Come-Back Kid

by nicayal

Roxas is the definition of blessed. He's got fame and fortune as a pop star sensation, not to mention the adoration of millions. As his latest tour winds down on the lead-up to Christmas, he's ready to go home. But it's not a Malibu mansion he's set his sights on returning to. KH Secret Santa 2016 gift fic for cyberlasers. Platonic AkuRoku with a healthy dose of Demyx & Xion.

A/N: I wasn't going to participate in Tumblr's KH Secret Santa this year. My health's been crap and life's persistently busy during the winter holidays. But the event mods approached me to be a backup writer for Tumblr user cyberlasers, who indicated they were interested in platonic AkuRoku, so I gave it a go. Figured I had to try out the celebrity AU one of these days anyway, so here's my take on it. And a belated Merry Christmas/happy holidays to those who celebrate it.

---

"Hey, Lex? Can you change the station?"

With a light a thrum of his fingers over the Escalade's custom-installed intercom, Roxas ignores the look his manager is shooting him and keeps his eyes fixed out the SUV's tinted window. What little the city of Louisville had to offer by way of an urban setting has long since been replaced by a picture of cookie-cutter suburbia. Soon, this too will morph into something more rural.

"Sure thing." The speaker comes to life in a crackle of static. "What's your pleasure?"

A security detail in identical black vehicles follows a short distance behind, an obsidian flock with Roxas at the helm, the driver of his own vehicle the shepherd that guides them. For a moment, Roxas forgets himself, along with the question he's been asked. Their speed slows as they exit the highway, and he looks for something he recognizes: a sign, a site. Barring that, just something to override the fatigue that set in weeks ago would also be fine.

They turn onto a narrow country road and Roxas is left unsatisfied. There's nothing noteworthy about this stretch, no landmarks, recognized or otherwise. There's not much to see at all now, although this is actually refreshing after a month and a half of city after city and jet-setting around the country. This last handful of stops in states usually overlooked by both coasts is all that separates Roxas from his winter holiday and the relaxation that promises to come with it.

Blanketed in a thin layer of immaculate white, Roxas gets his first glimpse of the Kentucky countryside. It's a sight for sore eyes after the grungy, ubiquitous slush found in what qualifies as metropolitan in these parts.

At any rate, it's no Los Angeles but Roxas hadn't expected it to be.

His manager, on the other hand…

"Sir?"

Lexaeus again. With a heavy sigh, Roxas leans toward the intercom.

"Sorry," he says, then remembers he hasn't pressed the button to initiate a two-way conversation between the dark plate of glass that separates Lexaeus from himself and Demyx. With a flick of his wrist, Roxas quickly rectifies this and offers his response. "Anything but Christmas music is fine."

Beside him, a light chuckle as the radio scans for a working channel. As the first plucky strums of fiddle and mandolin filter through an undercurrent of static, Roxas glances at Demyx and considers his amused expression.

"What?"

A shrug follows his manager's half-grin.

"Nothing."

Like hell. Roxas sits a little straighter and raises an eyebrow. He fixes his gaze on Demyx until the guy shrugs and finally offers a more substantive answer.

"It's just kinda ironic that Hope For The Holidays is primed to be your most popular album to date and instead you're opting to listen to this twangy, country-fried nonsense."

Roxas sits back and momentarily forgets himself again, this time in a different context.

"It's called bluegrass."

His forming scowl is gone in an instant, Roxas' irritation along with it, not that Demyx seems to notice. Instead, he pulls his iPhone out of a coat pocket, lifts it up to his face, then waves it around the Escalade in what Roxas can only guess is an attempt at catching a bar of signal.

"Well, no offense, but to me it all sounds like the same Bible Belt BS."

Roxas doesn't bother to respond. There's no point in explaining the nuances that distinguish the South from Appalachia, not to someone SoCal born and raised who'd likely never leave the state if he could manage to keep his job and still get away with it.

The song's lead mandolin fights an admirable but losing battle before static overwhelms it. Before Roxas can find a way to change the subject, Lexaeus is back on the intercom, and the radio's volume has been reduced to a low, white noise drone.

"I'm afraid we may be entering a dead-zone until we get closer to another town. My apologies for the inconvenience."

This time, it's Demyx who presses down on the intercom.

"No worries, big guy. Just turn it off 'til we get there." He drops the connection and glances at Roxas. "You cool with that?"

Roxas nods, then allows his attention to shift back to the window. His gaze wanders past limestone hills that are dusted with snow, before homing in on the fields and farmhouse in front of them. As the road winds closer, a barn comes into view, rust-red and dilapidated. Once, it might have stood as a proud local landmark; years of blistering winters and muggy summers have taken their toll, along with the occasional tornado. The barn reminds Roxas more of a project for a dedicated contractor than a picturesque example of regional architecture. He spares a few seconds to wonder if the horses housed within are well-cared for. Even with the recession nearly a decade by and gone, economic recovery has come slow to this part of the country, if at all.

The road veers off, and the farm passes out of sight, but Roxas hardly notices over the ache that has taken residence in the back of his throat. He swallows hard over it and turns away from the window, only to notice that Demyx is now studying him.

There is the smallest hint of inquiry in the way Demyx is watching him. It's enough to make Roxas look down, fingers fiddling with a cell phone that he knows hasn't shown a single bar of signal in the past forty miles.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled you're not some heartless monster when it comes to the downtrodden." Demyx seems to pause for effect. Next to him, Roxas says nothing, just waits for the other shoe to drop. "But maybe next time you could pick a place a little closer to civilization as we know it. Or, hey, an airport."

Despite the comment, Demyx doesn't sound especially bothered, yet Roxas still feels himself tense. He waits for Demyx to elaborate, but the man just runs his free hand through the longer hair above his buzzed undercut and shifts his attention to the window on Roxas' side of the vehicle.

"This place's definitely got a Christmasy vibe. I'll give you that. Would make for a good photo op too, I'll bet."

Roxas opens his mouth, with every intention of reminding Demyx about the terms he laid out well before sharing the specifics of this visit, but he stops when he notices the self-satisfied smile. Over the years, Demyx has been nothing if not accommodating of his requests and needs—but his teasing sense of humor still sometimes throws Roxas.

The Escalade slows and Roxas sees a sign steadily growing in size on his side of the road as they approach. Framed in gold tinsel and fake holly, its lettering is faded to the point of illegible. Roxas, however, is already well-apprised of the town that is welcoming them. Rows of small businesses with overhead marquees sporting flowery typeface dot the downtown area, and now it is Roxas who is studying others through the pane of his tinted, one-way window. Most are bundled against the chill that dusk is offering up, their faces half-hidden beneath hand-knitted scarves and inexpensive, big-box store coat collars. He is also quick to note the stark contrast between the sprawling home he rents in Malibu—with its ocean view, eclipse pool, and other extravagancies—and the modest rows of homes that line the small town roads of the Kentucky Commonwealth.

There would be apartments too, cramped spaces with sloped ceilings located above ground-level storefronts. Apartments like these would offer just enough room for a small, single-parent family, one that easily fell below the poverty line and qualified for government help, for Section 8 and Medicaid and other terms people spoke like they were dirty words.

This observation is all it takes to open the floodgates of memory. It is neither sign nor sight, but Roxas is now remembering.

Three streets after the main downtown stretch, Lexaeus pulls to a stop in front of a five-story building. Though nothing compared to the skyscraper high-rises of Los Angeles and Manhattan, the hotel easily dwarfs most other nearby buildings. Roxas has just enough time to take this in before the privacy pane lowers a few inches and Lex cranes his neck over one shoulder to look back at them.

"I'll let you out here. I doubt they have curb-side valet service."

Or any of the other usual luxuries afforded celebrities and the silver-spoon wealthy. There is a note of irony in the thought, but Roxas keeps it to himself.

Demyx, on the other hand, seems less inclined toward silent introspection.

"Damn." He exhales, then unbuckles his seatbelt. "I can't remember the last time I stayed someplace this…"

If he completes his thought, Roxas fails to hear it over the slam of the Escalade's back door. He pockets his cell phone, then moves around the vehicle to join Demyx near the hotel entrance.

There's no need to fixate on this topic. Roxas knows this holds especially true when it comes to Demyx's opinions about rural Kentucky, of all things.

But yet, curiosity.

"Someplace this…" Roxas prompts. When Demyx only blinks and looks over at him, brows furrowing, Roxas elaborates. "About the hotel. You were saying?"

