Cats in Boxes, Ch 3
Cats in Boxes, Ch 3
By: kytha, rabbitprint
Length: ~9k
Rating: M
Summary: Last chapter of Cats in Boxes. Vexen is real. Vexen is dead. Vexen never existed. Saix no longer knows which statement is true. His life is a balance between shadow and light, but there are still different paths left to him: Saix makes his choice.
Chapter 1 - 2 - 3
* * * * * *
Hate is a seed that tastes like home. Vexen hasn't really touched it since losing his heart, but when everything is a memory, then everything is equally distant, equally close. The illusion of emotion runs just as strong as the sensation of touch, and in the million tiny details that the scientist struggles to remember, emotions are as good as anything else.
Hate is a seed that Vexen swallows into his innards and nurtures in his stomach, growing with all the sense of vengeance of a garden left to ruin. Tendrils of it slide into the cracks in his consciousness, where his will has begun to falter; its roots creep into the broken china of his memories, keeping pieces aligned, if not whole. The most luxuriant fronds frame the empty space in his chest, where they curl protectively around a budding bloom -- the promise of fruit yet to be borne.
Or maybe that's just what he wishes it could be. The metaphor is overly botanical; it's something that Marluxia would think up, and Vexen wants nothing to do with that man. But the images are, at least, vivid, and it's becoming more difficult to keep reality straight without some sort of stabilizing influence -- regardless of how crazy that influence might be -- and in that moment Vexen suddenly realizes that he just might understand Xemnas a little more now.
Finally.
Of course, it's too late to make a difference.
* * * * * *
Saix, for once, does not attempt to drown his problems through coffee.
The teapot was shattered in the melee.
He refuses to pick up the pieces for a week, unable to tolerate the metaphors inherent with broken pottery. When he finally acknowledges the debris of powder and ceramic, it’s only to order a Dusk to sweep up the mess; even then, there’s a faint white residue left behind, a dust that’s settled into the fibers of the carpet no matter how many times he runs his hand across the floor.
It's impossible to miss what was never there, particularly when one lacks the organs necessary to miss with. He never had any sort of sentimental attachment to the scientist to begin with. Saix does not find Vexen's absence disquieting because he cannot, but after a few days of it the Luna Diviner finds himself oddly distracted, prone to jerking at shadows and listening too intently into silences. It isn't until Demyx gives him a perplexed look over dinner and comments on his twitchiness -- drawing the uncomfortable scrutiny of the other members -- that Saix recognizes it.
He's looking for Vexen.
If it is possible for a person to become a bad habit, then IV must be his. Saix isn't particularly entertained by the thought. It implies tolerance of eccentricity, and the ability to become accustomed to the irrational. While both are acceptable in a certain sense -- the senior members all have their quirks, and how Saix himself is given space for his own peculiar tendencies -- applied to this particular situation, it's no less than appalling.
When the ghost finally returns, it‘s without fanfare. In the middle of the night, Saix wakes to an unfriendly pressure on his chest and shallow breathing in his ear. If it is possible for ghosts to be wet, he thinks that Vexen must be, because he feels cold toes flexing against his skin and the weight of damp cloth draped across his neck.
For a moment, Saix thinks Vexen means to kill him, and then dismisses that thought as ridiculous. Even as acerbic as he is, murdering people in their sleep is not the scientist's style. He'd much rather wake them and have them know who is doing this to them -- which leads Saix to the question of why Vexen’s shade, of all things, is sitting on his chest at an unholy hour of night, saying nothing.
He almost expects an insult to come forth, a reprimand of sorts, but there are no apologies, and there is no forgiveness.
Just three words:
Don't forget me, Vexen says quietly, and even his voice sounds damp, like he's been caught out in a thunderstorm and swallowed the rain. Saix realizes he can feel the scientist rocking back and forth, his bare heels digging against his ribs. The berserker considers the request for a moment, and without particularly thinking about it, he finds himself making room on the bed for another body, reaching out to grasp an unseen shoulder and push the weight aside.
"Then stop choking me," he responds, roughly, "Or there won't be anything of me left to remember."
Vexen slides off him, unusually docile, and really: that should be Saix's warning right there. But he is too tired to care and the bed's made for two anyway, and it's simply a matter of turning over on his side and pretending the other man doesn't exist.
It's easy enough to do this with a real person, but strangely enough, it's impossible with a ghost. Saix lies half-awake all night, too restless to sleep, and listens to even breathing that he should not be able to hear.
* * * * * *
Locking himself away in an angry huff, childishly excluding the world, is no longer a viable course of action for Vexen to take whenever the berserker has been particularly irritating. Like it or not, he depends on Saix's ability to recognize him, to define the edges of what he is; by necessity he remains closer than VII may be aware of, growing more familiar with Saix's strange hours as the days of their steely noncommunication pass by.
His pride still stings enough that actually speaking to Saix about it unthinkable, but that does not mean he does not allow himself to watch. It's hardly any different than before, really, except that Vexen can no longer deliver waspish remarks at leisure. Silence is a game they both play at, and the first of them to break it has already lost.
At times, Vexen is especially hard-pressed not to hiss in scandal, to bodily remove the Diviner from his bed. Over the months, Saix has gradually shifted his sleeping habits. From lying fully-clothed on top of Vexen's sheets, the berserker has shed more and more of the layers he wraps around himself; now that Vexen finally has the time to truly notice it, he wonders when it was that Saix became comfortable enough to sleep beneath his linens, clad in the barest minimum of cloth.
Or more importantly, when he became comfortable enough to entertain dreams of lust while in Vexen's bed. The scientist's experience of the pleasures of the flesh are patchy at best, though he's familiar enough with the clinical mechanics of it to know what it involves, and the personal mechanics of inconvenient hormones. Even he can guess -- has been guessing, really -- the nature of the visions that leave Saix writhing like an cat in heat.
Vexen wouldn't mind it so much, if it weren't for the mess it leaves.
The scientist mollifies himself with one promise. Once he and Saix are fully back on speaking terms once again, he'll have ample source material to insult him with.
With that idea comes another: the further he can convince Saix to incriminate himself, the longer the berserker will be forced to stay.
* * * * * * *
When the first light, caressing touch comes against his hip, Saix thinks he's still asleep.
Waking himself when his dreams take a direction for the worse has become instinct by this point, but it takes Saix a few minutes to realize that this isn't a nighttime fantasy that will end when he opens his eyes, simmering with frustration and embarrassment -- it's reality, or close enough to it, and that causes fear truer than anything he's ever felt before since becoming a Nobody.
But by then, he doesn't have much room to feel anything but Vexen, and his questions end up having to wait.
Halfway through, the chemist's ghost seems to decide that now is the opportune moment to press his suit.
Take it back, Vexen murmurs into Saix's collarbones, the plain, raw want in his voice almost as sharp as his teeth. Say it.
"Say what?" Saix grits his teeth against a whine; he will not, cannot beg. The berserker does not care for Vexen's conversational tone in the bedroom, the odd sense that the scientist takes satisfaction in the advantage he wields over Saix on this unfamiliar ground. He feels like he's being caught and landed, wound tighter and closer into a perverse fishing net. If it were possible, Vexen could possibly be taking notes on this.
Say it. Cold breath flutters over the wet trail Vexen's tongue has traced down to Saix's stomach. The Diviner's muscles jump, and not for the first time, he wonders whether Vexen's actions are deliberate or incidental -- if it's the strange sense of being needed by a creature so desperate that makes the berserker’s nerves sing, or if it’s the scientist's own expertise. Neither are concepts his mind can easily wrap itself around.
Take it back, Vexen says again, voice a reed-thin whisper. Tell me I'm real.
Tell me I'm not yours.
"Would you rather I say you were Xemnas's --" Saix begins to ask, and then Vexen’s tongue descends upon the lines of his stomach.
When he wakes up the next day, the bed is empty of any person save himself, and his mouth tastes rancid and sour.
* * * * * *
Several months into his informal possession of Vexen's quarters, Saix reaches into the tea cabinet to discover that he's completely cleaned out its coffee supply. He feels an irrational sense of loss. He didn't even drink the stuff before now, and only started out of the twinned need to understand Vexen, and to spite him.
Fortunately for Saix, he remembers the particular brand. One discreet request of Luxord later and he finds himself once again well-supplied with coffee, ready to keep him awake on the nights where sleep is not the preferable course of action to take. He's beginning to suspect he's developing a tolerance for the caffeine, no matter how thick and black he brews it; these nights he often needs more than a single cup to keep himself awake without constantly fighting the urge to yawn.
Saix tries not to think too hard about what this implies, this curious adoption of someone else's vices -- this ingestion of foreign habits, this undeniable sensation of walking through someone else's shoes. It's like letting in stray cats for shelter from the rain. One sneaks in, and suddenly there are dozens, crowding up against your stoop, begging for food and warmth. Shutting them out never succeeds once they've had a taste of your comforts: they circle in the darkness, clawing to get in.
* * * * * *
Vexen's ghost, Saix begins to notice, is oddly talkative, although the conversations it strikes up don't seem to revolve around any particular topic. Occasionally the scientist will speak out of the blue, on subjects that Saix has given no prompt to respond to.
He's beginning to get the sense that there's something slightly off about this pale shadow of the man he once knew, but he cannot quite place what this flaw is.
At one point the ghost suddenly volunteers Saix some unnecessary advice.
A hot shower will help with that, he intones, and Saix stops rubbing at the nape of his neck, where muscle has curled up into itself in loud protest.
Saix frowns. "How would you know?"
There's a pause that takes as long as a shrug, for a living man, and Vexen speaks again. I've spent enough nights aching from sitting over my books to know what can ease discomfort. It's not so strange a thing, even for researchers -- pain makes results unreliable. It is best to be dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to return to one‘s work.
For a moment Saix has trouble reconciling the series of images -- cold, analytical Vexen -- to the others -- warm tea, muscle rubs, comfort. He tries not to think too hard on why it surprises him to learn that Vexen ever had a claim to being alive, to having a fallible body; the entire concept is one that belongs to humans, which Vexen never seemed particularly interested in except as case studies.
He wonders if being in the Vexen's rooms is beginning to rub some of the academic's taste for theory on him, if the contact of hands and the ingestion of cold spit down his throat has, in some way, turned him into a creature not unlike what IV was in life. He thinks too much, these days, spends more time dwelling in the realm of what-could-be and why-is-this and how-can-it than he ever has in his entire life. He thinks more than he needs to, which means that his hours are filled with the theoretical, lacking any concrete answers that might help the needs of the Organization.
