A/N: ANOTHER old fic. Getting tired of putting this up... but anyways, enjoy. This may be a little more of a sensitive topic to some readers - prepare yourself for it. But as always, enjoy! RxR please.
Inspired by the prompt below, and "The Man Who Can't Be Moved" by The Script.
I just want you to know that you're very special and the only reason I'm telling you is that I don't know if anyone else ever has. - The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Irreplaceable
The stranger was like the rain, coming into Roxas's life that day with little warning or preparation. He had been walking home – his umbrella missing from his hands, for the summer day was supposed to have been sweltering, just like the past few days had been. All he had had for protection was a musty old windbreaker which had been buried in his locker for the last few weeks for some odd reason. As he scurried along emptied boulevards in an attempt to make it home without getting himself ridiculously sick, that was when he saw the stranger.
The man was huddled upon the corner of a busy street, hidden amok sales signs of the coffee shop he sat before. In fact, if it wasn't for his guitar, the fact that he was desperately trying to figure out a way to stay dry while continue playing beside that intersection, and his ridiculously bright red hair, Roxas would have never even seen him. No one else seemed to see the man, after all, continuing on with their daily lives without so much as a second glance at the crimson-headed figure.
But Roxas did – he saw the pitiful figure huddled underneath the awning of the coffee shop upon the corner, arms clutched around his guitar like his life depended upon it, like he would breakapartfalltopiecesdie if he was separated from it. It broke the boy's heart, seeing such turmoil upon this man's face, but after a moment, he resolved to forget it.
He didn't have time to pity others. He had enough to worry about himself.
There was always too much to think about for Roxas. Why he was there, why he even existed, why he was born to such a grand world when he was nothing but a failure and a deadbeat and a pathetic excuse of a human being. He had far too many topics to think about, in fact.
And yet, as he crossed the intersection and continued on his way home, the man's face refused to leave his mind. It was as if he was pleading to Roxas, to come back, to make things right.
But no one helps strangers. That was nothing but a lie, constructed by society in order to keep up the false pretenses of peace and comfort in their cities. After all, when he himself had been crawling through the streets in the dead of night with a bloodied face and a broken heart, no one had reached out to him. It had burned, seeing everyone turn away without a second thought – but that was what the world was like. No matter how many times he was put down, no one ever came to save the day. No one looked out for others.
Just like no one looked out for him.
For whatever reason, however, just as the sun began to set, he splashed his way through the still empty, waterlogged streets all the way to the corner where the man sat. It was still raining, the thick droplets pounding upon his umbrella mercilessly and the biting wind threatening to pull the hood of his raincoat off of his head. He walked and walked, stumbling here and there, but finally, he made it to his destination.
He was still there, arms forlornly wrapped around the guitar still underneath that same awning of the coffee shop. His lips with bitten red and raw from anxiety, clashing with cheeks – they were pale, ghastly so, with his vibrant red hair matted against his face with the fall of rain, large, nervous emerald eyes darting around in defeat. His long, black leather overcoat resisted the rain, drops of water rolling down his body even though the inside of the coat was dark and waterlogged, large black combat boots visible underneath. He was handsome, Roxas thought absentmindedly – attractive in a broken way, in a way that screamed maybe if life wasn't such a bitch-
Unlike Roxas. He was pretty. He had always known it.
But that was his ugliest, most despicable trait – to be pretty.
It was hard to say what had compelled him to do so, but he walked up to the stranger. Roxas didn't have any reason to – there was no relation between the two of them. He had never even seen the man before in his life, nor did he really have any desire to do so, he couldn't meet anyone new - Roxas was different, someone everyone in the world was sick of being near – strangeness and weirdness and shameburningeverywhere until he couldn't even breathe.
He laughed bitterly, sounding more like a bark that a true laugh. He was so, so sick of being considered strange.
But when he walked right past the seated man into the coffee shop, only to reappear a few minutes later, his actions surprised them both. He didn't really know why he held out the cup of hot chocolate to the man, before placing his umbrella and that musty old windbreaker he had brought with him upon the table to his right. He didn't know why he sent him that sweet smile, or how he even had the courage to say, "What are you doing here?"
Nervously, the man slipped on the windbreaker before answering his question. "Waiting."
It certainly wasn't what the boy had been expecting, but before Roxas could dig any deeper the man added, "If you see him-" he pulled out a photograph from his pocket, flashing the picture of a handsome, tender young man with a wry, lopsided smile and blue, calm eyes, "-could you tell him where I am? That I'm waiting here?" His thumb moved slightly, revealing the rest of the photograph – the man himself, the blue-haired man's arm wrapped around the redhead's shoulders as he leaned into the other's touch.
