Disclaimer: Nomura and Square-Enix/Disney.

Once Again: VERY. MATURE. THEMES. Read at your own discretion.

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Axel's existence was a battlefield, the carcasses of fallen soldiers, the calling of the regal guards, death an enchanting thing that touched everyone but him, as though he could simple halt that afterlife with a curl of his lips. He'd chuck his napsack of preciousless things over his shoulder, salute his comrades a final farewell with two sardonic fingers that were far more diseased than the maggoty entrails on the ground.

But death was not his, only his implement.

And when the mortician came with his own tools, the gravedigger with his pretty, pretty shovel ... the brilliant streaks of green would warp to a pained and angry olive, darkened around the edges with hatred, jealousy.

Roxas was his supposed to be his prize, one of those priceless-less things to be feather-light upon his shoulders, but he’d come to realize desire was such a heavy thing that it may just make him sink through the dying earth and straight into an amorphous hell, watching the blonde-haired boy smile from limbo.

So fortunately-unfortunately-for-tune-it-with-his-head-in-the-fortune-teller’s-sands for him, Roxas would never submerge him. But he’d never let him swim, either; couldn’t bare to hold his nose against the smell.

‘Cause he smelled like darkness and strychnine, sorrowfully bitter. And he loved to lap at that murky remedy, tongue stealing away his very soul, all the will-power and muscle he had left on that small body of his, sinews going into spasms like that toxin and gripping the sheets like a vice, like he would his weapons were he fighting for his very existence. Not that he would care about death trailing its bony finger across his collarbone. No, he’d probably tilt his head and kiss its wrist, pulling back the robe as though he were unveiling opulence itself. As if there was warmth there to conquer.

And he did steal all the warmth, all the light. Hell, sometimes Roxas swore he would light himself on fire and masturbate to it when he couldn’t have his way with the little golden boy so supposedly filled with luminance.

The other members were so jealous, not sharing any of that murder. But Roxas didn’t want to be shared, anyway. He would have his own, his bane searing in the seams that should’ve been sewn or moving but somehow just remained instilled in time, rooted down with steel wires and iron-edge spears.

It was the most beautiful thing, to see his little flame without its heat. Roxas had ripped him from his bed one night, licking his lips and leaving his sight red and defective. He manhandled that bag of bones into the bathroom.

When the ice-sour water poured, spilled over like delicious sin seeking out his midnight lover, he could only smirk. The man splintered like a bone beyond its lifespan, like all the soot on his skin had just been frozen. He couldn’t burn off the crime anymore; he could only shiver uncomfortably in it.

Roxas didn’t know how long he sat on the edge and watched him, with eyes and a smile glittering like broken shards of glass and just as painfully unclear. He was there until the man before him disintegrated a little more, until the edges of his lips turned blue and cracked, the whites of his eyes brewed pink, the sienna of his flesh was going white and razor-thin, an uninteresting bit of paper soggy from tears.

The redhead never vocalized a single amount of his filth; Roxas wouldn’t be surprised if smoke and ash came from his dirty little lips, that ugly fire so unworthy of the light’s touch.

But he touched and touched anyway, carrying the soaked carcass back to the bed and skinning him raw with his tongue. He could lick those wounds deeper than the skin, tracing invisible cracks and crevices spilling from inside him, because only the day could--was allowed to--see him falling apart.

He was tearing at the seams, just like him, and he only thought he could actually bleed his anguish, bleed a flame to keep him warm. When Roxas really considered it … he probably could.

The tongue raked around his visage like chalking down the outline of a homicide’s body, memorizing every cry of the asphault. The wickedness in the blonde’s eyes was camouflaged by darkness--after all, getting the two confused was a lethal mistake that even an old dog like Axel had learned.

And he sucked--sucked away that antidote of non-life … and maybe with each purse of his lips, he’d send some reality into the rubberized flesh.

Not likely.

