Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2156610.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Kingdom_Hearts
  Relationship:
      Everyone/Everyone
  Character:
      Sora_(Kingdom_Hearts), Riku_(Kingdom_Hearts), Kairi_(Kingdom_Hearts),
      Namine, Xemnas, Xigbar, Xaldin, Vexen, Lexaeus, Zexion, Saix, Axel_
      (Kingdom_Hearts), Demyx, Marluxia, Luxord, Larxene, Roxas_(Kingdom
      Hearts), Xion
  Additional Tags:
      Dark, Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Canon
      Related, Angst, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Dark_Comedy, Gallows_Humor
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-07-06 Updated: 2012-04-04 Chapters: 59/78 Words: 44208
****** The Kingdom Hearts Tarot Project ******
by Neffectual
Summary
     A selection of out-of-order pieces, varying from 400 to 1500 words
     long, based on the Major Arcana and Court cards of a tarot deck. Card
     descriptions from The Manga Tarot, by Lo Scarabeo. These pieces can
     be read in sequence or out of it.
     The storyline winds around canon like a cat between its owner's legs,
     touching on important story points, and creating new ones. Some
     spoilers for all Kingdom Hearts games up to and including Birth By
     Sleep.
     'Because we do not know our past,
     We must predict the future.'
***** The Fool *****
0 – The Fool – Space
It is the nature of things that space desires to be filled.
He stands on the cliff top and presses the water a little harder to erode
around the base, wishing the damned thing would simply crumble and vanish,
falling into the sea and letting the water drag him down.  He closes his eyes
and thinks about taking that final step off the edge, no care for where he
goes, and then steps backwards, before opening his eyes.  The body he has
bumped into is small, slight, slender, and he smiles before he can stop
himself.
"I've told you about that."
"I know." Demyx smoothes the smile out into a neutral expression before he
turns to face Zexion, the reflection of the waves still holding on in his
eyes.  He can't smile with his mouth, that much is forbidden him, but even the
illusionist can not cloak the smile that bubbles up in his eyes.
"You've been working your magic again." The blond says, eyes sparkling with
delight at the clones behind his lover, and vaguely summons a few water clones
to mirror their standing.  Zexion's illusions remain standing firm, but the
water clones have no such compulsion, and go to their counterparts, each column
of water draped over a clone, and every single one smiling.
"I've said –"
"And the day my magic does what you want is the day Xemnas shows up in my bed,
covered in tar and feathers, and wearing a kitty collar," the blond says,
sharply, then softens the sting with a kiss echoed by the doubles surrounding
them, "I don't make them smile any more than you make yours copy that
constipated expression you so favour."
There's an embarrassed pause.
"How long –"
"It took six months for them to even have faces."
Demyx smothers a laugh, watching Zexion's face go from angry to indulgent,
and knows that, for now, it's okay to smile.
"So…."
Demyx turns his head from where it's cradled on Zexion's shoulder, moving his
mouth away from that creamy expanse of neck to raise an eyebrow.
"Don't you ever think they're wrong?"
The blond shakes his head, no, and says nothing more.
"But it must be – we can't… you can't…."
There is no answer but Demyx burying his head in closer, nipping at the column
of Zexion's throat and doing everything in his power to stop his lover speaking
further.
"I said –"
"And I distinctly remember saying that I wasn't going to have this discussion
with you again."  
There's a crash which makes Zexion jump, and he turns to see his own illusions
alone, the only thing left of the water clones a dark splash on the grass,
already drying out in the sun.  He turns back, and watches Demyx's back move
away, another crash following as the waves strike the cliff, hard.  The blond
takes out a cloth, tying it around his face as he walks towards the cliff edge,
and everything drops into slow motion, but Zexion still can't get there fast
enough, can't get his clones to move fast enough to grab Demyx before he steps
out into thin air.
And walks.
When Zexion gets to the edge, he sees the column of water supporting his
blindfolded lover, sees how secure Demyx's footing is, how safe and serene and
comfortable he looks, perched atop a wave.  He looks fey, pixie-like, and like
all of the little folk, he has played a great trick.  Zexion doesn't know
whether it's happiness, relief, or a little of both, but he throws his head
back, and for the first time since he became a Nobody, perhaps for the first
time ever, everyone knows his childhood wasn't exactly happy, he laughs.  He
laughs, and laughs, until he lies prone on the grass, tears pouring down his
cheeks, and looks up to meet Demyx's eyes, rich with an emotion that shouldn't
be there, no longer feeling empty.
For the first time, Zexion understands what it is to be alive.
***** The Sorceror *****
1 – The Sorcerer – Will
Will and equilibrium are the basis of every action.
"If I could, I would give you the illusion of feeling – no, first I would give
it to myself, so I could make sure it wouldn't hurt."
"You give me no illusions.  You never have."
"Everything we are is a lie."
They are stretched out on the bed, neither touching the other, and it is the
first time that Zexion has ever seen that frown worry at the edges of Demyx's
mouth, first time he has ever seen him bite his lip in confusion and refuse to
meet his eyes.  They both stare at the ceiling for a minute, before Zexion
brings himself to speak again.
"You don't think that we're nothing but bodies?"
"No one is only a body.  We take actions that aren't sociopathic; we must have
some sort of emotional connection.  Otherwise we'd just be mindless killers."
"Heartless, yes, mindless, no?"
Demyx turns then, his smile bitter and dark.
"Do you want me to prove it?"
Zexion gets a sudden flash of what Demyx might have dealt with before Xemnas
finally decided he was acceptable to join the rest of them – after Axel had
spent eight weeks stalking back into the castle, dripping wet and snarling
something about the guy having a sense of humour.  He forgets, sometimes, that
Demyx has been a killer, too, that Demyx knows what it's like to sink yourself,
your power, into the meat of a man, and not be sure if you retrieved all of it
untainted, or, indeed, all of it at all.  There's something terribly wrong
about battling with bodies other than yours, in Zexion's mind, something
déclassé and dishonourable about not being man enough to get your hands dirty
with the rest of the boys.  But all of them know what it is to part flesh
beneath your hands and to spend the rest of your existence pretending the
colour hasn't stained.
"I don't understand how you all do it." Demyx whispers, late at night, and it
takes everything Zexion has not to pin him to his body and never let him go, "I
don't know how you cope."
By ignoring, Zexion doesn't say, by refusing to think about what we do every
day, refusing to think of anything but the future happiness we'll someday
remember how to feel, by forgetting that we're no better than the things we
kill.
Instead, he kisses the blonde's forehead, and closes his eyes against the
earnestness in those true blue eyes.  He doesn't dare say a word, but it's
alright.  Demyx can always read him, like a children's book with too many
pictures.
"Can't you do something?" Demyx asks, at last, watching the red sluice down the
drain, creating a tiny play or red figures falling under the hands of blue,
before he seems to realise what he's doing, and they all vanish, "You used to
be important."
That stings, more than Zexion would dare mention, but it's true enough, he
supposes, head down and catching his breath, ignoring the wound at his
shoulder.  He is no longer important to Xemnas, no longer part of the day-to-
day running of things, and partially, it is the time he has spent with Demyx
which has done this.  But soon, soon he'll be important again, and he'll spare
Demyx, out of all of them, spare him to keep his innocence safe, because that's
all that's precious, now.
"I know what you're thinking." The blond says, smiling now, although his eyes
are cold, "And it won't work."
"What are you," Zexion asks, dropping to his knees, "a Seer now?"
The conversation colours all their interactions now, tainted with something
which could be resentment or could be anger, but neither of them knows, because
they don't dare to ask.  Demyx still doesn't involve himself in the battles,
but there's a longing, now, which says that he wants to, and Zexion can't watch
the hollowness overtake something which used to be full of life, but he can't
fight the desensitisation himself, either.  They don't meet each others' eyes
anymore, never turning back to spend more time, or pass idle conversation as
they would have before.  It's like they've forgotten how.
The divide is culminated when Demyx rounds a corner to see Zexion lounging in
the spread of Marluxia's arms, laughing in agreement with something the pink-
haired man is saying, and Demyx slips quietly out of sight.  They are both
shoring up their defences now, for the battle they can taste, even if it isn't
yet looming on the horizon.  The spark between them will turn to flame, and
there is nothing which can save them.
***** The Priest *****
2 – The Priest – Spirituality
The spirit is a garden to be cultivated with love.
Lying in the earth, cheek pressed to it, hearing all the things that the ground
can whisper as the man above presses close, searching for something which
Marluxia finds only in that which grows, he knows that happiness is attainable,
when ones pays attention to one's surroundings.  The sultry comments of the
world below ground is nothing short of wondrous, the plant tendrils moving,
twisting, telling him of the dark secrets that live below earth, as Luxord
takes his pleasure.  Soon, they whisper, soon, all this will be yours.
In truth, it doesn't matter who's above him, it's someone different every other
day.  He fills himself with seed as he fills the ground with promise, he is
that promise made flesh, and though he joins the land-walkers, his roots are
deep, and drain all the goodness from the soil, making him stronger and braver
with every passing day.  The seeds whisper to him of rebellion, the petals of
ownership, the leaves of dominion.  He knows they would benefit from his
triumph, too, but if he fails, they will simply use his body to prosper for the
coming winter.  They're pragmatic, the plants, and he's pragmatic with them,
caught it off them as if his veins run with sap and the sun gives him life.
They don't see it as surrender, to be the vessel, because to them, whoever does
the most work is the loser, and as he lies still, muttering to the roots that
uncoil metres below the surface, he is expending little energy, saving it for
winter, when he will need to burrow away for winter.  
It's hard, sometimes, not to get wrapped up in the vines and tendrils which
talk to him, hard to walk back into the stone tomb that they call a castle and
remind himself that he's a man, not a plant, and that the stone has no power
over him.  Soon, nothing and no man shall hold power over him.  He gathers
those interested around him, like the wind moves dead leaves, and knows that he
is strong enough to win.
With Zexion in the fold, there's nothing he can't do now, no secrets unknown to
him.  And so what if the smile drops off Demyx's face, so what if Zexion never
visits him in the arbour at night, never takes walks in the rose garden.  He
doesn't need sexual subservience to feel superior, to know he owns the man –
he's not like Xemnas.  He doesn't need to fuck anyone to let them know they
have no escape.  He's dangerous enough, and his eyes hold enough of a threat,
that no one would ever think of betraying him.
Shame the tactic hasn't worked, though.  Zexion was supposed bring Demyx in,
and instead, the two have split – that was surely the point of the couples,
that they dragged in another member of the rebellion for free.  Still, he
reminds himself, there is always tomorrow, there is always another day, and
soon, soon, Axel will join them, bringing the ultimate pawn with him.  Axel has
no qualms about visiting the arbour, about taking his pleasure where he wants,
rather than keeping strictly to his lover.  So there's no doubt about it,
Marluxia thinks, sighing as Luxord finishes and ambles away into the hedge
maze, soon, Axel will bring him the key to tear down Xemnas.
***** The Emperor *****
3 – The Emperor – Protection
The right to rule does not derive from force, but rather, humility.
"You can not make them answer to you!"
"I will make them answer.  Or they shall burn."
Saïx shakes his head, weary and yet unforgiving.
"You can not make them answer to you.  You only persuade them, help them to see
that your way is right."
"Why should they give a fuck what's right?" Xemnas snarls, backing his
lieutenant against a wall, hands tight enough on thin shoulders that they'll
bruise, "They should do what I say!  I made them what they are, I own them!"
Saïx pushes his away, suddenly angry, and stalks towards the door.
"If I were you, I'd just be grateful you did not say that in front of someone
else."
And he stays away, for a time, Xemnas attempting to seek him out, but he made
sure of it, didn't he?  He'd made sure, when he'd branded the man, when he'd
marked him in front of all the others, that they were loyal to him.  They owed
their loyalty to Saïx, and their fear to Xemnas.  But no one would tell him
where the passages beneath the castle led – shouldn't he know, didn't he
fashion them all himself?  Xigbar and Xaldin will give him nothing but blank
looks, and Vexen keeps Zexion hidden away – that i9s how they have always done
this, whenever he has raged, and for a second, he's sorry he every brought Saïx
into it and created this whole sorry mess.  He rues the day he ever bound
himself to someone over sexual attraction, and snarls at the next person to
come around the corner.  
Saïx snarls back, hackles up, tail down, and slinks past him.  He's found
another way not to answer any of the questions that Xemnas' eyes burn with, and
Xemnas hates him for it.  He'd chase him, but where would be the dignity in
chasing a bloodied dog all over the castle?  Besides, Saïx has indeed been
known to bite the hand that feeds, hard, and no one who's experienced it wants
to again.
Xemnas knows he isn't a hero.  He's not nice, he's not pleasant, and he doesn't
know how to feel any of the things which would make him such, but surely, that
is no reason for rebellion?  Considering all his underlings have the same
problem.  He decides that they're all becoming to close to each other, and
barks out an order, denying them their shared beds.  Could he be snippy simply
because his favourite plaything is elsewhere?
Marluxia said it, so it is Marluxia who takes the place of Saïx that night, who
is bound, scratched, torn into and left bloody, aching and hurt.  Xemnas knows
no other way to sate himself, and it is for his pleasure that they all exist,
and he is not feeling guilty.  Not at all.  If he misses Saïx, it is because he
is used to the company, used to well-filed reports and neat pins and string on
maps.  Not at all because he is used to, or favours the man who so often lies
beneath him, any more than it is favour he has now gifted on Marluxia.
The Assassin rounds the corner sharply, and comes nose to nose with Saïx,
grinning, showing all his teeth, and starts backwards.  But the blue-haired man
merely hands him a few reports, keeping that unnerving grin, and carries on
towards Xemnas' rooms.  It is then Marluxia realises how he must look, smell,
covered in Xemnas' scent, covered in marks and welts and bruises where pleasure
was taken, but not shared.  He throws the reports down, slamming a hand into
the wall, and bites down hard on his lip to stifle any sounds.  There never
were any plans to rebel, before.  Now, things are different.
***** The Empress *****
4 – The Empress – Nourishment
A shameless glance indicates an unblemished conscience.
It shouldn't be possible, but every look they give her makes her shrink a
little more, until she becomes something they barely recognise.  Her eyes
hollow out, dark pools staring out from skin too pale and paper thin, giving
way to blue veins below, where no blood ever flows without a heart to pump it.
Saïx saw what it took to make her – and if he hadn't been so dead inside
already, it might have fazed him – and the rest of them can see it, even if
they studiously ignore it.  She wasn't created out of something alive, like
they were, but something dead, something that crawled in the darkness – she is
a pet, a plaything, a toy, easily discarded when her time is up, and it will
be, all too soon.  When no one offers her a hand, when no one even dares to
look at her, she can not last long before she turns, surely.  Better to dispose
of her when the chance arises.
Xion looks at all of them, stares, hungrily, at their colour, their grace,
their movements through a world which should choke and numb them.  She has
nothing to hide from them, and so she watches their secrets with a continued
interest, eyes blinking slowly as the information is processed.  She develops
accordingly, growing devious with the weight of Axel's double life, afraid
through Marluxia's constant worry, remorseful through Zexion's betrayal, and
something in her toughens.  There's an echoing of this in Xemnas when he orders
the cull, and she smiles the smile that he can not, if he wants to save
face.  But she has no face to save, and in the end, her darkness grows greater
than his everyday – there will come a time when they must all face her, and
become accountable for what she learnt from them.
But as yet, she is simply a slender scrap of nothing, hidden behind the coat,
which gapes a little more each day, all dark on light, light on dark, and
Xemnas can not see the raw power which resides inside her.  Axel and Roxas can
taste it, something uncomfortable as she struggles to smile in the sunlight,
and has difficulty finding the right words to reassure them that she's
fine,  but in the end, they too will stand against her, when it comes down to
it.
It's an anthill, one queen, one rule, and she is the rival.  There can only be
one queen in a hive, and with the death of the other, all rebellion shall
cease.  It is the only way it can be, the only way they know how to live, and
the scent of her just reminds them all that, soon, there will be a challenge.
She knows she can't win, but she doesn't have to.  She's filled up with all
their hate, their anger, their deceitful, dark little lives.  She has enough
knowledge within her to damage them, to break them in a way which means they
will never recover.
All she needs is the right time to strike.
***** The Priestess *****
5 – The Priestess – Knowledge
Knowledge is not an end in and of itself.
They talk about her like she isn't there, like she's made of clockwork, talk
over her head, but she doesn't care.  They're her friends, her everything, her
world.  Between the two of them, they have taught her what the world is, taught
her about smiles, about how a brush of fingers can be so much more, how a
casual arm around the shoulder is a warning to others, how friends can share
things, even other friends.
She knows, but as yet, she doesn't understand.  They say they know how to love,
how to be friends and more, but she can't feel it.  Can't feel
anything.  Emotionally numb, she draws their emotions over her like a veil and
knows they're right, knows it, with all the power she has.  Whilst they believe
they have no emotions, she can watch them move through a dance of courtship, a
dance fuelled by emotions, and she knows that they're wrong.  She knows that
she, herself, is more wrong, is crafted out of irrationality, hatred, and
darkness, and that she is dangerous.  She doesn't want to be dangerous, but
there was never a choice.
She doesn't tell them how laughter is blue, how smiles a green, how she can
watch their passion through the walls, a deep, dark red which travels to her,
lets her taste it, like a shark tasting blood.  She never says how she sees
each emotion as a weakness, whilst deep down, the something she would have been
hungers for it, yearns for it, and knows that she can never have it.  Love was
made for real people, and she was crafted to be false.
There are still things that they don't really feel, and she does not want to be
the one to teach them.  Fear, betrayal, anger – these are black, brown and
crimson, and they swirl around her like she is made of them, and they never
leave her alone.  She understands that she is to be their downfall, to bring
them to their knees before they rip themselves apart, and she knows that no
matter if she wants to or not, she will do this.  When it comes down to it, she
has no choice.
For now, she tastes their emotions as deeply as she can, shares their laughter,
lets them wrap her up in strong arms, hold her safe against the voices railing
inside.  If there's nothing they can do, at least they try; at least they take
her aside from everything else and offer succour.  They can't understand, but
they can empathise, they can chase away the demons for just a moment, and she
feels closer to real than she ever has before.  They know something's going
wrong, they know she's not quite right, but that's not important.  She is
theirs, theirs to protect, to keep, to hold, and they can't imagine ever
letting go.
She knows it's wrong to wrap herself around them, to join them in bed and slip
between them whenever she can; taking comfort in their love, believing there's
something there for her, as well.  Maybe one day she'll understand love enough
to take one of her own, to colour her world blue, green, red and gold.  For
now, she lies between them, their arms keeping her tight to their bodies,
keeping her safe from herself, and anything the outside worlds can throw at
them.  For now, she doesn't tell them what she knows.
***** The Lovers *****
6 – The Lovers – Union
Hold firm in the wind, together.
In the end, they fight as a unit, a team, because that is what they are.  It no
longer matters if one side wishes to murder the other – they will unite and
fight together, because anything else is unthinkable.  It's a kind of detached
love, or a bastardised version of friendship, and it is nothing that any of
them will admit to.
Xion faces them now, an enemy to be vanquished, and they will draw up together
to destroy the monster, previous enmities forgotten.  Marluxia stands at the
head of the phalanx, Xemnas to the rear, both protecting and both taking
responsibility for their people, for now.  Tomorrow, maybe, they will go back
to killing each other, but for now, they are brothers in arms, like they have
always pretended to be.
Axel makes the first strike, more by luck than intent, as she lashes out, and
that seems to wake him to the fact that she is not his friend anymore, she is a
malevolent force, intent on destroying them all for the sake of feeling
something.  He thinks he recognises the flash of a smile as he slices into her
again, but then it is gone, replaced with the mask of blank indifference, the
only enjoyment in her eyes.
Saïx has no qualms about striking high and hard, rushing her, knocking her
backwards, and surely this should be easy, Roxas suddenly thinks, thirteen of
them against one small girl, why do they need all of them?  Is this just a ruse
to get them all on the field together again?  He sinks to the back of the pack,
because that's all they are, really; slavering animals, leashed to a madman,
fighting for a chance to take the first bite out of the enemy.
Zexion is skulking at the back as well, something like a qualm in his eyes, but
so too is Xemnas, eyeing them all with suspicion, so he doesn't get a chance to
say anything.  Demyx, surprisingly, isn't hanging back with them, but diving
into the fray, something akin to glee, as Xion swells and becomes something
entirely alien, entirely wrong, and he is spattered with blood.  It looks…
wrong, twisted, and Roxas casts a glance back, catching Xemnas' eye, not
Zexion's, who looks concerned, worried… frightened?  It can't be.  Xemnas isn't
afraid of anything, and especially not Xion.
Xemnas is afraid, though, as he stares at the monster he ordered created, the
shape he crafted out of his darkest desires and frets, watching his people
throw themselves at it.  For the first time, he wonders if there isn't a reason
that they're betraying him, a reason that they're so keen to scurry away from
him like he's mad, making poor decisions.  Maybe they're right, perhaps he runs
things wrong, perhaps he is led by the wrong impulses.  Staring at the mass
which is now Xion, he knows that 'perhaps' means 'yes'.
Xaldin and Xigbar are elbows deep now, flashing the odd smile at each other as
they work, like they always did before, sharing in the adrenalin rush of a
fight, Marluxia and Larxene not far away, but Larxene's eyes flat and dead,
different from her usual glee, as if she's not quite aware of what's
happening.  The four of them are making good progress, but it's not yet enough,
and Luxord and Lexaeus are quick to join them when they seem to be floundering.
Now it's just the three of them standing aside, Vexen having decided to attack
from behind as soon as the creature appeared, using logical deduction where
everyone else would just use blood-thirstiness and violence.  Xemnas nods at
the other two, and the wearily move towards the fray, Roxas perhaps a little
more reluctant.  But he doesn't move on his own.  Not now, not now, but now,
surging forward in, slicing deep, remembering how it was when there were only
six of them…
For now, they forget that they were ever anything but one.
***** The Chariot *****
7 – The Chariot – A Victory
Nothing is ever completely white or completely black.
They can't find Roxas for weeks.  In the aftermath of the battle, heartless
cleared, bodies moved, they find no trace of him.  No body, no blood, no scrap
of fabric to say that he was ever there.
In the end, Saïx gives the order, sending Axel away to remove those who did not
fight admirably in the battle, to dispose of traitors.  He's in the mood to
burn something anyway, to keep from screaming at Xemnas, to keep from telling
Marluxia, from ending all this if he can just have Roxas back.  He doesn't
worry himself about the morality, or whether anyone deserves to die, he just
knows that their battle means he can not have Roxas, and that is
unthinkable.  So he doesn't think.  He spends his time running about, pausing
to wonder why he smells of singed flesh, before the next wave of blood-lust
takes over, and he is gone again, hidden under the swell of it.  
He spots Zexion, running to him, hands out-stretched and hears, distantly, the
call of someone he once knew, a voice echoing as the man tugs at his arms,
pulling him away.
"Come on, come on, we have to go NOW; someone's found us, someone…."
The words die on his lips as he takes a second to stare at the flames licking
the walls, Axel's nakedness, clothes burnt away, and he steps back.
"You found us." He says, softly, and closes his eyes, as if to make it easier
for Axel to kill him.  He does so, feeling nothing, numb, until the next moment
when he rises to the surface, bobbing on the current, and realises that he's
crying, clean tracks eating through the soot on his face.
It's then Marluxia finds him, tears pouring, and there he sits, like a puppet
with all the strings cut, one hand dragging through the wetness as if he
doesn't know what it's for.  There's no moment of kinship or belief of rescue
from him, he knows better than to doubt his instincts, and raises the scythe
high, taking a running strike.  But Axel is suddenly no longer there; this
time, he's in control, not the treacle-like wave which has driven him through
the past few days, through the deaths of people he called comrades only two
nights before.
He's never liked Marluxia, never enjoyed his company, but he's not sure how he
got here, or what's happened since he arrived.  All he knows is that there's a
gaping ache within him, in the space where something used to sit, but he can
not remember what.  He is lost, lost within himself and the world, but that
does not mean he is going to be easy prey.
When he stands over Marluxia's body, he takes a second to thumb the eyes
closed, then begins to drag the bodies together to make a pyre.  He remembers,
now, the swallow of Zexion's throat, the way Larxene gave her best until the
last, when her dead eyes met his, and she capitulated, how Vexen had given way
to logic and doused himself with flammable chemicals, to end it faster.  The
pyre is small, and Axel bows his head, unsure of what they deserve, now.  He
did what was ordered of him, but he can't help but think that he didn't do what
was right.
In the end, he makes the entire castle into their pyre, and leaves it
burning.  If there was anyone he missed, they'll burn too, a fitting end.  He
thinks of the chamber beneath, and wonders if that, too will burn, and feels
nothing.  He reports to Saïx, and there's the smile, there's the victory he's
been expecting to feel, but can't.  He knows that people are dead, that more
will die, maybe by his hand, and there is no victory in that.  Saïx gives him
the news, and then, only then does he smile, before his face falls.  Roxas is
back.  And now he needs to explain himself.
***** Justice *****
8 – Justice – Equity
Doing the right thing is the most difficult thing.
Roxas doesn't remember the battle.  He doesn't remember Xion, for a moment, and
then smiles brightly and asks her health.  Axel murmurs something, but it isn't
loud enough to be heard, with the ocean of silence between the drowning it
out.  He can't sit for another minute in that room and watch this guileless
smile pour out of his cynical partner.
When he comes back, Roxas seems a little less friendly, a little less happy to
see him, and Axel tells himself it's for the best, that Roxas is coming back to
himself.  He pretends he doesn't see the way his hair looks brown in the
shadow, the way his eyes widen and his breath catches whenever he spots one of
them watching from the doorway.  He isn't alert, he isn't wary, he's… wrong.
It takes a week before he'll say where he was.  He hid, from all of them, for
what he felt he became when he'd helped remove Xion.  That's what they were
supposed to call it, removing.  Roxas stares up at Axel, those eyes impossibly
wide, and asks him why they did it, why she had to die, why any of them have to
die.  He's noticed those who are missing, and he asks why, and Axel knows he
has to say.  But not yet, not now.  For a moment, he just wants to hold the
blond, to hope he fills up the emptiness again, perfectly, just like he did
before.
