A very short thing

For @goodmorningawfulbye/@allthat-andbeetoo because she had a long day.

You sat in the fourth row of the performance hall, focused on the band playing before you, oblivious to the pair of eyes on you.

Not that you would have been upset, had you known about them. Maybe you’d have blushed under their intensity, felt something else communicated within the gaze, but you were blissfully unaware.

The band played on. Demyx listened, but watched you.

He glanced at his program–what did the director think he was doing?– and when he looked back up at you, a smile had bloomed on your face. Well, this was one of your favorite arrangements.

But the smile faded as he observed. What a shame. Still, even in the darkness, your eyes sparkled with delight at the music. It was one of a few things he’d been able to bond with you over, and to see you enjoying it so wholeheartedly made him happy.

But the song was coming to its end crescendo, and now the last notes rang out. You clapped with both palms, rather than the fingers-to-the-back-of-your-hand golf claps you’d greeted most songs with. If the band had noticed, they could count that among their successes.

The lights came up, and people began filing out the doors, chattering about whatever–maybe the show– as they left.

Demyx stayed seated up at the top of the room. He didn’t want to sit so far from you, to keep you from leaning over and sharing your little comments about “back when you’d been in band…” that had him in stitches, but he was starting to get well-known, and there would be questions.

So instead, when the room had mostly cleared out, you approached him and you left the performance hall arm in arm, so deep in conversation your auras oozed “do not disturb,” and you headed out into the cold air, leaning against each other in adoration and for warmth, laughs leaving your lips as plumes of steam.