Disclaimer: If I owned it, none of the Organization members would have died. They are way too awesome, fate of the world be damned.

Author's Note: So this is my first Zemyx fic! I'm more of a reader than I am a writer, but I started this at my friend's house one day and have kept coming back to it. It'll take me a bit to get through it, but as long as I have ideas, it'll keep going. And WARNING: This will not be a "oh look, we love each other, let's tumble into bed" sort of story. I have no objection to those stories, but I have severe problems when I try to write them. It's going to take at least a little bit to get these two into bed together, mostly due to their own stubbornness. Man, I love them so much.

Dedications: To Evil-Pixie-Dust. You are my beta. You rock hardcore. This is all your fault, and don't you deny it. And to Dualism. You're the one who started it all, for me. From Surgeon General's Warning to Shout, I fell in love with this pairing. Thank you. And finally, to Sarehptar. Everyone needs to go read The Violet Room. Everyone. It's so beautiful. Sarehptar, you inspired me to keep going, even if you don't know me.

So here it is! The first of hopefully many!

Reading was his only joy.

Everything was laid out so neatly in books. The story progressed smoothly, and he had the option of simply not picking the book back up if he so chose. None of the characters had anything to say about him and how he was, which meant no judgment for once. He understood the inner workings of their minds. And all that told him was that the people around him were particularly stupid and shallow.

The only thing he liked about himself was his hair.

It fell around his face in a curtain-like fashion, cutting him off from the world. He didn't have to look at it, and it didn't have to look at him. Even if it did, he never had to know that it was looking and that gave him a strange sense of comfort. Despite his hair's unusual shade, he still felt unnoticed, almost invisible. No one knew him as anything other than the kid with lilac hair who read too much.

He had found out when he was younger that he could predict with a frightening degree of accuracy the reactions of different people in different situations. By listening to a conversation between people, he could gauge who was being most deeply affected and what their next probable move would be. For a while, he even tried to advise other people on what course of action to take, but that never worked. All of the people he tried to aid thought he was lying, or trying to manipulate them.

Sometimes he was, but that was never any business of theirs.

Afterwards, all social interaction became simply boring, unless he was watching it happen without being involved. Involving himself required talking to people, and talking to people would make them remember him.

He never wanted to be remembered.

He wanted to be alone with his books and his silence, where he could uncover his face and study intently without being thought of as strange. He wanted to sit in darkness and just think. He wanted to not be bothered by others who formed his opinions themselves without letting him speak. He wanted to never speak again.

Zexion just wanted to be left behind and forgotten.

He loved his music.

Everyone understood music, or at least that's how he saw it. No one really got words. Tons of people thought they did, but they didn't, truly. Music moved through people. Maybe it would resonate in different ways through different people, but it still managed to be more pure than simple conversation. Everyone was moved by some sort of music.

They said his eyes were his best feature, but he liked his own smile.

There were so many different ways you could smile, and it tickled him to try and spot the differences in others' smiles. Maybe if he could notice all the ways someone could smile, then someday, someone would be able to see the loneliness behind his, the wistfulness. The brain, even, though that was a bit too much to hope for.

Everyone misjudged him. They thought that since he talked too much, he couldn't listen. Which really wasn't true. He could listen. There just didn't seem to be anyone worthwhile to listen to. Everyone talked too much anyway, so they needed to learn how to be quiet. If him talking would teach them that, then so be it. But if he tried to explain that, it wouldn't go over well. They would think he was trying to be all superior, when he was really just trying to get them to listen to someone for once.

And, hey, if he was going to be superior, that was his problem, wasn't it?

People thought he was interesting, since he had so much to say, but all of them came and went, never lingering too long. It was like watching the first snowfall. They came down and down, but eventually they all disappeared, covered up by those who followed.

It made him want to be unique, to never melt and be replaced.

He wanted to have someone see beyond his exuberance and finally see the true him. He wanted for someone, anyone, to have him as a close friend, not just an overly-chatty, friendly, unimportant nobody. He wanted to play music that was made for only that one person. He wanted to have to listen.

Demyx just wanted to be special to someone.

When he was younger, he never understood why people didn't like him.

It was logical in a way, as he was never the most sociable of people, but something about him made others ignore his very presence. They would talk about things as though he were not there. If he tried to insert himself into the conversation, the others would only look at him briefly and move on, either physically or conversationally.

It wasn't long before he stopped trying altogether. There didn't seem to be a point if no one acknowledged his words. Effort wasted was never regained, in his opinion. His mother and father continued to try and speak to him, and for the most part he responded. They were, after all, his parents. They were supposed to be respected, and respect meant talking to them when they asked him to.

One day, though, he decided to not speak. Part of him wanted to prove that someone would care, that someone, anyone, would notice.

No one did.

No one would ever notice if they did not want to.

