A/N: I've been writing mostly FF7 for some time now, but when I got my greedy little hands on FFX I fell in love all over again. Great game, and even if I haven't finished it I've more or less spoiled it for myself, eheheh... Anyway, I had heard of Aurikku and then automatically connected it to Yuffentine, so... well, here we are. One of my first FFX oneshots; betaed by the awesome T. Costa, who is great because she doesn't like the pairing but edited it anyway. I'll remember the disclaimer for once and say that FFX is not mine, and without further ado, one of my stranger stories to date... Children. ;)
(Update 3/25/08 - made new breaks. It's one thing to not allow hyphens, but then they took them out. Please tell me that I'm not the only one mildly angry.)

Children

Children are the world.

The world is made of children.

It’s an interesting thought, and one she doesn’t have to contemplate much to find the truth in, and Rikku likes the rhythm it creates in her head like a silver chime or the ring of metal.

Rikku is a child, too, and she steadfastly and readily clings to it, because adulthood isn’t responsibilities piling up, because children have things to do, too; no, adulthood is forgetting everything about being alive and living, which is almost ironic because children experience it yet don’t understand it, but adults forget how to experience it and yet understand all too easily.

So she sees the world with rose-tinted glasses, and she is eleven and promises herself that she won’t ever forget, and ties a bead to a special Al Bhed knot, the one that her mama gave to her before she died, especially to remind herself.

o

Children are the world.

But the world isn’t made of children, Rikku thinks, but still the beat is there that makes her move, back and forth and side to side in a fast-paced melody that is all her own, the epitome of Rikku, and she likes the rhythm it creates in her head like golden sunlight and swirling sand, gritty and all too beautiful like her own people.

She is still a child, even if she is thirteen now, because she doesn’t forget and carries the old knot with her everywhere from force of habit. But the world isn’t made of children, because children don’t forget when everybody else does, and since everybody else is almost… well, everybody, the world isn’t quite like she thought it was, and this is the last time she will visit her cousin for a long, long time because when she insulted the angry Yevonite, the cut on her cheek is still there and her arm is still bruised real bad.

But she doesn’t lose hold of it, not for one second, and she slips off the glasses to see the world for what it really is.

o

Children are not the world.

The world is made of children.

But children are not the world, because she is fifteen, now, and a fully-fledged adult in her own culture, because she’s smarter, now. She’s smarter, now, but when nobody is looking she still can’t help but dance like a wild child in the summer with dandelion fluff in her hair. The world is made of children and there the beat is, fast like life and fast like Rikku because she’s happiest and most alive when she’s moving, running fast like a speed devil with her lungs on fire and sparking up to her eyes, and she likes the rhythm that sounds like adrenaline with the starry sky in the dead quiet of night and the sound of the sea, crashing against rubble and dreams of places long since dead.

The world is children because everybody is young compared to the world, something she didn’t quite realize before, but children are not the world because they don’t matter to anybody anymore, and she may be the only child left.

That’s a lonely thought, and she is fifteen so she tries to shrug it off but only feels better after running straight across Bikanel Island to dive into the oasis of mirages and make-believe.

o

Children are the world.

The world is made of children.

The knot that is five years old is a little ratty and a little beat up, but it’s still very pretty and the bead from her mama’s hair is the prettiest, and Rikku is sitting at Home on the beach – a far stretch from the oasis, and the magic is different in both places – and looking out to sea, fingering that little ratty beat up knot the color of course, dull tan rope.

She has recently lost a friend, a boy whom she had met for a day, and that’s completely unfair because it’s always exciting to meet someone new, almost like a clean slate to make up for the dozens she’s lost, which is like poking her fingers in their eyes, she knows. Nobody can make up for everybody. That makes sense. Because she has also recently, even more recently, lost a hundred friends to an attempt against chaos that cost a lot of people their lives. And she wasn’t even there to help them, and she wasn’t there, and she wasn’t there—

(She tries not to think about that. Her thoughts go back to the boy.)

