[2009] Secret Santa Submissions Part One

[crimsoncookie]

We all made it. ♥ All entries are in. Thank you so much, everyone, and I wish all of you a very merry Christmas.

To: tabitha_dornoc
From: crimsoncookie

Title: Eurydice
Word Count: 660
Rating: M
Pairings: Riku/Kairi, Sora/Riku/Kairi, Saïx/Kairi, Marluxia/Naminé, and a very small bit of DiZ/Riku.
Spoilers?: for KHII
Notes: oh my darling. i don't know why it's so much harder to write something when we have so very many favorite things in common, but it is - this is a reworked drablet from the depths of the compy, a small sequel to nothing and moonlight. i hope you like it - and merry christmas and i love you very very much.

To escape from worlds that never were, you have to walk the path out hand in hand.

A week ago she'd told him. Told him why she only kissed him, kissed Sora, kept her strokes to small and gentle touches. He'd found her crying (screaming) in her sleep, battering her hands against the moonlight on her skin. He'd held her awake, his hair so soft and eyes so bright and she'd sobbed SaïxSaïxSaïx, reaching for his empty chest and wanting mouth until she heard RikuRikuRiku beat instead.

He'd known about Naminé, the scars of rose-torn skin and the soft hitch of breath every time she reached for a pink crayon. He'd watched as DiZ tormented her (Marluxia), scolding her when she paled at the name, white as snow. Nobodies cannot fear, DiZ said, but Naminé felt Kairi's heart beating. It beat (frantic, dreaming) as Marluxia took her to his bed, white sheets and cherry blossom and sweetsweet promises of memories for her very own. It beat (it hurt) as he entered her - too small for him and pink petals will be more beautiful, precious. Look. They blush with your blood. It beat afraid alone afraid--

--and kept beating, trapped under soft hair and bright eyes, the only sound in the empty moonlit space that was his home. (Except her sobs. Except his breath. Except skin on skin and the echoes of their names.) She wants to unsee, unhear but she knows him, the shape of his hips and taste of his neck and the low dark noise he makes when he comes. She whispers him at night.

Riku'd guessed. She likes movies when the moon is bright overhead, movies and popcorn and every light turned on even if it's hard to see the screen. Likes to have her head on Riku's lap and Sora's spikes on her legs and nobody touching her chest, her heart, because nobody did already. Their first kiss was in the rain (paopu sweet and smooth on her lips, his - the only way to share, she said, and you are not leaving again, not ever, not without me and Sora by your side) and after that the beach the pier the secret place because Kairi will never walk at night without him there.

A day ago he'd told her. He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look away. It was me, Kairi. I... and he chokes and swallows darkness in his throat, darkness rich as greed and gold and the taste of her skin as Ansem took her with his body. I... and she's puzzled, first, but then she knows, and smiles as tears begin to spill. Thank god, she says, and her laugh is like a sob. It wasn't him-- and that can't wash away blank eyes and bruised lips and blood slipping down her thighs but she whispers not your fault, not your fault, not your fault until he almost believes her.

(The madness in an old man's eyes he'll never speak of. Some things are meant for him and him alone.)

Kairi'd guessed. He flinches sometimes when they walk through shadows on the island, the falls and caves and secret place where once a world ended and everything began. Where Sora held her heart and Riku her, begging Kairi, Kairi, wake up until she almost heard but no single kiss could ever be enough because their true love is three, not two. Their first promise was made of lips and tongue (the light called you, he said and she reached up to brush raindrops from his bangs and told him but no one could see me shine without your darkness) and after that fingers voices eyes and lips and tongue again because Riku could never dare to hope she'd kiss him back awake.

The story's wrong, she says. If you hadn't turned around--

If you hadn't stopped me, he says, and looks down to where their hands are joined.

To: yo_yo_san
From tabitha_dornoc

Title: To a Chamber, Bloody
Word Count: 1465
Summary: Sometimes the key to unlocking a door is to open it from the other side. (Kairi and Saix; PG)
Notes: Wah, sorry for length, but I liked playing with your prompt. Hope you like, darling! Happy Christmas!
Notes II: Go read Angela Carter, y'all. <3

There's a stale, empty smell in the air that Kairi doesn't find familiar, no. He had alluded that she might, in his quiet way of saying one thing but meaning something else entirely. She understands it, even if it's not true - she's been here before. This is her home, her world, her unconscious prison in Riku's arms... but Kairi does not remember Hollow Bastion.

It's like a stubborn itch underneath her skin. The sort that she wants to scratch, needs to scratch, but doesn't because she's timing herself to see how long she can ignore it. This whole world is that itch, and the only thing keeping her from scratching it raw open, unlocking her memories, is a small errant whisper in her mind saying shh, shh, don't look.

To ignore the itch, the empty smell, the very thought of her current predicament, Kairi hums to herself. Swaying her body, she idly wonders if she could cut the rope binding her wrists with anything in the abandoned room. She doesn't like the thought of being curled up in the tall, dank tower, simply waiting. She doesn't like to be the fairytale princess, waiting for someone to climb the stairs for her and offer rescue, white horse and all.

But there's the smell and the itch and the no, stop, don't look again, like she is from a fairytale, and she's standing in front of that one door with a ring of keys in her hands. Don't open this door, Bluebeard says.

“It is done,” he says when he returns, hair blue but not along his jaw. He tugs her to her feet with a quick pull and her skin recoils, oh, she is so sick of his touch. “They will leave. They are distracted. We can move downwards.” She knows what he says always means something else, so her mind really is brushing away old stories and whispers, trying to focus on the quiet voice of her scarred kidnapper, but-

“I spoke to your Sora. On his knees, he begged me,” he says, offhandedly, looking at a point in space beyond her. She swallows, and she tries, but there is no hidden meaning to these words.

They move downwards, as he claims, but it always feels like they're slogging up and up. The itch beneath her skin is gone, replaced by a sweat on the surface. They walk below the castle, underneath even the hidden waterways. They walk through heat and damp so thick it feels like she's knee deep in the ocean, trying to run. She feels hollow and dry, like bone, and though she doesn't speak much, when she does her lips crack and bleed with the effort.

Sometimes, when her feet stumble or her pacing slows, she feels his gloved hand on her shoulders, not unkindly pushing her down and down (up and up). Every single point of contact, though it is not skin to skin, is a physical memory she wishes she could drown away. Her stomach once rolled, mutinied at his continued touch, but her body feels empty now of anything but the oppressive heat of this place. They aren't even in a world anymore, (except they must be), but all she sees are shadows, and all she feels are the walls around her narrowing and crashing downwards.

