CHAPTER TWO

Sora liked candy. The chewy kind, with sugar adhering like powder to the artificially-coloured surface. He loved the ones that resembled rainbows. He held a paper bag filled with all sorts of good shit like that, bouncing down the sidewalk, the streetlights making the world bright like day, a multicoloured strap hanging from between his teeth, slowly growing shorter. People looked, they couldn't help but look, such vitality was radiating from this one boy, bopping along to his own little mental tune, in the middle of the city. For some reason, he was also wearing sunglasses – he liked sunglasses. They reminded him of beaches and sunshine, something from a lifetime ago, made him feel like he was back in the then-and-there, basking.

He'd been drifting around all night, no real aim in mind, just focused on getting the most out of the hours he had. He ended up, of course, down near the club circuit, his feet knowing the way automatically, although he wasn't planning on entering any – he'd been around enough lately. He liked to mix things up, never repeat the same evening's activities more than once a week. He didn't want it to get stale, wanted to keep wanting, to keep having fun. However – when he caught a flash of silver in the crowd ahead, all such thoughts were dashed from his mind. Sora jerked to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, choking on his candy as he was roughly bumped from behind, glasses slipping off his nose and cracking on the pavement. He barely noticed. Something gripped his heart, made it thunder painfully as his breath caught momentarily. He was frozen, then surging forward, brows pulled together as he fought his way through, saw a group disappear into a club, that flash of silver at its front.

Eyes fixed determinedly ahead, he aimed for the entrance, was stopped by a hand to the chest, looking over in frustrated consternation at the man, not much taller than himself, eyeing him flatly, shaking his head. "I need to get in," Sora said intently, shaking his sugar-bag for good measure.

"So does everyone else, kid," the guy said, nodding at the long line. Sora eyed him, a hard glint entering his gaze.

"Okay, look, I didn't want to have to do this, but you've – you've driven me to it." He took a breath, the man preparing to be amused by whatever battle he was about to put up, mildly surprised to have a red-and-white striped paper bag thrust into his face. Sora said, "Take it – go on. There's thirty-five bucks of candy in there." The bouncer raised an eyebrow, couldn't help but peer in curiously. He smirked.

"You're kidding me."

"Plus the entrance fee," Sora persisted. He drew the bag back, dug a hand in, drew out a fistful of sour rainbow straps, shook them. The guy was getting ready to reject him again, when Sora sealed the deal with a kiss, grabbing him by the back of the neck, tugging him the short distance down his lips, a hard, searing pressure, a swipe of his tongue as he shoved the candy bag into the man's arms. He drew back, eyes a little unfocused, begging, "Please? I – I have to get in." And, though a little voice in the back of his mind suddenly started wondering why, exactly, it was so vital, the bouncer was giving in. Sora was a damn fine kisser, after all. And, hey – candy is candy.

Reluctantly, fingers tightening on the paper bag, Sora experiencing a slight clutch at the notion that the guy would keep the goodies and boot him out on his ass, he was asked, "You got ID? You don't look twenty-one, kid…" Sora scuffled through his pants, found his wallet and yanked out his driver's licence, inspected it for a moment before flipping it up in front of the man's face breathlessly. He pointed to the little picture for emphasis. "That's me, right?"

The bouncer shook his head, defeated, and, under a weight of abusive protests from those that had been waiting in line for God knows how long, Sora was let through. His burst of triumph was short-lived, withering as he found himself a bare minute later standing in the middle of the darkened, smoky club. Yes, he loved these places, but – he hadn't intended to visit one tonight. What the hell was he even doing here? He had sugar on his teeth, and the faint tang of tequila on his tongue, remnant of his visit into someone else's mouth. He was somewhere he didn't want to be, his sunglasses were broken and no doubt by now crushed underfoot, and he'd lost his fucking candy. What had spurred this little burst of idiocy?

