Three things you should know: 1) Roxas makes his will known using popular phrases because he's terrible at Latin, and not because he's trying (and failing) to be clever. 2) Things will explain themselves in due course. 3) I don't own Kingdom Hearts. I'm just a crazy bitch with ideas.
Part I
Nobody
His opponent is thick and swift and elegant.
Roxas knows he won't have a problem, but he'd like to drag out the match – he'll let his opponent bat him around for a while, before pouncing. It gives the crowd more entertainment, which will excite them – which will, in turn, excite him.
This is life. This is the life. This is how to feel alive.
He bows shortly and grins at his opponent, open and disarming. The man is too quick to fall for the act – easy prey. Easy win. Easy kill.
"Fight," roars the announcer, and the thick man jumps in a blur. He whips out his blade and subconsciously follows Roxas' movements. Roxas begins the dance.
Every three swings, he lets the blade nick him. The smell of the blood is oh so exciting and the feel of the blade on his skin is oh so wonderful. He thinks, with only a little sourness, that this is very intimate and he's not attracted to his partner at all.
Perhaps it's not the best idea to drag on the fight.
Calling out to the night, he forms two blades in his hands – one of light, one of darkness. His opponent does not stop moving, but he's clearly surprised. Good. Roxas begins the dance again.
Step forward, step back. Sideways. Jump. Roll. Glide. It's all so mundane...all so simple. If he's going to win this quickly, he'll do it the fun way.
"Effigie: mens rea," he whispers, and his opponent drops his weapon, eyes bulging in horror. This is one of Roxas' special spells; his own vicious creation. His opponent's water spells and ice spells were all too predictable; he is clearly an ice mage, but it won't help him here.
"I'm sorry," the man says, dropping to his knees. Roxas gets a thrill out of watching his opponents feel the guilt of all the things they've ever done. "Oh god, I'm so sorry, I...oh god."
He doesn't want to wait for long. One of the drawbacks of his illusion spells is that they are easily breakable – by pain. All he needs to do is pinch himself, and it's over.
Roxas jumps and shouts, "Fiat lux!" Immediately, his finishing move begins to take hold of his body. His blades whir in his outstretched hands, calling light to them. He calls down light from the sky, which hits the man – immediately drawing him out of the illusion, but it's too late. He's been caught off guard. The fight is over.
Light flashes, and he lets it pull him. He cuts the man as he passes, just a small slice at a time, reveling in the cheers from the crowd. This is how to feel alive.
All too soon, the spell is finished. He drops gracefully to his feet from the air and sets his dark blade at his opponent's throat. "Do you concede?"
It's a very hard question to answer, he knows. The man must not want to die; he fought well, but not well enough. But it's a bit disgraceful to walk away from a fight on the mercy of the victor. Nobody here wants to be disgraced.
Roxas presses the blade more firmly against the neck, making sure to keep the skin intact. "Do you concede. Answer me, or I will kill you now and be done with it."
"I..." The man sounds terrified. "I'd rather die."
Roxas feels no satisfaction in taking a life; but he doesn't feel guilt. It's all part of the routine. He severs the head neatly and as swiftly as possible; he's an adrenaline addict, and cruel, but he's not a sadist. He'll grant the man a quick death.
Cheers erupt from all sides. He wonders, not for the first time, if this town is sick – what kind of people revel in blood and death? – but bows all the same. There is nothing, now that he's won. No feeling. Just routine.
He doesn't belong here. But there's nowhere else to go.
In the uncertain waking state, when the subconscious retreats from dreams, his eyes flutter open and he groans at the golden sparkles slithering through the curtains. His covers were kicked off sometime during the night; in spite of the persistent sunlight, it's dreadfully cold. The empty space is cold beside him.
He comes aware in sections, throbbing feet first. Another day at work, he thinks, and then his calves awaken and he can barely think for pain. It's always like this. He'll heal, but he won't forget. Always is this the way of things; all healed, none forgotten. A nightmare in pieces.
"Heal," he mumbles. Immediately, he feels the silken magic running through him, nerves and muscles and bones jumping to obey the commands of their savior. He imagines it's green, but that's just silly. Magic is invisible and intangible. It's part of what optimists call soul and realists call void.
Ha. Like he's lived a life in reality.
"Roxas," says a small voice, and he is immediately fully awake. Naminé.
"I'm here," he murmurs. Soft steps, little bare feet on floorboards, and she's in his room. Tears in her eyes. "Did you have a bad dream?"
Naminé nods and pulls herself into bed beside him, burying her face in the faded creases of his loose shirt. "I saw the man again."
Roxas isn't angry; he's past that now. He barely remembers what anger is, anymore – his days are too full for tiresome trivialities like emotion. Naminé, job, Naminé, dinner, Naminé, job, bed. Rearing a child...he didn't sign up for this. But he can't walk away.