Every now and then, he reaches forward and wraps his hand around her arm. He pulls her to the left, through a gaping hole (it never fails to startle her, no matter how many smoky doorways she's pulled through), and air - cool, lovely, wet. Small worlds, more dark, razed, and scarred than the last, but always an escape.

He takes her to small reprieves before they return to the Bastion. There are dark beaches with black oceans she can sip from. There are barren taverns with bloodstained tables whose larders have occasional pickings. There are times when he looks at her, head tilted, and says, “I had forgotten what it would be like for you.” He hasn't even broken a sweat.

Back in the dark, the deep in-between, walking endlessly on, and the itch that became warmth is starting to bleed into a burn. Not sharp yet, but dull and throbbing and all over. She tries to focus on it, figure out what this place is doing, what he's doing, but though the keys are in her hands, she can't make herself open that door yet. Rotting wives, hanging from the ceiling, remember? Look away. Run away.

She ignores this new burning the best way she can - shaking all over, she turns towards the sound of his footsteps behind her and asks, “Where?”

Instead he answers Why: “I did what they lacked the courage to do. What needed to be done. This world... it was their homes, too. Feel how your heart beats as we travel into it... I wonder if they simply could not bear their own silent chests if they had made the journey.”

'Journey' to Kairi, has always made her think of dotted arrows marking an impressive length across a map. Journeys make wonderful plot devices for long stories. They are not so pleasant in real life.

Find a way. Don't come back, dead women advise her, their voices quiet and hushed from too much screaming.

“This is not a story,” she slurs to the whispering she can't stop hearing. She doesn't notice her kidnapper's expression , how his scar creases along his forward when he frowns. She doesn't even feel his tug turn to a pull turn to a heave turn to a lift.

“Axel always was a clever sort.” Her ear against a chest that barely rises, that doesn't beat, all she can think is that she aches everywhere, pain slicing. She can barely breathe, let alone summon the energy to push away his hand that is slowly, tenderly, stroking through her hair. She forces words up, tasting solid, “Where are we?”

“The heart of the world,” he murmurs to her, his fingers tightening before slipping away entirely.

Heart of world. Kingdom Hearts. Yes, she had heard it all, tirelessly, back at his world. But the hearts were a light, a glowing shard of world and people, not... this oppressive, dark, heavy...

What she expects to find after days and days and days of walking through the dark is not... this. A door. Tall and white and strong. He's looking at it with a sick sort of reverence, his gloved hand reaching out but not touching. Likewise pulled, she stretches out her fingers, makes contact, and the cold surface somehow burns. Her startled gasp somehow translates into a question, because he answers, slowly, “Sometimes the key to unlocking a door is to open it from the other side.”

Heart of the world, indeed. They're at its very centre, she realises with shock. The heat, the dark, the lack of air... How is she even alive?

Maybe he hears her thought, maybe he's simply finished his worshiping, but his gaze snaps down to her and he once again hauls her forward. On her feet, swaying, he nods towards the thick handles.

“Go ahead. This is your world.”

She can all but hear the whispers coming from behind the door, too. The thought of that one key she isn't supposed to use pounds in her head, thunderously, keeping time with the frantic beat of her heart. Except in the story, Bluebeard's not standing behind the girl, forcing her to open the room with his dead brides, is he? She can feel his breath brushing against the damp hairs sticking to her neck, chasing a shiver down her spine.

The door weighs nothing at all when she pushes against it - feather light under her fingers.

And snap goes the pain, the burn, the heat, the itch in her skin. Like elastic stretched so far it nearly breaks, the rubber releases and folds back in on itself. She's left as wobbly as elastic, too, as she raises her eyes and looks at the world behind the door, the inverted sight of the heart of the world.

We did not want you to come, it whispers to her, soft and sad. The voice isn't rotting at all, but sweet, warm, and yes, familiar. We did not want you to see us like this.

Kairi answers, not from her thoughts or the hissed mutterings of the man beside her, but a truth coded from her heart through her veins straight to her lips. “I missed you.”

A pause, lengthy. Then: Thank you.

And somewhere far above the surface, up through all the dark passages and thick magic, a group of friends stand together by a screen, and one says, softly, wonderingly, “You know, this town had another name once: Radiant Garden.”

To: ice_kestrel9
From: yo_yo_san

Title: Twelve Nights and a Dawn
Word count: 682
Rating: G-ish
Spoilers: Terribly, terribly nonspecific ones. ....I had what might be called Moar Ideas Than Time, and it turned into this.

I: The first night without a heart was a joy, the fifth, a sorrow; after the fiftieth, it became a nightmare. That was when he began to devise his plans -- restore the heart to contain its power; merge, and be reborn.

II: The power was almost irrelevant, and after a point, he was just playing a vast game of follow-the-leader, watching to see how and where the steps of the dance would fail. He had no faith in his erstwhile Superior. That had been burned out with his heart.

III: He had no faith to lose, and his past ceased to matter the moment he woke, gasping for air he was not certain he needed. But the power that filled him, the freedom from conscience and humanity, made it worth far more than the cost.

IV: Humanity had never been his concern, though, he reflected somewhat later, his life might have been very different had it been. He only wanted to know the hidden things -- the secrets contained in every man, woman, and child; the breath that escaped as death took hold; the effort needed to create new life from nothing.

V: All of his strength meant nothing, in the end. He had no ability to protect the smallest things from the great emptiness that consumed hearts and souls and bodies alike.

VI: His mind was his treasure, his loyalty to the cause, his armor -- but there was a vinegary emptiness to it all that wore away his purpose, his sense of self, rendering his life a constant refrain of identical results and weary continuations of past actions. His mind wasted, his youth frozen, never aging, but never growing.

VII: There was nothing wasted, no moment he did not use to its full potential, at first for the plans laid by Xemnas, and then for his own purpose. He kept his own council, trusting no one but himself.

VIII: Trusting, that wasn't a word he'd use for himself. Not anymore. Now he was a list of tricks up sleeves, of secrets and plans and destructive impulses. He had made friends, managed to form new connections, and all of them had been burned away, stolen, vanished into the darkness.

IX: There was nothing to tempt him about the darkness; he'd joined half as a lark, and half because the alternative frightened him more. Sure, there was something to be said for power, but when power came hand-in-hand with constant work making people miserable? Still, when it was you or them, it was far easier to be selfish than thoughtful.

