Cats in Boxes, Ch 1
Cats in Boxes, Ch 1
By: kytha, rabbitprint
Length: ~6.2k
Summary: A tale of a ghost, a berserker, and approximately eight thousand cups of coffee. Saix is alive and Vexen is dead, but not every book is closed and done. Set post-CoM, AU for the theoretical. Rated R for this chapter, for... things. Worksafe?
Chapter 1 - 2 - 3
* * * * * *
In the shadow of Xemnas, Xehanort lurks.
Vexen sees it on occasion, when the Superior makes his rounds. Xemnas spends the most time with the other original five; out of sentimentalism, maybe or a need for familiarity. Curious, since a Nobody should experience neither. There must be other reasons to associate primarily with the senior members of Organization XIII -- that's what Vexen tells himself. He should not read too much into Xemnas's strange behaviors.
Vexen knows from experience that if he confronts the other man, Xemnas will scoff and claim that he can simply predict them better considering their common origins from Radiant Garden. A logical explanation, with little to do with the heart.
Or, at least, with what Vexen remembers a heart to be like.
Vexen does not mind Xemnas's quirks. They are interesting to study, and the Dusks provide a minimum in the way of strategic experimentation. Research on one another has brought all six of Ansem's students to their current state of being, and Vexen sees no reason to change that methodology.
But at times, Xemnas lingers near the other scientist's worktables, and his voice takes on an impossible hint of desperation. His fingers trace along the experiment folders. His palm latches onto Vexen's arm.
"This won't remain real forever, Even," he whispers, tightening his grip until the bones of the other man's wrist begin to grind. "This hand, this room, this -- none of it will stay real."
Vexen always meets his gaze steadily, accepting the pain before he leans forward to reply, "Are you more afraid that it will?"
Xemnas reacts the same way each time. He pushes back, lets go, retreats with a mock-smile, mock-laughter. "So typical of you, Vexen," he jests, shaking his head as he saunters past the worktables, further and further away. "Always preferring solid dilemmas instead of abstracts."
Then he's gone.
* * * * * *
Everything changes when Castle Oblivion comes down.
A Nobody is composed of a body and soul. So the scientists of the Organization have said. Saix isn't sure how much of that is true, but even he can't deny that he's missing a vital part of his emotions -- his heart, snatched like the golden yolk out of an intact shell -- and so there must be something animating his body. Corpses don't just walk around on their own. Not usually.
They’ve already lost their hearts. Now five of them have lost their bodies as well; almost half their number, or close enough to it. Death has come to their timeless kingdom at last.
Death, and treachery.
Saix does not know which disturbs him more. He cannot say that he is bothered, because whenever he tries to look at the problem headlong, he finds himself indifferent. Marluxia turned rogue. Larxene joined him in conspiracy. Axel came back with a mouthful of stories, of keyblades and clones, and Saix is not sure what to make of that either.
All he knows is that the root of the Organization has been sundered. Vexen is gone. Lexaeus is dead. Zexion is missing, missing and presumed deceased -- judging from the mock-sorrowful way that Axel lowered his head and rattled off something smooth about rogue experiments -- but they will never come back home, and that is what matters.
That is the shape of the void they have left behind.
Saix can feel the weight of loss when he tries, if he closes his eyes and nudges the figures in his mind around. Marluxia's plans have left a gap behind like that of a broken tooth. Xaldin and Xigbar stay close to the Superior, close like little birds, or particularly nasty guard dogs. Axel slinks around back corridors and rooftops, and spends most of his waking hours with the Key of Destiny. Luxord and Demyx both entertain themselves with their own hobbies. And in the middle -- in the middle there is nothing, and then there is Saix.
He starts at the beginning. He lets himself be drawn by impulse.
Walking through the Castle That Never Was is an act which a Nobody does only by choice, rarely from necessity. There is no need to climb stairs when a person can open a portal to the very next room. For that reason, the members of the Organization know better than to interrupt one another without invitation. Walking is a private time, an artificial creation of personal space; walking is a pretense, done to help someone think, not to travel from one location to another.
Saix wanders the Castle more often than he should. He likes to be in motion. The balconies overlook dizzying expanses of empty space, and the bridges twist around themselves. Walking helps him organize his thoughts, which like to become cluttered at the drop of a hat; it is, he imagines, the penalty and definition for being a Luna Diviner. He has instincts which he cannot understand. They are mute without a heart to speak through.
Memory and practicality tell Saix that a house is best cleaned from the top to the bottom, and so he begins his rounds in the highest towers, where the uneven peaks strain for the sky like supplicants to some unseen god. The altitude is enough to leave most men short of breath; actually managing to reach them calls for nothing short of a herculean effort.
For an ordinary man. Saix is, however, not an ordinary man, and all it takes is a flick of the wrist and a step into darkness for him to reach the rooftop. He closes his eyes when he passes through. He has no fear of the uncertain, but he is not overfond of nothingness. It is too easy to lose oneself in it, and given the choice, Saix prefers the instability of his own mind to guide him.
His feet touch against the tile, and Saix opens his eyes.
Today, the sight of the World That Never Was sprawled out beneath him brings further discontent instead of peace; something about the yawning space tingles at his senses, making him restless. Undismayed, Saix drops from the eaves onto a lower parapet, twisting the laws of physics with casual defiance. For the members of the Organization, the illogical architecture of the castle is no hindrance, not when gravity is a distant concept to be merely nodded at. The peculiar configuration of the castle's interior and exterior is something conceived by madness -- or by someone with a twisted idea of what a true castle should look like.
If Saix was inclined to describe the Castle That Never Was, he would say that it's something like the memory of a building, with ceilings that evoke the heavens, staircases grand enough for the entrances of any king, and ballrooms which could have been witness to uncounted numbers of friendships and heartbreaks and lovers.
The problem is, simply, that they're not set in the right places. The ceilings are shaped oddly, the grandness of space without the elegance of definition. The stairwells lead into one another, into rooms that don't exist, into nowhere. The ballrooms are silent and dead.
The castle's hallways reflect Saix's thoughts back at him, turning inwards and reinventing themselves with every step he takes.
When he realizes where his meandering path has taken him, Saix is standing in front of the door to Vexen's personal quarters, his hand already raised to the latch. Dust motes stir with each breath he draws, disturbed from their rest by the presence of something alive.
The rooms Vexen chose to claim as his own lurk, contrary to popular belief, on ground level. Evidence notwithstanding, it's difficult to shake the perception of the scientist as a dour creature, inclined to hiding in the darkness and comfort of dank laboratories in the bowels of the castle.
It's curious that Saix should find himself there. Despite the fact that Vexen's rooms are placed no higher than the main entryway of the castle -- relatively speaking, considering the building itself floats in the sky -- the doors to get there are greatly removed from any of the central halls. It's not especially surprising that no one has been there in some time. That entire wing of this castle was customarily left undisturbed even before IV's demise, its humble rooms rejected in favor of greater heights.
More than dust lingers here: even the doorway resonates with power.
Echoes of conversation. Crystallized time.
"Get out."
"No."
Memories should mean nothing to the members of the Organization, but they lurk anyway -- parentless snatches of moments irrelevant to Saix's thoughts or purpose, not unlike persistent children demanding his attention. The air is beginning to feel sticky, dead. To stay any longer is to invite disaster.
Before Saix can really consider what to do, one way or another, the door to Vexen's room creaks open, spilling golden light onto his face.
At first Saix flinches away -- from the light, the brilliance, the vibrancy that implies that there is an inhabitant who is just down the hall, who will return at any moment. He has not intruded inside Vexen's personal space before. Always the researcher has kept to himself; kept his boundaries laced with harsh words and the stark dignity of a glacier, and Saix has preferred it that way.
