Hi again. Short chapter, here, but this is where it all comes out. It may come across as a little graphic, with some strong language and hateful things, but if you've ever been in a situation like that, then you know the first reaction is blinding fury or paralyzing fear. Anyway, enjoy. This is the second to last chapter.
-ARA

January happened.

The break let up, and classes started up again- this time I found myself in a public speaking class with Axel- who swore he'd work in a speech about the zombie apocalypse, so help him God- and a flight block that put me on the flight line at roughly the same time as Roxas. It was pretty cool.

The best part about getting back into a regular routine, though, was Zexion.

Every day after class, he came home with me; we didn't even have to do the no pants hokey pokey. He would help me study, and I would kiss him, and he would watch me play video games, and I'd kiss him and hug him, and he would blush if I gave him the ol' doe eyes, and I'd kiss him and hug him and swear I'd tie him up and make him live in my closet if he kept being so dang cute.

Even so, I never really got around to telling him.

Some days, I'd wake up and find it physically impossible to drag myself out of bed. My nightmares, over the course of a few weeks, became steadily worse. I felt guilty- he needed to know, deserved to know- but what if he couldn't accept it?

I would catch him staring at me sometimes, when I was playing video games or talking with Axel, or whatever; caught him on the verge of saying something, only to have him close his mouth with a wry smile and a shake of his head. It made me just want to scoop him up and never let go.

He smiled so much for me.

But as they are wont to do, the good times came to an abrupt end.

I'd been feeling a little sick when we woke up that warm February morning, but Axel told me to stop being a girl, so I resolved to shoot him in the balls at some point during the day.

The paintball arena was less of an arena and more of a field bordered on one side by a forest, and the other, by a parking lot. There were inflatable blocks and plywood walls scattered around it. A little further into the woods I spotted what looked like a pretty decent mout-town. Decided to stay away from that- it's too easy to be put in a bad situation when your reality starts looking like your nightmares.

Our first match was a four on four, with me, Axel, Roxas and- small world- Roxas's brother, the kid from the campus starbuck's, also known as Sora. Zexion declined to indulge in the glory that is paintball, instead seating himself on the benches outside the thin, rope netting surrounding the field. I couldn't help but be all about the shorts and short sleeve button down he wore that day- 'cause, seriously, shorts. Not even short shorts, but ya know- I'll take what I can get.

He caught me staring and raised an eyebrow, but I just grinned at him.

"HAYYY SEXXYYYY-"

Axel yanked me back by my black "Pain is weakness leaving the body" t-shirt and started dragging me to the starting point. Zexion shook his head but I could see the grin from where I was. That meant it was time for me to serenade him.

"WHEEENNNNN IIIII-"

"Demyx-"

"WATCH YOU, WANNA DO YOU-"

"You're a freakin' homo-"

"RIGHT WHERE YOU'RE STANDING, YEAH-"

Roxas watched me belting out some Say Anything, crossing his arms over his chest. "See, Axel, Demyx sings to his boyfriend."

Axel rolled his eyes, dropping my shirt as he sidled up to the blonde. "It wouldn't be fair for me to sing your favorite song by your favorite band. You wouldn't be capable of resisting me, and we're in public."

Sora chuckled at this, while Roxas rolled his eyes and pulled on his helmet.

It took a few minutes for the match to start up, in which I found I was already sweating- probably from being sick- and we all stood around making Darth Vadar noises at eachother in our masks. Surprisingly, Sora had the best voice.

The whistle blowing was our signal to do the damn thing, and off we took for cover. Prior to the match starting, we'd worked out a simple plan of fire and maneuver- Roxas and his brother were "Alpha" and me and Axel were "Bravo"- so when bravo moved, alpha covered, and vice versa. Basic, boot stuff.

As we moved up, though, I started feeling sick again. I was breathing heavy, sweating a lot- but I could see Zexion by now, and he'd marked his place in his book to watch the game, so I couldn't punk out.