X: Your history is what makes you selfish, he thinks. There's a goal in there somewhere, some game you're running that the rest of us aren't allowed to see, but it's what was that makes you tick. He holds tightly to his hand, hoping that he might, at least, survive, even if he doesn't understand why they persist after loss after loss after crushing defeat. Hope, however, is swift becoming a lost cause. The odds are simply too long.

XI: There is no defeat that could encompass his arrogance, his crumbling hold on his rebellion, his refusal to admit that all he had worked for was fading. It was no bad plan; he was no poor imitation of the Superior he rebuked. He could have had the world, but his fingers slipped. The witch escaped him, and with her, his heart.

XII: She had escaped her history, found herself a new one, a new everything, and would follow anyone who showed her enough cause. First the man with golden eyes and hollow chest, then the one with graceful words and a poisoned smile. Everything was simpler once she realized she no longer needed to pretend to care.

XIII: He was born from nothing and remembered nothing, not even the simplest of things: his name, his face, his sense of self. An empty shell of a child, waiting to be filled with memories and connections and knowledge. He took no joy in the learning once he learned the truth of his situation.

To: cygna_hime
From: ice_kestrel9

Title: Modus Vivendi
Word Count: 342
Rating: G
Spoilers: None
Notes: Hope I didn't botch it up too badly... Happy holidays, cygna_hime!

They always said he would make a good scientist, even back in the days when he was no more than an apprentice. The way of life suited him well. While others largely preferred activities outdoors in the sun, he was content huddled in the dark basement laboratories. The rest of them didn't understand him. They held little interest in such wonders beheld by science. Such knowledge waiting to be discovered through the countless possibilities of experiments to be conducted. But Even knew. It was what he loved, and it was what he lived for.

They put up with him, the obsessive scientist they saw him to be. Every measurement precise, every beaker spotless and aligned neatly upon the shelves. Every single lab report written legibly and filed accordingly, to be reported and documented. They saw him charge ahead, his dedication surpassing even their teacher, as they found him locked away for increasing number of hours, focused on his research. But Even did not care. It was what he felt passionate about. It was his life.

They saw little change in him after the accident. Losing his heart to the darkness did little to dampen the fiery passion that burned within him still. As they each turned toward something new, they gradually left behind the former, until he found himself alone in the laboratory. No longer did they conduct experiments aside him, no longer did they hold any thought of protocol and research. They've moved on, but Vexen has not. Heart or no heart, feelings or not, he still found himself meticulously searching for the answers to the never-ending questions. It was what he did. It is all he knows.

They find him still, huddled in the dark basements of the castle, absorbed in his research. They do little to bother with him but just leave him be. He is truly a scientist at heart, they muse, even if he has no heart to speak of. It is simply who he is. It is a way of life. And Vexen wouldn't have it any other way.

Title: Unexpected
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Notes: Because this would totally happen :)

"Vexen... I don't believe that was supposed to happen."

"Please refrain from uttering such comments and hold that beaker still. I do not wish for any mistakes that will ruin this experiment."

"But Vexen, it's--"

"Look. This experiment has cost me several weeks of valuable time to set up, so I would appreciate it if you would remain focused and not--"

"Why couldn't you just ask Number Ten to--"

"Don't spill it! Keep that thing steady while I retrieve my papers."

"Vexen..."

"What? Oh, sh--"

*insert large explosion here*

"... Well, that was unexpected."

"Oh, do shut up, will you?"

To: ceylmallyn
From: cygna_hime

Title: Shadows on Snow
Wordcount: 948.
Genre: Friendship fic.
Characters/Pairings: Apprentices.
Warnings/Notes/Spoilers: None. (May contain angst. If you want, just skip the first and last sections to make it go away.)
Summary: Winter, then and now.

[Hollow Bastion. Now.]

Winter in Hollow Bastion is a brutal affair. All times now are like winter, not in the air but in the ache that gets into your bones. Spring, summer, autumn are forgotten by the few who are left to remember (by the place in the hearts of the Heartless that remembers). The sky is slate gray from edge to edge, and the air is still.

The castle is coldest of all, with the chill of metal and stone and empty rooms. There is nothing for the shadow walking through marble halls to see but the absence of color, nothing to hear but the echoes of footsteps.

One tower still stands. There were bedrooms here, once. The shadow stands on the balcony and looks down through white stone to the bare rock below.

[Radiant Garden. Then.]

Braig clattered down the stairs, flopped across his usual seat between Dilan and Xehanort, and reached for a muffin, all without opening his eye more than a slit. When he failed to find any muffins in the basket, however, he opened his eye and sat up straight. “Dude, who took my muffins?”

“They’re not your muffins,” Dilan pointed out in what he felt was an eminently reasonable tone. “They belong to all of us. Theoretically.”

“Yeah, well in practice they’re my damn muffins! You took them, didn’t you?”

Dilan concentrated on buttering his toast. “I did not.”

“You so did.”

“Xehanort, the muffins were gone when you arrived, correct? That is, before I did?”

“Indeed,” Xehanort mumbled around a bite of omelet. “It was most vexing.”

“I’m afraid Even beat you all to them today,” said Ansem from the head of the table. “He was in here a good half an hour ago. At least, I believe that was he - he was moving too quickly to be sure.”

“Even? He’s awake?! You gotta be kidding me. It’s not even ten yet, and he actually slept last night.”

Ansem smiled. “I believe he found something particularly attractive about this morning.” He nodded toward the windows.

Braig actually looked at the outdoors for the first time that day. “Wow, that’s…a lot of snow. When did that happen?”

“It was predicted to begin around midnight, I believe. If we must have blizzards, better they come at night than when people are liable to be caught outdoors.”

“Is this…special?” Xehanort asked, circumspect.

“Special? This is awesome. Forget breakfast; there’s a life-size snowman out there just begging to be built.”

Dilan needed no further persuasion, and Xehanort was easily lured away from breakfast by his friends’ obvious delight in the wonders in store (especially since the syrup appeared to have been abducted by someone). He did not remember snow, not like this. He knew what it was, of course, but that was different.

As a result, they all opened the door at more or less the same time, so the sack full of snow dropped on all three heads at once.

“What the--!” A piece of ice had made its way down the back of Braig’s coat, and he danced a jig trying in vain to reach it.

“That is-very cold,” Xehanort observed in a studiously stoic tone.

