Please note: due to limited space constraints in the actual printable zine my story did not appear in full, however, please enjoy the complete story below! Squishes!!

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Vanitas’ eyes narrowed as he watched the flood saunter across the billowing dirt, immediate rage swelling up inside himself, the overwhelming desire to kick it, or maybe it was Ventus—he hadn’t decided which—banging like an animal against the cage of his psyche, the words a curse, “That idiot.”

He had been advising Ventus to stop treating the floods like they were some kind of common domesticated animals rather than the dark, malicious, ne’er do well force of evil they truly were. Factually speaking, hardly anything could infuriate him more than seeing one of his dark remnants rolling over on it’s back in an attempt to solicit belly rubs. It made him cringe to even think about it, even when it was involving Ventus—it wasn’t enough to make him not feel the need to stop this belittling treatment, to put an end to the supposition that there was some part of these creatures that was not simply less that pure darkness, but in fact, somehow good.

The flood brushed against his legs, leaning inward as he swirled through them to appear on the other side, its head tilted upward in some kind of expectation, and he could swear that it was emitting a noise akin to a purr, his hand clenched tightly as he fought back the urge to either kick the flood or grab it and hug it—equally warring within himself, finally settling for growling out between gritted teeth,  “Leave it to Ventus to corrupt my flood.”

He rolled his eyes, using his best high pitched whining mocking voice that he kept in reserve for specific moments when he wanted to belittle or berate Ventus, “But it’s an extension of you…” One again repeating the long standing argument that Ventus used to justify his idiotic coddling behavior toward the creatures, “I mean just thin—”

Vanitas froze, words cut off in mid-sentence when something shiny caught his eye, his voice a clear, firm demand as he spoke to the flood which had given up on trying to get attention from his master, settling down in a position across from him, lazily looking up at him as if in anticipation of this exact moment, “Come!”

The flood flashed to him, wildly rushing around him, as if the word had given tacit permission for it to shower Vanitas with the overt affection it had been holding in reserve, nearly smothering him as it rubbed against his face. Vanitas wanted to be angry, but his mind instantly flashed to a time when Ventus had, in an unusually bold display of bravery, snapped at Vanitas when he’d pushed away the flood, “If you won’t let anyone else close to you then at least let them convey how they feel more clearly.”

“They don’t have feelings,” he had hissed in response.

“You don’t really believe that, but for arguments sake I’m just gonna let it go and let you imagine that I accept your version of reality—but, you should know—I share my emotions with the floods because I want them to feel what I feel too, so that they can then share my feelings to you…”

The memory was soft in Vanitas’ mind, of a defiant Ventus informing him that he would continue to share his heart with the floods until ‘you get your thick, stubborn head out of the notion that love is a weakness’, the words warm and tender as they wove through his memories—not unlike the flood who was still almost manically trying to get his attention.

Vanitas couldn’t help but smile because it was cute even if he absolutely loathed it at the same time—two diametrically opposed emotions constantly at war within himself over this situation that Ventus was directly responsible for. He pushed the flood back so he could get a clearer view of what had caught his attention, which immediately alerted the flood that his mood had changed, growing still for a moment as Vanitas’ hand grabbed him, then thrashing wildly about when its fight or flight instinct kicked in from the uncertainty of Vanitas’ intentions. Vanitas wrestled with the flood until he could finally wrench the item from around his neck.

His mouth went dry, his form becoming as if stone, eyes dilated and affixed to the shape dangling from the long red ribbon, swirling in the air to cast a colorful display against his black armor as he held it suspended in the air.

It..it can’t be…

He shoved the flood away, growling, aggravated, irritated, feeling too much, hissing, “Go away!”

The flood cowered back a bit, but then, head tilting as if it were trying to figure this situation out, he simply moved far enough away to be outside of Vanitas’ reach should he choose to kick him in response to the overwhelming emotions coursing through him. For a moment Vanitas was distracted again by the idea that this particular flood was entirely too smart, knew too much, was far too intuitive. If he believed in mutiny among the floods, he’d put his bet on this one being the leader of the revolution.