"What happened?" He already knows.
"He...he took Mommy and...and Daddy tried, but...and I couldn't open my eyes!" Naminé bursts into another round of small crystal tears, and he doesn't rub his forehead, but he'd like to. He'd like a lot of things, probably. Just because he can't think of them...well. It doesn't matter.
"Shh, it's okay," he lies. It isn't okay. 'The Man' isn't just a nightmare, and he isn't just one. Just one of many. "It was just a dream." Only it wasn't.
But it was a dream, too. "I know."
Dimly, Roxas remembers hating her. She took away his life, his freedom, and his will to live. But he only hated her because his parents weren't around. He doesn't remember loving them. He doesn't think he ever did.
"I should get us some breakfast," he tells her, trying for a soothing tone. He can't tell if he's succeeded, but since she's only shaking and not sobbing, he congratulates himself on a job well done. If there was anybody who cared, they'd call him an idiot. But who cares about anyone? It's too dangerous. Times is hard, or so they say.
He pushes her off gently and reluctantly gets out of bed. Time to start the day. Today he'll hit Market Square, and tonight he'll go to the Chapel. There's always money to be made at the Chapel. Dirty, dishonest money, but if people let themselves be cheated, they deserve it.
Naminé does not know about his night job. She doesn't know about the bruises and pain and blood. She's better than that. Probably. At any rate, six is too young to be introduced to that scene.
"Lux," he whispers, pointing at the ceiling to brighten the room. A useless gesture, really, but on some occasions he slips and falls back into his teachings. You must make the objective clear. You must give the objective focus. Bullshit.
But it's not their fault he was made wrong.
"Roxas, I want pancakes," Naminé says, rubbing her crusty blue eyes. Dammit, she's got conjunctivitis again; that's probably why she said her eyes wouldn't open. He's not precise enough to heal one small body part, and they can't afford eye drops, but he has to do something – he'll have to bet extra tonight, in another form, and hope nobody finds out.
"I'm sorry. We don't have anything to make them," he tells her. It sounds a little short, even to him, but he doesn't know how to rectify the damage which has been done.
"Oh...okay." What luck, to be a child. A dream is just a dream, even if it's a memory. The bumps in the night are monsters. Pancakes are the biggest desire in the mornings. "Can we have mush instead?"
Roxas makes a face, but replies, "Sure." How she stomachs the fake oats is beyond his understanding. But it's cheap, and if she likes it, that means they don't have to spend as much on groceries.
Practicality.
"I'll make you some toast, too. But while I'm cooking you need to get ready for school, okay? Change your clothes, brush your hair and teeth, and wash your face. Make sure to wipe your eyes with a warm cloth."
"Okay," she says again, and leaves the room.
Practicality, he tells himself, and turns to the stove. Despite the sudden urge, he doesn't press his hand to the burner.
Some things make him sick. Some things make him wish he were dead. Sunlight does both, but he can't avoid it. So he endures. He heals, and he casts shadows, and he smiles, because they expect smiles. It's his job.
"I wanna see a – a fire," says one small girl, tugging on her mother's skirt.
"Honey, that's not why we're here," the woman whispers, snow in the wind. It's not exactly as subtle as she thinks, but his ears are better than most. Straightening, and in a stronger voice, she says, "I need a healing spell. My son is..."
He waits for her to finish. When it becomes obvious she's unwilling, or unable, he nods, understanding. The unspoken is that the doctors have given up, and she's too weak to let nature take its course. She can't let him go. As a general rule, civilians hate magic; desperation is the only reason they come to him. Desperation is the only reason he has a job. Perfunctory spellcasting isn't something he's particularly proud of, but it helps pay the bills.
"I don't do home visits," he tells her. Her face falls. "But ya know, I can bottle the spell for you. Its power will be diluted, and it's more expensive, but..."
"It's okay, I'll do it. I can always come back if it's not enough, right?"
He thinks, if he knew how to be compassionate, the heart he doesn't have might 'go out' to her. Whatever that means. "Yeah."
"Then please...I'll give you anything. Just help me."
Desperation is the reason he has a job. Practicality is the reason he keeps it. He doesn't have a place here – he never has – but he has obligations here. He hates his clients and he hates the sunlight and he hates dumbing down his every sentence and acting pleasant and smiling, but he isn't living for himself. He's living for Naminé. She's the only person who's never given him any sort of grief.
Pretending to focus, he brings a jar into existence – a pointless trick, using darkness to transport from his bag to his hand, but it impresses the clients and entertains the children – and closes his eyes. For theatrics. "Heal."
The woman's eyes widen as the ribbon of magic pours into the jar. He used a light illusion spell and painted the magic green, just to assure her that he wasn't giving her an empty jar; he always does it. You can buy invisible magic from the legitimate shop on the other side of town, or you can buy visible magic from the pretty man on Market Street. For most, it's better to be seen talking to a street vendor than to be seen walking into a magic shop.
