Warnings: Boylove, fluff

Disclaimer: There was once a boy named Demyx and Suzaka loved him very much. Then she tried to beat him at Kingdom Hearts 2 and she cried. But she still didn’t own him.

Notes: I just felt the need to write something sweet and fluffy after subjecting Demyx to Paying In Naïveté.I don’t believe he’s quite forgiven me for that.

For Dualism and ShadowAili for friending my journal and giving me such nice birthday fics! Thank you guys! And thanks, as always, to Shelli and Bri, beta-readers of AWESOME! I don’t think you gals enough.

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The music is dead.

There is no more playing just to find beauty and comfort. The notes are perfect and consistent, timed and accurate, but so very empty. If Demyx could feel fear, he’d be terrified at how unnaturally toneless the music is. Worse, the music isn’t even music anymore; it’s a weapon. The moment he plucks the strings, Demyx can sense every nearby drop of water shivering and jumping to attention, ready to obey his commands. It’s a beautiless arrangement of sounds, as musical as the clattering of stones. It’s a mechanism, a power, not a talent or a gift.

It’s all wrong.

One day, Zexion finds Demyx desperately playing the sitar. In his frenzy, he summons ankle deep torrents of water, pulling every single available droplet to his bidding. It gushes formlessly across the floor, darting this way and that like a miniature tempest. The musician’s face is contorted in frustration, almost pain, as he forces the notes from the sitar. “It’s not music!” Demyx moans. Of course it’s not; music comes from the heart.

Still, in a face that the whole Organization associates with happiness and silliness, the sheer agony in his expression is simply alarming. That kind of raw pain is misplaced on a nobody. Zexion struggles through Demyx’s water storm until he stands before the sitarist. For a moment, Demyx seems not to notice the other presence as he frantically works the strings. “Music!” he whines. “Be music!” It will never be the music his other knew, no matter how hard he tries. Zexion wants to say he feels pity, but it is only an echo.

“Number IX,” he says, voice low. Demyx’s playing stops abruptly as he looks up in surprise, the water losing its form the moment his fingers leave the strings. “You’re getting me very wet,” he says conversationally. The sitarist’s eyes are wide and confused, as though he doesn’t understand what Zexion is saying. Zexion settles down next to Demyx. “The rest of the Organization is content to think you a fool. I know better. Desist such a childish expression.”

“It’s not music,” Demyx murmurs hollowly, staring as gallons of water heed the pull of gravity and spill out over the stairs. “It just won’t be music.”

Zexion shakes his head slowly. “No,” he admits, although, had he a heart, it would pain him to say such a thing, “it will never be music. Not for us. You know this.”

Demyx’s mouth twists in an imitation of sadness, an emotion he genuinely believes he is capable of. “I hate fighting,” Demyx murmurs. “I hate trying to make music and all I get is…this!” he waves his hand at the lifeless water, seeping away. “I don’t want it.”

“Music is not a gift given to a nobody,” Zexion explains. “When we have hearts, your music will return.”

“And until then?” Demyx demands.

Zexion leans up and kisses Demyx, a gentle reminder that happiness will someday be theirs. “Until then, we are patient.”

“I don’t want to be patient,” Demyx whines, even as he closes the distance between them for another kiss, this one warm and hungry. Zexion does not answer, his mouth preoccupied with the presence of Demyx’s tongue. Instead, he presses a hand to Demyx’s face, his thumb smoothing over the other man’s nose and closed eyes.

“You’ll just have to be good,” Zexion whispers, taking on the air of someone speaking to a child. Demyx growls a little; he hates when people speak to him like that. Provoked, Demyx kisses Zexion again, harder and more aggressive. Their lips curve up together, both of them smiling as Demyx ducks sideways, nipping at Zexion’s neck.

--

When Zexion is present, Demyx can almost play music again. No matter what notes he coaxes from the sitar, water swirls around him, but it’s almost like music. He finds an almost-melody when Zexion kisses him, a few chords when they lie together, motionless and perfect. The morning after they sleep together, Demyx grasps a whole song.

Zexion smiles when Demyx plays. Zexion smiles when Demyx smiles. Zexion smiles for Demyx and only Demyx and he turns those smiles into songs.

The notes are still a little toneless and not quite music, but Demyx is content; with Zexion, he remembers happiness. Anything is better in comparison to the hollow mess he played before. It’s a love song for a nobody: almost, but not quite. It is the only love song Demyx can give and the only love song Zexion would have.

It is their love song.