Hello everyone. I'm sorry for the wait; NaNoWriMo distracted me. I'm back in business now!

Not much else to say. Please enjoy!

Xigbar strode past the pool, hands in his pockets, watching the aqua water glow with the lights and shudder with the strokes of the two children that were swimming within it. His skin felt pleasantly warm, his hair seeming to retain the sun, burning when he reached up to be sure his ponytail was presentable. It was common for him to be profiled like a motorcycle gang member, even when he was in full office regalia. Not that he minded; it kept many bothersome people out of his hair.

He recalled, as he nodded to the people he passed on deck, a poster he'd seen in high school. Though he couldn't remember what it said, he knew the gist of it was that there were two bank tellers and two customers, one smiling and the other frowning, and their moods affected the moods of the employees. It was something about projecting happiness, thus making everyone around you happy. Even as a teenager, he hadn't put much stock in the sentiment. Bank tellers handled your money—why would you want to distract them with kindness? Xigbar wasn't particularly mean, but he didn't see the point of constantly smiling like an idiot, which was exactly what everyone else here was doing. Everyone seemed to be in such a damned good mood.

So was he, in a way. As soon as he resisted the need for his fingers to grasp a pen or type on keys, he would be fine. In conjunction with his previous thought, he wondered what teenage Xigbar would have thought of present Xigbar. Teenage Xigbar didn't bother with any kind of work, really. Probably thought it was stupid to forfeit sun and water for a dumb report that would be irrelevant and forgotten by next month.

Outside himself, he hardly noticed that he was going the wrong direction, and stopped directly in the middle of hallway, staring at the sign that cheerily declared that he was heading towards the billiards room. "Damn." He looked around, making sure no one had witnessed this falter in consciousness, and did an about face until he saw the first signs directing him towards the dining room. It was a few minutes after eight. Hopefully The Highwind wasn't too rigid about their dining times; he didn't want them to have a fit. Although, he admitted, it would be funny to see little doll-like waiters lurching over the tables towards him, throwing crepes and caviar (whatever those things were) at him.

The small lobby he reached had two sets of double doors against one of its sides, both doors white and framed in gold, with cut glass panels that showed a splintered picture of the dining room. The thin man hung back for a moment, watching other people filter in and out for a while before going in himself, just to make sure he was doing it right.

The dining room, it turned out, was the most impressive feature of the ship. It was shaped like an awkward triangle with flat edges and a lit stage jutting into its base. All around the stage small white tables were spaced evenly, tiny candle votives flickering atop them. Buffet lines were to the left, waiters helping people order or carrying food. A female waiter with short red hair walked past, dark menus tucked under her arm and a tray stacked with dirty dishes upon her hands, and looked at him. She smiled. "Take a seat wherever you want, honey."

"Thank you," was what he said, and then she was gone.

Some families and friends had pushed the small tables together, but it seemed that most people were keeping to themselves, which suited him fine. He chose a table, careful not to catch his ponytail between his chair and his back as he sat down, eyeing the three other places that were set at the table with what might have been disdain, but was closer to melancholy. After he'd ordered a drink, he used the time to look around more fully.

The white ceiling was carved with windows, the innermost and largest of which was topped by water, obviously not the pool's. By activeness of the water, he guessed that it was a fountain. Back on the ground, there were several tanks of exotic fish propped against the walls or between tables as well as tasteful vases exploding with plastic flowers. As the area was fully carpeted, the chatter in the room did not overwhelm the place; in fact, the dominating sound, apart from the music, was the bubbling of the aquariums.

The music itself was agreeable soft rock. Xigbar thought it was nice, perhaps not in his entirely conscious mind, but it was good background music that had a beat and gentle rhythm. It was interesting, if only because the band could have been a rock group if they'd had the urge, but they managed to play docile tunes. If he could play an instrument, he mused, he would hate playing so calmly. He wondered how the musicians could stand it. Looking at them, he saw that they were all fairly young, the oldest member in what could be his mid thirties. Their band contained a keyboard, a drum set, and two guitars. No singing, luckily. Xigbar wasn't sure if he could stomach singing.

His waiter reappeared with his pop and took his food order (chicken fingers. Real men eat them), asking if he wanted any sort of wine with his food. "Nah, I'm good." I'll probably cruise by the bar later. Booze got the pirates by; I'll cave eventually. Pirates versus this luxurious, endless doom. Ridiculous.

It was while he was taking a sip of his pop that he looked over the rip of his glass, catching very specific sight of one of the guitarists, who seemed to be watching him, unless it was only a catch of the dim light.

Hmm, no. He was definitely being watched.

The guitarist was among the youngest of the band, with lankly limbs, broad shoulders, and light hair that, where it did not fall straight down, stuck straight up. He looked pensive, as though enjoying his own music despite the fact that he had to concentrate on playing it. He also seemed to be able to multitask, at one point bringing up one of his legs to scratch the back of the other. Xigbar had to laugh at that, quietly of course, and he turned his gaze away in a fond sort of haze until he abruptly realised what he was doing. The shame came mostly because he wasn't used to finding anything endearing, least of all an adult. But he didn't look—well, alright, he looked like an adult, this guitarist, but he didn't feel like one in Xigbar's mind. He looked fun and nice, but most of all he looked like trouble.

