CHASING RAINBOWS
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To Demyx, one of those underrated and over-looked anti-heros. Who's also still alive somewhere, along with Elvis and Tupac and Hitler.

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Myde was born a beautiful baby boy, with a soft curl of dark blonde hair and the prettiest eyes his world's nurses had ever seen. He was raised into an academy dropout and the shame of his respected family. He grew to be a world-wide sensation. At the young age of seventeen, he became a teacher, and taught his world how to laugh, through pages of grimoires and their silly mundane magic, and taught them to live.

At the young age of seventeen, the Heartless seized his world. He remembered because he was singing something about picking yourself up from your downs, when all the torches and lights in the room exploded into columns of sparks and all the strings on the instruments snapped and stung their players. Darkness swallowed the room, and the next thing he knew there was a slimy feeling going down his throat, and when his vision began blurring he saw it crawling back out and carrying away a tiny glowing light.

At the terrified age of seventeen, he prayed on his dying day: By the composers, don't let it end here. Please, please, please! I'm not done living yet. The music--

At the still and quiet age of seventeen, Demyx Awoke, in a world of inverse colors and flickering sparks of ghouls who were his people once.

"There you are."

The voice was gruff and thoughtful, and a gloved hand seized his shaking arms. A breeze rustling around his feet brought the twilight flames close to the stranger, and they illuminated the picture of a hurricane, a strong-built man with wild, wild hair, and eyes colored like thunder.

"We've been waiting for you."

Demyx blurted out, "--Wh--What...why? Where am I?" He tried twisting his arm out of the other man's grasp; panic flooded his system, but not nearly as sharp as it should have been. It scared him, but that feeling

too was washed-out. He didn't have the time or will to explore the aching hollow in his chest and mind. "Who are you?!"

"Xaldin," the man said briefly; darkness welled under them, and swallowed the tiny spirits that drifted too close. To Demyx's sensitive ears, he thought he heard them shrieking, and saw as the multi-colored flames

stretched out and elongated into glimmering white bodies. The sound stopped abruptly when zippers snapped around the snouts he guessed constituted as their mouths, and down they dropped. He felt Xaldin pulling on his arm, and tried pulling back again, failing miserably.

"What--what's going on? Where are you taking me?!"

"Your future," was all Xaldin said. All it took was a strong gale and Xaldin tossing him face-forward, before he, too, stumbled into darkness.

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Demyx was born a confused, terribly lost, and shaking nobody. He was pushed into a circular white room, where he clumsily tripped and fell to his knees. When he looked up, eight figures in black glanced down. He was pretty sure a couple of them snickered too.

In the highest chair, the hood fell back. Demyx thought he was looking into the eyes of a tiger.

"Today," the speaker rumbled, and it would be one of the very few times Demyx ever heard such volume of sound echoing around the room, "we become Organization IX."

Demyx was raised a confused, terribly lost, and shaking nobody, a failure as a fighter, as far as the other members were considered, and the shame of the Organization. He grew into a pacifist and a young man haunted by his inability to produce true music with the evil-looking blue instrument they gave him, though he loved it all the same.

He was picked on for being a wimp and the weakest out of a medley of legendary warriors, taunted because he was a normal non-boy wrapped in black leather and taught to destroy, mocked because he could barely

bring himself to.

He became, ironically enough, the only one in the Organization who could still feel, in some wayward, offbeat fashion. He thought he felt the pain and the fury of each world he helped to collapse in their quest of gathering hearts and manpower. And he held that fury close to his lack of heart, because Demyx alone knew that suffering made one real.

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Demyx also thought it was sort of strange, in a discomforting kind of way, how they all lived their non-existance in the castle. It was always quiet. Silence wasn't just a word, an adjective--in that lonely castle on the cliffs, it slept among the white corridors like a terrible beast, jerking to life at the faintest noise, snapping up sound in great gleaming invisible jaws. It--the silence--unnerved him, and for his first few months with the Organization, he had taken to tip-toeing guiltily about the hallways, convinced that if he produced too much excess noise, he, too, would be swallowed by the silent monster.

The silence dampened his spirits (did he have those?) almost as much as his colleagues did on a daily basis. The musician thought it was also funny and a little sad that the men who swore themselves to each other as comrades-in-arms--brothers, so to speak--wanted as little to do with each other as possible. It wasn't just Demyx that they made a point of blatantly ignoring--their presence to each other was merely

that. Just a jumble of atoms and darkness clogging up the free space.

The few times he'd attempted to nervously strike up conversation, his attempts were shot down miserably.

"So, um... Xigbar...? Wha...What do you like to do?"

