Author's Notes: Hi guys! Long time no see, I know, I know. It should be of some comfort for you to know that I've been actually working pretty hard on setting up the next chapters of this fic as well, because, well, they were sort of trash. It was a bad sort of overdramatic, so I've decided to cut out a lot of the extra bullshit and keep it to the point of the story and cut down on unnecessary tedium. My bad. I should have been able to do it sooner than this.

Dedications: To anyone who's still reading this story. I'm sorry it took so long.

Chapter 11 - Can I Please You Still

Demyx sits through the quiet hours of the night. His forehead is pressed against his knees, his breathing heavy and rasping when he's paying attention to it, and the noises of the people around him, their emotions, are-

-regular.

Calm and asleep, dreaming of sweet nothings and terror, but all alone and sleeping still.

No one was even disturbed by his screaming. He's sure he should be grateful, but he can't seem to muster up that much effort. Not when even breathing is a herculean task. Demyx shakes uncontrollably, even wrapped up in himself like he is. He doesn't cry. What he feels is too vast to be funneled through that medium anymore, and he's focusing on ignoring the hot pricks of guilt and panic that speckle his back and shoulders.

He should go back to sleep. It's late, he has work tomorrow. Demyx needs his rest.

He can't manage, the image of Zexion, glassy-eyed and not-himself, too near. It haunts him every time his eyes close, so Demyx keeps them open until they're sandy and raw, until blinking hurts. His mind drifts, nudging against his neighbors' sleeping thoughts. They're all perfectly normal. Aimless and unfocused dream emotions, flitting unpredictably back and forth, subject to change at any given notice, and what Demyx wouldn't give to just be able to live his life like theirs.

The thought comes to him.

He could.

For a heavy price, he could.

If only touching Zexion's mind had helped him so much just once, how would it help if Demyx took it all?

If he was willing to absolutely destroy Zexion, he could go through his days with a layer of protection between him and the outside world. He knows what happened there, that somehow, whatever he did to Zexion created this shield for his mind against the emotions of others. But doing it again… That would probably mean that Zexion would always be that hollow shell, and right now, Demyx only hopes that he didn't actually hurt or damage Zexion permanently. That maybe, just maybe, Zexion doesn't even remember what happened.

If only the bar had worked like it was supposed to! He was supposed to have felt better after that, like an acid bath cleaning him of all of the corrosion built up on him.

But no.

He had felt so, so much worse.

Letting out a whimpering sigh, Demyx clenches his fingers tighter together, feeling the tendons ache as they protest the movement. Guilt lies heavily in his stomach, churning and too-present to ignore by scanning other people's minds like he's trying to do. The bar had made him sick, and what happened with Zexion, the absolute violation of self….

Demyx closes his eyes briefly just to feel the sting and pain of too-dry eyes closing around salt. He feels sick. It's an endless cycle. If one thing had worked, but it didn't or its price was too high, so he needs to do something to scab over the rawness of his mind, but he doesn't want to risk the pain of the bar, and if he sees Zexion again, there's no telling what's going to happen.

For now, Demyx drifts, bumping up against his neighbors' minds like an overly friendly cat, albeit one potentially lined with lightning.

He's going in circles, and it's driving him mad.

When he pulls back into himself, sunlight is warming one side of his body. Demyx breathes in once, twice. Daytime already? The night had seemed endless, but now the sun is rising, its rays sneaking through the slats of his blinds as Demyx blinks slowly.

He shakes his head.

Whatever, it doesn't matter. He has work, which means that he has a run to go on.

(Remembering what happened last time, Demyx chews on his lip. He should stick close to the apartment. A shorter run won't hurt him just this once.)

With a sigh, he pulls on his tennis shoes and clothes and clatters down the steps.