For this reason, Saix always assumed that Vexen's secrets were his own to watch. That's simply the way of things in the Organization. That which can't protect its own will lose it.
But the innards of Vexen's quarters are a realm he has never dared upon. The two of them had little reason to cross paths for overlong before, and as his fingers brush the door, Saix has to remind himself that there is no reason not to finally intrude.
The first room beyond the door contains what looks like a general living space. One wall is composed entirely of windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, responsible for the brilliant illumination. Two doors lead off to either side; one of them, ajar, appears to open onto a study, and so the other, still closed, can only lead to Vexen's room.
On the low table in front of an overstuffed armchair, a teapot sits beside a used cup. The latter's porcelain is caked with the brown stain of old coffee. Both chinaware are dry as bones, but clearly well-used -- the plain blue flower motif is already fading along the handles, and a badly-repaired crack is wending its way up the teapot's side.
Books are everywhere. One lies shut on one arm of the chair, a torn sheet of paper serving as a bookmark. The title is faded beyond recognition.
Everything has been left as though its owner has simply stepped out for a moment, and the room has an air of expectancy.
"Get out," Saix whispers, mirror-mimic to a conversation long deceased. And then, more firmly, "No."
No is the answer, and he enters despite the urge to shiver. The reflex is rusty, a rudimentary function of his body that's little different from a bad case of hiccups or a yawn; it is the warning from his flesh to be wary, because there could be anything in this room.
But so far, everything looks ordinary. An armchair, a teacup, a book. He drifts past the settings with one hand spread, palm facing the floor, hovering at waist level like a blind man trying not to stumble. The air is cloying; it is thick and full of memory, and Saix instantly realizes that he does not like it.
As much as he can dislike anything these days.
He resists the instinct to turn away, but only partially. His steps slow, and then stop. The arch of one foot lifts high even as his toes dig against the carpet in unconscious resistance. He is adrift in the remains of another man's life, and for a moment -- crazily -- Saix is not certain which way leads to the exit.
"No," he repeats again, and this time, the word is almost completely silent. The suggestion of his lips struggles against the lingering heaviness in the air. At last he shifts his weight, looking for an anchor to moor himself by, and settles on the book.
Fingers brush the cover with a curious reverence. What could Vexen have been interested in? More science?
The jacket of the book is slightly uneven, worn down in spots by the too-frequent press of lazy hands. It's clearly a book Vexen's browsed often, or possibly one that he's acquired already used. It's curiously warm for being left untouched for so long, and a bit of grime rubs off when Saix touches it -- leaving him with slightly dirtier fingertips, and the book with a slightly cleaner cover.
There isn't a visible title on the spine either, but when Saix finally opens the cover, it becomes evident why: this isn't a book at all.
It's a journal. Saix stares at the barely-legible scrawl on the first page, naming the owner on the line provided for the purpose.
"Even," he reads aloud, one finger tracing along the word.
"Don't touch that."
Vexen's voice seems to come from the air directly behind him, sharp and authoritative as it always is, and Saix spins --
There is, of course, nothing there.
Back to the book, then. Even. At first Saix wonders, oddly, if there is a second tome lying about, a journal labeled Odd, as would make sense by the twisted calculations that he's assumed Vexen to favor. As soon as he thinks that, he realizes part of what disturbs him so much about this chamber: it feels too human for the Chilly Academic. It feels too real.
He's never thought that Vexen could be anything other than impersonal, and not the type to keep a book labeled with a name from a former life.
* * * *
Vexen sits with the newly-christened VII in his laboratory, muttering dire oaths beneath his breath as he roughly prods Saix through what seem like an endless parade of tedious, scientific tests meant to measure his physical condition. The scientist is uninclined to be kind, as Xemnas has deliberately set him this task to irk him: Zexion could do it just as easily, with less fuss, but instead he's been specifically singled out to do it.
So far Vexen's taken the basic measurements. On a hunch, he's had Saix strip off his shirt so that he can check on a suspicion he's had since first seeing the the Nobody; to his satisfaction, his hypothesis is proven correct.
Underweight for his height, atrophied muscles, Vexen scribbles down briskly on the medical form. An impatient gesture sends Saix obediently stepping off the scale, and Vexen directs him to sit down on the lab bench with another wave of the hand. This isn't really the best place to do this, but it's not as though VII can complain. In fact, the newest Nobody hasn't spoken a word since he got here at Xemnas's direction. Perhaps instructions to maintain silence were part of his orders; whatever the reason may be, Vexen is satisfied that he isn't asking any questions.
"We're going to test your eyesight next," he announces. Almost savagely, and certainly without any warning, Vexen flips a pocket flashlight out to check the dilation of Saix's pupils. Finding everything normal, the scientist secretes the penlight back into the folds of his coat, leaving his subject blinking rapidly to clear the color spots from his vision.
Vexen turns away, unconcerned, and busies himself taking out what they'll be using for the next test. He finds himself speaking to other Nobody unconsciously, content to fill the silence with the sound of his own voice.
"This is an Amsler's grid," Vexen tells Saix; without turning around, he searches for a convenient place where he can prop up the board printed with varying letters. He decides on another lab bench a suitable distance from where VII is sitting now, and moves towards it.
"First we'll test the individual strength of each of your eyes," he drones, "and then we'll combine that to -- "
The tap of fingernails on glass alerts Vexen that something is amiss, and he whirls around at breakneck speed, mouth already open to snarl.
"Don't touch that!"
Caught in the act, VII blinks, frozen with his fingers against a beaker set over a flickering bunsen burner. It's one of the alchemical setups Vexen leaves constantly running; VII doesn't even seem to register the contact of the glass against his hand, glass that must surely be well over the heat of boiling point.
"I can't feel anything," is the first thing Saix tells Vexen, although whether he means in his fingers or his chest, the scientist cannot say.
The admission is disgustingly vulnerable -- as if Saix is a new puppy or a lost boy, standing there with his eyes on Vexen and his skin searing to blisters.
"Then let go of the glass and come here," the scientist orders abruptly, waiting until Saix slowly complies. Vexen holds out his hand expectantly; Saix stares at it before carefully offering his own back, palm-up. The flesh is red and already puffing. Vexen considers the worth of warning the other Nobody, and then simply places his own palm on top of the swelling blisters, summoning ice with as little effort as it takes to blink.
Saix finally reacts then, inhaling slowly and holding the breath in his lungs until Vexen lets go.
* * * *
No matter how strange a world may appear on the surface, one constant unifies them all: whenever the living pass away, someone else has to sort through the remains. Physical corpses, worldly possessions, or even family ties; there are remnants left behind after any death, and those remnants linger until they are swept clean.
Xemnas is not a good choice for this task. The Superior has more critical matters to attend to than clean-up duty, and besides, whenever anyone mentions what to do with the extra rooms, Xemnas goes quiet and says nothing. Xigbar and Xaldin excuse themselves hastily, always. The junior members of the Organization scuff their feet and put on awkward expressions -- all except for Axel, who volunteers much too easily for comfort.
So Saix does the job.
He's not sure why Vexen's rooms resist being deconstructed. Zexion's chambers are serenely abandoned, Lexaeus's as well. Marluxia's many plants have been uprooted. Larxene's doors were thrown open, and left that way. Those sectors of the Castle stay quiet, docile; growing older and empty and ownerless.
Only Vexen's persists in claiming that its owner will return at any moment.
Saix is not a scientist like the original six. All he knows of death is that one's body stop working and becomes consumed by rot, back into the soil until what was you becomes something poetic like a flower, or a raindrop, or a bacterial plague.
