This was not good. Not good at all. What was he going to do? What could he do?
Roxas leaned forward and let his forehead bump against the steering wheel, sitting at a red light along with dozens of other commuters. Home was still a few blocks away. He knew the others were in their van not far behind him, keeping a safe distance so as not to seem suspicious. And Axel….
They shot him. They shot him and he's a prisoner and they're going to hurt him and it's all my fault.
All of this was because of him, was because he'd been late to work. The things Xemnas did to him, the things they'd do to Axel, were because of his stupid mistake.
The light turned green and Roxas sucked in a breath, steeling himself as he moved forward with the rest of the usual afternoon traffic. He'd held it together this long. He could make it home. Even if the thought of Axel not being there made his chest ache like his sternum had cracked.
Eventually, he switched lanes and turned into the apartment complex's parking lot, driving slowly until he found an empty space and pulled into it. He could feel himself shaking. Even before he took his hands off the wheel, he could feel his entire body trembling. His movements were jerky, more forceful than necessary as he put the car in park and turned it off. The engine fell silent, the vehicle's vibrations disappearing; he could still feel the unsteady tremors that rattled along his bones.
Fuck, he couldn't breathe. His chest was too tight, hurt too much. Every breath ached in his lungs as he drew it in, shuddered its way back out and shook his entire frame. It was excruciating. His hands found their way back to the steering wheel, holding onto it just to have something to grip, something to anchor him there. He stared out the windshield, not seeing the dull brick of the building or the poorly kept lawn. All he could see was Axel's face, the rage and the desperation and the pain, they'd shot him, they'd shot him, Axel was hurt, he was bleeding, he was being tortured and it was all Roxas' fault if he'd just been stronger or smarter none of this would be happening it was all his fault!
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, arms visibly shaking and shoulders heaving with every short, shallow breath. Sitting there, the blond gasped and sobbed, tears running unchecked down his face.
"F-fuck…I…I'm s-s-sorry…I…I….Axel, I'm sorry…!"
Something tapped on his window, but Roxas didn't turn or look, just dug his fingers harder into the leather of the steering wheel and stuttered out another apology. The driver's side door was opened, and an arm reached across him to hit the release on his seat belt.
"Herc, you get him."
"All right. Come on, Roxas."
The blond didn't resist when a different arm slid behind his back and another under his knees. He was lifted, effortlessly pulled out of the car and held against a chest that seemed impossibly strong. His sobs subsided into ragged breathing, blue eyes now screwed shut against the world as if that would somehow make it all go away.
"It's going to be okay, Roxas. Let's get him inside. Peter will know what to do."
"Don't forget the keys."
"Got 'em."
Someone shut the car door and Roxas curled into himself as he was carried. Vaguely, he realized it must be Hercules who had him—the others wouldn't be strong enough to carry him so easily. Not that he cared. What did it matter? Axel was probably going to be dead soon, and he was to blame. If he'd gotten his own boyfriend murdered, then he didn't deserve to live. He should be dead, too.
His chest felt so tight, like his lungs were shrinking, collapsing in on themselves rather than expanding as he breathed. It was impossible to draw more than a short, shallow breath; his lungs almost seemed to resist the air and pushed it back out faster than he could breathe it in. Like his body would rather suffocate than endure what was happening.
"Uh, Rob, I think he's hyperventilating."
Roxas could feel the vibrations of Hercules' voice through the ginger's chest. He sounded concerned.
"Well hurry up, then! Get him inside. He'll be okay."
He was jostled a bit, but was becoming too light-headed to pay attention to it. That wasn't good, he knew. It wasn't a good thing to hyperventilate or be light-headed and dizzy. What if he fainted? He couldn't faint. If he fainted, he wouldn't be able to help Axel. He had to help Axel. That was all that mattered right now.
"Al, shut the door. Peter! We're back! Stitch!"
If he fainted, though, then he wouldn't have to feel anymore. It would all go away. People didn't have nightmares if they fainted, did they?
"Put him on the couch. Get him some water."
