Entry tags:

ch: xigbar, ch: zexion, f: kingdom hearts, p: xigbar/zexion

Torment of Tantalus [KH - Xigbar x Zexion]
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Summary: Xigbar thinks that other people's missions are more interesting than his own. Pity Zexion doesn't agree.
Pairing: Xigbar x Zexion
Word Count: 5500
Rating: R
Notes/Warnings: Much sarcasm. They would not shut up. Ever. Also some sexual content. Knowledge of Greek mythology recommended, because Xemnas isn't the only one who can pontificate.

There is a game that, a lifetime ago, Ienzo once played with Aeleus. It had involved time and territory, and although Zexion can no longer recall exactly how it went, he remembers that it revolved around regulations. It didn’t even matter if Braig had stolen half the pieces; the rules were still the rules, and Ienzo knew how to alter his strategies enough to succeed anyway.

Even if he didn’t win every time, he always understood why, and in that way, never quite lost.

It is an odd thought to have here and now, alone in a strange room in an even stranger country, but perhaps still fitting. Not only is he missing most of the pieces in this game, but he also joined in late and never quite learned the rules.

Sometimes he wonders if Xemnas is simply making things up as he goes along.

Zexion holds no great fondness for conflict – control is difficult in the face of the chaos that it wreaks – and this is the most convoluted war he has ever seen. He has done what he can to even the odds, to lull the fighting to the point where he can study the situation at length, but he senses that this tenuous control he holds will not last long. He is, after all, far from the only participant in this bizarre game, and although he has thus far been careful in his manipulation, he has stepped onto a field where gods are playing out their internal struggles, and knows that any misstep will mean failure.

It is understandable, then, if Zexion is somewhat anxious about his current task.
When Xigbar arrives, he does so unannounced. This is no surprise; Number II is decidedly not a creature of order or routines. Zexion neither understands nor particularly appreciates it, but he has learned, nevertheless, to tolerate it.

Xigbar may be an unpredictable element, but he is still a known one, and that alone is something of a comfort.

Still, when the man’s familiar scent fills the room, Zexion is too deep in thought to notice. “You know, from what I heard, this was supposed to be a mission, not a vacation. Slacking off in your old age?”

Zexion does not jump – this is, after all, nothing new – but it is close. Glancing up, he sees the other Nobody leaning against the ceiling, arms folded in front of him. The image is outrageous, bizarre, and yet completely appropriate. “Xigbar,” he states neutrally, not quite sighing, and sinks into the nearest available chair.

Grinning suddenly, Xigbar leaps to the floor and says, “Even gone native, have you?” He moves quickly across the room, his footsteps far louder than necessary. Leaning against the back of the chair, he reaches forward to grasp at a handful of white cloth. “Dude, not your colour.”

“I fail to see how this matters,” Zexion murmurs in reply, not quite rolling his eyes when Xigbar gives up on playing with the clothing and lets his arm fall across his chest. The casualness is aggravating, but he would be more concerned if Xigbar acted otherwise.

“That’s obvious,” he laughs, his hand migrating to Zexion’s shoulder as he straightens up. “So what do you want me to tell Xemnas?”

Such non-sequiturs are a common part of dealing with Xigbar, and Zexion has always been able to catch on quickly. He bites back his first reply, knowing that Xemnas will not appreciate being told how to do his job, and that Xigbar is unlikely to deliver such a message in any case. “Inform him that the situation is at a delicate stage.”

Xigbar seems to ponder that for a moment before saying, bluntly, “Sure. And that’s Zexion for ‘needlessly complicated beyond hope because simple solutions are boring,’ right?”

“I hardly expect you to grasp the complexities of such things, Xigbar,” he remarks dryly, pushing the older man away and rising smoothly to his feet.

“Of course not,” Xigbar replies glibly, his single golden eye shining with amusement. “But dude, I know war, and this one’s been going on for, what, nine years now? There’s got to be more than enough chaos there to play with.”

He stares at Xigbar for a moment, remembering that yes, the other Nobody thrives upon the chaos that he himself dislikes. “Xigbar, I’m busy,” he says with what little patience he can muster. “If you must amuse yourself, do so elsewhere.”

“Yeah, yeah… And water is wet. I know. So what do you do for fun around here?”

