a/n: This is a mistake. Total error, kids. I meant to do Spaffy's AxelKairi one-shottie, as well as get around to PS and asking people what they wanted for drabbles? And is this either? No, this is a spiel. A spiel that wouldn't leave me alone. Ah, well, whatever. Enjoy.

the weather is changing & breaking my stride

-

-

-

The lights never went out on the street corners, didn't extinguish if he squinted at them and willed them to disappear. He flicked his fingers to his sides, catching at the cheap cotton and pulling it away from his skin, out nearly enough to make it seem like a tent. Like he'd grown tired of filling up both skin and cloth and was retracting back into his bones. Like he was a skeleton—no, wait, a zombie. Much more terrifying and badass than a shambling assemblance of bones.

Roxas, the zombie.

He spread his arms out to the side and inhaled, his eyes peeling back against the curve of his eye sockets. It felt kind of stupid and kind of great…like being little all over again.

But he'd stopped that a long time ago. Packed away his childhood and exchanged it for almost-adulthood, which sucked. He didn't want to be an adult. He didn't want to slog through his father's nine-to-five, knock up some girl and pay for his bouncing baby brats to push people over in the hallways and steal other kids' lunch money. It was totally fine because he wasn't the only one who wanted it— Naminé wanted it just as much and almost as bad. She didn't want to grow up, either—cut her hair off and stop painting and wear pinstripes in a way that wasn't ironic. Irony's dead, said Naminé's brother, but they were zombies, so weren't they allowed to use it anyways, in terms of clothing and speech?

Upper crust, bitches! thought Roxas smugly as he nudged the overflowing trashcan with his foot. It fell over, emptying Bud Lites and prepackaged salami into the street.

"I can't commit to anything, be it heart or hospital." Roxas muttered to the concrete rotating under his feet. Or, it seemed like it was rotating. That could've been the weed. He'd never actually smoked it, but Nam had turned up on his doorstep with a shitty report card and a better bag of cannabis. They lit some of it on fire in his backyard before they decided to steal a bong from her brother, who was, like, the Crown prince of Cannabis at his community college.

"You stole that shit from Patrick Stump." Naminé said idly, uncapping the overpriced bottle of nail polish she'd shoplifted from CVS. It was a murky violet, and she sniffed at it hesitantly before layering it on her toenails. "I hope he sues you and kills your baby."

"You're my baby." Roxas cooed. He stretched his fingers towards the slice of skin beneath her tank top and her shorts; she giggled, brushing his hands away. In the shadows, he could see slivers of her hair reflecting off of the streetlights. It shone orange in the bad lighting, and he informed her, "Your hair's orange. Like, um." He tried to assemble his mind and birth something original and fantastic. "Cheap orange juice."

Naminé looked thoughtful. "Tropicana or Sunny D?"

"Tropicana."

"Fuck, man!" She laughed, falling onto her back. Her hair—yellow in the sun, white in focal point of winter, orange under the night—spread around her head, like an unhealthy halo. Her eyes were bloodshot and cracked, the irises standing out like the marbles he used to collect when he was a kid. Blue marbles, unlike the ocean or the sea breeze or bluebirds. Like balls of wax, manufactured by Crayola on a gutless assembly line.

She was a different kind of beautiful.

"I'm high." Roxas told her. He edged his hand through her hair—thin strands like a baby's. Clean. It smelled like cheap shampoo, bought from Ocean State Job Lot. Plastic strawberries and cotton-ball kiwis. "I'm totally high."

"I know." Naminé grinned. She picked herself up off of the lawn and pressed her nose to Roxas's—Roxas, who she loved like a sibling, like he was a part of her. Love you, Roxas. (with all my little dyke heart)—and said it fast, like someone was watching and counting down the seconds until they'd cause them both to implode. "I know."

[x]

They were angels, or something like it. Or a one-act play, one of those things that Naminé read out loud to him in her backyard about feminist empowerment and socking it to the man and other things he probably had to have ovaries and a uterus to understand.

They were like different stories rushing together. Naminé could be Cinderella with jeans and a ratty t-shirt, sweeping her way up to Prince Charming (or Roxas, whichever one she was in the mood for) with her wit and her weed. Except nobody ever knew who prince Charming was—good-looking, loaded, and pretentious, maybe. Roxas was two out of three.

Except his precious princess was a flannel-wearing dyke whose brother sold her marijuana and made "modern art" (or Some Trippy Shit, which is what Roxas called it) in the local art studio a couple of miles over. She drew pictures of naked women and liked to beat Roxas senseless with her talk about feminism and sexuality and (gag) Larxene.

Larxene, who was some trailer-trash-hippie-bitch that he'd never met. Larxene, who probably didn't shave and talked like she hated men but secretly gave blowjobs to passing pedestrians and fellow classmates. Larxene, who was "just gorgeous, Rox, I think you'd really like her" and who he didn't want to meet at all.

