Work Text:
Notice your hands. Notice how they no longer contain his anger; instead, they’re empty, holding within them nothing more than your Keyblade, which is a companion only when you call for it. You dismiss it, and there’s nothing.
Notice your chest, how it no longer bursts at the seams with his longing. You’ve cried for his lost loved ones as if they were his own, but now the only sorrow is yours, and there is nobody inside you to help contain it, and it bleeds into everything else. The sense of loss is profound, greater than anything you’ve ever felt, and others can believe you when you say that you are no stranger to loss.
Notice your lungs. Fill them. Breathe in, and hold it until you can’t hold it anymore, and then breathe out in a heavy sigh, and think of all the times you’ve heard life referred to as precious, and feel a surge of pride and shame for being one of the first people to believe that should apply to Nobodies as much as anybody — pride, because of the people you’ve helped; shame, because you don’t know that you would have believed that if you hadn’t felt it yourself through somebody else.
You miss having him inside you. It isn’t fair of you, but you do. How can you not? He is you. Yes, he’s his own person too, but on some base, fundamental level, it’s always going to be true that he’s a piece of you taken out and made whole. The flame of life that burns inside of you both is the same. His heart is a piece of your own. Does that mean that yours is no longer whole?
The pair of you are such a unique case. Everybody else became their Nobody completely, and then that Nobody became them again. One is the other. You, though, your Nobody stands in front of you like a cracked mirror, looking weirdly more like a different boy that hitched a ride in your heart than like you. It’s all so confusing. You don’t feel drawn to that different boy the way you do to your own Nobody.
It isn’t possible to get close enough to him. You writhe in his arms and let him back inside of you in a different way, you gasp into his open mouth as if trying to breathe through his body. Skin to skin, sweat mixing, hearts beating in sync, the same heart twice over in two separate chests. It burns in just the way you need it to, but it can’t last forever. You want it to. You want to always be underneath him. You always beg him not to pull out, and he always obliges you.
At least he feels the same way; during the first month after he’s taken out of your body, the two of you are looking for any excuse to get away from everybody else and get tangled up in each other. There’s not even a discussion about being in a relationship — you just are. Or, it’s more than that. You don’t know.
During the moments in between, you content yourself by filling your hand with his. It isn’t quite the same, but it does remind you that he is still here. And the warmth and weight of his palm against yours become a new source of fascination to you — you may have lost the heat of his presence inside of your heart and underneath your skin, but you can feel him now in ways you never could before. Kissing is a particular new favorite of yours; you had tried it once or twice with others, but never so seriously, and never like it is with him. And if there’s a chance to sit in his lap, you’re going to take it, no matter the circumstance.
(Your friends laughingly scold you for how all over each other the two of you are. But you don’t blame them; it’s simply not something you would expect them to understand without having lived it.)
Plus, you get to look at him, now. His sparkling eyes, his contagious smile. Energy in every movement, a pleasure in just being alive that makes it worth it to have to suffer the pain of no longer being one.
He was meant to live; you cannot deny him that. The hole in your chest is worth it, if it means there isn’t one in his.