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Demyx checked the clock. 11:35.

Blowing out his cheeks as he exhaled, he slid off his stool and hunted around for a clean mug. His dish-washing procrastination was beginning to show, as it took him five minutes to locate a mug that didn't have tea residue in the bottom. Eventually he emerged from beneath the counter, triumphantly shedding a pile of old newspapers, and set the blue-and-red porcelain on the counter.

Five minutes later he sat on his stool, sorting through his tea bags with his feet propped on the counter, water boiling away behind him. Nights at the Roost were slow in the summer, at least at night, because the humidity drove thoughts of hot coffee and tea out of everyone's minds. Elvide never listened to Demyx's suggestions of selling iced drinks to increase revenue, so here he was on a Friday evening, ankles crossed atop the counter, with the minutes dragging by at the rate of frozen tree sap.

Not that there was much else to do in the town. Lost in between a desert and a river, Mounsid was little more than a dried-out husk of a town where everyone was tired and the dust blanketed all ambition. Demyx was young, and so his desire to escape to a bigger city still clung with him; he wanted to be like the husky-throated musicians on his precious records, playing his guitar beneath lyrics about love and broken hearts. It was a guitar that he pulled out from under the counter now, his much cherished instrument that represented his hopes and dreams: the polished wood settled easily into the curve of his lap, and his fingers drifted over the frets without needing to look, so familiar were the strings. He plucked one quavering note and closed his eyes blissfully, strumming aimless chords that lit up the empty coffee shop.

The teakettle whistled behind him. Demyx's eyes popped open; he slid the guitar onto the countertop with a hollow wooden thunk and grabbed his mug. He had just taken a ginger sip, hardly giving the teabag time to brew, when he turned around and discovered a red-haired man sitting at the counter.

Demyx spit out his mouthful of tea in surprise. "Shit," he stammered, "sorry," and immediately fumbled for a cleaning rag. They were all dirty, in accordance with his tea mugs, and when he at last located one that was only slightly damp he looked up to find that the redhead was looking at him intently. He was wearing an odd black cloak that looked like nothing he'd ever seen anyone wearing before, but when he unzipped it and slung it over the stool beside him, he exposed ordinary jeans and a t-shirt beneath. "Er," Demyx said awkwardly, and turned his attention to furiously mopping up the tea all over the counter. Thank god he hadn't actually gotten it on the customer - who had managed to sneak in without ringing the little bell over the doorway, so no wonder he'd scared the living shit out of Demyx. He made a mental note to check that it was still attached later.

"What can I get for you?" he tried, smiling at the customer lop-sidedly. He didn't appear to be much older than Demyx, so maybe he'd be nice and not hold the accidental tea-spraying against him. It was never good to be unprofessional around a potentially new customer - because certainly Demyx had never seen this man around town before. He would have remembered that hair.

The stranger studied the menu above Demyx's head for a moment. "Pumpkin Chai, thanks," he finally responded, pronouncing the words carefully in a dramatic bass. Demyx liked the sound of his voice; he sounded like he had the voice of an actor, and he wanted to make the guy say more, to see if his suspicion was true.

"Sure thing," Demyx said brightly and turned to put the heat back on under his half-empty teakettle. He pulled a mug off the shelf - one of the shop's, not one of his own, so it was thankfully clean - slipped a packet of tea out of the box on the counter, set them both down, and slid back onto his stool to wait. The redhead appeared to be eyeing his guitar with a certain amount of interest.

"What's that?" Red, as Demyx had mentally decided to call him, indicated the guitar with a tilt of his chin. "It's different than what we've got at home."

"I - " Demyx stopped, then frowned. Where was this guy from, anyway? "It's a guitar," he answered, deciding to humor him. "An instrument. You play it like this..." Hooking his feet around the rungs of the stool, he pulled the guitar into his lap. His fingers hovered over the frets for a second, and then he launched into the opening riffs of "Revolutionary," the biggest song on the radio at the moment as well as a guitar solo that never failed to impress his friends.

But it didn't work on Red; the guy looked as ambivalent as if he'd never heard the song in his life. "Cool," he said after not very long, cutting over Demyx's playing as if he'd completely lost interest. For a moment, Demyx was hurt by the curt brush-off, but he pushed that emotion aside as easily as he pushed his guitar away down the counter.

"Let me get your chai," he murmured, swiveling around to grab the teakettle, which hadn't whistled yet, but he needed something to do. God, they really needed to get rid of their whistling teakettles, anyway. He pushed the steaming mug across the counter at Red and decided now would be a good time to wash all those dirty mugs.

The running water in the sink filled the silence as Red sipped at his tea; Demyx watched the stranger out of his peripheral vision the whole time, growing increasingly more uncomfortable as he realized that Red hadn't once stopped watching him with a keen, bright-eyed sort of interest. At last, Demyx couldn't take it anymore. "So, where are you from?" he asked as conversationally as he could, not wanting to betray his discomfort. "I haven't seen you around here before, and it's a damn small enough town."

At that, the redhead's eyes narrowed slightly, almost calculatingly, and he grinned. "Well, I'm not from around here." His fingers flexed around the mug as if they were restless to be doing something else. "But I could show you where I am from. Want to come?"

Demyx paused, his back still turned, with one hand buried in soapy water. This guy was really weird. "I'm still on work," he began, though that was probably not the best answer, as he began to turn around, "and I don't think - "

Instantly he jolted back in shock. In the middle of his shop - right in midair - was...was...he didn't even know if there was a word on this planet to describe it. It was like a portal/, but there were no edges, no wood or metal or glass - just...blackness, like what a black hole must look like, that seemed to suck away the light around its edges. Demyx backed up until he bumped into the back counter, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge in a death grip. "What - what the /fuck is that?"

Red grinned casually. "It's the way to where I live. Come on, it won't bite." He extended one hand, fingers curled slightly in beckoning.

Despite himself, Demyx was edging around from behind the counter. That thing was too mind-boggling to not tempt his insatiable curiosity. "But what is it?" he asked dubiously, only fear and common sense keeping him from reaching out to touch it. It looked like it would devour his hand whole.

"It's a gateway." Red sounded like he was patiently explaining something to a not-very-bright person. "Do you want to come or not?"

Demyx looked over his shoulder, shaken. "I - but - I don't even know your name!"

The stranger laughed. "My name is Axel," he said, "got it memorized?" and pushed Demyx through.