He was sitting in the lounge of the Empire Hotel. He was drinking something in a tiny shot glass, clear as crystal and proof higher than it had much right to be. It'd been a long week of political intrigue, the news wasn't out yet but Homeland Defense Secretary Lumaria was gone, sent off to a secret prison where he may or may not be tried for treason, he may just be killed. OMB Secretary Ienzo was also gone, but he may or may not have been in Vice President Even's man-sized safe. Xigbar had known Lumaria and Even were working together for a while, but he hadn't expected Ienzo to be petty enough to get caught up in something like this.
Xigbar was drinking for diversion. He had a stack of confidential folders to go back to later and… this wasn't exactly his job description. He'd turned down the vice presidency, in fact, in favor of taking a position as director of the CIA, among other secret alphabet soups, but officially, it's just the CIA. Xigbar's job was really assassinations and poisoned fruit baskets and occasionally a member of Xehanort's cabinet.
Those damn folders, he sighed and slumped against the counter, glancing with vague interest at the TV above the bar. He had some money on one of the teams, but he wasn't so sure it really mattered anymore. When you had a 'compensation' like his, petty sports bets just didn't have quite the thrill they used to.
Xigbar didn't get nervous when the figure approached him. Not too many people were acquainted with his face, not like when Xehanort or Defense Secretary Saïx tried to get out of the White House.
"Let me sit down," the figure said in a cheerful voice. Xigbar looked up to see a skinny blond boy dressed riding boots and purple drainpipes, his shirt was a different color purple, made of latex and v-cut like it was meant to be exposing a nice cleavage, but instead was just showing his sleek chest, sharp collarbones, and a stripe of flesh just above his waistband. The shirt had not sleeves, it tied around his neck and his shoulders were exposed too, that's why he clutched a little fur coat around him.
Xigbar was halfway to refusing when the boy sat down anyway and began to talk, "You know, drinkin' alone's a shame. It's a shame, it's a crying shame."
On the television, someone scored a goal and the bar broke out into shouts and cheers, Xigbar barely noticed, but the boy scoffed, "Look at those jokers, glued to that damn hockey game."
He propped his arm up on the bar and balanced his chin in his hand, looking over at Xigbar again. There was makeup on his face, a pale gloss on his lips and mascara and blue eyeshadow. Tiny bright pink plastic guitars on thin chains dangled from his earlobes.
He grinned brightly, puckers his lips like a flirt and simpered, "Hey honey, you've got lots of cash. Bring us round a bottle and we'll have some laughs. Gin's what I'm drinking."
Xigbar smirked in reply, got out a cigarette instead of answering properly and the boy sulked a bit until his friend nodded to the bartender, who brought the drink. The boy's eyes lit up then. He thought he'd caught himself a sucker and went quickly into his spiel.
Xigbar listened in amusement, scandal and treason and piles of documents forgotten as he was propositioned in the lounge of the Empire Hotel by a male prostitute. The boy caught his expression and thought he was making fun; he jumped on the defensive,
"I try and I try, but I can't save a cent!" he said, playing with his hair. It was a sandy blond and cut into what Xigbar would have thought of as a dyke mullet if it weren't that teensy little double X chromosome. The boy batted his eyelashes. "I'm rough but I'm pleasing," he said softly, still pitching his sale. He finished off his gin in a hurry, hoping his new friend would buy him another before refusing.
Xigbar inhaled deeply off his cigarette, still grinning. "You had my sold a while ago, kid."
What would it hurt? He could get on sorting out Lumaria's mess in the morning. The boy smiled, leaned over to kiss him and then took him on up to his kitchen.
The apartment was approximately three blocks from the hotel and up a rickety flight of stairs. In the stark winter cold they were brittle and creaking, but the boy didn't mind, just hustled up them in his riding boots. He must have been a local then, in those sensible boots while Xigbar's patent leathers filled with snow.
"Come on in," the kid grinned at him, unlocking the door and hurrying inside in a flurry. He draped the little fur coat over a tall barstool and plopped down onto a hideous bright orange tweed settee to tug off his boots. On the kitchen counter there was a broken acoustic guitar, on the coffee table there was use-worn Stratocaster. The end tables were a speaker and amplifier, respectively.
Xigbar toed off his shoes and continued to smoke as he approached, loosening his tie. There were colored fabrics pinned to the ceiling and colored lanterns strung from the walls, casting a fair amount of kaleidoscope light.
The second boot hit the floor and the boy came up behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist and slipped his hands down the front of Xigbar's slacks. He gripped the tails of his shirt and untucked them, giving his customer's crotch a thorough grope along the way.
"What's your name?" Xigbar asked, still admiring the eclectic tastelessness of the flat.
"Demyx," the boy giggled, this time hands sliding up his shirt, admiring the tones of his body. "You ready to get cooking?"
Xigbar was, finished his cigarette and dropped the butt into a dirty coffee mug. Demyx didn't complain and led him towards the bedroom.
The bedroom was even more disarrayed than the main area. The quilts were all too thin and mismatched; the laundry lay in baskets on the floor. The chest of drawers was overflowing with knickknacks and the vanity table was covered in a rainbow of makeup. The walls were covered in flowers and beads and posters and painted on the ceiling there was a huge acid-induced mural.
Demyx caught him looking at it and lifted his mouth from his throat. "Like it?" he asked, pleased. "My little cousin, Naminé, painted it."
Xigbar made a noncommittal sound and squeezed Demyx's ass. It got the boy back on track and he went gracefully into the best blowjob Xigbar ever had. He was rough around the edges, open and without refinement, but he was right, he was pleasing.
