The Cat Unbreathing, Ch.2 (rated M)

[rabbitprint]

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The Cat Unbreathing, Ch.2

Vexen's disappearance leaves Saix in a haze of curiosity and weariness; he does not know what the scientist was trying to say with his final breath, his demand for one last vow. There are a million words that Saix can use to fill in the blanks. None of them are satisfactory.

He waits all night in case Vexen is simply fading out of range again -- if Saix's mental antenna has gone through a peculiar glitch and is no longer calibrated to the scientist's range. He starts to make a pot of coffee automatically before remembering the teapot is broken; forced to improvise, he draws a hot cup of water instead and breaks into the stash of old teabags, brewing stale oranges that taste like drinking drain cleaner.

Vexen does not return.

There is a sense of finality to the rooms as well now; no matter how many times he handles the books now, they are dead to his touch, little more than ink and paper.

Saix continues to stay in the scientist's quarters, though he has no ready answers as to why. He's not sure how to find Vexen a third time, or if he's meant to learn something from the scientist's return. If his last chance to see Vexen had been intended to communicate something, then Saix did not understand.

Promise me --

On the day Luxord returns from Port Royal with his pockets empty and a heart under his arm, the castle is quiet, as if even the lesser Nobodies know that something is amiss. Dealing with Kairi is not a task which Saix feels particularly enthused over. Left to his own discretion, he stuck her in the nearest room that didn't have a door, and left her there.

He's hoping that the decision won't come back to haunt him.

This time it is Luxord who comes to Saix's rooms -- or more accurately, Vexen's. The diviner's busy deciding whether he should make some pretense for being there or demand that X leave at once, but the gambler does nothing more than extend his hand in greeting.

"You look like a man in search of more time," is his mild remark.

Saix ignores the politeness. "Why do you say that?"

"Only that I thought I was supposed to meet for a debriefing with you about," Luxord makes a great show of consulting a pocketwatch which he conjures out of midair, "three hours ago." A click, and he has folded up the timepiece and caused it to vanish again. "Really, now, Saix. I understand that there is some leniency to be found with my gifts, but..."

"I've been seeing things." Saix's voice surprises even himself, harsh and abrupt. He does not look at the gambler, but stares straight ahead instead, resolutely ignoring his own words even as he speaks them. "A part of my gift, you could say. I want to know what they are."

Luxord is tactful enough to only glance about the room once, as if gathering all he'd needed to know from the half-full teapot and Saix’s state of distraction. "When did they start?"

A hundred possibilities run through Saix’s head. He weighs the worth and wisdom of each, how they sit in his mouth. He does not know where the thoughts come from, though he supposes it must be from somewhere deep inside himself where they have been left to rot. Now, like corpses in water, they float to the surface until he can no longer deny them.

There are many things Saix can say -- when I started trying to think like a dead man comes foremost to his mind -- and the words dam up behind his teeth like a riverful of swelling carcasses, demanding to be freed.

But he refuses to let them out. Instead, Saix turns a question back on the gambler, the moment of indecision come and gone in an instant.

"Have you ever," he asks slowly, hesitant about the phrasing in light of their inability to feel, "regretted anything? I don't mean with a heart," he adds, loathe to get into the whole circus of emotions and not having them. "But if you believe you’ve made a mistake?"

The way Luxord stares at him, curiously, he suddenly wishes he'd asked something else. Anything else. Something about Xemnas, maybe.

"I have made a few bad gambles, in my time," Luxord answers eventually.

"What did you do about them?"

"What any practical man would, and accepted the loss -- while learning what I could from it." With a rustle of leather, Luxord lowers himself into the nearest chair, drawing in a deep breath. "Did you ever wonder why a man like me does not reverse time, Saix? Why a Gambler of Fate does not escape it?"

The question surprises Saix; in truth, he had never thought about such an ability on that kind of scale. Just as no one had expected anything out of Diviner save his skill in demolishing their enemies, Saix had only considered Luxord as a planner at best, and a dilettante otherwise. "No."

Luxord's smile is wry, and just on the edge of cynical. His wrist twists, presenting the remains of a taper candle. The stub is little better than a lump of wax with a dot for a wick on the end.

Without waiting, Luxord strikes a spark from his hand, clicking the wheel of the tiny lighter that had been palmed midway through his presentation.

"Now," he says quietly, as Saix's attention is automatically drawn towards the wan flame. "We'll see why candles aren't rewound to burn again."

- - - - -

"Get out."

"No."

There's something familiar about this conversation, something that nags at Saix's mind and makes his brow wrinkle. The scientist is ornery -- this much he knows from experience -- so it's unaccountable why Vexen's behavior is a problem now of all times.

A moment of distraction; he's not sure why. It will pass.

But as Vexen shifts minutely, turns to the side and prepares to move away, it is that strange lingering sense that makes Saix's hand snap out.

He catches the door before it shuts.

"I said," he repeats, softly. "No."

The ensuing argument is heard across five laboratories. When the dust settles, it is hard to determine who is the victor: Saix has a nasty case of frostbite lanced across the side of his face, but Vexen refuses to show himself in public for a week.

They meet again. They fight again. And eventually, the rest of the Organization learn that it's best to leave the two to their own devices, for they're the only ones who seem to put up with each other, which is useful enough; whenever one of them is having some sort of scientific fit or infection of brutality, their other half can at least be consulted.

The construction of the other Castle proceeds even without the scientist, as Marluxia declares that too much needs to be done to prepare for the Keyblade Master's arrival without adding the burden of having to wait for those who could not swallow their pride long enough to see to the interests of the Organization. There's a sneer as he says this, of course, and Saix isn't surprised to see Vexen forming one in return, but there's a sudden pang of something in him that couldn't be called jealousy if it stood on its head and hung itself with ribbons.

He prefers to have Vexen's irritation saved for him, takes a certain sort of pleasure in the knowledge that they're the only ones who can grate against each other's nerves this much-- so even before XI has turned completely away, Saix is already bulling rudely into Vexen's shoulder, under the pretense of shouldering past to leave the meeting room.

The distraction works, and Vexen turns away from staring daggers at Marluxia's back to snarl.

After all the aggression and the snide remarks, unsubtle insults and missing supplies, the next step is only logical. After Saix discovers that Vexen has bullied his own berserkers into redecorating his room with polka dots, the berserker suddenly finds himself seizing the other Nobody by the collar, slamming him up against the wall, snarling in his face, and then proceeding to kiss him thoroughly out of his bloated, egotistical, entirely too intellectual skull to shut him up.

It works until Vexen decides to kiss back.