Saix considers the books on Vexen's shelves, plays back conversations in his head, and wastes an entire afternoon thinking about a word to describe the shade of green Vexen's eyes must be. He catches himself contemplating whether or not academia is a venereal disease of some sort, an affliction passed through fluids and spite. He debates the connotations between three different words for redundant before deciding on none of them at all.
If Vexen is an illness, then Saix has no clue of a possible cure; nothing save one, and death did not fix matters for the scientist.
Saix never invites the contact that comes between them. Practically speaking, he can't. He hasn't tried to grab the academic in midair since the last time they fought, and he probably never will; it's too strange a sensation. Too disorienting, and the last thing that Saix needs is more reason to doubt his senses.
He's content, then -- or at least, resigned -- to have Vexen lead the way through their encounters whenever their conversations turn physical. It seems the scientist has a clear enough idea of what he's doing, and it hasn’t resulted in disappointment for the berserker so far, although he finds himself wondering often where Vexen ever learnt any of this.
If he ever learnt any of it. Sometimes, the academic will fumble, and that's cause for suspicion enough. Why a possible virgin might suddenly feel the need to indoctrinate themselves into physical pleasures when they have no body to do such with is curious -- at the least.
It isn't until Saix feels hips uncertainly lowering onto his that he realizes something is amiss. "Hang on," he says, hand snapping out to catch Vexen by what he thinks is the other man’s thigh. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
The scientist's voice is shaky but determined. I'm already dead, he hisses pointedly, wriggling in Saix's grasp like an invisible eel. What can you possibly do to hurt me?
Saix doesn't have an answer to that, admittedly, but all the same, he finds the idea of penetration without any sort of preparation rather distasteful. Lubrication's for the convenience of both parties, after all. Vexen may not have any problems with this -- and Saix has experienced worse -- but the dry friction on the berserker's end may well do him more pain than pleasure, if he can't convince IV otherwise.
So he says, "Wait," and scrabbles for the side drawer, hoping that Vexen has had the sense to have something in there they can use.
Among the pens and notepads clatter a handful of vials. Some of them, Saix can dismiss instantly -- he recognizes the labels as chapsticks or ink -- but one of the bottles contains what looks like a few drams of pale yellow oil. For relief from muscle tension, the small print on the side reads, which gives the proof to Vexen’s claims of shoulder massages. When Saix unscrews the cap, the contents do not reek like a garden of perfumes, which is encouraging enough.
He wets his fingers liberally, almost dropping the cap when he tries to close the bottle; he resorts to setting the vial on the table with the hope that it won’t be knocked over somehow during the night.
Vexen -- he assumes -- has been watching the proceedings with impatience, because Saix has barely finished coating his fingers thoroughly before the scientist gives a hrmph of impatience. The noise is enough to encourage the Diviner to grab at the general region of Vexen’s waist; the grip is slippery, but enough to help guide him as he angles his hand for where he hopes the scientist’s groin will be.
As he does, he wonders -- with a kind of awful curiosity -- if he'll still be able to see his finger after it goes in, or if it will simply disappear, amputated as neatly as a war wound. He decides he does not, in fact, particularly care to find out, and so he simply closes his eyes and drives it upwards.
The reaction is instantaneous: bony fingers suddenly clamp onto his shoulders as Vexen jerks. The scientist moans -- the lewdest sound Saix has ever heard anywhere, in his dreams and in his ears and in all the worlds he's been to.
"Weren't expecting that, were you?" Somehow, he manages to find the ability to be triumphant.
IV hisses at him again, muttering curses against his neck. How could I, when I've never been ow --f -- bastard! The expletive is delivered with a yowl, as Saix's idle curiosity prompts him to explore this most intimate part of Vexen's body in a way that it's never been touched.
He’s well aware of how uncomfortable initial penetration can be; this alone eases the pressure off from his hand, and he waits for Vexen’s growled complaints to taper off before redoubling his efforts. A moment later, the illusion of wetness splatters against his stomach, and Saix realizes he's vaguely surprised to learn that he can make Vexen come with one finger.
He's even more surprised to find himself wondering what he can make Vexen do with more.
The answer leaves the sheets cold in irregular patches from Vexen‘s breath, warm from Saix’s body heat.
Only gradually does the Diviner’s triumph fade, only to be replaced with a single horrible question: if all of Vexen’s presence stems from memory, how can the scientist have sexual experiences that didn’t exist before death?
The paradox keeps Saix awake all that night, feeling the spidery touch of Vexen whisper across his skin, and wondering how much of it is real.
* * * * * * *
There is one more advantage to Vexen's ghost taking a more active hand in meddling. These nights Saix's sleep has remained, for the most part, largely undisturbed; he does not dream of the scientist’s hands cutting off his air flow, of Vexen’s empty eyes blotting out the sun. If anything, the berserker’s sleep is plagued by IV in a different way: since Vexen has discovered that he is able to stimulate the Diviner’s body, he seems willing to do so regardless of the hour, like a child poking at a new toy.
There is no logic to dreams. Adding meaning to the random misfirings of his brain is a pointless exercise. Nonetheless, Saix is used to having dreams which maintain at least a minimum of connection to his waking hours -- to dream of his own death irritates him in a way he cannot place.
The desire -- any desire -- to die does not exist in him in his present state. Perhaps his Other may have prayed for a quick end in his weakest moments; perhaps his Nobody may yet find a reason to seek it. As far as Saix can ascertain, however, he has no wish to commit suicide at any point in the near future. Such an event would leave the Organization in a rather undesirable state of affairs: while the senior members' efficiency is unquestionable, and the newer members are capable enough of accomplishing missions, they lack the element of connection between them. Saix manages, however tenuously, to function as that bond.
And that is why it is inexplicable that he dreams of a garden of weeping trees and rusted gates, crawling weeds and lily-choked ponds. For no reason, Saix finds himself wading waist-deep in one of the algae-tinted pools, naked and dry-mouthed. A peculiar urgency drives him through the water, the plants parting beneath his hands with almost audible sighs as he pushes through them. Blossoms kiss against his side, but he ignores the sensation. What he is here for has little to do with any aesthetics this place has to offer.
He searches and searches through the water, but nothing rises out of the depths, and Saix only sees himself reflected back in the darkness.
* * * * * *
Something begins to grow in the berserker’s thoughts after a while, twisting like a vine whose thorns are so tiny that they look like fuzz. Why is Vexen acting so strange? Is it only the lack of a body that leaves the scientist so vulnerable, so willing to pretend to emotions that -- by all rights -- he should not have, not any more than missing or wanting or above all, being unwilling to die?
If this Vexen only exists as a manifestation of impressions, then that would explain it all. Vexen behaves irregularly because Saix is making him this way.
Later on, Saix runs across an interesting passage in one of Vexen's oldest journals, a scrawled note about the nature of scientific inquiry. The lines speak of method, of means, delineating the best way for one to go about divining truth from falsehood, fact from fiction. Some of it is self-contradictory; the berserker puzzles about the logic of proving what is true by proving what is not. The words empirical and objectivity seem to rise out of the mess of notes most frequently of them all, and the afternoon has been slow enough that Saix looks them up in the dust-covered dictionary sitting on the corner of Vexen's bookshelf.
Oddly enough, the volume is the least used of Vexen's collection; its pages still smell of new paper when Saix pries them apart. Perhaps Vexen had never known the confusion of an unfamiliar word, or else was too proud to admit it. Whatever the case, Saix benefits from it now. He looks up the words to satisfy his curiosity, and when he finds his thoughts becoming sluggish, he turns the pages at random, losing himself in the tangle of jargon.
He's become better at sensing when Vexen is in the room -- the ghost seems to drift through his quarters willy-nilly at times, particularly when bored by Saix's inactivity. When IV's shade turns the air of the room chill once again, the berserker is ready for it.
"Did you know," he begins, almost conversationally, "that there isn't a single word in this language to rhyme with 'orange'?"
The triviality stumps the ghost for a moment, and Saix can feel a response beginning to build -- he cuts it off with another offhanded delivery, sliding the pad of his thumb along the edge of the page. "And also that your name is an archaic form of the word, 'vexed?' Vexen," he continues, feeling the Nobody's name stripped down to basic letters, "derived from 'vexer,' which itself comes from, 'vexare.'"
Rather than debate the subject of etymology, the scientist only snorts. What is wrong with you today? he grumbles, irritably. Why are you being so...
"Chatty?" Saix supplies. "Talkative? Verbose? Jocular?" Each synonym rolls off his tongue without effort, spiraling into the pages of the thesaurus section he's holding.
No, Vexen's ghost mutters. Perky.
Saix allows himself a rare smile of satisfaction. Truth be told, the berserker dislikes being overly verbal; he’s relieved to fall back into his own thoughts, his own words. The experiment was brief, but useful. Now he knows that Vexen can by influenced by a matter that Saix is interested in. There exists some means of control.
In Vexen's own behaviors lies a fragile thread of rationality that Saix clings to, winds tight around his hands and does not dare to release. For as long as he can convince himself that what he perceives of the scientist's ghost is nothing but his own senses misfiring -- delivering false messages his mind does not know how to interpret as anything but truth -- then he can believe that he has power over this still.
He can believe it. He has to believe it. The alternative does not bear contemplation.
* * * * * *
You know what I really miss? Vexen asks abruptly one afternoon.
Saix isn't actually interested, but it's not as though it costs him terribly much to listen. "What?"
Coffee.
The concept is understandable on a physical level -- a body craves to be fed, watered, and it enjoys the meals it has become accustomed to -- but Vexen lacks a certain vital part of that equation. Saix squints at the air curiously. "How do you miss something?" Meaning, really, what's left that can miss?
There's a huff, and if the scientist were visible, Saix would swear he's crossing his arms. It is possible to have a psychological addiction to a substance, Vexen points out sharply. The dependency does not have to be chemical or emotional. So long as it is a part of your daily routine...
The idea of habits working so deeply into the unconscious causes Saix to lift an eyebrow. He knows about the use of memory for emotion -- any decently strong Nobody possesses that knack -- but he would have assumed that triggers such as want were rooted in the objects that caused them. Emotions from hearts. Hungers, from the body.
"I hear," Saix says with a touch of malicious amusement, "Some worlds burn offerings to their dead, so that their ghosts can feast on the spirit of the food. Would you like me to do that for you, Vexen?" The berserker's lips curve in an expression of cold amusement. "Scorch a pot of coffee?"
Very funny, but no. Burnt coffee smells terrible.
"I could set myself on fire," Saix replies, mildly disappointed that the jibe did not have any stronger reaction, and moving to another object without really thinking. "What about that?"
Vexen snorts. Would you, really?
"No."
I didn't think so.