“Shoot people, apparently,” Zexion answers ironically. A moment later, he is again alone in the room, and as much as this relieves him, everything around him becomes a touch more alien, a touch more painfully real, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it.
His mission would be simpler, Zexion decides, if he had been given more complete guidelines. The meaning beneath Xemnas’s words has always been difficult to decipher – the man speaks in riddles, his every statement a study in insanity. Usually Zexion would be more fascinated than frustrated by such a challenge, but now…

This task feels more like a test, and Zexion has never liked to lose.

Returning to the city after spending an afternoon investigating the enemy camp – and they are every bit as divided as he had hoped – Zexion spots a familiar, black clad figure reclining on top of one of the towers on the city walls, facing away. As unsurprising as such a sight is, he has to force down a wave of phantom frustration.

He had expected that Xigbar would have returned to the World That Never Was by now, and the realization that he hasn’t… Zexion files the thought away; he cannot afford such a distraction right now.

Quickly shaping an illusion around the other Nobody to protect him from unwanted attention, Zexion makes his way up the stairs to join him. He notices that Xigbar has taken him up on his recommendation and is currently sniping at the combatants in the field below. Leaning forward enough to glance down, he frowns and then says, “You’re targeting the wrong side, Xigbar.”

“Oh?” Xigbar says, only half paying attention as he again takes aim. Zexion briefly shuts his eyes when another of the city’s defenders falls. “Imagine that.”

He is not capable of feeling anger, but a vague sense of irritation that sometimes seems like more than mere memory coils in his empty chest. “You’re only making my task more difficult,” he bites off the words coolly. “There are already enough loose variables in this situation.”

“Yeah, well. I thought you’d appreciate it. Keeping things interesting, you know?” The Freeshooter’s sudden, feral grin contradicts his words, and Zexion idly wonders what the others would say if one of their number inexplicably went missing.

He immediately discards the idea. “Get rid of those,” he demands instead, tersely gesturing at Xigbar’s guns. “They’re anachronistic anyway. As is the coat – why haven’t you found something more suitable yet?”

“You took care of that yourself,” Xigbar reminds him, indicating his new illusory disguise, although he does dismiss his weapons.

“And if I had decided I would rather have watched them try to kill you?” Zexion replies dryly.

Xigbar simply laughs at the suggestion. “Dude, these people are used to worse inconsistencies,” he counters with a shrug. “Tell them you’re a travelling god from the Land of Dragons and they’ll probably believe you.”

Zexion wonders what went wrong with Xigbar’s mind when he lost his heart, because he doesn’t remember Braig, even at his worst, ever being this ridiculous. Suddenly very tired – and there is so much more work to be done today – he briefly shuts his eyes. “Tell me you didn’t…” He breaks off the thought halfway through, shakes his head, and glances at Xigbar through a veil of hair.

“If that’s what you want to hear,” the Freeshooter replies easily, climbing to his feet and jumping cleanly off of the wall. “It’s poor hunting anyway. None of their heroes are out playing today,” Xigbar continues, waiting impatiently on the ground as Zexion gets down from the wall – as leisurely as he can justify – through more traditional means. “Your fault, I guess.”

“You truly have no task of your own?” Zexion finally asks, knowing that Xigbar has very unique criteria for determining whether a mission actually demands his attention.

“Finished it,” Xigbar explains with an extravagant gesture. “Not everyone needs five months to… what was it again? Fully cultivate the darkness that can be achieved in times of war? As if it even matters,” and he rolls his single golden eye. “And this looks pretty damn cultivated to me, so I’m not sure why you’re still sticking around.”

He gestures towards the people wandering around them as they make their way back to the palace, a war worn, tired looking lot, and Zexion ignores the way they pass through the crowd like a pair of ghosts. “The keyword is ‘fully,’ Xigbar.”

“I think it’s ‘neurotically obsessed,’ actually,” the Freeshooter replies.

“Those are two words,” Zexion lectures.

“Dude. Semantics,” Xigbar brushes it off flippantly, before looking suddenly thoughtful and adding, “Ienzo always had a thing for those damn games, I remember.”

“Basic counting skills,” Zexion corrects him automatically. “Semantics is something entirely different. It concerns the meaning of language, not proper word choice.”