"What happened?"
"Axel lost his fucking mind—"
Roxas blocked them out. He didn't want to hear, didn't want to relive what had happened through their points of views. When Hercules lowered him onto the couch, Roxas only curled tighter, his elbows pressing into his thighs and his hands wrapped around his head, knees drawn to his face. Every breath felt tighter than the last, his rib cage refusing to expand as he tried to draw in air. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only see Axel's face in his mind, the pain in his expression, the way he'd started to fall, unable to stand on his own, being dragged away…
There were tears running down his face and dripping onto his pants, but Roxas didn't notice. He shook, rocking slightly, opening his eyes so he wouldn't see Axel against the black of his eyelids anymore.
God, fuck, he'd done this, it was all his fault
Sniffling, the blond pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and shook his head, his teeth digging into his lower lip so he wouldn't make a sound. The pressure made his eyes ache and produce strange, colored blobs in the darkness, but he didn't stop. It was better than remembering.
"Holy shit, Roxas, breathe." A hand touched his back, warm, an attempt at comfort, only for the blond to shrug it away. He didn't want to be touched. Not ever again. Not by anyone but Axel. He didn't deserve to be comforted after what he'd done.
"Roxas, it wasn't your fault. He went in there on his own. You didn't do this. We'll get him out, we promise."
He bit harder into his lip, curling in on himself as much as his body could manage. It should have been him. He shouldn't have made such a fuss. Axel wouldn't have come to his rescue if he'd just kept quiet. He didn't have to let this happen. He should have been stronger.
"Herc, put him in bed. We'll…" the speaker, Peter, sighed. "We'll figure something out."
"Okay. Come on, Rox. You need to rest." Effortlessly, Hercules scooped Roxas' prone figure off the couch and carried him towards the bedroom, shouldering the door open. The blond was carefully deposited on the bed; his shoes were untied and removed, then neatly placed on the floor by the closet. He heard the door latch click shut when Hercules left.
For a long time, he didn't move. The dark silence of the bedroom was oppressive; his ears rang as if he'd been listening to too-loud music during the drive home. He couldn't hear the others talking—they must have moved from the living room into Axel's cramped little office. How they all managed to fit in there, he wasn't sure. He supposed they were trying to give him some space. It was a nice gesture.
Moving slowly, Roxas uncurled just enough to slip a hand under the pillows, his fingers searching for the edge of the blanket. The comforter shifted easily, exposing the straight sheet underneath, and he dragged both blankets down. As soon as he slid beneath them and pulled them back up over his head, he was surrounded by a warm, comforting smell.
Cinnamon.
Roxas breathed deep and pulled the blankets tighter around himself, his nose buried in the soft fabric. Axel's lingering scent helped to ease his breathing even as it worsened the ache in his chest. His throat began to feel tight again, and he choked back a sob.
"Axel," it came out as a croak, "Axel, I'm so sorry."
God, god, he'd done this.
He could still see it, the pain, Axel's handsome, carefree face furrowed and lined with agony. Blood darkening the fabric around the small hole, soaking through, spreading. His voice echoing as they dragged him away. The fury in his eyes.
They shot him. He could be dead.
His stomach twisted. Sudden, bitter bile rose up in his throat and Roxas threw the blankets off, bolting for the bathroom with a hand clamped over his mouth. Socked feet slipping on the tiled floor, he dropped hard to his knees, flipped the toilet seat up, and leaned over the bowl, gagging. The vomit was already pushing its way past his fingers when he pulled his hand out of the way and released the entirety of his stomach's contents into the toilet.
"Ugh…" Shaking and light-headed, the blond took a few shallow breaths and reached for the toilet paper, not yet trusting himself to move. He took a deeper breath, trying to ease his dizziness, and the smell of his former lunch that came with it made him gag and nearly vomit again. "Fuck." He gave up on the toilet paper for the moment and instead reached up to flush the toilet, his head turned to the side for fresh air. As the toilet drained, rinsed, and refilled, Roxas caught his breath enough to sit back on his heels. Finally, he grabbed the loose end of the toilet paper roll and pulled, tearing off several squares to first wipe off his hand, then a few more clean ones to wipe his mouth. The dirtied tissues were tossed into the still slowly swirling water refilling the toilet bowl.
