CHAPTER FIVE

Roxas woke with one of the first piercingly golden beams of sun, slipping through the cracks in the blinds covering the window they had toppled through only hours ago. Like a laser, the light zeroed in on him, found a direct route through one retina to his brain, lanced deep. The blond squeezed his eyes shut, but the world turned red, the brightness no less painful. Whispering a groan, he twisted, unhooking his legs from their awkward position over the arm of the too-short sofa, curling them in under himself as he turned his back on the hot sun. He'd been promised the bed, but… when they'd got back, that room had been already occupied, the black look on Hayner's face, coupled with the sudden waxiness of his skin, more than enough explanation of what he'd maybe seen when he'd gone to check. Roxas had taken the sofa without a word, Hayner and Pence cramming together on the loveseat, while Fuu and Rai spent the majority of the night sitting out on the porch with a bottle of wine being passed back and forth.

It had been a disturbed sleep, uncomfortable, cramped, headachy. His mouth was permanently dry, his feet just about forming tracks between the couch and the bathroom as his body fought to dispel the poisons he'd forced upon it. He'd reached the point of wanting to smash his head open, catching sight of the dark bruise on Hayner every time he re-entered the candle-lit room, the wicks long-lasting enough to keep him feeling guilty and faintly stricken all night long. Then he'd slept, and hadn't opened his eyes again until the sun came pulsing through, just about forming a hissing stream of smoke where it burnt into his skull.

He couldn't get back to sleep. A knitting needle had worked its way through one temple, piercing through to the other side, leaving a wreckage in its wake that Roxas now had to deal with. It was impossible, with the stinging hangover centralised in his left eye, to let go of consciousness again, no matter how hard he tried. For half an hour he persisted, eyebrows furrowing deeper and deeper against the pain. At last, the realisation that this being futile filtering through, Roxas' blue eyes slid open, staring at the visible fibres of the couch-material. He was hunched up, hands cupping elbows, a heavy heat already settling through the little house, sweat forming in all the creases of his body.

Needing the bathroom again, he squirmed onto his back, swung his feet to the ground, paused for a minute to clasp his head and quietly endure. His eyes squeezed shut, a silent curse directed sluggishly across to where Hayner continued to be passed-out on the arm of the loveseat. He stood, shoes shuffling across the bare floor, trying to be quiet, to not disturb any of the slumbering beasts. He avoided looking into the dusty mirror while he was in there, certain that he already knew precisely what kind of blood-shot wreck he looked like, really not needing visual confirmation – not when he had work in so few hours. Trust Aerith to be open on a Sunday.

Gathering a handful of water, he lowered his head, rubbed it messily over his tired eyes and cheeks, trying to soothe away the aching, the itchiness. Breathing heavily, he returned to the main room, felt the sweetest kiss of a sea-breeze pushing at the blinds. Standing for a moment with his hands on his hips, Roxas gazed slowly around, settling for a moment on the unconscious forms of Pence and Hayner, twisted uncomfortably against one another, and smiled slightly. Over on the bookcase, he found, of all things, an old Spiderman comic. Drawing it out, flipping it open, he discovered it to be a couple decades overdue from the local library. He didn't like to think what the fees would be by now. Turning the pages disinterestedly, distantly amused by the 'pow!'s and 'shazam!'s gracing every few panels in the form of sound effect, he settled down onto his sofa, sinking low, hunching over. It entertained him for roughly fifteen minutes, the first time through. He flicked back to the beginning, glancing over at his friends, sighing, started reading again. It was another ten minutes before a croaking voice rasped, "Trying something a bit more difficult today?"

Roxas smirked, raised his eyes, the left one still narrowed slightly against the pain. Lifting the comic to better show the cover, he told Hayner, "I'm expanding myself."

"That's my boy," the taller blond muttered, clumsily rubbing at his eyes. "Always improving." He inhaled, yawned, lifted his hands behind his head and squinted down at Pence, who, through the murmuring and shifting, had slid down a little, but remained asleep. Hayner went to scratch his face, flinched. "What's up with my face?" He touched the bruise gingerly, Roxas' stomach dropping a little, the sour, sick feeling rising.

"I…"

"Oh, wait, I remember." He jabbed a finger over at him. "Abusive prick. That's the last time I leap all over you when I'm piss-ass drunk."

