Genre: Musical! Drama
Ships?: Hinted Axel/Xion, Bobby/Hala, and Axel/Larxene
→Familyships?: Roxas&Xion
→Friendships?: Axel&Roxas&Xion, Axel&Bobby
Characters: Xion, Axel, Roxas, Larxene, Bobby (OC)
→Mentions: Various extras, a genderbent Zexion, Hala (OC), Repoman!Lexaeus or Vexen, Xemnas
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: If you haven't watched Repo, then yes.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts, Repo! The Genetic Opera, or any related characters. This was written out of enjoyment of the series, and no profit is being made.
Music: Zydrate Anatomy from Repo! The Genetic Opera
Notes:
Bookshelves of the Heart
Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.
Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.
He's under the table when it happens.
Braig's just being Braig, loud and always running and smelling heavily of smoke. In contrast, Ienzo is quiet, keeping to shadows and distant corners because they remind him of home, dust and the pale scent of clover settling on his shoulders in odd combination. One is running through the library, not quite looking where he's going as he waves a book on chemistry at his best friend waiting in the doorway. The other is hiding under a table, knees drawn to his chest, unnoticed even though there is undoubtedly someone looking for him.
It's easy to tell which is which.
Ienzo doesn't say a word, doesn't move a muscle, even when Braig's hip collides into the corner of the table he hides under and the dark-haired boy mutters a word he most certainly wouldn't have said if he had known the youngest of the apprentices were nearby. The action does more than gain the attention of their master in some distant corner of the library or slip something a little vulgar into Ienzo's unused reserves of words. From a precarious pile of books, one thick tome in particular comes tumbling down. The slam it makes when colliding with the ground is in perfect sync with the harsh beat of Ienzo's heart.
Of course, the master comes over, but not to, strangely enough, scold Braig on his cursing. No, his gentle but firm words are on the book, and Ienzo finds himself listening if only because it seems so strange. Why advocate against violence unto books? Are they really so precious?
Eventually, the impromptu lesson is done with, and Braig quickly returns to Dilan. The pair vanish, and in the end, it is just Ienzo and the master.
For a brief moment, Ienzo wonders if he will ever get to calling the man 'Father'. He's never had one before.
His attention is caught once again when the shadow of his master grows rounder as he kneels down to pick up the book. This puts him in the perfect position to see Ienzo, curled up in the darkness that had so kept him safe back home. Safe from things that twisted and screamed and shuffled and made radios crackle... Ansem just smiles gently and tucks the book under one arm before he reaches into the darkness without fear, offering a hand to the child.
"Come. Take my hand and come out into the light, Ienzo."
And so he does. The master's hand feels of sunlight and Popsicle sticks left out in the warm summer heat, but without the stickiness. Callused, almost like Aeleus'. What could a scientist have done to gain such warm and rough hands?
Even when he's on his own two feet, Ienzo doesn't quite let go of Ansem's hand. Instead, his attention remains focused on the book. Ansem follows his gaze and smiles. "Are you wondering why I berated Braig on injuring a book?" Ienzo nods. "It is unfair to simply think of books as nothing more than paper and glue. They have hearts and worlds of their own, you know. Every reader steps into that world the moment they glimpse the first word." Oh so carefully, Ansem untangles his hand from Ienzo's so that he can hold the book in both hands, dusting it off gently. "To injure a book is akin to destroying a building in a town. To take it away from others like it is to take a person away from family. Do you understand?"
Furrowing his brows, Ienzo shakes his head. Ansem just chuckles. As the blond king walks over to a bookcase where a slight gap is noticeable in the ranks, Ienzo follows in his footsteps. "That's alright. It's an odd thing to understand." Ansem puts the book away, only to pull out another. "Read this. Perhaps you'll understand a little." The book he hands Ienzo is slimmer than the one before with a picture of a bear, but, taking his master's advice to heart, the dark-haired boy cradles it cautiously in his hands. "Take your time. You can't smell the flowers properly if you rush through the garden, as the saying goes."
The next night, Ienzo sneaks into the library and follows one brilliant light in its darkness. When Ansem looks up in surprise to hear the pattering footsteps so late at night, he sees his youngest apprentice stand on the tips of his toes before a bookshelf. Gently, Ienzo dusts off the cover of the book, face twisting as if trying to mimic something, and then he puts it slowly back in its place. Even as the king watches, Ienzo turns around and walks up to him, bare feet slapping against the floor. Ienzo pauses in the lantern's ring of light, reserved and quiet. Finally-
"Are there more?"
Ansem just smiles, and tentatively, Ienzo smiles back.
Nine years later, in circumstances so unfairly twisted, they remember this.
Nine years later, in a castle rotting from the inside out, Zexion stands before a grand library different yet the same in regards to a place he recalls from the depths of his mind. Carefully, almost without his knowing, he brushes his hand over the cover of a book, sweeping away dust and dirt. Alice and Xion's expedition of the castle has left his library in quite a state, books scattered here and there. He picks them up carefully, starting with those left open on their pages, spines stretched. Books, he has been taught, have hearts of their own and can be wounded like buildings in a storm.
Nine years later, in a castle which strains like Atlas holding the Earth to keep the Darkness out, DiZ sits in a chair two times too smile for him that has fit a far more regal figure whose name he remembers with what little gentleness and happiness he is capable of. Across the floor, dodging piles of books, Octavia keeps a list of everything she comes across, just in case. Finally standing, the man in red begins to gently organize every little novel, every thick tome. Books, he has taught, have hearts of their own and can be wounded like children taken away from family.
Beneath chests they convince themselves are hollow in emptiness or anger, memories beat like volumes falling onto the floor.
