Kingdom Hearts: But Home Is Nowhere

Kingdom Hearts: But Home Is Nowhere Chapter 5

  Chapter the Fifth: To Abandon

Theme the Fifth: Running Away

They are not running away, not really. Rather, it is a tactical retreat. At least, this is what Demyx tells himself. At any rate, they cannot stay here for much longer. Demyx knows this, even if Zexion does not. It is only a matter of time before either Axel or one of the Keybearers tracks them down. He cannot imagine Axel willingly helping the Keybearers, but he assumes that it is entirely possible if the ginger somehow benefits from the arrangement. He would, of course, benefit from any arrangement he made. It would be the only way he would ever make such a thing in the first place. Axel does nothing that does not ultimately work out in his favour. Ever. Sora and the others would do well to remember that, if it ever came down to it.

On the other hand, he cannot envision a scenario in which Sora and the others would willingly work beside their former enemy for any reason. After all, Axel had killed one of his own allies, murdered, really, betrayed everyone who had ever depended on him, including his so-called best friend, Roxas, kidnapped Kairi, had tried to kill Sora... not exactly a track record that inspires trust. Frankly, the only thing they should trust the flame-haired man to do is to stab them all in their backs. The best predictor for future behaviour is past behaviour, after all. Demyx is all but certain that Yen Sid said this. Or if he had not, he should have.

Zexion suggests that the two groups might end up destroying themselves and leaving them in peace. Demyx would like to believe this, but he is not naïve enough to be lulled into a false sense of security. Complacency will get them both killed. He would also like to believe that Traverse Town is not a hotbed of moral degeneracy and corruption, but Zexion soon disabused him of that notion.

There is no way that they can stay here for very much longer, on that they can both agree. The sooner they can get out of here the better.

Demyx looks up at the horizon. "Pick a star, any star."

Zexion closes his eyes and points at one at random. He opens them to see where he is pointing. He cannot tell the distance between this world and the one he has picked out. He can only hope it is far enough from this one that not even Axel will bother trying to hunt them down there.

Zexion smiles bitterly. Right. That will so happen. Still, it is worth a try, he supposes. If his only choices are to stay here and die, or go out there and die, then he will go out there. At least he would not be alone.

Demyx beams. "Well, that looks promising!"

Zexion wishes he could share Demyx's enthusiasm. With his luck, they will end up stuck in the same galaxy as they have always been. If he sees King Mickey around anywhere... No. He cannot afford to think this way, not now.

He is startled out of his thoughts by the feel of Demyx's hand closing over his. Thankfully, he cannot feel the texture of Demyx's skin against his own, as Zexion is still wearing the Gloves from the Organisation, but he can sense its pressure and his eyes widen. Before he can protest this, he is whisked into a Corridor of Darkness.

*******************************

It is a nice enough world, Zexion thinks. The air is crisp and clean, seemingly free of the pollutants that made up most of the air in Traverse Town, foetid and humid as it was, thick with sweat and decay, both moral and physical. The idea of having to stand in queue with the rest of the unwashed mongrel hordes in order to beg for bread fills him with unnamed disgust, and he cannot think that Demyx feels any better disposed to the idea despite the other's more cheerful disposition.

He fingers the asthma inhaler in his pocket, grateful for its weight. He is going to need that; he can feel it in the air. Literally; he can almost see the pollen rising from a flower garden across the street from where they stand. There is a park somewhere nearby, and in front of that a bakery. Zexion can smell the aroma of freshly baked bread from somewhere close. It makes Demyx's mouth water. It makes Zexion all too aware of his gluten allergies. It would be nice if they could beg for some bread here, but it is not to be. Too bad. They could use the calories.

Demyx shakes his head. "No, Zex, you can't go around looking like that; you'll draw too much attention to yourself."

Zexion's eyes narrow at this. There is a tacit understanding that one does not shorten Zexion's name. Ever. Not even (heh) Vexen and Lexaeus had ever called him anything but his full name. What makes this neophyte think he is important enough to give him a nickname? He should be reminded of his place in the Organisation.

