"ROXAS. Before you and I can work together: favorite genre, favorite band, favorite instrument, favorite flavor of popsicle. GO!"
It doesn't take Roxas more than a few seconds to realize that his coworker is dead serious.
Needless to say, Roxas does not learn much about operating the cash register from Demyx.
He does learn that the music major/guitarist/sitarist/his-own-agent is genuine when he says he likes to listen to everything, their conversation shuffling from Broadway to indie bands to K-pop.
He learns that Demyx founded his own band called simply "The Organization" and that he's recruited many of its members from this very Hot Topic. He tells Roxas about their next big gig, and Roxas is surprised to find that it's located at a pretty recognizable bar back on campus.
When Roxas expresses polite interest in attending, Demyx promises to bring him demos, stickers, a t-shirt, and god knows what else, all before Roxas can convince him to even help him log in to the timed-out register.
A few people drop in and poke around the front table, so Demyx takes it upon himself to instruct Roxas in the art of a Hot Topic greeting: "You can say whatever you want, dude. I once told a customer that seahorses change genders, and he didn't bat an eyelash" and shirt folding: "You need to get this one down, dude. If you don't fold it exactly like this, Saïx will destroy you and your immortal soul."
"Or worse," says a voice from the entryway, which, as luck would have it, belongs to Saïx.
Demyx squawks, back going ramrod straight, like an army private at inspection time, and Roxas slips off the table he'd been half sitting on. He can feel himself flushing fuchsia though the insult didn't come out of his mouth.
Roxas watches Demyx's eyes go wide, and looking back to Saïx, he sees why.
Roxas has only seen Saïx twice, but the man had been neat and immaculately dressed and had given off the distinct impression that he got up and went to bed that way.
Today, strands of blue hair slip into Saïx's vision and out of his bun haphazardly. He wears a white ribbed tank that doesn't leave a lot of his fierce chest definition to the imagination over baggy black sweatpants and gym shoes. The entire ensemble is perfumed with the sweat glossing his skin and a hasty spray of tasteful cologne.
Most notably, to Demyx, who is outright fish mouth gaping, a worn, white scar stands out just above the bridge of Saïx's nose between two well-manicured blue brows, suggesting a lack of concealer Roxas had never realized the man wore in the first place.
Roxas remembers Axel's joke about Saïx being at Pilates, and realizes maybe it wasn't a joke.
Demyx is stammering. "Saïx. Oh my god! You're…! And you've got…! Oh my god."
Saïx's eyes narrow and he motions for the pair to follow him out of the entry and toward where Luxord is restocking Pop Funkos, and Luxord is wise enough to nod to Saïx as if nothing is amiss.
Settled out of the main thoroughfare, Saïx folds his hands. "Allow me to answer your questions, Demyx." The answers come slow and biting, "Yes, I came straight from the gym. No, I was not attending a Zumba class, nor will I go to one with you. Yes, I am decidedly pissed off at having been interrupted.
"Yes, the scar on my face is worse without makeup on. No, I am not ashamed of it. No, I did not carve an 'X' between my own eyes. No, I will not tell you more. Yes, it would be inappropriate to ask Axel. No, I am not a member of the Mafia or any other cultish criminal organization. No, I am not in witness protection. And even if I were, I wouldn't tell you.
"Yes, I am wearing sweatpants. No, you will not see them again. Yes, they are incredibly comfortable." He pauses, inhale silent, fixing Demyx with an icy blue glower. "Is that everything?"
Unanswered questions build in Roxas' mind though he knows deep down it's none of his business.
"Can I…?" Demyx reaches out his fingertips vaguely.
"No," Saïx runs a hand down the fabric of his workout pants, smirking, "you may not touch them."
Demyx nods, chastised, hand dropping, and falls silent.
Roxas decides he has never met anyone more effortlessly terrifying in his entire life. Once again he is floored by the things he heard Axel say to him over voicemail.
Hey, babe. Sexy as always.
Axel is probably a dead man walking.
Luxord's mind seems to have wandered a related route. As Saïx surveys the store, he takes a step forward. "Axel requested we tell you that he had to 'jet'."
"Yes," Saïx nods, the words near overlapping his, continuing his scan of the premises. "He texted me."
Roxas tries to imagine working up the nerve to text Saïx.
Finding nothing amiss in his inspection, Saïx remembers his manners, gaze returning to the gambler. "And Luxord, thank you for coming in on such short notice. I hope you weren't terribly inconvenienced. I know Axel can be quite… persistent... when he wants something."
Luxord smirks. "Not at all."
"Roxas." Saïx's attention shifts downward to his newest worker. He actually almost smiles, and it's actually almost pleasant. "Good to see you. I trust they've taught you something."
"Uh," Roxas frowns. He's pretty sure Axel taught him more in five minutes than the other two had in the past thirty, but he sees no reason to share this with their boss. He forces an easy smile. "Yeah. Yeah, absolutely."
"Hm." Saïx stares for a moment longer as if he can smell the insincerity on him (or maybe Roxas just missed a spot shaving) and then his gaze moves on. "And Demyx. Late again."
Demyx moves to take an involuntary step backward, but Roxas catches him by the arm, and Demyx stills, gulping like Shaggy Doo, like Saïx has his hand around his throat.
Feeling like he overstepped, Roxas pats him awkwardly and lets go, watching Demyx's shoulders visibly slump without the support.
"This is your third strike," Saïx announces, leaning forward a bit, eyes narrowing, "I ought to fire you."
"But!"
"But,with the holiday season upon us, I think that would be the kinder fate. You're not getting off that easy."
"You mean, I'm…" Demyx's eyebrows bounce. He glances at Roxas, who shrugs, and at Saïx who doesn't flinch. "...not fired? Oh my god. Oh my god! Thank you, man!"
Before any of them know what is happening, Demyx squeezes Saïx around the middle and then just as hastily releases him and beats a retreat.
Saïx sighs, glare dropping off into something much wearier. "Just don't make me regret it."
Demyx insists he won't and thanks him again.
His piece said, Saïx runs his fingers along his scalp and through his bun to smooth the flyaways and walks off grumbling something that sounds a lot like Thank Axel.
Before he can get more than a few dozen steps away, Saïx turns back sharply. "And gentlemen?"
Demyx slides his phone beneath a Supernatural shirt, and Roxas clutches tightly to the mermaid-unicorn hybrid plushie he wanted to show the wannabe rockstar.
"Get back to work."