"Oh. Right." As Roxas' security detail exits their respective vehicles and fans out into a conspicuous circle around him, Demyx shrugs and holds open the lobby door. "Let's go with modest."

Roxas enters the hotel first but lets Demyx lead the way past a small waiting area and over to the check-in desk. His hired security filters in after but most remain near the entrance. Roxas see the looks passed between the smattering of guests currently present in the lobby and positions himself to the side of Demyx that offers the most shelter from prying eyes. He says nothing as Demyx insists on connecting his phone to the hotel's WiFi before getting them checked in at reception, simply reaches out to retrieve the plastic room key that the wide-eyed, teenage hotel clerk slides across the counter to him and hopes she won't try to sneak a picture.

Lexaeus appears with two sets of luggage and lumbers behind them as they set off in search of their rooms. Even though his eyes are glued to his phone, Demyx still manages to navigate the hall to the elevator without colliding into anything. A small Christmas miracle if ever Roxas saw one.

"Looks like slim pickings on the restaurant front." With a shake of his head, Demyx's hair flops from one side of his face to the other. "I don't see anything Zagat-rated within a sixty mile radius."

"It's fine." Roxas tries to hide his relief at the inadvertent out Demyx has just given him. "I'd rather stay in anyway. I'm pretty tired."

"We do have an early day ahead of us." Demyx sounds doubtful. A beat later, Roxas feels the weight of his manager's hand on his head, fingers ruffling his hair a little as his tone brightens. "Talented, hard-working, and undemanding. How'd I get so lucky with you? Seriously, you're setting the bar too high for my other clients."

Roxas looks up, nonplussed.

"Maybe you should represent athletes." He flexes his hands inside his coat pockets, revels in the subtle sting of freshly callused fingers before offering his final comment of the evening. "If it'd make you feel better, I can see if reception can hook me up with a local drug dealer or something."

The look on Demyx's face lingers long after they've parted, his thunderous laugh an echo played on repeat until Roxas falls asleep. This is for the best, Roxas reasons, because tomorrow there won't be a chance to banter like this. Not where they're headed.

He lifts his suitcase onto an IKEA dresser, shrugs out of his shirt, and drags one hand through tangled hair as he considers himself in the nearest mirror. He knows this part of his trip is self-imposed. It won't be fun, but it's something that feels necessary.

Roxas only hopes tomorrow can give him what he so desperately wants, since fame and fortune and running away from his past life sure haven't.

o - o

He opens his eyes to darkness and the sensation that the space he's in feels foreign. After a six-week tour, this is not unusual, but the cold is. Same for his shivering.

He'd expected to field dreams built on a deluge of returning memories, but Roxas has no ability to recall where his mind might have wandered while he slept. In the first moments of fresh consciousness, the cold is more a pressing concern. Roxas curls his toes, balls his hands into fists, then releases them and pushes up to a seated position. The bedsheets are a little rough, something he's sure Demyx will bring up at least a few times before he's managed to locate some form of caffeinated jumpstart. Shifting, Roxas slides his legs out from under covers that are cold to the touch. He crosses his arms, rubbing his hands against bare, goose-pimpled shoulders, then makes his way toward the room's lone radiator. So accustomed to the central heating systems that come standard at upscale hotels, he'd been too tired to realize the chilly temperature in his room was more than a lingering impression of time spent outside last night.

He also can't say he minds; fiddling with the radiator is a distraction from what promises to be a trying morning. Likewise, Roxas takes his time choosing clothes. On tour, these were all selected well in advance by a team of fashion specialists: designer jeans and custom-made shirts that cost more than most peoples' monthly rent or mortgage payments. He has no interest in drawing attention to his nouveau riche affluence in a setting like this, although it may very well be unavoidable. To Roxas, even the prospect of flaunting his wealth feels sacrilegious in a town as impoverished as this.

He chooses clothes that are understated and casual, as appropriate for this wintry weather as he has available, then makes his way to the bathroom and twists the tub's hot water knob. The room quickly fills with the opaque mist of hot air meeting its icy opposite. Roxas undresses, then steps under the stream of water and stays still until his jaw unclenches and his teeth stop chattering.

By the time he's dry and dressed again, the room has warmed and the notification screen on his phone is blinking. Roxas skims texts that are mostly from Demyx, unlocks his mobile, then places a call on speakerphone.

"Hey, Champ. How'd you sleep?"

Demyx's voice holds an edge, and Roxas can easily guess how well Demyx himself has slept. With one innocuous word, Roxas responds, assuming the conversation is done. With Demyx, though, it's never that simple.

"Y'know, it's fine to have a negative opinion once in awhile, especially if it's justified." When Roxas says nothing, Demyx seems to view it as a cue to keep talking. "I'm here to make sure you're comfortable. To anticipate your needs. Mattress too stiff? You could've called and told me about it. Got crappy, cheap-ass bedsheets? I can get you literally covered with a thread count well into the triple digits."

The lecture continues. Roxas lets Demyx say his piece and wonders if he should take notes, not because he's ever had something legitimate to complain about but so he can give Demyx something to do that makes him feel useful. A handful of years and counting, Roxas still isn't accustomed to being catered to anymore than Demyx is used to representing someone so undemanding.

"Some coffee would be nice," Roxas ventures when he thinks Demyx is done talking.

"You don't have to say that twice. Sadly, I thought settling for Starbucks would be slumming it, but I'd be surprised if this town boasts a single cafe with something other than 'donut' in its name, let alone coffee that gets even a hundred miles close to the border of free trade."

Great. Just when Roxas thinks he's getting a handle on what Demyx wants him to say, he's only succeeded with starting him in on another elaborate tirade.

"I'm pretty sure I saw a sign in the lobby about a breakfast buffet," Roxas says, in an attempt to get the morning back on track. "They should have coffee."

There is a long silence on Demyx's end, then a sigh, audible but resigned.

"Knowing you, that suggestion was one-hundred percent serious."

In the span of a single sentence, Roxas has a sudden urge to feel bad that he's not unforgivably high-maintenance.

"Okay, fine, I'll get over myself, and whatever floats your boat. Gotta finish getting dressed, so see you downstairs in ten."

If Demyx's tone were a vehicle, Roxas suspects he would've just suffered a sudden shock of whiplash. Demyx hangs up before Roxas has time to respond, and Roxas is left to count down the minutes to his next public appearance while trying not to second-guess himself about what's to come.

o - o

The buffet is nothing to write home about. The cereal is one-part stale, the other perversely crystallized sugar, hash browns visibly burnt, the eggs a solid mass of pallid yellow, but at least the coffee is strong. While Demyx plays around with an industrial, self-serve waffle iron, Roxas makes himself two slices of toast and collects a couple packets of jam.

There are a few other guests present, but no one seems interested in them. It's a noticeable departure from the rabid photographers and tabloid journalists who follow him everywhere in California, acting like a mere trip to the supermarket is worthy of a full-page spread. It also doesn't hurt that his security has swapped yesterday's dark suits for this morning's plainclothes attire. Roxas has Demyx to thank for that one. The less attention he attracts the better, and he's glad he made the request via text the night before.

Demyx is in a chatty mood, but Roxas is not. Although he listens closely enough to offer an acceptable amount of polite input, his mind is elsewhere, toast virtually untouched.

At some point, Lexaeus arrives, and Roxas finds himself surprised that he doesn't immediately notice. His driver is naturally soft-spoken, but the man isn't exactly a picture of inconspicuous.

Roxas gulps down what's left of his coffee and deposits his toast in the trash as they make their way to the Escalade.

This morning's journey is shorter, but different, since Roxas practices active avoidance when it comes to looking out the window. He knows the route from hotel to hospital by heart, and the memories that divide his life between childhood and present don't make the ache in his chest any less resonant. Regardless, Roxas believes it's not so much the journey that will provide him with necessary closure as the destination. He can only handle remembering so much at once.

The discomfort is also hard to reconcile. There are similarities between this feeling and standard anxiousness, but Roxas knows this isn't about nerves; he's been performing in some capacity since he was four. What he feels now is deeper, a part of himself he doesn't share with anyone, not his traveling band, not the stage crew, Demyx, Lex, his LA agent, or even the friends he made before a video of him singing went viral and changed everything. Roxas knows what it is but he doesn't yet want to officially identify it. Naming something gives it the power to undo even those with the strongest convictions, and Roxas isn't positive he qualifies on his best days, let alone now.

