Bone of Contention: Chapter 11
Rating: M for sex, violence and disturbing themes. This chapter contains humiliation, bullying and sexual assault. Please only proceed if you are okay with this.
Characters: Isa, Lea, Saïx, Axel, Xemnas
Pairings: Lea/Isa, Axel/Saïx, Xemnas/Saïx
Genre: Drama/Angst
Summary: Isa suffers from a rare bone disease, osteogenesis imperfecta. When Lea overlooks this in favour of having someone to himself, Isa leaps at the opportunity and so begins their downward spiral from friends to lovers to Nobodies.
Disclaimer: Characters and setting copyright to Square Enix.
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BONE OF CONTENTION
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ISA, THE BOY WHO'D SHATTER
- five years before death -
If I didn't have osteogenesis imperfecta, my father wouldn't have felt so threatened by the weight of responsibility, that he'd pack up and leave. If my father had stayed, my mother's life wouldn't have been all about me. If my mother hadn't been afraid to watch me get hurt, I would have ventured out more. And if I had ventured out more, I wouldn't be so shy.
If I wasn't shy, I might have had more friends than I could count. If I had friends, I would leave my stuff round their houses, and not at school. If I had lots of friends my age, and not sympathetic teachers just doing their job, I'd have a plethora of hobbies, ones that had teams and hugs and keeping score. If I had had hobbies like that, I wouldn't have reclusive interests like astrology. If I didn't like astrology, I wouldn't care for star charts.
And if I didn't care so much about star charts, that incident would never have happened.
-x-
Thanks to you, bullying me became our year's favourite pastime. Whenever classmates grew bored of mocking my bone disease, they opted to laugh at my orientation instead, like the constant flipping of a pillow to always have a cold side.
A year dragged by, and I turned eighteen with no ambition or career prospects. Despite the taunts screaming that I be otherwise, I was still disabled, still gay. I had a grand total of one friend and knew more about the librarian's dead relatives than I did the social ins and outs of Radiant Garden. The days were static and horrifically regular. I woke up, went to school, hated school, went home, hated home, and then I slept and dreamt of the horrors of tomorrow.
Our school threw an end of year festival, to mark the start of summer and send off the graduating students. Both Megan and I pleaded sickness on our last day. School was bad enough on normal days; we were not at all keen to turn up on the occasions students were encouraged to run amok and cause trouble. Our absence meant we were not able to collect our graduation certificates from the ceremony.
"Don't worry, I'll get them," I told Megan in our usual café hangout. (It was the only place in Radiant Garden which refused students if there were more than two in the group, so it was a perfect sanctuary.) "I left my charts back in the lab anyway."
I trudged to school for the last time, deliberately choosing the residential avenues and avoiding the busy promenade. All I managed to see of the end of year festival was the aftershock. I arrived at the school gates to see shrivelled skins of balloons and paper aeroplanes crashed on the grounds. Colourful streamers were caught on the railings, like ribbons snatched up in a demon's claw. There was laughing and cheerful shouting to music, but they sounded distant and almost imaginary in their foreign relation to me.
A group of six guarded the gates, two with cigarettes, one girl showing off her midriff to her boyfriend, two guys with a can of beer. I recognised one of them as my classmate, Leroy. Of course, I used the term 'mate' loosely. I ducked my chin into my collar and walked as fast as I could past them, making a beeline for the headmaster's office. Their conversation lulled for a moment as they spotted me. As I yanked open the door, I saw them in the reflection, sliding off the wall and kicking their beer cans aside.
I would have been safe in the headmaster's office, but I couldn't stay there forever. I had to collect my star charts and get back home as quickly as possible. After obtaining our graduation certificates, I followed the ramp up and round to the science corridor, constantly checking behind me.
Leroy seemingly came out of nowhere - or perhaps he had known all along I was here for my charts. One minute, I was at the classroom door; the next, the corridor swung upside down and I began to choke on the tight collar of my sweater.
"Isa, wait up," said Leroy. "Don't run, you're here just in time."
The material of my sweater screeched in protest at the roughness of his grip. There were hands - all over me, it felt like - and then my back smacked against the wall. This was the first time any bullying had ever turned physical - the fear of paying the medical bill for OI had once been enough to protect me. My head spun with panicked thoughts, each one more frightening than the next.
"We're a few notes short of getting another round of beer." Leroy nodded to one of his friends. "Maybe you can help us."
My wallet's in my left pocket, I tried to say, but throttled gasps were all that were coming out of me. I wasn't even sure if I was able to breathe. Take it and go.
More hands. They were hot, invading. There was definitely one at my neck, paralysing the rest of me into submission.
Leroy tugged at my jacket roughly. I closed my eyes in case they betrayed the anxiety, exhilaration and the sheer disgust of - for the first time - being this close to someone. Leroy's breath crawled along my neck as he searched my pockets. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.
"No good," said Leroy. He sounded a mile away, although I could smell fresh mint with every syllable. I thought I was going to be sick. "You can't even buy an apple with this. I guess it doesn't pay to be a fag."
Some laughs. I closed my eyes, wrapped myself up in the dark and prayed for it all to be over. I tasted copper in my mouth; something stung, but I couldn't work out where I was hurting. Then, something cold washed over my legs. Just air. I toppled over, then I was caught, supported by their snickers and taunts. I felt fabric rushing past my knees, and my eyes flew open. In the tiniest opening of clarity, I grabbed the waistband of my underwear before they went as well.
I struggled and lost. I shattered as the cool air burned me.
Stop it.
"Oh, gross, Leroy," shrieked a girl. A scuffle, and she stammered, "I don't want to look, it's disgusting."
She did more than look. She was protesting over the taunts and the laughs, but her hand was guided by something forceful, a derisive hiss telling her what to do. I felt long nails, a long and suffocating squeeze between my legs.
"You're supposed to be enjoying that, fag."
I'd rather my bones were breaking.
A slap. The girl might have been crying. "You bastard, I can't believe you made me do that…!"
I felt blindly for my underwear. I found Leroy's hand instead. "Too right," he breathed. The waistband pinged against my flesh. "That's not going to impress any girl or guy. I'd keep it covered up too."
I crumbled, the way a butterfly tore up like paper before it could fly beyond its chrysalis. I looked up to see a fist. A nose wasn't made from bone - even Leroy knew that. I barely had time to blink.
I hit the floor, warm in the afternoon light of the corridor.
The shadows cleared, the laughter ebbed. My money was gone; so were my shoes and trousers. Blood was streaming from my nose and running down my chin, but the route to the classroom had opened up. I scrabbled towards the door.
Star charts. This would all be worth it if I got my star charts.
-x-
I woke up locked in a cubicle. I couldn't remember how I got there. My legs quaked in the cold and my head ached with the hammer swings of fag, gross, disgusting. I wanted to pretend this had all happened to someone else, but it hadn't. This was my reality now.
