A/N: I don't usually write Zemyx, but this was written for the Wishathon contest thing on another site. Kyonkitchi761's request was "Zemyx with Zexion dressed in too-baggy clothes and standing with Demyx in a romantic kind of pose, but like awkward...Bonus 1: They're holding hands Bonus 2: They're blushing [I'm actually more of hoping for art then fic...but yeah, a story would be cute too :3]". Once I finished stabbing myself in the face, I actually took a whack at it. This is the end result.
Zexion hated the way he looked.
It almost reminded him of his younger days, of spare labcoats four sizes too big with the sleeves rolled all the way back and still coming down past his fingers; of too-large pants that he tripped over and too-large shoes that he tripped over more, and the fittingly large hands that caught him every time he tripped. But it reminded him in the same way that drinking a gallon of citrus-scented cleaning solution would remind one of drinking a glass of fresh orange juice. And drinking a gallon of cleaning solution was actually preferable, he mused bitterly, if only because it would get him out of this situation and save what was left of his shredded dignity. But he couldn't back out—not with the five-digit paycheck that forced him into these clothes.
That did not change the fact that he currently wanted to smash his fist through the mirror and deny that horrid reflection ever existed. Even Lexaeus would find these too large, he thought, pinching the denim by a seam and pulling until one side of it went taut around his thigh. His arm went parallel to the floor before it did. Disgusted, he let go, only to realize that his sleeves seemed just as ridiculously baggy, vaguely resembling the far more elegant sleeves of one of those Japanese kimonos; being part of a thin hoodie with some unfamiliar band name splattered across the front and back, it looked trashy more than anything else, and he dropped his arm to his side with an exasperated sigh. Was this really the height of fashion now? The black lipstick, the eyeliner, the neon blue nails, the gel bangles that decorated his forearms in a rainbow? This was worth thousands of dollars?
At least his hair looked good, as always. At least there was that.
"Hey, douche-ass. Are you ready or what?"
The obnoxious knocking and the more obnoxious voice that accompanied it signaled that the shoot was probably supposed to start five minutes ago, and Zexion had to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands in shame. For one, it would have smeared all his makeup, but for two, he was getting paid for this. And so was Demyx. And so were a few other people that would likely be very angry with him if he didn't come out of the bathroom already. Giving his reflection one more soul-curdling glare, he squared his shoulders and walked out with the air of one on a mission to kill a man.
"Look, I know you can't get any, but can you please wait until after the shoot to jack off next time?"
That man would probably be Demyx, after the shoot. But for all of his internal anguish Zexion kept his expression void of emotion, and somehow managed to pass his co-star by without strangling him to death on the spot. It only made Demyx smirk; even when Zexion tried to ignore him, he knew he'd gotten under the younger man's well-powdered skin. It really didn't take much—Zexion was boiling just from looking at him. Demyx didn't have to wear such ridiculous cloth—well, he did, but he wasn't so humiliated by it. His outfit, brighter and more colorful and apparently more of a punk sort of style, almost suited him and his stupid hair, and Demyx never complained about what he had to wear so long as he had to get paid anyway.
Jerk.
"Aww, don't give me the cold shoulder, man! You look good." Demyx's voice was drenched in assholeosity. "Makes you look twenty years younger."
"Shut up." And then Zexion was swarmed with assistants whose paychecks relied solely on how much they kissed his ass and floofed his hair. Demyx didn't quite have as massive an entourage, but he was still flanked by a few girls that fussed over his boots and belts and etcetera until they ushered him in front of the camera in a hurry. Blank sheets draped behind them in a colorless set, he figured they'd probably photoshop the background in later or something, so—what was taking Zexion so long.
"Do I have to wear the lipstick?"
"Are you kidding me?" A few impatient strides, and Demyx managed to yank Zexion back on set by the hood. "It's only a couple minutes, man, just make with the gay and we can all go home."
"AAAAAAAARE WE READY~?" Demyx conveniently missed the glare Zexion sent him when the photographer's falsetto voice rang out from his hideously obese body. "The fangirls will LOVE this one~ Okaaaaay, first pictuuuuure, get PRETTY!"
They'd already been coached on what poses were desired (voted 'most kawaii' on the sponsor magazine's website or something), and after a moment's deliberation Demyx threw his arms around Zexion from behind, pressing their cheeks together and smiling coyly at the camera. Zexion, meanwhile, mustered all of his talent and experience to pull off the cutest, most submissive blushy-sweety look he possibly could, eyes wide and innocent and lips tight with false embarrassment.
Well, the embarrassment was real, actually. He was embarrassed to be within ten feet of the clothes hanging off him. But the lights flashed a few times and the photographer squealed in delight, and at his cue they changed positions, wrapping their arms around each other in the quintessential romance movie pose; Zexion, head against Demyx's chest and one leg lifted up behind him girlishly. The only thing that got them through the horror was being able to snark at each other between snaps. It was almost like dirtytalk, if your definition of dirtytalk involved threatening to shove a handful of glass shards down your lover's throat and having them tell you in turn that they'd sooner do that than look at your hideous pig face ever again.
"One more! This time..." The photographer's eyes sparkled. "...do something UBER KAWAII!"
Zexion tasted bile rising in the back of his throat. It would have been nice to simply vomit all over Demyx and walk away instead of going through with the last picture, but this was the moneyshot, as it were. His hands interlaced with Demyx's, held at the same level as their shoulders, and they leaned in, slowly, slowly—Zexion closed his eyes, as was expected of him, and Demyx kept his half-lidded as if in lust—and their lips almost touched...
Almost.
"OHHHHHH MYYYYYY GOOOOODNEEEEESSSSSSSS~" glass-shattering squeal, followed by at least two dozen flashes. He took his damn good time getting all the shots he wanted of this one, and Zexion counted down the seconds until he could no longer keep down his lunch—
"—Aaaaaand that's it for today, my lovelies!"
The two shoved each other away as hard as they possibly could, Zexion because he couldn't stand the proximity anymore and Demyx because he was probably expecting a punch after what happened at the previous shoot.
"I will never do this again. Ever."
"Yeah, yeah, tell me that again when you see the next check."
And just like that the on-camera lovers parted ways, Demyx off-set to his real blue-haired lover to indulge in some real canoodling in the men's bathroom down the hall, and Zexion to his dressing room—to rid himself of the excessive makeup and jewellery and the tents that they called his clothes, and to quietly seethe, asking himself why.
Why did he have to suffer like this?
Why?