After being transformed by Darkness, he's assumed that a heart is the same way. Hearts twinkle back to Kingdom Hearts, and then are diffused among the mass of Shadows or perhaps the planet itself. Your body and heart both dissolve. They become recycled, reused.
He's not so certain about the soul.
The one place that Saix does not touch, no matter how many times he visits during his newfound task, is Vexen's bedroom. The door remains modestly shut, although he goes in and out of the other rooms at will, running his hands over everything as though with the intent of memorizing the objects solely by touch. His eyes alone aren't sufficient for capturing them all.
Somewhere in Vexen's rooms, there is knowledge that only the Chilly Academic had. Somewhere, there is a reason for why the Superior always consulted the senior members, but left the others to their own devices.
Somewhere, there is a gap that must be filled, if the Organization is to defend itself against the same betrayals again.
One day, Saix even cleans the tea set off and brews himself a potful of coffee, only to stare at the lightly steaming teacup with blank incomprehension at his own actions. He isn't a scientist. He doesn't need the jolt of caffiene to sustain him through endless hours of research and planning, endless twitching and complaints and irritation over one explosive project or the other.
He drinks the coffee anyway, ink-dark and memory-bitter as it is, because to leave it would be a waste.
Afterwards, he gets up to rinse out the cup, and catches sight of his features reflected in a curve of the sink. Something about the set of his mouth arrests his attention; Saix lets the faucet run, cold water burbling over his hand, and wonders when he grew so confident as to drink from another man's life.
* * * * * *
Saix fumbles his way through the castle, his body, and the Organization's hierarchy like a bull in a china shop, uncertain of its worth and completely unconcerned about the upset he leaves in his wake. His powers -- if he has any -- are completely invisible, and do not show up on any of the tests. Strangely, none of the others complain, tolerating the newcomer's clumsiness and decided lack of tact with either amusement, scientific interest, or utter indifference.
Vexen is completely disgusted, and he tells Xemnas as much.
"Why do you humor him?" he complains one day, uncrossing his arms uncomfortably as he fidgets on a lab bench. "He's useless like this. Worse than useless." He speaks as though Saix isn't trailing directly behind Xemnas, wide-eyed and devoted as a well-heeled hound.
The Superior, tinkering with something in one of the beakers -- he never asks Vexen for permission to enter the laboratory, just walks in and expects everything to jump up for his use -- diverts enough energy and time to give Vexen a slender smile. "He must learn his limits in his own time, as all of us did," Xemnas intones solemnly. "These are lessons that cannot be rushed."
"Oh, spare me," Vexen retorts. Xemnas can try the All-Knowing Sage act all he wants, but Vexen knows better.
Something like humor touches the Superior's eyes, or possibly revenge. "Unless, of course, you're volunteering to take the task of teaching him into your own hands...?"
Vexen blanches. "Never mind."
In the corner, Saix watches, and Saix remembers.
* * * * * *
Ordering Dusks to attend him does nothing to dispel the room's atmosphere of suspicion, and Saix drums his fingers on the teacabinet before he sighs and sends them all away.
He spends the rest of the day walking the Castle again, memorizing the feel of what is left through the skin of his body. Xemnas is a steady hum on the second floor. Xigbar and Xaldin are on the rooftop; Saix can sense their cold sparks of power, reined in deftly under the leash of a spar. Axel is a distant presence lingering at Roxas's side. Luxord is off-world, out on a scouting mission, which leaves only one Nobody left for the Berserker to haunt.
Demyx listens patiently enough when Saix mentions that the work to decommission Vexen's chambers is still on-going, though most of IX's attention is directed to the sitar he is cradling in his lap.
"There's something wrong about those rooms," Saix mutters at last, even though the thought is mostly directed at himself. The musician looks up from his sitar to quirk a brow.
"What are you asking me for?" he wants to know. "It's not like I know anything about Vexen. Ice and water are way different."
This idea baffles Saix, who has never really cared to understand the universe past the basic five elements he's discovered on his own: fire, earth, wind, water, annoyance. "How?"
"Ice doesn't flow," is all that Demyx replies, and then briskly strikes music from the strings.
* * * * * *
After a while, Saix realizes that Demyx is right. Ice doesn't flow: it remains static, locked in place, building up fresh layers of armor. It is a solid mass, and it breaks under pressure.
The comparison doesn't banish the uneasiness in Vexen's rooms, unfortunately.
Nobodies don't have corpses to be remembered by; there are no ashes to be swept into urns or bodies to be wrapped into metal boxes and thrust underground. There is nothing to prove that a Nobody ever existed.
Nothing, except for memory.
* * * * * *
The compulsion to return to Vexen's rooms is an inexplicable one, but Saix attempts to justify it anyway -- there is knowledge to be found here, he tells himself, borrowed experience that can teach him to be the supporting defender that Xemnas needs. With the loss of the others, Saix must fulfill their parts, or at least approximate them. And that is something he can do only by learning their patterns of thought; how they worked through things and how they looked at the world. Vicariousness is how Saix has always learned best: absorbed impressions, and instinct.
He tells himself this, but the idea seems hollow, weak. His body refuses to make that final breach, that final violation of the privacy of Vexen's life. He cannot step through the door.
For what feels like the fifth time that day, Saix lingers at the threshold of Vexen's bedroom. His hand brushes the handle like an illicit lover. The metal is cool, and somehow this fact strikes Saix as odd; he hadn't realized until then that he half-expected it to be warm from another's touch.
Finally he gathers his wits with a frown, and depresses the latch.
The lights are off in the bedroom. A faint hint of bleach touches his nose; a remnant of the laboratories, or possibly the bathroom adjacent. Nothing greets him but dust and still air, and Saix wonders what made him think there would be anything there in the first place.
* * * * *
With the last and perhaps most sacred part of Vexen's rooms breached, Saix feels oddly lighter. It makes him wonder just what relief is composed of, if a person should not be able to experience fear. A dim memory of danger, perhaps; uncertainty haunts every being indiscriminately.
* * * * *
The change happens slowly, like grains of sand that build up to an avalanche.
Before now, Saix has always made his way down to Vexen's rooms from elsewhere in the castle. He does not always intend it, but his feet seem to know their path better than he does, and he is content to trust their wisdom in this.
But eventually, impulse and practicality begin to converge, and Saix finds himself taking to spending more time in Vexen's rooms, sprawled on the armchair as he pores over the scientist's journals.
The first time he falls asleep there, he wakes to an unholy crick in his neck, and decides that he's never sleeping sitting up again.
The second time, and the third, and the fourth, Saix makes the same promise again. And again. And again. He migrates around the room like a lost rabbit, endlessly seeking soft ground. None of the chairs are comfortable. The small sofa is not long enough to fit his legs properly, forcing him to prop his ankles up along the back, and Saix wakes up with his feet buzzing from the circulation being cut off.
Inevitably, the aches in his body remind him of the unused bed just one room over.
He swears -- he promises himself many things when he realizes how practical it would be if he simply stayed there, rather than travel from room to room and world to world like a distracted train-jumper. Logic nags at his careful defenses. It's ridiculous for him to be superstitious; half his strength comes from listening to his instincts, and to deny them is a fool's game. He does not have to do anything more than lie on the mattress. On the covers. It's a bed, and his muscles are complaining, and besides, he can go back to his own quarters the next morning.
But on the night that he's finally tired enough to sleep in Vexen's room, he doesn't promise himself anything at all.
* * * * * *
In one of Vexen's books, he finds an equation which is underlined twice -- a rare emphasis from the level-headed academic. The figures are strange; there are symbols instead of numbers, and Saix doesn't know what half of them are supposed to mean when they're mixed with letters as well.
