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

XXII.

Breakthrough

Demyx's life had taken a turn for the stranger.

He felt both more and less real. While anxiety pressed him on the castle front, a torrid teen drama pressed him on the town front. He spent an absurd amount of time not training, or working, but daydreaming. Ienzo commented on it at one point after a meeting. "Good to see you out of the doldrums," he said. "But did you even pay the slightest attention to anything that was said?"

He knew better than to lie. "It's just nice weather," he said lamely.

"Nice. I'll say. Sweltering, more like," Even interjected. "Well. Whatever it is that's got him occupied, it's better than the complaining."

He probably should have been angry at that, but it was so easy to distract himself and pass the time and boredom. He was still terrified. Every time she touched him in a new or different place he almost fell back into the cold panic. It was obvious that something like this would take time.

"A word, Nine," Ienzo said sharply.

"Sorry," he said. "I've just got a lot on my mind."

"That much is obvious. But I must remind you of the task at hand." Ienzo still looked pale, despite the sunlight; probably from too many hours in the lab and library. "It's not too soon to start thinking about your mission."

"What?" He asked blankly.

"Your mission," he repeated. He canted his head to the side. "You had expressed an interest in being a double agent."

"That was your idea. I only wanted to help."

"And this is how you will help," Ienzo said. "It's time to start preparing you."

All the contentment had been sucked out of him, plunging him headfirst back into anxiety. A cold sweat formed under his arms. "Preparing me how," he asked.

Ienzo hesitated. "You should try to get your powers back in check, and go back to training with Aeleus. You needn't do all this committee work; I'm sure the town is grateful for it, but Leon agrees this training should come first. You should be conserving your energy."

Demyx blushed. There had been very little committee work to do lately; he had spent most of that time making out with Yuffie.

"I have some work I would like to do with you as well," he said. "Tomorrow. Meet me in the library. I'll leave your afternoon to you." Was he just being paranoid, or was that sarcasm?

Of course, where else would he go?

She was bored too; that was what he told himself. Without committee work Yuffie was completely free on non-patrol days. They'd met in a series of progressively more run-down—though progressively more isolated—areas. Today it was an old scenic overlook, which had once framed the reservoir, before it became defunct. The memory of the darkness-infested water made him feel sticky.

They lay near each other on a blanket, looking up through a frayed canvas overhand. Sunlight peeked in. "I don't think anybody will bother us," she said. There was no definition as to what this "us" might be. He could barely conceptualize the physical, much less emotional. He wished he could be casual. Calm. He felt like he was in over his head. All of these feelings were just so much. He didn't know how to handle it.

"This is all very mysterious," he said. "Almost like you don't want to be seen with me."

She shoved him lightly. "Oh, please. I just think my business is my business. Aerith is such a homebody in the summer."

He shut his eyes and thought he might fall asleep. But then, remembering Ienzo, anxiety forced his eyes open. The canvas above them snapped sharply in the hot wind. In jeans and a layered shirt, he was sweating, even with the cool stones. "How long is summer here?" He asked.

"Um, about four and a half months. Why?"

The thought of fall put a tight knot in his chest. He reached for her hand, but didn't find it. "Thinking ahead, I guess."

A long pause. She stroked his hair, and for a second he forgot to be anxious. "You have to go, don't you?"

"Not for a while. But yeah, I will."

"Will you come back?"

The instant, instinctual answer was yes. He had nowhere else to go, and besides, he finally had something to look forward to. But the truth? What if he didn't survive? What if this whole plan fell to shambles? And what about the rest of the war? He took a deep breath. "I…"

"I know," she said quietly.

He kissed her. Partially trembling, partially desperate, he missed most of her mouth. Her arms tightened around him. The ground seemed to have given out from under them. The air had turned cold. She got on top of him. This was new, and disorienting. Trailing down his neck, she reached to undo the buttons at his throat. Hesitant. They made eye contact; another first.

"Is this okay?" She asked.

He hesitated, but didn't want to stop.

She unbuttoned slowly. There was nothing to reveal but a thin undershirt. "Why are you wearing this? It's so hot." Not a flirtation; she genuinely wanted to know.

He looked away from her. He swore he could hear his heart beating and for a second lie still. "I've got some scars," he said at last.

"Oh. Well, me too."

"Like a lot of scars," he said. He laughed a bit, treading the tide of anxiety.

She frowned. "How many is a "lot?""

Fingers shaking, he sat up and helped her take off the undershirt. He held it against him.

"You don't have to," she said. "Maybe some other time—"

"It won't be any easier then." He lowered the shirt.

