do. He liked to start slow, as if every time was the first. An average of forty-six kisses from beginning to end, only half of them at or around the mouth. Demyx was careful, but adventurous. He touched Zexion in places he'd never given much thought to. Places he didn't realize would feel good. Places that, Zexion lamented, he couldn't reach himself. This was not to say that he hadn't tried — and nearly laughed out loud at the image of his contorted limbs all twisted about in the mirror across the room. Blushing with embarrassment, he abandoned the endeavor before he could fall out of bed, deciding he'd stick to the basics for his first time.
The next several minutes were awkward and irregular, just getting acquainted with himself. His motions were a bit clunky at first, but he eventually relaxed into a steady rhythm, relieved to find that the practice wasn't especially difficult. His hands strayed, gliding over spots that ordinarily erected goosebumps on his skin. His flank, his thigh, his collar — places where Demyx could play him like one of his sitars. But for all of Zexion's fondling and stroking, those regions elicited no response. No chills in his spine, no convulsions in his hips. No clench of anticipation or gasp of surprise. It was taking too long and he was growing impatient. He couldn't concentrate, could scarcely remain at attention. No matter how he shifted his stance, his grip, his technique, there was no progress to be made. It was still pleasurable, but flat and dull by comparison. Altogether too mechanical, too cold and monotonous. It was no use. This wasn't sex. Not even close.
He threw his clothes back on and rushed into the hall with no thought to where he might be going. Out. Just out. It didn't matter where — he just had to get out. Out of the castle and onto the streets. Out of the World That Never Was and someplace new. There were five hours and forty-eight minutes until dawn. By his standards, the night was still young. This time was his to waste. Spurred on by a sudden surge of rebellion, he opened a dark corridor and stepped inside, turning off his senses as he began his trek. He was going to find some release no matter what it took, and no one was going to stop him now.
He couldn't remember how he'd made it to Twilight Town, or why he was standing in front of the entrance to that bar. But he opened his eyes and there he was, staring at the heavy wooden door and losing himself in the memories of his first visit there. The place where he and Demyx had decided to be together. Why here, of all places? It took some internal coaxing to get him through the entryway, but once he made it inside, he found the place just as empty as when he'd first come.
"Welcome!" the bartender greeted him cheerfully. "Where's your friend?"
Zexion dropped his eyes. "He's not coming."
The man's face fell and his jolly nature shifted to one of great sympathy. "I'm sorry, friend. Can I get you anything to make it better?"
"No, thank you," Zexion shook his head. "Do you mind if I just sit for a while?"
The bartender smiled, some warmth having crept back into his demeanor. "Of course not. Be my guest. And hey, the piano is all yours! I'd sure love to hear you play again."
The compliment brought a pink flush to Zexion's cheeks, but he returned the smile and nodded as he made his way to the back of the bar. He sat in front of the piano for several minutes, just staring at the keys. He didn't know what to play. The song he'd played with Demyx before was the only one he could remember, and he certainly didn't want to hear it again. He stretched his fingers and cracked his knuckles in preparation before laying his hands on the keyboard, hoping that if he just started up with anything, a melody would come out automatically. Maybe he'd remember another tune from his past. Maybe he'd make one up. He took a breath and began to play.
It was a rough start. He was stumbling all over the place, making mistakes, tangling his fingers — it was quite clear that he had no idea what he was doing. He stopped several times, collecting himself and trying not to think. Eighty-eight keys. Seventy beats per minute. Fifteen bars. Sixteen bars. The counting droned on in his head as he restarted again and again, each time insisting that this would be the one. But it was hopeless. He couldn't remember anything. His hands wouldn't do it anymore. He'd lost his ability.
He was concentrating intently on whatever random nonsense he was trying to create, testing notes, missing keys, making a real mess of the piece when the bartender appeared from behind and set a cup beside him. Startled, Zexion's hands flew off the piano. The man laid a hand on his shoulder, flashing his hospitable smile once more. "That sounds terrible."