Meet her in order to kill her, sure. But it didn't go far beyond that.

Larxene the beautiful. Larxene the talented. "She's just so natural, you know?" Nam gushed over the phone. He could hear her scraping away at something in the background; probably a canvas. Making a picture of the lovely Larxene, who was probably some masculine girl with a voice like a bad set of speakers. Probably wore hiking boots. Shit, Roxas wore hiking boots (sometimes).

They're sitting outside again. This time, it's by the school's utterly pointless brick wall. Naminé looks at him and says nonchalantly, "There's this rave tonight."

"Yeah?" Roxas hates raves. Too much contact, too much heat. He'd gone to a rave with Kairi and Sora and woken up in the backseat of Kairi's Vegan-Mobile with his jeans unzipped and a tablet of E glued to what little chest hair he possessed. Never again.

(But he'd go if she asked him)

She nods. "Yeah." Biting into her hummus and falafel, she adds, "Larxene told me about it. It's gonna be totally killer, Rox, you should show up."

NO, he thought, and he smiled. Larxene's raves were the very-very-gay ones, where everyone was homosexual or bisexual or transsexual, and straight people were definitely a minority. They'd probably try to rip off his clothes and make him sing Boy George when his back was turned. "Don't think so."

"Whatever." Nam shrugged, because that what she did—she was so mellow and easy-going and passive and---fuck, he hated her sometimes (or thought he did).

[x]

But he shows up anyways. Naminé is doing that closed-off thing that she does when she's pissed; her lips pleat themselves into a line and the veins in her translucent forehead start to protrude slightly. Her eyes close the curtains on her baby blues, and her voice is pitched one octave higher as she says, "Punctual as always, Roxy. Let's go in, okay?"

And he's worse than stupid because he asks, "Where's your butch buddy?"

"Elsewhere." she snaps, and grabs his wrist, tugging him inside.

The dance hall's lit up with strobes and garlands of glow-sticks strung up on the wall. There's a transvestite that he vaguely remembers meeting at Naminé's Sugar Gay Sweet Sixteen messing with the turntables and playing a cracked-out techno-version of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, occasionally taking breaks to scream something into the sweaty crowd. It's either "Gay pride" or "Get laid"—both of which don't concern Roxas in the slightest. He keeps close to Naminé, a cautionary hand on her hip as she flits around and greets people.

It is here that Roxas realizes that he's seen the majority of these ravaging rave-heads at least once; there's Sora, who he vaguely remembers bragging in the locker room about having "seriously scored" over the school's last vocational break. Everyone had assumed it was Kairi—however, Sora's "scoring" also seemed to include his best friend, who managed to keep a hand down the brunet's jeans while muttering lyrics under his breath.

Zexion, resident nerd and all-around snitch, straddling the co-captain of the lacrosse team. He was certainly dolled up—the Oxford shirts and argyle sweaters eschewed for leather and something that appeared to be a cowboy hat. Roxas laughed right into Naminé's ear; it was like Brokeback Mountain meets I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry. The two of them swiveled past a crowd of boho-beatnik lesbians demanding that the DJ put on some Ani Difranco (Olette was one of them; she shot him a nervous, deer in the headlights look of I'm-totally-lez-don't-tell-my-mom before smiling triumphantly at him and turning back around) and made their way over to a corner where it was somewhat quiet.

"You want?" she asked, holding out a cigarette. She stuck it between her lips, smearing lipstick over the paper and cocked an eyebrow.

Because he wants her to think he's at least some semblance of cool and totally whatever about everything he says, "Yeah, okay" and leans forward to accept the passage of smoke into his mouth. It's not sexy or cultured or anything—it's actually pretty fucking gross, but he supposes that Naminé needs to look cool in front of this little collection of the very gay and the very confident.

But then she presses forward to press her lips to his, and it's all over, the curtain closing down.

[x]

Roxas doesn't know what scary is until he finds out he's fucked his best friend.

He faintly remembers the rave from last night, being offered cigarettes and E by Naminé and her host of dyke pals, and music by the Culture Club. He remembers Naminé offering to drive them back home and being unable to successfully operate the car without dropping the keys into his lap.

He does not, however, remember fucking his best friend in her car. Trauma has a way of blocking this, of which Roxas is extremely grateful for.

He's sneaking his way out of the car when she wakes up and catches him with his foot up and over the door. She looks at him, tired and blonde and beautiful and everything he used to want. Blows a strand of hair out of her sight and says, "Good morning to you too, baby."

There is nothing to say. I'm sorry I fucked you. Did I tell you I loved you? There is nothing to say.

He says, "Get back together with your dyke."

She scowls and leans over the door, her breasts all but spilling out of her bra. Two weeks ago, he would've looked and she would've teased him about it. Two weeks ago, he would've threatened to grope her. But not now. Everything is so achingly, achingly different now.

