"What shall I do without half the poker league?" Luxord, Kingdom Hearts: 358/2 Days
If it weren't for Saïx's schedules, the entire Organization would crumble. At least, according to Saïx.
Overnight patrol duty is just one of many, many rotations assigned to each member each day. Its purported, primary goal: to protect the hallowed halls of the Castle That Never Was in the midnight hours. Its actual goal: to enforce curfew, so Saïx can get some shut eye.
Once overnight patrol duty kicked off, it became quickly apparent which Organization members you don't want to run into alone in a dark hallway in the middle of the night, and which you don't mind so much.
Because Luxord has no interest in reporting anyone for being out of bed past curfew any night of the month—he is typically the best option. That is, provided you're willing to go in on a little quid pro quo a.k.a. poker night a.k.a. buy Luxord a pint once a month and go in on a hand, or two, or twelve of dealer's choice.
And if it feels kind of like blackmail, well, Luxord's not above that.
Lately, poker nights have been held in the drafty back rooms of boozy pubs and disreputable inns on a messy little island called Tortuga. Frequented predominantly by pirates and smugglers, it's the kind of place where nobody asks a Nobody too many questions and everyone's too blitzed to remember a face. So, it's the kind of place the Organization likes to be.
The original plan had been to periodically switch up locations, but that was a pain in the ass because nobody ever portaled in at the same time and someone was always going to the wrong place and waiting around for a half hour, then getting pissy about it—which was fine when it was Demyx, but less fine when it was Xigbar.
So, lately, poker nights have been held at Gibbs' place—Gibbs being a graying old sailor bearing a kind, round face and fluffy white beard with high sideburns and a ponytail.
They like Gibbs well enough. The pub owner's the solid, reliable sort, with a lively, certain cadence to his voice—always ready to hear or tell a good story, sing a sea shanty, or call for another round.
And, yeah, maybe Gibbs has been getting a little too familiar with the lot of them. And, yeah, maybe he asks way too many questions. But, despite his claims to a former career in piracy under the service of Captains Barbossa and Sparrow—not to mention the Royal Navy—he's, generally speaking, harmless as a slice of cold cheese pizza.
Most importantly, he gives them complimentary beer bread if they don't start a brawl in the first half hour of coming around. So, they let 'im slide.
Xigbar's the first one in. He likes to be. More time to get the lay of the land and drink in peace. Outside of that Cuddly Duckling joint in Corona—the one with all the fucking, god-awful, pitchy flash mob song and dance numbers—Tortuga's among the only places he can travel where he can walk up to a bar and take a seat without turning the heads of everyone in the joint.
The tables and booths of Gibb's pub are pleasantly crowded as usual, accordion music drifting through shouts and tipsy conversation. Xigbar's got half a stein down before Gibbs notices him. A couple more gulps before Gibbs works up the nerve to approach, false cheer marked with frozen dimples. "Why, Sniper, me lad, you're early!"
"Yeah." Xigbar chuckles into the foam of his drink. "Thank the Lord."
"Ah, crews be like families," Gibbs reasons in his infinite wisdom, borne of the sea salt breeze, "and we all fancy a break from the family every now and ag'in, I always say."
Xigbar rolls his eyes but nods.
Gibbs glances around the room for more of Xigbar's usual company, but doesn't spot them. "Haven't gotten a table for your crew o' thirteen together yet, but I—"
"Don't bother." Xigbar interrupts with a quick slash of his hand. "We ain't expecting much of a crowd tonight."
Gibbs' brows go up, finding something in Xigbar's tone rather ominous, but before he can ask, the door to his pub swings open, near off its hinge, and brings with it a jaunty gust of guitar music and a lanky blond.
Said blond strums and sings like the sound's possessing him, sashaying in with fast, certain steps, each synced with the rhythm of his next note. The tune reminds Xigbar of a soft rock ballad, entirely out of place in this world, though the pretty young women hanging on Demyx's arms, swaying their hips, don't seem to mind.
"And after all~ You're my wonderwall~"
Xigbar chokes, the ale burning his throat and nose. The nearby patrons of the pub nod and sway along. Feet start to stamp as Demyx twirls and plays, steps light, and the women on his arms whirl, their skirts billowing and their giggles airy.
"You're my wonderwall~"
Xigbar sighs, sparing the ruckus over his shoulder the briefest of glares before plunking down his drink. "Dumb little shit…"
"Now, wait just a—" Gibbs' grin at the music dims as Xigbar eases onto his feet, but Gibbs doesn't dare make a grab for his arm.
Xigbar ignores the objection and strolls up to Demyx with heavy, confident steps. He claps his gloved hands together, slow and out of beat with the song, and Demyx stops dancing to turn his way.
The young women retreat behind Demyx's lanky height as the large, muscular man draws nearer, but Demyx remains where he is—rather idiotically, in the opinion of the spectators—only a foot out of the doorway, strumming in challenge, an easy grin on his face.
"I said maybe~ You're gonna be the one that saves me~ Because after all—"
No more than a foot apart, Xigbar stops clapping and Demyx stops playing.
And probably, Xigbar figures, he should give Demyx a hard time, but on the other hand, it is his night off.
Xigbar sets a hand on Demyx's shoulder, the rigid line of his mouth twitching just enough for Demyx's eyes to catch. "Why you always gotta make a fucking scene, kid?"
"Psh." Demyx tilts his head, a strand of hair flipping into his eye, and grins up at the scarred, muscled man, strums another chord, swishes his hips. "You liked it."
Demyx's fangirls shriek as Xigbar moves in on Demyx, but the shrieks muffle and abruptly die as they watch the scarred, older man crush their mouths together. Demyx grin brightens, guitar shifting behind his back, body molding to Xigbar's like water.
People shout, jeer, laugh, and in the distance, after a few hesitant squawks, the accordion starts up again.
Their mouths break just long enough for Demyx to manage, "Now who's making a scene?"
And Xigbar to counter, "It's your own fucking fault," before scooping him up by the ass and pressing their lips together again.
A throat clears loudly beside them, and Xigbar maneuvers them closer to the bar to another round of catcalls.
The throat clearing follows them, punctuated by an, "Um, Sniper, sir?"
Xigbar sets Demyx up on the bar, lifting his drink and turning around. He petrifies the pub owner not with his golden, one-eyed stare or the slosh of his tankard, but with the murderous smirk he follows it up with. "Yes, Gibbs?"
Gibbs swallows, motions a bit loosely with his hand, then eventually just nods over his shoulder. At a corner table amid the bustle, Luxord sits alone, silver-backed cards fanned out in one hand and a brimming mug of amber grog in the other. He raises the cards in their direction.
Xigbar salutes back, then turns to pat Demyx's cheek though he's pouting something fierce. "Game time."
"Yeah, yeah…" Demyx complains, sliding off the counter in resignation. He starts thrumming "Luck Be a Lady Tonight" as Xigbar signals the bartender for another couple drinks. "Game time."
Together they make their way to the card table.