Axel heads back for his quarters, rubbing an unpleasant green bruise on his ribs. He rants the entire way there and Sora half listens, just to be polite, mostly listening to see if Axel asks him a question.
Axel pauses when his hand has just alighted on the doorknob to his room, one he doesn't keep locked, unlike Roxas. He glances at Sora and his eyes seem tired, even from within their vibrancy.
"Also, Shinra has commandeered most of our time. His boys must have it for you pretty bad." He honestly looks worried, frowning, and his body thrums with emotion. "Stick close to me. I mean it, don't just conveniently forget my warnings again."
His eyes are a kind of sickly green, much like his bruise. Even the tribal—racial, anyone with enough Northern blood has them—tattoos curving over his cheekbones seem to convey his concern. Sora… Sora laughs. Axel doesn't understand why, at all.
"Look, kid, this really isn't funny. The Jenova boys are bad news. Do you have that memorized? If they get a hold of you, you aren't going to like it!"
Sora smiles, urging open the door, brushing past him gleefully. "Yeah, I see how tough you are, Axel," he teases, mirth twinkling in skyscape eyes.
Axel is struck dumb by the jab at his ego, he almost calls Sora ungrateful and he almost wants to yell, but Sora is laughing and smiling and in such a way… such a way that Axel hasn't seen from anyone in years. It's just playful and friendly without the underlying current of melancholy and fear he gets from Demyx.
He follows Sora inside, catches the younger man up in his arms and kisses him, nicely. These physical affections are all he has left and he hopes, desperately he hopes—something he's avoided doing for a very long time—Sora understands this one is special. This isn't his tongue crammed down his throat like an invasion: this is a gift and a plea.
When he releases the brunet, Axel goes to his trunk of clothes and selects their attire for the night. He bedecks Sora out in gold and cobalt, the color looks lovely on him, fastens the collar around his neck, and then they are ready to go.
This time, the party is on a pleasure ship floating along within the Jin Sha Jiang nebula as if it were a river. The ship is of civilian class, however, Rufus Shinra—never one to take risks and always one to have enemies—has had a few very important modifications made to his luxury vessel. These, of course, are not the concern of the lovely escorts he has hired.
When Axel's ship pulls in to dock with the Diamond, Rufus and his trio of toadies are there to greet them. Rufus and Axel perform their verbal dance, just as before, thinly veiled insults, sexual tension, and extreme dislike. Each emotion heavy on the air, but nothing compared to the lust the Jenova triplets eyeball Sora with.
The largest, with his odd, flattop hairstyle, eyes the collar around Sora's neck without any semblance of tact. Kadaj is worse, blatantly dragging his eyes up and down Sora's toned chest. The eldest brother, Yazoo, is the only one to look Sora in the eye and smile.
"It's a pleasure to see you again," he says. His voice is silky and pleasant, much like the strands of silver hair hanging to his shoulders.
Sora is awed, tempted to forget Axel's warnings and follow this man wherever he leads because he reminds Sora so very much of Riku. The spell and that pleasant image are shattered to bits of shrapnel when something flashes in Yazoo's eyes. His mouth pulls cruelly and the brunet takes a cautious step towards Axel.
His mentor wraps an arm around his shoulders and flatly suggests they head inside.
Rufus gives a congenial show of teeth. "Wonderful idea, Axel. My guests, pardon me: I've been bragging about you again, but my guests have been waiting to see your exquisite fire-dancing."
The redhead pulls his charge closer, his teeth exposed in what could have been a smile once, maybe. Sora is more interested in this fire-dance, which he has heard nothing about, up until now.
"And you know how I hate to disappoint the fans, Rufus, dear."
They're like snarling wolves with each other. Though, Sora takes note that the heady scent of sexual air between them is not one-sided. There is something attractive about Rufus's arrogance, he supposes, perhaps, most definitely, especially, to someone like Axel.
Inside, there are not more than fifteen people, all of them milling at a small bar or lounging tiredly upon plush couches. There is one man who draws Sora's eye immediately due to his striking resemblance to the Jenova brothers, and certainly to Riku. However, there's something weary and angry with the man. As they draw nearer, it becomes easy for the young aristocrat to discern what it is.
These are all SOLDIERs. Their shoulders are set and their eyes are aglow. Sora wonders if he should be proud of himself or if he should be afraid.
Fencing, he had once been dismayed to learn when he was young, was not just about the use of the sword. There was history and culture to learn, which ran deep in the veins of modern and ancient society. As the years passed, Sora came to understand the need to learn and became avidly interested in it. The use of the sword crossed literally hand-in-hand with that of the military. Though, with time, the techniques employed by the SOLDIERs evolved as technology did.