They lie silently together, neither asleep but neither speaking, Axel spooned
up behind Roxas, their fingers tangled, but no pressure placed from either
hand.  They've stopped asking things of each other now, stopped asking, at
least, for things the other can not give.  Axel knows Roxas doesn't fit, now,
like a jagged piece of glass when before he was a smooth puzzle shape.  This
Roxas can not complete him, and he does not doubt that he is lacking now,
too.  The blond doesn't say anything, but he can feel it in these nights, these
moments of silence; he is no longer enough for Roxas.  Now, he must have the
truth.
"I know what you did."
It's low, dark, and catches Axel by surprise, just dropping off to sleep.
"Hmnh?"
"I know what you did."
There's a long, slow silence, and Axel can't think of a way to say anything
which won't be trite, or a lie.
"You don't have to be forgiven." Roxas says, face still turned towards the
window, although his eyes are closed, "I can't forgive you, anyway."
"I missed you." Is Axel's only defence, but it makes Roxas' face soften into a
smile anyway.
"You can't miss what you never really had."
They stop talking, after that.  They never step away from each other, and Roxas
never says he doesn't want Axel there, never says the one thing which would
turn the redhead away.  They just silently continue the same rituals; hand-
holding, sleeping, sex – the only thing they never do is talk.  Roxas stops
speaking to anyone, perhaps worried what he'll say, or how he'll change things,
whilst Axel responds in one-word answers, never more than a yes or no.  But he
knows he'll have to say something soon.
It's a Thursday when he takes Roxas by the wrist and pulls him along, dragging
the unwilling boy, who still stubbornly refuses to say a word to him.  He tugs
him to a place that he doesn't think Roxas has ever seen, and past that, on to
something that he knows everyone has engineered that the blond will never see,
in a castle gutted by flames.
Roxas takes a moment to process it, taking in the room, the tubing, the lack of
space in a place designed only for a purpose.  He isn't stupid, so he takes a
quick glance, and then turns away.
"Take me back."
"Finally talking?"
"Take me back, Axel."
He talks, after that, they both do, but the one thing they refuse to mention is
the status bar, set firmly at 89% restored.
***** The Hermit *****
9 – The Hermit – Meditation
You don't need eyes to see the heart of things.
There's never anything said, when an experiment takes it.  Only for a month or
so, but long enough to miss.  Aeleus learns to navigate with sounds, after
walking into a few walls and listening to Braig's muffled sniggers.  He lets
the man laugh.  His blindness is only temporary, but Braig will lose that eye
completely in another few days, Vexen says.  Let him have his joy whilst he
can.
It's amazing what people will say when you're blind, as if they think their
voices aren't identifiable, as if you're stupid, along with everything else.
"I shouldn't – look, we can't do this.  We mustn't."
"I know what I want."
"You can't be sure."
"I know what I want."
Aeleus can see them in his head, the older and the younger; one bent to address
the claim, the other with head held high and proud, unashamed of what he
wants.  He hasn't yet learnt that with desire, comes shame.  He'll learn, soon
enough, if what Aeleus thinks he hears in the tone is right.  Even hasn't got
much willpower left, and everything about the boy makes it strain at the
leash.  He smiles, and carries on.
"You did it on purpose."
"I wouldn't –"
"You would.  I'm not stupid, you know."
"Braig, you're –"
"This isn't going to continue."
Aeleus feels the sweep of cold air as Xehanort storms past, and hears the sigh
in Braig's breath as he comes to lean on the doorframe next to him.
"Sorry."
"I didn't see anything."
"You don't need to."
"No, Dilan, you can't act as if the chance hasn't interested you."
Aeleus clenches his fists.
"I suppose I can't.  Not to you, anyway."
"You've never been able to hide anything from me."
"And why would I want to?"
Aeleus veers around and past the couple, towards Even's lab.  Today, Braig
loses the eye, and if not one else is going to be there, too busy chatting up
new prospects, he's damn well going to be stood there, blind and useless, to
make another man feel less so.
"Mm, don't you think… we've been absent from work for too long?"
"There's no such thing as too long a break, but I suppose…"
The noise of lips on lips, bare skin sliding across much of the same, and
Aeleus smiles, laughing silently when he moves past the doorway and realises
that teacher and student are both so enthused by this lesson that they've
forgotten to close the door.
"Perhaps just… five more minutes?"
"Maybe a little longer, yes."
"You don't feel the work is risky?"
"I feel the risk is worth it."
"And you'll condemn the lot of us?  Because you feel it's worth it?"
"There's nothing to condemn you to."
"Because I lost my eye through nothing."
"Through your own carelessness."
Aeleus feels sick, and doesn't care to listen anymore, but knows Braig always
sees him.  He doesn't dare cross the doorway.
"Through your plan." There's an air of finality about this sentence, and
Xehanort doesn't dispute it, merely walks out.  Aeleus tells himself that if
he'd stayed longer, he'd have realised the small sound he heard wasn't a sob.
The first thing he sees is Braig, the patch hiding most of the ruin Terra made
of his face, grinning, like a debonair pirate.
"Welcome back to the land of the sighted." He says softly.
"I'm sorry." Aeleus can only say, wide-eyed at the patch, "I didn't know it
would –"
"I knew." Braig says, still smiling, "But I don't mind."
"Why not?"
"Because it showed me how to see you."
***** The Wheel *****
10 – The Wheel – Time that passes
Nothing is forever and every moment has its worth.
He was never anything special, working in a gambling den in Tortuga, his duty
to keep others from card-counting and cheating, to throw out the pirates who'd
get a little to rowdy and forget that the women weren't free.  He hadn't
started work like that, of course, he'd peddled himself to get enough money
that working in the den was even an option.  But once there, he was
appreciated, good at his job.
Now, he counts cards for an entirely different reason, setting up for battle,
and he laughs a little.  Xemnas had him design the whole card system, although
damn it, the moogles take most of his cut these days, the world being what it
is.  Each card is his design, his art, his time and effort placed into a form
of attack, where counting cards is no longer illegal, but the preferred method
in which a gentleman fights.  The old language comes back to him, sometimes,
and he mutters under his breath about the doxies and cut-purses he knew back in
port.  Sometimes, he wonders if any of them ever remember him.
It was a passing fancy, really, which brought him home with Xemnas that night,
a moment of promise and sex and something which hadn't been offered for a long
time.  It was a surprise to see the blue-haired man bound on the bed, and
Xemnas' instructions of what to do were hard to swallow, but he went with it,
easy as always, and tried to enjoy himself.  
He hadn't ever touched a drop before, so it makes him laugh that everyone
considers him quite the lush, when he drinks only because otherwise he has to
see what Xemnas does to Saïx every night, to see what the blue-haired man
endures for what he thinks infatuation looks like.  Luxord has sold himself,
true, but he's never given away his heart, his soul, for nothing but sex.
He gave it up in pity.  That's what no one knows, what Xemnas must never be
told, Luxord created because of the emptiness he saw in Saïx's eyes, because he
knew what it was to service someone you found repellent, just to stay
alive.  And late at night, when Saïx crawls into his bed and does nothing,
doesn't cry, doesn't scream, doesn't rail angrily against Xemnas, Luxord
understand just how evil Xemnas has become.  Who rapes something which can not
even feel, something no better than a moving corpse?  Who can get pleasure out
of that?  You can't break it, you can't re-make it – they're all already
broken, beyond all ability to be fixed.
If they find something together, the likelihood is that it's little more than
kinship, the recognition of someone who understands what life can be
like.  Neither of them is young, nor idealistic, not anymore, and they don't
try to reach for feelings that aren't there.  They can't pretend that love
exists, not after what Saïx has done in the name of it, and what Luxord has
seen done – there is no such thing as love, when it come to Nobodies.
They tell themselves this, wrapped around each other at night, leeching
comfort, neither willing to broach the idea of sex, too tainted as it is with
Xemnas and fear and pain, and never stop to ask themselves if this, too, is a
sort of love.
***** Strength *****
11 – Strength – Energy
All know how to be weak; all know how to be strong.
It's happened again, and Roxas only knows because of the way Larxene
sits.  It's not that she makes herself smaller, or huddles in against Marluxia
– too obvious, and no one admits to injury here.  Instead, she sits as straight
as possible, chin held high, but nevertheless never meeting anyone's eyes.  The
way Marluxia laughs and jokes throughout means he doesn't know, either, nor
anyone else, and Roxas only knows because –
- and there's Larxene, bloody, exhausted, crying, bloody, before she's against
his throat, threatening to kill him if he says anything, and there's still
blood, and he runs –
- and he hasn't dared breathe a word to anyone.  No because he's afraid of
Larxene, although you'd have to be mad not to be, but because it isn't his
secret to tell, and anyway, it takes him a week or so to process what he saw,
to see –
- bloody, bleeding, dripping blood and the tears pouring, tears that never stop
for as long as he stand there, gaping, because she doesn't do this, she can't
do this, this isn't –
- he closes his eyes against the memory of it, the scent and the way it makes a
lump rise to his throat.
He asks Vexen about it, once, hypothetically, and the man laughs him away, not
even bothering to ask why he would question such things.  But every time this
happens, Roxas can see it, eating away inside of her, bleeding her out more
than any other wound; he can see her pale cheeks, the way she meets his eyes,
finally.  She knows, and he has no idea what to do about it.
"If you've told –"
"I didn't." he says, quietly, letting her corner him, letting her feel she has
the upper hand for the moment.
"I would." She says, softly, resting a hand on his shoulder for a moment.
"I know."
She leads him back to her room, and he helps staunch the blood, as best he
knows how, as much as he's found out from reading when he's been in other
worlds.  She doesn't snap at him once, and that simply makes him more afraid
than anything she could have said.
"You can't keep doing this." He says, at last, "Somebody's going to find out."
They both are silent as they consider the implications of a particular Nobody
sinking his teeth into this knowledge.
"No one's ever guessed.  But…."
He leaves, and doesn't look back.  She knows what she needs to do.
Late at night, he lies on Axel's chest, and listens, listens hard, for a
heartbeat which isn't there.  There's a warm arm around him, and the chest
rises and falls, but there is no other sound.  He wonders what it would be
like, always waiting, always listening for that heartbeat, and knows why she
does it.  No matter if it always fails, it makes her feel more real, more
alive… something none of them will ever truly be.  That she can't even tell
Marluxia proves that she knows what she does is fruitless, that she can never
achieve her dream.  But still, she keeps her secret, and now he keeps it for
her, and will never say –
- there she is, crying, hunched over, bloody, blooded, bloody thighs and every
single loss etched into her face before she screams at him, no control left, no
feeling, no heart, every single life she has taken regrettable in the slight
curve of her abdomen, the way the blood pours through her hands where she's
tried to cradle anything, anything that might left, anything that might have
lived –
- and no one need ever know, ever, that even the bravest of them, the toughest,
the most vicious, has her weakness.
***** The Hanged Man *****
12 – The Hanged Man – Equilibrium
Equilibrium comes from inside.
As he twists in his shackles, he smiles a little to himself, a little sick, a
little scared, but still able to pull a smile onto a face which should have
been devoid of emotion years ago.  He's not alone in the oubliette, but the
other is so far away in the darkness that he can not find him.  Not with
earplugs, a gag and blindfold, to add to the shackles.
Xaldin waits, time passing imperceptibly, whilst the darkness becomes thicker,
and more complete.  This is to make a point, to show everyone who is in charge,
now they are seven broken beings, instead of six whole ones.  He knows Xigbar
hangs somewhere in the oubliette, too, but dares not reach out, for fear of
finding nothing, or that he is wrong.  He'd talk, but his mouth is too dry,
saliva having soaked into the gag and dried out his throat.  
Xigbar can hear sounds from above, the lid of the oubliette open if he could
just look up, if his eyes weren't shrouded, if his neck wasn't held steady and
upright.  Someone's laughing up there, laughing like they're never going to
stop, and it echoes off the walls until it becomes a hyena call, something
indecipherable to human ears.  He doesn't want to think how loud it must be to
get past the earplugs, but reached out a hand, desperately searching for –
anything, for –
Xaldin feels the touch on his hand and pulls away, before realising what just
happened.  He moves his hand in a sweeping arc, catching hold of fingers, and
clings.  The other hand does the same, and he smiles, knowing that, although
the aim was to make them isolated, to make them feel alone, he is anything
but.  
The two of them are still holding hands when Xemnas orders them moved, brought
back out into the world.  He sneers at them, but there's a weight in his eyes
which says they've found something that he can never manage, that he will never
understand.  They aren't sure they do themselves, but they remember passion,
they remember love in all its myriad forms, and know that they are still, just,
capable.
It takes three days for it to set in, Xigbar complaining of noise-related
headaches, Xaldin half blind in on eye, both of them fractionally changed, less
effective because of their time kept from their senses.  The two of them
stumble around until Xemnas finally gives up and sends them for three days of
bed rest, under instruction not to do anything strenuous.  Saïx just raises an
eyebrow as they saunter off together.
Xemnas seals the oubliette, keeping the knowledge of its positioning secret
from new members, never mentioning that it exists.  If he hears whispers of it,
he laughs them off as darkly as he can, and people drop the subject, afraid
that if it does exist, they'll end up inside it.
And if asked, Xigbar and Xaldin will never say that in the forgetfulness of the
oubliette, they found something worth remembering.
***** Death *****
13 – Death – The Threshold
We will never be ready to overcome certain thresholds, and yet we will get
beyond them anyway.
Axel tries not to, but he can't help himself.  He spends less time with Roxas,
and more and more in that room with Sora, now in Twilight Town, watching the
status bar tick over.  At least he no longer has to remember dealing death when
he watches the boy sleep.  He watches from 89% to 94%, and knows that time is
growing short.  He stops wasting time, then, takes steps out into the world,
takes Roxas out for ice cream, sits with him on the clock tower, just sits with
an arm around him, in silence.  They both know what's happening, but they can't
vocalise it, not yet.
Each night is two-tones of skin sliding over ach other, silence in lamp-light,
each of them taking the time to learn the other's body, taking the time they
know they haven't got.  Sometimes, Axel whispers 'mine', and most of the time,
Roxas lets him get away with it.  Surprisingly, it is Axel who comes apart,
under hands, and lips, and teeth.  He shudders and opens up for the blond,
falls apart, and as he curls up to sleep, wraps the boy up in his arms, as
tight as he can get, and pretends he doesn't notice the wetness on his
cheeks.  It's not as if he's supposed to be able to cry.
Roxas seems resigned, secure in the knowledge of his removal, as they watch the
sun set once more, ice cream in hand, neither giving a thought to the drop
beneath them.  They've been through so much, more than can be said, and only
darkness holds a threat to them now, darkness and plots behind the smiles of
everyone around them.  For now, the darkness they hold inside themselves isn't
a threat, for once they can prevail against the wind and cold, making
themselves less of a target.
Axel still feels he must atone, taking mission that aren't meant for him, but
everyone's stretched thin now that half of them are gone, so for a while, Roxas
doesn't even notice that he slides into bed at odd hours, marked and bruised,
cold against sleep-warmed skin.
He's ill; it's the only explanation, shivering and coughing, curled up in the
warm space Roxas left when he went to find breakfast.  He can't find it in
himself to get up and find someone, to move at all, and lies still, listening
to his laboured breathing until a shadow blocks out the painful light.  Demyx
drags him out of bed by the arm, letting the redhead hit the floor hard,
attempting to knock some sense into him.
"Roxas.  Find him."
Axel stares blearily, unable to focus, so Demyx urges him up again.
"Roxas is in trouble – find him, help him.  It's happening."
Immediately, Axel's bolt upright, dragging the coat on over nothing else,
slipping into boots and running.  He will not be too late.
And as fate goes, he isn't.  He arrives Betwixt and Between to see Roxas
shifting, twisting, as if something too large is in his skin and wants out,
features changing before snapping back to Roxas.  But it's not any Roxas Axel
wants to be near.
"Saïx is coming." He sing-songs, like a child, "And he'll skin you."
Axel shoves at him, pushes him away, driving him towards the portal, towards
Sora, who's – how is Sora there? – and is just fast enough as another portal
springs up, and Saïx slips through, teeth bared in a grin, eyes devoid of
anything that might have been feeling.
That night, Roxas sleeps alone, as he will now for the rest of the time which
is left, 98% restored blinking at him reassuringly.  It's the closest thing he
has to a promise of heaven.
***** Temperance *****
14 – Temperance – Purification
There's a time for fighting and a time for healing.
Demyx swears, quietly, under his breath, and turns, waiting for….  He pauses,
remembering, and goes back to trying to tie the bandage on his arm, using his
teeth to hold one end in place until strong arms encircle him and take
over.  He struggles; pushing the other hands away, and elbows the other man in
the stomach, twisting in his grip to break free.  Eventually, he falls still,
panting, unable to move.
"Get off me."
"You need help."
"I don't need anything from you!"
It's unsaid, but Xigbar knows what he's saying.  New Demyx, ruthless Demyx, has
no use for anyone who is still alive; despite his cheer at removing Zexion from
his life, that anger has turned inwards, and he's darker, now.  He jokes with
Axel, cruel jokes, which before; he'd always kept out of.  No, Demyx has no use
for another man, but Xigbar has a use for this new Demyx.  He doesn't know he's
hurting, but he is, all the same.  He bats Demyx's hands aside, and once more
goes for the bandage, Demyx giving in with an exasperated sigh.
It's strange to be helping with such a task, helping someone he never touched
before, someone he would never have had a chance to touch before, and Xigbar
wonders what ever happened to them, in that transition.  Vexen and Zexion found
nothing in common, Xemnas replaced Xaldin with Saïx, and in turn, Xaldin came
to Xigbar.  Now, Xaldin has other prey, and Xigbar finds himself, for the first
time in what feels like a hundred years, needing someone.
"There.  All done.  Keep weight off it for a few days, it'll be as right as
rain."
"Right as –"
"Old saying.  But you don't mind a bit of rain."
"When it hits the towers, it's beautiful. I used to take –"
There's a small pause, like the sound before breath.
"Zexion." Xigbar says, gently, "You can say it, you know."
Demyx shakes his head, violently, moving away again, staring at the endless
dark.
"You're allowed to say it."
"It doesn't matter," Demyx says at last, "I wouldn't say it, even if I could."
Three nights later, Xigbar is stalking the corridors, and comes across Demyx's
room, the blond a crumpled form on the bed, making no sound.
"You okay?"
"He said it was impossible for us to be anything but."
"He didn't know everything.  No lover ever does."
Demyx can't help but freeze, uncurl, and snarl.
"What the hell would you know about lovers?"
"I've been discarded by enough to know that when they toss you aside, it's a
statement about them, not you.  Xehanort, Aeleus, Xaldin…."
"I only ever had him."
"But you knew Ienzo had Even."
"Academically." Demyx's posture is loose, slumped liked half the man he is,
"But not…."
"You couldn't face thinking it."
"He was a child.  Even was – older.  It just doesn't bear thinking about."
"Like Roxas is a child?  And Axel is older?"
"That's –"
"It's not that much of a difference.  Ienzo was never naïve."
"No." Demyx says, softly, all certainly gone, "I don't suppose he was."
It's a hot night, and it'll only get hotter, their own personal hell, burning
merrily along beneath them.  Xigbar can't sleep, too warm, too uncomfortable in
his own skin, too alert to what or who might come through his door any minute.
"Show me a man without love," he says, quietly, "And I will show you a lover,
buried."
"Unfair," comes a melodious rebuttal, and a shape slinks from the shadows and
into the moonlight, "He could simply be without a heart."
"You know that's not what stopped him loving you."
"It was fear."
"Fear of losing someone again, losing that connection."
"Fear of it never again being like it was with Even.  I understand."
Xigbar smiled as Demyx brought himself down onto the bed beside him, not
touching, just lying still.
"Are you afraid, Demyx?"
"I've never been more so."
"But…?" Xigbar presses, one arm shifting sideways to touch the skin next to
him, just for a second.
"But it's not going to stop me doing what I want."
Xaldin snarls at them, seeing them sat together, sharing a joke, Demyx smiling
again for the first time since half of them fell.  Axel doesn't meet their
eyes.  Xemnas and Saïx don't even notice, caught in some constant, cosmic
battle to focus on a tiny slice of near-happiness.  That's what Demyx calls
it.  
"Why call it that?" Xigbar asks, just once.
"Because to say anything else would be a lie."
Xigbar breathes again, and watches Demyx smile.
***** The Devil *****
15 – The Devil – The dark side
Nobody is perfect.
Saïx knows the creed that Xemnas holds, better than anyone, perhaps better than
Xemnas himself, who holds it out of a faint feeling – or a memory of a feeling
– that he should.  Saïx researched it, trying to find the part where it talks
about them, and found only a butchered metaphor misunderstood by someone whose
feelings had long since vanished.  He curses himself every moment he can find
for not tearing the stupid thing out of the Superior's hands when he had the
chance, instead letting himself be subjugated by it, when he should be above
such things.
"You understand, VII, that a Nobody should be perfect."
"I understand."
That had been the time when Xemnas had marked him, branded him like he was
taking ownership, and Saïx had been taken to meet the others.  There's still a
marked distance between them all and the blue-haired man, the apprentices
knowing that he took the place one of them should have taken, couldn't have
taken, because they knew too well what Xemnas was.  It should be impossible for
a Nobody to fear, but nevertheless, they feared what Xemnas could and would do
to them.  Better to let this stranger take the fall, to add the 'x' to Isa's
name and be done with it.  
Some of them hadn't seemed to realise it would mean following the newly made
Saïx, following each and every order he gave out.  And there had been a lot, in
those early days, a great many orders as he settled into his place in the
hierarchy, grew to know Zexion, who shied away from his gaze, Vexen, who kept
the boy out of sight, Xaldin, who used his height to avoid ever stooping to
meet Saïx's eyes, and Xigbar, who spent his time at the bottle of a bottle and
was never truly sober – yes, there had been a lot of orders in those days.  But
very few of them had been obeyed until that first night when Xemnas called for
Saïx and only Saïx.
"You understand, VII, that a Nobody should be perfect."
"I understand."
There was an underlying message there, that he wasn't good enough, but also,
nor was anyone else, and it was to be his job to whip them all into shape.  He
wanted to struggle, to protest that he was only young, not good enough, and
that no one could afford him any respect whilst they believed him still
untried, but these words were silenced when Xemnas turned, knife in hand, the
tip glowing from the fire, and strode towards him, coat slipping open,
revealing all that bronze nudity.  Momentarily speechless, there were no other
seconds in which to take flight, and the knife cut brutally and swiftly across
his face, the burn barely painful as the heat cauterised the wound.
Xemnas had taken him to bed, then, as he would do for many more nights, and the
next day, the scar had raised, forming already into a disfigurement.
"This means that you are perfect." Xemnas had said, swiping a finger down the
mark that morning, before sweeping out to attend to the rest of the
group.  Saïx was left to follow, head down, shame writ large upon his face,
larger than the scar.  Strangely, however, no one else stopped him, and when he
felt more like himself, enough to bark a few orders, they were obeyed without
hesitation.  It was then that Saïx truly understood.
No, he wasn't perfect, and was never going to be.
But Xemnas had never been perfect either.
Saïx knows that every day he walks besides a devil, and that he lies with a
devil every night, but it is not this which bothers him, not now.  However,
when he looks in the mirror, a devil stares back at him, laughing, and he
realises that Xemnas has made him into exactly what he is, shaped him in his
own image, like a mad god playing king – but Xemnas' toying can not hide that
they are the fallen, the damned.  Every day, Saïx marches to war beside his
devil, and needs him a little more fiercely.
If Nobodies were perfect, perhaps he'd call it love
***** The Tower *****
16 – The Tower – Ashes
The storm breaks only what does not bend.
When he thinks about it, he's always had lovers with a temper.  Isa had Lea,
and despite the childlike glee toe boy took in holding him down, there seemed
little sinister in that.  But no one else saw the marks of vivid colour on Isa,
where he would be beaten for Lea's tricks, no one noticed that Lea would slip
away, and leave Isa to take the blame, and no one ever knew that Lea berated
Isa.  They were best friends, weren't they?  Why would Lea scream at him, blame
him for all the pranks gone wrong?  When Xemnas offered him the chance to be
something greater, he left Lea behind – and realised he had known nothing of
pain before this.  Now, Xemnas is condemned to death, and Saïx's arms tighten
around Luxord, clinging, as he realises the last vestiges of slavery are to be
washed from him.
They're partners, in crime, in honour, and Xigbar remembers when Braig hated
Dilan, when they're breathing together in the darkness, remembers when they
stole lovers from each other, and bandied words about for their own
amusement.  Now, the only lovers they have are each other, and there is nothing
to take but mutual comfort as the times grow darker, and the situation closes
in on them.
They're not quite what anyone would expect, the stony silence and the genius,
but they work.  Lexaeus doesn't mind if he wants to go on, for hours, about the
latest findings in the lab, and Vexen doesn't mind when he lover wants
quiet.  They sleep near the labs, Vexen always creeping out early, and the
larger man always finding him asleep on the floor, and carrying him back to
bed.  They're an unlikely pair, but nothing more unusual than anything else, in
this falling world.
It's hard to believe they're back in each other's arms, back together, after
death and deprivation drove them apart.  The couple can't sleep, moving
together, breath mingling, hands tangled, each crying out, begging for more,
more love, more touch, more chances to hold this memory, to know that before
they die, they will be loved, they will be together.  If Demyx is smiling,
Zexion doesn't see fit to rebuke him, and Demyx doesn't mention the tears which
drop onto him like beads of sweat as they achieve their peak.  They know
nothing, now, but each other.
He doesn't lie there with her, or him, but, eyes closed, curled in on himself
and refusing to reach out, no matter how desperate he is.  They won't be there,
and opening his eyes and knowing will be worse than lying still and hoping.  He
knows neither of them were real, just facets of the same person, but the bed is
so empty without either one of them in it, without them both, curled up like
cats, happily leeching his warmth.  Tonight, the bed is cold, but he is
thankful for something.  At least he will not lose so much, when tomorrow
comes.
They lie together, two traitors, two liars, and sleep the sleep of the
damned.  They all sleep the same that night, living on borrowed time, but then,
they've done that from the start.  Pink hair mingles with blonde as Larxene
rolls into him, nuzzling warm flesh, as if she can not believe he's really
here.  Marluxia tightens the arm around her waist, knowing, even asleep, what
she's thinking, and they both drift back into dreams.