I tried being sick; nothing would come out. I thought about crying, but I couldn't feel my face. So I pulled down the toilet lid, sat on it and stared at the space between my socks. I seemed to think that if I sat here long enough, waited long enough, I'd somehow heal, and opening that door might actually be a possibility again.
There was a knock. I fell out of my broken daze to be greeted by clear sounds of a tap running and a soap bar skidding along the grimy tiles. I wasn't alone. I kept still. I had a tissue to my face to stem the nosebleed and mask my breaths. A few seconds passed, and then there was the knock again.
"Hey, are you all right?" It was you. I knew it was you the moment you had knocked. "It's just you've been in there a while."
I covered my mouth to stay silent. My cheeks were soaking wet; I had been crying all along. I watched, fighting my blurred vision, as your shadow moved from left to right, a searchlight skimming the bottom of the door. "There's no point in not saying anything," you said, "I kinda know you're there because your bag strap's sticking out."
You sounded older, gentler. I swallowed. I wanted to call out to you, but if you knew it was me behind the door, would you stay?
"Open up, it's all right. I'll help you." You knocked again. "I'm Lea, by the way."
I know. That's why my heart's racing.
"Look, it isn't worth hiding in there. They don't have a thing on you. Trust me, I know how they work. I've tried to be like them because I thought it'd be cool. The fact is, though, they're just ghosts. They can't see anything when they look at themselves and the only splash of colour they get is when they make their lives all about you. It's selfish, but it's their way of trying to be special like you."
I sniffed, coughing on the taste of blood.
"In most cases, anyway," you continued. "Apparently, they also don't like it if someone's father manages to prosecute their father and put them in jail. My mum's going to kill me when she sees what they've done to my books. They're supposed to be passed down to Elenar for her final year but there's barely ten pages between them now." You switched off the taps. "And check out my sports kit. They peed all over it like dogs."
You snickered at your own remark. I couldn't understand from where in the wake of such an ordeal, you could pull out a laugh.
"Hey, want me to walk you home?" You were reaching out, trying phrase after phrase to make a friend. You didn't seem to care whom you were talking to, so long as they emerged liking you. I could understand that desperation, that attempt to find anything, no matter how sharp, to grab onto in the wake of a storm.
I stood up, pressed my forehead against the cool surface of the door. Finally, I let my voice betray me. "It's me." There was the sound of rustling, and I immediately visualised you leaving. "A-are you still there?"
A few seconds passed, and then you cleared your throat. "…I'm here. Are you all right? Are you hurt?" Your shadow skirted the floor and I felt the door thud with your weight. I wondered if your forehead was resting close to mine.
"Isa, are you hurt?" you said again.
I couldn't really tell. From here, staring down at myself, I looked fine, except for the bloodstains on my hands. "It's just a nosebleed."
You knocked on the door. "Well, open up. I can't talk to you if you're bleeding to death on the other side."
I nearly smiled. I forgot about the past year, forgot we had never made the mistake of going our separate ways, forgot the singe of humiliation. It was that easy to slip back into my favourite routine. Then, I glanced down at my thin and pasty legs, and remembered everything. "I can't," I managed. "I…I haven't got trousers."
You exhaled. There was more scuffling. A minute later, something slung over the top of the door. "Don't worry, they didn't pee on it," you clarified. "It's a bit muddy, but otherwise it's okay."
Carefully, I took your capris. "…Thank you." They felt warm and were a bit too short for me. I nearly fell over in my hurry to get them on.
"Actually, I'm glad you're here," you said. "I've wanted to talk to you. I want you to know that I'm sorry. You were completely right to cut me off after what I did last year. Sorry I'm such a bad friend."
My hand fiddled on the lock. I wanted to see you, to see if this apology was just words etched on the face of a liar, but I had had enough of reality. I wanted something good to think about, even if it was just a lie.
"I regretted it as soon as I said it, Isa, but you did the right thing and pushed me out. I did what you've always suggested and thought seriously." You laughed nervously and your knuckles brushed the door. "You…you still there, Isa?"
How could I not be?
"…It's weird, talking to a door. But I won't force you out," you amended quickly. "Take your time, okay?"
I was starting to wonder if this was really you. The old you would have ran into the next cubicle and stood on the toilet to peer over. You used to push on ahead and expect me to fall in line. It was the main reason why I pulled away when you kissed me. You never thought things through; you made decisions for others because you honestly believed it was a good trait. You were the kind of person who picked up a bird and threw it if it wasn't flying fast enough; you weren't the person standing out there.
"You've changed a bit," I muttered.
"I haven't changed, I've grown up," you said. "My best friend dropped me for a reason and I'm a fast learner. I actually made up my mind about the future. I'm starting as an office junior at the chambers next month. I'm not becoming an athlete."
"So you're going to follow your dad after all."
"Well, not quite." I knew you were grinning. "I'm training to become a defence lawyer, not a prosecutor. Technically, I'm listening to my dad, but I've got my own ambitions there too. I want to be the voice for the accused."
I looked up from my folded arms. I had a thought, a quick image, of a courtroom and the lonely box for the defendant. Someone could force me in there and accuse me of so many things - shy, gay, disabled, dirty - but perhaps these indecencies weren't so indecent at all, if someone could stand up and tell me so.
"What are you up to these days?" you asked. "Are you going to take up astrology professionally?"
My breath hitched in my throat. I glanced down at my bag. I convulsed at the sight of the rolls of paper. "Isa?"
Before I knew it, staying standing seemed to be the hardest thing to do. I tried to form a coherent sentence, but my words clogged up behind barbed recollections instead.
"Isa," you said. The urgency in your voice jolted me awake again. You rapped the door with your knuckles; it sounded like a hammer against my ears. If there wasn't a barrier between us, you probably would have been grabbing my forearm. I used to hate it when you touched me. It used to burn and ache, and I would bite the inside of my mouth and think about that instead.
Quickly, while I could still think, I slid the latch across. I looked round, almost afraid of what I'd see. Across the way, you were doing the same. You had your head tilted and you were squinting a bit. You were also missing your trousers, and you now stood - entirely unbothered - in a pair of green shorts that clashed tremendously with your hair.
You took one look at me, and you knew.
I covered my mouth with the base of my palm, as if that would heal me somehow, as if that would stop my screaming.
I felt myself slipping, cowering in fear of the bitter present and pretending I was still twelve. It was more than a nosebleed. Help me.
I handed myself over - small pieces, papery bits of a soul that needed some place safe - and like the wish jar you once was, you opened your arms and caught the scattered fragments.
_____________________________
SAÏX, THE LUNA DIVINER
- forty-three days after birth -
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This is the fact:
The world crumbled because I didn't want that sky any more.
