17.

It takes time.

Time of conversations, of walks, arguments. Time digging through the muck of their pasts. It is still hard to trust one another; it might always be. But they seem to be getting somewhere, and Even will take somewhere after nowhere.

He tells Ansem about those long twelve years under Xemnas's thumb; about the replicas, Roxas, all they did to make worlds fall. About vain attempts at Kingdom Hearts, about the dissolution of his rapports with Zexion, Lexeaus, and especially Xaldin; the horrors of Castle Oblivion; his own death. He recounts it with a sort of distance, and then rolls up one of his sleeves to show Ansem part of the scars.

"How's that for karmic payback?" he asks dryly.

Ansem examines his arm with a stricken expression. Then, deliberately or not at all, he runs his fingertip along it. "Does it still ail you?"

The touch is unsettling; though why? Even is feeling something unfamiliar. Discomfort? Uncertainty?

Something else entirely? He was never good at feelings.

"Not so much," he says. "Though most of the flesh is numb. You may get some pleasure from the fact that I was first to die."

Ansem doesn't comment on this. "And this devastation is… total?"

"All but my face, hands, throat, and feet. I suppose I should be grateful for that-hard to do delicate work if one cannot feel one's fingers." He can feel the blood in his face. "My body does not matter, so long as it does not collapse on me."

"At our age vanity is just that," he agrees. "I am… sorry."

He barks an awkward laugh. "What for?"

"None deserve to die so violently."

"Blame Axel's flair for the dramatic. A simple slice to the jugular would have been sufficient."

There are a few beats of silence. Ansem taps the tips of his fingers together, restlessly. "And the others?"

"How did we die?"

"Is that too… voyeuristic to ask?"

"I don't believe so." Even sighs. "Xaldin and Demyx were both felled by Sora, Lexeaus by Riku, Zexion by… Axel's machinations. I'm afraid it's all rather violent. But it was necessary, to be whole. Seems to go against the grain."

"It does," he agrees.

"Things seem to make less and less sense to me the longer I live."

Ansem chuckles. "That's how it seems. Wisdom is merely… negative learning."

Months, and months, and months-

He and Ansem seem to be developing a warmer rapport. It is easier to be with one another, to be frank. Something like their old friendship peers through the cracks. It gives Even hope, for the first time in a long, long while. Hope that they might yet be saved. Things warm between the rest of them, as well. The talk is not so dreadfully existential. This is helped considerably by the two boys; Ienzo's dry humor and Demyx's easygoing nature are encouraging. The idea of all having dinner together is no longer so awkward, but rather something to look forward to.

When possible, Even helps Ienzo with his memorial project for their victims, in its final draft. One spring day, the boy presents it to them, explains at length what it means; the symbolism of flowers, the presentation of their records, the histories of those impacted by what they did. It's the culmination of an entire year.

Hearing it all, Even is filled with something like pride for the boy, the way he so gracefully has taken responsibility. It is something he himself must learn to do.

Radiant Garden elects a city council, a group of seven individuals to take the brunt of the work from the committee. There's some worry as to whether they may face legal consequences for what they did, but eventually, and along with the committee's vouch, they're allowed to remain as they were, so long as they provide their assistance. As this is what they all want anyway, it's no issue. Ansem acts as advisor; with this to fill his days, he improves.

They're allowed to build the garden. Almost everyone spends as much time here as possible, doing what they can. It's good to work with the body.

Once it's all done…

For a while he and Ansem stand in front of the wall of names. He places incense in the altar, lights it; many other burnt sticks are already crowding the stone.

I'm sorry.

He doesn't say it, not out loud. They're resting in a place beyond words, no thanks to him. His heart is racing, and he can feel the wetness in his eyes. As much progress as they've made, the guilt will be there, probably forever. And rightfully so.

Ansem rests a hand on his shoulder. "Peace, Even," he says gently. "It's alright."

Perhaps it's this implication of forgiveness, but he breaks. It seems all the pain is at the surface now; the loss of his family, the brunt of what he's done. It hurts to be forgiven. He does not nearly deserve it.

Ansem gently embraces him. To be touched is something of a shock, and for a moment it only intensifies this crying fit. More pathetic yet, he's clinging to him like a lifeline in this storm.