A flash of silver. Sora whipped around, saw it on the dance-floor, lit up by the strobe for five seconds, by the harsh red light for another ten, but by this point he was already moving, worming roughly through the mass of humanity turned up to get lost in the noise. Too many people, too tight, he was smothered. This wasn't the joy of the night, this was a goddamn obstacle course, panic fluttering through his veins as he struggled to find the silver, the silver. He'd made a circuit of the floor, before seeing his prize back where he'd started, heading towards the bar. Cursing viciously, startling someone that had started grinding against him into backing off, he shoved his way back across the floor, pissing people off this time, incurring shouts and slaps. He ignored them all, a train of intent going relentlessly onward. He broke free of the claustrophobic writhing, sucking in the slightly less humid air with desperation, glancing around. Oh, God! There!

He hurried across the club, eyes fixed on silver, got close enough to touch, grabbed an elbow and tugged sharply, bursting out, "Riku?"

Surprise, teal-eyes and silver hair, narrow face, full lips and beauty, but – "Can I help you?" The man looked him slowly up and down, as Sora sagged, bewilderment exploding upward, gripping his head and twisting. He trembled slightly. "I – I'm sorry," he said, confusion evident. "I thought you were – someone else."

The man smirked, extended a hand. "My name's Kadaj."

He gripped automatically, replying, "Sora," still that distracted air, thoughts spinning around, chanting, what-what-what-what-what the fuck?

"Well – Sora…" His voice, it oozed with charm, with approval. "I might not be the one you're looking for, but you're certainly welcome to join my brothers and me at our table."

Sora shook his head sharply, coming out of his daze, frowning as he pulled his fingers loose from the man's tight grasp. "No – thank you, but… I need to go."

Silver eyebrows rose. "I'm surprised…" He shrugged, turned on heel, hips swaying as he walked away, calling in parting over his shoulder, "If you ever change your mind, we're here most nights… just ask for me at the bar…"

Sora left, blowing past the bouncer without a second glance, face lowered, scarcely seeing where he was going. His hands were clenched by his sides, entire bearing stiff and tense, steps stumbling every now and then. He was – his brain was just thrown for a loop. He didn't know where the obsessive need had come from, couldn't remember what had triggered it, or – or even what he'd hoped to achieve. Most of all, he couldn't figure out why that name was now revolving in his thoughts, though it grew fainter. He clung to it for several minutes, attempting to find sense in its insistence. But, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't figure out who on earth this – 'Riku' was.

.o.O.o.

Day dawned, promising to be hot, yet again. Roxas rose before the birds, when the early sunrise was still only just peeking above the horizon, slung on his running shoes, shorts and a singlet, and went for a jog. He tried to maintain it three to four times a week, some ingrained need to remain fit, to keep his stamina high. He danced down the stairs three at a time, a bottle of chilled water in hand, exited into the coolness, savouring that it had yet to turn into its baking intensity. He kicked into a slow pace to warm up, a little faster than a power walk, traversing the familiar sidewalks, crossing quiet roads. Almost as if alerted by his presence, sprinkler after sprinkler spluttered to life as he passed, the steady chk-chk-chk quickly filling the air, along with the ceaseless chirrup of crickets. His steps were smooth, the pump of his arms even, the sweat that rose against his flesh controlled and cooling despite the burn that set up beneath his skin.

It wasn't long before Roxas sped up, throwing himself into the mindlessness of steady, streamlined motion, revelling in the peace that it inspired, the white nothing at the core of his thoughts. Time passed, the sun rising higher, its journey swift on these long days, turning the sky to pink, the clouds to whipped gold, before perpetual blue took position, pale and constant, promising heat to come. His perspiration built as the earth warmed, streets absorbing and redistributing the temperature, until it was streaming, soaking. Still, Roxas continued, endured the slow boil, knowing that in ten minutes time, he would be in the haven of a cool shower.

Then, it happened. There he was, going along at his usual hard pace, when a car came swinging around out of a driveway, and Roxas was forced to throw himself to one side to avoid getting collected. He found himself on his back on the person's green, green lawn, an irate honk coming from the vehicle in question, before it went speeding off. Roxas heaved for air, heart thundering, knees rising as he prepared to climb up – "Oh, my God!"