So he tried harder, devoured all the mire to cleanse it inside his own stomach acids, whispered sweet nothings to the dying thing. Nothings like, “Heaven’s a bumpier ride than hell,” and “We’re the puppets no one loved; we’re the Alice who just saw herself in the looking glass … and then devoured the hare.”

If curiosity had killed their cat, darkness would’ve stolen its world.

And when Roxas finally plunged into the rabbit’s burrow, he found no clocks or statistics or chimes or warped little images of a child’s playmate. He only discovered the redhead jolted like a dirty skeleton in a hallowed grave.

He’d stab a God as hard as he fucked the matches beneath him, rubbing at him raw like bathing in gunpowder while the dull blade of his tongue skinned him alive. He clenched desperately to the fireworks of his hair, teeth scarring and more monstrous than any nightmare Axel had ever had.

“Such a sorry little, soft little thing,” were the whispers in the hardly listening ear, still cold on his lips. And it drove him crazy, the difference between the feel of flesh on cold flesh and his flesh buried deep within the warmth. “Cadavers wrap around the living--right?—and just get stuck there.”

Rigor Mortis … Post Mortem … They’re all lovers’ diseases.

“They’re jealous of the living. That’s why your eyes are such an ugly color.”

And finally the brittle bullet beneath him was trembling with an agonizingly beautiful need, because no matter which direction the flaxen male targeted his hips, it still stroked something deep inside of him, made him breathless and weak and on the edge of fanaticism.

He begged so well.

“R-Roxa—ah! Oh, please.”

Dignity (or lack thereof) was a mighty thing, and Roxas couldn’t stop smirking against the man’s pulseless neck. Oh, he would leave Axel a perfect memento their embrace, cold and desolate, a beautiful, faceless husk to be painted on again; painted in silks and drowned in the warmth of blood.

It was a piece so beautifully close to oblivion, a puzzle that didn’t need another to fit into completion and teeter on the cliffs of insanity to become the faintest blip of reality on a horizon.

“F-fuck!”

Both orgasms mutually shattered their possessor, essence scattering like atrocious insects running from the light of God, the spray-painted demons contorting deeper, snarls and gaping paws with teeth dripping fresh meat and rancid breath that made lungs burn and eyes water.

Axel’s his bucked desperately off the mattress as he wept in a suffocating pleasure; face snaked in an expression that could explain nothing but pain if the royalty in the cobalt hues couldn’t see past it. The frantic cry on his throat was left unheralded, forlorn and disposed.

Roxas gave a content sigh into the shell of his transient lover’s ear and pressed his chest to him, feeling the cold ache within as much as he felt the skin beginning to warm from the connection.

The redhead only gave a faint whimper as the shifting male caused pain to surge and send aftershocks through the nervous system so narrowly enclosed in his hide. He tried to wrap his arms around the youth, tried to nuzzle into those bindings of holiness.

“Loving you is the worst than anything I could ever do to you.”

Axel’s lowliness was positively intoxicating. And he would come back for more, time and time again, until the clock struck thirteen and he returned to the First Born.

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A Few Notes For After You Read:

Strychnine (strɪkni) is a very toxic (LD50 10 mg approx.), colorless crystalline alkaloid that causes muscular convulsions and eventually death through asphyxia or sheer exhaustion. Strychnine is one of the most bitter substances known. Its taste is detectable in concentrations as low as 1 acts as a blocker or antagonist at the inhibitory or strychnine-sensitive glycine receptor (GlyR), a ligand-gated chloride channel in the spinal cord and the brain.

And all this shit is Carbon, Hydrogen, Nitrogen, and Oxygen. C-21, H-22, N-2, O-2.

For more, go to Wiki.

"If curiosity had killed their cat, darkness would’ve stolen its world."
I have a thing for referencing some of my favorite authors in-prose. This belongs wickedorin.

"Rigor Mortis … Post Mortem … They’re all lovers’ diseases."
Mine. My favorite line. ...You know it's true.