Dilan wiped the snow from his eyes and looked around. “Braig, I believe we made a grave error in judgment.”

“How do you figure?”

Dilan looked at the snow fort, which was several feet tall and had crenellations along the top. “We didn’t think this through. Even got up early. He’s been waiting for us.”

Braig thought about this for a second, then dived behind a snowdrift just before three snowballs hit the space where he had just been. Bemused and shivering slightly, Xehanort joined him.

Dilan, on the other hand, returned fire, hastily-packed snowball arcing up and over the battlements. He grinned at the resulting shout.

“Elaeus?” Braig demanded. “You bastards are all out there, aren’t you!”

“Of course,” said Ienzo. “I seem to recall owing you at least a few faces full of snow from last year.”

Braig groaned. “I shoulda been expecting this. No one holds grudges like you two. Elaeus, why’re you encouraging them?”

Behind the snow fort, Elaeus grinned. “It’s more fun this way.” His next snowball missed Dilan’s head by inches.

Dilan joined the other two behind their improvised shelter. “This could be going worse.”

With a ‘snap!’, a ball of snow larger than his head landed half on his shoulder, half on Xehanort’s.

“I believe you spoke too soon,” the latter observed.

Braig actually stuck his head up above the snowbank to yell, “That was the trebuchet, wasn’t it? First you steal my muffins, now you steal my trebuchet! You sons o-mmf!” Even had vicious aim and a twisted sense of the apropos.

“Why did you build that, anyway?” asked Xehanort.

“In our plans, we were the ones firing it,” Dilan replied. “Come on, Braig, we have to defeat them and reclaim our property. Except the muffins. I don’t think you want them now.”

“Yeah, no. But I agree: I think it’s time for a little review of projectile motion.”

[Hollow Bastion. Now.]

The shadow looks down at the packed earth outside the castle doors, and up at the blank sky, and into nothing at all. He is the most color there, faded and washed-out though he is. Only his eyes, the color of spring that never comes, are alive, and they are not here. He stands there for a long time before he looks at what is again. He sighs, once, as though he has expended some effort, then turns and goes in to a door that is not a door.

Presently, it begins to snow.

To: spoke
From: ceylmallyn

Title: Underside
Word Count: 1254
Spoilers: None really, as it's completely AU.
Notes: Just went with a straight AU here. It runs a bit long, but I managed to trim it down a bit. Also, I have a slightly unhinged fascination with abandoned subway stations and similar things, and the setting was vaguely inspired by a real place: http://www.forgotten-ny.com/SUBWAYS/newcityhall/newcityhall.html Anyway, Merry/Happy holiday-of-choice!

Night is the time when they work, protected by darkness and rain.

The sparse rain scatters down on the city, making halos around lamps, making streets shine greasy and slick with oil rainbows. The fog creeps around them, smog-tinged, smelling of gasoline and the harbor flats at low tide, and the dark blackness of the gutters and the deeper dark of the sewers they flow into. A subway train rumbles somewhere, a subterranean growl, passing from one tunnel into another.

Both of them know those tunnels like their own scars. It's where they work, that deep hidden side-- the veins running beneath the city's skin, the corridors of transportation and water and waste, the rivers buried underground long ago. What the city casts off, by light and by day, goes to hide down there.

Transit is the city's lifeblood, but few know the darkness they ride through under the streets.

Above ground, their path parallels the subway; the older two follow their younger colleague. He's a creepy bastard, all cold yellow eyes and animalistic movement. But he knows things, so they tolerate his creepy shit; unlike certain other colleagues, he can be useful.

"This close to the city center?" asks one. He's walking trouble, someone people avoid on sight: scars crossing his face, one eye gone and covered with a patch. Taxis drive by from time to time, crawling through fog, pointedly ignoring them.

They're equidistant now from ornate government buildings and a stinking maze of tenements, a block in either direction. The darkness of the city is breathing around them.

"They don't look, where it went," Saix says, eyes closed, drinking information from other senses. "It found a hiding place."

"Underground?" Xaldin asks, calmness layered over concern; he's quieter, eloquent in contrast to the other two, but still an intimidating figure. The blue-haired man scans the pavement, sensing some path beneath the one they walk on.

"A large space. It's... empty. Unused," Saix says after a long time, still emotionless. He opens his eyes and looks at Xigbar. "There's an old subway station. Isn't there?"

"Smart guy. Does he win a prize?" Saix has no sense of humour. He's just bending over a leaden hatch, remains of an old skylight, in the middle of a park lawn. Hundreds of people walk past it every day, no one the wiser.

"I can open it for you, but this is as far as I go. I have nothing to do with what's down there."

"Fine by me. I'm not real interested in your company," Xigbar says. There's no affection between them, only understanding that they benefit each other.

Saix makes an animalistic sound, and bends back the metal like so much paper, bolts snapping out of place. It's that kind of thing makes them both glad they're on his good side. That done, he stands up, brushing hands, and leaves them in the dark and rain, with an opening just big enough to slip through, down into the abandoned station.

"You're welcome too, asshole," Xigbar mutters, watching him go.

"Hmph. You expected politeness?" Xaldin shrugs back rainslicked braids. "Never mind. I'll jump down first." And then he's vanished, into the dark maw of the opened hatch.

There's some detritus of civilization here, old construction junk and a pile of ladders and scaffolding, decades unused. The two of them walk past bricked-up arches in the walls, old entrances and exits, long since closed off. Everywhere reeks of dust, from the slowly disintegrating masonry, the trains that pass through without stopping and vanish in a cloud of grime.

Xaldin waves the flashlight around. Light shines off grimed tiles, covering the floor and arched ceiling-- beautiful long ago, when trains still stopped here. There's no ambient light, not since the skylights were covered. Day or night, it doesn't matter down here.

He wrinkles his nose at air blowing out of the tunnel. There's a trace of blood on it, of flesh not long dead. In the shadows of peripheral vision, something moves, fluid dark-on-dark, ducking just out of sight.

There's no point in shining the light at it. Light draws its kind like moths, but they flee when it's blasted in their face, and they need to get the jump on it. So they ignore it, as they're trained to do, even knowing that it's skulking somewhere around here; concentrate instead on finding the victim.

It's not hard to find the body. The thing in the shadows is young, maybe new, bad at covering its tracks. A trail of blood leads off the tracks-- hitched a ride on a train out of service, probably-- onto the platform by long unused benches.

