A/N: I, uh...yeah. I don't even know. This story just came the hell out of nowhere, and it pretty much just wrote itself. I suppose it took me...oh...six hours to write? Maybe a bit less. I have no idea where it came from, why I wrote, or why Axel is the way he is, but good GOD I am utterly in love with this thing. I apologize for any errors, particularly typos or missing words, but I hardly had any editing at all to do on this one. Hell, I wasn't even going to post this for a few more days, but lord knows I couldn't resist.

Edit: Finally, the last story to edit. The site got rid of my page breaks, so I'm adding their horizontal lines instead even though I don't like them. D: Hope it's not too annoying, but I can't live without the breaks.

Warnings: Roxas is underage, oh noes! Aaand it's in the second person, Axel POV. Minor language.

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts and whatnot are so entirely not mine it's not even funny. But I've been trying to get someone to buy me an Axel action figure. Thing. Whatever it is. Mmm Axel.

Summary: Axel/Roxas in the next life. "I know," you interrupt quietly, wishing for once that you could express anything at all through your emotionless eyes. "because those are the colors of my heart."

Slow Spinning Redemption

This is the future: it's not what you expected to be, but since when was anything? It's cold here, cold and lonely and you can't figure out what you'd really done to deserve such a life. Surely, whatever deity there was out there could not have blamed you for what you did, you without a heart and with hardly a soul. There were circumstances, weren't there, and you did what you had to do. And then when he had come, you had tried to better yourself, to live up to the light he gave off and shined only on you. Didn't that count for something? Your loyalty to the light, your ability to love when everything you were said your heart was gone, destroyed or collected or at least severed from the shell of your self and floating in the nether, when everything you knew about yourself said that you didn't feel at all. And you'd spent ages looking for him, hours upon days upon months searching, unable to find, slamming against invisible walls and brought up short by unexplainable dead ends. You'd wanted your heart and you had it, for the shortest amount of time, you'd had what you'd been searching so desperately for. And then you'd lost it and you'd tried to make things better, let the boy go when you should have pulled him back into the darkness with you, released your desperate hold on your makeshift heart, sacrificed everything that was left to make things right though you hadn't made them wrong to begin with.

And this is your reward? A bittersweet goodbye, a sad smile and the ability to cry, a light so bright you couldn't see and then...this. The fire was gone, the warmth that had made up what was left of your existence had seeped into the air and left you here, alone and cold and wandering without solidity or destination in the darkness. You can feel yourself fading away, fading into the nonexistance you came from, but you fight with everything you have, fight the ice that flows through your veins, your fleeing memories, the darkness at the end of the tunnel that calls you (but not to home). This is the future, one more fight for what you deserve, and this time you won't give up no matter what happens.

The darkness fades into nothing, and then the light returns and you stare into it, blinded.

Your hair is red, you look almost anorexic, there are two tattoos on your face (like teardrops under your eyes), and your eyes should have been beautiful. That is all you know about your looks, other than the things that you don't really need eyes to notice--you know you're taller than a great many people where you live, but not as tall as a few of your older brother's friends, and you can feel how large your hips are compared to the rest of your body, disproportionately girly. You have been told, multiple times, that you're handsome--at least until you take off your ever-present sunglasses, when something about the blankness of your eyes scares people. You wear a lot of black and never even attempt to brush your hair, you walk with a cane that your older brother says has a dragon on the top, but you use a seeing-eye dog to make your way around. You have never seen the sky, the eyepatch covering Xigbar's face, the diagonal scar between Leon's eyes, but you know they're there and you know they're fascinating to other people. You can catch the flies that buzz around your head with your bare hands, and are generally proficient enough in a fight to make people second-guess their ideas to attack you. Sometimes, late at night, you listen to the crickets and think to yourself: "So this is the future, huh?" A few minutes later, you remind yourself that this isn't the future because this is the present, and then you have a tendency to fall asleep.

In your dreams, you know what colors are. In your dreams, you know you heart is blond-haired and blue-eyed, short and effeminate, and not someone you would ever want to mess with. He can practically kill you with his eyes, and he can kill you with or without his trademark weapons. He has broken your heart, or at least what you assume was your heart (those parts of the dreams are still hazy, like they were lies or illusions), four times. If you ever found him, you know you would let him do it again. You have never let that fact deter you from hoping to find him, some day, waiting for you.

You are pondering all this while you sit on a bench in the park, listening to the wind blow the leaves of the trees and feeling the warm sunlight on your face, when a ball literally comes out of nowhere and hits you in the forehead. You let out a startled yelp, and your dog wakes from its doze, barks once, and you can feel a slight tug on the leash as he retrieves the ball and jumps up onto the bench beside you, placing it in your lap. You pick it up, run your hands over it, and identify it as a soccerball (black and white, you remind yourself). You seem intent on it, but you are really listening for the approach of one of the boys that you could hear in the distance, and you have to resist a smirk as you can feel another's presence in front of you.

"Hey, are you alright?" a youthful voice asks, concerned and disinterested all at once, and something about it pulls at your heart. "We tried to yell for you to duck, but you must have been really out of it."