He knows when they're getting close and steels himself. He tries to steady his breaths and remember that he has a job to do that is incompatible with his natural inclination to isolate himself. At some point, he'll get a break, he figures. That's when he'll find a way to defeat any lingering demons.

The SUV's tires crunch over a salted parking lot as Lexaeus angles them into a spot close to the hospital entrance. Only now does Roxas look up. He surveys the area and notices blatant architectural changes. These expansions are not unexpected, but they momentarily disorient him. There is also no sign of the press, just as Demyx had promised, only a woman standing at the edge of the lot, the very image of a Kentucky belle amid ice and snow. Her hair is loosely tied at one side of her neck and flutters in unison with the hem of her ankle-length dress. She shows no sign that the cold is bothering her as she watches them open their doors and hop down from the vehicle.

The introductions are brief as they follow the hospital's pediatric and adolescent palliative care coordinator toward the nearest entrance. Instead of entering the hospital building that Roxas remembers so well, Miss Aerith Gainsborough leads them toward her office in a smaller, adjacent building. Roxas evaluates the evidence of its more recent construction with latent approval.

"The east wing is still undergoing construction, but the west side of the complex was finalized last Autumn." Miss Gainsborough continues to speak as they walk a rounded hall with windows and numbered doors on both sides. Most of the windows are covered by dark curtains, although Roxas notices a pair of eyes just above the bottom frame of one of them. The occupant's small hands separate two rows of blinds for an unobstructed view of the new arrivals. "There are twenty units in this wing, able to accommodate between forty to fifty people at a time. It really has been a blessing to be able to keep families together, especially during the holidays."

"I bet," Demyx chimes in as they slow in front of the final door at the end of the hall. Aerith retrieves a keycard and presses it to an electronic lock before beckoning them past a placard that indicates this is her office. As Roxas moves to enter, Demyx leans over and lowers his voice. "We should've stayed here last night. At least this place seems to have a little tastefulness."

"It does, doesn't it?" Demyx reddens, but Aerith just circles her desk and offers an unassuming smile before gesturing for them to sit. Her gaze moves to Roxas. "We have you to thank for that, although your generosity has remained anonymous, as requested."

Roxas can feel Demyx's eyes on him. Put on the spot, he looks down and just nods as Aerith mercifully opts to change the subject.

"I've created a tentative schedule for your visit. Of course, almost everything can be switched around if you prefer a different order. The kids are just excited you're here. It's been all they've been able to talk about since the staff told them you'd be coming a few days ago."

Roxas lets Demyx respond, then listens as Aerith reads through the proposed timetable. It includes a performance of Roxas' most popular songs, some Christmas-themed, others not, then a brief meet-and-greet and a tour of the facilities to meet other young patients too sick to visit the lounge extension. Demyx signs off on all of it after a quick nod of confirmation from Roxas, then mentions the gifts they've brought to distribute, a selection of tour merchandise brought with them from Louisville, which seems to delight Aerith. She adds a line to the very bottom of the schedule.

They rise together, leaving their coats on wall hangers before exiting the office and entering a reception area that separates the residential wing from the central atrium. Another round of introductions follow with the administrative staff before Aerith halts them in front of the double doors that lead to the building's nucleus.

"If you don't mind waiting just a moment, I'll go in first to make sure everything's ready and announce your arrival."

She opens one door just enough to slip through. Demyx and Roxas are left facing each other, waiting for their cue to enter.

"Anonymous hospital donations. Why does that not surprise me?"

Despite his casual tone, Demyx still seems to be sizing Roxas up.

With a small shrug, Roxas directs his eyes to the wall behind Demyx and focuses on two neat rows of framed photographs under stenciled letters indicating that these are patients who have made recoveries. Most are young, but a handful seem to be teenagers, some even young adults. To his credit, Demyx doesn't press the issue of Roxas' unusual spending habits. He just cranes his neck to check the wall behind him, turns back, then looks past Roxas to study what Roxas assumes is a similar array of success stories in portrait form behind him.

"Look. I found a cute one." Demyx raises his hand but the door opens a sliver as Aerith reappears, and Roxas doesn't bother to dignify Demyx's comment with any action on his part. Before Demyx steps in front of him, he nudges Roxas and offers a grin with just enough underlying suggestiveness for Roxas make an educated guess about the gender of the person in the photo he'd just been pointing at.

Roxas rolls his eyes, then adopts a more appropriate expression before moving to follow Demyx into the next room. With one outstretched hand, he pokes his manager's back with the tip of his index finger.

"Stay classy, Dem."

He is treated to a trademark half-grin before Demyx steps aside and Aerith ushers him up in front of an enthusiastic group of patients and their families. The only thing on Roxas' mind for the next sixty minutes is maintaining a pleasant, on-stage presence and ensuring his feelings stay compartmentalized.

o - o

An hour and a half later still, Roxas is going through the motions, just hoping no one notices his smiles and comments are on auto-pilot. He's completed his performance without incident, along with a brief meet-and-greet, before Aerith whisks him off with a promise to his audience that he'll be back later to sign autographs. It's the visit to the main hospital that Roxas has been both waiting for and dreading.

He remembers this building with clarity—they're on a different floor but it's the same, long-held agony that not even the greatest sum of anonymously donated funds can fully counter. Here too, the patients are excited to see him, their parents clearly grateful for a distraction from a setting so blandly sterile. Still, Roxas wonders whether his presence really matters when the endgame won't change for most of the patients in this wing. Does anything matter when loss is the only surety?

Did it matter for him, he wonders too. In the past couple years, he's asked himself this often. The only answer he can ever identify is that it changed him. Grief clenches, and it twists in an unforgiving vice-grip. Grief made him flee a town that'd been his only home for a city that neither knew his name nor cared to learn it, at least before the music industry took notice. Also an indisputable truth: eventually, grief fades; sometimes it disappears entirely. But like a physical wound, it leaves scar tissue that hurts long after the healing of the initial injury.

It's odd what reminds him of his own time here, and also what doesn't. None of the pediatric doctors overlap those with whom he himself had once interacted. It's the ill themselves that strike a familiar note. The patients—some far younger than Roxas—all seem to have adopted an air of somber acceptance. Their families—parents and siblings, sometimes even other relatives—are all smiles when Roxas enters each room, but their voices are strained, their bodies unconsciously tense. Waiting. Roxas can relate, because he remembers the same, unavoidable feeling. He's no stranger to the toll years of putting on a brave face for a loved one takes, both physically and mentally.

And he's beginning to doubt himself, because this visit isn't doing anything to address the memories he came to resolve. There's just pain, an endless cycle of suffering that doctors can treat but not cure entirely. Same old, same old. The years away haven't changed things at all.

If anything, Roxas is more lost and confused than he was at the outset, and Demyx's attempt to talk to him after the last individual visit falls on deaf ears at first. Technically, Roxas hears his manager, even looks up at the right time. But none of the words seem to mean anything.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, thank Jehovah it's almost time for time for lunch."

This time, Roxas manages to hear the words and understand them, which is why it's unsettling that they still don't make much sense.

"…Jehovah?"

"Like, as in, Witnesses. Isn't this the land of all things Prince?"

Roxas is pretty sure Demyx has that wrong. He also doesn't have the energy to point that out so just shrugs.

Nearby, Aerith is wrapping up a conversation with a parent. She scans the hall until her eyes fall on Roxas. He is greeted with a tranquil smile as she heads over.

"Peoples' responses have been overwhelmingly positive. I know I've already said this, but we so very much appreciate you taking time to come and visit. I can imagine you're quite busy, especially this close to the holidays."

Her words are glowing, if understated. It's the tone of someone who knows how to comfort people in times of strife. At any rate, it's having a calming effect on Roxas. But it isn't enough for him to trust the steadiness of his voice so he nods with the hope that Aerith deems it an adequate response.

"Roxas was actually wondering if you had an ETA on lunch."

At the comment, Roxas shoots Demyx a look, but Demyx merely grins and adopts an uninvested expression. At least Aerith seems unbothered by the change of subject.

"Of course. It should be ready in about thirty minutes. Some of the parents are using the on-site kitchen to prepare a variety of foods. Many are local specialties. I hope you both end up enjoying them."

Demyx makes a comment about liking Southern barbecue that, to her credit, Aerith doesn't correct him on as she leads them back to the first floor of the main hospital. More people are watching them here than at the hotel, even though the security shadowing them today is much less ostentatious than it was yesterday. Roxas does his best to keep his expression level but only manages to half-listen as Demyx and Aerith talk Appalachian cuisine that Demyx is still referring to as Southern.