Despite the fact that the blond obviously held no animosity over the act, Roxas was quiet. "…I'm sorry, Hayner. I just – I don't know what I was… I didn't want to hurt you."

Hayner regarded him carefully, a hand coming up to block the light so he could look with both reddened eyes. "Roxas. Forget it. I'll kick your ass when you least expect it, and we'll be even, okay?"

A frown creased Roxas' features, an almost-puzzlement falling across his features. "Why are you so… nice about this sort of thing? I mean…"

Hayner snorted, rolled his eyes. "Dude, you're my friend. Okay? If it was Seifer, you know, it'd be on, but – jeeze, do you really need to ask? And may I remind you," he added, bouncing the finger thoughtfully, "that if it hadn't been for Pence stopping me, I'd have torn you a new one, you know?"

"Ya know?" Roxas mimicked, a small grin in place.

Hayner glared. "Now, you're asking for it."

Pence stirred, wiped his mouth on Hayner's shirt, earning a disgusted, "Nice," from the blond. The brunet sat up, yawning widely, an automatic smile in place.

"Hey, guys," he greeted sleepily. "How're you feeling today?"

"The classy thing to do would be not ask," Hayner grumbled, elbowing the boy off of him. Roxas nodded agreement, wincing when even this small motion set off the sensors in his head to trigger a spike or two. He rolled up the Spiderman comic, tapped his knee a few times, while Pence got up, looking far too healthy for his own good, and went to the window. "Hey – hey, Pence, don't open the – " Roxas broke off, hissing as the brunet wrenched the blinds high, exposing the full brunt of the light. Pence laughed.

"What did you do, turn into vampires overnight?"

"I vote we spike his next lemonade with absinthe," Hayner growled, flopping back and covering his face with his arms.

"He'd hallucinate about the perfect shoot and jump off a cliff," Roxas mumbled, from behind the heroic protection of Spiderman, sunshine bouncing off its old, glossy pages.

"And that would be bad, how?"

"So, who's hungry?" the brunet asked, completely ignoring the dire threat. "We'll head to the convenience store and pick something up."

"Muh," Roxas protested.

"I am," Hayner reported, thrusting an arm high. "I even remembered to bring my money this time."

Pence pondered, looking out the window. "I wonder if the others will want anything – Rai, and Fuu?"

Hayner grunted. "Ask them, then. But we're not going to run around after them – if they want something, they're coming along."

Pence hesitated, eyes flicking at the hallway. "…And Olette and Seifer?"

There was a brief pause, Roxas wondering if Hayner was suddenly remembering whatever it was he'd found the previous night. He squirmed at the thought. Seemed like he'd come in at the tail-end of the happy days, entering with the trio into an End of Days for their tight-knit group. He couldn't imagine things going anywhere but downhill, if Hayner had walked in on what he assumed he had.

"…If they're awake," Hayner said shortly. "Roxas, go check on them. Feel free to knock loudly."

Roxas started to whine, but a warning glance from Pence, expression serious, and a sharp look from Hayner, convinced him otherwise. Dragging his head along, as if were something bouncing on a leash behind him rather than a lump of molten magma seated on his neck, the blond clawed his way straight, stood, the sunshine painful, but the fresh air vaguely revitalising. He stumped out of the room, down the hall, was reluctant to just start bashing on the door, despite Hayner's go-ahead. He tapped softly at first, enough to gain the attention of anyone conscious within. When no reaction came, he steeled himself, twisted the handle and inched the door open, peering in.

Olette and Seifer were still deeply asleep, entangled, but the brunette was fully clothed, Seifer only missing his shirt. It was a goddamn relief. He opened the door enough to slip in, tip-toed over to the bed, getting ready to grab Olette's big toe and waken her, when a quiet voice said, "We'll be up soon." Roxas froze, eyes shifting across to meet Seifer's now half-lidded ones. He was obviously having some head-troubles of his own, judging by the faintly pained expression in place. Olette slept peacefully on. "What do you want?"

"…Hayner and Pence are talking about food. There's a convenience store nearby or something."

