grapefruit theories.
An epilogue of sorts to a story that has no end. — A Roxas-centric ficlet.
Author's note: I really have no idea what this is. I guess it's just an attempt to get back into the writing swing. Or whatever.
i.
It happened in Spring some years ago on his first day at school. It was possibly the most beautiful day he'd ever remembered – the clouds above had been awash with the purest golden light and a sliver of pale crescent moon could still be distinguishable in the blue sky. Some pretty little flaxen-haired girl that he'd never set eyes on before in his life had yelled out his name from the netball courts that skirted the campus grounds. This was maybe seven or eight years ago, he can't be sure now. But at that time, when he'd heard his name being pronounced with such energy and spirit and maybe something like limitless relief in a voice that he thought couldn't ever sound any sweeter, he realised that life as he knew it was about to change significantly and erupt like fireworks.
He supposed he missed looking into hollow, haunted eyes and sharing little secretive smiles with someone a little too much.
ii.
He was around thirteen when he remembered being pulled aside by the gaunt woman in the skimpy black dress. He'd been dragged around the corner and into a dark, besmirched alley with vivid graffiti on every vertical surface. The woman had a high-pitched laugh that made his ears hurt, and made him remember the days where he used to hide under his bedcovers as thunderstorms ripped through the night.
"You don't think you could spare me a light, now, could you, kid?"
Roxas, eyes wide with wonder and a little bit of fear, had only blinked back wordlessly.
Her eyes had narrowed at his silence. "Tch. You're not useful at all." Her remark was disdainful. He vaguely remembered she had been restlessly twisting the hem of her short dress into knots with her hands. "You never have been."
She had left immediately after that, right after tucking a five dollar bill into the front pocket of his high school uniform and slipping an unlit cigarette between his slackened lips. He watched her sashay out of the alley and into blinding daylight.
It took him awhile to spit out the cigarette – it wasn't his habit to keep. It took him awhile to realise that he could almost feel some sort of electrifying thrill surge through his veins. He figured that if that had been the lady's way of saying hello, you're real, you're doing okay, goodbye now, then he was perfectly alright with it. He just wished he'd been able to say something to her.
He bought two ice lollies with the money. One for him, one for Naminé.
iii.
He was maybe a few weeks into fourteen when he slipped and fell and cut his right knee in winter. This was outside the bakery. There was blood everywhere on the stone pavement. The old man walking directly behind him had helped him up. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the old man was living it rough on the streets.
"Didn't your parents ever tell you to tread lightly on icy streets in deep winter?" the man grumbled.
Roxas shrugged, then winced as his knee poured blood. "I don't have parents."
The old man blinked and looked hard at the boy.
"They died a day after I was born," Roxas explained.
"Tch. Pity."
Roxas smiled blandly. "It's not so bad. I've gotten used to not having a mom and dad."
The old man shook his head, then looked down. "You better get that cleaned and wrapped, boy."
"Yeah, probably."
"Learn to stay out of trouble."
"I don't go looking for it."
"Make sure it doesn't find you, then."
"Right. Thanks. Stay cool, man."
The old man made a non-committal noise at the back of his throat and began to walk away. "Always cool," he threw over his shoulder with a casual wave.
iv.
Fifteen years old. Roxas, decked out in his white-blue uniform, took a detour to high school one overcast day, through the dusty, trash-littered backstreets of September Alley, also known to many as Punk's Curb.
He passed a group of black-clad youths sitting at the skate park across the narrow street. Many sported crazy haircuts and clutched at skateboards or scooted around on bikes. These were the drop-outs. Skinny-jeaned teenage emos and druggies who had nothing better to do but to while away the time by making September Alley their home.
And then, out of the blue, he heard someone call out to him—a youthful "Hey!" from a guy a distance away who was sitting with a group of his friends at the edge of the skate bowl on the far end. He was probably a couple years older than Roxas and had sandy blond hair.
Roxas contemplated ignoring the guy and continuing along his way. But after a moment's hesitation, he stepped in the direction of the skate park and approached the group cautiously.
The one who'd called out to him stood up eagerly as soon as Roxas wandered in as close as he dared. With a crooked grin that was sincere and friendly, but also slightly guarded, the guy walked up to him and cocked his head to one side, regarding Roxas.
Finally, after a moment, he nodded decisively as though Roxas had passed some unspoken test. "You a fan?" he asked the shorter blond, holding out a skateboard he'd been carrying.
Roxas shook his head, feeling too nervous to speak.
The guy's face fell. "Not at all?" he asked incredulously.
"Never touched one in – in my life."
"Oh. Well… know any tricks anyway?"
"… Maybe," Roxas said, then paused for a moment as he eyed the skateboard in the guy's outstretched hand almost gaugingly. "Probably," he finally murmured.
"Gnarly."
Five minutes of simple tricks later and Roxas was rewarded with a small bruise to his arm where he fell once, and a strange smile on his face that he couldn't quite explain.
Upon returning the skateboard to its owner, Roxas found the need to ask a question.
"Sorry. You got a name?"
"It's Demyx."
"Demyx? That how you say it? Weird name," he commented.
Demyx grinned back. "I know."
"I'm, uh, Roxas."
"Possibly the coolest name I've heard in awhile."
"Thanks?"
"Wanna meet my brother? He usually comes around here at this time of the day."
"Um, I'd love to but I've gotta get to school before the first bell."
"You sure? I reckon you'd like my bro. Or rather, he'd like you. He likes the short, serious, quiet ones. You fit the bill."
Roxas was amused. "Is he as open and friendly as you?"
"Only to the people he likes."
"He got a name?"
Demyx shrugged. "He goes by many names. But his favourite's—"
"Zexion. Thank you very much, Dem."
Roxas turned to someone standing directly behind him. He wondered how he could have missed the guy's presence before. This newcomer—Zexion—looked for all the world like your average soft-spoken, undersized modern-day emo, complete with a scene haircut and dark clothes.
Zexion looked curiously over at Roxas. Then back at Demyx. "Where'd this kid come from?"
"Dunno. He wandered onto our street. Called out to him and he came over for a nice little chat. He said he'd love to hang with us for the rest of the day."
"Did not," Roxas muttered.
Demyx beamed. "You so totally did."
Zexion frowned. "Dem, he's wearing a school uniform. He's obviously on his way to Saint Stephen's."
"He plans to ditch school in favour of us."
Roxas looked alarmed now. He'd promised Naminé that he'd meet her at the canteen before first period. "Um, I don't think that's such a good idea. I mean, I don't even know you guys and I don't really fit in at all and I think I should really just leav—"
"HELLO, SEPT ALLEY PUNKS," a loud voice yelled out from somewhere to their right. "Effin' beautiful day, innit?" This was followed by a scraping of skateboard wheels on gravel and all of a sudden, there was an arm slung over Roxas' shoulder. "So who's this new kid? Dude's got the bluest eyes I've ever seen."
A few seconds passed in startled silence.
Roxas looked at the person who'd just invaded his personal space, blinked wordlessly and then sighed at Demyx, his mind all made up. "Okay. Right. You win. Guess I'll stay."
Demyx grinned. "Knew you'd see it my way, Rox."
Zexion gave Roxas a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry, Roxas. Not all of us are as insane as Demyx and Sora here."