Zexion began to blush again, avoiding eye contact with him. He stammered with embarrassment at having inflicted such a senseless racket upon his ears. "I-I'm sorry. I'm not sure what's happening…"
"Have a drink, my friend," the bartender gestured toward the glass. It was filled with a pale yellow liquid, and an orange slice was floating inside. "This one's on the house."
"Th-Thank you, sir, but I really don't drink…"
"I insist," the man pressed him. "You'll feel better."
With much reluctance, Zexion took the glass and brought it to his nose. It smelled sweet. Fruity, even. With a courageous inhale, he squeezed his eyes shut and took a generous gulp. To his surprise, it tasted as sweet as it smelled. There was no burn in his throat, no bitterness. It was delicious, and he drank the rest of it quite easily. He opened his eyes and turned to thank the man, to ask what on earth he'd put in it, but the bartender was nowhere to be found. The area behind the bar was empty, save for the shelves full of bottles. The man had simply vanished.
Alone again, Zexion returned his attention to the piano, closing his eyes this time as he dangled his fingers over the keyboard. He used to practice for hours each day as a child. He'd hammer out the same section until he could play it correctly, flawlessly. And he remembered how frustrated his younger self could be when a session didn't go well. Even on those days, Master Ansem clapped enthusiastically after every performance. It never mattered to him whether little Ienzo's playing was good or bad. He was always happy to listen, always wearing that affectionate smile on his face. Zexion could remember the very last time he'd played for him — his favorite tune. A single tear fell from the old man's eye. Little Ienzo didn't understand at the time, but the now-grown Zexion understood perfectly. What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to be moved to tears by something so simple as a familiar melody. But, to his deepest regret, he cast off that privilege right alongside the man who'd first shared it with him.
Zexion remembered every note of the piece, and he played it seven times before his fingers tired of it. But for as long as he repeated that same tune, he felt nothing. Even as poignant as it was, he could have played it seven more times and it would not have awakened any sentiment in him. He could no longer hear the beauty in how the notes were woven together. He could no longer comprehend the meaning behind the composition. He wondered just what power the melody possessed if it didn't touch him. If it didn't hurt him. And, if the music could not hurt him, he questioned if he truly loved it any longer.
When his seventh repetition came to a close, he stayed frozen with his hands hovering over the keyboard. That song, and all of the memories carried within it, was no more. Zexion could accept that. The past was right where it belonged. But he had learned new songs and made new memories since then. Music had come back for him. He'd rediscovered that beauty and that purpose. And, there was still someone who would smile and applaud after every performance, even if he haphazardly banged on the keys with his elbows. Perhaps a Nobody could not be moved to tears. Perhaps a Nobody was incapable of love. Such was the law of nature. But music was more powerful than nature.
Turning the page on that chapter of his life, Zexion' hands dropped to the keys and began to play something new. To his shock and bewilderment, a relatively pleasant melody erupted from him. It was simple, nothing a novice couldn't play, but it was nice enough to listen to. A fresh start, something he could build upon. As he played on, he added to the piece — different harmonies, new bass tones, even a somewhat atonal development that was still easy on the ears. To his great surprise, he was enjoying himself. He was making music. Real music. How he longed for Ansem the Wise to see him now, showcasing what came from his very soul, something that he created out of what he could only describe as passion. How he wished Demyx could have been there to hear it. He would have been so proud.
"Well, well… I found you."
The voice came from far behind him. Zexion whipped around to find exactly the face he knew it belonged to. Demyx. Demyx had come. Demyx was there at last, casually leaning against the frame of the archway and wearing that same charming smile that could melt the apprentice like warm butter. Zexion nearly fell off the bench, hardly able to contain his elation.
"How long have you been standing there?" he asked as his embarrassment returned in full force.
Demyx grinned. "Long enough."
He stepped into the room, heading right for the piano with his arms clasped behind him. Zexion held his breath as he came near. He must have looked so stupid, sitting there frozen and gaping at him. But Demyx's smile never faltered as he sat down beside him on the bench, hopefully taking no notice of the shudder that spread through Zexion's body as he joined him.
"What was that you were playing?"
