The pieces and bits of what had once been Organization XIII had turned into shards. And the shards had turned into chips. And the chips had turned into fragments. And the fragments turned into sand. And the sand had turned into dust.

Three years later, one particularly unextrordinary universe turned. Just a fraction; no one in the world to which it belonged noticed. No one even on the planet upon which it happened even noticed. Not even anyone on the continent, or in the town. No one on the street even flicked an eyelash from their daily ritual. No one, not even the young man (more of a boy, really) who was bent over the flowerbeds in his yard. He was concentrating very, very hard, but not on the flowers at all. The flowers were inconsequential—in fact, they looked a little sickly. This could have been because there was very little dirt in this garden. The boy kneeling there seemed to have purposefully piled it with gravel and large rocks. He arranged them like he arranged his silverware and china, so it didn't bother the neighbors in the least. One man's rock garden was his own business.

The turn in the universe was the result of one person, and one person only. He was currently standing across the street from the young male and his rock garden and was watching him with clear blue eyes. He had been wearing a hat, but he removed it once he saw that his brilliant pink hair would not be offending anyone at that moment.

The man with pink hair was upwind of the boy with the rock garden, and when he removed his hat, it was only a few seconds later that the boy froze, hands cupping a large flat stone. His fingernails grated against the granite for a moment as he took another whiff. Something was amiss. Something was familiar.

Their eyes never met. In fact, the boy might as well have never even noticed him. But the man with the pink hair knew better. He knew this boy. Knew him. And he could read the way his nostrils flared and the way his shoulders tensed. It took him a half hour, but he finally approached, taking long, even steps before he was standing behind the boy and he became the shadow casting itself across the garden. He said nothing.

"Marluxia," the boy said.

"Zexion."

There was another silence where both figures contemplated what to do next. It was Marluxia that supposed he had to make the first move, as he had been the one to approach in the first place. "You like gardening now?"

Zexion had to admit, he was a little affronted. Three years—three lonely years—and all this man could say was...that? Just as quietly, he affirmed, "It's not the flowers. It's the rocks."

"I see. You always did have an affinity for Earth."

It was then that Zexion could take it no longer. He rose to his feet and turned around to get a proper look at the man and assess what he had never before dared himself to begin to speculate: how they had changed.

Marluxia was dressed in black, wide-brimmed hat clutched to his chest still. There was no physical shift—pink hair, lips the color of forgotten strawberries, and eyes that could make any man rethink their personal constitution. And, oh, how those eyes had been so cruel, slitted and lazy to even the most terrible cries for mercy. But now, Zexion noticed, now they were simply imploring. Whatever cruelty had been there surely must have been hastily relocated upstage of those masterfully jaded eyes.

The other man simply gave Zexion an up and down glance. "You've not gotten any taller."

It was that statement that seemed to break the ice. Immediately, the boy huffed and let his eyebrows knit together. "A quarter inch, I'll have you know; I've grown a quarter inch."

The lean to the larger-framed man gave away the fact that he had been tense, and now was starting to relax. But his gaze was still sharp, entreating. "It's been a long time, Zexion. I know you did not expect me here."

"I didn't," he shook his head, almost in wonderment of the man who stood before him. "You can't tell me you've been on this same world all along. And all of a sudden just now, you decided to—"

"No," Marluxia nearly scoffed, as if the mere idea had been silly in the first place. "It is nothing like that at all." Where his eyes had been locked to the space where Zexion's hair covered his forehead, they suddenly flickered to house that stood behind them, casting a half-shadow upon the garden. "I can speak to you about it, if you'd like." 'Inside,' he almost added, but knew Zexion well enough to know manners were first and foremost. Just like in Castle Oblivion when Marluxia would be invited in the illusionist's room, whether he had wanted him there or not, even when he knew what would transpire beyond those doors for the hour to follow.

"Please," Zexion took a few reassuring steps backwards, as if on cue. "Come inside. I will get you something to drink."

There was nothing pleasant about their interaction, nothing too friendly; they were not friends. But it was business-like, clipped and direct. How else could they reach into themselves? It was like being dipped back into cold water, limbs becoming brittle once more where they refused to remember what they knew they remembered and they refused to act upon the old memories that they shared, lest the other perhaps not remember, even though they knew quite well they were thinking the same things.

Beyond the threshold of the front doorway, Marluxia was sure to catch every little detail, every sign. He noticed right away how absurdly normal it was. There was a painting of a cornucopia on the wall facing the door, half-concealed with a coat hanger that had a black umbrella hooked on it. There were no shoes or anything cluttering the hall, and Marluxia immediately noticed the lack of things. There were places to put things, of course. Shelves and tables and counters (barren bookshelves). But as he followed Zexion to the kitchen, he noticed even the pot rack hanging over the middle island was empty.

"Did you just move in?" Marluxia asked in a murmured voice, taking a seat where Zexion had gestured he place himself.

"No." His body was bent double, reaching down to drag a large plate from a cabinet below (two shelves of which were empty, Marluxia noted in peering around the curve of Zexion's hip). "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I'm curious as to how you've…faired like this." Alone. Empty. Isolated.

