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I'm a seeexy Hitachiin.

September 2009

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I'm a seeexy Hitachiin.

Oh, my.

I really wrote this??? My writing style when I wrote this seems so eccentric compared to now... xD

Title: Rush on the Wind
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Pairing: Zexion/Demyx
Genre: Romance/General
Rating: K
Word Count: 1002
Summary: Because somehow, I can never stay away for long.

Rhythms, the steady beat of (one, two, three, four.)

Chains spinning, jewelry clinking.

You rush along the corridor, desperate to find the source of the sound.

Bare feet tap-tap-tapping against the wooden floor, circling around the room.

The path only seems to get longer, the end always resting just outside of your reach. The sound of chatting and laugher reaches your ears from the other doors, other rooms, but none of them are the ones you’re looking for, and so you move on.

Clapping joins the other two beats, one-two, one-two, and suddenly it changes into a new form of music, slow and soothing now. Feet twirl gracefully from one end of the room to another, the musical, metallic clang slowing down and softening to the faint chime of bells.

Smells from the passing rooms and people tickle your nose, and you wrinkle it distastefully, finding the heavy stench of perfume to be slightly overbearing. But underneath it all you can pick up the familiar smell, like the sun and the rain and the moon and the stars, if such a thing was possible, slightly sweaty and sharp, like pine needles. The heady scent leads you along the passageway, rounding corners and bends, and you panic for a second as a group of women pass by and it disappears. You shove on blindly for a few seconds before picking up on it again, sighing in relief and continuing your journey.

The feet and rhythm come to a stop, and a slight panting noise fills the room as the dancer catches his breath. He straightens and fixes his clothing, before lifting a foot up slightly and beginning anew. This one seems more realistic, less choreographed and more spontaneous. He flits across the room, skinny frame coming dangerously close the walls and doors, but always averting them at the last second.

Finally, finally, you reach the doorway, leaning forward to grasp the knob, steeling yourself slightly before pushing the door open. Beyond there lays the dancer, still twirling around in a continuous circle. You close the door with an audible ‘click’, and he spins around, ears perking up slightly.

The music slows, and the dancer steadies himself, still leaning forward with his arms outstretched and crossing, balancing on the tips of his toes. He catches the sound of movement, something slightly in back and to the left of him, and immediately whirls around to find the intruder.

His eyes stay shut the entire time, eyelids fluttering lightly, chin lifted high. The salty, refreshing smell encompasses the room, leaving you dizzy, reminding you of the beach, even though you know the nearest one is miles away. Slowly, he drops down onto his heels, bouncing softly on the balls of his feet.

The dancer smiles to greet the newcomer, recognizing his steps; soft and quite and stealthy. He walks towards him, natural grace leading him across the room in a series of small spins and steps, the observer rushing forward to meet him halfway.

“You came back...” you hear the dancer whispering into your hair, pressing you into a hug. Then he pulled himself back, slim fingers reaching up to glide along your face- cheekbones, jaw line, nose- the other hand fanning across your beating heart. Then slowly, tentatively, his eyes open for the first time since you got there, revealing murky blue orbs focused on a spot a foot above your head.

The beat starts up, pounding faster and faster, hands tapping a crescendo of notes against the skin of a drum. Then, the dancer opens his mouth, singing softly in the soft, lilting accent of his people, footsteps matching the pattern of the music.

You pull him forward again, resting your forehead against his sternum, nose skimming the skin there, breathing in that intoxicating smell. Your fingers reach up to knot themselves in his hair, long and tangled against his neck, and you both sigh simultaneously, taking comfort in each other’s arms. There is no need for words.

The watcher stands by, smiling, and suddenly the dancer takes his hands, the clashing beads and metal decorations on his outfit still roughly accompanying the music. The watcher lets himself be dragged through town, the dancer weaving skillfully through back alleys and crowds until they arrived at the marketplace. Children play ball in the streets, shouting welcomes and greetings to the pair, and the dancer teaches the watcher the ways of the market, showing him how to haggle over a piece of cloth. After observing carefully, the watcher finds himself successfully buying a light blue shawl, which he wraps around the dancer’s lithe frame. They make their way out of the market, and this time the watcher is guiding the dancer out, holding him lightly by the hand.

You step forward, pulling the dancer along, until you both stand in the middle of the room. Tentatively, you reach for his hands and settle one on your shoulder, the other on your waist. He picks up on the cue and twirls you around, setting you down and hugging you. Then, you resume the broken dance, the dancer laughing lightly as you stumble a bit, causing you to fall into his arms. The hushed sounds of your feet hitting the floor in unison echoes throughout the room, and the dancer starts to hum along. (“Siyayibona inhlanzi, ukukhanya kwentokozo...”) As the sound rises and fluxes, it ends in a flurry of different melodies combining together into one, and the dancer finishes in a bow, hand flourished in front of him. You clap slowly, moving forward to congratulate him.

Back from the market, the watcher hooks his arm around the dancer’s and leads him out to the garden, away from the crowd of people. Together in silence, they fall asleep in each other’s arms, hearts pounding out a steady rhythm.

And the beat goes (five, six, seven, eight.)