Title: The Twilight Years
Author: unwinding fantasy
Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts ain't mine.
Rating: M for language and heavy themes.
Pairing: Axel x Roxas
Author's Note: Because I love my grandparents.

Their alarm buzzes at 6:30 every morning. Axel's already pottering around the kitchen, cutlery softly clinking and the morning news (not punk rock) murmuring politely (not blaring) over the radio, world's happenings a muted backdrop to routine. Roxas' eyes creak open, bleary in the dim bedroom, fingers of dawn creeping under the curtains and reaching for him lying prone in their bed. When they'd agreed on this particular mattress, Axel begrudgingly so, Roxas had felt victorious but the win then is his curse now because it's far too difficult to pull himself from such cushiony plushness. He's been awake for at least an hour, wishing his lower back would stop nagging and dreading the day's chores laid out like notes on a piano, an hour wasted vaguely needing the bathroom but too stubborn to rouse himself. Roxas rolls over, stretches for the alarm. Before he can wriggle his arm free from the blankets and mash the mute button, Axel's hand flicks it off and he's beaming down, corners of his eyes crinkling until they're just green slits. How he always manages to appear just when Roxas needs him, abandoning whatever important chores he's been doing, constantly impresses him. "Morning, sunshine," he says with the gusto of a man who hasn't said it twenty-one thousand times before. Always chipper, like a robot set to smile. Roxas wonders how the hell he keeps it up.

Roxas rolls his eyes and tries to get out of bed, his murmured, "Morning," sounding like it's floating up from the bottom of a well. Axel lopes an arm around him to help lever him into a sitting position then hooks his hands beneath Roxas' forearms, says, "One, two, three!" before tugging gently up. At first Roxas had railed against the indignity, had cursed Axel colourfully enough to tint the man's cheeks red as his hair once was, but that was before he'd shitted himself at that Mexican joint that did the eight dollar margaritas and Axel ushered him home, Roxas refusing to be cleaned up in a public restroom. The drive back in forty-odd minutes of traffic on a blazing summer day had been a windows down affair because the air con wouldn't cut it, Roxas staring out the passenger window with teeth clamped harder than a steel trap, primed to chip his crowns rather than capitulate and let the tears leak out. Filling the air with inane chatter, Axel never knew how close Roxas was to decking him because for god's sake, how could he just ignore it? Axel's always been a master at pretending though. Roxas' stomach still does flips every time he hears La Cucaracha or catches a whiff of burrito.

But Roxas restrained himself then and he's still restraining himself now, compartmentalising the annoyance at his body's failings and tramping down the urge to lash out. Instead he curls his fingers around Axel's wiry arms and heaves himself up, gasping at the stiffness in his knees. He wishes he could say it was worse in the morning but heart of the matter is, it's always bad. "Made you some toast," Axel's voice is all breath, husky from too many cigarettes and Roxas wrestles with the part of him that begs to nestle against Axel's shoulder, to drag them both back into the voluminous softness and sleep the rest of their lives away. He inhales quietly but deeply, shoulders rising and falling, tobacco and clove caressing his nostrils, and Axel chuckles lowly, says, "Nice try but you're not getting out of it that easily."

Reluctantly, Roxas relinquishes his grip so Axel can pull open the heavy curtains. Daylight, bright and harsh, cuts into his eyes. It was their compromise: if he moved the sheer ones too there was no way in hell Roxas would do the stretches his doctor recommended, the concept of anyone watching and jeering from the street too embarrassing. You'd think at his age Roxas' self-consciousness would have dwindled because isn't that how it worked when you couldn't even tie your own shoelaces anymore? If anything, the inverse was true. Roxas vividly recalls what it was like to be young and in charge of his body's movements, keen mind and limber muscles. Knows that now the kids look at him as used goods, wasted space. He tries not to dwell on it as he follows Axel's lead: arms straight up, then out to the side like he's on a crucifix, then down, feeling something in his back click into place. Competitions had been the order of bygone days - Who could stand on their head longest? Who could string together the most cartwheels? Who could pull off the highest number of rotations on their skateboard? - but lately just reaching his toes is challenge enough. Only last week, a resolved Roxas had waited for Axel to take out the rubbish so he could sit on the carpeted bedroom floor in peace and try to touch them, just brush them with his fingertips even, but he'd failed miserably and worse, been unable to wrestle himself off the ground. He'd waited there like a beached whale, gasping and ungainly until Axel returned half an hour later, took in the scene with a pained expression as he uttered a single shaky word ("Roxas...") and struggled to help him up. There's no question that Axel's life would be easier without having to play caretaker. Sometimes, Roxas doubts Axel would even miss him.