Red hair, ecstasy, sex, sweat shimmering on skin and breaths gasped, lips mashed almost painfully, tongues wrapping together along with limbs, constant rocking motion. Green eyes, lust-clouded and piercing with something else, mouth open as he pulled back, their gazes meeting, dulled by pleasure. Desperate keening. Head thrashing. Fingers winding in scarlet, tugging without meaning to, bringing a grunt and a cry, skin slick against skin – Roxas blinking in the harsh sunlight.

He froze. Then, very abruptly, he unfroze, leapt to his feet, mortified at the raging erection that had taken up residence in his thin jogging shorts. Terrified – the school kids started coming out at this time of morning – Roxas leapt across the road to an empty house with a 'for-sale' sign hammered into the lawn. He took refuge behind the broad tree in the yard, sinking down in horror. One look at his shorts, and a second later he was unscrewing the cap of his water, dousing himself in the coldness. He squeezed his eyes shut, blowing out a sharp breath through the droplets, heart beating furiously, from embarrassment and extremely hideous, out-of-the-blue horniness. This was – awful! What – what?

He took a deep breath, shivering at the abrupt switch from hot to cold, a churning taking place in his gut. He had to calm down, had to gain control of this. Okay, he told himself, let's review. He stared blankly for a moment, then screwed up his face, driving his fingers through damp blond spikes.

Why the hell was Roxas daydreaming about having someone up his ass? He knew that girls didn't do much for him, he'd even found himself checking out Hayner when they were shirt-off sweaty at work, but it never meant anything – he never thought it went this deep! He'd never thought of following the chest-check with a suavely delivered, "Hey, drinks and a movie, then a fuck for dessert?" Yet, here he was – getting hard in the middle of suburbia at the vivid image of getting well and truly pounded.

A faint shudder worked its way through his muscles. Roxas firmly, with panic, directed his thoughts elsewhere, eyes darting about in search of distraction as his skin began to rapidly dry. He ended up counting the bricks of the house in front of him, focusing wholeheartedly on the task. It took longer than he liked for his body to settle – the images had been so strong – but at last, he pushed himself up onto shaking legs. He leaned against the tree for a long minute, gathering strength after the sharp end to his run, then shoved away, staggered, and headed for home.

.o.O.o.

Hayner was already working by the time Roxas got to the store, around near the yard exit, tying pots onto two upright trolleys. He spared the shorter blond a glance, grunted, and said, "Decided to show up?"

Roxas, already feeling rushed and flustered, glared back, yanking his gloves on. "I had – something came up." He stopped sharply, looked around, took in the scene with a sinking stomach. "Deliveries already?"

"That's correct!" Aerith joined them, striding from the shop. She was looking gleeful, a happy shine in her eyes. "I had a customer phone in and order thirteen, straight up! Only condition, they have to be delivered ASAP, which is where you lovely boys come in!" She took Roxas' face between her hands, squished it cheerfully, making him squirm and struggle. She released him, clapped sharply, cried, "So, get to it! Roxas, I don't want to hear any complaints from you, you were late, that automatically makes you the biggest monkey-boy of all." Bouncing on her toes, delighted by the sale, she twisted, sailed back inside, leaving the blonds blinking in a dazed sort of way. Their gazes caught, each shrugging, and, united once again against the madness that was Aerith in a frenzy, they got to work. It took roughly an hour to fill the white van with the pink flower logo with all it could carry, the body sitting low. Sweating heavily, not taking off his gloves, Roxas went and stuck his head into the shop while Hayner got the van started, called, "We're leaving with the first load!"

"How many?" the woman demanded, already scribbling and reaching for the phone. Roxas screwed his eyes, thought.

"Uh – five."

"Uh-huh," she murmured, tucking the receiver under her chin, perfectly trimmed nail punching at the numbers. She flashed him a bright smile. "Okay, I'll see you later. Make sure to drink lots of water, Hayner, too."