But it’s still unfair, and she wants to throw the knot into the sea and thinks on it hard, thinks how it would feel (like a release or a prison, and would she go sprinting after it?), how she would scream out that all she would want was for Sin to find it and choke on it, choke to death and then she could prove to all those stupid people who shove away their summoners like sacrifices that anybody could do it.

But anybody can’t do it and she can’t let it go, and the sun is bearing down on her hard but she’s used to it, because the glowing sun on a canvas of overbearing blue and dusty sand and grit are all woven into her bones and hair and skin – and then she realizes how stupid she is, how very stupid she is.

“I forgot,” she says very loudly, because her palms got sweaty and her grip loosened to the point that she almost fell off, and she almost forgot. She is still a child. She can’t let that go, because of all the things in the spiral of death that is Spira, that is the one thing that may be the most important.

She cries for a long, long time because when mama died she cried for an hour and then tried to look strong, and when auntie died she cried for ten minutes and then tried to look strong, and then when Uncle Braska died she didn’t cry at all, because she was hurting on the inside so bad that she still wanted to look strong, so that while the big stupid long laundry list of her dead kept piling up, she never cried.

So she cries now, because it’s easier this way, and when the sun is sinking low in the deep, golden orange sky and her eyes are pink and her nose is red, she finally undoes one of her braids and pulls the bead out from there, knotting it a little ways away from the first one. It is warmer.

“Help me grow,” she says to nobody, but the knot maybe overhears because when she’s walking back Home, the rhythm comes back to her head; what’s funny is that she didn’t even realize it was gone in the first place.

o

She’s sixteen, still, not even a month later and joining a doomsday march of seven.

(Children—)

She has to focus on the present, now, and she doesn’t forget but she certainly doesn’t remind herself as often, and there are days that she forgets to pull out her reminder knot from her sock or pouch or pocket or even shirt, because she shoves it away wherever she can and doesn’t care.

But she likes the rhythm in her head, which reminds her in its own way and she can be happy, because a doomsday march seems like just the time to cut loose and sing and dance like nobody is going to die. But she won’t ignore it, because that would be worse, but it seems like now is the time.

(Children are—)

She isn’t quite sure, but she knows that she has to live, and she likes the rhythm in her head that sounds like bongos and drums and rainmakers, all in some sort of wild harmony that makes her want to jump off of a cliff for the sheer adrenaline rush.

And in fact, it is more or less the start of her journey with them but if they pretend that it isn’t a doomsday march then she can look the other way, too, and that beat is pumping her up, and the road to Guadosalam is a long one, but one that heads downwards and winds around and she spots the cliff – they already know that she’s crazy so it’s alright, and she can indulge herself just this once, right? Because the beat is there and if she doesn’t jump right now she thinks that her head might explode.

So her fidgety gait stops short and she rushes past them and to the right, earning several questioning looks – she grins cheekily, the waves crashing not too far underneath her because she knows how to land and calls out, ‘see you at the bottom!’

(Children are the—)

And she spins around and jumps, laughing like a merry child all the way down.

(Children are the world.)

She lands on her feet on top of the waves like she knows how, that one moment of impact like the ground shattering so tense until it gives out underneath her and she is underneath blue, but then her head breaks surface; up to shore, and the sun is shining and she waits for the others while setting herself out to dry, smiling like a goofy little kid because her knot is wet but intact and reminding her along with that rhythm, which she loves so dearly.

“You’re crazy!” Wakka tells her, and Tidus echoes it, but she feels better than ever and on the way to Guadosalam, she’s bringing up the rear with Auron, silent legendary Auron, and he asks,

“Why did you do that?”

And she grins and idly plays with her two-bead knot that reminds her, and says, “I’m a child.”

And then she bounds to Yuna to apologize forever and always for worrying her, and is forgiven so easily and readily and then told nothing was there to apologize for, and when she turns again he is watching her, cool and aloof and maybe a little confused but maybe not at all, and she grins again as they continue their journey.

o

Still sixteen, and it’s morbidly funny that so many things feel so light on a death march, but she’s thinking and thinking hard because time is running out for her cousin and when she’s worried, the rhythm that makes her bounce side to side in battle stance comforts her in its own fast-paced, hyper way.