Nowadays, any common man can join the military and, with great ineptitude, pilot a large mecha with ease. However, it is those who have skills elsewhere—who have studied the sword—who truly succeed and work their way through the ranks. Only those dedicated to the constant battle of life can withstand, not only the intensive steroids, but also the mako therapy.
Sora remembers Maximilian Morrel from his brief stints into the habitat of his Parisian peers. Maximilian had been very large, linguistically challenged, hopelessly in love with Valentine Villefort, and kinder than any other man Sora had ever met before, despite his strength and harsh military training.
These men are entirely different, save for the dark haired man who is grinning at everyone in the room with wild enjoyment.
These men are all younger then his father, but older than kind Maximilian been back then. The exception is, Sora thinks, the silver-haired gentleman with the long sword strapped at his hip. These are the generation of SOLDIERs to come just after Morcerf and his treachery… these are the men who had to deal with the desperate, starving refugees on the ends of space who were only trying to survive.
These men are stained, unwillingly, with the blood of innocents.
Sora forces a smile onto his face, notices how Axel does the same, and knows it is the right move. As frightening as the Jenovas's interests are and as vile as Rufus is, they are here, obviously, to entertain SOLDIERs on furlough and these men desperately deserve the respite.
Rufus makes the introductions, General Sephiroth, highest in rank, certainly comes first. The man's eyes are vivid from within the confines of his face, his altruistically bottle green eyes remind Sora painfully of Riku. He wants very much to just lose himself in jade depths; however, Sephiroth looks nothing like the natives of Janina. He is plainly some sort of pseudo-human and his skin is a ghastly white.
The second highest in rank is the smiling man, with his tousled charcoal hair and eyes: Zack. The rest of the men are all the same rank and lose individuality within the neon confines of their mako infused eyes.
Sora only manages to hold onto two more names, one is of a large Moor by the name of Barret, and only because Barret is very loud. The other is a polar opposite. Cloud Strife is the small man sticking like glue to Zack's side. Sora recognizes the bewildered look on his face—shies away from imagining all the blood the young man must have seen—and feels a sort of empathy for him. Sometimes he thinks about Leon, wishes he'd had the man to cling to for a while longer, or at least someone to just take his hand and guide him. Cloud is lucky to have Zack.
Sora smiles pleasingly, reminds himself he is a courtesan, and tries not to act half as nervous as he feels, especially with Kadaj's gaze still burning holes in his shoulders.
Most of the SOLDIERs have no use for male whores. No use for whores at all. They are far too enthused in drinking away the screams of their victims. Zack, however, quickly shows his colors as an outrageous flirt. Sora thinks—unintentionally analyzing as he would in a bout without even realizing—that it's all compensation for the man. Zack's attentions are passed around openly, though he never abandons the introverted Cloud at his side. Zack runs a teasing finger up the center of Sora's bare chest, even as he spills a colorful offer to Sephiroth.
The brunet is surprised when Sephiroth turns toward them and gives a tight-lipped smile.
"Commander, please, do not tempt me. My men would never respect me again if I were to… what was it you just said… 'roll around in the sack', with you?"
Cloud's face turns an extravagant shade of red beneath his mop of blond hair, all on Zack's behalf, naturally, because the Commander is unfazed.
"I'll bring you around yet, sir."
Sora wonders if the man is half as much of a faggot as he pretends to be. He thinks not, due to the fact that the others around them seem unbothered. He endures Zack's attention, converses briefly with Sephiroth, much to his delight and astonishment. The man regards him quietly and then asks how long he's been fencing.
Eventually, Sora gives up on trying to coax Cloud from within his shell and just smiles. Despite his lack of social life back in Paris, Sora had always been warm and friendly to those who hadn't bored him to tears. He finds Cloud's withdrawal perplexing, but his consideration is drawn away when Rufus begins announcing that he's gotten things ready for Axel's dance.
VIII looks annoyed by the announcement, but resigned nonetheless, he makes some vague motion. Sora doesn't know how to interpret it, so he stays close to the SOLDIERs.
Their party has been proceeding in the observation deck for hours, yet no one has really taken notice to the view as of yet. When the lights are suddenly shut off, they have no choice but to look out through glass, reinforced a million times, and into the nebula where veins of starlight go shimmying past.
Something sparks among them, embers flying as if flint is being struck. Axel's frame is outlined with a writhing snake of fire. The swirling creature spreads, covering the man, obscuring even his silhouette, until he is nothing more than just another star. This is a lodestar, however. It is close and warm; the heat bounces off leather uniforms, suits, and skin, leaving behind torrid caresses and sweat. Then Axel truly begins to dance, his limbs a tangle of fiery grace and his body fluid and molten. The flames leap higher with the rush of air.
Sora wonders where Axel learned such an impractical skill, but cannot fault it's beauty.