"I'm fine," you reply, holding the ball out in the direction you think he's standing in. "I haven't missed a ball coming straight for my face in a while. You ought to be proud of yourself for catching me off guard."

"I'll pass the message along to Tidus, since he's the one that kicked the ball," the voice responds, and you snort in amusement, staring in his general direction. You're trying to keep from facing directly at his eyes, because your blindness is an obvious topic for conversation and you don't want the kid to leave just yet. "Oh. You're um...well."

"Blind?" you supply casually, halfway amused at the kid's hesitation at saying the word. "Been since birth. It's not too bad, really. At least I can't tell what I'm missing." You let one of your grins cross your face, the one that you know is charismatic enough to get you almost anything you want, and raise your hands up to where you think the boy's face is. "Do you mind?"

"I...guess not," the boy says uncertainly, and you take your advantage without a second though, though your heart is suddenly racing. Your fingers touch the boy's jaw first, your grin widening because you guessed right, and then you run fingers up the boys cheeks, thumbs brushing against slightly parted lips, skirting large eyes skillfully, and pushing through a jungle of spiky hair.

"Well," you say in a low voice, smirking like the jackass you know you are, "I bet I'm missing out on something here." You can feel the heat on the boy's cheeks, know without knowing that his cheeks are bright pink, eyes wide, and you can feel his lips tremble when you brush your thumb up against them, unable to resist. Then you pull away, suddenly and completely, gathering up your dog's leash and the cane leaning against your leg, and when you get to your feet the boy is only inches in front of you and you can feel the heat of his body all the way up to your chest, where you're sure his height ends. "I'll be seeing you around, kid."

You can hear a soft whisper of "What the hell?" echoing after you as you walk away, and then the boy's friends are on him, needlessly concerned. You smile emptily.

"Eyes like the cloudless sky, deep as the ocean, and hair the color of sunlight," you murmur to yourself, knowing without knowing that this is the truth.

You have never admitted to anyone that you have a love of writing. They don't know that you have a custom-made keyboard, all the keys with braile raised on them, every one of them in a spot you have memorized. You like to think that your constant typing has taken some of the color off of the keys, that the letters for blue and blond and heart have practically been erased. You like to write symbolically, poetically, every line with a beat to it, every word standing in for something else. You are particularly fond of describing, in detail, every color that you can't see.

Every story begins with someone searching for something. Nobody has ever found what they're looking for in your stories, and this is why you don't share them--they aren't complete yet, not when your characters are forever giving up and giving in and settling for things they never needed.

This story is about a man searching for some mythical glass object, some figurine of a goddess or a demon (the tales vary endlessly). He gets lost in the desert and he's thinking about giving up when he finally comes across the fabled oasis. He fights off demons (that smell of rotting flesh), he dodges traps (one of them has swords like needles, which scratch at his arms as he runs through), and in the very middle of the body of water the goddess shines brilliantly in the light. But once he lifts the figurine from its pedestal, it crumples immediately to sand. The mirage falls, and he spins around to see vultures circling the sky and tall cacti with blood dripping from their needles, and he falls to the ground. You can't decide if he's passed out or if he's dead.

You decide you like the ambivalent ending, and leave it as it is. So far, this is your favorite story, and you listen to the ending being repeated back at you with your heart beating too fast and your head held in your hands.

You don't return to the park for a week. You get caught up in your life, and your brother's friends were throwing a party that they invited your friends to, and you were having almost too much fun with Xigbar, who was staying for the week. But eventually your thoughts return to the boy you had practically groped, and you find yourself returning late one afternoon in the hopes that he'll be there again. You are, for once, not disappointed.

The boy settles himself next to you quietly, not saying a word until you turn sightless eyes in his direction. You can feel him staring at you and you wonder if it's the icy glare from your dreams for a brief moment before you reach forward uncertainly until your hand curls around the boy's thin neck. You press your thumb briefly to his adam's apple and then feel for his pulse.

"Can I see your eyes?" the boy asks in a clinical sort of voice, and you cock your head to the side for a moment of confusion. "I heard that it's kind of creepy when blind people look at you. I wanted to see, you know, unless you haven't got eyes or something." You think vaguely that his pulse is too normal and raise to pull your sunglasses off. It's been a while since you've let anyone see your eyes, but you figure it'd be okay just this once--the kid's curious about them and not you, so you probably won't get hurt. You can't help but smile a little at the boy's sudden intake of breath.

"Want me to scare your friends?" you ask, voice echoing with mischievousness.

"You have really pretty eyes," the boy tells you matter-of-factly. You lean forward a little, feel his pulse speed up, and resist the urge to ask him what color they are. Nobody has ever told you before. "Like emeralds."

You pull the boy a little bit closer, sliding your hand to the back of his head and cradling it. "You have deep blue eyes," you inform him confidently, "and impossibly blond hair."

"How do you--"

"I know," you interrupt quietly, wishing for once that you could express anything at all through your emotionless eyes. "because those are the colors of my heart." You grin cheesily once you've said that, knowing how ridiculous it sounds—you haven't spent half your life writing to be able to pass over a bad line without reacting.