* * * * * *
Life gradually distinguishes itself for Saix between rooms with Vexen and rooms without. Sitting in his own chambers or reading mission files in the library seems emptier without the scientist lending unwanted insight. Saix might almost say he wants the ghost around as a constant presence; without it, there's a strange feeling of disconnection, as if his senses are a compass needle endlessly spinning in search of an unknown north. Vexen is an addiction as simple as caffeine. A part of daily routine. Nothing more.
Despite his demise, the scientist seems to be as vibrant as he ever was -- which isn't saying much at all. But Saix cannot discern the difference between Vexen alive and Vexen dead. The majority of the impressions he gathers now are limited to the latter alone; the scientist‘s journals have yielded up the full depth of their treasures weeks ago, leaving Saix to circle endlessly in doubt. How much of Vexen is truth? How much of him is fiction? Was there ever, really, a difference between either -- and does it matter? His mind refuses to contemplate it for long, and in the end he is left with even less certainty than he began with.
Less certainty, and the touch of the scientist’s ghost on his body each night.
On one level, he’s completely disgusted by what they're doing. On another, he’s bizarrely titillated, trapped like a struggling ant in a flood of tacky honey. Only one of them is a scientist; only one of them can really be looking at this from a scientific angle, but they can both rely on the excuse that they're curious about the boundaries of the living.
Saix keeps his eyes shut, head tilted up and face as blank as he can make it -- as if he is facing a thousand spears pointed at his chest instead of Vexen's face. Perhaps closing his eyes is more for sanity's sake than anything else, allowing Diviner to forget for a moment that what his hips snap against is nothing.
The Luna Diviner kisses Vexen as though as he expects to die for it.
Something dies, when they touch each other; that much Saix knows, though whether this is for the better or the worse, the Diviner does not know.
He does wonder, when he has time to: is it really intercourse, when he can't even see the other man involved?
Sex with a ghost, he thinks, shouldn't be any more satisfying than touching himself. There is nothing, nothing here that he could not replicate for himself with his eyes closed: not the trembling, uncertain fingers clamped onto his hip, not the cool, calloused hand curling half-painfully around him, not the obscene wetness inching its way along the inside of his thigh and--
He makes the mistake of closing his eyes against the sensation, and his mind betrays him, drawing on half a year's worth of frustrated visions to fill in what daily life cannot show him.
Skinhairhandslipsmouthteethtongueeyes--
That's all it takes for him to buck off the bed, spine snapping bow-taut and hips straining heavenward even as unseen hands hold him down. Saix doesn't recognize the keening in his throat as his own voice, at first; when he realizes the noise he's making, he shuts his mouth with a snap. He should have more control than a base animal. Even if they're in rooms far enough removed from the others that no one could possibly hear them unless they were standing right outside the door, the need to keep up appearances stings him keenly.
Then an unseen tongue gives him one final swipe, and he almost finds himself whispering, Xemnas, in what little breath remains to him after trapping it in his lungs. He cuts that sound off too.
When he becomes aware that he can hear Vexen chuckling off to the side, he realizes his precaution is futile. The only person Saix's weakness in this moment would matter to is already aware of it.
Vexen is never going to let him live this shame down.
Later, once Saix has recovered enough to register proper conversation, Vexen makes a dry comment about the astonishing convenience that ghosts lack a gag reflex, or he might have died all over again.
Saix hears Vexen saying the words, but underneath it, he hears something more: satisfaction, and not a little pride.
* * * * * *
The berserker realizes to what extent he’s been disconnected from the world when he encounters Luxord in one of the castle’s dustier hallways. When he greets the gambler with an automatic welcome home, Luxord gives him a strange look.
“I’ve been back at the Castle for two weeks, Saix.”
“Oh,” VII says, feeling muddled and stupid -- ridiculous, really, considering he’s been sleeping surprisingly well.
The Gambler absorbs this response with a long, appraising stare before his next response. “Let’s take a walk.”
The man’s expression is almost kind, and that’s disgusting, but Saix agrees anyway.
Walking with X is not a strange act in itself, because Saix has done it before. These days he is prompted to conduct his missions alone, but there was a time when the Organization was warier-- or perhaps simply had more members to spare. Whichever the case, he's had his share of partnered missions, and he is not completely incapable of social interaction if necessity dictates it.
And really, that's what makes this so unusual. There is no mission at hand to discuss, no true reason for them to be strolling through one of the gardens bordering the Castle's edges.
That's not strictly accurate, of course. Luxord strolls, indolent as a lord. Saix, like most sane people, simply walks.
There is no conversation until they reach one of the paved courtyards randomly interspersed amongst the hedges, location prone to shift at the castle's odd whim. The gambler settles himself on the edge of the courtyard's lone fountain, where a silent stone cupid is forever holding up a cornucopia of water. Saix, for his part, remains standing. He’s still uncertain what he's doing here, and Luxord does not seem inclined to elaborate.
Suddenly, the air is filled with the business-like snap of paper: X has drawn out his cards, making them fly from palm to palm with a confidence that only comes with familiarity. Despite himself, Saix is drawn to watch, and it's not until the sound stops that he realizes he's having a handful of fanned-out cards proffered at his nose.
He blinks. "What is it?"
"Pick one."
That sounds too much like an order for the diviner's peace of mind, and he almost bristles. The concept of seniority still holds, somewhere in his bones, even if he knows that the gambler isn't unlike himself; they both favor gradually establishing themselves in the Organization's revised hierarchy, and this mutual understanding has worked well so far.
Saix dismisses the irritation as quickly as it rises, settling instead for a question: "Why?"
X seems to understand, but the cards remain extended. "I would like to know what's been on your mind."
"And you believe playing cards can tell you this?" The idea is laughable, but considering how much Saix is likely to admit if he’s asked directly, he supposes this is as good a method of inquiry as any. He doesn't understand what Luxord's motives could be, and he finds it safer to err on the side of caution before he decides anything.
"It can't do any harm to try." Luxord simply grins, the Nobody-sigils on the back of the cards appearing to beckon in invitation. "And there are times when the cards provide you with better insight than you could find on your own." He pauses, considers. "Or are you too afraid of what you'll find?"
The edges of the fanned-out deck waver, hesitant.
Saix reaches out before he realizes it, pulling a card from the stack before it can be drawn away. Only when he glimpses the smug tilt to the gambler’s lips does Saix realize that the reaction is exactly what Luxord expected, and by snatching the card, Saix has only fallen into the trap.
Even so, it's too late to recant now.
With something like a muscle memory of trepidation, Saix turns the card over.
Dark eyes stare up at him, a mouth drawn in an imperious frown. It takes Saix a moment to spot the dress, realize it's meant to be a woman -- there's something almost masculine about her features, but the sense of royalty is undeniable. Gold lines the woman's veil, falling artfully from the crown set on her head, and the sigil clutched her hands is almost spearlike, threatening. It's good craftsmanship, and the berserker studies it for a moment, lost in thought.
"The Queen of Spades," Luxord says reflectively, plucking the card from Saix's hands and twirling it around in his fingers. "The Black Maria. Some people say she was Death, once. In the old cards." The Nothing-paper flicks around in his fingers, blue to black and white and back.
"And what does that mean?" Saix does not like fortunetelling games. "This Lady Death?"
The card stills to a stop between the knuckles of Luxord's index and middle finger, one corner pointing accusingly at Saix.
"Death in some fortunes," the gambler tells Saix, "means change. The Queen of Spades, though..." he taps the card against his chin, brushing stubble with the motion.
"...she just means some kind of disaster."
Without warning, he flicks the card towards Saix's face.
Saix catches it. "No," he says, frowning as memory stirs in him. Even he, he realizes, knows this lore; it's strange that Luxord should get it incorrect. "It's the Ace that means tragedy, isn't it?"
Luxord grins. "Maybe so," he acknowledges, "But I've always thought, if disaster had to happen to me, that it ought to be beautiful. And who wouldn't want a fine woman waiting for them at the end of it all? Black Maria, Lady Fair. Someone with welcoming arms and a smile better than anything you've ever wanted before."
For a moment, Saix's mind gives him a flash of green eyes, and the memory of cold fingers on his skin.
"I don't want anyone there when I'm dead," he informs the gambler neatly. "I'd rather there be nothing at all."
Luxord lifts his eyebrows in two perfect curves of blond smugness. "Then I'll have your share, and we'll call it even."
* * * * * *
As the weeks progress, Saix finds less relevancy to Vexen’s presence, now that the man’s rooms have been conquered. The Diviner has successfully plotted out the scientist’s position in relation to the original founding members of the Organization, and he has benefited from this understanding. He has learned how to defer to II when Xigbar claims his rare moments of authority, and about the way that Xaldin does not need reports to be precise, so long as they are delivered without opinions to color the facts.
Like the flesh around a wound, the Organization has slowly begun to knit itself back together, making unspoken adjustments to compensate for any loss of function.
But Vexen is not a part of any of this. When Kingdom Hearts reaches a stable enough mass that it is no longer a translucent shimmer, Saix offers the news; Vexen forgets it within days. IV is locked into this slice of the Castle, this tiny world of three rooms, and the scientist has shown no signs of being able to leave.
Thinking about this brings a conclusion to Saix’s mind that refuses to be dispelled: in the paradox of life continuing on without hearts, without bodies, maybe memory is the only part of existence that matters.
Maybe death only comes when everyone else moves on.
Xemnas calls Saix up in person to his offices that afternoon. Kingdom Hearts is a blot of pale ivory in the sky as the Superior rattles off criteria and requirements and cautionary statements of what to do if the Keyblade Master appears. He dismisses Saix without waiting to hear if the berserker will accept the task; they both know he will, without protest.
Saix reviews the details in Vexen’s rooms, over a cup of coffee and half a sandwich. This is the first time that a mission will take the Diviner away from Vexen's rooms for any significant amount of time. This world is labeled as Wonderland; there is a deftly penned manifesto included in the folder that lists the rough hierarchy of power, along with a sketch of several cards on the front. Tiny spade-footmen dance with heart-executioners. Included is also a note: Thought you might enjoy a change of pace! Affectionately, Luxord.
Saix stares at the folder, turning it around in his hands, and considers whether or not he believes in signs.
After a moment, he gets to his feet.
Wait.
Saix waits.
Don't forget to come back, Vexen says at last, an echo of an older wish, and Saix shakes his head.
"I won't," he says. It is not a lie, because he does not think it is possible to forget something like this, possible to pretend that he has not spent a year flirting with the idea of what makes something real.
It is not a lie, truly, because Saix does not forget. In fact, he spends the entire length of the mission thinking about Vexen, about the scientist's rooms -- about the Organization and traitors and Keyblades and what it means when someone finally dies three times over. Heart. Body. Soul.