Business cannot be delayed forever, of course. There are goals to be accomplished, plots to be woven, leaders to be devoured whole. Vexen packs up his supplies for the trip, grumbling about his more delicate experiments, about wasting time relocating his work, and how impossible it was that Saix could have stolen every single one of his favorite socks.

When news comes back about the betrayal at Castle Oblivion, Saix blinks at the message.

"I don't have a heart," he points out simply. "What would you expect me to say?"

- - - - - -

Saix shakes himself out of his trance, blinking as bright spots stain themselves along his retinas, blowing out his sight. Across the table, Luxord is a faintly-grinning outline of black and tan.

"No. Again," Saix orders roughly. "Try again."

- - - - - -

The Organization doesn't joke. It's not in their nature to. Collecting hearts and building a new world is entirely serious business.

That doesn't mean Xigbar can't cough about old married couples into his palm, at times, or Demyx smirk at both of them from behind a fan of cue cards. With the lack of serious opposition to their plans, hobbies fill in the bulk of the Organization’s time. The lines blur easily between Saix's life and Vexen's; the fact that they are so dissimilar is a challenge, and in the struggle of opposites, there's some entertainment to be found.

In one of Saix's dressers, tucked in the pants drawer, Vexen's inquisitive fingers lay claim to an old trinket from the berserker's past: a Windurst sun, little better than a decoration to hang on the ends of curtains or belts for good luck.

When he sees it dangling from an unused beaker ring on one of Vexen's lab benches, Saix blinks. He thinks about speaking up in protest, and finally just lets it stay there.

In the end, no one knows what to do with Kingdom Hearts after its summoning is finally complete. It hangs in the sky like a bloated, enigmatic balloon, no good to anyone and certainly no further use to them. Research on its mysteries is suddenly far less appealing now that they have reclaimed what they had lost. Risking their hearts again would be idiotic -- idiotic and certainly irreversible a second time.

Moving around the Castle is significantly harder now that their command over the remaining Dusks is slipping. Recognizing the other Organization members is even more difficult. Half of them act like Sia is some kind of monster when he first pads through the rooms, ears twitching; it's nice to have his tail back, though it still feels unfamiliar whenever it twitches against his legs, and he's not used to having to look up at people now that he's shorter. He no longer looks like a Hume, and that's fine; he is no longer a Nobody, and has no reason to blend in.

Sia has a moment to spare to pity Even -- Even now, not Vexen, as everyone keeps reminding each other in the tangle of their new-old names -- who would almost certainly never be able to gather up his laboratory or all his notes, piles of paper and equipment that represented years of work. It's a novel sensation, being able to pity -- and even then it is tinted, faintly, with scorn. The research on hearts will certainly do Even no good, now that the reason for their interest in it has expired. It serves no point.

When Sia comes down to the laboratories out of curiosity, shattered glass crunches under his feet. Chemicals stain the floor. All the air vents are running at full blast, and even then, they can't filter out the smell of smoke, a stench that's powerful enough to cause Sia's ears to flick in a primal wariness.

He turns the final corner just in time to see why. Dry-eyed and thin-lipped, Even drops another journal into the fire in the middle of the main lab and watches it smolder.

"We're done here."

Braig's last order before they abandon the castle is to gather all valuables before they leave. The World That Never Was is already dissolving, like an ice flow in a river; small pockets of the City break away and float into the Darkness, ferrying helpless Dusks away.

The biggest challenge now waiting for the Organization is that they are once again vulnerable to the needs, to the demands, to the wants of a body, multiplied and magnified by the presence of a heart. As Nobodies, it was easy to know when a pang of hunger truly meant the need for food instead of mere emotional queasiness; now that all their judgments are clouded by emotion, they begin to crave, to want things that are not truly necessary for survival.

Of them all, Even is one of the most demanding and the least capable, quick to plan and slow to act. He's the one who sets Sia and Ael to the nearest river -- a stream that trickles in from the broken ocean, inexplicably running fresh instead of salt -- to stand in thigh-deep, near-freezing water to wait for unwary fish to come within reach. Ael grips one of Dilan's spears. Sia's fingernails have reverted to claws, so all he needs is his hands to capture what comes by. He never had to hunt for his own meals, back on his own world, but his Nobody had plenty of time to become a predator.

Yet there are no fish, at least not today, and after some time Ael finally speaks:

"This is idiotic."

Sia silently agrees, even though he's not really angry about the wasted efforts. Every day since recovering his heart has been uneasy; he keeps expecting that a berserker's rage is only a moment away, but the calm of his heart has settled in firmly, keeping everything neatly under control. Sedated. He's glad for that, to feel normal again. Going hungry is worth the trade-off.

"You'd think that a cat could catch fish." If anything, Even's disdain has become worse since Kingdom Hearts. "Maybe we should bribe you by offering a ball of string."

The muscles in Sia's tail give an automatic flick of annoyance. He thinks about fighting; as soon as he does, he thinks about not fighting too, not giving in to what his Nobody would have done. Of the two, his heart wins out. He reaches for the spear. "Here, let me try."

"You're not big enough for the job," Even retorts, lips twisting up into a sneer, "We need muscle, not something scrawny enough to barely hold a weapon. Shame you can't manage that any longer."

Sia looks at Even with surprise, and then there's something like a kick just behind his sternum: he realizes that he doesn't really like Even as much as he could, as much as he thought he would.

Even is different from Vexen. Even has years of history that are important to him, while Vexen kept his private life tightly under control. The list of differences between Somebody and Nobody continue to build the longer Sia acquaints himself with Even -- and perhaps he's building a tally of his own, a silent count of what Saix was that Sia isn't.

Sia's proud that his heritage has not faded despite his time separated from his heart. Suddenly memories mean something again, in a confused doubled-set of priorities. It matters that he has a home to return to -- maybe -- and a family that he thinks he wants to see, and a life that would be nice to be a part of again, even if all his sisters are bossy and he's not sure how he'd find Vana'diel yet either. It's not that he's regained lost memories; Sia remembered his world all along, but it hadn't been as important back then as it is now, coloring his thoughts and influencing every decision he makes until Sia wonders how he ever could have neglected it.

The newer members of the Organization have much less of a connection between their hearts and their Nobodies. Enlear only stares at them all when they try to speak to her, trying to convince her that she was once a person they knew as Larxene. Yemd seems off-balance for reasons none of them are entirely certain about. Ruliama addresses them all politely, but as strangers; he does not remember anything from his time as Marluxia, though he's willing to remain cordial.

But the senior members of the Organization have a more serious history to confront. Their Nobodies were strong enough to retain some control, and they remember the events that occurred after the destruction of their homeworld.