But in the margins he finds a few notations, words tight and cramped together. Role of the observer is there, and also something about cats and boxes. The rest -- energy eigenstates, complex scalar fields, and an odd reference to a principle that's supposed to be deliberately uncertain -- blurs together, and Saix is finally forced to move on.
The equation shows up again, though, this time in one of Vexen's private journals. Among the pages labeled as Even, Saix finds the same symbols recurring, this time with Xemnas's name attached. From the look of it, Vexen has been trying to analyze the Superior through mathematics.
Saix can't make any sense out of that either.
The books confuse themselves for the rest of the day, refusing to string together in a logical chain of formulas and equations and results. Weary of forcing his way through science, Saix puts them all aside, and wonders what else could solve the mystery of Xemnas.
* * * * * *
He wakes later that night, hard and hating it.
The room is too hot. Maybe it's Vexen's sheets; for a man whose elemental affinity was ice, his covers are heavy and thick. They tangle around Saix's legs as he tries to roll to a more comfortable position, trapping his ankles and rubbing his knees together. His own room would have been better to sleep in -- but Saix had been too tired to summon the concentration needed to open a portal, and Vexen's bed had looked more comfortable than the floor.
He shifts to his side with a curse. The motion pull the top cover tight across his groin, and in the haze of half-sleep, it's a contact that he doesn't need right now. When the Darkness stole his heart, it could have been considerate and erased physical reactions too.
After several frustrated minutes go by, Saix growls into his pillow. He fishes one hand down through the sheets, keeping his eyes closed as he resigns himself to accept basic facts of life.
His fingers know their job. Their touch is familiar as they snake through curling hairs. He pushes roughly into the cradle of his palm, lethargic and needy all at once, moisture dotting his thumb.
Being alone is a pallid fantasy. But in his dreams, it's the Superior there: head bowed, back arched, tight against Saix's body. And Saix is thrusting deep inside him; they move in jerky synchronization, Xemnas gasping with the intensity of a god, bucking back against Saix's hips. The Superior's hair is white silk on sweat, and he moves with a wantonness that he would never exhibit in waking life.
But this is a dream, and harmless, and Saix tells himself this until he finally comes, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaws ache.
He drops back into sleep almost instantly afterwards, his muscles relaxing in small fractions as he lets himself find oblivion in Vexen's sheets.
;* * * * * *
The first sign of trouble, incongruously enough, comes from an entirely unexpected source: Roxas.
The Key of Destiny isn't talkative in nature, or really much of anything in nature, and for that Saix is relieved. Bland as XIII is, the Luna Diviner appreciates that the boy doesn't make the attempt to falsify emotion where there is none. Perhaps it's simply natural for Roxas, because of the lack of memory; without past experiences to cross-reference the present moment to, XIII cannot react in anything but a logical fashion. Roxas' stolidity is an odd comfort, but Saix has no inkling of what it is that Axel sees when he looks at the boy, what makes him slink around the edges of XIII's presence like a scolded pup.
As far as Saix is concerned, Roxas is a weapon -- perhaps the only one they have against the Keyblade Master, now that Namine is gone.
So the two of them exist in different worlds, and that's sufficient for them both and still explains nothing when Roxas addresses Saix out of the blue one day.
"Hey."
Saix stops abruptly, wondering if the word is prelude to an attack.
Surprisingly, the boy doesn't add anything. He simply stands there, staring at Saix like a hound who's caught a particularly odd scent, one that it doesn't want to confront.
The Diviner blinks back.
Finally XIII moves on, leaving Saix alone, and with the uncharacteristic urge to snap a taunt in the younger Nobody's direction.
* * * * *
The first incident is a fluke. The second is harder to brush off.
Saix has crossed the Castle's lower floors several times over before he forces himself to clamber up to the higher balconies, breaking free from the marble halls into open air.
He's so caught up in his quest to resolve all the problems of the world by walking that it takes him by surprise when he turns a corner of the walkways and finds another man there: Xaldin, who is blinking back with equal astonishment.
III is another of the senior members who Saix knows little about. The dragoon's hours are fairly incompatible with his own at best, completely divergent at worst. Their brief interactions have always been based around combat, around fighting, and the mutual understanding that there is a language purely physical which no science can touch.
"VII," Xaldin acknowledges. And then, as naturally as breathing, "Up for some practice?"
Before Saix can respond aye or nay, Xaldin has already pushed himself off the malformed gutterspout and hurtled forward.
By the end of it, they're both breathing heavily, although Xaldin's lips have a hint of smirk to them, as though he's just waiting for any excuse to clash one more time. Saix almost thinks he might be up for it; to struggle is good, is to really live. Not many others really understand that.
Xaldin's next words, however, send chills down Saix's spine, crackling down his vertebrae like unseen sleet.
"You know," Xaldin remarks, "Vexen used to fight quite a lot like that. Guarded movements, conservative swings -- " he does smirk now, canines sharpening with the motion. "Well, let's just say he was a lot easier before he figured out how to summon a shield. You could tell he was an amateur without it."
Saix's hand shifts on the grip of his sword. He hadn't realized that he'd reversed the grip -- blade down instead of up, used for parrying rather than attack -- and he's not sure he likes what it implies.
"I suppose you're ending up like him," the dragoon concludes, calling his lances to him with a wave of his hand, and turning away.
* * * * * *
One of the Organization makes for two of them, makes for three and four and more as Saix continues being surprised by minor confrontations. Suddenly it feels as if the other Nobodies are everywhere, strangers behind their faces, watching him at every turn. The paranoia would be idiotic, if Saix did not already recognize the symptoms: he's been immersed for far too long collecting sensory information, filtering through the impressions of another person's past. He's reading too much into nothing at all.
It's a surprise, when he runs into VIII; with the Key of Destiny occupying most of Axel's attention, Saix has ended up seeing very little of the other man. In fact, Saix hadn't expected to find anyone else stalking down the back halls of the western wing, but the second he rounds one of the corners, the Diviner almost instantly has to throw out an arm to keep from slamming into Axel headlong.
The chance encounter isn't an event Axel had predicted either -- if his expression is any indication -- but he recovers with remarkable grace, giving a saucy grin and tipping Saix a wink.
Normally, Saix wouldn't even notice Axel's theatrics, brushing them off as easily as water slides off his coat. Instead he finds himself suddenly bristling, caught up in a strange sense of indignation, and a hissing in his ears that could almost be a warning against VIII's wiles.
He shakes it off as a ghost-memory of irritation, nothing more -- but not before Axel catches sight of the slight wince in his facial expression.
"Hey," VIII interjects, and greeting is so exactly like Roxas's that Saix wonders which one of them started imitating the other first. But out of Axel's mouth, the word is smug; it is sly and fat on its own machinations. Axel's weight shifts in an easy slide of his hips. He's turned and facing Saix before the Diviner can react, both hands carefully empty of weapons. "What's up?"
Saix meets the other's eyes for only a moment before glancing away. "Nothing."
"Oh yeah?" Axel is never far from games of power; sensing vulnerability, the other Nobody grins. "'Cuz for a minute there, you looked like something was... bothering you."
Thwarted and unwilling to yield ground, Saix tries to stare the other man down. "It is none of your concern."
Something in his gaze forces Axel to suddenly remember caution -- VIII makes a wavering hrmmm and sidles back a step, out of arm's reach. The backpedaling is methodical, as discreet as a servant or a paid killer. His shoulders are hunched low, chin tilted slightly up; Axel makes faux-submission look as graceful as dancing.
Neither one of them breaks eye contact.
They have most of the length of the hall between them before Axel dares to speak again. "You know," he throws back, his smile a mockery of camaderie, "if you ever need someone to confide in, I'm always here for you."
Saix lifts one hand in warning, fingers poised to snap for his Berserkers, and the other Nobody vanishes with a laugh.