Roxas saluted, replied, "Yes, ma'am," pushed away from the doorframe and loped back across the yard, through the gate, into the narrow alley behind the shop. Hayner was slumped back in the driver's seat, a punishing beam of sunlight pouring straight down through the windscreen. Roxas opened the passenger's door, nearly reeled at the wave of dry heat that came billowing out. He choked, cursed weakly, dragged himself up into the seat, grabbed the hard leather handle to swing it shut, yelped, shouted, "Fucking - !" He snatched his hand to his chest, blowing frantically on the skin. Hayner smirked, cracking an eye open.

"Hot enough for you, baby?"

"Fucking…" Roxas grabbed his shirt off, pulled his head free from the collar, balled it around his palm, snared the handle a second time and, with more success, pulled it shut with a clang. Hayner let out a sigh, commanded, "Put down your goddamn window," and put the vehicle in gear. They rumbled away from the curb, headed out onto the main road, passing The Usual Spot and the bar they'd spent the evening in, at which Olette had refused to speak to Hayner, and Hayner had proceeded to get both drunk and stoned, from a little of his stash he'd brought along for the ride. Neither of them handled animosity well. Made for a fun time for Roxas and Pence – the blond had ended up leaving early, preferring his own company to the cold fragility of mood-swings.

Settling with his bare feet on the dashboard, pulling the seatbelt on, the straps hot against his bare skin, Roxas tipped his head to the side, forehead poking out into the rushing air. Eyes slipping shut, he took a deep, soothing breath, felt the warmth swell his lungs, savoured the twenty minutes of rest he had before work started sucking again. Hayner had his elbow perched on the edge of the window, clutching a handful of hair as he lazily traversed the winding roads, the hills, following Aerith's written directions to the expensive side of town. Buying thirteen pots, they figured it'd have to be one of the huge fucking houses that had started sprouting since the beach down the train line had got popular in the last five years or so. To begin with, Roxas had almost had trouble connecting with the people he now called his friends – Hayner, more than anyone, had viewed him with distrust, expecting him to be one of the ones that stayed for a few days each summer, generally cluttering the place up and shooting local prices sky-high. For once, he and Seifer had been agreed on something – although Seifer, of course, had had to take it just that little bit further and attempt to beat the snot out of Roxas for daring to not be intimidated by his bullying swagger. That was when Hayner had stepped in, and made him a temporary, then permanent, part of the group.

The blond stretched his legs, touching toes to the windscreen. Hayner glanced over, slapped his calf. "Get off. You wanna get us pulled over?"

Roxas pulled a face, lowered his feet to the shade, stuck his head out the open window like a dog, mouth open, tongue out. He heard Hayner faintly through the roar of wind, "…a bug…" He considered wiggling his ass in the other's face, possibly crashing the van, but the memory of his – difficult – morning restrained him. He'd had no intention of complaining, despite Aerith's anticipation of it – the physical effort was fantastic, drained him, kept his mind blank and body occupied. But it still nagged at him – his post-run shower had not been fun at all. He was determined to keep the – whatever the hell it was – firmly suppressed.

Hayner tapped the breaks sharply as they rounded a corner broadly, smirking as Roxas went slamming an inch forward before wrenching to a stop against his safety belt. Swearing and massaging his shoulder, the blond sat down quickly, shooting a suspicious look over at his friend. Hayner said mildly, by way of explanation, "Took it too wide." Roxas kept his head in for the rest of the journey.

By the time they arrived at the mansion in question, the van had cooled, the trip almost pleasant, if one didn't think about the back-breaking labour waiting at its end. Still, Aerith would probably let them go early, since this would eat into lunch by the time all the pots were delivered and set up. The van creaked to a halt, engine cutting. Hayner, as the potentially more professional of the two when money was being made, went to alert the homeowner to their presence, while Roxas slid open the panel-door to the back of the van, shrugging his shirt back on. Twisting it straight around his waist, running a perfunctory hand through his hair, he climbed into the interior, hunching over to avoid knocking his head against the roof as he prepared the trolleys. When Hayner returned, with directions to the yard the plants were destined to ring, Roxas had a ramp set up, was lashing the first of the five onto the red trolley.