Demyx comes jogging back up the rattling stairs of his apartment, legs not nearly as loose as they should be, his thoughts still moving too-far and too-fast. He winces as his mind nudges up against his neighbors' minds, weight on a wound that he is trying to let heal, and Demyx shakes his head, forces himself to focus. I should be able to go further in a few days, he thinks. I'll be fine by then, I'm sure. And that thought carries him through his shower, his breakfast, a constant mantra of "I'll be fine, I'll be fine, I have to be fine."

Demyx pulls on his scrubs and carefully does not look at himself, all pale-skinned and hollow-eyed in the mirror.

He can do this.

He can absolutely do this. He doesn't need Zexion to survive. He just needs himself, once he gets back onto an even keel. This is just some weird aberration, and he's going to get back to normal (hah) and keep going the way he always has. He will survive.

He has to. He's done this for twenty-four years, and he made one mistake, and it's never going to happen again.

Demyx will always be fine, in the end.

(He will survive, Demyx repeats to himself as he goes to work, because he doesn't know what else to do, and the alternatives are frightening, but there are worse reasons to keep living than fear.)

His shift at the hospital goes well, all in all. Demyx still spends it half-looking over his shoulder, wondering if he'll be able to sense the rush of water before Zexion comes close enough, if he has enough time to run away before he gets swallowed. Wondering if Zexion's even mad, or if he even remembers anything.

Demyx shakes the thought off. Focus, he tell himself, looking hard at the clipboard between his trembling hands. Focus.

You can't afford to lose focus.

Not when the minds of the ill and worried crowd in against his own. Not when the walls are warping in a way he hasn't seen them do in weeks, all of the colors ill and mixing together. Demyx tries to draw up a glass-thin pane of protection, and his head throbs as the background noise fades to a dull roar, the walls stabilizing but still moving. Better than nothing. He is about to turn a corner when someone, soft and warm with thoughts scented like flowers, runs into him.

Demyx takes a step back, then forward, offering Aerith an awkward smile. "Sorry, Aerith. I didn't see you there."

She smiles and waves one hand. "It's alright, Demyx. I'm fine." She surveys the clipboards in his hands and tilts her head to the side. Carefully, she flips through some of the paperwork she's holding, and Demyx watches, waits, as she pulls out one chart in particular. "Though, if you want to make it up to me…"

(He sighs, mouth ticking to the side. Aerith feels nothing but mischievous, so he doubts it's anything bad, but right now, Demyx just wants to be left alone.)

"You can take this," Aerith finishes, passing the chart to Demyx.

Demyx flips it open, and Kairi's familiar blue eyes are looking back up at him from the attached photograph. He blinks. Kairi's a model patient, so why…? He raises an eyebrow at Aerith. "Why are you giving me this?"

Aerith's smile softens. "She's been asking for you."

Oh.

"Thanks," he says, and means it.

Aerith waves him off; it's something close to a benediction from her, a forgiveness for his bad attitude before, and gratitude floods Demyx. "Just go visit her."

Demyx nods, walks down the hallway to knock on Kairi's door, and he smiles when his appearance makes a bright grin spread across Kairi's face. "Hey, kiddo. How're you doing?"

From there, it's all routine, until right when he's about to leave, her file tucked securely under his arm.

"I finished the charm for you! You need to take it now," Kairi calls. She fidgets until he comes back over to her bed.

Demyx leans over to humor her, laughing just slightly as he holds his hand out.

Kairi squints at him, face twisted up. "Close your eyes."

Demyx does as she asks, and it's only a moment later that there's a solid weight in his palm.

"Alright, you can open them now."

He turns his face down before he opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is the charm. It's made of blue and purple shells, and it feels deep in a way that isn't normal, like Demyx can just sink into it, all warmth and terror, and when Demyx looks up at Kairi again, the walls have stopped moving completely for the first time today.

Kairi looks up at him with eyes that are too serious to be a child's, old and knowing and Demyx's chest aches for it.

"Take it," she repeats, oddly intense, pressing the seashells into his hand again with all the insistence a six year old can muster. "You need all of the luck you can get."

Demyx tries (and fails) to not be unsettled by that.