(And the—)

She’s afraid of lightening and thunder and when she manages to convince her fellow marchers to stop, take a rest, take a break, she’s the only one not sleeping, and as the storm crashes around her the rhythm is full of anxiety like reality shattering, and it sounds like pots and pans banging and insomnia eating away at herself.

And she’s afraid, so afraid and she can’t quite remember anything right when she’s shivering so much.

When the Thunder Plains are finally almost behind them, and she almost can’t take it – only almost – but then the beat, the beat and the rhythm is making her feel good again so she flexes her muscles like starting up a vehicle and runs.

And those simple little thoughts are making sense again because her head is clear with the fresh air and she feels good again, and maybe she’s been a little jaded before, as then but not now—

But she turns around with a lopsided smile on her face, breathing hard, and sees the summoner and her guardians walking along silently, the storm still raging in the distance behind them, and something inside of her dies a little.

(And the world—)

The Macalania Woods are unearthly in their beauty, ethereal and like silk slipping through your fingers. They arrive in a silence that is awed, almost humbled, and Rikku likes the rhythm that strums through her head, a little less fast-paced and more peaceful like rain pattering on a pond and the hush of snowfall in winter.

The blue butterflies bring fortune, the butterfly woman says softly, but the red ones bring bad luck.

That’s unfair to the red ones, because Rikku has never been one to be superstitious, and she is a child and watches the bright scarlet butterfly with wonder, watching it as it watches her until she gently cups it in her open hands. Its wings flap slowly like soft baby chocobo feathers, and then it flutters up to land on her nose in a kiss before departing, and the air has never felt so fresh.

“The red butterflies are said to bring ill fortune,” a voice tells her, but Rikku the child smiles and absently fiddles with her two bead knot easily before saying that the red butterflies are the nicest.

And Auron asks why she thinks she’s just a child, and the world is children.

Because some people forget, but they’re children, too, she says, and that’s that.

(And the world is made of children.)

o

It’s a weird philosophy, she knows, but one that can tense her muscles in anticipation, pump her up to give her an adrenaline rush or can wind her down, make her thoughts come and go easily like breathing and slipping in and out of wakefulness.

It is in the bottom of the lake, beneath the Macalania temple, where she eventually finds herself leaning against a broken building as Yuna heals the broken party, slowly twisting the two bead knot through her fingers. She carries her mother’s beads with her everywhere now, because she’ll add more, she knows.

(One for every time she forgets and then finds it again.)

She hopes, perhaps wisely or perhaps foolishly, that she’ll never stop adding beads.

Then the rustle of heavy cloth, warm cloth, slowly makes its way to her and slides down beside her. Auron’s sword is laid against the ground in no particular fashion, with one knee drawn to him and the other leg sprawled in front of him. They have reached some sort of understanding, and there is a friendship there; she is not surprised of his arrival, and smiles instead.

They’re all tired, and she knows some of them have forgotten, if they ever knew at all.

“…Why are you a child?”

It is a question that pertains to weeks and weeks ago, and she opens her eyes and rolls her head over a bit to look at him.

“Because I remember what everybody else forgets,” and Rikku finds she likes the rhythm that’s inside of her head that sounds like pyreflies floating and whispers of the fayth.

“You don’t look like a child,” he murmurs, and he is so tired, she can tell. But there’s something else there, too. She takes a chance and stretches out on a proverbial limb, hazy mind full of softly fluttering red wings, and tells him,

“You do.”

He is silent, for a moment, both eyes closed, and then his lips curve a little, and he chuckles wryly, almost a laugh but his throat is too dry for that.

“I do? …Then I suppose you do, too.”

“It’s a good thing,” she smiles tiredly but it’s still a much more brilliant smile than usual. The rhythm rocks her to sleep like a lullaby as the man next to her breathes deeply.

o

Children are the world, and the world is made of children.