His superior shot him a droll look, and snorted behind his beer.

"Like? Kid, you have to have a heart to 'like.'"

Why did it always have to come back to the heart--or the lack of one?

"Well, no, I mean--I mean..."

"Pro tip, buddy," Axel contributed, as he strided into the room, dangling one blood-splattered chakram from a lazy hand, "Keep your trap shut. You sound smarter that way." The redhead rolled his eyes at the brief expression of hurt that crossed Demyx's face, and tossed the weapon at his head. Demyx squeaked loudly as the sharp wheel spun inches in front of his face, burst into flame, and disappeared.

The two older members only laughed at him. He found his gaze sinking to the ground, and didn't look up until the only sounds reverberating around the room was the echo of their boots and slamming doors.

"There's no point in trying to make 'friends' here, IX," said Vexen, who had come through the doors at the same time Xigbar and Axel left, and had been able to guess what exactly their raucous laughter had to do with. When he said "To them--" (Demyx knew he meant to us), "--you're only another expendable novice," he didn't sound particularly angry or cruel. His words were merely a flat observation, but it didn't make Demyx feel any better.

He stood against the wall for a long time.

It seemed almost as if they were enamored with the silence, that horrible parasite that grew in their mouths and fed on their speech, until the only way they knew how to communicate was through angry gestures and blood. They feared the disruption noise provided only because the alternative--struggling with the trickle of emotions all every day sounds, every day music, possessed--was so much more difficult to bear.

Myde came from a world of beauty and flawless music, where everything meant something and nothing and all, and he knew that the aching silence was very, very wrong.

He'd come to pity them for that very reason too.

Demyx, in his dying moments, would reflect on that saddening revelation, and the strangled sound of his disbelieving scream would twist into something like a hysterical laugh, fluting out of his mouth, foreign and primal and deeply grieving. He would known, in that singular moment, that communication, the sheer ability to reach out and touch another being, was the true key to hearts--not any old blade--and that which the members of Organization XIII shied away from out of spite and fear had denied them their only desire.

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Mid-october of his third year was the first and only time he and any other Nobody discussed it.

"IX."

Demyx's hands stilled on the strings of his sitar at the sharp sound of Zexion's voice. "Um, yeah?"

"Do stop that infernal racket."

He wilted a little under Zexion's slight scowl, but clutched the sitar's elegantly formed neck all the tighter. "...Why?"

The scrunching of VI's eyebrows sharpened into a full-fledged scowl, a glare narrowing his lackluster eyes. "It's disruptive. Not only are numbers IV, III, and I performing delicate operations in the labs, but others are resting from missions. We do not need the noise."

Demyx surprised himself by opening his mouth. He said, "Do too. It's always too quiet in here."

"What?"

"It's too quiet," the blonde repeated, a slight whine entering his voice. The year previous, he wouldn't have dared to talk back to a superior, yet--somewhere in his soul--the belief that he and he alone had the courage to break the mold and stand up to that ugly beast called silence gave him the confidence to speak up, however slight it was.

"Nobody ever talks. It's like everyone's a robot. They get up and do their missions and eat and then sleep and make sure they don't talk to anybody else." The musician breathed a little more deeply when Zexion still didn't reply, deep indigo eyes trained on him. "It's really freaking creepy, you know! I always try--"

"Why?"

"...huh?"

Zexion sighed, one hand irritably flicking away slate-colored strands of hair. "Obviously your behavior is bothersome to the majority of the other members. Why do you continue trying, then?"

"Because if somebody, anybody, just--not even sang or anything-- just--talked--even for awhile..." Demyx swallowed. He wanted to say, maybe we'd all feel a little less alone. What came out was:

"Maybe we'd all have a little more hope."

At this, the older Nobody snorted. "'Hope' is irrelevant, IX. Reaching a goal requires ambition, determination, and hard work only."

"Does not," Demyx countered, "Hopes and dreams...they're what keeps you going when you're gonna give up." This he knew with certainty. "You can't be determined to do something if you haven't got a dream."

"Dreams are like rainbows, IX--only idiots chase them."

Demyx frowned, but didn't say anything to Zexion's sharp retort; he resumed plucking at the sitar's strings, though this time the notes only sounded strained and unhappy.

"I don't care," he said finally, and though his voice shook a little, the words still came out, decisive. "I'll be an idiot then, but--at least I'll be an idiot with something to live for."

He was surprised when Zexion didn't immediately retreat to his lab. The shorter male only watched him through an unreadable expression as the blonde's nimble fingers picked out a melody his spirit remembered but

his mind didn't.