Who would want to notice him?

That time, he went only two days without talking before his parents got really worried and practically begged him to speak to them again. He was reassured that someone did care. It made him feel happy and almost secure in his place in life.

Then the accident happened.

It had been snowing, and the road was unusually slick that evening on the drive home from dinner. His father negotiated around a turn too quickly for the vehicle; the wheels spun. There was no time to recover, only lights flashing, distant screams, and the sickening crunch of metal into human flesh and bones.

He regained consciousness in a white room. Alone.

The next time he spoke was three months later. No one noticed.

And Zexion found he liked it that way.

Demyx found it hard to stay away from new people.

Every time his mother told him to stay away from strangers, he would always nod seriously – especially as a small child. But the second he saw someone new, he had to know their story. He would listen to people he didn't know and would never see again.

And he told them things he would never tell someone he actually knew.

He told a one-eyed gunslinger named Xigbar how he planned on becoming a musician or composer eventually. Xigbar revealed his idea to open up his own shooting gallery, but run a bodyguard and spy business on the side. Demyx had laughed, and told him he wished him the best of luck. Xigbar told him to start composing a jingle for his store.

Demyx did, and it sat, completed, on his music stand at home.

Another man, by the name of Xaldin with dark, black dreadlocks, came through town later. He said he wanted to be a bodyguard. Demyx sent him in the same direction Xigbar went, and told him that he wasn't sure anyone believed that he could listen. Since he was going to Xigbar eventually, he gave the dreadlocked man the jingle he wrote. Xaldin gave him a journal, since it might help him work out some things.

Writing in the journal helped sometimes, but he still couldn't listen to a book.

A man with an "X"-shaped scar between his eyes and blue hair informed him that he wanted to find someone to serve without question. Demyx told Saix that sometimes he wished he could find someone to play music for. One eyebrow raised, Saix asked what he had against the people he already knew. It didn't matter who was there to listen, Saix said, only who he made the music for. And they didn't have to be there to have the music made.

Morning found Demyx asleep, curled around his sitar, with a piece entitled "To the One" on his desk.

It was to a fiery haired, anorexic looking young man that he confided that he thought he might be gay. Axel had laughed and ruffled his hair, only asking him why it had taken him so long to find that out when he himself had known in only a couple of minutes, before leaning in to steal his first kiss. Demyx had never been in love with anyone that much before.

He never learned why Axel had been there.

Zexion relished the challenge of new things.

New things did not include new social situations.

So when he was told that the college of his choice had accepted him, he was happy and disgruntled at the same time. He would be receiving a first-rate education, but he would have to interact with people who were not already accustomed to his habits. Thinking of the weeks he would have to spend training them, Zexion almost wished he had picked a college that was closer.

Almost.

He prepared himself for his move with a minimal amount of fuss. All of his books were going with him, a set of noise-cancelling headphones, and a single picture of him and his parents. School supplies he could purchase once he was there. His aunt and uncle, who were 'kindly' taking care of him, were more than happy to arrange for his departure. It was probably one of the first things they had done for him that he was actually grateful for.

Everything was planned out. His room would be set up just the way he liked it, books on their shelves and desk kept immaculate. The bed would be placed close to the window, and his clothes would be organized and neat. He had remembered everything. Except for one, tiny, nigh on miniscule detail.

There were these pesky little things known as roommates.

Demyx simply did not understand why his roommate hated him.

He did his best to be a good roommate. He really did. All of his stuff was on his side of the room, he tried not to play his music too loudly, and he went to sleep early so he wouldn't bother his roommate, everything he could think of. He even cleaned. He, Demyx, cleaned.

But it seemed that Zexion just had something against life.

No matter what Demyx did, it never worked. It was almost if the pale man hated him just for being there in the same room as him, but there wasn't much he could do about that. Besides, it's not like Demyx even knew what was bothering his roommate anyway. Zexion wouldn't talk to him at all.

It was a bad sign when you only learned your roommate's name from the plaque on the door.

Zexion never said anything to anybody, though, so Demyx hoped that it wasn't just him. Unfortunately, Demyx sighed, it seemed like he would only make things worse. Because when Demyx was faced with silence, he filled it up with noise. He talked too much when he got nervous. And silence definitely made Demyx nervous.

The first time his mouth got away with him, Zexion had slowly shifted in his chair to stare quietly at him for a second, his face completely blank before he turned back to his homework. Demyx had gotten the hint and gulped, biting his lip in order to stop himself from talking.

Every time after that, however, it got harder and harder for Demyx to stop talking, since the silences became progressively more awkward. Eventually Zexion simply gave up on trying to shut him up, and just put on his headphones. Demyx nicknamed them the coma-phones(1), because once he put them on, it would take nothing short of a nuclear explosion to get his attention.

