Since you have opened this: I'd like to thank you for taking the time to read my story.

I sincerely hope you enjoy reading this, as much as I enjoy imagining that you do :).

Warning: This story will contain (or may contain) strong themes (that is, fully or partially depicted scenes)

of yaoi, drugs, sex (lemon/lime), and perhaps violence. If you don't like the idea of reading such a story, then please don't,

for your own sake as well as mine. (If you don't know the meaning of yaoi, I don't strongly suggest that you read this, either.)

If you feel that I have spelled something incorrectly, it most likely be because I am Australian, and spelling things in the

Australian way. If you find any grammatical errors, I apologise, and please let me know so I may change them.

Lastly: Reviews would be much appreciated:) Tell me what you love, what you're not so hot about; be honest. I'd be very grateful

for any constructive criticism and advice, but please be nice (or at least tactful) about it.

Enough rambling please enjoy!

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Demyx raised his glass in a toast – "Here's to being the best," he said loudly, narrowing his eyes: his best 'Tough' voice clearly belying his 'Utterly Hammered' voice. Beside him, Axel half-laughed; for he was not yet drunk enough to join in the alchohol-induced daze and pointless laughter. He did, however, clink his glass to Demyx's, and downed the remainder of his pint. Demyx giggled and moved his own glass to his lips, inadvertently sloshing brightly coloured drink past his open mouth and down his front. He gasped loudly, and then set the glass down on the bar and erupted in a fit of laughter, trying to wipe the liquid off his front with his sleeves, through a haze of laughter-induced tears. "Oh my Jesus," Demyx gasped through the laughter, wiping his eyes with his palms. "I think I'm dying," he added, shuddering with mirth. His dirty blonde hair, cut and styled in a most peculiar mohawk-like fashion, fell over his clear turquoise-blue eyes; set in a pale and pointed face. Demyx was slight in build, almost womanly, and he played up his willowy frame by wearing clinging clothes that accentuated his small form – his choice tonight was a simple dark-green turtleneck sweater over skinny-legged black jeans and brown boots. His long, pale fingers, adorned with silver rings, peeked out from his sweater sleeves and toyed with the glass infront of him.

"You're not dying, Dem," Axel said impatiently, and motioned for the bartender to bring him another beer. He could never understand why his closest friend chose to ingest alchohol in the form of girly, pastel-hued and smoothie-like beverages with indecipherable names. Axel recalled, with a slight smirk, how months ago he had chastised Demyx for his choice in alchoholic drinks, saying that he didn't know how anyone could drink them without gagging. "But they're so cold… and fruity," Demyx had whined, pouting adorably, and Axel had responded with, "Exactly – like a gay eskimo." Demyx had fallen over in a bout of hysterical laughter, clutching his stomach and gasping for air (he tended to do that quite a bit when he was tipsy). But it wouldn't have mattered if Demyx's choice of drink was watered-down camel piss – he was just so bubbly and excitable that you had to love him, with all his quirks included – including his near-disturbing obsession with horoscopes – "Axel, even if you won't remind me what your birthday is, I know you're a Leo!" – and his hopeless devotion to Disney movies, and his unsurpassed adoration of… cheesy 90's pop bands. More often than not, Axel would show up at Demyx's apartment, finding the front door unlocked and Demyx himself dancing infront of the mirror in a bath towel singing in a scratchy, off-key voice to Aqua or the Spice Girls.

Axel couldn't remember a time when he and Demyx hadn't been best friends. It had been the same since kindergaten – 'together forever' seemed to be their unspoken motto. Demyx had always been there. A shoulder to lean on (Axel never cried), a hand to hold, a number to dial. He'd always been ready and willing to support Axel when his dysfunctional 'relationships' came to a quick end – as they all did. Axel was not exactly suited for the word 'boyfriend' – his attention span, especially when it came to possible partners, was excruciatingly short. Often he would end up taking some boy (or, less often, a girl) home and being sure, as he woke the next morning, that he was 'The One'. After two hours of his company and a badly-made breakfast, Axel was ready to throttle the other. He would send them on their way, as he sent them all, with the promise of a phone call – which of course, he never did. During his highschool years, Axel had often been sleeping with two or more people at a time (not simultaneously, of course – he wasn't into group sex), and had gained the title of 'player' with some and 'pimp' with others. Didn't bother him either way – what was one more jealous boy or heartbroken girl? He was searching for his own happiness, and if that made him a slut, then so be it. And if other people got hurt in the meanwhile, that wasn't his fault, either, he told himself.