For a few seconds, he considered standing to wash his hands, rinse out his mouth, and go back to bed, but the trembling in his legs quickly ruled that out as a possibility. Standing wouldn't work right now. Instead, he sat and scooted back to lean against the wall, drawing his knees towards his chest. His throat hurt from the force of ejecting the former contents of his stomach, stinging slightly from the acid, and though he'd mostly caught his breath, his head still felt fuzzy.
Roxas sighed and leaned his head back, his eyes closed. It was quiet in the bathroom, the muffled hiss of water running in the pipes his only company.
Maybe he should shower. That would help clear his head, and afterwards he might be able to help come up with a rescue plan. He couldn't very well just let the others handle it, not when it was his fault, not when he'd made so many mistakes. Axel being taken was his fault. It was his responsibility to make sure the redhead was rescued as soon as possible.
This was all his fault, and he should be the one to fix it.
Steeled by his resolve, Roxas gripped the edge of the counter and pulled himself upright, though he swayed just slightly. He stood there, regaining his balance, hands braced against the cool countertop. After a few deep breaths, he lifted his head and reached over to flip the light switch, illuminating the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror watched him, pale and shabby, blue eyes haunted. Roxas licked his lips and straightened, his chin held defiantly high.
He could do this. He wouldn't give in to Xemnas, wouldn't let himself waste away in bed in the dark. Axel needed him, and he would be there, just as the redhead had been for so long.
Twenty minutes later, Roxas was clean, dry, and pulling on a pair of jeans. He could hear voices coming through the bedroom door, so the others must have moved out to the living room—he suspected someone had come to check on him, realized he was showering, and passed on that it was now safe to vacate the office. It was probably a lot easier to do their planning in the living room, anyway.
Roxas took a plain white t-shirt from the closet and slipped it on over his head, then thought better of it, and dug out one of Axel's hoodies. It was old and worn, with a barely recognizable band logo on the front, and it smelled like him. Wearing it made him feel better.
Barefoot and determined, the blond walked out of the bedroom and into some sort of frenzy.
The apartment was chaos.
Peter had claimed the center of the sofa and the coffee table, with papers spread everywhere, while Robin stood on the other side and looked everything over. They were talking, but Roxas couldn't hear them over the noises coming from the kitchen.
"Give me the spice!" Aladdin, wooden spoon in hand, swiped at something out of Roxas' line of sight. Curious, the blond crossed half the distance to the kitchen for a better view of what was happening then stopped, perplexed.
Stitch had somehow stolen several containers of spices and was hoarding them on top of the refrigerator. "No! You make it too strong!"
Roxas wasn't sure how the blue-haired techie had even managed to get up there. The top of the fridge was halfway under a set of cabinets—Stitch had to be perched on a, at most, one-foot-by-two-foot space, counting the top edge of the freezer drawer. He looked like a gargoyle.
Sighing, Aladdin shook his head and turned back to the stove, stirring something in a pot. "Herc, get him down."
Although his muscular bulk seemed entirely too large to fit in the kitchen, Hercules abandoned his out-of-the way corner to do as asked. "No problem, Al."
Stitch swatted at the ginger's hands as Hercules reached for him. "No! Hercules!" His attempts at fighting Hercules off were ignored, and he was easily removed from the top of the fridge.
"Traitor!" the smaller man howled and squirmed against Hercules' hold on him as he was carried out into the living room.
As though Hercules had simply removed a bothersome sack of potatoes, Aladdin retrieved the now-vulnerable spices and returned to his cooking. "Thanks."
Now on his feet, Stitch tried to dodge around Hercules to re-invade the kitchen. "He makes it too spicy!"
"Stitch," Peter's tone was stern, though he didn't look up from the papers Robin had just handed him, "knock it off. Help us figure out a plan."