Once he realized that Zexion couldn't hear him, Demyx actually found it easier to talk to him. It didn't matter what he said, the dark-eyed man wouldn't hear him. He found his nervousness fading, and he stopped chattering at him. With the nervousness gone, the musician talked quietly about things that he never said, things that only made sense in his head.

He told Zexion how he had tried one time to catch sunlight in a jar, just so he could bring it home to write a song about. About how a sunset made him think of classical music, but sunrises called to mind something with a stronger backbeat. He complained about his classes, about how his mother didn't seem to understand why he wanted to be a musician when there was "so much more" for him.

He told Zexion jokes that the other never heard.

Demyx didn't mind the fact that the lilac-haired man didn't want to hear him.

After all, he was used to it.

Zexion questioned when it was that Demyx started to deliberately do things to make life easier for him.

He had come back to the dorm room one morning after getting back from his classes to find that his bed had been made, his desk was set up just the way he liked it, a cup of hot tea was waiting for him, and his headphones were plugged in, ready to go. A note had rested on the center of the desk.

"Have a good day. Here's your favorite tea. – Demyx"

Wondering when in the world his roommate had found the time to notice what his favorite kind of tea was, he had sat down at his desk, curiously picking up the mug. He cautiously took a sip, and found it was made the way he liked it, black tea, steeped so long it was ridiculously bitter. It had seemed strange at the time.

Now it was almost normal. Zexion would find his bed made every morning, and a cup of tea waiting for him, whether Demyx had classes or not. Never once did Demyx complain about doing the tasks he assigned himself. He wanted to ask how much of a bother it was for the blonde to keep doing that, but he couldn't get the words out. The tendency to never speak was too deeply ingrained in him to ask why his roommate did these things.

It confused him.

He had never wanted to talk to someone before. He normally didn't have to. Before, he could effortlessly figure out their reasons for doing things and how much trouble it was for them, though the latter usually didn't bother him. Everything they did followed a pattern of sorts. All of their actions made sense.

Nothing Demyx did made sense.

According to his logical brain, his blonde roommate should practically hate him, and want nothing to do with him whatsoever. He should have wanted to change roommates at the first possible opportunity. For some inexplicable reason, Demyx kept trying. Zexion would be the first to admit that he hadn't been the nicest person to the musician at first. Truth be told, he had been downright spiteful. But somehow Demyx completely let that slide by and instead just tried to make his roommate's life easier. The pale man hardly had to do anything anymore, and it made him uncomfortable.

He and Demyx were on the same page. It was a foreign feeling, one he wasn't entirely certain he liked. Someone knowing him like that was…unpleasant. No one was supposed to notice that he was there. He was the one controlling things in the shadows. No one was allowed to know him. Not one of his tools was allowed to move beyond his grasp.

Somehow, Demyx understood what he wanted. He knew.

Now Zexion just had to figure out how he knew.

His casual observation would lead to some unexpected conclusions. Demyx had known that. He had expected to find out what Zexion was thinking, what he liked, what he did when he was stressed or bothered, stuff like that.

Never once did he think that maybe he would start noticing other things. Like how Zexion's eyes were a dark, Prussian blue(2) that shivered(3) sunset purple and ice blue when he was frustrated and glittered when he was secretly amused. Or how his hair looked so soft that it became a battle of the impulses to not touch it. Or how his skin looked nearly translucent and made him seem like he wasn't of this world. Zexion's unique coloring made him beautiful, though Demyx would hesitate at calling him that because he knew it would irritate the other.

He did notice the things he wanted too, but they were accompanied by a painful tightening in his chest that was half joy and half ache. It didn't matter how much he knew, he wanted so much more. He wanted to know how Zexion's voice sounded, how warm his skin was, all the little things and big things wrapped up in an impossible to unwrap container called Zexion.

If he had his way, Zexion would never find out that Demyx had started loving him.

Chap. 1 Fin!

-(1) – The coma-phones comment is actually courtesy of my roommates. That's their comment about me and my earbuds. I can see Zexion having a pair of headphones where he can shut out the rest of the world.

-(2) – I actually stopped here and had to go look up a good synonym for the color I was looking for. Seriously. I went to Google and typed in 'Blue color synonyms'. And then looked at a swatch of color associated with each of them. It had to be the right color. I'm sure you all understand!

-(3) – And yes, colors can totally shiver. You know what I'm going after here.

Alright, well, this is actually just the first "chapter" of this fic. After this, there will be a style change. This is kind of the setup chapter, told from an entirely uninvolved third person in retrospective. The next one or ones will be the narrative style, where you actually see the people talking, not just hear about it.

Beta'd by the ever wonderful Evil-Pixie-Dust

Next Chapter: The secret about Zexion's headphones, someone old makes a new appearance, and Demyx says things that he never thought he'd say aloud.