CHAPTER THREE
The sound of water dappling, followed by a low, contented sigh, husky, echoing slightly. Roxas sat on the broad bed, the cream comforter pristine, the pillows trimmed with satin, all of it grossly, almost sinfully, comfortable, at least to his mind. There were pieces of metal in his hands, fingers moving automatically over them in the space between his crossed legs. His features were creased in distracted concentration, shoulders hunched, ignoring the world in favour of his task.
The voice floated out from the bathroom, heavy, slow with drowsy pleasure, "You're really missing something here, Rox. So warm…" When there was no immediate response, it added with a purr, "Why won't you join me? You know I'd love it if you did…" Silence, the blond efficiently cleaning skin-heated steel. There was a swish from the painfully white bathroom, a body moving through liquid, the faint patter of several drops falling onto tiles. The voice came again, slightly louder: "Roxas. We're in a five-star fucking suite in the middle of Costa del fucking Sol. When was the last time we got this kind of time together?"
Blue eyes remained fixed on grey metal, dull, cloth moving rapidly back and forth to bring forth a desperate shine. The heavy, deep maroon velvet curtains were drawn tightly over the broad windows, effectively cutting out every mote of sunlight that dared to exist in the blond's darkness-ruled world. It could be said that he didn't really hear the voice – his ears were elsewhere, listening to others.
The water was disturbed more chaotically, an irritated noise coming from the reverberating depths of the adjoining bathroom, the owner of the voice stepping out onto towels so fluffy it hurt Roxas to touch them. He had stood there in the clean, clean depths of that icy room and attempted to stroke one, coming away as if knives had split his skin into strips.
He sped up his motions, slipping and clicking things together, knowing the voice was coming to whisper directly into his mind, wanting to be ready. It was muttering to itself, the splatter of droplets audible. Something was gargled noisily, spat directly into a drain several seconds later, a slight cough following the routine. A sniff, and then footsteps. Roxas was finishing up, just as the owner came out, one of the deadly towels around the waist, red hair draped down the pale back, green eyes sharp. "Sometimes, I find myself wondering why I bother," the voice said, coming from the redhead's mouth with a bite of resentment, of disappointment.
"So why do you?" the blond couldn't help but mutter. The redhead, back turned to him, rummaging through a large, ornate set of drawers, stiffened. His knuckles reddened around the wood, head lowering sharply for a moment, before, clutching the towel tightly, he spun around, face contorted with an angry response ready to lash from the tip of his tongue. It dried in the face of the black barrel pointed at him, the blond's task complete, gun cleaned and loaded, put back together in record time. The face of the one holding it aloft was hard, cold, alien in its unfeeling intensity. Whatever the voice was planning on saying, it fell away, replaced by a weakly uttered, "Roxas?"
"I'm pulling the trigger, Axel."
"Roxas – !" Lunging forward, futile as the blond's forefinger clicked down long before he could hope to stop him. The redhead tumbled into him, pushed by momentum, and they collapsed to the mattress, sinking down into the softness. The man's weight was crushing, deceptively clutching the narrow frame under a guise of thinness. Too much slender muscle pinned Roxas down, he couldn't shift it off when he tried. Tears sprang to blue eyes, slipping shut, falling limp under the burden, hands hot against the still-damp skin, cold from the air.
A long minute passed, the pair of them still, before the redhead started moving again. One bare arm lifted, pointed at the elbow, hand pressing beside Roxas' head as he pushed himself up. Their noses were inches apart, the green eyes opened wide, the azure remaining closed off, face turning a little to the side. "So…" His voice was hoarse, a bare whisper. "You really thought I'd do it."
There was a moment of stunned silence. "You – meant to leave the safety on, right?"
A slap, an enraged scream, the owner of the voice being flung back with startling strength. The safety was disengaged, the gun still clutched, and Roxas proceeded to shoot the pretty, hateful room to pieces, the redhead huddling low, naked now, arms over his head. None of the bullets touched him… but that's not to say none of them came close.
.o.O.o.
Roxas sat on the sofa in Hayner's apartment, large, dirty sneakers propped up on the coffee table, jeans wrinkled from spending the night sleeping in his clothes. The TV was on, displaying some shitty cartoon, volume lowered, a fortunate lack of rabbit's ears in sight. The blond wasn't back to normal yet, but he'd stopped trying to break things simply because he didn't give a fuck when they were broken. Daylight streamed through the windows, Hayner having thrown back the curtains, opened the glass to let whatever stray breezes felt like existing waft in and remind Roxas that yes, he was still alive.