Xehanort is the worst off. Gone is Xemnas's cold authority, Xemnas's vision. Instead, what's left behind is a creature with even fewer emotions than its Nobody; Xehanort has no passion, no intensity, and no resemblance to the man that Sia once knew.

"Your Heartless might have been missing from the others, Xehanort," Ienzo reasons. "Or otherwise unreachable. Kingdom Hearts must have given you a fresh heart to exist with. It has none of the emotions from your past."

"Do you think they'll ever come back?" Xehanort asks him plaintively, and Sia is torn between utter disgust at the Superior's helplessness, and a complete unfamiliarity with the man.

Sia tries to ask Even about it, since he knows -- journals or no -- that the scientist may be the only one of them who'll give a straight answer, too used to being brusque to step around the subject.

Even, however, only snaps. "How should I know? I haven't destroyed my own heart recently, have I?"

And Sia is left to wonder if Even merely acts the way he does because he does not know what else to do, because it was in him all along, or because there was an innate darkness in what Kingdom Hearts gave in a shower of plasma and glitter, science and spellcraft.

With the exception of Xehanort -- who spends most of his time smiling and accepting whatever someone tells him -- the senior members all waver between wanting to return to Radiant Garden and realizing that doing so would be tantamount to a death sentence. Even insists, insists on sticking with them, all six of them together, a communal knot of shared history that leaves the junior members on the outside.

They almost come to blows over this when the final choices have to be made. Sia tells Even that it might be better to stay away from the others for a while, at least until whatever potential revenge is out there passes. Perhaps he and Even could go together somewhere. Somewhere remote. Somewhere safe.

"And why should I listen to a glorified pet anyway?" Even sneers. "You don't know anything about what we have to face."

Sia draws in a deep breath, and then simply turns and walks away.

They do not say goodbye.

Ael is already gone; he was the first to leave once they'd managed to get a stable portal together, citing something about having to go check for himself on the fate of the Keyblade Masters. Sia watches the members who remain: Xehanort, smiling and laughing at something Braig has just said, Dilan perching sullenly on a chair while he cleans off his spears by hand. Ienzo is still reading. As Sia watches, Elaeus leans down to whisper something in his ear, and suddenly Ienzo grins.

Their Others may be similar to their Nobodies, but they are not the same, and in that small distinction lies everything.

He takes the next portal that opens.

Later when Sia is home again -- his family exclaims over his miraculous return, fusses over him, orders him very sternly to never be captured again by the threats outside the walls -- he briefly, very briefly wonders where Even is now. If the scientist found what he was looking for. If he's still looking for it. If Even, in turn, is wondering what happened to a man he knew as Saix who became a cat called Sia, whom he didn't know at all.

He lets himself wonder, briefly: and then his mouth thins into a line, and he tells himself, before he turns back to his sister, that he doesn't care at all.

Even probably doesn't, either.

That night, he climbs up the stairs to his comfortable bedroom, in his comfortable house where everything is provided to him along with a stack of angry, overdue notices from the breeding council. He sleeps on a mattress soft enough to cradle him from head to toe, with sheets clean and fresh as the sea. In the morning, he is examined by physicians and white mages, given a clean stamp of approval as a healthy Mithra male, and then he is back to his old life completely.

Years later, a battered letter makes its way into his quarter of the city, a curt missive borne by a strange dwarf -- like a black moogle without a pompom, as one of his sisters describes it -- and Sia takes it carefully.

When he unfolds the sheet of paper, something slips to the floor -- or would have, if his reflexes had not caught it in an eyeblink. Familiar edges dig into his palm. Under the grime, a familiar surface glistens, and he recognizes the Windurst sun-charm he had saved so long ago.

The message is brief and to the point. He said to give it back to you if he ever passed away.

Sia blinks.

Then his youngest daughter is tugging on his tail, and demanding to know why daddy has something interesting, why isn't he showing everyone, and why is it fair that Cheeia got a new set of lockpicks without having to share?

Sia ruffles her hair, giving the sun-charm to her to play with instead.

She promptly loses it five minutes later, but by then, he's already tossed the letter into the trash.

- - - -

"No. Again."

- - - -

Shadows have eaten his home, and Asi has hidden himself in one of last tower turrets that remain untainted.

The monsters are closing in. He can feel it.

Suddenly the shadows around him stir and shudder, rippling with the promise of birthing more of the dark monsters that already prowl the fields and floors below. Asi has a sword in his hands, one that served his father well in older wars -- but did nothing to protect the father from these creatures, and it will not serve the son any better.

Asi's hand clutches tightly around the grip when the darkness rises from the floor, swelling in a tide ready to crush him under.

He closes his eyes and waits to die.

But it never comes.

The temperature of the air around him drops, and there's a wet thud as something is kicked away. Suddenly he's being taken by the hand, pulled to his feet, urged to run.

"My name is Even," says a voice, and it takes Asi a moment to register green eyes and the light brown hair that matches it. There's a bow slung across his back and ice rimming the boy’s lashes. "Can you walk? We need to get you out of here, and I'm not carrying you. Come on."

Asi asks who his saviors are later, when he's gathered enough control to follow the archer through the corridors of his family's keep. They're looking for survivors, but he's starting to think they won't find any. He resorts to questions to distract himself from that particular thought, sword still shakily in hand.

"We're -- well, we're an organization," Even replies, as they pad down one staircase. Shadows rustle further down; Even nocks one arrow and lets it fly, glistening inside a magical coating of ice. "The Organization of the Mouse. Braig likes to call us Mouseketeers, though, even if he's the only one who uses a musket. If you’ve got nothing left for you here, do you want to come along?"

They grow twelve-strong, while Mickey hunts desperately for the one he claims is their thirteenth: Sora, a Keyblade Master in his own right, lost on a quest to save Princess Kairi. The king of Even's world had vanished several years ago, looking for the Heartless; no one has seen Ansem the Wise, but they find his notes on occasion, tiny scraps of paper that Xehanort clutches in his hands before very carefully smoothing them out and collecting them in a leatherbound case.

"It's alright," Xehanort tells them after one particularly fruitless campaign into the northern woods, and because it's Xehanort speaking, they believe him.

There's something about the man that inspires the most wordless kind of confidence. Even puts it best: "We'd follow him anywhere," he tells Asi.

"Why?" Asi is watching the archer restring his bow, and he's only half-listening.

It's enough of a question to make Even pause and actually think about an answer. "I suppose it's because he believes in what he's doing. And he doesn't hide it. You know where he stands, always. There's a kind of trust in that."

Dilan, who's tuned into the conversation halfway through, shakes his head. "That's not it," he corrects. "It's because he's never been afraid."

Braig sums it up a different way later, when Asi is pressed up against a tree and arrows are sliding through the branches, back and forth, their physical weapons fencing with those of the Heartless. "Y'ever see one of the cannons at work?"

