Hello. Back again. This time with a more...conventional pairing. I got the idea for this fanfiction from the song Two Little Boys by Rolf Harris. I suppose you can call it a song-fic, if you want, but the lyrics are not actually included. Its a sad song though, so you've been warned. Please, enjoy, and review.
Disclaimer: I do not own the song used as inspiration for this fanfiction, nor do i own any of the characters mentioned. Except maybe the random soldiers.
It was a land ravaged by war
It was a land ravaged by war. A few hundred deaths among the soldiers' ranks, per day, were nothing unusual. Cities were often bombed for the simple purpose of testing weapons. Parents were left without their children; children were left to die as orphans. Wildfires raged uncontained through the forests and over the ruins of cities left to crumble. On the battlefields, young boys, no older than eighteen, marched to war, their weapons held level, their eyes betraying none of the fear they felt in the pit of their hearts.
Hundreds would not return to their families.
But, even amongst this turmoil, there was light. In places out of the reach of bombs and soldiers, people lived a comfortable, if frightened, life. Often this was the fate of those who lived in old houses out in the country. They were overlooked, and that was fine for them. Sometimes, being the only house for miles was a good thing.
In one such empty country were two neighboring houses. They were a distance from each other, leaving each house with a respectable amount of acres; however, they were close enough to be companions. There lived two widows with their young sons. Their husbands had been taken by the draft and killed in the war.
Often the two mothers would get together with their sons in one yard or the other. The two boys were content to play with each other as their mothers talked. It was not long before the two were best friends, and spent each day playing with each other. Today was one such day.
The older boy, whose ear-length hair was naturally spiky and very, very red, yelled loudly and ran passed the younger boy, whose short, spiky blond hair went in all directions. Each boy held a stick, topped off with a fake horse head, complete with bridle and mane. They often played with these favorite toys. Sometimes it was racing, but more often than not, they liked to play war.
"Boom! Boom!" The red-head cocked his arm in a gun-like fashion, aiming at his blond friend. The blond squealed and quickly wheeled his stick-horse out of the way of the 'gunfire'. He threw his own arm over his shoulder in a bazooka mimic, and giggled at the way the redhead's eyes widened.
"No fair, Roxas! You can't have a bazooka." He whined. The blond, Roxas, simply grinned.
"Sure I can, Axel. If you can snipe me when I'm not even looking at you, then I can have a bazooka!" He argued. The redhead, Axel, pouted for a second, before a gleam crossed his eyes.
"Ok then, Rox, have it your way. You can keep that bazooka. I'll just do this!" And before the blond could even react, the redhead had thrown himself at his friend. They went down in a flurry of arms, legs, and little wooden horses. They wrestled over the ground, Axel just barely staying dominate. He had a moment of weakness when Roxas leaned up and began tickling his ribs, but he was able to throw the blond off before it got too bad.
But Roxas was not to be deterred, he leapt back at the redhead, and they continued their frantic wrestling. Both boys froze, however, when a loud snap echoed through the air. They crawled away from each other, and stared at one another, each afraid that the other had broken some important bone. It didn't take long for Axel to spot his little stick horse, recognizable because of the red tie around its neck, lying on the ground, head severed from stick.
A strangled cry rose from his throat as the redhead crawled over to his favorite toy. He held the head in one hand, and the stick in another. It was his favorite toy, and now it was broken. Even worse, now he wouldn't have a horse to ride on. How could you play war without a horse to ride on? The redhead bit at his lip, trying to force back the tears in his eyes.
Roxas looked on, clutching his own stick-horse to his chest. He hadn't meant to break it, really. And now Axel was sad, and Axel was never sad. The blond stared at his friend in wonder as the redhead started to bawl.
Roxas glanced down at his own toy horse, at the long stick and hearty bridle. Suddenly an idea came to him, and he grinned. He approached Axel, and held it out.
"Axel! Stop crying, you can share my horse! Theres enough room for two on it." Axel blinked and glanced up at his blond friend through tear stained eyes.
"Really?" He asked, disbelieving. His friend was not known for sharing.
"Yeah! You didn't think I'd just leave you there crying like that, did you? What are you waiting for? Get on!" Roxas beamed at his friend, happy to finally be able to do something for the redhead.
Axel glanced once more at his broken toy, and then his own face broke into a huge grin. He clambered to his feet, broken horse forgotten, and mounted the stick, right behind Roxas. With a delighted laugh, the two galloped around the yard.