“What is this, Radiant Garden?”

“The architecture is far too archaic, nor do I remember there being such a war,” Zexion replies smoothly, easily falling back upon conversational habits half remembered from another man’s life.

“At least not until we were through with it,” Xigbar adds before he can stop himself, and then falls deathly, awkwardly silent.

It’s a horrific comparison, but a fitting one, and Zexion wonders why the sounds, smells, and images of the field of battle have never before sparked the memory of those final, terrible moments of Ienzo’s life. He turns away from Xigbar, knowing that he will only see Braig in that scarred face, and – for the moment – desiring nothing less. As much as their existence is based in recollection, there are some memories that they still avoid.

When he finally again turns around, Xigbar has disappeared, and he wishes he could still feel gratitude.
It was always inevitable that he would lose control.

Things are moving quickly, much too quickly – for nine years, this war has been at a standstill, and the sudden, unanticipated acceleration of events leaves him out of sorts and mildly anxious.

The enemy hero, the celebrated warrior whom he had so carefully manoeuvred out of the war, has returned to battle suddenly, unexpectedly, and irrevocably; Zexion knows that there is nothing he can do to change this. Months of careful manipulation undertaken in vain, he feels as if he has been relegated to an observer in his own game.

The sensation is far from pleasant.

He is exhausted when he returns to his rooms this night, exhausted and more annoyed than he has any right to be. A knot of irritation wraps around where a heart once was, and the knowledge that there is more behind it than he can identify only serves to help it grow. So much about the situation is threatening to spin out of control, and yet he feels as if there is another, deeper problem behind his discomfort.

Xigbar – who has apparently invited himself into Zexion’s rooms again and is reclined on a couch – jerks suddenly awake when he slams the door, and momentarily glances around wildly. “Dude, you look…”

“Not now,” Zexion interjects, his tone frighteningly calm.

Xigbar blinks at him, shuts his mouth with an audible click, and again leans back down. Zexion feels the other’s eyes on his back as he makes his way over to his own bed – some of the Nobodies no longer require sleep; he, unfortunately, has not been so lucky – and turns around to discover that a frown twists Xigbar’s scarred features differently than his customary grin does. “I imagine you intend to spend the night here?” he asks wryly, though he can already guess the answer.

Xigbar raises an eyebrow, nods, and doesn’t say a word.

Of course. “Don’t be obnoxious now,” he mutters irritably, and watches, eyes half closed, as the other Nobody suddenly grins.

“Whatever you say,” Xigbar replies breezily, and then, slyly, “That bed looks pretty big. You sure you don’t want company?”

The insinuation is tiresome and crass – sex is too messy, too demanding, and far too easily misinterpreted for Zexion to truly appreciate it, despite its various uses. Still, this too is only a game, and one that is almost comforting in its familiarity. They have played it often enough that Zexion can already guess how it will end. But the routine is important, and so he orders, almost wearily, “Go to sleep.”

Xigbar also knows how this will play out, and doesn’t bother to push the issue. “Your wish is my command.”

Zexion only wishes it were so.
The prince is dead, and while nothing in this growing disaster can surprise him anymore, he is displeased by the suddenness of the loss, and the knowledge that he didn’t see this – didn’t see any of this – coming.

The prince was not important, not really. True, he might have produced a powerful Nobody, and a fair number of schemes that Zexion has been considering depended upon his survival, but this war is full of people who are both powerful and easily manipulated. It is the surprise, the uncertainty, that is bothering the Cloaked Schemer.

He has always known that what passes for stability in this situation would eventually shatter, that the time for careful observation would come to an end, but now that it has, he doesn’t know how to proceed. He can no longer discern what will come next; he has kept track of all the variables, carefully considered every possibility, but is still lost in the middle of a situation that is quickly spiralling out of control.

Wandering half blindly through the halls of this foreign city, he comes across her: no Princess of Heart, the grieving sister, but one only of despair. She is the first person in this forsaken city to seek him out on her own initiative, to acknowledge his presence without having had it forced upon her, and Zexion can immediately tell why.