He briefly chewed the end of a blue ballpoint, eyes losing their focus on the TV screen, seeing colours rather than images. On his lap sat a bundle of papers, the mail that he'd forgotten to collect, that Hayner had grabbed to give him something to read while he was at work. Bills. Bills, bills, and more bills, and the flicker of irritation at the fact indicated that he was on the mend. Last night had been a bad one, he knew that much. Never a good thing, waking up screaming that you feel dead inside. Hayner was inhumanly patient with him during these episodes, and he found himself wondering distantly if he should fix dinner to make it up to him. God only knew the taller blond was a water-burner – he always fell upon anything Roxas could be bothered to cook.
A commercial break came on, bringing him blinking sharply out of his daze, attention turning back down to the papers. He'd been going through systematically circling items, mentally tallying up the costs his bank statement claimed he'd been expending, much of which he had no recollection of. A lot of cash was being lost to automatic tellers outside malls, and he couldn't help but wonder if someone had grabbed his card and found a way to figure out his number. Feasible, almost, if it hadn't still been in his wallet.
He sure as hell wasn't taking all this money out – at least, he was pretty sure he wasn't. There was no guarantee that he wasn't just forgetting in his blank fugues, episodes of taking out money and burning it to prove how fucking worthless it all was to him. He'd lost a few good possessions that way – as had Hayner. Roxas would never get over the guilt of having shattered the Struggle trophy on the high shelf, the blond's pride and joy, the one piece of undeniable proof that he'd owned Seifer's ass at least once in their lives. That particular act had sent Hayner spiralling into one of his own moods, and for two days straight they'd refused to talk to one another, one because he could care less about the power of speech, the other because he was suffering just a little bit of heartbreak. Another piece of the childhood Roxas had never co-experienced, snapped and thrown away.
Frowning at the numbers on his bare arm, where he was keeping diligent track of the expenses he remembered making, he found a disturbing anomaly between what should have been, and what was. It's not like he had the hugest budget in the world anyway – he couldn't afford to be losing cash to some invisible siphon. Which meant that either he was fucking up, the bank was fucking up, or some third party was fucking things up for him. Insurance, perhaps? Maybe his landlady had started taking rent directly from his account?
He scowled, shoving his forehead onto the heel of his palm, elbow jammed against the foamy arm of the couch, attention returning resentfully to the cartoons. He had bills due, damn it, and no goddamn parents to beg and borrow from like Hayner, Pence and Olette. And he'd be damned before he asked them for a loan – it was distasteful enough watching Hayner go crawling whenever he blew the last of his money on weed – he wasn't going to mimic that, without even a good reason as to why he needed it.
Deciding that he'd show the accounts to Pence later, see what the more mathematically-minded boy had to say about it all, Roxas gave up for the time being, shuffled the letters into a neat bundle and folded them over, lowering his feet from the coffee table, leaving the wad of sheets where his feet had been. He pried his shoes off, finally, the first time he'd wanted his feet free since arriving last night, after Hayner had sworn viciously that he was too goddamn tired to walk across town with Roxas in just his boxers, and forced the blond into clothing. Contrary as he became during these periods, he'd disappeared for a couple minutes, only to return in his jeans, a sweater, and a winter coat. The coat had been ditched into a gutter halfway, simply because he started to get dizzy from the overwhelming heat it provided. Hayner had rescued it, and wiped it clean when they got back to his apartment. The sweater had been peeled off partway through the night by the taller blond, when it had become too sweat-drenched by nightmares. And now, finally, Roxas was actually making the choice to be more comfortable. It was almost a relief.
Tired from the night's numb trauma, Roxas lay bonelessly along the length of the thin-cushioned sofa, head turned to the side to stare from under half-closed lids at the television, letting the comical, onomatopoeic sounds wash over and around. It wasn't long before he was dozing, lips parting, saliva pooling at the side of his mouth. Time passed, his breaths growing deeper, slower, vague flickerings of images flitting behind his eyelids and within his brain. He had a vague memory-dream of breaking the Struggle statue, born of the night's activities, subconscious rising to wonder if he'd fucked up again too badly. Warmth seeped into his muscles, safe and comfortable for once, the tension leaking out through his fingers, the tips of his hair, his bare, twitching toes.
