Ex nihilo

Axel laughs and bites into a nectarine, letting fruit juice trail from his lips. Marluxia watches with morbid fascination, and it almost feels like it's his own flesh Axel's biting into with sharp canines. Axel pulls his lips away, leaving stringy strands of the fruit hanging from his lips. He chews.

He swallows and licks his lips. It's the same as usual, except usually, there's no food involved.


The question is open-ended. Marluxia arches an eyebrow, attempting to cover the fact that arousal is burning through his body. Axel's giving him that look that makes him shift in his seat, makes him fidget and toy with everything around, because he can't get his hands on pale, pale flesh. He knows he won't be sleeping alone tonight.

"Not at all," murmurs Marluxia, "There is nothing to feel remorse for. A traitor has been slain." Axel snorts, stepping back until the back of his legs meet the white divan. He falls backwards, sloppily, sprawled out over the plush furniture with a sly smile on his sticky lips.

"No, he hasn't." Marluxia sighs and observes Axel's expressions (masks), wondering what he's playing at. He's an enigma; then again, all of them are. He doesn't let his mind hang onto this thought for too long, because Axel is beckoning him to the divan.

Acid green eyes stare, and Marluxia doesn't look away. His eyes are almost hypnotic, taunting, and there's always some sense of smug amusement reflecting in his irises. If they weren't allies, Marluxia would dig his fingers into those pretty eyes and pull them right out, so he wouldn't need to look at them and feel mocked anymore.

Axel sighs, and brings the nectarine back to his lips. His bites are small, delicate, almost like he's hesitating. It's unusual for him to be so careful; he's fire, he burns, he destroys. He's never tentative. Marluxia still watches him.

Musing, he feels an odd sense of loss. The bed will be so hot now, like the sheets are flames, licking at his body, burning up his legs and splaying long tendrils against his chest. The mattress will be coals, searing his back and charring the ends of his hair, leaving harsh black marks that are most likely bruises. He's flora, after all, and Vexen used to be the cold (chilly kisses prickle his neck and Marluxia shivers) to counteract Axel's inferno.

But fire always melts ice.


So when warm fingers slip around his neck and play with his hair, and fruit-sticky lips press against his own, Marluxia has to remind himself to forget why in the world Axel is so warm. He forgets that Axel could burn him down any second, just like he did to Vexen.

He knows he isn't safe around Axel.