Author's Notes: Okay, this thing? Been in my head since like '06, but never found the time and will to write until recently. And me? Been out of the fandom for a while writing-wise, but I guess that's not too important, since I'm here now. Well, there's really not much to say besides hey, I'm back, and here's this, and there ya go.

If you'd like to keep track of my progress on chapters, you can check out my profile. I update with estimated percentages on how close I am to finishing each chapter.

Alrighty. Let's start this. I hope I haven't lost my touch, whatever that is.

"Existentialism"

chapter one: welcome to existence

by: Rosalyn Angel

-

Axel Hitzig had big plans when he first came to Traverse. He planned to get himself noticed. He planned to write the greatest novel ever. He told people what he would do when the novel turned him famous—help charities, speak at universities, travel the world, all that stuff. "I'll be the great mind of our time," he said, "and that book will get me there." Traverse seemed the obvious place to start: a city at the intersection of two major highways, where people came and went daily, a well-known and well-traveled city. It was at that center of civilization and aspiration, small enough to be recognized but large enough for recognition to matter, where he would set his future in motion.

He discovered a duplex just outside of the city (he shared the left unit with his best friend Larxene while a middle-aged woman occupied the right) and a job at the Traverse Wal-Mart to sustain himself while he wrote. It was the perfect set-up, and Axel soon fell into routine. Every workday he left the duplex at 7:45 A.M., drove the ten minutes to work, did his shift, and then went home at 5:30 to write. But as each day dragged on, he put in more hours stocking produce than he did writing. His job became the more important thing; he had bills to pay and groceries to buy and emergencies to fix (like a flat tire, or the duplex's air conditioner dying last summer). Besides, after finally returning home, he just felt too tired. He didn't have the time. So, the pages of his novel remained blank.

Now whenever the doors of the Wal-Mart closed behind him, Axel imagined himself being eaten alive, but he let the thought go and turned in his time card and wore the blue smock for however many hours while people asked him where the pears were (next to the peaches) and how they could find the soda aisle (all the way at the back). Many of them were people he'd never see again: situated as Traverse and the Wal-Mart were, Axel never knew who was staying or going, and if they were going, he never knew where. The two four-lane highways connected to any number of other roads that stretched across the country. The paths people could take seemed limitless. One day he could be helping a guy find the oranges, and the next day that guy could be two states away on some epic adventure.

At least he had Larxene. He could bother her or she could bother him. However it happened they got on each other's nerves and vowed never to speak again for a few hours. Sometimes Axel thought he hated her, but other times he thought she could be his soul mate if they both weren't gay. (They had tried out the straight thing with each other once, but that had just ended in them standing naked together and then agreeing to see a movie instead.) He'd known her since middle school, and she'd been the only one who had supported his decision to drop out his senior year and move to the city. She had even gone with him when he wanted a roommate to share rent. "Honestly, Axel, of course I will," she had said. "After all, without me, what could you possibly accomplish?"

Sometimes at work Axel remembered her saying that. Whenever he did, he'd look up at the customers roaming around him and feel invisible, and he'd keep feeling invisible until he did something like puncturing the skin of an apple he was arranging with one fingernail—a clear crescent moon on shining red—and then placing it on top of the rack. After that, when customers approached him for directions, he could throw on a grin and a helpful voice.

These customers were always the ones either passing through or new to town; the ones he recognized as regulars knew the store as well as he did. Every Tuesday afternoon a young woman helped her grandmother with groceries; Wednesdays saw a group of giggling teenagers scavenging for snacks; and on Fridays two men carefully selected their fruits together. Axel always noticed those two. They were hard to miss—one was a gloomy brunet who dressed in leather, and the other was younger, maybe Axel's age, with silver hair that hung in his face. The younger man seemed to focus inward whenever his hand hovered over the grapes, like a clairvoyant whose hand passed over her crystal ball to divine the ripest batch. (One time Axel saw him pluck and eat a grape when he thought no one was looking, but Axel never did anything about it. He ate his fair share on the job, too.)

During every lunch he ate at the snack bar with his two pals Demyx and Xigbar, who worked in electronics and automotive respectively, and when his shift ended, he clocked out and drove the road home. Larxene always arrived an hour ahead of him. Before he got undressed, she would've already staked her claim on the floor pillows in front of the television while the stray tabby cat they had picked up purred on her lap. She wore only an oversized t-shirt and her underwear at home, and she propped her feet on the red pillow with tassels, "because I'm running around waiting tables all damned day; don't you think my feet deserve the royal treatment?"