The failure fresh in his mind, Roxas is grateful when the stretching's over, joints popping and protesting, heart fluttering, a pointless exercise meant to prolong his life. Axel smiles at the scowl on his face. "Come on, breakfast is waiting."

Roxas uses the bathroom first, slipping his dentures in after. When he enters the kitchen, the table is laid out as usual: two plates bordered by two butter knives and two teacups, low cholesterol margarine that tastes vaguely plastic-y, a pot of honey and a jar of mulberry jam serving as centerpiece. The solitary difference between the settings is the plethora of pill bottles decorating Roxas'. Fervently as he wishes, there's no way around the cocktail of prescription pills he pops each day. He lowers himself onto the wooden chair gingerly. The toast is cold but Roxas doesn't mind. Axel shuffles over with the coffee pot and fills both their cups with exaggerated care. Roxas takes a sip, almost suppressing his cringe. Not for the first time, he wishes they had the energy for their old percolator. Axel piles in sugar and milk - to mask the pain of instant coffee, Roxas is convinced - and says, "So lunch today. Think you're up for it?"

I'd rather kill myself, Roxas thinks. What he says is, "Sure. Gotta keep up appearances."

"Huh?" Axel asks, and when Roxas repeats himself the other man fumbles a little with the milk. "Gee, don't sound too excited. You might throw your back out."

Roxas shrugs, bites into his toast. They breakfast in silence, Axel because he's still waking up and Roxas because he's conserving his energy, the radio murmuring merrily in the background until Axel coughs lightly. "So... How's the ticker going today?" Axel says it nonchalantly but he won't meet Roxas' eyes.

"Fine," Roxas says, even though it felt a little tight after the stretches. There's a flicker of something on Axel's face as he presses, "You sure? Because we don't have to go if-"

"Seriously, I'm okay, Ax," Roxas lies.

The flicker becomes a crack but within seconds it's under control and Axel manages a smile. "Just making sure."

Roxas feels guilty for snapping. It's just hard, constantly being reminded that he's on borrowed time. With effort, he returns the smile and is glad to see the tension slide from the slope of Axel's shoulders. He shoves the last chunk of jam-smeared toast in his mouth and chews as quickly as he can, conscious of the fact that lunch is in four hours and he doesn't want to be late. Axel gulps his coffee and begins clearing the table, screwing the lids on some of the condiments and dutifully filing them into the cupboard or fridge, chucking the dirty crockery and cutlery into the dishwasher (and thank god they'd lashed out for it; handwashing even small amounts of dishes took ridiculous amounts of energy). Roxas is still fumbling with his pill bottles when Axel starts hovering at his shoulder, pretending he's preoccupied and not waiting on Roxas, becoming increasingly annoying as the seconds tick by. Such a simple task but Roxas' fine motor skills are shot. Eventually, he manages. Axel's face splits into an ecstatic grin and Roxas's feels flushed because he's pleased he's accomplished something but also irritated that putting a lid on a jar is such cause for celebration.

Gently, Axel extricates the final pill bottle from Roxas' hands and pops it in the cupboard. Roxas stands up, trying hard not to knock any areas of his ungainly body against the furniture as he says, "I better take a shower."