There is no Organisation anymore, a tiny voice reminds him. Right. There is that, not that he truly wishes to be reminded of such a thing. After all, he was being groomed to take over from Xemnas before everything went pear-shaped.

They really should not have taken in Saix and Axel, he reflects. Still, hindsight is twenty-twenty, and they scarcely could have foreseen the pair of them betraying the Organisation so blatantly. It disgusts and appals him that members of the Organisation would ever turn on each other like that. He had spoken to Vexen and Lexaeus about this earlier, before their demises. Their deaths, he corrects himself. Never say die, right? No. Just no.

"What precisely is wrong with my outfit?" Zexion demands, his small fists digging into his hips.

"Everything." Demyx rolls his eyes. "Seriously, could your outfit be any more cliché? And no, please don't tell me you're wearing it ironically. Just don't, okay? Because you so are not. We both know this."

Zexion nearly face-palms at this. Did Demyx just conveniently forget that he himself had spent the better part of ten years wearing the exact same outfit that Zexion currently sports? Or does that no longer matter to him? Then again, even his old uniform was pretty "special," with power shoulders like some wannabe glam rock star.

"No, but seriously, Zex. You look like a refugee from a gothic metal band." He peers at the shorter youth. "You know, possibly my least favourite genre of metal. Next to nu-metal, of course, but that doesn't really count as metal, now does it?" He shakes his head. "If it's played on the radio, it's not really metal. Unless it's college radio. Then it's okay, 'cause they'll play anything, y'know. But Disturbed, Slipknot, Linkin Park, Metallica... those guys aren't metal, mate. Not really. Next thing you know, they'll be trying to get me to believe that Lacuna Coil and Evanescence are metal. Yeah, they're metal... if you're a fifteen-year-old girl. Which I'm not," he adds, as if it is not painfully obvious.

Yes, because Zexion knows that Demyx dislikes gothic metal, and chose these garments just to spite him. How right you are, Demyx. Or, rather, Xemnas chose these clothes knowing that Demyx would join the Organisation and wanted the blond to be forced to wear them and think of The Cure or something. Then again, knowing Demyx, he would think that liking The Cure would be all right. Liking Lacuna Coil or something, now that out be a tragedy. But not a Theatre of Tragedy; that would be a band in Demyx's least favourite genre of metal. Right.

Zexion decides against telling Demyx that all of Xaldin's favourite bands predominately feature female vocalists. Nightwish, Epica, Within Temptation, After Forever, Battlelore... he is not that interested to know how Demyx feels about these groups. Whatever the blond thinks, it is most likely unflattering, to say the least.

"Or possibly a black metal band. You know, one of those that doesn't seem to realise that the eighties are over yet, and still wears the leather and corpse paint and sounds just like every other band from that genre."

Says the guy who admits he misses the eighties. Whilst having been born in the year nineteen hundred ninety-four. Right.

Also, Zexion seriously doubts that Xigbar would consider Deafheaven metal, if he even knew who they were, or cared in the slightest. He would also have a few words to Demyx about Metallica not being truly metal. If he could pull himself away from his Dimmu Borgir album long enough, that it. Which would never happen, of course.

"But what do you expect from the most cliché genre of metal ever?" Demyx continues. He shakes his head. "No, mate, djent is where it's at. Periphery, now they're awesome. And Tesseract, but that goes without saying. Of course, I personally prefer Run From Sunlight or Shell from Oceanic, but you've never heard of them, of course."

Demyx is coming dangerously close to trying Zexion's patience. Very, very close. Still, Zexion needs him too much to do anything about it. Demyx should consider himself absurdly lucky for this. Emphasis on "should."

"You do realise this conversation is not getting us anywhere," he reminds the other.

"Oh, right."

**********************************

"Hey, Zex, do you ever miss him?"

