Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts. This is a not-for-profit fanwork.

XIX.

Bittersweet

Demyx had been sleeping strangely, either dead to the world for hours at a time, or so lightly as to be unable to tell the difference between asleep and awake. That same memory still haunted him as he tried to sleep, of his mother's immobile form. He felt no grief, just a strange paralyzed detachment, a numbness he could practically taste. To him, it was even more disturbing than if he were openly mourning; it was all too much like being a Nobody. What about the other people that had been in his life? Were they gone too?

Needless to say with all these thoughts a good night's sleep was a crapshoot. It led to him being crabby and snippy, which Lea teased him endlessly for.

"Think this training is tiring? I was in Merlin's goddamn time pocket for weeks."

"That was your choice," Demyx pointed out.

"And this was yours," Lea said. "Now let me see your form."

He had a point. All this hard, tedious work; Demyx had undertaken it on purpose. Sometimes he really just wanted to give up, especially because it seemed that nothing good would come of it. But other times, he would be enjoying his time with the rest of the committee, and realize that maybe life after the Organization wasn't that bad.

Or whatever.

He didn't seem to be having any luck on the guitar front, though he had spent hours and hours scouring the rooms full of junk. There had to be something of use; he must be missing something obvious. All this searching made him frustrated and, combined with the no-sleep days, his mood would be decidedly unpretty.

One afternoon several days after Merlin's arrival, Ienzo took him aside after breakfast. "There's something I recovered that you might find of interest," he said.

Demyx couldn't imagine what this might be. "Um, okay."

Ienzo smiled in that pinched way of his. "Come with me."

They proceeded down towards the library, but then trailed away towards a section Demyx was less familiar with. "So… what have you been up to?" He asked.

"Mostly… gathering information," Ienzo said.

"Still?"

"It's a massive job," Ienzo said. "My reading speed is far above average, but I can still only search through so many volumes a day. There are all of the castle reports, and the Organization reports, as well. Besides…" He exhaled. "I've been experiencing particularly troubling migraines lately."

"Have they been getting worse?"

Ienzo did not answer. He gestured to a plain wooden door. "This is it," he said. "I had nearly forgotten about this room. I know you've been having trouble with the guitar… I figure we could all benefit from it."

"…From?"

Ienzo opened the door. The room was large and bright, with empty cupboards, bookcases, and an industrial sink in the corner. "This used to be an art studio. Ansem the Wise liked to paint in his spare time, and he often brought me with him. Look." He gestured to a corner of the room. "We found it covered with sheets in a hidden corner of storage."

It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light. Next to the massive windows was an upright wooden piano. His breath caught.

"I played quite a bit as a child," Ienzo said. "I'm afraid it's in poor shape. I did try my best to tune it, but my ear is not exact. And there's the weather damage."

Demyx approached it warily. The bench was broken, and a book bolstered one of the legs. Woodgrain on the side panels was warped. He traced it with one callused finger.

"I found these among my childhood things," Ienzo continued, coming up next to him. He held up a few lesson books. "I figure… perhaps what little I know can help you."

His throat had closed up.

Ienzo sat down on the rickety bench and pulled out a piece of sheet music. "There's an old song Ansem the Wise was fond of," he said. "It's the one I remember best… Forgive me if I'm not as eloquent as you are." He lifted his fingers onto the stained keys and began to play.

Ienzo was right; the piano was out of tune. He staggered through several minutes of a long, sad, lonely piece. It reminded Demyx of aimless corridors. Ienzo was obviously out of practice, but he wasn't inherently bad.

His face was wet. He touched the tears and waited for some memory to attack from the shadows, but none came. The numbness in him deepened.

"Sit here," Ienzo said, patting the seat next to him.

"Why are you helping me?"

Ienzo touched some of the white keys. "I should hate to see us all struggling along alone," he said. "We'd be much better off helping one another." He flipped open one of the books to the first page. He touched a key towards the center of the keyboard. "This is middle C. Do you remember?"

The sound sat heavily in the room with them.

They spent about an hour or two a day working together at the piano. The scales and music on the page seemed foreign to him, even when it was explicitly spelled out what he should play and how. His hands were clumsy on the keys. Ienzo would play a scale somewhat effortlessly; Demyx would try to copy him down to the fingerings, but something in his mind crossed and he would stumble through it.

"It will take some practice," Ienzo said. "I suppose you must have lost your muscle memory as well."

Trying only reminded him of what he didn't have. When he was out and about with Lea and the committee, he could at least pretend that he was normal. This only served to show him how scrambled he really was.

He practiced. Diligently. His coordination fought him. His thumbs stumbled over the keys. As much as he tried to commit the notes of the treble and bass clefts to memory, it seemed to slip away from him.

"Try it one more time," Ienzo said to him. He played the simple song again; a child's nursery tune. "See where I place my hands."

Again Demyx felt hot and teary. "It's not working."

"Of course it won't happen overnight. You have to—"

"Practice. I know. I've been fucking practicing every minute I can. It doesn't seem to go in." He put his head in his hands. The discordant clang the piano made when he leaned into it caused Ienzo to flinch.

"Let me see," he said gingerly. "I'm afraid… I'm afraid I might butcher it…" He brushed Demyx's elbows off of the keyboard. He thought a moment, set his hands, and then moved them again. The first chord he played was deep and almost menacing. He hesitated, found a second chord, and adjusted it slightly. Ienzo combined the two chords and found his way into a song. The melody line was dreary, a slog; sad undertones carried through the mistakes.

"What's… that?" He asked. A couple of tears dribbled down his face, though he wasn't sure why.

"Do you recognize it?"

"I…" His head was starting to hurt. "I think so…"

"I would hope so." Ienzo repeated the first few bars again. "You wrote it."

