Repercussions Of Femininity
I am writing this under the sole direction of my equally insane brother, Super Hyper Mario 128 III. (He insisted I advertise his screen name in the intro of my story for free publicity.) This is Vixen's first attempt at a comedy, dedicated to my little brother. He requested I take a break from the angst and try some humor. I responded by looking at him blankly. So he went a step further and gave me an idea. I claim no responsibility for the insanity that is about to ensue as I embark upon the fanfic. This is all his doing, he's just to lazy to write it.
I hate the cold.
Like, you have no idea.
And even though I lack the required blood to be a so called warm blooded creature, my affinity with temperatures that lie solely within the three digit ballpark is something that never left me, even in death.
Which is really just a pain, because being dead is usually associated with being downright frigid and frozen, and I'm all for sweltering droughts and suffocating heat strokes and having my spit boil when it hits the ground.
You spit here and it just kinda forms a stalactite, hanging from your mouth in a shoe string of drool and maybe glistening a little if you catch the light right.
And no, I'm not exaggerating. Demyx can't even use his own power without getting frostbite. (And, with such things in mind, it has become common practice for us to try and provoke him to use said power time and time again. He wizened up fairly quickly after Xemnas had to thaw him out of a self encapsulating ice cube.)
Regardless, Roxas and I determined that the only way to maintain heat in the god forsaken place was by either a: spontaneously combusting or b: wrapping ones self in a vast array of clothing and therefore taking on the appearance of a grossly obese nomad.
And Roxas refused to do the latter because, as he foretold to me in tones comparable to that when trying to diffuse a ticking bomb, 'That would not impress the ladies, Axel. And it's all about the ladies.'
Never mind Roxas is the only boy I've ever met that has more libido than brain cells. You couldn't even convince a celibate monk to walk around in the leather clad parkas we determined were necessary to prevent in the demise of freezing.
It wasn't until sometime later, on a night when we had too much caffeine surging through out systems to be considered healthy or even legal, that Roxas and I came up with the fool proof notion of stuffing our pockets with microwaved hot potatoes in a vain attempt to keep our nonexisting blood flowing through our nonexisting veins.
Under normal circumstances I would have refrained, but then again, under normal circumstances I should be dead, so to hell with logic, I think I threw that out with my conscious a long time ago. And hot potatoes seemed like the most plausible substitute at the time, since I think Vexen clandestinely enjoys sulking around in the dark and ominous shadows subzero in temperature—because god forbid we ever turn on a light in this damn place.
And I made my displeasure known, announcing that my balls were probably going to get gangrene from lack of circulation and I'd therefore have to cut them off, but no one bothered to install a heating system and Xemnas remained oblivious to all except his plans for world domination and perhaps the occasional sensual comment made towards Saix.
Perhaps if I bribed Saix into complaining, something may actually get done.
And this was what was traveling through my head, the chaotic hammerspace that it is, ripe with thoughts of blood and gore and whatever else a heartless villain is liable to ponder, for all apocalyptic fanfare starts to sound the same after you've spent countless years pissing destruction and eating the souls of mortals for dinner (slight exaggeration; but I figured the mental imagery was worth the impending doubts you will now have for my monologues) when I heard a rather disturbing crash originate from the kitchen. The dissonance was followed by a rather lengthy list of vilifications flowing from the lips of none other than my dear comrade Larxene. I once suggested, under the influence of alcohol, I assure you, that perhaps she give up her cussing for Lent, and was greeted with a swift kick aimed in the direction of my male genitalia. I determined from then on I would not be the one to confront the blond about her rather vivacious potty mouth.
I poked my head into the exceedingly warm room and was immediately drawn to the heat. While I had originally planned on checking to make sure Larxene hadn't managed to terminate her life (or second life, as it were) with a mishap concerning the microwave and then swiftly carry on in an attempt to avoid her impending wrath, I was caught up in the atmosphere of the room and couldn't stop myself from stepping inside simply to bask in the orgasmic triple degree heat.
And I guess that's how this whole thing started; with me being too warm blooded despite my lack of blood and Larxene being herself and teaching everyone within a three mile radius a new set of vocab words.