When he comes back home, he spends a week alone in the upper halls of the Castle. The isolation is soothing: no one invades Saix’s personal space, and slowly, he can feel his thoughts begin to unwind, finding a rest state which is not affected by anyone else’s presence.
Curiosity sends a thread back into his perfect stillness. He made a promise, after all, and even though he’s willing to discard his own words easily enough, he finds no reason not to return to Vexen’s chambers.
The doors are closed when he makes his way in from the hall. At first he wonders if his absence has dispelled the illusion of the scientist’s ghost. The rooms feel dusty now that he’s had time away; they are abandoned husks waiting for deconstruction. The lights seem dimmer when he turns them on. No one says hello.
Then, just as he’s about to write off the entire experience as some sort of lunar fluke, a wisp of cool air touches his skin.
You’re here. Vexen’s presence is faint, almost as bad as the first time Saix had begun to hear the scientist. I thought --
“What?” Saix asks, not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he wants to hear Vexen say it out loud.
But he’s not rewarded with any grand revelation. The ghost admits to nothing, just a mutter on the air that could have been any number of useless trivialities.
“So,” he asks instead, because Wonderland has left a taste for petty cruelty in his mouth, “did anyone stop by while I was gone?”
The silence is thick.
Another time, Saix might have found that triumph to be a smug one. Now, as he peels off his coat and drops it on the nearest chair, he finds that he simply can’t care.
* * * * * *
The two of them have less to speak about now, it seems; or rather, Saix has little that he wants to say, and even less inclination to answer the scientist’s numerous inquiries. There had been a time when it had felt strange to be separated from the ghost’s constant presence. Now it rankles on Saix’s nerves to always have the spirit around, always be bothered by pointless inquiries -- not when Xemnas had more tasks for the berserker to fulfill, more reasons for Saix to leave Vexen’s rooms and obey the Superior’s wishes.
It is a deliberate choice that continues to surface, swinging options between Vexen and Xemnas. Or rather, between life and death: Vexen shows no signs of changing, of moving on past his strange fixation with Saix, but Xemnas has been researching Kingdom Hearts like a man possessed. Xaldin and Xigbar both mutter about how impossible it is to keep up with the Superior; Vexen will always be in a ghost in a room, but Xemnas is slipping away.
Saix chooses. He chooses again. At first it’s a simple matter to shunt aside a visit to Vexen’s rooms as something he’ll get around to after he finishes the inventory of Sorcerer Dusks; then he wakes up early and leaves for his next mission before finishing his coffee. There are simply not enough hours in the day to be in both places, and Saix realizes -- slowly, but with an inevitability that feels like he’s peeling off a scab to discover fresh skin beneath -- that he’s not adverse to this change.
Xemnas is alive. The Organization is alive.
Vexen is not.
Luxord invites him up one day, unexpectedly. The two of them keep their observatories on the same level of the Castle; by this logic, they should either have been the best of friends, or the worst of enemies. The truth is neither. They are content to be largely indifferent to one another, with the extent of their interactions confined to business. Saix does not complain about the periodic card games, and Luxord makes no commentary when the lunarium is filled with roars.
“Your brand of coffee,” the gambler smiles. “Or was it Vexen’s?”
Saix casts a glance over the chessboard which X has laid out; the playing field has been set neatly in the middle of a white tablecloth, and a few stray dishes line the side. Luxord uses his chosen element deftly, pausing and reanimating the candle which lurks within arm’s reach on the table. The long taper burns erratically, dribbling wax in long, bulbous streams. It’s only half-melted.
There is no clock. As Saix watches the gambler, he realizes that Luxord is using the candle to measure time, studying the complex puzzle in fits and starts while he races against self-imposed limits. He creates and unmakes each move in the game at whim, advancing the pieces forward several turns before deciding to backtrack at random, putting the candle on pause whenever he has to retreat his steps.
Something that strikes Saix: Luxord only pauses and plays the candle. For all the Gambler’s powers, he never undoes the progress of the flame; he never makes the taper whole again.
Whether that’s by choice or by limitation, Saix isn’t sure.
“So how is it going?” X says abruptly into the silence, and then clarifies. “Your tragedy?”
Saix catches the reference, but pretends he doesn’t. He folds his arms instead. “What do you mean?”
The Gambler restores time to the candle as he inches a knight forward, occupied with his work. The cards in his left hand tap against the table in an erratic rhythm. “We all must have a Black Maria,” he chides. “The only difference is, which one will we choose?”
Finding the conversation to be well into the terrain of the morbid -- and, therefore, pointless -- Saix shifts his weight. “I have no plans to meet my own destruction anytime soon. What about you?” The Diviner watches as Luxord freezes the candle with another snap of his fingers, shuffling around the pawns. “Have you picked something?”
“I have several worlds which I fully expect to find my destiny upon,” Luxord answers with a shrug, eloquent with his lack of interest. “It’s only a matter of time, Saix. It’s only ever a matter of time for any of us.”
Rather than make sense out of Luxord’s frivolousness -- no matter how many times he interacts with the Gambler, Saix can never understand how anyone can treat survival like a game -- the Diviner only takes a step closer to the table. Black pawns glare across the field to where their enemies are slowly advancing; the white bishops are having a conclave on one side of the board, threatening the black queen from afar. Luxord’s fingers touch both sides on checkered map. The board itself is turned so that the Gambler faces the perspective from the middle ground, with white on his left and black on his right and nothing for his own side.
"How can you play like that?” Saix wonders aloud suddenly. “How do you know when you win?"
"I don't," Luxord answers, absently fanning out the cards in his hand and then passing one slowly through the candleflame.
When the paper does not ignite, Saix makes a startled noise in his throat.
Luxord seems equally surprised at the other Nobody’s reaction; leaving the card idly in the fire, he blinks at the Diviner with mild curiosity. “It’s out of time, Saix,” he says, almost kindly to the berserker’s ignorance. “It’s not able to burn.”
* * * * * *
The stronger Nobodies have mental inventories of what their hearts contained. Some of them can recall honest laughter, or anger, or amusement. Sometimes, even love. The memories which are strongest are the ones which were in full force upon the moment of the heart‘s separation; it is easier to recollect rage when it was the last clear impression you ever had.
But all of them agree on one thing. The sensations are distant, easily controlled, which true hearts never could be.
Xemnas only speaks of hate and despair; from that fact alone, everyone knows what Xehanort felt during his last few moments before the Darkness took him.
What Vexen remembers of his heart is fear mixed with curiosity. With envy, with trepidation, with expectation -- with a dozen flickering emotions, all neatly trapped as insects in a glass jar for study.
What Vexen remembers most clearly about his body is how he begged to stay alive.
* * * * * *
Axel killed me.
Saix keeps his eyes on the book. "I knew that already."
You -- what? Disarmed of his grand revelation, Vexen hovers in place, his concentration momentarily broken. How?
"Nothing else would make sense." Sliding the bookmark idly back and forth on the table with his fingers, Saix offers his conclusions without pride. "Axel spent a great deal of time with Larxene. He was also the only survivor. And not even a scratch on him to show for it -- nothing else makes sense," he repeats, and shrugs. "If he did not orchestrate it, he must have profited somehow, and that is still suspect."
He'll kill the rest of you too, if you don't pay attention.
"Perhaps."
The stark indifference should be familiar, should even be comforting considering the nature of Nobodies; still, Vexen finds himself in growing impatience with the Berserker. There is no 'perhaps,' he snaps. Stop wasting your time! Warn the rest of the Organization! Have him executed before it's too late!
"Xemnas feels it's under control. He assigned me," Saix adds, glancing up at last to the empty room, looking for a face which is not there, "to keep watch over the situation, just in case."
Just in case? If Vexen had lungs, he would scoff with them. Tell him what I told you. Tell him --
"That I have the voice of Number Four in my ear? No," Saix retorts. He laces his fingers on the open pages of his book, implacable as one of his swords with all its spikes folded inwards. "Right now, the Superior seems to trust my ability to handle the matter. That's enough."
The concept is ridiculous. Vexen seizes it immediately. You? Barely sufficient. Axel killed at least one of us, possibly five if you count the traitors. Xemnas would never rely --
"Xemnas has."
And in those two words, something rings wrong in Vexen's nonexistent ears: the dispassionate confidence of Number Seven, who should have been fourth on the hierarchy and now seems to imply more.
How? The question is dry with disbelief. How can he be so careless?
In reply, Saix only smirks.
Jealousy is an emotion, and therefore impossible for Vexen to have -- even the intellectual version, which is composed of statistical caution and asset analysis and many other fine words which summarize the same concept. Jealousy is an emotion, and therefore Vexen cannot find himself drawn irrevocably to Saix whenever the Nobody is there: watching him perform the most mundane tasks with unthinking ease, drinking coffee, eating lunch, scratching an itch on his leg. He has memorized the idle way that Saix runs his fingers through his hair when he's lost in thought; an irritable sweep of the left hand, palm towards the scalp, starting at the temple and moving back to three inches past the ear.
It's an obsession which is only dimly mirrored by the Organization's need for hearts, and causes Vexen to wonder.
Maybe the more you lose, the more you end up craving by default.
You've eaten my food, Vexen says, pitch rising with every word, You've slept in my sheets; hell, you've jerked off in my bed, he snarls, voice sharp and accusatory -- despite himself, Saix flinches, if only because the statement is irrevocably true, and more. An explanation's the least thing you owe me.
By now Saix knows Vexen's moods well enough to hear the scorn in his voice, see the sneer forming on parchment-thin lips. If he opens his mind eyes further, he might almost believe that the scientist is in front of him, discontent and spite commingling with bruised pride and desperation. Almost real enough to touch. Almost.
But not real enough.
"I don't explain things to the dead," he says tersely, and before the scientist can respond he sweeps out of the room.
(What Vexen wants to say is--
Damn you, damn you, damn you; damn you for being the only one who can see me, damn you for being the only thing that makes me real here. Damn you for having a body that won't do what it's told; I want to be real again without having to rely on you being in the same room, I want, I want, I want -- )
When the door closes, Vexen's shade fades into the dust.
* * * * * *
If he can remember self, then he can remember thought. If he can remember smell and taste and touch -- the feeling of hair in his fingers, the warmth of skin against his mouth. He will remember and he will exist, and he will remember and he will remember and he will remember --
* * * * * *
Saix no longer visits the rooms of the dead. There is no reason anymore. Axel's become so tightly attached to the Key of Destiny that they can find one by tracking the other, and that's good enough for a form of control over the Flurry of Dancing Flames. The Superior has given Saix the same authority as he has to Xigbar; the Luna Diviner's intuition finally succeeded to help ease him into the duties that the lost Nobodies once held.
But when he looks at Kingdom Hearts in the sky -- the source of all hearts, and some would imagine, all life -- Saix still smells coffee in the air.