But was it the same man before him today? He had looked so happy back then, but now, with his hunched shoulders and sighing eyes, Roxas knew that this wasn't that same man anymore.
"I will." It was a lie, but there wasn't any way that he could break the man's heart anymore. He was sitting there, underneath the awning of that shop for hours on end, for a reason. Roxas had no right to say anything – in a way, after whatever had transpired between the person in the photograph and this broken excuse for a man, he was still stronger than Roxas was. At least he was fighting to get what he lost, back.
When his feet carried him past the coffee shop the next morning on the way to school, the man was still there. His body was curled against the wall, face buried in the hood of the windbreaker and leather coat and the strap of the guitar case wrapped around his body to alert him of thieves. It wasn't raining anymore, though – so, as Roxas's footsteps plodded on by among the puddles, the splashing startled the resting man into wakefulness.
"I didn't see him," he murmured quietly, pausing beside the prone figure for a moment. "Sorry."
The redhead let out a shaky laugh. "I know," he murmured, turning his head to look up at the streetlamp on their right. "I know."
Roxas didn't question him, but a part of him didn't want to leave. So, the boy continued standing there, watching the stranger sit and stare at the photograph in large, bony hands.
The wind was cold, blowing past him, snaking its fingers underneath the hem of his slightly wrinkled jacket and in the collar of his school uniform. Clearly, the man could feel it more than he, despite the layers – he shivered violently as a particularly strong gust blew.
But this was a stranger. So, Roxas walked away. School was starting soon. Although why he cared, he didn't really know.
However, as he began to plod down the road once more, a voice called, "Thank you!"
He spun around on his heel, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glittering in shock and confusion. Did someone just… thank him?
No, he thought weakly, his heart crumbling in the blink of an eye, no, this isn't right, people don't show gratitude or help or act kind or say things like 'thank you' to people who shouldn't exist-
"For the hot chocolate!" the other explained sheepishly. "It was good."
But Roxas didn't answer – he was too caught up in simply getting away from that corner, away from that man, who had unknowingly placed the boy in a position of equality. And as much as Roxas had enjoyed it, he knew that he didn't deserve it, and he needed to leave.
The door leading to his homeroom was only three feet away – three feet, and yet, it might as well have been miles for Roxas. After all, those three feet were just enough to begin another day of torture.
The taller boy before him smirked as he stepped forward, grabbing the frightened one boy the collar. "So, why'd you come today, chickenwuss?" he hissed, the others behind him cackling in amusement.
Roxas closed his eyes, steadying his breathing, screaming inside because he was okay, he would be okay, it was all okayokayokay but then a fist landed upon his cheek and he knew he wasn't okay after all. The blow stung, sending him reeling against the whitewashed walls of the corridor, the back of his head colliding painfully with the bottom of a corkboard which had been situated right behind him.
Seifer guffawed at the younger boy's pain as tears spilled out of his scrunched-up eyes. "Aw, I think the little prick is hurt," he called, sending the boys into mocking, uproarious laughter as they watched the smaller boy crouch down and hold the back of his head in his pretty, dainty little hands. "Should we make him feel better?"
The rest sort of numbed out in Roxas's mind – after all, everything just started to feel like fire after a while (except for when the dragged him down the hall to the boy's bathroom, that was more uncomfortable than anything) and he no longer really cared what they did to him. It wasn't like any of the teachers or students would ever say anything about the abuse he suffered.
It took twelve minutes altogether – definitely shorter that day – for Seifer to finally stand straight, shove his hands in his pockets, spit on the boy's face and admire his handiwork. "We did good today," he sniggered, bumping fists with the other three boys who had participated in this session. "See you, lamer."
After a few moments, Roxas was left to the darkness of the empty bathroom, the automated lights switching off at the lack of movement, and he embraced the cool tile upon his cheek and the whirring of the air conditioner above. It was cold, oh so blissfully coldcoldcold and he didn't have to think anymore. Because thinking hurt. Thinking involved… thinking.
And thinking lead to realizations, and realizations led to understanding why he was currently face down upon the bathroom floor of his school dingy bathroom, his body sprawled out with a fire running through everything. Thinking led to recognizing that while he could still move his fingers and toes, his body underneath the uniform must be completely and utterly wracked with bruises, but not his face, which was free of anything but tearstains.
They never touched his face. Apparently, Roxas's 'boyfriend' would get sad if his 'pretty little face' was hurt.