This is the secret:
I was glad for it.
-x-
A dull thud - of my own body toppling to the side and hitting the floor - breaks me from sleep. It's dark and muggy, as though a thick black fog has been compressed into an old box. In that dazed moment, slipping back into the shoes of the conscious, I have an odd feeling, an utter conviction that I'm holding something in my arms. It's warm, and alive, and it's shaking.
But when I squeeze into that embrace, there's nothing there.
I keep still on the floor and hold my breath, and it's silent and isolated. There isn't the slightest trace of a sound, not even a footfall or a whisper, until I start to move.
"He's awake."
Zexion's voice is a faint vibration that hits the edge of my prison. He's not here - or else I'd have heard his breaths - so he's outside, looking in. I still can't see anything. Slowly, I push my hands to the wall and edge round. I shuffle, search for the groove of a door. When I find it, it doesn't budge against my efforts to push, pull or slide it.
"Sir?" I hear Zexion say.
There is a pause of idle thought. "Take Xaldin with you," says the Superior. "Saïx is fast."
I tilt my head in the direction of their voices, battling the dark and pretending I can see straight through to them. Footsteps circle the far end of the room to the door, and with a low hiss, it slides open.
Gradually, light invades the space, like a sun creeping up in the morning. Zexion keeps everything low, from these lights to his voice. He shuts the door, nods in greeting.
"You're in an observation cell, Saïx," Zexion begins. Xaldin rests the sole of one boot on the wall and leans back, arms folded. Though seemingly casual, Xaldin is tense, as if he is anticipating a fight.
"Why am I in here?"
"As a safety precaution. Don't be alarmed, everyone is all right." Zexion waves a hand to dissuade my apparent concern for the Organisation's wellbeing. "I require a few minutes of your attention. Please do your best to understand. I rather dislike having to repeat myself."
I fall against the wall and fold my arms to create a barrier between us.
"The Organisation has been presented with an unforeseen issue." Zexion smiles, sensing some humour to the statement that otherwise eludes me. "You are, of course, a dissociative amnesiac. So far, Vexen and I have been able to surmise that this is a defensive mechanism kicked in by Isa to protect you from the trauma of your past. The amnesia has spread. You may have noticed."
There are murmurs from outside, but each voice drowns out the other in a clamour to be heard. I detect Vexen's caustic outburst, Lexaeus' low murmur and Xigbar laughing.
"There are blanks in my memory," I admit. "I put it down to the mundane routines of this Castle affecting me."
Zexion challenges me with a flat look of his own. "Yes, it must be frustrating to serve little more purpose than a Dusk in within these walls."
"Zexion needs to stop teasing him," says Vexen.
"The blanks in your recent memory precede and cover a series of uncharacteristic outbursts," Zexion says. "Your friend Axel has aptly called it going berserk."
"Berserk?"
"Yes. Since it has taken time to surface, we assume this state is your Nobody form settling into its raw state. Saïx is emerging-"
"-and he ain't pretty," says Xigbar.
"-and Isa is extending his efforts to protect you by erasing every occurrence of berserk. Do you understand so far?"
"…I think so," I manage, neglecting to tell Zexion I can't even get past the first hurdle of treating Isa as though he isn't me. "I apparently suffer from random occurrences of rage."
"They're not random," Xaldin cuts in, speaking for the first time. "Something provokes you. The procurement of new memories, perhaps. Your diary indicates you are remembering more and more of your past. Isa is getting weaker; so is the amnesia. The raw state of your Nobody form is settling in; berserk is most likely your new way of coping with trauma."
"I don't mean to do it," I argue, sensing the displeasure in Xaldin's voice.
"We know that. Equally, we know it would be insensible to let it slide." Zexion glances up at the window. Each time he does, I shiver at the thought of other eyes on my back, weighing me up like an animal at the market. "You're in a precarious position, Saïx. You can't control yourself, nor can you summon a weapon or tap into an element. Your river of resourcefulness is running dry. You need to curb your rage."
I stare at him.
"Unless you can control this berserk mode, you will be a machine beyond repair. The Superior will order your execution."
"I don't understand," I say quickly, and my breath catches in my throat at the thought of execution, at the thought of dying. "How am I supposed to control something I never remember doing?"
Zexion cracks a wide smile, the sort that befits a man who convinces a fish that it's free, but holds a stretch of net behind it the whole time. "Well, Saïx, that's what I'm here for."
"You're going to help me?"
"Is that so surprising?" Somehow, Zexion's malicious features twist themselves into a rather pleasant expression. "Execution is the logical choice, but that doesn't automatically make it the Organisation's first choice. No, we would be delighted to keep someone of your level within our ranks. As such, with your consent, we'd like to study berserk. If we can learn its nature, we can reroute it into becoming something of your conscious will."
My hand jumps to my hair. "I can reroute it, but it affects the entire length of the code. You're not just tacking on another link to the chain; you're visibly disrupting it, like even the slightest of movements prompting ripples."
Zexion blinks. He is not nearly as confused as I am. "I beg your pardon?"
"…Leave it there and I'll have it done in three days," I finish quickly. There is an awkward silence. Xaldin appears to be mouthing something at the ceiling. "Sorry. I…I don't know why I said that."
"Dude's a nutter," says Xigbar.
"As I was saying," Zexion continues, catching himself before his sneer gets any further than a thin frown, "with your consent, continued research on berserk will hopefully give us enough of an understanding to control it." He rubs his neck. It's impressive how even the slightest gestures from Zexion reek of arrogance and condescension. "What's the phrase children use?" he asks Xaldin lightly. He turns back without waiting for a response. "Oh. Are you game? That was it."
I bristle at such patronising words, but this frustration is short-lived when I consider what Zexion is offering. The truth is, I don't remember dying, so it frightens me more than it would you. I like to think there is some semblance and depth to me, that makes it worth hanging onto my odd existence.
So I nod my consent.
"Excellent." Zexion smiles.
My days at the Castle have been static, boring. I remember and write, and the others study my work and shake their heads at its uselessness. Researching berserk, in my mind, is probably just more writing, more attempts to cut off Isa and regain my memories.
I don't think for a minute that by nodding, I have just given Xaldin confirmation to try and kill me.
I hear him before I see him move. There's a rush of fabric, and his arms call up a whirlwind that tears at his coat. I blink, and he's darted from one end of the room to land inches in front of me. I manage to throw up an arm to block an attack, but Xaldin aims for my exposed ribs instead.
I fly backwards, crash on the floor. The back of my head slams against the wall.
"Oy! You bastards, you said you were going to help him!" It's your voice - you've been there the whole time - and the resulting thuds on the other side of the glass surely suggest you are lashing out at someone.