They're about to exit the building when Roxas finally finds his voice, along with something to say.

"I was wondering if there's somewhere I could hang out on my own for a bit." Demyx is giving him the same scrutinizing look from yesterday, but Roxas plows ahead before he can be interrupted. "Just until lunch. I'm kind of tired."

Aerith nods, then reaches into a pocket concealed by the folds of her skirt.

"Of course. Let me just think through the logistics a moment."

She emerges with a cell phone, then texts someone. An answering ping has her looking over at both of them, then inclining her head toward a door at the opposite end of the front lobby.

"We're all set. And we don't even need to go outside."

"That's heaven to this atheist's ears." Demyx brushes a tuft of hair away from his face as Roxas tries not to grimace at the reference to his professed faithlessness in a state that's heavily god-fearing. "I really hate the cold. You have no idea."

Roxas does have an idea, actually. It involves dry skin, split cuticles, and outerwear bought more for looks than practical warmth. It's the seasonal fashions in magazines that no one who had to endure truly bitter weather would consider spending a fortune to freeze in, clothes he would soon learn were marketed for places where winter was not as much a true season as a stylistic aesthetic.

Aerith leads them past the outside exit, to a metal door tucked away in one corner of the lobby. The door requires a keycard, which Aerith supplies. Inside, there's only a stairwell leading downward into a dimly lit space that appears to be the hospital's basement. She waits just long enough for Roxas' security to catch up before turning to address all of them together.

"This area isn't the nicest, but it allows access between the hospital and the residence center expansion. It's off-limits to just about everyone without at least mid-level staff clearance."

When no one voices a complaint, Aerith leads them through a narrow walkway, past industrial boilers that supply hot water to the upper floors. The hisses and rumbles of active equipment offer an unintentional harmony that Roxas prefers over the subtler, more ominous sounds of medical devices in the hospital's upper levels.

Another set of stairs leads upward on the opposite end of the room.

"This works out well, actually." Aerith glances behind her as she ascends the first flight of stairs. "We're heading to the east part of the new complex so you'll be able to see what we have in store for the second half of our construction project."

The stairs open into a hallway that looks almost identical to the residential wing. What sets it apart is its manifest lifelessness. The lighting is also dimmer, and Roxas can see that the walls are only painted with an initial base layer.

"Most of these rooms will be administrative," Aerith explains as she handles a chain of keys attached to a ribbon at her side. "But some will also be used for palliative care classes, things like occupational and music therapy. And all of the rooms on the left overlook the interior courtyard. Planting will start once the snow thaws, so there should be at least a little green out there by summer."

She gives Roxas a meaningful look before her gaze shifts down the hall. Roxas doesn't know if she's expecting a response from him. Once again, Demyx speaks up before he manages to form one.

"Creeptastic. You sure you wanna hang out here? 'Cause I kinda don't."

Where Demyx is seeing off-putting, Roxas feels a sense of affinity. Quiet and unoccupied is just what he needs to recharge. If he's being honest with himself, the time alone might also offer an opportunity to put some aspects of his past into perspective.

"I'll be fine. I'd actually prefer to be alone, if you don't mind taking the security guys with you. They could probably use a break anyway."

Demyx looks at Roxas, then over one shoulder at the people who have been following them all morning.

"I'm not sure if that's a great idea…"

A door opens with a metallic click and they both look up. Aerith returns the ring of keys to her skirt pocket, then pushes the door open for them.

"If it's helpful to know, the only way out is through the lobby doors or the way we just came from. Both require keycards, so I would consider this area more or less secure."

Demyx still looks doubtful, but Roxas is already halfway into the room, giving Demyx no choice but to follow him.

"I'm just going to be sitting around doing nothing." Roxas tries to match the sureness of his words with an equally confident tone. "Promise. Just go with Aerith and come back and get me when it's lunchtime. You can always text if you need something."

"It really should be safe," Aerith offers as she flips on a set of fluorescent lights. "The staff has been using this as a break room. I'll just let them know it's off-limits for the next thirty minutes."

When Demyx still says nothing, she shoots him an encouraging smile.

"It'd also give us time to talk about how you'd like the center to publicize Roxas' visit after you've left. I'm the hospital's main contact with the local press."

That does it. Roxas watches as Demyx's expression brightens, and he can already see his manager's mind working on overdrive. This close to Christmas, any offer to lighten Demyx's own workload when it comes to passing information on to Roxas' LA publicist is a winner. Hook, line, and sinker.

That settled, Demyx barely remembers to wave at Roxas before heading out the door, and in two short sentences Aerith solidifies herself as a living, breathing angel, as far as Roxas is concerned.

o - o

It only takes five minutes for Roxas to feel restless. The staff's makeshift break room is over-bright and nondescript. He passes a couple minutes on his phone. The mixed bag of weak WiFi and messages on various social networks he currently doesn't want to respond to has him quickly abandoning it.

He'd thought the time alone would let him clear his mind, but the longer he sits still, elbows pressing into the tops of his knees, the wider a mental floodgate is opening. While Roxas does want some form of closure, he could do without memory after unnecessary, overwhelming memory.

Roxas stands. He paces the cramped space, opens and closes a few drawers at a built-in counter without taking stock of what's inside. Ninety more seconds and he's back where he started, staring at the chair where he was just seated, with its geometric pattern and a seat cushion made out of mass-produced fabric that feels like grainy plastic.

He doesn't sit down again, can't make himself return to the act of static meditation. Instead, Roxas moves toward the door. He scans what he can see of the hallway through the door's vertical pane of glass, then reaches for the handle. The opening click echoes down the corridor, hollow but telling. Roxas holds his breath and listens, but no one approaches and the hall remains bathed in the same luminescent half-light as earlier.

To his immediate left, double doors lead back to the patient lounge and the inverted apex of this cordiform building where he'd recently performed a selection of songs. To his right, the hall winds back around to the stairwell and the hospital's basement tunnel. Roxas heads right, mostly because it allows him to walk for a longer span of time. He passes doors identical to the break room, even stops to peer into the first handful, but they are empty, save for a ladder in one and a few scattered work tools in some others. This wing is the definition of lifeless and unoccupied. By the time he's halfway to the end of the hall, he's stopped looking altogether, the destination now superseding the journey. Like always, apparently.

He passes the final room and slows in front of the stairwell door, gaze lowering to the electronic lock Aerith had swiped her card through earlier. The small light beside it glows red, and Roxas is under no illusion that he can return the way they'd come from, even if he wanted to.

With a sigh, he turns and begins the short trek back to the break room to wait out the twenty remaining minutes of self-imposed isolation.

A flicker registers in his peripherals. Roxas pauses and scans the hall, half-expecting to see the ghost he's been searching for all morning.

The hall is still empty. Insentient.

Yet, he senses movement, repetition of the same feathery gesture he caught moments earlier out of the corner of one eye. Roxas turns, then moves toward the glass on the nearest door.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. Like the hall, the room is mostly shrouded in darkness, but there are windows across the east-facing wall. Taller than wide, they let in the late morning sun, which shines across the cherrywood flooring like a series of radiant spotlights.

The movement comes again, and a girl flickers into view, if only for a moment. She disappears into the negative space between sunlit windows, and Roxas is left to wait until she reappears in the next swatch of light.

She turns in a clockwise path, performing a dance with choreography that's erratic at best. Streaking through the patches of light, she slows once she's returned to the shadows, and Roxas can't tell if any of the steps she's taking are spontaneous or part of a larger pattern.

All he knows is that she's small, shorter than him. Probably younger too, by a rough visual estimate. Her feet are wrapped in blue hospital-issued footies, legs mostly hidden beneath the folds of a dark skirt. Roxas can see a vague outline through the gauzy fabric each time she steps into the sunlight well enough to know they're atypically thin. This probably explains her awkward movements more than any presumed agility. She moves like a fledgling bird, in exaggerated but jerky motions.

The flutter of a wispy scarf is what first caught his eye, and it demands attention still. Long and gossamer, it is wrapped around her head and flows behind her like the tail of a streaking comet.

She disappears out of view into a dark corner of the room. Roxas holds his breath and waits for her to return, but she doesn't seem primed to. For a moment, he's caught between the desire to see her again and the knowledge that the sole reason he's here at all is to rest and collect his thoughts before finishing off the last items on Aerith's schedule.