Axel nods and trails him, not too far to be neglectful and not too close to be overbearing. He lays out today's clothes on their bed and loiters while Roxas washes himself with the bathroom door open, a compromise in case he slips and injures himself. The warm water hits Roxas, a welcoming caress as he shampoos and scrubs, but he's careful not to waste too much time standing there revelling because a) time is a tricky beast, draining away quicker than he anticipates and b) if he's on his feet too much now he'll be paying for it later.

When he steps out of the shower, steaming in the morning chill, he glances at himself in the mirror. The pale, gnarled terrain of his body is littered with bruises in an alarming variety of hues: emoji yellow tapering to mustard and pinot noir reds speckled purple, landmarks chronicling the places flesh connected with concrete, brick, wood. It wouldn't be so obvious if not for the blood thinners. He grimaces, wishing for the umpteenth time that he wasn't prone to depth perception failures or plagued by skin thin as the walls of a Japanese inn. Axel had adored his "marblescent" skin, spent lazy hours sprawled on the couch or in bed running his fingertips over the dips and planes. Roxas, with his golden hair and perfectly symmetrical face, had hated his Adonis looks and the deluge of cruel nicknames derived from being aesthetically flawless against his will. It probably contributed to him cultivating a punk rock style, a rebellion against winning the genetic lottery. He'd developed a new appreciation though with each lingering green gaze, eventually even embracing his, for want of a better word, beautiful appearance. He suddenly cared. Started using tubs upon tubs of industrial strength gel, spent longer in the bathroom than Axel thought was humanly possible sculpting the perfect hairdo. He even went through a phase of colouring when his locks started losing their colour, futile attempts at staving off the inevitable. Axel purported to "dig the ageing gracefully thing" but Roxas couldn't always beat back the nostalgic wave when he caught Axel in just the right lighting and if he squinted, saw razor red spikes jutting from Axel's head, a declaration of war. If Roxas sometimes craved their halcyon days, of course Axel must too.

"Rox, you done in there?" Axel materialises at the threshold. Roxas wonders how long he's been watching him space out. It's a new thing, the Axel intently watching him thing, something he might've done when they first began dating but the way he looks at Roxas now is shadowed like he's already in mourning. Roxas smiles more now than he ever did but when he does, most of the time it's with the joy subtracted. He turns a smile on Axel, this one reassuring, and says, "Just gotta fix my hair," eliciting a wheezing chuckle from the other man.

"Very funny, punkass." They both know the effort required is far too great. Carefully, Axel sidesteps him and begins stripping. "Clothes are on the bed."

Roxas murmurs appreciation. His gaze brushes Axel's bare arms, noting the way his tattoos have warped like crumpled washing. It would be hilarious if it didn't make him feel sick. He sidles into the bedroom and mindlessly pulls on the garments Axel's picked: stretch waist cargo pants and a nondescript black t-shirt. No buttons. Good. The wristband sits on his bedside table because he's sick of asking Axel to clip it for him. The rings though, Roxas still wears.

Axel emerges soon enough, changes with a stiffness confirming his years. Roxas sits on the bed before struggling into his shoes and suddenly they're ready to leave the prison slash sanctuary of their tiny suburban house. They exit through the front door - only four steps to traverse instead of the staircase out back - and Roxas waits in the driveway while Axel backs the car out of the garage. He leaves it running while he hops out and acts as an anchor for Roxas, who lowers himself into the passenger side with a grunt. "Strap yourself in, killer. It's gonna be a wild ride," he teases. Roxas obeys. Axel slides behind the wheel, flashes a thumbs up and a sharp grin and Roxas' heart aches.

The drive into town is uneventful, Roxas' eyes glued to window gazing, watching the world whirl away too quickly. They have a good run - not that it deters Axel from drumming on the wheel impatiently when they stop at the lights outside the skate park where kids are tearing it up, wiping out almost as often as they pull off tricks. Roxas wonders what happened to his old deck. His latest recollection is of helping Sora find his balance: the kid was a puppy-esque combination of hopeless and willing, ended up with tons of bruises and a nasty gash on his knee, but at the lesson's conclusion he'd smiled and claimed the board, clutching it tight to his chest like something rare excavated from tropical temple ruins. It was probably stuffed at the bottom of his closet now with all the other refuse cast off to stay afloat throughout middle age. Funny how the older you get, the more parts of your identity slough off until you're infantile again. Some kind of reverse metamorphosis. De-evolution. Abruptly, Roxas tears his gaze from the skaters and instead glares at the back of his sun-spotted hand.