Tonight, however, he was not looking for romantic company. It was the night for a celebratory drinking ritual that Axel and Demyx participated in every Friday, to rejoice in the end of the working week and, if all was going well, the paycheck they might have received for a recent gig. Typically, they would be joined by the other member of their band: the young Roxas; who for all his skill at the drums was but high school senior, and so was required to partake in all those tedious highschool things such as taking exams and studying. It was also not uncommon for the trio to be joined by their somewhat eccentric yet ever-cheery manager, Saïx. However, both the other members of the quartet were absent, leaving Axel and Demyx to get happily plastered at a local bar which both were quite familiar with. Axel, anyway, had sworn off relationships – he hadn't had sex in three weeks, which must be some kind of record, he mused. For him it was a record, though – he never seemed to have any trouble finding some unsuspecting doe-eyed pretty boy to pick up. They were all drawn to him; first to his vibrantly red and outrageously spiked hair and his deep jade eyes, his facial tattoos and his lean body; and then to his personality – at times arrogant and egotistical, yet charming, outgoing, and loud. He was a nice guy, but very few people had ever seen that far past his proverbial armour.

Here, their Friday Night Ritual, was usually where and when Axel would drink too much beer and then drag either Demyx, Roxas or Saïx – or all three – around the club and loudly engage in conversation with strangers, almost always beginning by stating some unusual fact or, in some cases, his opinion. One of the most memorable Friday Night Rituals they had ever had was when Axel had broke his own personal record for drinking – nineteen beers (cost him a damn fortune) – and boldly approached a large, intimidating man who was no shorter than 6'6" (only three inches more than Axel himself) and no younger than 40, dressed in jeans, motorcycle boots and a tight, sweat-stained Metallica t-shirt. Axel had promptly stopped before the man, whose mouth curled into a sneer under the bushy brown Chopper-style handlebar moustache that covered most of his lower face. "Metallica sucks ass," Axel announced loudly and with aplomb, to the entire bar, who had fallen silent at the sight of an excessively large and muscled man rising from his seat to glower at the red-headed demon before him.

"What'chu gonna do about it, boy?" the man had growled, and spat through a gap in his teeth onto the floor at Axel's feet. "You damn girly-looking poofter" – he pronounced it 'poofe-ter' – "I ought ter give you a damn good hiding." Axel, swaying slightly on his feet out of drunkenness, had laughed, then poked the man in the stomach. "You are fat and old," he said matter-of-factly, "And if you wanted to hurt me you would have to catch me first. Everyone knows fat people can't run, so unless I ran down a hill and you decided to roll avalanche-style after me, you would never catch me." With that he turned and walked away, lighting a cigarette, impervious to the shocked silence that had befallen the Metallica-shirt-wearing-man's table. "C'mon boys, let's roll!" the man had roared to his similarly dressed posse, clearly oblivious that he was in fact insulting himself, and Axel had burst into hysterical laughter. To cut a long story short – the rest of the night had involved the parking lot, half a deck of cards, a rather large dirt clod and a discarded shoe.

For Axel tonight, however, their weekly ritual seemed slightly stale. It had been the same for as long as he could remember – ever since he and Demyx, fresh out of job ideas and almost a year out of high school – had formed the band. Axel sighed and lit a cigarette, momentarily distracted from the barrage of words flying from his drunk friend's mouth. "Why – why aren't you – Axel… hey, Axel!" Demyx called, cupping his hands around Axel's ear and yelling. "Axxxellllll…….!" Annoyed, the red-head batted his friend's hands away. Demyx had a hard-done-by look on his face. "Why aren't you talking?" he said, pouting; the piteous effect somewhat lost in the fact that he had a tiny umbrella stuck in his hair. Axel snorted and pulled out said umbrella, twirling it in his fingers. "Just thinking," he grinned at his friend, then raised the beer to his lips and took a deep swig – "Ahh, Fridays. Gettin' paid and gettin' laid – that's all I need!" he exclaimed, and winked at the blonde-haired boy beside him, laughing aloud at the astounded look on the small guitarist's face. "But what about your pact thing? You said – " Demyx started.
"I was only joking," Axel cut him off midsentence, and grinned at his friend. "Don't be such an arse."

"Ohmgod!" Demyx squealed suddenly, slurring his exclamation, and grabbed Axel by the hands.
" 'Ohmgod' what?" Axel mimicked, but his friend was already talking over him, eyes wide with excitement.
"Holy shit Ax, what an awesome idea!" he broke off into a giggling fit. "We got paid – now let's get laid! I mean, not laid, ass! Paylaid! Uh… waylaid? I mean – Axel, hurry up!"

"What the fuck – " Axel hadn't gotten the words out of his mouth before he found himself being dragged out the front door of the bar, beer left behind, by an overzealous five-foot-eight blonde guitarist. Said blonde guitarist pushed Axel into a waiting taxi and climbed in beside him, then disjointedly recited an address to the driver, somewhere that Axel didn't recognise. Thankfully, the taxi driver was fluent in Incoherent Drunk and started off down the road. Axel turned, confused, to Demyx. "Where are we going?"

Demyx just grinned and winked. "You'll see."