Warnings: Some kissing, fluff

Disclaimer: Embracing the oldest of pirate traditions, I stole the characters unrepentantly. Stick that in your rum and drink it, Squeenix

Notes: For Dualism for her birthday. I hope it’s great, dearling. And thank you infinitely to A Spot of Bother, a brilliant writer who stepped in to beta this at the last moment. I owe you a cookie or something!

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The best thing about Port Royal and its ships, Demyx decides, is that he doesn’t have to look up to see the stars. Instead, he sits on the prow of the once-proud galleon his Other sailed and looks left, right, forwards, and backwards, staring in wonder at the place where the edge of the world kisses the sky. There’s no division where man-made light bleeds into the sky, rending heavens from earth; here they are whole and complete. That’s the best thing about being on a ship, about being free.

Though Myde hadn’t been a terrifically good pirate, his captain had retained him because no one knew the capricious ocean like he had. He’d understood every wind and warning and what it meant for the waters they sailed. His Other knew all about the sea, lost his heart to it, in an abstract manner of speaking; the heartless that had been his undoing had sprung from the waters. Myde’s last memory as a complete human being had been the sight of the sea he loved so much.

Demyx, though lacking a heart, could still recall the comfort found in watching the sea, staring at the limitless expanse, knowing all the beautiful worlds around him. As a nobody who controls water, he can feel the ocean more acutely even than when he was human. Jack Sparrow sails his Pearl not that far northeast of him while the Dutchman skims along the deepest depths, so far away yet powerful enough to chill Demyx where he sits at the surface.

As enthralled as he is, Demyx still notices, immediately, the shadow portal that opens behind him. “Evening,” he greets his fellow Organization member.

His companion catches Demyx in an embrace, gloved fingers tracing across his jaw and neck. Lips press against the spot just behind his ear and work around, teeth snaring the delicate shell. Demyx holds still, reveling in these touches for only a moment before he turns in his lover’s arms, sealing his mouth to Zexion’s and catching the soft, silver hair in his hands.

“I don’t…believe…” Zexion comments between kisses, “the Superior…sent you…here.”

“I’m not sure I care,” Demyx replies quickly before closing the distance and kissing him again, tongue working into Zexion’s mouth. “I came here f-for the stars,” Demyx adds, voice catching as Zexion bites his jaw, beginning a trail of kisses down his neck and across his collarbone.

“I’m sure they’re beautiful,” Zexion assures him, head resting on the curve of his neck, not even bothering to pretend to glance upward. He is too preoccupied with the soft skin of Demyx’s neck and the salt scent that clings to his whole body.

Impatient hands grab Zexion’s, pulling at the fingertips of his gloves to remove them. The moment his hands are freed, Zexion responds in kind, removing the Nocturne’s own gloves before lacing their fingers together, relishing the feel of skin on skin.

“This is-was,” Demyx corrects his fumble, “my home world.” He wonders, though, if Myde could ever guess that he, in some form, would stand in the ships’ graveyard, balancing on the prow of a wreck, in the embrace of his lover. It seems important, somehow, that Zexion know where he stands, what this place is. “We used those stars to guide us, back when I was on a ship. This ship.” He gestures at the wreck.

Zexion withdraws for a moment, to better take in his surroundings; he had been too preoccupied with Demyx before. The wood is old and rotten, with claw marks from three-toed little monsters to tell the tale of how she went down, how Myde was transformed into Demyx. “She must have been grand,” Zexion observes. Not even years of decay and neglect can take away all her splendor; some still shines through, even in the moonlight.

“We stole her out of Spain, renamed her the Nereida,” Demyx explains with more than a hint of pride. “Nuestro barco hermoso,” he adds, smiling.

Surprised, Zexion looks away from the ship back at Demyx. “What does that…”

“Our beautiful ship,” Demyx translates. He sits down, tugging on Zexion’s hand to make him follow. “She’s a little ragged now, but she’s still our Nereida.” He deliberately avoids thinking about what fates may have befallen the rest of his crewmates; if there was a single man left, the Nereida would still sail.

“Where did you sail?”

Demyx smiles whimsically and leans back, resting on his elbows, “To a place where we could kiss the stars.” Then he laughs, “And to wherever we could take treasure, make port, and spend it on rum.”

Zexion laughs quietly with Demyx, “And did you kiss the stars?”

Demyx leans up, arms twisting around Zexion’s neck to pull the slate-haired man on top of him, hands once again tangling in the soft hair, silvered by the moonlight. Demyx’s affirmative answer comes not in words, but in the connection of lips and hands and skin and in the ties of not-hearts that make up whatever they can call emotions.

“Tome lo que puede. No devuelva nada,” Demyx murmurs, kissing Zexion’s Zexion asks, Demyx translates, “Take what you can. Give nothing back.”