Seifer closed his eyes, pressed the heel of one palm against the bridge of his nose briefly. "Okay. Okay, give us a few minutes." Roxas nodded, retreated, closed the door softly and returned to where Pence and Hayner waited, only to find the room empty. Eyebrows rising, he hunted through the little house, finding them at last on the front porch – or, back porch, perhaps, considering that the main entrance was through the lane. From the miniature kitchen, a door led out onto a little wooden veranda, some old chairs set up, a swinging bench that looked like a few too many pounds would crunch it entirely from its frame. Despite this, Pence and Hayner braved it, looking unworried enough that Roxas supposed it was stronger than it looked. The blond was cross-legged, deliberately not looking at Roxas as he joined them, Fuu and Rai sitting on two garden chairs, tired-looking. From here, there was a direct view of the ocean, over a couple dunes. The smell was stronger than ever, with the scent of hot sand rising to add to it. Gulls cawed and wheeled a little way out, searching for rotting debris in the new tide.

Roxas leaned against the side of the house, gazing out. "They'll be up in a minute," he said.

"Whatever," Hayner grunted.

"Seifer probably needs a while to figure out how to poke his arms through the right holes. Lucky his pants were still on," Roxas mused mildly, "otherwise you'd probably be waiting another half-hour for him to sort himself out. Those belt-loops can be tricky when you're a meat-head."

Rai shot a sharp look over his shoulder, obviously wondering whether or not to take up the bait. But it hadn't been said for his benefit in the first place, and Seifer wasn't around to hear – to be honest, the mood of all four of them lifted slightly. Hayner's expression softened slightly, a calculating glance sent Roxas' way. He nodded slightly, in acknowledgement, and directed his eyes over to the dunes. A peaceable sort of silence fell through them, the cease-fire more than manageable without Seifer around to direct his cronies' sneering. Roxas was almost finding himself liking Fuu and Rai, when they weren't talking or looking at him like this, the wine bottle empty, set carefully against the leg of Fuu's chair.

It wasn't long before the soothing, all-encompassing shushing of the beach soundtrack was replaced by shuffles and thumps from within, Olette appearing a moment later with her braid a mess, skin pale with the after-effects of drink. Her clothes were rumpled, but as long as her shirt wasn't inside out or sporting any new stains, her boys were happy enough. Seifer came staggering in her wake, falling against the wooden rail like a man clutching a life-raft, alternately squinting against the harsh glare of the outdoors, and finding relief in the cleanliness of it all. He rested his brow against the rail, turned his face to them all, asked, "So, what was that about food?"

"Well, good morning to you, too," Hayner said dryly. He drew a cigarette from his pocket, slightly bent, straightened it out and lit up, eyes narrowed through the smoke, studying the distance. Seifer snorted slightly, evidently too tired to launch immediately back into the ongoing existence-based feud the two had had going on their entire lives, and for a while silence resumed, broken only by the waking world.

At last, Olette sighed, checking her wristwatch. "I don't know about you guys, but I need to be at work in – an hour and a half?" She dragged a hand through her hair, shrugged in response to Pence's raised eyebrows. "I tried getting today off, but with my manager on maternity leave, things aren't running as tightly. People are taking a lot of sick days."

"So why don't you?" Seifer asked, resting against one of the patio's support beams, half-hugging it as sunlight crept up against the house. "Just tell them to shove it, you're not coming in today."

She half-smiled, shook her head. "I can't. They're relying on me." She huffed a sigh, checked her watch. "Maybe I can get my mom to pick me up…"

Seifer yawned widely, pushing away. "Well, whatever happens with you, I still need food." Rai and Fuu took this as their cue to stand, ready to leave whenever Seifer was.

Rolling his eyes, sucking the butt of the cigarette, Hayner unfolded his feet from under him, said, "Coming, guys?" Pence stood, but Roxas remained where he was, the swing thumping slightly against the side of the house. Hayner fixed him with a look. "Roxas?" His voice held a thin edge, a warning. Roxas sent him a withering glance.

"I don't feel like walking. My head hurts way too much, Hay. Sorry, but I can't make this one." Olette frowned, a hand going to her hip. She stepped forward, placed the other against his forehead, hummed disapprovingly.

"Didn't I tell you to leave that stuff alone last night?" She darted a look to Hayner and Pence. "Pick him something up, okay? Get him one of those sports drinks, I'll bet he hasn't drunk anything but sake and bourbon since Twilight Town." Hayner subsided, realising that this wasn't so much abandonment in his time of need as the mother of all hangovers, of which he was partially responsible. He nodded, pacified.

"Will do. Not coming?"