But he takes the seashells anyway, the smooth edges of them soothing as he runs his fingers over them, and he smiles at Kairi. "Thanks," Demyx says quietly. "I think I sort of do too."

The strange-serious expression on Kairi's face clears up almost immediately, and she grins widely. Demyx can't help but to smile back. He ruffles her hair, glad that it's through latex gloves, though he doesn't have to touch her to feel how radiantly proud of herself she is.

He puts the charm in his pocket, and it doesn't surprise him, somehow, that it does start to make him feel better.

The remainder of his shift passes almost placidly, for their ward anyway. Demyx hides in an abandoned room and breathes through a headache, breathes until it no longer feels like his head will pop off of his shoulders, and when he comes back out, his smile is a little weaker. Demyx still grits his teeth through the last hour of it on the floor working, scraped raw and open and eventually, he ends up at the nurses' station on Aerith's orders, head down on his arms, breathing through the nausea as his mind flutters from one person's to the next.

"Demyx!"

At the sound of his name, Demyx jerks his head up from its position resting on his forearms. Axel is there in front of him, leaning on the high desk, clad from collarbones to ankles in black clothing, and it makes the tendons on his bared wrists and hands stand out that much more. His keys are swinging in his hand, and they're making so much noise.

(Demyx wants to hit them out of his hands and beg him to never pick them up again.)

Almost as though he heard that, Axel sweeps the keys into his palm, stifling the rattling with one motion. "Coming along, Demyx?"

Demyx … Demyx shakes his head, rubbing one temple harshly. "I don't… Axel, what are you doing here?" he asks, hoping that he sounds lost and not angry. From the amused burn of patience he feels from Axel, he succeeds in that much at least, and Demyx watches a wide smile spread across Axel's face.

"I'm taking you home with me! It's the end of your shift and you don't have work tomorrow, right? So, I figured, why not have a movie night or something at mine?"

(Demyx could kiss him.

Demyx could cry right now.

Demyx could walk down the street, take a bus three miles south, take a right, and run the remaining distance to -

No.)

"Sure," Demyx finally answers, and he drags a painful smile on, making sure the corners of his eyes crinkle with it. "That sounds great, Axel!"

Axel grins, all angles and pleasure and bright, radiant heat, and he rocks back on his heels, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Good. Go get your shi-stuff and let's get out of here. Sorry, everyone, but I'm stealing him."

The nurses all laugh, and Demyx can feel even Lexaeus' amusement from here.

"Take him, he works too hard," Aerith shouts, which sets off another round of teasing, and Demyx shakes his head easily, breathes through the disorientation that causes him, and gathers his stuff. It'll be nice to hang out with Axel. If nothing else, going to Axel's will at least keep him further away from Zexion, which means…

Less of a chance for him to wake up somewhere he doesn't quite know.

Hours later, after food and movies and laughter and fire all around him, Demyx is sitting on Axel's bed, awake and staring at his hands, shivering from a combination of cold and exhaustion.

Axel breathes slowly and steadily beside him. Curiously, Demyx trails his fingers across Axel's cheeks, and it's like dragging them through coals, the pain shooting like lightning up his arm. They lift once they've passed the smooth cut of Axel's jaw. Demyx holds his hand in front of his face, staring at it like it can reveal the answers to all of his questions. But the pain was all mental; his fingertips look no different than they usually do in the blue shadowing of nighttime.

He wants to cry.

-pleading with him to stop, stop please-

Crying will get him nowhere.

Slowly, Demyx draws his knees up to his chest, hikes the blanket he brought over his shoulders. He can't go to sleep. He can't stand to see those eyes again, not when he knows, beyond a doubt, that if he tried…

Last time he went to sleep, he found Zexion.

His fingers clench.

He can't do that again.

So what if it means he has to return to the pain that he's lived with his entire life? He's done it for twenty-four years so far. He can handle it for longer. And if it means that he never gets to see Zexion again… So be it.