Demyx wasn't the sort to sit still, even after a fuck. His makeup was a little smeared and he went to his vanity to clean it off, he flicked on the radio while he was there. Xigbar lay on the bed and listened while he smoked but had to ask for it to be turned off when the breaking news came that Ienzo, Lumaria, and Even were all missing, as was a fair bit of cash.
"Don't like politics?" Demyx jibed playfully. Even though it was well on one in the morning he was smiling and diligently scrubbing his face. Xigbar thought he was more attractive and boyish without it, but Xigbar never was known for his defining taste in young male prostitutes.
"Nah," Xigbar mumbled. "Not my thing, why bother arguing when you can just shoot the fucker."
Demyx laughed brightly, but then a little shadow fell over his face. He got up, draped himself over the bed and found Xigbar's slacks on the floor on the other side. He went straight for the wallet, paused only to glance at his license, "Mr. Smith, huh?" Before going after the cash.
Xigbar let him take what he wanted, didn't even bat an eyelash at being one of nearly one-hundred other Smiths in his office alone.
"You really are loaded," Demyx observed, gleeful once more. He pulled a porcelain piggybank from beneath the bed, its paint was chipped and it was covered in dandelion stickers. He folded up the bills and stuffed the fat wad into the pig with effort. "You know," he began, "We had a little money once. They were pushing through a four lane highway. Government gave us three thousand dollars."
"We?" Xigbar asked without interest.
"Axel and me!" Demyx related with pride. He crawled over Xigbar then to get at his side table, he pulled a photo from the drawer. It was of Demyx and a redhead lounging together on an ancient looking porch swing. The redhead had dreadlocks and wore no shirt and ripped jeans. Demyx lay across his lap in baggy purple pants and a lacy white tunic. The redhead had a guitar settled across the both of them and was grinning down at the thing. Xigbar wondered if it was the broken acoustic on the kitchen counter. The landscape around the little house was absolutely barren, like they'd been out in Kansas or something.
"My cousin, Roxas, took this picture," Demyx said, his brow furrowed. "He's… twice removed? Something like that, I don't remember I haven't seen him in years, last I heard he was—"
"What happened to Axel and the money?" Xigbar interrupted with a snort.
"Oh, god," Demyx exclaimed, "You should have seen it fly away. First, he bought a '57 Biscayne. He put it in the ditch. He drunk up all the rest, that son of a bitch!"
"Oh? What did he drink?"
"Bad whiskey," Demyx brooded. "I never managed to convince him to drink gin."
"I take it you two went your separate ways?" Xigbar said. He was really more interested in finding hidden novelties in the mural on the ceiling.
Demyx's face was puzzled. "No, he should be home from work in a little while."
Xigbar glanced at him, took in his confused expression and then covered his eyes with his hand and laughed. Cute little Demyx was bewildered and watched his strange friend laugh himself sick.
"W-what's he do?" Xigbar chortled. He got up and started hunting after his clothes. Demyx sat on the bed, naked and cross-legged, watching him.
"Graveyard shift at the 7/11. What about you?" Demyx didn't seem to find any shame in his lover's employment at the convenience store. It was endearing and Xigbar just couldn't wipe the grin off his face.
"Sniper," he deadpanned and watched the pleasure and excitement in Demyx's expression.
"Really?" he prompted breathlessly.
Xigbar shook his head as he buckled his belt. "Nah, Director of the CIA."
"You're playing with me." Demyx squawked in protest.
"Yeah, I am." Xigbar's grin widened and he leaned down to kiss the boy as he buttoned his shirt. It was meant to be short, but Demyx opened his mouth and offered up his tongue as freely as he offered anything else.
"Don't go yet," he flirted, but Xigbar shook him off. It had been a good time and it had put off those classified reports for a few hours, but Xehanort would skin him if he didn't get these things settled for Press Secretary Dilan. He was good on a spin, but this would take some work, even for him.
"You already took all my cash, kid," Xigbar answered.
"Well, yeah," Demyx replied pertly. "I was raised on robbery."
Shaking his head, Xigbar left the bedroom; he'd left his tie on the living room floor and his jacket on the hook by the door. Demyx followed after him, a thin robe hanging on him.
To Xigbar's surprise, the redhead from the photo was sitting on the couch, Xigbar's tie hanging around his neck. He said good-morning and handed the thing over while Demyx crawled contently into his lap. Xigbar watched them for a second before just shrugging; he stuffed his tie into his pocket and pulled on his jacket and shoes.
"See you, kid," he called and then was gone, the screen door clanging behind him.
When he got back to the hotel, there were messages waiting for him from President Xehanort, Secretary of Labor Marlene, and Department of Energy Secretary Elaeus.
He knew the President came first and hustled up to his room to make the call, but he was barely in the room a minute before the phone rang.
"Have you read those documents?"
Xigbar laughed, he was the only man on earth Xehanort couldn't intimidate. They'd known each other too damn long for it and Xigbar was his gun, not the other way around.
"No, I was out with a cute little kid havin' my wallet cleaned."
"That's not what the American people pay you for," Xehanort answered, but Xigbar could hear the amusement he was suppressing.
"I'm on your scandal now, boss. You just concentrate on your job, make sure you have Lumaria executed good now."
Xehanort couldn't hide his laugh that time and they said goodbye. Xigbar tossed his empty wallet and jacket on to the bed then and sat down at the desk to get to work.
Standard Disclaimers.