When he left, he didn't bother telling Demyx to stop. So he didn't.

After that, he never did again.

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In his sixth year--the year Roxas left--his sixth year was the year that would change everything. It was the year that Roxas had arrived and would be the year he turned traitor, the year that their quiet order of working was thrown into irreparable chaos, and it would be the year Demyx died. He wasn't concerned with the details, though—time wasn't that much of a concern to him. If his element was water, so was he like water: he had patience, deeper than the ocean, and the year wore on with little consequence to him.

The only reason the year was significant was because it was the year that things began to change, the sort of change he'd tried so hard to stir up and had not had the strength to succeed in. He marked this year as it passed for the events that happened.

The first and second-most important event was Roxas' arrival and inducement into the Organization. He was just as uninteresting as the other organization members, in terms of personality--but because of the shining blades that sang in his blood and destiny, he was interesting. To the other members, anyway. Demyx thought he was sort of interesting because he was the only other member that displayed such a hollow rage at his lack of knowledge of his non-existence.

Sure, all of them questioned their livelihood or lack thereof, but Roxas was the only one who openly strived to know as much about as he could, and the only one who shut himself, tight-lipped, into the library after returning from futile missions, and--aside from Zexion-- the only one who didn't consistently tell him to shut it with the music. Instead, the shorter blonde watched him, expression bored but eyes tensed and wondering--wondering.

This difference attracted Axel too. The fiery redhead became even more vivacious--if Axel had been a low-burning fire before Roxas' arrival, slow-simmering but still dangerous to the touch--then the small blonde boy set him off into a blooming inferno.

Demyx wasn't smart, but he recongized the symptoms before anyone— Before Roxas, or Axel himself--did. The glow that came to Axel's being had a name that the musician was familar with. He called it, fondly, "passion."

It was then that the lurking silence began beating back, that noise and clamor permeated the castle walls. It was a low murmur that rippled through its inhabitants, all eyes trained towards the Keybearer. Whathappens next?, nobody whispered, but everybody thought alike: Is this one the one we've been waiting for?

They paid just as little attention to Demyx as ever, but the blonde didn't really mind. He found he almost enjoyed the time Roxas stayed with them.

The most important event of that sixth year was Roxas' sudden leave. The whisper grew to a dull roar and then to a shriek of rage. Axel became tense and moody; Xemnas adopted the properties of some of the chemicals in Vexen's laboratory, volatile and better left alone.

It was an unstable year. Demyx hated Roxas' traitorous movement because it represented both the strength of conviction he himself rarely had, and because it represented the path to his dream stopped up by yet another wall. And he loved the boy and was proud of him and wished they could've been friends for the very same reasons.

Roxas' joining with Sora was the third most important occurrence. In the weeks following, he'd sometimes find Axel hovering around inside the Proof of Existence, staring morosely at the glowing stones that tracked their non-life.

The sitar had dripped out of his hands, when he'd first seen him.

"He's still alive," Demyx said, just to break the silence.

Axel didn't bother to look at him.

"I..." Demyx faltered. "We'll get him back. He'll definitely come back, Axel."

Axel snarled at him. He reminded Demyx of an angry cat, a lioness kneeling over her slain cubs. "Yeah? The fuck do you know, Demyx?"

Demyx didn't answer. Axel snorted angrily, glaring furiously at Roxas' stone. It glowed a soft blue color, too much like his eyes for either of the two's comfort.

"He...can't leave us, right?" He asked, but he sounded as uncertain as he felt. Swallowing, Demyx crossed the room, coming to a stop and resting a hand atop VI's stone.

Axel laughed hoarsely. "You're a dreamer, Dem'."

He thought back to Zexion, three years ago in a hallway, somethingabout chasing rainbows, and thought that the stone grew chillingly cold under his bare fingers. He'd taken his gloves off because he played better that way, and once in awhile he'd made the point to return to The Proof of Existence to play Zexion's memory a song or two. The glowing red rock made a weird sort of tombstone to serenade, but it was a tradition he could no longer break.

"So're you, Axel," Demyx said, when he plucked at the strings thoughtfully; "or you wouldn't even be in here...visiting Roxas."

Demyx never knew what to think when his words slipped out; he knew they couldn't come from the heart, judging as how he lacked one, but the words he felt to be the truth had the strange tendency to leave those he was speaking to silent. He wondered distantly if they either thought him very stupid or maybe sometimes very smart, and then reminded himself it didn't matter--though it would be a nice change, if they stopped pushing him around for awhile. Just because he didn't like fighting back didn't mean he couldn't hold his own.

