fic: "What It's like" (Organization XIII, #7)
Title: What It's Like
Author: laylah
Claim: Organization XIII
Characters: Demyx, Xaldin
Theme Set: Light
Theme: #7 - hope
Disclaimer: Squeenix owns me, not the other way around.
Summary: One thing Demyx that isn't terribly good at, and one thing that he is.
What It's Like
He's stopped trying to use his forms, because he knows that's not helping, and there's almost never any close combat -- not that he's good at that either, and crap, here they go again, and he gets one more wrenching discordant sound out of his sitar, one more waterspout that doesn't find its mark as his opponent dodges, too fast and too agile to fall for that again, and it's more mercy than he thought he'd get when the back end of a lance drives into his shoulder, bruising but not hard enough to break bone, just enough to knock him down, to make him lose his grip on his sitar so it dissolves into vapor as his back hits the floor.
For a long, uninspired ten seconds, Demyx stares up at the ceiling and doesn't move. This whole thing is so incredibly, unbearably lame.
"Pathetic," Xaldin says, when Demyx picks himself up off the floor for the fifth time. "Again."
Demyx sighs, reaching into his coat for a potion. "I'm still not going to beat you," he says. "What's the point?"
Xaldin gives him the really-disappointed-in-you look that always makes Demyx wonder if, before, Xaldin's other was somebody's dad. "You're hardly fit to be in the Organization, if you can't defend yourself."
"This isn't what I do," Demyx tells the floor, very quietly.
"What?" Xaldin asks. He's still holding one of his lances, in that low straight-armed ready position that means he could swing it at any second.
"Nothing," Demyx says. He swallows his potion, feeling the aches and scrapes from the sparring session fade. "What if I'm, you know, just not a fighter?"
Xaldin looks at him like he's just suggested eloping with a Heartless. "How did you survive the loss of your heart?"
This is so not the time or place to get into the argument about whether they really did lose their hearts completely. Demyx has had lots of practice at picking his battles -- and usually picking as few of them as possible. "More or less the same way the rest of us did, I guess. By...caring enough, you know?"
"That's a ridiculous way to put it," Xaldin says, but he takes a half step back, swinging his lance around to rest the butt on the floor, no longer poised to attack.
Demyx shrugs. "Maybe. Doesn't make it not true, though." He sits down, summoning his sitar again, not slung from his neck the way he wears it to fight, but resting in his lap in the traditional way. Xaldin still tenses for a second, like he thinks Demyx would try something, after all this. "Just because I don't want to fight, that doesn't mean I don't want, you know?"
Xaldin makes a contemptuous little snorting noise, but he looks like he's listening.
"I mean," Demyx says, splaying his fingers across the strings, "what are you doing to do," don't say if, they hate it when you say if, "when we get Kingdom Hearts to fix us all?"
"What am I going to do?" Xaldin repeats. He gives Demyx a wary, suspicious glare.
"What do you want your heart for?" Demyx asks, punctuating the question with a little ascending melody. When Xaldin doesn't have a ready answer for him, he smiles faintly. "You remember that you want your hearts back," he says, "but you don't remember why."
Xaldin's hand tightens on the shaft of his lance. "Don't be insulting. Of course we remember why. We -- I -- want to be able to feel again."
Demyx nods. "Do you remember what it's like? How much more everything means? How everything sounds sharper, crisper, more vibrant?" He closes his eyes, segues into a more complicated piece, picking out the melody carefully. His hands remember the positions, the order of the strings. The song is about a poor musician in love with a beautiful dancer, and it ends tragically, in a gorgeous shimmering series of minor-key arpeggios. Demyx remembers the first time his Other heard it, the way it took his breath away. Sometimes, when the notes all fall into place, he thinks for just a second that he might feel that way again.
When he looks up, he catches Xaldin staring at him with this totally needy, dumbstruck expression for about half a second before the glare comes back. But half a second is enough, and they both know it. "You've made your point," Xaldin says.
"Cool," Demyx says, and grins. He lets his sitar go, and gets up. "I'm never going to be better than you at what you do, right? But what I do is...not totally useless."
