#‘buh buh it’s not necessarily exactly a minute’

[ballsbalb]

1 minute response time is crazy 💀

[writingsteph]

HFY Ch 16 Sneak Peek

Someone asked for a peek into the upcoming chapter. 

ALSO many people have asked for some prompts. I see them, I promise! But when I write I tend to focus on one thing at a time. Right now I’m writing the chapter for “Here For You” (Glee fanfic). I’ll get to the requests after I write my chapter. I’m sorry! Work is starting up again, school for my kiddos, etc. I’m notorious for long waits and I feel bad about it. (So sorry!)

“Rach, can I come in?” Shelby knocked on the door, giving her daughter the privacy she believed the preteen deserved. Her daughter had been up there for a while. She’d sent her to get ready 30 minutes ago. 

“Y-yeah.” Came the sniffly voice through the door. 

Oh no. She was crying. It wasn’t even ten o clock yet. What could’ve possibly upset her kid? 

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” Shelby asked coming into the room to the sight of clothes strewn all over the girl’s rug and her child still dressed in her sleeping tshirt, “Jesus Rach. It’s like a tornado came through here.” She sidestepped a few shirts that had made their way towards the door. Her hands subconsciously went to her hips as she stood over her teary eyed child, “What’s the problem kiddo?”

Rachel slapped the floor in frustration, “I-I don’t know what to wear! I wanted to put my daddies’ favorite colors on, but -” Her eyes grew glassy once more, “I don’t know what their favorite colors are.” Her frustrated voice turned into something far too meek for Shelby’s liking, “I - I don’t know anything about them.”

Hands that were once perched on her hips, fell to Shelby’s sides. She knelt down to reach her daughter’s level, “Hey Rachel, can you look at me?”

The girl’s eyes skitted up, shame and frustration written all over them. “You know how they were super excited to see you when we called them yesterday?”

“Y-yeah. They said they couldn’t wait to see how much I’ve grown.”

“Right.” Shelby moved to sit down, her back leaning on the girl’s bed. She outstretched her arms and Rachel easily crawled into them. Warm arms hugged her middle as she sat between her mother’s legs, “They were excited to see you, period. No if, ands, or buts. The last thing on their mind will be what you’re wearing because all they’ll care about is seeing your beautiful face.”

“How do you know that?” Rachel nuzzled the back of her head onto her mama’s chest. A kiss to the top of her head was given in response. Rachel wished it was nighttime so her mama could draw her a bath and wash her hair. She always felt so calm then. 

“Because that’s how I would feel.” Shelby answered honestly. 

A silence grew between them. Both mother and child thinking similar things. Recognizing the chasm between Rachel and her fathers. Recognizing that Shelby’s way of parenting was so different from Leroy and Hiram’s. “Mama...my daddies, they, they aren’t like you.”

“I know.” Shelby reasoned, “But they’re your fathers and as different as they are from me, they still love you, the person Rachel. Not just what you appear to be.”

The 11 year old had so many questions and insecurities but she didn’t want to go into them. She didn’t want to go through that rollercoaster of emotions. “Can you help me choose my clothes then, mom?”

“Sure.” Shelby smiled down at her kid, turning her so they were facing each other, “And how about we choose your favorite color?”

Shelby shook her head trying to compose herself. Dear God she thought she knew how hard this was going to be. But she was wrong. It was fucking worse. 

“She has a really nice room.” It was Leroy’s voice that came from behind her. Shelby turned around and smiled tightly as she stood up from her couch, “Thank you. She’s had a lot of say in decorating since she’s moved in.”

Leroy scratched the back of his head, “Y-yes. I could tell by the amount of Wicked and Mulan paraphernalia. She’s always loved Mulan.”

“We’ve watched it more than a dozen times since she’s been here.” Shelby fondly explained.

“I-we-we used to put it on when she was a toddler. It distracted her during our work calls.” 

Leroy frowned. Saying it out loud, made the man realize what an ass he came across as. Shelby presumably watched the movie with Rachel. Meanwhile it was just a form of distraction for them. They never watched it with her. They simply never had the time. 

No, Leroy. You never made time. 