They're not as early as they'd like, the almost at capacity carpark necessitating pulling into a space that's distant from the mall's entrance. Axel grumbles beneath his breath, brief and disgruntled, a flash of the real Axel, not the false cheer that fills his face every day, and Roxas smirks a little. He struggles out of the car while Axel kills the engine, heart rate climbing with each aborted attempt at standing upright. Come on, body, he thinks, all gritted teeth and dogged determination. You can at least get out of the fucking car. Axel comes around and drags Roxas up like it's second nature, like breathing, and before Roxas can vent outrage Axel mutters, "Gotta save some energy for the walk."

Roxas' heart pounds while they shuffle into the mall, which is brimming with gaudy decoration-strewn pine trees and human-sized candy canes, a Santa collecting children's whispered wishes and a thousand photographs, festive cheer laid thick and sweet like Marshmellow Fluff on toast. They navigate towards the dinky eatery somebody (possibly Demyx; he was always a cheapskate looking for pensioner specials) picked once. Nobody's had the creativity or inclination to suggest otherwise so it's been the group's haunt for the past decade or so. Roxas spies their lunch mate at their usual tiny corner table, ridiculous hair fanning out behind him like it's part of a Christmas costume. Axel squeezes his arm once for courage and approaches the table, plonking into a chair with a casual, "Hey." Roxas mimics him, does the male head nod thing in greeting.

"Get lost on your way?" Marluxia asks.

"Traffic was a bitch," Axel says smoothly. Roxas glowers. It had been more bearable when it was a big group, the whole thirteen of them, but nearly all their friends are dead now and Roxas almost wishes Marluxia was too. The guy is only a handful of years younger than Roxas but he acts three decades younger, still dyeing his hair that stupid peach colour, still dressing like he's ready to step onto a catwalk rather than have coffee. They banter a little, Axel deflecting Marluxia's jibes and making the past month's monotony something worth listening to, describing menial chores so vividly that it's like watching an artist create a watercolour, all the interesting tidbits bleeding into one another, spun out and splashed. If he didn't know better, he'd think Axel actually enjoyed these outings.

For the most part, Roxas retains his silence, interjecting just often enough that they don't worry he's kicked it, trying to filter out each inane thing Marluxia says about his routine Milan trip where his latest collection was well received. Slipping out his phone, some cutting edge design not yet available in their country, he flashes them photos of his latest conquest: a long limbed, heroin chic blonde who can't be older than twenty staring seductively into the camera. He might be attractive, thin wrists and cheekbones you could cut yourself on that were reminiscent of Axel, but his eyes are dull and his expression's flat, alive only in the physical sense of the word. Marluxia always picks the blondes. Looking at the images raises the hair on the nape of his neck. Roxas overcomes his hatred of speaking, searching his brain for the right words. Once he's constructed the sentence perfectly he asks how Marluxia's going with the refurbishment of the kitchen. Marluxia asks with all seriousness, "Which one?"

He orders an enchilada, the bastard. Roxas tries not to throw up all over his perfect, pink hair-rimmed face.

It never takes long. Marluxia always has other commitments, just waits long enough for them to finish their toasted sandwiches before dashing off. Not for the first time, Roxas misses Xigbar's cavalier comments, Zexion's witticisms, Demyx's infectious laugh. The ghost of something traces up his spine and he shivers, shoving Demyx far, far away from his thoughts. While Axel fixes the bill, Roxas casts him a sidelong glance. At least I have you.