Zexion tried to speak, but only managed a hiccup. He covered his mouth as heat washed over his face and ears. Demyx was chuckling. Not in a taunting or disparaging manner, but Zexion's anxiety was already set in motion. What the hell was in that drink? He was feeling a bit dizzy. He hid his burning face in his hands as the humiliation seized him entirely.
It was only a few moments before the laughter stopped and he heard the softness in Demyx's voice. "I brought someone who I think will make you feel better," he announced as he unveiled the stuffed Moogle toy from behind his back. Zexion bit his lip, hesitant to take the doll from him. This was another memory he'd thought was no more. But Demyx had rewritten that fate as well. He'd given the Moogle plush a new purpose, just as he'd done for the piano. Zexion's eyes welled up as he brought the toy's soft fur to his cheek.
"Thank you, Demyx…"
The musician smiled again, sending Zexion into a swooning daze. He had to say something. He had to fix this. Zexion's mouth was suddenly so dry, but he had to get these words out. "Demyx, I—"
"Don't apologize," Demyx interrupted him. "I get it."
He shrugged, rising from the bench and taking hold of the guitar that rested beside the piano. The one he claimed he didn't play, yet seemed to have mastered in a matter of seconds. He turned the pegs, plucking each string over and over until they were in tune. "Let's play something."
Demyx was waiting for him to start. Zexion's mind was entirely blank. He'd forgotten every note he'd just played and every tune he ever knew. He was totally lost. Before he could panic, he closed his eyes again, taking a breath, then several more. His fingers found the keys again, and he played whatever felt right.
Demyx joined right away, instantly bringing a new beauty to the piece, just as he always did. It was hard not to just listen to him, but Zexion kept going, letting his fingers lead the way. He was experiencing the progression of the song in real time, without a clue where it would go next, and the effect was positively exhilarating. The melody swept high across the keyboard and the bass reached far to the deepest end. He could feel the music in his chest, in his bones, in his soul. He could feel the connection to Demyx in this melodic conversation they were sharing, speaking with notes instead of words. Expressing their emotions, real and lovely as they were. This was music's new purpose. This music touched him. This music hurt him. This music moved him.
Zexion was overwhelmed. His eyes welled up again, and before he could fight them away, tears spilled down his face. But he was determined. He kept playing, now more fiercely than before. Five sharps in this key. One hundred and thirty beats per minute. Four measures in this phrase, three in the next. He played more complicated passages, quicker scales, less tonal melodies that were difficult to predict. His fingers were going too fast for him. Even Demyx was struggling to keep up. Mistakes were creeping back in. Sour notes and skipped beats. The more Zexion lost his composure, the less coherent his playing. His eyes were so blurred with tears that he couldn't see the keys anymore. His face was soaked with those that he'd failed to contain. He was playing blind, raging up and down the keyboard and slamming into whatever notes he could catch. Demyx had stopped playing, just watching Zexion's descent into madness with a piteous look on his face. When the point of no return had long passed, he set down the guitar, rejoined Zexion on the piano bench and wrapped his arms around him just in time for him to collapse in despair.
Zexion cried into Demyx's shoulder harder than he could ever remember crying before. Curled up at his chest, he blubbered incoherently, his words lost to the anguish, his pitiful sobs muffled with leather. He could hardly breathe. He was grasping frantically at Demyx's coat like a frightened child. He'd never fallen apart like this. He hated it. Every time he thought he was done, it started up again. He was a pathetic, sniveling mess, thoroughly embarrassed by having broken down so heavily. What must Demyx think of him now? The man hadn't spoken a word the whole time. He was silent, never cutting in, never shushing him or trying to stop him. Zexion was grateful for his presence, relieved that he was so patient, so tender. It had been so lonely, so dark and empty without him. Without Vexen. Without anyone. It was all too much. Zexion could no longer stand the pain.
"Demyx, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"
"Shh," Demyx whispered. "You've got nothing to be sorry about."