The television normally showed the news. Larxene made faces according to what was going on. A murder in the large city thirty miles away earned a smirk and a comment on morons walking alone at night; a child helping others out of a fire got a roll of her eyes, big deal, so what; but whenever stories aired on the war across the ocean, she became deeply interested. "Can you believe the shit going on over there? And for what, would you tell me that?"

"Don't know," Axel would say. "Don't care."

Then Larxene would snarl at him, because he was a dropout and a failure and a nobody; she'd hit all the pressure points in his psyche that'd make him irritated and weak until he'd forfeit and escape to his room. He saw it coming every time. The war was a sore spot for Larxene, so when he poked at it, she jabbed back, and yet he kept pushing her. Something about her sitting there and running on about the stupidity of their involvement in the war really dug into him, but he guessed she had a good reason.

Aside from their verbal wars, they were comfortable enough with each other that one could use the bathroom with the door open and the other wouldn't care, which was the case every morning before work. Larxene would sit on the toilet with the tabby cat settled on top of the pooled pants at her ankles, and Axel would pick at his hair in the mirror until each spike stuck out just right. They'd spend this time in silence, except when Larxene would coo at their cat (simply named Cat by Axel, while Larxene's version of the name changed daily): "Good morning, Dumbface. Yes, I call you that because your face is dumb and so are you. Yes, I do." Somehow, Cat liked Larxene better.

Normally after finishing, Larxene left to eat breakfast, but some days she stayed and haunted his back, her calm grin reflected in the mirror. These days were the days she wanted something done: "Axel, love, would you terribly mind doing the laundry after work? The clean clothes are running low, and you know how it is." Axel would make a half-effort to bypass the chore, maybe suggest that Larxene do it herself one of these days. Like with the laundry, he heard it was real easy—something about detergent—but of course she never gave in. Larxene got her way. The few times he tried to get her to do the wash, she said, "And risk that old bat harping on me to do something for her? Oh, please."

The old bat was actually Tomoko, the woman next door and an immigrant from Japan in the early sixties, who, after their washer and dryer had broken, let them use hers. Axel had been the first to greet her, and while his clothes had washed, she had offered him tea; from there a favor-based relationship had formed. She let them use her washer and dryer and Axel performed whatever task she needed done. The few times Larxene had spoken with her had caused an inexplicable disdain between both women. Larxene called Tomoko pushy, and Tomoko called Larxene a harlot.

Axel had long learned to shrug off they said about each other. Lunch break presented an escape from crazy women each day, anyway; he met with Demyx and Xigbar, the two least annoying people he worked with, though sometimes Demyx teetered on that line.

The first few days after learning of Axel's sexuality Demyx had stared at him in a mixture of curiosity and awe, as if he had jumped straight out of a fairytale decked in flowers and wielding a wand. Axel had forgiven him only because Demyx had little to no experience with gay men, Marluxia not withstanding. As manly as his voice and attitude were, he still had pink hair and worked in gardening. Xigbar, at least, had taken the news with aplomb: "Look, as long as you spare me the details, who you screw around with is none of my concern."

Xigbar was notorious for taking things in stride, like how he handled the right side of his face being scarred from a motorcycle accident years ago. He must have other injuries on his person, but the most noticeable was his eye, which he let no one see. He covered it with an eye patch, joked about being a pirate, and teased the weak-stomached. "I bet you wanna see it, don't you? You're just dying to, I can tell," he'd say and fiddle with the edge of the patch, while his victims shook their heads and covered their faces in mock horror. Xigbar often teased Demyx with it; as curious as the kid was, Demyx always said, "I don't think that's a good idea. I feel a little queasy today. I mean, who knows what you're hiding? My imagination is enough." Even if Xigbar got unlucky and found someone brave, he'd back off at the last minute, because, he'd say, he was a sensitive guy; what would people think if they saw his injury? So Xigbar's covered eye quickly turned into the great mystery of their workplace and made for some interesting gossip.