Another part of him is convinced he's losing it. There's something familiar about her frail form, almost achingly so. It's this that ultimately moves Roxas forward, has him raising his arm, then curling his fingers around the L-shaped door handle. A soft click and the door opens on silent hinges. The only sounds are his own: heavy breaths and the thrumming of his pulse on both sides of his head.

The room is large. While most of it is empty, the space gets increasingly cluttered the further he looks into its corners. It takes a few anxious seconds to locate the girl among the silhouettes of what Roxas soon realizes is a vast collection of musical instrument cases. She is standing in a far corner, her lower half bathed in dark shadows, eyes catching every last ray of dim light available. Now that she's spotted him, they are wide with surprise.

The door settles in back place but still slightly open as Roxas takes a couple steps forward. The girl seems to shrink, not moving away so much as withering into herself, and he's soon aware of how this must look to her, alone with a stranger and cornered. She definitely doesn't seem excited to see him, if she recognizes who he is at all. Roxas stops, slides both hands into his pockets, and suddenly feels awkward.

"Sorry if I interrupted something." His voice is disconcertingly loud even to his own ears. Roxas takes care to lower it before offering an explanation. "I'm just visiting, but had some free time to wander, and, well, yeah…"

He trails off, figuring she can piece together the rest.

Her stance relaxes a little, but she still says nothing. Roxas normally doesn't mind quiet, but this feels different, like his presence is on the verge of being evaluated.

"I didn't know anyone would be in this part of the building," he tries again. "Aerith told me it was still under construction."

"The music room's an exception."

Her voice is soft but Roxas hears the edge of each word like sharp corners of a deftly carved message. An Appalachian drawl is also present; it's more pronounced than Aerith's. Coastal elites often tend to consider it grating, to associate it with ignorance, but Roxas knows that's short-sighted from his own personal experience. He also knows that people in small towns can be mistrustful of outsiders. It's this knowledge that shifts his tone toward a more contrite note.

"Oh. I didn't know."

When she still says nothing, Roxas decides to forge on until he finds something that elicits another response.

"It's a cool space."

Nothing.

"Big enough for a little concert."

Awkward silence.

"Or, um, a dance recital or something."

This gets a reaction, but not one that seems positive. The girl's eyes narrow, lips thinning. Much to his increasing discomfort, Roxas can't tell whether she's embarrassed or annoyed by his last comment. He reaches up and swipes a hand through his hair in an action reminiscent of Demyx while searching for an out that doesn't give the impression he's a total, insensitive idiot.

"Anyway, I can get out of your hair."

Although the girl still doesn't say anything, her hands rise to her scarf, fingers curling around its folds at one shoulder. An expression of self-consciousness forms at the same moment that Roxas processes his poor choice of words.

"I was just looking for some way to kill time before lunch." Now he's practically stumbling over himself, in a one-man race to put a wall of words between him and his last verbal faux pas. "I'm visiting. A singer, actually."

"I know who y'are."

It's uttered as a tired sigh, and now it's Roxas whose eyes widen. Under different circumstances, the comment wouldn't have surprised him, but everything about this girl is throwing him. He's not used to talking to people who aren't falling over themselves to impress him. Especially after weeks of touring, and a notable absence of friends with the possible exception of Demyx, the number of one-on-one conversations he's engaged in round up to approximately zero.

"Yeah?"

"Sure."

She nods, then glances past him. Before Roxas can turn to see what she's looking at, her eyes shift back and fix themselves directly on him.

"You're famous, aren't ya? Live in a big mansion out in California?" The questions seem redundant, and she unimpressed. Nevertheless, Roxas offers a hesitant nod, and she seems to take it as license to continue. "That notwithstanding, I also saw you singin' songs out in the lounge before I had to leave for chemo."

Her last word should have hurt him. At the very least, it should have summoned another flood of unwanted memories. It should have, but the sound that meets his waiting ears is deep and breathy, also unintelligible, because it is none other than the low tones of muffled laughter in a pitch that is recognizably masculine.

In the span of half a second, Roxas' attention is diverted. He whirls away from the girl and scans the space behind them. The sound came from the wall most cluttered with instruments, both inside and out of their respective cases. It's also too far away for the sunlight to reach. Roxas blinks and waits for his eyes to adjust as the silhouette of someone seated against the back wall gradually defines itself in subtle, human movements.

The hair is what Roxas gets an eyeful of first. The shadows paint it a dark crimson. Even in the dim lighting, the color strikes Roxas as unnatural, as does the style. Gravity-defying tresses rise up at all angles, like a series of citadels overshadowing features on the face underneath them. These are the only observations Roxas has time to make before the guy speaks up, his words and gaze both directed at the girl.

"Remember your manners, sprite. There's no way he'd know this is our private time."

Roxas takes a couple steps back so he can more fully see both of them.

"Yeah, I had no idea." He also has no idea why it feels so important to get on this girl's good side. It probably has something to do with the unfamiliar feeling of encountering someone who seems to have taken an instant dislike to him. Teen girls are his largest demographic of fans and he's had little to no experience with people who don't act out-of-their-minds obsessed over his mere presence, regardless of how comfortable he is with it. "Like I said, I thought I was alone."

He's preparing himself for another sharp response, but this one never comes. Instead, the girl's expression shifts to something that's harder for Roxas to interpret.

"You can see him?"

She nods toward the far wall, where the guy remains seated.

"It's not that dark." He answers with a rising smile, and Roxas can see the gleam of a prominent canine that illustrates his point. He also makes no move to stand, just readjusts, sliding one leg up from its crossed position so he can balance an elbow on it. "And hi. I'm Axel."

He flutters his fingers before tucking them under his chin in a loosely balled fist, and Roxas notes the inked symmetry of two inverted triangles above well-defined cheekbones. His eye color is too dark to detect at their current distance, but Roxas can see both well enough to notice when they return to the girl behind him.

"And our lady friend here is…"

His tone is heavily accented, and exaggeratedly formal. The girl crosses her arms, rolls her eyes, but ultimately offers a quiet, "Xion."

Roxas offers his name too, which elicits another exasperated look from Xion because, right, she's already said she knows him. From the looks of things, Axel does too.

"Gotta say, never thought I'd meet an honest-to-God star in this lifetime or the next." Axel again, although Roxas can't tell if he's talking to both of them or just Xion. "This ain't exactly a prime spot for tourists."

Roxas doesn't how to respond to that. When Xion also says nothing, he decides to try changing the subject.

"Are you guys, uh, siblings or something?"

From what he can tell, they don't look alike, but Roxas knows all too well how long-term illnesses can wreak havoc on family member appearances.

This time, it's Xion who laughs. It's short-lived but genuine, and effectively fills the silence before Axel throws him a more understandable answer.

"I got a younger sister." Axel's smile widens, his tone returning to casual. "It just ain't her."

Out of the corner of one eye, Roxas sees Xion tilt her head.

"Where is Kairi, actually?"

"Somewhere 'round here, probably. Could of gotten hung up too. I'm sure she'll be here shortly." Axel shrugs, then fixes his gaze on Roxas. "All's I know is she'll be bummed if she misses you. She's always liked that genre of bubblegum teenybop, or whatever it's called."

Roxas doesn't know whether to laugh or feel offended. He bypasses both in favor of trying to obtain more information.

"I'm guessing you don't?"

"Nah." Axel's drawl is just as pronounced as Xion's. To Roxas, it has the odd dichotomy of making him feel both at home and like an outsider. He watches Axel reach to one side and pull a guitar onto his lap. He plucks a chord at random. "No offense intended, but it misses my genres of choice by at least a long mile."

Roxas considers the instrument Axel now holds, then raises his eyebrows a little.

"Do you play?"

A glance down at his lap precedes a shake of his head before Axel looks up again.

"Sprite does, though."

Xion's arms drop to her sides, fingers furling together in front of her as Roxas looks over. At first, she looks like she might contradict Axel. Then, a subtle nod.

"I've been learning a little. The center bought instruments. Figured I might as well use 'em."

Roxas offers what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

"Want to play something?"

She shakes her head with surprising vehemence. Across from her, Axel makes a chiding sound at the back of this throat.

"Now c'mon. The guy's traveled all this way. Least we can do is be accommodating."

