(no subject)
Title: Illusion
Rating: K+
Characters/Pairing(s): Alice/Demyx.
Summary: “It’s only an illusion. You might think you feel it, but you don’t. Not really. None of this is real."
A/N: Yay for Demyx angst! :D I love my crack ships. They are infinite amounts of fun.
“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”
- Sylvia Plath
ILLUSION.
Cracked teacups litter the dining room table, the final remnants of a party that was never started in a house that was never built. A discarded top hat sits forlornly atop the seat of a chair, and the echoes of manic laughter creep out from underneath the brim. It’s a scene from a life that no one has lived yet; a page from a novel that nobody has written.
And as Alice paints that one last brushstroke, tears form in her eyes.
The canvas shows an empty room in an empty world, just like she (never) remembers. She dreams of this place, of this deserted gathering, more often than she would ever admit. But a voice in the back of her mind constantly whispers that “this isn’t how it never was”. Sketches of color and music and insanity come to view, yet fail to draw themselves out completely. It’s frustrating to the young English girl, with her conflicting ideas of what’s real and what isn’t.
So she paints each day to find the answer, to see the shadowed face of a blue-eyed boy come into sunlight's glow.
.&.
One night, his voice asks her to dance. And, being a lady, Alice politely accepts.
He remains faceless as they twist and twirl, the hood of his cloak concealing his expression. Alice wants nothing more than to reach out and push it back, but logic is not allowed in something as nonsensical as a dream.
“I like this world,” he tells her, a certain wistfulness in his tone, “It’s wrong. Just like I am.”
This causes Alice to wrinkle her nose in confusion and distaste at his poorly structured sentence. “Wrong? Whatever can you mean by that? A place cannot be wrong. That does not make any sort of sense at all.”
He spins her around before replying, “Of course it doesn’t make sense. Nothing here makes sense. Nothing here is supposed to exist.”
Catching on, Alice quirks an eyebrow at what this black-clad stranger is implying. “Does that mean you are not meant to exist? Forgive me, sir, but that seems highly improbable.”
“Improbable?” He echoes, and somehow Alice knows that he is grinning. “Definitely. I’m chock full of improbability, miss. Because I’m not even real.”
His words make the young girl stop dancing. “Of course you’re real! I can see you, and certainly hear you well enough.”
“Just ‘cause you can see something, doesn’t mean it’s really there.” The darkness of his face flickers, and Alice thinks she spots a tuft of blonde hair.
Placing her hands on her hips in indignation, Alice takes a single step closer to him, a slight whine of desperation edging its way into her voice. “You are real! You must be! If you are not, then I would have been wasting all of this time attempting to remember a man who never existed!”
He pauses then, and moves as though to say something, but decides against it. All Alice hears is the sound of heavy boots closing all respectable distance between herself and the stranger. And very slowly, very gently, a single gloved hand reaches out to touch her face. Against her will, she closes her eyes.
“You can feel that, can’t you?” he asks, voice wavering.
She doesn’t trust herself to respond.
“It’s only an illusion. You might think you feel it, but you don’t. Not really.” He takes a shaky breath before continuing in a whisper, “It’s only an illusion.”
And Alice starts as her eyes flash open, only to find that the mysterious man is nowhere to be found. All that accompanies her are tangled sheets, a hammering heart, and the ghost of a name that she never knew.
“Demyx…”
.&.
The water is cold as it pools around his feet, the flood from the sink rushing across white tile and marble countertops before inching toward the door. He briefly recalls an angry Axel yelling through the wall, but he didn’t pay it any mind.
All he can see are the eyes of a girl that he never met, and the colors of a place that he’s never been to.
“Demyx? C’mon, open the door! Other people have to use the bathroom sometime in the next millennium! Just because we don’t have hearts doesn’t mean we don’t have to piss every once in a while.”
His hand turns back the faucet’s handle, commanding the water to stop.
Ignoring the brush of wings against his stomach and the warmth in his cheeks, Demyx glances up at the bathroom mirror. “It’s only an illusion,” he repeats to himself before opening the door.