The things and people around Axel continued like this for a long time; in such a routine he easily lost track of days, even months. Suddenly a couple of years had passed, and his laptop still rested on the carpet of his room, the silver sheen a little worn away. Sometimes, as he lay on his bed, he saw it there and felt a tug inside, but he only pushed the feeling away, fell asleep, and dreamed of nothing.

The Traverse Wal-Mart sat at the end of a strip mall, which was built on a road parallel to Highway K and designed to attract tourists. Most of the shops were personally owned restaurants, including DiZ's, the best pizza place Axel knew. He had only been there once, though, during his first few days in Traverse—afterward he took advantage of the employee discount at the Wal-Mart snack bar, and anyway it was less trouble walking there than DiZ's for his lunch break, even if the snack bar left something to be desired.

Demyx advocated every now and then eating elsewhere, but his plea was usually met with "We're already here," and he had a hard time arguing against logic like that. But today, a Wednesday, he seemed adamant.

"You guys, this sandwich," he said, "it's like oozing, I don't know. Look at these tomatoes." The tomatoes slipped out the sides when he flattened the sandwich on his tray.

The three of them had taken their place at the booth in the corner of the snack bar farthest from the entrance, each still in their work clothes: Axel and Demyx in their blue shirts and tan slacks and Xigbar in his automotive jumpsuit. Behind them the snack bar thrived. People ordered their food in stammered, thoughtful sentences and then clattered their trays onto the tables and stroke up conversations about the newest hit thing. The workers hurried in and out the swinging back door, the smoothie machine and other trinkets whirring and gurgling. But away from the commotion, Axel, Demyx, and Xigbar relaxed in their booth. Axel and Xigbar had already devoured their food, but Demyx kept up his campaign despite the other two's efforts at whittling him down.

"I have a weak stomach," he said, "but it needs food. So I should give it nice food, you get me? Not hotdogs everyday."

"I like my hotdogs," Axel said. "What's wrong with hotdogs?"

"Despite the phallic thing, am I right?" Xigbar said and winked.

"Nothing wrong with that, either."

"I mean I don't want that type of food anymore," Demyx said. He puffed out his chest, like he was getting ready to beat it with one fist for righteousness and freedom and all civilized people. "I'm serious about this."

"So are we," Axel said and folded his hands on the table. "This is a very serious matter."

"Oh, yeah, this is definitely a matter for the serious council to decide," Xigbar said. He turned to Axel, who sat across from him and Demyx. "Shall we convene?"

"In session," Axel said. "What is your serious decision, my good sir?"

"I've thought seriously on the matter, and reached a verdict of not giving a rat's ass."

"I do believe we agree. Adjourned."

"I hate you guys," Demyx said.

"If you're just gonna complain about the food, I'll take it," Axel said and reached across the table.

Demyx covered the tray with his arms. "I paid for this."

"Then eat it," Xigbar said. He and Axel lounged back.

Demyx slumped. "But I—"

With a wise smile Axel delivered the final blow: "Might as well. And you know why? Because we're already here, and it's what we got."

"That's right," Xigbar said and nodded. "It's what we got."

"I guess," Demyx said and took the sandwich into both of his hands. He looked between Axel and Xigbar as he raised it to his mouth, and then crossed his eyes at the sandwich before squeezing them shut to take a bite.

"Good boy," Axel said, even while Demyx gagged. Axel watched him out of the corner of his eye as he spoke with Xigbar the rest of their lunch break. With every bite Demyx settled farther into his seat, though hard plastic it was. For some reason Axel felt satisfied each time Demyx caved—he and Xigbar were right, after all. Why spend the extra effort? The food was decent enough, and the prices were acceptable. Sooner or later Demyx would learn to make due as they did. He'd be better off for it.

After lunch the day passed as predicted. He stocked the fruit and helped the customers and hosed the storage-room floor down before his shift ended. ("Going home already, Axel?" his coworkers asked, their faces pleading to take them with.) By the time he clocked out, night had already taken over. During winter the days were miniscule at best.

The walk through the store at the end of each day seemed ceremonial. The aisle to the exit opened its way for him as congratulations, the customers and their carts turning into different lanes till only he and the products marked the passage. Axel tried to savor this walk as best as he could, because it meant he had survived another day, and that was the most expected of him. Passing each aisle he knew their contents: refrigerated items near the backroom, where he clocked out and began his walk; then the soda; the snacks; the canned goods; and finally the bread and bakery near the front. Also near the front lay the produce section, his daily chore, colorful and organized into black bins.