"Zexion has unorthodox but effective methods. Sit back down." That's Lexaeus' voice.
I shunt my attention back to Xaldin, who is now barraging me with lances. For every lunge he makes, I leap backwards to avoid the blow. We're so close together, his braids keep whipping my face.
"Xaldin, you're not trying," Zexion calls over the grunts of struggle. He weaves in and out of our fight, hands in his pockets. I shoot Zexion a glare - if only he would desist the arrogance, even for a minute - and doing so leaves me open.
Xaldin punches me. There's no time to get up as he delivers a swift kick to the side of my head. He throws a lance and it pierces my sleeve to pin me against the wall. Then comes another, narrowly missing my cheek and catching my hood. He aims a third, and by this point I realise I have such limited movements that I can't be an easier target. The lance zeroes in on my neck, desperate to injure, and in a fleeting moment of panic, my instinct kicks in and I lift my arm to defend.
"Oh, well done," Zexion says brightly. I catch his reflection in the silvery blade that has abruptly manifested in my hand.
"Is that berserk?" asks Vexen.
"No, that's just him getting pissed," Xigbar replies idly.
I have a split second or two to witness and analyse my weapon, to make a note of its spiked end, bulky weight and powerful swing; then, Xaldin attacks again. He dislodges the lances from the wall and that is all I can see before a sharp wind tears into my eyes.
I swing the bizarre blade, deflecting two stray lances aiming for my eye. Xaldin growls as I push him back, one step at a time. For a second, I think I have him, parrying enough of his attacks to anger him into creating an opening. Then, something rams into my shoulder.
"Isa!"
I stagger backwards, gripping my new wound. My boot slips in a growing puddle of blood. Gasping, I look up to see that Xaldin's bleeding too. One of the spikes of my blade has been stained red. I rewind quickly and realise I never heard him cry out attaining an injury.
"How many times do I have to tell you guys? Isa doesn't respond to violence. He's not built that way. Please, let him go."
I, in the meantime, have none of Xaldin's resilience. The stab wound at my shoulder has completely winded me. In an attempt to shake off the resulting agony, I slam my blade against the wall. It crumbles, as glossy stones and frail sand. A spider leg crack runs the length of the wall.
Xigbar whistles. "Isn't this the strongest room in the Castle? You might want to revisit your building plans, Superior."
To my annoyance, Xaldin doesn't relent. He aims three lances this time, but I deflect them. One topples towards Zexion, who swats it away as though it's merely a dying moth.
"Oh dear," he remarks. He wrinkles his nose at the bloodied footprints Xaldin and I leave round the room, as if he's just an innocent bystander in all of this. "I'm running out of places to stand."
"What's the point of this?" I demand. I land a punch on Xaldin's chest (which hurts me more than him). He retaliates by lodging a lance between my ribs. "Th-this has nothing to do with berserk."
"I thought I had told you: I don't like repeating myself." Zexion sighs irritably. "Berserk is a defence mechanism. People's defence mechanisms usually kick in when they're being attacked."
There's a subtle knock against the two-way panel. Zexion glances up at it, before favouring me with an unrepentant smile. "Time's up."
-x-
In an annoying twist of Castle procedures, Zexion is also responsible for treatment. As such, he ends up patching up the exact wounds he had indirectly caused.
"You're tough," I say politely to Xaldin.
"Of course I am. Every waking hour is spent either meditating to hone my concentration or battling armies of Heartless in merciless conditions. I certainly don't spend my days scrawling in diaries like you." Xaldin thwacks Zexion away as the latter tightens his bandages.
I smile at Xaldin, for his adamant stance reminds me so much of you. He sits on a hospital stool the wrong way round, with a miserable look on his face. Studying him, now freshly aware of just how strong he is, the thought of my own strength occurs to me. I am the no-good Nobody in the Organisation, with a nonexistent element, an unreliable weapon, an incomplete set of memories. I don't train nearly as much as the rest of you and yet, I was able to stab Xaldin twice. I think of the Organisation's response to berserk, how they shut me in a room and planned amongst themselves to come up with ways to collar me.
"I'm too strong."
That's not something Isa would say about himself.
"Yes, you are." Zexion smiles wryly as the door opens and you stick your head round the door. Your face is as red as your hair.
"You little snot," you shout. "You better explain what the hell that 'research' was. Look at what you've done to Isa and Xaldin! They're battered!"
You snatch the roll of gauze from Zexion and pull up a chair. You tend to my injuries instead. "You okay?"
"It's not as bad as it looks, but I too would like to know how that fight contributed to understanding berserk at all."
"Well, it wasn't called," Zexion says. "It appears I may have made a mistake, which is rather new. Even in a fatal attack, all that prompted was the summoning of your weapon. That by itself is a good start, but it isn't the berserk we witnessed. It's triggered by something else, a different form of violence perhaps-"
"I'm not going to sit at a glass window and watch if you try anything like that again." You're speaking to Zexion, but I'm on the receiving end of your glare. Your hand clenches, gripping the base of my thigh as you clean up my shoulder wound.
"You class me as an enemy, Axel, but without my help, the Superior will certainly order Saïx's execution. In any case, I have made two fundamental discoveries, thanks to that tussle." Zexion swivels round on his seat and begins to pack away the first aid kit. "Firstly, Saïx's weapon manifested in his right hand."
"So?" I prompt. "Xigbar could have told you that. He saw my weapon manifest that one mission in the City."
"Isa was left handed." Zexion shrugs. "The whole of your diary is written with a left hand, yet when you have been stripped to rely on instinct, you switch to your right. Secondly, and more importantly: Xaldin, your technique is slipping."
Xaldin's head snaps up, and in admirable, silent fury, he stands up and readies four lances. Just as we're all about to be sucked into an angry whirlwind, Zexion laughs (it's a sound I liken to the haughty squawk of a crow).
"I joke, of course. Secondly, the battle's outcome has set the course clear for my next attempt to provoke berserk. Vexen and I have dissected Saïx's diary and taken particular note of the star charts that label up the sky." Zexion tosses my coat at you. You catch it and help me back into it. The thought occurs, but the emotion doesn't stay. I don't like you touching me.
"Your diary mentions Mars and Saturn, as well as the concept of a zodiac. Since these can only be seen and understood from a particular point in the universe, this inevitably points to the fact Isa and Lea were residents of Radiant Garden."
You stop running your fingers through my hair. "Are you serious? You do know you could have just asked us?"
Zexion remains impassive, finding more interest in lining up medicine bottles on the shelf. "I recall the last time I tried to converse with you, you threw me out a window and tried to stab my eye. So, no, one cannot just ask someone when they're that irrational. No matter, though." He grins, and I really wish he wouldn't. "The Superior has already confirmed it with me. Since physical trauma has proved ineffectual, emotional trauma is the next step. Tomorrow, I'm taking you back to Radiant Garden."