"I hate ovens!" Larxene screamed, though in much more endearing terms (please note utter sarcasm used to dictate previous sentence.)
"I hadn't noticed," I drawled insipidly, leaning against the threshold for unnecessary support. It was more for dramatic effect.
Larxene's head shot up, singed and burnt and black like coal, eyes glaring something lethal as they stood out like piercing sapphires amidst the darkened visage that was previously her face.
"I like the fashion statement," I offered helpfully, and she responded by deftly hurtling some nondescript kitchen utensil past my head with speeds rivaling that of a speeding bullet. I dodged accordingly, for flying objects were not out of the norm here, and resumed my previous nonchalance, leaning once again on the door frame and awaiting further elaboration.
"I was hungry," she quipped, wiping the soot off her face with one over dramatized motion of her hand.
"Yes, dear, I can see that."
"I was hungry and I didn't want to wait."
I paused in contemplation and began to saunter over. "For the record, I was kidding when I suggested you stick your head in the oven."
"I didn't stick my head in the oven," she hissed, showering me in a vast array of saliva. "The oven exploded when I went to check on my meal."
"The hell were you trying to cook, anyway?"
She should have known the oven was liable to go on strike at any given time. It's been like that ever since Roxas got bored with being the Chosen One and started throwing cherry bombs down any open orifice he could find.
"At least bombs are unpredictable," he had told me in the aftermath. "I'm so tired of always winning." His corresponding angst fest was not far off. I should have figured something was wrong when he started blowing stuff up. Probably some form of expression a shrink would prescribe him Lithium for. But I am no shrink and I am no doctor, so to me random cherry bombs going off around the castle was a wayward definition of fun as opposed to mentally unstable.
"I don't…I don't remember," Larxene admitted, looking down at the charred masterpiece that was no longer edible.
The longer she stared at it, the more enraged she became. Females get oddly defensive about their cooking skills, and Larxene was beginning to look like she wanted to maul her own head off in addition to depriving someone of their visceral fluid.
Usually Demyx is the one nominated for cooking, since he is the best at handling food for reasons none of us can comprehend, but I suppose Larxene did not feel compelled to ingest what was on the menu for tonight and decided to go ahead and forge her own meal.
She then threw the aforementioned black…thing…into the garbage can, plate and all, and started to run through her laundry list of oaths; half of which I had never heard before. She kept alternating between different foreign languages (I guess swearing in plain old English looses its luster after a couple of years) but I think, at one point, I picked up hints of Portuguese.
I silently commended myself on my fantastic translating skills and then ventured forth with my verbal exchange.
I risked a glance southward and into the now smoldering garbage can.
"I've seen more appeasing things thrown up on the docks of Port Royal."
"Go die," Larxene pleasantly suggested.
"Um, been there, done that."
Larxene hissed something incoherent and went about on her usual merry rampage of destruction and mayhem.
I suppose she was trying to reassert her dominance, but I'm pretty sure the dignity got ditched along with the plate in the corresponding garbage can.
She lost. To an oven. How terribly amusing.
"Just because you're incapable of using something doesn't mean you should blame the object," I muttered off hand. "Personally, I think your own stupidity is the true culprit."
Larxene responded to my conceit with a rather mortally wounding glare.
"I don't recall inviting you to join in my cooking escapades."
"Don't you mean attempt in cooking escapades?" I corrected haughtily, observing the scene. Larxene had taken over the entire back half of the kitchen in her vain attempt to make dinner for herself. From what I could see though the dense amount of smoke, and the remnants located at the base of garbage can, I concluded she was trying to make something that vaguely resembled pork chops but I couldn't be sure.
"So did you leave the microwave unscathed or was just the oven included in your destructive wake?"
"Just the oven," Larxene answered, over punctuating for dramatic effect.
I approached the surprisingly immaculate microwave, well, at least when compared to everything else (for the microwave had fallen victim to more than one poorly undergone cooking mishap) and placed one of my potatoes in its premises. "So how was your day other than provoking the fire alarm?"
"Uneventful," Larxene responded, dismay not well hidden in her features. I assumed this meant she had yet to sate her blood lust for the evening.