The castle sleeps, but Xemnas does not.  Sat alone, in the dungeon, he tell
himself he only misses Saïx because he was warm, and a pliant body within which
to spend himself.  He repeats this, over and over, until morning comes, and the
door opens.  By then, he almost believes it.
***** The Stars *****
17 – The Stars – Hope
Each journey begins with a single step.
It's true, the boy has no parents.  He doesn't have anyone, as far as Even can
guess, bedraggled and thin.  No one questions when Even brings him home, which
he should have seen as a problem then, and he lets them assume what they
want.  The boy is fed, and clothed, and never touched, except when he crawls
into Even's bed at night, whimpering, and simply asking to be held.  He wants
for nothing, aside from, perhaps, affection.  They try their best, but they're
just not used to children underfoot.
It takes only a short time to realise why the boy is short of breath, why he's
so tired, Even's head against his chest on the right-hand side, hearing that
steady thump where it shouldn't really be.  The boy looks up at him, filing
notes, checking medical journals, with those too-large eyes, and asks:
"If my heart's on the wrong side, does that make me bad?"
Even drops the book with a crash, hurrying to stop the tears and hold the boy,
something that never happens, but if he needs comfort, Even will offer it.
"Does it make me wrong, to be like this?"
Even has no answer but 'no', murmured over and over, emphatically, until the
tears run into dry sobs, and there's nothing left to do but put Ienzo to
bed.  He doesn't even raise an eyebrow when the boy clings, refusing to be left
alone, and resolutely doesn't think as he readies himself for bed, a small body
making a bump in his covers.
"Does it make me wrong, to be like this?" he asks himself, quietly.
The boy loves his books, that's true, and so it shouldn't be surprising when he
finds Ienzo buried in medical texts, far too advanced for his age, studying his
own condition.
"There's nothing you can do to fix me," he says as a greeting, before turning
back to the book, "They all say the same thing."
"But you're forgetting something," Even says, smiling, "I'm brilliant, and so
are you."
They work for months on the experiment, Ansem checking repeatedly that it's not
something which will cause harm, but he seems satisfied with Even's desire to
fix his protégé, all his wisdom not seeing anything darker in those motives.
It takes two years before Ienzo is on the table, machines running, buttons
waiting to be pressed, and his eyes closed, trying to hide his fear.
"It'll be fine.  We've proved it – the human body can survive without a
heart.  You've seen the experiments."
"Don't let me go?" Ienzo whispers, and it hurts, that after all this time, the
child still has to ask if he's wanted.
"Not for a million years." Even says, softly, before starting the procedure,
all the time thinking of the healthy boy he'll have created, the child who can
run, and play and do whatever he wants.  The soul he loves, just faster and
more alive than ever.
What wakes up, however, isn't Ienzo.  Even doesn't realise, until he leaves the
boy alone, two days later, and finds him peeling back his own flesh with a
scalpel, to take a look at their handiwork.  There's no pain there, no passion,
not the eagerness or fear that Even would expect, just a look of mild interest,
and cool detachment.  Xehanort is with him, ready to be shown the miracle Even
has created, and he takes a step backwards, ready to defend the boy, but
Xehanort seems fascinated.  Even has to leave as Ienzo begins pointing out
which parts of the workings inside him are due to things he researched, and
which are Even, all in a dull monotone.
In fact, Xehanort seems so take with the boy, he asks Even if it's possible to
do the same to all of them, make them stronger, better, less emotional, and
more focussed.  He calls the boy Zexion, playing with the letters just like
he's playing with their lives, but Even hasn't the strength or desire to fight
him.  He feels already like his emotions have been drained, to get nothing back
from Ienzo but polite questions and scientific quotations.  So he works, long
hours, and this Zexion assists, no questions asked, no eager smile, and nothing
like Ienzo always was.  Even tells himself he doesn't feel guilty, later, when
he takes Zexion to bed, pressing close, touching every inch of bare skin, just
to elicit some kind of response, a smile, a snarl, tears, anything.  Zexion
simply notes down the evening as 'interesting' and removes himself to his own
bed, semen trickling down his thighs, to which he pays no attention.  Even
curls up and sobs, knowing he has defiled something, something, but that it was
not, and will never be, Ienzo.
He's the last one to go under the procedure, the others' dead faces all staring
blankly at him as he gestures to the correct buttons, and watches Zexion take
up the scalpel, to make the incision.  His hands don't shake the way Ienzo's
would have shaken, he doesn't look nervous, and as he leans in close, he
whispers:
"I'll make it good for you."
When Even comes to, he feels nothing.  Not love, not that hollow, empty feeling
he's been carrying around since Ienzo disappeared, since Zexion arrived, just
nothing.  For a while, it's almost pleasant, a relief to be able to walk past
Zexion in the corridor and feel nothing.  He finds his notes, all the
passionate notes he wrote, all the love he put into the work to make them like
this, and realises he can not turn them back.  He has none of that eagerness to
please anymore, no need, no drive, and he suspects he would feel sad, if he
could.  As it is, he simply files the notes away, and goes back to small
experiments, nothing gained, ignoring a little piece of him which says he
should be caring.  He is Vexen, now.
Zexion touches him, occasionally, and it has none of the joy of when Ienzo was
there, it doesn't make him light up anymore.  It is nothing but a touch, and he
realises, at last, the bright soul he loved is gone.  So, too, is the soul
which loved.  He spends more and more time in bed with Lexaeus, someone adult,
who understand sexual appetite and how to please someone.  Zexion reads, on his
own, and his interest is only piqued when Xemnas introduces Demyx.  The boy –
almost man, now – gets a calculating expression which Vexen has only ever seen
on Ienzo, when he was sneaking sweets.  He finds himself almost smiling,
almost.  Apparently, there is still hope.
***** The Moon *****
18 – The Moon – Harmony
Harmony in giving and receiving.
Strangely enough, it's Saïx who starts it all.  Not strange in the sense that
Saïx wants something to do with the moon, because they all know he's slightly
obsessed with it, but strange because he invites other people to join in.  He's
usually a private person, locked away with Xemnas (or Luxord), working on
reports and profiles.  Not the kind of person you'd expect to start arranging
parties.
The lunar cycle doesn't quite work like it should in The World That Never Was,
what with the damned heart-shaped thing taking up most of the sky every night;
it's speculated that this is what makes Saïx cranky (when it's really the rope
burns and whip marks) in the mornings.  So they don't stay at home, when they
decide to go out.  Some months it's Halloween Town, for a spooky themed party,
or Neverland, where Axel gets very drunk and flies into a flock of geese, or
even Hundred Acre Wood, where everyone came over very sleepy and with an
extreme desire for cake.  It doesn't matter where they hold them, they always
hold them, once a month.  Full moon parties.
This month it's scheduled for The Underworld, because Hades will always throw
them a good party, if they bring the drinks.  And Saïx is already working out
how the formula will go.  Larxene and Marluxia will find somewhere mostly
visible and incredibly audible to have sex, Luxord will be tending bar,
drinking less than he seems to, the three musketeers of Axel, Roxas and Xion
will be dancing round handbags, with Axel getting progressively more drunk as
the other two stay sober.  Vexen and Zexion will be found propping up the walls
– they'd tried mixing drinks before, but everyone had come out in purple spots
– with Demyx dancing like a loon, covered in glowsticks.  Lexaeus will be flat
out sparko within five minutes, he never could handle his drinks, and Xaldin
and Xigbar will be dancing on tables, possibly in clothes they've stolen from
Megara.  
But the real reason Saïx holds the parties, aside from it being good to be able
to slip behind the bar and be petted, is that Xemnas won't come.  On nights
when Saïx is furry, he refuses to touch him, sexually, although he's not above
a beating – and so the parties are a form of protection.  The worst part is,
everyone knows.  They're bright, all of them, and they've all noticed that the
parties are growing closer together, that they're no long having them once
every thirty days, but once every fifteen.  And they see Saïx limping less, a
little less snappish.
And so they all go, whether they feel in the mood, or not.  Saïx may be a
bastard, but he's their bastard, and hell, if there's booze involved too,
they're all in.  So Saïx watches, contemplates his next orders, and shudders,
dog-form turning it into a whine.  If anyone hears, they don't ask him about
it.  They know he's his master's dog, in the end.  He'll always do what he's
told.
***** The Sun *****
19 – The Sun – Truth
Live in the light.
He reckons he's got the hang of it now, working the keyblades, killing
heartless, trying to not to piss off whoever's babysitting him today.  Well,
not too much, at least.  Accidentally-on-purpose whacking Lexaeus with the edge
of Oblivion, as a thanks for that punch in the face, doesn't count.  Much.  So
far, everything seems to be going well, and there's no one it's impossible to
either ignore or get along with.  Except for one.
"Hey, kid, want to come out with me today?"
"Saïx said I needed to work alone."
"And is Saïx your keeper?"
"If you want to be perfectly correct, then yes."
Axel scowls, some of the fun taken out of his day by the smart answer, but not
a lot.
"And you always do what you're told?"
"Unless it's by a pervert like you, then yes, if it keeps me out of trouble,"
"Saïx is a pervert, you know.  You should see the stuff he does with Xemnas,
all whips, chains –"
"And now you've ruined my appetite by describing what would, effectively, be my
parents having sex, you can go."
Axel curses as Roxas sweeps through the portal.  Ah well.  There's always
tomorrow.
He starts petitioning Saïx early, dogging his heels to wind him up for as long
as possible, knowing that eventually he'll give in.  He does, although it takes
him half a day more to crack than usual, and makes Axel suspect he needs new
tactics.  Either that, or Saïx is getting laid a hell of a lot more than they
all thought.  Lucky bastard.
"Hey, kid."
"What do you want now?"
"You're teamed up with me today."
Roxas casts a desperate eye towards Saïx, who winces as he nods, and even Roxas
knows that this is no time to be arguing with him.
"So, wanna lose the coat?  It's not really the weather for it."
Roxas rolls his eyes as the pervert strips off his coat to reveal a bare chest
and tight jeans, but, with another quick nod from Saïx, he too shucks the coat.
"Nice clothes." Axel sniggers, and Roxas turns a little pink, before biting his
lip and scowling.  Nothing wrong with jeans and a t-shirt, even if it is
emblazoned in something he's never heard of.  It's no one's fault that Saïx is
in charge of buying clothes.
"Which world then, dickwad?" Roxas asks, eyes promising Axel a slow and painful
death.
"Thought we'd go to the beach."
"If there isn't anything to kill, you're dying first."
There are things to kill, as it turns out, an annoying mermaid who keeps
singing, even after she's dead.  It reminds Roxas of an opera, where someone
has to sing their demise for an hour, to ensure the audience has got
it.  Eventually, Axel reaches over and, without looking, removes her
head.  That turns the singing into a garbled sound, which soon fades away.
"So, now we're here, holiday getaway… fancy a go?"
Roxas stares for a moment, then rolls his eyes, getting up and trying to summon
a portal.  It doesn't work.
"Ah, yeah.  We're locked in for a few more hours.  Thought we could have some
privacy." Axel leers, wriggling a tube and a foil packet out of the pocket of
his jeans and waving them languidly.
"You've got to be kidding." Roxas says, flatly, tips of his ears going pink,
"There isn't enough munny in any world to make me want to have sex with you."
"Which is a good thing, as otherwise, you'd be a whore."
Roxas is really flushing now, looking away, trying to avoid catching sight of
the lube and… is that…. A whole box of condoms.  Right.
"Let me out of here.  Right now."
"Not a chance, kid.  C'mere."
Axel reaches out with an arm, grasping Roxas' wrist and pulling him down on the
sand, where he immediately tries to wriggle away, before a large body settles
on top of him.  Roxas squeaks.
"Um… off me?  Now?"
Axel's response is to lick a damp stripe down his cheek, and begin tearing
off  Roxas' t-shirt, until he gets a fist in the eye for his troubles.
"Aww, come on, Rox, I did silence that little mermaid for you.  Don't I get a
reward?"
"I would have thought the bloodshed would be its own reward." Roxas snarls,
bucking his hips up to shift Axel, until he realises just what he's pressing
his groin against.
"Tell me that's another tube of lube."
"No, baby – that's all for you."
Roxas shoots across the sand faster than anything has ever moved, most
probably, and manages to materialise a portal, just as he runs into it.  Axel
is left alone, on the beach, with enough lube and condoms to run a frat party.
"Fuck."
But it doesn't stop there.  Roxas finds, unsurprisingly, that Axel is tenacious
beyond belief, and perhaps even more stubborn than he is.
"Axel, this is my bed."
"But mine's all wet."
"That's because you pranked Demyx and Zexion, and left their beds full of
jam.  You got what you deserved." Roxas says, sighing and rolling over, placing
his back to the redhead, who promptly takes advantage and moulds himself to the
blonde. "And get off me!"
"But you're warm…"
"Are you… you're wet, you bastard! Did you neglect to mention you were IN your
bed before Demyx threw half an ocean on you?"
Axel's stopped listening by this point, pressing his lips to the nape of Roxas'
neck, and Roxas can pretend that it's the damp chill radiating off his bed
partner which is making him shiver.
"Just go bunk in with Luxord.  He'll give you a brandy and then all of us can
sleep."
"But I want to sleep with you."
"I honestly hadn't noticed." Roxas says, drily, "I thought you wanted to have
sex with me."
"Same thing." Axel murmurs, drowsily, and presses another kiss to the soft hair
on Roxas' neck, "And anyway, don't just want to have sex with you."
"No, I recall that from your attempt at serenading.  Having someone want to
fuck me like an animal isn't on the top of my list of things to do."
There's nothing but soft breathing coming from the redhead now, and no matter
how Roxas tries, he can't move the arm which is clamped around him.
"You're a menace." He says, softly, before giving up and letting sleep overtake
him.
Of course, as luck would have it, they both oversleep the next morning, which
means by lunchtime, everyone's speculating about what they did, who was on top,
and whether or not they're an item.  Roxas idly wonders if a high school has
this much gossip, or if this is something unique to Nobodies.  The betting pool
is already hitting 20k, and it's not even one'o'clock.  There's nothing anyone
in the castle enjoys as much as a good crank of the rumour mill, except perhaps
something soft and squishy to kill.  Roxas briefly entertains the thought of
sending each member of the Organisation a kitten, just to see what they'd do
with it, but discards it as financially unviable.  
"So, seen the snaps yet?" Axel asks, sliding into a seat next to him, their
thighs touching, "I think they're rather fetching."
"Someone got photos?" A nod, from Axel, "Kill me now."  Roxas' head thuds into
the table.
"It's not that bad.  At least no one noticed I didn't have my jeans on."
Twelve heads shoot up around the breakroom.
"You didn't?!"
Luxord calmly hands over the munny to the winner, Larxene, taking his cut, and
she scampers off, probably to hide it from her magpie-like boyfriend.
"Oh, I did." Axel says, quietly, "But Larxene promised me a quarter cut if I
helped her win."
He gets his palm onto the table just in time, as Roxas tries to slam his head
through the wood.
Since everyone already assumes they're having sex, Axel makes an excuse to be
in Roxas' bed every night.  And no matter how hard he tries to rail against it,
Roxas somehow always finds himself waking up to a faceful of spiky red hair,
and a manic grin.
This morning is no different, although Axel's been getting increasingly
amorous.
"Whatever that is you're rubbing against my thigh, move it or lose it."
"You wouldn't do that, kid.  You're too soft –"
Axel's voice is cut off as Roxas closes a hand around the offending appendage,
and squeezes… just not quite hard enough to hurt.
"You start… doing things like that… you'll turn a guy's head…" Axel chokes out,
eyes half-closed, "And then I'll never leave you alone."
"Oh, shut up." Roxas says, before straddling the older male and rocking their
groins together.
Afterwards, they lie together, Roxas' hair like a patch of sunlight for Axel to
bask in, arms held loosely around each other, and Axel kissing any piece of
skin he can reach.
"You're really not that bad." Roxas says, at last, grudgingly.
"You're the best thing to ever happen to me." Axel replies.
***** Judgement *****
20 – Judgement – The End
The end gives meaning to things.
Everything has been a lie, everything that never was, is, and everything that
can not have happened, has.  They are culpable now, burnt at the stake and
owned by the freedom they fought for.  That's what Xemnas says, when they find
themselves all back at the beginning again, changed, but not dead; those who
had fallen alive and well, if wary.  They discover quickly that they can only
just slip out of their world, are hemmed in by forces which, previously, they
could ignore and find a way past.
There are those who don't care, Axel pressed against Roxas, Zexion and Demyx
pretending they aren't making eye contact as often as possible, Marluxia
cradling Larxene like she's something precious, and Larxene letting
him.  Lexaeus watches Vexen like he doesn't remember where he last saw him, and
Saïx melts into the shadow next to Xemnas, as if he'd never stepped out of
it.  Only for a second, and then he steps away again, confused.
"I think," he says quietly, but everyone is silent to listen, "We need a
trial."
The mood is tense Where Nothing Gathers, Xemnas, for once, on the floor, his
throne empty, the others full.  They all look down at him, but the truth is,
they're up there because they're afraid to stand near him.  They've stood with
him, before, and they know what that gets them.  No one is going to risk that
again.
"I did only what was best for you."
"You murdered us." Vexen hisses, but stares, snake-like, at Saïx, who bows his
head.  There's guilt in Axel, too, despite the faces all being turned away from
him.
"I taught you how to be." Xemnas declares, but it's all falling flat.  He's
used to a captive audience, and now he is the one caged.
"You taught us how we could be," Roxas says, softly, "But you didn't teach us
what we should have been."
"You broke us." Lexaeus adds, solemnly.
"You made us wrong." Luxord.
"You taught us to follow." Xigbar.
"And never question." Zexion.
"You gave us nothing." Larxene.
"And then took that, too." Marluxia.
"You never helped any of us." Xaldin.
"You lied." Demyx says, finally, and the words are a death knell.
It's silent, in The Castle That Never Was, as they try and puzzle out a method
of execution, before Saïx returns with the relevant texts.
"This is what he taught us." He says, disgusted, throwing the books down onto
the library table, "Or at least, this is what he read before he screwed it over
and taught us the wrong version."
No one mentions that the books say nothing about ever getting a heart back.
They leave Xemnas in Soundless Prison.  He doesn't fight them, not now.  He
exists on their belief, their adoration, fear, loathing, always has, and now
not even his fellow scientists will look at him.  He's slumped in a corner when
Roxas comes, and for a moment, he just stands and stares.  This is the man who
has planned to use Sora – him – for his own ends, and yet he can not find it in
himself to hate.  He's flickering now, finds himself smiling, and lets Axel
tuck strands of blond – brown – blond hair behind his ears.
"They're going to let me go.  Sora, I mean." He says, at last, "Before you
die."
"You know they won't survive." Xemnas says, coldly, beginning to draw himself
up, before Roxas shoots him down with a look.
"They know."
It wasn't surprising, to realize that The World That Never Was ran on belief,
imagination, much like Xemnas himself.  What was surprising was that no one
wanted to run.
"I've had enough running to last a lifetime." Saïx said, with a rare smile.
"I'm staying." Larxene.
"It's no more than I deserve." Marluxia.
"We see it through to the end." Xaldin.
"We should." Luxord.
"Time to do something right." Xigbar.
"For once." Demyx.
"It's enough." Lexaeus.
"Repentance." Vexen.
"And judgment." Zexion
"We deserve to die." Axel says.
"I'm sorry." Is all Roxas can choke out, before Sora takes over, and he is
gone.
Xemnas dies silently, as each of them renounces him, and almost immediately,
they can feel the castle shudder.  It makes sense the castle will go last, as
the epicenter.  And so they wait.
Saïx goes first, because what was he, really, but a figment of Xemnas'
imagination?  The oldest follow, Zexion the last, clutching Demyx as he fades
into nothing, and then Demyx fades, too.  Marluxia and Larxene go together,
stretched out in the gardens, hands entwined like plant stems, before Lexaeus
vanishes, with nothing left to live for, back to back with an already fading
Luxord.  And then, the castle is quit, but for Axel.
He runs form room to room, trying to avoid the dark tendrils which creep in,
finding the dead centre of the castle, and hunkering down, back against the
wall.  He closes his eyes, and waits for it all to be over.
***** The World *****
21 – The World – Soul
               Everything in the right place.
He doesn't quite remember how he got onto the beach, because he's Sora-Roxas-
Sora, he's home, and – there's no one there to greet him, no one to say hi to,
or to hug, and what happened to them?
His thoughts are razor sharp, unusual, like strange fish swimming through his
head, telling him to move, now, to run, to go back to….  There's a strange
fuzziness in his head, he must have been knocked out for a time.  He looks
around, expecting to see someone with him, but for a minute, doesn't know what
to look for, a blond girl, maybe, a girl with dark hair, red hair, with… Kairi!
Sora' face lights up with a grin at the thought of seeing the girl, again,
knowing that she's safe.  He'd saved her, hadn't he?  But, saved her from
what?  He looks around.  There doesn't seem to be anything dangerous nearby,
and why is he looking for a black coat, anyway?  Why isn't his brain working
properly?
"Sora!" he hears, and takes a moment to realise that's him, now.  Or has he
always been Sora?  But that's –
"Kairi!"  He gets up, running towards the sound before he sees her, red hair
catching the wind, and she's a beacon, how could he have missed this, missed
her?  Then they're hugging, laughing as she topples over, hitting the sand a
little too hard, but she doesn't seem to mind.  She's got a hand in his hair,
and he thinks for a moment, they might kiss, like –
"Miss me?"
That's a deeper voice, from overhead, and he turns, rapidly, elbowing Kairi in
the stomach to see, and… it's Riku.  Of course it's Riku, who else would it
be?  Why is he expecting more red hair and…?  Sora bangs his hand against his
head, trying to silence all the questions, before realising – it's Riku.  He
leaps up, grabbing at his friend, squeezing him and shouting with joy.
"We made it!"
"Just about." Riku makes a show of patting himself down to check he's still all
there, and Sora blushes at the images his mind is giving him, things he could
do with pieces of Riku that are still there.
"You made it out okay, though?" Kairi asks later, when they're lying on the
beach, side by side.
"It wasn't bad, really," Sora says, thinking of black coats and green eyes,
"But I don't want to do it again!"
"It was harder, for me." Riku says, softly, as quiet as he can make it, "It was
like everything was falling apart."
"You really need to stop scheduling the end of the world for when I'm not
here." Sora says, laughing, but his voice is strange, another overlapping it,
like two voices speaking at once, like two people, for a split second, and his
voice resonates across worlds.
And Axel, wrapped in the embrace of a world whose only believers are dying or
dead, a world crumbling under his feet, looks up, and smiles, as The World That
Never Was, isn't.
***** The Ace of Pentacles *****
The Ace of Pentacles – The centre of things
Even the cyclone that is constantly changing has a heart
It doesn't take long to realise they're the only ones.  Once he's seen the
tank, it's understandable, once he knows that half of him is tucked up safe,
eyes closed, and that if he is whole, he will never again be the person that he
is.  Then, it makes sense that they're the only two.
He's not right, that's what he's concluded, he's far from perfect, far from the
near-complete beings of the others.  Roxas is nothing but a shadow side of
something still sat in a tank, like a shark in an aquarium, all numbed threat
behind that glass, the flash of fear you feel at seeing it morphing into
curiosity, interest, and then disdain.  They're the only two to still feel, and
Roxas isn't even sure Axel feels like he does.
The feelings are nothing but an awkward complication, wrapping around him at
night like Axel's arms, making every look, every press of a hand, into an
emotional ride.  When he's half-asleep, eyes closed, head back, he thinks he
can almost feel a heartbeat, the touch of something closer than skin and nearer
than faith.  Something the others call impossible, but which Xion claims to
see.
It isn't as if feelings are unheard of.  They all have lapses, moments where
emotions come to the fore in memory, and then are swept away by the inability
to step from the numbing prison of the castle.  But nothing like the way Axel
is, huddled next to the tank, watching Sora's chest rise, up and down,
slowly.  No one else has ever been this wracked with grief before; no one will
ever feel this way again.  This is how Roxas knows Axel feels – like he is
unique.  But now, they are two, and Roxas chokes back a lump in his throat at
seeing Axel there, dropping, hair flattening out, even.  This isn't his
exuberant partner, and he realises it's something like sadness, mixed with
guilt and pity that's painting him now.  Axel looks blue, pale, shifting, and
Roxas understands why Xion calls their emotions their 'colours'.
Trying to get Axel to leave the tank is like trying to get a child to leave the
zoo.  He's pressed against the glass, not watching, but almost listening, as if
he'll hear that final moment when Roxas ceases to breathe and Sora begins to do
so properly once more.  He can not be enticed with flesh, with food, with rest,
and so Roxas uses the only thing he has left at his disposal.
"Axel, please.  Come back.  Don't… sit here, with this… thing.  Please."
Axel doesn't move.
"Please," and Roxas hears his voice crack on this, "I need you to come back."
At this, the redhead looks up, meeting his eyes for the first time in weeks,
and seeing something in it he recognises.
"Please." Roxas says again, and it's enough.
Axel never closes his eyes when they have sex, and when Roxas asks him why, he
won't answer.  Roxas suspects it's something to do with missing out on
something that will soon be gone forever.  He doesn't voice it, though.
"W-what will happen to us?" Axel asks, very softly, into the dark.
"When?"
"When you're gone, and he's here."
"I – " and Roxas pauses for a moment, to think, "I don't know."
"Do you think anyone does?"
Roxas doesn't tell Axel it's unlikely that anyone cares enough to wonder what
will happen when Sora is free once more.  Some words, like some emotions, are
best kept to yourself.
***** The Ace of Chalices *****
The Ace of Chalices – Source of life
Everything comes from life, and from life comes everything
Roxas gains a fascination for his Somebody, when he sees the figure, suspended,
eyes closed against the ravages of time.  Not like Axel's fascination, sick and
depraved and little like worshipping your own destruction, but simply
fascinated with how the boy works, how it can be that he is both in the tanks
and standing outside of it, how their combined, yet separate, bodies can still
work.
