A/N: Ah, here's a one shot. It's really different from what I usually throw out here in that you could say there's no surrounding plot. It's character-driven, and it hopes to intonate an idea. Maybe. I'm not sure.

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts belongs to Square-Enix. Boo.

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Affection

The room is silent, the white marble encasing the nonexistent noise like a solemn tomb. It is used to this function, for it has been imprisoning the nonexistent for what seems like eternity, a hollow cage for already hollow bodies. Despite its dismal purpose, though, the castle seems at peace; its only inhabitants are either sleeping, wandering, or simply thinking, never bothering to interact or pester until–

"Zexion!"

Zexion turns in midstep, eyebrows descending to form sharp angles over his eyes. He is dressed in his usual black coat and boots, but his gloves are missing. Running toward him is none other than Demyx, madly waving a pair of gloves above his head and smiling like an idiot.

"Zexion you–" begins IX, cut short by a severe glare and a simple finger to the lips. He looks around, then nods and opens his mouth to speak again. Zexion cuts his words short before they even form.

"Silence," he hisses. "This is neither the time nor the place. Come with me."

With a sigh, Zexion turns and strides off, knowing that Demyx is following without even having to think about it. Their relationship has become like that: Zexion leads and Demyx follows. No questions asked. It isn't that the Melodious Nocturne can't lead, but Zexion would rather him stay the follower; not even Demyx is safe from the corruption of power and the last thing Zexion wants is for Demyx to become like the rest of them.

As they wind through the halls of the castle, Zexion offers himself one peek over his shoulder. Demyx is picking at a nail and quietly–ever so quietly–humming some lost tune to himself. The sound is comforting and Zexion does not overlook the irony of it.

"Well?" Demyx asks, quieter than before.

"A few more moments."

Zexion turns his eyes back toward the hall and takes a few sharp turns before stopping at a simple white door. The Roman numeral VI has been carved into the upper middle and the door opens soundlessly. The only sound that comes from it is the crack of the deadbolt sliding into place and to Zexion that is the sound of security.

"We could've just used a portal," Demyx offers, plopping down in a plush, black armchair with a sigh. The room around him is familiar and rather comforting. The books lining the walls give color to what would be white otherwise and the bed is covered in soft lilac sheets.

"I needed to think for a few more moments," replies Zexion. He takes a seat in the chair adjacent to Demyx, propping his head onto his fist and letting out a long sigh. "Where did you find my gloves?"

"Oh!"

Laughing lightly, Demyx tosses Zexion the gloves, shrugging and running a hand through his outdated hairstyle. They arc through the air with a slow grace and for a moment Demyx wonders if the castle is trying to keep them captive. Zexion catches them with the same air of laziness, his steely gaze set on Demyx.

"They were in the hall. I guess whoever stole them–Axel, probably–just got bored with the idea and dropped them. Why did you have them off in the first place? Hot hands?"

Demyx laughs again and Zexion can't help but give the Melodious Nocturne an envious look. He remembers days when laughs came just as easily to his lips. He soon turns his gaze away, never bothering to answer Demyx's question. Time passes, and it takes a surprising ten minutes of silence before Demyx begins to squirm in boredom. He knows that the man across from him is deep in thought, but he wishes he could–

"Perhaps we have hearts already," Zexion muses suddenly, the words careful and timid. He does not want to grant his comrade such precious hope; he only wants to introduce a theory. When Demyx gives him a questioning look, he continues. "We can remember emotion, yes? I certainly remember what it feels like to laugh, cry, fear, mourn, love, and anything else I can fathom, and when I say this I don't mean I remember a situation or action. I remember the actual feeling. For example, when I recall Mother's death, I also recall the way my chest tightened, how salt burned at my eyes and blurred my vision, and the weight put upon my shoulders when I found out. When I recall the night sky in a child's eyes, I can remember the expanding glory pulsing through my being. Do you experience such sensations?"

As he nods, Demyx's eyes widen in memory of the same awe Zexion just spoke of. He remembers it well, visions of vast oceans and endless blue skies, fables of sea monsters and pirates. He almost misses it. The nostalgic light in the air dissipates when Zexion clenches his fist and sets his jaw, anger–is it?–seeping through his nonexistence.

"If we can recall such feelings, if we know what it felt like, then what are we missing? Is the sole purpose of our hearts to put emotional context to the situation at hand? I recognize that the sorrow I feel over losing my mother might not be the same sorrow I feel over losing my favorite shirt, but even something as menial as that I can recall. I know glee, love, adoration, anger, malice, spite, contemplation, I just can't bring to my empty being those feelings at this exact moment. The fact that I can empathize, though, through memories–doesn't that give me–us–a heart in some way?"