"Aw, poor thing," I cooed, sugarcoating my voice with mock sympathy. I derived indescribable joy from taunting her. The reactions that ensued were priceless.
Larxene ran a gloved hand through her slicked back hair, inhaling sharply and trying to maintain her composure. She did not thrive well in heated areas, for she was much more accustomed to the cold than I, and it was becoming fairly obvious due to the amount of perspiration being exuded from her forehead.
"Your makeup is running," I keenly noted.
"So is yours," she shot back.
"Ahem, it's war paint, dear. War paint. How many times do I have to tell you people it's war paint?"
"Whatever," she dismissed with a prolonged exhalation of breath. "Either way, it makes you look like a whore."
I arched an eyebrow and left it at that.
Larxene filled in the silence with a couple well punctuated kicks of the aforementioned oven and followed up with another eccentric phrasing of damning it to hell.
Eventually the microwave beeped, and I faultily assumed this would bring an end to the lovely bonding moment Larxene and I were so happily sharing.
I would go back to my room and proceed to sulk over the loss of Roxas, and she would teleport to god only knows where so she could take vengeance vicariously through other beings that would grant her the pleasure of fighting back.
Wordlessly I removed said potato from the microwave, and after regarding it somewhat skeptically, I decided there was plenty of vegetation I could heat up at a later hour and opted to eat what was currently residing in my hand.
"Are you feeling alright?" Larxene took the initiative to ask. "You're usually more annoying than this."
She knew why I was melancholy. She didn't need me to tell it to her. Hell, everyone was melancholy right now. And she didn't need three guesses as to why.
I settled on glaring at her rather intently and going about my business peeling the potato.
"Hey Larx," I countered, trying to abruptly steer the conversation away from the topic at hand before I became liable to inflict vast amounts of bodily harm. "How many calories do you think a potato has?"
At this, Larxene regarded me strangely. "Excuse me?"
"Calories," I repeated. "The stuff that makes you fat."
"Did you just ask me how many calories something has?"
I nodded affirmatively.
"I swear to God Axel," she muttered. "You are such a girl."
"What was that?" I queried, taken aback, though I don't know why. Usually Larxene and I trade insults and don't think much of it. It's just how we communicate. But this particular remark was somewhat out of character. I mean, it's perfectly okay to question Marluxia's sexuality, but I always thought mine was fairly obvious.
Larxene quirked an eyebrow at my less than favorable reaction.
"And now you're taking offense like one, too."
I stood there flabbergasted and tried desperately to come back with some sort of witty repertoire in order to defend my masculinity.
"Come to think of it," Larxene continued, mindlessly examining her nails, "You've been acting a lot less girly lately—you sure you're feeling alright?"
I paused, my mouth gaping open in shock at this sudden interrogation concerning my gender.
"Um, I feel fine," I stuttered, holding a half peeled potato.
"Mhmm," Larxene drawled, staring at me dead on. "You seem rather depressed. You've been like that ever since your boyfriend left."
"My boyfriend?" I all but screeched, thus further proving my feminine tendencies. I felt my hands grow dangerously warm, as they are prone to do whenever someone sets me off (and more often than not, it's Xigbar.) "By boyfriend I hope for your sake you're not referring to Roxas..."
"Of course I am," Larxene replied in a saucy manner, extracting the potato from my left hand and removing a bite.
"Roxas was my friend," I snarled, snatching Larxene by her bony wrist and drawing her within three centimeters from my face. "And nothing more."
Had my bodily temperature not been rising at such an alarming level, I would have spit sleet into her face. I could have dislocated her jaw; realigned her teeth; made her swallow her tongue. There were a whole plethora of options open to me through means of cruel and unusual torture, and right then I believed that Larxene deserved each and every one of them.
I could sell her organs on the black market. I could use her corpse to start a bonfire. I could disembowel all her digestive system and play jump rope with her intestines.
I could do a lot of things. I just had to decide on what.
"Aw, you're in denial, how cute."
Usually my anger is not something easily provoked. I know I'm in charge of the fire element and all, and sport a flaming red mane to go with it, but despite outward appearances I usually do a fairly decent job maintaining my composure.
