Work Text:
The new social media liaison is all smiles, showing up late and immediately erupting into chatter. He has a professional-looking camera slung around his neck, a sticker-covered laptop, and a slouch that immediately pisses Saïx off. He shows off a bag full of flower crowns and bandanas. His hair's been transported from another decade; the faint scent of weed lingering in Saïx's sensitive nose is timeless.
"Be nice," Anita says under her breath, reprovingly, as Saïx allows them to pass on their way to the puppy room. Saïx says nothing, which is as close to acquiescence as he can stomach.
🌗
Demyx says: "Dude, you're good with animals. Give me a hand here."
A pastel pink bedsheet is slung haphazardly over some empty cages. The fake flowers are out in full force, doing their best to make a rugged bully mix look adoptable.
Demyx says: "You'd be a great sell on Facebook, too."
Saïx walks out, finding some excuse to co-ordinate (berate) the gaggle of volunteer dog walkers that shows up every afternoon. What the shelter needs is people cleaning up shit and clearing out feral animal populations, not idiots who think that posting cute pictures on the internet constitutes work.
🌘
"So what if he spends all day dicking around online? Even you've gotta respect the hustle."
The kids are playing floor-is-lava tag. Saïx lifts up his plate as Vanitas, all paws, dives onto the sofa, Sora in furious pursuit. Larxene, leaning over Saïx's shoulder, shoves them both onto the floor.
"He's interfering with my work," Saïx says over the kids' squeals of dismay.
"Is he, though?" Larxene asks. Like she gives a shit. "More importantly, is he hot?"
"He is not." The response comes out quicker, sharper, than Saïx expects. Larxene would shred Demyx alive. "He's not worth your time."
🌑
"So I heard you're a werewolf. That's pretty radical."
"What it is is none of your business."
"Explains why the dogs like you so much."
"That's got nothing to do with it. Our-" Saïx catches himself just before he calls Marluxia their pack leader, mostly because Marluxia would chew him out for it. "One of my friends is a cat person, and he's a poodle."
Friend also doesn't describe the person who, regrettably, saved Saïx's life. Especially since Marluxia is insufferable most of the time.
"I'm a dog person," Demyx offers. Saïx doesn't miss the downward flick of his eyes.
🌒
Unfortunately, the revamped website does look good. Saïx flicks irritably through the pictures of the available animals, the peppy euphemistic descriptions, the smoothly embedded event calendar. Demyx has even made a Twitter account for the shelter.
"The work of the new social media liaison?" asks Marluxia, bringing over coffee. Saïx reluctantly slides his laptop back to him. "Maybe he could touch up our site too."
"He's an imbecile."
Marluxia doesn't accuse Saïx of being too judgemental, because that would make him a hypocrite. What he does say is: "I have a sense you're being territorial," which is so much worse.
🌓
"Hey, sweaty guy. Catch."
A condensation-slick can lands in Saïx's hand before he realises Demyx was throwing it at him.
"Lychee flavour," he intones, resisting the urge to press the can against his forehead. The drink is far too sweet and far too carbonated; he almost doesn't gulp it down.
"Amazing what you can get with coupons," is Demyx's explanation. He flops bonelessly into a plastic chair, looking half-melted by the heat. "You don't take enough breaks."
"You take too many."
Demyx laughs, the sound reminding Saïx of lazy childhood summers and how much he hated them. "Guilty as charged."
🌔
Saïx thinks he's used to Demyx singing. He's incapable of going five minutes without humming under his breath, whether he's lounging with his laptop or pretending that what the shelter needs is more pictures of hamsters. Sometimes his fingers even twitch as if strumming the strings of a guitar.
And then, one quiet afternoon mopping up while the dogs are in the yard, he hears it. For a moment he doesn't even recognise the voice washing over him as Demyx's. Low, tender, melodious.
Time stills; the hair on Saïx's arms prickles. Then he catches himself and gets back to work.
🌕
So adoption rates are up. And Demyx had all the slick charm of a salesman at the last adoption drive, signing off more applications than Saïx managed despite spending half the afternoon playing a ukelele. That doesn't mean anything, though: it's summer, the shelter is awash with puppies, and anyway, charisma is no substitute for hard work.
"Let me take you out for a celebratory drink," says Demyx, and brings Saïx to a bar where somehow one of the staff owes him a favour, netting them two free beers. Demyx croons along to the radio, eyes half-lidded, watching Saïx lazily.