Blinking, Demyx vaguely wonders if Zexion's argument is circular. It makes sense, yes, but isn't it a reiteration? Aren't Nobodies a reiteration? He stares blankly into space and sighs, wishing he could somehow help the frustrated scholar sitting across from him. Sadly, he cannot.

"Zexion," he mutters, eyes sliding across the room and closing in pain, "we don't have hearts. I mean, I know I'm supposed to be the optimist here, but we're Nobodies and–"

"I don't mean literal hearts. Like you just stated, we're Nobodies. We are heartless beings. I just mean to suggest that perhaps, in some strange loop of logic, we are not completely emotionless and thus possess something akin to a heart–a shadow, a mirror image, or even just–"

Zexion cuts himself off when he realizes how tense he has become. He wishes the tears of frustration and desperation he wants to emit could be real, but alas, they have no place in nonexistence. A pause, longer than before, stretches out again and Zexion begins to rub his temples. He feels Demyx's all too blue gaze resting on him and beating steadily at his nonbeing like the waves of the sea. How nice it is to know that someone is here with him in limbo!

"Zexion."

Demyx sighs and rises, knowing that the Cloaked Schemer is too lost in thought to even comprehend his name. He has always thought it funny that the deeper in thought Zexion goes the stupider he seems to get on the surface. Affectionately and carefully, Demyx reaches across the gap between the chairs and ruffles Zexion's hair, laughing when Zexion jumps. The sound causes the skin bordering Zexion's eyes to soften and a small smile to creep to his lips.

"You're hopeless," Demyx mutters. "The most complex scheme you have couldn't shake me as much as a ruffle to the hair shakes you."

Affection.

The word rings between both of them, unspoken, but there. The smile on Zexion's lips widens and he lets out a laugh. Music rings in Demyx's ears and the cheesiness of it makes him laugh, too; it's been so long since he could remember what it really sounded like. The pause returns, lighter now, and Demyx looks at his comrade with living eyes. For some reason, Zexion is looking back; eye contact has never been a strong point for the Schemer and its sudden presence makes the Melodious Nocturne a bit uncomfortable. Too much knowledge lurks behind the cobalt irises.

"What?" he ventures to ask. The word is shy, crossing the edge of existence only with curiosity's coaxing. He breaks Zexion's gaze.

"Axel's always saying that Roxas makes him feel like he has a heart," Zexion muses. Demyx is surprised at the lack of mocking; Zexion has been trying to debunk this theory for ages, even if he only wants to do so because of his dislike for VIII.

"So?"

"Perhaps…"

Demyx frowns when Zexion trails off and fails to speak again. It is unlike him to leave a thought incomplete and Demyx doubts a conscious decision has been made to pick up the habit. Sentimentality (or the ghost of it) has never been Zexion's cup of tea either, but for some reason a trace of it exists in the analytical gaze of the man. The one he's giving Demyx right now cuts through the air like a blade, but the slice is softened by a rolling, scheming laughter.

"Nothing," Zexion mutters. He rises and pulls on his gloves, rubbing the bridge of his nose after he does so. Vexen is probably waiting for him in the lab, though Zexion can't imagine what kind of hollow experiment the man wants to perform now. Perhaps he can make some excuse to venture toward the library or perhaps IX's room would offer sanctuary.

"You can't do that!" whines Demyx. "What were you going to say? If you don't tell me I'm not letting you hide from Vexen in my room. I have no idea how he hasn't figured out that you hide there, though. I mean, he's supposed to be smart…"

Demyx rambles on, hardly noticing when Zexion sits back down in his previous position, listening not because it matters, but because he simply needs a moment of thoughtlessness. He peppers the conversation with laughs and comments, if only to make the Melodious Nocturne happy (oh, he wishes he could). What he doesn't know is that Zexion's listening brings Demyx as close to happiness as he will ever be.

"You," Zexion mutters so quietly that Demyx almost misses it. He keeps yammering on, but the word remains in his memory. He knows that behind Zexion's listening expression a million tiny wheels are turning and calculating, trying to figure out some way that all of this could be real. Demyx soon loses himself in the gaze and begins formulating his own theories–hopes–on their nonexistence. Perhaps…

"Thanks for being a friend to me, Zexion. I mean, I know the others think I'm some blabbering fool who can't get through a mission without a set of note cards, but I'm glad at least you know differently. Maybe…maybe you're right."

Zexion smiles. He can't help but wonder how he could have been so content with the silence when such music existed in the exact place it shouldn't.

- - -

"Aw, we do too have hearts! Don't be mad."

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A/N: Uh. Review! Yeah. I like feedback. It makes me happy, clicking GMAIL and getting an onslaught of FFnet review alerts.

Peace be with you.