He spends time pouring through books with Zexion as a study guide – asking
Vexen would be tantamount to telling Xemnas he'd worked out the limitations to
his future – and noting down how they became like they are.  Resisting the urge
to tear every note of it out of the books and burn them is difficult, but he
does so, and remains calm.  For all he knows, in the notes detailing the
change, there is a way to change them back.
When he's back, Sora finds himself developing a fascination with Roxas.  It
isn't enough for Roxas to feel what he does – which, thank you, puts an
entirely new spin on masturbation – but he has the ability to take over, to
shift, and show Sora what it's like to be carried around in the back of a
mind.  It's almost liberating, Sora finds, to let Roxas make sexual advances on
Riku, and feign ignorance in the morning, to let Riku puzzle it out in his own
way
But sometimes it's hard to carry all of Roxas' memories around along with his
own.  Roxas knows things that Sora never did, and he presses them into his mind
at the most awkward of times.  Sora's still unsure whether or not Roxas chooses
to shove sexual pictures into his head just as Sora's taken a swig of
something, but he presumes so.  It happens far too often for it to be simply
coincidental.  
He wonders, though, how easy it is for Roxas, being tucked up inside someone
else forever, never allowed out in public, for fear of – Sora's not really sure
what Roxas is so afraid of, but he goes tense whenever Riku mentions taking
Roxas out to dinner, and lets Sora filter back through, gradually, knowing that
the slower the change, the more it spooks Riku.  Soon, he just stops asking.
Roxas doesn't know what he'd do without Sora.  The kids lets him take up
residence in his head – not that he knows he has a choice, but whatever – and
screw around with his boyfriend, and never pushes an issue.  Although doing so
would be pretty hard, considering what it would look like.  Enough people
already think Sora's crazy, without him going around talking to himself.  So
Roxas is grateful, in his own way, ensuring he's always waiting for the
bullies, taking care of Sora in tiny ways that no one else sees.  It's thanks
to Sora, after all, that Roxas still has a life.
***** The Ace of Wands *****
The Ace of Wands – The ego
Know yourself and do not be afraid
He's never doubted himself.  He's never dared doubt himself, not with people
relying on him, not when he was the most trusted, most honoured, and not
now.  It's always been him against the world, more so now, against the worlds,
pressing back the boundaries between real and unreal, right and wrong, and
never daring to look back.  He's counterbalancing twelve, and sometimes it
feels like the scale is weighted unfairly.
Squaring his shoulders, he gives orders, passing out directions left and right,
never stopping to wonder why he does this, whether what he does is right.  He's
drawing up the curtain on a life they can not have, and showing them all the
ways they can be strong, and all the ways they can fail.  He builds them up,
stronger, has had them remade into something greater than one man could ever be
– Kingdom Hearts – a whole which is far, far greater than the sum of its parts.
Xemnas has little say in the way the worlds work, but he changes the fabric of
reality often enough that he knows how to manipulate it, wheedle what he wants
out of an outcome.  This is what he has done with all of them, hooking them out
of their spaces and making them find a place by his side.  He knows he does
them few favours, in this, but without emotions, there is no weakness, without
weakness, no defeat, and without defeat, there must be victory.  This is his
hypothesis, but as yet, it is not proving itself true.  Not true enough to have
ruined lives to chase it.
He's not afraid, not anymore.  A pedant would indicate that he can't be, now,
and that's true, but for more reasons than one might think.  They depend on
him, they look to him to be their guide in the world he's brought them
into.  He is their god, and without commandments, the flock will wander and,
ultimately, die.  He is their leader, he will be their everything, until he can
find a way to bring them to salvation.  He knows he has his contemporaries in
every dictator who's ever sworn something was for the good of the people, but
he knows just as firmly that nothing would have happened without those men.
He takes his time, this time, walking out to address them all; hands spread
wide, a plaintiff, in his right to demand respect, and authority.  He is unused
to the looks he gets, not the mild hatred, the resentment, the darkness he is
so used to, but open fear, and pity.  Only in their eyes is there even a hint
of anger.  He has brought them to this, brought them down to his level, stolen
and broken the things they once loved most, and made them work for it, time and
time again.  He can not doubt himself, not now, not ever.  Because if he doubts
himself, then what else is left that is true?
***** The Ace of Swords *****
The Ace of Swords – Thought
May thought be your blade, penetrate deeply and stop only at the truth
He isn't sure when it started, and he's not sure it's ending anytime
soon.  He's kept up dalliances with Lexaeus for months now, ever since Zexion
stared at him dispassionately and asked if it had been good for him.  And Vexen
knows that there's something wrong with the boy, that he didn't quite react
like the rest of them, from being the first to be brought over, and the
youngest, but still… he'll never be Ienzo.  But he isn't Even, either.
There's a little frisson of desire running through Ienzo, something burning
through him, the excitement of maybe being caught, any minute, on his knees
before Vexen's lover, both of them out in the open, the centre of the storeroom
they are supposed to be arranging.  Any moment, Vexen could come in, to
restock, or to ensure their behaviour, and they'll be found, compromised, and
Zexion honestly isn't sure if he'd be happier at Vexen knowing he does this job
better, or just indulging himself in the ruins of their relationship.  Both
would be a favourable outcome.
For now, he loses himself in it, the weight of the cock in his mouth, the
moans, soft, little moans, from the big man above him, noises which Zexion
loves to pull out of those stronger than he.  Lexaeus has his hands in his
hair, urging the boy on, pressing in deeply, but Zexion knows who really has
the control here.  With the most precious part of the man between his teeth,
he's owning him, he's powerful, here on his knees, more powerful than anyone
else will be.
Vexen watches them from behind the edge of the shelf, palming himself through
suddenly too-tight trousers.  He knows he shouldn't, knows it's wrong, but what
do those words mean to a Nobody?  Besides, they've both been his, at one time
or another, why shouldn't he watch?  He asks himself rhetorical questions,
keeping his mind steady as Lexaeus gives in and starts to fuck that pretty
little mouth, Zexion's breath panting out with each thrust, a parody of
passion.  The boy won't like it, but he's pretty sure Lexaeus doesn't care for
what the boy wants, at this moment.  He'll sate himself, and then take his
criticism, hazy with afterglow.  Vexen doesn't need to muffle his sound as he
orgasms, sharing that space with Lexaeus, Zexion resolute in his distaste for
pleasure.
Vexen doesn't know when it started, but it doesn't show any signs of
ending.  With a wry look at today's experiment, derivative, childish, he walks
back to his room, wondering if Lexaeus will join him like nothing is wrong, or
make excuses to return to the boy.  Either way, Vexen knows the only way he'll
get his lover back is when Zexion is finished with him.  The boy uses lovers
like books, only interested until the story ends and the plot is laid out in
front of him for study.  His eyes tell everyone this, and hold a special weight
fro Vexen, reminding him that he was a dull book, too, and short.
There's a weight to this thoughts now, as Lexaeus joins him in bed, and Vexen
tries not to think of who else his hands have been on today.  He wonders,
abstractly, what is wrong with him, that no one wishes to stay with
him.  Didn't they love, previously, did they not care for each other, and long
for partnerships?  He knows the truth, now.  They're not human, barely alive,
because a creature without love can not sustain itself.  Part of him wishes for
Ienzo, part of him for Lexaeus to be his, alone, once more, but most of him
doesn't care.  If he could feel, he expects that truth would hurt.
***** The King of Pentacles *****
The King of Pentacles – Connection with things and places
There are points of arrival and things that are important
"You'll find someone new."
Axel starts upright, only to be pulled down again by solid, warm arms, have his
hair nuzzled and petted until he calms.
"You will, though.  You're a master at it."
The redhead stares at his lover before settling in closer, nipping at the long
column of throat until he elicits a purr.  Vexen doesn't bring it up again, but
when he arrives, when the kid arrives, he nods, just a little, and smiles.  And
Axel knows he has been granted clemency.
"Look, I know you've fucked everyone else around here, but I'd rather not be
next on the list."
"What do you mean, everyone?"
"Oh, like you don't know.  Vexen, Demyx…"
Axel walks away whilst the kid's still listing all these conquests on his
fingers.
It's the question of Demyx which makes it all worse, really.  He's had Demyx,
true; twice, when he was convincing him that he wanted to join to
Organisation.  After that, the guy's never looked at him, only having eyes for
Zexion, as if the scrawny kid had something he didn't, but it's not like Axel
really minded.  He's made a friend, maybe his first real friend, and he hadn't
really needed sex in order to cement it.  Demyx is loud, friendly, obnoxious,
open, and everything Axel sees himself as being, just a little brighter, a
little less afraid.  He feels like he'd do anything to keep away the tarnish
which has covered him, to keep Demyx shining just a little longer.  But he
hates the idea that the kid assumes he sleeps with everything that moves.  Even
if it's not entirely incorrect.
"Xigbar said you used to sneak into his room."
"What the fuck is it with you and who I've slept with or not?"
The kid doesn't have any answer but an imperious glare before he sweeps out of
the room.
Yeah, the kid's got it right.  When he was new, before Vexen took a more than
professional interest, he used to go to Xigbar, and the man would let his take
up half his bed with his skinny frame, and never once ask for anything in
return.  Doesn't mean Axel didn't offer, a couple of times, and he was never
rebuffed, but it had nothing to do with want and so much more to do with
need.  Just because the kid sees no reason to make himself feel in the most
obvious way doesn't mean that no one else did.  And Xigbar was a warm,
comforting presence, someone older to go to, to believe in, and someone who
would never press him for anything he didn't already want to give.  There are
things which are sacred, and Axel hates that the kid is making this about him,
making him feel dirty, used up, like an old whore scoping out new talent and
appalling it.  He's not been treated badly, he's never begged for the
attention, it's just happened.  What's done is done, and can not be undone.
"So, you – "
"Don't even start, kid." Axel says, and begins to walk away.
"Wait.  I didn't mean… I mean, I just…."
"Yeah, so did I, once."
When the kid slips into bed beside him, Axel doesn't say anything, just slings
an arm over the shivering body.  He's ice cold, clearly been outside the door
for a while, trying to find the courage to come in, so he allows the freezing
back to warm up against him, rubbing tiny circles on the kid's
shoulders.  There's a tiny sound, something like a sob and a laugh, and Axel
know he wasn't meant to hear it, so doesn't even pause, just keeps his hand
against skin until the boy quietens down.  He's bony, although not compared to
Axel, and awkward to hold, but there isn't a thing in this world or another
which could make him let go now.  He understands, finally, what all the
questions have been about.  They haven't been damning at all.
"Kid?"
"Sorry, I'll – "
"Roxas.  Stay."
***** The King of Swords *****
The King of Swords – A thought is faced with criticism
Only by comparing different opinions can the limits of your thinking be found
"We could run."
"There's nowhere we could go."
"Don't be stupid.  There's a thousand worlds out there."
"A million, dead and dying.  There is nowhere we could go that they would not
find us."
"Sometimes," Vexen says, softly, "I wish – "
"Well," Zexion spits, "That's childish of you."
It's been a swift change, this, Zexion going from eager, Ienzo-like child to
this; cold, dark, like water under ice, unfathomable.  Vexen doesn't quite know
what he's said or done to make this happen, but he knows unequivocally that it
was his fault.  Everything which ahs been done to the child is his fault,
everything.  It was even his idea to bring him into the fold.  How could he
have been so stupid?  And he was stupid, this is something which Zexion will
never let him forget, and which he would not, even if he could.
"You're with me today."
"Don't presume to tell me what I am to do."
Vexen freezes.  He has no idea how to respond to that, but Zexion's sauntering
over, easy smirk lifting his mouth in a parody of those innuendo-laden smiles
he's begun giving Lexaeus, draping his coat over his body and slipping through
a portal.  His head pops back through, and he arches one eyebrow.
"Well, old man?"
Vexen takes a minute to staunch the blood where he's bitten into his lip,
before he, too, vanishes into the dark.
Zexion knows precisely what he's doing, pressing every button Vexen puts up for
show, viciously, deliberately, knowing that he's hurting him.  Or would be, if
they could ever really be hurt.  There might be a slight twinge of something
when he sees the man, pale, aching, clearly hiding something behind those
piercing eyes, but whatever it is his, Zexion is sure it isn't important.  He
knows, academically, that this enjoyment in causing pain to others is an
emotional response, no doubt left over from his time as Ienzo, but it doesn't
feel wrong, doesn't feel like anything.  He supposes that's correct.
"You honestly thought it would make things better, didn't you?"
Vexen flinches, shoulders hunching in.
"You honestly believed you were doing the right thing." Zexion continues,
openly sneering, "And I was, what, supposed to be grateful?  Wanted me to climb
into your bed and say thank you, Daddy?"
He watches with satisfaction as Vexen's knuckles go white, and there is a sound
of shattering glassware.
"Clumsy, Daddy, clumsy.  Want me to bend over to clear it up, want me on my
hands and  - "
"Enough!" Vexen shouts, lunging towards the boy, who flees in an instant, not
man enough to face what his words have done.  The blonde sinks to the floor,
ignoring his bleeding hand, and for the first time in a month, since his
heartbeat fled, finds himself crying.
For the next three months, everything passes in a blur.  Vexen finds his lover
in flagrante with Zexion, and says nothing, refusing to give in to emotion once
more.  He watches, quietly, as the two spend less and less time together now
the new blonde is here, and sees every single smile Zexion gives him.  Is it
Demyx, is he the reason why Zexion smiles?  Vexen doesn't know, but he feels
something loosen in his chest, like the ice is finally receding.  When he can
watch Zexion, hand in hand with Demyx, and feel nothing but a hint of joy, he
goes to Lexaeus, and weeps.  The big man wraps an arm around him, petting his
hair, telling him it will all be alright, that there's nothing to be upset
about.
Vexen doesn't tell him that he weeps out of joy, and relief.
***** The King of Wands *****
The King of Wands – Search for the right choice
Don't be centred only on yourself, but have self-confidence
They've grown old, he realises, one night, lying next to his lover.  They're
old now, breathing out slowly, procrastinating everything but simple existence,
purposeless and caught in limbo.  They know the future, and the onslaught it
brings, know the past and what part it has played in who they are, and yet they
do nothing with this knowledge.  
"Are we even human anymore?" he asks, quietly, and is almost startled when
Xaldin move beside him, used to his lover being little more than a silent body
next to his.
"We're as close as we can get." the other says, and they both settle down to
sleep, back to back, like reflections.
"We're going to die like this." Xigbar says, and Xaldin forces himself to get
over the torpor in his limbs, to fight the honey moving through his veins and
turn to face his partner, face twisted into something which is nearly an
expression, less a mockery than a distinct lack of effort.
"What do you mean?"
"Like this."
"Heartless?"
"Are you?"
"Aren't you?"
They never speak in complete sentences now, snipping pieces of conversation out
from the past and feeding them to each other like a pair of bizarre absurdists,
neither really sure what the other means, but noting the tone enough to glean
it, from context.  Sometimes, it feels like their entire relationship is
nothing but context.
"Aren't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Afraid."
Xigbar twists his head, aware of how much more effort it seems, now, to
communicate with someone he has spent a lifetime with.  Several lifetimes, if
you count those which they have ended.
"Afraid of what?"
"Dying."
And there it is, stark truth, like black font on a white background, sure to
stand out until it is surrounded by other words and phrases, until it becomes
just one of many.
"Not anymore.  Are you?"
"Not anymore."
Xaldin doesn't know when he started feeling his age, feeling the ache, the
sting, knowing that they will never be complete, and that every single action
merely furthers murder and the resulting stupor.  They never feel so alive as
when they're killing something.
Some days, it feels like all they do is lie on this mattress together, becalmed
at sea, unable to set a foot over the edge in case of sharks.
"Were we always like this?"
"We've grown old."
"Are you afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"I can't remember."
They wrap themselves up in each others' arms, closed in and a pair, against
something they can not quite grasp anymore, but which they remember from their
youth.
"Have we grown old together?"
"We surely never would have managed it apart."
Love leaves a mark.  And if, these days, between them, it's more of a faded
scar than the livid brand it once was, it's still more than either of them
thinks they deserve.
***** The King of Chalices *****
The King of Chalices – Experience an emotion intensely
Surrender to feelings and don't withdraw
This is all they have.  Hands tight, bruising, the sound of skin against skin,
friction, hands, everywhere, harsh breaths, panting, curled together in some
mockery of affection.  And this is all they have.
It's not spoken of, but Demyx knows Saïx was responsible, in his way, for
Zexion's death, but he knows, too, that the marks he traces on Saïx's skin
aren't there out of some fascination for self-mutilation, or a need for
pain.  To hold hands would be to admit sentiment, to hold each other would be
to admit emotion, and neither of them can afford it.
They kiss like leaving is all they know, caress as if skin is something alien
to be examined, and though it isn't right, it's enough, for the moment.  When
you believe pain is all you deserve, some seek it out, hunt for those who will
hurt them, make them feel their guilt and culpability.  They, instead, have
hunted out companionship, an eye to meet across the room, someone with whom
there is no need for communication.  What they have isn't something you'd find
in any other environment, the clinging hands and the frantic looks which negate
the cold lack of emotion under the façade.
Solemn, and promise-bound, they wrap wrists in hands, and grip each other,
tightly.  They know there is nothing intrinsically right, and nothing
intrinsically wrong, only the view from either side of the line.  Time passes
on, and everything will change, everything melting away from this to that, from
here to there.  For the moment, they have this, and for this, they have the
moment.  They can and do not ask for anything else.
"Do you think we're darker," Demyx asks, one night, frozen breath hanging in
the air, "Inside, I mean, than anyone else?"
Saïx has nothing to say, but can not leave the question unanswered.
"Perhaps.  There are those who have lost more, who have felt more."
They both carefully leave out the names, but know who they are speaking of.
"I wonder what it feels like, to be in love."
"I used to think I knew." Saïx says, softly, with none of his usual chill, "And
then I realised that what I knew was merely obsession."
"Sometimes, though…"
"It can be love, too."
"I thought I knew," Demyx whispers, leaning in for a kiss, "And it was nothing
like this."
It isn't a spiteful thought; neither is deliberately trying to hurt the
other.  How can you hurt something with no emotions, anyway?  Anyone else would
see their conversations as sharp, poisonous, both of them dancing around the
issue at hand, but the truth is, they don't need to talk about it.  As far as
they're concerned, it happened, and there is nothing to be done.  The idea that
they feel something for those who are gone, or those they were with previously,
is abhorrent, alien, wrong.  And they've had a lifetime to get used to not
being right.
***** Queen of Swords *****
Queen of Swords – A thought develops
In thought, where you arrive is not where you started
They were fucking around, really, no excuse not to go back to the castle, but
finding one anyway, Xaldin with his serious-face firmly on, and Xigbar
snickering behind his hand whenever the frown deepened.  He knew they weren't
seriously going to wander through the sewage pipes to see if any had escaped;
they were just going to take a leisurely stroll along the above-ground route
and possibly have a crafty smoke, too.  That was what they used to do; this was
an old pattern, a holding pattern, one for the ages.  There was no way they
were going to –
Xaldin had stopped at a sewage grate, and was prying the edges up, looking, for
all intents and purposes, like he meant for them to go down there.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"We're checking the sewage pipes."
"As if," Xigbar scoffed, waving a pack of smokes from inside his coat, "We're
going to smoke these, then pop over to Port Royal and find a good bar, that's
what we're damn well doing."
Xaldin stared at his partner.
"We're checking the pipes.  It's in the mission."
"I remember when you were fun," Xigbar smirked, lighting up, taking a lungful
in before exhaling as if he owned all the troubles in the worlds, "Do you
remember?  We'd party all day, party all night, and three weeks later be
hallucinating orange giraffes who'd decoded the Rosetta Stone."
"We were different people then."
"Spoilsport."
Xaldin rolled his eyes, flicking a stray dread with enough force for it to
catapult off Xigbar's nose, then resumed prying the grate away.
"Oh, come on.  I know a nice little bar, a few nice girls… we could go
dancing.  You used to love dancing."
"I was a lot younger then." Xaldin retorted, not looking up.
"Age is nothing but a number.  Anyway, if you're young enough to wander sewers
without asking for danger munny – or any munny at all, come to think of it –
then you're young enough to go whoring." Xigbar slid a hand over his friend's
shoulder, emulating the touch of a woman, before he was brushed off.
"I didn't know you still knew those girls."  Xaldin said, referring to some
whores they'd known several years ago, in Traverse Town.  Nice girls, but they
never wrote.
"New girls.  Prettier, thinner, saucy accents."
"Is that why we had to pry you off Luxord at the Christmas party?"
"Nah, that was just boredom and eggnog." Xigbar yawned, flicking his cigarette
butt through the grate.  "Come on.  I'll even pay."
"We've got a job to do."
"You're getting crabby in your old age."
Xigbar was abruptly silenced as Xaldin pressed him to the wall long enough to
get a portal up and drag him into it.  They were spat out into the bustle of
Agrabah, and Xigbar made a face.
"So now we're inspecting the sand, right?  Checking the last grain in case
something's hiding under it –"
Again he was cut off, this time with his back to the wall and his open mouth
being thoroughly plundered.  He spluttered, pushing Xaldin away.
"What in Hades' name?"
"Well, you were talking about the old days.  I thought you could use a
refresher course.  Strip and present."
Xigbar's eyes were comically wide.
"What, here?  But… it's market day!"
Xaldin sighed theatrically and dragged him into an alleyway, muttering under
his breath.
"Now, are you going to do as I ask?"
Glancing about suspiciously, Xigbar obeyed, slipping out of his clothing before
placing his hands on the wall and leaning forwards.  He hissed a little as he
felt gloved hands spread his cheeks, and cool air ghost across his flesh.
"Always have been a pretty little thing when you obey orders." The mocking
voice whispered, "You do this for anyone else?  Like the slut you are?"
"Get on with it, you tease." Xigbar said, voice muffled by the wall, the arch
of his back begging for more.
Xigbar felt the presence at his back shift, but knew better than to look
up.  He heard Xaldin's coat hit the ground, then the tiny pop of a cork out of
a small bottle.
"Oil?  In this day and age?  I believe they have pre-packaged –"
A swift slap of palm to buttock made Xigbar bite his tongue, and instead of
commenting, he simply placed his cheek against the wall, spreading his legs
further.
"It's the orange.  You used to like it in the old days."
Xigbar made a sound which sounded a little like a laugh, and was rewarded with
another sharp smack, eyelids fluttering closed.  In that moment he felt his
hands drawn together, and the unmistakable rasp of rope between them before he
was leant back to the wall, face pressed into sandstone, hands secured to a
tether in the wall, clearly meant for livestock of some kind.  It took barely a
fraction of a second for Xaldin's fingers to be exploring between his legs,
dipping in, teasing and taunting until the other man gave up, and asked:
"Please.  Please, I need you."
The game won, Xaldin smirked, pressing two fingers in almost immediately,
hearing the low groan as the other adjusted to the burn and stretch, scissoring
swiftly.  He pressed unerringly forwards, taking audible cues from the sounds
Xigbar was making, and visual ones from the arch of the spine, how the other
man's thigh trembled.
"More than… ready." Xigbar panted out, unwilling to let go of all control, even
now.
"You're ready when I say you are." Xaldin shot back, but withdrew his fingers
anyway, using the rest of the oil to slick himself with, before slowly pushing
in.
Xigbar froze at the burn, trying to resist the automatic reaction to tense up,
but Xaldin kept going to the hilt, teeth in his lip trying to stop the moan
escaping, but to no avail.
"If you're… going to be… that quick, you could… offer a reacharound." Xigbar
breathed out between gritted teeth, "A gentleman… always offers."
"Anymore quips like that and you'll have to find someone else to… give you a
hand." Xaldin said, drawing back before pressing in once more.  Xigbar's eyes
rolled, although whether at the pun or the sensation, he would never
say.  After that, everything blurred into one, rough stone grazing Xigbar's
cheek, the pull of the rope at his wrists, the heat of the man above him, the
sun beating down and the sound of the market just beyond the wall, reminding
him that there was no assurance they'd be left alone for long.  When he felt
Xaldin's hand snake down to roughly stroke him, hearing the pants of breath at
his ear, he breathed one final gasp before howling his completion, listening to
the low moan behind him.  They slumped against the wall, sweaty and spent,
hearing all of life's fragile pleasures going on around them.
"So, drinks?"
"I thought we were whoring tonight?" Xaldin said, slinging an arm around
Xigbar's shoulders, "What happened, get cold feet?  Or sore – "
"Say it, and I'll make you a eunuch.  And keep it as a trophy."
"Sex toy, more like."
"You'd be lucky."
The two sauntered companionably through Tortuga, heading for a bar they knew
well, where ladies of a certain virtue rarely dared to venture.
"So," Xigbar asked again, "Drinks?"
"Might clear all that sand."
"You're complaining about the sand?  You?" Xigbar said, full of mock outrage,
"I've got it in places you don't even want to think about!"
"You don't know what kind of places on you I like to think about." Xaldin shot
back, as they slipped in through the door.  For now, they had warmth, they had
companionship, and they had security.  As well as a few rounds of drinks.  What
else could they ask for?
***** The Queen of Wands *****
The Queen of Wands – Harmony with yourself
Don't have remorse or regrets, but feel comfortable with yourself
They've only been working together for two weeks when Zexion props himself up
on tiptoe, kisses him, and then vanishes, leaving Vexen with a lab to clean up
and a smile on his face.  It should be complex, he thinks, and surely Zexion
believes that it will be, but the blond got over that a long time ago.  He has
had time to process the way Zexion spoke, the way he felt; when he could not
admit to himself that he felt anything at all.  He was a child, and the young
adult he has grown into is something spectacular, wit shining in his eyes,
fully aware of how good he looks.  Vexen knows who he has to thank for that,
which only makes it easier to know that Demyx is no longer as free and calm as
he once was.
Neither of them really likes working at Marluxia's request, and Zexion proves
it by making faces behind the villain's back whilst Vexen is trying to explain
research notes, and pie charts.  He nearly chokes on his tongue, but gets his
own back by slowly unbuttoning his lab coat whilst Zexion gives his own talk,
revealing that he'd been woken late enough that any other clothing had been
unnecessary.  Watching his protégé go red is almost as wonderful as, when
Marluxia leaves, feeling him crowd into his personal space and kiss him
breathless.  They go no further, splitting apart like amoeba as Marluxia pokes
his head back in, and they each return to their work, silently.  But this isn't
like the silence when they were newly made, haughty and dark with things
unsaid; simply the silence between two people who no longer need words.