"Alpha, set!"

I didn't answer when I took off- heard Axel yelling something behind me, but I figured he'd be alright. I felt dizzy.

Orange paint exploded on my shoe, and I nearly puked.

My heart is racing, and the wind is blowing from downrange, kicking up dust and sand as I race to cover.

I slide a little before slamming my back against the berm, laughing breathlessly. Running through a hail of bullets always gives me that heady rush, you know? Next to me, Chris is popping off shots every few seconds, hunched over the buttstock of his rifle so as to create a low profile. He has a schemagh on, and it wraps around his face up to his ears, but I still see his eyes squint from his laughter.

"Dude, you almost ate shit out there" he's grinning, and he coughs, doing his best Sweet Brown impression. "I got bronch-itis! Ain't nobody got time for that!"

I can't contain my hysterical laugh as I pull a fresh mag out of my pouch, dropping my empty in my cargo pocket. "You know what? You are really dumb. Fah real." I bang the mag on my kneepad- to get the sand out, because sand gets on carbon like white on rice- and shove it in the mag well, tugging once it's seated and sending the bolt home. Taking a knee, I get ready to take over his sector of fire.

He stands up a little taller, squinting downrange and laughing. "Yeah, whatever, I see your boner. You're cheating on me, aren't you? LEMME SMELL YO D-"

And then he's not standing anymore, he's screaming, on the ground, and his jaw isn't right; his nose is gone, and his scream has died down to a pathetic gurgle. I stare in horror, cough, realize it's me screaming for a corpsman, but it's too late.

Someone's gonna fucking pay.

I'm over the berm, and I can hear my team leader yelling my name, but fuck him. Fuck everything. A hadji pokes his head out and I blow him away, walk up and dead check him, and make my way into the shitbrick hut the motherfucker who killed my friend is holed up in.

My first step takes me into a hallway, and to my right, two bodies lie gracelessly on top of eachother, blood everywhere; good. Fuck them. A blood trail snakes to the back of the hallway. It only extends a few more feet before breaking off into two rooms facing opposite each other.

I continue on, and surprise, surprise, I come to the back of the house. To my left, a woman sits in the far corner of what looks to be a living room, glaring at me, two runty kids burrowing into her clothes to try and hide. They shake so hard I can see it from where I'm standing. I can't help but curl my lip in disgust, but I stay my itchy trigger finger. Fucking durks. Bring your kids around this shit?

I turn my back on her, facing where the blood trail ends.

A single, sad motherfucker is propped against a wall, crying, holding his bloody gut. He groans and opens his eyes with a sniffle, and gasps. "Am-Rica! Yay Am-Rica, Love Boosh! Love Am-Rica, please!" Even as this motherfucker babbles on, he's reaching for his gat on the floor by his bloody feet.

I realize I'm out of ammo and throw my rifle over my shoulder; it'll hang from my sling and it won't get in the way while I dispense some motherfucking justice. I pat my leg for my sidearm, but it isn't there.

"Demyx!"

I turn my head to the sound- it's Axel's voice, but that doesn't make much sense, because I never deployed with Axel. I pat under my arms for my pistol, thinking maybe I was a tard and put on shoulder holsters today- but no dice. I can hear that motherfucker just leaning against the wall, babbling a slobbery mix of durk and broken English.

I turn back to him and pause, because wait a minute- wasn't he wearing fucking durk clothes a second ago? What I'm faced with now is a kid with blue jeans, a black shirt, and a black plastic chest plate and mask with clear plastic over the eyes. He's absolutely covered in blue paint.

Wasn't blue my…?

"..emyx?"

I turn around fully this time, because what the fuck is going on, and there's Zexion, right there in the middle of a grass field, surrounded by inflatable boxes and shit. I stare at him- since when does he show up in my nightmares, after all?- and Axel steps into my line of sight, holding an arm out in front of Zexion like he thinks I'm gonna hurt him.