At least until someone brings up my best friend in a less than complimentary terms.
Especially after his recent departure.
"I am not in denial," I spat out, wrenching the half mauled potato away from my comrade.
"But you're not straight either," Larxene giggled, letting her hand drop lifelessly from the vegetable in question.
"Look, just because your pissed off you can't cook a meal to save your undead soul doesn't mean you have free reign to piss on the memory of Roxas and start making those lewd comments you're so notorious for."
Anger was beginning to boil up inside of me. All of the sudden, it didn't matter that the castle represented the arctic tundra in the middle of winter, or that on really cold days you lost feeling in your nose and your extremities turned blue. I was hell bent on preserving the few precious memories of Roxas I had left, and I wasn't about to let some wayward miscreant desecrate whatever pure of a friendship we may have had.
"Oh please," she drawled out, dismissing my hurt with a careless flick of her wrist. "When's the last time you had a girlfriend?"
"I'm sorry, but how is that even relevant? When you're busy being dead, sweetheart, romantic endeavors cease to be the prominent thing on your mind. World domination kind of forces it to take the back burner."
"That never stopped Xigbar."
"That's because he became involved with you," I pointed out hastily. "And I sure as hell don't plan on doing that."
"Aw, you're affection is astounding."
I snarled something vicious and carnal, and I doubt it looked becoming.
"As is yours dear."
I inhaled sharply, glaring daggers and whatever other weapons of destruction you can think of at my half peeled, half eaten potato. Silently repressing anger is something I'm rather accustomed to doing, in great contrast to Roxas' usual boisterous air of bravado, but this time I was fairly certain even a well trained emotional vault like myself would be unable to withstand hiding the frustration I was currently feeling.
So in response, though without a single word, I chucked the potato across the kitchen, because I am stupid and I am lame and I am dumb and when under any sort of emotional duress that I'm technically not supposed to feel, I resort to doing highly illogical and counterproductive things.
"Ooh, such raw manliness."
"Shut it Larxie."
As I started to march definitely past her I felt an icy hand grasp my forearm with a strength I didn't know a female was capable of possessing, let alone Larxene, who was all skin and bones and two cobalt eyes.
"Prove me wrong," Larxene demanded, her eyes narrowing to twin vertical slits.
"…What?" I snarled in confusion.
"Prove me wrong," she repeated. "Get a girl. Bring her back. Show me you're capable of getting a girlfriend."
I paused, but only for a second, as I slowly contemplated such a drastic offer in my mind. Abruptly I came to the undisputable conclusion that she was insane. Absolutely and positively insane.
"I don't have time for this," I spat out and wrenched my arm away.
"Think about it!" Larxene proceeded to call after me as I stormed out of a room. "It couldn't hurt any; we all know you're dying of loneliness anyway."
"I'm already dead."
And after that, I ignored her. This was ridiculous. Why would I waste my time traveling around the galaxy trying to pick up a girl? I knew I wasn't some flaming homo intent on molesting underage boys with blond hair and a penchant for cherry bombs. I didn't need to prove that to anyone.
I continued to march down the halls of the castle, shivering now due to the sudden decrease in temperature. I had come tumbling off my precipice of adrenaline and was left with a cold sweat and eighteen million unspoken thoughts in the aftermath I wrapped my coat around me more tightly and pressed on, really wishing now I hadn't chosen to eat (or throw) that one potato.
She was kidding. She had to be kidding. She didn't really mean what she was saying, she just wanted a reaction. She was just pissed she couldn't cook her weight worth in crap and I wasn't about to play the part of some pawn she could emotionally molest for her sadomasochistic tendencies.
Though, as hard as I may try to forget, and as much as I wanted to forget, I couldn't help but acknowledge the daunting fact that she was right about one thing.
I am pretty damn lonely.
Alright; so I'm revamping old chapters because they were written some two years ago and desperately needed a face lift. Or at the very least some literature Botox. I don't know when I'll get around to reloading chapter two, and chances are if I haven't mentioned such in my author's notes I probably haven't. Regardless, thanks for reading!