Disclaimer: A mark of sadness// Bleeding souls, barren and dry// Sora, I own not.

Author's Notes: FYI: I'm really not dead! A fact I'm sure that most of you who keep up with me on livejournal are more than aware of, but I'm not sure what the ratio of lj-ers to non-lj-ers on ffnet is, so. Anyway, um. Firstly, I apologize to those of you who do follow me on livejournal, as you've probably already read this. Secondly, um, I'm sorry to the rest of you who've been waiting for SGW and/or View updates. Neither of them are dead, obviously. Or not so obviously, so let me state for the record!: neither of them are dead! If everyone in KH fandom leaves KH fandom and decades pass and I still haven't finished them, they will not be dead. Only, it will take me a while to update, and for readers of that, I am sorry. The reasons for that are wide and varied, and a surprising number of them are actually reasons, rather than excuses (though I have plenty of those, too!), but I won't bother you with those. Just know that, if any of you are still in KH fandom fifty years in the future when we have flying cars and are living in Mars, you will one day be rewarded.

I do have one important thing to say, though (and I'll admit, this was part of the reason I decided to post this year-old thing; on the off chance that someone here would read it and find it relevant): with the exception of SGW and View (i.e. my WIPs) I will no longer be updating on ffnet. I haven't been doing so for about a year now. This isn't to say that I've stopped writing, or even that I've stopped writing for KH; last KH fic I wrote was maybe two months ago, and I have plenty of things from that fandom and others completed. ffnet and I just don't get along anymore. It's like that ex you once had really great sex with but then realized that you disagreed with him/her about everything from politics to whether or not the earth orbited the sun and now you can't see each other in public without trying to strangle each other with piano wire. But! For those of you who still wish to follow my fics (and for those of you who, for whatever reason, actually think that maybe I might be an interesting person beneath the layers of shoddy writing [you will fast turn out to be mistaken; I am exceedingly uninteresting. I just try to cover this up with capslock]), please feel free to add me on my livejournal (link on profile, or "dual_avi" if you don't feel like checking). I kind of adore each and every one of you, and always think it's fantastic when I get to meet one of you better.

And now, on to fic!

Sand Between Your Toes

It's the sand between your toes that does it, and in a sudden flash of burning insight that cannot be contained, you turn to him and say I love you.

***

One of these days, you're going to get over the thrill you feel in that first disorienting moment at the end of a long dive, when you kick your way up to the water's surface, toss your head back and breathe.

It's the middle of July, and you break through the surface in an arc of kicking limbs and gasping lips and laughter shuddering through a heaving, trembling chest. You gasp for breath, air filling your straining lungs, and the suddenly bright sky burns the backs of your eyelids even as it makes you grin. Around you, children toss beach balls to each other in a never ending game of keep away; boys and girls giggle and snort their way through tag and dunking and playful kisses going unseen by ever-watchful parents who: hold their children's hands in their own and swing them in giggling circles through the air, small toes skimming the water and drawing coos and delighted shrieks from overworked throats.

It's the middle of July, and you've finally succeeded in dragging your sad excuse for a boyfriend to the beach, under threat of torture (torture being the systematic destruction of any and all texts pertaining to literature, science, and mathematics in the whole of the flat you share) and a ban on coffee for a whole month. Zexion had been only too happy to agree.

Obviously, this is a lie.

In actuality, Zexion had been sort of miffed about being dragged out of the house not two minutes after he'd returned from work. In fact, he'd been so miffed that the moment they'd arrived, he'd stalked up the beach, set up a chaise, and plopped down to - of all things! - read. It had been a bit of a disappointment, really, but hey. You'll work with what you can get; after all, a pissed Zexion is only a few shades more frightening than a happy Zexion, and you've been living together long enough to know how to deal with both.

So here you are: wading out of the water in the middle hours of the afternoon, cold and wet and so thoroughly happy you're not quite sure how to contain yourself.

But there's still the issue of Zexion being a little peeved, and that makes you uncomfortable in ways not even six years has managed to dispel, so the moment you've had your fill of the way the waves crash around you and rock you this way and that, you jog out of the water to search out your boyfriend along the mildly populated stretch of sand.

You run a hand over your eyes, squinting through the glare of the sun at the people milling along the beach. Kids, teenagers, a frazzled mother trying to entertain a bawling toddler with sea shells and sand dollars, but they're not who you're looking for, and through the crowd you can't see the head of oddly colored hair that makes him so distinctive.

Then a woman shifts to the left, and: Zexion.

He's sitting on the chair, reclining leisurely and reading some text on stocks or philosophy or How to Take Over the World in Six Easy Steps, because Zexion is Zexion is a megalomaniac, no matter how much he denies it. He's still wearing a suit.

You'd asked him earlier to take the work clothes off and change into a pair of trunks (the gray ones with a book pattern you'd found at the old curiosity shop on the corner of Land and Dragons, because they made him look like a dork [and you've entertained yourself with the image of those geeky shorts rolled down his thighs while you run your tongue up his cock and peer up through your eyelashes at the quiver in his lips and the red in his cheeks more often than you care to remember]). He'd compromised by undoing two buttons.