But once it's through, once he so slowly collects the pieces of himself, dries his eyes, there's something like catharsis, an undoing rather than a sealing away.

(And, he notes, Ansem still smells the same.)

"I… must apologize," he says thickly. "This is most unbecoming."

"I daresay you could use a cup of tea," Ansem says, letting go of him.

"Perhaps something stronger."

Even knows time is passing, as much as it may not feel like it. He shouldn't be surprised when gossip is laid at his feet, brought by Dilan, who heard it from Ansem, who heard it from the city council, who heard it from the committee, who heard it from Demyx. It's a complicated game of telephone, but as soon as Even hears it, he knows it's not mere rumor:

Ienzo and Demyx are engaged.

He's gotten used to the boy by now, but yet he feels something like the anger he had when he first found out they were together. Because god Ienzo is just so young . Much too young to make a decision like this. Almost getting himself killed is one thing, but… getting married? At twenty-one?

"That so," he says to Dilan.

He smirks. "What can I say. My sources are reliable."

"You should've been a journalist, not an engineer." He leans against his palm. "Has anyone talked to him about it?"

"Not quite." He shrugs. "Would it be the worst thing?"

"At this point in their neurological development, they are literally incapable of making consequential decisions. I don't want them to do something they'll regret." His heart is beating hard with dread.

A shrug. "I'd take a divorced Ienzo over a dead or depressed one. Besides. Wasn't your marriage rather spur-of-the-moment?"

He has a point. Still, Even feels blood rush into his face. "I'll talk to him."

He doesn't have to wait long; the boy comes to him with a thick manuscript, a more portable version of the stories he's gathered from their victims, and the survivors. It feels… odd, to hold it in his hands. Odd and uncomfortable. He knows the truth of it. Yet to hear their words is… well. Power to the boy for being able to handle it. "I never pictured you as a soft scientist," Even says instead.

Ienzo exhales. He needs glasses now, the first concrete sign of his humanity catching up to him. "You're going to be frightfully disappointed in me, but I no longer derive any pleasure or fulfillment from so-called "harder" subjects."

Even frowns. "Why on earth would I be disappointed?" As though pursuing his passions were a bad thing?

"I do recall a period in my life when you found my perusal of fiction a waste of time, when I could be studying."

He sets the book down. "We all know what a fool I was, back then. No." He smiles. "The only way I'd be disappointed in you was if you were to waste your life faffing about. But you were never lazy."

He scratches his cheek. "I understand the… trepidation, you might feel," he says slowly. "And… it is quite harrowing."

Even drops his eyes. "I can only imagine what the experience has been like, for you."

"...Gathering these stories?" He hesitates. "Not everyone is… willing to share such dark content of their hearts. I've had more than one door slammed in my face." He wrings his hands. "I'd hoped that my suspicion regarding everyone's opinion of us was mere paranoia, but some folks do feel a certain… ire. Not that I can blame them." He clears his throat. "It's… worth it, to hear their voices. We… need to understand the human impact. I don't mean the numbers." He is shy, sheepish. "I have… written something of an abridged memoir, myself."

Ienzo always loved stories. It must be one of the many ways he's trying to take care of himself. "It would only make sense. You are one of the victims." Used, manipulated, stunted, deprived of a normal life.

He flinches. "Victim and perpetrator in one. Seems I am fated to live in dichotomy." He inhales sharply. "I have already spoken to the others. It might be valuable to give your own version of events. Not necessarily for publication."

Funny boy. "For the good of my recovery?"

The earnestness almost makes Even laugh. "Well, yes. You had said you were trying to write and reflect, to delineate a new identity. How is this any different? Your perspective could offer some insight to future generations, when they inevitably look back at all this."

"Record keeping," Even mutters. "Very well. I… will consider it. Are you alright?"

He flinches, again, and presses a hand to his brow. "I had hoped these new glasses would lessen my headaches, but that appears not to be the case."

Concern blooms in him. "You're still getting them? After all this time?" Surely it isn't healthy.

He smiles, but it looks fake. "Not frequently. You needn't worry. Take as much time as you'd like with it. I have other copies."

"I shall, but…" Even looks him over. He is improved compared to those early days-a healthy weight and color-but that doesn't mean he isn't still feeling the ramifications of all he did. " Do let that fiance of yours take a look at you. Apparently he's quite competent." He waves his hand dismissively.

