Zexion Marluxia PG Chill
It wasn't often Zexion saw their eleventh without Larxene or Axel steadfast at his side, kissing his words and trailing his whims with their ability. And when without them, it was often he wasn't in his garden, wrapping his mind around ideas twisted as the greenhouse vines.
He hadn't made it this time, obviously.
Today, it seems, the warmth of his garden will not surround him. The only real sunlight in the entire castle, and he will not feel the tender rays against his skin--such a pity.
"Zexion--" the assassin hisses, blue eyes beseeching, scared.
Half the hall's width stood between them. Standing there, clutching his lexicon to his chest, Zexion watches the other--Marluxia stretching his body taut against the marble floor, his skin pale, his lips blue.
"Siiix..." A cold spot lingers where Marluxia lays, permeating the air around as he struggles to drag himself forward.
Zexion scowls, nose scrunching up as the other gives him that ilook/i.
'You've dug your own grave,' Zexion wishes he could say, expression as cold as the air. "The snow has fallen. Sleep in it.'
The schemer and his two comrades already suspect the man of disloyalties to Xemnas and the Organization core. But letting him go here would be too big a loss too early. Like Xemnas, Zexion knows too well how to drain people in full of their use before casting them aside.
Marluxia still has purpose.
But under the frost and needy, pleading looks, Zexion can smell Vexen on the air. He knows what their eleventh has been up to.
Games as always, ever with the cat and mouse. Disgusting.
Marluxia shudders and Zexion's grip firms on his lexicon, the leather of his gloves wrinkling further, lips pressed together tightly. Never, he swears, will another know of his jealousy.
Marluxia may lust. His desire is justified by biology. And Vexen may flee. His response is justified by self-defense. But Zexion may not yearn--not like this. Revenge is not a word understood by a Nobody. They can not feel, ergo they cannot loathe and love.
Marluxia chases and Vexen runs, men at play, however violent some of the encounters may be. But no one sees the man in the corner--the one wearing the face of a child, his body frozen in time.
Whole, his wishes were for another to step down to his level, to hold and comfort him. Now he wishes for another to let him step up, to hurt and use him just like any other. Zexion wants a challenge.
Marluxia is a charismatic man, a schemer like Zexion. He leads with smooth words and empty promises, gilded in gold. Zexion sees through the rose Marluxia has tinted their lives with. He sees the darkness creeping in, threatening to eat them alive.
And he wants more.
"...please--" A whimper. How pathetic.
Why should he help the man who passes him by for another--one who will never want him?
Because the man is useful.
Zexion turns, quietly treading down the hall, away from Marluxia and his plight. He will tell Lexaeus, and ihe/i will help Marluxia. And why he asks Lexaeus...
...is because Lexaeus is still useful.