“I would kill you myself,” Vanitas hissed at the pictures forming in his mind, eyes narrowing in warning, but the flood had absolutely no idea what he was on about, leisurely batting about a small pebble like a housecat, causing Vanitas to snap in frustration, “I swear, he’s ruined you completely.”

His mind’s eye flashed to Ventus sitting right there in the graveyard with this particular flood, his defense being some strange power and connection he felt with the creature, but all Vanitas knew was that a corrupted flood was a useless flood as far as he was concerned. His thoughts began to swirl with discussions he’d had with Ventus about the matter—or it would probably be more apt to say strongly worded cautionary advisements…laced with ample threats of bodily harm…and torture…possibly death.

“Don’t be nice to them, they are not meant to be treated kindly, not meant to be handled that way.”

“Like you?”

“Like me what?”

“Not meant to be treated kindly? …handled that way?”

“Just…you…just shut up! You don’t know anything! You are a d—”

“Oh, simmer down, you don’t really care enough about me saying so to get so worked up.”

And damn, if he wasn’t completely right, it was becoming more and more difficult to build up his false sense of outrage toward Ventus, and that did cause him to take pause, because he really did think it was probably the only weakness within himself.

Still, he could get lost in the colorful images that somehow made it feel like all of the darkness and hardships faded into stories of someone else, of a different time and place, as the overwhelming feelings of comfort and acceptance, and dare he even entertain such an exquisite ideology?

Love?

He might have spent another hour contemplating it, often lost to his own subconscious here in the graveyard, almost always alone with his thoughts, with his dreams, with his inner monologue, so it would have been simple to slip into the comfort of his imagination, easy, but then he caught the glimmer again out of the corner of his eye, his head snapping to look at the object still spinning in the air from where he held it suspended.

It’s red.

“If you had one it would have to be red, after all, Aqua’s is blue like the deepest waters, and Terra’s is colored like the orange tones of the earth, and mine is green like the colors of the wind rushing across the fading sunset over the ocean, and obviously, you would be red, because you walk in the fires. So, yours would have to be red.”

It had all been spoken so matter of factly, like they were discussing something remotely plausible like what they’d like to eat for dinner and not tokens that represented life changing relationships with other people.

Red.

Fire.

Vanitas cursed his hand as it shook, slowly drawing it up as if the object was going to harm him, his fingertip tracing the metal line that held two bits of glass together, his heart feeling like it suddenly realized that all along it had not been working properly, pounding wildly in his chest, the thumping feeling like it was shaking him down to his core, his hand drawing up to clutch absently at the metal surface of his armor, stunned, panicked over the foreign feeling raging within his own body.

He didn’t know how it happened but then he was on the ground, kneeling down on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath, the wayfinder carefully cradled in his hands as they shook before him.

He could feel it, in fact, it was so strong, so vibrant, so much like a living, tangible thing forming in the air around him, caressing his skin that he didn’t know he hadn’t felt it the moment the flood had entered the world—he could feel Ventus—so strongly, so real, so pure.

“I don’t want one of those voodoo-magic-cursed-objects.”

In truth, there was probably nothing he wanted more but he’d never say that, never give that kind of power to someone else, not even Ventus.

“You don’t have to want one to need one.”

You don’t have to want one to need one.

Vanitas’ fingers trembled as he traced the delicate lines that held the glass together, trying to imagine Ventus making this, of the time and the effort, absently wondering if he hurt himself in the process and instantly regretting the thought as his heart seemed to constrict at the possibility and with the sensation feeling so new it was hard to tell if it was painful or not, his eyes landing on a piece of paper that must have been attached to the wayfinder but inadvertently pulled off in the flood’s prior enthusiasm.

Ventus’ unmistakable handwriting filled the page, “It’s for you, because whether you want it or not, I’ll always say that you need it, just like I need you.”

