Look

He loved the way Demyx listened to music. He loved to watch the way Demyx listened to music. Loved the look he'd get on his face like he'd just had the best sex of his life when a song he loved came on; lips soft and parted, eyes hooded in his head, tilted back just the littlest bit . He loved the little sound he'd make in the back of his throat; a tiny little "mm" of happiness, like this was all he could possibly ever need.

So he let the blond make him mixed CD's, even though electronic really wasn't his thing, sorry, he just liked classical (and Rufus Wainwright, but he wasn't about to share that bit of knowledge with anyone). But still, he would take the blond's CDs and listen to them enough times to know the songs, just to watch the slow smile creep across Demyx's face and his eyes cloud as he listened to the song in his head.

And even Zexion had to admit some of it was good. He yielded to the heart-pounding breath-quickening beauty of Rammstein, the singer's deep voice that sounded like liquid sex pouring out his soul in –bittersweet-ecstatic-anguished-hilarious- little German wordplays. He would never love Nirvana.

It was a bittersweet pleasure, watching Demyx look so… satisfied, because he could only wish that he were the one causing that sublime happiness.

He liked to watch the way Demyx's fingers would caress the headphones eternally around his neck when he was bored, the way he'd tug and twist the cord when he felt awkward.

It was so perfect, the way his toes curled into the rug when he'd hear a rift that hit him just right. The tiny little sighs of perfect happiness he'd let out when the bridge and the chorus and the verse all flowed like paradise.

Watching him play music was even better; how his fingers ran lovingly up the fret board hitting the strings in exactly the right places; touching, feeling, caressing, fucking.

And Zexion just knew that if Demyx ever looked at him the way he looked at that sitar… guitar… whatever, he'd likely cream his shorts. That damned look. It was so full of want, and desire, and possession, and love, fucking adoration. It was the same way Zexion looked at Demyx when the blond wasn't looking.

Feel

It was disgusting, the way he hoarded the stupid meaningless touches.

The way shoulders bumped and hands brushed when they walked together, or how he'd lean in to him to reach something too far down the table for him to reach from where he was.

And sometimes, just sometimes, stupid, happy, celebratory hugs; only in private of course, never, ever, in public, because then someone might see. And everyone knows two guys aren't supposed to hug, that's wrong.

Once at New Year's, when someone remembered that stupid tradition, they'd had to kiss each other because they'd both been avoiding kissing anyone, which left them with only each other. That hesitant, obligatory, smashing of lips, lasting a daring half-second longer than was needed; it was once, just once. That didn't stop Zexion from staying up nights thinking about it; wishing.

And the feel of Demyx's skin under his hand, on those rare, rare, instances when they were allowed to touch, was always soft and so deliciously warm. Zexion would always wish he'd be allowed to touch it properly, appreciate that soft, warm perfection.

Taste

Demyx is so very, very drunk, it's open for display, in his slurred speech and unsteady steps, like the world was dancing underneath him. Zexion is in that same place too, hell, he'd fucking pioneered it. He'd found the bottle(s) in his absent (visiting family for the weekend) roommate's closet. He'd taken the first throat-burning gulp, it tasted like fire.

And now he's tasting Demyx, hands pulling awkwardly at pants' buttons and shirt tails. He wants so much for the boy to taste like vodka; to taste cheap and easy and maybe a little used. But the boy just tastes like spring water, fresh and clear and a little saccharine.

They stumble backward onto the bed, kicking over a half-full(empty) bottle; hands groping; desperate, awkward, stumbling; cheap vodka still burning on Zexion's tongue, but the boy… the stupid, wide-eyed boy, still tastes so sweetly pure.

He wanted so very much for him to taste like alcohol.

Smell

He breathed the air; heavy with the liberal and acrid scent of the cheap, pervasive vodka. And something else…

Mostly, he breathed in Demyx, with his nose buried in his collarbone, it'd be hard not to. He breathed in Demyx, damnably sweet under the sex and sweat.

Listen

Sheets rustle too much when you shift in bed, Zexion decided as he rolled over for the millionth time. He couldn't sleep, and he knew it was largely due to the blond next to him. He still wasn't sure how it happened. How a drunken mistake turned into a sober one, and then what was sober, but probably couldn't be fairly called a mistake. And so it continued. And now he couldn't be bothered to try and figure it out. Except he could, and he did. And he was still drawing a blank and wishing for something more. Air is loud when it is blown from between lips; perfect contrast to the steady, even breathing of Demyx.

It was pitch black and Zexion couldn't even see the hand in front of his face. (He knew, he'd tried it) His world was entirely aural and centered on the boy's breathing, taunting him with what he could not seem to have.

Rolling over made the sheets rustle again, and the cheap, abused mattress squeak.

"Hey, Dem?" He tried softly; the sound too real for the surreality of the ebony oblivion focused on the damned boy's breathing.

No response from the sleeping blond.

"Hey, Dem, I think I love you." The words were easy to say in the nonexistence smothering him.

Sheets rustle again, but he hadn't moved.

"Well you should," muttered a disgruntled and sleepy voice, "since I think I love you. Now go to sleep."