Characters: Isa, Lea, Saïx, Axel, Xemnas
Pairings: Lea/Isa, Axel/Saïx, Xemnas/Saïx
Genre: Drama/Angst
Summary: Isa suffers from a rare bone disease, osteogenesis imperfecta. When Lea overlooks this in favour of having someone to himself, Isa leaps at the opportunity and so begins their downward spiral from friends to lovers to Nobodies.
Disclaimer: Characters and setting copyright to Square Enix.
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BONE OF CONTENTION
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ISA, THE BOY WHO'D SHATTER
- five years before death -
If I didn't have osteogenesis imperfecta, my father wouldn't have felt so threatened by the weight of responsibility, that he'd pack up and leave. If my father had stayed, my mother's life wouldn't have been all about me. If my mother hadn't been afraid to watch me get hurt, I would have ventured out more. And if I had ventured out more, I wouldn't be so shy.
If I wasn't shy, I might have had more friends than I could count. If I had friends, I would leave my stuff round their houses, and not at school. If I had lots of friends my age, and not sympathetic teachers just doing their job, I'd have a plethora of hobbies, ones that had teams and hugs and keeping score. If I had had hobbies like that, I wouldn't have reclusive interests like astrology. If I didn't like astrology, I wouldn't care for star charts.
And if I didn't care so much about star charts, that incident would never have happened.
-x-
Thanks to you, bullying me became our year's favourite pastime. Whenever classmates grew bored of mocking my bone disease, they opted to laugh at my orientation instead, like the constant flipping of a pillow to always have a cold side.
A year dragged by, and I turned eighteen with no ambition or career prospects. Despite the taunts screaming that I be otherwise, I was still disabled, still gay. I had a grand total of one friend and knew more about the librarian's dead relatives than I did the social ins and outs of Radiant Garden. The days were static and horrifically regular. I woke up, went to school, hated school, went home, hated home, and then I slept and dreamt of the horrors of tomorrow.
Our school threw an end of year festival, to mark the start of summer and send off the graduating students. Both Megan and I pleaded sickness on our last day. School was bad enough on normal days; we were not at all keen to turn up on the occasions students were encouraged to run amok and cause trouble. Our absence meant we were not able to collect our graduation certificates from the ceremony.
"Don't worry, I'll get them," I told Megan in our usual café hangout. (It was the only place in Radiant Garden which refused students if there were more than two in the group, so it was a perfect sanctuary.) "I left my charts back in the lab anyway."
I trudged to school for the last time, deliberately choosing the residential avenues and avoiding the busy promenade. All I managed to see of the end of year festival was the aftershock. I arrived at the school gates to see shrivelled skins of balloons and paper aeroplanes crashed on the grounds. Colourful streamers were caught on the railings, like ribbons snatched up in a demon's claw. There was laughing and cheerful shouting to music, but they sounded distant and almost imaginary in their foreign relation to me.
A group of six guarded the gates, two with cigarettes, one girl showing off her midriff to her boyfriend, two guys with a can of beer. I recognised one of them as my classmate, Leroy. Of course, I used the term 'mate' loosely. I ducked my chin into my collar and walked as fast as I could past them, making a beeline for the headmaster's office. Their conversation lulled for a moment as they spotted me. As I yanked open the door, I saw them in the reflection, sliding off the wall and kicking their beer cans aside.
I would have been safe in the headmaster's office, but I couldn't stay there forever. I had to collect my star charts and get back home as quickly as possible. After obtaining our graduation certificates, I followed the ramp up and round to the science corridor, constantly checking behind me.
Leroy seemingly came out of nowhere - or perhaps he had known all along I was here for my charts. One minute, I was at the classroom door; the next, the corridor swung upside down and I began to choke on the tight collar of my sweater.
"Isa, wait up," said Leroy. "Don't run, you're here just in time."
The material of my sweater screeched in protest at the roughness of his grip. There were hands - all over me, it felt like - and then my back smacked against the wall. This was the first time any bullying had ever turned physical - the fear of paying the medical bill for OI had once been enough to protect me. My head spun with panicked thoughts, each one more frightening than the next.
"We're a few notes short of getting another round of beer." Leroy nodded to one of his friends. "Maybe you can help us."
My wallet's in my left pocket, I tried to say, but throttled gasps were all that were coming out of me. I wasn't even sure if I was able to breathe. Take it and go.
More hands. They were hot, invading. There was definitely one at my neck, paralysing the rest of me into submission.
Leroy tugged at my jacket roughly. I closed my eyes in case they betrayed the anxiety, exhilaration and the sheer disgust of - for the first time - being this close to someone. Leroy's breath crawled along my neck as he searched my pockets. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.
"No good," said Leroy. He sounded a mile away, although I could smell fresh mint with every syllable. I thought I was going to be sick. "You can't even buy an apple with this. I guess it doesn't pay to be a fag."
Some laughs. I closed my eyes, wrapped myself up in the dark and prayed for it all to be over. I tasted copper in my mouth; something stung, but I couldn't work out where I was hurting. Then, something cold washed over my legs. Just air. I toppled over, then I was caught, supported by their snickers and taunts. I felt fabric rushing past my knees, and my eyes flew open. In the tiniest opening of clarity, I grabbed the waistband of my underwear before they went as well.
I struggled and lost. I shattered as the cool air burned me.
Stop it.
"Oh, gross, Leroy," shrieked a girl. A scuffle, and she stammered, "I don't want to look, it's disgusting."
She did more than look. She was protesting over the taunts and the laughs, but her hand was guided by something forceful, a derisive hiss telling her what to do. I felt long nails, a long and suffocating squeeze between my legs.
"You're supposed to be enjoying that, fag."
I'd rather my bones were breaking.
A slap. The girl might have been crying. "You bastard, I can't believe you made me do that…!"
I felt blindly for my underwear. I found Leroy's hand instead. "Too right," he breathed. The waistband pinged against my flesh. "That's not going to impress any girl or guy. I'd keep it covered up too."
I crumbled, the way a butterfly tore up like paper before it could fly beyond its chrysalis. I looked up to see a fist. A nose wasn't made from bone - even Leroy knew that. I barely had time to blink.
I hit the floor, warm in the afternoon light of the corridor.
The shadows cleared, the laughter ebbed. My money was gone; so were my shoes and trousers. Blood was streaming from my nose and running down my chin, but the route to the classroom had opened up. I scrabbled towards the door.
Star charts. This would all be worth it if I got my star charts.
-x-
I woke up locked in a cubicle. I couldn't remember how I got there. My legs quaked in the cold and my head ached with the hammer swings of fag, gross, disgusting. I wanted to pretend this had all happened to someone else, but it hadn't. This was my reality now.