It's late when they're allowed to finish, the two of them making identical,
lip-curling faces at Marluxia as he gestures to the door, as if offering them
something of worth, and Vexen doesn't know how to broach the subject of
earlier, or later, or now.  Zexion, however, sees no need, simply wrapping his
hand around Vexen's, the way he did when he was small, and allowing himself to
be walked to bed.  Once more, there is no awkwardness, Zexion smirking as he
undresses, knowing Vexen will like what he sees, perhaps more so for having
never really had it, and Vexen merely having the one garment to bed rid
of.  Once they are curled up in bed together, lazily running hands over smooth
skin, Zexion presses a sweet kiss to his elder's hair, before settling in for
sleep.  Vexen remains awake for a time, listening to the breathing of the man
next to him, and counting up all the times he thought this would never happen.
"Do you think – "
"It's nor more wrong than anything else." Zexion murmurs, gently wrapping an
arm around Vexen, tangling his fingers in blonde hair.
"You don't worry?"
"Of course I do.  But not as much as you do."
The smaller man rolls them over, taking his position on top, skin to skin, the
two of them just breathing in each other, drinking in something they had
through to be impossible.
"I never thought you'd let me…" Zexion trails off, burying his face in Vexen's
shoulder.
"There wouldn't ever have been a time when I'd have stopped you." Vexen
whispers, running his hand over that slender back, following the bumps of
vertebrae.
When they couple, it's different from anything Zexion's done before.  He
remembers the first flush of love with Demyx, the vicious way he played
Lexaeus, the coldly clinical way he saw sex before, and laughs at himself, just
a little.  This feels like something entirely new, and yet older than time,
something they should have done years ago, and have not, because he was too
blind to see what he could have.  Every which way they arrange their limbs
becomes a constellation of perfection and intimacy, never too close, never too
much.  It is the most exhilarating feeling, and reminds Zexion why feeling was
ever something he'd wished to do.  Lying together, wrapped tightly enough that
there is no space between their over-warm bodies, breath mingling, Zexion
realizes he has never needed to earn forgiveness.  It was always here, in every
kiss, in every touch, and in every single word.  He wraps himself in his
forgiveness, his lover, and smiles.
***** The Queen of Chalices *****
The Queen of Chalices – Harmony of emotions
Live emotions fully without getting swept away or worn out
There's something easy in the harmony between them, the two smiles twinned,
wicked and sleek, slinking through the darkness together.  They're dangerous,
and they love it, revelling in their iniquitous actions and malevolent
movements, chasing each other soundlessly down cobbled streets, invading all
the rooms where happy, laughing people spend their days.  They're told they
don't know what happiness is, but Axel knows he feels a sliver of it lodge
itself into place, between his third and fourth ribs, every time Roxas smiles
at him.
"We could go, couldn't we?"
"Where would we go?"
"Anywhere but here, Rox.  Anywhere but here."
Tonight, they're both full of adrenalin, a close call making them breathless
and giddy as they crash into the square, their harsh breaths the only sound in
the dark.  Roxas catches Axel's eye, blue meeting green, and they grin at each
other, before crashing together into a fierce kiss.  Xemnas can argue that
there's nothing there but need, lust, want, but Roxas knows it isn't true.  No
one kisses like that if they don't know how to feel.  Every time they're hand
to hand, cheek to cheek, like ballroom dancers, there's a noise, something they
can't quite find, something which falters, dying out again.  But it's
there.  And if no one else can hear it, it's only because they haven't got the
right mind for listening.
They lie, wrapped together, and Roxas holds his breath, listening.
"Can you hear it?" Axel asks, voice low, although there's not need to whisper.
"Shhh."
"But you can hear it?"
"Shhh."
It's faint, but when they lie together like this, chest to chest, it
resonates.  Thump-thump.  Thump-thump.  It makes Roxas want to peel his skin
back, makes him want to see it, see what makes this delicate, fluttering sound,
what makes his chest rise and sink like there's a butterfly caught inside
it.  There's something there, something making them different, setting their
partnership aside from the others.  They know it.
This is what makes them lie together, bodies entangled on the clock tower, the
setting sun casting a red glow over everything, Roxas' hair shifting to Axel's
colour, and the absolute silence pervading, the two of them hand in hand,
listening to it.  They've told no one, they daren't, and wouldn't want to even
if there were no consequences.  This is something for just the two of them,
something they can cherish together.  Sometimes Axel wishes they didn't just
have to watch the trains, wishes they could just get on one and go, go
anywhere.
"Where would we go?"
"Anywhere but here, Rox.  Anywhere but here."
The practicality of it is never discussed; it doesn't have to be.  Their lives
of nothing are hard enough to sustain, nothingness difficult to hold onto when
you've no idea what shape it should be, and besides, as Roxas always asks,
where would they go?  Axel cups a hand over his ear pressing to Roxas' chest,
listening, but still hears nothing.  
"They only beat when we're right next to each other."
"When you make that trip, then," Roxas says, with a knowing smile, "You'd
better take me with you."
"Take you where?" Axel asks, softly, pressing them chest to chest, listening to
the steady noise, thump-thump, thump-thump.
"I guess we could go anywhere.  Anywhere but here."
***** The Queen of Pentacles *****
The Queen of Pentacles – Harmony with the environment
Harmony between us and the world that surrounds us is the basis of happiness
There's only one place that Saïx can really be himself and no one minds.  There
are a hundred worlds they visit and only one where he knows that there will be
no judgement.  When he portals through to the Pridelands, blue-black ruff and
high, mocking laugh, he knows there will always be somewhere he'll fit in.
He likes taking Demyx, because the boy will always be a cheetah, lithe and
slender, and the perfect cat to chase for a little while.  There's no real
challenge there, and Demyx doesn't use all of his speed, letting the hyena
catch him and pounce, laughing loudly for the veldt to hear.  Saïx will bat the
cat around a little, and then the chase is on again, Demyx using a little more
speed, running too fast until the chasing hyena runs out of speed.  Then he
slows down, sauntering, and Saïx uses the burst of speed he's saved in order to
catch up, and cuff the silly cat round the head.  
It feels good to let go, to just run and run, searching less for heartless, or
hearts to claim, but more for certainty, knowledge, and a lack of
persecution.  Sometimes, they like it enough to chase each other right out of
the world and back to the castle, Saïx pursuing to the door of Demyx's room,
where he'll pounce.  They're not a couple, not in the strictest possible sense,
and everyone knows that young Zexion has his eye on the blond, but it's the
first time Saïx has had fun since he joined, and he isn't about to give it up
without a fight.
He takes Demyx everywhere, over desks, in doorways, any flat or nearly-flat
surface they can find, the freedom of the Pridelands drawing them together,
leaving both of them grinning and panting as they mouth at each other.  Xemnas
may ask them to keep their spectacles to their rooms, but at this moment, they
don't care, curving smiles meeting to nip sharp little bites into lips and
throat.
Next mission, the Pridelands again, and when Xemnas goes in to find them, a
lemur with all the dignity of his kind, he watches the blue-black hyena giggle
as he pins the golden cat, and almost doesn't leap aside when a large paw thuds
down next to him.  The ensuing rescues mission is full of Saïx's high laugher,
and the lower, purring chuckle of the cheetah, the two of them far more
absorbed in each other than making sure he doesn't become Scar's lunch.  When
they return, he bans them from the Pridelands for two weeks, expecting the
liaison to stop.
Instead, they're caught more often, snickering in corners, wrapped around each
other, found, of all places, in Xemnas' chambers, and even whilst he's
chastising them, he has the vague sense that they're trying not to
giggle.  It's unbecoming, he says, sending them to their respective
rooms.  That lasts all of half an hour, the two of them busying themselves in
the kitchen, whilst an impatient Xaldin swats jokingly at them to get out of
the way of the oven.
When the ban is lifted, the two of them make sidelong glances at each other,
smiling, before they're given a mission.  They walk through the portal, and
before it winks closed, Xemnas watches the cheetah and the hyena dash through
the grasslands, the high-pitched whoop of Saïx's laugh rising above them, into
the deep blue sky.
***** The Princess of Cups *****
The Princess of Cups – An emotion that gains strength
The heart can not be controlled
They're not sure why it's such a surprise to everyone, like they're playing
with a thousand strands of story and they're crossing the wrong threads over,
crafting and knotting it into something which never should have been.  For the
two of them, it seems like everyone else is the wrong side of the cat's cradle,
so confused by the web that they can't see that which should be obvious.
It's subtle, obviously, neither being the type to hold hands in the corridors,
or beg for shared missions – they leave that the to boys, Larxene's lip
curling, scornful as she watches Axel dog Roxas' steps, chasing him down,
almost hunting.  Xion smiles; bright, innocent, because she can not help it, as
yet unused to being judged for every expression made.  And it isn't like
Larxene to pick up the puppy, but this time, it was irresistible.  With the
boys more and more wrapped up in their little internal war, there is little
room for a trusty lieutenant, so she takes her own in dark hair, deep eyes, and
a frail understanding of what it is to be alive.
The two of them are brittle, easily fractured, and it doesn't take much to send
them both back to the gangs they came from, tangled up in pink, in red, in
blond, but they always come back.  There's something, Xion reckons, which they
don't feel, not like she does, not like she can make Larxene feel; something
deeper than casual rutting, like it will always be different for girls.
It's Larxene who spots her when she takes the music box, setting it up in her
room and just staring at it, watching the little girl twirl around to the
twinkling music, so small, so slender, so perfect, and for a moment, the blonde
can see it all laid out in hear head.  She's wonder if she, too, is made to
move by gears and cogs, whether they're real or metaphorical, whether she could
ever have been a little girl, with this as a gift, trundling around, hiding
make-up, a string of pearls, photographs of parents.  It's the sort of thought
which can not exist dispassionately, and merely the fact that Larxene sees it
means she knows Xion feels it.  Two days later, the music box is found, broken,
under Demyx's bed, and whilst he protests innocence, Xion watches Larxene's
eyes.  It's the only part of her which remembers how to smile.
At night, cocooned in warm arms and warmer blankets, Xion pets flaxen hair, and
wonders what her purpose is.  She knows she has no past, and no future, only a
long line of present, stretched out around her.  She knows she has no heart,
too, no heart to be retrieved.  That is Roxas' destiny, and she's simply there
to ensure the plan's pulled off without a hitch.  In the dark, with Larxene
slowly breathing out beside her, Xion wonders what it would take to take his
place.
***** The Princess of Swords *****
The Princess of Swords – A thought takes shape
A thought can grow freely in many directions or can be used for an objective
They don't get much of a chance to get out, so it's worthwhile that when they
do, they make it big.  Larxene slinks down the stairs, past a leering Marluxia,
in an outfit which can barely be called clothing, short skirt slit high on the
thigh, showing stocking-tops.  The top of her is decently covered, at least,
until she unzips the black, clinging top, and lets her cleavage spill
out.  Xigbar uses his hand to close Marluxia's jaw for him.
Xion is quick to follow, in a red dress which makes her colouring dramatic,
rather than sickly, stockings and heels matching her lipstick.  Larxene has
clearly done something with her hair, making it twist into a shape which is
nearly erotic in its own right, dark tresses framing her face and making her
darkly-lined eyes stand out.  She, too, has her own men watching, Axel and
Roxas pressed close to each other, the blond's eyes half-lidded as the
redhead's hands busy themselves.  The girls smile at each other, heft their
handbags over their shoulders, and without a backward glance, portal out.
They turn up at another castle, pausing for a moment, both shivering slightly
in the chill.  Later, the alcohol blanket will keep them warm, but for now,
they need to keep moving.  A white blur floats towards them, out of the
penetrating wind, and reveals itself to be Naminé, keeping to her usual
colours, but having at least found a use for sequins.  They all cast a glance
over each other, the younger blonde leaning over to tuck a wisp of hair behind
Xion's left ear, before they wink out of existence again.
The bar isn't much of a bar, really.  It's not in the most upmarket place in
town, for a start, and the drunks who are thrown out nightly regularly prowl
the streets looking for women who've had a little too much refreshment.  To
make the point bluntly, it's a dive.  Somewhere your heels stick to the floor,
they laugh if you order anything but beer, and the furniture has been patched
up many times that, these days, it barely causes any damage when one regular
beats another with a chair.  So yeah, 7th Heaven is a dive.  But it's run by a
woman, and that makes it a little different from all the other dives in town.
"Larx, you came!"
"Not yet, but I'll get there." Larxene grins, as she hoists herself onto a
barstool, flashing thigh at the room, "And I brought Naminé and Xion, too."
"I always said you needed friends."
Xion takes a moment to gawp at the heaving breasts in front of her, before she
looks up properly, into dark, smiling eyes framed with dark hair.  She wonders
for a moment if she could have become this, were she real.  Then a noise from
the pinball machine startles the woman away, and she smiles tightly at the
girls before whisking off to seat a group of men at the only table in the
place.  
"That's Tifa.  Girl over there, sitting by herself?  Aerith.  Girl in with the
guys, being bouncy and talkative?  Yuffie.  Pick your poison, girls."
She doesn't have to ask whether or not they want to go after the men, in a
place like this.  Sure, she knows a few of them, and they're not bad sorts, but
just like the boys back home, they're a bit wrapped up in each other.  She
wonders, for a moment, if there's some connection between having gravity-
defying hair and being too pretty for the opposite sex.  Then, they
separate.  Tonight, they hunt.
Two hours later, they're all a little worse for wear.  Xion has managed to
convince Yuffie to take her bra off with her teeth, and is laughing giddily as
the other girl paws her front, trying to find the leverage.  She looks happy,
lipstick ragged around the edges, hair mussed, dress at a point on her thigh
which hides nothing from the rest of the bar, and Larxene considers it a good
night, if she can get the kid to smile.  She glances over to where Naminé is
grinding against Tifa, the two of them table dancing for the gaggle of men at
the main table, most of whom seem either flustered or aroused.  She spots
Vincent, flat down on the table, Cid's large hand hovering protectively over
his skull, and smiles.  Some things never change.
And some things do.  Larxene had expected they'd leave her Tifa – they clearly
have a history, after all, and she figured they'd be intimidated by the
boobs.  Most men are.  Kudos to Naminé for having the guts to go for her.  But
it has, unfortunately, meant that Larxene has been sat in the corner listening
to Aerith blither on about embroidery, or sewing patterns, or possibly
knitting, for two hours.  She hasn't been paying much attention, but suspects
she could now cheerfully murder someone with a knitting needle.  So it's a bit
of a surprised when Aerith smiles at her, watches her nod, blandly, and the
leans in and presses soft lips to hers, a chaste kiss before she draws back.
"There's a room…" she says, hesitantly, and Larxene forgets about the
sisterhood, and lets herself be dragged upstairs.
Anotehr few hours later, and they're outside, ignoring the cold and singing a
song about going away on a boat.  They've all met Jack Sparrow –
("CAPTAIN!  Jack Sparrow!" They bellow in unison into the night.)
- so it isn't too unrealistic a fantasy.  Or course, they'd need some help
getting into corsets at this stage, Xion still puzzling how to do up her bra
whilst it's on, but the good parts of a fantasy aren't in the details.  They
meander through the streets, slowly, Larxene threatening the odd man with her
kunai when she has too, so they're left alone, but in the end, they have to
go.  They drop Naminé off first, where she hurries in, to ensure she has not
been missed, and then they go to move back to their castle.  Xion skips through
the portal first, and finds herself, on the other side, clutching Axel's arm
and feeling fairly sick.  They drag her off to bed, and she never thinks to
look for Larxene.
When the blonde reappears, the castle is dark, her own partner having long
since given up on her, and gone to bed.  There's a small flicker of crimson on
her cheek, something other than lipstick, and Saïx melts out of the shadows to
take her weapons from her.
"Is it done?"
"Oh yes.  Poor thing.  Poor, poor thing.  He'll have to do without her, now."
"He will?" Saïx presses her, knowing she'd been drinking earlier, "You removed
the sorceress?"
"Of course," Larxene says, undoing her hair and letting the blonde waves
cascade over her shoulders, "Leonhart won't know what hit him."
***** The Princess of Pentacles *****
The Princess of Pentacles – Exploration of new things
The world is vaster than it seems and we can have many roles in it
She knows, deep down, that she's not real.  Everything she makes is drawn
mirror-sided, derivative, copied, and reflected.  Even holding them up to a
looking-glass doesn't turn them back again, merely creates a further dimension
of gibberish for her to despair over.  She counts her cards carefully,
wondering if she has enough power left with her captor to coerce more paper out
of him.  He knows that what she draws can sometimes take shape, surely he
realises this is useful to him.
She's surprised he lets her have the mirror, really, almost as surprised as she
is that he shows up in it.  He seems vampiric to her, parasitic, but a symptom,
not the disease itself.  That runs deeper, through veins, through bones and
blood, coursing through every inch of every one of them.  She thinks of Sora,
tucked up under the castle, safe and unaware of everything going on, all this
poison the rest of them swallow nightly, to keep the nightmares at bay.  At
times, she envies him his innocence.  That he and Roxas are not one is part of
their charm, she supposes, that there is a Sora now who is perfectly good, and
a Roxas who is not.
The mirror tells her everything she needs to know about Sora, about Riku, about
paopu fruit, about beaches, the smell of salt air and the way wet sand feels
between her toes.  She could draw it, but it wouldn't truly be real.  Not
without the information the mirror gives her.  She was hinted at the true power
of the mirror when it didn't reflect her writing through 180 degrees.  It isn't
really a mirror at all, but a shift in realities through to a different
universe.  At least, that's what she tells herself, because it explains away
the problems with the images the mirror shows her.
In the mirror, her eyes are brighter, her hair darker, and she smiles, broadly,
truly, a smile which is real.  She understands, now.  She is not a prisoner,
she is a prison, a cell for the girl she sees in the mirror.  She knows she is
not real.  The girl in the mirror is so much more solid, and desperate, trying
to send messages through books, drawings, hand motions, anything.  She has not,
unlike Naminé, given up.  The blonde thinks that the girl in the mirror looks
younger, more naïve, untouched by so many years that Naminé has seen pass by.
They strike up a tentative friendship of scrawls and smiles, and they learn,
day by day, more about each other.  There's nothing said precisely, but there
doesn't really need to be.  Sometimes, Naminé wonders if this is what it is
like between Axel and Roxas, and lets a flush of pink tinge her cheeks, one she
doesn't explain to the girl in the mirror.  Had she really thought, for a
moment…?  It doesn't cross her mind again, careful as she is to hide her new
jubilancy from him, whenever he returns.  But it's getting harder and harder to
keep a smile off her face.
When the castle burns, he comes for her, shooing her out, and she marks
something in his eyes which could have been respect.  In another time, another
place, they could have been something else.  For now, as he glances in the
mirror and sees her other self, he gives her a strange smile, and hands her a
compact before vanishing back into the flames.  She knows she isn't safe,
watching the blaze, knows that, now, Axel will go to any lengths to ensure that
Roxas is kept away from her influence, from one who knows Sora.  Holding the
compact up to her face, reflecting the blaze and a strand of red hair, she
hears the roaring sound of the sea.
***** The Princess of Wands *****
The Princess of Wands – Understanding sacrifices
Everything brings sacrifices, without which nothing would have value
It's a shock to see her this out of control, this bedraggled and lost, but she
arrives, fast, eyes wide, hair a mess, make-up no one even knew she wore
smeared on her face.  She collapses, halfway through the door, and the other
girl doesn't even give a second thought to the open door, the freedom beyond
it.  She runs, catching her partner before she hits the floor, cradling that
heavy head in her lap, all full of secrets.  Larxene just lies there, staring
up.
"They've killed him."
And she isn't broken, all the fight hasn't gone out of her, she's just…
lost.  And when this betrayal started, no one thought to use string to wind
through the labyrinth of lies, marking their way out.
Naminé isn't sure how many days she sits there, Larxene pillowed in her lap,
knees slowly losing feeling underneath, the door still open.  And she could go,
she could make a run fro it now.  She knows where Sora is, she knows how to get
to him, how to free him, how to make all of this just stop.  But if she does
that, she won't exist anymore, and then what will become of the body in her
lap?  She does nothing, staring out into the whiteness of the castle which is
her prison, watching the dapples in the floor shift and roil with the weight of
her eyes.  
There's been a shadow collecting under Larxene for weeks now; time passes
differently, here, and getting used to it has been hard.  Now, however, she
knows minutes pass like weeks, time is subjective and passes as slowly and as
quickly as she wants.  She doesn't know why she's prolonging this, the body in
her arms, her usually quick-witted, sharp-tongued lover lost and bereft ,
staring up with nothing to say for once, and her eyes open on nothing.  The
shadow is blood, Naminé's not stupid, and she knows that around the corner,
Axel waits, frozen in time, coming for her, coming to save her from this.  The
reality is that she's suspending the hours of her lover's pain for just a few
seconds more with her.
Eventually, she starts seeing the flicker of brighter red in her vision,
something to distract her from the dark, deep red spreading on her dress, and
she tries to fix her face into a smile, a smug one, something she should have
on her face if Axel's to come around that corner and save her.  She closes
Larxene's eyes, refusing to let her stare her death in the face, and watches
the red shift closer, flickering towards her.  She takes one last kiss from
lips almost cold now, and rearranges her mouth into a slightly horrified stare,
the kind an innocent girl should wear, and never thinks to move the bleeding
body from her lap, never thinks how strange it will be to have what is left of
Larxene in her lap when Axel saves her.  The flickering is brighter now, and
faster, and she lets go of time all at once, waiting for him.  It's so quick,
she doesn't realise what's happened until the fire reaches her.
***** The Prince of Pentacles *****
The Prince of Pentacles – Birth of an interest
Curiosity is the initial contact between us and the world
Riku starts it all.  He'll admit that, later, when there's no shame in it – he
started everything which then spirals out of control and into something which
could only properly be called a mindfuck.  Roxas calls it head-rape, but he's
always been over-dramatic.  When they get back, Riku can't help but notice
Sora, every smile a gift, bright, wide eyes so wild with happiness – he's
perfect.  So why does he yearn for something else, something more?
Riku had met Roxas, a few times, mostly across the other side of a
battleground, but still.  The boy moved with a fierce grace, as if the whole
world should part for his anger, and he spoke like a true misanthrope, all spat
words and harsh glares.  Riku couldn't take his eyes off him, not even for a
second, or the kid would press his advantage.  But when Riku saw him, it wasn't
Sora he saw, wasn't Sora he ached for, needed, wanted.  It was all Roxas.
Now, when Sora runs towards him, spraying sand everywhere, and jumps on him,
pinning him to the sand in a way which Sora would proclaim as totally innocent,
Riku finds himself missing Roxas.  He doesn't say anything – doesn't dare say
anything, for fear of losing Sora all over again – but all the same, Sora's not
stupid.
"I'm not stupid, Riku."
"Hm?" They're lying near the water's edge, hands almost touching, soaking up
the last few rays of the sun as it sets red on the horizon.
"You're looking for something."
Riku freezes, before daring to dart his eyes over to Sora, on his side now,
eyeing Riku with a glance which is all too professional to be his best friend.
"I've got everything I want here."
"Liar." Sora says, before settling back into the sand.
They don't talk about it again.
When Riku sleeps over at Sora's, he takes the floor, with Sora in the bed,
snoring lightly, so it comes as a surprise when Sora insists he takes the
bed.  The motives for this become clear when he wakes up to someone nipping at
his throat, straddling him, using their weight to press him into the bed, and
moving their hips distractingly.
"Sora?"
"Guess again."
Riku goes still, something dark and horrible and longing stuck in his throat,
so he's unable to get the words out.  The shadowy figure uses his panicked
state to wriggle closer, pressing their groins together, and Riku realises just
how hard he is when that elicits a low moan.
"I knew you'd be like this, pretty boy, all need and want, no clue of what to
do." The voice mocks, from above, before that mouth is shifting lower, doing
deliciously sinful things to Riku's nipples.  When he comes, his cock in a
mouth he's not even sure exists anymore, everything goes black, and when he
wakes up, Sora is curled around him, gently petting his hair.  
Riku can't bring himself to ask the question.
***** The Prince of Chalices *****
The Prince of Chalices – Birth of an emotion
Thoughts come from the heart and take on life
There are a few more sleepovers, Sora smiling, wide-eyed, and looking well-
rested in the morning, despite the sexual hijinks Roxas has been up to.  It's
as if they're two different people – and Riku reminds himself, they have been
two different people – one a shining, smiling example of everything Riku is not
allowed to touch, and the other snarling, vicious, and quite willing to be
dragged down to hell, but only because he was going there anyway.
Riku still doesn't know which one it is who sleeps with him, which body he
cradles in his hands, wrings orgasm out of him.  Is it Roxas, body, heartless,
soul, golden, or Sora's body, Roxas' sparkling mind, or is it – and this is the
heartbreaking thought – simply Sora, being exactly what Riku wants in the
dark?  When he plucks up the courage, after, to turn the light on, it's Sora,
lying next to him, naked, sleeping, and if he sees a flicker or blonde in brown
hair, he tells himself he's imagining it.  Real people don't flicker, and
Sora's real.
So it's a shock when, one Friday night, he slides into bed to find a body
already there, and when he turns, be drawn in to deep, dark blue, to press his
fingers into blonde hair, and be kissed, reverently.  He doesn't remember the
faceless body doing this before, pulling him in, owning him, needing like
this.  All the other nights have been about his need, his want, but now, he has
been handed everything he wants, and so must perform admirably in return.  He
allows himself to be drawn into the kiss, relishing in his desire.
It takes them longer to get undressed than usual, Riku obsessing over every
inch of skin until Roxas is snarling, pulling him up by his hair and biting at
his lips, willing him to get on with it, without words.  Riku knows he's
clumsy, he's never done this before, never slipped his fingers into the warm
heat between anyone's legs, had them arching and moaning above him, a clear
indication of what he's doing right.  He experiments with placing his mouth
there, too, tongue asking for entrance like at the seam of lips, dipping inside
to flicker against fingers and nerve endings, making Roxas scream, until he
bites down on his wrist for silence.  And then he's there, pressing in, slowly,
aware that they've not been here before, and he's gazing down into blue eyes,
the pouting mouth open now, panting for him, and needing the pleasure he
gives.  He knows he won't last, but doesn't think Roxas will do any better, so
for a moment in time, the only sound is harsh breaths, the shift of bedsprings,
and the slick slap of skin on skin, until Roxas howls completion, and Riku
follows suit.
