He'll give her roses if she'll help build the castle. Larxene x Marluxia.
Larxene knows she is not a poetic person, but sometimes, when she watches Marluxia, she can find no other way to describe him. She loves to watch him, study his features with half-lidded eyes and a smirk. She envies his grace, his soundless footfalls, his hands gesturing with finesse bred of nobility. His walk is deliberate as a cat's, his eyes like autumn nights as he speaks one night before the other members. She hears his words, his voice soft but passionate, vehemently striking the wall as he becomes lost in his speech. The Superior tells him to be silent, and she can't see the look on Marluxia's face but she know's he's angry, and in a swirl of black leather he is gone. Her legs long to follow him, tell him that she will listen and that he doesn't have to look so sour anymore.
Somehow, though she does not believe in fate, she finds him one day. He is in the Castle library, draped like a content feline in an old armchair, his hair brushing the pages as he reads. Surely he knows she is there, for among them all he seems the most intuitive, and she fears to disturb him. But as she's walking away she hears his voice, and she looks behind her to see if he is talking to someone else. But his eyes are no longer on the book; they are on her and for a moment she is frozen. "Would you like a castle?" he asks, and the question is so unexpected she doesn't know what to say. But she doesn't want to seem stupid, not to him, so she lifts her head a little higher and pretends that she's not really as interested as she is. She knows he can see through her but she doesn't mind. "Why?" she says. He sits up a little straighter now, carefully folds over a page of the book to save his place, and regards her more seriously. "Come with me," he says, "and I'll show you." He stands and walks by her, almost touching, confident that she will be obedient and follow. She does.
They walk out into a courtyard which lies in shadow under the eternal night. She stops, confused, as a myriad of strange and unknown scents drifts around her. "This is my garden," he says. She looks around, eyes wide, arms crossed from cold and confusion. She thinks her Somebody may have liked flowers; a memory of jasmine and brown eyes surfaces and she pushes it away. The small garden is filled with night-shaded plants, leaves whispering in the faint breeze, tangled around one another in a constant but never-moving dance. The place is unlike anything else in the Castle, so disorganized, so full of vibrance and life that the cold gray stone they left behind is suffocating in contrast. But she can only look and think of the irony; there is no heart to be moved.
When Marluxia speaks, she realizes she has almost forgotten about him. He leans down to touch a pale bud on a rosebush.
"They thought I was delusional for wanting to grow flowers here," he says, and she thinks his eyes are closed, but it might just be the shadows.
"Maybe they were right," she says, and she doesn't want to admit to herself that she finds him infinitely more fascinating than the greenery. He looks back at her, and for a moment there is something on his face that is ugly an unexpected thorn prick when she expected only a smooth petal. But he laughs, a quiet, bitter chuckle, and she thinks she'll have to be more careful around him; even the prettiest flowers can be poisonous.
"I don't doubt that they find me--unconventional," he admits, his fingers gesturing to illustrate his point. "But they are all too blind, too consumed by the Superior's dream-weaving to think for themselves." He pauses a moment, his eyes searching the darkness for a moment, perhaps because he had not realized that they might not be alone. Larxene watches with interest, observing the way his eyes become serious and his gestures more poignant. This must be something he has deeply thought about, and she finds herself wanting to hear more. He is like those convoluted puzzles that her Other Self loved, filled with strange twists and turns and dead-ends, the prize buried deep beneath. He is watching her now, perhaps waiting for her reaction; caution and distrust are a necessity. She doesn't think she'll ever trust him--he's too unbridled, too unpredictable--but she can listen.
"Tell me more," she says, and he smiles again. He extends a hand, fingers slender and strong beneath the leather gloves, and she places her own over his. She will never allow herself to be caught, but she can dodge the net forever if she must.
Days come and go, if time ever truly does pass in the Nonexistent World, and plans grow and change. They hardly speak before the others, for that would have been suspicious, but they meet secretly in dark corners, footsteps tracing the way to hidden rooms and soft linen. What they do there is called love-making, but she has to laugh at the name because what they have cannot be called love, cannot be called by any name, but just is, and that's enough for her. The moments of their intimacy are just fragments; the faint scent of roses, his disheveled hair strange beneath her fingers, lying exhausted in a tangle of pale limbs. He tells her his greatest secrets at these times, whispering plans of betrayal and alliance, and he says her fervor is a refreshment. She's his savage little nymph, but still she manages to dance out of his grasp.
His arms are around her now, but whether an expression of caring or possession she doesn't know, yet she supposes the latter. He is not a man to pick favorites lightly, not unless he thinks she will ultimately be of some value to his plan. Gradually he's told her of his aspirations to overthrow the Superior and make the Organization into something wonderful, something far greater, and he leans forward to whisper something in her ear.
"We'll build our kingdom from lightning and roses, and you can be my queen." And she believes him.