I tried being sick; nothing would come out. I thought about crying, but I couldn't feel my face. So I pulled down the toilet lid, sat on it and stared at the space between my socks. I seemed to think that if I sat here long enough, waited long enough, I'd somehow heal, and opening that door might actually be a possibility again.
There was a knock. I fell out of my broken daze to be greeted by clear sounds of a tap running and a soap bar skidding along the grimy tiles. I wasn't alone. I kept still. I had a tissue to my face to stem the nosebleed and mask my breaths. A few seconds passed, and then there was the knock again.
"Hey, are you all right?" It was you. I knew it was you the moment you had knocked. "It's just you've been in there a while."
I covered my mouth to stay silent. My cheeks were soaking wet; I had been crying all along. I watched, fighting my blurred vision, as your shadow moved from left to right, a searchlight skimming the bottom of the door. "There's no point in not saying anything," you said, "I kinda know you're there because your bag strap's sticking out."
You sounded older, gentler. I swallowed. I wanted to call out to you, but if you knew it was me behind the door, would you stay?
"Open up, it's all right. I'll help you." You knocked again. "I'm Lea, by the way."
I know. That's why my heart's racing.
"Look, it isn't worth hiding in there. They don't have a thing on you. Trust me, I know how they work. I've tried to be like them because I thought it'd be cool. The fact is, though, they're just ghosts. They can't see anything when they look at themselves and the only splash of colour they get is when they make their lives all about you. It's selfish, but it's their way of trying to be special like you."
I sniffed, coughing on the taste of blood.
"In most cases, anyway," you continued. "Apparently, they also don't like it if someone's father manages to prosecute their father and put them in jail. My mum's going to kill me when she sees what they've done to my books. They're supposed to be passed down to Elenar for her final year but there's barely ten pages between them now." You switched off the taps. "And check out my sports kit. They peed all over it like dogs."
You snickered at your own remark. I couldn't understand from where in the wake of such an ordeal, you could pull out a laugh.
"Hey, want me to walk you home?" You were reaching out, trying phrase after phrase to make a friend. You didn't seem to care whom you were talking to, so long as they emerged liking you. I could understand that desperation, that attempt to find anything, no matter how sharp, to grab onto in the wake of a storm.
I stood up, pressed my forehead against the cool surface of the door. Finally, I let my voice betray me. "It's me." There was the sound of rustling, and I immediately visualised you leaving. "A-are you still there?"
A few seconds passed, and then you cleared your throat. "…I'm here. Are you all right? Are you hurt?" Your shadow skirted the floor and I felt the door thud with your weight. I wondered if your forehead was resting close to mine.
"Isa, are you hurt?" you said again.
I couldn't really tell. From here, staring down at myself, I looked fine, except for the bloodstains on my hands. "It's just a nosebleed."
You knocked on the door. "Well, open up. I can't talk to you if you're bleeding to death on the other side."
I nearly smiled. I forgot about the past year, forgot we had never made the mistake of going our separate ways, forgot the singe of humiliation. It was that easy to slip back into my favourite routine. Then, I glanced down at my thin and pasty legs, and remembered everything. "I can't," I managed. "I…I haven't got trousers."
You exhaled. There was more scuffling. A minute later, something slung over the top of the door. "Don't worry, they didn't pee on it," you clarified. "It's a bit muddy, but otherwise it's okay."
Carefully, I took your capris. "…Thank you." They felt warm and were a bit too short for me. I nearly fell over in my hurry to get them on.
"Actually, I'm glad you're here," you said. "I've wanted to talk to you. I want you to know that I'm sorry. You were completely right to cut me off after what I did last year. Sorry I'm such a bad friend."
My hand fiddled on the lock. I wanted to see you, to see if this apology was just words etched on the face of a liar, but I had had enough of reality. I wanted something good to think about, even if it was just a lie.
"I regretted it as soon as I said it, Isa, but you did the right thing and pushed me out. I did what you've always suggested and thought seriously." You laughed nervously and your knuckles brushed the door. "You…you still there, Isa?"
How could I not be?
"…It's weird, talking to a door. But I won't force you out," you amended quickly. "Take your time, okay?"
I was starting to wonder if this was really you. The old you would have ran into the next cubicle and stood on the toilet to peer over. You used to push on ahead and expect me to fall in line. It was the main reason why I pulled away when you kissed me. You never thought things through; you made decisions for others because you honestly believed it was a good trait. You were the kind of person who picked up a bird and threw it if it wasn't flying fast enough; you weren't the person standing out there.
"You've changed a bit," I muttered.
"I haven't changed, I've grown up," you said. "My best friend dropped me for a reason and I'm a fast learner. I actually made up my mind about the future. I'm starting as an office junior at the chambers next month. I'm not becoming an athlete."
"So you're going to follow your dad after all."
"Well, not quite." I knew you were grinning. "I'm training to become a defence lawyer, not a prosecutor. Technically, I'm listening to my dad, but I've got my own ambitions there too. I want to be the voice for the accused."
I looked up from my folded arms. I had a thought, a quick image, of a courtroom and the lonely box for the defendant. Someone could force me in there and accuse me of so many things - shy, gay, disabled, dirty - but perhaps these indecencies weren't so indecent at all, if someone could stand up and tell me so.
"What are you up to these days?" you asked. "Are you going to take up astrology professionally?"
My breath hitched in my throat. I glanced down at my bag. I convulsed at the sight of the rolls of paper. "Isa?"
Before I knew it, staying standing seemed to be the hardest thing to do. I tried to form a coherent sentence, but my words clogged up behind barbed recollections instead.
"Isa," you said. The urgency in your voice jolted me awake again. You rapped the door with your knuckles; it sounded like a hammer against my ears. If there wasn't a barrier between us, you probably would have been grabbing my forearm. I used to hate it when you touched me. It used to burn and ache, and I would bite the inside of my mouth and think about that instead.
Quickly, while I could still think, I slid the latch across. I looked round, almost afraid of what I'd see. Across the way, you were doing the same. You had your head tilted and you were squinting a bit. You were also missing your trousers, and you now stood - entirely unbothered - in a pair of green shorts that clashed tremendously with your hair.
You took one look at me, and you knew.
I covered my mouth with the base of my palm, as if that would heal me somehow, as if that would stop my screaming.
I felt myself slipping, cowering in fear of the bitter present and pretending I was still twelve. It was more than a nosebleed. Help me.
I handed myself over - small pieces, papery bits of a soul that needed some place safe - and like the wish jar you once was, you opened your arms and caught the scattered fragments.
_____________________________
SAÏX, THE LUNA DIVINER
- forty-three days after birth -
_____________________________
This is the fact:
The world crumbled because I didn't want that sky any more.
This is the secret:
I was glad for it.