There was a quiet rattle from the kitchen, stirring him slightly. He sucked in slowly, coughed a little, slurped and, expression disgusted, wiped the back of his hand across the side of his face. He wriggled around onto his back, hands folding against his t-shirted stomach, legs stretching easily. His eyes opened as another noise came, the kettle being flicked on. He frowned, rubbed one eye, glanced over at the window, seeking the quality of light to estimate the time of day. He hadn't thought that much time had passed… Hayner must have come home early, chosen to not disturb his slumber. Shrugging slightly, grateful, eager to catch up on lost hours, Roxas was more than happy to slip back into the drowse.
A glass smashed, tearing him from the drifting state. Feeling heavy-headed, Roxas sat bolt upright, swaying, exhausted all of a sudden. "Hay? You okay?" he called, tongue clumsy. There came no response. Frowning, rubbing his wrist against first one eye, then the other, he pulled himself onto his knees, hanging over the back of the couch. "Hayner? What broke?" he asked, voice a loud mumble. Quick footsteps sounded, the curtains swishing faintly from another presence in the room.
The footsteps… they weren't – Hayner's.
Roxas froze, mid-yawn, jaw locking in place. His eyes widened, pupils dilating, ears sharply attuned to his surroundings. He listened hard, not moving, waiting for another tell-tale sign of some – some intruder or another. Someone was – in the room with him?
He looked around slowly, seeking. Aside from another rustle of the curtains, pushed by the wind this time, he saw… nothing. No one.
The kettle boiled, clicked off. Roxas flinched, fingers tightening around the sofa's loose material. After a moment's hesitation, he climbed to his feet, silent across the blond's wooden floors, gingerly picking up the large blue glass bowl of trail mix Hayner kept in the middle of the coffee table. He clutched the sides tightly, controlling his breaths, half hunched over as he continued to search for a foreign, unwelcome presence in the apartment. He made his way cautiously towards the kitchen, paused and peered around the corner, one eye peeping into the room. It was most definitely empty, undulating curls of white steam rising from the electric kettle by the sink. There was broken glass on the floor.
Soft steps close by, a breath against the side of his neck, causing him to stiffen, limbs frozen in place. It fanned him slowly. He heard an inhalation, closed his eyes, in the wrong position to be able to just attack. "What do you want?" he asked tightly.
His words were echoed almost immediately, barely a split second after each: "What do you want?"
He jerked forward, spun, trail mix spilling onto the kitchen tiles in a pattering of dried fruit and nuts, and Roxas found himself gaping into empty air. Eyebrows shooting together, he leapt for the doorway, glanced up and down, shuffled out with chest heaving under the force of his breaths. He hunted, checked the bedroom, the bathroom, returned to the living room, the front door just as secure as it had been when he'd chained it after Hayner had left for work without him, promising to tell Aerith he was sick. So – what the fuck?
Roxas turned slowly, rested against the white door, sliding down a little, pressing his back against it and scanning the room with bewilderment. He could've sworn… and then, there was the hot water… But there was no one here. And – the apartment was up too high for anyone to climb in through the windows, or from the patio. Who in their right mind would do that, even if they could? He looked around carefully, grimacing, a slight, uncertain smile twitching the corners of his mouth.
"Weird."
Very.
The bowl resting on his thighs, he reached up with one hand to trail fingers over his neck, where the breath had seemed to touch him. He shivered slightly at the touch, could still feel the warmth, lowered his arm back to the trail mix, straightened, returned it to the table, carefully placed back in its same position. The odd smile lingered on his lips, blue eyes darting about, heart pounding just the slightest bit harder than was normal. Perhaps… he'd been dreaming still. And was now – awake again. Maybe that was what had happened.
Maybe.
His eyes drifted to the cheap clock attached to the wall, noticing that Hayner would be home in another hour and a half. If he was going to make dinner, he'd have to figure out what he was going to do, give himself time to prepare it. God only knew the pair of them ate like horses, there'd need to be plenty. But first… he felt like a cup of coffee. And, well… the water was already boiled. No need to let it go to waste.
.o.O.o.
"We're what?"
