A/N: This is because I just can't leave Eight Weeks alone. I've constantly been thinking about it. There's so much more that I want said, but just wouldn't go together with the particular writing style or what Eight Weeks was supposed to revolve around, so I've continued on.

This is such a bad idea.

So yeah, if you're good without a sequel, great. This is mainly for my own peace of mind.

Inspi'song: Vinyl Scratch by: Kuroda


Preordained


The camera jerks at first, its microphone picking up the boy's fumbling fingers as he adjusts the lens to focus on him. He isn't quite centered, but off to the side a little, and his bed is visible behind him from where he's sitting on the floor. He's serious, fidgety, but it's something other than nerves...something closer to fear. He leans away from the camera and frowns. He pulls at the band on his wrist. He scratches the back of his head before rubbing his neck a bit. He has to be younger than ten years old.

"Um. I don't know how I'm supposed to do this."

He pulls his knees up to his chest, burying his face into his jeans and threading his fingers through his hair before curling his hands into fists on his scalp. His shoulders shake, hardly noticeable, but enough to give him away. His breath quivers, and he inhales deeper, trying to calm himself. He remains like this, forgetting that the camera's still on, until the video's six minutes into the blank tape. He's whispering into his palms now, barely audible, and if anyone who reviewed the contents turned the volume up, they would be able to catch what he's saying after a few repetitions.

"I'm going to die. God, I can't do this. I'm going to die. This isn't right. I'm going to die. What do I tell Demyx? I'm going to die."


Axel woke to the sound of his apartment buzzer early Friday morning. For a man whose weekends started with Friday and pulled a twelve hour shift the night before, this was reasonably unacceptable. The only strategic plan of action that came to his still fuzzy mind was to ignore the now frantic buzzing that was echoing through his sparingly furnished quarters. Then came the voice.

"God-fucking-dammit, Axel, get up!" Demyx. This instantly gave Axel every reason not to hold back his rage the next time he got his hands on the man. Demyx had been Axel's roommate all through their university years, and he knew the redhead better than anyone else, leading one to conclude that he knew better than to rouse the snoozing beanpole at the ungodly time of (Axel glanced grudgingly at his alarm clock) seven forty-two in the morning. As Axel rolled out of bed, he was momentarily concerned. Demyx was suicidal. Had his librarian boyfriend dumped him? Nothing, absolutely nothing, was important enough to wake the sleeping giant before he meant to on the weekend, whether it was Friday or no. Axel hit the buzzer with a vengeance.

"This better be good."

"No, no, it's not good! I mean, it might be for some people, but I don't know what you'll think, but you definitely have to see this, so please, please let me in without mauling my face off."

"It's too early in the morning for me to be intrigued. Come back when I wake up. Should be, I dunno, never."

"It's about Roxas!" Beneath Axel's apartment by three floors, Demyx held his breath, his bright eyes squeezed shut, and hoping it was a day where any mentioning of the blond would be forgivable.

"...The door's unlocked."