It took less time to unload, the majority of their efforts taken up with positioning the pots as according to the new owner's wishes, before bringing out the young trees and setting them up to mimic those that, even now, swished gently in the air-con of the shop, near Aerith at the counter. All in all, the job took a little over half the day. The golden-amber afternoon sun, reaching a steady broiling temperature, saw them driving at a weary, leisurely pace back to the shop. Roxas curled up in his seat, stinking shirt thrown into the back, head in his arms. Hayner quietly, calmly drove them, and the smaller of the two fell into a doze, lulled by the vibrations and familiar turns.

.o.O.o.

Roxas was at an airport, sitting on an ergonomically awkward chair, cheerful fucking orange, bright enough to burn the retinas. The table was just as, if not more, irritating, covered in a confetti motif, the likes of which belonged at a child's birthday party. It stung his head to be in such a chipper setting, when airports in general were close to being the most miserable destinations on the planet. It was a visual falsity, designed to pretend to be somewhere fun and relaxing between one exciting flight and the next. Roxas was pretty fucking close to having a breakdown, all on account of the food-court décor.

"You look tired," a soft voice observed, from across the table. He didn't look up, kept his perpetually cold gaze on the coffee cup nestled between his palms. It burned, delightfully, reminded him there were nerve-endings. Through the distant call-to-arms of the overhead announcements, Roxas curtly replied, "I don't feel well."

Fingers drummed the tabletop, narrow with callused tips, an impatient, habitual movement. "Been taking your meds?"

A slow, bitter smile broke out across the blond's face. He opened his mouth to reply, was cut off by the crash of a plate-laden tray dropping to the floor, snapping Roxas from the airport to a hallway, deserted, knees to the ground, cold seeping from the white tiles into his pants. He was shaking badly, trying to wrench something from his pocket, struggling, hearing the thin plastic rustle and crackle. His breaths came hard-won, sharp, too shallow to satisfy his lungs or head. He blinked roughly, went to press a hand to the ground for support, instead met a still-warm stomach. He jerked briefly, didn't draw back, just sagged against the support and redoubled his efforts.

At last the package came loose, Roxas' eyes low as he fumbled with it, clear wrapper reflecting the overhead halogen lights. Fingers worked uselessly for a moment, making more noise than ever, the blond cursing viciously under his breath. He had to still himself, had to gather his wits and try again with a measure of introduced calm. Trembling, he lifted it to his mouth, took a corner between his teeth and ripped in a fluid motion. Hurriedly tipping out the contents onto one black-gloved palm, he shoved the rubbish back into its pocket. He drew the needle from its thin case, fixed it rapidly to the top of the syringe, made sure it was in place with a hard flick. He pushed away from the body on the floor, glanced up and down the hall. No-one coming, no-one there. Nothing but a heartbeat in one chest, a stillness in the other, and for a moment Roxas was tempted to press his ear to the man's chest to see if it was he who continued to vibrate with life's pulse. But he didn't have time, didn't have the nerve – feared the answer, perhaps, both negative and positive. Instead, he finished what he came to do, lined the needle up, paused for point-five of a second to ensure it was positioned correctly, before sliding it carefully through, through the layers of fabric, of skin, of muscle, past the protective embrace of rib, and straight, straight, straight into the heart.

.o.O.o.

"Dude." Roxas snorted awake, blinking through beads of sweat, Hayner slapping a hand to his back, the sound sharp. "We're back. I don't know about you, but I am so ready for air-con it's not funny."

"Since when is this weather ever funny?" Roxas muttered. He sat up, rubbing his head where it had been pressing against the door, faintly confused. He placed his hands on the dashboard, spread the slickened fingers apart, stared at them for a long moment, feeling the jump in the suspension as Hayner vacated, the vehicle suddenly lighter than it had been. He studied the nails, the wrinkles in his knuckles, the shine of perspiration that spread all the way down his arms, along his shoulders, down his chest and waist, dampening the waistband of his shorts. Hayner, standing beside the van, wound his window up in a few quick jerks, squinted in at the pensive blond, complained, "Hurry the fuck up, Roxas, you can contemplate your latest manicure indoors, can't you?"