Broken fragments had been swept, littered trail mix had been plucked up and thrown away. With those gone, there was no longer a sign that anyone at all had been in the apartment, and some uneasy part of Roxas wanted to keep it that way. It was too simple to dismiss it from his mind, lock it away into eventual forgetfulness, and never mention it to Hayner. The hours had passed, and now they were eating the dinner Roxas had managed to prepare with the blond's meagre supplies, the dim kitchen light hanging over their heads, spreading grey shadow in the dips of their faces.
Hayner stared over the small, round table, chewing slowly, eyeing him. The shorter blond had his face crashed into his hand, fork poised over his own plate. He started smacking himself. "Dude, I'm so tired," he groaned. Hayner speared a piece of carrot, shovelled it in, shrugged.
"Well, sure," he said, muffled by food, "but we already agreed to it ages ago. You can't just cancel out now." He swallowed, smiled deviously. "Olette'd hunt you down for castration." As Roxas continued to hurt himself in minor ways, the taller blond's expression faded, became a little hooded. "It's not like I'm wild on the idea, either," he pointed out, a hint of disgruntlement in his tone. "But, like Pence said, do you want us to be the ones to fuck things up with her? You know if we don't go, she'll think we're doing it deliberately, right?" He scowled. "And I am not going without full support from you and Pence."
Roxas sighed, held his fork up to the light, squinted at it as if considering how much Olette would understand him not going because he'd stabbed himself, 'accidentally', in the eye. "I can't believe this has to be tonight," he muttered. He rubbed his face agitatedly. "She couldn't have planned it for a night when I was feeling a little less – "
"Don't you mean, a little more?" Hayner grumbled, picking at his food, mood declining in the face of Roxas' lack of enthusiasm. "Either way, it's tonight, get over it. We're meeting at eight." A sharp, irritated exhalation, and Roxas continued with his meal. Hayner grabbed his glass, took a swallow of milk, choked a little as he tried to suddenly speak. Roxas raised his gaze, single eyebrow arching as he watched his friend turn red in the face. "Pipe trouble?"
The glass was banged down, the blond coughing and spluttering, eyes watering. When he regained control, he hissed, "Thanks for the help, nice to know you've got my back." Roxas shrugged, inspecting a piece of chicken before stabbing it. He still wasn't totally sure this was entirely hygienic – he'd dug it out from the back of the freezer, and during the defrosting process, the label had turned black, so he had no idea how old the meat actually was. "You weren't dying."
Hayner rolled his eyes, took another gulp of milk to get everything working properly again, and said hoarsely, "I was trying to tell you, someone came into the store looking for you today."
The blond's interested was piqued, head cocking to the side. "Looking for me?" He thought for a moment. "Who would be looking for me? What did they want?"
Almost fully recovered now, eyes still leaking just a bit, Hayner took a deep breath and shrugged, turning his attention back to his plate. "Dude didn't say, just said he was looking for you. Told him you were off sick, and he asked if you got sick a lot."
Roxas' eyelashes fluttered slightly, eyebrows rising. "He asked… if I get sick a lot?" He leaned back in his chair, a hand wrapping around his glass. "Huh." His face scrunched up. "What did he look like? Who do I know that would come looking for me?"
Hayner rolled one shoulder, shook his head. "He's no one I've seen around. Didn't leave his name, but he was tall, red hair like whoa."
The blond squinted, lips pursed. "Red hair…"
"Like whoa," Hayner helpfully supplied. "Oh, and – " He scratched his nails gently under his eyes in straight lines. "Tattoos, right there."
Roxas snorted. "What, like a clown?" He shook his head at Hayner's answering, food-filled laugh. "I don't think I know anyone with red hair and tattoos," he confessed. "Those are kind of memorable physical traits, right?"
"That, plus you're an anti-social shit," Hayner reminded him. "We're like, your only friends in Twilight Town, so I'd totally have seen you hanging around with him." While sawing chicken, he considered, asked, "Someone from your old city?"
"Naw." Roxas inhaled, pushed some food around his plate, appetite small. "Maybe he's from the bank," he theorised. "My statements have been fucked lately."
"Hey, yeah," the other blond agreed, brightening. "And you weren't home today, so maybe he came looking for you at work?"
Roxas nodded eagerly, triumph flooding through at the solving of the mystery. "That totally sounds like it could be it."
"So, why didn't he just fucking say so?" Hayner grumbled. "Instead of hanging over the counter flirting with me?"
Roxas barked out a strangled laugh, sitting up, feet slapping the floor. "He what? He flirted with you? Oh, shit, that's funny."
