Prequel/Sequel/Partner Fic to Doll. Except it's the other way around.
There's no real answer as to why Axel's skittering around the lab with the needle and string Vexen uses to stitch up his precious little experiments in his bloody hands. There's no real answer that will help Vexen, anyway, as he's just a heartless corpse by this point, just like his specimens. Axel's straddling the corpse, grimace-like grin pasted on his lips. Stained hands trace over the messy stitches in Vexen's pale lips, irregular stitches sewing his mouth shut. Axel's mumbling to Vexen, to himself, pushing and pulling the needle and thread through the scientist's eyelids. The boy's jittery, paranoid of jabbing the needle into the academic's eye. See no evil, speak no evil. But Vexen can hear evil. He always listens.
Vexen is cold, his skin absolutely icy to Axel's bare fingers, colder than he ever though possible. But he only grins again, putting the needle and thread into a cabinet. He'd refused to listen; that had been more than enough to see the volatile Nobody over the edge, thus beginning his murderous rampage. Vexen hadn't only refused to listen, he'd told Axel to leave. But where would Axel go? He's leering down at the corpse, satisfied with his work. The stitches are slopping, but his hands shake, so like yet unlike those of a doctor, quivering and stained with the blood of his play-pretend patient. Deftly, he straddles the (ex)scientist once more, kissing the bruises on his neck. Death by strangulation, it's the only way to get what he wants.
Axel's hand flashes out, snatching a scalpel while still staring at Vexen's bloody face. He's only freshly dead, so he still bleeds. VIII makes an incision over Vexen's left collarbone, adding a matching one on the other. He smiles, eerily pleased, before slicing little triangles under Vexen's forever-closed eyes. Now we match. Even with his hood pulled up, he's marked as VIII thanks to his tattoos. Now Vexen'll have the matching scars. Oh, it won't heal, but the blood has to dry sometime.
Vexen's eyes have to be shut; they have to be, because they're Axel's eyes. Axel dips his head, tongue sliding against the triangles he's cut in the elder's cheeks, licking the blood off. Fire acts on impulse, on passion and greed for life; Axel's no idea what he's doing. But his manic grin is still in place as he kisses the sewn-shut lips, tongue flicking out to lick the drying blood.
You won't be able to see, nor to protest, but you'll have to hear me, IV. It's just him and this corpse, all alone in the white, white room that smells of blood and disinfectant; the sickly hospital smell Axel has always associated it with the blonde. But the smell seems to suit Axel's terminally ill looks, with his white, white skin and red, red hair, both in sharp contrast to his green, green eyes. My eyes, not Vexen's! He's sticky with Vexen's blood, fingers drying together, turning bronze-brown as it dries, coppery-red taste in his mouth. There's iron in blood, so why does it call for two different metals?
Senseless violence, meaningless gore lends meaning to an otherwise meaningless existence. Vexen's face is smeared with blood, eyelids coated red, smudged around his cheeks and over his mouth, coloring his pale lips as red as Axel's. Now Vexen's his specimen, his perfect anatomical model minus the working of a heart. There had been a warped "love" between the two, cruel and perverse acts in exchange for "feeling" for that split second climax. It had been their drug, their poisonous addiction that could and would kill one of them, if not both.
Vexen's pale, but not white. Vexen's bleeding, but not alive. Vexen's bleeding. But he doesn't have a heart… Axel drags the scalpel over the back of his own hand, blood beading around the hairline cut. I bleed too. It's starting to color his hand, welling up in the cut before it spills over the seam drawn by the blade, the stuffing coming out of a torn toy. The pain's dull, spreading around his hand and fingers, sending a pleasurable shiver up his spine. Vexen had always refused to let him hurt himself and even though the scientist had been a sadist, he'd refused to hurt Axel, calling him "my beautiful doll"; he'd withheld pain from a masochist, but now he can't do anything about it.
Axel sucks the blood from the back of his hand, smirking widely at the corpse. Oh, Vexen, you're dead sexy! He's stripped his own coat and pants off, leaving him just as naked as the corpse. Vexen is his corpse. His corpse? I don't want to die!
Nothing matters anymore as he lowers himself onto Vexen, the movements and the feeling all too familiar to him. It's a corpse he's fucking himself on, yet it's not troubling the redhead. He's panting softly as he moves up and down, his bloody hand on his cock. It's so silent except for the ever-present metallic rattling from the operating table the two are on. Axel's splotched with his own blood and Vexen's, white skin gaining a hue with the red-brown as it dries. The lab reeks of chemicals and death and blood and sweat and, by this point, sex. He's fucking a corpse; or, more precisely, he being fucked by a corpse. If Vexen were alive, he'd be laughing at the idea of this "filthy necrophilia", but Vexen's can't see him or laugh, now can he? Axel made sure of that. But Vexen'll be able to hear him moan in his simplistic ecstasy. Vexen was never necessary to Axel, he just needed the pleasure that sex provided him with, but the scientist is just as good of a fuck when he's dead. Better, in fact, because he can't say he doesn't want to fuck, can't keep Axel from what he wants. It can go on for however long Axel wants it to, because dead men don't get tired.