-x-
A dull thud - of my own body toppling to the side and hitting the floor - breaks me from sleep. It's dark and muggy, as though a thick black fog has been compressed into an old box. In that dazed moment, slipping back into the shoes of the conscious, I have an odd feeling, an utter conviction that I'm holding something in my arms. It's warm, and alive, and it's shaking.
But when I squeeze into that embrace, there's nothing there.
I keep still on the floor and hold my breath, and it's silent and isolated. There isn't the slightest trace of a sound, not even a footfall or a whisper, until I start to move.
"He's awake."
Zexion's voice is a faint vibration that hits the edge of my prison. He's not here - or else I'd have heard his breaths - so he's outside, looking in. I still can't see anything. Slowly, I push my hands to the wall and edge round. I shuffle, search for the groove of a door. When I find it, it doesn't budge against my efforts to push, pull or slide it.
"Sir?" I hear Zexion say.
There is a pause of idle thought. "Take Xaldin with you," says the Superior. "Saïx is fast."
I tilt my head in the direction of their voices, battling the dark and pretending I can see straight through to them. Footsteps circle the far end of the room to the door, and with a low hiss, it slides open.
Gradually, light invades the space, like a sun creeping up in the morning. Zexion keeps everything low, from these lights to his voice. He shuts the door, nods in greeting.
"You're in an observation cell, Saïx," Zexion begins. Xaldin rests the sole of one boot on the wall and leans back, arms folded. Though seemingly casual, Xaldin is tense, as if he is anticipating a fight.
"Why am I in here?"
"As a safety precaution. Don't be alarmed, everyone is all right." Zexion waves a hand to dissuade my apparent concern for the Organisation's wellbeing. "I require a few minutes of your attention. Please do your best to understand. I rather dislike having to repeat myself."
I fall against the wall and fold my arms to create a barrier between us.
"The Organisation has been presented with an unforeseen issue." Zexion smiles, sensing some humour to the statement that otherwise eludes me. "You are, of course, a dissociative amnesiac. So far, Vexen and I have been able to surmise that this is a defensive mechanism kicked in by Isa to protect you from the trauma of your past. The amnesia has spread. You may have noticed."
There are murmurs from outside, but each voice drowns out the other in a clamour to be heard. I detect Vexen's caustic outburst, Lexaeus' low murmur and Xigbar laughing.
"There are blanks in my memory," I admit. "I put it down to the mundane routines of this Castle affecting me."
Zexion challenges me with a flat look of his own. "Yes, it must be frustrating to serve little more purpose than a Dusk in within these walls."
"Zexion needs to stop teasing him," says Vexen.
"The blanks in your recent memory precede and cover a series of uncharacteristic outbursts," Zexion says. "Your friend Axel has aptly called it going berserk."
"Berserk?"
"Yes. Since it has taken time to surface, we assume this state is your Nobody form settling into its raw state. Saïx is emerging-"
"-and he ain't pretty," says Xigbar.
"-and Isa is extending his efforts to protect you by erasing every occurrence of berserk. Do you understand so far?"
"…I think so," I manage, neglecting to tell Zexion I can't even get past the first hurdle of treating Isa as though he isn't me. "I apparently suffer from random occurrences of rage."
"They're not random," Xaldin cuts in, speaking for the first time. "Something provokes you. The procurement of new memories, perhaps. Your diary indicates you are remembering more and more of your past. Isa is getting weaker; so is the amnesia. The raw state of your Nobody form is settling in; berserk is most likely your new way of coping with trauma."
"I don't mean to do it," I argue, sensing the displeasure in Xaldin's voice.
"We know that. Equally, we know it would be insensible to let it slide." Zexion glances up at the window. Each time he does, I shiver at the thought of other eyes on my back, weighing me up like an animal at the market. "You're in a precarious position, Saïx. You can't control yourself, nor can you summon a weapon or tap into an element. Your river of resourcefulness is running dry. You need to curb your rage."
I stare at him.
"Unless you can control this berserk mode, you will be a machine beyond repair. The Superior will order your execution."
"I don't understand," I say quickly, and my breath catches in my throat at the thought of execution, at the thought of dying. "How am I supposed to control something I never remember doing?"
Zexion cracks a wide smile, the sort that befits a man who convinces a fish that it's free, but holds a stretch of net behind it the whole time. "Well, Saïx, that's what I'm here for."
"You're going to help me?"
"Is that so surprising?" Somehow, Zexion's malicious features twist themselves into a rather pleasant expression. "Execution is the logical choice, but that doesn't automatically make it the Organisation's first choice. No, we would be delighted to keep someone of your level within our ranks. As such, with your consent, we'd like to study berserk. If we can learn its nature, we can reroute it into becoming something of your conscious will."
My hand jumps to my hair. "I can reroute it, but it affects the entire length of the code. You're not just tacking on another link to the chain; you're visibly disrupting it, like even the slightest of movements prompting ripples."
Zexion blinks. He is not nearly as confused as I am. "I beg your pardon?"
"…Leave it there and I'll have it done in three days," I finish quickly. There is an awkward silence. Xaldin appears to be mouthing something at the ceiling. "Sorry. I…I don't know why I said that."
"Dude's a nutter," says Xigbar.
"As I was saying," Zexion continues, catching himself before his sneer gets any further than a thin frown, "with your consent, continued research on berserk will hopefully give us enough of an understanding to control it." He rubs his neck. It's impressive how even the slightest gestures from Zexion reek of arrogance and condescension. "What's the phrase children use?" he asks Xaldin lightly. He turns back without waiting for a response. "Oh. Are you game? That was it."
I bristle at such patronising words, but this frustration is short-lived when I consider what Zexion is offering. The truth is, I don't remember dying, so it frightens me more than it would you. I like to think there is some semblance and depth to me, that makes it worth hanging onto my odd existence.
So I nod my consent.
"Excellent." Zexion smiles.
My days at the Castle have been static, boring. I remember and write, and the others study my work and shake their heads at its uselessness. Researching berserk, in my mind, is probably just more writing, more attempts to cut off Isa and regain my memories.
I don't think for a minute that by nodding, I have just given Xaldin confirmation to try and kill me.
I hear him before I see him move. There's a rush of fabric, and his arms call up a whirlwind that tears at his coat. I blink, and he's darted from one end of the room to land inches in front of me. I manage to throw up an arm to block an attack, but Xaldin aims for my exposed ribs instead.
I fly backwards, crash on the floor. The back of my head slams against the wall.
"Oy! You bastards, you said you were going to help him!" It's your voice - you've been there the whole time - and the resulting thuds on the other side of the glass surely suggest you are lashing out at someone.
"Zexion has unorthodox but effective methods. Sit back down." That's Lexaeus' voice.