For a second she just stared at him, tracing her eyes over the thin lines of scars. He choked on a bubble of hysterical laughter. There was nothing but shock in that gaze.

"How did you survive?" she asked.

"I almost didn't."

"No shit." She reached forward, but then hesitated.

"You can touch them," he said.

"I thought I felt some of them, through your shirt. Even when you were hurt that one time, I never saw them," she said. "But…" She didn't finish the sentence. She traced a scar across his breastbone, one of the ones that thickened and puckered. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Not really anymore. Only sometimes when it rains." The skin was numb most of the time still. She traced another scar, and a shudder shot through him. Some of it was still hypersentitive.

"Sorry. I'm just… I never realized."

"It's okay."

She leaned closer, still engrossed. Her expression grew even more puzzled when she noticed the ones on his back. "My god."

He laughed. "Well. It's a conversation starter, at least."

She pressed her lips against his shoulder. His hands were tangled in the undershirt. A deep, intense feeling tightened around his heart that he had no name for. She kissed the scars down across his belly and he had to cover his mouth to stop from making an embarrassing noise.

She looked up. "Does it hurt?"

He was dazed. "No."

She pushed his hand away from his mouth and took the shirt out of the other. "It's all right." She turned back to the scars, gripping his hands so hard it hurt, and the pain was somewhat vindicating. He tried to keep quiet and still, because this obviously meant something. She moved to his back, keeping a tight hold on his hands. The back was even more sensitive. He tried to cover up the first moan as a cough, but it didn't fool her.

"I'm not going to laugh at you," she said.

He exhaled sharply.

"Does it feel okay?" she asked after a moment. "Talk to me."

He didn't know what to say or how to say it. Nothing hurt or was uncomfortable, but he couldn't bring himself to admit that it wasn't okay or even good; it was beyond all that, a pleasure so intense he was actually shaking. He was scared again. This wasn't harmless kissing, this was something that would lead somewhere.

"Are you okay?" She repeated a little more forcefully, facing him now.

"I think so?"

"Is it too much?"

"Maybe?" He could only answer in vague questions. He felt like he was stretched to snap.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No?"

"Answer me, please."

"Give me a minute," he said weakly.

"Sure." She sat down next to him on the blanket and took one of his hands. "It's so interesting to watch you. The last person I was with was so unexpressive. I might as well have been kissing a wall."

That didn't help. He could feel himself sweating. "I'm boring," he said vaguely, and looked away, at the cobbles near the blanket, anything to avoid thinking about what it might be like if they actually—

A few minutes passed. She looked at him calmly, still holding his hand. "Why don't you let yourself make noise? Or touch me? I can tell you want to."

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "I really don't. I—" He was almost crying again.

"I won't push you any farther," she said.

"Why are you so nice to me all of a sudden?" he blurted. "I still don't get it."

She kissed him gently, once, on the mouth. She pressed his undershirt into his hands. Part of him wanted to keep going. The other part of him was sure that, if that happened, he would fall into a fear so deep he might not get out. He slipped the shirt back on. "We'll work on this," she said. "I'm not in a hurry. Not much else to do."

Later Demyx lay in tepid bathwater. He was still shaking, and he couldn't breathe right. Maybe there was something legitimately wrong with him, something chemical, something that hadn't reformed right. He forced his head underwater. Or maybe he was just too embarrassed to admit he was terrified of having sex. It had been fine when it was all theoretical. But now, when faced with a real, living human who was more than willing, he freaked. Completely.

He looked up at the moldy ceiling. He almost wished he had someone else to talk about this with. Almost.

He couldn't imagine anything good coming out of being that vulnerable. Every lesson in the Organization—vulnerability led to destruction. Instant. Swift. Yuffie was right; regardless of what he'd done in the past, he was absolutely, undeniably a virgin.

"I hate this," he said out loud, to nobody.

There was something he could try, maybe, that could help, especially here alone in the bath, the only place where he couldn't be bothered. A bit gross, a bit juvenile, but yet—

He couldn't bring himself to. He pressed his face to his knees, and laughed, weirdly, darkly, and somewhat hysterically.

"Nine, are you quite alright in there?" Even called from the hall.

"Yes," he called back. "Sorry."

He didn't sleep very well. Not only were the rooms insufferably hot, but he kept turning what had happened yesterday over and over. Every time, it became more embarrassing. As a result, he was so early to meet Ienzo that Ienzo wasn't even there. He waited, trying desperately not to think about anything, because if he wasn't thinking about yesterday than he was thinking about what this meeting might mean.