"Hey, Roxas?" Axel asked after they had exhausted themselves, and had collapsed among the grasses.
"Yeah?" The blond asked, his eyes half-closed.
"Do ya think we'll remember this…you know, when we're all growed up?"
Roxas turned his head, tired eyes looking at his friend's eager face.
"Sure we will." He assured him.
Days, months, and then years passed by. The war continued. There would be a month or two of peace, and then the two warring countries would collide once again, continuing the cycle of death and destruction.
Axel and Roxas stayed friends through the years, but then Axel turned eighteen almost a full year before Roxas, and was drafted into the army. A year later, after hearing no word from his life-long friend, Roxas, too, was drafted. But the year separated them in rank and station.
Roxas never forgot about his friend, but days began to pass when the thought of Axel would not cross his mind. Often, he was too busy fighting for his life and for his country. Most often the former. In all of those games of war he had played with his friend, nothing had prepared him for this. Death was always there, whether it be some man he didn't know, or a close friend in his own ranking.
He quickly learned to avoid such friendships.
On those occasions that Axel did cross his mind, Roxas found that the only thing he could think was what if he's dead too?
He learned to avoid those thoughts, too.
And so, with nothing to occupy his time, he threw himself whole-heartedly into the fight. He found he wasn't too bad at it, either. He even got to try a bazooka once. Although the force of it had nearly knocked him over.
Perhaps that is how he ended up there, sprawled on the ground. He had gotten too cocky, had started to think that he was different from the others, that he couldn't be killed. He had been engaged in heavy contact with an enemy soldier. He hadn't heard the cannon go off. And he certainly hadn't seen the shrapnel fly.
It struck his enemy first, decapitating the guy, and sending the rest of his body flying. Time slowed down then, and Roxas hardly felt the huge piece of metal that flew into his side, sending him sprawling. The peaceful, painless bliss lasted only seconds.
Soon he was nearly screaming in pain, and every time he moved he could see the blood pour even heavier from his wound. The area squirmed and jerked with pain and rejection. He knew he was dying. How could he possibly be in that much pain, lose that much blood, and live?
There was a small crowd around him, those select few who actually cared that a fellow soldier was in so much pain. He thought he heard the words put him out of his misery, but he wasn't sure. He did know that, if that had been said, he agreed. He wanted to plead with them to shoot him, please. To stop the pain, but he found he couldn't talk. He couldn't even scream any more. All he could do was writhe and wait for the end.
Suddenly, he heard a loud shout cross the distance. And it sounded like his name, although he hardly trusted his judgment at the moment. But then the tiny crowd parted, returning to the fight, and a large chestnut horse, a red tie on his bridle, approached the dying blond.
"Oh, Roxas." It was a sad, familiar voice that spoke, and Roxas found himself turning to see who was upon the horse. It was hard to still, but he forced himself to do so.
"Axel." He said with disbelief. He barely had any time to dwell on it, however, as another spasm wracked his body. "Help me, please." He pleaded, clutching at his side. He could feel the metal still there, cold and hard.
Suddenly he was lifting, and then there was warm fur under him. He reached forward, leaning against the chestnut's lean neck. He felt Axel mount behind him, and a quiet voice was in his ear.
"There's room up here for two, Rox. You said that to me once, remember? I guess it's my turn to return the favor." Axel muttered.
"You remembered." Roxas returned, his voice small. "Why'd you come back for me? This…was my own fault."
"So? Did you think I would just leave you there dying, all by yourself?"
Roxas smiled through the pain, and then lurched forward, grabbing at his side as though he could hold it together. "Axel. It hurts." He cried.
Warm arms tightened around him. "I know, Rox. I know. Roxas, you can go when you want to, you know. Don't endure this longer than you have to."
Roxas turned his head to face his friend, and he saw tears in those violent green eyes. But Axel never cried.
"Thank you…I've missed you, Axel." He muttered.
"I've missed you to, Roxas. Now shh." Came the soft reply.
Roxas smiled, and nodded. And there was no pain as he leaned back into his best friend's arms. No pain, as he felt the horse beneath him rocking, and suddenly he was a boy again, and it was his little stick horse, and there was Axel behind him.
And suddenly they were flying, and the sky was blue, and Axel held onto his little blond friend as the boy let himself go.
Well, I hoped you enjoyed it. Please, read and review. Let me know what you thought.