I shunt my attention back to Xaldin, who is now barraging me with lances. For every lunge he makes, I leap backwards to avoid the blow. We're so close together, his braids keep whipping my face.
"Xaldin, you're not trying," Zexion calls over the grunts of struggle. He weaves in and out of our fight, hands in his pockets. I shoot Zexion a glare - if only he would desist the arrogance, even for a minute - and doing so leaves me open.
Xaldin punches me. There's no time to get up as he delivers a swift kick to the side of my head. He throws a lance and it pierces my sleeve to pin me against the wall. Then comes another, narrowly missing my cheek and catching my hood. He aims a third, and by this point I realise I have such limited movements that I can't be an easier target. The lance zeroes in on my neck, desperate to injure, and in a fleeting moment of panic, my instinct kicks in and I lift my arm to defend.
"Oh, well done," Zexion says brightly. I catch his reflection in the silvery blade that has abruptly manifested in my hand.
"Is that berserk?" asks Vexen.
"No, that's just him getting pissed," Xigbar replies idly.
I have a split second or two to witness and analyse my weapon, to make a note of its spiked end, bulky weight and powerful swing; then, Xaldin attacks again. He dislodges the lances from the wall and that is all I can see before a sharp wind tears into my eyes.
I swing the bizarre blade, deflecting two stray lances aiming for my eye. Xaldin growls as I push him back, one step at a time. For a second, I think I have him, parrying enough of his attacks to anger him into creating an opening. Then, something rams into my shoulder.
"Isa!"
I stagger backwards, gripping my new wound. My boot slips in a growing puddle of blood. Gasping, I look up to see that Xaldin's bleeding too. One of the spikes of my blade has been stained red. I rewind quickly and realise I never heard him cry out attaining an injury.
"How many times do I have to tell you guys? Isa doesn't respond to violence. He's not built that way. Please, let him go."
I, in the meantime, have none of Xaldin's resilience. The stab wound at my shoulder has completely winded me. In an attempt to shake off the resulting agony, I slam my blade against the wall. It crumbles, as glossy stones and frail sand. A spider leg crack runs the length of the wall.
Xigbar whistles. "Isn't this the strongest room in the Castle? You might want to revisit your building plans, Superior."
To my annoyance, Xaldin doesn't relent. He aims three lances this time, but I deflect them. One topples towards Zexion, who swats it away as though it's merely a dying moth.
"Oh dear," he remarks. He wrinkles his nose at the bloodied footprints Xaldin and I leave round the room, as if he's just an innocent bystander in all of this. "I'm running out of places to stand."
"What's the point of this?" I demand. I land a punch on Xaldin's chest (which hurts me more than him). He retaliates by lodging a lance between my ribs. "Th-this has nothing to do with berserk."
"I thought I had told you: I don't like repeating myself." Zexion sighs irritably. "Berserk is a defence mechanism. People's defence mechanisms usually kick in when they're being attacked."
There's a subtle knock against the two-way panel. Zexion glances up at it, before favouring me with an unrepentant smile. "Time's up."
-x-
In an annoying twist of Castle procedures, Zexion is also responsible for treatment. As such, he ends up patching up the exact wounds he had indirectly caused.
"You're tough," I say politely to Xaldin.
"Of course I am. Every waking hour is spent either meditating to hone my concentration or battling armies of Heartless in merciless conditions. I certainly don't spend my days scrawling in diaries like you." Xaldin thwacks Zexion away as the latter tightens his bandages.
I smile at Xaldin, for his adamant stance reminds me so much of you. He sits on a hospital stool the wrong way round, with a miserable look on his face. Studying him, now freshly aware of just how strong he is, the thought of my own strength occurs to me. I am the no-good Nobody in the Organisation, with a nonexistent element, an unreliable weapon, an incomplete set of memories. I don't train nearly as much as the rest of you and yet, I was able to stab Xaldin twice. I think of the Organisation's response to berserk, how they shut me in a room and planned amongst themselves to come up with ways to collar me.
"I'm too strong."
That's not something Isa would say about himself.
"Yes, you are." Zexion smiles wryly as the door opens and you stick your head round the door. Your face is as red as your hair.
"You little snot," you shout. "You better explain what the hell that 'research' was. Look at what you've done to Isa and Xaldin! They're battered!"
You snatch the roll of gauze from Zexion and pull up a chair. You tend to my injuries instead. "You okay?"
"It's not as bad as it looks, but I too would like to know how that fight contributed to understanding berserk at all."
"Well, it wasn't called," Zexion says. "It appears I may have made a mistake, which is rather new. Even in a fatal attack, all that prompted was the summoning of your weapon. That by itself is a good start, but it isn't the berserk we witnessed. It's triggered by something else, a different form of violence perhaps-"
"I'm not going to sit at a glass window and watch if you try anything like that again." You're speaking to Zexion, but I'm on the receiving end of your glare. Your hand clenches, gripping the base of my thigh as you clean up my shoulder wound.
"You class me as an enemy, Axel, but without my help, the Superior will certainly order Saïx's execution. In any case, I have made two fundamental discoveries, thanks to that tussle." Zexion swivels round on his seat and begins to pack away the first aid kit. "Firstly, Saïx's weapon manifested in his right hand."
"So?" I prompt. "Xigbar could have told you that. He saw my weapon manifest that one mission in the City."
"Isa was left handed." Zexion shrugs. "The whole of your diary is written with a left hand, yet when you have been stripped to rely on instinct, you switch to your right. Secondly, and more importantly: Xaldin, your technique is slipping."
Xaldin's head snaps up, and in admirable, silent fury, he stands up and readies four lances. Just as we're all about to be sucked into an angry whirlwind, Zexion laughs (it's a sound I liken to the haughty squawk of a crow).
"I joke, of course. Secondly, the battle's outcome has set the course clear for my next attempt to provoke berserk. Vexen and I have dissected Saïx's diary and taken particular note of the star charts that label up the sky." Zexion tosses my coat at you. You catch it and help me back into it. The thought occurs, but the emotion doesn't stay. I don't like you touching me.
"Your diary mentions Mars and Saturn, as well as the concept of a zodiac. Since these can only be seen and understood from a particular point in the universe, this inevitably points to the fact Isa and Lea were residents of Radiant Garden."
You stop running your fingers through my hair. "Are you serious? You do know you could have just asked us?"
Zexion remains impassive, finding more interest in lining up medicine bottles on the shelf. "I recall the last time I tried to converse with you, you threw me out a window and tried to stab my eye. So, no, one cannot just ask someone when they're that irrational. No matter, though." He grins, and I really wish he wouldn't. "The Superior has already confirmed it with me. Since physical trauma has proved ineffectual, emotional trauma is the next step. Tomorrow, I'm taking you back to Radiant Garden."