"Nine," Ienzo said, surprised. He carried a cup of tea and a notebook with him. "I wasn't expecting you for a while."

He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

"Any reason why?"

"It's too hot," Demyx lied.

"Indeed it is," Ienzo said. Still, he wore his white jacket with the long sleeves and ascot. "Well. I suppose the earlier we begin, the better."

"What are you going to do?" He asked.

Ienzo pulled up another chair and sat across from him. "You remember how a good deal of Organization training had to do with mental fortification. I believe something like that might help in the long run, especially considering what you may do."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Ienzo frowned and sipped at the tea. "What do you expect to happen when they take you in?"

"I haven't thought about it," he said. It was true. He couldn't conceptualize it, still.

He shook his head. "They'll more than likely question you," he said. "We're not sure if one of the vessels has an ability similar to mine, but there must be some invasive mental prowess in the New Organization. They'll want you to tell them more than you're willing. By force, if necessary."

His blood ran cold. "…Force?"

"We're hoping it won't come to interrogation, especially if you submit yourself willingly. But, considering your recent track record of loyalty towards the committee, you have to admit it's possible."

"I do?" He stammered. He hugged himself tightly.

"I've been discussing it with Leon," Ienzo said. "It's all right if you end up speaking. Obviously we wouldn't expect you to risk overt bodily harm."

"Bodily harm," he spat. A hot flush cropped over his body and he was sure he was going to be sick.

"This is all only probability," Ienzo said. "We can't really know. But you must be prepared should they try to get in your head. For multiple reasons. Should they try to get at your memories, for example, it could only worsen your deterioration."

He held his breath.

"It would make sense for you to have a mind that resists breaking, considering you survived up to this point. You'll have to try to earn their trust in other ways."

He kept his hands over his mouth.

"Do you understand?" He asked gently.

He nodded. He hadn't, up to this point, grasped the full extent of what he was going to have to do. Blindly, he thought about asking if it was too late to back out. He remembered the deeper, thicker guilt in his stomach, how it clotted his veins like glue. Or the horrible pain he'd felt in the darkness in the lab.

"Is it alright if I try, Nine?"

No, it wasn't alright.

"I've done so before, you remember," he said. "In the very beginning since you woke up. I won't hurt you or poke where I'm not wanted. I just want to see if I can."

"Okay. Fine. Cool. Great."

A moment passed. Ienzo's face was oddly still, his eyes distant. Demyx wanted to look away but wasn't sure if that would break the spell. He wondered, briefly, if for a moment his mind really was that strong, or if Ienzo's powers were just as crappy as his.

But then he felt it; a drifting, creeping fog trickling up his spine. He let it go for some time, struggling against nausea. When it reached his head he instinctively quashed it, and tried to push against it, but there were too many little fingers of fog. An artificial calm washed over him that he knew was Ienzo's doing. He grappled against it.

"You need to be calm," Ienzo said. "It's all right. Focus."

The little fingers kept poking at different parts of him. There were too many to push back all at once. He needed to keep him out. The fog pushed against his memories and a splitting headache bloomed which the fog quickly anesthetized.

Demyx wasn't seeing in front of him anymore. It must have been an illusion. He could see a beach, from a world both he and Ienzo had been to in the Organization, stretching before them. The sand, harsh and hot, felt real against his bare feet, even though he knew it wasn't.

Ienzo smoothly turned to face him. "Hello."

"You're terrifying," he said. "I didn't know you could do all this."

"I'm not as good as I used to be, that's certain," he said. "I'm finding it very draining to maintain this illusion and to keep away your anxiety and your pain. Why so much anxiety, Nine?"

"You just told me they're going to torture me," Demyx said. "I think fear is an appropriate response."

"It is," he admitted. "But there's more. It goes so much deeper. I can feel it. Something else is bothering you." Suddenly the beach was stormy. For a second, distress flickered across Ienzo's face. "What is it?" He had to speak more loudly against the wind. "It can consume you. Let me—let me help you."

Rain battered them, sharply, like needles.

"I'm losing hold of it," Ienzo said. "Tell me. Nine. This isn't good."

He tried to think about it. This was more than just Yuffie. Another problem loomed, something shadowy and immense. The waves washed over them, surging up to their waists. Ienzo forced through something sharp in his head; a fragment of a memory. A piece.

They were sitting in the library and Demyx was dry-heaving.

"I'm sorry, Nine," Ienzo said weakly. "It was right there. It was eating at you. I had to know."

He hadn't seen the memory with any clarity, just knew that he felt deeply unclean. He was certain, suddenly, that all this fear of intimacy was his body remembering something worse. And he was glad he didn't remember.