What lies beyond the reach of intellect when Zexion hears Demyx's song? How can something so beautiful come from nothing at all?
Shadows of the Watchers lurked in his room. They ducked among the dull fabrics of the furniture, flashes of eyes turning to him in soundless greeting. Welcome home. What was that old saying? "Home is where the heart is." Zexion gave a bit of a sarcastic chuckle that weighed heavily in the motionless air.
The room, despite or perhaps because of it's bleakness, provided some sort of comfort for him. Everything was in order, neat and clean and always the same. It was information he had already processed- he could move on. Or he could stay and relax on one of the cushioned chairs, propping his feet on an ottoman and basking in the strange light from the window. But that was something he did rarely, if ever.
His true work was in the study, where shelves of books awaited his perusal. If he wasn't working on something, he would choose them at random. They all contained some bit of wisdom relating to the work he had dedicated his life to; finding hearts, creating hearts, stealing them, using them. Wanting them. He filled the margins with elegantly scrawled notes and stored every last fact away.
Most of the books had been transferred into the room from the old lab where he and his fellow high-ranking Nobodies had worked as lab assistants, but others had been brought in from a variety of different worlds and these interested him greatly. One such book, it's thick navy blue binding jutting out just over the edge of the shelf, tempted him this day, but it was just out of reach. He mounted his chair, then his desk, made a mental note to find a ladder, and grasped the edge of the book. A few loose pages fluttered out with it, falling down to the desk with little more noise than a sigh, and he paid them no mind. This book was his only interest for now.
It was a heavy tome, brittle, yellowed pages barely holding on inside, and he was surprised to find it was a sort of journal. A faded signature in the bottom corner of the first page served as it's only title. Zexion was greatly intrigued by this. How had it ended up with these other books? Who had written it? He began to read.
I saw her again last night. He eyes met mine briefly before she turned away again in a swirl of skirts and a flourish of golden hair. How I wish I had been dancing with her and not on the stage. If I could only hold-
What was this dribble? He thought it must not be worth his time and he slammed the book shut in disgust, his black-gloved fingers lingering only seconds on the cover. It was then that he noticed the papers that had fallen down earlier. Music. The notes seemed strange and foreign amidst the words that surrounded them, and tantalizingly exotic. The edges of the pages had been torn. Minutes later, he had climbed on the chair and desk once again and fetched a notebook filled with the fascinating language. The title page bore the same illegible signature. He gave a cursory look to each page before realizing how pointless it was.
He opened the portal and stepped through it without much thought. Someone had spilled water on the other end (Demyx? Had it been Demyx? Of course it was Demyx.) which he didn't notice until he nearly stepped in it. It had a cool, crisp scent, exactly how one would expect water to smell like, but it was tinged with something else as well, some intangible, quivering sense of life that eluded even Zexion's ability to quantify. He peered down at it and was startled to see his own pale face looking back at him. The gasp did not reach his lips; it was only an illusion, of course. Only this time he had been on the wrong side of the trick.
Demyx was there, as he had known he would be. He had not known, however, that the blonde musician would be lying on his back in the hall with absurd ease. He was playing tricks with water, which spilled when Zexion came into view. He observed the scene in an instant and continued moving forward with determined stride, silently cursing his foolishness for seeking Demyx.
As though he had no control over his words, they held a hint of surprise that Zexion noted almost eagerly. He turned and fixed him with a stare bordering curiosity if, perhaps, his eyes had not been shaded with just the right angles of shadow to remain unseen. He stared and waited and Demyx was compelled to speak again, this time unleashing a stutter with his words.
"What are...what are you doing up here?"
He considered all aspects of the question, most pointedly it's casual nature in the inferior-to-superior conversation and it's vulnerability, surely induced by the continued stare and silence from Zexion. Nonetheless, his charm was having it's way on both of those, wearing down the edges until he was sure he didn't look so grim and he offered a dignified nod as a greeting, choosing a few words to go along with it.
"What are you doing?"
Well, of course he was curious about that. It was a strange thing to come upon someone lying in a hallway in a puddle of water, even if you had expected them to be there. The stuttering was what broke him down completely.
"I'm, uh...well, I... Nothing. I guess." Nearly apologetic that he hadn't been doing some grand and spectacular feat of science to achieve the goal they were working for.
Gesturing with a hand, he spoke without thinking. "Come with me, then. I have something I want to show you."