- fin
By: kytha, rabbitprint
Length: ~9k
Rating: M
Summary: Last chapter of Cats in Boxes. Vexen is real. Vexen is dead. Vexen never existed. Saix no longer knows which statement is true. His life is a balance between shadow and light, but there are still different paths left to him: Saix makes his choice.
Chapter 1 - 2 - 3
* * * * * *
Hate is a seed that tastes like home. Vexen hasn't really touched it since losing his heart, but when everything is a memory, then everything is equally distant, equally close. The illusion of emotion runs just as strong as the sensation of touch, and in the million tiny details that the scientist struggles to remember, emotions are as good as anything else.
Hate is a seed that Vexen swallows into his innards and nurtures in his stomach, growing with all the sense of vengeance of a garden left to ruin. Tendrils of it slide into the cracks in his consciousness, where his will has begun to falter; its roots creep into the broken china of his memories, keeping pieces aligned, if not whole. The most luxuriant fronds frame the empty space in his chest, where they curl protectively around a budding bloom -- the promise of fruit yet to be borne.
Or maybe that's just what he wishes it could be. The metaphor is overly botanical; it's something that Marluxia would think up, and Vexen wants nothing to do with that man. But the images are, at least, vivid, and it's becoming more difficult to keep reality straight without some sort of stabilizing influence -- regardless of how crazy that influence might be -- and in that moment Vexen suddenly realizes that he just might understand Xemnas a little more now.
Finally.
Of course, it's too late to make a difference.
* * * * * *
Saix, for once, does not attempt to drown his problems through coffee.
The teapot was shattered in the melee.
He refuses to pick up the pieces for a week, unable to tolerate the metaphors inherent with broken pottery. When he finally acknowledges the debris of powder and ceramic, it’s only to order a Dusk to sweep up the mess; even then, there’s a faint white residue left behind, a dust that’s settled into the fibers of the carpet no matter how many times he runs his hand across the floor.
It's impossible to miss what was never there, particularly when one lacks the organs necessary to miss with. He never had any sort of sentimental attachment to the scientist to begin with. Saix does not find Vexen's absence disquieting because he cannot, but after a few days of it the Luna Diviner finds himself oddly distracted, prone to jerking at shadows and listening too intently into silences. It isn't until Demyx gives him a perplexed look over dinner and comments on his twitchiness -- drawing the uncomfortable scrutiny of the other members -- that Saix recognizes it.
He's looking for Vexen.
If it is possible for a person to become a bad habit, then IV must be his. Saix isn't particularly entertained by the thought. It implies tolerance of eccentricity, and the ability to become accustomed to the irrational. While both are acceptable in a certain sense -- the senior members all have their quirks, and how Saix himself is given space for his own peculiar tendencies -- applied to this particular situation, it's no less than appalling.
When the ghost finally returns, it‘s without fanfare. In the middle of the night, Saix wakes to an unfriendly pressure on his chest and shallow breathing in his ear. If it is possible for ghosts to be wet, he thinks that Vexen must be, because he feels cold toes flexing against his skin and the weight of damp cloth draped across his neck.
For a moment, Saix thinks Vexen means to kill him, and then dismisses that thought as ridiculous. Even as acerbic as he is, murdering people in their sleep is not the scientist's style. He'd much rather wake them and have them know who is doing this to them -- which leads Saix to the question of why Vexen’s shade, of all things, is sitting on his chest at an unholy hour of night, saying nothing.
He almost expects an insult to come forth, a reprimand of sorts, but there are no apologies, and there is no forgiveness.
Just three words:
Don't forget me, Vexen says quietly, and even his voice sounds damp, like he's been caught out in a thunderstorm and swallowed the rain. Saix realizes he can feel the scientist rocking back and forth, his bare heels digging against his ribs. The berserker considers the request for a moment, and without particularly thinking about it, he finds himself making room on the bed for another body, reaching out to grasp an unseen shoulder and push the weight aside.
"Then stop choking me," he responds, roughly, "Or there won't be anything of me left to remember."
Vexen slides off him, unusually docile, and really: that should be Saix's warning right there. But he is too tired to care and the bed's made for two anyway, and it's simply a matter of turning over on his side and pretending the other man doesn't exist.
It's easy enough to do this with a real person, but strangely enough, it's impossible with a ghost. Saix lies half-awake all night, too restless to sleep, and listens to even breathing that he should not be able to hear.
* * * * * *
Locking himself away in an angry huff, childishly excluding the world, is no longer a viable course of action for Vexen to take whenever the berserker has been particularly irritating. Like it or not, he depends on Saix's ability to recognize him, to define the edges of what he is; by necessity he remains closer than VII may be aware of, growing more familiar with Saix's strange hours as the days of their steely noncommunication pass by.
His pride still stings enough that actually speaking to Saix about it unthinkable, but that does not mean he does not allow himself to watch. It's hardly any different than before, really, except that Vexen can no longer deliver waspish remarks at leisure. Silence is a game they both play at, and the first of them to break it has already lost.
At times, Vexen is especially hard-pressed not to hiss in scandal, to bodily remove the Diviner from his bed. Over the months, Saix has gradually shifted his sleeping habits. From lying fully-clothed on top of Vexen's sheets, the berserker has shed more and more of the layers he wraps around himself; now that Vexen finally has the time to truly notice it, he wonders when it was that Saix became comfortable enough to sleep beneath his linens, clad in the barest minimum of cloth.
Or more importantly, when he became comfortable enough to entertain dreams of lust while in Vexen's bed. The scientist's experience of the pleasures of the flesh are patchy at best, though he's familiar enough with the clinical mechanics of it to know what it involves, and the personal mechanics of inconvenient hormones. Even he can guess -- has been guessing, really -- the nature of the visions that leave Saix writhing like an cat in heat.
Vexen wouldn't mind it so much, if it weren't for the mess it leaves.
The scientist mollifies himself with one promise. Once he and Saix are fully back on speaking terms once again, he'll have ample source material to insult him with.
With that idea comes another: the further he can convince Saix to incriminate himself, the longer the berserker will be forced to stay.
* * * * * * *
When the first light, caressing touch comes against his hip, Saix thinks he's still asleep.
Waking himself when his dreams take a direction for the worse has become instinct by this point, but it takes Saix a few minutes to realize that this isn't a nighttime fantasy that will end when he opens his eyes, simmering with frustration and embarrassment -- it's reality, or close enough to it, and that causes fear truer than anything he's ever felt before since becoming a Nobody.
But by then, he doesn't have much room to feel anything but Vexen, and his questions end up having to wait.
Halfway through, the chemist's ghost seems to decide that now is the opportune moment to press his suit.
Take it back, Vexen murmurs into Saix's collarbones, the plain, raw want in his voice almost as sharp as his teeth. Say it.
"Say what?" Saix grits his teeth against a whine; he will not, cannot beg. The berserker does not care for Vexen's conversational tone in the bedroom, the odd sense that the scientist takes satisfaction in the advantage he wields over Saix on this unfamiliar ground. He feels like he's being caught and landed, wound tighter and closer into a perverse fishing net. If it were possible, Vexen could possibly be taking notes on this.
Say it. Cold breath flutters over the wet trail Vexen's tongue has traced down to Saix's stomach. The Diviner's muscles jump, and not for the first time, he wonders whether Vexen's actions are deliberate or incidental -- if it's the strange sense of being needed by a creature so desperate that makes the berserker’s nerves sing, or if it’s the scientist's own expertise. Neither are concepts his mind can easily wrap itself around.
Take it back, Vexen says again, voice a reed-thin whisper. Tell me I'm real.
Tell me I'm not yours.
"Would you rather I say you were Xemnas's --" Saix begins to ask, and then Vexen’s tongue descends upon the lines of his stomach.
When he wakes up the next day, the bed is empty of any person save himself, and his mouth tastes rancid and sour.
* * * * * *
Several months into his informal possession of Vexen's quarters, Saix reaches into the tea cabinet to discover that he's completely cleaned out its coffee supply. He feels an irrational sense of loss. He didn't even drink the stuff before now, and only started out of the twinned need to understand Vexen, and to spite him.
Fortunately for Saix, he remembers the particular brand. One discreet request of Luxord later and he finds himself once again well-supplied with coffee, ready to keep him awake on the nights where sleep is not the preferable course of action to take. He's beginning to suspect he's developing a tolerance for the caffeine, no matter how thick and black he brews it; these nights he often needs more than a single cup to keep himself awake without constantly fighting the urge to yawn.
Saix tries not to think too hard about what this implies, this curious adoption of someone else's vices -- this ingestion of foreign habits, this undeniable sensation of walking through someone else's shoes. It's like letting in stray cats for shelter from the rain. One sneaks in, and suddenly there are dozens, crowding up against your stoop, begging for food and warmth. Shutting them out never succeeds once they've had a taste of your comforts: they circle in the darkness, clawing to get in.
* * * * * *
Vexen's ghost, Saix begins to notice, is oddly talkative, although the conversations it strikes up don't seem to revolve around any particular topic. Occasionally the scientist will speak out of the blue, on subjects that Saix has given no prompt to respond to.
He's beginning to get the sense that there's something slightly off about this pale shadow of the man he once knew, but he cannot quite place what this flaw is.
At one point the ghost suddenly volunteers Saix some unnecessary advice.
A hot shower will help with that, he intones, and Saix stops rubbing at the nape of his neck, where muscle has curled up into itself in loud protest.
Saix frowns. "How would you know?"
There's a pause that takes as long as a shrug, for a living man, and Vexen speaks again. I've spent enough nights aching from sitting over my books to know what can ease discomfort. It's not so strange a thing, even for researchers -- pain makes results unreliable. It is best to be dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to return to one‘s work.
For a moment Saix has trouble reconciling the series of images -- cold, analytical Vexen -- to the others -- warm tea, muscle rubs, comfort. He tries not to think too hard on why it surprises him to learn that Vexen ever had a claim to being alive, to having a fallible body; the entire concept is one that belongs to humans, which Vexen never seemed particularly interested in except as case studies.
He wonders if being in the Vexen's rooms is beginning to rub some of the academic's taste for theory on him, if the contact of hands and the ingestion of cold spit down his throat has, in some way, turned him into a creature not unlike what IV was in life. He thinks too much, these days, spends more time dwelling in the realm of what-could-be and why-is-this and how-can-it than he ever has in his entire life. He thinks more than he needs to, which means that his hours are filled with the theoretical, lacking any concrete answers that might help the needs of the Organization.
Saix considers the books on Vexen's shelves, plays back conversations in his head, and wastes an entire afternoon thinking about a word to describe the shade of green Vexen's eyes must be. He catches himself contemplating whether or not academia is a venereal disease of some sort, an affliction passed through fluids and spite. He debates the connotations between three different words for redundant before deciding on none of them at all.