Riku hurries to find something to wipe down with, anything, despite delighting
in being a mess, and when he comes back to his bedroom, Sora's there, already
in pyjamas, fast asleep on the floor.  If it wasn't for the slowly drying,
itchy, flaky residue of Roxas' pleasure on his stomach, Riku could almost
believe he'd dreamt it all.
***** The Prince of Swords *****
The Prince of Swords – Birth of a thought
Thinking is being
It isn't until weeks later, Riku thoroughly absorbed in Roxas, tracing the skin
over his collarbones with his tongue, when there's a flicker, and suddenly the
skin is darker, tanned, and Riku pulls back.  Sora's watching him, lips pursed,
consideration in his gaze.  And then he's gone, Roxas pulling Riku back down to
cover his body, nipping and sucking until Riku couldn't remember his own name,
never mind who Sora is.
He doesn't think about it afterwards, resolutely ignoring the way Sora had
looked at him, just focussing on Roxas.  Sure, he sees Sora in the day, and
sleeps over, but it's all a little hollow, now.  Sora is Sora, not to be
touched, and Roxas is nothing but a means to an end.  Sometime she wonders if
he's using them both, or he is the one being used.  Either seems possible.
It doesn't take long for it to happen again, like Roxas is losing
control.  Riku's pressed up inside him, revelling in tight heat, eyes closed
and half gone already, when he hears a cry which isn't Roxas' usual timbre, and
opens his eyes to see Sora staring back, gaze glazed with pleasure and one hand
on himself, gripping hard.  Riku's next few thrusts stutter, pleasure
flickering his eyelids closed like the shutter on a camera, and when they're
open again, it; Roxas eagerly pushing back on him, moaning for all he's worth.
This one can't be ignored.  Riku doesn't leave Roxas alone this time, but just
looks at him, until the blonde boy gives in.
"We're… sharing."
"Sharing what, a decent fuck?"
"Don't flatter yourself, pretty-boy."
There's silence, and Roxas flickers again, letting Sora through to say his
piece.
"Why did you let him do it?"
"Because…" Sora says, and he's worrying at his lip in that way which makes Riku
think things he shouldn't, but he's already been inside that body, and that's
so wrong, so, so wrong, "Because I liked it."
"Liked…."
"I feel everything, Riku.  Everything you do to Roxas."
After that, it's different.  When Riku wakes up with Roxas next to him, the
other boy makes no move to undress, just stares at him, drinking him in
hungrily, like this might be the last chance he gets.  One hand drifts down to
graze along his cheek, and is pulled back as he notices Riku's eyes are open.
"I didn't…."
"It's fine."
They don't say anything else, but Riku pulls Roxas down with him, letting the
blond cling, nuzzling the spikes of hair and remembering how he'd felt when
this had been impossible.
"Don't leave us." Roxas says, flickering, Sora echoing the sentiment.
Riku doesn't answer.  He's not sure there's anything he can say.
***** The Prince of Wands *****
The Prince of Wands – Birth of a wish
Existing means acting and not following
When it starts becoming usual, Riku worries, and wonders, but never stops
playing along, seeking Sora out for nights spent at each others' houses, nights
spent buried in them, it's always them, never one or the other now, Sora
flickering in more and more.  The one time Sora goes for a kiss, Riku draws
back, flinching, and Sora flickers to Roxas almost immediately, although not
quick enough to hide the disappointment.  Riku feels sick for half the night,
but doesn't shy away when Sora flickers in at the brink of orgasm.
Later, Roxas pins him down, then flickers into Sora, quickly, without giving
him time to move, and Sora's mouth is on him.  And he's dreamt about this for
so long, since he can remember; he can't push the other boy away, opening his
mouth to deepen the kiss and pull his arms around his best friend.  He's
silent, when they both pull away, but he can tell Sora knows he feels
ashamed.  He waits for Roxas to flicker back, to save Riku from this mess, but
he doesn't.  Riku doesn't really know why he's surprised.
"I feel everything.  Everything you do to Roxas." Sora says, softly.
"I know."
"He feels everything you do to me."
Riku pauses, almost like he hadn't thought about this possibility.
"So really, when you do something to one of us…."
"It's like both of you."  Riku finishes, slowly.
Sora nods.
It isn't hard, after that. To close his eyes and not know who is who, for them
to flicker so quickly that he only notices the change because he's so in
tune.  During the daytime, Sora's his best friend, his boyfriend, his
everything, but behind walls, on the beach, in shrubbery, Roxas is everything
he could possibly want.  At night, he lies tucked up next to one, and almost
always wakes up next to the other.  Roxas says it's like sleeping with twins,
but without the disadvantage of them finding out, or the advantage of being
able to have them both at once.  Sora says it's like loving two people in one
body.  Riku just know that it's love, and that, for once, he doesn't feel
ashamed at getting what he wants.
***** Two of Chalices *****
Two of Chalices – Bond
Two: as one
It ends with a call around the world, Sora and Roxas, joint, combined, and
everything shutters down, erasing the existence of something that never was
anyway.  And you can lock the memories away as much as you like, but they don't
vanish, they don't ever fully disappear.  They sit and lurk, waiting for the
door to be opened, and if they have to wait a thousand years, they will.  There
is no length that you could go to in order to make these images stop flashing
before your eyes, to stop the nightmares, waking up and clutching at your
lover, wrong name tumbling from your lips in need, in hurt, in anger.  As long
as you know what is missing, you will crave it.
So you remake it, as close as you can, creating the image in your head and
drawing it down on paper as often as you can, red, red, red spilling from your
hands in a frantic effort to capture as much as you can remember before the
colour fades to dull auburn, before you don't remember that scent anymore, or
how green eyes lit up when you smiled.  It wasn't you, but your hands are the
ones tightly wrapped around the colours, folder after folder of drawings of
someone who, now, never existed.  The only place he lives on is in your memory,
and it isn't really yours at all.  You have no idea how it's wrapped around in
your brain, how it works anymore, how you're suddenly good at algebra, how
you've gained scathing words for the bullies and are suddenly reticent to smile
at anyone who might not deserve it.
He lives inside, he's taking over and breaking his way in, and you hate it, you
hate it, but there's nothing to be done, because you have your happy ending
now, and what was given to him?  All he can do is edit you to suit him, erasing
your memories of all other figures in black, erasing battles and fights,
erasing any negative to do with red hair and sparkling eyes.  All these are
replaced with smiles, with hands ruffling hair, with the way it feels when
someone is yours, all yours, and they hold you like you're the only thing in
their world that's keeping them afloat.  How can you say no when he lets you
into his inner sanctum and shows you love, a fierce, possessive, co-dependant
love, the like of which you've never felt, not even for Riku, who has stood
beside you at (nearly) all the important parts of your life.
You have no idea how you do it, no idea how, but he comes to shape under your
hands.  It starts in clay, a smile perking at the corners of your mouth as you
see it's anatomically correct, if a little generous, and almost forget that you
can't remember crafting it.  After that, there's wire, there's odd compounds
you can't name, hardening into seamless plastic, and it isn't right.  No one's
skin is cold, no one is that smooth and perfect, everyone has a scar somewhere,
even if it's carried inside.  And the hair is wrong, it's not thick enough, not
red enough, not alive enough.  It won't do, and you snarls and scream, and Riku
says you are not yourself, and you ask who else you have to be.  He doesn't
answer, because you both know, and you are both afraid.
You dye it red in his sleep, and it works, for a moment, the green eyes
glinting open with anger when he discovers what you've done.  For a moment,
there's fire there, and it's perfect, you clap your hands in joy and laugh,
before he is striding towards you, murderous intent in his eyes, and it doesn't
frighten you.  Because he's looked at you that way before, and once you set the
spikes, he'll be happier.  Once his hair is back to normal, you'll be back
together, back to right and perfect and everything you were.  Then the image
dissolves, and Riku has his arms around you and is crying.  You stare at him
blankly, and run fingers through red tresses.  It isn't the right colour,
anyway.
The last straw is the scars.  You haven't noticed them, maybe because he turns
your eyes away every time, but they're there.  Over your chest the lines lie,
shaping, in two sweeping lines, the issue at hand.  You know what he's trying
to tell you, and you have refused night after night, but apparently that isn't
good enough, and once you are asleep, he walks your body and tries to carve the
heart out.  He knows it doesn't work that way, he knows that there is nothing
to having a heart in that way which has to do with not having a heart in that
world, the world which never was, which never was, at least, now.  He doesn't
seem to care anymore.  And you could cope with it if that was all it was, but
watching Riku come to bed, the scars are there, too, less random, more
careful.  Like he doesn't care if he survives, as long as the convenient part
of Riku does.  Riku smiles, tightly, as you trace them, and admits to nights of
stopping you with a knife to your chest by offering himself.  You go to bed
furious, tears refusing to dry, clutching Riku like a lifeline.
You wake up alone on the floor, the point of the knife still resting in the
hollow where he supposes your heart resides.  There's blood everywhere, all
over the floor, you're soaked in it, hair drying dark red and sticky where
you've been resting in it.  Riku lies motionless, and you know without touching
him that it's too late, it's far, far too late for anyone to do anything.  You
drag the knife out with shaking hands and contemplate forcing it back in,
shaking and crying, sick to your stomach.  He made you do this, he took over
and slaughtered the only thing you love –
And you understand, finally, how it feels.  What it is to be without the only
thing which makes and breaks your universe.  He wasn't trying to find Axel.  He
was trying to make you lose Riku.
You think he takes over, because you don't remember cleaning up, don't remember
lying Riku on the dining room table, like some macabre feast, and you didn't go
to Maleficent to get the potion in between your fingers.  You have no idea what
it does, and no idea what it will do to Riku, and maybe you shouldered through
to take control, because you don't want to do this, suddenly, you don't want to
give this to Riku.  Why should you do him more harm, now?  Haven't you done
enough?  The potion looks wrong, looks like death, and you wonder, briefly, so
he can't catch the thought, what it will taste like, before it's
swallowed.  The world collapses down to dark, like another world you dimly
remember, and then you're blinking your eyes open into bright lights and
smiling faces.
"You're home." Someone says, softly, and you think you've heard those words
before.  You take the pills they hand you, and know that, as long as you keep
swallowing, here is where you belong.
***** Three of Chalices *****
Three of Chalices – Celebration
The harmony of dance is sharing
It's a silly little gesture, but for some reason, it gives them freedom.  No
one knows how or why it began, because no one really remembers the first night,
when they learnt the truth about what Roxas was, and what would happen to them
all if they came to harm.  But how it really began was that Larxene kicked
Demyx under the table until he started to strum a slow melody, just a gentle,
soft few chords over and over, and she got up and moved, in a way that none of
the men had known she could move, all grace without the deadly poise which
would normally make her so terrifying.  She took a few lilting steps, leaning
into the pressure of the music as if it would hold her up, and Demyx redoubled
his efforts, as if the music needed to be stronger to do the job she
wanted.  She extended a hand to Marluxia, who joined her, and the two stalked
to the dais at the front of the hall, where Xemnas would stand and posture.
Together, they struck a pose, like clockwork dolls ratcheting around, staying
in position, their cloaks whispering like silk evening dresses, Larxene holding
herself like the lady she might once have been; upright, led around the floor
by her partner, her man, their feet easy and swift, light on their toes.  And
it's the work of a moment for Vexen to beckon to Zexion, who steps hesitantly
forward, casting a look at Demyx, who smiles enough that it is not a problem,
and is enfolded in parental arms, like a father dancing with his daughter at
her wedding, and Zexion's face spreads in a smile as he is dipped and spun,
following the same movements as the couple on the stage, their footwork
impeccable, as if they're reading it off their minds.
As Axel drags Roxas up, the boy managing to lead despite the height difference,
both of them passionate and defiant, Demyx adds a little more speed into the
music, and there are three couples, the taller dipping their partner nearly to
the floor, leaning them into the press of sound.  They spin around the room,
trading places, and everyone else looks, for a moment, for their partner, as if
this dance foretells your lover.  Before Xemnas knows what is happening, he and
Saïx are the only ones left on the benches with Demyx, elegant couples dancing
as if they don't wear boots, dancing as if their lives depend on it, dancing as
if it can save them.
It is Saïx who gets up, then bends low on one knee, extending a hand to Xemnas,
who smiles, despite himself, and takes it.  The two of them step out onto the
floor, whirling and moving between the couples, as if hearing a different tune,
as if the world has no one in it but the two of them.  Time seems to slow,
colour fading to grey until they are left, vibrant, in a room devoid of
life.  They move in slow motion, each step taking a year to complete, each spin
a century, each circuit of the room a millennia.  Xemnas takes a step out of
turn to press a clumsy kiss to Saïx's lips, and the room is alive again, each
couple taking a moment to kiss their partner on the cheek, spinning them past
the now motionless couple in their centre.
And now, every night, they dance.  There's no reason for it, no agreement, no
decree, but when they all come back well enough to dance, they dance, taking
wing in the only way they can, and the room swirls with dark coats and a slow,
soft, sad melody.  They're living on borrowed time, they know enough to know
that, and that once this is over, they have duties, exercises, patterns to
follow, allegiances to take.  In this one simple moment, within the dance, they
are one, hands clasped so tightly one would think they never let go, polished
boots winking on the marble floors, hair catching the candle-light and making
everything blaze jewel tones.  It's a beauty broken only when they stop, when
the music fades out, and then they seems to stop, lose their colour, as if
taking back on their mantle of shadows.  It is only when they dance that they
are truly free, truly alive.  Who would deny them that?
***** Four of Chalices *****
Four of Chalices – Habits
The same gesture has the same meaning
Every time they go, just before they leave on different missions, Zexion does
the same thing.  Xigbar laughs when he sees it, because he watched a tiny Ienzo
do it with Even, over and over, before the scientist wound his way to the lab
in the morning.  The boy hated being left behind, even then, and he'd stand,
sometimes for up to an hour, with Even's hand just pressed to his chest, over
his heart, his own head pressed to the same place on the man who took him
in.  It was reassurance.  Even always said that if you knew a man's heart then
you knew he would always come back for you.  And Even pressed this trust to
Ienzo when, every day, tired and overworked, he returned to the room they
shared, drew the boy close, and let him listen to the thud of his heartbeat.
"A man's heart is full of secrets.  When you listen to that sound, you know
every bad thought he's ever had, every good deed, and all the things he keeps
from others.  To know the heart is to know the man." Xigbar overheard the
scientist explain, one night.
"And he will always come for you." Ienzo finished, solemnly, eyes full of trust
and need.
"Always."
And the display has stayed the same, through the years.  It stopped, briefly,
when they found themselves suddenly heartless, and Even found himself trying to
get an unwilling Zexion to listen to his heart, when the boy could not
reciprocate.  He'd hissed and spat, like a scalded cat, and Even had never
tried again.  Vexen never needed to try, Zexion flowing to him, like water, the
moment the older man stepped out of the chamber, empty and bereft, and placed
head and hand in the same place.  
"It doesn't matter," the child had said, when Vexen tried to move his ear from
the bandages over his chest, "I know your heart.  I know the man."
"And he will always come for you." Vexen said, soberly, understanding.  This
was a position of trust he had placed himself in; neither sentiment nor emotion
needed, only trust and knowledge of security.
"Always." Zexion said, softly.
Demyx laughed, the first time Zexion places a small ear against his chest, and
pulled his hand down, sliding his hand a little lower until Zexion pulled away,
expression tense and sharp.
"What were you trying to do?"
"If you know the heart, you know the man.  And he will always come for
you.  Always." Zexion said, softly.
Demyx didn't stop to question the fruitlessness of listening from something
which, if there, certainly wouldn't beat.  He's never been a stranger to
believing in the hearts of the Heartless, after all.  He leaned his chest back
towards that pretty little head, so full of worries, and let his hand stay
steady over Zexion's pectoral, just standing still and feeling each other
breathe.
"There's more than one way to a man's heart." Demyx said, into the silence.
"This is the only way I know." Zexion replied.
Xigbar laughed as he watched them do it that morning, gloved hand flat against
skinny chest, blue hair ruffled against the leather of the other's coat.  They
parted, that intimacy being somehow so much more than if the smaller man had
pulled Demyx in for a kiss in front of them all, and then moved to their
respective partners for the day, neither looking back before vanishing into the
portals beside them.  They'd spend the day apart, neither one seeming to think
of the other, until they returned.  Then, Demyx took up the position, on bended
knee, and Zexion would snake his hand down to rest on his chest, letting the
blond listen for what wasn't there.  Vexen saw, and smiled a tiny, sharp little
smile that the boy had found someone else to understand.
"I know a man, and he will always come for me."  Demyx murmured.
"Always." Zexion whispered back.
It wasn't odd for either of them to wake in the middle of the night, frightened
by something they couldn't seem to name or shake, but this was
different.  Zexion was completely silent, on one knee in the middle of the
room, and Demyx, shivering, slid out of bed and padded barefoot across the
floor.  He stood, silent, as his partner pressed his ear against his naked
chest, and let his hand crawl to the familiar position, a lump in his throat
for reasons he couldn't name, couldn't come up with.  Zexion said nothing, eyes
closed, reverence on his face as if in prayer, before drawing back.
"Always?" he asked, a tremor in his voice, staring up at Demyx from the floor,
eyes awash with nameless emotions.
"Always." Demyx said, brokenly, before he fell to his knees and clasped his
lover to him, both of them clinging tight enough to bruise.
When he woke, Zexion was gone.
It had been three days, and Demyx was still sat there, waiting, staring at the
spot where Zexion would appear, soon, soon.  Vexen stepped beside the boy, one
hand on his shoulder, and Demyx dropped to a knee in a silent plea.  Vexen
stepped closer, moving his arms away from his body and letting the younger
blond press his head to his chest, listening, stretching his ears for even the
faintest sound.  Vexen, for his part, allowed his wrist to be grabbed and his
hand be pressed to a chest he'd never touched before, and let it rest over the
hollow, heavy and meaningful.  They stood like that for a long time, no words
passing between them, until Demyx pulled away.  Vexen moved away, walking
towards the empty space where the portal should have been days ago.
"A man's heart is full of secrets.  When you listen to that sound, you know
every bad thought he's ever had, every good deed, and all the things he keeps
from others.  To know the heart is to know the man." The older blond said
solemnly, opening up a black space into another world.
"And he will always come for you?" Demyx asked, his voice cracking on the last
word.
"Always." Vexen said, in a voice which brooked no argument, and disappeared
into the darkness.
***** Five of Chalices *****
Five of Chalices – Loss
Look at yourself in the river; let it divide what you have from what you don't
The reflection doesn't show anything, other than the minutiae of differences
between what she is and her ideal.  She picks her own faults, ignoring those
others have picked for her and those which simply are, being neither opinion
nor depression.  Each finger is wrong, each hand, each arm, each eye, each
ear.  Nothing is perfect, nothing will ever be perfect, and that explains why
she is not loved, why no one sits by the river with her, holding her, making
everything better.  
But is it she who decides to be alone, sitting by the river instead of waiting
on the clock-tower, giving them their time together and never wondering if they
wouldn't prefer her to join in?  Surely she has made the decision for them,
choosing to be alone and miserable, rather than being with them, and daring to
have some happiness.  She asks her reflection the questions, focusing so much
on herself that she fails to notice the figures sat beside her.  When she does,
she starts upright, and a harsh grip on her arm stops her from falling in.  She
doesn't smile at the words whispered to her, and yet, she doesn't shake her
head, either.  Tacit agreement.
She's hunted, sought by the same people she once thought to seek out.  Her skin
is a begging bowl, collecting blood and viscera as she combs it for hearts, for
nourishment, for the chance to feel something again.  She drains another body
of all which lies within it, and still tastes no heart, no emotion, no driving
force other than hope, the hope that something else is out there.  Something
which will either destroy her or make her perfect, one piece, whole like she
should have been before.  Whole like she can never be, not being part Roxas,
part Sora, part nothing.  She's empty inside, more empty even than those who
have memories of feelings, memories of… anything.
So she smiles, she slaughters, she doesn't try to fight the urge to bring
bloodshed, and hides it all behind her single, shining lie.  It's all
underneath her skin, should anyone care to look, but it's not like she makes it
easy.  She's never been that sort of girl, if she was a girl at all, never let
anyone sneak away easy and pull one over her.  Of that, above all else, she is
sure.  She's always fought, and fighting now, against the only people who
taught her she meant anything, she is no different.  She will fight, she will
pull out the blade and run them through, because she's nothing without her
anger, nothing without her righteous indignation at the way she's been
treated.  She fears, every day, that she is nothing, and yet aches to become
such.
They still pursue her, though, and part of her wonders whether they'd bother if
they knew what she was doing.  Would they still want her to return, to join
them in ply again, when she is now a creature of darkness, something constantly
tainted and covered in blood?  She zips from room to room, evading their grasp,
watching their anger rise as she proves irretrievable, their anger at
themselves, never at her.  She stands, mocking, before a portal, ready to slip
away, and doesn't see them until it's too late, and her wrist is a tight grasp,
and she can not escape.  The hood slips, and she stares out at them,
implacable, and watches their faces shift from anger, through lack of
understanding, and into horror.  There's no resistance as she tugs her sleeve
away and steps backwards, her eyes still relaying the image to her; the two
people who loved her the most in the world, horrified at how she has made
herself.  She doesn't think that image will ever leave her.
***** Six of Chalices *****
Six of Chalices – Nostalgia
Flowers grow every year with the same colours
He doesn't know how long it's been since he arrived, since he gave up any
semblance of freedom to be a lapdog to someone who can not love him and will
only hurt him.  He watches Axel smile and laugh and knows that he did these
things before, that before, they could touch, they were able, they were neat
and packaged like a pair, like something which would never change.  Then they
became what they are now; so much meant standing like a person, but it isn't,
really, isn't anything like a person, because it lacks the basic functions to
make it so.  If anything, it's a body, something dead which is refusing to rot,
something which shouldn't be allowed to walk around like it could still feel if
they burned the viscera out of it and left an open, empty, gaping
wound.  Something like that has no knowledge of time, has no idea how to tell
if it has been months, years, decades, time in this world passing in darkness
at all hours.  There isn't even a sunrise to count upon every day, just that
ominous, ever-present moon, and the obsession they all hold with it.
Isa – no, Saïx, because that is the name he was given, and like a good dog, he
answers to it – watches Axel and wonders how Lea kept so much freedom within
him, so much life, so much laughter and possibility.  He acts the fool around
Roxas, takes his gloves off and wiggles pink fingers at the kid, making a
contrite face when a puff of flame nearly takes his eyebrows off, and tugging
him away down a corridor as the tapestry begins to smoke.  Neither of them see
Saïx, because they never look for him.  Roxas, he understands, because Saïx is
simply there, someone who gives orders.  But that Axel never even looks around,
never meets his eyes, never listens when he barks an order….  They aren't meant
to be hurt, aren't made to cope with it, feeling something which is resigned to
the living, but that tiny, fractured little piece of Isa which still lives
inside him, somewhere, weeps every time Axel doesn't look at them.  Saïx can
only imagine that it feels like broken glass, slowly pulled out with tweezers,
can only use memory to remember how it feels when the person who was your
entire world walks out of it, and leave you with an empty husk in which to
reside.
There was something, when they were made new, something which drew them
together, but it was old love, something sweet and soft and tragic, something
barely able to stand up to a gust of wind, and the moment Xemnas took him to
bed, Saïx knew that he would never again be allowed to crawl between warm
sheets and taste familiar salt-slick skin, wrap himself in something which was
so much a part of his past that for a moment, he was almost Isa again.  And
sure enough, marked as he was, Axel took one look and sneered, stalking
away.  When Roxas came, Saïx watched the two of them grow close, bending to
each other like reeds in the wind, and wondered if Roxas knew, if Roxas was
told that before Axel, there was Lea, and before Saïx, there was Isa, and
before this separation, there was a togetherness, there was a bond, and that
their ancient promise had led them here, where it no longer had any effect.  He
still watches them, even now, watches the slow, soft kisses, the spark between
them, the desperation, the searching, things which could be and can only be
love.  He envies them that, far more than he envies their pairing.
The closest thing he finds to a clock is the garden, the flowers still planted
according to months, so he can tell how time passes as long as he
remembers.  Sometimes he can stare for hours at the blooms, waiting and waiting
for them to change, forever forgetting that they change as the gardener wills
them, that nothing here moves without a hand to guide it.  It's a shock to have
a hand on his shoulder, a sweet kiss pressed to his neck with something akin to
tenderness.  He turns, hope rising, and finds that it isn't quashed when he
sees hair lighter than the red he was longing for.  He kisses back, gently,
softly, with everything he can, pressing forward all the adoration he feels for
the garden, for the way the wind ruffles the leaves, for the scent of soil and
rain, and feels Marluxia respond, everything tender and meaningful.  It's
something Saïx has never had before, and for all that he revelled in their
clumsy lovemaking, Lea was only an exuberant teen.  Marluxia is skilled, slow
and gentle, taking his time as if they have all of it in the world.  He
supposes, staring out at the gentle curve of the garden, as the flowers slowly
wither and die, as Marluxia presses kisses along his spine, that they do.  No
time passes here but the time they make for themselves, and for now, Saïx is
content to bask in this time, this moment.  For now, he remembers what love can
be, what love can inspire, and how love can capture anything.  The bright
colours of the garden reflect in his eyes, and he lets them fill him with
warmth.  For now, he will feel alive.
***** Seven of Chalices *****
Seven of Chalices – Imagination
You can't have everything immediately
It makes his mouth water, the thought of him, the thought of that skin under
his, that hair under his hand, that mouth pressed to his.  He's a possibility,
for now, not something easy to be reached for, because he exists beyond the
realms of good and evil, right and wrong, and he is something infallible and
imperfect all at once.  Riku doesn't once admit that he's only fighting because
otherwise, Sora will remain forever outside his grasp, and that he can not
allow that to happen.  He sometimes thinks that if he hadn't known Sora, he
would have had to invent him.  On good days, he thinks that he did, and all
he's chasing after is some sort of memory, some sort of illusion, something
built up out of hope and lust and wanting.  On bad days, he lies down and
simply waits to die.
