Too Dramatic
Warning: A little AkuRoku fluff?
Disclaimer: Not myne.
Dedication: To She.Who.Knows for giving me the first image, of Roxas tossing himself from the balcony, and for Feilyn for being generally awesome and for actually managing to, without saying a single thing, give me the title, the starting line and the entire plot.
It was too dramatic and he knew it, but flinging himself from the balcony like he did was the only way, he was convinced in the icy heated certainty of that moment, to save Axel.
Too dramatic.
But then, living in The World That Never Was -- the name! -- was dramatic. The Hall Of Empty Melodies -- when Demyx wasn't singing and sitar-ing -- was dramatic.
Axel and Larxene trying to kill each other...was dramatic.
Or it would've been if it wasn't so deadly serious and if there weren't the threat of anyone who was watching having to clean up the Hall after those two had been at it in there.
He blanched.
Leapt.
Fell.
Summoned his Keyblades, Oblivion and Oathkeeper spinning into place one second before he let his element flood to the surface, light prickling goosebumps on his face and the small of his back and spreading heat and muscle-loosening down his arms and legs and his other...appendages until his entire body was yawing with energy.
...Was it his fault that his diaphragm clenched and his pants suddenly felt a little tight?
No. He blamed that on Axel. Completely.
Another flood of goosebumps prickled through his body and his eyes sharpened, and he knew he was glowing silver like his Oathkeeper and his black was matte like his Oblivion and the light was shining through his eyes and
It was too dramatic.
More than that though was the way that the fires faltered from raging and the lightnings faltered from striking and they both turned at almost exactly the same time to protect each other, the stupid fools
So dramatic.
raising a chakram and a kunai and flicking them out in almost perfect unison
Too dramatic.
and his blades furling out almost of their own accord, his battle instincts sharp and coiled and restless and his Oblivion hooked the ring and deflected the kunai and twisted in mid air and slung the hoop back at Axel
So dramatic.
and there was fire and lightning and light in the air
So very dramatic.
before he landed on one knee, driving Oathkeeper into the marble floor and Larxene's eyes narrowed.
In the haze of the moment when everything seemed predictable lightning flared from the tinted ceiling and gouged great scorched blocks in the floor, but Roxas and Axel were already moving, back-to-back and clashing blade on metal, red-on-black and silver-on-silver, two across, two wide; two down.
So very, very, dramatic.
And in that haze of the moment, when green eyes are both envious and sinister and friendly and his eyes are blue, blue, there is them, two princes against an evil stepsister cruel crone-witch, and they are striking in perfect tandem, knowing each moment as they strike
but not how each other's pants are tenting
Their power and heat melding and melting and there is sweat failing to run across both their foreheads and their red-white firelight is filling the Hall, the empty great Hall
And their light and fire reaches across the vast empty great expanse and plumes of tile are vaporised under the heat as they reach to strike
But she is not there.
It splashes against the wall for two instants too long before the wall is just gone, the power melting it into glass.
But she is gone, the last remnant of her just a thin giggle, and the echo of boots on the strained floor.
A far-too-dramatic exit.
He mocks himself, knowing that in this Organization there is no other way.
But Axel is there, and he is waiting, and he blames the heat on only the field of battle -- because he refuses to think of Axel any other way, except that he is beautiful -- stick thin, paunchy or not, he is beautiful because they are brothers-in-arms against a malicious enemy, and brothers-in-arms look just fine no matter how they look otherwise and
his voice is rich and it carries dramatic over the settling scorchdust and the chunks of rubble and the ruins.
"Well, Roxas?" and his chakrams are gone, vanished as they had never been, and he is making his way over the rocks, to Roxas.
"Well, Roxas?"
And Roxas cannot say a word, because Axel is too close and the goosebumps are here again and it feels like his bladder is clenching, or maybe it's lower than his bladder and much more primal and he shudders and his muscles clench but his knees are locking when a gloved hand finds his hip.
His eyes close and he does not see, never sees, will never see, even in his hindsight which is full and sharp, the kiss coming. Rough and smoky, the way Axel is and always will be, chapped and textured and deep.
They may have no heart, and he might hate drama and all that it implies -- the cheese, god, the cheese, but this kiss, standing in an echoing hall on broken tile, is romantic and he would not give it up for the world
and his mouth is dry but hot but teasingly moist in a way because fire is a visual manifestation of light, his light, and he knows he is glowing and he wonders almost jaggedly what he must taste like and his thoughts and his head is spinning and his hands tighten until they are white-knuckled and goosebumps and muscles clench up and down his spine and in his groin and, and, and
and he'd never put much store in drama before but this is paradise
Until there is a tap of a foot on the balcony above and the heaven is vanished with a poof and a whisper and the cold of a dark portal against his skin but Axel is gone and when he opens his eyes
So dramatic.
Axel is gone and he is standing like a fool in a broken hall with his Keyblades clenched tightly in each hand.
And the Superior is waiting, watching him eagle-eyed.
Oh, to hell with melodrama.
"AXEL YOU ARE GOING TO DIE WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU...!"