The look she shoots Axel is icier than the Kentucky backroads Roxas so recently traveled. There's also something underlying and recognizable in it, something Roxas always called stage-fright hesitation when it specifically pertained to him. He remembers it well, because it's yet another memory of his past life, just of a different variety.

"It doesn't have to be long or complicated," he says. "Just play something you like."

When she still doesn't look convinced, Roxas tries again.

"It'd be nice to listen to something other than—what'd you call it?" He glances at Axel. "Teenybopper candy pop?"

"Yessir." Another arch grin follows the thrum of a second guitar string. "Something to that effect."

"Alright, fine." Xion exhales in a huff. She flits across the room and makes a grab for Axel's instrument, before fixing Roxas with a sharp look. "I still haven't figured out how to get it to sound proper, mind. Not my problem if both of y'all end up with headaches."

She shuffles past Roxas, slowing in a patch of sunlight between both boys. Ignoring the attached leather strap, Roxas watches as she positions the guitar carefully against her chest. Despite his best efforts, Roxas finds himself searching the space just below her collarbone for the telltale signs of a chemo port beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

She takes a breath in, then begins to play as she releases it, and Roxas shifts his attention to the music. The song is one he recognizes, even though the tune sounds a little off. He's about to make another encouraging comment, but then remembers the song's name and abruptly stops himself. He can't see his expression, but he's never been more certain that there's little to no color left in his face at the moment.

Across the room, Axel just scoffs.

"Morbid much?"

This elicits a cheeky grin from Xion that seems almost delighted. Definitely not what Roxas is expecting.

"The sharp knife of a short life…"

The line is uttered so quietly, it's more of a whisper than actual singing. Before Roxas can second-guess himself, he offers the name of the band. The guitar goes silent as Xion looks at him.

"You know them?"

Her surprise is so apparent Roxas almost forgets himself and laughs a little.

"I like more than pop." Xion still looks doubtful, so Roxas supplements. "I was covering an indie rock song in the video that got me discovered."

"Sounds like it's your turn to show us some of that fabled range, then."

Axel's voice bounces off the walls and it's all Roxas can do not to look startled. He's been so quiet throughout the exchange with Xion that Roxas had almost forgotten he was still there. He rises now, and is a lot taller than Roxas would've guessed.

And thin. Sickly thin, if Roxas is being rawly honest. Up until now, he'd been operating under the assumption that Axel was visiting Xion, or maybe that it was his sister who was the patient. But as he comes closer and steps into the same patch of light that illuminates Xion, all Roxas sees is pallid skin and the sharp angles of a gaunt face, plus the outline of bones in each finger knuckle and a hint of each jutting collarbone above the trim of a leather jacket when Axel swallows. With his half-zipped jacket and a pair of dark jeans, Axel isn't wearing any identifiable hospital attire, but Roxas has a sneaking suspicion he'd see the giveaway outline of a chemo catheter if Axel's coat were a little thinner.

For a moment, Roxas just looks at Axel, trying to gauge whether the comment is a challenge or offer, but Axel remains impassive; his expression reveals nothing. With a small shrug, Roxas turns to Xion who transfers the guitar over to him.

He swings the strap over his head, adjusts it, then plays a chord. Brows knit toward the bridge of his nose as he plays another, this time in a key-minor, before Roxas looks back up at Xion.

"It's a little out of tune."

Roxas reaches for the guitar head, then twists a few of the tuning pegs. The instrument is a starter model, with pegs made out of cheap material. It reminds him of his first guitar, and how happy his mother had been at his excited reaction when she'd brought it home one evening when he was a kid. As an adult, Roxas now knows even an inexpensive model would've been something that had taken her months to save up to buy for him.

Roxas tests it again, then makes another adjustment and nods.

"The next time you play, you should notice a difference."

He doesn't wait for a response before launching into the opening chords of a song that skirts the line between country and folk. It's a comfortable tempo, not slow but more deliberate than the fevered speed of most pop songs. The lyrics also tell a story, and are far less reliant on synthesized background melodies and repetitive wording.

The room falls away as Roxas closes his eyes. Xion and Axel also fade, supplanted by the song, his voice, and another world unto itself, with Roxas its sole resident.

He's forgotten what it feels like to play for the sake of enjoyment, neglected how good the subtle spontaneity of expressions and movement feels when no Hollywood choreographer has laid them out for him. By the time the last chord ends and he sings the final word, Roxas is looking down at his feet. He's also smiling.

The silence that fills the space between them feels comfortable now. Applause or appreciative comments would have broken the spell and been altogether unwelcome. Roxas shrugs the guitar strap off his shoulder, then over his head. He's planning to pass it back to Xion but a flicker of unnatural light catches his eye instead. His gaze shifts to the door as voices drift to them. One of them is definitely Demyx.

He glances between Axel and Xion, tries not to reveal regret that this encounter is about to come to an end. It's the first time he's felt a sense of calm since he got here. More like recent memory, actually.

Axel is studying the door with an expression of mild curiosity. It's Xion who meets Roxas' eyes, then slips her hand into the pocket of her skirt, emerging with a small, plastic card.

"Give it here." She gestures to the guitar. "I'll trade ya."

At first, Roxas just looks at her outstretched hand. He recognizes what she's holding since he's seen Aerith use something similar. He just doesn't know why Xion's offering it, or how she even has one, for that matter.

"Take it, will you? It's clear as daylight that you don't wanna go back yet." She snatches the guitar away from Roxas, then tosses the card to him, which he reflexively catches. "That back door—" She points to the wall on the opposite side of the room "—it connects this room to the next, all the way down the hall. Get, if you wanna go. The staff like me, so I'll stay here and do some sweet talking."

As if to illustrate, she flutters her lashes and smiles sweetly. Roxas has to admit it's a look that comes off as endearing.

He takes a few steps toward the referenced door, but hesitates to look back over his shoulder. Axel doesn't seem particularly invested one way or the other.

"I'm game if you are," he says with a small shrug. "Got nothing better to do anyhow until Kairi shows up."

He'll never hear the end of this from Demyx, but Roxas also isn't ready to step back into the shoes of an idolized pop star. Not when he's just gotten a reminder of what it feels like to have a normal conversation. With a grateful glance at Xion, Roxas sprints across the room and slips through the back door with Axel hot on the heels of his overpriced shoes.

o - o

"Hard to believe they've got you singing such mindless pop songs when you've got a voice like that."

The comment resonates, but it's a different sort of echo this time, because it rises. It climbs a full story to the stairwell above them before dissolving entirely.

They are seated across from each other, Roxas on the second-to-last step of a stairway that leads into the interconnecting bowels of the hospital, Axel sitting with his back flat against the opposite wall. While Roxas leans forward, forearms resting across bent knees, Axel's legs are straight, long enough that his heels rest on either side of Roxas' feet.

"My manager says it's all about packaging," Roxas explains. "Country stars are taller and have more of an all-American look, plus most are based in Atlanta or Nashville."

Axel considers this, expression thoughtful, eyes inquisitive as they study the young man across from him.

"You seem about as fourth of July-apple pie as they come, least from my vantage point."

Roxas shrugs. He could go on, could tell Axel how his youthful looks have been marketed toward teen girls like they're a tangible commodity. He could explain how his music and all the tours are also branded for the same, mindless mass consumption, how everything about himself is carefully scripted before being revealed to the public—from his songs' vague and apolitical lyrics to the answers he gives during live TV appearances. He could admit to missing the days when he first set foot in California, when he worked three food service jobs to afford a shared room in a converted garage in Santa Monica, playing his guitar on street corners with a revolving group of artists seeking money from tourists. His life is easier now with a flush bank account, but in some ways it's the opposite of simple.

He wants to say this and more, but Axel is a virtual stranger. Then again, who better to admit something to than someone who'll likely be in and out of your life in the blink of an eye? Roxas figures Demyx probably has several good answers at the ready for this one.

In front of him, Axel is quietly humming. It's an indistinct melody, maybe devised on-the-fly, and not something Roxas recognizes. His hands are clasped together and resting on his lap, thin fingers loosely entwined, subtly pious.

"Wanna know a secret?"

Roxas lifts his eyes up to Axel's face, brows rising ever so slightly.

"Axel's just an X plus an anagram for my actual name. Figure it suits me better than the one I got given."

While Roxas tries to remember what exactly an anagram is, he's also waiting for Axel to elaborate. When he doesn't, Roxas shifts a little, gaze dropping to the floor. He has plenty of secrets himself. Although Axel hasn't asked for anything in return, Roxas still feels he's owed something.