"Yeah, yeah, haw-fucking-haw," the other blond responded, unable to keep down a grin. "What can I say, the boys can't keep their hands off me."
"Oh, I've been nursing a crush for quite some time," Roxas agreed, nodding solemnly. "Dude, you, me and a wedding ceremony, I'd be happy for fucking life."
"Yeah," Hayner breathlessly laughed, "and you can cook and clean for me, right? You can be the little house-wifey, and I'll go out to work each day, and – and – " He collapsed into giggles.
"You'll come home, and say, 'Honey, I'm home, sugar!' And I'll come and fucking kiss you on the cheek in my pink frilly apron," Roxas chuckled.
"Boy germs," Hayner cackled. Roxas rolled his eyes.
"Well, someone's entertained," he huffed, smiling helplessly. He abandoned his cutlery on the messy plate, stretching his arms over his head. "Hurry up and finish, I need to go home and change if we're going out tonight."
Hayner quickly checked his watch, wiping his eyes. "Shit, yeah, we've only got an hour before we have to meet the train." He threw a piece of chicken across the table. "God, you're a pain in the ass. Where's your spare set?"
"I wore it the other night," Roxas yawned. "Stop being a pussy, just finish your food."
The other blond grunted. "I'm sorry, who's the pussy? You're the one that doesn't like walking alone in the dark."
Roxas flipped him off, pushing his chair back and standing, gathering his dishes and dumping them into the sink, got the hot water rushing down to hammer the leftovers from the plate. Hayner, seeing this, protested through a large mouthful, having shovelled the last of his meal into his mouth, "Scrape your fuckin' plate first!"
"Sorry," Roxas sang over the roar of the faucet, "too late!" The other blond went stomping over with a glare, bumping him out of the way, shutting off the water, chewing furiously in an attempt to be able to better tell Roxas what a complete and utter douche he was.
"Gonna block the goddamn drain," he muttered, as Roxas cheerfully sailed away, leaving him to wash them remainder. Swallowing at last, Hayner twisted, calling before he left the room, "Rox?" The blond turned inquisitively. "Does this mean you're feeling okay again? You're smiling."
Hayner was about the only person who wouldn't follow up the question with, Don't you think you should get help for that? It's not natural… God knew he heard it enough himself, mostly from Olette. Roxas slid his hands down the doorframe, leaning on it wearily. "Yeah," he said, the smile smaller but genuine. "I'm feeling… better, at least. Not totally back to normal, but getting there."
Hayner nodded, satisfied with this, and continued with the cleaning. Roxas pushed from the door, went to pull his shoes on, gathering his bank documents and tucking them into the deep pocket of his jeans. He decided to leave the winter coat at the apartment until he next needed it, Hayner wouldn't care.
He stood, could hear Hayner clanking in the kitchen, briefly wandered the room, before coming to a halt in front of the patio door. Twilight Town's namesake had even these long summer days fallen into darkness by six-thirty each evening. His hand went to the handle, thumb disengaging the latch with a click, Hayner's voice bellowing from in front of the sink, "Leave that fucking door shut!"
Roxas hung back on the handle, calling, "I won't let in the – "
"Don't. Fucking. Touch it," the blond warned, emerging, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. "We're leaving in, like, two minutes, and once you get into your spacey frame of mind out there, it's like you're high on life for the rest of the night." He cocked a hip to the side, cutting a hand through the air. "None of that shit tonight – I need you at your most normal." In response to Roxas' pleading expression, he pointed sharply, dishcloth swaying. "No. Hands off."
Sighing gustily, Roxas threw his hands in the air, slouching out of range of the door's temptation and allure. "So, what exactly are you hoping to achieve tonight?" he demanded testily. "Why do I have to act normal?"
Hayner was already back in the kitchen, finishing up hurriedly. His expression was distracted, Roxas dogging his steps. "I just – do you want to give Seifer an excuse to poke shit at us?" the boy responded after a long moment.
"I don't know." Roxas shrugged, hopping up to sit on the counter. "Maybe if he does, Olette'll get sick of him? Realise she's with an ass on legs?"
"Yeah, or, she'll decide he's right and ditch us." The blond was drying their plates, movements agitated, the slightest hint of distress in his tone. He flicked Roxas a regretful glance. "Look, maybe you don't care a whole heap or something – I mean, I know you care, okay? But you're just gonna think she's a bitch and tell me to forget her if she decides we're more loser than she can be bothered with. But, dude, she's – she's one of my best friends."