He sighed, wanting to avoid the thoughts in his head and Shelby’s judgement, “Ah, um, we....should get going.” He looked back up the stairs, his voice became austere, ��Hiram. Rachel. Let’s go now. Come on!”

Was that the voice he always used to talk to their sensitive little girl? Shelby, once again, bit her tongue.

She could hear Rachel and Hiram coming towards the top of the steps and felt compelled to make one last appeal to the tall man in front of her,  “Leroy, I know I’ve said it before, but just remember that Rachel is very sensitive about what you two think of her. Please just-” She rubbed her forehead, trying to make sense of what was running through her head, “Just have that top of mind when spending time with her.”

Leroy pursed his lips. Sure he agreed that he didn’t necessarily have the best relationship with his daughter. He could own up to his mistakes, but not to Shelby he couldn’t. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t exactly ready to own up to everything just yet. 

“Don’t worry, we will.” Was all he could say before Hiram and Rachel made it down. 

Shelby followed all three of them out after giving her daughter a strong goodbye hug. Rachel had been holding onto Hiram’s hand but as Leroy was putting her suitcase in the car she let go of the man’s hand and turned towards her mother who was at the steps of their house. She ran back over and gave her mother one last hug, hugging the woman’s waist as if her life depended on it, “I’m gonna miss you mommy.” She mumbled trying to keep her tears back.

Hiram and Leroy stood by the car watching the interaction. Both fully aware that the girl had never acted in such a way with them. There were multiple work trips where they’d go a week without seeing their daughter, and Rachel never bid them goodbye in this way. Yet, only 4 months in with Rachel, and Shelby’s connection with the child was clear. 

Shelby picked the preteen up into her arms, placing a steadying hand beneath the child’s bottom, while Rachel wrapped her arms around the woman’s neck, “You can call me every night, lovey. And it’s okay if you decide to spend your nights here instead. You just have to say the word.”

Rachel nodded as her tears spilled down her cheeks. She felt so many butterflies in her stomach. She hadn’t spent a night away from her mother yet. It scared her, but she wanted to be strong. She felt as her mother walked her over to the car, but she just held on tighter.

Hiram opened the backdoor for Shelby. “It’s alright lovebug.” Shelby patted the girl’s back, “You’re going to have a good time with your dads.” The mother said, preparing to let go of the girl, “I have to let you go now Rachie. Okay? I gotta buckle you up.”

Rachel took a deep breath and loosened her grip. She stared at her mother with teary eyes, but did not stop Shelby from sitting her down and pulling the seatbelt across for her. Her mama had red eyes too. Her mama was sad too. 

This is good for both of you. Shelby thought. She needs this. 

“Buh-buh-bye mama.” Rachel hiccupped, rubbing her eyes. Shelby nodded hurriedly, forcing her own sobs back and gave the girl two kisses to her forehead, “Bye baby. I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

It’s just a week Shelby. Get it together. She’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: Atonement, chapter 15

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Or: Even's journey from BBS through post-KH3

Chapter summary:  Even realizes he can no longer live in isolation, and attempts to mend the bonds with those around him.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Stuck.

Like a record, he repeats the same things over and over again. None of his experiments are promising, none of the reports he writes insightful. He’s getting purely nothing done. Months are passing, he’s losing time--he fears he’s losing more than that. Is this depression? Insanity? Something isn’t right.

He’s trying to distill a compound one of these nothing days when the beaker suddenly shatters, spattering his arm with caustic materials. Despite precautions and gear, he’s rather injured. As gently as possible, he picks the glass out of the wound, washes away all of the compound, wraps it securely. It stings terrifically, adding to his patchwork of burns. Could he stitch this himself? Absolutely. Should he, when someone else could fix it easily?

He meets Demyx in the hall near their apartment; the young man is toting a laundry basket. “Good. You’re here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? What did you do to yourself?”

“What indeed. Either way I need your help.”

Something like smugness leaches into his green eyes. Even regrets coming down; but he’s already here. “Come on. Sit down.” He brings Even inside, reaching for the medic bag by the door. “Is it bleeding? Can I see it?”

What about sterility? “Aren’t you going to wash your hands first?”

He huffs a little. “I already cleaned them with magic.” He takes Even’s hand and examines the wound. “Ouch. How’d you do that?”

