A.N: This was written on a pure whim, over a cup of tea. Supprise...
Reviews would be awsome, even for soemthing to small. I hope you enjoy.

Zexion sighed quietly, closing his eyes to the bright light of the kitchen and resting his hands on the cool marble surface. It was midnight, and he was alone in his student flat. He had scorched his eyes on the garish laptop screen for far too long; advanced languages were a bitch, really.

The silence was disturbed by the gentle bubbling of the kettle, rising with a sense of urgency, a crescendo of molecular excitement contained in its own universe of plastic and heating element. The Kettle Gods had smiled upon this small batch of water.

It was like therapy. His hands moved in fluid, practiced motions. One brought the mug; a deep, wide, soulful receptacle. The other fetched the teabag from the container, its heavenly scent drifting on the still air. The kettle clicked, announcing its climax to the world of the kitchen. The bag descended into the mug, a joining of two soul mates, destined to make great things together, before their inevitable tragedy.

Zexion loved his tea-counter. It was his space; only Zexion made the tea. Axel made coffee. Sometimes, if Demyx had descended from the flat above, they would make tea the old-fashioned way; with a strainer and leaves, and perhaps some of Demyx' wonderful green herb, which later they would smoke out on the stone steps and do silly things to the trees and the bushes.

The boiling water, in all its silently dangerous glory, cascaded from the kettle mouth and began the magical works that made tea. The teabag, a once proud, neat circle of fragrance, was transformed into the bloated bringer of aroma and, dare we stroke its ego further, tantalising taste sensations.

Zexion had been pondering this choice since he left his room. The choice all tea-lovers must make, a crossroad in the adventure, but with no 'path less travelled by' to be seen, for all paths were worn and as welcoming to Zexion. The question, if one could call it such, for it was more of a dilemma to be so casually addressed, was weather or not to add milk to the godly infusion.

On the one hand, we have the strong, powerful taste of the pure, black tea. Almost bitter in its assault on the senses, but cleansing, in its own, torturous way.

On the other, of course, is the classic Builder Brew; the just- a-drop method of adding the milk, resulting in that inviting, rich brown.

Zexion would not add sugar, for only the naïve add sugar to their tea, and honey would not be added to a white brew. He reached for the milk, feeling some comfort was needed, some familiarity and normality, over the refined, overpowering alternative of the dark pleasures.

The spoon teased the bag, like a lover might tease their partner in a most minx'ish way, until the killing blow was delivered. The bag was pushed, pressed and squeezed of its smoky brown goodness, until it was removed, an old, useless husk of its former self, soggy in its own excretions and already pining for its lost love. It would find only the dark stink of the bin, until the day it was recycled into a KFC chicken breast, along with its friend, the soiled diaper.

The milk now added to the mix, in its proper time, mad the clouds billow beneath the surface. Zexion stirred them away, and gazed lovingly at his creation. The steam rose from the cup, bringing with it the promise of a wonderful half-hour.

Zexion was just making his getaway with his beloved prize when he passed Axel in the hall. He heard the bang of cupboard doors and a strangled cry.

"Zex! Where are the cups?!"

Zexion closed his door and looked around. There were the cups, his beloved cups of drinking. Axel could suffer his thirst for now. Zexion had tea to drink. And drink it he would.