She draws a muscular boy. Tan. Aquamarine eyes. Hair of the purest silver. Yellow wife beater top with a black x followed by various belts and zippers. Double layers of dark pants. (Who wears those kinds of pants on a tropical island?) Crayons don't do him justice. She attempts to sketch his face using her memory, but the image quickly fades. Her inspiration follows the memory.

Naminé sits back and sighs.

His face is blank. There goes another incomplete page of her sketchbook. With her deft fingers, she traces his hair. (She wonders if his hair is soft.) The paper is rough where the colors stain. With her thumb, she smoothes out the silver in his hair, but it loses detail. (That's what she gets for sketching in crayon.) It doesn't matter. It's a failure.

Without another glance, she turns to a fresh page. It is a blank canvas. Naminé shakes her blonde head and pushes the crayons away. She reaches for another assortment of colors – she looks for the color pencils, but they are not on the table. Her pencils are not where they should be. (Carved on the table were the words 'you'll never find them'. Larxene's doing, no doubt.)

But the Savage Nymph is dead. Perhaps, Naminé can snoop around and find them now. The White Witch stands and turns to the door – only to stare at her babysitter, sitting on a chair leaning against a marble wall. Pale. Scrawny figure beneath with his black coat. Bored, maybe a little sleep deprived. Blueish-silver or maybe steel-blue hair with an uneven cut, messy bangs covering his right eye. Piercing, dark blue eyes looking up from the lexicon in his gloved hands. A look of surprise crosses Naminé's face. She often forgets that he is there. He is that quiet.

"She let me leave." She says quietly. Naminé folds her arms. Her hands clutch her upper arms. The wounds heal. Her scars fade, but the memories do not. (Larxene let her leave after beating her.)

His dark eyes told her something. (He's not Larxene.) Number Six continued to stare her down. His hands close the tome on his lap as he stands between Naminé and the white doors. "You can't."

"There's nothing to do here, Zexion." She argues softly.

"Keep sketching."

He has orders to make sure she doesn't leave the white room. He won't disobey even if these orders come from someone a lower rank than he (but he prefers to keep his hands free from blood). She has never seen him fight nor does she want him to raise a hand against her.

She's had enough abuse in this castle.

Castle Oblivion.

Castle of the Forgotten.

She is both princess and witch, a force of both good and evil – kept against her will – to be used in whatever way they see fit. She has no physical chains binding her to this place, but the door to her freedom is guarded by a master of shadow. Naminé can't get past him. They know this. That is why they put him there. And so, she submits to her fate. She lowers her gaze and returns to her chair.

She picks up a lone crayon and sketches. Her mind is clear. Naminé takes one glance. (He is back in his seat, reading complex text. That is all it takes.) A shape forms on the page. A spot of black becomes a coat and gloved hands. Hair of the purest silver later has a hint of blue. (She also wonders if his silver-blue locks are soft.) Blue eyes complete the pale face. Blueish-silver bangs cover one of the dark eyes, the one on the right side of his face. She smiles faintly. Finally, she has finished one. It is of the master of shadow, but that is better than nothing.

Suddenly, she yawns. The room around her shifts in form, bending to her bodily requests. A bed appears against the back wall. They often joke that she is still a growing girl. (It is Vexen's handiwork with a little help from Number Six.) Naminé scoots her chair back, breaking the deafening silence as she moves toward the bed, piling the covers of her petite form.

She drifts into a dream. It is an obscure dream. She's a child – a red head running down the streets of Radiant Garden. There's a collision. Her grandmother is calling for her. She doesn't remember how she falls nor does she remember seeing a blue Popsicle landing on the other side of the road. Her lips land on someone else's; they taste like sea-salt ice cream. Eyes of dark violet stare at her.

(Her first kiss at age four. No, it's Kairi's, but hers indirectly.)

He doesn't say anything, but he stares. He is a little older than her, she thinks. Her cheeks turn red as she rolls off of him. Even then, he doesn't talk. His own cheeks are pink but he's backing away slowly. She can't tell if he's afraid or just embarrassed.

Those blue eyes. (They are familiar.) She is too busy getting lost in them when the adults come. She thinks Ansem the Wise is among the crowd. The boy's name is whispered into her ear by her grandmother when she comes to. "Kairi, say you're sorry to the boy."

"I'm sowwie, Ienzo."

Suddenly, she is drawn out of the dream world, shaken until she awakens. She sees Number Six staring at her with…azure eyes. (It couldn't be. The shade is darker in the absence of light, but…it could just be...) There was an uncharacteristic desperation in his gaze. His hands were on her shoulders. He hadn't bothered to move them. He whispers, "What did you say?"

It is then when Naminé is afraid. It is the middle of the night. Things can be done to her in the middle of the night. She shuts her eyes and prays that this is not real, that this is a nightmare. That is when he shakes her again.