Chapter 1 - 2 - 3
By: kytha, rabbitprint
Length: ~6.2k
Summary: A tale of a ghost, a berserker, and approximately eight thousand cups of coffee. Saix is alive and Vexen is dead, but not every book is closed and done. Set post-CoM, AU for the theoretical. Rated R for this chapter, for... things. Worksafe?
Chapter 1 - 2 - 3
* * * * * *
In the shadow of Xemnas, Xehanort lurks.
Vexen sees it on occasion, when the Superior makes his rounds. Xemnas spends the most time with the other original five; out of sentimentalism, maybe or a need for familiarity. Curious, since a Nobody should experience neither. There must be other reasons to associate primarily with the senior members of Organization XIII -- that's what Vexen tells himself. He should not read too much into Xemnas's strange behaviors.
Vexen knows from experience that if he confronts the other man, Xemnas will scoff and claim that he can simply predict them better considering their common origins from Radiant Garden. A logical explanation, with little to do with the heart.
Or, at least, with what Vexen remembers a heart to be like.
Vexen does not mind Xemnas's quirks. They are interesting to study, and the Dusks provide a minimum in the way of strategic experimentation. Research on one another has brought all six of Ansem's students to their current state of being, and Vexen sees no reason to change that methodology.
But at times, Xemnas lingers near the other scientist's worktables, and his voice takes on an impossible hint of desperation. His fingers trace along the experiment folders. His palm latches onto Vexen's arm.
"This won't remain real forever, Even," he whispers, tightening his grip until the bones of the other man's wrist begin to grind. "This hand, this room, this -- none of it will stay real."
Vexen always meets his gaze steadily, accepting the pain before he leans forward to reply, "Are you more afraid that it will?"
Xemnas reacts the same way each time. He pushes back, lets go, retreats with a mock-smile, mock-laughter. "So typical of you, Vexen," he jests, shaking his head as he saunters past the worktables, further and further away. "Always preferring solid dilemmas instead of abstracts."
Then he's gone.
* * * * * *
Everything changes when Castle Oblivion comes down.
A Nobody is composed of a body and soul. So the scientists of the Organization have said. Saix isn't sure how much of that is true, but even he can't deny that he's missing a vital part of his emotions -- his heart, snatched like the golden yolk out of an intact shell -- and so there must be something animating his body. Corpses don't just walk around on their own. Not usually.
They’ve already lost their hearts. Now five of them have lost their bodies as well; almost half their number, or close enough to it. Death has come to their timeless kingdom at last.
Death, and treachery.
Saix does not know which disturbs him more. He cannot say that he is bothered, because whenever he tries to look at the problem headlong, he finds himself indifferent. Marluxia turned rogue. Larxene joined him in conspiracy. Axel came back with a mouthful of stories, of keyblades and clones, and Saix is not sure what to make of that either.
All he knows is that the root of the Organization has been sundered. Vexen is gone. Lexaeus is dead. Zexion is missing, missing and presumed deceased -- judging from the mock-sorrowful way that Axel lowered his head and rattled off something smooth about rogue experiments -- but they will never come back home, and that is what matters.
That is the shape of the void they have left behind.
Saix can feel the weight of loss when he tries, if he closes his eyes and nudges the figures in his mind around. Marluxia's plans have left a gap behind like that of a broken tooth. Xaldin and Xigbar stay close to the Superior, close like little birds, or particularly nasty guard dogs. Axel slinks around back corridors and rooftops, and spends most of his waking hours with the Key of Destiny. Luxord and Demyx both entertain themselves with their own hobbies. And in the middle -- in the middle there is nothing, and then there is Saix.
He starts at the beginning. He lets himself be drawn by impulse.
Walking through the Castle That Never Was is an act which a Nobody does only by choice, rarely from necessity. There is no need to climb stairs when a person can open a portal to the very next room. For that reason, the members of the Organization know better than to interrupt one another without invitation. Walking is a private time, an artificial creation of personal space; walking is a pretense, done to help someone think, not to travel from one location to another.
Saix wanders the Castle more often than he should. He likes to be in motion. The balconies overlook dizzying expanses of empty space, and the bridges twist around themselves. Walking helps him organize his thoughts, which like to become cluttered at the drop of a hat; it is, he imagines, the penalty and definition for being a Luna Diviner. He has instincts which he cannot understand. They are mute without a heart to speak through.
Memory and practicality tell Saix that a house is best cleaned from the top to the bottom, and so he begins his rounds in the highest towers, where the uneven peaks strain for the sky like supplicants to some unseen god. The altitude is enough to leave most men short of breath; actually managing to reach them calls for nothing short of a herculean effort.
For an ordinary man. Saix is, however, not an ordinary man, and all it takes is a flick of the wrist and a step into darkness for him to reach the rooftop. He closes his eyes when he passes through. He has no fear of the uncertain, but he is not overfond of nothingness. It is too easy to lose oneself in it, and given the choice, Saix prefers the instability of his own mind to guide him.
His feet touch against the tile, and Saix opens his eyes.
Today, the sight of the World That Never Was sprawled out beneath him brings further discontent instead of peace; something about the yawning space tingles at his senses, making him restless. Undismayed, Saix drops from the eaves onto a lower parapet, twisting the laws of physics with casual defiance. For the members of the Organization, the illogical architecture of the castle is no hindrance, not when gravity is a distant concept to be merely nodded at. The peculiar configuration of the castle's interior and exterior is something conceived by madness -- or by someone with a twisted idea of what a true castle should look like.
If Saix was inclined to describe the Castle That Never Was, he would say that it's something like the memory of a building, with ceilings that evoke the heavens, staircases grand enough for the entrances of any king, and ballrooms which could have been witness to uncounted numbers of friendships and heartbreaks and lovers.
The problem is, simply, that they're not set in the right places. The ceilings are shaped oddly, the grandness of space without the elegance of definition. The stairwells lead into one another, into rooms that don't exist, into nowhere. The ballrooms are silent and dead.
The castle's hallways reflect Saix's thoughts back at him, turning inwards and reinventing themselves with every step he takes.
When he realizes where his meandering path has taken him, Saix is standing in front of the door to Vexen's personal quarters, his hand already raised to the latch. Dust motes stir with each breath he draws, disturbed from their rest by the presence of something alive.
The rooms Vexen chose to claim as his own lurk, contrary to popular belief, on ground level. Evidence notwithstanding, it's difficult to shake the perception of the scientist as a dour creature, inclined to hiding in the darkness and comfort of dank laboratories in the bowels of the castle.
It's curious that Saix should find himself there. Despite the fact that Vexen's rooms are placed no higher than the main entryway of the castle -- relatively speaking, considering the building itself floats in the sky -- the doors to get there are greatly removed from any of the central halls. It's not especially surprising that no one has been there in some time. That entire wing of this castle was customarily left undisturbed even before IV's demise, its humble rooms rejected in favor of greater heights.
More than dust lingers here: even the doorway resonates with power.
Echoes of conversation. Crystallized time.
"Get out."
"No."
Memories should mean nothing to the members of the Organization, but they lurk anyway -- parentless snatches of moments irrelevant to Saix's thoughts or purpose, not unlike persistent children demanding his attention. The air is beginning to feel sticky, dead. To stay any longer is to invite disaster.
Before Saix can really consider what to do, one way or another, the door to Vexen's room creaks open, spilling golden light onto his face.
At first Saix flinches away -- from the light, the brilliance, the vibrancy that implies that there is an inhabitant who is just down the hall, who will return at any moment. He has not intruded inside Vexen's personal space before. Always the researcher has kept to himself; kept his boundaries laced with harsh words and the stark dignity of a glacier, and Saix has preferred it that way.