That was it. That was the moment he'd waited two weeks for. That was Demyx's forgiveness, handed over so unceremoniously. Zexion had everything to be sorry about. He could have spent all night listing his transgressions. But Demyx had enough compassion to overlook every one of them, and he asked for nothing in return. It was that very compassion, that aversion to conflict that drew Zexion to the man. He was so peaceful, so easy. Demyx was strong in a way that no one else was, and Zexion needed that strength now more than ever.
"I can't do this…" he choked, sniffling and wiping his face as his sobs gradually slowed.
Demyx pulled away to face him properly. "What do you mean?"
Hesitating, Zexion dropped his head. He couldn't dump all of this on Demyx. Not now, when he was being so generous. But Demyx would not accept the silence, and he took the apprentice's hands, now more stern and insistent. "Zexion, don't hold back. There's nobody else here but you and me. Let it all out."
Where could he begin? Demyx was inviting him to unleash months of unresolved stress and the floodgates were on the verge of total collapse. Everything to do with Vexen, Roxas, Saïx, Axel, Xemnas, Demyx, and even himself would spill out everywhere and the poor musician would never be able to follow. Zexion lifted his eyes. Demyx was waiting, but there was no impatience there — only a soft expression that said It's okay. I'm listening. He trusted the man implicitly. Somehow, he knew that Demyx would understand. Zexion, baggage and all, was safe with him.
"I miss him…" he answered with an audibly shaking voice. "Vexen… Where the hell is he? What am I going to do if we don't find him?"
Zexion hadn't any choice but to dive right back into work after Vexen's disappearance. There wasn't time for grief or worrying. There wasn't time to miss him. But now, as everything he'd ever known about anything unraveled before his very eyes, the one man he could confide in was gone. His guilt over the experiment with Roxas and the role he'd played therein, his anxiety about how hopelessly wrong it was going now and how he staggered under the crippling weight of new responsibilities he'd never asked for — he could have brought it all to Vexen. Vexen was sturdy where Zexion was a bit unstable. When the world shined too brightly, Vexen shielded his eyes. When the thick, heavy air smothered him, Vexen reminded him how to breathe. Vexen gave him a place where he could feel safe and relaxed. Now, there was no guarantee he'd ever feel that sense of security again.
Somewhere, hiding among all of his remorse and his fear was a glimmer of anger at the old man for leaving him alone like this, and to recognize such an inappropriate response in himself only made him feel worse. The flow of tears resumed full force as he grew more worked up. "I can't do this without him! I'm just watching Roxas deteriorate and I don't know what to do!" he sobbed, barely catching his breath in between. "He's in pain. He's suffering. That thing's going to kill him and it'll be ugly and gruesome and there isn't a single goddamn thing I can do about it. It's hopeless! I can't do this, Demyx, I need him!"
He shouted into the musician's neck, unsure if the man could even understand anything he said. All the while, Demyx said nothing at all, just holding him tightly and letting him pour it all out. Zexion absorbed his calm, his peace. The gentle sway of their bodies and the soft fingers dragging up and down his back never wavered in their mesmerizing, steady pace. The constant motion of his chest expanding with each breath was easy to match. Zexion's mind counted those beats, those steps, and at last, it was relaxing to hear the numbers quietly pass by.
"I miss him so much…"
"I know," Demyx murmured. "It's okay."
"If he's really gone… I don't know what I'm going to do…"
"He's out there," he said with growing confidence. "He's still kicking. I can feel it. We're gonna find him."
Zexion was increasingly doubtful. "Roxas could die… And I'd be totally powerless to stop it. I can't save him, Demyx. There's nothing I can do."
"There's a way. Roxas is strong as hell," Demyx gripped his shoulder. "He's gonna make it, I know he will."
Still, the apprentice was unmoving. He hung his head in defeat, determined to remain in his slump. Demyx, tender as always, cupped his chin, lifting his face and sweeping the long fringe from his eyes. "I know this is a lot. But you can do it," he assured him. "It's gonna be okay."
