He straightens as best he can while sitting against a wall, shoulders tight, unable to hold the open-armed position for much longer and letting his arms drop to his sides. As Demyx steps closer, Xehanort heaves himself to his feet; it's neither steady nor graceful, and if it wasn't for the wall right there he'd probably have fallen over.

He should have weighed the cost of being an anchor a little more. This was pathetic, he couldn't even stand there and put on a decent front.

"No."

It's etched in harsh resentment, that one short, sharp word.

"No. You don't get to turn up a stranger, tell me you don't like me out of the wild blue, deride me for things I haven't done repeatedly after I offer peace, accuse and attempt to shame me for actions I have not taken, and then claim 'I'm not that person' and hold out a hand as if you'd come to offer nothing but a truce!" He levies a finger at the Nobody; it's just as unsteady as the rest of him. "If you meant any of it you would have taken my offer when I made it, but you had to get your piece of hate out first, didn't you? And now that I've refused out of the hurt and insult you've offered you can go play the innocent who 'tried to make peace', isn't that right?"

Xehanort is learning, as much as he didn't want to. Every event since he's arrived on that platform has been a clear and ongoing lesson, and finally it's beginning to stick.