They take the escalator down to the drug store where Axel parcels over their prescriptions. He still doesn't understand precisely what they're all for; he'd been woozy during the doctor's explanation, blurring in and out between beta blockers and statins, but thankfully Axel's focus carried them through. The pharmacist doesn't respond when Axel jokes as he gathers the medication into his gnarled hands, just sniffs before turning her back and Roxas bristles because how can anyone dismiss Axel so indifferently? Axel catches the twitch of annoyance and shrugs, touching Roxas' arm until the tension ebbs. Axel looks at him like he's a disappointment, like keeping up a cheery facade will be enough to see them through, and Roxas feels both ashamed and livid because why should he pretend when he's half buried already? How can Axel always be so damn content?

The last chore is groceries. They go at a steady pace, a delicate balance between ensuring Roxas isn't taxed and minimising their time in public because with age comes a reduction in not just energy levels but also tolerance for the busybodies encountered on a Thursday afternoon, beleaguered pram-pushing mothers and shaggy single guys who don't give a shit if they bump the oldies. Their list is short and consists of pedestrian items like bread and milk and cereal. The line grows quickly while Axel piles on the purchases and the pimple-faced cashier wrings his hands, scanning and bagging and sweating on Axel to add to the conveyor belt. To his credit, at least he doesn't fidget too much, just casts apologetic glances at the people left waiting. He reads out the bill's total; Axel asks him to repeat it and Pimples speaks excessively loudly and slowly, making heat flood Roxas' face. We have every right to be here too, he thinks, disappointed that his default feeling is shame rather than fury. When Axel drops some coins, the person immediately behind him groans. Roxas would be enraged but the encounter at the drug store has sapped what little energy Marluxia hadn't absorbed, would help retrieve the tiny discs if he thought he'd be able to stand upright afterwards. He's reduced to watching along with everybody else as Axel crouches and gropes, trying to ignore the way his heart swells uncomfortably in his chest. After what feels like an eon, Axel emerges from beneath the register, dusting himself off with exaggerated aplomb before counting out the coins one by one into the cashier's hand. Pimples snatches the money with barely masked disdain, hurriedly retrieves Axel's change and wishes them a terse, "Have a great day," in a tone that implies anything but. As they load their bags into a trolley, Roxas hears him apologising to the next customer.

They don't talk about it. Easier to pretend they're not regarded as incompetent and irrelevant by the general populace, Roxas figures, but he wishes Axel would get fired up sometimes instead of laughing every-fucking-thing off. Axel loads their shopping in the trunk. A soft thunk and a grateful exhalation as Axel settles into the driver's seat followed by the turn of a key and they're heading back home. During the return drive, Axel distracts them by blasting the radio and singing along, off-key like always, and he only glances expectantly at Roxas once because he's slowly understanding that Roxas can't sing anymore, not with his voice the way it is.

They settle into the living room. Axel snags the puzzle section from the paper and chews endearingly on his pen between reading the superquiz aloud and making fun of today's cryptic crossword clues while Roxas exercises his brain by reading it cover to cover. He's just reached the sports section when the telephone trills. Axel, quicker on his feet, answers it: "'Lo? ...I'm good, Sora, how are you?" Roxas' heart pings. Axel's eyes flick towards him. "He's alright. Just been out for lunch then did our shopping." He continues chatting for a few minutes. Roxas tries to focus on this year's Wimbledon winner getting caught in a drugs bust but the temptation to tune into Axel's conversation is too strong. Eventually he hears, "You wanna talk to him? ...Sure. Love you too. Hey, Rox, come over here."

Roxas pushes himself off the couch, ignoring his body's protestations, and retrieves the receiver. "Sora?"

"Hey Dad," Sora's voice is forced cheer shadowed with worry. "How are you going?"

"Not too bad. You?"

"Yeah, good."

"Did Kairi enjoy her birthday?"

Sora's voice genuinely brightens. "She had a blast. I mean, she just wanted a get-together with her family and close friends, which was great because this merger's been mad and I really didn't feel like partying hard." A laugh. "Heck, I haven't felt like partying for decades but I think Kairi's been past it for even longer. We just did dinner instead. Riku cooked. Of course he was all excited about showing off his skills as a newly dubbed two hat chef and all. The cake he made was incredible, a princess' castle made of pink sponge filled with paopu-flavoured buttercream. The kids went nuts when they saw it."