For this reason, Saix always assumed that Vexen's secrets were his own to watch. That's simply the way of things in the Organization. That which can't protect its own will lose it.
But the innards of Vexen's quarters are a realm he has never dared upon. The two of them had little reason to cross paths for overlong before, and as his fingers brush the door, Saix has to remind himself that there is no reason not to finally intrude.
The first room beyond the door contains what looks like a general living space. One wall is composed entirely of windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, responsible for the brilliant illumination. Two doors lead off to either side; one of them, ajar, appears to open onto a study, and so the other, still closed, can only lead to Vexen's room.
On the low table in front of an overstuffed armchair, a teapot sits beside a used cup. The latter's porcelain is caked with the brown stain of old coffee. Both chinaware are dry as bones, but clearly well-used -- the plain blue flower motif is already fading along the handles, and a badly-repaired crack is wending its way up the teapot's side.
Books are everywhere. One lies shut on one arm of the chair, a torn sheet of paper serving as a bookmark. The title is faded beyond recognition.
Everything has been left as though its owner has simply stepped out for a moment, and the room has an air of expectancy.
"Get out," Saix whispers, mirror-mimic to a conversation long deceased. And then, more firmly, "No."
No is the answer, and he enters despite the urge to shiver. The reflex is rusty, a rudimentary function of his body that's little different from a bad case of hiccups or a yawn; it is the warning from his flesh to be wary, because there could be anything in this room.
But so far, everything looks ordinary. An armchair, a teacup, a book. He drifts past the settings with one hand spread, palm facing the floor, hovering at waist level like a blind man trying not to stumble. The air is cloying; it is thick and full of memory, and Saix instantly realizes that he does not like it.
As much as he can dislike anything these days.
He resists the instinct to turn away, but only partially. His steps slow, and then stop. The arch of one foot lifts high even as his toes dig against the carpet in unconscious resistance. He is adrift in the remains of another man's life, and for a moment -- crazily -- Saix is not certain which way leads to the exit.
"No," he repeats again, and this time, the word is almost completely silent. The suggestion of his lips struggles against the lingering heaviness in the air. At last he shifts his weight, looking for an anchor to moor himself by, and settles on the book.
Fingers brush the cover with a curious reverence. What could Vexen have been interested in? More science?
The jacket of the book is slightly uneven, worn down in spots by the too-frequent press of lazy hands. It's clearly a book Vexen's browsed often, or possibly one that he's acquired already used. It's curiously warm for being left untouched for so long, and a bit of grime rubs off when Saix touches it -- leaving him with slightly dirtier fingertips, and the book with a slightly cleaner cover.
There isn't a visible title on the spine either, but when Saix finally opens the cover, it becomes evident why: this isn't a book at all.
It's a journal. Saix stares at the barely-legible scrawl on the first page, naming the owner on the line provided for the purpose.
"Even," he reads aloud, one finger tracing along the word.
"Don't touch that."
Vexen's voice seems to come from the air directly behind him, sharp and authoritative as it always is, and Saix spins --
There is, of course, nothing there.
Back to the book, then. Even. At first Saix wonders, oddly, if there is a second tome lying about, a journal labeled Odd, as would make sense by the twisted calculations that he's assumed Vexen to favor. As soon as he thinks that, he realizes part of what disturbs him so much about this chamber: it feels too human for the Chilly Academic. It feels too real.
He's never thought that Vexen could be anything other than impersonal, and not the type to keep a book labeled with a name from a former life.
* * * *
Vexen sits with the newly-christened VII in his laboratory, muttering dire oaths beneath his breath as he roughly prods Saix through what seem like an endless parade of tedious, scientific tests meant to measure his physical condition. The scientist is uninclined to be kind, as Xemnas has deliberately set him this task to irk him: Zexion could do it just as easily, with less fuss, but instead he's been specifically singled out to do it.
So far Vexen's taken the basic measurements. On a hunch, he's had Saix strip off his shirt so that he can check on a suspicion he's had since first seeing the the Nobody; to his satisfaction, his hypothesis is proven correct.
Underweight for his height, atrophied muscles, Vexen scribbles down briskly on the medical form. An impatient gesture sends Saix obediently stepping off the scale, and Vexen directs him to sit down on the lab bench with another wave of the hand. This isn't really the best place to do this, but it's not as though VII can complain. In fact, the newest Nobody hasn't spoken a word since he got here at Xemnas's direction. Perhaps instructions to maintain silence were part of his orders; whatever the reason may be, Vexen is satisfied that he isn't asking any questions.
"We're going to test your eyesight next," he announces. Almost savagely, and certainly without any warning, Vexen flips a pocket flashlight out to check the dilation of Saix's pupils. Finding everything normal, the scientist secretes the penlight back into the folds of his coat, leaving his subject blinking rapidly to clear the color spots from his vision.
Vexen turns away, unconcerned, and busies himself taking out what they'll be using for the next test. He finds himself speaking to other Nobody unconsciously, content to fill the silence with the sound of his own voice.
"This is an Amsler's grid," Vexen tells Saix; without turning around, he searches for a convenient place where he can prop up the board printed with varying letters. He decides on another lab bench a suitable distance from where VII is sitting now, and moves towards it.
"First we'll test the individual strength of each of your eyes," he drones, "and then we'll combine that to -- "
The tap of fingernails on glass alerts Vexen that something is amiss, and he whirls around at breakneck speed, mouth already open to snarl.
"Don't touch that!"
Caught in the act, VII blinks, frozen with his fingers against a beaker set over a flickering bunsen burner. It's one of the alchemical setups Vexen leaves constantly running; VII doesn't even seem to register the contact of the glass against his hand, glass that must surely be well over the heat of boiling point.
"I can't feel anything," is the first thing Saix tells Vexen, although whether he means in his fingers or his chest, the scientist cannot say.
The admission is disgustingly vulnerable -- as if Saix is a new puppy or a lost boy, standing there with his eyes on Vexen and his skin searing to blisters.
"Then let go of the glass and come here," the scientist orders abruptly, waiting until Saix slowly complies. Vexen holds out his hand expectantly; Saix stares at it before carefully offering his own back, palm-up. The flesh is red and already puffing. Vexen considers the worth of warning the other Nobody, and then simply places his own palm on top of the swelling blisters, summoning ice with as little effort as it takes to blink.
Saix finally reacts then, inhaling slowly and holding the breath in his lungs until Vexen lets go.
* * * *
No matter how strange a world may appear on the surface, one constant unifies them all: whenever the living pass away, someone else has to sort through the remains. Physical corpses, worldly possessions, or even family ties; there are remnants left behind after any death, and those remnants linger until they are swept clean.
Xemnas is not a good choice for this task. The Superior has more critical matters to attend to than clean-up duty, and besides, whenever anyone mentions what to do with the extra rooms, Xemnas goes quiet and says nothing. Xigbar and Xaldin excuse themselves hastily, always. The junior members of the Organization scuff their feet and put on awkward expressions -- all except for Axel, who volunteers much too easily for comfort.
So Saix does the job.
He's not sure why Vexen's rooms resist being deconstructed. Zexion's chambers are serenely abandoned, Lexaeus's as well. Marluxia's many plants have been uprooted. Larxene's doors were thrown open, and left that way. Those sectors of the Castle stay quiet, docile; growing older and empty and ownerless.
Only Vexen's persists in claiming that its owner will return at any moment.
Saix is not a scientist like the original six. All he knows of death is that one's body stop working and becomes consumed by rot, back into the soil until what was you becomes something poetic like a flower, or a raindrop, or a bacterial plague.
