Nobodies don't get love stories.
They get desperate friction beneath ivory sheets, stained by the harsh glow of the one entity that reminds them just how empty they really are. They don't get love or romance, as neither of those words even exist in their vocabulary for any other reason rather than spite. Darkness claws at those hollowed parts of their chest as they desperate work towards some sort of feeling. A spark of excitement, or a tinge of a blush. But everything they do is lost in the shattered fragments of their bodies, leaving behind a shell, a vessel, and nothing more.
Silver hair catches the rays of Kingdom Hearts, reflecting it as if it's mocking its own existence. Amber eyes boil and churn, but there is nothing behind them. Nothing except distant struggle and more pain than anyone should have to endure. A heart that's been cast out, a life that's been smothered by a blanket of darkness. There's nothing, absolutely nothing. Nothingness is what lurks in every corner of that man's mind, but he cannot stop it. He cannot add anything to the dark void that fills him to the brim. There's absolute emptiness, and he can feel it. He can feel it like a heavy weight that he can't push off his chest, or like an icy wind slicing through his bone marrow like a knife.
He tries to fill the void between his sheets, nails clawing and backs arching as he tries to find something, anything, that can make the weight feel lighter. But when he's done, when he's left heaving on the pillow for breaths that became knocked out of him, he feels heavier. The little bit that he had left inside of him was taken away. And then an arm will wrap around him, a drawling voice will tease him for looking so tired. A scarred cheek would rub against his own as a kiss would find itself placed at his ear, salt and pepper hair tickling at his chest. And it's those small moments, after the wrestle with their realities, that he feels something. It's not a pleasant feeling, that desperate squeeze that tendrils of darkness latch to that empty cavity where his heart used to be. It's not a pleasant feeling at all, but it's better than icy numbness. It's pain, returning to remind him that he cannot love. Not anymore. He has lost the ability, lost the drive. There's too much darkness choking his lungs, and no matter how much charcoal he coughs up, there's an infinite amount more. It's drowning him alive, and trigger-worn hands are the ones trying to pull him back, trying to get him to keep his head, if only for a moment, before they shove him back down with tired resignation.
This man is going to share his fate, but he doesn't know how bad it will destroy him. He's halfway there, and maybe a little more than halfway. There's silver in his black hair, his ears are pointed, and his single eye glows with molten gold like an angry spit of lava, boiling just under the surface and waiting for the moment to explode. A smirk is always on that scarred, destroyed face of his. He only loses that cocky grin when he's rutting against the body beneath him, fighting to regain the heart he used to have. It's all in vain, as that light is never to spark back like a switch. He's drowning, but he'll never let a damn person see that. He's happy. He's proud. But on the inside, he's falling deeper into the sinkhole of black, clawing at the surface to keep his head above. On the grand scale of things, he accepts his fate. He knows what's going to happen to him, and he's prepared. As prepared as he can be, considering that he's staring something worse than Death himself straight in those amber eyes. But maybe all of this will be worth it, he decides. Maybe everything is going to turn out alright. This darkness will lend him its power, and he'll be just as strong as that man who takes him to bed.
He remembers his fate whenever he sees those eyes. Those completely empty, emotionless, hollowed eyes. For Xemnas is the true definition of a Nobody. He has no heart, no emotions, no… nothing. There's nothing left inside of him, but maybe he doesn't want it back. Maybe it's the phantom of a heart that's clawing at the surface, screaming for desperate release. He wants something more. He wants to be something more. But all he is, in the long run, is just an empty shell of a puppet. A vessel for nothing but darkness, too dazed and lost to realize that this isn't who he is. He's Xehanort. He's not anyone else anymore. Not even when he's screaming out in cries of ecstasy as his body is offered up to physical pleasures. He's just a hollowed shell of nothing, and that's all a Nobody is.
But Nobodies don't get love stories.
All they get is pain.