Asi is busy trying to restring his longbow; it's an impossible task when he's cramped against the tree, contorting his limbs to try and flex the bow into a curve. "What?"

"The experimental mako cannon things." Braig grunts. There's the sharp crack of a gun, and the smell of powder floating back through the underbrush. "One of those goes off, you don't want to be anywhere near the things. Safest place to be is behind 'em. If you see the field where a cannon's been, you know you're safe walking there, because there's nothing left behind.” A tearing of paper, and Braig’s shaking another dose of powder into the musket’s priming pan. "Xehanort's like that. If things had turned out differently, he'd be one hell of a force for Darkness."

"But they didn't," Asi finds himself saying, an insistence that feels clumsy for some reason, as if he's arguing in the wrong language. "He's still with us."

Braig scoops up his ammunition bag and gives it a shake; Donald always yells when they leave the paper of the cartridges behind, complaining about waste and resources. "Yeah. He is. Doesn't make him any less dangerous, though. Look for where the ground's been torn up and destroyed -- that's where he's been, and that means it's safe."

The conversation breaks off there, as they hear Ienzo singing out the all-clear for this area of the wood; Braig grins briefly at Asi before scrambling out of the foliage, and Asi returns to Even's post, dodging magic and shrapnel as he weaves his way back to safety.

Their love is the love of battlefields, the kind of connection shared only between those who have stood together in sprays of spells and arrows and gore, stood behind and beside and back to back, covering each other's weaknesses as neatly as dancers responding to the subtle cants of their partner's form. There is no time for more than the roughest intimacy, if any of them had time to even think about such instincts. More often than not, they prefer to spend their time together asleep, curled together like exhausted hounds or dozing cats or lost boys.

Sometimes, Even shivers.

Sometimes, Asi does.

Either way, they say nothing until the dawn breaks, and even then they do nothing more than confirm that they are still themselves and the other is alive.

Around them, all the Mouseketeers do the same, in the strange, quiet partnerships they've formed: Dilan touches Xehanort by the shoulder to wake him, he's always been a late sleeper, and Ralene is already mounted on Elaeus' shoulders, using the man as an impromptu watchtower as she scans for danger. Donald and Goofy are always together, always floating around the camp. Ienzo chats amiably with Dyme and Lea -- light-footed and mobile as they are, the three spend the most time on scouting and reconnaissance out of all of them, and Asi can hear jests about the declining quality of the campfire meals twining smoothly with discussion about the next ideal place to make an easily-defensible camp.

Of them all, it is in fact only Lauriam who lacks a partner, who cannot find another soul to counterbalance his and serve as an anchor during times of duress. Then again, he doesn’t seem to need the support. Lauriam is a farmer-turned-warrior, taking up his scythe to reap his vengeance when the Heartless consumed his village. When he is in doubt, he turns to the security of ritual comfort, the million and one tiny superstitions that do nothing but reassure. Only let raindrops hit your head an even number of times. Put your left sleeve on before your right. Stir your stew counterclockwise, eat with your weaker hand.

Strange Lauriam. Lauriam the loner, who walks by himself and does not join into the conversations when they speak about the power of the Dusks, only watching them all with a private, inscrutable gaze.

During the mornings as they gather themselves for the next stage in their campaigns, it’s always Mickey and Xehanort who wake up first. The latter coaxes the campfires back into healthy flames; the mouse king, on the other hand, tastes the hotpot and wonders aloud at the lack of pepper. They speak often together. Xehanort always asks Mickey if there has been any other signs of Ansem, and the mouse king always shakes his head, sobers, and then quickly steers the conversation back towards the creature known as DiZ. They know little about the dangers they face, apart from the renegade Keyblade Master and his mysterious advisor; whether it is DiZ manipulating Riku, or Riku using DiZ, no one is quite certain. There is an unnatural fusion, that much they do know, with Shadows and Dusks working together despite being polar opposites.

Instead, the uncertainty is filled up with Donald's constant protests, Goofy's good-hearted laughter. And that horrible, horrible, catchy marching tune that Dyme composed around the fire one evening, and then sang it until it was all lodged firmly in their heads.

Who's the leader of us all, a friend to you and me...

They fight against shadows, against dusky beings, against their own fears and hesitations. Of the available threats, the Dusks are the worse menace: they do not claim hearts like the Shadows, but kill their victims outright. At least with the Heartless, there is still hope.

After a week-long campaign on the Fields of Bedknobs and Broomsticks, Even helps Asi sew his own flag at last, gathering together scraps from around the camp supplies to form an irregular blue length of cloth, marked with a white crescent moon.

"'We'll do things and we'll go places,'" the archer murmurs, finishing off a stitch, reciting the verse like an incantation against harm. "'All around the world, we'll go marching.' There," he announces, and thrusts it out towards Asi. "'Forever let us hold our banners high.'"

Asi knows enough by now to answer him with the next line, repeating the words again and again in the only promise that matters these days: "High, high, high."

It's during a rare quiet time between skirmishes that Asi finds a way to repay Even for what he's taught him, for the tricks and secrets that make life on the road easier to bear.

"You've never learned how to?" he asks; perhaps his voice is more incredulous than it sounds, because Even flushes faintly before he turns away, folding his arms in the gesture that Asi's learned is his only defense. "Oh, come on -- don't start sulking."

"I didn't exactly have a reason to," Even mutters, glaring at Asi peevishly for the second comment. "Braig tried to teach me, but..." he shrugs. "That's why I have these instead." The archer pats the packet of signal whistles he keeps strung in a bandolier around his chest -- eagle, loon, hawk, kite; the voices of countless birds are kept there, mute and trapped in wood until someone breathes them into life.

In a sudden burst of gallantry, Asi reaches for one of them. "Here, I'll teach you."

Unfortunately, he quickly discovers the reason Braig stopped trying to show Even how to whistle unaided: even the weakest attempt sounds like a strangled duck. By the end of the afternoon, though, Asi's fingers are streaked with spit from trying to demonstrate, they're laughing hard enough to cry and Even's signal no longer sounds like dying waterfowl.

The memory is enough to keep a smile on Asi's face as they fight through the next wave of Heartless.

One night, they're all sitting exhausted around the fire. Dyme's the one who starts it: lips cracking, chapped, the side of his chin smeared with bowstring suet. M, I, C, he croaks, and has to cough -- but then Lea has the tune, smirking it out with his customary mockery. He lifts his hands with deliberate care and gives a clap with each letter, a dull leather metronome counting out the battle cry until they're all chanting, all singing, all finding it in themselves to last another day.