Stitch huffed and folded his arms over his chest. "I already gave you all the information I could find on them."
"Yeah, so now you can help us figure out how to put it to use."
"Is this a plan to rescue Axel?" Roxas asked, and the apartment grew still as five pairs of eyes landed on him.
Robin and Peter exchanged glances.
"How are you feeling?" Dropping the papers he'd been holding onto the coffee table, Robin approached the blond and cautiously touched his shoulder. "Doing okay?"
"No." Roxas shrugged and grimaced. "Are you working on a plan to rescue Axel?"
"Trying," Peter answered from the sofa. "We got a lot of good information from that meeting, but I'm not sure it'll help us rescue him. It might be easier to keep working to take Xemnas down instead of focusing on Axel. If we can ruin Xemnas, everything else will be a breeze."
"What if he doesn't live that long?"
Stitch waved a dismissive hand. "They won't kill him. A body has to be disposed of, and once he's dead, they don't have the leverage on you. He's more useful to them if he's alive."
"That's…not exactly comforting," Roxas glanced at Peter then looked back to Stitch, "but thanks, I guess."
"It's good for us," Robin assured him. "Axel can take care of himself, and he is more useful as blackmail. That gives us time to take Xemnas down."
"Okay, so, what's next?"
"Well," gently, Peter guided the blond over to the sofa and sat him down, resuming his own place, "this is all the information Stitch could gather about the people Xemnas and his cronies mentioned in their meeting today." He gestured at the various piles on the coffee table. "There's royal families, heirs to massive businesses, overseas trade partners, you name it. This guy's got his dirty hands on everything he can reach."
"All those people at the meeting are crime bosses of one kind or another." Stitch pointed at a profile, and Roxas recognized the man with the paralyzed hand. "This is James Hook. British. He's a pirate, robs and sinks trade ships and sells the goods on the black market. Brings in a pretty penny. Probably helps destabilize the trade economy of entire countries, which makes it easier for the others to swoop in and buy everyone out. I still haven't figured out exactly how much of the world economy Xemnas has gotten into."
A feeling of despair settled in the pit of Roxas' stomach. "How can we do anything when he's that powerful?"
Stitch grinned. "Easy. He's in charge of a lot of businesses, and employs probably thousands of workers, whether they know he's their boss or not. And he depends on all these crime lords to do the dirty work for him. All we have to do is turn them against each other. If we can get Hook here to pick a fight with," he shuffled through the papers until he found the one he wanted, "this Hans guy, or Jafar, it would seriously mess with Xemnas' plans."
"Hans was trying to marry some girl to take over her share of a family business," Roxas remembered. "It sounded like she really likes him."
"Her name is Anna, she's the younger sister of the heir to a small northern kingdom that does a lot of trade by sea. If we can somehow get Hook to attack the wrong ship and mess up Han's intentions to marry her, that would be a start." Robin flipped to another paper, a printed out news article. "Her sister isn't fond of him and has been interfering with the courtship since it began, so she might be a powerful ally."
"It's an option," Peter straightened a different stack of papers, "but Xemnas has so many plots in the works right now, we'll have to be careful about our next move. We need to examine every possibility."
Stitch sighed and dropped into the vacant corner of the sofa. "We might need to call in some more help. Just the five of us here, trying to interfere with these guys while they travel the world? Easy in theory. Realistically? Not likely."
"I've got someone who might be able to help," Aladdin spoke up from his place in the kitchen. "I'll get in touch with him tonight."
"Good." Robin sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "We're going to need all the help we can get."
Roxas worried his lip, not at all encouraged by the other man's tone. "So…can we do anything? Are we stuck until we get more help?"
"Xemnas wishes." Stitch grinned and put his hands behind his head, fingers laced. "Us, stuck? Never." He winked at Roxas while the others nodded in agreement. "We'll take him down, and rescue your Boyfriend-in-Distress, you'll see."
Though he didn't say anything, Roxas nodded and did his best to smile. He hoped Stitch was right.