Ienzo, hearing the word, flushes; caught.

"Did you actually think you could keep it under wraps?" Even asks. "What with Dilan's inane gossiping?"

"Not… secret. I don't see why my personal life should be of interest to anyone."

"Of course it will be, when we live on top of one another." He debates biting this bullet. "You are so… very young. So young."

He scowls. "As nobody will let me forget."

"I don't want you to get into something so permanent. You're barely stable yourself." When Ienzo says nothing, he adds- "Even if you were not only twenty-one, you've only been with him a year. I realize you are not used to the idea of permanence, but this will be-"

"It was I who asked him."

He blinks. Not at all what he thought. "I'd've-figured-"

He's rather snappish when he says, "Demyx is very respectful of my boundaries. He would not force me into anything I did not explicitly ask for. Should it end, we will deal with it maturely. But I don't see that happening."

Again, his mind's made up. Concern wells in Even. But he supposes Dilan must be right. The boy should be allowed to make his own choices. His life has already been so tempestuous; this might offer him a shred of stability, artificial or no. "Do you truly want this?" Even asks. "Would it make you happy?"

"Yes," he says. "And I am already happy. Insofar as I can be, anyway."

Then that's that. "I suppose I will always see you as a… child."

He sighs. "Par for the course when you raise were always… more my guardian than Ansem. But you must trust I am able to make my own decisions. After all, you-" He blushes.

"I what?"

"It was not me you came back to Radiant Garden for."

"You know why I had to leave. Ienzo, I did not want to, but who else would've-"

"...I know." He bites his lip. "Still. A note would've been appreciated. You needn't protect me anymore. Especially from Demyx."

Even sighs. "Old habits die hard. Or so the cliche goes."

"...Right. Well. I shall leave you to it, then." He leaves, allowing Even to consider the manuscript in front of him. It takes a few minutes of culling his nerve to open it.

One could not call Ienzo a "concise" writer. His language is flowery, emotional; he plays with the voices of the survivors, curating it carefully. Even wonders if, had the boy been raised differently, he might've been a writer after all.

It is harrowing. The heartbreak and torment these people went through-the snippets of it-

Even once she was back, she was never the same.

He just vanished. We thought it might've been the wolves, beyond the city limits. But then we heard those stories about the castle and I… I just knew, in the pit of my stomach. I felt so betrayed by the king. Why did he let this happen?

I kissed their cheek, tied the ribbon in their hair. They were so excited to go; their whole class was rooting for them. They never came home.

Even feels nauseous. Still, he continues. He knows he needs to do this, to listen to them. To again feel that human weight.

Perhaps the most upsetting part of it is Ienzo's, shoehorned at the very back.

I know people must think we're monsters. It is only right, it is only true . Yet we were also subjected to the darkness we bore, its ache, the way it destroys all that is good. My unraveling was a slow one, one I am still trying to fix. But is anything we do ever enough?

Is it?

So Even writes again, abridging his manic, borderline unintelligible journals from the months prior into something halfway readable. It's hard to find the balance, between feeling and fact, what will make a cohesive narrative. He was never a writer, nor, he thinks, does he want to be. He gives Ienzo some suggested edits and leaves it all at the child's favorite desk in the library.

Again there's that stiff sense of catharsis, of a sort of release. His mind is so much more tangled than he ever thought. More complex.

(More human.)

He wonders, with something like a flash, if in fact darkness harnesses the mind like addiction. It truly is a euphoric pull. If only, if only he had working MRI equipment to study the mind. All he has is blood, is feelings. That doesn't account for much. Not watertight science.

He finds himself rambling about this to Ansem, of all people.

This seems to shake him; for several moments Ansem just stares into the middle distance, something stricken on his face. Then, "Even, you're a genius."

"Don't be absurd-it's been in my face all along, yet I've ignored the signs-"

"We all have. We thought this was about morality-and it is, of course we're still accountable for our actions. But all this… difficulty becoming human, the way we were undone so quickly… it makes a sort of sense. Why we couldn't stop even though we knew what we were doing."

"Which is why I'm positively aching to study our minds," he says, pacing. "I've no functioning machinery. A blood test won't tell me much of anything anymore, except chemistry, and it's so variable considering we're all basically guaranteed to have multiple mental illnesses outside of this supposed "addiction". There's simply no way-"

"Oh, I can think of one," Ansem says.

