It was in no way the right place or time, but I decided to do some sight-seeing after the whole birthday gift fiasco.
The town is sleepy, but I guess that's understandable, considering the hour. I pick up pretty quickly it's a tourist hot spot from all the hotels and shops and restaurants. It truly is the east coast, though, because a large percentage of those restaurants are nautically themed, and the air has a fresh, sea-salt aftertaste. Spanish moss hangs from towering trees in every square, besides one. The buildings are ancient and some of them are clearly monuments to a couple of America's firsts, but the closer I assume I'm getting to the ocean (really, I'm basing this off of the growing sea salt taste and ocean breeze), the more and more buildings there are made of this eccentric material. It's like acid-washed jeans, only made of mortar, and riddled with seashells. The stars aren't so visible as the honey light of the lampposts outshine them, and casts unto the streets a warm complexion.
It's beautiful, and so much easier to fall asleep in such a peaceful place. Of course, I'm careful and pick the alley farthest from the soup kitchen. I have a bit of time to waste in my temporary home, so I go dumpster diving for spoils people accidentally throw out. There are a couple useful things, like disposable utensils and a warm, black sweatshirt, but it's mostly just wrappers and decomposing fruit. I also find a film-reliant camera that I stow away in my pack. Who knows, it might come in handy some day. Or the next time I get a rain and sunset combo, I can take a picture, and save it forever.
That warm, reassuring thought is the last thing I'm aware of as I put my new-found hood up and drift out to sleep.
There are sirens blaring, loud, loud sirens that make my ears ache and my stomach churn as they rip me from my first pleasant dream in who-knows-how-long. There are lights too, blue and red, red and blue, but when your vision is as bleary as mine, it blends to make a searing lavender. The world's trying to move as fast it can in molasses, and my movements are just as sluggish and uncoordinated as the rest of me. I see a blur of peach in the midst of all the mind-numbing colors, and something's thrust into my hand. The blur moves in strobe patterns, like a choppy stop motion film, and melts out of view. The sirens get louder and louder and they just don't stop screaming, and soon I'm screaming, and other voices join in too, but I'm not really sure what it means.
My ears can't take it anymore, and my body can't either; the strain is just too much. I collapse in on the big, warm sweatshirt and the sharp, glinting object in my hand, and finally there is sweet, sweet silence.
Roxas is thrown from the throes of a nightmare and into reality by the alarming screeches of a police vehicle. Oh, and, you know, the Doppler Effect probably has a hand in it too. He turns in his bed and pulls the indigo bed sheets closer to himself, breathing uneven and not very high up on his list of priorities. He tries as hard as he can to fall back into sleep. But counting sheep only fuels his frustration, recalling lullabies only makes the gaping hole in his heart ache, and thinking his way into unconsciousness only worsens his anxiety. Running out of reasonable options, he rolls off his bed and onto the floor, his nails still digging into the fabric, clinging to the blanket for dear life. He lays there a while, trying to process a nightmare he can't fully recall. Eventually, he figures coffee could turn this late night into an early morning, and trudges to the mini-kitchen, grabbing the instant coffee and doing his best to make an inspired brew. For a culinary student, this shouldn't be such an impossible feat, but he's also a philosophy/psychology student and those parts of him are outweighing the need to make good coffee with the need to psychoanalyze the bits and pieces of his own nightmare.
There was a man with silver hair in the dream. For whatever reason, the very idea of him brought Roxas' blood to boil like the water he was using for the brew. Punching his lights out was all he could think about as he drank his shabby coffee, as he brushed his teeth without having breakfast, as he took a shower with cold, harsh water, as he dressed in stiff, bleached clothing, as he sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling, seeing as he had nothing else to do.
Maybe he was still in shock, like he had been as he raced after the homeless girl, like he had been while driving back disappointedly, like he had been as he laid in his bed with lost, vacant eyes before sleep claimed him.