"Well," Zexion tightened his lips in a way that was very telling. "It was trying at first. But I made due. People are easy to persuade, I suppose. I've been in this house the entire time. Small, but nothing more than I need or want." As he spoke, he somehow drew enough objects from somewhere (because he certainly didn't keep them in his house, void as it was, apparently) to set out a tray of pastries out before Marluxia, followed by a tall glass of ice water. He then sat himself down, too, lacking any desire to stand through what he hoped would be a clear and concise explanation as to what in the name of darkness Marluxia, former Lord of Castle Oblivion, was doing in his, the former Leader of the Underground of Castle Oblivion's, front yard at approximately 10:48 that morning, a Tuesday. It had been a rather nice Tuesday, too, until he had showed up. Now it had the potential to be quite dreadful.

Marluxia eyed the sweets. "Pastries? Really, Zexion. I didn't know you were so inclined toward this sort of fare."

"I'm not. I own a shop down in town that sells these. Seems a waste not to try at least take some of the leftovers home once in a while." It was a little embarrassing, he had to admit. It was such a quaint and insignificant occupation. Demoted from a grand mastermind, schemer of an all-conquering organization to a pastry shop owner. He wondered if Marluxia had felt such a blow to his ego. Oh, and what a grand ego that man had. Grand and fragile.

Taking a brisk (if not rather amused) bite of a teacake, Marluxia tipped his head and listened. "So I see you've moved on."

Zexion scolded. "We won't be able to 'move on,' Marluxia. What happened is not something any of us will be able to forget. The best we can do is cope with what we are now forced to endure." Funny how he used the word 'we,' even though Marluxia was the first he had seen in three years. He knew nothing of what had happened to the others. Part of him had gone through the years trying to believe he was the only one left alive. No one to tell, no one to believe him, Zexion almost considered madness. As if he had woken up one morning remembering things that had been an elaborate dream that had stuck with him for longer than dreams really should have. A condition, a mental disorder.

The elephant in the room finally settled before them when their eyes met over the table.

"How did you get here?"

Marluxia set his glass down on the table with a slight noise. He said nothing, but reached into the collar of his shirt to draw out a simple line of cord. On the tip was fastened a small shard, perhaps as big as a thumbnail. It was a piece of metal, tinged with a shade of pink no metal had ever been able to acquire, save for the blade of one very, very lethal weapon.

Zexion's mouth formed a slightly parted shape, trying not to draw conclusions. But in the end, all he could do was look into that expectant face. "Your scythe? But how? How did you get that out of Never Was?"

"I didn't try to. I was the last to face the Keyblade Bearer. He shattered my weapon instead of killing me. This imbedded itself in my chest. The only thing that came with me in this…afterlife. Whatever this is."

As if unable to believe it as Marluxia told it, Zexion kept his eyes fixed on the shard. A part of him felt jealousy—why was it that Marluxia, of all the self-glorifying bastards, got to keep part of his weapon, his protection? "And how does this explain your interruption of my morning?"

A corner of Marluxia's lip twitched downward. Ungrateful little bitch, as usual. "This shard retains some of the darkness that rendered us powerful. Most importantly, it allows for the creation of portals."

"Ah," the clinical interest Zexion was taking in this object was somewhat odd. How could he detach himself now, of all times? Marluxia thought to himself. When the weight of the last three years was finally running all together, like wet paint on a stained canvas. He was afraid to reveal something, Marluxia knew. Zexion was very afraid and it was obvious what he had been running away from all this time. Why there was a dilly-dally shrine in his front yard, or why every bookshelf lacked books on its top ledge. Why the house was half-empty, as if waiting for someone to come home.

"I've been looking," he spoke up again as the shard of metal dangled and twirled in the light. "I've been looking for what is left of us."

"No you're not," Zexion nearly smirked, having caught the other man in the midst of a pathetic lie. "You're looking for him."

Their eyes met and challenged. Neither backed down for the longest time until, finally, Marluxia spoke up. "And you're grieving for him. We're even."

The Schemer's face lit up with something akin to a wildfire, stopped in his tracks. How dare Marluxia imply such bold things? How dare he make him re-live the past, if even for a moment? He didn't want to see the things he had spent so long trying to weed from his memories, from his heart. The chiseled face, smelling of leather and burnt leaves after a windstorm. And the hands that could crush metal wrapped delicately around the flossy handle of a teacup, measuring and ever-so-aware of their own strength. Because he was kind and he was courteous like no one else in that entire place; he had manners and his footsteps were reminiscent of the sound his windows would make whenever it rained hard back in Radiant Gardens, the panes thudding in their slots. It was he who made him feel like the smallest, yet most important thing on the planet, just by letting himself be cradled in those arms. Zexion could feel them sometimes, still, mostly on Sundays when he lie awake in the morning, having been woken up too early by the church bells down the street. It was then, when the clouds in his mind hadn't lifted and he could pretend the bells were just Number Four's impatient alarm, running off while the academic struggled to orient himself enough to reach over and smash his fist into the 'snooze' button (it usually had taken about 34 seconds, Zexion recalled). And those were the days when he could only take what he had for granted.

"Zexion," Marluxia murmured. "You look pale."