Even snorts. "Really? Name it."

"We do know a few people who work with the body. In a way that is not quite literal." A smile. "Not everything has to be so black and white."

He blinks. "That is… absolutely correct."

When Even asks Demyx about it, he also gives him that same odd look.

"Well fuck," he says. "I mean I'm happy to help, but like, I've only been doing this for a few months now. Not sure I can… collect data, or whatever." He spins idly on one of Even's stools.

"You said you work with people's energies. What does that tell you?"

He blows a raspberry. "Mostly it's a… well. It depends. Like a color, or a note. Your personality, basically. But actually feeling inside the brain…" He looks at his hands. "You know… I've been desperately trying to repress it, but I've been inside someone's head. I felt their…" He flinches. "Anyway. I wouldn't know what to look for."

"That I can help you with. And I can be guinea pig-if necessary."

He bites his lip. "This will help people?"

"I'm positive."

"Okay. Sure. I'm in." He ruffles the hair at the back of his neck. His knee is jiggling. He doesn't quite want to meet Even's eyes. "I've gotta… do some reading. Some asking around."

"I'm sure."

"So guess I'll go?"

"Of course. Thanks, Demyx. This means a lot to me." To think there'd be a day when he willingly sought Demyx's help, his expertise.

He flashes a peace sign and stands.

"Wait."

He tenses. He knows they've both been anticipating this. "Yeah?" he asks cautiously.

"You and Ienzo…" Even trails off. "Is this what you want as well?"

He looks up. He's blushing. "It really is. I…" He bites his lip. "Love is weird and terrifying, but we kind of… helped each other become human. Kind of literally for me. Not sure if that's why things between us are so intense. I can't imagine it changing."

"...I see." He can tell there's some realization to be gleaned from this; he can also tell that he desperately does not want to know it. "Very well."

"Guess you can't get rid of me after all," he says. He smiles a little. "See ya."

Love.

Why is Even thinking about this?

Feelings are complicated enough without adding romance to it. Familial, platonic love is one thing; anything else is too much.

He was married, once.

He still can't be sure he truly loved that person the way they all blathered on about. A love, not the love. Is this something he would want? Is he worthy of anyone? It's surely not necessary. But for the first time Even desires a personal life… whatever that may mean. His work/life balance has never been ideal, in his brief time as a spouse, a parent. This vein of thought alone is indulgent. He should shunt it away, bury it. Besides, to want this type of love would mean there has to be an object of such affection… and there isn't one.

He decides to ask Ansem about it.

"I'm afraid I can't be much use," he says, barely looking up from the papers spread all across his desk. It's a familiar sight, yet also one Even hasn't seen in years. He chuckles wryly. "But Even, you are a human being. You have a right to these things, should you so want them."

"What, and force someone else to put up with me? Perhaps my synapses are misfiring."

Ansem circles something on the paper in front of him. "These people write law like they were raised in a barn." Then, "I suppose they were. Anyway, perhaps you should view it as a sign of growth. You always held others at arm's length-even before you became a Nobody. Now, you're allowing people into your life, your heart." He twirls a pen vaguely.

"It certainly does not feel like growth." He scoffs. He shifts a little in his seat. "Is that something you ever saw for yourself? You've never mentioned a spouse, a lover." This almost seems as if it is getting too personal. "Does it simply not interest you?"

"I… wouldn't say that."

Oh?

"I am improving, true. I think it will be some time before I can confidently… pursue such matters."

"...It sounds almost as if you have a certain individual in mind." Ansem is fond of writing letters; perhaps some pen pal?

There is just the slightest hesitation, almost unnoticeable. "I do believe Dilan's gossip mongering is getting to you."

"...Perhaps."

What does it mean?

Moreover, why does he care?

Every time Even tries to push the question out of his mind, it comes back with a vengeance. He keeps coming back to that interaction. And every time, it gives him a jolt of something like fear. He refuses to think critically about it. More important work at hand.

He's again spending more time with Demyx; moreso, actually, than with Ienzo. If they're to work together, it's par for the course. But Demyx isn't a scientist. Some things are simply beyond his realm of understanding. The boy is trying to study the texts that Even leaves him, but it all seems to worry him.

"Not sure I'm cut out for this," he says. "You should really just ask Aerith."

