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Sep. 24th, 2007 12:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cardoperatedboyAaaaugh, wrote this a few days ago, putting it here so I don't lose it. Totally AU -- a combination between the AUverse with Zexion and the post-CFUD ficverse and not really canon for either anyway, b-but. The idea wouldn't go away so I wrote it anyway. :x
Zexion feels the physical changes only secondarily; the abrupt weight of his body -- not heavy in itself, but heavier than nothing has ever been. The prickle as all the pale hairs along his arms stand up in the sudden chill and sensation washes over him; this world has always been a cold one in ways he has never properly been able to feel. The sleeker, darker fall of his hair as the colour bleeds into black. There is a sweet pain in his chest and a feeling like he's just drawn a deep breath. Regret, joy; there are tears on his face. Around him are other people.
And an absence.
It's hard to concentrate right now around the rush of everything, hard to focus with his laughter in the air and wetness on his face and a swelling inside him, but concern pierces anyway; he turns inwards, sees there, and would teleport but cannot. Instead he runs up the bridge as it turns from energy to wood and brass under his feet, chases the change of the castle with a loud rap-rap-rap of his boots on what is suddenly marble, as he follows passages and takes lifts and tries to remember routes through the castle he is deeply unused to taking. Some rooms may be inaccessible forever if the castle doesn't make routes to them, or at least, inaccessible to most of them now, any who do not fall again into darkness. He shakes his head and concentrates on breathing. He is out of shape.
Still, it only takes work to get there, and he's willing to put in the work. The portals are different, enough to pain him slightly and he averts his eyes away from it, puts a hand to it, feels it still light up for him. Good, good. Then through into a room which should be unfamiliar in the way it has suddenly become a home, and gasping for air, a stitch in his side paining his heart, he reaches out and draws the replica to him. "Why did you run?"
The replica looks at him as if expecting a stranger and is crying. Sick and worried: that's what these feelings are. Zexion reaches out and wipes his tears away, feels his own brows furrow and his lips purse.
"It hurt," the replica says. "In my heart. You've changed."
"Yes," Zexion says, and hears his feelings thick in that word. "You haven't, have you?"
"No, so. So I'm even more different from you now," and Zexion knows the replica is terrified.
He puts his arms around him and tugs him close. "No," Zexion murmurs, and presses a kiss to his forehead, feels his warmth. "It's okay now."
Zexion feels the physical changes only secondarily; the abrupt weight of his body -- not heavy in itself, but heavier than nothing has ever been. The prickle as all the pale hairs along his arms stand up in the sudden chill and sensation washes over him; this world has always been a cold one in ways he has never properly been able to feel. The sleeker, darker fall of his hair as the colour bleeds into black. There is a sweet pain in his chest and a feeling like he's just drawn a deep breath. Regret, joy; there are tears on his face. Around him are other people.
And an absence.
It's hard to concentrate right now around the rush of everything, hard to focus with his laughter in the air and wetness on his face and a swelling inside him, but concern pierces anyway; he turns inwards, sees there, and would teleport but cannot. Instead he runs up the bridge as it turns from energy to wood and brass under his feet, chases the change of the castle with a loud rap-rap-rap of his boots on what is suddenly marble, as he follows passages and takes lifts and tries to remember routes through the castle he is deeply unused to taking. Some rooms may be inaccessible forever if the castle doesn't make routes to them, or at least, inaccessible to most of them now, any who do not fall again into darkness. He shakes his head and concentrates on breathing. He is out of shape.
Still, it only takes work to get there, and he's willing to put in the work. The portals are different, enough to pain him slightly and he averts his eyes away from it, puts a hand to it, feels it still light up for him. Good, good. Then through into a room which should be unfamiliar in the way it has suddenly become a home, and gasping for air, a stitch in his side paining his heart, he reaches out and draws the replica to him. "Why did you run?"
The replica looks at him as if expecting a stranger and is crying. Sick and worried: that's what these feelings are. Zexion reaches out and wipes his tears away, feels his own brows furrow and his lips purse.
"It hurt," the replica says. "In my heart. You've changed."
"Yes," Zexion says, and hears his feelings thick in that word. "You haven't, have you?"
"No, so. So I'm even more different from you now," and Zexion knows the replica is terrified.
He puts his arms around him and tugs him close. "No," Zexion murmurs, and presses a kiss to his forehead, feels his warmth. "It's okay now."
