A/N: I have absolutely no idea where this came from, and therefore no excuse save for a mental note to never listen to rabid plot bunnies when they wake you at half past one in the morning. Ah well, at least it's an original pairing, and sanitized enough that I'm still semi-sane from it. Flamers will be toasted. Enjoy!
Bittersweet
"And malt does more than Milton can,
To justify god's ways to man."
- A.E Housman, "Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff. "
The City-That-Never-Was did have quite a few bars, but the majority of them were hazy, indistinct things, neon and shadows and a vague dream of alcohol. The few that did actually work, and served drinks from whichever time to whichever other time, only served the ones you liked if you threatened the dusk behind the bar enough, an arrangement that, if not one hundred per cent perfect, suited most of Organization XIII just fine.
The Flurry of the Dancing Flames slammed the latest in an increasingly long line of shotglasses down on the dark polished surface, gestured for another – a flammable mix of cheap vodka and chemicals, too strong to go under mixers and not quite pleasant enough to be called cocktails – all the while biting back the howl that threatened to consume him.
"No-one would miss me."
He settled for a short snarl of rage instead, sending dusks scattering and exploding one or two bottles behind the bar, cracking the mirror with the heat. The one serving him cowered, but continued to work. He giggled, a hiccupping sob. The creature could have been one of his own Assassins, but for the fact they rarely flinched at his displays.
"No-one would miss me."
His hands clenched into tight fists, gloves straining over his knuckles. He reached for the umpteenth glass, only to have it snatched from under his nose. He pouted, then grimaced as a voice behind him complained, "How do you drink this stuff, Number Eight? It's barely better than crude-oil."
He tucked his head into his arms, slumping onto the bartop with an audible thump. "Not you," he moaned, "Anyone but you, please."
Saix grinned, baring his teeth in the direction of the now-scorched and seemingly terrified dusk as he sat down next to the inebriated Nobody, studied the intact containers, then ordered a conac. "Everyone else is out on missions, and the Superior wondered what you might be doing with Number Thirteen that took quite so long. I had considered some possibilities, and I'll admit freely that this was not one of them."
Axel giggle-sobbed again. "Roxas ain't here, puppy. M'all alone. Alll aloooone…" he added, in case the idea wasn't clear enough. He waved a limp hand. "Sorry, no milk bone for doggie today."
The Lunar Diviner just looked at him for a minute or two, then took a swig of his drink, and kicked the pyro's stool out from underneath him. He yelped as his centre of gravity disappeared, his head knocked against the probably-wood, and he fell flat on his behind in an undignified sprawl. He glared blearily. "Bad doggie."
All he received in return was a yellow glare of worse measure for being more sober, but the answer was, as ever, level enough. "Would you rather I find Number Nine and have him douse you?"
"Nooo…" He liked Demyx, in that he was easy and fun to mess with, but no-one wants a tsunami dumped on their head at any time, even if it is in retribution for past sins. "Jus'…g'way and leave me alone. Tell s'perior I'll be here a while."
He tried to arrange his legs into a roughly standing position, then forgot to do the same to the rest of his body and fell again in a worse heap than before, only to make an odd strangled noise at the back of his throat as he was hauled unexpectedly upright, his weight supported. "By rights I should leave you outside to rot in the rain," Saix murmured into his ear, "But I personally don't care to have to explain as to why the Organization lost two members on the same, comparatively peaceful night."
He shivered. "Don't rot," he mumbled back, despite himself, "we just, sort of," he gestured aimlessly, "go kaphlomp. Fwoomph. No rotting involved."
The berserker chose not to answer, instead dragging the other outside into the night. He was right on one account, at least – it was now pouring with rain.
Axel scowled at nothing in particular. He hated the rain. But the double misery of being in the midst of his least favourite weather condition with his second least favourite person (Marluxia being the first) didn't last long, as he was shoved roughly through a black portal to what he dimly recognized as the corridor near his quarters in Castle Oblivion.
"Ouch." He said in response to the brightness of the white walls, as he landed against one. Why white? Hell, even grey was better than white – at least it didn't hurt your eyes when you'd just been in the City That Never Was Great With Lighting. He glared at Saix, still too drunk to wonder why he had followed him. Number Seven spent most of his time trailing after the Superior, and Axel often joked that the Lunar Diviner slept in a basket outside Xemnas's door. He glared again. "I hate you."
Yellow eyes studied him with a look that he couldn't identify and therefore didn't like one bit. "You can't hate without a heart." Came the patient-sounding reminder.
"I still hate you." He insisted. Axel knew, in the tiny part of his brain that wasn't drowning in mind-numbing chemicals and grief, that he should be getting very worried that Saix's face was now so close to his own, that inscrutable look magnified.
Then Saix kissed him, hard, rough – teeth and tongue, more bite than lips – and what little logic the night had held so far dissolved.
--
His head hurt, and the room was far too bright.
His head hurt, and he felt as though Larxene had used his back and backside for target practice.
His head hurt, and his eyes took their sweet time focussing on the glass of water, packet of asprin, and note on his bedside table.
He clenched and unclenched his fingers a few times, all his joints protesting as he grabbed the note, rolling on to his back with a gasp of pain, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Three words, spidery, awkward handwriting, thin and rushed.
This never happened.
His head hurt like hell, his back hurt like hell, and he wasn't helping either by lying on the latter and staring up at the white ceiling. Despite that, because of that, Axel started to laugh. Hoarse, helpless giggles, high and sharp and crazed, and he closed his eyes and he kept laughing and he couldn't help it because it was just so fucking funny.
Later, though, when he was feeling more absolved, as he washed the latticework of cuts and scratches from his back, when the headache had receded, and he could look at the note again without wincing, he found he couldn't agree more.
A/N: If you've heard the jingle, you'll know what to do,
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