She hisses at him, her words as mad as Xemnas’s have become, and also as frighteningly insightful. She speaks of things she cannot possibly know – of Ansem the Wise, of Xehanort and Xemnas, of the futility of his own mission in this doomed city – and then of things that he is certain will never be.

Afterwards, he cannot remember her exact words, and dismisses her vague warnings of fire and betrayal as madness. He senses it is folly to do so – he has, after all, seen stranger things than prophecy – but cannot make himself think otherwise. Zexion is skilled enough in manipulation and subtlety to know when his own mind is being influenced, and is becoming more and more convinced that such is the case here.

The possibility is unnerving; not only does it indicate that he cannot win here, but that he might lose much more than he had ever imagined.
“I don’t think much of the woman who apparently started this war,” are the first words out of Xigbar’s mouth when Zexion returns to his room, “but that prophetess the king tries to keep hidden away…” Xigbar chuckles lowly, “crazier than Xehanort ever was. More your type, really.”

As far as subtlety goes, Xigbar isn’t being overly impressive, but Zexion supposes that he’s not trying all that hard. The knowledge that Xigbar has been watching him does little to faze him; after all, it’s best to assume that the Freeshooter is always watching. Zexion is even beginning to suspect why. “Is there a point to this digression?” he asks absently, his attention barely on Xigbar at all.

“Only that there are more interesting things going on here than the war itself,” Xigbar replies easily.

“While I’m certain that your definition of ‘interesting’ never ceases to astound…”

“Sit down.” The words are low, but decidedly not a request, and Zexion glances up, startled. Technically Xigbar is his superior – more a holdover from the authority Braig once held than anything else – but he has never attempted to test that power.

“What was that?” Zexion asks, his voice velvety soft.

“Sit. Down,” Xigbar repeats, carefully enunciating each word and gesturing almost carelessly at the part of the bed he himself is not occupying. “In another moment, your options are going to be between sitting down and falling down,” he adds bluntly, and a sudden pull of gravity reminds Zexion that this is no longer – really, never has been – Braig.

The threat is hardly frightening. Zexion knows that Xigbar would never seek to harm him (and would be unlikely to succeed even if he did), but he sees no gain to be made in pointless conflict. Warily watching Xigbar, he slowly sits.

“I told Xemnas that this mission was pointless,” Xigbar says in typical roundabout fashion, “and that sending you for it was stupid, since there are so many uncontrollable variables you’re likely to drive yourself crazy…”

“I am not…” Zexion protests weakly, suddenly suspecting that this comment isn’t as indirect as he had at first thought. He reflects upon the vague objectives of the mission again, forcing himself to look at the possibilities he didn’t want to consider earlier. At least, he decides, it means the Superior is probably still mostly sane.

“Yeah?” Xigbar laughs gruffly, reaching out to grab him by the shoulder – Zexion flinches involuntarily, but doesn’t otherwise pull away. “Pretty damn tense too,” Xigbar adds, his grip tightening as he leans in slightly. The hand slowly, suggestively drifts down to his upper back, and Xigbar starts to say, “Now, what would really help…”

This is far from unfamiliar behaviour, but Zexion doesn’t currently have the energy to tolerate it. Irritably pushing the arm away, he snaps, “If you want me to sleep with you, just say it.”

“Sure, if you’re offering,” Xigbar replies, not at all nonplussed. “It’ll be much better than… whatever the hell you’ve been so busy with.”

Zexion leans back, hands folded beneath his head, and watches Xigbar for a long moment. It would, he realizes, be the quickest and easiest way of getting the other Nobody to stop interfering and simply go away. At least, he’d like to believe so; with Xigbar, one can never be certain of anything.

And he must admit, to himself if to no one else, that he could use the distraction.

Waving vaguely towards a table on the far side of the room, he says, “That bottle on the left. Bring it over here.”

With a mock salute, Xigbar quickly obeys, shedding clothing – and Zexion is slightly annoyed that after all this time, he’s still wearing the Organization coat – as he does so. “Damn expensive looking oil. Quite the luxury to be giving out to guests in the middle of a war,” he states appreciatively, and then glances sharply at Zexion and slyly adds, “I suppose that’s three guesses why.”

A faint smirk on his lips, Zexion simply replies, “I was told it was for massages, but I imagine it’ll suffice.”