Demyx has already suffered through the pain before; he can do it again.

No you can't, a small part of him whispers. Not without killing yourself in the process. You're going to die doing this. Trying to be noble. Shouldn't you want to survive?

Demyx shakes his head, then stills as Axel shifts next to him. Holding his breath for a few moments, he stares at Axel, trying to decipher if he's asleep or awake. He doesn't want to answer all of Axel's questions about why he's not sleeping.

And then Axel lets out the most gargling, undignified snore Demyx has ever heard him make.

A laugh is startled out of him, and though he quickly muffles the noise, his shoulders shake with the effort of holding it back. And that, bizarrely enough, is what sets off his tears, his laughter transforming into hiccupping sobs. Demyx buries his face in his knees, bites down on the tender skin of his wrist and forearm because he can't wake Axel up.

He has the inane thought that he'd like to wake up. Demyx would love to find out that all of this is just a dream. He doesn't know what he'd wake up to, or when, necessarily, he would wake up but as long as nothing with Zexion ever happened…

He just wants to wake up.

(He can't live like this. Maybe he could have with just the pain, but the guilt is eating him alive. But Demyx has made a habit of surviving, and this is just another stumble along that path.)

When the sun rises, Demyx goes back home, asking Axel to drop him off a few blocks away from his apartment just so he can stretch out his legs and run a little bit. Axel side-eyes him slightly, curiosity and a strange sort of paranoia smouldering along Demyx's skin, but does as Demyx asks.

Demyx watches Axel speed off before he stretches, letting his muscles feel the pull and burn of the movements before he lets himself start off at a slow jog. The morning is bright and slightly overcast, light grey clouds covering the sky. It's beginning to warm up, enough that Demyx's breath only just fogs as he runs, letting the acid-slide of people go past him.

Storekeepers, pedestrians, drivers, all of them are dragging burrs through him, but as he wakes up more, Demyx is able to shoulder them off better and better. Demyx lets out a tight breath as he waits at a red light, shaking out his leg muscles. His control is much better when he's fully awake. But even so, this morning seems easier than last night, which shouldn't be the case. Demyx doesn't remember sleeping, so by all accounts, he should be exhausted and about ready to fall over.

For now, he puts it out of his mind.

The closer Demyx gets to his apartment, the better he feels, and he takes his pace a little faster than usual. He feels great! His energy is bounding all of the sudden, the mental equivalent of splashing water on his face probably from an adrenaline high, and it's like he can't feel anyone as acutely anymore, so the mental pain is all soft-edged and fine. Like sunlight through water.

Demyx's blood freezes.

Water.

Patience, never ending and river-smooth, and a faint glow of a sigal lotus, and Demyx rounds the corner to the opening of the staircase up to his apartment.

And Demyx, with dread dropping heavy in his stomach, looks up.

There, in front of his door.

Water, and Demyx could drown in it if he isn't careful.

Zexion looks at him from the top of the stairs, sneakers crossed at his ankles, elbows resting on his knees. He looks Demyx over from head to toe, draws in a deep, shaky breath before he sets his mouth, an unhappy slant to the side as Zexion stands upright, force evident in every motion. Frustration and a solid sort of determination rush over Demyx, bullheaded, and Demyx plants his feet to weather it. Or he would, but he has no way of really holding on, and it's like he's going under, pulled out to sea and adrift in the wake as Zexion builds up his words. And then:

"We," Zexion grates out, in a voice that has been overused and underused in turns, "need to talk, Demyx."

The words echo in his ears.

Shit.

.end chapter 11.

Once more, if you'd like to read a scene that happens later in the story, please, feel free to check out the story "Only Light You See"! It's set later in this story and may (or may not) increase your interest in the eventual plot of this story! (and yes this will show up on every chapter until we get to that chapter, at which point I will wildly pimp it out, and then you'll be free of this. You still have a while to go.)

Notes for this chapter are: See look, Plot Things.