Even frowns. "Why not?"

"I…" He looks down at his hands, which are trembling. "I'm a total newbie. Who knows if what I find is even right?"

"I thought you've done this before?"

He flinches. "Once. And… not under ideal circumstances. I had to… stop someone from having a stroke." He's flushing.

"This is not nearly so invasive."

"I know that, but…" He traces a finger along the page.

Even frowns. "What's wrong? I don't believe you'll hurt anyone. I just want to look for injury, response, that's all. Which is something you do every day."

Demyx shakes his head. "It's not that. I guess I should be honest. Family, and all."

Even feels a thick wave of anxiety. "...What?"

He drops his eyes. "The person was Ienzo."

His heart falls to his feet. Even feels his hand at his breastbone. "But the boy's fine," Even says.

"Yeah. Now. These… headaches. It was more than just the manifestation of his will, or whatever. It was an accumulation of years of stress. Like the glasses. All the fucked up shit that happened to his body caught up to him. I was just lucky enough to be there when it happened." His eyes are watering, and he blinks hard. "I just feel really icky when I think about it."

Even squeezes his shoulder gently, in an attempt to comfort. "I don't… blame you." Ienzo is the youngest of all of them. If he has-or had-such problems, what could be wrong with the rest of them? "You've gotten yourself looked at, I hope?"

"I… yeah. There would've been some trouble with my heart. But Aerith knew what to look for, so she fixed it." He lays a palm on his chest.

It's becoming clear. "You're scared of what you might find in the rest of us?"

"Maybe. It's weird. I'm not used to my patients… being us."

Even is also unsettled. Of course he knows that he's treated his body poorly in the past-too much work, not enough food or sleep-but it's another thing to embody that knowledge.

"At least it can be fixed," he says slowly. "I don't want to fuck up. Any time-but especially if it's you guys. I… sort of care." He laughs wryly.

"Well I'm afraid you've gotten yourself into a situation where you must be involved with us."

"It's easier now than it was back then. Don't you think?"

"It gets easier every day."

The pit keeps getting deeper. Every time he thinks he understands just how much darkness has destroyed them, it grows yet more cataclysmic. The stress-while they did not necessarily feel it as Nobodies-is having infinite consequences. After some prodding, he is able to convince them all to give him a sample of their DNA, to further study their epigenomes. It's engrossing work-work that might help future generations avoid their perilous mistakes. The sample size is still incredibly small, and incredibly skewed. No women, for example, and most of them are middle-aged (or, begrudgingly, older). He wonders if the townsfolk would be willing to participate, but as soon as the thought forms he's aware of the paranoia.

"I can bring it up to the city council," Ansem says one evening, in his quarters. "And put out some feelers. They claim to be so interested in the people's emotional state. And we are desperate for some kind of mental health treatment. This might help beget that."

Even feels exhausted. He still has so much to do. He has to admit it's nice to be driven again, to have a goal to work towards. It certainly has lifted him out of that dark, dangerous place. "Oh, I certainly hope so."

Ansem puts down his pen, stretches his wrist. "I must say modesty becomes you."

Even scoffs. "Funny."

"I mean it. You've changed more than you think. I've so rarely seen you approach things with grace and tenderness."

"Flowery words." He picks at the ends of his hair, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. "I spent so long working so selfishly. I said it was for the greater good, but really it was for the greater good of… Even." He winces. "To know I can actually help, or at the very least leave behind a study that might help future generations… is a comfort." He leans his elbows onto the table. "I'm exhausted."

"You look it. You should try to get some rest."

"...Perhaps. I'll get up when I can find the ambition."

He picks the pen back up. "No reason you can't sit with a friend."

"...You would consider me one?"

Ansem raises an eyebrow. "As if I would let you sit here blathering on otherwise?"

Even rolls his eyes.

"I do enjoy your company. Rather more than I used to. I am starting to… let go of the bitterness. It does nothing except make me harder and less tolerable. You are all trying so hard to better yourselves… I'd best follow suit."

There's a few moments of silence, but it's comfortable. Even finds himself, again, thinking of their previous conversation. He's almost tempted to ask. Should he? And why is such a thought putting a tightness in his throat? "...So what do you think of this wedding?" he asks instead.