He planted a kiss on the apprentice's forehead and dried the tears from his cheeks. Zexion could only stare, captivated by the gentleness in his eyes and the light in his smile. There were very few things in the universe that Zexion would call 'beautiful.' Nothing seemed quite deserving of such a description. And for someone who had spent so long navigating his surroundings without sight, it hardly made any difference whether something was easy on the eyes or not. Demyx, however, upset that entire premise. Demyx took his breath away and seized his tongue. Demyx could charm him with ease, could dazzle him until he wavered with vertigo. Demyx could say things so profound that they gave him chills. Demyx was beautiful. For as long as Demyx was in his sights, Zexion never wanted to close his eyes again.
It's every bit as scary as falling… and hurts just as much when you hit the ground.
He clutched the stuffed Moogle to his face, letting his tears melt into its soft fur. It smelled like Demyx. Breathing in that pleasant scent, he could not contain the smile blooming in his lips. That toy had been stored away in a dark cupboard for years and years. Forgotten, likely never to be used again. Demyx had reawakened its purpose and made it something new — a symbol of comfort and security for him, for Zexion, for both of them. Likewise, Demyx had revived Zexion's music. Buried away in his past, just as abandoned, just as forgotten. Demyx brought it all back in an instant. The musician showed him all the ways a melody could touch him, could move him. How he could forge the most intimate bond with someone else through the power of song, a connection too deep for words to express. It was not a reminder, but an entirely new lesson in humanity, by and for two men for whom humanity was supposed to be well out of reach.
Demyx took the old relics from his past, his cherished memories of Ansem the Wise, and he repurposed them. He gave them new life, new meaning. He sought not to replace, but to complement those memories. He stood among the gathering of Zexion's most treasured companions, center stage and sharing that spotlight with them. Together with Ansem the Wise and Vexen, he presented his new ovation, applauding just as thunderously and smiling with all the same affection as the rest. Zexion had been convinced that a Nobody could not be moved, could not shed tears. Could not feel and could not love. Such were the cruel and unbending laws of nature. But all in one night, he was proven wrong on all counts. Love — like memories, like music — was more powerful than nature.
"Demyx… I love you."
He felt the musician freeze against him, could feel heat spreading beneath his skin as the seconds crawled by in deafening silence. But when he looked Demyx in the eyes, he saw no surprise or bewilderment. The musician merely smiled that same gleaming smile as always. "I love you too, Zexion."
They rested there at the piano bench in comfortable silence. There was no need to recover from the shock, for this wasn't any shock. There was no need to process the revelation, for this wasn't a revelation at all. This was something they already knew and understood deep inside themselves, and had merely just reaffirmed with words. They were in love. That was all. Zexion pressed himself against Demyx's chest again, listening to the sounds echoing inside. He searched for the sound of beating he'd heard before, and it wasn't long until he found it. He closed his eyes and relaxed to the gentle vibration of Demyx's heart thumping softly beside him. For once, it wasn't jarring to accept that thought — that Demyx had a heart. It made all the sense in the world, and that made it just as easy for Zexion to believe he had one of his own as well. These simple truths required no analysis, no doubt or question. Nature and reality had been rewritten just for the two of them, and they were content to live with that mystery.
"Demyx," he whispered. "Promise me I won't lose you, too."
Demyx paused a moment, as if confused by the request. But the realization soon came over him, his face quickly broke into an understanding smile. "I promise. I'm not going anywhere."
"It's dangerous out there. You yourself have said you're not cut out for combat."
"Yeah, but I'm no pushover, either. In fact, you know what I'm really good at? Running away."
Zexion laughed, much to Demyx's amusement. "There's that smile," he brushed his thumb across Zexion's lip. "You feel any better?"
"Not really…"
"That's okay," Demyx patted him on the back. "You can keep going if you want."
"We should go back…" Zexion yawned. "It's late. I'm sure the bartender wants to close up for the night."
Demyx nodded and stood, offering a hand to pull Zexion up from his seat. The apprentice wavered a bit on his feet, unsure if his sudden dizzy spell was from the fatigue or the alcohol. Noticing his struggle to regain his balance, Demyx extended his elbow and donned his usual charming grin. "Can I walk you home?"