That's when I notice, for the first time, what's going on around me; the paintball field blazed in the sun, and a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered outside the net. Zexion stared at me with wide eyes, and I realized that expression, with his wide eyes and flushed cheeks, was fear.

Fear.

Behind me, someone wheezed through a mask, and it sounded like the kid was hyperventilating. The enemy team, who'd long since dropped their gear, was standing a little ways off. Each of them had blue paint. Two in the chest, one on each of their masks. I felt sick.

Axel, sans mask, had his hands out, open, visible, and he took slow steps towards me. All I could think about was Chris, his bloody hands scrabbling at the mess of his face as he died. His last words. I wondered if he would have said something different if he knew they'd be his last; I wondered what my last words would have been.

"Hey, man, it's cool, we're cool, dude…" Axel's voice was low, and he kept his eyes on me the whole time. I think I started shaking. Zexion took a step forward, and I fixed my gaze on him- he froze almost midstep. "Demyx…? Are you okay?"

The crowd whispered, the enemy team glared, Axel was murmuring meaningless words at me and Zexion's fear was as palpable as the bile on the back of my tongue.

I turned and vomited.

I couldn't tell you an accurate time, if you asked me how long I went without surfacing.

In reality, it couldn't have been more than a few weeks. But being constantly drunk- hours felt like minutes, and days, and was today Tuesday, or Saturday? I swear I'd run out of Nutella on Thursday, but when I open the cupboard on Friday, with my Jagermeister in hand, a fresh jar awaits my attention.

Axel didn't look me in the eye for… A while. I didn't speak to Zexion- not for lack of his trying, mind you- but the fear… I couldn't reconcile myself with his fear. In my drunken stupor, I could pretend it wasn't me. Maybe I stood between him and the monster; it was over my shoulder, and I just happened to catch the brunt of his gaze, was all.

The night I awakened fell on a Saturday, I think. Axel had gone to Roxas's some minutes or hours ago; I was watching the Office, content to chug my Jagerbomb like a thirsting man, when there was a sound outside my door, to which I responded with a gaze, and a sip of my drink. Normally, on a night like this- with a steady deluge and lightning flashing every so often, I wouldn't expect noises outside my door. I hoped it was a monster or something. I'd offer it a drink.

To my stupid surprise, in walked Zexion, soaking wet and furious- which, let's be honest, was frightening and pretty fucking hot- but he didn't speak to me. Didn't say anything, really; he looked at me. And looked.

And looked.

With a sigh, and not a single word, he walked into my room and shut the door. I dozed- or more accurately, blanked, because red bull and jager doesn't let you sleep, but I was sufficiently out of my mind to not notice the passage of time. When Zexion reemerged from my room, he wore nothing but an unzipped hoodie from my closet- you're welcome, sir- and my own blue jeans that didn't fit him, anyway. Pretty sure he wasn't wearing underwear, and I was absolutely sure he wasn't wearing a shirt, but nobody in the room protested, so it was totally cool.

He dried himself with a towel- from my bathroom- as he stood in the doorway, watching me watch the Office. Dwight on my TV was doing that weird thing with his face, so I looked at Zexion instead.

We shared a long moment of silence- I finished my drink, and poured another- and he sighed, throwing down my towel.

"What are you doing, Demyx?"

Well, drinking. Duh.

"Uh. The Office?"

He walked over to me with a resigned caste to his shoulders. "No, not that, Demyx. What are you doing?"

I shrugged as he sat on my lap, biting my lip like a petulant child.

"I dunno. But I don't think you know either, so it's cool."

The hoodie was yellow. He toyed with the frayed cuffs without looking at me, his one blue eye focused firmly on thin fingers. "You don't think I know?" My stomach kind of turned to ice, right then, but he couldn't know anything. I hadn't told him.

But I couldn't tell him he didn't know that I knew that he didn't know- 'cause I don't think he would have liked that, and I know it wouldn't have come out right, out loud. Probably would've gotten mixed up on the way.

