The last night in the dorms was the quietest, deployment having seen the slow decline of faces they both knew until it was just them and their squads, Axel with the S Series, Roxas with C Class. After a day of sitting in the tower listening to reports—they weren't enough, they were losing so many—stream in, Roxas felt heavy, limbs weighted. They would leave to join the southern front at dawn. The southern front where the battle was the most brutal, a sea of dead to drag back to ghost towns, burnt rubble. After four years of training, Roxas wasn't sure who their opponent was anymore.
Dinner was a quiet, drab affair, the rest of his squad lost in their own thoughts. Rightfully, Roxas should've been been with Axel in the S Series. He was skilled enough, quick enough, but First Republics could only attain rank C Class. "Consider it an honor," the commander said, not bothering to drop the sneer. C Class ranks were diminished, and Roxas had scored so high on the aptitude test. A special concession, they agreed. Roxas had better be grateful.
S Series didn't hit the dorms until well into the night, Roxas sitting quietly in his bunk. Only after Axel had showered, pinned his hair for the night, did Roxas slide from his mattress and tap the other boy's shoulder. They padded quietly around the patches of moonlight, Roxas pushing aside a panel to the common room. He was angry. He didn't know that until Axel pulled him by his shoulders.
"Don't worry."
"I'm not worried," Roxas spat. "You weren't even going to wake me up."
"You weren't asleep," Axel said, pulling Roxas to the floor. The windows were open to the night sky, Refugee 11 blinking in the distance below them. Roxas thought he saw things burning.
"Was that you?"
Axel breathed behind him, ran his hands over the fading colors of Roxas' government-issued sweats. "The commander is adamant about the citizens uniting against a common enemy."
Roxas shifted, linked his arms behind Axel's neck. "You used to say that about me."
Axel nudged him closer with an arm, hummed into his mouth. "Morituri te salutant," Axel whispered, turning his face into Roxas' neck.
"Shut up," Roxas said, strands of red between his fingers. Axel felt capable underneath him, legs straddling Axel's waist. He felt strong, sturdy. He wouldn't die. Couldn't die.
"Say it to me, Roxas," Axel said, pulling back and staring him in the face. "You have to say it."
"Fuck your traditions," Roxas hissed, kissing Axel again. "I'm not going anywhere."
Axel would fly low, pushing the limits of his shields trying to cover Roxas, running golden below him. No, Roxas wasn't going anywhere.