He knows that when he grows up, he will look just like Sephiroth. The one time he mentions it, Sora flinches, but they both know that it's better than the alternative.
Precious child, they told him, precious darling twilight-child, and even now he doesn't know if it's the darkness or the light that made him first believe them.
He likes the biting cold of winter nights - the wind tearing his hair and slicing through his skin makes him feel clean, but sometimes, he wishes it would rain.
He doesn't remember who first taught him how to fight. He does remember who first taught him how to lose, and he's not surprised that it burns a hole in his memory, half-swirled with bitterness and aching, wistful gratitude.
None of them want to let go now, and no matter who stares and who whispers in the hallways, he keeps his arm around Sora's waist and his hand in Kairi's hair.