By the time they reach Mt. Gagazet in its quiet white glory, she has used the last of her beads and doesn’t know where she’ll get the next one, but Rikku tries to tell herself that there won’t be a next one, there won’t be a next one, there won’t be a next one…

But wait! One more, one more bead that’s tied into her hair, her favorite bead of all, cool and smooth and a calm blue one, but she still tries, there won’t be a next one—

And if she wanted to, she would be able to list off all of those beads, see, this one is the one when we lost Yunie, this one is the one when I lost Home, this one is when I found out Auron is dead… and the last one is the worst one, and only she knows and she feels so damn bad for him, because when she found out he was suddenly much more lost and told her that she can’t tell nobody, but she still tried to smile anyway.

Summoners are often lost here, Lulu murmurs, and Rikku is cold but finds that she likes the rhythm in her head that sounds like soft crying and broken promises, and makes her move back and forth, voice hoarse and worried.

They move up the mountain slowly, and the fiends are cruel and hungry with anger, and then, quite suddenly and maybe not so suddenly at all, where she had been in battle stance, back to back with yellow and a red coat, there is only a red coat, and she sees no yellow, no purple, no orange or blue or white.

She fingers her too-long knot almost nervously, the beat still there but afraid for her, she knows, and she treks alongside her companion because dying of cold isn’t an option, silly; no, no, and her teeth are chattering a little because shorts and a tank top are among the stupidest things to wear while hiking up a perpetually snowy mountain.

Her voice isn’t working properly, soon, and the snow is almost blinding and her small hand latches onto the coat and he keeps going so she does, too, because they need to find their party, and she tries to think of her old home on Bikanel Island, the oasis, the mirages she once would laugh with and jump into the water, the sun drying her skin and the gritty sand sticking to it until she felt like a girl made out of sand, and these thoughts hurt the most but keep her going until suddenly he says they need to stop, because the storm is getting worse and they have to wait it out.

The lone cave they can find isn’t much of protection, but the cave itself is truly beautiful and her breath catches in her throat, and she quietly settles herself down next to the man with the red coat, breath coming out in little puffs, and she watches the outside with wonder because she is a child.

“It’s amazing,” she says softly; because this is truly the first time she has seen snow falling in a flurry, and it burns like fire only on the other end of the extreme and it’s strange to touch, but so captivating to watch, because she is a child.

“…It’s snow,” and she grins.

“Maybe. But it’s… well. I’ve… never really seen it before.”

“It’s more interesting the first time.”

“But it should be just as interesting the next time. The time after that.”

Auron shifts, and she can feel his lone dark-wood eye on her. She tries again.

“Like… like a child.”

She is shivering, and the beat in her head is like a dance of whirling motion, hands shaking.

“You’ll die of cold,” he says abruptly. “We rest now, but it’s of no use if it makes you weaker.”

She scoots closer and grins, almost apologetically. “Didn’t ever buy a coat. Whoops.”

“Never?”

“…Nope. Never owned one in my life. I’ve seen them, though.”

He chuckles again.

“What makes children so wonderful?” He finally asks her with a quiet in his voice, and his eyes are closed and his face relaxes slightly.

“Not… children. Their eyes,” she tries to explain, stumbling a little over her words because her voice is hoarse.

He snorts a little.

And he forgot, and she knows that he must have known some time.

He forgot.

Her teeth are chattering a little more, the rhythm a positive flurry of beats, and she shakes.

“Y-You bastard,” she finally manages, earning a quirked eyebrow. Rikku’s hands are still shaking, but she pulls out the knot and maybe this is all in vain, and maybe this will ruin it all because it means something to her but she’s stretching and doesn’t know where it will go, but does it anyway because there’s something in the rhythm again.

“One bead,” she tells him, “f-for every time I forget, and then remember. I remember, I remember. I won’t lose it all. A-And even if I forget, that’s okay, because I have to remember eventually. My life isn’t going to be about a spiral of death,” teeth chattering and all, but he is listening.

“…What will it be about, then?”

She presses her side up closer to his for the body heat.