“Oh, sure,” Xigbar says, climbing back onto the bed and leaning over Zexion, intent upon getting him out of the local clothing as quickly as possible. It’s apparently more intricate than it looks, since he can’t even figure out where to start. Zexion, watching with amusement, doesn’t seem interested in helping. “There’s a hell of a lot of things you can do with oil…” he breaks off, seeing the other’s sudden frown, “If you were kinkier than a Vestal Virgin. Which you’re not.”

Zexion stretches out languorously beneath probing hands, still smiling slightly. “What you do on your own time doesn’t interest me.”

“I’ll remember that next time you start getting annoying.” Xigbar gives the handful of cloth one last, frustrated jerk. “And dude, what the hell’s up with this clothing?”

Laughing softly, Zexion grabs his wrist and guides it across his chest until, inconceivably, Xigbar is tugging on a zipper that doesn’t exist, and the whole illusion falls away. “You should have guessed as much,” Zexion tells him, his tone at once smug and reproachful.

“Yeah, probably,” Xigbar admits, knowing how important some degree of consistency is to all of them. He moves his hands under leather and enjoys the way Zexion shivers at his touch, and then gasps as one roams lower. Leaning over the younger man, he murmurs into the crook of his neck, “But you’d have hated that.”

“I can’t hate,” Zexion says absently, twisting against the silken bedding when Xigbar forces his coat fully open. The other Nobody’s oil slicked fingers are warm – almost too warm – against his skin, and Zexion draws him down closer, one hand pressed lightly against his back, the other pulling his hair free.

He grabs a handful of it and, examining it through half closed eyes, remembers that Braig’s hair had been untouched by grey. He had been the eldest, yes, but the age gap had been fairly small. Interesting, Zexion decides, shifting beneath the man’s hands, that such a quality would be so physically marked upon Xigbar, as if the status of eldest and the responsibility it brings were at the core of his being.

“You sure you don’t want to top this time?” Xigbar suddenly says, breath warm against his throat. It’s a strange, stupid question to ask when his fingers are already inside of Zexion, stroking and stretching him, and even as he rocks his hips impatiently against them, Zexion is tempted to say that he does.

“You’d know if I wanted to,” he answers instead, as soon as he’s certain that he can control his voice. This, he decides, moaning softly as fingers brush teasingly against all too sensitive skin, is much easier.

Xigbar complies readily enough, and gasping beneath him, Zexion can’t tell whether this is pleasure, pain, or something altogether different. All he knows is sensation – far too much, not nearly enough – and the sudden certainty that he’s about to lose control entirely. Xigbar can apparently sense that too, because he begins to move more quickly, hoarsely murmuring, “It won’t kill you to let go for a bit.”

Except that it just might.

Zexion isn’t certain that what little remains of him won’t simply bleed away if he lets go for even a moment. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Xigbar wraps his hand around aching flesh, and all he can manage is a choked gasp. Still, there are layers of meaning behind the man’s words. Zexion trusts that as infuriating as he can be, Xigbar wouldn’t simply allow him to fade back into nothing.

He’s tired of half-lives and half-truths, of never getting enough of anything. Usually he can push the dissatisfaction to the back of his consciousness, but after months of living just out of phase with the world around him, he knows that Xigbar is right.

Still, it feels too much like surrender, and Zexion is too tired to see it as anything else. Frustrated, he finally forces Xigbar onto his back and – ignoring the hunger, amusement, and strange touch of intrigue shining in that single golden eye – rocks on top of him, his motions arrhythmic until Xigbar’s hands settle against his hips, steadying and caressing. Eyes fluttering shut and lips slightly parted, Zexion moves until he collapses across him, spent but finally satiated.

Wrapping his arms around the younger man, Xigbar runs damp fingertips across his back. Zexion for once makes no protest, and simply watches him idly, eyes lacking their customary opaqueness. “Better now?” Xigbar murmurs, but the only reply is a sleepy, unintelligible acknowledgment.
He wakes up – stiff and stickier than he’d like – to find Xigbar’s arm draped around him and a familiar sense of unease curling in his empty chest. Today, however, he can identify what it is.