When the stanzas about the King grow stale, Dyme turns to improvisation. He writes and rewrites the verses on a piece of foolscap scavenged out of Ienzo's mapmaking supplies, the plain sheet already scored through with blots of spilt ink by the time the bard gets to it. By the time dinner's over, Dyme's worked through four stanzas with no clear sign of progress, and eventually appeals to the others for advice.

Even lifts a skeptical, wary eyebrow. "Well, let's see what you have."

Dyme clears his throat, formally, and begins to recite:

He's dark of face and light of hair
And eyes as gold as day!
Whenever we need to forge ahead,
It's he who paves the way!

He'll grin and tease and laugh aloud
And never quite play fair!
But every scar on him was earnt
The cost he'll never share!

He walks on wind and through the rain
To keep us from the cold!
I'd trust him best to watch my back
'Cause he's brave and strong and bold!

His temper'd spook the Dusks, alright,
If they had hearts to cow!
But since they don't, he'll have to take
His bow and teach them how! -- now! -- how!

Even cuts Dyme off before he can finish recomposing the last verse. "That's enough," he grumbles, exasperated. "Don't you have patrol duty to do?"

"You're just jealous that he couldn't find anything vainglorious to say about you," Asi says, slyly.

Even swats at his head, but Asi ducks away, laughing, and Dyme gathers his papers and the war is successfully forgotten for yet another evening, another day.

They lose Xehanort eventually, without even realizing it -- a single stray report about Sherwood Forest is all it takes. Donald and Goofy are been positioned further ahead as scouts, and the King's magician sends back a hurried report one afternoon about how Riku’s forces have broken through to King Richard's borders, along with one other ominous postscript:

One of the Heartless Commanders had enough time to giggle the name Ansem before it died in a pile of insects and burlap, deflating like a soiled balloon.

Xehanort's gone before anyone thinks to stop him, running to the front lines or maybe to the vanguard's flank, or maybe to -- they don't know where, but they can guess. Then Dilan and Braig go chasing after him, determined to catch the boy before he gets too far, and the Mouseketeers are down by three.

Asi's eyes have grown sharp now. His other senses are even better, primed for battle and the smell of blood, so when Even starts to fidget and glance towards the front lines, Asi stops him first.

"You'd be the fourth lost."

Even attempts a brief denial; he looks away and then squares his shoulders. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Asi holds up one hand in warning, palm upright and knuckles clenched. Then, once he has Even's attention, he opens his fingers to count off a silent tally, one to three. "The list is already too long," he concludes once he's reached the end. "I won't let you become Number Four, just to get yourself killed."

Even's face closes like a door, like a fist, like one of those artichokes he is forever dreaming aloud about. "Riku will kill us all anyway," he snaps, whirling away. Trapped in the small bunker, the archer paces across the cramped storeroom. "It's only a matter of time."

"Sora will be able to rescue Princess Kairi. He wields the Key of Destiny -- "

"If Sora could save her, he'd have done so by now." Even's voice is sharp and testy, full of shards like broken glass and -- this takes Asi a moment to register -- something more subtle: fear. "All we're doing now is holding ground, hanging onto what we can." His face twists up like a child's. "But we're losing, Asi. Every day our borders grow smaller."

As if he's given up on trying to escape his anxiety, Even shudders and lets himself collapse onto the edge of his own bunk, burying his face into his hands. "What happens when we can't hold them off, Asi?" His voice is a thin rasp, openly vulnerable in a time when none of them can afford to be. "What happens when we die?"

Asi has no answers, so he does the only thing he can do, now: reach out and wrap his arms around Even's trembling shoulders until they both stop talking about destruction, and all that's left is a bone-deep weariness.

Their team is split off on the One-Hundred Acre Wood. In the distance, Dyme's and Lea's banners goes down -- there one minute, scraps of brightly-colored cloth stained on the corners from old battles, and then torn right off the towers they were stationed to defend. Elaeus is bellowing bitter vows downstairs as he reinforces the front gates, muscling logs to barricade the doors in a futile defense -- the Shadows will just crawl over the walls if they're thwarted at the gates, and if they cannot climb the walls, they will walk through them. Ienzo's spells leave a harsh tang on the air as he chants. There's a flash of yellow hair slipping through the buildings below, enough to catch Asi's attention as he leans out a window and realizes that Ralene is here instead of out on the front lines, and if her patrol has fallen back this far, then the entire west quadrant must be overrun --

And then the Dusks are there, erupting from the center of their defenses somehow, spilling out from the heart of the keep. Even has enough time to babble aloud about how impossible that is, how someone would have to have intimate knowledge of the inner wards to breach them that neatly, and then they're all too busy scrambling for cover. Heartless-created explosives fly over the walls from both directions, sending up showers of mortar and stone on impact.

"Hold them off until King Mickey returns!" Asi hears, and then another voice wishing that Ansem the Wise would come home, and then Asi's hands are on his sword and Creepers are everywhere, white bodies mixing with black in the streets. In the distance, he can hear Dyme's voice screaming letters in a thin, reedy defiance -- K, E, Y, echoes over and over in the wrong order as Dyme messes up and repeats and refuses to fall silent, and Ais almost wants to pick up the chant himself, bellowing out their only battle song.

He fights and curses and leaves Even and Lauriam behind together, two archers with a dwindling supply of arrows to pepper the air.

Asi takes the stairs down two at a time, his feet sliding and stuttering on the landings. He reaches the gate in time, skidding to a halt just as the Shadows breach the lower gates after all, boiling through the wards which crack louder than Braig's gunshots.

"Hold them off," Elaeus is ordering, strong as a mountain as he lifts his arms against the first wave. They spill over his body like glistening, liquid ticks.

Asi readies his sword as the Shadows approach; there are not many of the Organization present to defend the gates, but they must stand fast. They dare not falter. If they fail, then there is only one line of defense left to stem the tide, and by then the Darkness will have already gained access to the roads. Even and Lauriam will have to hold the inner fort against the Dusks on their own. They must.

Asi fights like he never has before. Shadows dissipate into smoke under his blade. Dusks part before him as if they're no more than a sea of feathers before the weight of his sword. Fury propels him forward, drives him through the gate in increments of two, three, four steps; he hears something snap and thinks distantly that it might have been the bone of his little finger, but spares it no more than a thought. It's not important: all that matters now is making certain the Shadows don't reach Even, because Even has the worst opening in his defense on his right flank and Asi has had to cover for him hundreds of times before, and maybe, maybe if he holds the gate long enough or ignores enough pain or just manages to defeat the Heartless forever, then maybe they'll both live to see just one more morning --

The first ray of sunset burnishes the sky a dull red.