"I know that," Roxas responded, with a frown. He thumped a heel against the cupboard he was sitting over, a sign of his displeasure. "You're wrong about me, Hay, and I'm kind of close to calling you an asshole on it. I just think you're overreacting – Olette's not gonna ditch us."
"Yeah, maybe," Hayner muttered, fiercely scrubbing the last dish dry, putting it away with a clatter. "Or maybe a bunch of best guy-friends don't fit into picket-fence dreams, you ever consider that?"
Roxas sighed, flapped a hand in his direction, leaning back against the wall. "Whatever you say. You're obviously determined to feel like shit over this."
Hayner darted him a hard look. "Wait here, I'll grab my clothes and change at your place." Roxas puffed out a breath, resting his head back with his eyes closed, ears following his friend's progress through the apartment. His hand, slipping down to the counter, accidentally triggered the kettle to start boiling. He quickly flipped the orange lever up again, blood chilling slightly. He glanced around the kitchen, jumped down to the tiles, checked that his bills were still in place in his pocket, hurried back into Hayner's presence, warm in comparison to the cold of being alone.
He pushed the blond's bedroom door, found him standing in his boxers and shirt, frowning pensively down at something in his hand. Upon hearing the shuffle of Roxas' feet, he looked up, swiftly jammed the object into his open sock drawer. Pretending not to have noticed – because that's what best friends do – Roxas leaned casually against the door, ankles crossed, and smirked. "You totally wanted me to find you in your underwear."
Hayner rolled his eyes. "Preparation for the wedding night, babe." He grabbed a pair of dark jeans from the lower drawer, dragged them on, slightly too long, covering his shoes when he crushed them on, the hems already well-frayed from months of dragging wear.
"Thought you were changing at my place?" Roxas asked. Hayner grunted.
"I'll take my shirt along so I don't sweat all over it before I have to, but it's easier to throw on pants here."
"You're gonna be hot," Roxas pointed out, indicating the thick denim. Hayner smirked.
"You haven't been to Olette's grandparents' beach house yet, Rox. It gets cold like a bitch there, direct sea-breeze, fwoosh!" He made a sharp motion with one arm, slicing it through the air on a slipstream. "Blows right up your fucking shorts, freezes you out of ever having kids."
"Such an enormous fear of mine," Roxas answered dryly. He straightened, left to wait by the door, trying not to wonder what Hayner had been so intent on not letting him see. Obviously, whatever it was, it was none of his business. He just had to curb whatever natural curiosity he felt over it, and allow the man his privacy. Do not be a nosy bitch, he recited, an affirmation he was forced to chant every time he found himself rifling through people's belongings simply out of interest of their inner selves. He'd had a few near misses with that little habit, and was clamping down hard. The last thing he wanted was for his friends to think he was some kind of snoop.
Hayner met him a minute later, with a small black duffel bag in hand. "Got your key?" he asked. Roxas dug in his pocket, flipped up the key-ring, jangling them, both the one to his apartment and his spare to Hayner's. They exited the home, the taller blond snatching the spare from Roxas' hand and using it to lock up. He tossed them back, the two of them hopping down the stairs to the front of the building, exiting out into the cooling night, which, despite Hayner's claims, Roxas didn't believe could be endured in jeans – once he got home, he was changing. It was still summer, after all, even if the temperature did drop the later it got. Together, they set off down the sidewalk, Hayner perfunctorily checking his wristwatch to make sure they weren't going to end up arriving late. Apparently satisfied with their rate of progress, he dug his hand back into his pocket, the other swinging the bag, occasionally bringing it round to whack the blond at his side.
They grabbed the nearest tram, hanging off the edges despite the mostly empty cabin, the air rushing through Roxas' hair, blowing it sharply away from his face. They got to his apartment twenty minutes later, tramping up the stairs, entering for the first time since he'd snapped the ears off his antenna the night before. The phone was still in an undisclosed location, he found, when he attempted to call Olette to let her know they were almost on their way. While Hayner was changing, he grabbed the blond's cell phone from the counter next to his keys, dialling his home number and waiting. A few seconds passed, the hunt beginning as he heard the muffled noise nearby. Turned out to have fallen into the soil of the healthy green palm Aerith had given him for his housewarming, the week after Hayner had got him the job at her store. His triumphant smile faded, however, as he bent over the pot and realised that he had already apparently discovered it the night before – oh, right. Hayner had called halfway over, to make sure he hadn't jumped out of any windows… and Roxas had promptly buried the device in next to the plant, and… watered it.