But that was the whole problem. Roxas didn't have a boyfriend. It didn't matter whether he wanted one or not – Seifer had never had any opportunity to find out. Never had there been a real boy in his life, just fleeting attractions – what was the bully basing his abuse on?
And why did it matter so much? Every punch, kick, blow to his body battered his soul, his very self. Was it so wrong to just… to be who he was?
It was just because he was pretty.
He staggered home that day right after getting up out of the bathroom. Class didn't really matter that much to him anyways – he didn't even know why he went anymore. It wouldn't hurt if he left early to tend his wounds at home.
The man was still there, at the street corner in front of the coffee shop. The skies had cleared just a little bit more than they had been that morning, no longer that deep, rumbling, threatening murky grey which had loomed overhead since its unexpected arrival.
The guitar was in his hands, Roxas found. It was strange, seeing him pluck the fingers with surprising skill. However, the melody was quickly lost upon him as the throbbing in his side seemed to intensify, his very bones protesting the act of moving. Everything seemed swollen underneath his shirt and all he wanted to do was just sleep, close his eyes right upon the corner of the road and rest there for eternity.
His mind had wandered, and with it, his concentration – the next thing he knew, large, rough, bony hands were yanking him with considerable force to the side, causing them both to stumble upon the pavement below. Honking, probably from the semi truck which sped down the street where the boy had once occupied, echoed loud and clear down the street. A wince crossed his features as he felt the impact resound in his older bruises, new scratches opening to litter his palms.
His eyes drifted upwards, up towards the man from the corner, who was slowly getting up – he was a lot taller than him, Roxas realized as the towering figure rose above him – the man's face contorting as the other examined the small wounds upon his hands inflicted from the fall. However, those soon became the least of his worries as he spun to glare at Roxas, who flinched visibly underneath the sudden hostility.
The man's eyes softened immediately, seeing how the shorter bowed his head submissively, awaiting some form of reprimand. Roxas bit his lip, waiting for the blow that didn't come. Instead, he felt lanky, slightly damp arms circle around his torso.
"Stupid boy," the man muttered, squeezing him so tightly that Roxas could feel the tremors running through his body at last. "Standing in the middle of the streets like that. What were you thinking? What is a kid like you doing out of school, anyway?"
But Roxas wasn't focusing upon his words – no, there was too much going on by that point. The first and foremost being, he hadn't been held in a long, long time.
It felt good to have someone by his side again, if only for a little while.
At last, Roxas was pulled to his feet and brought to the man's little spot beside the coffee shop upon the corner, the man sitting him down. Shoving hands into his pocket, the man withdrew one, handing the photograph Roxas had seen earlier to the boy. "I'll be back," the taller stated firmly before shuffling into the shop.
When he returned, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand, Roxas was already in tears – not because of the fact that he was hurting from all the wounds, but because what had just occurred had finally sunken in.
Why didn't he just let me get run over? Spitefully, the boy glared at the man, ignoring the offered drink in his hand. "Why?" His words were full of hatred, full of anger – after all, why had he saved him, when it would have been better for everyone if he had just put him out of his misery?
Instantly, the man understood the message, his eyes moving to the right of the shop sadly. Roxas followed the acid green gaze to the wooden post, eyes rounding in surprise as he saw the small cross which was leaning against it, bouquets of white, mournful flowers and little remembrance letters sodden by rain placed all around them. The petals floated in the puddles, drifting away, taking a piece of the victim with each of them.
The picture on the centre of the cross was a copy of the same one the man had shown him the day before, the same photograph which rested within his hand.
Realization was like a lightning bolt – swift and strong and sure, coming out of the darkness without warning, followed by the rumblings of guilt and understanding. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
The man looked down into his eyes, smiling sadly. No words were spoken between the two, as he silently hugged the guitar to his chest, crimson hair tangled and a complete mess around his face, sleeves dripping underneath the windbreaker.
But then the rain began to quietly pour down once more from the heavens, and Roxas stood and held out his hand for the larger man to take. And when the man did, in fact, hold on to him, large hand suddenly small and cold and frail and scared – it surprised them both. And, without a word, the two began to stumble through the rain once more, the man holding the umbrella Roxas had lent him the day before, the smaller of the two in turn carrying the guitar.
They didn't really talk on the way to his home. He was older than Roxas, it was obvious – there was a strangely exotic maturity that the man carried around himself like a cloak, something that made Roxas's shoulders straighten and his strides to lengthen just a little bit in order to be allowed to walk beside this flame-haired figure.
