(Author's Note: I asked for ideas and my friend gave me "Roxion, with Nirvana" so this is based around the songs About A Girl, Lounge Act and Where Did You Sleep Last Night? Maybe a little You Know You're Right too.

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Naivete

Zexion had never been prone to jealousy before Roxas. He had never known the emotion before the loss of his heart and thus couldn't even pretend to emulate it with it seeming as fake and empty as Xemnas's attempts to love. Roxas's arrival had of course caused many things to change for all of them. There was hope for their heartless vessels once more and those few who knew adoration displayed it as often as possible. They all took part in Thirteen's training, wanting their golden boy to become more powerful than all of them. They couldn't risk his death, after all...

He should have known better than to get so intimately involved but when one can touch the embodiment of their salvation it is useless to resist the urge. Roxas, ever innocent, never questioned these extra lessons, not even when they took place in private. All pretence of resistance ended when Zexion showed him his talents and made him scream in something other than pain.

Pleasure, he called it. Ecstasy. Whatever that was.

It became addictive. The intense sensations that broke up the monotony of a blank existence. No one questioned where the little blond went after hours. Some of them suspected but never spoke a word as Zexion always hinted he had something to say about each of them, a little black mark next to a clean slate that would spread and infect if fed the right amount.

Zexion knew rumours. When one becomes the embodiment of illusion one learns quickly how to best control others. Convincing each that they have all the control and time in the world when in truth (or the closest he could come anyway) Zexion was pulling all the strings as if writing his own pantomime. He lived in shadow, hiding away as he knew that if he was caught he was nothing of a fighter and stood very little chance.

Strange, that light and shadow would blend so well thought it created a kind of sick transparency showing it for all it was. Zexion's need for control and Roxas's innocent and led like the child he was, blindly trusting the other boy as children do. But despite appearances, the Schemer had a knowledge far beyond his years. It came of being so intertwined with those older and the rites of passage developed by those without hearts nor a moral decorum.

Axel didn't take an interest in Roxas until he saw the scratches. He had inadvertently walked in on the boy changing and had worried when he saw the deep marks and bruises on his shoulders. No wild creature or lucky Heartless had scored those, no.

"Our last pleasure" Roxas had called it, a regurgitation

At first, Axel is angry. Zexion does not spend that night writhing beneath a body as supply and seemingly untouched as his own. No. Instead he squirms and cries out as a body scarred and tattooed as their filthy souls pins him down and takes from him the pleasure he had saved for only Roxas. If anyone heard the screams they ignored them, putting it down to ambience and a welcome break in the silence.

In the morning Zexion finds himself not held close, a body tucked against his pretending they fit together perfectly. In its place he found a hand around his throat, still holding him down, cutting off just enough air to remind him that he is no longer all-powerful. He doesn't struggle. A few wheezes leave him before he regains his composure, watching Axel as if he is a particularly interesting form of cancer. That hand presses more and Axel leans to whisper all his vows of possession. He hisses the words Ienzo was once afraid of. He cannot have what he wants. Roxas is Axel's, not his. Never was. You sick little fuck how could you? How dare you...

Looks like I'll just have to show you what happens to little boys who forget their place.

No lover had ever raised a hand to Zexion. This was a new game and he wasn't sure he understood the rules. Once Axel was gone and he was left to lick his wounds the memory of hurt flashed across his mind but was swiftly chased away. This meant nothing. Roxas would return as he always had.

Being of no heart and discernible emotion Nobodies were creatures of habit, each clinging to the routine of their former lives, the satisfaction and familiarity of each repeated motion bringing a sense of security. Brittle, but they had long learned to respect fragility and evanescence. New routines were born,of course, and could come to be cherished as dearly as the age old ones. This was why when Zexion found himself still with an empty bed long after exhaustion had stained his eyes black he began to panic and scrabble for the correct emotion. Pain? Yes. Fear? ...Perhaps. Anxiety? Just a dash. Anger? Oh, the whole bottle.

Down the corridor Vexen was awoken by a wail that made him shudder though he knew the emotion was as much a lie as the sensation of being chilled to his core.

With a sigh, he got up, the memory of fear for his son nagging at his mind. Years before that scream would have prompted a sprint, heart in his mouth and blood pounding in his ears. That heart had long slid out from a broken jaw and there was no hurry.

The scene drew no real reaction from him either. Zexion was on his knees on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass and seemingly uncaring of the beads of blood that adorned his naked body. Vexen shook his head and was glad of his foresight to put his boots on.

He held the boy until he was finally able to find sleep, the action drawing only a faint longing for what was lost. Memories of a boy with big eyes and innocent curiosity. A boy tainted by death and incapable of love until it was almost too late. Vexen brushed steely-blue hair from the boy's face, his thumb brushing away a faint wetness that he pretended wasn't there.

Vexen had been unable to protect him before and this was no different. He could only be thankful that this was normal - what they each had to go through and that it would be temporary.

Of course, he had forgotten that normal had no place within those walls.

Routine resumed. Zexion pretended he had never pretended to care, acted as if he hadn't hoped he could find love in naivety. He couldn't prevent the slight ache in his void of a chest every time he saw Axel and Roxas closer than they needed to be. Nor how he seethed when the echoes of a scream reached his ears.

Roxas had come back once, when Axel had been gone for almost a week. Zexion had tried, oh he had tried to forgive him, but it was useless.

Axel's stench was all over him, his flesh steeped in it.

Zexion did not know how to cleanse Roxas, how to undo all his wrongs. Roxas was the saviour, the one meant to heal them all. Zexion was not.

Neither of them tried to pretend they were or could be anything else.

Zexion had learnt too late that innocence knew nothing of love.

(Post Script: Yeah...It's not too nice. I promise I'll write something happy soon!)