He summons a portal out before Xaldin can tell him he's full of himself.
Author: laylah
Claim: Organization XIII
Characters: Demyx, Xaldin
Theme Set: Light
Theme: #7 - hope
Disclaimer: Squeenix owns me, not the other way around.
Summary: One thing Demyx that isn't terribly good at, and one thing that he is.
What It's Like
He's stopped trying to use his forms, because he knows that's not helping, and there's almost never any close combat -- not that he's good at that either, and crap, here they go again, and he gets one more wrenching discordant sound out of his sitar, one more waterspout that doesn't find its mark as his opponent dodges, too fast and too agile to fall for that again, and it's more mercy than he thought he'd get when the back end of a lance drives into his shoulder, bruising but not hard enough to break bone, just enough to knock him down, to make him lose his grip on his sitar so it dissolves into vapor as his back hits the floor.
For a long, uninspired ten seconds, Demyx stares up at the ceiling and doesn't move. This whole thing is so incredibly, unbearably lame.
"Pathetic," Xaldin says, when Demyx picks himself up off the floor for the fifth time. "Again."
Demyx sighs, reaching into his coat for a potion. "I'm still not going to beat you," he says. "What's the point?"
Xaldin gives him the really-disappointed-in-you look that always makes Demyx wonder if, before, Xaldin's other was somebody's dad. "You're hardly fit to be in the Organization, if you can't defend yourself."
"This isn't what I do," Demyx tells the floor, very quietly.
"What?" Xaldin asks. He's still holding one of his lances, in that low straight-armed ready position that means he could swing it at any second.
"Nothing," Demyx says. He swallows his potion, feeling the aches and scrapes from the sparring session fade. "What if I'm, you know, just not a fighter?"
Xaldin looks at him like he's just suggested eloping with a Heartless. "How did you survive the loss of your heart?"
This is so not the time or place to get into the argument about whether they really did lose their hearts completely. Demyx has had lots of practice at picking his battles -- and usually picking as few of them as possible. "More or less the same way the rest of us did, I guess. By...caring enough, you know?"
"That's a ridiculous way to put it," Xaldin says, but he takes a half step back, swinging his lance around to rest the butt on the floor, no longer poised to attack.
Demyx shrugs. "Maybe. Doesn't make it not true, though." He sits down, summoning his sitar again, not slung from his neck the way he wears it to fight, but resting in his lap in the traditional way. Xaldin still tenses for a second, like he thinks Demyx would try something, after all this. "Just because I don't want to fight, that doesn't mean I don't want, you know?"
Xaldin makes a contemptuous little snorting noise, but he looks like he's listening.
"I mean," Demyx says, splaying his fingers across the strings, "what are you doing to do," don't say if, they hate it when you say if, "when we get Kingdom Hearts to fix us all?"
"What am I going to do?" Xaldin repeats. He gives Demyx a wary, suspicious glare.
"What do you want your heart for?" Demyx asks, punctuating the question with a little ascending melody. When Xaldin doesn't have a ready answer for him, he smiles faintly. "You remember that you want your hearts back," he says, "but you don't remember why."
Xaldin's hand tightens on the shaft of his lance. "Don't be insulting. Of course we remember why. We -- I -- want to be able to feel again."
Demyx nods. "Do you remember what it's like? How much more everything means? How everything sounds sharper, crisper, more vibrant?" He closes his eyes, segues into a more complicated piece, picking out the melody carefully. His hands remember the positions, the order of the strings. The song is about a poor musician in love with a beautiful dancer, and it ends tragically, in a gorgeous shimmering series of minor-key arpeggios. Demyx remembers the first time his Other heard it, the way it took his breath away. Sometimes, when the notes all fall into place, he thinks for just a second that he might feel that way again.
When he looks up, he catches Xaldin staring at him with this totally needy, dumbstruck expression for about half a second before the glare comes back. But half a second is enough, and they both know it. "You've made your point," Xaldin says.
"Cool," Demyx says, and grins. He lets his sitar go, and gets up. "I'm never going to be better than you at what you do, right? But what I do is...not totally useless."
He summons a portal out before Xaldin can tell him he's full of himself.