The Power of Words [Kingdom Hearts, Demyx/Dancers, PG]
Title: The Power of Words
Author: harukami
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: 739
Summary: If you say it enough it will become real.
A/N: For the prompt Kingdom Hearts, Demyx/Dancer: Otherness and outsiders - The trick to being an outsider is to be so far out that you're in. Crossposted to harukami.
Under normal circumstances, Demyx thinks, in other situations, he'd be tired and sweaty and footsore and just wanting to chillax after a long day of annoying boring talky meetings.
Instead, of course, he's fine; he's a little bit run-down feeling, but otherwise not really moved; he feels fine, about as refreshed as he'd felt before the meeting began (not very much, but whatever).
Still, it's important to keep up the pretense. He's always felt that; it's like that whole 'Words have power' thing in a way. Sure, they're Nobodies, but if they act like they have hearts, maybe one of these days they'll begin to feel like it. Maybe if he knows how a normal day'd go and treats it like a normal day it'll become one someday -- that's the thought, anyway. He doesn't know if it'll work out or not, but it's worth a shot, and it's better, he thinks, than just acting like it's totally cool that he's fading away day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute.
Frankly, the thought that even one second from now he's less of what he used to be, can remember what it's like to feel even less, gives him the chills -- or would if he could get them. As long as he pretends, at least he can help himself remember.
So after today's meeting he enters his room -- Minstrel's Lament, it's called; Xemnas picked the name -- and toes off his boots. "Man," he says aloud, tossing an edge of a whine into his voice. "Man, today's been a long day, you guys, I'm soooo tired." He kicks a bit to get the second boot off; it hits the wall with a thud and falls to the ground below.
He stretches, unzips his coat down a few inches as if to give himself some breathing room, tugs off his gloves and tosses them the way of his boots. Honestly, physically, it's more uncomfortable with the clothes off; feels like he's got less of a barrier between himself and the rest of reality as it tries to impose in on him. But hey, this is how these things go. So he flexes his fingers, stretches his arms above his head like he could make his back pop just by willing it to, and then tosses himself onto his couch, the incongruous piece of furniture he lugged up from the Dark City, ignoring Larxene's mockery as he'd done so.
"Man," he says again. "I'm bushed! You guys get up to anything fun while I was out?"
They drift in from the corners, glide frictionlessly across the room from places they couldn't logically have started from, loose pants fluttering with their movement, tail from their hats trailing behind them. Demix gives them a lazy grin, a careful grin both tired and hopeful and anticipatory. The whispers of their responses -- No, Leige; no -- he feels more than hears; they don't have throats or lungs or anything like that and their jagged mouths don't open, so they speak through darkness alone.
"Aww, guys," Demyx says. "That's no good, all of us being bored. Here, let me liven things up a bit."
He flips his Sitar out of nothingness, sprawls back on his couch with his feet stretched out before him, socks wrinkled.
"Right, guys," he says, "here's a little something I just made up."
He plays without thinking too hard about composition, plays by trying to pour his heart into the music, fills the room with sound. The natural thought would be that they'd dance to it; they don't. Instead, the Dancers crowd near; a few climb up onto the couch beside him, some others settle at his feet. Their hook-shaped hands touch his thighs, his arms; a head leans on his shoulder, weightless.
Eventually, he lets the music die away. They're all keeping up the act here really well, so he drapes his arms around them, tugs them a little closer like his old self might with any of his groupies.
"You liked that, babes?" he asks. "Stoppit, you're making me blush. Hey -- I've got an idea. Why don't you and me have some fun?"
They press closer. He can almost feel anticipation at it, and he laughs, presses a kiss to the neck of the nearest one. It's harder for them; they're less connected to bodies and other physical things, so this is good. Maybe they'll remember too.
"That's right," Demyx says. "Tell me how you really feel."
Author: harukami
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: 739
Summary: If you say it enough it will become real.
A/N: For the prompt Kingdom Hearts, Demyx/Dancer: Otherness and outsiders - The trick to being an outsider is to be so far out that you're in. Crossposted to harukami.
Under normal circumstances, Demyx thinks, in other situations, he'd be tired and sweaty and footsore and just wanting to chillax after a long day of annoying boring talky meetings.
Instead, of course, he's fine; he's a little bit run-down feeling, but otherwise not really moved; he feels fine, about as refreshed as he'd felt before the meeting began (not very much, but whatever).
Still, it's important to keep up the pretense. He's always felt that; it's like that whole 'Words have power' thing in a way. Sure, they're Nobodies, but if they act like they have hearts, maybe one of these days they'll begin to feel like it. Maybe if he knows how a normal day'd go and treats it like a normal day it'll become one someday -- that's the thought, anyway. He doesn't know if it'll work out or not, but it's worth a shot, and it's better, he thinks, than just acting like it's totally cool that he's fading away day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute.
Frankly, the thought that even one second from now he's less of what he used to be, can remember what it's like to feel even less, gives him the chills -- or would if he could get them. As long as he pretends, at least he can help himself remember.
So after today's meeting he enters his room -- Minstrel's Lament, it's called; Xemnas picked the name -- and toes off his boots. "Man," he says aloud, tossing an edge of a whine into his voice. "Man, today's been a long day, you guys, I'm soooo tired." He kicks a bit to get the second boot off; it hits the wall with a thud and falls to the ground below.
He stretches, unzips his coat down a few inches as if to give himself some breathing room, tugs off his gloves and tosses them the way of his boots. Honestly, physically, it's more uncomfortable with the clothes off; feels like he's got less of a barrier between himself and the rest of reality as it tries to impose in on him. But hey, this is how these things go. So he flexes his fingers, stretches his arms above his head like he could make his back pop just by willing it to, and then tosses himself onto his couch, the incongruous piece of furniture he lugged up from the Dark City, ignoring Larxene's mockery as he'd done so.
"Man," he says again. "I'm bushed! You guys get up to anything fun while I was out?"
They drift in from the corners, glide frictionlessly across the room from places they couldn't logically have started from, loose pants fluttering with their movement, tail from their hats trailing behind them. Demix gives them a lazy grin, a careful grin both tired and hopeful and anticipatory. The whispers of their responses -- No, Leige; no -- he feels more than hears; they don't have throats or lungs or anything like that and their jagged mouths don't open, so they speak through darkness alone.
"Aww, guys," Demyx says. "That's no good, all of us being bored. Here, let me liven things up a bit."
He flips his Sitar out of nothingness, sprawls back on his couch with his feet stretched out before him, socks wrinkled.
"Right, guys," he says, "here's a little something I just made up."
He plays without thinking too hard about composition, plays by trying to pour his heart into the music, fills the room with sound. The natural thought would be that they'd dance to it; they don't. Instead, the Dancers crowd near; a few climb up onto the couch beside him, some others settle at his feet. Their hook-shaped hands touch his thighs, his arms; a head leans on his shoulder, weightless.
Eventually, he lets the music die away. They're all keeping up the act here really well, so he drapes his arms around them, tugs them a little closer like his old self might with any of his groupies.
"You liked that, babes?" he asks. "Stoppit, you're making me blush. Hey -- I've got an idea. Why don't you and me have some fun?"
They press closer. He can almost feel anticipation at it, and he laughs, presses a kiss to the neck of the nearest one. It's harder for them; they're less connected to bodies and other physical things, so this is good. Maybe they'll remember too.
"That's right," Demyx says. "Tell me how you really feel."