He's at the end of the trail: a younger man, thirties. Well-to-do, judging by the clothes-- fine leather shoes, neatly tailored shirt and coat, left unbuttoned to show the means of execution. In the chest is a heart-shaped incision, opening into a dark void in the body, where the organ itself was cut out. Dried gore spatters the white shirt.

"A businessman, I think," Xaldin demurs. "Perhaps his crimes caught up with him."

"Could be. Could be a random guy it snatched off the street, too." Xigbar pokes with his boot, feels flesh in rigor mortis. "Not like they think or anythin', not little ones like this. Just follow their hunger."

A beat of quiet; then a groan. It might be an echo from the tunnels, might be something nearer. Xigbar elbows Xaldin, a sudden jab. "Kill the light."

He snaps the light off with one hand, reaches for his gun. Another faint groan, and they can see it shuffling out of hiding, standing up, yellow eyes shining through the darkness like train lights. Xigbar aims in the blackness and fires, a perfect hit as usual.

It doesn't scream when shot, just takes the hit, staggers and doubles. A second later it's back on its feet, staggering towards them, and they both fire, empty casings raining onto the tiles. Gunshots illuminate the darkness, split-second flashes, and for a few blinks they see it, the vague human-shape-- flailing, arms outstretched, before falling backwards.

Xigbar lowers his gun. They can still see the headlight-eyes, going dim and fading.

"Heart," it rasps. Its voice is paper rattling in the wind. "Mine. Miiiine..."

And then it's gone, sublimed like ice becoming vapour-- solid darkness evaporated into empty shadows. There's nothing down here any more but the dust, and the dead man, and the oil-metal stink. And them.

"Not yours for long, I'm afraid," Xaldin says. The silence rings in their ears.

"Well." Xigbar shifts his weight, slides the gun into its holster. "Might as well get going."

"Suits me." He flicks the light on. "There's nothing else of interest down here." His gaze wanders. "A shame it was abandoned, though. The architecture is rather interesting."

"Hah. Not enough that I'd come down here just to look."

They stick closely together on the way back, empty as the place may be; feeling the lull that comes with the end of a job, the silence of the darkness, end of the adrenaline rush.

It wasn't much, this one-- drop in a bucket. There are larger and older things, lurking in darker places-- hating the light as much as they want it back. The police will be here eventually, find the body; the job done tonight had nothing to do with anything laws or cops understand. They belong to twilight, between light and dark.

Aboveground, the dark sky feels radiant.

To: syvia
From: spoke

Title: Park For Reload
Word Count: 361
Rating : G
Minor spoilers for 358/2 Days.

The third time he deflected a bullet, Xigbar stopped in midair. “Roxas?” Sora might’ve jumped looking at it, him standing sideways and halfway in a portal, but Roxas didn’t even flinch.

Afterwards, they figured that was kind of the problem.

“Roxas.” Unfolding from his position in midair as casually as if he were rolling out of bed, he took a few steps toward them. Smirking at their glare, he continued. “And I wondered how Sora was managing to take everyone out. How’re you doing in there, kiddo?”

“Don’t call me that.” he snapped, before he’d even thought about pretending he wasn’t there. Except it probably didn’t matter, with Xigbar.

He laughed shortly, shaking his head. “Oh, you’d prefer tiger now?”

- He called you whaaat?! - Sora interrupted, and Roxas tried to respond without taking his eyes off Xigbar.

- Teasing me, yeah, he liked to get on my nerves. -

- And you don’t think that’s kind of creepy? -

“I’d prefer you to stop talking to me like I’m your pet experiment, actually.” Roxas shifted sideways a little, trying to make sure they didn’t get backed into a corner or anything stupid.

- It’s Xigbar, everything he does is creepy. Besides, he’s one of the bad guys, creepy’s kind of a standard. -

Xigbar’s smirk only got sharper. “As if. That would take all the fun out of our little conversations.”

“Like they were any fun for me.” Sora could hear the resentful tone in Roxas’s voice, and tried to reach out for control of their body. - Ah, Roxas, c’mon man. I think he’s getting on your nerves too much. -

- Do you hear him? - Roxas snarled back.

“Like I cared. No heart, remember what that’s like kiddo?” His head titled, golden eye sweeping over them critically. “Now, since I’m pretty sure you’re both in there, that raises another interesting question. Who’s in control? For that matter, how long, how often?” he rolled his shoulders, and Roxas’s grip tightened as they heard the rifles reload. “Pity Vexen isn’t around to help me figure it out, huh?”

- Roxas - Sora hissed, worried and still wondering if he should grab control.

- No. Stay out of this, Sora. This one is mine. -

To: fated_bliss
From: syvia

Title: Children Will Listen
Word Count: 1145
Rating: PG
Spoilers: For KH1

They heard the voice. Vast and cold, but not unfeeling. Consumed by winter's chill but there was warmth, and there was life, and there was fierce, hot desperation.

Please, it said, protect my daughters.

Protect my sons.

Take them in. Give them a piece of your own hearts, should mine be lost forever. Love them, as I have. Love them even if they grow up to hurt you.

They are only human.

The others reached out, beckoning, guiding, offering food and warmth and a solid place to stand on, for however long it was needed.

Garden, one of them whispered, soft as palm fronds in the breeze, and the gentle lap of water on sand, Garden, this is your Princess. I can't-

But it was the barest protest, perfunctory, because the tiny girl was already hurtling through the air, falling like a star through the cosmos, the tender grasp of her old world slipping away.

You are Destiny Isles, the cold, loving voice whispered. I call it fitting. Wouldn't you?

The Isles reached outward, thickening the air, thinning the sea, slowing the girl's descent until she landed, no more harm than thistledown lighting on the grass. Then the seas carried her to shore, and she was safe. Warm and damp, and alive.

I will, the Isles whispered back to what had once been Radiant Garden, and was fading, becoming less than it had been. I'll look after her. Poor little soul. It cradled the child. Warmth of the sun, softness of the dampened sand, caress of the breeze.

You can be my daughter.

Even if they grow up to hurt you...

He had grown up, and gotten bored... and now the Isles hurt, moaning in the split of rock and sand, the howl of wind as it was torn apart.

It wasn't her. Not the poor little girl it had taken in and been loved by- as if Destiny Isles had always been her home.

