We Need to Talk
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I'd give Sora to Dual as a gift and keep Riku for myself.
Opening Note: For those of you that have been keeping count, this will be my fifth Oneshot for Dual-my-love. No. I am not a stalker. There is just simply no way to express how happy she makes me with her reviews. She reviews every chapter of all my stories, and they are always such nice long ones. That's love right there. Or cancer, to quote Zexion of the Ansem Retort. Dual-my-love, you are my muse. I am terribly wonderfully blessed by you.
It was meant to be a one night stand. They were having a last wild and free night before the new semester started, a huge party going on with the whole dorm present in the basement. There was drink and dirty dancing and laughter all around. Zexion spotted him across the room, a lithe boy with a graceful swan's neck and dark blonde hair. He wore a pair of beat up Converse sneakers, black jeans, and a blue T-shirt, a thick chain of silver knotted around his neck like a water nymph's bind. Zexion stared for a full moment before catching his eye, and a smile lit his face. He nodded in recognition and then turned to mount the stage before Zexion could approach.
Several amateur bands had been playing all night, and now a few other guys joined the swan necked boy on the stage, he himself taking up a strange instrument Zexion's three beer mind saw as a guitar, but was really a sitar. Not much difference, anyway. They started in on something that had a lullaby quality to it. Zexion knew the song all too well. It had a very 70's feel to it, but it seemed like the boy and his band had changed it up a bit, coming out with a strange sort of reprise that was new, but still had all the nostalgic qualities of the original.
Goodbye to you, my trusted friend
We've known each other since we were nine or ten
Together we've climbed hills and trees
Learned of love and ABC's
Skinned our hearts and skinned our knees
His voice was fluid and clear like water, and Zexion felt it pulling him out of the haze brought on by too much alcohol and not enough fresh air. He wanted that voice. No. Yes. He wanted to hear that voice call out his name in passion, melodic. A nocturne for him only. The boy moved with a grace that he didn't seem to know was natural. Like he wasn't aware of how elegantly his fingers ran along the strings of his instrument, the casual flick and twitch of his elbow, the line of his neck.
The song came to a close, and the next band was up, ramming through the packed room with a horribly loud rendition of something emo-punk that only fifteen year old girls with abusive fathers listened to.
Zexio left his circle of friends and approached the boy, noting the way he stood against the wall. Modelesque without meaning to. Or was that the alcohol talking?
"You have a good voice," was the first thing he said.
"Really?" the other brightened at the comment, taking the drink Zexion offered. Easy.
"Yeah. I used to listen to that song all the time when…" he had the good sense to stop there. There was no way this boy wanted to know that he'd listened to that song over and over again about a month ago, back when he was constantly having suicidal thoughts .
"I wanted to change the melody a bit," the musician continued, oblivious to the look on Zexion's face as he dipped in and out of the past. Or maybe he sensed the need to keep the conversation up.
"It was nice. Are you a music major or something?"
"Biology?" the room seemed to tilt a little. The musician finished the drink and picked up a beer from someone walking by with a huge ice cooler full.
"Marine biology, specifically."
"But you can't swim." He blinked.
The boy laughed. "You're right. How did you figure that out?"
It wasn't in any way relevant, but something about his grace made him feel that it was only meant for open air, could never follow the liquid toss and unstableness of water.
"I'm Demyx, by the way."
He woke up wrapped in blue. It wasn't his room. His shirt was tossed over a white director's chair in the corner, his shoes and socks in a wreckage by the door. "Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner" by Iron Maiden was playing softly from a small white Apple computer on the desk. The alarm clock read 9:06. The other side of the bed was warm, but empty. The sheets smelled like pale sprays of white blossoms.
"Oh! You're awake."
He turned toward the sound, feeling the waves of it bounce through his skull sharp as knives. He was dizzy in blue. Hangover.
"I brought you some coffee." He took the cup and let it warm his hands for a few moments before looking up.
Demyx was wearing a loose pair of light blue jeans, torn at the knee and in a number of other places, and a jade green sweater that was too big for him and exposed his swan's neck and much of his left shoulder.
"Did we…?" Zexion ventured, searching the other's eyes.
"No." There was next to no emotion in it, but Demyx gave a small smile.
"What a fucking waste," Zexion retorted darkly, downing the contents of the cup in three gulps, ignoring the foul heat of it against the tortured walls of his throat.