He just lacked the particular desire to bite back, and maybe that was why he had been the castle's favorite chew toy.

Axel was one of those people he left silent. He leaned against the wall and listened while Demyx played a dirge for Zexion, and then the song he'd been practicing when Zexion had first interrupted him, those many years ago. Sometimes he played for the other dead, but Zexion being the only one who had shown even a marginal kindness to him was thusly rewarded by being the only one mourned.

They hadn't been friends, but since that meeting Zexion had tolerated his presence a little more leniently. He thanked him every day for it, by standing next to his strange little grave, and sang about summer rains and the colors sunlight made.

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The Mission was the fourth, the last, and most important event of that sixth year, and perhaps the most in Demyx's life. Demyx knew that Xemnas calling it a mission was merely a courtesy. "Death sentence" just had a terrible habit of sounding so much more bitter.

"IX. The Melodious Nocturne."

"Yes, Superior?"

Xemnas stared down at him from his high white chair; whenever he assigned one of them a mission, he did it perched on his throne in their circular meeting room, empty except for the two of them. "Your orders are to apprehend the Keyblade Master at Hollow Bastion. This is your last chance to retrieve XIII. Eliminate the Keyblade Master if necessary."

Demyx flinched. "Sir, with all due respect, I think you're /reeeallly/ picking the wrong guy for thi--"

"Did I ask for your opinion, IX?" Xemnas cut in coldly.

"...No."

"Then do as you're told. Don't fail me." He noticed that Xemnas no longer used the word us.

And try as he might, he could not keep the tremble out of his voice. "Aye, sir."

"Then a safe trip, IX, and a safe return. Dismissed."

Both of them knew that he wouldn't be coming back.

Demyx plodded out of the room, letting the huge, heavy doors slide shut behind him. He felt cold, suddenly, and he knew it wasn't because of the castle drafts.

Safe return, Demyx thought, miserable and savage all at once. My ass, safe return. I... He closed his eyes, tilted his head back; when he opened them, he stared listlessly at the ceiling, and whispered softly

to himself, "'You're just another expendable novice'..." Shaking his head, he stepped off briskly to the Proof of Existence. He'd always rather liked the color blue over red, and figured that he'd like to see his tombstone painted in his favorite color once more before he died.

He left puddles where he walked. Demyx could not cry but he could distantly fear and regret all the same.

He'd stopped by the Proof of Existence, summoned his water spirits, and gave the room a symphony worthy of a first-class orchaestra. He lingered in that room, where the white walls glowed an eerie red, and said aloud, "Hey, guys. Looks like wherever you are... I'll be there too. Just can't get rid of me." He chuckled weakly, and exited.

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What did he have to lose anymore?

Only his chains.

Demyx was the sort of boy who looked on the bright side of things whether he wanted to or not; he knew that his mission had a chance of being successful--if the Keyblade Master was half-dead already, anyway. But he knew that Organization XIII was falling apart, had been since the fall of Castle Oblivion--like threadwork that works loose, the careful planning that laced them all together came apart at the seams, one stitch at a time. From the inside-out.

So he was playing one more song. Loud, happy, hopeful. As loud as he dared, louder than ever, because he was going to let anyone alive in this stupid castle still that he might be going out but he was going out with a bang, that Xemnas could sentence him to death and he would go. Willingly. Because he'd be "taking one for the team," metaphorically speaking, or whatever was left of it--because one way or another he would find his dreams and he would achieve them.

He would be a winner in the end.

The last clear strains of melody fading away, he let his fingers still on the sitar's strings. He imagined that the deep thrumming vibration was a heartbeat, harsh and hopeful; when he opened his eyes, he smiled wistfully at his reflection, and scratched at his temple.

"Just you and me, huh?" he asked himself.

The mirror reflected a pale boy, brows creased in slight worry. He shook his head to clear his mind; the reflection's features cleared up. He smiled, raised his hand and drew it down slowly, and lights in the room grew dim. The reflection smiled back and disappeared.

"Well--here's a song. To the future, to us, to being a somebody--soon."

He played one for his dreams, one for the rainbows they claimed he couldn't catch, and another for good luck. And when he played, he sank into his own world, where he stood on a stage with faceless band-mates at his side and the harsh halogen lamp-lights were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

In reality, his feet were carrying him through a portal he'd just hastily conjured; in his dream, he was walking center stage.

"Hey, guys!" he shouted into the darkness, "thanks for coming out tonight!"

The audience cheered, echoing him. Grinning, he took a sweeping bow, before the world around him exploded into color and sound. Fingers ripping across the sitar strings, he half-sang, half-screamed:

"Let's get this show on the road!"