The pain worsened. "I… I did?"

"Of course, I'm transposing—and poorly at that—but all the same. You played this quite often. We could never figure out why. You always changed it slightly, so I figured it was no folk song, but something of your own creation. I had always hoped to see you write it down. But evidently… you didn't. This one, I remember, as well." He played a few bars of another piece; this one was more whimsical, and lighter. "Nine?"

Demyx nodded. He covered his mouth. "You thought this would fix me," he said through a mouthful of tears.

Ienzo played the song through again. "There are no certainties." He moved his hands and gestured for Demyx to try.

The keys were still warm. The first chord came as a surprise to him. He tried to put the pieces together. His heart was beating hard in his chest and the headache bloomed larger. It took a few tries to find the right note. It came in pieces. The piano keys were clunky and unnatural. Hot water ran down his chin. His hands seemed to be resisting. He found he was muttering to himself; he whispered the note names under his breath. He couldn't get them to sound right. They were wrong, off, perverted—his hands shook and he shoved them between his knees.

Ienzo touched him on the shoulder and said nothing.

"I can't do this," he said through his teeth, with difficulty. "It's not right. It's broken. I—" His head throbbed steadily, consistently, in time with the song. The pain made everything shimmery. He couldn't breathe. He hovered on the edge of the memory and wondered whether or not to let go.

"…Nine?" Ienzo prompted.

He didn't move. Maybe if he stayed still enough it would go away. The pain tightened and the keyboard slipped out of focus.

"Nine?"

The memory started loudly and all at once. The bazaar was loud and crowded and smelled like any variety of things; perfume, incense, various types of food frying, and the sweat and humidity of too many people crammed in too small a space. Overhead dim lanterns hung from strings and poles, and strips of canvas and muslin swayed in the wind. The whole room seemed fuzzy and it was hot; sweat crawled all over his body.

He was trying to get through the crowds. It was a festival day. Almost everyone was covered in blue paint, and splotches of it caught on him as he tried to shove past. Some people didn't seem to notice, others grumbled. Other than chatter, it was quiet. They were waiting for the music to start.

Someone—or something, it was quite vague—was chasing him. It had followed him from that first shadow he'd seen at the pier, on the boat. It undulated.

"Stop!" the figure yelled. Nothing had been stolen, though. The wind intensified. He'd been spotted. He chanced a glance behind him as he continued shoving past; the crowd disappeared neatly into the pressing darkness. The lanterns snuffed out.

He had almost reached the stage. There wasn't much more town after that. The lights snuffed out one by one, quick and concise. People seemed to have turned still, and it was all so quiet. He could hear himself breathe. He jumped and reached for one of the sitars before being tackled sharply to the ground. His head knocked into the edge of the stage.

"Where do you think you're going?" the hooded figure asked. He was too disoriented to move. It picked him up under the arms and heaved him into darkness.

The floor was dusty and his heart clanged madly in his chest. Before he remembered the rest of his body he knew he was going to be sick, but all that came up was spit. His muscles shook.

"Nine?" Ienzo's voice gently asked.

Demyx couldn't respond. He tried to stop heaving and trembling. It didn't seem to do much good.

"I came as soon as I heard," Even's voice came from behind him.

"This one was much longer," Ienzo said.

Even helped him sit up. The whole room swam. His chest ached. Brightness stabbed at his eyes and he swatted blindly. The pen light clattered to the floor. He couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"Can you speak?" Ienzo asked.

"I saw…" Hoarse. "I saw him. Braig. As…"

"You remembered turning," Even said.

He hugged himself. His skin was slick with sweat; his shirt was practically stuck to him. "What the fuck—"

"It was only a memory," Even said.

"It still feels real to him," Ienzo said.

He felt at his chest. There was no blood or darkness there, just sweat and dirt. He pressed his face into his hands. He wanted to scream but wasn't sure he had the strength. His skin seemed to slither on him and he could almost see the darkness writhing on it.

"Should I—" Even asked.

"Not yet. I don't know if that would make it worse."

He could barely see them. The room was dim in the midafternoon. The pain subsided slowly, hesitantly, and the trembling gave way to pure exhaustion.

"Welcome back," Even said. He checked his vitals. Demyx sat there numbly.

"How long?" he asked. He still sounded breathless. "How long was I out?"

"I suppose it was about fifteen minutes," Ienzo said. He looked pale. "Though it was more of a seizure than a loss of consciousness."

No wonder all of him hurt. "…Really?"

He frowned. "This happened… before," he said. "During your first week… back. Before you really regained awareness."

"It makes sense," Even continued. "Every recovered memory triggers certain neuronal firing. I suppose more intense memories might manifest more physically than others."

"I'm tired," he said. He tried to stand and wobbled.

"Of course you should rest," Even said.

Alone, later, Demyx tried to sleep. He didn't want to think. While the memory didn't have the same sharpness as when it had been remembered, it was still slick and icky and made him feel cold all over.

He hadn't realized he'd been brought into the Organization by force.

Of course he had. He'd been, what, fifteen at the time? He knew he'd been recruited by Xigbar, but he hadn't made the connection that the transformation had been triggered directly by him. The Organization must have had some sort of way to sense the strong-willed. They needed vessels. To them, he'd been no more than a bottle. Besides, if he hadn't gotten scrapped up by them, what would have happened? The world fell. He would have become a Nobody, one way or the other.

He felt dirty. He'd taken his Nobody memories for granted, because they were the only substantial ones he had—were there gaps in those, too?

He lay still for a long time and counted the ceiling tiles.

The first song Ienzo plays is "Via Purifico" from Final Fantasy X. The second is the Thirteenth Dilemma.