Kingdom Hearts: But Home Is Nowhere

Kingdom Hearts: But Home Is Nowhere Chapter 2

  Chapter the Second: Shut-In

Theme the Second: Excuses

Most people after having been rescued would show at least some grudging gratitude towards their rescuers, even if it is not their native temperament so to do. Most people are not Zexion.

"You didn't have to save me, you know," he remarks coldly. "I was doing just fine on my own." He negates his statement with a racking cough, so long it seems to Demyx he might just hack up a lung or two, or at the very least do himself some grave injury. He resists the urge to pat Zexion on the back. He seems the type of person to hate physical contact. As weak as he is, Demyx knows somehow that Zexion would at least try to rend him limb from limb for daring to do so. Of course, he would just tire himself out trying to do such a thing, so will be forced to settle for glaring at the blond, but the thought will still be there.

And you didn't have to come with me, Demyx thinks, frowning at the other. Not that Zexion would have lasted much longer in the Castle by himself; even he must admit that, as much as it may pain him so to do. Travelling the worlds in the company of the musician must be a preferable alternative.

They are currently sitting across one from the other in a decidedly shabby motel room, rented from an equally shabby owner. Or, rather, Demyx is sitting on his bed, a twin-sized bed that aspires to be an antique, with a sagging (and in all likelihood horribly stained by things Demyx would rather not identify) off-brand mattress that would never achieve such a lofty title. Zexion is lying on his left side, eyeing the other warily. He still wears the uniform of the Organisation, black shirt and trousers, though Demyx has managed to get him out of the Cloak, at least. It is hanging in the tiny closet just behind the entry door. How he has accomplished such a feat even he cannot explain. It is the only thing in the alcove, and it looks a little forlorn and miserable, and more than just a bit silly, draped as it is over a wire hanger that seems inadequate for the job.

Zexion's tall, impeccably shiny ebon knee-high boots are lined up neatly beside the bed, as Demyx has predicted. He seems the type to do such a thing. His, in contrast, neither shiny nor black, are tossed casually along one of the walls. Zexion will undoubtedly scold him for his carelessness later, but right now, he cannot bring himself to care for such things.

Zexion's steel-blue hair still smells faintly of the cheap shampoo-conditioner packet in the bathroom, so small it doesn't have a proper bathtub, only a corner shower, hard water stains blossoming on its dingy surface. (Only pansies take baths, Demyx tells himself. Real men shower.) The water heater does not produce much hot water, and Demyx has generously allowed Zexion to use it. Zexion graciously returned the favour by promptly using up all the hot water.

Demyx, in contrast, has cast aside his old clothes as soon as he had heard of the deaths at the Castle That Never Was. Having an excuse to buy vestments at the local thrift stores was more than welcome. They were never second-hand clothes, much less hand-me-downs; that sounded cheap and common, whereas Demyx was neither. No, they were "vintage." Not dated, but "retro." In time, it became a style choice rather than mere necessity, a deliberate affectation instead of an act of desperation.

In his defence, it had always been like this, at least to a certain extent. Dusks were not known for being reliable, especially when it came to doing the laundry, and there were only so many pairs of black jeans one could buy at Hot Topic on his salary. (Yes, really. There was a Hot Topic in Hollow Bastion. Now that it is Radiant Garden once more, it has been replaced by an Abercrombie and Fitch, and the edgier-than-thou kids who used to populate Hollow Bastion have no place to spend their allowance and birthday munny. A pity, that. They had some surprisingly nice things sometimes.) and when Larxene died, he had taken to wearing her jeans after a while. They were surprisingly comfortable, though he would never admit this to anyone.

Abandoning the livery of his old occupation helped him in two ways: it created a new identity for himself, one chosen entirely by him and, for a more practical application, removed the stigma of being a member of Organisation XIII. Perhaps it would help take the target off his back, at least slightly. Hope springs eternal, after all.