He watches with something like fascination as the boy heals him, easing the pain and chemical burns without even touching it. He’s sure the boy’s hands are actually clean (or hopes) but there’s something disquieting about the lack of gloves. The wound doesn’t scar; not that it would’ve been noticeable anyway. “A beaker got too hot, and burst. These things happen. All the glass I work with is so old, it’s only a matter of time. I would’ve tended to it myself, but…”

“I’m sure you would’ve,” Demyx says. “How’s that feel?”

“Better. Faster than what I could’ve done. You have my thanks.”

Rather generously (and petulantly?) the boy adds, “It’s not too late for you to learn.”

He scoffs. “What, old dog, new tricks?” Even asks. “I’ve studied enough medicine. This might surprise you, but I don’t exactly have… the proper countenance.”

He laughs. “It’s okay.”

He rolls down his sleeve. “I’ve enough of bodies, I think.” Enough of the physical sicknesses, the injuries, the neediness.

“Yeah?”

“The human body is so… fragile. So fallible.”

“I know,” Demyx says. “Preaching to the choir.”

Even considers the boy, the drollness of his expression. He knows he’s changed, but is Demyx really passionate enough about this to go through with it? It’s a lot of draining, thankless work if one’s heart is not truly in it. “You’re still… gung-ho, about this, then?”

He blinks. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I recall once upon a time you were quite flighty.”

His expression hardens, and his tone is somewhat sharp when he says, “Then isn’t now.”

Great. The last thing he needs is to alienate one of the few people who can tolerate him. (To think, there’d be a day when he’d value Demyx’s presence.) “I… apologize if that remark offended you.”

He kneels by the hearth and begins building a fire. “It didn’t.”

He’s absolutely lying. “Yet your tone is rather cold.”

Demyx doesn’t miss a beat. “As is yours. As is all of you, actually.”

“Cold like ice?” Arguing, volatility, is so easy. Why isn’t anything else?

He looks up. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“I think we’re far beyond tailoring responses for tact.”

“Are we?” Demyx asks. He crumples some paper and lights it with a match. Even flinches, fighting hard against the memory (Buh-bye.). The boy’s still talking. “For a while I thought we were getting closer. But you’re still hiding yourself away, so. I don’t know what that means. You can go, if you want. Your arm should be fine.”

So he’s noticed. Someone’s noticed, and cared. But this doesn’t make him feel any better. Because like everything else he’s tossed this boy aside too. “...Quite. Thank you.”

“Sure,” he says dully, still in front of the fire.

Maybe he can salvage this. “All these… words about the linearity of progress, of healing. You must realize that this isn’t as easy for me as it is for you.”

His head snaps up. “It’s not easy. It’s never easy. Not for a minute. You don’t know the half of it.”

Made it worse again.

His eyes are so piercing. “You know I take meds? We both do. Otherwise the trauma literally makes me unable to function. And I’ve heard Ienzo talk about what happened in the basement, and what happened at Castle Oblivion. I know, Even. I know what you did to him, and to Ansem.”

A sharp pain shoots through him, the first in a long while; but it quickly withers. Of course. They’re so close… Ienzo must have told him everything. A wave of shame eclipses the pain. “You must be very angry with me, then.”

“Ienzo forgives you. So I do too.” His tone is not at all forgiving. He keeps building the fire.

“You must understand, then. How difficult it is to move on. I see the reminders of it every day.”

“You think I don’t?” Then, a little less harshly, “Even, you can’t keep living like this.”

He feels caught. “I know.” He sits, the weight of his body too much. “I’m aware this is not healthy. Physically or mentally. What am I to do? Burden that boy with the weight of these things I supposedly feel?”

“What about Ansem? Or Aeleus or Dilan? Aren’t they your friends?”

So sharp, yet so naive. ““Friend” is a loose term.”

He’s facing Even now. “What about me, then? I’m not... I’m not him, Even. I’m not Demyx.”

Another pain comes back. Just as suddenly, “Yet you wear the same face and have the same name.”

“You know what I mean.” He bites his lip. “Do you want to get better? Or are you just running from anything meaningful?”