Especially troublesome because Xigbar found himself wanting to keep watching him to see what other ridiculous thing he would do. But there was only so much the kid was capable of, stuffed into that black and white uniform. Xigbar almost felt sorry for him, except he seemed to be having a good time, even trapped in the confines of a stage and a bowtie. Their song ended and the band took a small break, reaching for water bottles and towels. The guitarist cast a sunny grin and sentiment to one of his band mates before they began again.

Eventually the kitchens produced his food, which he nibbled on at first and then, upon deciding that it was more than satisfactory, dug into ravenously. He hadn't eaten anything since they'd left port, which seemed scandalous when he considered that the cruise line prided themselves on their excellent food, as well as a multitude of other things they claimed to do better than everyone else. Xigbar had never been on any other ship, so not only was there no basis for comparison, but he wasn't the type to notice those sorts of things anyway. He did notice, however, that the guitarist, his face oval-shaped and friendly, was shooting him glances that he perhaps fancied to be surreptitious but could have been obvious to anyone with at least one eye, had they been watching the musician. As Xigbar owned at least one eye and had in fact been watching, he fell under this category.

It wasn't until after his dinner was finished that he felt the craving for a drink, and abandoned his table in favour of the bar, which was lit by neon pink, blue, and the shimmer of another large aquarium (was that even safe?) that contained a myriad of colourful creatures. The music from the dining room could still be heard, but it was drowned out by the jazz playing over the bar's speakers.

The drinking went by uneventfully, and as he had no sorrows to drown and no desire to be drunk, Xigbar rose and decided to head back to his room for the night, before dinner ended and they cleared the tables to make room for the dancing. Food and drink was fine with him, but dancing was where he drew the line. Girls did it because they liked to be pretty. Guys did it because they wanted to get laid. It was pretty simple.

He had just crossed between decks when suddenly a door opened, spilling bright yellow light onto the polished wood beneath him. Laughter and voices also burst from the threshold, going silent after a person stumbled out happily and closed the door behind him.

"Oh?" this person said, slipping a hand through his wet bangs. He seemed to be very sweaty, judging by the sheen cast on his face when the dim, watery lights hit him just right, but Xigbar had the unconscious thought that there was no wrong way for the light to strike him, because no matter what the scenery was like, the friendly guitarist was nothing but amiable. "Er, hi."

"Hello," Xigbar rumbled suspiciously. He already felt himself growing detached from the situation, pulling from his body with each passing breeze, steeling himself to be frank and curt with this man despite having an interest in him. Call it a flaw.

"Hey, did you like dinner? I saw you there." Obviously he felt the need to clarify, which meant that he was either oblivious to their semi-acquaintance or covering to prevent awkwardness. "I like your hair. Is it natural?"

Xigbar nearly growled. "Yes."

They stood there, the guitarist fiddling with the strap of his instrument bag, a big black number that seemed to be almost as big as he was. A couple walked by, murmuring apologies for interrupting them, as if Xigbar and the boy had been having a real conversation. Conversation, right. This kid reminded him of the interns at the sugar factory: fun and useless until they were broken in. In the business world, Xigbar prized the broken-in model better, as it was more efficient; here on the dark navy sea, he couldn't help but admire the fun version that was incarnate before him.

"I'm Demyx."

"…nice to meet you."

"You too, man. What brings you here?"

The scarred man crossed his arms. "Vacation, totally not my choice."

"Ah, ah," Demyx said knowingly, grinning. "That type. Yessir, they've got a special chair at the massage parlour just for you."

"No, massages are weird," he retorted lightly.

"I know the feeling. But you get used to it."

"So…why are you here?" The moment it left his mouth Xigbar knew it was a stupid question. Nevertheless, Demyx seemed to take it in stride.

"I work here." He gestured behind him unnecessarily.

"I'm glad your college degree went to good use," Xigbar said sarcastically.

"Who said anything about college? Look, between you and me, I'm smart enough to go. I have the funds to go. But I really don't need it. I've been playing since I was eight."

"And what, this is your big break? Playing on a cruise ship?"

The wind rustled past, gently ruffling Demyx's dirty blond hair, his eyes softening. There was something in him that seemed to both want to reply saucily and take offence. He chose neither. "I love it out here. It's a big step up from playing weddings, which was better than school functions, which was infinitely better than playing for my family and a bunch of judgmental stiffs who tried to get me to play classical piano. Just cuz you're hot and bothered about it doesn't mean the rest of us can't like it."

"Whoa, wait." Xigbar held up his hands, more in a motion of 'shut up for a second' than 'back off, I'm frightened'. "No need to get hostile."

"I'm not getting hostile." The slight bewilderment on his face was all the proof needed to identify the statement as true—Demyx had no idea what he sounded like to Xigbar.

"You sure sounded like it."

"I didn't mean it that way!"

"Whatever."