She shook her head, took a seat beside Roxas on the swing, said, "I want to try calling home," as she pulled out her cell phone, wiggled it back and forth at him.

"You want something?" Seifer asked, stretching as he started to walk away, heading along the patio towards the short drop at the end, the sand below. Olette shook her head, already frowning at the face of the phone as she quickly thumbed in the number.

"Just make sure Roxas gets taken care of," she murmured. "I can get something at work."

Seifer shrugged, jumped off the end, demanded, as Hayner and Pence remained where they were, "This is the way, right? Can we go now? I'd like to get home and get some proper sleep before it's night-time again, if you boys don't mind."

Hayner scowled, hands digging into pockets. "No, that's not the way. You're taking the long route. It's on the edge of town; quickest way is through the house and down the lane."

Seifer threw up his hands, climbed back up. "What the hell are we doing out here, then, chicken-wuss? Lead the way, already."

Hayner grunted, turned without another word and disappeared into the house, trailing the cloying scent of smoke. Pence followed, eyes lowered, Roxas glaring at Seifer as he passed, his partners in crime close behind and back to full dislikeability, without even having uttered a word. The groups, with Seifer's sweet presence reinstated, were once again firmly separate. He listened to the footsteps pass through the house, distantly heard the door swing shut on the other side, and suddenly, he and Olette were alone. She looked exhausted, the phone held against her ear, the line on the other end obviously on the verge of ringing out. It came as no surprise when she sighed, pulled it away and flipped it shut, checking the time again. "Mustn't be up yet," she said, sounding dejected.

"I'm sure you'll get there on time," Roxas murmured, stretching out a little more now that there was more space, slumping low in the seat, legs stuck out straight. Olette shrugged, then, obviously making an effort, turned to him with a smile.

"So, Roxas, how did you like my grandparents' beach house? I mean, aside from the eventual hangover," she added, nose crinkling. He turned, one eye shut against the sun, hair turning golden, and returned the expression.

"It's a nice place. You're lucky to have had this all these years. Must have been fun when you guys were growing up."

She relaxed slightly, features softening as she remembered. "Yeah, we had some great times here," she said wistfully. "I've always loved this place. It's a nice, sort of, escape."

Roxas nodded, and for a minute or two, a slightly awkward silence fell over the pair. Usually, it was easy to talk to the brunette, always bubbling with something to say, but she was so drained right now, it was like she couldn't quite face it. Roxas was puzzled; he'd seen Olette completely shit-faced drunk before, and she hadn't looked as bad the next day as she did this time, and he was pretty sure he'd outdrunk her. To have her sitting beside him like this, pale and silent, was a new experience. Her lips were thin, shoulders hunched, that line that had formed between her brows the night before yet to smooth out. Her eyes, fixed on the watery horizon, held a depth of trouble he wasn't accustomed to, except for when – she and Hayner were fighting.

Frowning, not used to being the one to find topics of conversation, Roxas asked, "What about you? I mean, this was your first time asking Seifer along, right? How'd you enjoy this little… meshing of worlds?"

She seemed surprised. "Oh! Well – it was… nice? I liked it." Her expression grew wary, slightly mistrustful as she regarded him, tapping the phone against her chin. "Why? Was Hayner wondering?"

Roxas cocked an eyebrow. "Hayner? No. Why would he?"

A slight sound chuffed out of the girl, holding a bitter tinge. "Well said, I guess. Why would Hayner care?" Roxas went still, a scowl forming. Olette noticed, started a little, rolled her eyes, mouth pursing. "Oh, don't look like that, Roxas, please."

"…You shouldn't talk about Hayner like that," he muttered, gaze on his knees. "He cares about you."

She fixed him with a hard look. "Not enough, he doesn't."

She broke into a sigh, as Roxas let out a noncommittal, "Tch."

Olette wilted a little, elbows going onto knees, body-language depressed. The hot light from above was eating the patio piece by piece, had grown to encompass their legs, the tips of Olette's nails glinting on the very edge of the yellow. She played with the phone, grimacing. Then she stopped, turned her face to the side and said, "I know how things seem right now, Roxas." Her tone was distant, roping his attention against his will. He flicked a cool glance over, met her earnest green eyes, a measuring cast to them as she regarded him. "And… I have to admit, I feel pretty bad about it," she confessed. "I never thought things would end up like this, but – Hayner, he… I just…" Frustration overtook her features. "Well, you're his best friend now, right? He's told you what happened, hasn't he?"