Roxas sent him a withering look, flipped him off – a daily occurrence – and finally shifted himself. He unlatched the door, kicked it wide, slithered out onto the bitumen, put up the window and retrieved his shirt from the back. They locked the van up, headed inside, tired but accomplished. Aerith let them go early, no more orders having come through yet after that initial large load, and the pair gratefully washed their hands and arms and vacated.

They parted at the tram line, Roxas able, for once, to ride without being smothered by the peak-hour populace. Good thing, too – he really, really reeked. He'd have pitied anyone that had to be near him.

The short walk home from the tram common was… good. It cleared his head a little, the afternoon growing deep towards twilight, the air cooling almost imperceptibly. He paused as a red car pulled in front of him, into a driveway, and it took a moment of blinking to realise he was across the road from the 'for sale' house again. He sighed, "Holy shit," as images of his earlier vision came drifting up. He shook his head sharply, got jogging the last little bit before the owner of the car could recognise him.

Showering was good, but again, difficult. You didn't just – get daydreams like that and forget them. He was determined, though. He chose to focus on the way the water sluiced down his body, concentrated on the dirt under his nails, ignored the faint cry in his head, shivering reverberation of what had been lingering within ever since he'd first fallen to the ground that morning.

Dinner was cold Chinese food, consumed in boxers, portable fan whipping two feet away, oscillating teasingly, brushing silk and skin, sending spikes of hair periodically into weary blue eyes. Fuck the heat. It was disgusting. Glancing up, Roxas saw that the sun was down now. After five minutes of energy-gathering, he placed the half-empty container of rice and chicken to one side, chopsticks clacking quietly, and peeled himself from the couch. His back itched at the sudden freedom, sweat prickling between his shoulder-blades. The blond went to the window over the TV, pulled the curtains aside, unlatched it and pushed it wide. The sea-breeze was well and truly underway, filling the stifled apartment instantly, billowing past with a perfunctory greeting of chilling against skin. Roxas exhaled slowly, held himself up by the frame for a while, before lowering onto his elbows. His head dipped a little, eyes roaming over the limited view of Twilight Town. He searched in his heart for the flutter of pleasure such a sight usually gave him, wasn't concerned to find there was nothing. His mind might have thought, "Well, fuck," but it wasn't backed up by anything substantial. Another sigh, this one more exhausted than the last. Without feeling, he said aloud, "Fuck you, Twilight Town." Blue irises travelled. "Fuck you, and fuck your mother." A long minute passed. He straightened, shoulders hunched, turned and saw the TV sitting silently off. His gaze travelled to the rabbit-ear antenna sitting on top of the VCR, a hand reaching out idly and grabbing it up, twisting the thin metal, snapping each piece off and tossing them to the side. Grimacing, he shuffled back across the apartment, went to the kitchenette and grabbed up the portable phone. He punched in a number, held it to his ear, didn't respond when someone on the other end said, "Hello?" He leaned against the counter and waited. "Hello?" A beat, a sigh. "Roxas? That you, man?"

"I broke my TV aerial."

"…Anything else?" Hayner asked, sounding like he wished for all the world that his friend had at least waited til they'd got some sleep.

"Not so far. Tempt me. Got anything in mind? What should I break?"

"Gonna break my head, you asshole," Hayner groaned. "I'll be there soon."

"Don't bother," the blond replied dully. "I don't need you to come."

"Yeah, you say that," the other responded heavily, "but you always call me, don't you? See you soon."

"Fuck you," Roxas said to the dial-tone. He chucked the phone across the room, not caring where it landed, and sank down to sit on his haunches. Unable to think of anything better to do, he reached into his boxers, and jerked off to the echoes in his skull.

.o.O.o.