“Life. And— and remembering not to let the world grow old, because there are still things to be happy about,” she whispers. “There are still things. And people forget.”

Her lips are trembling and turning a mild shade of blue, breaths coming out in short puffs, and her frozen hands fumble but she reaches up to turn his head fully towards her so that her eyes meet his, and she tells him that he forgot just like them, hands trembling on the sides of his face.

“H-Here,” she finally says, and her left feather-braid has her favorite bead, but her stiff fingers won’t untie it for the life of them so she hacks it off right above the prize, sun-dyed blonde hair falling to the ground as she picks the smooth blue bead from the ground, absently shoving the fallen gold feather into her pocket. And white white blue-tinted fingers scrabble at his hand and open it, setting her bead down gently like porcelain and letting the hand close.

“It’s my favorite one, okay? So that means that you h-have to take care of it, and you only get one, so you can’t forget, not never, because I’m re- I’m reminding you.”

He is still for a time, but then starts up again like an old, rusted machine and slips her favorite bead into a pocket.

“You reminded me, but what should I be happy about?”

Rikku buries her face in his arm, cheeks frozen and voice muffled, but still clear.

“Be… be happy about friends smiling, and—and yellow being the new black,” she tells him, “And the sun shining, and if it isn’t, b-be happy that the clouds are nice enough to give it a break. Be happy that chil—children are the world, and the world is made of children.”

She can feel the smile, the genuine smile of a man who has forgotten for such a long, long time.

“Is that right?”

“I like to think so,” she tells him with a cheeky grin.

“Does that make me a child, then?”

“Of course. You’re a younger child than I am, of c-course, because I have much more childish ma-maturity than you,” and she laughs a little because that really made no sense, but it is keeping her mind off of how very, very blue her scabby fingertips are turning.

“That would make me younger than a sixteen-year-old adrenaline junkie who jumps off of cliffs for fun?” And he is amused and chuckling, too, and she nods with a grin, because she can’t feel her arms very much at all anymore.

“I’m tired, so I think I’ll sleep now,” it is almost apologetic, and her eyes shut slowly, her knot weighing like a promise in her hands that are wrapped in larger hands, bringing back the warmth slowly, but he says don’t, don’t fall asleep.

Just for a little bit, you silly stick in the mud, but he wakes her up anyway by picking her up like a rag doll, and sleeping now would mean death, and you’re too young. You’re too young. Not yet. Not yet.

Her favorite bead is jostled in his pocket, and she sees it and impulsively snatches it, hands automatically falling into the rhythm inside her head as she linked it to the chain of beads and feathers on his shoulder guard, worn like the rest of him.

“The storm is clearing,” Auron tells her, and Rikku nods as he stands, and lets her down as they wait for the end of it. The rhythm in her head is still there, strong and pounding like a pulse, so very much alive.

“What happens when this is all over?” She asks quietly, fingers trembling with the knot woven between them.

He glances over at her.

“I am… so tired,” he says honestly and quietly. “The Farplane is calling to me. I won’t be able to ignore it for much longer. My time is… limited.”

She nods.

“Seize the day, then,” she tells him with a wild grin. “If you never get to jump off of a cliff again and you get the chance, take it.”

And then he laughs, a full out bark of a laugh and he’s remembering.

Her hand is still encased in his as they leave their makeshift shelter, the snow flurry only a light drizzle with the sun warming their bones, and they trek up the mountain to find their friends.

o

On the way to Zanarkand, the beautiful dead city, Rikku likes the rhythm that sounds like silver chimes and the ring of metal.

And when twilight comes and the pyreflies float above them, and everybody is tired, they slowly make their way down the trail and there it is, there it is— the path is a narrow one, and there is calm water underneath, and Rikku grins (because this is the last time anybody will be able to laugh, but I won’t forget, no matter what) and grabs his hand and he knows, and she laughs like a child on the way down, and he smiles.

And when they reach the bottom, a rumble of laughter, short and deep leaves his chest and he kisses her.

(Children are the world, after all.)