It's a tremulous chance, an option, but a road hard to travel, something which
is precarious and unstable, but still something more than potential.  They both
lie still, like something long dead, skin and bones held together by promise
and prayer, by the simple act of wanting.  Neither looks at the other, because
there's nothing beneath those insubstantial chests, nothing telling them how
this is supposed to go, nothing which lets them understand what these frail
longings truly are.  Axel doesn't like to admit that he wishes he could drown
all of his memories out with fighting, until he is left, like Roxas, an empty
shell, waiting to be filled with anything going, a vessel.  He feels echoic,
even now, like a cavern, but that's wrong, too, because he's more like
something which once had a chance, once had potential, but is used up, twisted
and dried like a husk, emptied of everything worth thinking about.  On good
days, he wonders if Roxas will let him fill him up, press his memories into him
and show him what it means to be alive, young and free, as if they are any of
those things.  On bad days, he just stares into the dark sky and endeavours not
to wonder at all.
He's innocent, untouched by what had gone before, untroubled by the scuffle of
memories tangled into his brain, a wide smile dancing like a glittering mockery
of everything which left with those hearts which held them down and
inconvenienced them, stopped them reaching their true potential.  That's what
they're told, anyway, and what cause is there to disbelieve?  He digs his nails
into his palms and tries not to long for that, long for something which doesn't
taste of death and betrayal, doesn't choke him down with thick, black smoke
which seeps into his lungs and stays there, colouring everything he
does.  Demyx glitters like something untouchable, and it is so hard to resist,
so hard to remember that some things are untouchable for a reason, that the
brightest coals will burn, and that water will flood and drown.  Better to stay
alone, better to curl up close with his books and hope that Demyx leaves him
alone, that the attraction isn't mutual, that the library is safe.  But when he
does spot the blond, he can't help testing a smile, trying out something which
was alien even when there were feelings underneath it to back it up.  Demyx
looks puzzled, and backs away, and Zexion hurls his book at the wall as hard as
he can, hearing the crack of its spine breaking, and wishes that he could to
the same to everyone who made him like this.  On good days, everything Zexion
sees is Demyx; the blue of those eyes, the blond of that hair, and even the
well-thumbed pages of his favourites can give him no relief from the torment of
needing something he can not have.  On bad days, the words he's reading blur,
and he doesn't understand why his cheeks are wet.
He is something of a prison, he knows that, he's something dark and evil and
wrong, and although the thought should bother him, he made certain that was
never going to be possible.  He doesn't regret the choice, because he can't
feel that, either, but sometimes it dawns on him that he may have been unwise,
been hasty in his decision, perhaps had not considered all the options.  But
the path is taken now, and there is nothing he can do but be the best that he
can be and encourage all the others to do the same.  He doesn't dare to think
that maybe keeping them under lock and key isn't the mark of a man with power,
a man who is sure of himself, and is instead the mark of a man who is lost and
has no idea how to go on.  He made them out of his two hands, and he has to
take responsibility, and yet when he does, he sees the scowls, the muttered
comments, the flash of anger in their eyes, and he drops back again,
unsure.  He watches Saïx stalk down the corridor and snarl at them,
straightening their backs, their eyes low, respectful, fearful, handing him the
leash and going where he leads.  There's something wonderful about that, the
knowledge, the power, something which tastes like victory and something he had
forgotten that he ever knew how to feel.  To watch Saïx walk is something he
indulges himself in, though he knows it to have no true purpose, no use, and he
is not a man who keeps useless things, everything needing a purpose, a reason,
a feature of worth.  At night, he lies alone and wonders if there is not worth
in companionship, warriors who lie together and fight for each other, out of
more than simple camaraderie.  On good days, he thinks of what it would be like
to have Saïx in his bed, strong and powerful, refusing to let him take control
and finally allowing him a chance to step back from the position of
responsibility he finds himself in.  On bad days, he remembers that he made
them like this, and that he robbed Saïx of the capability to love him when he
robbed him of everything else.
***** Eight of Chalices *****
Eight of Chalices – Go back
Arriving at a destination alone is to have walked during winter
They can't cry.  None of them can cry, it's the one thing robbed from them that
they know they are not supposed to miss, the blessed release of tears down
cheeks, of quiet sobs, or huge, wails of grief in the night, in bed alone,
calling people to them, calling for care, calling for love.  Instead, they lie
dry-eyed, staring at the ceiling, unable to make a sound, because who will help
that which has no heart.  Those which have no heart can only use, can only keep
people for what they can offer them, for what they can take from them – when
there are no emotions, there can be no love, no trust, no hope, no adoration –
and yet they'd swear they have all these things, that they can care for those
around them.  But they can't cry, because tears are a weakness that the
heartless can ill-afford, if they want to keep moving.  They can't acknowledge
that the hand which took those hearts took something else, too, something worth
more, something which allowed them to be free, just for one moment, from this
need to scream their pain to each other in the hope that someone else will
understand.
They can't go back, either, can't remember how to turn themselves into
something else, something which could cry, could scream, could lose all dignity
and gain all feeling in a split-second heartbeat, something which could feel,
not in the numb, dull way that they can, but like the world was suddenly
alight, and perfect it its monstrosity.  They find their breath catches in
their throat when they say farewell to lovers, and that is all they are
allowed, one hitch of breath as someone walks away from them, when all they
really want is to cry, to let out gaping sobs which leave them breathless,
empty, sagging, begging for someone to come back to them, to let them have
something other than loss, other than leaving, other than watching someone
vanish into the dust, taking your whole life with them.
The younger ones peel their skin back, privately, away from prying view, pry
beneath their skin to see if pain is the answer, if anything outside can meet
the pain inside and modify it, mollify it, switch it around until those
internal scars are worn on skin, painted on lacerations winding their way down
arms, hidden inside coats, hidden from the view of their older ex-lovers, those
who held them and showed them all the ways they could feel, then took away that
care and left them with those feelings, open and bare, curling around their
stomachs like snakes.  They have no method of surviving this, no way to push
those feelings back away, and so they explore pain, wondering how internal and
external can be so different, in terms of how difficult they are to bear.  Some
of them are nothing more than masses of scar tissue now, and it is only Zexion
who lets Vexen treat him, after fights, lets him see the scars, the bleeding,
the wreck he is pulling out of himself, one line at a time, and that is because
any way to have Vexen's hands on him again is better than nothing, better than
lying still and wishing.  It isn't what he wants, and when he sees the
reflected agony in those cold, green eyes, he feels guilt.  This is his pain,
not to be shared, not to be spread around, just to coat the back of the throat
where another might use alcohol, this is just his, only his, and just because
Vexen is the cause does not mean that he is allowed to look hurt.
They have all done things to each other which are unforgiveable, but this,
perhaps, is the worst, each one alone in bed, alone and wishing for death, for
anything other than this, endlessly chasing hearts which they can never possess
for a lifetime which is nothing more than breaking them, step after step, day
after day.  They're not even sure if they have normal lifespans, now, no idea
if they will simply continue on, aching, longing, hurt beyond measure, or if
it's possible for them to die other than at the hands of each other, which
would mean leaving one behind.  They are not kind, but they are not disloyal,
they may not like each other, but they could not condemn on of them to a life
alone with this pain, not when they can at least try to share it now.  They
don't run together, don't spend all their time locked in embraces now, because
there are traitors among them, and that ran through every pair, breaking
them.  Everyone is alone, now, trapped in a space of one, where there is room
for two.
They struggle the most in the cold, the young ones, curling together in packs,
like puppies, keeping warmth and yet never being warm as they were with them,
when they felt loved and honoured, to be known.  Winter has come to them, raced
in and frosted hearts and souls, minds and bodies, torn through defences of
blankets, and extinguished the fire.  Before, these men lived for the fire in
their bellies, the heat in their hearts, the need to battle, to fight, to own,
to win, but now, they are nothing but cold shells.  The girls try their hardest
to make do, together, because no one will touch them, but one is real and one
is imaginary, and relationships like that never work, split between two
planes.  They walk alone now, all of them, though they seems a group, because
no one will stand up for them, no one will hold them when everything
breaks.  And without tears, they shoulder their sorrow, raise up their burden,
and lock everything in close, keeping it away from the frosts which threaten to
damage it.  And walk alone.
***** Nine of Chalices *****
Nine of Chalices – Fullness
There is a time to enjoy what you have
It would be a lie to suggest that they would have come together, even if she
hadn't dragged them.  She held them together, hand-fasted, and drew them down
into the dark, away from the others.  There was nothing they could have done to
bond if she hadn't stood there, every step of the way, and made sure they
didn't get out of line.  They owe everything they have to her, and yet it was
her undoing, to bind them together closer than any two souls were ever meant to
be.  She showed them how to bring love into their bed, how to keep the others
out of it, and in doing so, cut her ties with them, left them drifting in the
ocean as she slipped under the waves.
She's bright and strong, a light in the darkness when neither of them knows
which way to turn.  She has strength in innumerable ways, but in this, she's
just the same as they are.  She's too afraid to give her all to something which
she knows can never last, she's too worried about the future to see that being
happy now is sometimes all that they can strive for.  Some of them can not even
hope for that.  They tuck her into their arms at night and try to promise
they'll protect her from everything, every pain, but they know that's not
true.  They can't protect her from the damage they'll do if their bond
stretches deeper, can not keep her from knowing that someone else is first and
foremost for them, and she is second best, although still raised higher than
the chattel that surround them.  Her hands are in theirs, and she knows this,
but for how long?  How long until they, too, tire of her?
She comes apart beneath their hands, showing them the tender places on each of
them, proving that bruises mar everyone, that no one is stronger than the
powers which rule them, no one can escape their eventual end.  They whisper her
name in dark places and she lights their way, they keep her warm when the
frosts fail to turn into Spring, when the seasons halt and ice climbs the
castle walls.  She is grateful for them, but knows she can not rely on this
kindness to last another impassable season.  They will be lovers for as long as
they can, for as long as both their souls exist, but she is just a starting
block, simply a step up.  She doesn't think they know it, yet, but they'll soon
come to the realisation that they're happier without her than with her.  She
cards a hand through red hair, presses a kiss above blue eyes, and closes her
eyes so the tears can't escape.  Then she remembers that they wouldn't fall
anyway, even if she dared keep them open.  She tugs them both closer, instead,
and pretends she doesn't feel a twist of pain at the thought of their loss.
Roxas will never admit it, but when he hears the news as to who is burning in
the other castle, who will never return, who is lost forever, he is not
completely worried for Axel.  He'd know, if he were dead, he rationalises, he'd
know.  But he remembers another slender figure wound around them at night,
smoothing his hair down, almost maternal, scathing remarks taking him down a
peg until he learnt it was just her humour, so he hid a smirk every time she
directed those comments at others.  He remembers swathes of blonde, bright blue
eyes as charming and disarming as she could make them, making even that into a
weapon, because you never know when you might need one.  He realises she
armoured herself even when they both had their guard down, that they let her in
far deeper than she could allow them to go.  She wasn't weak, simply afraid
that pain was all that was left to feel.  He bites his lip, refusing to give
into emotion, emotion that he isn't supposed to know, and concentrates on
willing Axel back to him, back into his arms.  He doesn't let himself think
about the one who isn't coming back.  Her loss is too painful to bear.
***** Ten of Chalices *****
Ten of Chalices – Happiness
The rainbow shines after the rain
The garden is soaking, drenched, every droplet catching moonlight as if there's
nothing else in the world, and they're all out in it, all wondering at the
sensation of the rain falling, the cleansing inherent in that, though they know
that there is no cleansing for what they have done, not truly.  They will
always be stained by this, even if they could come back together, being
something close to human again, this will still cover all of what they do and
who they are; they became murders for a hope of their own, and there are words
for people like that, people willing to sacrifice others for their own sake,
but none of them can remember that now.  Vexen stands alone in the rain, gazing
up, hands brushing blooms which open for him, the petals running over his
fingers, and he doesn't move his gaze from the flowers as the master of the
gardens joins him, resting his head on his shoulder and sighing.  He simply
wraps his arm around the slender figure next to him and keeps staring up at the
rain.  They do not have seasons, not here, not really, and he wonders whether
this flower has ever felt the first frost before.  Perhaps he will be shown
tonight.
Axel watches Roxas, his face dripping with rain, pouring down as if those blue
eyes could cry, and wonders if he looks the same, if he looks innocent in the
rain, or if he is too old, too broken, too damaged for that.  He catches Saïx's
eye, and they hold that gaze, the unspoken words saying yes, they are both old
and changed and different now, but here, in the rain, in the garden, the
greenery trembling around them, they would give everything up, any other lover,
any standing or position they have, they would trade, now, in the garden, for
the chance to be together again.  The gaze also says that they will never
manage this, that their time is over and gone, they have never moved on, but
they have no choice but to pretend that they have, they will, that everything
will be better if they just pretend their love could never have been.  Axel
walks forward and stands behind Roxas, pulling him into his body, the rain
soaking their cloaks and turning them into two oil slicks in the darkness of
the garden.
Xemnas watches his wolf, and misses nothing, not the look between him and Axel,
not the way Saïx's face shutters down when the redhead walks away, to his new
lover, stepping from his past and into his future.  He does not miss, either,
when Saïx turns to him, face mute with need, just for touch, just for that
moment, and he goes, because he is helpless, can do nothing else here, in the
rain-soaked garden at midnight, the moon above them but ignored, for now, the
storm-clouds more interesting, more full of promise, where the moon is just
disappointment and a constant reminder of their failure and their task.  Saïx
turns from the sky to curl against him, looking away, closing the gap between
them so not even the rain can get through, but he just rests his face against
Xemnas' chest and doesn't look at him, either.  Xemnas supposes he must make do
with this, for now – what he has is what he will keep, and he will not let
anyone take this from him, not even if they have a prior claim.  He keeps what
is his.
The master of the garden lets the rain soak into him as he stands among those
he has come to call comrades, of a sort, and as the plants whisper their thanks
to the clouds, he, too, has thanks to whisper to those who stand speechless in
the garden, letting themselves be washed clean as the flowers are, imagining
that the rain will take their sin away.  Already, Marluxia has new sin planned
for the day which will follow this night, new steps to be taken, new movements
to begin, and he feels the cold pressure of Vexen's body against his, and knows
that he will not sin alone, not ever again.  His sin will be absolved in the
end, this he knows, he will be cleansed as the flowers are, or cleansed by
fire; either way, he will not keep his sins past the grave.  He does not yet
know who will stand at his side when the time comes, but with the icy man next
to him, he could stand to live a little longer.  He tilts his face back to the
rain, and lets it fall.
***** Eight of Wands *****
Eight of Wands – Adaptation
Being like water that takes the form of its container, all obstacles can be
overcome
There are a couple of pieces of advice that Zexion's never followed.  The first
is to accept that all emotions are gone, and that they will never feel
again.  He doesn't even believe that one, never mind follow it.  The second is
to let situations wash over him, like they don't niggle at his brain like eager
maggots.  That one's simply impossible; despite not having emotions, he finds
himself aggravated by the tiniest things, upset by the smallest slices of
emotion from others.  It's even more annoying that Demyx seems to be so good at
it.  
He explains it as being like water, burying unpleasantness in the deep,
bringing only the sea rich with life and sunlight to the fore, flowing from
shape to shape with no change in how he is.  It's an amicable partnership,
Demyx and change, because he believes change is chance, and every chance will
lead to something good.  Zexion doesn't share the optimism, doesn't revel in
the chance for change, because he remembers life before change.  He was whole,
perfect… unsure, but steady, and everything made sense.  The world opened up in
glittering glory, sliced open and ripe for the taking, like everything had its
place, and every place had its use.  Now, the worlds seem muddy, no longer full
of promise, and he feels deaf and blind to every single wonder
If Demyx sees it clearly, he never says anything, pulling him out of the dusty
library to revel in glorious sunshine for days at a time, making him laugh
through words or actions, drawing a smile onto the face which shouldn't ever
have smiled again.  Demyx lazily talks about hearts and hopes, two things
Zexion doesn't chase or court, doesn't claim to understand.  The blond does
everything with a slow grace, sheer idleness making him cat-like, closed to
hard work, shunning effort in everything except the attempt to make Zexion see
light in the world.
"It's beautiful.  Everything works in harmony, and we're the discordant note,
swallowed up in melody."
"It's just life."
"Oh, Zexion, nothing is ever 'just' anything."
And he believes it, that's the funny thing.  The sincerity is striking whenever
Demyx speaks, the worlds rolling out like they're coated in honey, and yet no
less true for all of that.  His belief is fervent, and one of the things he
believes in is Zexion.
Himself, he finds that if he had to believe in anything, it would always be
Demyx.  He's never broken a promise yet, because he doesn't make any, and never
let him down, because he never says anything which could be construed as
affirming to an obligation.  Demyx just is, with all the odd connotations to
that, like water sliding down the parched throat, un-tasted and yet needed more
than anything else.  Necessary for life, and yet not enjoyed the way he should
be.  Demyx is sun to plants, meat to carnivores, and… heart, to Nobody?  It
would explain why Zexion finds himself watching Demyx hungrily, why he feels
sated after they have spent a day together, why he itches for nights exploring
each other, for all that flesh to be his.  It's not about friendship, or love;
it's possession, a right to rule, an ownership as surely as if he were branded.
"We do too have hearts!"
Zexion smiles a thin, proprietary little smile.  Oh, they have hearts, alright,
and they're stored exactly where everyone else keeps theirs.
Inside other people.
***** Two of Pentacles *****
Two of Pentacles – Balance
Opposites can coincide
He doesn't understand it, where these darker feelings come from, why he
occasionally wants to take a weapon and lay waste to the city around him, just
because someone cuts in the line to get a coffee, just the way people shove him
as they walk past, the way he feels so unimportant.  He's never been an angry
person, never had a streak of retribution in him.  He's happy, go-lucky Sora,
who never judges anyone, and loves everything on the planet with a fierce
protectiveness.
He doesn't understand it, why, when he should be slaughtering something, blood-
spattered and wild, he wants to stop, take the people – and they are people, he
should try and remember this – in his arms and tell them he can make all the
pain go away.  And he could, he knows, feels boundless love beneath his skin,
and it itches, like there's not a space for it to settle, so it just wanders
his body, looking for a way out.  But he's cold, dark Roxas, and he's never
been anything else for as long as he can remember.
He can't work out, either, why red hair is of such fascination to him.  He
spends hours brushing Kairi's, zoning out, letting the red run through his
fingers, even though it's too dark to be the right colour and she protests when
he wants to gel spikes into it.  He can't even say why.  He just feels that
would somehow be right, and the haze of memory agrees with him.  It's like
there's something there, deeper than heart, deeper than soul; muscle memory and
a need undaunted by his capacity for love.  But he's sweet, obvious Sora, and
he's always been in love with Riku.
He can't work out, either, why catching sight of the Riku replica is enough to
make the heart he doesn't have skip a beat.  Part of him tries to say it's to
do with the heat of battle, that he doesn't want to work up a sweat with that
body in all the other ways which count.  He can't even say why.  He just knows
that when he watches silver hair spin in the soft light, he has a hunger which
he can not even name, something deeper than lust, better than want; affection
and a need to be close to something else human, something which would
understand feeling and sentiment.  But he's sullen, angry Roxas, and Axel's the
only lover he's ever had.
It doesn't make sense, but the feeling is worse whenever he looks at Riku, to
the point where it hurts just to watch the boy sit in the same room as him, and
not just because the corners of his mouth are turned downwards.  He refuses to
even share a sofa with the other boy, and in the end, Riku stops coming around,
stops trying to speak to him at school, and just… fades away.  The worst part
is that he doesn't really care; it makes him dead inside, dark and angry, and
that feels amazing, feels right.  He wonders, if he could peel his skin back,
what or who he'd find underneath, and whether there'd be an explanation for all
of this.  Because once, he was Roxas.  And now he finds he misses that.
It doesn't make sense, but everything about Axel sets his teeth on edge, makes
him want to move silently away and sit somewhere else, maybe with a quiet
Zexion or Saïx, anything to move away from sharp angles and that obnoxious
hair.  Axel follows him from room to room, trailing after him like a lost
puppy, and it is then that he turns, Oblivion raised, and snarls at his
follower, a clear threat.  Axel goes, and after that, seems to just start to
disappear at the edges, like the fabric of his reality is fading.  The worst
part is that it hurts to do that; he's guilty, sorrowful, missing his lover and
everything complicit in having, and yet that feels amazing, right.  He wonders,
if he could climb out of his own ski, what or who he'd find underneath, and
whether there'd be an explanation for all of this.  He doesn't know that, once,
he was Sora.  But now he finds he misses that.
***** Three of Pentacles *****
Three of Pentacles – Service
There is also honour in serving
They're all slaves.  He can't lie to himself and say it isn't so, or that he is
not, or that simply, they are captive, not slaves, not put to work in the worst
jobs, not treated with less respect than a dog.  He knows they're all slaves,
all lost and wandering, alone in the dark without a hand to hold or any light
to guide them.  There is no honour in serving a master who does not so much
lead as fall first, showing them the way towards the ground as if they couldn't
find it on their own.  They all know how to fall, which way to lean, and he
hates it.  He laughs at Saïx, now, for needing to belong, for scraping and
begging to be part of this, rather than realising that all he's asking for is
to be owned.  Well, he doesn't want to be owned, can't be owned, refuses
it.  He is no one's slave.
Axel tried to run, once; no bag to pack, just a discarded coat on the bed, and
feet walking out into the air, gone, vanishing.  That was the plan,
anyway.  But he found that roots are put down, sometimes, no matter how hard
you fight them.  True, there was no succour to be found in the castle, but what
is there in any other world?  Who there will fight for him, who will stand up
for him, protect him?  Who, indeed, would he be willing to sacrifice to them
whilst he escaped and remained safe?  The answer to that, of course, is
everyone, but he knows that's the answer of someone who has no heart, and not
the person he wishes to be.  Not the person he'll have to be, if he wants to
avoid detection.  He goes back within three days, and everyone pretends they
didn't notice his absence.  He knows he wouldn't have got much further, even if
he'd wanted to, and admits to being held back by more than just the fear of
being found.  He feared that, alone, he would be lost.
There's nothing that can't be forgotten, that's Axel's new mantra, there's
nothing which can't vanish so totally from memory as to be as if it never
happened.  This is the way it has to be, or he will remember a thousand lost
promises, a thousand lives taken, a thousand times he has lied and faked his
way back into the good graces of his betters, and that can not be, because that
sort of resentment lies deep, close to the bone, and shows up in the eyes.  He
can't risk that showing through, not now, not ever, and if that means becoming
heartless in more than simple physiological truth, then so be it.  Pity and
thought are two things he can not give in to, for fear of breaking down.  Fear,
too, should be alien to him, but he finds this is the one thing he is unable to
quash, despite trying.  He's a coward, through and through, and that is what
truly holds him back from revolution.
But it all changes when Roxas arrives.  Roxas is hope, glory, wonder, something
shining out from under all the dirt and hatred, something which glitters
brightly and is always greater than whatever darkness may approach them.  There
is nothing Axel will not do if it is for the benefit of Roxas, no risk he will
not take, nothing he is more afraid of than losing his connection to the blond
and what feels like his only chance for any kind of salvation.  When he sees
Roxas smile, it is like he is forgiven everything as the sun sets before them,
as a pale hand finds his gloved one, and pulls him closer.  Nothing can sully
him, although he worries he dirties Roxas by merely standing nearby, never mind
needing him as fiercely as he does.  He is reassured slightly when he wakes to
a soft, warm body pressed to his, blond hair tucked beneath his chin, and
realises that you can not dirty something which doesn't know the ground is
there.  He realises he's a slave, yet again, that he serves someone once more,
and he does not mind serving, if it is to serve Roxas.  He understands that he
has chosen his master, and now, he is no longer alone.  Perhaps, now, he
understands.
***** Four of Pentacles *****
Four of Pentacles – Barriers
We carry the cruellest chains inside of us
He knows that he didn't make the chains.  Not the first time, anyway, he knows
that, then, he was afraid, lonely, and didn't know how much of a habit this
would become.  Now, it's an addiction.  No, that suggests he has less control
over it than is true – he knows that he chooses to go back every time, that
it's a choice which becomes more and more difficult as the days go by, but that
each and every time, he chooses to stay.  It hurts, and he knows that it always
hurts more in the morning, but it's his choice.  He thinks that, once, that was
important, but he doesn't really remember anymore.
Saïx used to call someone else's name when Xemnas took him, purring it
insolently as if it could make the shame of having a master lessen.  It can't,
he's learnt, but in can make your master so infuriated with your behaviour that
he refuses to see you for days.  Saïx remembers the sudden free time, the glee
in knowing he had a chance to do anything he wanted, and then a sinking in his
soul when he realised he had no idea of what to do, and had no one to do it
with.  He'd been young when they'd been taken in, and so Zexion might have been
the obvious choice for him to spend time with, if the boy hadn't been so
frighteningly dead behind the eyes.  He upset people who looked at him, and
Saïx had no truck with creepy kids, even if they did get to run about outside
whilst he himself was locked indoors, poring over reports and newspapers,
different from world to world, checking for suspicious activity.  Besides,
Zexion was… old inside.  Damaged, scarred.  Something in him was wrong and
broken, and it didn't seem like anyone could fix it.
He knows he has something broken in himself, too, but couldn't reach deep
enough to find the broken part and put it all together.  He thinks that maybe
he would never have gone back to his master if he knew he would be a dog to
call for the rest of his life.  Maybe if whatever the snapped piece was had
turned out to be fixable, he would have made it out alive.  Now, the original
broken part is lost under the broken wreckage of everything else, and it's so
hard to figure out what it could have been.  In the early hours of the morning
he struggles to put back the pieces, struggles to complete the jigsaw when so
much of it is sky, and there aren't any edges to anchor it.  How can one human
being be in so many fragments, and still stay something close to whole, so
you'd never know unless you looked in the eyes?  He thinks something like that
was true of Zexion, once, that he was only a little broken.  Maybe they were
all only a little broken, once upon a time.  Now, they're all so cracked and
torn, stained from use, that they can't keep lips from trembling, hands from
shaking, eyes from closing.