Vanitas gritted his teeth, a power moving across his being in a wave, feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach, the words seeming to sway on the page, blurry and messy, “I made it for you so you can’t give it back. It’s yours now. I’ll figure out how to fix this, but until then, this should prove that I am not giving up on you.”

It’s yours now.

I am not giving up on you.

Vanitas gasped as a weight felt like it settled down over him, pressing him downward, lower to the ground below him, his eyes blinking rapidly at the last words on the page, “Not now. Not ever. Keep this until we’re together again.”

Together again.

Vanitas had seen people beg for their lives, to lose themselves in the fear of imminent death, he’d seen them weep at the loss of those they cared for, yet, he had never, not even a single time of all of the systematic abuse and fear he’d faced in his life, never had he felt a connection to that emotion, finding it rather dull and useless, too abstract for him to have ever cared about, to give even a moment’s thought—but now, he knew.

I know.

His fingers lifted to touch his cheek, drawing back to stare blankly at the wetness there, his body trembling violently before a sob ripped through his soul, wracking his body, curling inward as he grasped the wayfinder desperately against his chest, a low heavy moan filling the otherwise silent air as he tried to stop the emotions from rising, from taking over, from consuming him.

It was useless, of course it was, the wall he had so steadfastly built had been destroyed with a simple phrase, “It’s yours now.”

His form trembling under the weight of the feelings he had never imagined knowing or understanding were washing across his body, his mind, his very soul. It hurt, somehow it felt like parts of himself were being ripped apart and then remended as the emotions clawed and ripped at any remnants of his resistance.

He’s really going to come for me.

He’s not going to leave me here.

This…this is mine.

Mine.

He looked down at the wayfinder, scrambling back wildly, ready to defend it with his very life when the flood knocked off a stack of pebbles near him causing a loud scattering noise, his heart beating wildly in his chest at the very thought of someone trying to take this away from him.

That, and seeing him cry.

At the moment he wasn’t really sure which one he was more terrified of, but then he knew in reality, he’d die for this token, this small part of the world that he had been graced with.

He shuffled across the dirt to the large cluster of rocks near where he had been standing, setting the wayfinder down carefully as he reached to move the larger stones out of the way, his fingertips digging into the loose gravel and dirt quickly, feeling like he could somehow catch his breath again when he reached the small packet, drawing it out of the dirt and giving it a little shake, he carefully unwound the cords that held it wrapped, drawing back the supple leather to reveal the contents inside.

His eyes moved across the ‘treasure’ there—a small cache of items he had managed to stow away and keep out of sight of those who would use them as a weapon against him, something likely far more powerful than any keyblade that could rage against his heart.

Bits and bobbles, nothing of any great meaning or that anyone other than him would consider even remotely a ‘treasure’ but these were small things he’d kept in a desperation of never losing the moments associated in his mind with them. Tiny mementos of times and places, little effigies that held his memories of times he did not want to forget. Things he had stolen from here and there across the galaxy, and while not one of them held a remote semblance of value in the world, to him they were priceless.

Yet, not one of them was really his.

None are truly mine.

None had been bought and paid for, but rather taken.

None had been something he created from his own hands and heart.

None had been gifted to him…shared with him, knowingly made his own.

His eyes lingered there for a moment and then he reached to pick up the wayfinder again, all of the items he had hoarded feeling insignificant next to the object he held in his hand because this one?

This was his.

Mine.

It was from Ventus.

And it was his, his own wayfinder, something no one else has exactly—something custom made for him by Ventus.

Hacked together.

He smiled at the thought of the time and effort Ventus must have used to make this precious gift, and his probable frustration when he realized that it wasn’t going to be nearly as beautiful, as polished, as those Aqua had created. It was just so Ventus though, in so many ways, on so many levels—it was just the purest reflection of his heart—even if it didn’t look just exactly as he wanted it to, the feelings behind hit were most certainly conveyed. Honestly, it was rather hideous all things considered, and somewhere in the back of his mind he absently wondered if maybe Ventus had actually done this on purpose as some profound metaphor for how Vanitas saw himself as a monster but once you looked past the outside, there was something more.