Then a whistle cuts across the field, echoing down from the towers behind him -- sharp and high and familiar and desperate -- and Asi, Asi knows this is the last time he will ever hear that sound in his life.

He turns back.

Even dies anyway.

- - - - - - -

When Saix arrives in Radigarden, the first thing he does is examine the local listings for a place to stay. He's not particularly picky about living conditions, save that the place be clean enough not to have cockroaches crawling all over his face when he sleeps. What matters is that it's affordable -- and considering his budget, that leaves him with a very limited range of options, and he doesn't look forward to having to comb through the neighborhood for a place that isn't ridiculously overpriced or seedy.

Luck must be smiling on him, because the moment he steps into the fourth apartment, he knows it's the one he wants.

The only problem is that he isn't the only one who wants it.

They strike a deal, the other man and him. Saix gets the room with the balcony because his newfound roommate claims to dislike the sun, which makes Saix wonder briefly about vampirism. He doesn't have much in the way of supplies, so he gladly cedes the storage room; each evening, Saix can hear the busy activity within as the rattling of construction projects nearly sends glasses crashing off the counter.

He gets two-thirds of the bathroom, on the justification that he possesses more toiletries -- shaving, for one; the other man seems to wake up clean-cut every morning and he has no idea how -- and needs the space for them. The blonde coughs something about metrosexuality into his hand, which Saix ignores.

Considering appearances, Saix’s roommate hardly in a position to talk. Despite the worn red flannel and patched jeans, his frame is almost delicate, and even with his hair pulled back as it is, Saix can tell it's thick and luxuriant. Briefly he wonders what it would be like to tug his fingers through it, then discards the thought instantly.

Duct tape to delineate personal bounds is ridiculous, and something Saix privately thought only happened in movies, but the trail of dull silver that winds its way through the living room and up the wall -- glistening like the trail some strange metallic slug has left behind-- is unmistakably there, and refusing to disappear no matter how long he looks at it.

Things get worse when the agent comes in to cheerfully inform them that the furniture in the apartment isn't actually part of what they're paying for, meaning that they're both left with a single mattress to share between them.

Saix spares a moment to contemplate the option of protest, but his roommate is already groaning, dragging the mattress over to the only shared space it will fit: the middle of the living room. Then the bed, too, gets tape on it, slicing it in half and sticking it to the floor in one fell swoop. Saix eyes the entire setup a bit askance, but fails to comment. If the other man insists on being a prude about personal space, so be it.

The first night sleeping on the same bed he discovers, to some dismay, that this prudishness is limited solely to conscious moments: his roommate has a habit of hogging the covers, and by morning Saix's back and sides are sore from being pummeled by bony limbs.

He relocates himself to the floor the next night.

Afterwards, when his back is stiff and screaming with dull points of agony -- and all he can think of are Demyx's stupid homeopathic admonishments about chiropractic health and the integrity of one's spine affecting other organs -- Saix flops back on the mattress to sleep, resolute that he can put up with double-bunking if he has to.

It's not until that first week passes that he thinks to ask for the other man's name, and the blonde calmly offers him a hand that's never seen the stain of nicotine, faintly callused with manual labor. Somehow, that doesn't seem right -- the digits are better suited for finer jobs than mopping and plumbing, but Saix doesn't comment on the disparity, taking the hand in his and shaking it carefully.

His roommate does not return the favor, gripping his fingers with the strength and confidence of one used to saying what he wants, whenever he wants it. "The name is Vexen."

Saix has no idea what Vexen does for a living. He doesn't even realize they work at the same school until he glimpses a familiar-looking pair of jeans and an even more familiar pair of skinny legs clad in them sticking out from under one of the cafeteria sinks. It's such a disconcerting, bizarre sight that he pauses, distracted from his attempt to raid the school refrigerators for whatever edible material actually remains in them. Not quite consciously, he finds his feet turning towards the sink, plodding step by step until they reach the legs, and then he comes to a stop, staring down.

The first thing Saix says is, "Those are my pants."

The second thing Saix says is, "They don't fit you very well."

The third thing Saix says is, "You know, you could have asked first."

All Vexen replies is: "Can you pass me the monkey wrench?"

Saix sighs, but he fishes it out of the toolbox and hands it over anyway.

He comes home a week later to find that the power is out, and Vexen informs him with sarcastic cheeriness that this untimely outage is guaranteed to last indefinitely -- depriving them of air-conditioning in the process. Demyx had warned that the city's power grid wasn't the most stable, but Saix was used to brushing off whatever the yoga instructor said; he, for one, didn't believe in feng shui or the horoscope or whatever fad the other man was chasing that day.

The nights are sweaty and hot, and both of them sleep without bothering with sheets, stripping down to boxers and shirts, and then just boxers -- and finally to nothing, averting their eyes from each other out of desperate politeness while dripping cold washcloths on themselves, hoping for relief.

Contact between them begins as a matter of practicality, mutual satisfaction, simply because there isn't a way to take care of business in an apartment like this without the other knowing about it. Saix would not have started it himself, if he were given a choice. He prefers to grit his teeth and suffer in silence rather than admit to a loss of control, but when the time comes, he isn't given the option: by the time he's been aware of waking up from a half-realized dream involving three giggling redheads, someone is already pressed up against his back, a hot arm snaking around his waist and a gentle hand bringing him off.

Saix doesn't enjoy being in debt, and he likes being taken advantage of even less -- so the moment his muscles stop trembling, he rolls right over and fishes his fingers along Vexen's leg, hunting to return the favor.

It's not a difficult task. Vexen's already half-hard, and with only the summer moonlight washing over them, bathing them both in monochrome, he isn't unattractive either.

When the sun yawns through the apartment windows, Saix is already brushing his teeth in the bathroom. The door opens; Saix tenses, but Vexen only brushes past, yawning and scratching an itch as he reaches for his own toothbrush.

"Look," Saix says, taking the initiative just in case. "It wasn't. What we did. Just so you know, I'm not some kind of faaaargh!"

"Did you use up all of the toothpaste?" Vexen interjects mildly, even as he grinds his foot down harder on the bones of Saix's toes. "Is that even humanly possible, or did you just eat it?"

Sleep that night is intensely uncomfortable, not just because Saix tries to keep himself on the furthest edge of the mattress, but also because his boxers feel far too tight for comfort. He grits his teeth and refuses to roll over onto his back, to get any closer to Vexen's prone form than he has to.

At 3 a.m., he finally gets up to handle the problem in the bathroom himself.

One hand on the sink, jaw set in a grimace as he tries to keep his mind clear of anything save pleasure, only his thoughts keep drifting back to various temptations: images of other hands on him, fine-boned fingers and blond hairs.