If Vexen is an illness, then Saix has no clue of a possible cure; nothing save one, and death did not fix matters for the scientist.
Saix never invites the contact that comes between them. Practically speaking, he can't. He hasn't tried to grab the academic in midair since the last time they fought, and he probably never will; it's too strange a sensation. Too disorienting, and the last thing that Saix needs is more reason to doubt his senses.
He's content, then -- or at least, resigned -- to have Vexen lead the way through their encounters whenever their conversations turn physical. It seems the scientist has a clear enough idea of what he's doing, and it hasn’t resulted in disappointment for the berserker so far, although he finds himself wondering often where Vexen ever learnt any of this.
If he ever learnt any of it. Sometimes, the academic will fumble, and that's cause for suspicion enough. Why a possible virgin might suddenly feel the need to indoctrinate themselves into physical pleasures when they have no body to do such with is curious -- at the least.
It isn't until Saix feels hips uncertainly lowering onto his that he realizes something is amiss. "Hang on," he says, hand snapping out to catch Vexen by what he thinks is the other man’s thigh. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
The scientist's voice is shaky but determined. I'm already dead, he hisses pointedly, wriggling in Saix's grasp like an invisible eel. What can you possibly do to hurt me?
Saix doesn't have an answer to that, admittedly, but all the same, he finds the idea of penetration without any sort of preparation rather distasteful. Lubrication's for the convenience of both parties, after all. Vexen may not have any problems with this -- and Saix has experienced worse -- but the dry friction on the berserker's end may well do him more pain than pleasure, if he can't convince IV otherwise.
So he says, "Wait," and scrabbles for the side drawer, hoping that Vexen has had the sense to have something in there they can use.
Among the pens and notepads clatter a handful of vials. Some of them, Saix can dismiss instantly -- he recognizes the labels as chapsticks or ink -- but one of the bottles contains what looks like a few drams of pale yellow oil. For relief from muscle tension, the small print on the side reads, which gives the proof to Vexen’s claims of shoulder massages. When Saix unscrews the cap, the contents do not reek like a garden of perfumes, which is encouraging enough.
He wets his fingers liberally, almost dropping the cap when he tries to close the bottle; he resorts to setting the vial on the table with the hope that it won’t be knocked over somehow during the night.
Vexen -- he assumes -- has been watching the proceedings with impatience, because Saix has barely finished coating his fingers thoroughly before the scientist gives a hrmph of impatience. The noise is enough to encourage the Diviner to grab at the general region of Vexen’s waist; the grip is slippery, but enough to help guide him as he angles his hand for where he hopes the scientist’s groin will be.
As he does, he wonders -- with a kind of awful curiosity -- if he'll still be able to see his finger after it goes in, or if it will simply disappear, amputated as neatly as a war wound. He decides he does not, in fact, particularly care to find out, and so he simply closes his eyes and drives it upwards.
The reaction is instantaneous: bony fingers suddenly clamp onto his shoulders as Vexen jerks. The scientist moans -- the lewdest sound Saix has ever heard anywhere, in his dreams and in his ears and in all the worlds he's been to.
"Weren't expecting that, were you?" Somehow, he manages to find the ability to be triumphant.
IV hisses at him again, muttering curses against his neck. How could I, when I've never been ow --f -- bastard! The expletive is delivered with a yowl, as Saix's idle curiosity prompts him to explore this most intimate part of Vexen's body in a way that it's never been touched.
He’s well aware of how uncomfortable initial penetration can be; this alone eases the pressure off from his hand, and he waits for Vexen’s growled complaints to taper off before redoubling his efforts. A moment later, the illusion of wetness splatters against his stomach, and Saix realizes he's vaguely surprised to learn that he can make Vexen come with one finger.
He's even more surprised to find himself wondering what he can make Vexen do with more.
The answer leaves the sheets cold in irregular patches from Vexen‘s breath, warm from Saix’s body heat.
Only gradually does the Diviner’s triumph fade, only to be replaced with a single horrible question: if all of Vexen’s presence stems from memory, how can the scientist have sexual experiences that didn’t exist before death?
The paradox keeps Saix awake all that night, feeling the spidery touch of Vexen whisper across his skin, and wondering how much of it is real.
* * * * * * *
There is one more advantage to Vexen's ghost taking a more active hand in meddling. These nights Saix's sleep has remained, for the most part, largely undisturbed; he does not dream of the scientist’s hands cutting off his air flow, of Vexen’s empty eyes blotting out the sun. If anything, the berserker’s sleep is plagued by IV in a different way: since Vexen has discovered that he is able to stimulate the Diviner’s body, he seems willing to do so regardless of the hour, like a child poking at a new toy.
There is no logic to dreams. Adding meaning to the random misfirings of his brain is a pointless exercise. Nonetheless, Saix is used to having dreams which maintain at least a minimum of connection to his waking hours -- to dream of his own death irritates him in a way he cannot place.
The desire -- any desire -- to die does not exist in him in his present state. Perhaps his Other may have prayed for a quick end in his weakest moments; perhaps his Nobody may yet find a reason to seek it. As far as Saix can ascertain, however, he has no wish to commit suicide at any point in the near future. Such an event would leave the Organization in a rather undesirable state of affairs: while the senior members' efficiency is unquestionable, and the newer members are capable enough of accomplishing missions, they lack the element of connection between them. Saix manages, however tenuously, to function as that bond.
And that is why it is inexplicable that he dreams of a garden of weeping trees and rusted gates, crawling weeds and lily-choked ponds. For no reason, Saix finds himself wading waist-deep in one of the algae-tinted pools, naked and dry-mouthed. A peculiar urgency drives him through the water, the plants parting beneath his hands with almost audible sighs as he pushes through them. Blossoms kiss against his side, but he ignores the sensation. What he is here for has little to do with any aesthetics this place has to offer.
He searches and searches through the water, but nothing rises out of the depths, and Saix only sees himself reflected back in the darkness.
* * * * * *
Something begins to grow in the berserker’s thoughts after a while, twisting like a vine whose thorns are so tiny that they look like fuzz. Why is Vexen acting so strange? Is it only the lack of a body that leaves the scientist so vulnerable, so willing to pretend to emotions that -- by all rights -- he should not have, not any more than missing or wanting or above all, being unwilling to die?
If this Vexen only exists as a manifestation of impressions, then that would explain it all. Vexen behaves irregularly because Saix is making him this way.
Later on, Saix runs across an interesting passage in one of Vexen's oldest journals, a scrawled note about the nature of scientific inquiry. The lines speak of method, of means, delineating the best way for one to go about divining truth from falsehood, fact from fiction. Some of it is self-contradictory; the berserker puzzles about the logic of proving what is true by proving what is not. The words empirical and objectivity seem to rise out of the mess of notes most frequently of them all, and the afternoon has been slow enough that Saix looks them up in the dust-covered dictionary sitting on the corner of Vexen's bookshelf.
Oddly enough, the volume is the least used of Vexen's collection; its pages still smell of new paper when Saix pries them apart. Perhaps Vexen had never known the confusion of an unfamiliar word, or else was too proud to admit it. Whatever the case, Saix benefits from it now. He looks up the words to satisfy his curiosity, and when he finds his thoughts becoming sluggish, he turns the pages at random, losing himself in the tangle of jargon.
He's become better at sensing when Vexen is in the room -- the ghost seems to drift through his quarters willy-nilly at times, particularly when bored by Saix's inactivity. When IV's shade turns the air of the room chill once again, the berserker is ready for it.
"Did you know," he begins, almost conversationally, "that there isn't a single word in this language to rhyme with 'orange'?"
The triviality stumps the ghost for a moment, and Saix can feel a response beginning to build -- he cuts it off with another offhanded delivery, sliding the pad of his thumb along the edge of the page. "And also that your name is an archaic form of the word, 'vexed?' Vexen," he continues, feeling the Nobody's name stripped down to basic letters, "derived from 'vexer,' which itself comes from, 'vexare.'"
Rather than debate the subject of etymology, the scientist only snorts. What is wrong with you today? he grumbles, irritably. Why are you being so...
"Chatty?" Saix supplies. "Talkative? Verbose? Jocular?" Each synonym rolls off his tongue without effort, spiraling into the pages of the thesaurus section he's holding.
No, Vexen's ghost mutters. Perky.
Saix allows himself a rare smile of satisfaction. Truth be told, the berserker dislikes being overly verbal; he’s relieved to fall back into his own thoughts, his own words. The experiment was brief, but useful. Now he knows that Vexen can by influenced by a matter that Saix is interested in. There exists some means of control.
In Vexen's own behaviors lies a fragile thread of rationality that Saix clings to, winds tight around his hands and does not dare to release. For as long as he can convince himself that what he perceives of the scientist's ghost is nothing but his own senses misfiring -- delivering false messages his mind does not know how to interpret as anything but truth -- then he can believe that he has power over this still.
He can believe it. He has to believe it. The alternative does not bear contemplation.
* * * * * *
You know what I really miss? Vexen asks abruptly one afternoon.
Saix isn't actually interested, but it's not as though it costs him terribly much to listen. "What?"
Coffee.
The concept is understandable on a physical level -- a body craves to be fed, watered, and it enjoys the meals it has become accustomed to -- but Vexen lacks a certain vital part of that equation. Saix squints at the air curiously. "How do you miss something?" Meaning, really, what's left that can miss?
There's a huff, and if the scientist were visible, Saix would swear he's crossing his arms. It is possible to have a psychological addiction to a substance, Vexen points out sharply. The dependency does not have to be chemical or emotional. So long as it is a part of your daily routine...
The idea of habits working so deeply into the unconscious causes Saix to lift an eyebrow. He knows about the use of memory for emotion -- any decently strong Nobody possesses that knack -- but he would have assumed that triggers such as want were rooted in the objects that caused them. Emotions from hearts. Hungers, from the body.
"I hear," Saix says with a touch of malicious amusement, "Some worlds burn offerings to their dead, so that their ghosts can feast on the spirit of the food. Would you like me to do that for you, Vexen?" The berserker's lips curve in an expression of cold amusement. "Scorch a pot of coffee?"
Very funny, but no. Burnt coffee smells terrible.
"I could set myself on fire," Saix replies, mildly disappointed that the jibe did not have any stronger reaction, and moving to another object without really thinking. "What about that?"
Vexen snorts. Would you, really?
"No."
I didn't think so.
