This one-shot was only half written by me—Larxene's perspective (aka, the incredible part) was written by my friend Leah (whose username is axeleah – go check her out!!)

This was very improvised and wasn't planned out very much. Hope you like it anyway!

Warnings. Yuri! Which means girl x girl.

Disclaimer. Squeenix is a deity. I am not a deity. Obviously, I cannot own a deity.

Leah actually happens to be god, so technically she owns everything. But she says she doesn't own Kingdom Hearts. Soyeah.

I can't draw you, because if you saw the sketch, you'd know. It's easier for both of us if you don't know.

So instead, I draw a rose.

I let the light reflect off the rose the way the light from the window cascades into this room, caressing your face and highlighting the harsh look on your soft face. The shadows beneath the rose represent the black boots that hide your agile feet, and the dark undertones to every smile you flash in my direction. Each of these smiles, of course, is inspired by thoughts of my pain. But that's okay. I don't mind.

A rose among thorns. They hide you well, but my eyes are well trained.

I see you, Larxene. You can't hide from me.

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You'd never have the courage to draw me, witch. No matter how much you think you're in control, I'll always have the upper hand.

So instead, you draw a rose.

You're not as worthless as they treat you, really. The irritatingly demure expression decorating your face is more of an endearment than an annoyance nowadays; sometimes, I almost want to see you smile.

But more than that, I want to see you cry. Even if it's only a thought, the sparks that fly from my fingertips itch to bring you pain, not pleasure. But that's okay - you'll never have the strength to resist, to fight back.

I hate the way you think you understand, think I'm the same as the rest of the cold-blooded heartless creatures I work with.

You'll never see how it is, Namine. But it's almost enjoyable to watch you try.

I never believed that Nobodies couldn't feel, not for a second. I've always thought that it was a belief we held to protect ourselves. We're lost, purposeless people. It's easier to think we cannot feel than to face a cold, sick reality by ourselves, with emotion. Much as we pretend to desire them, feelings get in the way. Most of them here truly believe they cannot feel at all.

What a terrible way to live.

I knew the moment I saw you that feelings were not lost to us. Blind admiration—a feeling, if not a foolish one. I wanted to know more about you, and above that I wanted to be known by you. I felt the fiery malice in your gaze, and I wanted to extinguish it. I wanted to be held by you; you wanted to watch me cry.

Even now, as you watch me, you're thinking of ways to bring me anguish. It's never crossed your mind that I harbor anything but hatred for you, I'm sure. I'm your marionette, and you're the puppeteer. I'm sure you assume it's only natural I dream of snipping the string that bind us.

I bet you have no idea that those strings are my lifeline.

Xemnas is an outright liar. I don't care what I'm told by anyone about not being able to feel - if I can't feel, what's the fire that courses throughout my body whenever I think about losing my heart and never being able to get it back. It's anger, pure and raw /emotion/ - and it's just as real as those disgustingly pretty little drawings you create. But I can pretend not to feel, not to think I feel.

It's a wonderful way to live.

You can feel, too. It's like a fairy tale that should exist only in the real world between the pure-hearted; that soft little look in your eyes when you gaze up at me. A brief memory flickers, you're screaming in pain and sobbing as my nails rake across your delicately fragile body, precious tears mixing in your mouth when I force another harsh kiss to your sinfully angelic face. You wanted me to hold you and say I loved you, but I won't. I can't.

I'm watching you again, and it's not with thoughts of love. I know the affection you bear for me is miniscule, but it's existent - it must be, because you never complain, not once. I'm the puppeteer, and you're my pathetic, broken toy. I keep you tied there, jerk you around to my will.

And no matter how hard you wish, those strings will never snap.

I once wondered if I was a masochist, to have fallen so hard for someone who so obviously thirsts for my pain. It was a brief, passing thought. It occurred to me once after several days had passed in between assaults—the pain wasn't fresh in my mind.

I'd forgotten.

The mind is simple, easily tricked. In the time it took my wounds to heal, I'd all but forgotten the feeling of my flesh tearing. Enough so, that I'd even been able to contemplate whether I enjoyed the feeling. I shudder involuntarily now. What a silly thought.

I hate pain.

I hate blood, the way the bruises hurt when I move afterward. I hate the way I can't fight the gasps that escape my mouth. I hate the way pain reveals all my carefully placed facades, and leaves me weak and vulnerable. I hate that pain lets you see right through me, into parts I barely know myself. Pain strips me of everything.

Except you.

Each time you take everything away, all I have left is you.

If that makes me happy, maybe I am a masochist?

It's close to amusing to observe you, the way a few days of leaving you alone can put you through such confusion. You look almost lost, a pet kicked away by its owner. Like you miss the feel of my presence, my touch, devoid of affection though it is.

Because you forget.

You're stupid, easily fooled. When I'm hurting you, the screams come from the back of your throat; so deep it's clear you mean it. At those times, you want nothing more than for me to pull away, leave you whimpering and sobbing to yourself.

I love your pain.

I love the way you bleed, the delicate ripping of young skin tearing beneath my nails. It's soothing, watching your body let go and release the pain - because no matter what they say about no hearts, no blood, you bleed, and it's almost beautiful. I love the way the pain strips away all your plastic exterior, leaving nothing but the terrified mess that only I know you to be. I know parts of you that you don't even know yourself, both physically and emotionally.

Because no one else could do this to you.

I give you nothing, but still, it's everything - because nothing was what you had in the first place.

And it makes you happy. Because you love me.

Of course, I'm not stupid. I know this situation's never going to change. I'm not simple enough to believe I have the power to change you, nor do I think I possess the ability to make you love me. I've never been a strong person. I've never been in control of a situation; I've always been the victim of circumstance. Nothing I've ever done has been able to change fate. I'm like a deer, frozen in headlights, or a bottle cast into the sea, at the mercy of the waves.

But I'm okay with that, as long as you're here.

I've come to terms with the concept of never having you as close as I'd like… and that's okay. You're here. I get to see your sick smile and listen to your sharp voice every day. I get to watch you live. You exist in my presence. That's enough for me.

I wish my moments with you weren't always clouded by throbbing pain and your sadistic laughter. I wish it was easier to hear your voice above the sound of my screams. I wish for many things…but above all, I wish for you.

And I have you.

That makes me happy, despite everything. Because I love you.

The small part of me that thinks that maybe, you might understand, is beginning to grow. You don't attempt to change me, to make me love you, to even stand up for yourself. You're insignificant, inferior and weak, but at least you know it. At least, you seem to realize it. I like to think so, anyway. It's taken a while, but you're getting used to the idea that I'm never going to be the type who protects you. If anything, I'm the one you should be protected against, but you don't seem to mind.

You seem to be okay with that.

You've finally realized that I'm never going to cuddle you close, stroke your hair and tell you you're beautiful. It doesn't matter if you are. You've realized that your time with me is always going to be blurred with sparks of your pain, and the joy I leech from it. You've realized that your scream will never serve to bring tears to my eyes; instead, a smile to my lips.

And I'll never leave the only one who will willingly endure me.

It's... nice to know you're happy. A shock to hear it, but nice nonetheless. You know I'll never say it aloud, as that would stop the tornado of pain that I like seeing you in - but you know I haven't thrown you away.

Because I love you.