Barret only seems impressed the fire hasn't gone out yet, what with all of Axel's 'flailing about'.
However, everyone else becomes lost in that figure, eyes chasing after half-realized images in the blaze. Sora's mind conjures up beautiful phantoms of Riku, maybe Riku dancing, his loose clothing billowing around him, a close-slipped smile lighting his face.
What Sephiroth sees, what Zack sees, what Cloud sees? Sora doesn't know. He is willing to leave them to their own conjurations while he dips voluntarily into a world of fancy. This transition proving much more pleasant than the times when he had tried to console himself of the pains in his body as he was fucked.
But… then something slithers around his body and, before he finds it in himself to make a sound, he's paralyzed, his throat working uselessly, his eyes frozen, and his body only faintly vibrating from terror in the realization that his efforts to move have gotten him nowhere.
Several pairs of hands drag him away into the dark of the room. Zack's fingers slip limply from where they'd been resting at his wrist.
Sora hears the clicking of a motorized door and is dragged into a dim hallway, away from the observation deck, away from Axel and safety and it doesn't take much longer for Sora to realize what it is that's happening to him. The weight of knowledge settles into the pit of his stomach and multiplies as he tries to fight but finds himself unable.
"It's one of Yazoo's specialties," Kadaj's voice whispers in his ear, as if reading his thoughts, or maybe seeing the panic in his eyes. "Stop."
The youngest brother, Loz, towers over all of them and the childlike smile on his face is disturbing considering the circumstances. His hands dance excitedly over the delicate line of Sora's collarbone.
"He's really pretty, brother." The man laughs eagerly and then begins to pet Sora's hair.
Kadaj removes the collar from around Sora's neck and tosses it down the hall. Sora hears it skittering away and takes it for the symbolism it is.
Yazoo watches the proceedings from behind a curtain of sterling hair, aquamarine eyes dark with lust. Though, unlike his brothers, he keeps himself well contained, crossing his arms over his chest in a rustle of fabric.
"Now that—that slut—Axel is out of the way…" Kadaj purrs, his fingers starting at Sora's hip and following the trail beneath the fabric around the boy's waist.
Loz rips the cloth away after a moment, letting it flutter to the ground, the only graceful thing left before unrefined hands are all over him. Teeth are at his throat; hands are on his cock and his thighs. Fingers are stroking and pinching painfully. It's like a contest to see who can stand the violent foreplay the longest. Which one of the brothers will break first, who will hoist Sora up and fuck him raw?
Sora wants to cry out, do something, but then he glances up and meets Yazoo's eyes. He feels the connection between them. Feels the oily touch of their lust go straight into his mind.
Yazoo smiles slowly, mockingly beatific. His long hair sways hypnotically as he takes two steps forward, but does not touch him.
"We might give you back in one piece," he says; his voice has lost all its silken allure to the grating of desire.
"Oh, brothers," Loz whimpers in wonderment. His perfectly tailored pinstripe slacks are tented around his cock, but it seems to be Kadaj whose patience is reaching its last.
He fingers Sora's hole for a moment, dry flesh sticking and pulling and stretching.
This is, Sora, realizes, more horrible than anything he's ever experienced before. He's never truly been helpless, never been violated in quite this way; where it isn't just his body. Never where it is his very existence held still for the pleasure of someone, with only the most twisted of intentions.
This isn't a petty sort of helplessness. This is the ravaging destruction of landscape and Sora can't even properly whimper, can't cry out, can't cry when Loz and Kadaj lift him between them and Loz is this huge, terrifying, behemoth at his back. He's a physical constraint and Kadaj is fucking his pretty pink hole. He uses the unnatural strength in his arms and the play of gravity to make every slam up into Sora's tight asshole an experiment in acceleration.
Worst of all are Yazoo's eyes. Boring into his mind, seeping horrifyingly deeper with every languid blink, seeping downward into the delicate depths of his soul. Those eyes are reminding him, reminding him he can't look away, he can't pretend this isn't happening, and he can't pretend he didn't bring this upon himself.
Then it all stops.
It's like drowning and suddenly bursting forth into the air and his lungs are screaming and he's slumped and gasping for breath and there are some strange meaty sounds and someone is talking to him or he thinks they are, but he isn't really listening because his heart is beating in his throat for some reason and his ears feel hot and burning.
Someone else is yelling, screaming louder than his lungs.
"Zack, he's bleeding!"
"Shh, shh."
The air lights up briefly, as if Axel is still dancing, as if time has taken pity on him and turned back to when he was standing between Sephiroth and Zack, watching Riku dance, a symbol of hope; a portent in the flickering of Axel's flame.
Then everything becomes dark, he feels his head loll to one side and then his consciousness slips away.