* * * * * *
Life gradually distinguishes itself for Saix between rooms with Vexen and rooms without. Sitting in his own chambers or reading mission files in the library seems emptier without the scientist lending unwanted insight. Saix might almost say he wants the ghost around as a constant presence; without it, there's a strange feeling of disconnection, as if his senses are a compass needle endlessly spinning in search of an unknown north. Vexen is an addiction as simple as caffeine. A part of daily routine. Nothing more.
Despite his demise, the scientist seems to be as vibrant as he ever was -- which isn't saying much at all. But Saix cannot discern the difference between Vexen alive and Vexen dead. The majority of the impressions he gathers now are limited to the latter alone; the scientist‘s journals have yielded up the full depth of their treasures weeks ago, leaving Saix to circle endlessly in doubt. How much of Vexen is truth? How much of him is fiction? Was there ever, really, a difference between either -- and does it matter? His mind refuses to contemplate it for long, and in the end he is left with even less certainty than he began with.
Less certainty, and the touch of the scientist’s ghost on his body each night.
On one level, he’s completely disgusted by what they're doing. On another, he’s bizarrely titillated, trapped like a struggling ant in a flood of tacky honey. Only one of them is a scientist; only one of them can really be looking at this from a scientific angle, but they can both rely on the excuse that they're curious about the boundaries of the living.
Saix keeps his eyes shut, head tilted up and face as blank as he can make it -- as if he is facing a thousand spears pointed at his chest instead of Vexen's face. Perhaps closing his eyes is more for sanity's sake than anything else, allowing Diviner to forget for a moment that what his hips snap against is nothing.
The Luna Diviner kisses Vexen as though as he expects to die for it.
Something dies, when they touch each other; that much Saix knows, though whether this is for the better or the worse, the Diviner does not know.
He does wonder, when he has time to: is it really intercourse, when he can't even see the other man involved?
Sex with a ghost, he thinks, shouldn't be any more satisfying than touching himself. There is nothing, nothing here that he could not replicate for himself with his eyes closed: not the trembling, uncertain fingers clamped onto his hip, not the cool, calloused hand curling half-painfully around him, not the obscene wetness inching its way along the inside of his thigh and--
He makes the mistake of closing his eyes against the sensation, and his mind betrays him, drawing on half a year's worth of frustrated visions to fill in what daily life cannot show him.
Skinhairhandslipsmouthteethtongueeyes--
That's all it takes for him to buck off the bed, spine snapping bow-taut and hips straining heavenward even as unseen hands hold him down. Saix doesn't recognize the keening in his throat as his own voice, at first; when he realizes the noise he's making, he shuts his mouth with a snap. He should have more control than a base animal. Even if they're in rooms far enough removed from the others that no one could possibly hear them unless they were standing right outside the door, the need to keep up appearances stings him keenly.
Then an unseen tongue gives him one final swipe, and he almost finds himself whispering, Xemnas, in what little breath remains to him after trapping it in his lungs. He cuts that sound off too.
When he becomes aware that he can hear Vexen chuckling off to the side, he realizes his precaution is futile. The only person Saix's weakness in this moment would matter to is already aware of it.
Vexen is never going to let him live this shame down.
Later, once Saix has recovered enough to register proper conversation, Vexen makes a dry comment about the astonishing convenience that ghosts lack a gag reflex, or he might have died all over again.
Saix hears Vexen saying the words, but underneath it, he hears something more: satisfaction, and not a little pride.
* * * * * *
The berserker realizes to what extent he’s been disconnected from the world when he encounters Luxord in one of the castle’s dustier hallways. When he greets the gambler with an automatic welcome home, Luxord gives him a strange look.
“I’ve been back at the Castle for two weeks, Saix.”
“Oh,” VII says, feeling muddled and stupid -- ridiculous, really, considering he’s been sleeping surprisingly well.
The Gambler absorbs this response with a long, appraising stare before his next response. “Let’s take a walk.”
The man’s expression is almost kind, and that’s disgusting, but Saix agrees anyway.
Walking with X is not a strange act in itself, because Saix has done it before. These days he is prompted to conduct his missions alone, but there was a time when the Organization was warier-- or perhaps simply had more members to spare. Whichever the case, he's had his share of partnered missions, and he is not completely incapable of social interaction if necessity dictates it.
And really, that's what makes this so unusual. There is no mission at hand to discuss, no true reason for them to be strolling through one of the gardens bordering the Castle's edges.
That's not strictly accurate, of course. Luxord strolls, indolent as a lord. Saix, like most sane people, simply walks.
There is no conversation until they reach one of the paved courtyards randomly interspersed amongst the hedges, location prone to shift at the castle's odd whim. The gambler settles himself on the edge of the courtyard's lone fountain, where a silent stone cupid is forever holding up a cornucopia of water. Saix, for his part, remains standing. He’s still uncertain what he's doing here, and Luxord does not seem inclined to elaborate.
Suddenly, the air is filled with the business-like snap of paper: X has drawn out his cards, making them fly from palm to palm with a confidence that only comes with familiarity. Despite himself, Saix is drawn to watch, and it's not until the sound stops that he realizes he's having a handful of fanned-out cards proffered at his nose.
He blinks. "What is it?"
"Pick one."
That sounds too much like an order for the diviner's peace of mind, and he almost bristles. The concept of seniority still holds, somewhere in his bones, even if he knows that the gambler isn't unlike himself; they both favor gradually establishing themselves in the Organization's revised hierarchy, and this mutual understanding has worked well so far.
Saix dismisses the irritation as quickly as it rises, settling instead for a question: "Why?"
X seems to understand, but the cards remain extended. "I would like to know what's been on your mind."
"And you believe playing cards can tell you this?" The idea is laughable, but considering how much Saix is likely to admit if he’s asked directly, he supposes this is as good a method of inquiry as any. He doesn't understand what Luxord's motives could be, and he finds it safer to err on the side of caution before he decides anything.
"It can't do any harm to try." Luxord simply grins, the Nobody-sigils on the back of the cards appearing to beckon in invitation. "And there are times when the cards provide you with better insight than you could find on your own." He pauses, considers. "Or are you too afraid of what you'll find?"
The edges of the fanned-out deck waver, hesitant.
Saix reaches out before he realizes it, pulling a card from the stack before it can be drawn away. Only when he glimpses the smug tilt to the gambler’s lips does Saix realize that the reaction is exactly what Luxord expected, and by snatching the card, Saix has only fallen into the trap.
Even so, it's too late to recant now.
With something like a muscle memory of trepidation, Saix turns the card over.
Dark eyes stare up at him, a mouth drawn in an imperious frown. It takes Saix a moment to spot the dress, realize it's meant to be a woman -- there's something almost masculine about her features, but the sense of royalty is undeniable. Gold lines the woman's veil, falling artfully from the crown set on her head, and the sigil clutched her hands is almost spearlike, threatening. It's good craftsmanship, and the berserker studies it for a moment, lost in thought.
"The Queen of Spades," Luxord says reflectively, plucking the card from Saix's hands and twirling it around in his fingers. "The Black Maria. Some people say she was Death, once. In the old cards." The Nothing-paper flicks around in his fingers, blue to black and white and back.
"And what does that mean?" Saix does not like fortunetelling games. "This Lady Death?"
The card stills to a stop between the knuckles of Luxord's index and middle finger, one corner pointing accusingly at Saix.
"Death in some fortunes," the gambler tells Saix, "means change. The Queen of Spades, though..." he taps the card against his chin, brushing stubble with the motion.
"...she just means some kind of disaster."
Without warning, he flicks the card towards Saix's face.
Saix catches it. "No," he says, frowning as memory stirs in him. Even he, he realizes, knows this lore; it's strange that Luxord should get it incorrect. "It's the Ace that means tragedy, isn't it?"
Luxord grins. "Maybe so," he acknowledges, "But I've always thought, if disaster had to happen to me, that it ought to be beautiful. And who wouldn't want a fine woman waiting for them at the end of it all? Black Maria, Lady Fair. Someone with welcoming arms and a smile better than anything you've ever wanted before."
For a moment, Saix's mind gives him a flash of green eyes, and the memory of cold fingers on his skin.
"I don't want anyone there when I'm dead," he informs the gambler neatly. "I'd rather there be nothing at all."
Luxord lifts his eyebrows in two perfect curves of blond smugness. "Then I'll have your share, and we'll call it even."
* * * * * *
As the weeks progress, Saix finds less relevancy to Vexen’s presence, now that the man’s rooms have been conquered. The Diviner has successfully plotted out the scientist’s position in relation to the original founding members of the Organization, and he has benefited from this understanding. He has learned how to defer to II when Xigbar claims his rare moments of authority, and about the way that Xaldin does not need reports to be precise, so long as they are delivered without opinions to color the facts.
Like the flesh around a wound, the Organization has slowly begun to knit itself back together, making unspoken adjustments to compensate for any loss of function.
But Vexen is not a part of any of this. When Kingdom Hearts reaches a stable enough mass that it is no longer a translucent shimmer, Saix offers the news; Vexen forgets it within days. IV is locked into this slice of the Castle, this tiny world of three rooms, and the scientist has shown no signs of being able to leave.
Thinking about this brings a conclusion to Saix’s mind that refuses to be dispelled: in the paradox of life continuing on without hearts, without bodies, maybe memory is the only part of existence that matters.
Maybe death only comes when everyone else moves on.
Xemnas calls Saix up in person to his offices that afternoon. Kingdom Hearts is a blot of pale ivory in the sky as the Superior rattles off criteria and requirements and cautionary statements of what to do if the Keyblade Master appears. He dismisses Saix without waiting to hear if the berserker will accept the task; they both know he will, without protest.
Saix reviews the details in Vexen’s rooms, over a cup of coffee and half a sandwich. This is the first time that a mission will take the Diviner away from Vexen's rooms for any significant amount of time. This world is labeled as Wonderland; there is a deftly penned manifesto included in the folder that lists the rough hierarchy of power, along with a sketch of several cards on the front. Tiny spade-footmen dance with heart-executioners. Included is also a note: Thought you might enjoy a change of pace! Affectionately, Luxord.
Saix stares at the folder, turning it around in his hands, and considers whether or not he believes in signs.
After a moment, he gets to his feet.
Wait.
Saix waits.
Don't forget to come back, Vexen says at last, an echo of an older wish, and Saix shakes his head.
"I won't," he says. It is not a lie, because he does not think it is possible to forget something like this, possible to pretend that he has not spent a year flirting with the idea of what makes something real.
It is not a lie, truly, because Saix does not forget. In fact, he spends the entire length of the mission thinking about Vexen, about the scientist's rooms -- about the Organization and traitors and Keyblades and what it means when someone finally dies three times over. Heart. Body. Soul.
When he comes back home, he spends a week alone in the upper halls of the Castle. The isolation is soothing: no one invades Saix’s personal space, and slowly, he can feel his thoughts begin to unwind, finding a rest state which is not affected by anyone else’s presence.