A son. One of the brightest and most passionate, and the Isles loved him all the more for it, and it hurt all the more that he wanted to leave. Destiny Isles, despite its name and despite every destiny that saw fruition out among the stars, clung desperately to all its children; did not allow travel in ships, away from its orbit. Its children were not given to explore and seek out other worlds, which might welcome them in and claim them as new children.

Because he wanted to escape, and the Isles would not let him, he destroyed it.

But I forgive you, the storm wind breathed. Destiny Isles stole into the hearts of its children, hiding there, kept as the barest memory in some- and the most fervent hope of others. Whirlwinds of sand called, as light as breath, and touched him as he disappeared into the Darkness. The Islands spoke as it lost itself in his heart.

I love you always, Riku.

But he did not listen.

They listened.

A thousand, thousand voices, speaking a thousand, thousand words with a thousand, thousand variations of emotion, but only one meaning.

I am.

The knowledge that they exist, and the desire to keep doing so.

The death-cruel grip on awareness that cannot be broken.

The actualization of others who have that same knowledge, that same emotion.

They listened, and they spoke so others could listen.

They shouted as one in the multitude of voices that they were, and so were all those that surrounded them.

They were.

They are.

They continue to be.

The Light that defies the Darkness.

Kingdom Hearts.

But that was all they wanted.

They never did listen.

Do you know of my children? ice-wind and the slow grind of stone on stone suspended by magic or falling into disrepair asked of travelers.

Have you seen them? Have they forgotten me?

Hollow Bastion accepted all who set foot upon it. Even the World Devourers. Even the half-Darkness that had once been his adopted son. Even the poor, Bright girls who he would not claim for himself. Even the child who had broken Destiny Isles' heart and let the Heartless eat it.

They bring me daughters in exchange for my own lost child, an offering for my wretched heart.

Their Light was beautiful, true. Once it would have opened to them- opened its heart and damn the consequences. Damn Kingdom Hearts and the path to it which lay secreted within Hollow Bastion's heart. Over pathways through the Darkness. Once it would have given over just to feel that light again. Remember what it was like when its children lived, and walked the halls, and leapt among the tiny glaciers in the rising falls.

It had been nine years, and denial was habit, but... it had been nine years.

Nine years wasting. Nine years in slow decay and despair, and although the Bastion had not been forgotten, when it considered who had taken up residence, it nearly wished it had. Wished they would give it to the Darkness and be done already. There was nothing left. Nothing worth...

Kairi?

The Bastion had seen her half-self. The shell without the heart and despaired for its poor, incomplete daughter. She could live forever this way, in pieces, waiting for a sunrise that would never come. But... what was-

...Kairi. Her other half carried in the heart of another's son. A son of the Islands.

You saved her. You-

One child had broken that world apart. Another wanted nothing more than to return to it, and perhaps there was reason to hope.

Thank you, Sora.

I-

I....

I... am.

"Kairi!"

Sand.

You've... come back.

"Sora!"

My...

"Remember what you said before?"

children. You kept me...

"I'm always with you too!"

in your hearts. You've...

"I'll come back to you!"

come back. You've-

"I promise!"

brought me... back.

"I know you will!"

Their hands fell away, parted by the worlds drifting, separating and becoming. He should stay... he belonged here, but he would come back....

I know you will.

He would bring the others back. The lost ones. The lost one who had torn everything asunder and given everything to fix it again.

Riku.

They must come back.

I will be here to come back to.

The Princess, who once had been the child of Radiant Garden, stayed. Not a child originally of that world, but she had taken it into her heart. When all things began returning to their proper places and times, she had returned here. To wait, and believe.

Her home remade itself around her.

I am.

A thousand falling stars. Hearts.

Hearts that were suddenly shorelines. Hearts that were trees. Hearts that were beaches and seas and birds. Hearts that were seashells and cities and the wind.

Hearts that were people.

I am.

A heart that was a world.

I am Destiny Isles.

To: trilies
From: fated_bliss

Title: The Replica
Word Count: 546
Rating: G
Spoilers: FF7/CoM
Notes: Merry Christmas, trilies! I'm sorry this turned out so vague and unhappy. And I'm sorry I couldn't write you your ideal Secret Santa as well, because I don't know enough about Tony Stark... your favourite pairings FTW though (:

A portal opened before Lucrecia and a man in a black hood stepped through.

She opened her mouth - she’d almost forgotten how to speak. “Took you long enough,” she said, “I thought better of your abilities.” Then the man pushed back his hood, revealing a shock of red hair, and she realized that he wasn’t the fellow scientist she’d expected.

“Sorry to disappoint, ma’am,” the stranger said. “Vexen won’t be doing anymore Planet recon for you.”

And, like a magician pulling tricks from a top hat, the visitor to her cavern spun an ex-colleague’s data through the air before her very eyes.

She saw numbers and formulas and images of the sort that had once upon a time been second nature to her - of surgical instruments lined out neatly and starkly on a table, one by one, the meticulous arrangement
relished; of formless life struggling in jars; of bodies and heads of bodies strapped down to machines (why did hearts explode from them?). These were interspersed with her own memories, and also of Vexen’s,
what they’d shared - oh he was everywhere - curling his lip, flapping at her papers, cruelly driving them both neck to neck with competition for absolute science in a violent flurry of white coats and black cloaks…

Afterwards she had a glimpse of a silver-haired boy lying cut open on a table. And, following that, his terrible and all-too-familiar bark of laughter as he sprang icicles in a quaint orangey setting, and right there and then Vexen was cut open himself by another boy with a long key-like blade. He crouched in defeat -

Then the stranger snapped his fingers and the data dissipated from view like ashes.

“Vexen is dead, then,” Lucrecia said.

He smiled at her.

Strangely enough, she did not feel a single thing, just as Vexen used to proclaim his superiority based on his incapacity for emotion. She felt a curious affinity then, at that moment, with someone who no longer - or technically had never - existed.

“You killed him,” she said simply.

The red-headed man stepped closer and laid Vexen’s shield at her feet. Lucrecia had seen it just now in the vicious replay of his final battle, had donned at first a wry smile at the way he hid behind its
size (he had always hidden himself from her, or at least his growing awareness that he as a Nobody was vainer and more hopelessly human than she herself was). She lowered her eyes to it now, the shield full, solid and shining bright before her, and her gaze travelled over its precise regularity, its intricate, painstakingly-carved spikes, the way it threw out light… holding out an adamant blue glow all too apparently reminiscent and envious of that of her own surroundings.

The resemblance of copy to original was subtle, but clear to both individuals present. Lucrecia trembled all over in her crystal cage.