Demyx was in his art class. It wasn't in his major. But he needed 3 units in a fine art to graduate. It was a small class, only twenty students. They were assigned projects in different art mediums: graphite, oil pastel, water color, photography, digital creation. From the first day Demyx sat beside him, animatedly chatting about random things. They formed a close knit friendship that outsiders seemed to envy, and Zexion was mainly content with the fact that Demyx did most of the talking and never mentioned their first meeting.
It started with a kiss.
Zexion already knew that Demyx was unpredictable, but he wasn't prepared for his best friend to come soaring into his arms out of nowhere, swiftly bringing his lips to Zexion's like waves crashing onto shore. His mind went blissfully blank, and he brought a hand up to control the direction of the intimacy, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of Demyx's neck. His olfactory sense, as strong as a wolf's, came back and he was filled with the pleasant scent of Demyx, a fragile spray of white flowers and ocean breeze. Demyx broke the kiss at last, and it was in that moment that Zexion realized they were exactly the same height, but direct opposites. Zexion with his quiet nature, dark as tempest. Demyx open and cheerful, light as sunrise. He remembered the first time he heard his voice, how he still ached, in the dark hours of some mornings, to hear it sing just for him.
He held onto his arm, remembering how his elbow twitched on the downbeats when he played his sitar, wondering if there was anything else, any other muscle that twitched in response to rhythm.
"Come." It was as much a plea as it was a command, and they were lucky the dorm was so close or Zexion felt he wouldn't be able to keep from slamming Demyx into the nearest flat surface.
Demyx was unpredictable. He was as sweet as a sugar-coated drill through his mind. He was vocal, moaning and gasping against every angle Zexion presented, leaning into that graceful movement he surely knew by now he was aware of. How could he not, when it was affecting Zexion like this? He kissed like it was the second or third – grown out of the clumsiness, eager to please and fully focused on finding every secret shape in his lover's mouth – touched like Zexion was an instrument that had been created for his own love nocturne, and Zexion had been right. Demyx's voice singing his name at the climax of it was perfect.
Demyx on his back, looking up at Zexion over him, begging with his eyes and with the curve of his neck to be…
'Fucked' was too ugly of a word, Zexion decided. 'Loved' scared him. Maybe 'adored' was better? No. It wasn't far enough. It was too close. Demyx was simply begging for Zexion. There was no one word, but a thousand touches and kisses, a chaste bite at his throat. Slender sitarist's fingers ran down his spine, groped the swell of his backside. Zexion's gasps came like walking shadows.
When he woke up, Demyx was draped over him, tracing light patters on his skin. Zexion wasn't a morning person, but Demyx just placed a hand on his cheek, opened his mouth, and sang so fluidly, a morning whisper of song washing over him, easing the transition into the waking world.
Demyx clung to him. He got used to it at one point, and then it became a bother. He talked more and in random patterns. At first it was amusing, but then it was pointless. He was overly kind. At first it was endearing, but then it was pathetic.
"We need to talk," he began, hating himself for how cliché it was.
"Is this about last night?" Demyx asked, sheepishly tugging at the zipper on his sitar case.
Zexion felt something inside him stir, the beginnings of an arousal heating. Last night Demyx had sang to him, carefully touched every part of him with varying pressure, kissed him until he thought he would drown. He'd never done that before, and Zexion fell asleep feeling dirty in the purest of ways. He woke up with energy.
"I'm sorry if I… did I throw you off? I just wanted… I wanted to pleasure you… Did I do it wrong?" His voice wasn't naïve or desperate. It was a simple question, flustered at the edge like a butterfly effect, but honest.
"You didn't do anything wrong. I want…" He was surprised at how quickly his earlier thoughts melted away. "I want to return it."
He pushed Demyx gently down onto the bed and eased into his lap, knowing he'd never done this before. He was thrilled at the newness of it, and ground his hips against Demyx's a few times before kneeling on the mattress, pulling his lover's face up and kissing him with subtle emotion, increasing pressure and suckling at the corner of his lower lip, whispering his name and telling him in even tones what he was going to do to make him feel…
Sometimes, after they lay panting for breath, Zexion turned and looked into the mirror, seeing what he supposed other people meant when they called them "Zemyx". But in a much more intimate way, of course. They lay, skin to skin, beating hearts and gasps mingling flowing water and cloaked shadow. They were direct opposites, but two parts of a whole. Demyx would turn and look two, and they blinked in unison, marveling at it, the thing that they didn't have words for, and Demyx would kiss him once before wrapping around him like seaweed, dragging them both to sleep.