After being transformed by Darkness, he's assumed that a heart is the same way. Hearts twinkle back to Kingdom Hearts, and then are diffused among the mass of Shadows or perhaps the planet itself. Your body and heart both dissolve. They become recycled, reused.
He's not so certain about the soul.
The one place that Saix does not touch, no matter how many times he visits during his newfound task, is Vexen's bedroom. The door remains modestly shut, although he goes in and out of the other rooms at will, running his hands over everything as though with the intent of memorizing the objects solely by touch. His eyes alone aren't sufficient for capturing them all.
Somewhere in Vexen's rooms, there is knowledge that only the Chilly Academic had. Somewhere, there is a reason for why the Superior always consulted the senior members, but left the others to their own devices.
Somewhere, there is a gap that must be filled, if the Organization is to defend itself against the same betrayals again.
One day, Saix even cleans the tea set off and brews himself a potful of coffee, only to stare at the lightly steaming teacup with blank incomprehension at his own actions. He isn't a scientist. He doesn't need the jolt of caffiene to sustain him through endless hours of research and planning, endless twitching and complaints and irritation over one explosive project or the other.
He drinks the coffee anyway, ink-dark and memory-bitter as it is, because to leave it would be a waste.
Afterwards, he gets up to rinse out the cup, and catches sight of his features reflected in a curve of the sink. Something about the set of his mouth arrests his attention; Saix lets the faucet run, cold water burbling over his hand, and wonders when he grew so confident as to drink from another man's life.
* * * * * *
Saix fumbles his way through the castle, his body, and the Organization's hierarchy like a bull in a china shop, uncertain of its worth and completely unconcerned about the upset he leaves in his wake. His powers -- if he has any -- are completely invisible, and do not show up on any of the tests. Strangely, none of the others complain, tolerating the newcomer's clumsiness and decided lack of tact with either amusement, scientific interest, or utter indifference.
Vexen is completely disgusted, and he tells Xemnas as much.
"Why do you humor him?" he complains one day, uncrossing his arms uncomfortably as he fidgets on a lab bench. "He's useless like this. Worse than useless." He speaks as though Saix isn't trailing directly behind Xemnas, wide-eyed and devoted as a well-heeled hound.
The Superior, tinkering with something in one of the beakers -- he never asks Vexen for permission to enter the laboratory, just walks in and expects everything to jump up for his use -- diverts enough energy and time to give Vexen a slender smile. "He must learn his limits in his own time, as all of us did," Xemnas intones solemnly. "These are lessons that cannot be rushed."
"Oh, spare me," Vexen retorts. Xemnas can try the All-Knowing Sage act all he wants, but Vexen knows better.
Something like humor touches the Superior's eyes, or possibly revenge. "Unless, of course, you're volunteering to take the task of teaching him into your own hands...?"
Vexen blanches. "Never mind."
In the corner, Saix watches, and Saix remembers.
* * * * * *
Ordering Dusks to attend him does nothing to dispel the room's atmosphere of suspicion, and Saix drums his fingers on the teacabinet before he sighs and sends them all away.
He spends the rest of the day walking the Castle again, memorizing the feel of what is left through the skin of his body. Xemnas is a steady hum on the second floor. Xigbar and Xaldin are on the rooftop; Saix can sense their cold sparks of power, reined in deftly under the leash of a spar. Axel is a distant presence lingering at Roxas's side. Luxord is off-world, out on a scouting mission, which leaves only one Nobody left for the Berserker to haunt.
Demyx listens patiently enough when Saix mentions that the work to decommission Vexen's chambers is still on-going, though most of IX's attention is directed to the sitar he is cradling in his lap.
"There's something wrong about those rooms," Saix mutters at last, even though the thought is mostly directed at himself. The musician looks up from his sitar to quirk a brow.
"What are you asking me for?" he wants to know. "It's not like I know anything about Vexen. Ice and water are way different."
This idea baffles Saix, who has never really cared to understand the universe past the basic five elements he's discovered on his own: fire, earth, wind, water, annoyance. "How?"
"Ice doesn't flow," is all that Demyx replies, and then briskly strikes music from the strings.
* * * * * *
After a while, Saix realizes that Demyx is right. Ice doesn't flow: it remains static, locked in place, building up fresh layers of armor. It is a solid mass, and it breaks under pressure.
The comparison doesn't banish the uneasiness in Vexen's rooms, unfortunately.
Nobodies don't have corpses to be remembered by; there are no ashes to be swept into urns or bodies to be wrapped into metal boxes and thrust underground. There is nothing to prove that a Nobody ever existed.
Nothing, except for memory.
* * * * * *
The compulsion to return to Vexen's rooms is an inexplicable one, but Saix attempts to justify it anyway -- there is knowledge to be found here, he tells himself, borrowed experience that can teach him to be the supporting defender that Xemnas needs. With the loss of the others, Saix must fulfill their parts, or at least approximate them. And that is something he can do only by learning their patterns of thought; how they worked through things and how they looked at the world. Vicariousness is how Saix has always learned best: absorbed impressions, and instinct.
He tells himself this, but the idea seems hollow, weak. His body refuses to make that final breach, that final violation of the privacy of Vexen's life. He cannot step through the door.
For what feels like the fifth time that day, Saix lingers at the threshold of Vexen's bedroom. His hand brushes the handle like an illicit lover. The metal is cool, and somehow this fact strikes Saix as odd; he hadn't realized until then that he half-expected it to be warm from another's touch.
Finally he gathers his wits with a frown, and depresses the latch.
The lights are off in the bedroom. A faint hint of bleach touches his nose; a remnant of the laboratories, or possibly the bathroom adjacent. Nothing greets him but dust and still air, and Saix wonders what made him think there would be anything there in the first place.
* * * * *
With the last and perhaps most sacred part of Vexen's rooms breached, Saix feels oddly lighter. It makes him wonder just what relief is composed of, if a person should not be able to experience fear. A dim memory of danger, perhaps; uncertainty haunts every being indiscriminately.
* * * * *
The change happens slowly, like grains of sand that build up to an avalanche.
Before now, Saix has always made his way down to Vexen's rooms from elsewhere in the castle. He does not always intend it, but his feet seem to know their path better than he does, and he is content to trust their wisdom in this.
But eventually, impulse and practicality begin to converge, and Saix finds himself taking to spending more time in Vexen's rooms, sprawled on the armchair as he pores over the scientist's journals.
The first time he falls asleep there, he wakes to an unholy crick in his neck, and decides that he's never sleeping sitting up again.
The second time, and the third, and the fourth, Saix makes the same promise again. And again. And again. He migrates around the room like a lost rabbit, endlessly seeking soft ground. None of the chairs are comfortable. The small sofa is not long enough to fit his legs properly, forcing him to prop his ankles up along the back, and Saix wakes up with his feet buzzing from the circulation being cut off.
Inevitably, the aches in his body remind him of the unused bed just one room over.
He swears -- he promises himself many things when he realizes how practical it would be if he simply stayed there, rather than travel from room to room and world to world like a distracted train-jumper. Logic nags at his careful defenses. It's ridiculous for him to be superstitious; half his strength comes from listening to his instincts, and to deny them is a fool's game. He does not have to do anything more than lie on the mattress. On the covers. It's a bed, and his muscles are complaining, and besides, he can go back to his own quarters the next morning.
But on the night that he's finally tired enough to sleep in Vexen's room, he doesn't promise himself anything at all.
* * * * * *
In one of Vexen's books, he finds an equation which is underlined twice -- a rare emphasis from the level-headed academic. The figures are strange; there are symbols instead of numbers, and Saix doesn't know what half of them are supposed to mean when they're mixed with letters as well.