Sora liked pool. For some reason, it was the geometry of it that appealed so strongly to his mind. That, and the imagination involved. He had no trouble turning a simple game into an adventure worthy of a video-game – the white ball was his rocket ship, the coloured ones were the various worlds he'd visit, several in a single turn. The pockets were keyholes needing filling, or 'sealing' as he liked to think of it. Yeah, he was ten kinds of crazy, but it was better than whacking some balls around with a stick, right? One way or another, he wasn't the best pool player around – it didn't help that he insisted on sticking his 'keyblade', the cue, into the pockets all the time, whenever a world got sunk. It amused him to piss off those that took it more seriously. They weren't even playing his game, but they'd shoot irate glances across at him, as he muttered to himself and let out small, happy exclamations from time to time, for all the wrong reasons.

The smoky atmosphere of the pool hall was different to that of the clubs, which he was still avoiding for the time being, seeing as the one night he'd decided to not visit any, he'd ended up at one anyway. He was determined to not create a repetitive routine – it was important to him to keep things jumping around, never settle in one place for too long. He told himself it was to do with variety being the spice of life, and something deep down hesitated to disagree. Things were just fine as they were, after all. No point in thinking too hard over motives.

Beer glass empty on the corner of the table, foam melting at the bottom, Sora circled, eyeing off the remaining scatter of spheres, wondering at which point he should be coming in from. Yes, he liked the geometry, but it didn't mean he was any good at calculating it. He just enjoyed the way it made his mind work. The way things projected ahead like a game of chess, the way he could see the balls rolling and clicking long before he even chalked up his cue-tip. It was like following a winding road, without ever leaving the confines of home.

With the murmurs and shouts of conversation taking place around him, all on his lonesome, Sora finished off the game. He was both the hero and villain in this – he visited each world, sure, and sealed each keyhole, but in doing so, he sent absolutely every world off to its doom. Kind of depressing, in a fun sort of way.

When all had been taken care of, he returned the table to its original state, meandered back towards the bar, ordered another drink. He didn't really want it, but he knew he couldn't go home yet. He really, really didn't want to. It was easier, out here, like this, not thinking about what was to come, or what had come to pass. He sat on a high stool, sucked idly at his froth, let the bitter taste touch his tongue and slide down his throat. He didn't actually like beer, but – well – he'd blown the majority of his funds on candy, hadn't he? Damn it. He really wished he still had that stripy bag.

Eventually… there was nothing to continue to stay for. He was reluctant to go outside, but if he just lounged around without activity, he'd end up slipping back into his thoughts. That was – even less desirable than the outdoors. Heaving a sigh, he pushed up from the stool, stuck his arms into his jacket, exited the hall onto the pavement of Traverse Town. With not enough cash to go anywhere else worthwhile, he decided just walking would have to do. He wrapped his arms over his chest, head tilting to the side as he meandered down the sidewalk. With no destination in mind, auto-pilot took over to a certain degree, some deep-rooted instinct taking Sora away from the lights of the street, into the deeper, cooler darkness. Passing by the Traverse Town high school, he hesitated, turned and headed across the gravely entrance, around towards the massive football field eating up an entire two blocks of the city. He'd heard boisterous reports of the talent of the Traverse Varsity team, and figured that anyone running this enormous expanse day after day would have to be good – or at least, incredibly damn fit. His shoes passed onto grass, bending and crushing, hands disappearing into sleeves to preserve warmth.

It took about five minutes to reach the centre of the field, at which point Sora stopped. He took a deep breath of the cold night air, tipped his head back and surveyed the heavens with wide blue eyes, solemnly studying their depths. He felt lonely. Here he was, in the middle of a churning metropolis, under a starry sky, and – there was no one around, for miles it felt like. He could have been the last human alive, for all he knew.

He lowered his gaze, swept his surroundings slowly. There should have been… someone here with him. There was an emptiness at his side, and he could almost see the outline of the person that should have been filling it. Almost, but not – not quite.

A hand reached up to his heart as a small stab of pain tingled through his chest, pressing through his jacket, a frown forming on fine features. He hitched in a little breath, tried to get it deep enough. His eyes continued to scan. Yes, he was alone here. If he were to drop dead, here and now, no one would find him. Not until the schoolkids came, ready for another day of athletics, and discovered his twisted-limbed body sprawled along the grass.

So, then, why the hell did he feel so… watched?