Unbidden, his hand jerks at the thought, and he hisses a curse, trying desperately to envision something else.

"Stupid frathouse idiot," he hears, and then before he can do so much as deny anything, a bizarre mix of shame and self-righteous pride telling him that he should tell Vexen to get out -- or, more horrifyingly, apologize profusely for fantasizing about him while under the same roof -- Vexen comes up behind him, one hand wrapping around his waist. "Just get over your antiquated hangups so we both can sleep."

Saix's muscles go slack against Vexen's weight, leaning into the support; mercifully, with his eyes closed, he can't see the figures reflected in the mirror.

The surrender is almost welcome.

He wants to feel dirty, and angry, and violated for the liberties that Vexen has taken, and succeeds for all of three weeks -- three weeks spent stomping around and glaring indiscriminately at things, ignoring how Vexen is drinking milk straight out of the carton in revenge. But the heat saps at his energy; the evenings spent sleepless gnaw at his logic, and once practicality sets in, claiming that it's useful this way if only to get a night's sleep, Saix gives up.

Eventually, as time passes, Saix begins to stop thinking of what they're doing in terms of what's right and what isn't, in the terms that society gives it. It's simply what it is: two people learning to deal.

The same standard applies to his job. The staff at the high school share a common room because Xemnas believes in equal opportunity in all things, particularly in the school budget. Science teachers cram up against grammar teachers. The mathematics professors wage a subtle war involving chairs each week, and despite his best efforts, Saix can't keep a stapler on his desk to save his life.

One day by the staffroom's only water cooler, Saix inadvertently eavesdrops on a conversation in full-swing. The words only catch his attention because Vexen's name is mentioned; then he gravitates closer, not even trying to hide his interest.

"He has to be the most well-educated janitor the school systems have ever seen," Zexion muses aloud, stirring sugar in his tea. Saix has yet to actually see the school doctor do anything other than carry a clipboard around; the majority of bandaids and painkillers seem to be dispensed mainly by Lexaeus, the head nurse. As Saix steps closer, Zexion turns towards him, as if consulting on a thought. "Did you know, Vexen actually has degrees in Chemistry and Latin?"

Saix hadn't, actually, so he stays silent and lets Zexion go on.

Zexion takes the spoon out and sets it on the top of the water cooler. "It's just typical of him not to perform up to expectations."

Lexaeus shakes his head at the shorter man, automatically relocating the dirty spoon to the trash. "He didn't choose the job."

"Well, Xemnas had to stick him somewhere. Favor between old friends, and all." Zexion tosses his hair, absently; Saix thinks the man needs a haircut, so that he'll stop twitching his head like a stung horse. "I suppose he failed at DiZiney, so he'd rather hide away forever -- "

"He's not like that." Saix speaks before he realizes he's drawn breath.

Zexion only looks amused. "How would you know anything?" It's not angry; just matter-of-fact. "You didn't grow up with him. We did."

No, Saix thinks, but Zexion probably hasn't slept with Vexen either -- and as soon as that assumption crosses his head, he also realizes that he never wants to be proven wrong about it, either.

Instead, Saix only grabs his stopwatch off his desk and heads out the door to his next class, letting the words swim around his head all through softball practice.

Zexion is wrong, Saix knows, because Vexen is the proudest creature he's ever met, for all the grease on his elbows and the grime in his hair: he can't imagine him scraping for a second option, ever. How someone so disheveled can look so haughty is beyond his understanding, but it's true anyway.

When he gets home, Vexen already has a pot of bachelor's stew on the boil, chopping up random vegetables to toss in once the meat has softened enough to be edible. It's his turn to handle their meals this week, and Saix's stomach growls at the smell of cooking food, but the angry hunger doesn't translate into an actual appetite.

"It'll take another fifteen minutes for dinner," Vexen announces, without looking over his shoulder. "More, if I can't figure out if the onions are edible."

"Latin," Saix responds, and watches the other man's back stiffen. "You never told me."

"Homines libenter quod volunt credunt," Vexen quips back, the syllables clicking off his tongue smoothly enough. "It wasn't important."

Saix doesn't know why he's annoyed; it's not as if he has a personal investment in the man, but something in him snaps. "Why do you choose to stay like this, cleaning a high school that you don't even teach at? Is failure that important?"

The wooden spoon slides out of the stew. Vexen sets it aside, very carefully. "Did anyone ever tell you that you ruin all illusions of intelligence whenever you bellow like that?"

Without quite noticing it, Saix has moved forward, coming to a halt in arm's reach of the stove, staring hard at the back of Vexen's neck. Distantly, he realizes he's been shouting, and that everyone two floors up and down can probably hear his voice thunder through the painfully thin ceilings.

Vexen turns to stare at him with an expression that he can't read. "Why do you care?"

Somehow, that's the worst thing the other man could have said, and Saix snarls. "Idiot."

He lunges forward, as if he'd pin a direct answer out of the blonde with his body if not his words, but Vexen's already greeting him, meeting him, and his frustration finds itself abruptly aborted.

They barely have the presence of mind to switch the stove off while they're busy fighting with each other's hands -- Saix isn't even sure which one of them reached for the knob, but he manages to be grateful for that, when he's not busy being grateful for other things.

Life settles down with surprising ease. They're both awful at cooking, and they still fight over the covers, but now at least he can borrow extra socks when his own are all dirty. Vexen is not allowed access to Saix's shaving razor, which is good because the blonde never seems to need one anyway. The attempt to teach Vexen how to play soccer is a spectacular failure, but he manages to kick the ball at Saix's head every time, so there's probably room to improve.

"What's wrong?" Saix asks one afternoon when he hears the door bang open, and Vexen’s shoes hit the wall when they’re kicked off. There's nothing about the routine noises that suggest anything particularly different, but if there is anything Saix knows how to do, it is how to pay attention for small, subtle signs of discontent.

That, and the trails of paint sprayed across Vexen like slug trails -- red-pink-yellow-green, all bright and loud -- are hard to miss.

"Damned kids again," the janitor grumbles. "The Destiny gang, or whatever ridiculous name they've taken to calling themselves this time. Sora's far too much of a well-meaning idiot, but once Riku gets something into his head, it's all over."

With that, Vexen falls silent. What Saix can tell, however, is that the man's pride is more stung than he'd like to admit. Unbidden, unasked, he gets to his feet and slinks over to where Vexen's collapsed into a chair, settling his hands carefully on the blonde's shoulders.

Vexen doesn't snap upright, but Saix can feel muscles tense under his touch.

He doesn't acknowledge it. "Want help washing up?" is all he murmurs, an offer that's an admission in itself.

The way Vexen stares at him from the corner of his eye is still wary, but he nods. "Yes. Please."