But in the margins he finds a few notations, words tight and cramped together. Role of the observer is there, and also something about cats and boxes. The rest -- energy eigenstates, complex scalar fields, and an odd reference to a principle that's supposed to be deliberately uncertain -- blurs together, and Saix is finally forced to move on.
The equation shows up again, though, this time in one of Vexen's private journals. Among the pages labeled as Even, Saix finds the same symbols recurring, this time with Xemnas's name attached. From the look of it, Vexen has been trying to analyze the Superior through mathematics.
Saix can't make any sense out of that either.
The books confuse themselves for the rest of the day, refusing to string together in a logical chain of formulas and equations and results. Weary of forcing his way through science, Saix puts them all aside, and wonders what else could solve the mystery of Xemnas.
* * * * * *
He wakes later that night, hard and hating it.
The room is too hot. Maybe it's Vexen's sheets; for a man whose elemental affinity was ice, his covers are heavy and thick. They tangle around Saix's legs as he tries to roll to a more comfortable position, trapping his ankles and rubbing his knees together. His own room would have been better to sleep in -- but Saix had been too tired to summon the concentration needed to open a portal, and Vexen's bed had looked more comfortable than the floor.
He shifts to his side with a curse. The motion pull the top cover tight across his groin, and in the haze of half-sleep, it's a contact that he doesn't need right now. When the Darkness stole his heart, it could have been considerate and erased physical reactions too.
After several frustrated minutes go by, Saix growls into his pillow. He fishes one hand down through the sheets, keeping his eyes closed as he resigns himself to accept basic facts of life.
His fingers know their job. Their touch is familiar as they snake through curling hairs. He pushes roughly into the cradle of his palm, lethargic and needy all at once, moisture dotting his thumb.
Being alone is a pallid fantasy. But in his dreams, it's the Superior there: head bowed, back arched, tight against Saix's body. And Saix is thrusting deep inside him; they move in jerky synchronization, Xemnas gasping with the intensity of a god, bucking back against Saix's hips. The Superior's hair is white silk on sweat, and he moves with a wantonness that he would never exhibit in waking life.
But this is a dream, and harmless, and Saix tells himself this until he finally comes, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaws ache.
He drops back into sleep almost instantly afterwards, his muscles relaxing in small fractions as he lets himself find oblivion in Vexen's sheets.
;* * * * * *
The first sign of trouble, incongruously enough, comes from an entirely unexpected source: Roxas.
The Key of Destiny isn't talkative in nature, or really much of anything in nature, and for that Saix is relieved. Bland as XIII is, the Luna Diviner appreciates that the boy doesn't make the attempt to falsify emotion where there is none. Perhaps it's simply natural for Roxas, because of the lack of memory; without past experiences to cross-reference the present moment to, XIII cannot react in anything but a logical fashion. Roxas' stolidity is an odd comfort, but Saix has no inkling of what it is that Axel sees when he looks at the boy, what makes him slink around the edges of XIII's presence like a scolded pup.
As far as Saix is concerned, Roxas is a weapon -- perhaps the only one they have against the Keyblade Master, now that Namine is gone.
So the two of them exist in different worlds, and that's sufficient for them both and still explains nothing when Roxas addresses Saix out of the blue one day.
"Hey."
Saix stops abruptly, wondering if the word is prelude to an attack.
Surprisingly, the boy doesn't add anything. He simply stands there, staring at Saix like a hound who's caught a particularly odd scent, one that it doesn't want to confront.
The Diviner blinks back.
Finally XIII moves on, leaving Saix alone, and with the uncharacteristic urge to snap a taunt in the younger Nobody's direction.
* * * * *
The first incident is a fluke. The second is harder to brush off.
Saix has crossed the Castle's lower floors several times over before he forces himself to clamber up to the higher balconies, breaking free from the marble halls into open air.
He's so caught up in his quest to resolve all the problems of the world by walking that it takes him by surprise when he turns a corner of the walkways and finds another man there: Xaldin, who is blinking back with equal astonishment.
III is another of the senior members who Saix knows little about. The dragoon's hours are fairly incompatible with his own at best, completely divergent at worst. Their brief interactions have always been based around combat, around fighting, and the mutual understanding that there is a language purely physical which no science can touch.
"VII," Xaldin acknowledges. And then, as naturally as breathing, "Up for some practice?"
Before Saix can respond aye or nay, Xaldin has already pushed himself off the malformed gutterspout and hurtled forward.
By the end of it, they're both breathing heavily, although Xaldin's lips have a hint of smirk to them, as though he's just waiting for any excuse to clash one more time. Saix almost thinks he might be up for it; to struggle is good, is to really live. Not many others really understand that.
Xaldin's next words, however, send chills down Saix's spine, crackling down his vertebrae like unseen sleet.
"You know," Xaldin remarks, "Vexen used to fight quite a lot like that. Guarded movements, conservative swings -- " he does smirk now, canines sharpening with the motion. "Well, let's just say he was a lot easier before he figured out how to summon a shield. You could tell he was an amateur without it."
Saix's hand shifts on the grip of his sword. He hadn't realized that he'd reversed the grip -- blade down instead of up, used for parrying rather than attack -- and he's not sure he likes what it implies.
"I suppose you're ending up like him," the dragoon concludes, calling his lances to him with a wave of his hand, and turning away.
* * * * * *
One of the Organization makes for two of them, makes for three and four and more as Saix continues being surprised by minor confrontations. Suddenly it feels as if the other Nobodies are everywhere, strangers behind their faces, watching him at every turn. The paranoia would be idiotic, if Saix did not already recognize the symptoms: he's been immersed for far too long collecting sensory information, filtering through the impressions of another person's past. He's reading too much into nothing at all.
It's a surprise, when he runs into VIII; with the Key of Destiny occupying most of Axel's attention, Saix has ended up seeing very little of the other man. In fact, Saix hadn't expected to find anyone else stalking down the back halls of the western wing, but the second he rounds one of the corners, the Diviner almost instantly has to throw out an arm to keep from slamming into Axel headlong.
The chance encounter isn't an event Axel had predicted either -- if his expression is any indication -- but he recovers with remarkable grace, giving a saucy grin and tipping Saix a wink.
Normally, Saix wouldn't even notice Axel's theatrics, brushing them off as easily as water slides off his coat. Instead he finds himself suddenly bristling, caught up in a strange sense of indignation, and a hissing in his ears that could almost be a warning against VIII's wiles.
He shakes it off as a ghost-memory of irritation, nothing more -- but not before Axel catches sight of the slight wince in his facial expression.
"Hey," VIII interjects, and greeting is so exactly like Roxas's that Saix wonders which one of them started imitating the other first. But out of Axel's mouth, the word is smug; it is sly and fat on its own machinations. Axel's weight shifts in an easy slide of his hips. He's turned and facing Saix before the Diviner can react, both hands carefully empty of weapons. "What's up?"
Saix meets the other's eyes for only a moment before glancing away. "Nothing."
"Oh yeah?" Axel is never far from games of power; sensing vulnerability, the other Nobody grins. "'Cuz for a minute there, you looked like something was... bothering you."
Thwarted and unwilling to yield ground, Saix tries to stare the other man down. "It is none of your concern."
Something in his gaze forces Axel to suddenly remember caution -- VIII makes a wavering hrmmm and sidles back a step, out of arm's reach. The backpedaling is methodical, as discreet as a servant or a paid killer. His shoulders are hunched low, chin tilted slightly up; Axel makes faux-submission look as graceful as dancing.
Neither one of them breaks eye contact.
They have most of the length of the hall between them before Axel dares to speak again. "You know," he throws back, his smile a mockery of camaderie, "if you ever need someone to confide in, I'm always here for you."
Saix lifts one hand in warning, fingers poised to snap for his Berserkers, and the other Nobody vanishes with a laugh.
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