"Oh," the boy responds breathlessly, and then pushes you into the back of the bench and kisses you soundly, desperately, and your heart beats like it's never beaten before. He tries to pull away before you're ready to let go, and so you pull him back into yourself, long arms holding him flush against your body. Kissing this boy is just like you thought it would be, all passion and attempted domination, and you can't help but push back, turning over and pressing him into the seat of the bench. He whimpers a little when you break the kiss, makes a keening noise when you make your way down the side of his neck, sucking and nibbling gently and trying not to bruise him. Just when you think he's going to let you have your way with him in public, he pushes you off him with a strength that's as surprising as it is expected.

You expect him to run away, but he surprises you again and doesn't—at least, not right away. He presses your cane and your dog's leash into one hand, your dropped sunglasses into another, and informs you that you're a bastard before he struts off. You listen to him leave, head tilted to one side curiously, and as soon as his presence has disappeared you find yourself grinning.

This screams of something you haven't forgotten, a moment from a past that never existed, only this time the boy already has his answers and he's merely running from fate.

This is where he breaks your heart. This is where he informs you that you're worthless, that he never wanted you, that he's perfectly happy with his little blonde friend that betrayed him and imprisoned him. He's as cold and cruel as he never was, and you know somehow that his eyes are more like ice than the sky or the ocean. He walks away and tries to leave you, but you don't let him.

Fire explodes. The little blonde friend is left disappointingly intact, but he's still there, you can feel him and his eyes that should never have left you. You're jealous, horribly so, and not afraid to admit it. There is a fight. It is nothing like you have ever experienced, nothing like the fight that didn't exist, nothing like what you've done to other people. It is furious, but you don't want to do this, and wish you could stop before those flames devour you or him or the entire world.

You wake up screaming, flailing your way out of bed and onto the floor, and you half expect your brother to come running, but he sleeps like a log and you're utterly alone. This is the first and last time you wish you were capable of tears.

If there is one good thing everybody you've ever known has said about you, it's that you're tenacious. You have never given up on anything and you aren't about to give up now; this is why you can be found in the same area of the park nearly every other day, walking or sitting or asleep in a spot of sunlight on the grass like a cat. You don't know where your blond and blue heart lives, but you don't think you need to. He will come to you. He has always come to you in the end, even if he's also always done what he wanted no matter what you thought.

You are laying in a warm patch of sunlight with your hands behind your head the day the boy reappears, nearly a month after that incredible kiss. He kicks you once in the side to see if you're awake and you grunt noncommittally. He seems to take this as an invitation and drops to the grass beside you, rests one hand on your chest.

"You're still a bastard," is the first thing the kid says to you, and you want to be offended but only find yourself amused. "I think you ought to know that beforehand."

"I try my best," you quip in response, the charismatic grin popping up without warning. There is a long, content silence.

"So you think I'm your heart, huh?" the boy asks quietly, the thoughtfulness in his voice lending it a distant quality that makes you want to shake him. "I don't even know your name. You don't even know mine."

You lift yourself out of your prone position and reach for the boy, wrapping an arm around him and tugging until he's straddling your waist with his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. He resists determinedly when you try to pull him in for a kiss, and you can't help the ensuing sulk.

"You first," you demand sullenly.

"I'm Roxas," the kid says immediately, like he knew he was going to be the first to admit his name. He leans into you but doesn't kiss you, just fiddles with your long hair and breathes in the air you release.

"Axel," you respond like it doesn't mean anything, and get to your feet so suddenly that the kid—Roxas, you know now, not that you ever really forgot it—gasps and digs his blunt nails into the back of your neck. "I hope you're not busy, because I was planning on taking you home with me."

"I told my mom I was sleeping over a friend's house," Roxas replies, and you can feel his grin without needing to see it. You laugh a little and kiss him, briefly, before setting him back on the ground and beginning a time-consuming search that ends quickly as he hands you your cane and leash.

You are almost surprised when Roxas leans into you and tucks a hand into your back pocket, but you don't let yourself hesitate before draping a casual arm across his shoulders and pulling him in. You give a short, sharp tug on the leash that you've wrapped around one hand, and both of you are led to a house that's about to become home.

This is the future: unexpected, yes, but you can't bring yourself to be disappointed this time. Roxas is everywhere, inside and outside of you, like an all-encompassing fire that keeps you warm no matter how far away you are. You know he isn't going anywhere; he has, after all, promised not to break your heart.

For a while yet, he lives with his parents, because he's four years younger than you and still underage (which is a fact that makes you laugh because everyone knows that it doesn't matter when it comes to the two of you). You continue living with your brother because sometimes you still need someone to be your eyes, but Roxas visits often and quickly worms his way into every aspect of your life. Soon he is friends with all of your friends and all of your brother's friends, never mind that half of them are ages older than him and he sticks out like a swan in a flock of geese.

He is everything to you. Sometimes you wonder if this is all an illusion to keep you content in the afterlife, sometimes you wonder if maybe you're insane and imaging all of this. Sometimes, late at night with your heart clenched to your chest, you can admit it doesn't matter either way.

A/N: Man, that was...long. I hope you enjoyed it! Now I can has reviews?