Roxas Strife was the worst psychology student in the history of education. When he told his mom (and technically his dad through unrequited letters) he was going into psychology, she slapped him on the back and enjoyed a good laugh. His teachers had a similar response, without the physical reprimand. His counselor had persuaded him to just choose cooking as his one and only major, and forget about it completely. His friends called him Doctor Strife sarcastically. Roxas might've been able to cook up a delicious, A-lister omelet with next to nothing, but when it came to people and their reasoning, he was as clueless as Dr. Watson trying to solve a murder without Holmes.
When his mom realized he was serious, she argued ravenously, did everything she could to dissuade him from that particular path. But that particular path was the path he had chosen, and there was nothing she could do to change his mind. He was clueless, and he was stubborn. She kicked him to the curb the night after graduation, and refused to fund his education beyond high school.
And yet, here Roxas was.
But that's not the point, the point is he's completely incompetent when it comes to reading people.
And yet, he was able to read the homeless girl in ways that just weren't possible without the use of telepathy. It was written in her eyes, so clear, so wide, so honest, so…blue. Such a soft, soft, soft blue. But so much was brimming inside those soft blue eyes, it was an ocean that overwhelmed his soul, made him feel like he was overflowing…and he liked it. He loved the thrill of it, the exhilaration the same way a good basketball player likes good competition, the same way a surfer loves big waves, and how a gymnast loves their own dexterity, that was the same way Roxas loved the girl. He hardly knew her, but at the same time, he knew everything about her. He wanted to be around her desperately, but wanted to banish her to the far corners of his mind just as desperately. She was great, but confusing and the confusion was just bigger than her own greatness.
The phone rang, ripping him from his stupor.
"Hello?"
It doesn't stay that quiet for long, I'm afraid. When I depart from unconsciousness again, my whole body is sore and bruised and whatever I'm resting on is harder than the cobblestone alley — if that's at all possible. Once I can finally unglue my eyes, I'm immediately awake, the cobwebs of sleep completely obliterated by this troubling development.
I woke up in a jail cell.
"Are you sure there's no one we can call for you?" the silver-haired guard asks, something reminiscent of…concern in his electric eyes.
I shrug helplessly.
I can't remember any numbers from when I was five, but even if I could, I certainly wouldn't give them to this man. He seems nice enough, but I'm not a snitch. He could find her if I gave him any liable information.
From the moment I uncovered my…predicament, I became a different person.
My name is Xion, a dim-witted choice on my part considering I could've gone with something American. But he buys it nonetheless, maybe a do really look French. I've never had an accurate mental image of myself. I guess I have the wrong angle to really look at myself. My eyes were planted on my head so I could look at other people's eyes. Not my own. But I guess it's really hard not to know I have black hair because there's so much of it. It tangles really easily, but I don't care one way or another. Before last night, I always wore a super tight black knitted sweater, and a torn, faded blue skirt. Now I have the sweatshirt with the hood that's really warm, but it really wasn't worth getting into so much trouble.
But I'm getting off topic.
My name is Xion, I've lived in France all my life, but while my family was taking a trip to America, I got lost on a ghost tour in Savannah. By the time I found them again, they had been in a fatal car accident they, unfortunately, did not survive. My mom's family had not approved of their marriage, so no one from her side would take me. Everyone on my dad's side was judged unfit to be my caretaker. I was put into an orphanage where I didn't know the language, but I picked it up eventually. I ran away a couple months ago to try and find my own way.
Well, all he knows is my name is Xion, but at least I've got my back story all thought up. I have to think of a way to justify the knife that wound up in my hand, but other than that, I think I can get away scot-free while they try and find my social worker.
I'm not really keen on the way the government of this country works, but I hope they won't try and press matter where they aren't wanted. Or I hope there's no hole I left, or evidence that might lead them back to her.
She hasn't come looking for me so far, but if I get her in trouble…
Well, I certainly am lucky to be so unmemorable. Maybe she doesn't even remember me. Maybe after today, this Riku won't remember me either.