And then there were times when he saw how different they were. Demyx was bubbly and trusting. He'd walk up to Zexion on campus, demanding that he pull his fucking pants – they'd laugh about this later, fucking pants – up, reasoning that "You have a nice ass. I shouldn't be the only one allowed to see it!" Zexion turned in relatively simple pieces for his art assignments. He appreciated art but realized he didn't have the creative capacity to be an artist. Demyx turned in bright pieces that were happy and inviting in their color, shape, and harmony. They didn't like the same kinds of movies: Zexion preferred anything with heavy undertones of drama and mystery, while Demyx could survive a whole week on Titanic or Ten Things I Hate About You.
"We need to talk."
It sounded stupid. They talked often. Did he have to start the speech like that? But what really bothered him was the fact that as much as he looked at Demyx's imperfections and tried to make them bothersome, pathetic and pointless, he realized that these little things were exactly the reason he fell in love in the first place.
Now when Zexion looked down at the figure beneath him, graceful limbs sprawled, swan's neck arched, the scent of ocean and white flowers tugging at his every pore, he saw that Demyx was begging to be loved. Loved!
And it scared him.
He waited a few more weeks, and each time they were together it scared him even more so that he was torn between pushing him away and pulling him close. He started to "talk", but he could never get the words out. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say without telling Demyx the truth. They were the only ones awake in the dorm – at least it felt that way – and Demyx was sorting through his laundry, Zexion sitting on the dryer and passing quarters from one hand to the other.
"We need to talk."
It came out quietly, as Demyx was throwing a shirt into a pile – the shirt he'd worn the night they first met – and he looked up with a puzzled look on his face, lifted the bundle with all of his jeans and packed it into the washer.
Zexion dropped the quarters in, sprinkled the powdered soap over the folds of denim and started the cycle, the sound of water loud in his ears as he searched for words.
But Demyx wasn't paying attention. He was staring at the washing machine in horror, the same look a little kid might wear seconds after jumping off the top of the jungle gym and realizing that humans cannot fly.
"Open it!" Demyx cried, kicking the washing machine and attempting to pry the door open to no avail. It was locked for the cycle. Curious, Zexion hopped down from the dryer, pulled a miniature screwdriver from his pocket and stuck it behind the machine, twisting a few bolts and banging it soundly. It made a sound like a dying whale and popped open. Demyx quickly pulled the sopping wet pants out and frantically began searching every pocket, at last pulling out a scrap of paper with a cry of triumph, holding it to his heart.
Zexion was in awe at the scene. He waited a moment, then asked what valuable information the paper could hold for him to owe the dorm a new washing machine.
"It's nothing…" Demyx said, blushing and sticking the lined piece of paper in his back pocket. Zexion trapped him against the change machine and groped the gentle curve under Demyx's ass, retrieving the paper easily. He unfolded it before Demyx could protest, reading the slanted, messy script he recognized as his own:
You're an amazing person. A talented musician and artist, the best friend I could ever ask for. My opposite and my compliment.
People often asked how they got together, and they just smiled and shrugged, Demyx in a rare display of silence. Zexion had, in fact, noticed, that on these occasions, Demyx's hand would go to his back pocket, fingering something briefly. He never thought it might be that harmless note he'd penned the second week of art class.
Their teacher had handed out paper bags to everyone and instructed them to write something nice about each person in class. Most people dismissed it as a frivolous activity, but for Demyx, Zexion took it to heart. The "Marry me?" was supposed to be a joke, really. He figured that Demyx would appreciate the randomness of it.
Instead, he'd taken it literally.
Or, as literally as he could, anyway, seeking Zexion out after class that day and soaring into his arms with an "Of course I'll marry you!" and their first kiss.
"You kept it…" Zexion could barely hear himself speak. "It's been three months… you kept it?"
"Yeah…" Demyx took it from him, folding it with tenderness and smiling fondly at the blue ink bleeding through. "I wanted to remember what made me fall in love with you."
Zexion felt the room tilt, and his olfactory sense picked up something different about Demyx's scent. He knew he would never tire of the way it commanded him.
"You wanted to tell me something?" Demyx prompted.
Zexion looked into his eyes, noting for the first time their shape and the way they seemed to come to life when Demyx looked at him. He took another half step, leaning against him, placing one hand at the base of his neck, the other at his waist. Their noses were touching. They blinked in unison.
"Demyx… I love you."
- The Writer