Curiosity sends a thread back into his perfect stillness. He made a promise, after all, and even though he’s willing to discard his own words easily enough, he finds no reason not to return to Vexen’s chambers.
The doors are closed when he makes his way in from the hall. At first he wonders if his absence has dispelled the illusion of the scientist’s ghost. The rooms feel dusty now that he’s had time away; they are abandoned husks waiting for deconstruction. The lights seem dimmer when he turns them on. No one says hello.
Then, just as he’s about to write off the entire experience as some sort of lunar fluke, a wisp of cool air touches his skin.
You’re here. Vexen’s presence is faint, almost as bad as the first time Saix had begun to hear the scientist. I thought --
“What?” Saix asks, not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he wants to hear Vexen say it out loud.
But he’s not rewarded with any grand revelation. The ghost admits to nothing, just a mutter on the air that could have been any number of useless trivialities.
“So,” he asks instead, because Wonderland has left a taste for petty cruelty in his mouth, “did anyone stop by while I was gone?”
The silence is thick.
Another time, Saix might have found that triumph to be a smug one. Now, as he peels off his coat and drops it on the nearest chair, he finds that he simply can’t care.
* * * * * *
The two of them have less to speak about now, it seems; or rather, Saix has little that he wants to say, and even less inclination to answer the scientist’s numerous inquiries. There had been a time when it had felt strange to be separated from the ghost’s constant presence. Now it rankles on Saix’s nerves to always have the spirit around, always be bothered by pointless inquiries -- not when Xemnas had more tasks for the berserker to fulfill, more reasons for Saix to leave Vexen’s rooms and obey the Superior’s wishes.
It is a deliberate choice that continues to surface, swinging options between Vexen and Xemnas. Or rather, between life and death: Vexen shows no signs of changing, of moving on past his strange fixation with Saix, but Xemnas has been researching Kingdom Hearts like a man possessed. Xaldin and Xigbar both mutter about how impossible it is to keep up with the Superior; Vexen will always be in a ghost in a room, but Xemnas is slipping away.
Saix chooses. He chooses again. At first it’s a simple matter to shunt aside a visit to Vexen’s rooms as something he’ll get around to after he finishes the inventory of Sorcerer Dusks; then he wakes up early and leaves for his next mission before finishing his coffee. There are simply not enough hours in the day to be in both places, and Saix realizes -- slowly, but with an inevitability that feels like he’s peeling off a scab to discover fresh skin beneath -- that he’s not adverse to this change.
Xemnas is alive. The Organization is alive.
Vexen is not.
Luxord invites him up one day, unexpectedly. The two of them keep their observatories on the same level of the Castle; by this logic, they should either have been the best of friends, or the worst of enemies. The truth is neither. They are content to be largely indifferent to one another, with the extent of their interactions confined to business. Saix does not complain about the periodic card games, and Luxord makes no commentary when the lunarium is filled with roars.
“Your brand of coffee,” the gambler smiles. “Or was it Vexen’s?”
Saix casts a glance over the chessboard which X has laid out; the playing field has been set neatly in the middle of a white tablecloth, and a few stray dishes line the side. Luxord uses his chosen element deftly, pausing and reanimating the candle which lurks within arm’s reach on the table. The long taper burns erratically, dribbling wax in long, bulbous streams. It’s only half-melted.
There is no clock. As Saix watches the gambler, he realizes that Luxord is using the candle to measure time, studying the complex puzzle in fits and starts while he races against self-imposed limits. He creates and unmakes each move in the game at whim, advancing the pieces forward several turns before deciding to backtrack at random, putting the candle on pause whenever he has to retreat his steps.
Something that strikes Saix: Luxord only pauses and plays the candle. For all the Gambler’s powers, he never undoes the progress of the flame; he never makes the taper whole again.
Whether that’s by choice or by limitation, Saix isn’t sure.
“So how is it going?” X says abruptly into the silence, and then clarifies. “Your tragedy?”
Saix catches the reference, but pretends he doesn’t. He folds his arms instead. “What do you mean?”
The Gambler restores time to the candle as he inches a knight forward, occupied with his work. The cards in his left hand tap against the table in an erratic rhythm. “We all must have a Black Maria,” he chides. “The only difference is, which one will we choose?”
Finding the conversation to be well into the terrain of the morbid -- and, therefore, pointless -- Saix shifts his weight. “I have no plans to meet my own destruction anytime soon. What about you?” The Diviner watches as Luxord freezes the candle with another snap of his fingers, shuffling around the pawns. “Have you picked something?”
“I have several worlds which I fully expect to find my destiny upon,” Luxord answers with a shrug, eloquent with his lack of interest. “It’s only a matter of time, Saix. It’s only ever a matter of time for any of us.”
Rather than make sense out of Luxord’s frivolousness -- no matter how many times he interacts with the Gambler, Saix can never understand how anyone can treat survival like a game -- the Diviner only takes a step closer to the table. Black pawns glare across the field to where their enemies are slowly advancing; the white bishops are having a conclave on one side of the board, threatening the black queen from afar. Luxord’s fingers touch both sides on checkered map. The board itself is turned so that the Gambler faces the perspective from the middle ground, with white on his left and black on his right and nothing for his own side.
"How can you play like that?” Saix wonders aloud suddenly. “How do you know when you win?"
"I don't," Luxord answers, absently fanning out the cards in his hand and then passing one slowly through the candleflame.
When the paper does not ignite, Saix makes a startled noise in his throat.
Luxord seems equally surprised at the other Nobody’s reaction; leaving the card idly in the fire, he blinks at the Diviner with mild curiosity. “It’s out of time, Saix,” he says, almost kindly to the berserker’s ignorance. “It’s not able to burn.”
* * * * * *
The stronger Nobodies have mental inventories of what their hearts contained. Some of them can recall honest laughter, or anger, or amusement. Sometimes, even love. The memories which are strongest are the ones which were in full force upon the moment of the heart‘s separation; it is easier to recollect rage when it was the last clear impression you ever had.
But all of them agree on one thing. The sensations are distant, easily controlled, which true hearts never could be.
Xemnas only speaks of hate and despair; from that fact alone, everyone knows what Xehanort felt during his last few moments before the Darkness took him.
What Vexen remembers of his heart is fear mixed with curiosity. With envy, with trepidation, with expectation -- with a dozen flickering emotions, all neatly trapped as insects in a glass jar for study.
What Vexen remembers most clearly about his body is how he begged to stay alive.
* * * * * *
Axel killed me.
Saix keeps his eyes on the book. "I knew that already."
You -- what? Disarmed of his grand revelation, Vexen hovers in place, his concentration momentarily broken. How?
"Nothing else would make sense." Sliding the bookmark idly back and forth on the table with his fingers, Saix offers his conclusions without pride. "Axel spent a great deal of time with Larxene. He was also the only survivor. And not even a scratch on him to show for it -- nothing else makes sense," he repeats, and shrugs. "If he did not orchestrate it, he must have profited somehow, and that is still suspect."
He'll kill the rest of you too, if you don't pay attention.
"Perhaps."
The stark indifference should be familiar, should even be comforting considering the nature of Nobodies; still, Vexen finds himself in growing impatience with the Berserker. There is no 'perhaps,' he snaps. Stop wasting your time! Warn the rest of the Organization! Have him executed before it's too late!
"Xemnas feels it's under control. He assigned me," Saix adds, glancing up at last to the empty room, looking for a face which is not there, "to keep watch over the situation, just in case."
Just in case? If Vexen had lungs, he would scoff with them. Tell him what I told you. Tell him --
"That I have the voice of Number Four in my ear? No," Saix retorts. He laces his fingers on the open pages of his book, implacable as one of his swords with all its spikes folded inwards. "Right now, the Superior seems to trust my ability to handle the matter. That's enough."
The concept is ridiculous. Vexen seizes it immediately. You? Barely sufficient. Axel killed at least one of us, possibly five if you count the traitors. Xemnas would never rely --
"Xemnas has."
And in those two words, something rings wrong in Vexen's nonexistent ears: the dispassionate confidence of Number Seven, who should have been fourth on the hierarchy and now seems to imply more.
How? The question is dry with disbelief. How can he be so careless?
In reply, Saix only smirks.
Jealousy is an emotion, and therefore impossible for Vexen to have -- even the intellectual version, which is composed of statistical caution and asset analysis and many other fine words which summarize the same concept. Jealousy is an emotion, and therefore Vexen cannot find himself drawn irrevocably to Saix whenever the Nobody is there: watching him perform the most mundane tasks with unthinking ease, drinking coffee, eating lunch, scratching an itch on his leg. He has memorized the idle way that Saix runs his fingers through his hair when he's lost in thought; an irritable sweep of the left hand, palm towards the scalp, starting at the temple and moving back to three inches past the ear.
It's an obsession which is only dimly mirrored by the Organization's need for hearts, and causes Vexen to wonder.
Maybe the more you lose, the more you end up craving by default.
You've eaten my food, Vexen says, pitch rising with every word, You've slept in my sheets; hell, you've jerked off in my bed, he snarls, voice sharp and accusatory -- despite himself, Saix flinches, if only because the statement is irrevocably true, and more. An explanation's the least thing you owe me.
By now Saix knows Vexen's moods well enough to hear the scorn in his voice, see the sneer forming on parchment-thin lips. If he opens his mind eyes further, he might almost believe that the scientist is in front of him, discontent and spite commingling with bruised pride and desperation. Almost real enough to touch. Almost.
But not real enough.
"I don't explain things to the dead," he says tersely, and before the scientist can respond he sweeps out of the room.
(What Vexen wants to say is--
Damn you, damn you, damn you; damn you for being the only one who can see me, damn you for being the only thing that makes me real here. Damn you for having a body that won't do what it's told; I want to be real again without having to rely on you being in the same room, I want, I want, I want -- )
When the door closes, Vexen's shade fades into the dust.
* * * * * *
If he can remember self, then he can remember thought. If he can remember smell and taste and touch -- the feeling of hair in his fingers, the warmth of skin against his mouth. He will remember and he will exist, and he will remember and he will remember and he will remember --
* * * * * *
Saix no longer visits the rooms of the dead. There is no reason anymore. Axel's become so tightly attached to the Key of Destiny that they can find one by tracking the other, and that's good enough for a form of control over the Flurry of Dancing Flames. The Superior has given Saix the same authority as he has to Xigbar; the Luna Diviner's intuition finally succeeded to help ease him into the duties that the lost Nobodies once held.
But when he looks at Kingdom Hearts in the sky -- the source of all hearts, and some would imagine, all life -- Saix still smells coffee in the air.
- fin