A/N: I'm working on this LxA collection for a drabble challenge a friend and I have going on LJ. There are 22 prompts in all, and this first one's for #18 – Hand.

These drabbles don't follow any particular sequence, and bounce between fluff and angst and other lovely things, so feel free to skip forward and back.

We've got a long way to go. o.o

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts is the property of Square-Enix and Disney. I own only this fic, and the hamster that spits it out from inside my brain. Wahaha.

Trouble Me
1 - Staccato

Muted drumming breaks the silence—it's barely perceptible, that beat, but you hear it. You hear everything; your eyes lift a little from the book's pages, almost of their own accord. (But while you look like the very soul of vigilance and awareness, this is a lie. You've caught yourself dozing once in a while.)

You can't tell what it is. Not at first, anyway, for so many reasons—the drapes are pulled back from the high windows just so, the sun is in your eyes, making your head spin a little, and for all you know the sound could have just been your imagination. (Or—gods forbid—your own heartbeat, the blood pounding in your ears. You hear that, too, from time to time, in the quiet of the library, when she sits at your side.)

Her hand lies on the table, lightly tapping the wood mere inches from your own, and it takes you a little time to realize that's what you've been hearing. (And that it's not your heart, as you feared, though if you listened a little harder you'd be able to tell that the staccato of her fingers matches its rhythm.)

She raises her own eyes in inquiry. Something wells up in your throat, something you want to say to her, but it never comes out. You can't do anything about it; you just shake your head. She returns to her reading, serene as ever.

You wish you could do the same. When you try to go back to your book you find you've already read the same line more than once—far more than just once. (But you never used to have trouble concentrating. Remember? What's changed?) The drumming is so loud in your ears; it's worse than even the sun.

You don't know how much time passes—seconds, minutes, hours—before it finally pushes you to your breaking point, because your nerves are all alight and you can't take it anymore. You reach across the space between you—inches, miles, light-years—and take that hand in your own, just to stop the sound, just because you need the silence. (But when did her hand become so small?)

And, at your side, she blinks, starts a little. Then she looks up at you again, to ask, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," you say, much too quickly. Another staccato; you're disturbed to find it matches your breathing too.

She knows it's not nothing; the ghost of a smile that plays around her mouth is only half the question. You think her hand turns upward in yours, tracing the lines on your palm, but there's no way you can be sure.

"It just bothers me a little," you finish, rather lamely. There isn't a thing you can do to help that, either. "When you do that."

"Really?" Something entirely different from the sunlight dances in her eyes. "Sorry, it's kind of a nervous habit. It was a little too quiet for me, I guess." She laughs a little, stifles it for your sake. "I'll try to keep it down."

It's only then that you release her; you let go quickly, like you've been burned, before you drop your eyes again.

"…Thanks."

You feel the warmth of her smile for a little while more, before she looks away from you and the silence returns, having pieced itself back together in the interim. You don't know how much time passes—seconds, minutes, hours—before her fingers begin again, tapping time on the tabletop to the same pace as your blood.

"Aerith."

"Sorry."