There are hands, now, clasped across his chest, clasping him like something
precious.  Because when the wolf calls at the door, you take your precious
little things where you can find them.  But, as Saïx is finding, when the wolf
lies next to you in bed, and any false move could be the end of you, there is
nothing to be done but to lie still and let yourself be held down, hoping that
there's something beyond all of this which will turn your lover sane.  Because
that's what Xemnas is, now.  He's gone from master to hated foe, to lover,
because, over time, sharing experiences, caring for cuts and scrapes, and
letting someone own you – well, it makes them something closer to human.  And
when you've known that face, you've walked beside it all these years, and now
it grows sallow and thin, and you listen to him cry at night, holding you as if
you'll leave him if he lets go, you can't help but love him, with everything
you have.  Even if that's not much, you'll do that for him, to keep him
alive.  He tells you he'll die without you, and you honestly believe him,
clutching at his hand to reassure him that you're not going anywhere.  You
can't, anyway, because love owns you far more than any master ever did.
Saïx lies still in the silence, letting the breathing of the frail body behind
him lull him into sleep.  Tomorrow will be better, tomorrow they will cease to
starve, cease to lose battles, cease to need each other, and he can go back to
hating Xemnas with every fibre of his being for trying to own him like a
dog.  Tomorrow, he thinks, with the air of someone who knows that tomorrow is
only a pipe dream.  Tomorrow, he'll be free, or he'll be dead.  Sometimes he
doesn't think that there's much between the two.  Right now, he has a lover,
slowly dying – but then, they're all slowly dying, aren't they? – he has
someone who relies on him for everything, and therefore he can not let go, he
can not take those steps away.  How can you walk away when you're the one thing
holding a person up?  Saïx can't, so he lies still, fingers laced with those of
the man behind him as he stares up at the moon, the cursed, damned moon which
started all of this, and lets a few silent tears fall to their demise on the
pillow.  Eventually, his chest heaves, and the sob is loud, too loud in the
quiet room.  Xemnas wakes.
"Love?" he rasps, voice hoarse with sleep.
"Always." Saïx says, softly, "I will chase the wolf from your door."
The older man presses his chin in to rest on Saïx's shoulder, warm breath
hitting his neck.
"I thought you were the wolf at my door, love."
"There's a difference," Saïx murmurs, helplessly, "I'm on the right side."
He smiles at that, corners of his mouth rising as Xemnas chokes out a laugh.
Because, really, none of them ever believed they were on the right side.
***** Five of Pentacles *****
Five of Pentacles – Indigence
The journey is long and often difficult
Sometimes, Xemnas thinks, it's like they've been trying so hard to travel so
far, for so long.  Their lives are little pieces of extremes, never pushing
forward just the right amount, everything done with aggression and force, never
a hand to help.  But they're his, all of them, all his little soldiers, and he
watches them move like raindrops flowing in the gutter, tiny pieces of what
will come to be.  In battle, all movements are exaggerated, all strength is
shown, nothing kept back for the private life, nothing hidden.  They are –
unlike people, a word he spits darkly, late at night – completely bare, open,
and honest.  There is nothing else they can be, with everything that would take
place in private being torn apart, or written on their faces.  He knows
everything that each one of them thinks, and cherishes this knowledge as
something precious and sacred.  It is as close, perhaps, as they get to
religion.
Most of them choose someone to spend their time with, he sees, and he is no
different, Saïx sticking close because the alternative is being alone.  He's
not stupid, he knows the other man has no real interest other than sharing his
power.  Being with someone who half-owns you and half-worships you is better
than being without anyone.  And Xemnas has never met anyone who loves as well
as his blue-haired companion.  He's tasted the others, of course, and yet
still, Saïx warms his bed.  Like everything else they do, his miniature army
loves with everything they have, throw themselves full-force into the act of
love, as if that can make the feeling come back.  Xemnas has tried it with each
new member and can say with some certainty that orgasm is something they can
feel.  It's just the accompanying emotions to go along with it that they can't
muster up, although Xemnas sometimes thinks he feels something close to love
when Saïx stalks in, bloody and wounded, needing care, needing attention.  Need
is as close to want as makes no difference, and Xemnas adores to see those
yellow eyes flash with anger and pain, need, longing, hurt.  
There was a plan, once.  Xemnas knows this, because he wrote it all down in
books which he reads now with some detachment.  He can no longer make head or
tail of his scrawls, which look like the ravings of a religious madman.  He
seems to have believed in power, in strength from something outside of the
body, and now he can feel no faith.  Faith, it seems, requires a heart in order
to survive.  Perhaps this is why they all clutch each other so closely, why
they all take lovers.  They have no faith that anyone will stay, but by giving
them the best they can from their bodies, they hope that someone will hang
around for a while.  They have such little hope.  Xemnas stares at his notes
and knows that he had hope in abundance, and now just feels the crushing
pressure of despair, a little more each day.  He has walked them down this
road, and they are his to command, but they are also his
responsibility.  Looking at them now, a sad little shower, he feels a little
like he's failed them.  He doesn't even know how, just knows that the man he
was before would not have allowed such fine warriors to be broken.  And that's
odd, isn't it?  Because warriors require passion.
Perhaps it is passion, then, which leads them to warm each other's beds from
night to night, passion which causes the raised voices and the way they protect
each other.  Perhaps it is passion which has led all of them to their weapons
and powers, although Xemnas notices that Saïx keeps from the moon these
days.  Perhaps passion can overtake, can swallow up and consume.  Perhaps this
is why they're all so careful with their lovers, why Axel snarls when someone
comes near Roxas, why Zexion casts a careful glance over anyone attempting to
get to Demyx, why Larxene and Marluxia quip witticisms to defend each
other.  If you expend passion on something, does it become a part of
you?  Xemnas doesn't know.  The closest he can get to passion with Saïx is
hatred, anger, fear, and he knows, despite his failings, that this is not what
the others gather from their own liaisons.  These couples have carried each
other from the battlefield and forced each other to survive.  Xemnas doesn't
mind them having it – he just wishes he knew the secret.
Is he broken?  Broken beyond repair, beyond how they are broken, and has he
dragged Saïx with him to the depths of hell?  Has he dragged them all there,
for no reason he can fathom any longer, and pulled them to pieces whilst a mad
little part of his brain laughs to itself?  He keeps his hands in Saïx's hair,
fingers wrapping strands around them, as if he could dive in and lose himself
in the ocean-like folds and curls of mussed blue.  He isn't perfect, he knows
this, he knows he's faulty and wrong, just like the rest of them, but
sometimes, lying here beside his lover, his constant companion, he longs to
press gentle kisses to that slender neck, to lie beside him and listen to him
breathe.  Sometimes just to check that he still is.  It's not perfect, Xemnas
thinks, pressing as close to Saïx as he can, like he could climb inside the
other man, and the journey isn't at an end just yet.  But they'll get there,
and when they do, he'll make sure they've all survived.
He brought them here.  It's his job to bring them all out again.
***** Three of Swords *****
Three of Swords – Suffering
Reason alone does not warm
He finds it easier to be heartless.  This isn't what he says, to anyone, but
it's true enough.  There is nothing easy about emotion, the thing which people
call free expression is anything but, if you want Demyx's opinion.  He likes to
pretend that it's all to do with hearts and love, like their having hearts has
anything to do with his capability to love.  He survives because he has no
emotional ties, no strings to hold him down.  He wanders freely, and cares not
that he makes no attachments as he walks through life.  And people say, what is
life without bonds and meaningful relationships?  And he'll answer them, every
time, with the same, right answer.
"Easy."
He lives without pain, the body demands that, but the mind must be pain-free,
too.  He grins at the redhead who brought him in, but makes no attempts to be
friends.  Friends are a liability, and now he has a mission to complete, a
liability is something he doesn't need.  He's never needed anyone to look after
him before, why now?  Just because they're a group, a crowd, a gang, if you
will, doesn't mean that he needs their protection, their love, their
friendship.  When the three new ones arrive, and immediately latch on to each
other, he smiles.  It's easier if the attention of the group is on those,
rather than trying to persuade him to let his emotions go and to make
friends.  He has never had a friend, and he does not intend to start now.
He notices the boy taking an interest, writes it off as childish need, a want
which is more curiosity than lust, and lust is fascinating to him, now that
Xemnas speaks of someone new, his hand on the back of Saïx's neck, gripping,
holding, keeping him as a pet.  Lust seems like it might have possibilities,
now.  So as the child watches, he watches in turn, keeping an eye on his dark
little shadow, and at night he thinks of all the ways he could make the child
crawl.  It never smiles, horrible little thing, never uses a mask like everyone
else, simply stares blankly as if the entire world is a dissected animal,
spread out on the table to be taken apart.  Demyx likes that, even though the
child doesn't hide it, because he thinks of the world in the same way.  If you
took it apart, you could read the future in the entrails.
It takes months for the child to take a real interest, to notice the glances
shot back, full of heat which Demyx has learnt from screwing Axel, Xigbar,
Saïx, anyone he can find.  He understands lust, now, and understands just what
desire can do to a man, if he lets it.  And just what you can do to a man who
desires you, if you choose to do so.  The child comes to him on his knees,
proof that he knows the world works only as a series of masters and slaves, and
that whatever Demyx was before, he will not be a slave, now.  He crawls
beautifully, and Demyx thinks he could live the rest of his life with nothing
else but the memory of that pert ass shifting towards him, the boy keeping his
head down, eyes to the floor like good pets do.  Demyx laughs, a noise like a
cascade of water, and the boy still doesn't look up.  It is a partnership, he
decides, and lifts the boy's chin.
He's a beauty, somewhere under all that tight little mouth, that glare, those
blank eyes.  When he's under Demyx, screaming in something which could be want
and could be pain, he's beautiful; he comes alive, like someone's lit a fire
inside him and only Demyx can put it out.  He begs prettily, whines and moans
for more in all the right spots, and knows that a man likes to be awoken to a
pet who knows exactly what is expected on him.  Again, on his knees he looks
defiant, for a moment, but they both know who is in charge, and the boy
dutifully turns to his task, sucking Demyx down with a skill honed by several
months of practice, every morning, and no small amount of enthusiasm.  Demyx
smiles.  A whore should be enthusiastic about being used, and Zexion certainly
is.  Perhaps he enjoys the attention, the praise, the idea that he is
wanted.  Perhaps he simply likes to know that he belongs to someone who will
make all the hard decisions for him.
Time passes, and Demyx starts to look at the other couples.  Other than Saïx
and Xemnas, they are equal partnerships.  They talk to each other, pass easy
emotion between each other.  Zexion is no less eager, no less willing, no less
skilled that night, but somehow, he fails to arouse Demyx's interest, even when
he, sobbing, counts the strokes of the birch which are his punishment.  Demyx
realises that, for the first time he can remember, he wants a partner.  Someone
who will understand when he talks, and agree when they agree, rather than
because they fear punishment, or feel they must.  Suddenly, Zexion is no longer
enough, not the way he is; the way he crawls like a sycophant makes Demyx
ill.  He says so, smirking at the twist of pain on Zexion's face as he waits
for the lash, which never comes.  Demyx simply walks away, forgetting the
golden rule of keeping pets.  You never leave anything helpless.
Marluxia has four broken fingers when Demyx finds him trying to court Zexion,
his little pet snarling and spitting like a cat at the pink-haired man, crying
out over and over that he belongs to Demyx, that he will not be a whore for
anyone else.  It is then that Demyx sees worth in the man, who was a boy before
the heart was stolen from him, and who grew up faster than anyone needed
to.  He shoves Marluxia away, and the man knows enough not to challenge his
claim.  Then he takes Zexion back to bed and spends time teaching him the only
things he doesn't know; how to give pleasure instead of being a passive vessel,
and how to feel.  Demyx doesn't know, really, what feeling is like, but he's
been faking not feeling for long enough that to smile or crack a joke, just to
teach his little pet to smile, feels wonderful.  He is free.
You'd never guess, to see them together, that bossy Zexion, the boy who knows
everything, and who calls himself a man, despite his youthful looks, would
willingly submit to a hand on his neck, would kneel in a crowded room and mewl
his want for his master, with no shame and no idea that this wasn't perfectly
normal.  Now, Zexion stands tall, or perches on Demyx's knee, serious in the
face of his gleeful lover.  No longer master and pet, now Zexion knows he has
worth.  Demyx may have taught him to crawl, but he also taught him how to
smile, which isn't easy to do.  And in return, he has taught Demyx that
emotions can be shown without being weak, without submitting to someone
else.  Sometimes you can feel just because you need to.  And you'd never guess,
to see them together, that they were once master and slave, owner and pet, and
that it takes someone heartless to know the value of another's heart.
***** Six of Swords *****
Six of Swords – Renunciation
The past, at times, must stop existing
There's a haze of sunlight wrapped around them as they giggle, small hands
clasped together firmly, never letting go.  They laugh through their speech,
and the grins are infectious, passed between each other.  Isa never lets anyone
else see this side of him, the laughter, the smiles, the ducked head to hide
the smirk when Lea does something particularly foolish.  Like this, he is just
for Lea, and although Lea plays the clown for everyone, he isn't soft like this
for anyone but Isa.  There's no one else he opens his arms for, calms and
sobers for, or asks gentle questions.  They are like no one else, and together,
they make up something special, something which only exists between the two of
them.
"So it's a promise, then?"
"Of course. Like I'd leave you behind!"
Isa smiles, resting his head on Lea's shoulder.
"What will it be like, do you think?  When we live in the castle?"
"That Ienzo kid seems to like the life enough," Lea said, gently, "I guess it
just means more food, less stealing, and more room to play!"
"Ienzo doesn't look like he likes playing."
"Of course he does.  You've seen him, in that big lab coat!  I bet he likes
playing doctor, or something."
Isa shakes his head slightly, Lea's spiked hair brushing over his temple.
"And we'll stay best friends.  Always." he asks, unsure.
"Silly." Lea says, softly, rubbing a hand through blue hair in reassurance,
"There's no one else I'd rather be with."
When they meet Ventus, Isa steps back to let Lea do what he's good at; putting
people at their ease.  People don't react nearly as well to Isa's serene calm,
preferring to see Lea's antics as humour, until they make Isa smile.  The other
boy plays well, like he's used to play-fights, and Isa finds himself smiling
further at the tableau the two of them make.  It doesn't matter if Lea suggests
the boy would make a better friend, Isa knows he doesn't mean it.  After all,
they have their plan, and they have their promise.  After the fight, Isa claps
Lea's hand a little tighter, and the redhead squeezes back, surprised.
"You didn't think I meant it, did you?  About him being – "
"I know you didn't."
"Good, because… because you're my best friend, and there isn't anyone else I'd
rather have!" Lea shouts, as if the noise will convince Isa.
"I know," Isa smiles, "We're special."
Lea leans over and presses dry lips to Isa's cheek, and goes pink, pulling
away.  Isa keeps his hand gripping tightly, and pulls the other boy close
again.
They walk on, into the sunset, for once, Lea not tugging at Isa's hand, not
trying to run ahead.  For now, their paces match perfectly.
The first time they get in to the castle, Lea ruins it all for them by asking
Ienzo to play.  It turns out Isa was right; the boy doesn't play, and the lab
coat isn't just for show.  The man who throws them out is strong, Lea wriggling
in his grasp, whilst Isa lies still.  He's thinking about the diagrams he saw
in the books, before Ienzo slammed them shut, and the flicker of something in
the boy's eyes when he saw comprehension in Isa's.  He's used to people being
stupid, Isa realises, rolling as he hits the ground, not used to people his age
being able to keep up with him, and so he carries himself like an adult, though
he isn't one.  Lea sticks his tongue out at the man as he walks off, and Isa
pulls himself off the ground.
"That was the plan?" he asks, eyebrow raised.
"How was I to know he thought he was a grown up?"
Isa shakes his head, still smiling, and doesn't think about the hearts in the
pictures.
There's a shift, over the years, after that one soft kiss, from friends to
something else, so when Lea decides to celebrate the New Year by sealing their
old promise with a kiss, Isa's hardly surprised.  He kisses back, after a
moment, and feels Lea's lips curl into a smile against his.  They are, as they
have always been, special to each other.  Lying back in the hayloft, Isa lets
Lea glory in him, revelling in every touch, every piece of pale skin which is
revealed and lies next to Lea's bronzed tones.  They're tangled together
bodily, like their hearts have always been, and Isa closes his eyes at the
parts where it hurts.  All good relationships have their pain, after all, and
with his fingers entwined with Lea's, he knows their promise is held as firmly
as Lea holds him.
It seems like too much of a good thing for Lea, finding Ienzo alone in the
market, without the creepy blonde guy he hangs about with, whilst Isa's asleep
in the hayloft.  Lea admits to feeling stirrings of something for the skinny
almost-stranger, something which isn't the same depth as what he feels for Isa,
but hotter, more desperate.  Turns out that in the last few years, the boy has
learnt how play works, and follows Lea back to the stable, where Isa sleeps in
the hayloft.  The kissing starts off good, Ienzo not having skill, as such, but
a passion which overrides that, but when Lea tries to get his hands under
Ienzo's clothes, the boy shies away, skittish.  Lea pounces, and the boy cries
out.  It all seems to happen in slow motion; the cry, Isa's footsteps hurrying
down from the loft, still naked and obviously stained from their passion, to
see Lea astride a panicking Ienzo.  Lea feels strong hands on his shoulders,
pulling him off the frightened boy, who runs as soon as he can.  Then Isa, for
the first time in their lives, pushes him away, and climbs back up the hayloft
steps, pulling on his clothes as swiftly as possible, tears running down his
cheeks as if they could cleanse him from this.
"You promised," he snarls, stalking past Lea, still kneeling in the straw as
his world falls apart around him, "You promised we were special."
They're recruited at the same time, the newly named Axel staring in mute hope
at the freshly created Saïx.  The other man's talking, but Axel can't hear a
single word, lost in Saïx's eyes – yellow, now, and he knows it was his
betrayal which did this.  He made Saïx out of Isa, and now, with Xemnas' hand
on the shoulder of his best friend, Axel bites his lip to keep mute.  Saïx
smirks, because some things never change, and follows Xemnas out of the room,
shaking his hair – long, now – and drawing attention to that body which Axel
will never touch, not now.  Xemnas ushers Saïx into his room with a proprietary
air, smiles a feral grin at Axel, and nods to… Zexion.  The boy who was once
Ienzo.  Axel swallows, hard, but the boy merely raises an eyebrow at him,
amused, and leads him to an empty bedroom, closing the door when he leaves.
That night, Axel opens his eyes, unaware if he's slept or not, to find Saïx sat
on his bed, one hand reaching for his hair.
"I did this." Axel says, voice hoarse, "I did this to us."
Saïx smiles, sadly, and leans closer, a hand carding through Axel's hair, and
for a minute, it's as if none of this has happened, like they'll wake up in the
hayloft, together, and it will all be a bad dream.
"No, Lea." Saïx says, gently, kissing his old love, his old friend, before
drawing back, "You didn't betray me.  This is our promise."
Axel, confused, leans up for another kiss, and Saïx indulges him.
"This is our promise," he says, again, shifting to lie beside the redhead, "You
kept it."
***** Ten of Swords *****
Ten of Swords – Fears
Courage is constructed a little at a time
They return, Sora standing on the beach alone, briefly, before Riku and Kairi
remind him that he's home, he's welcome, he's safe.  He grips their hands hard,
like he could made himself more solid, more real, simply by their strength on
his side.  He remembers terrible things, walls of flames, and it is only their
goodness, their purity, which stops him from retching onto the sand, sick and
disgusted with his own actions.  You can say that he did what he had to, but
Sora knows it was more than that.  It was like something larger was at stake,
like something was pulling his strings.  The Sora who left would have preferred
to be killed than kill, and yet the one who now stands on the sands knows that
survival is key, is sometimes all that matters.  He is no longer who he was,
and pretending to be naïve isn't going to fool anyone who was there with him.  
"You okay?"
"I've seen worlds burn." Sora says, blankly, and Riku puts an arm around him.
School is easy, and he spends the breaks practicing katas with the martial arts
club, taking his time to get the form and stance correct.  Riku's been doing it
for years, so no one's really surprised when Sora joins in – they're joined at
the hip, it was only a matter of time.  What does surprise them is how quiet
Sora is, how dedicated to being good, still and solemn, and how he isn't clumsy
anymore.  He's been in a war, and in war, if you're clumsy, you die.  Now he
acts as if he's training for another, always the first to arrive and the last
to leave.  His parents simply smile; these are the people who have noticed only
that their son is focused, no other change, and they let him do what he
will.  He spends any spare time poring through books, reading stories which,
for the first time, make sense.  He's seen where stories come from, where
stories are formed, and now the books don't seem so fanciful.  They are no
longer an escape – they are what he escapes from, with his body curving into
muscle, losing the baby fat which used to cling, and everyone still smiles at
him, like they can't see him building a siege weapon our of his flesh.
"Come on, misery guts!" Kairi grins, running a hand over his flat abdomen, "You
need to find some new clothes, not this hideous sack!"
"There's nothing wrong with my clothes, Kairi!"
"Nothing that a little accessorising wouldn't help." Riku says, and hands him
his forgotten keys, just as they're about to go out the door.  A spark of
memory passes between the two of them, and Sora nearly jumps back in surprise.
He's eighteen when he joins up, the army offering him a chance to see strange
places and meet exotic people.  Still, no one looks twice.  Sora was never good
at school, so where was he to go afterwards?  A lot of boys, given the choice
of living at home in the basement and paying rent, or going to war, where they
get a pair of trousers they don't have to share, choose war as the lesser of
two evils.  He trains hard, harder than he needs to, and the sergeant takes
note.  The boy moves like he had fought before, and that says guerrilla,
irregular, someone who doesn't follow orders.  But Sora does follow orders, to
the letter, and never complains about little tasks, little punishments.  He
just carries on, with that same, focused expression on his face, which only
breaks into a smile when he sees Riku.
"Training hard?" Riku asks.
"You never know when you need to be ready."
He's twenty, and tomorrow, they go to war.  In the darkness, sat next to Riku,
Sora remembers battles fought, and leads his friend out of the tent by the
hand.  He kisses him for the first time, under the stars, and he thinks it's
the most frightening thing he has ever done, the most courageous, until Riku
kisses back.  They're locked together, briefly, their faces saying everything
which is needed, Riku knowing the boy before, the man now, and saying he will
be there to see the man after, too.  Sora sees, too, how Riku withdrew, afraid
of the evil inside himself, afraid that he'd be thrown away, and yet now, he
follows Sora.
"I love you." Sora whispers, the words nearly lost to desert sands, and Riku
smiles.
"And I will go wherever you order me." He says.  It's as good a declaration as
any.
War is hell.  No one can say it with more certainty than a soldier, but Sora
discovers that war is also off-colour jokes, sweet, milky tea, and the only
place where they teach you that people are home.  The others joke about him and
Riku, because they know, but they never let on to the officers.  The two of
them are not inseparable; they take their guard duty alone, they are willing to
be parted if the platoon splits, but given the choice, they will stand side by
side, barely an inch of space between them, and the men say it's like they
communicate via mind link, because they never seem to need to speak to be in
perfect sync.  To older soldiers, they simply look like men who have fought
before, and survived.  
Sora nods.
They move.
Riku's wound is enough for him to be sent home, bloody and cursing, Sora's
hands on the wound as they duck through the fire, desperate to find somewhere
so he can stop his lover bleeding out.  He uses compression until the medic
arrives and sews Riku up, messy and swift, and then Riku is gone.  After a
three day stalemate, Sora returns to camp to find that his lover's belongings
are there, and yet, the men say, he doesn't weep, or fear the worst.  They
suspect he'd know instantly if Riku had died, because he would have keeled over
at the exact same time.  He takes the news of Riku's trip home with grave,
solemn eyes, and simply nods, taking his leave.  He does not waver, and returns
to his post.
"You alright, Corp?" one of the men asks, daring to approach.
The man doesn't answer, simply meets his eyes, and the emotion within is answer
enough.
Sora finishes his tour of duty, five bullet scars worse off, one having grazed
the face so close to the eye that it stopped working.  He comes home to Riku,
walking again, despite the medical suggestion that he'd never manage it, and
the two of them don't need to speak to know that they're moving, and that the
war will be left to younger men, those who still believe that such a thing can
be won.  They get away from the beach, Sora never wanting to see sand again,
having shaken it from all of his belongings upon returning home, so they move
inland, somewhere that's green and lush, grass and trees prevalent.  It feels a
lot like home.  Their house is in a little village, and people nod at them as
they walk past, Riku's limp still obvious, Sora's scar even more so.  But the
people don't bother them, simply let them get on with their lives, in peace.
"Do you think we scare them?" Riku asks, leg trembling from walking too far too
soon.
"Wouldn't you be frightened?" Sora asks, and gets no answer.
They take a day out to drive to the country – it's a nice day, so why not have
a picnic, take in as much of the summer before the autumn crushes it?  There's
a picnic spot marked on the map, around twenty miles away, and they head
there.  They stop when they see it, a ruin of a castle, parts crumbling, parts
still standing.  Sora eats his jam sandwiches, because there's very little else
to do at noon, and then they venture inside to explore.  The hallways could be
anywhere, dull and awkward, and they stumble through the maze of passageways
until they walk out into the middle of a great hall.  Sora stops, instantly,
frozen.
"I've been here before.  Riku?"
"Looks deserted.  What are the chances of finding a castle out here, abandoned
like this?"
"Riku, we've been here before."
And they have.  Sora's voice may be broken now, the two of them may be taller,
older, bearing their own scars, but childhood cements our beliefs and our
minds, and this place founded their adolescence.  It is the ghost of what they
were, and what they will never be again.  Riku swallows against the lump in his
throat for the reminder of innocence, long gone, faded into the dust, and
gathers Sora to his chest, tugging him as close as they can be.
"I don't want to remember, Sora."
"And you know that I can't forget."
Together, the two of them stand under the vaulted ceiling, dust motes
flickering in the air, dancing in the sunbeams, and let themselves get lost in
memory.
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