The motel is located off some rather unwholesome back alleys in a less-desirable part of Traverse Town. Sectioned off and well-nigh impossible to find unless one knows its exact location, it houses some of the most ill-bred and unseemly of the town's residents. Zexion knows all too well of its notorious reputation; dark, loathsome whispers of noisome and unnatural practices in the basement of the place abound to this day. He himself is scarcely ignorant of such things, having engaged in them himself in the Basements of both Castle Oblivion and the Castle That Never Was, along with his comrades Vexen and Lexaeus. Not to mention the near-blasphemous rituals and experiments he and his cohorts conducted at the Castle at Radiant Garden in the name of Science and Progress. Oh, what fools they were! What stupid and ignorant fools!

Still, the unsavoury estimation of the hostelry means that it cannot possibly be under the control of the Moogles, which is most assuredly a point in its favour, if perhaps the only thing it has going for it. A place not controlled by the Moogles is a rare thing indeed, particularly in Traverse Town. True, there are the few shops run by the resolute members of the Radiant Garden Restoration Committee, a ragtag bunch of human holdouts who refuse to be dominated by the amoral and avaricious creatures, but they are few in number, and even Cid's accessory shop has a Moogle living in its attic. People swear that the threats from the Moogles are fewer and fewer these days, but there is still the occasional unexplained fire in the shop, not to mention what happened to Aerith's flower garden.

One could easily blame the original six members of the Organisation for the rise of the Moogle Mafia, as it is known. Before experimenting on themselves in perverse abandonment of sense and reason, they had begun their research on the Moogles. Sapient and sentient though they were, they were nonetheless alien and inhuman enough that it seemed acceptable to experiment on them, particularly to those immoral and unethical enough to eventually turn on themselves for research material. Soon, they began killing the beasts in droves, importing them from far away. Hearing of their efforts and the results, King Ansem the Wise, as he was known as at the time, forbid the practice of vivisection on the animals and declared them an endangered species. Soon, however, these creatures with their base intelligence and felonious instincts used their new status to form a crime syndicate the Worlds had never known before. As endangered animals, they could not be arrested or punished for their actions. Thus they soon began setting up synthesis and item shops around the worlds, driving out the human and other shopkeepers with vile intimidation tactics.

The owner of the establishment corpulent, with a ruddy nose, and of unknown pedigree, dressed in a stained white tank top over dove-grey sweatpants that are equally as dirty and threadbare. His obviously dyed raven hair is thinning and greasy, the strands combed over in what can only barely be described as a hairstyle in a vain attempt to cover his bare pate. His fingers are thick and meaty, almost slug-like in appearance, and Demyx marvels that he can hold a pen in them. His penmanship must be a horror show, he thinks. Then again, his is little better. The office desk, cheap as it is, looks like the victim of a drive-by shooting a time or two, and the mail-slots overflow with junk mailings. But the man asks no questions and takes cash, so Demyx is in no real position to judge. And, wonder of wonders, Zexion did not complain... at the time.

The room is small but has twin beds separated by a chipped particleboard table that serves as a night-stand. The lamination meant to make it look like real pine is peeling off, and the lamp, an incongruously feminine thing topped with a frilly pink shade, flickers ever so slightly. Still, they do not mean to live here long-term, and for now, it is acceptable.

Zexion stares at Demyx, his visible eye narrowed in distaste as he takes in Demyx's clothes. Did he dress in the dark, he wonders. How on earth could he think that looks good? That pink (yes, pink, or rather rose, perhaps even mauve) shirt with the pale dusty blue and peach feathery leaves with a pair of acid-washed jeans that looked like they were brand new in 1992. Zexion does not want to know how much they set the other back. The fact that Demyx's feet, still in shoes, does not bother him nearly as much as the fact that he is wearing Doc Martens. And is his hair dyed pale blue? Yes, Zexion is certain he can see in Demyx's formerly blond locks a washed-out blue the shade of topaz. And we must not overlook the over-sized golden anchor pendant on the thick gold-tone chain around his neck. There is no way that Demyx could possibly afford real gold on his wages.

Demyx lies back on the bed, oblivious to Zexion's unspoken censure. It is covered with a threadbare muddy brown plaid bedspread that seems to be a relic of a forgotten era. Under different circumstances, such a thing would excite him as little else would, being a fervent and fevered admirer of the nostalgic and antiquated. For now, however, it just strikes him as pathetic and slightly melancholic.