So with a shrug, I mumbled, "Nope, y'can't." I realized I was watching his hands when I glanced up because he didn't answer. He was chewing his lower lip, biting down on the flesh, and it looked like it hurt; I suddenly thought, I'd rather be the one biting his lip- not that hard, but that lip should totally be in my mouth right now. I gulped and let go a shaky sigh, instead.

He glanced at me, and back down again. I felt guilty.

Slowly, so that he could pull away if he wanted, I reached up and brushed the bangs away from his face, running my fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes, leaned into my touch; for a second, I could pretend that the last few weeks or days or whatever hadn't happened. That I wasn't sitting here, stinking drunk, having finished off a fifth of whatever tonight's liquor of choice was. I could pretend Zexion wasn't afraid of me.

When he opened his eyes, the illusion broke, but it was nice while it lasted.

"Demyx. I…" he trailed off, biting his lip before starting again. "Tell me what's going on. Please."

I shrugged, suddenly feeling bitter about this. Him. Me. The Corps, and everything I'd done.

"What do y'want me to say?" I realized, belatedly, that having a serious conversation was much more difficult when you can't speak without slurring your words, but at that point, I gave no fucks. "I'm sorry, 'kay? I should have told you. I'm crazy. A fucking psycho. Is that what you wanna hear?" He frowned, the corner of his lip turning down, but he didn't say anything, so I plowed right on ahead.

"The whole fucking world thinks I'm crazy. It's not like PTSD is fucking documented condition, right? It's not like I have my reasons. It's not like they know jack fucking shit about what I went through- what all us fucking go through, when we go over there. All these motherfuckers," I rant, "they just think they can look at me, and be like, 'oh, another baby-killing Marine,' but who the fuck are they? There's nothing wrong with me."

Zexion was looking somewhere in the vicinity of my collarbone, but he didn't argue with me. I think that just made me angrier.

"All I ever wanted was to make a difference. I gave up everything for- for them. For everyone. So their fucking kids can sleep safe at night, so I can watch my fucking friends die in my nightmares. And what do I have to show for it?" I glare at my hands, sprawled beside Zexion's leg on my couch. "They say I'm crazy. And who loves a crazy person?"

I almost missed his response.

He glanced up at me, and back down to my chest- but I swore I'd heard him say something. I glared drunkenly at him, but he refused to meet my gaze.

He didn't repeat himself, and we sat in silence while the Office played behind him.

My buzz was beginning to wear off, and to my embarrassment, I could feel an indicative prickle behind my eyes that told me my body was on the verge of betraying me. My throat hurt from the lump I was steadily forming, and Zexion was still on my lap, playing with the hem of my shirt.

With a huff, I glanced at the rug, blinking furiously. I'd be fucking damned if I showed any more weakness-

But then Zexion's palm was on my cheek, and his thumb rubbed circled just below the corner of my eye, and his voice was soothing. "It's alright, Demyx. You're alright." And I coughed, but I couldn't stop the whimper from escaping my lips, and his thumb came away wet. "There is nothing wrong with you." When I glanced at him through a film of tears, he smiled at me, that shy, secret smile, and I had to bite my lip and close my eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with me." My voice was thick with tears, and my throat burned; it felt like a lie, but I desperately, desperately wanted to believe.

"Correct," he said, matter-of-factly, and I glanced up to meet his gaze, "There's nothing wrong with you. You're perfect. And-" he broke off, glanced away, before the resolve in his eyes hardened like cobalt steel, "-And I think I might love you for it."

And the floodgates broke. Tears streamed down my face as I buried myself in his arms, and he gathered up the broken pieces of me. Cradled them, like they were all at once impossibly precious and blindingly beautiful. He kissed the top of my head, and I shook in his arms, for once in my miserable life completely unafraid.

He repeated his mantra of, "It's okay, we're okay, you are perfect," in a low murmur as he stroked my back, and little by little, I began believing it.

And I like to think that's when I started the process of healing.