Prologue:

A note: This is only the prologue. This is published to the wrong account. If you are looking to read the rest of the story, you should look for the work titled "Lost in a crimson dream" after July 19 2008 It will be posted then, if everything goes as planned. This is dedicated to my best friend in her loving memory... and of course, she's going to read it, because she's still alive.

Wanring: Yaoi, cutting, violence, foul language... ect. The prologue has none of this, but I'm just warning you anyways. There is a question of having an XXX chapter eventually but it will be marked and will bear no real meaning to the story, anything I put in that chapter will not be inmportant, perhapse other than the fact that the act happened in the first place.

Here we go:

Slowly a blonde boy of about seventeen brought his guitar into his lap, his hands smoothing over it lovingly. He really did love the instrument, it was his escape, an outlet from the world and the damned boarding school where he spent everyday of his life. It wasn't really a "school" anyways… no, it was more of a specialty facility. This one housing males grade 9-12. All in one neat combo, the students got school lessons, medical facilities, detention centers (usually referred to as the hole, or solitary confinement), and shops of some sorts. They also had an array of activity rooms, some with televisions and video games, others dedicated to board games, some just for sitting. Then there was the garden. All of these allowed use during the vacation times, weekends and when the student was not occupied with other responsibilities. Then of course, was the dorms of students, and lastly, the labs. Shinning white rooms with glinting medical tools, the labs were full of technicians, and all of those techs wore white coats, blue gloves, and those face masks with their hair tied into caps. They looked like aliens, no feeling, cold like the metal.

A knock on his door beckoned him from gazing at his guitar though. He peered up at the door, his deep blue eyes searching it for a minute, watching it expectantly, a strand of his blonde hair falling in front of his eyes as the door opened. He first noticed the taller boy, wearing almost the same exact outfit as all of their friends, the blonde including, wore. It was a form fitting black shirt, over dark jeans. His hair though, was nothing normal. It was slicked back in vibrant fire-red spikes.

"Hey Ax, what's-" He fell short, finally seeing full on the other boy after Axle walked into the room completely. The blonde looked a little shocked, his mind reeling, his pupils dilating in seconds, and his breathing stopped momentarily. Then he came to again, looking astonished at the slate-purple haired boy who was, by now, unpacking three books, a brush, and small toiletries. Then he kicked his bag under the bed opposite The blonde's.

"Everything's fine with me. What about you Demyx?" Axle beckoned his attention, while shutting the door and turning back to his friend, already starting towards him.

"Did you… do you know?" He asked softly as Axle plopped down on the bed beside him.

"I'll explain later." He said in a hushed voice, then louder he continued. "So, this is your new roommate, Zexion." The redhead began. "I believe Xemnas decided you needed a new roomy."

Demyx watched as Zexion ignored them and sat down on the bed, moving so the wall was against his back, he was sitting cross-legged with a black sketchbook in his lap, the blank page staring at him. Slowly The blonde got up, moving towards him, he leaned down, so they were just about face to face, the slate-haired male didn't even look up.

"Zexion?" He beckoned softly, as if pained. The boy sitting down, didn't even react in any way. An odd mellow anger embedded itself deep inside of Demyx's chest, but the rest of him held another feeling at this particular moment…

Axle clicked his tongue softly in warning, the blonde understood this immediately.

"My name's Demyx, it's nice to… meet you." He finished, his voice still barely above a whisper, and yet, he didn't get a response or even acknowledgement. He chewed on his lip and stood up all the wall, going back to the other side of the room. He grabbed his guitar and looked at Axle for help. The redhead just smiled at him and leaned down, across the bed so he was laying down, his lower legs flopped off the side comfortably.

"George got stung by a bee and said 'I wouldn't have got stung if I had stayed in bed.' Fred got stung and we heard him roar, 'What am I being punished for?' Lew got stung and we heard him say 'I learned somethin' about bees today." He recited slowly. The guitarist looked down and just plucked a few strings before sighing.

"I should have known you'd chose that one. Though you could have quoted Fannie Heaslip Lea, with that poem…" He searched his mind for the name, not recalling it right away.

"That 'The Dead Faith' one? Yeah, I could have, but only two lines really fit perfectly, but I was going for more of a 'learning' type of poem or quote." Axle mused to the ceiling.

"Why Silverstein?" Demyx wondered. Shel Silverstein wrote mainly for kids.

"Keeps tone light, and I like him." Axle shrugged.

"So much you could have said.. And yet you chose to encourage me." Demyx shook his head and the redhead sat up.

"Hey, don't be like that, see, you're acting like George and Fred. Were you supposed to stay in bed? Do you think everything being stacked this way is a punishment? Or do you want to grow some balls and start over, learning from last time?" He pushed Demyx hard in the chest with two fingers and got up, leaving the blonde stunned in his wake, while Zexion didn't look up, yet had been listening to every word, not really understanding what they were talking about thought. Before Axle left completely, and shut the door, he smiled sadly at the guitarist.

"The less you ask the less you are denied." He paraphrased, then continued with his own words. "But how will you know for sure you'd be denied in the first place… if you never ask anyways." Then he was gone and Demyx looked to the only other person in the room. A pang of hurt shot through him, but he looked down at his guitar and began plucking at the strings again.

"So he did quote that poem… dead faith…"He rolled his eyes, but smiled.