Even feels his face flush. (He’s right.) “Part of it is… I hope… practicality,” he admits. “I recall that, for you… the intensity of your returning humanity pushed you to the edge. I do not wish to experience that. I do not need my existence to be so… precarious.” No need to worry anyone about a wretch like him.

The boy sighs. “Is this about Ansem? About when he tried to--”

“I do not wish to be a burden. On anyone. I do not crave… pity.”

“You can’t stay in this middle state forever, though. You need to let your heart grow.”

He looks away.

“I can help you,” Demyx says. “I know how it feels, Even. I think I might be the only one.”

He has a point. He realizes he’s been avoiding asking Demyx about that experience. But why? To spare himself pain? “Was it moreso… memories, or feelings?”

He shrugs. “The memories came… later,” he says. “It was… anxiety more than anything. And nightmares. And then… I…”

Fear so like Even’s own. “You fell in love?” he asked dryly.

“Well, yeah. It’s about… seeing and being seen, or whatever. When I realized he loved me back, it… it hurt. I thought I was having a heart attack. But I don’t think it necessarily has to be romantic. You have to… decide to be human.” Even’s just asking himself the question when the boy adds, “Don’t you want that?”

“I like to think so.” But does he? Is it worth the pain? It’s already so potent. And if the trauma makes them unable to function… what will it do to Even? He needs to be of use. He can’t fall apart.

“It’s better than being numb all the time.”

“Worth the anxiety that makes you unable to function?”

Irritation flickers across his face. “Even, I don’t know, okay? I can’t make this better for you. I can’t convince you to want something when you so clearly don’t.”

The anger surprises him; but why should it? Demyx is being so earnest, and he’s stepping on it.

He lifts his chin. “You want to be miserable and alone, that’s fine by me.”

Even isn’t angry in return; he’s just tired. “Well. If that’s how you feel.”

---

He drags himself back to his lab. That bastion. There are still shards of glass on the table, but he doesn’t sweep them up. He sits, heavily. Shivers. Debates giving into this growing urge to break down. What good would it possibly do?

Even can’t live like this.

Vexen could live in isolation, could thrive in it. So could Even-of-the-past, to a lesser degree. But now?

Now.

He wants to change--or claims to want it, anyway. Again that boy--so underestimated--managed to gut him. He’s running away, hiding, closing himself off. How can he possibly make things better doing this? Not for himself, but anyone? He can’t do high quality work if his mental health worsens. No wonder he’s gotten absolutely nothing accomplished.

He needs someone.

It’s a cold realization, colder than the room he’s in. He needs connection. He is not special, not an outlier. He stands, as though physically propelled by this thought, and crosses over to the window. It’s snowing. A full year gone by and… nothing. Something in his throat aches.

To give in, or not.

The lab door creaks. Even knows without looking who it is. “Hey,” Demyx says. “Listen, I--”

The words fall from him. “You were right.”

“What?” he sounds shocked. The pain is worsening. He feels something like a helplessness, viewing a storm on the horizon. It’s going to happen whether you want it to or not.

“Does your hearing need to be checked? You were right.” He crosses his arms as though to physically keep it together. “You can’t do algebra, yet you have a better understanding of humanity than I after years of study. It is… galling.”

“Uh… sorry? I guess?” He hears Demyx take a few steps.

“I’ve been making excuses. I’ve been… lazy. I’ve been trying to save myself from this… remorse, because I don't want any of you see me fall apart. Why is it you care, Demyx? After all my belittling of you?”

“That was years ago.”

“Does it matter?” Abuse is abuse is abuse.

Even hears him sigh. He feels a hand touch his arm and is immensely grateful for the curtain of his hair.

“I feel… stuck. I didn’t realize… that this feeling is not productive.” It’s hard to say this out loud.

Gently, “You can change that.”

So certain. He nods.

“Besides, we’re… we’re sort of family, right? What other reason do I need?”

It’s this that breaks him, that forces the as-yet-fought tears in his eyes to run over. Even doesn’t deserve kindness.

In his periphery, Demyx leans against the windowsill. “It’s hard to be vulnerable. I know. Especially after what we all went through. It fucking sucks, right? That to survive all that, now we have to deal with this…”

“...Psychological consequence?”

“I was going to say “bullshit”, but that works too.”