"What did you say?" He whispers again.

She repeats the last thing from her dream. "I'm sowwie, Ienzo."

He releases her, staring with another uncharacteristic expression. There is child-like wonder, but Naminé's eyes are shut. She won't see it. At the silence, she winces and lowers her head, placing her hands on her scalp. Her actions speak louder than her words ever could. (Don't hurt me.)

When the silence comes between them, she sneaks a peak. He is sitting on the edge of her bed. His coat is unzipped halfway. She can spot a bit of his chest. He is not as scrawny as he first appears to be. He looks sleep-deprived, judging from the way he sat with his shoulders slouched and hands together, pressed against his forehead. (It comes from the babysitting duty, she assumes.) She never noticed how young he looked. If he were a Somebody, he would be only a few years older than…

"Kairi."

(It was as if he read her mind. Or perhaps, she was easy to read.) That was the name of her Somebody, the one she was ordered to replace. Naminé looks away from her 'babysitter'. So it was a memory – a genuine memory. The White Witch then pulls her legs closer until her knees press against her chest.

"That's…your name, isn't it? Ienzo?" Naminé says as she hugs her knees.

He looks at her. He doesn't speak, but his eyes say it all. It is his name, but he often forgets everything about his old life. Before she knows it, Naminé's hand touches his. His hands are cold. Zexion tenses up and attempts to shy away. He's not good with girls in this life or the past one. Naminé then tightens her grip on his hand.

A fleeting feeling of warmth stirs in his chest, (but it is an illusion). Or so he thinks. She is special. In all his years, Zexion has never encountered a nobody like her. Her scent is sweet, nothing like the rest of them. Born from light, she is different. She dreams. She feels – or rather, has experienced something short of feeling. It won't show on his face, but he fears it – the fleeting feeling in his chest. (Liar, he can't feel fear. Nobodies born of darkness can't feel emotions.)

"Ienzo." She repeats again. The Cloaked Schemer flinches. She triggers something in his mind. Things become complicated now. Zexion swipes her hand away from his before standing. He can't bear to look at her. Not after that. Internally, he laughs at himself. Even after all this time, he is afraid of being touched.

"Go back to sleep, Naminé."

There's a shuffling of bed sheets. "It's a nice name."

"Oh?" He doesn't know what comes over him when he chuckles. He hears her gasp. She's never heard him give off any kind of laughter. In fact, it's a little comforting to know that he is capable of laughing.

"Don't I get a good night?" Naminé teases. Zexion then frowns. It is he who often demands salutations from the other organization members. So much for manners. He makes a mental note not in push his habits onto her, but the mental note is pushed to the back of his mind, behind all of Vexen's hypotheses, chemistry formulas and diagrams of a nobody's genetic makeup.

"Good night." He says with his voice completely monotone. It is Naminé's turn to frown.

"Not like that."

"Like what then?" Zexion isn't great at socializing. He prefers observing everyone else. He admits that he is content that way. Perhaps, that is why they called him the emo kid. (It made sense.) What Naminé does next pulls him away from his internal monologue. She kisses his forehead.

His next thoughts are blurs of incoherent phrases. (Kiss. How? Naminé. Did. What. Why?) A light shade of pink graces his cheeks, but he thanks the lack of light. She doesn't see him blush. There is no attraction. His body is only reacting to the embarrassing situation. What a ridiculous assumption, he yells at himself.

"Like that." She pauses. "Good night, Zexion."

She acts like a child, a manipulative child. He is certainly not going to give her what she wants now. Why bother, he asks himself. The silence steps in-between them, later broken by her even breaths. She must have fallen asleep, waiting for him to bid her good night. How disappointed she must be in her dreams.

He frowns again.

She is not affecting him. He continued lying to himself. She is not. He is not himself after that. It troubles him. It perplexes him. As he watches her, the feeling in his chest arises again. His chest aches and he does another thing out of character.

"Witches aren't supposed to look so innocent and vulnerable." Like you, he silently adds. He bends down to leave a kiss on her forehead. His lips linger a little while longer. His warm breath tickles her crease-less forehead. His uneven bangs tickle her cheek as he draws himself away. "Good night, Naminé."

His hair is soft, just like she thought.

She hears him and smiles.

haptephobia: fear of being touched

Written for the livejournal kingdom100 challenge, I present my first Zexion/Naminé fanfiction, which turned out to be okay. I thought it was going to be an epic fail, but I kind of like it. I apologize if Zexion was out of character. I've been out of the Kingdom Hearts fandom for a while. Standard disclaimer applies. I won't take credit for the Zexion's second-to-last line about witches.; I credit Mikage24 for writing the line which inspired me. Hope you enjoyed this little peace.