Zexion could only smile back as he linked arms with him, following his lead on the way out of the bar. Demyx waved to the bartender as they neared the door, and the cheerful man paused his scrubbing of the bartop to bid the two farewell. They had almost made it to the door when Zexion stopped and stumbled toward the counter.
"Oh… Sir," he said, leaning heavily on a barstool. "Thank you for everything…"
"It was my pleasure, son. Don't mention it."
If nothing else, Zexion figured he ought to tip the man for his trouble. He reached into his pocket, pulling out what little munny he carried with him, and as he dropped it into the glass jar, he noticed that it was nearly overflowing with cash. He was certain it hadn't looked like that when he'd first arrived, but supposed that he just wasn't paying attention.
"If I might ask," he inquired, tilting his head. "What was in that drink?"
The bartender smirked. "Pineapple juice, soda water, and grenadine."
Demyx and the bartender began to laugh hysterically, and when the bafflement had worn off, Zexion could not help but join them. So, it was all in his head. A classic psychosomatic response. Despite knowing that it wasn't real, he could still feel the fuzziness of intoxication, rocking him back and forth like a ship on the ocean. He felt it whenever he glanced up at Demyx's grinning face. He felt it as the laughter overtook him and he grew dizzy and breathless, staggering about on legs that felt like gelatin. The pair giggled all the way back to the castle, darting around corners and hurrying to the closest bedroom before Saïx could discover them awake at such a late hour. Zexion didn't even want to see the clock. Didn't want to count the precious few hours he had left for sleep. They wanted to respect the emotional poignancy of the moment, to preserve the warmth of their reunion, but the second the lights went out, they were kissing like they hadn't seen each other in years. Zexion longed to take the encounter further, desperate to be as close to Demyx as he could possibly be. But he was far too tired for that now. For tonight, it was enough to press into his chest as they drifted away. Demyx would still be there in the morning.
Blinded again, Zexion reached out into the dark, feeling for him until his palm rested against Demyx's chest. Unexpectedly, another hand crept through the sheets and found his own chest in response, laying gently across his bare skin. It was the first time he had become fully aware of that drumming inside himself, his own heart beating in perfect sync with Demyx's. He counted those beats, at last finding the practice to be relaxing. Zexion was very particular about calling anything 'beautiful.' Music was beautiful. Demyx was beautiful. And that steady rhythm in their chests was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. Together, those melodies weaved into a song — their song. Their new duet. The beautiful nocturne that gracefully lulled them both to sleep.
In my mind, I always refer to Nobody is Heartless as "my beautiful, perfect little hot mess." This is a story where I truly feel no restrictions, no anxiety or pressure, nothing to hold me back from just writing exactly what I want to write. I feel so free when I write this story, and I can't even begin to express how glorious and exhilarating a feeling that is, knowing that I love what I've created, and I celebrate its perfection at the same time that I acknowledge its imperfection. I love this story like my own child, and I will proudly shout it from the rooftops until my voice gives out.
Likewise, I love my readers. I don't know your names or your faces, but I know that you have come to read my first story and share in my first journey into the world of writing. That makes you my friends. Thank you for being here for every chapter. Thank you for taking the time to click that kudo button or to type that comment. Whether you've been with it from the beginning or you just showed up this week because quarantine had you bored enough (and brave enough) to check out stories with the mpreg tag - thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance.
Sorry to wax poetic all of a sudden, this fluffy crap has me feeling all sentimental as heck. It might be a little bit before the next Nobody is Heartless chapter because I am literally starting it from scratch with no outline, but in the meantime you should check my other stories! On the Mend: Isa's Awakening is my hot mess honor student story that people seem to really like. Breaking the Berserker just got turned into a series with a new update full of fluffy mpreg junk food that I am so hungry for. And if you want to see sneak previews of my work before it gets posted, follow me on Twitter and Tumblr! I use this same name everywhere - even on YouTube where you can watch me punish the Org XIII Data Battles like the filthy casual that I am.
Don't forget to join my discord server so we can get all chatty about Kingdom Hearts and whatever else suits our fancy! disc ord. gg/ ffy5 E8G
Peace and love, Ostelan
