Despite the clear threat from Larxene, despite the ever-lingering feeling of the cold sting of her knife to his throat, Zexion was going to throw his entire being into not going to that blasted gathering. He didn’t belong there. Nobodies didn’t belong anywhere where actual Somebodies were.
And so, he was locked in his room in the castle. One probably would have gone through the trouble of nailing boards across the door’s width (this was Larxene after all), but not Zexion. He was confident that she would soon give up on the idea of going to the ball, once she found his door to be locked. She was a Nobody. She didn’t have desires. Not even girly, frivolous ones, such as wanting to go to that ball. She’d give up on trying to drag him there after awhile.
Besides, he didn’t even have a mask. And those were supposedly required. He had acquired a suit, just a plain black one with a dark blue tie. But right after he had purchased the article of clothing, he had felt utterly disgusted with himself for actually thinking that he was going to this ball. Upon arriving at the castle, he had casted the thing to the depths of his closet and had not bothered to look for a darned mask to match. He wasn’t going, after all. He didn’t need to. He was very intent on just sitting on his white bed and reading his Lexicon, like always.