He closes the lid – not that it's necessary – and hands her the jar. She takes it delicately, as though the jar will break if she grips it tight.
The small girl smiles at him and he notices a small gap between her teeth – she's recently lost one. Her braids are messy and her dress is soiled and she is so unlike Naminé she could be from an alien race. He smiles back. Leaning forward, she asks, "Can I see a fire?"
"Sorry," he says, false apology in his tone. "I'd love to show you, but I don't do fire. I could never control it all that great; unless I'm lighting a fireplace, I shouldn't try in public. Everybody's got limits; that's mine."
Her face falls for only half a second, before she shrugs. "Okay. Well, I bet Mommy couldn't pay for it anyway."
"Emily," the woman hisses. Not meeting his eyes, she asks, "How much do I owe you?"
Her eyes are on her daughter. For a moment, he takes the time to read her; he's never been particularly good at observation, but he was trained well. And being on the streets has given him time to practice. He leans forward and whispers the answer, so 'Emily' won't hear.
"Oh," she says, and then fumbles with her pocketbook. "Oh."
He wonders if this is where he should feel guilty, but it isn't coming. Nothing comes, anymore, except irritation and the thrill of the hunt. She hands him everything she has and brings another three bills out of her cleavage – what an odd place to keep things – and gives him a weak smile. "The magic shop cost three times this much," she says. "You're a life saver."
Somehow, this does not appeal to him. "Glad to be of service."
The mother takes hold of her daughter's hand and begins to pull her away. Over her shoulder, Emily calls, "G'bye, Mr. Magic Man! It's okay about the fire!"
He doesn't smile or wave; he lied to her. Fire is not a strength of his, but he can control it well enough. He just doesn't. In some corner of his mind, it reminds him of something. Something big he must have left behind.
"My, my. Admitting our limits now, are we," someone says. He turns his head to the left. Someone is standing there – a stranger – with an odd look on his face, somewhere between victory and defeat. His hair is a bright, annoying red and his eyes are violent, electric green. His body is entirely too thin to be healthy, and his hips are much larger than anyone would expect on a man, but he is male. If the voice hadn't given him away, his movements would have.
The stranger makes a funny tooking noise with his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "Look at what you've been reduced to, Roxas. Street magic for commoners."
Commoners. That sparks something – he can't grasp it. He doesn't know if he wants to grasp it. Commoners. Limits. The academy? Red hair...ridiculous body...green eyes. Who is this man? It's on the tip of his mental tongue.
"You...didn't memorize me, did you," the man asks – sadly. Oh.
Oh.
"Go away, Axel," he says. "I'm done with you and your kind. I got family to take care of."
He feels vaguely horrified – wow, that's new – at the way he's speaking to Axel. He's never been more unrefined, and Axel knows it's all a lie.
"I seem to remember you saying something else, before."
"Fuck you."
"Yes," Axel says, all vowels and a short z sound playing the part of s. It makes Roxas think of winter mornings and despair. "I miss that."
"I don't," he says shortly. He wishes his old roommate would leave. He has potential clients still, and Axel's taking up precious time. "I barely remember you at all."
The man recoils, like he's been slapped, and then his eyes narrow. "I'm not going to accept that."
"Get used to disappointment then," Roxas retorts. "I have a new life. And potential business you're blocking with your giant pelvis."
Axel considers for several moments before frowning deeply. His eyes soften in a very strange way. "What happened to you, Roxas? What happened to our studies? What happened to ars gratia artis?"
"That was when we were pretentious little boys, Axel. I live in the real world now. In the real world, magic is for killing and for feeding your family. In the real world, there is rent to pay and perpetual fear of your own fucking neighbor. You want dead languages? Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum. I don't have time for ideals."
There's a small sigh. "You...what happened to you? The Roxas I knew would never-"
"You didn't know me," he says, deliberately airy and free. "You projected. Now go away. I'm working."
"I'll come back," Axel informs.
"I'll find a different spot."
"I'll find you again."
"I'll kill you."
Axel blinks stupidly, clearly not expecting that response. He hasn't lived this life. He hasn't lived this war. He hasn't had to teach his young sister emergency spells to keep her safe on the playground. He doesn't belong here.
As if mirroring Roxas' thoughts, Axel says softly, "You don't belong here."
"And I don't belong with you. I never did. You know it was only a matter of time before I dropped you guys."
"If you don't belong with me," he says smoothly, "and you don't belong here...why are you not somewhere else? You were never one to let obligations keep you in situations you didn't like."
"I don't have a place, dumbass. I never did. Now get lost, before I decide to kill two people today."
"You're serious?"
"Does this look like my laughing face?"
Axel sighs. "I suppose...I'll leave you alone. For now. But I'm not letting you go again...not after I've finally found you."
"Go. Away."
Axel goes.