My mom died in this hospital.

It's on the tip of his tongue, but the words stick in Roxas' throat, too bloated and big and damaging to admit out loud.

"I grew up in this town," he says instead. It's a revelation that is in no way as shocking, but it's the first time he's told this to anyone.

If Axel is caught off-guard, nothing in his expression reflects it. He simply seems to consider it for a moment, then smiles a little before speaking again.

"You sure don't sound it, unless you're from one of them affluent families that separated themselves from the general public in those overdone mansions up above old Tram Common."

Roxas shakes his head and finds it's easier to continue than it was to begin.

"It was just me and my mom. We lived right off Main, above Lockhart's Hardware." He watches Axel's face light with recognition. That store has been around for as long as Roxas can remember and is as much a mark of truth behind his claim as any other. No Hollywood star would have a reason to stop there on a town visit, if it even happened to be open this close to Christmas. "I'm just good at accents. Always have been. I used to come up with some really weird ones each year for our church choir's musical."

Expand that to the desire to fit in around West Coast locals, plus his mother's endless encouragement of all things creative, and it hadn't taken long to mimic California slang, then the accents and cadence overheard from casual acquaintances.

"Kairi and I always say we're from Traverse. Keeps things simpler. But our real address is in the unincorporated tract in between there and here."

There's a comforting drawl in Axel's voice that Roxas longs to fall back into himself, but there's been too much time and life separating him from his past self and he worries it'll sound off, that it might feel wrong. Instead, he continues to prove himself through knowledge of regional nuances, and hopes this doesn't fall short for his own peace of mind more than anything.

"That's the spot out west, around the Highwind's farmstead?"

For the first time, Roxas notices the misted air his breath is producing. That observation is offset by a quick look up because Axel is beaming so brightly his smile could practically light a candle.

"That's the spot. No reason to go out that way unless you live there, or got business with Cid and his people."

Unlike Roxas, the air in front of Axel is clear. At least one of them is warm, considering no one seems to have seen a need to turn on the heat in this part of the building. It's a little odd though. Although Axel is wearing a jacket, it doesn't seem to provide much by way of insulation. Same for the rest of him beneath its thin folds, truth be told. In fact, Axel's pale skin is a good match for someone else Roxas has just met, which starts him mentally wandering down a different path.

"What about Xion?"

He can't bring himself to ask something more straightforward about Axel himself. Besides, Roxas remembers how good his own mother was at deflecting peoples' health-related questions.

"Further east, just south of the mountains." Although nothing about him has outwardly changed, the tone Axel is now using seems more subdued. "Though her family hasn't been out this way in awhile. Last I heard, her grandpapa's car was having engine troubles."

"But, isn't she…"

Roxas stops. He already knows any attempt to soften his question will ultimately fail, and Axel seems to know what he's implying anyway. There's still a hint of a smile that lingers on his features. It remains as he tilts his head back in Roxas' direction.

"But, ain't everyone? Life's just one big journey to the end of the same road. Granted, some get there sooner, and there're others looking forward to what-all happens after. In that light, it don't sound that bad to me, personally; it's all about what shade you choose to paint it, right?"

This is straying down a path Roxas isn't sure he wants to take, not just with Axel but with anyone. He hasn't been to church since he decided to cross state lines. It's been years since he decided he was less god-fearing than some murky variation of spiritually equivocal. Church itself is a mixed bag for Roxas. It introduced him to music and gave him a supportive community in which to creatively flourish. Near the end, he found he just couldn't deal with the persistent looks of pity in his home congregation.

On the concrete step at his side, his phone blinks with a text from Demyx, and Roxas sees it both as his own personal salvation from Axel's questions and the beginning of the end of this oddly satisfying experience. This would also be the sixth. While he's already answered texts one through five, Roxas doesn't think he can manage to hold Demyx off again. He reaches over, unlocks his phone, and starts to type out a longer response.

"Giving in?"

Although he doesn't look up this time, Roxas nods.

"It wasn't a big deal to miss lunch, but I'm supposed to be signing autographs and giving out products we brought from the tour. I don't want to keep people waiting much longer."

Axel's only response is an indistinct murmur as Roxas pushes himself to standing on the palms of hands that are almost numb.

"Want to come with? We could see if your sister's here. It'd be cool to meet her."

There's a pang of disappointment when Axel shakes his head and doesn't make a move that remotely resembles rising. He just stays in place and crosses his legs.

"Nah, I'll pass. I think we've already gone and established I'm not a pop music enthusiast."

They had, but Roxas finds it's actually something he likes about Axel. With a nod, he makes his way back up the stairs, then stops after a few steps and looks back.

"I'll say hi to your sister if I see her. Kairi, right?"

"Yeah. Hard to miss the kid. She and I got similar styles." Axel nods, then gestures up toward his head. "You'll know what I mean once you see her."

And that's that.

Or so Roxas thinks. He's just rounded the railing that leads up to ground level when Axel's voice floats up to him.

"I know it's none of my personal beeswax, but I think it's good you came back." Axel's voice is low, his last words so soft they remind Roxas of the lyrics Xion had so recently sung. "Sometimes the past's worth looking back at before you can get a clear picture of what's ahead."

Roxas rounds the last steps as he considers his response, but it's Demyx's face he sees as the hallway door swings open. He's yanked away before he can say anything. Maybe it's a good thing, because even minutes later Roxas still doesn't know how he'd have responded.

One thing he does know: there's a growing hope in the depths of his chest that Axel isn't wrong.

o - o

His jaw aches from smiling, but if Roxas has learned anything it's the unabashed accuracy of a 'fake it until you make it' mentality in this profession, and that putting up a sunny front is just an initial challenge. Eventually, the mind starts buying the lies your body is so persistently trying to sell it. This is likely why Roxas notices an uptick in mood by the end of his visit.

That, or another appearance from Xion.

Amid the modest crowd and enthusiastic chatter that had surrounded the folding chair and table where Aerith escorted him just an hour earlier, she'd been hard to spot at first. When he'd finally caught a glimpse of her, it was the gauzy fabric of her headscarf that'd come into view between the shoulders of two patients who were closer to him. They were a pair of girls about Xion's age who'd smiled shyly, eyes darting from Roxas to each other and back again as an assistant passed him two gift bags and he scrawled his first name in silver ink onto posters with his face displayed prominently.

Xion had hung back at first, and she'd waited with more patience than Roxas felt he personally possessed. All the while, he'd occasionally glance up to see if he could catch sight of Axel somewhere around her.

By the time the sea of patients had parted and Xion was finally in front of him, Roxas felt like he'd been sentenced to an eternity of signing posters, CD covers, and t-shirts. The assistant had passed him another gift bag with seasoned precision just as he'd made a grab for the top poster on a pile that was mercifully less than half its original height.

Even after they'd packed up and he'd exited the building his own fortune had helped construct, their brief conversation lingered. It was what'd happened after that'd left a greater impression, but Roxas still likes to separate the events in his mind. He wants remember Xion as someone special in her own right.

But first, it'd been a short exchange of words. Even before that, Roxas had slipped his hand into his pocket to retrieve the borrowed keycard, then taken a page from Axel's book and quirked his head as Xion stepped forward.

"And here I was under the impression that pop music wasn't your thing."

The temptation had been strong to slip into the vernacular of his childhood, but Demyx's hovering presence had been enough to suppress it. Nevertheless, Roxas had taken a chance by opting for a compromise and dropping his standard West Coast tone, which he liked to think Xion had noticed. While she'd looked at him with a level expression, it was offset by a subtle, indulgent eye-roll as she reached out to reclaim the keycard Roxas had slid toward her.

"You already know that full well."

He'd been tempted to ask about Axel, but Xion's next action had the simultaneous effect of distracting and surprising him. She'd leaned forward across the table until she could reach not only the pile of posters but the silver pen he'd been using to sign them. With a flick of her wrist, she'd slid one of the posters over to her side of the table. Popping off the pen top, she hunched forward and scribbled a flowery string of letters divided by a circular character that identified the line as an email address before passing both items back to him.

"Don't worry. I won't hold my breath or be disappointed if I never get a response." Her smile spoke of someone well accustomed to letdowns. "It's just in case you get tired of the same old recycled songs, or find yourself wanting to talk about real music with someone who knows the difference…"

She'd looked down, shrugged to herself, then shuffled off before Roxas could respond. Maybe he should have gone after her, or said an official good-bye, but neither had seemed appropriate when there were others still in line. He'd quickly folded up the poster and tucked it away, then returned to his default smile. By the time he'd finished, Xion was already gone, nothing left of her presence but one line of silvery text in his designer jeans pocket.