A smile tugs at Roxas' lips. He remembers Sora and Riku attempting to bake a strawberry cake for Kairi's 10th birthday. "Hope it worked out better than last time."

"Heeey, we were kids. I didn't hear you and Pa complaining about it anyway. The whole thing was gone when I got back from school the next day."

"Sora, you can't seriously think we ate that." It had emerged from the oven's depths blacker than Mordor and hard enough to concuss somebody. No amount of icing the boys smothered on could salvage the monstrosity.

A pause on the other end of the line, then: "But there were plates with crumbs on them."

"That was Pa's idea. He thought you'd be suspicious if we didn't make it look authentic. Besides, why did you think we insisted on buying another one for your friend?"

He can imagine Sora's pout. "I thought it was because you wanted our cake all for yourselves! Argh, fine. Thanks for ruining my childhood."

Roxas chuckles and Sora laughs, self-deprecating and sweet. Roxas loves that his boy can do that, a skill Roxas never mastered and that Sora surely picked up from Axel. "So," Sora's voice drops conspiratorially, "Have you thought about it some more?"

Roxas groans, making no attempt to hide his frustration. "We've been through this, Sora. I'm not doing it."

"Pa said it's because of what happened to Demyx. Is that true?"

Thump. Demyx, sedated and spread on the operating table, heart stuttering in a chest carved open, flashes across his mind. Blood. Thump. Scalpel. Thump. Flatline, whirr, clear. A team of twelve surgeons and nurses couldn't save him with his vibrant thirst for everything life offered. What hope for Roxas, who'd relinquished his claim on existence long ago? Roxas adjusts his sweaty grip on the phone and tries to stay calm as he reiterates his position, "That's not it. You know my health insurance won't cover it."

"I'll help," comes Sora's plea, practical yet coloured by emotion.

Roxas swallows hard. He struggles for words. "No, I don't-. You've got the kids to look after. You work hard for your money and-"

"For god's sake, Dad, you think money matters? What matters is you being here next Christmas, and to see your grandkids get married, and meet your great grandchildren and-," Sora's voice cracks, hysteria barely at bay.

Roxas' heart feels like it's breaking. He turns away from the other room where Axel's flicking through TV channels and his voice lowers to a soft hiss, misery sticking in his gullet. "Don't do this to me, Sora. We've discussed it. End of story."

"You think it stops at the stroke? You can't just brush off the fact that you need a triple bypass! Why do you have to be so selfish?" Sora ends on a whisper.

Roxas' anger spikes. "How am I being selfish, Sora? I have the right to choose how I live."

"You mean how you die," Sora spits. Roxas notes the immediate intake of breath on the other end of the line as if Sora has word vomited something he regrets. Before Sora can inject any apologies - Roxas is sick of apologies - Roxas continues, ruthless. "Yeah, that's my choice too. Even if there was some way to guarantee they'll fix my defective heart I'll still be the same man. I'll still be a... you know," he flails for the correct descriptive, the fog covering his mind leaving him groping blindly. Dammit. His grip tightens on the receiver and, Wait. There. "A cripple."

Silence. Eventually, Sora says, "You're not... You're not a cripple, Dad." The offering reaches Roxas from very far away, like a balloon that's drifted miles across a turbulent ocean. A nice sentiment but a lie. Roxas exhales, forces a smile into his voice. "Anyway, I think I'll go now. Hard for me to speak. Thanks for calling, Sora."

"Dad..."

"I'll talk to you later."

