Warnings: Mature themes, sex

Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine. The song isn’t mine.

Notes: This was written to Panic! at the Disco’s But It’s Better If You Do, which is where the title comes from (as usual I take from a song). My intention in writing this was to make it physically Axel/Demyx, but, storywise, Axel/Roxas and Zexion/Demyx.

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So this is what a murderer feels like, Demyx thinks. This is what it feels like to have a murderer’s mouth at his neck and a murderer’s hands undoing his coat. This is what Zexion’s murderer feels like.

If he closes his eyes tightly, so very tightly, maybe he can pretend it’s Zexion. Maybe he can pretend this feels as wrong as he knows it is but it can’t feel wrong, because he can’t feel. Zexion made it seem like he could but if that were true Demyx would be in pain and mourning, not sleeping with this murderer. But that doesn’t matter, because they don’t have hearts, after all.

So here he lies, with Axel biting his jawbone with his green eyes half-closed because when Axel lets his vision blur, Demyx looks enough like Roxas to let Axel forget. Demyx doesn’t get such a gift. Axel couldn’t look less like Zexion if he tried. He doesn’t even feel right against Demyx’s skin. Zexion was cool and soft, like pages turning. Axel is hot and uncontrollable, like the fire he wields. And it’s wrong, wrong, wrong but it feels good and it’s just like forgetting. Tears slide down Demyx’s cheeks and he doesn’t know where they come from. Axel reaches up a hand to brush them away but Demyx knows, through his closed eyes, that Axel cries too; he feels the traitorous drops of salt water on his chest and shoulders, fallen from Axel’s eyes.

They don’t know why they cry. They shouldn’t be able to but they do.

It’s too much like pain, when Demyx thinks of Zexion. It’s too much like betrayal when he realizes what he’s doing. He lashes out, mouth latching onto the first thing he can find; Demyx bites Axel’s shoulder, feels him shudder, hears him cry out in surprise, tastes the sweat. Axel groans as Demyx adjusts his head, mouth ghosting over Axel’s neck and ear. Demyx won’t just lie there and let Zexion’s murderer take him while he groans and whimpers. He has marks to leave too.

They don’t kiss. They never kiss. Kisses mean gentleness and love. Kisses are what Demyx did with Zexion and Axel with Roxas. They don’t kiss because this isn’t what kissing is about. Kisses are memories and sweetness and good. This is destruction, wanton, momentarily pleasing, but empty.

But he can’t forget.

He can’t forget Zexion’s eyes, hands, his kisses. Oh Heart, Demyx can’t forget. He can’t forget Zexion, who gave him the closest facsimile of love a nobody could. He can’t forget that Zexion made him remember having a heart, convinced him he could still feel. He can’t forget the soft mouth that childishly brushed against his in curiosity. He can’t forget the words they shared. He can’t forget any of it. Not even now with Axel on top of him, not even as he brings Axel’s hand to his mouth, tasting salt and bitterness.

Axel uses Demyx to forget. Demyx uses Axel to forget. They let themselves be used. They let bruises and bite marks, the red tracks of fingernails, scratches and cuts accumulate, covering the wounds of their spirits.

Axel sobs Roxas’ name hoarsely and Demyx screams Zexion’s, a wounded plea for his return.