Axel began to turn to the exit then, but a glimpse of a customer stopped him. He wobbled on his heel, struck back with shock. Today, a Wednesday, the man with silver hair stood in front of the apples, two whole days ahead of schedule. Even more unsettling was the fact that Axel couldn't see the brunet in leather anywhere. The two always shopped within an arm's reach of each other. Seeing one of them without the other, on a day that was not their normal day, threw Axel off-course. His feet strayed from the aisle, a little at first, until he had crossed into the produce section to see if the brunet was hiding around a corner or behind a display. But no one—just some normal Wednesday shoppers and one or two passer-bys. The guy with silver hair had come alone.

Axel's mind stuttered. Two days ahead of schedule, and even alone! What couldn't wait for two days? And where was the brunet? There must be a reason. Why else deviate from the norm?

The man with silver hair, a few feet away, remained unaware of him. He appeared to concentrate on the apples, but Axel could tell that the man's mind was drifting. His hand hovered like usual but it was without purpose, and that aimless wandering led him to pick the most precariously placed apple of the bunch. Axel felt his stomach drop.

The display trembled when the man drew the apple out. He snapped awake just as soon as the first few apples rolled down. They landed with solid thuds on the tiles, one after the other, until they fell so fast that each hit was indistinct. The man jumped away with a "No!" and some useless reaching to save it, but the avalanche didn't stop until half of the apples rested at his feet.

Axel thought about the time he had put into creating that display and how much it would suck when he was told to do it again. Then, as one or two people tried to help the man, who fell to his knees and began fervently cleaning the apples up, Axel remembered his mother. "Just stand over there, sweetheart," she had said after he had spilled cereal on the rug. "I'll take care of everything."

He banished the remnants of that memory (his mother on her knees, scrubbing his mess up) when he heard the man with silver hair telling others, "No, I can do it. It's all right; it's my fault. I'll take care of it," until people stopped offering. No employee had arrived yet. Axel figured one would be there soon, but he still found himself walking closer. He had made the display perhaps a little unstable, so he guessed he could share the blame.

"Hey," he said as he knelt down, "I'll lend you a hand."

The man looked up, and Axel recognized his face: the pale skin with the startlingly bright eyes. He knew this man's face from all the Fridays of the past several weeks, or maybe even months; how could they so often cross paths but never speak? Axel couldn't think of a reason, beyond that they simply hadn't.

"That's not necessary," the man said, one arm full of apples. "I can handle it. But thank you."

"I'm sure you could," Axel said and began to restructure the display, "but I'm a bit obliged, considering I work here."

The man blushed and unloaded his armful onto the rack. "I'm sorry. Are they still good?"

"Good enough," Axel said. "Someone will probably mark them down tonight, but hey, accident, right? Happens all the time."

"I wasn't paying attention," the man admitted.

"No worries," Axel said. When they had finished, he stepped back. "See? All fixed." The display was more haphazard and unsightly now, but it would do until someone on duty came.

The man crossed his arms. "Thanks. Well, have a good night."

Axel fought the absurd instinct to reach out. "Need help with anything else?"

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

"Maybe I'll see you around?"

The man smiled. "Maybe. Good night."

Then he left, off to some other aisle. Axel remained and, for whatever reason, felt like the rest of the store had fallen away, like everywhere he turned the path was crumbling. After a moment he patted his apples and ventured out, but he still felt awkward and off-balance. It continued all the way home, even as he walked in the door and heard Larxene cursing at the television.

"Can you believe this?" she said to him, sitting cross-legged on the floor and hugging her pillow. She waved her hand at the screen. "This shit. This war. You know how many kids die over there? Get their faces blown off? Do you know anything?"

"Nope," Axel said and breezed past her to his room, cutting off her disgusted "Of course, like I expected anything better—" when he shut the door. He took a moment to ground himself in the familiarity of his room. He opened all of his dresser drawers and rummaged inside of them, he crouched in front of his bookshelf and read each book spine (he should read the actual books someday), and he flopped onto his bed to let the springs press into his back. But try as he might, his thoughts returned to the guy with silver hair, the fallen apples, and the relentless feeling that something had changed.

- chapter one, end