Ansem fully sets aside his work, and leans back in the chair. "I did not think it would happen so soon. But they work well together, as a pair. Why wait, as it were. Demyx is an earnest young man, and he's also changed so much. He really would do anything for Ienzo. And I think after so much neglect, Ienzo deserves as much love as he can find."

"...It's so… funny, I suppose. For the longest time all of us rotting in that castle could not tolerate each other, and here we are… quite literally family."

"Better than being alone."

"...It is. It took me a long while to realize I could not live that way. Too long. People need… people." His lip curls.

Ansem laughs. "Quite." He takes Even's hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Besides, some deserve a fresh start."

Even blinks. He should move his hand, but finds himself almost immovable. He recalls that night many years before, when he was bedridden with that flu. The way the touch seemed like it was always there. It sounds almost as if you have a certain individual in mind.

Even. You dunce.

Too slowly, he withdraws. "I should… get some sleep. We've both had long days."

Ansem looks vaguely startled. "Yes. Well. Good night."

"Good night."

He limps back to his quarters, feeling vaguely nauseous, like he's been punched. His heart rate is erratic. This is something very like panic, but at the same time, not quite. His mind races. It aches.

Isn't this what you've desired?

With Ansem?

He feels like he can't breathe.

Are these feelings real, or his?

What does he want ?

That simple touch-a squeeze of the hand-is almost enough to unravel him. Much less-

He can not mentally compute it.

Even has to come out with it. To verbalize the thought in whole. To love Ansem?

And yet. Who else could it possibly be?

Is he in love?

He certainly isn't alone.

But isn't love instantly knowable?

Either way, Ansem likely has feelings for him. What does this mean? Is this what he wants?

After so long without anything, love and lust are incalculable. Unobtainable.

What does Even want?

Is he worthy?

He can't breathe.

"Even?"

He's pretending to sleep when he hears the voice. "Is something the matter?"

"...I would like a word." Ansem's voice is gruff, scratchy.

"Now?"

"Are you really asleep?"

A fair point. He puts on his robe. Finds Ansem in the doorway. (His heart stutters-a warning sign.) "What do you need?"

"...I'd like to talk."

He gets dressed. Follows Ansem down the hall in this silky blue night. His heart races, flooding him with cortisol.

(And something like hope.)

They walk for a few minutes. "So what exactly couldn't wait until morning?" Even asks.

Ansem hesitates. "My words fail me. I… can… feel something."

"Congratulations."

He touches Even's shoulder. "I thought you may feel something as well."

His heart about shatters. "Ansem. You deserve more than me. A person who is whole, untainted, better than some wretch-"

Ansem touches his cheek, and his world about stops. "You are so much more than that."

In this dark hallway, Ansem leans up and, so gently, kisses him on the mouth.

It's bizarre; how the body remembers what to do. It has to be close to fifteen years since he's kissed someone, but yet something about this is so familiar. His smell, the subtle scratch of his beard. Like it's all happened before. Something like panic replaces the hard-won pleasure, and he breaks away. He finds himself tensing, breaking away all too soon.

"Are you alright?" Ansem asks.

"I'm not so sure. I just… why?"

"Haven't we spent long enough being miserable and alone?"

"I… suppose." He's infinitely grateful for the semidarkness. He can feel himself unravelling.

"Do you want this?"

"What I want doesn't matter."

"But it does." Ansem takes Even's hands.

"We took this sort of thing from people. Do we really deserve it?"

"And what is the alternative?" Ansem asks softly. "Locking yourself away? Grinding down your own emotions? None of that will meaningfully help you atone."

He can hear himself breathing tremulously. "Alright."

"Alright, what?"

Even can feel his words failing as well. "I will… try. But it's been… I feel so-" A stuttering wreck.

"We're not young. We've no need to rush headfirst into things."

"I need to… process all this." He pulls away his hands. "I can find you later."

"Of course." Ansem chances kissing him once more. It's quick, chaste, and yet is all too much. All of this touch is. Even can feel himself getting choked up. "Good night, Even."

He listens to his footsteps retreating into the darkness. Despite the warmth of the early fall evening, he's shivering. It's not normal, to react this way; he knows this much. Below the anxiety, he feels something very like relief. Closure. He's known Ansem longer than he's known anyone. It's only suitable they find one another now.

He sinks wearily into bed, and sleeps.