It takes Zexion a few seconds to realise what Demyx means. "Roxas? Do not be ridiculous, Demyx. You and I know full well he would kill us in a heartbeat. They are all the same, you know, the Keybearers." He shakes his head and turns away. "No. We only have each other, I'm afraid. We cannot rely on anyone anymore." He straightens up. "Besides, it is not as though I spent much time with him. It was only a few days before I was sent to" -my death- "Castle Oblivion. There really was nothing to miss, I'm afraid." In all honesty, he barely remembers the boy. He had made no real impact on him, and now he was only a part of Sora. It is probably just as well. It would not do to have any lingering emotional connexions to someone bent on destroying you. He wonders briefly why Demyx would even mention this in the first place. Does Demyx miss Roxas? Zexion certainly hopes for his sake that that is not the case. It simply Would Not Do. They are not ever going to get him back, and even if they do, what guarantee do they have that he will spare their lives? What reason would the have that he would do such a thing? A barely-remembered loyalty to the Organisation? What loyalty, exactly? Would he consider them better than Sora and the others? Probably, since they do not need him to sacrifice himself for their benefit. So they have that going for them. So what?

Demyx nods. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He grimaces.

"Besides, the only thing you really miss about him is the fact that he would do your work for you. You're lucky you don't have to do any work anymore." Or rather, he is lucky that Demyx does not have to do any more work. Trying to make sense of Demyx's reports was like trying to translate hieroglyphics without a Rosetta Stone. He marvels that he did not inadvertently summon any cosmic horrors whilst trying to figure out his penmanship. He supposes that had he not been mad in the first place, attempting to read the blond's chirography would make him so. It is a cruel thought, but not entirely unfounded. It is well documented that reading the reports of Dusks has been known to call up ancient horrors from beyond the barriers of space and time. Naturally, the blame fell on Zexion, which is rather unfair, though unfortunately completely understandable.

"It feels weird not having to do missions any more, though," Demyx admits wistfully. "I kinda miss not having anything to do, y'know?"

"Well, we do have to avoid being killed," Zexion reminds him. "There is also the whole not being able to spend too long in any one place that ties into that."

"Well, yeah, I mean, obviously there's that. But I mean, besides that. Okay, that came out wrong. That's really important. I know that. But it feels wrong not to have to take notes on things, y'know? Not doin' re-con or anything. It just doesn't seem...right, y'know?"

He does. But that does not mean that he will agree with Demyx on this. Not when he has butchered the English language so hatefully. How many times must Demyx use the "word" "Y'know" in that one monologue alone? It is appalling. He is sick of people violating the English language with neologisms. There are plenty of perfectly good words and phrases out there, many that have sadly fallen out of favour. They really do not need to invent these mindless syllables to explain concepts that need not exist in the first place. And do not get him started on social media. Just do not. Never mind that Demyx shares his views on that, loathing it with a passion that rival's Zexion's own. It is, however, for an entirely different reason. Or perhaps not so different after all. Zexion hates and fears change. Demyx despises anything mainstream, popular, and modern. Trends touch him not at all.

They walk on, passing a girl of secondary school age standing under a lamp-post. She has chin-length pinkish-red hair somewhat similar in shade to Kairi's, and brown eyes. Atop her head sprout what appear to be two thin hair antennae, similar to what Larxene once sported. She is wearing what looks like some sort of school uniform. Said vesture consists of a fitted beige jacket with a white sailor's collar edged in maroon and matching cuffs, over a sapphire-blue turtle-neck and a matching short skirt. On her feet are sensible black loafers, and her legs are sheathed in white thigh-high stockings. She is saying something, perhaps reciting lines for a play. She is not speaking to them, however, and they cannot ascertain what she is saying, so they ignore her. She is the only person they have seen thus far which may or may not be a good thing. Is this world deserted? If so, it is invariably for a good reason. People just do not abandon an entire world on a whim.

They continue their stroll, ever mindful of their surroundings. Demyx, finally tiring of not having anything to do with his hands, takes out an abused notepad and a broken pencil. (Yellow, Ticonderoga brand, number two, the standard for the Organisation. Xemnas would never allow any deviations from this. Never. Do not even think about trying to use a mechanical pencil to save munny. Just do not. The Organisation supplies everything you need. If the Organisation does not supply it, you do not need it. Full stop.) He begins furiously scribbling on the tattered greyish-white sheets, the pencil moving at near-breakneck speed. Zexion is mildly curious as to what his companion is scrawling with such conviction, but cannot bring himself to care enough to ask. Besides, it really is none of his business. At least, that is what he tells himself.