He spoke again. “Oh, one more thing. I like to pretend I have a conscience, so on behalf of Vexen… want me to get you out of there?”

She did not answer; something in her was freezing over as she closed her eyes. After a few moments he opened the portal of darkness and banished the crystal trove back into an eternity of inactivity.

To: burningmayo
From: trilies

Title: Tale of Fire
Word Count: 131
Rating: G, which surprised me, seeing the pairing
Spoilers: No spoilers!
Pairing: Larxene/Axel
Author Notes: I actually did want to write Axel/Xion, but for some strange reason, the little minx kept running around and evading me, which is strange as my Xion muse is normally quite happy to work with me, even when I'm destroying her life and her pseudofamily. So. Yeah. But that's okay! Larxene/Axel, I can roll with that, I thought. I tried to go for action/romance, and I'll let burningmayo decide if I did okay and didn't fall on my face. |D

The second she's introduced is the second his world gets charged. It'd be easy to blame her element on how the hair on the back of his neck rises whenever she grins; easy isn't his style. There's a lot more fun to be had in watching that crocodile smile appear on her pretty pink lips while blood and darkness is spilled and stains blades of gold. Not exactly against his will, Axel sometimes finds himself lurking in the shadows of buildings as Larxene tears worlds apart.

There's not a lot of people who can make murder look beautiful.

Needless to say, when a set of kunai thunk thunk thunk besides his head, Axel just smirks invitingly (challengingly?) while Larxene's bright eyes shine all the brighter. Beneath them, a world crumbles apart.

To: tunasaladsonnet
From: burningmayo

Title: Punch, Punch, Kick, Repeat
Word Count: 746
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None

Tifa ducked her head and peered through the large hole in the wall. The forest on the other side was filled with tall trees. A perfect hiding spot. He might just be there. She stepped through the hole. Took in the scent of the foliage as she glanced around. Great. This is gonna take a while. He’d better appreciate all the trouble I’m going through. It’s supposed to be the guy’s job to chase the girl around. Tifa spotted one of the closer trees and adjusted her gloves. I better get started.

She raised a fist and charged the tree. With a shout, she punched the tree’s trunk and smashed the bark beneath her knuckles. The whole tree shook from the force. She put her hands on her hips and waited. Nothing coming down but tree bits. I guess he isn’t in this one. Tifa ran toward a second tree and launched her fist at it. The sounds of shattering bark, vibrating wood and rustling branches combined as it connected, joined by another sound she hadn’t expected. “Huh?” She peeked around the tree and saw a girl in her teens with messy brown hair on her knees looking back at her. An open notebook and a few textbooks were scattered nearby.

“W-what was that?” The girl sounded nervous.

Oops. “Nothing to worry about. I’m just looking for someone.”

“By...slamming into trees?”

“I’m not slamming into them. That’s not good for my skin. I’m just punching them.”

“Punching them?”

Tifa nodded. “Like this.” She walked over to another tree nearby. “Let’s see if he’s up in this one.”

“But why don’t you just-”

Tifa raised her fist and punched the center of the trunk. Bark splintered and scattered as the whole tree shook. She placed her hands on her hips and waited.

The girl stepped beside her. “It…it doesn’t look like your friend is up there.”

“Nope.” Tifa sighed. “Better try the next one.”

“Wait.” The girl gave her a baffled looked. “You’re not gonna punch every tree in the forest, are you?”

“Of course not.” Tifa crouched and stretched her legs. “I’ll need to kick at least a few of them if I want to be thorough.”

“Oh, well, that’s-what?”

“Some of these trees are too big to shake with a punch.”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, why do you need to punch trees to find him?”

“He’s been very good at evading me so far. I need to search every nook. Every cranny.”

The girl looked confused. “If you say so.”

Tifa shrugged. “You’d understand if you knew him like I did. Now, hmm?” The sound of rustling branches reached her ears. “Did you hear that?”

“You mean, up there?” The girl pointed up, into the branches of a tree no more than ten feet away.

“That might be him.”

“Or it could be a bird. What if you-”

Tifa charged the tree. She kicked the trunk and smashed its bark underneath the tread of her shoe, leaving a clean footprint behind in the wood.

The girl gaped. “Wow. You’re really strong.”

“Thank you.” Tifa cracked a smile. “It doesn’t look like he’s in this one, but-”

The rustling in the branches grew louder. Tifa and the girl looked up. A lone Shadow Heartless fell from the tree and landed on the ground between them.

The girl backed away. “W-what is that?”

Tifa cracked her knuckles. She noticed that the Heartless appeared stunned by the fall. Not much of a threat to her, but to the girl… “It’s target practice.” She stepped in and swept at the Heartless as though she were kicking a ball. The Shadow launched into the sky. Tifa shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched it fly over the horizon and disappear.

The girl clapped. Tifa turned to see her gazing at her with admiration. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Well, you know, it’s easier to tend my bar if I’m the bouncer, too.”

“Can, can you teach me to do that?”

Tifa bit her lip. She needed to keep moving. To find him. But there was something about this girl that reminded her of herself. “Well, I really should be going. I’ve got a lot of trees to check around here, but why not? What’s your name?”

“Olette.”

“All right then, Olette. What was I taught first? It was-oh, I remember. The first thing you need to learn is…”

To: 06seconds_left
From: tunasaladsonnet

Title: Disjunct
Word Count: 554
Notes: Erm, so... You asked for no fluff and I guess this sorta ended up waaaaay in the other direction. xD I tried to work Luxord and Xigbar into a good interaction-y scene in a way that Xaldin was still involved and I got angst. I hope you still like it, Miss Seconds Left. :3