He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.

That’s giving Ventus entirely too much credit–he’s not that smart–he’s just horrible at crafts.

Still, looking at it he couldn’t help but smile, sincerely wishing he could make fun of it (and, surely, he would later) but in the moment all he could feel was soft and tender as it was the most beautiful thing, even in the messy edges and imperfect fractals.

It was, in fact, the only thing that anyone had ever done for him, given to him, his very first personal possession.

Mine.

He knew somehow this had changed everything, changed him, changed the world around him, made everything new and different and he wanted to war against it, deny it, rage against the powers that might make him weak against his enemies…but that could wait, the war was infinite and his role in it could hardly be denied but for this moment?

Couldn’t he give himself over to the strange feeling coursing through his veins? Couldn’t the ramifications of this be addressed another day?

He’d allow it, even if it was unwise, because for this one moment, he would give himself the freedom to feel.

…to feel—

cared for…

necessary…

needed…

loved.

It seemed an impossible truth, but he knew it was true, he had no doubts. No quandaries, no latent denial remained within himself—only acceptance that this was what was real.

“What remains after all other possibilities have been examined and eliminated must then, invariably, be known as the truth.”

Of course, when those words were spoken to him by Xehanort the context was the effort to reduce him to his own perceived nothingness, to strip him of any vestiges of humanity, the ultimate weakness, so that he could become the machine, the monster, the abomination that he so desperately wanted to mold him into.

But now, the words seemed to hold a greater value, and suddenly the anger he always felt, the resentment toward them was gone and all he could consider was this was the new truth, the light shined into the shadowy recessed of his mind and revealing what is actually left—the truth.

I am loved.

He contemplated placing the wayfinder with his treasures but decided not to, reburying them carefully and then he gently placed the wayfinder into the top of his armor, delicately adjusting it until it rest there above his heart, like the space in his armor had been made just for that. As if it had been waiting all along to have this addition, a lightness filling him as he felt like all of the world was finally taking a breath with him for the very first time.

His hand raised to rest over his heart, the fluttering feeling a more than a little unnerving and all he could think was that this is what people actually care about, why wars are fought and won, what billions of stories and tales were hewn from, what legends were built around. He knew now, despite always believing he’d understood what those heroes were doing, the why of it, the motivation—what they were fighting for, living for.

He’d always thought it was about domination, about the power of rule, the elation of victory.

I never knew.

He saw now he had never remotely understood, wasn’t even in the range of reality, but he knew it now, understood. He saw clearly that what he had always perceived as weakness, truly, while in a way about power and might—held something else within it.

The thing he thought would be his destruction, he now knew would make him a god.

He would be the strongest he’d ever been, more than he could have ever imagined, ever tried to force himself to become, more than Xehanort could have ever drawn out of him with pain and humiliation and torture. No, it would never have touched this part of him, but now?

Now—he would be the most powerful he could possibly be, all of his potential released, as he no longer needed to fight for those inane goals of people like those who were at war for the Kingdom—but instead, a new goal was given birth within himself. And he knew, intuitively, that this goal would give him the ability to throw down any foe who would dare to come against him, to do anything he had to do, as he knew without a doubt, after this moment, he would do exactly as he somehow instinctively knew he was born to do.

Protect Ventus.

He stared at the wayfinder, this symbol of infinite power, twisting it over in his hand as he studied it, his vision drawn to the symbols on the backside, his eyes widening as he took in the words carefully carved there in the glass.

“His name is Bunny.”

His gaze darted over to the flood who was curled up next to him, nestled against the skirt of his armor, and maybe on a different day, at a different time he’d be bent on indoctrinating this flood again, making it strong and powerful, ruthless and angry, but in reality all he could think about at the moment was how utterly and completely perfect that stupid name was.

I’m seriously ruined.

Completely.