"When?" His hands smell like ink and papercuts. He stares at them, Roxas shifting against his legs, turning outward to exahle a stream of smoke.

"Next week." The way he says it, like no one gives a fuck, slams like a slab of steel into his lungs. Chest constricting, Axel stares at his pile of discarded pants. The peach Roxas was eating, what the inside of his mouth tasted like, sits on the very edge of the dresser where he'd dropped it, the perfect outlines of his mouth bitten into the side.

"When were you planning on telling me?" He thinks, maybe, he wants to kill him. He wants to wrap his hands around that glorious neck and squeeze the indifference away. Sometimes nothing is better than nothing.

"Just did, didn't I?" Roxas is terribly unconcerned, lounging against Axel's leg like he hasn't just rended the world in two. He sounds bored to death.

Axel, cock still twitching between his legs, decides he won't love Roxas anymore because loving Roxas is like loving a fucking black hole.

"Too bad," he says running a hand through Roxas' sweat dampened hair. He wants to kill him. He wants to hate him, to forget his pretty face and his pretty eyes. He wants to fire a .45 caliber at the space Roxas takes up in his head. Axel sucks in the air to quiet the way his hand shakes.

"Is it?" Roxas, tapping ash on the floor.

Axel shudders, stands up and hurries away to choke in the bathroom. It is clean and white and nothing of Roxas' is there. There is nothing of Roxas' anywhere, no personal mementos, no forgotten pieces of clothing or hair or self. Had he expected more? What, had he thought they'd move in together? They just had sex. That's all they did. They had sex.

When Axel goes back into the bedroom, the peach is missing from the edge of the dresser. The bed is empty, empty even of history, of acts committed. No one could have known Axel lost his heart between those sheets. The ash on the floor stirs as Axel slides in to the bed. The ash, the only thing Roxas left.