He hangs up, exhausted. Sora wants the best for him, Roxas knows that, but the kid just doesn't understand because the young can't imagine wanting to renounce life. He shuffles back into the living room. There's no sign of Axel but the volume on the TV's been dialed down. Shit. Roxas' breath comes out in a rush, a prayer and curse. Should I find him or...? In the end, Roxas goes searching. He finds him out back slumped over the balcony, staring at the storm clouds rolling across the sunset-strewn horizon while the cigarette in his hand burns down to the filter. Ringed by the dying light, Axel's hair looks like it's aflame, making Roxas' breath catch. He doesn't turn when Roxas slides open the door, probably doesn't hear - he's always refusing hearing aids. Roxas stands there watching for a few minutes, taking stock of Axel's bowed head and the defeated tilt to his shoulders, the way his free hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose then swipe swipe at something on his face. His exhalation wavers, trembling like ripples after a stone hits a pond. Oh, Roxas thinks. Oh.

Because he wants it to stop, Roxas says, "Axel?"

Axel jerks up, stung. "Hey." Swipe swipe. "I was just thinking about you." He directs his words across the garden, towards the thundercloud-covered sea.

Roxas slips his arms around Axel, clasping hands against his chest, and nuzzles into his back. Beneath his palms, Axel's heart beats steady and strong. "Sorry you had to hear all that," Roxas says.

Roxas feels the beginning of a shrug in Axel's body but he's holding tight so it's hard for Axel to feign indifference. Roxas' own heart is battering against his ribcage, yearning to be let out. Axel murmurs something. "Huh?" Roxas probes, making his partner turn in his arms. The blonde is horrified to see glistening tracks on his cheeks, real teardrops substituting where his tattoos had resided before the promotion that necessitated he get them surgically removed. "I said it's important. To hear something real from you, you know?"

Roxas' breath hitches. "Something real from me? " He picks out his words methodically, not wanting his impaired ability to ad-lib stoppering his sentiment. "How about you, Mr Cotton Candy and Moonbeams? You've always got that megawatt smile plastered on your face like you think I can't see beneath it but I can tell. When you look at me it's like you're not even seeing me anymore. It's like you're looking at my grave."

Axel leans forward, gripping his forearms. "Because that's how I feel, Roxas. Every time I look at your perfect fucking face I wonder if it's the last time. The doctors said one year and it's been thirteen fucking months so sorry if I'm a little down."

"You don't have to be sorry," Roxas cries, tears collecting in his eyes, "You just have to be real! I need to hear that it's not going to be okay when I go. I need to know you'll miss me."

Axel goes rigid like he's gripping an electric fence, trapped by muscles that can only contract. "Roxas..." His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. "Roxas, how can you not know how I feel about you?"

Roxas drops his gaze. "Of course I know, I just... I need to hear it, all of it, just once in a while."

They stand there for a long time, silence reigning except for the sound of Axel's fingers on Roxas' shirt tracing designs on the shorter man's arms. The same thing over and over again. What? A... heart? Roxas hiccups, letting the tears roll down his face. What point in trying to hold back despair? It was all fucked beyond repair anyway.

Axel takes a deep breath. "When you go," he feels Roxas stiffen and amends, "When you're dead." Another breath, thin hands gripping Roxas tight and he forges ahead, "When you're dead I'll... I don't know what I'll do. Cry, of course. Cry a million tears because you've been next to me longer than I can count and it's easier to imagine me without sight or touch or taste than it is to imagine you not here. I'll tell Sora I'm fine; he doesn't need to know his Pa's gone crazy with grief. I'll drink too many margaritas and not enough water. I'll get fat on sea-salt ice cream. I'll probably climb that clock tower every goddamn evening for the rest of my life and stare at the sunset, wondering if you're prancing around up in the clouds, skating with Xiggy or jamming with Dem. Whenever our songs come on the radio, I'll be searching for your voice where the harmony falls.

"I'll go to the sea early. Watch the sun come up. I'll remember countless sunrises staring at each other, the way the dawn set our skin aglow. You, haloed by light. You, a little fire starter, holding my hands. My heart igniting. Us." Axel's no longer holding Roxas together; rather, their roles have switched and Roxas finds himself with a beautiful wreck in his arms. Roxas is crying with abandon now. His heart is beating surely though, feels full of helium, something easy to carry because it's full of memories of light. "Axel," he whispers. "Axel."

Axel looks at him like he's ready to raze worlds. "I'll miss you so fucking much."

"Good."