He tries to collect himself. “I forget what it is to… care,” Even says. “But isn’t that what’s been missing? From this… atonement? I can feel passionate about numbers, about the science, but I haven’t seen beyond that. So you’re right. It’s time to shore up. I should at the very least be the bigger grown-up than you.”

He laughs. “I know you didn’t have many options, but… thanks for letting me be the one to deliver the replica.”

“Thanks for following through. For once.”

“I’m going to hug you now.”

“I’d rather you didn't.”

“Too late.” Demyx squeezes him once, lightly, around the waist. It’s so unfamiliar, to be touched; he almost doesn’t know how to react. Then, equally as overwhelming, “Come have dinner with us.”

Perhaps it is for this reason that he says, “...Alright. I… it is rather cold in here, isn’t it? I should get that looked at.” He turns his face away, mops at his eyes. “You’re not half-bad.”

“Back at you.”

---

Let the heart grow.

How?

He’s rebuilt this tenuous connection between himself and Demyx--but it’s the newest, has undergone the least stress. There’s so much more he has to deal with.

Decide to be human. As if it’s so simple.

Isn’t it? Embrace these feelings, rather than reject them, even if it’s pain. Would it be so bad to come apart? To let himself be helped? It’s going to be necessary. All this repression does not bode well for him, physically and mentally. He can’t afford to die young (relatively speaking), not when he has so much to make up for.

He takes it in turn to try and socialize again, to spend time in the communal spaces.

“It’s good to see you here,” Aeleus admits.

“I’m afraid my pride’s taken a good beating,” Even says. “Ienzo’s miscreant gave me a talking-to about isolating myself. I figure he’s right.” He shakes his head.

“Demyx was always perceptive,” he says.

“As I’m finding out. At least there’s that. I suppose Ienzo could have done much worse for himself.”

He chuckles a little. He’s still working on some kind of puzzle, spread willy-nilly on the floor. “The constellations,” he says. “I’m struggling to remember them. They’ve been different for so long.”

“You and your astrology.” Even rolls his eyes.

“Many things impact a heart.”

“Apparently.”

Aeleus places his piece at last. “I found that little cat of theirs up here and nearly panicked. I thought it had messed it all up. Ten thousand pieces--I might’ve cried.”

“Only to start again?” Even asks dryly.

He shrugs. “It’s a good way to use the mind. My work has been so physical lately. And so tedious. But at least if we can get the heating fixed, we’ll be warmer.”

“Is it work you enjoy?”

“I like being of use,” Aeleus says. “What is it you’ve been working on?”

Even shifts a little in the chair. He’s almost out of practice with conversation. “A fool’s errand, I suppose,” he admits. “I… am trying to develop something like an antidepressant. Something to lessen the way trauma impacts the body.”

Aeleus looks up. “That’s hardly foolish. The people here could use that.”

“I hope so. But there’s the sad truth that it must go through clinical trials--and who would trust me?”

“I’d trust you,” Aeleus says. “I’ll be your guinea pig.”

Even scoffs a little. “That’s hardly necessary.”

“I… could use such a thing,” he says quietly. He picks up another tiny piece; in his hands, it’s comically small.

He frowns. “Was Castle Oblivion very rough on you?”

“It wasn’t… easy. I…” He hesitates. “I do have very intense nightmares.”

“...About what?”

“Any number of things.” Aeleus keeps his eyes on the puzzle. “I was not able to protect Zexion, or you. I do not know how he passed--but my mind likes to torture me with the possibilities. That scar…” He shudders. “Nor… you as well.”

“I’m not sure if it would help--but I have both answers.”

Aeleus looks back up.

As gently as possible, Even explains.

For a moment, there’s a crack in his normally stoic expression, something like shock and horror; Even’s again unsure if he’s caused yet more damage. But then Aeleus nods slowly. “I… see. That must’ve been terrifying for you.”

“I suppose. I’m not sure if my mind is not yet prepared to process it… but I do not nightmare much. Perhaps because I don’t sleep so deeply.”

“You were always a restless sleeper,” he says dully. “Thank you for… telling me. Knowledge is closure.”

Even nods. “I do hope yours wasn’t nearly so brutal.”