The next day, Saix takes almost casually vicious pleasure in giving Sora and his friends ten extra laps around the track -- and for Riku, solo detention.

They go out for dinner afterwards as a confused form of victory, and end up at one of the better theme restaurants than the diners they can afford on their communal budget. The waitress flips open her pad as she swings by their table, already primed with the daily specials, both carefully rustic even though the prices are not: "Shepherd's pie, or beef lasagna?"

The inquiry is brisk, and Saix isn't sure what to answer. Vexen smoothly covers his slack, ordering the meal for both of them.

"Why are you so nervous?" Vexen inquires calmly, arching a brow at the death-hold Saix has on his cutlery. "It's just dinner."

Yes, Saix thinks, but it's dinner in public, at a restaurant, at the kind of place that has words like ambience and atmosphere and haute couture in the newspaper reviews about it. Even if the host at the door didn't give them too much of an evil eye about coming in wearing jeans and T-shirts, he still feels horribly out of place. Obviously there's also the matter that they're essentially on a date, but he tries to pretend that's not what's making him antsy, even if the same host might have been giving them the same evil eye because Vexen had just carelessly reached across the table to straighten Saix's collar.

Oh god, Saix thinks as the food arrives and he checks it for signs of tampering, the last thing I need right now is someone thinking we're together, or making stupid jokes, or breaking the window of my car in the parking lot...

He's so busy envisioning a world of furious humiliation that he nearly misses what Vexen is saying, and only one word snaps him out of it. "...teaching."

"What?"

"Maybe," Vexen says hesitantly, "Maybe I'll give it another try. There are openings for part-time at the Prideland College. I could renew my credentials."

Saix stops with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth, and waits.

Vexen pauses before he speaks again. "You're right. I'll turn in my resignation at the end of the month. Xemnas will understand."

The rest of the week is spent in a blur of school bells ringing the class periods in and out. Accidents happen every day when Saix is a gym teacher -- one kid sprains her ankle, Roxas forgets his inhaler again -- but serious injuries are a rarity, and he's proud of that. Running class on autopilot means that he gives all his kids a few laps around the track with nothing more risky than a muscle stitch to watch out for, so when he hears a screech of tires in the distance and a high-pitched scream, he knows it can't be one of his students.

He turns his head even as a sick feeling hits his stomach. He's not sure what happened, but the sensation is enough to propel him forward, and then he's vaulted the short fence around the track field, leaving mud and grass stains everywhere while he runs.

There's a knot of concerned students and teachers there on the sideroad into the parking lot. A crazy spiderweb pattern decorates the front of the car's windshield, and the kid who was driving looks dazed, leaning against the bumper with one hand to his head and the keys dangling from the other. His blonde girlfriend's pacing back and forth, angry and shrill. Saix recognizes them distantly: two art students with tattoos and a penchant for piercings who always like to skip their swimming laps.

Vexen is a horrible, crumpled mass on the ground.

There's blood, and wiring and broken glass and a red dampness that's leaking in the vicinity of Vexen's skull, matting the blond hairs, and before Saix knows it, he's pushed past the crowd and is kneeling on the ground, desperately trying to remember the details of spinal injury.

Vexen's mouth twitches. His lungs struggle, and then force out a croak.

Saix glares, because it's the only thing he can think to do, other than press a hand to the bleeding. "Stop trying to talk. Just lie still for now."

"I don't..." Vexen's lips move again and Saix has to lean in to hear, desperate to catch what the other man considers important enough to spare his breath on.

"I don't..." he repeats, shuddering. "I don't want to die." Then dignity reasserts itself, just enough, and Vexen sneers weakly, "Not to something as stupid as this."

"Don't be an idiot," Saix retorts hotly, because it is stupid, stupid as one of the sitcoms Demyx likes to endlessly babble about, where people die in overly contrived ways right as they're about to find happiness. "If you're still talking, the worst that'll happen is you'll be paralyzed."

The corner of Vexen’s mouth pulls up. "That's not... not exactly reassuring."

"So?"

Saix waits there as the ambulance comes, Vexen's hand clasped firmly in his own, ignoring all the whisperings and gawkings and commentary from the kids on the sidelines when they see the gym teacher and the janitor together.

He bullies his way past three nurses at the Neverland hospital, ignoring the restrictions of family members only -- as far as he can go until the ICU looms and even Saix knows better than to enter that, so all he can do is sit outside on the thin bench and wait. One of the nurses asks him, carefully, if he can fill out any of the paperwork for his friend, and Saix completes the forms with automatic briskness, not hesitating on the date of birth, family registration number, and emergency contact information. He writes in his own billing information, signing agreement for medical treatment costs -- anything and everything that might make Vexen be seen faster by the doctors, seen and fixed.

He shoves the clipboard back to the nurse, dimly aware that she’s been protesting the liberties he’s been taking by filling out information that only Vexen should have known, but Saix is too tired to care.

Vexen never wakes up.

At the memorial ceremony -- which lasts only eight minutes long -- the Principal makes his attempt at a statement. "He was a good contributor to our school," Xemnas offers, looking vaguely awkward as he clasps the edges of the podium, one finger worrying at a chip. "It was a shame to have lost him. Please welcome our new janitor, Marluxia."

Saix stands there, his skin vaguely numb and humming underneath his clothes as the chattering press of students sweeps out, followed by clots of teachers and staff. They leave behind an empty gym, a broom, and Saix.

At home, an overdue notice about the rent from the landlord is tacked to the door. Saix tears it down mechanically, tossing it onto the counter. A few of the braver hospital bills have already trickled in, stuffing the mailslot in the door with itemized lists detailing each useless expense. There's a polite, but firm letter from one of the educational districts calling him into a meeting concerning the paranoia of the PTA about gym teachers and lifestyle choices.

The death leaves him feeling surprisingly hollow, as if he's forgotten he should retain emotion about it. As the week goes by, no one asks about what happened to Vexen or what will happen to Saix, or what will happen to the apartment and the job and the school; after days go by of nothing, Saix realizes that the world has already moved on.

- - - -

By the time Saix bothers to go down to Vexen's rooms, it is well after the review of the rest of the victims. He spent extra time annotating Lexaeus's quarters, but there is no rush, no schedule; Castle Oblivion has finished its deathtoll, and the Keyblade Master has disappeared anyway.

There is nothing in Vexen's chambers save books and dust. Saix spends the afternoon cataloging the scientist's studies, and then folds up the tally into his pocket, preparing to go.

At the door, he finds himself pausing unaccountably, looking back into the sullen rooms -- as if there was something he had forgotten, something he should be aware of.

Then he realizes that he's simply late for dinner, and closes the door behind him.