um. yeah. right off the bat, i should tell you i'm one of those stubborn people who believes that nobodies have feelings even though the game plainly states that they don't. THAT'S JUST HOW I ROLL.

ahaha.. i really made marluxia out to be a bastard. xD;;

You don't try to love him, it just happens that way. You don't want to love him, but you just can't stop yourself. He doesn't even deserve to be loved by you; you just give in too easily. Had anyone ever told you, Naminé, that you're a pushover? Have some self-respect for once.

He says, "I fucking love you." And you believe him, just like that. He doesn't fucking love you, Naminé, he just loves fucking you. You're a smart girl, right? So why can't you figure that out? Or maybe you already know, but you put up with it because it makes you feel good to know that at least someone needs you for something.

When he hits you, when he calls you names, your selective memory kicks in. He didn't mean it, or He wasn't thinking, and that's the end of it. You forgive, Naminé, and you forget, far too easily and far too often. You trick yourself into believing that all is well and maybe, just maybe, this time, things will change.

You smile at him because, Naminé, he's all you've got. You like to pretend that he thinks of you as someone special. You hope he cares for you, but you know it can't be nearly as much as you care for him. You hope there's a place for you, somewhere, deep in his heart.

But he doesn't even have one, does he?

-x-x-x-x-x-

The stark, white walls suffocate you, pressing in from all sides. You gaze at him, sitting across the room, pretending to read some book. He's gorgeous, graceful… just so perfect. Picture perfect, in fact, an effortless smirk playing on his pale features. But, you know, that once you speak, the magic will be shattered, like broken glass, on the spot.

You stand, awkwardly, near the center of the room, thankful he's the only other one there. You're like a small child, coming in the middle of the night to cry to your mother about a nightmare and how the monsters under your bed are keeping you from getting a good night's sleep and how she needs to pleasepleaseplease hold you and rock you back to sleep and watch over you for the rest of the night, maybe even the next day for good measure, to keep you safe from anyone and everything that could ever want to hurt you and—

"You're beautiful," you whisper, nervously wringing your hands and taking a tentative step forward. He doesn't like being surprised, and you know that, but you're certain he heard you come in.

"Don't start," he growls, slowly looking up to meet your gaze. His eyes tear through you, ripping you apart, shredding your weak body until there's nothing left but your quiet words. You're. Beautiful. He knows you're right. He knows he's beautiful, but he doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to hear it from you.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to— I just meant that you're— And I— I love you." The words echo for years, bouncing off the walls, ringing in your ears. They gain speed, faster and faster, again and again, until all you can hear is 'loveyouloveyouloveyou…'

"No, you don't," he says flatly, placing his book on a nearby table. Both his tone and the look on his face clearly state that he's finished talking to you. He isn't really one for conversations.

You don't want to press the subject, but you're just not finished. You were as empty as this room once, but then, suddenly, all these thoughts started filling and filling and filling you up, pulling at the seams of your brain, threatening to explode. You need to say it. You need to get it out. "But Marluxia—!"

He stands now, taking several steps toward you, glaring daggers. "Get out." His effortless smirk has been replaced, his lips now forming nothing but a thin line, as if he's trying with all his might not to scream. He's got a good six years on you, and could most likely have you out cold in less than five minutes. Not that he's never hurt you before, but it wasn't that bad, really.

After a few moments with no response, he repeats himself, louder this time. "Get out, Naminé." He points to the door, clearly through with you.

Not wanting to provoke any serious rage or personal injury, you turn, exiting without another word. He watches you go, a look of annoyance, resentment, even hatred on his face. He knows, though, that he's done no permanent damage. He knows you'll come back… You always do.

Alone, as you're making your way down the immaculate halls, your dull blue eyes fill with tears. Tears you're not even supposed to have. "He loves you, Naminé, just give it time," you whisper, choking back a rather loud sob. "Give him time…"

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