Aeleus shrugs. “Brutality is relative, I think. We… we unsure of why you were so injured.”

“Yes, well. The scars aren’t so pretty, but I never cared much about outward appearances.”

Aeleus considers the puzzle in front of him. For a moment he says nothing.

“I… suppose I am softening,” Even says. “We must… have to be here. Otherwise, why would we have all pulled through?”

He gives a small smile. “You’ve made progress.”

“Very, very slowly.”

Aeleus takes his hand. “Better than not at all… unlike some people here.”

It’s unusual for Aeleus to be so suggestive. “You mean Ansem?”

“I’m not sure what it would take to reach him. I… have tried.”

“I have too.” Even frowns.

“But you can’t help those who don’t want it. No matter what you do.” He admires his handiwork. “Shall we go get some lunch?”

---

It’s this Even thinks about later that night, his head pounding. He scans textbooks, trying to understand. Perhaps it’s not a loss of will to live in the literal sense--but rather, the emotional or spiritual. Medicine can’t touch it. Only determination and a careful hand.

He hears his door bang open. It’s much too late for visitors; something must be wrong. He looks over his shoulder. There’s Ienzo, in pajamas and a dressing gown. In the poor lighting, it’s hard to see his face. “Out for a nighttime stroll?” he asks. “Or did you have a lovers’ quarrel?” Things seem much too perfect between the two boys. It’s only a matter of time.

Ienzo’s voice has a jagged edge to it when he says, “You lied.”

Oh.

Of course. He’s processing.

Gently, he asks, “What is this about?”

He’s breathing hard. “You lied to me. About Ansem.”

This is going to hurt; Even can feel it. “Yes, I know. I thought you did, too.” He swivels his stool.

Ienzo comes into the light. He looks manic, his face pink. “I want to know why. Why did you all do it to me? Did you think I would not understand? That I--” He’s tearing up.

Where to begin unraveling? How to help this boy? Slowly, he gathers his words. “It is… handy to blame it all on Xehanort. Truthfully, I like to think that it came from a place of protection. But that is all bunk. It we were to separate you from Ansem’s influence, then we could continue our work, unfettered. Simply… if you had nothing but us, you would rely on us, and comply with us. I cannot overstate it--as soon as it happened, I regretted it, Ienzo, because I saw how devastated you were. But by then it was too late to undo the damage. And I was a weak and selfish man. I really did believe we were better off without him.” No point telling him about the bungled escape. It will make no difference.

The boy says nothing; he seems stricken. Even’s never seen him this upset; not in a long, long while.

“It is one of my biggest mistakes,” he admits. He clucks his tongue. “I cared, but I didn’t care enough, in the right way. I should’ve--as soon as we did what we did, I should’ve tried to retrieve him. Or at the very least, tried to take you out of that situation. Let you grow up normally, and not become a stunted husk. But I didn’t. I… I held my work above all, and in the process, destroyed what was most important.” Called, tempted by darkness, a temptation that severed all. “Does that answer your question?”

He’s still breathing hard, tears running disjointedly down his face.

“I do not expect your forgiveness,” Even says softly. “I do not deserve it, either, after all the suffering I’ve retroactively put you through. But know that I… I am trying to atone. To grow. It is so… difficult--Ienzo?”

A sob escapes him; he seems surprised by it, and covers his mouth. Even stands, to console him, but Ienzo flinches away from him. “You are not well. Sit.”

He obeys, perching on the cot and hugging himself tightly. Even takes a deep breath and chances sitting next to him.

“Pain hides in pockets,” Even says. “Compartmentalizes. You knew of our betrayal, but for whatever reason, only now are you processing what it meant to you.” He exhaled. “If you wish for us to have no further contact--” Though how will he go on?

Ienzo unwittingly solves this dilemma. “I don’t wish that,” he says. “I… I want to trust you. If only because the thought of holding onto this is too much.” His voice is full of glass.

How woeful, to see him like this again. Even feels a dull pain of his own, mirrored in his chest and throat. “Then don’t.”

“You’re all I knew.”

“...I know.” This is stirring up all the guilt, already so close to the surface.

“I wanted to please you. I would've done anything to impress you.” He shakes his head. He’s trembling. “Once it all started… I never wanted people to get hurt.”

