Assumptions
"Your hands are smooth."
Had he been facing the young man bandaging his injured shoulder, Demyx would have noticed the slight blush Zexion was trying to hide by looking the other way.
"I guess those are the hands of an erudite…" he continued while raising his free hand in order to examine it. "Mine are rougher… you know, after years of training with the sitar… hehe, though you must think it's been of no use at all, all that training…"
The sitarist's gaze was now focused on the schemer's features. The slate haired seemed concentrated on his job and ignorant of the thorough scrutiny those green blue eyes were subjecting him to. However, Zexion did have noticed the motion of Demyx's muscles and he could feel the stare of the youngest. And even though it was not the same way he used to look at the Melodious Nocturne, memorizing every trait, every line, every movement of that body the gods created with such care, it was enough for Zexion to be the one Demyx was staring at, even if it was for a brief moment.
"You're taking too long! You don't have to be so careful, you know, it's not that injured." Zexion didn't have to be a genius to see what was happening: Demyx had grown tired of staring and wanted him to leave. His brief moment of pleasure was over and he couldn't do anything to extend it so he secured the bandages. "Thanks, Zex! I don't like to stay still for too long unless I'm sleeping."
Zexion knew, so he prepared to leave Number Nine's room. He picked his first aid kit up and made his way towards the door. "Wait!" he heard. Immediately Demyx scent was around him and a strong hand was seizing his wrist. The Cloaked Schemer turned around to see what happened, finding his fellow Organization member wielding his most irresistible smile. "I didn't say I wanted you to leave."
Later he would have to admit it was unexpected, right now he didn't know what to do until Demyx pulled him closer, whispering in his ear: "I was wondering if your lips are as smooth as your hands."