A young man sat on his bed, legs pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees, wearing nothing but a pair of blue flannel pajamas with musical notes printed haphazardly across the material.

His window was open, showing a perfect view of the pure blackness outside. The room, painted not unlike a child's aquarium, blue all over, occasional multi-coloured fish, plants and rocks painted across the walls, was his.

The room was cluttered at best, a bed pressed in a corner, just under the large window, a succession of three cupboards opposite it, painted so they looked not unlike a neon-green electric eel with a stomach-ache, two of the cupboards closed, the last one with it's doors wide open, a few hundred plush toys spilling out, all over the grey floor, which was already covered in music books, cloaks and pencils.

A bookshelf took up all the space of the wall at the head of the bed, filled with multicolored books, boxes of odds and ends, and, occasionally, a pair of underwear or two.

The owner of this room sat on his bed silently, his back propped against a mountain of blue pillows, his aqua eyes staring fixedly over his knees at the paper and pencil before him; more specifically at the words sprawled across the paper in messy handwriting.

What it music?

Vibrations

Repercussions

Beats

Combinations

Demyx didn't know what else music was. He had wanted to find out what music truly was, and why he liked to play it. But, all it had given him was confusion.

He'd asked Vexen, and Vexen said it was vibrations in the air. That was true. He asked Zexion. Zexion said it was beats and repercussions. That's true too. He then asked Axel and Roxas, and all the blonde one said, was that it was combinations of different things, and then Axel told Demyx not to think too hard, or his head would explode.

Demyx then spent the next fifteen minutes with a pot over his head, to make sure it didn't explode.

He'd then migrated to his bedroom, to see if he could try to find the answer himself.

A word tingled at the tips of his fingers, and he immediately removed his arm from around his knee, and picked up his pencil, his hand sprawling the word across the paper to it's own accord.

After his hand was finished, he removed it and read the word.

He blinked.

Compassion

The pencil flew back into action and scribbled out the new word with such rage it ripped the paper. But Demyx didn't care.

With a grunt, one of Demyx's legs snapped from it's place and kicked the ripped paper from his bed, the paper shooting off the bed, before floating miserably to the floor. The pencil then was thrown across the room a mere second later and it ricocheted off a large pink and green angelfish that was painted on the wall.

Demyx burrowed under his large starfish-printed blanket with a huff, his blonde-brown mohawk-esque-like hairstyle, in a twist, if not complete U-turn of the laws of physics, was not disturbed by the blanket pressing down on it, and stayed just as it would've been if the blanket was not there.

The blonde rested his chin on his mattress with a sigh.

You needed a heart to feel compassion, and no matter how Demyx denied it, he knew he did not have one.

As though it knew it was needed, Demyx's sitar appeared beside him, and he immediately plucked a few strings affectionately.

What did it matter that he didn't understand what 'music' was?

What did it matter that he had no heart?

When he played his sitar, the emotion he lacked flowed from the music he created.

((END. Uh... right. What did this achive? ... Nothing? CRAP. Never think up drabbles at midnight, when you should be asleep! THEY NEVER GO AWAY! This isn't very well written, I know... wah!))