He sighs. “Nor did I. But then… I convinced myself that it was all alright, not only because it was in the interest in something greater, but because our victims supposedly consented. To be more colloquial, denial is one hell of a drug.”

He’s still so distraught. But he hasn't left. That has to mean something.

“The only person you owe forgiveness is yourself,” Even says softly, trying to meet the boy’s eyes. He takes Ienzo’s hand and, when he doesn’t pull it away, gives it a squeeze. “Remember that.”

Slowly, Ienzo nods.

“He…” His words are failing him.

He blinks. His eyes are swollen.

Knowledge is closure. Lying won’t help. “He threatened you.”

He squints. “Ansem?”

“No. Xehanort.”

Ienzo doesn’t seem sure whether or not to accept this; Even can’t blame him.

Tell the truth. He was aware it immediately contradicts what he's just said. “He… if I did not do what he said, he was going to…”

A mixture of surprise and apprehension fills his face. “But he always--” A pause, then realization. “I was a tool to him.”

“It’s what I was afraid of.” He tries to collect himself. “In that moment you gave him what he needed. I feared he would mold you into what he wanted.”

“Didn’t he?” A pause. “Didn’t he do the same to you?”

“Not quite. It was easier to be numb, to let the darkness take hold… than to claw my way out. I’m so selfish.”

“You did it for me.”

“There was still no need to lie to you. No need to retraumatize you. Those lies took over your heart, your mind. I am… I’m so sorry, Ienzo.”

“Thank you,” the boy says softly.

Even offers him a handkerchief. Ienzo wipes at his face.

“I suppose I always sort of knew,” he admits. “I remember… I remember you tried to save me.” He crumples the cloth in one hand. “When they took our hearts.”

“He’d promised me he wouldn’t touch you. I should have known better. And then…” It’s hard to admit these things, harder still to keep them inside. “When I woke as Vexen… all my ties to everyone were shattered. I felt nothing for you.”

“I felt nothing either.”

“And because I felt nothing… all the easier to not do anything. But that doesn’t justify it.” He can feel his own emotions rising, something like pain. “Child, I--”

“It’s alright,” Ienzo says softly.

“It isn’t. It will never be. You have to carry these things with you for the rest of your life. You could’ve--”

“Don’t you?” He’s still crying. “Suffering for me will not negate it, Even. For either of us. But we have… we have one another. We have time. I do not… want to spend much longer agonizing about my past. Not when I have a future. Which… because of what you did… will be a long one. Without darkness.” His voice is a bit steadier now. “Don’t forget I pushed you away too. I am not innocent in this.”

“You were a child--”

“No. I am so frustrated. You and Ansem both believe I can do no wrong. Even, you were in meetings with me. You know the things I did, the things I set in motion. The people who’ve--died because I decided it must be.” He touches his breastbone. “That will always weigh on my conscience. So, I’m sure, will your own offenses. But…”

“It can be fixed,” he says, to himself.

“Yes. Much… like us.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them. “I am… rather tired. I believe I gave Demyx a fright, running out like this. We can discuss this further when we’ve had some sleep.”

“...Sure.” He feels something rising in him. “You’re… so young to be so wise.”

Ienzo turns a little. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. Some would say too much. Good night, Even.” He shuts the door behind him.

For a moment Even sits reeling. He feels something tighten in him, harsh and sharp and painful, like those moments of collapse but far worse. He wonders, briefly, if it might be his time--the years and years of stress and malnourishment wreaking havoc on his body--before he remembers what Demyx said.

He isn’t dying. He’s becoming.

---

Even wakes suddenly, unaware he’s blacked out. He’s slumped awkwardly on his cot, his neck wrenched painfully. There’s a film of sweat on his skin, his head is pounding, and the muscles in his chest ache like he’s been kicked there.

He sits up. Considers.

Things feel… odd. As though they’ve shifted. It’s not completely unpleasant. He supposes it may be considered a wholeness, despite the guilt still remaining.

He’s done it, then.

Humanity lays over him heavily, leaving behind it a sort of determination to set things right.

He gathers the hair out of his face. Wipes away the sweat.

It’s time to begin.