They're in Axel's bed, tangled together in the sheets. The air is humid, but they've been there long enough that it's starting to dry out again. Axel wonders what that will start doing to Demyx in a little while. If he's noticed.
One of Demyx's hands is over Axel's, the fingers laced together with his, and he cracks an eye to look at his junior, when Demyx lifts his hand, shifting to drag his thumb firmly across the palm. It feels strangely nice, even through the long stinging puff of steam.
"Have you ever played an instrument?"
The question is abrupt, and unexpected.
"What? Why?" Axel responds, opening his other eye, and moving up onto his shoulder so he can look at Demyx. His junior runs his thumb over his palm again, and further, over his fingers, stretching them out, and looking at Axel through bright, if half-lidded eyes.
"You have the hands for it," Demyx replies. "Long fingers-" his thumbnail scrapes over the pad of Axel's middle finger, sending a momentary twitch of pleasure up his nerves "-high dexterity. I know what you can do with these hands." His eyes darken, and it makes Axel lick his lips, and shift a little closer.
"You'd be good," he finishes, dragging his thumb back to the centre of Axel's palm. Axel lets his fingers curl over it, scraping his other fingertips over Demyx's thumbnail.
"I never thought about it," Axel says. "My hands aren't for music."
"You shouldn't say that if you've never tried!" Demyx protests.
Axel frowns at him, and moves, rolling him over, and pinning him down. The look in his junior's eyes isn't at all surprised, although Axel's pretty sure he thought about faking it. His free hand moves to stroke a line down the back of Axel's other hand, fingers tracing the lines of the tendons over his knuckles.
Axel watches him silently, and Demyx just looks back up at him, his eyes deceptively open and inviting. Axel pulls his hand away, sliding his fingers over Demyx's wrist as he does. Demyx's opens his mouth to say something, but Axel presses a finger to his lips, just long enough to make his point.
He drags that finger up across his junior's temple, and then down behind his ear, down his neck. He follows the line of his collarbone, and then down over his chest, resting briefly where Demyx's heart would be. He holds it there long enough to see the confusion in his junior's eyes, and then draws his fingers up, over the other side of Demyx's neck, and across his other temple.
"Axel--" Demyx starts. He thinks better of continuing before Axel can do or say anything himself.
Axel draws his fingers down the midline of Demyx's body, nails scraping gently, precisely, at each little space between his ribs. That's when understanding starts to replace confusion in Demyx's eyes, and those eyes are dark, and knowing when Axel's hand reaches his stomach, nails lingering over where kidneys, stomach, bowels... Vital spots. Killing shots.
Demyx is very, very still as Axel continues. He moves his hand down over his junior's groin (another vital spot, potential to kill, maim, or lame), not lingering in spite of his evident arousal, and then down the line where the femoral artery should be, in one of his legs. And he keeps going, all the way to Demyx's ankle, nails cutting a line across the skin over his Achilles tendon, hard enough to make him gasp; if he had blood to bruise, it would have left a mark.
He curves his palm down to cup Demyx's heel, holding it firmly to the bed.
"My hands aren't for music," he repeats, more quietly. For a long time they look at each other, without moving. Without blinking. Without breathing.
Finally, Demyx nods.
"All right," he says. "If you say so."
Axel smiles slightly, his lips curving up in an edge sharp enough and thin enough to cut, or stab, or slide quietly between ribs, and cut off any cry, if it were a knife. Demyx's own smile is just as thin, in its own way, but nothing so overtly deadly.
It's a reminder, Axel thinks, of the deceptive nature of water.