Her lipstick is smeared on the side of her cheek as she snorts, "Whatever, man."

Whatever, man. She's such a fake-phony-liar-bitch. But he kind of loves her and doesn't want just sympathetic-sex from her while she pictures Larxene's face in her mind or something. He's not that far gone yet. He bites his lip and offers, "I don't remember anything. Was it that bad?"

Naminé looks at him with disgust. Whatever, man. (She probably doesn't remember anything either).

And because he loves her enough to die and scatter his pieces to the wind, or something hideously poetic, he bites, "I can't believe we did it in your car. That is so fucking lame. Did you do your precious Larxene in your car, too? Rut next to the steering wheel?" Her eyes are watering up from the sting of his words, and he proceeds. "Under the seats? Shit, on top of the cars? Whoa, Nam—would you like an award for that? Huh? Huh?"

She looks at him like he's something she's stepped in. "Fuck you, princess." She fiddles with the keys and urges the car to start up, driving one-handed into the distance.

"Slut!" he calls after her, because he can.

She flips him off; the gentle arc of a manicured nail in the hazy sunlight.

[x]

"You look like you just got your ass dumped." The man next to him said cheerfully. He lit up a rolled paper strip of something-or-the-other and drew in deeply, his eyes trained on the ceiling of the dance hall.

Roxas shrugged. "She's gay."

"Oh, ouch." The man winced as if he felt sorry for him, but the smile still remained. "A Sapphist of the highest degree, huh? A lesbitarian who graduated cum laude? You poor schmuck." He laughs, far too loudly, and reaches out to Roxas. He shies away like the other man's a leper and counters, "Thought you had weed?"

"I've got something better."

Roxas eyes him warily and straightens, mouth pulled into a frown. "You pull that shit out and I'll cut it off."

The man looks amused and rummages in his jacket for some spare hash that he probably hasn't even got—and then he stops, looks Roxas in the eye and says, "You ever wanted something really badly?"

What the hell? "I guess."

"What was it?"

Roxas scowls and backs away. "None of your business." He turns his back and saunters away, thumbing his phone in his pocket. Naminé definitely isn't going to come pick him up from wherever the hell she went. His mom's still out in Cairo, fucking men and arranging business corporations to meet each other. And pathetic as it is, he doesn't really know anyone at school but Nam. Yeah, the kids from the rave—but in passing, and they were long gone, taking their drugs and dance moves with them. Oh, yeah; Nam's brother. He could call him. "Hey, I'm stranded, 'cause I called your sister a slut and she left. Come pick me up?" Yeah, sure.

The man was scrambling after him, his cherry-colored Doc Martens flapping in the breeze. "What if I gave you everything you've ever wanted?" he shouts, and Roxas cringes. Um, no. he doesn't really want anything from this cracked-out pseudo-hobo slash pusher slash whatever he is. Except for the cannabis, and the man didn't even have that. Or, you know, leftover E or something. The man was totally cleaned out; how useless.

A ride home was everything he'd wanted right now. A ride home. But the guy'd probably grope him in his car and steal his Precious Gift. Either that or murder him, like that guy in Milwaukee.

He calls Demyx.

"Everything and anything!" the guy screeched as Roxas dialed the number and waited for Naminé's brother to pick up on the other end. "C'mon, whaddya want?"

"To get home." Roxas told him. He was a little pissed off, and a lot more tired. He'd screwed over his best friend and the Crazy Guy had no drugs to offer him. He was so done with this scene. "To make up with my friend. To graduate with at least five brain cells not deleted from the pot. To, I don't know, be fucking awesome." Uh, okay. How uncool was that?

The man shook his head as Demyx (finally) picked up, gracing the blonde's ears with a sleepy, "H'lo?". He persisted, "But what do you need?"

"Hey, Demyx, it's Roxas. Can you come pick me up?" He covered the receiver and shouted, "What are you, my fairy godmother?"

"Something like that."

"Roxy? Where're you? Oh, wait, you're by the rave, right? Uh. Sure. Five minutes, top. That good for you?"

"Yeah, okay." He said into the phone, before turning to the useless I-have-no-weed-but-I'll-randomly-grant-wishes man. Roxas looked him over; youngish, oldish, cracked-out and bloodshot eyes. Most likely clinically insane and hiding a machete in his Doc Martens. "All you need is love." He sang to him, smirking. "Love, love, love. Love is all you need."

The man blinked rapidly, his strides quickening as he stepped out of his too-large shoes and patted Roxas's cheek. The boy tried not to recoil; he smelled like sweat and dirt. And hand-sanitizer. It's not working, buddy.

In his socks in the middle of nowhere, the man patted Roxas's cheek and said sympathetically, "Boy, you're in for a whole heap of trouble."

a/n: Lyrical credit to The Beatles, Tegan and Sara, etc. You're so far down, why not just review?