"Why the hell are we having a fight? I don't even know your name. I just wanted to talk to you, because you look really cool; I hope you know that. And I guess I should have known you'd be one of those kinds of guys who has to pitch fits with everyone else to prove his superb manliness." As this monologue was taking place, the miffed guitarist began to walk away briskly away from the wind. Xigbar, for whatever reason, started after him, convincing himself that it was because he wanted to hear everything the kid had to say. "Just forget it, man." Demyx added and lowered his fingers to the railing, trilling his nails along it as he walked. Xigbar glared at him questioningly, remaining a pace or two behind out of respect, wondering what to say.

He'd single-handedly pissed this placid boy off. Way to go.

"Hey, I said leave it alone."

"No, that's stupid. You're the one being a drama queen."

"…"

"Demyx."

He said it to test the waters, to see what the boy would do. Surprisingly enough, it stopped him dead in his tracks, and he finally turned around, looking at this frightening man with scars and a missing eye and greyed hair. "Hmm?"

"I'm Xigbar. And I'm, uh, sorry?"

Demyx raised an eyebrow, keeping his composure for less than five seconds before splitting his face in a painful grin. "No, I'm, uh, sorry."

"Funny. Funny."

"You get used to it when you hang around me."

The other answered, reluctantly, "I doubt it."

"Mm, you're right. It's impossible to get used to pure genius. Hey, the band guys, well, I'm not really friends with them, and I've got nothing to do. I'm not a ballroom person. Do you want to hang out?"

"Are you sure an old prick like me wouldn't just drag you down?" To contradict himself, he held up an arm and flexed it, raising only a very small change of the surface of the thin limb.

"You might, but that's okay. I'll just hire one of the waiters to drag you around on a sled or something."

"Alright, but only if spoon-feed me and buy me footy pajamas, too."

"Only if they're pink."

"Only if they don't have bunny ears."

The blond considered for a moment, moving his lips around in thought and narrowing his eyes which, as they neared the well-lit pool, were at least some shade of blue. It was difficult to tell. "Alright, deal." They shook on it.

"But only until I leave this dump."

"What, you won't call me or anything?" the musician pouted, bending down to dip his toes in the pool. The water was a yellowish aqua at this point, the falsely pebbled floor fluctuating. The guitarist took his instrument from his shoulder, leaned back, stretching the muscles of his stomach, and placed it on a nearby beach chair. "If you let that get wet, I'll kill you," he threatened, at the same time pulling off his shirt.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm going on a drug raid. What the hell does it look like I'm doing?"

"You really want to swim in that?"

"I've seen the filtering system myself. It's top-notch. Come on, stiffy, or I'll push you in."

Xigbar was doubtful. The scars on his face were one thing, but the rest of his body was another story entirely. Despite the fact that the pool was nearly deserted, he wasn't willing to strip down in front of a young kid he'd just met, especially a young kid with a nice, smooth chest and gentle, thin muscles. The body attached to those muscles was slipping into the water of the deep end. Demyx was wearing the same shorts he had on when he'd practically fallen out of that door; did he always wear swim shorts? Xigbar's attire was somewhat suitable for bathing, if he took his shirt off, which led him back to his original doubt.

But the musician was sliding easily in the water now, the light patterns dancing on his flesh, and it looked so lovely and cool that Xigbar accepted defeat at last and unbuttoned his shirt, casting it away and approaching the edge of the water.

Demyx looked up from his serene backwards swimming and called out another encouragement. Xigbar, however, caught the lingering glance, the stare that must have been expertly masking fear, for surely that's what the boy must have felt seeing Xigbar's slender frame crisscrossed with various marks. Another reason he preferred the office to outside life: there was no swimming in cubicles.

But if Demyx was wary, he didn't show it, instead goading Xigbar to come in, even having the gall to beg him to dive. Xigbar didn't know how to dive. He knew how to swim, of course, but he hadn't really enjoyed swimming for a very long time. Many, many years, in fact. But it was like riding a bicycle, right? Except he forgot how to do that after he turned twenty seven. Hmm.

He dipped his fingers in. The water was warm from a day of sunlight and still retained its coolness. There was nothing to worry about.

All Demyx saw was a mean grin before Xigbar backed up and ran, leaping into the air and crashing down into the water, splattering liquid on the deck.

In the swishing aftermath, Demyx laughed and choked alternatively, loving the popping of the bubbles underneath him as Xigbar recovered from his jump and emerged, long hair sopping in its ponytail. Without thinking he swam over, behind the older man, and untangled the band from it, letting the long hair free while being mindful of his eyepatch. His hair looked so strange and wonderful, floating dreamily around him. Xigbar was still smiling. "That good enough for you?"

"Oh, most definitely."

They passed the rest of the night by splashing one another, having races, and throwing Xigbar's hair tie to see who could retrieve it faster.

Almost two hours later Xigbar shuffled to his room, waterlogged, a dull headache beginning to form somewhere around his ears and his chlorine-burned eyes, and his limbs still felt as though they were floating, but he was extremely happy. For once he didn't question the happiness and fell into his amazingly soft bed, comfortable and very much at peace.

If you have any comments or critiques, drop me a line. You can definitely expect an update sooner than last time. Once again, sorry for the wait!