The last thing he hears is Zack whispering,
"Shh, sleep. Pray you don't remember in the morning."
ﮚ
Valentine de Villefort, the Judge's daughter, is Paris's most melancholy beauty. She is a quiet creature with doleful eyes and a soft mouth; her lips always pressed stiffly together, as a ward against the world.
Her silence is brought about by the strained life of her home. Though, to be truthful, it is no more strenuous than any of her other friends'. They all have their stories. Hers is of a dead mother, a vindictive replacement, a distant father, a spoiled half brother, and her grandfather.
Her grandfather was once known in the Parisian government as Monsieur Noirtier: an intelligent, regal, powerful man to be respected. Now nothing more than a shriveled old husk, tolerated by his despicable son, hated by his newest daughter in-law and loved only by his granddaughter.
Together Valentine and Noirtier suffer under the rule of Procurer du Roi Villefort's strict and frigid ways, and the thinly veiled hatred of his second wife, Héloise.
Her aged grandfather was rendered mute and immobile in a duel, though within his mind he is still very much the man of his youth. He is as sharp as a knife and easily expresses himself—to those with the mind to listen—through the subtle expressions of his eyes. Valentine has been trained since early childhood in how to recognize his messages.
This holds relevance only to explain why it is that Valentine is the first to notice the changes in Sora.
The occasions to draw that boy away from his sword are few and far between, and so, when he begins to appear at several social functions a month, it draws her attention.
She gravitates away from Franz d'Epinay, her fiancé. Their marital arrangement is distressingly similar to that of Sora and Kairi's—that being, it is distressingly commonplace. She finds her way to the boy's side and gives a polite curtsy. It is an apology for the interruption of his conversation with a mutual friend, Beauchamp, editor and photographer for a well read rag of a newspaper.
She is grateful when something more interesting, gossip-worthy, catches the editor's eye and he hurries away, leaving her alone to dissect Sora's odd behavior.
"It is quite a pleasure to see you," she murmurs, doe-like.
Sora smiles broadly in return. "And you, Mademoiselle Valentine." His speech is the same as ever, spoken brightly, only slowing down to form his words with phonetic perfection out of habit, not of care.
Valentine offers him her arm and together they leave the bustle of the main ballroom and walk the outer corridors, where it is quieter and the air is cooler. She has never been in the best of health and she appreciates the calmer atmosphere.
"It is rare to see you out mingling so often," she announces. Her heels click primly, the sound echoing along the gray stone corridors. No one else walks these halls, the others far too satisfied with the life of the party. It is the only sound in the silent hallway, as Sora does not answer her. She glances up at him through a fall of cherry-hued hair. She finds his face to be distant, lips parted and forming silent words, his sapphire eyes dull and glazed.
"Sora?" she asks, voicing herself to regain his attention. The snap back to reality is sharp and instant.
"I don't know." He laughs his ill manners away with simple, childish ease, something that comes naturally to him, despite being seventeen, a year older than her. "I just felt like coming out." They push open a door and step out into the night air. The Parisian moon sits high and artificial in the sky, its face a myriad of colors, like a particularly lovely stained glass window.
They pace the courtyard for a time, admiring the simulated flowers, pretending they are real, pretending there are not questions hanging on the dark air between them. At last, Valentine moves for the bench—the seat is inlaid with a mosaic neither of them bother to look at before sitting down. It might, possibly, have been extraordinarily beautiful.
"I've watched you," she tells him, hoping to pry his secrets from him yet.
"Of course you have."
Valentine knows, when one does not speak it allows only for watching and listening, perceiving and understanding. Sora comprehends this only because of a little of his studies, but mostly because of his strange, endearing, ability to win peoples' hearts.
"You've behaved strangely the last month."
"We've all behaved strangely," Sora replies glibly. "I believe the Count of Monte Cristo's triumphant debut to Paris is to blame, and by extension evidently, Albert."
Valentine is startled to hear that name. She was not aware that Sora was in the Count's acquaintance. That is, however, irrelevant to the current conversation.
"If something troubles you…" she begins to probe.
There is a sudden uproarious fanfare, a blowing of ancient brass-wrought trumpets and a clapping of hands and a shifting of skirts. A loud voice, well paid and well practiced for its volume, announces the latest arrival to the party.
"The Comte de Monte Cristo and his escort!"
"Speak of the devil," Sora laughs, springing to his feet, wiry and graceful, just like the fighter he is.
He leaves her with a short bow that could never be confused as polite, and then hurries away. His stride is full of anticipation and glee.
It puzzles her greatly.
Standard Disclaimers for Kingdom Hearts, Firefly/Serenity, Gankutsuou, (The Count of Monte Cristo is Public Domain), and Memoirs of a Geisha.