The old stained and worn teal carpet, an ill-kept relic of the nineteen-eighties, does little to improve his mood, nor does the old small television in the battered wardrobe in front of him. It's not old enough to have any retro or nostalgic charm, but not new enough to be modern. Demyx tells himself that he should like it just because it's old, a holdout from the nineteen-nineties, but cannot bring himself to muster any positive emotions towards it. He wonders whether this is a good thing, whether he is losing his wont to romanticise the things of the past and think more highly of them than he truly ought, merely because they are products of a bygone era, then decides that it is simply because the television is a triumph of function over form, that it is nothing more than a black cube with a screen inside, more an oversized computer monitor than a piece of furniture. A pity. He has always had a soft spot for console televisions, with their wood grain trim and such other trappings.

There is a tiny coffee maker in the lavatory next to the sink, a pristine white that reminds him far too much of Castle Oblivion, and he shudders. He never wants to return there. Not now, not ever. There is nothing left for him now. Nothing left for anyone, really. Besides, he doesn't drink coffee anymore.

He turns to his companion. "How did you manage to survive on your own for so long?" He feels it is a safe enough opening, and it should slake his curiosity, at least for now. He may come to regret it later, but for now he needs to hear the voice of another person. He has gone far too long without it. He reasons within himself that Zexion feels the same way, regardless of whether he is willing to admit it.

Zexion is more than happy to oblige. He tells Demyx how he had struggled to make his way to the basement after the Riku Replica had stolen his power and strength. Demyx had no idea that there even was a Riku Replica, and wonders why anyone would want to make one. The real one was bad enough, from what he has heard. He tells Zexion this, who agrees readily.

It was at Axel's command that the Riku Replica had done so, he hastens to add, as though the pair of them needed yet another reason to despise him, as though treachery and murder are but light things, little worthy of note. This does not surprise Demyx in the least, and he admits as much to the other Nobody. He for his part nods knowingly before being yet again shaken with convulsions.

Demyx races to the tiny bathroom and fetches a clean(ish) glass from the sink. He fills it with cold water and re-enters the bedroom. Before Zexion can protest, he presses the glass to dry, cracked lips and makes him drink. The other is a greedy, grasping thing, but Demyx cannot help but be grateful for that fact at the moment.

Zexion gasps for air after draining the glass, which Demyx sets down on the tired decades-old night-stand, before continuing his tale. There had been a small functioning refrigerator in the laboratory that had been stocked with enough food to last three people for days, even weeks. Perhaps even longer with proper rationing practices. So it should be able to feed one person for quite a while. At least, that was what was supposed to happen. Things never work according to plan, however. Zexion is all too aware of this. He tells Demyx this when the other reminds him that he had found the slate-haired youth half-starved in the Castle basements.

"I was hungry. I didn't think," is all he can think to say. "And my food allergies, well, they certainly didn't take those into consideration, now did they?" He sighs in disgust. "They should have. After all, they're partially responsible for my having them in the first place."

Demyx does not ask how they are responsible, nor how it would be possible for them to be. He need not ask who "they" are. He does not even ask where the Replica is, though this last bit would be of grave import, he knows. Nor does Zexion see fit to offer Demyx this information. Instead, he rants for several minutes about his food allergies. Gluten allergies, lactose intolerance, diabetes, (even though when he was Ienzo, and Ansem's apprentice, Ansem used to buy him sea-salt ice cream all the time. He wonders briefly whether this is divine punishment for his actions, or merely the universe playing a sick joke on him. It does not occur to him that this is mere coincidence. It would never occur to him, could never occur to him that this is so.) At any rate, the food in the refrigerator soon proved insufficient to meet his dietary needs, but with Axel closing in on him, and his powers of darkness taken from him by the Replica there was no way he could leave to obtain proper nourishment.

"How could I leave?" he asks plaintively. "Where would I go? Where could I go?" He throws up his hands, then collapses on the bed, evidently worn out by all this excitement.

Demyx looks away, embarrassed by this display.