While volunteers from the hospital had helped Demyx pack up and the security team prepped to depart, Roxas had made a grab for an extra gift bag, then flagged down the first nurse he could locate. She'd given him a bit of a weird look as he made his request, but ultimately shrugged and accepted the bag before disappearing into an administrative office.

Now it's just Roxas, Demyx, and what's left of his security as they wait for Aerith to return and lead them out to the parking lot. A few patients linger and steal glances at them from a distance, but most have been ushered back to the residence area by older siblings or parents. Xion is long gone and, true to his word, Axel'd never reappeared to begin with. There's disappointment for Roxas in both of these things but he is also exhausted, mind and body. He's ready to leave and start the trip back to LA, to get home to the second life he's spent so many years working to make.

"Lex said he'd text when the car is ready." Demyx speaks with his eyes on his phone, back pressed against one of the lounge's walls. Next to him, Roxas nods, then looks down. "So, how'd it feel to come home?"

Caught off-guard, Roxas' head jerks up, eyes surveying the lounge to confirm no one is within earshot, before they come to a stop back on Demyx.

"What?"

Demyx cracks a satisfied smile.

"It was just a hunch. Remind me to get you an acting coach before we branch off from music."

Roxas just crosses his arms, shoulders rounding, which he concedes probably amplifies the point Demyx just made. With an affectionate expression, Demyx reaches over and ruffles Roxas' hair before lowering his voice.

"Look, everyone's got a story, and this isn't me asking about yours. But you don't just drive a hundred-plus miles on shitty Kentucky backroads out of pure altruism, especially when there are plenty of other hospitals you could visit on the tour route." Demyx lapses into a short silence as the double doors nearest to them open and Aerith reappears. He pushes off from the wall, then gestures for Roxas to follow him. "Anyway, Merry Christmas, and glad I could help make whatever this was—" He waves his arm in a wide arc across the lounge "—happen."

They head toward Aerith without another word, retrieve their coats from her office, then follow her down the same hall they walked when they arrived that morning. Roxas stays quiet as Demyx makes more smalltalk with Aerith. There are a handful of people in the hall this time around, and some doors have been left open, revealing modest but nicely furnished living spaces. Roxas smiles out of habit as he walks past, but otherwise filters out the people and their conversations.

To his left, another door opens. Someone emerges, then flickers out sight so quickly there's a chance he might have imagined it. Nevertheless, it triggers something within him. Roxas slows his pace until he's a few steps behind Aerith and Demyx, then cranes his neck to look back the way they just came.

A girl is walking in the opposite direction. Her short-sleeved shirt reveals the pale skin of her arm, and a smattering of freckles Roxas imagines travel all the way up both shoulders. It's the fringe of red swaying above them that sets his pulse racing just a little faster.

He slows to a stop, and both remaining security guards pause to watch him. Demyx notices too. He places a hand on Aerith's arm, then stops a couple feet away from Roxas and shoots him a questioning look.

"Be right back. I just need a minute." Roxas is already speed-waking back down the hall as he calls out, and he raises a flat-palmed hand so his security won't follow. He stops in front of the first set of double doors at the end of the hall before pushing one open a sliver.

The girl is standing with her back mostly to him, looking up at the wall in front of her and the framed photos that line both sides of this space between the center's residences and the atrium lounge. As Roxas pushes the door open enough to slip through, the girl turns further away still, toward far doors that lead past the reception area and back to the lounge. In a few brisk steps, he cuts the distance between them, then reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder in a manner similar to Demyx's gesture with Aerith.

He doesn't have a precise plan of where to go from here, just knows that she's a connection to Axel and the diversion that he'd offered. It was something Roxas hadn't known he'd needed until Axel had so willingly gifted it, however unknowingly.

He releases her arm as she turns, and if there's even an ounce of recognition about who's standing beside her, she doesn't show it. Maybe it's the puffy coat and large scarf he now sports. Regardless, Roxas isn't quite as skilled at hiding his own reaction. Because Axel had described Kairi as his younger sister, a kid. This girl is older, at least early twenties, although Roxas can imagine her as a pop star-obsessed teen by mentally shaving off a few years easily enough.

"Sorry." The word comes out in a stammer that Roxas tries to smooth over by the time he's finished speaking. "My mistake. I thought you were someone else."

She gives him a once over, expression both curious and wary, then shrugs her purse higher onto her shoulder before turning away from him.

"No worries."

She's through the lounge doors and gone before the embarrassed flush has left his face. For a moment, he just stands there, feeling both flustered and stupid, and almost able to imagine Axel's amused smile and laughter at this awkward mix-up. It's this lingering image that makes him hesitate as he turns back in the direction he's just come. There is a sensation that the air has been sucked from the room, or maybe just his lungs. This time when his eyes pass a patch of red, he immediately recognizes it.

Wanna know a secret?

Roxas looks up, eyes settling on the picture the girl had just been looking at. The frame is a cheap yellow-gold, the pane of glass likely plastic. It's the picture itself that speaks to him. He studies the image for a full thirty seconds, glancing briefly at the name on the small plaque under it, along with a pair of years, the latter now almost half a decade past. His gaze flits back up, first to the photo, then higher to the stenciled description centered above this wall. It's different than the message on the opposite wall that lauds survival. The message in front of him is an epitaph.

In memoriam.

There is a moment of nauseating heat in his chest, a feeling of light-headed faintness as his vision sparkles and the plaque's decorative lettering seems to float before him, then rearrange of its own volition. The A moves in front of the E, and the sole consonant flutters from the front to the name's end. A space remains between the two vowels, a noted hollow. From his side, Roxas lifts his hand just enough to mimic the criss-cross scrawl of the final consonant.

His phone comes to life, an insistent rhythm at his thigh, but Roxas hardly notices. He's too fixated on a name within a name, an imperfect anagram without the addition he just gave it. He's too focused on the contours of the face looking back at him, familiar, but different—free of apostrophic ink, healthy, and younger, they're still the same basic features and a mirthful expression that stays with Roxas even when his eyes close, as though burned into both pupils.

When the door opens again, the image dissolves. Roxas blinks the haze from his vision as Demyx pokes his head in. He glances between Roxas and the framed photo, then back again.

"Hey, you ready? Lex just texted."

Never thought I'd meet an honest-to-God star…

Roxas nods, then moves to follow Demyx as he tries to clear his head and put some distance between his feelings and this new revelation.

"Everything all right?"

Demyx has slowed until they're walking side by side at a comfortable pace. A quick look sideways confirms his manager's concern, which isn't altogether unwarranted. Inside, Roxas is still reeling, and outwardly he's never been great at hiding his feelings. For a moment, he considers admitting what he's just witnessed.

But an unusual calm has washed over him. Roxas can feel a subtle shift in the air that tickles one side of his face. Then, a soft, chiding scoff.

Morbid much?

Roxas just shrugs and they reconvene with Aerith at the far end of the hall. They take a moment to zip their coats and prepare for the cold that waits on the other side of the door. Even still, the wind feels like unforgiving pinpricks against every inch of Roxas' exposed skin. Wrapping his arms around himself as they make their way to the car, Roxas doesn't look back until the Escalade's door is closed. The SUV's warm air mingles with the cold and mists the windows until all he can see is indistinct forms that he stares at, eye unfocused, until each morphs into the shapes of ghosts, both new and old, and Roxas knows now is the time to say good-bye.

To let go.

A tap on his shoulder brings him back to the Escalade's interior, and Roxas looks over at Demyx as Lex shifts gears into reverse.

"I didn't want to ask until we got someone more private." Even now, Demyx seems somewhat hesitant to broach the subject. Roxas watches his manager without expression. For once, his face reveals none of what he's internally feeling. "But it looked like you might've seen someone you knew on that wall."

Someone he knows, Roxas is tempted to correct, but he finds himself smiling instead. It's small but genuine, a knowing expression, because sometimes you have to acknowledge the past before you can see what's ahead.

He turns back to his window, to the fading ghosts and blurred edges of the hospital and its newest, heart-shaped extension.

"Nah." Roxas exhales, and revels in the sound of his own natural drawl. His next words are softer, inaudible to Demyx. "Not in this lifetime, anyway."