There’s a reason Xigbar’s forbidden from the lab.

~~~

Piling clouds of acrid smoke curl out of the crack between the door and its frame, and Luxord has to pause to cough and berate himself for not putting on some sort of shirt. He can hear a familiar cough behind the lab’s thick sliding door and preparing himself for whatever caustic concoction his elder is fiddling with this time, he digs his short nails into the door and pulls. “Xigbar!” he calls.

It’s a relief to see that there isn’t much more smoke in the room to sift through. The Freeshooter stands coughing into his fist next to a towering hulk of metal. Eventually, the elder Nobody turns towards the door, wiping some sort of burnt orange sediment off the single lens of his safety goggles.

He squints at Luxord through the clearing smoke, then says, “Dude, are you trying to seduce me?”

If he had been taken aback in any way, Luxord doesn’t show it. He rolls his eyes and makes sure to check the lab floor to see if there is any glass that his long pyjama bottoms can get caught on. “No, Xigbar, I’m currently garbed in this manner because I was sleeping and you woke me up. It’s the middle of the night.”

Xigbar blinks. “It’s always the middle of the night around here.”

“You know what I mean,” Luxord says, glaring.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘Can’t it wait until morning, honey?’” Xigbar quotes mockingly, waving a hand at him and turning back to disappear behind the machine.

Luxord inches closer as he hears a wrench go to work at the hunk of metal planks and dials. He can’t tell what it could have ever been used it for, or what Xigbar is planning to do with it now.

The pitch metal shows his blue-grey eyes widen as he approaches. His home World had never been very big on technology, but he’s sure a tear in the hide of this monster contraption cannot be good news.

“Xigbar,” he says, “whatever you’re doing, stop.”

“Who are you? Xaldin?” Xigbar’s voice calls and Luxord nearly shivers at the slightest hint of venom lacing his tone. “Can’t fool me.”

The Gambler racks his brains, trying to remember when and where he had last seen Xigbar before now. “When was the last time you slept, Xigbar?” he asks, stepping over something that might’ve been a conveyor belt on his way towards him.

“Doesn’t matter. We aren’t alive. No need to sleep. Doesn’t matter.”

Xigbar is leaning his forehead against the machine, carving something into the black veneer with the end of a screwdriver. Property of X + X, then a heart with a line stabbing it through the centre. He turns his head, grinning just a tad manically. “Xaldin’s dead. And we were never alive to begin with, Lux.”

Luxord’s eyes flick down to the switch just below Xigbar’s carving. His breath quickens just a bit. “Xigbar, you’re tired and this is very dangerous.”

“I ever tell you that you’re an attractive man, Luxord? Don’t think I’d ever want to sleep with you, but you are attractive,” Xigbar muses. Then he laughs, far too quiet to be the same sharpshooter bark he’s known for. “Doesn’t matter. Xaldin was never alive to begin with, and we-”

“Xigbar!”

“We’re already dead.”

And he flips the switch.

To: mirrorbrothers
From: 06seconds_left

Title: They're Strangers, Almost
Word Count: 854
Rating: G
Spoilers: Up to Kingdom Hearts II.
Notes: I just want to say that this is my first time writing Pence, ever. So please keep that in mind. I did my best to keep him in character and all and I hope it worked. I really hope you enjoy this. Have a merry Christmas! :D

He doesn’t like it.

It’s that time of the year again, when people are bustling about, making preparations, putting up bright decorations and just being busy every minute of their day. The town square is packed daily with frantic, last minute shoppers arguing over materials and prices with smiling shopkeepers, happy to see their goods go.

They’re at Olette’s place, helping out here and there for the party tomorrow; it’s all they’ve been doing for the past few days. Her parents are as excited as newborn chicks, going about the preparations with huge grins on their faces and the patience of saints as everything goes wrong, then right, then wrong again - the lights aren’t working, the heater’s broken, we didn’t order roasted lamb, the tree caught fire in the middle of the living room, that guy just ran off with a tray of cookies, no, not lamb, turkey.

Pence can’t blame them. It’s been years since their last Christmas party; they’re always so busy seeing other people and attending parties held by their friends, and neighbors but this year they’ve decided to take some time off to properly meet their daughter’s new friend.

Oh? Are these the friends you were talking about, dear?

Such a pleasure to finally meet you in perso-my goodness, are you a real duck?

He remembers Olette giggling over the introductions while Hayner struggled to control his laughter but failed miserably. After the polite questions, they started properly chatting, getting along merrily and suddenly, he had been cordially invited to dinner at their house this Friday. Along with Hayner and their new friends, of course. Oh, and everybody else in the town too.

This is going to be so much fun!

Yeah. Think of all the expensive free food they’ll be serving at the party.

Pence sighs and glances out the window. Outside, the town is covered in thick, white sheets, a rare sight. Some kids are romping in the snow, frolicking happily with each other without a care in the world as the day passed them by, unaware of the seconds ticking away.

Inside, they’re taking a break. Sora’s proudly recounting his adventures up ‘till a few days ago, before they passed by the town and decided to stop for a visit. Olette is listening with a small smile on her lips, green eyes shining; Hayner is completely entranced, hanging on to the brunette’s every word and Pence can practically see the images in the blonde’s mind as his imagination goes wild.

Pence doesn’t like it. The stories, the smiles, the laughter. Everything.

He doesn’t like the way Olette smiles so comfortably around them, as if they’ve known each other for so much longer than a few months; doesn’t like how easily Hayner is mesmerized by the tales when they drop by, how his entire face lights up immediately at the prospect of new adventures to follow.

And now this. A Christmas party. The first since they were six.

This isn’t how it should be. They already made plans - food hunting from house to house the whole night and discussing it the day after; which house had the best main meals, which had the sweetest desert, which had the worse overall menu, which had the most terrible decorations. He had mapped out their course, spent days getting information to make sure they didn’t miss a single party. Heck, they were even going to sort-of-sneak-in to Seifer’s place. He’d been planning it for weeks. It was supposed to be their greatest adventure yet, a feat to remember for the rest of their lives, even after they’ve separated to follow their own dreams and ambitions.

He looks over to them, all seated in a loose circle on the floor of the living room. It looks like they’re having a good time together, a touching picture capturing a moment of laughter between best friends. If he didn’t know better, he would never have guessed that, three months ago, they didn’t even know each other’s names.

We should spend Christmas together.

Christmas with almost-strangers - people he knows yet doesn't know but wants to get to know them better anyway because aren't they good friends? Pence can't explain it but it feels like they've always been good friends, even before they met, as absurd as that sounds.The feeling nags at him all the time and the fact that he can't name it irritates him, making him uneasy as if he's overlooking a very, very crucial fact.

Laughter fills the air as Sora and Donald start debating the details of their latest adventure. Pence looks away.

He knows they're good people. Still, he can't help but resent them a little; it feels like they've taken away something important to him, a long time ago, and now every time they drop by, they're taking away a little bit more.

Hey, look who’s back in town for the next few days!

Weeks gone to waste.

Cheer up, Pence. We can always do it next year.

‘Yeah,’ he thinks as he finally moves towards the group, unwillingly drawn to the laughter and warm atmosphere.

‘Next year.'