🌖
Marluxia puts on a summer fundraiser. Larxene ends up in jail again, briefly. A scuffle breaks out in the pack and a vaguely familiar white-haired kid shows up at Marluxia's with his mom.
Saïx left the pack- what, four years ago, five? The scent of wilderness lingers on the new arrivals. He misses the freedom of the forest. His flat is cramped, his neighbours noisy. He'd leave without hesitation if it weren't for the vague alliance of city werewolves he's come to… certainly not like, and probably not respect… trust, perhaps.
Family. Is that what it is? Saïx wouldn't know.
🌗
Saïx runs after dusk, once the tarmac is cool enough for his feet. He will tolerate a harness: he draws the line at booties. He delivers a parcel for Marluxia, then loops along the river back into town, dipping in and out of streetlights. The night is a cacophony of scent.
He catches Demyx playing his guitar on a street corner. Recognition lights up his face.
"Saïx, dude! Come join me!"
Saïx hesitates. He's several miles from home, and his body is still full of the rhythm of running. But for some reason, he sits down next to Demyx anyway.
🌘
The vending machine glows like a beacon along an otherwise dim street, dented but serviceable, its vinyl decorations as eclectic as the offerings inside.
"You're a lifesaver," says Demyx, gesturing for Saïx to drop the crate of drinks and snacks next to him as he swings the window open. "Consider yourself owed a pizza."
"I'm surprised you get much custom out here," Saïx comments as Demyx gets to work restocking the vending machine.
Demyx laughs.
"The secret, my dear friend, is that that-" he gestures at the iron fence opposite them and the shrubbery beyond- "Is a total stoner park."
🌑
Larxene, draped over the sofa as usual, has a sly expression on her face as she tracks Saïx around the room.
"Not like you to hum," she says as Saïx sets down the broom. As if presenting a royal flush, she adds: "Didn't you say that coworker of yours is a musician?"
"That has nothing to do with it," Saïx mutters back, even though Larxene can sniff out a lie faster than a dog hunting for crumbs. He hauls the sofa back into position, remembering the way Demyx's fingers brushed his cheeks as he settled his headphones over Saïx's ears.
🌒
Demyx is slim, fragile almost. He's a contradiction of angles and fluidity. He laughs at Saïx's deadpan remarks and sings with a depth of feeling that reminds Saïx of watching sunsets in another life. He's an irritating little shit who doesn't do half the work he's paid for. And he's… smart. He gets a read on customers in seconds, he can Google his way out of any resumé falsehood. One day he pops into the shelter for something or other, dressed in a shirt and tie, laughing at Saïx's incredulity.
"Can't give piano lessons in a graphic tee, can I?"
🌓
"I pretty much grew up on a tour bus," Demyx says, between bites of pizza. "So I'm not really the kind of guy who settles down, you feel?" He waves a crust about. "Free spirit. Wandering soul. Lazy. Mainly lazy."
Since his last relationship, Saïx has kept things strictly casual. He has no desire to be consumed.
"You put an awful lot of work into being lazy."
Demyx chuckles.
"You could call it efficiency."
"I've seen your 'photoshoots'," Saïx retorts. "There's nothing efficient about putting novelty hats on guinea pigs."
"Fun, though. When was the last time you had fun?"
🌔
Saïx lives alone, even though the rent leaves him little in the way of disposable income. He's lucky to have a steady job at the shelter. Marluxia pays him for odd jobs, and there's always free food at his place when Saïx doesn't have money leftover for groceries. His home is a private pool of calm, despite the rot in the drywall and the omnipresent cockroaches. He invites Demyx in reluctantly.
Demyx kisses him like a tide, washing over him, drawing him in. His fingers are softly calloused, his caresses tender, his scent like the ocean Saïx has never seen.
🌕
Demyx exhales slowly, smoke coiling from the corners of his mouth, and returns to plucking strings. The sitar twangs melodiously, Saïx floating from one note to the next. He traces the gradations of colour up Demyx's arms, from sun-blessed wrists to winter-pale collar.
"Hey babe," Demyx murmurs. He kisses Saïx's forehead, the scar between his eyes, his cool damp nose.
Saïx rests his head against Demyx's shoulder, allowing his voice to flow through him. It isn't love. At least not a love he's ever felt before.
But softly, of its own accord, his tail begins to thump against the floorboards.