This world, like all worlds other than their own, has a heart, and he can practically feel it jarring against his own non-being like an unresolved chord. The sensation is distracting, infuriating, and obviously yet another unpleasant aspect of Nobody metaphysics. Perhaps the close proximity to one of his own kind has set off his awareness, Zexion theorizes, carefully extricating himself from Xigbar’s hold. Cleaning himself as best as he can with limited resources, he quickly dresses and begins to wander around the room.

He had expected Xigbar to be gone by now, and quickly reassesses his various theories concerning why the Nobody is here at all. He’s fairly certain of the answer, and while he doesn’t care for this city enough to be bothered, the implications are still disturbing.

“Hey, you okay?” He ceases his restless pacing long enough to glance briefly at Xigbar. The other Nobody is pulling his clothes back on, carefully watching Zexion all the while. It’s a strange, appraising look, and while he can guess the reason behind it, the Cloaked Schemer isn’t particularly pleased.

“I’m fine,” he snaps back, and throws himself into the nearest chair to prove it.

“Yeah, sure,” Xigbar laughs, stretching back easily across the bed. “You’re beginning to look like Vexen on a bad day.”

A slight smile crosses his lips at the comparison, and Zexion makes no effort to hide it; it’s always been too late for pointless deception. “There is a myth on this world,” he finally comments. “A man angered the gods, and they chose to punish him by setting him in the middle of a lake with a branch of fruit hanging over his head. The man eternally hungers and thirsts, but the food is too high and the water too low.”

“Oh?” Xigbar says offhandedly, but then glances at him sharply and repeats, his tone entirely different, “Oh. Is it that bad?”

“Isn’t it always?” Zexion murmurs dryly, grabbing at the basket of fruit that had been left for him this morning. As much as he scorns the people of this city, he does appreciate their obsession with hospitality.

“Well… I don’t know,” Xigbar shrugs. “It’s no walk in the park, but I wouldn’t call it eternal damnation or torment.”

“That depends on your interpretation of damnation,” Zexion counters. “In another myth, the damned man spends eternity pushing a boulder up a hill. It always rolls back down before he reaches the top.” He smiles ironically and spreads his arms in a helpless gesture.

“Dude, you’ve got to lay off the mythology. You’re sounding like Xehanort.”

“I thought it rather fitting,” Zexion replies calmly, carefully selecting an apple and systematically slicing pieces away until he reaches the pit in the centre. Once he does, he gazes at it bitterly for a moment before tossing it away. Xigbar watches in bemusement as the Cloaked Schemer finally begins to eat some of the slices, discarding the rest as soon as they start to turn brown.

“With gods like these, there’ve gotta be plenty of myths that don’t involve doom and destruction. Don’t you know any about gods running around seducing maidens?” Xigbar asks. “Or youths?” he adds suggestively, suddenly behind Zexion, one hand reaching for the younger man’s coat zipper.

Zexion stares at the hand for a long moment before smiling and mildly remarking, “Xigbar, you do realize I’m still holding a knife.” It’s not quite a question.

“Yeah, so?”

“I will stab you if you don’t stop.” He twirls the knife between his fingertips with a flourish; the show of skill is merely an illusion, but then again, so is the threat.

Xigbar laughs, but withdraws his hand quickly enough. “Relax. You’d think I’ve never spr—”

“I’m fully aware of what you have and haven’t done,” Zexion cuts him off coolly.

“So frigid,” Xigbar complains. “You’re much more fun when you’re moaning beneath me, you know. Or on top,” he adds with a toothy grin. “Dude, that was hot. We should do it again.”

Frowning slightly, Zexion almost wishes and that he had stabbed him. Knowing that Xigbar takes perverse delight in trying to provoke emotional reactions that should no longer be possible, he drawls disdainfully, “You need to find more productive ways to alleviate your boredom.”

“Like discussing mythology and dissecting fruit?” Xigbar says, his voice a bizarre mimicry of innocence.

“You can learn a great deal about the beliefs, values, and thought patterns of a people by studying their stories,” the Cloaked Schemer informs him evenly. He rises to his feet and brushes his hands across the front of his coat, watching as it shimmers obediently back into more local attire.

“I learn a hell of a lot more about you,” Xigbar replies with a seriousness that leaves Zexion somewhat on edge.

“I’ll be back later,” he says to hide his sudden uncertainty, the words much too domestic to his own ears. “I need to bathe.”