That's Zexion for you.

You consider plopping atop him, sopping wet swim trunks and all, but you're pretty sure he'd glare and shove you off and that would be the end of sex for the next month, so you content yourself with taking a seat on the sand beside him and shaking the water out of your hair. He grimaces as droplets fall on his book. "You're not a dog."

"Don't behave like one," you finish in a laughing sing-song, leaning back on the sand and resting your head on your joined hands. "You having fun over there?"

Zexion huffs in that really snooty way of his (God, he'd kill you if he knew how cute you thought it was) and tosses his hair. "I'm being productive, if that's what you mean."

"Nope," you grin. "Not what I mean."

He shrugs in dismissal, turning back to his book. It's a tribute to how used to him you've grown that you don't forget yourself and take a seat half atop him in a bid for attention. Instead, you squirm on the coarse sand, trying to find a comfortable position. "You could at least get in the water, Zexion."

"I'm wearing an Armani."

"So take it off," you grin, rolling your eyes and scooting onto your side, chin cradled in one palm. "You know I brought the-"

"I'm not wearing those," Zexion interrupts, disappearing further behind his book.

"But they're really-"

"If you say 'cute,'" Zexion says, voice ice-cold, "I'll walk to the car and leave without you."

You wince, because you know he'll do it. Your boyfriend's a lot of things (most of them bad), but he's not a bluffer, not unless he's positive he won't be called out. "You're no fun," you moan. "I brought you-"

"Dragged me."

"-all the way to the beach, and you're still cooped up on a lawn chair reading...what are you reading?"

In a perfect deadpan: "How to Kill Your Significant Other in Nine Easy Steps."

You narrow your eyes. "The scary thing is, I'm not sure if you're lying."

"Good. That's how I like it."

You scowl at him, climbing to your knees and resting your head on the lawn chair. "If you don't swim with me, I'm gonna pull your pants off and blow you right here."

That makes him lower his book. Unfortunately, he's doing it while raising one of his snooty superior eyebrows at you. "Only you, Demyx," he drawls, "Would threaten fellatio as punishment."

You flush. He's not cute at all. "You're being mean."

"And you're being distracting," Zexion sighs, "So go back to your water and leave me-"

You plop atop him, and the alone comes out more like aglagul.

In your defense, you've lasted fifteen minutes of snark and cruel witticism. That's a new record. He should be rewarding you (except that brings to mind pets which sends your mind scurrying to collars which reminds you of last week in the shed with the rope and harness and if you maybe grind a little against him, he can't blame you).

He squirms, the book forgotten in favor of glaring death at you. "We are not having sex on an open beach with a mother and child building a sandcastle not twenty feet away, you absolute imbecile."

"Who said anything about sex?" you grin. "I'm tired."

His eyes narrow. "Alright. Amended. Let me phrase myself better. Get the fuck off or it's no sex for a m-"

Predictably enough, you topple straight off.

One day you're gonna win an argument against him. Seriously. It'll be glorious. He'll break down in tears and drop to his knees and promise all manner of sexual favors in return for mercy. That day is obviously not today.

"Geez," you whine, threading a hand through your hair. The locks are wet and tangled. It's gonna be hell trying to brush them later. "You're so dumb. It's been six years, and you're still acting like a pussy in public. Why can't ya mellow out?"

He doesn't answer, but his back is a bit stiff, and pressed rigidly against the chair. You should tell him those things are for reclining on, but you know he'd just roll his eyes at you and sneer.

Sometimes you wonder why you love him so much.

It's bittersweet, this affair of yours. You push, and you pull, and he'll dig his heels into the sand and bat you away, all the while spouting venom and quietly spoken diatribes into the air like so many poisonous butterflies.

It hurts, sometimes. Just sometimes, when you wonder what he'd do if you left one day. You're not sure whether or not he'd chase after you. Maybe he'd just peer over his newspaper and say something like about time; I was getting tired of feeding you. Maybe he'd look at the leftover toothbrushes and vinyl records and toss them into the trash with nary a thought to the man who once shared his bed room house life for upwards of half a decade.

He'd probably like having an empty bed again. You've lost track of how many times he's bitched at you for hogging the sheets when it's too cold, and plastering yourself to him when it's too hot.

Sometimes, you wonder.

And then he'll look up from his book, and his eyes will meet yours, and-

Now.

-and something like terrible heartbreak will flash across his face; like pain so deep he's half-forgotten how to live without it. And you'll think ah. That's why.

You have yet to work out what that expression means. You don't know what causes it; only that it has something to do with you. Only that it hurts him in some deep, profound way you've always been too flighty to fully grasp.

But he'll look up from his book, and your eyes will meet, and then a second later:

"Just come here," he mutters, scooting over to make room. "You're such a fool."

He hasn't even finished speaking before you're pushing him further to the side with your legs and toppling onto the chair beside him. "Who's the bigger fool? The fool or the fool who's head over heels in love with the fool?"

"Who's head over heels in love with whom?" Zexion mutters, but suddenly the tension seeps from his back, and he - slowly, tentatively, like one unsure the wicker will support his weight - leans back. You smile, and curl onto your side.

"I don't know why I love you," you lie.