None of this is real.
Rating: K+
Characters/Pairing(s): Alice/Demyx.
Summary: “It’s only an illusion. You might think you feel it, but you don’t. Not really. None of this is real."
A/N: Yay for Demyx angst! :D I love my crack ships. They are infinite amounts of fun.
“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”
- Sylvia Plath
ILLUSION.
Cracked teacups litter the dining room table, the final remnants of a party that was never started in a house that was never built. A discarded top hat sits forlornly atop the seat of a chair, and the echoes of manic laughter creep out from underneath the brim. It’s a scene from a life that no one has lived yet; a page from a novel that nobody has written.
And as Alice paints that one last brushstroke, tears form in her eyes.
The canvas shows an empty room in an empty world, just like she (never) remembers. She dreams of this place, of this deserted gathering, more often than she would ever admit. But a voice in the back of her mind constantly whispers that “this isn’t how it never was”. Sketches of color and music and insanity come to view, yet fail to draw themselves out completely. It’s frustrating to the young English girl, with her conflicting ideas of what’s real and what isn’t.
So she paints each day to find the answer, to see the shadowed face of a blue-eyed boy come into sunlight's glow.
.&.
One night, his voice asks her to dance. And, being a lady, Alice politely accepts.
He remains faceless as they twist and twirl, the hood of his cloak concealing his expression. Alice wants nothing more than to reach out and push it back, but logic is not allowed in something as nonsensical as a dream.
“I like this world,” he tells her, a certain wistfulness in his tone, “It’s wrong. Just like I am.”
This causes Alice to wrinkle her nose in confusion and distaste at his poorly structured sentence. “Wrong? Whatever can you mean by that? A place cannot be wrong. That does not make any sort of sense at all.”
He spins her around before replying, “Of course it doesn’t make sense. Nothing here makes sense. Nothing here is supposed to exist.”
Catching on, Alice quirks an eyebrow at what this black-clad stranger is implying. “Does that mean you are not meant to exist? Forgive me, sir, but that seems highly improbable.”
“Improbable?” He echoes, and somehow Alice knows that he is grinning. “Definitely. I’m chock full of improbability, miss. Because I’m not even real.”
His words make the young girl stop dancing. “Of course you’re real! I can see you, and certainly hear you well enough.”
“Just ‘cause you can see something, doesn’t mean it’s really there.” The darkness of his face flickers, and Alice thinks she spots a tuft of blonde hair.
Placing her hands on her hips in indignation, Alice takes a single step closer to him, a slight whine of desperation edging its way into her voice. “You are real! You must be! If you are not, then I would have been wasting all of this time attempting to remember a man who never existed!”
He pauses then, and moves as though to say something, but decides against it. All Alice hears is the sound of heavy boots closing all respectable distance between herself and the stranger. And very slowly, very gently, a single gloved hand reaches out to touch her face. Against her will, she closes her eyes.
“You can feel that, can’t you?” he asks, voice wavering.
She doesn’t trust herself to respond.
“It’s only an illusion. You might think you feel it, but you don’t. Not really.” He takes a shaky breath before continuing in a whisper, “It’s only an illusion.”
And Alice starts as her eyes flash open, only to find that the mysterious man is nowhere to be found. All that accompanies her are tangled sheets, a hammering heart, and the ghost of a name that she never knew.
“Demyx…”
.&.
The water is cold as it pools around his feet, the flood from the sink rushing across white tile and marble countertops before inching toward the door. He briefly recalls an angry Axel yelling through the wall, but he didn’t pay it any mind.
All he can see are the eyes of a girl that he never met, and the colors of a place that he’s never been to.
“Demyx? C’mon, open the door! Other people have to use the bathroom sometime in the next millennium! Just because we don’t have hearts doesn’t mean we don’t have to piss every once in a while.”
His hand turns back the faucet’s handle, commanding the water to stop.
Ignoring the brush of wings against his stomach and the warmth in his cheeks, Demyx glances up at the bathroom mirror. “It’s only an illusion,” he repeats to himself before opening the door.
None of this is real.