"Fuck," he sighed, unearthing the cordless and holding it up by its aerial, dropping clumps of damp dirt, its trill sounding distinctly unhealthy in the open air. "I am – such an asshole."
"Well, sure," Hayner agreed, emerging from the bathroom with his hair shining from water and gel. He peered over the blond's shoulder, said, "Ahh," with comprehension, patted his back. "Yes, yes you are, in fact, an asshole."
Abandoning the abused telephonic device, he went to change into shorts and a fresh t-shirt, bringing a sweater along for good measure. He combed the knots in his hair, formed from the night on Hayner's couch. He supposed he should really have a shower, but he'd had one after work the day before, and was pretty sure Hayner would hurt him if he made them late.
They left his apartment, setting off for the train station at a jog. It wasn't too far from Roxas' apartment to Central, and it wasn't long before they were taking the short steps, pushing into the brightly-lit interior, eyes peeled for their little group. Hayner spotted them first, groaned softly. "Check it out – he brought his cronies."
"Of course he did," Roxas sighed. "This is a mingling exercise, isn't it? One big happy family?"
"Dysfunctional fucking family," the other blond muttered, before fixing a bright expression on his face as they approached.
"Well, well – chicken-wuss one and two, if this isn't a pleasure," Seifer greeted, an arm wrapped firmly around Olette's shoulders, the girl positively bubbling with excitement. Roxas wasn't sure what thrilled her so much about this brief combination of their groups – Seifer didn't like them, they didn't like him, and he didn't know quite how she was managing to pretend that it had a hope of working out.
"Seifer!" Hayner's smile was filled with teeth. "The pleasure's all ours, I'm sure." The tall man smirked complacently, rolling his eyes slightly.
"I'm so glad you guys made it okay," Olette said, happily. "Now we're just waiting on Pence."
"He'd better show," Hayner warned under his breath, a thousand and one threats no doubt running through his mind for the brunet if he and Roxas got caught in this by themselves. Roxas honestly didn't see what the huge deal was – sure, it was awkward as hell, but as long as they played nice for Olette's sake, there wasn't anything to get worked up about. He just resigned it as another one of things he didn't get – needed a lifetime of mutual hatred behind it as fuel. The two blonds eyed the silent figures at Seifer's back, who looked just as uneasy with the situation as Hayner.
Ten minutes of uncomfortable small-talk passed, Hayner at least making an effort, though his conversation was mostly directed at Roxas and Olette. Seifer insisted on smirking each time he started talking, tightening his grip on Olette almost imperceptibly. At last, two minutes before the train beside them was scheduled to leave, Pence came hurrying along, flapping his ticket, out of breath and red-cheeked. "Sorry," he panted, swiping the bangs from his eyes. "Got caught up in the dark room again." He fixed Olette with a grin. "Won't happen again, promise."
The girl, who had been looking increasingly tense at his absence, relaxed, nodded her forgiveness, and the group finally boarded, settling down for a half-hour journey. The train stopped once, briefly, at Sunset station. More people got off than on, and soon they were the only ones on board other than one woman drowsing in the corner of the carriage. Seifer murmured softly into Olette's ear, her expression peaceable, and Roxas found himself wishing that the guy was less of a douche – he seemed to make her happy, and it sucked that he was such a shit to the rest of them, forcing this weird divide between them all.
Sighing, he copied Hayner's resolute pose, turning his head to gaze out the window. It would have been so nice to spend tonight sleeping off the after-effects of his latest episode, but their resident female had made it all-too clear that such a lack of presence would be nothing more than a deliberate affront. His gaze slipped to the side, fixing on the slew of numbers scribbled across his arm. He frowned, licked his thumb and rubbed at the marks for a couple minutes, succeeding in smearing them across the golden hairs, darkening them. With a sigh, he lowered himself in the double-seat, sweater balled up in his lap, and waited for the trip to be over, resting his crown against Hayner's arm. He thought he heard a faint sneer in the background from Seifer, but ignored it in favour of the light drowsiness hanging over his head.
.o.O.o.
Sora slept, and hated every - goddamn - moment.