He glances at you out of the corner of his eyes. His mouth twitches, like he's dying to say something. Probably because I'm perfect and gorgeous and the world should bow at my feet mwa ha ha, except though you know quite well he thinks that, he'd never come right out and say it. It's not in him to act as arrogant as he really is. And anyway, that odd look is once more sweeping across his face, turning the smooth skin between his eyebrows into deep furrows that cast shadows under his eyes and make him look so much older than the twenty five he is. It makes you uneasy.

"And now you're giving yourself wrinkles," you sigh exaggeratedly, reaching up to smooth his forehead. "I swear, if you start looking like an old man, we're breaking up."

Again, that look, but now it disappears quickly, melting back into the expression of absolute megalomania that half the time makes you think he's the most adorable thing in the world, and the other half makes you wish you could take his neck in your hands and strangle him. "I'll tire of you long before then, believe me."

Ouch.

"Don't be mean," you sigh, rolling your eyes to mask the sudden tightening in your throat. "Seriously, you'd think after six years-"

"Why do you keep bringing that up?"

You blink. "Huh?"

Zexion grits his teeth in an expression of uncharacteristic frustration, and tosses his long bangs out of his eyes. "All morning, you've been saying the same thing: six years, six years. Why? It's not our anniversary. That was last month. I don't understand why you're going on about this."

You frown.

There's no reason, really, it's just.

You're just in one of your moods. The ones where it feels like you're drowning, while Zexion sits on his beach chair reading Quantum Mechanics for Dummies and ignoring the way you plead for him.

Six years means something. It means he's put up with you for a year longer than most marriages last. It means for over two thousand days, he's woken up beside you. It means he's cooked two thousand breakfasts. It means two thousand I'm homes and two thousand welcome backs. It means two thousand days of security, and warmth, and love, and no matter how bad your arguments get sometimes, and no matter how cold he acts sometimes, it's okay, because he's Zexion, and that makes everything okay.

"It's the beach," you say, because that's another truth, too. "You remember, right? This was where we-"

"Of course I remember," he scoffs. "I'm not like you."

That hurts, too.

"I'm just feeling wistful, I guess." You laugh once, and close your eyes. "Six years is an awful long time."

"No, it's not."

You blink.

He's looking at you. His book lies on the sand, half open, pages crinkling. And he's not bending to pick it up. He's looking at you, and that look is back on his face, and why, why has he never stopped taking your breath away?

"It's not long at all," he says, quietly.

You look at him. Just look. Then: "I don't get you sometimes."

"That's because you're a fool," he answers promptly, but there's no real bite in the words. He sighs, and pushes his hair out of his eyes in what you've long since learned not to call a nervous gesture for fear of being shot at with ocular fire.

"I know you're unhappy with me," he says, voice so void of emotion it hurts you to hear (but that's just another quirk, one more thing you've realized contains more meaning than anyone else has ever realized).

"I'm not."

"You are," he says, and there's a hard edge to the words this time. Not anger, but- "But I can't change any more than I already have. I can't act like you want me to act. I can't play the exuberant lover. You know I can't. And. You're the one who fell in love with me. You have no right to decide now that you dislike who I am. That's not-"

You kiss him.

You'll never grow tired of this. You'll never grow tired of the way his eyelashes flutter against your temple; of the way his breath shudders into your open mouth; of the way his shoulders tense, then go liquid.

You'll never grow tired of him. And that hurts sometimes, and it makes you absolutely terrified, because you know you annoy him half the time, and you're not sure you'll ever manage to shake the fear of when when when will he send me out the door, when will he finally send me away but you can't help it because it's Zexion, and you love him.

"Hey," you whisper against his mouth, when you've finally, temporarily, drunken your fill of him. "You love me, right?"

He snorts, pulling away and sitting back against the chair. "Idiot."

"You're an idiot," you retort childishly, but the thought has taken hold and will not be ignored. "Tell me. You never tell me. You've told me, like, once."

"Twice," he mutters.

"In six years," you cry indignantly. "Seriously, you're so stingy! Just tell me. C'mon. You can do it in Japanese if you want. Or sign language. Just-"

Then, suddenly, his lips are on yours.

They open, soundlessly.

Half-close.

Open.

Close.

Purse.

Then he backs away again, and grabs his book.

You sit there, holding a hand to your mouth, for longer than you care to think about. Then: "O-oi," you mutter, swiping a vexed hand over your cheeks as if the motion will dispel the furious blush resting there. "What the hell?"

"I said it, didn't I?" he drawls. His face is carefully hidden behind five hundred pages of meta text.

You glower at him. "It's no fair if you mouth it against my lips! I could barely understand!"

He snorts. "Like you'd understand if I said it in Japanese."

"Duh," you answer. "I watch anime."

He lowers the book, and raises an eyebrow. "Idiot."

"Jerk," you answer, but.

You're smiling.

And when you lean over and press your lips to his again - right there on the middle of the beach where, six years ago, the sand between your toes and the sun burning hot on your neck and the weight of a hand against your wrist drove you to a sudden flash of burning insight that could not be contained - he does not push you away.

And when you turn to him and say I love you, he says it back.