"Alright, I know you don't feel comfortable talking, so if I just point to a place on a map, will you tell me if you're from there or not?"
I nodded, despite his use of the word "tell."
He pointed to Savannah.
I shook my head.
Then Augustus.
Nope.
Georgia as a whole state?
No.
Florida?
Definitely not.
He circled the upper half of America.
No.
The lower half?
Better luck next time.
Europe?
I nodded.
England?
Nope.
France?
I nodded.
This might take awhile if he can't get me to talk.
"Her name was Xion."
"What? Axel, is this you? It's six o'clock, I don't have classes till three, why are you calling me this early?" he did his best to act as if the redhead's phone call had woke him up. Things were really tricky for Roxas at this delicate time of his life. Adding an overprotective and overbearing Axel into the situation was not going to help anyone.
"That girl? Her name was Xion. She's from France, apparently. It's all over the news. She got arrested because she ended up with the knife that killed Pennington's wife."
Arnold Pennington was the mayor of Savannah. That's why he had heard those sirens, last night! Something as big as the mayor's wife's murder surely warranted the entirety of the Savannah police force.
"Couldn't this wait till morning?"
"Did I stutter?"
"No, okay, I heard you, but I really was enjoying my night in unconsciousness."
"Well, what kind of friend would I be if I let you sleep in on such a momentous day?"
"Um, a decent one?"
"Okay, I had that one coming, but riddle me this; what kind of a person would you be if you left your big brother out in the cold?"
"Oh, so that's why you called, you need me to buzz you in. But, what are you doing here at 6:00? If you wanted to pull a practical joke, it'd me smarter to do it without me awake, don't you think?" Roxas smirks, because the last time Axel tried to prank him in his sleep, without someone to buzz him in, he was caught and arrested for trying to break in.
"Tch. Pfft. Ha. Thanks for the reminder, next time you're arrested, I'm going to let you sweat a few days in the slammer before I decide to come and bail you out."
"You know I didn't do it on purpose."
"Oh, yeah, you just kind of didn't answer your phone and basically dropped off the face of the Earth right when I needed you."
"I told you, I was busy."
"Well, are you going to buzz me in or not? She's getting cold."
"Yeah, yeah, just let me —" he pressed the button, "Wait what."
But it was too late, Axel had already hung up, and a few minutes later, he was barging into the two-room apartment with a familiar girl secured in his arms.
"You didn't."
"Hey, I don't make the rules, I just break them." He justified, setting the raven-haired girl down on the couch.
"What do you think you're doing?" Roxas practically screeched.
"Shh!" he whisper-shouted, "She's had a long night." He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear.
"Why did you bring her here?"
"Listen, Roxas." He stood up, suddenly serious, "Keeping her at my place is too dangerous."
"And it's perfectly safe for her to be at my place?"
"Yes." He gripped the blonde by the shoulders, "I need you to do me just this one favor. It's just for a week or two, and then Vanitas will take her off your hands and you'll never have to see her again."
"Wait, you got him in on it?"
"Do you trust me?"
"What?"
"Do. You. Trust. Me?"
"Yeah, sure —"
"Then know that I have my reasons and don't ask any questions, okay?"
"I —"
"Alright, great, thanks, I'm late, love you lil' bro, bye." Axel spun the blonde around in a tight hug and launched himself out the door, making sure to slam it behind him.
Roxas drew in a deep breath.
Today was shaping up to be a long, long day.
AN:
It's shorter than I wanted it to be, but it's pretty okay for something I wrote during my break at work. Anyway, I just wanted to get the word out about my writing-specific tumblr under the same penname. Just in case anyone wants to ask any questions or see what new Rokushi's I'm coming out with. I also link updates there, so you'll be the first to know when something new comes out.
Also, KeytoOblivion, to answer you're question, Roxas is around 19 and Xion's around 17.
