Soft and Smiling
In the square and circle moments between the bliss and lethargy of a summer sans purpose, Axel and Roxas liked to count out the bruise colored bruises they'd managed to give one another in sparkling diamond moments when they try to see just how hard they can push against the barrier that marks them as individuals. Now again, they ram each other's heads against walls and tombstones and scream obscenities at the top of not-mount Mount Prospect and hurl the other to the grass.
And later Axel takes the pain and squeezes till the juice runs shallow, zests the canvas with the rind, and explodes the thing with color and stroke.
And later Roxas dwells in the murk, shutting himself in cupboards and closets. And reveling in the throb of a leg, of a fractured rib, he sees the bruise colored words sidle along the wood paneling, and he rushes to get the best bits down on real paper in real ink because the swelling will burst, will deflate, and he'll be left---and they'll be left sweaty and soft and smiling.
And then they go again because there's pressure on the nose and wind in the trees and the little shards of mica in the road gleam in the sun like something obscene. And then they go again.