“I don’t see the point,” Xigbar tells him. Ignoring the comment, Zexion heads for the door. “What, no goodbye kiss?”

Zexion smirks, “Only if you don’t plan on being here when I get back.”

* * *

There are quite a few things that Xigbar would rather be doing with his mouth than kissing. For example, he much prefers drawing shuddering gasps from the Schemer. Swallowing, he climbs back up Zexion’s body and presses his lips against the side of the Nobody’s throat. “Hey, wake up.”

Zexion’s eyes flutter back open and he drags a hand lightly through Xigbar’s hair. “I am awake,” he replies, his voice lacking its normal bite. Xigbar finds that he likes this new, defrosted version of the Cloaked Schemer. “Even one eye should be enough to tell you that,” the younger man adds casually, and Xigbar laughs, not at all put out by the allusion to his eyesight – Zexion knows all of his sore points, and has never yet seen the need to use any of them against him.

“One eye is enough to tell a lot of things,” Xigbar replies, shifting off of Zexion and then drawing him close. “Which is why you’re being pulled off of this mission.” He knows that the Schemer’s element and nature is one of the most potentially problematic of all of them. It’s all too obvious that isolation on this broken world is beginning to drive Zexion crazy in ways that Xigbar is unable to deal with.

“I know,” Zexion murmurs in reply, far more complacently than Xigbar had dared to hope.

“How…?” Xigbar shakes his head and laughs, “Okay, stupid question. How long?”

Zexion, predictably, doesn’t answer.

Xigbar decides not to mention that this was never really a typical mission at all. Although any semblance of a conscience is long dead, Xemnas has not lost the drive for knowledge that so motivated Xehanort. The city and the war never mattered; the Superior simply wanted to test how such an environment would affect one of them.

Watching him much too closely, Zexion suddenly says, “Make sure to tell him that these worlds reject us. And that he shouldn’t try this again.” Xigbar stares at him through a narrowed eye, but the Schemer only laughs. “You told me yourself,” he explains, much too smugly. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”

When morning comes, Xigbar is already gone, returned to the World That Never Was. The hurry is strange, Zexion decides; usually Xigbar would be delighted – or as close to it as a Nobody can get – to watch the final days of a ruined city. Perhaps there is something of note occurring at… not home, he reminds himself; home is a world long dead – the City.

He is not pleased with the outcome of the mission, although he knows that he has never been more than a pawn in Xemnas’s game.

He wanders through the halls of this foreign palace, on his way from visiting its doomed king one final time. It would, after all, have been impolite to leave without giving notice, and Zexion’s sense of propriety has survived where morality has not.

The city is dead, although its people do not yet realize this. Even without a heart, he can almost sense the despair that permeates it, and as he steps through a portal to return to the World That Never Was, he wonders how long it will take before he feels like he has left at all.
Endnotes: Xemnas is a horrible boss.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, yes, this is Troy. The “enemy hero” is Achilles; the prince is, of course, Hector. The woman Zexion ran across is Cassandra, the daughter of King Priam who was cursed by Apollo to always speak the truth about the future and never be believed. I figured that the sort of mental influence that such a curse entails would rub Zexion the wrong way. Badly. In part, this fic grew out of the desire to portray a meeting between the two of them, because of the epic tragedy. When the XigZex took over, I didn’t want to put Cassandra in at first, but nothing seemed to work right until I caved in.

The two myths that Zexion mentioned are, respectively, that of Tantalus and Sisyphus (and yes, my originality died when it came to naming the damn thing). Both are, uh, ironically fitting. Also, the term Vestal Virgin indicates the Roman version of the name, but I suppose Xigbar isn’t quite so mythologically knowledgeable, and Zexion was a bit too distracted to correct him. XD

The extreme amount of deific manipulation involved in the Iliad made the Trojan War seem like one of the best (and most universal) places to throw Zexion and let him get in over his head, bringing out the neuroses like whoa. The Trojan references are hopefully not too vague to work; I didn’t want to make this a real crossover, and also wanted to stress the disconnection between Zexion and the surrounding environment.

I’m sure there was more I wanted to say, but I can’t remember now. Hopefully you got something out of this. :)