Roxas held up his hands, stopping her sharply. "Quit talking, right now. I can make my guesses, but no, nothing's been said. Hayner hasn't, Pence hasn't."

"Well, of course Pence hasn't," the brunette reasoned, looking at him blankly. "He wasn't there. I certainly wouldn't say anything, and I can't see Hayner – Look." She frowned, gauging him. "Are you telling me he hasn't said anything?"

"Olette, I don't know what you're talking about," the blond replied shortly, "and I really don't want to. Whatever it is, it's yours and Hayner's business, not mine."

She let out a small, confused, "Huh." Shrugging, she said, "All right, then, if that's how it is, fine by me. The less people know, the better. But…" She hesitated, sought his gaze, locked on it with an element of pleading. "Please, Roxas, please don't judge me over this. Please believe me when I say… it's Hayner who – "

Again, she was cut off, Roxas growing impatient. "Olette, I don't want to hear it. I'm not interested in taking sides."

A spark of anger lit in her eyes. "And here I thought you already had," she said snippily. The conversation abruptly over on both ends, she flipped her phone open, pressed redial, listened to the ringing. Roxas folded his arms, looked the other way, struggling to cool his own ire towards the girl, suddenly wondering if Hayner had been right all along, that they were in danger of actually losing her – she certainly didn't seem open to talking about it, unless it included some form of finger-pointing. Roxas, in his bid to keep liking her, refused to hear a word of it. He didn't think he could stand to see her fall in his esteem – he couldn't handle the disappointment of it.

"Still no answer," Olette sighed impatiently beside him, snapping it shut again. She caught her chin glumly, glowering out at the ocean for several moments before inhaling sharply, standing. "I'll just go clean up. The others should be back soon. Once everyone's sorted, we need to go catch the soonest train, otherwise you, me and Hayner are all going to end up late for work." Roxas groaned quietly, pushing his fingers up his face as she stepped past him and back into the kitchen, massaging his temples. How the hell was he going to handle a day of work after the last couple of nights? Aerith was going to work him like a dog. He was going to die, and she'd be her absolutely unsympathetic self the second she realised it was entirely self-imposed. In fact, she'd probably work him harder.

His head jumped up from his hands, eyes wide. Oh, Lord, she was going to put him on deliveries. He knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise each morning and set each night; she was going to make him suffer for coming to work hung-over. That was just the kind of cruel, cruel woman that Aerith was.

It wasn't long before the others returned, as Olette had predicted. Hayner and Pence came out onto the patio to find Roxas balled up on the swing, miserable. "See?" Hayner threw over to Pence, as the brunet sat in one of the deck-chairs. "I told you he'd realise while we were gone." He bent down, clapped the blond on the shoulder, adding with criminal cheeriness, "You just figured out you're on deliveries today, didn't you? I'd recognise that expression anywhere!"

"Shut. Up," Roxas mumbled from the hiding-place of his arms. Hayner shoved the blond's legs up to make space, sat hard enough to make the seat slam the side of the house, sand shaking from the rafters.

"Thanks for that," Pence complained, brushing off the potato pie he'd got from the store.

"Anytime," Hayner grinned. Roxas peeped at him from under his arm, glaring suspiciously.

"You're way too happy," he grumbled. "What did you do, find a puddle to drown Seifer in on the way back?"

"Naw, I just feel healthier," the blond replied, bouncing the seat slightly to make Roxas groan. "I downed a couple of pixie-sticks on the way back, and I got us both one of those sports drinks Olette said about. Here." He balanced it on Roxas' hip, the blond groping around until he grabbed it, sitting up, looking increasingly unhappy with Hayner's new energy.

"I liked it better when everyone was suffering." He opened the brightly-coloured beverage, sipped a little, not liking putting anything in his stomach, even if it would serve to be beneficial in the long-run. "Didn't you get food?" he asked the taller blond.

"He ate it already," Pence informed, pulling the crusts off his pie and consuming them. "This is why he suddenly feels better – there's something in there actually metabolising the alcohol."

"Hey, I fed him last night," Roxas protested, before taking another ginger sip.

"Yeah, but he sicked it all up," the brunet conversationally told him. Roxas paused, the bottle to his lips.

"…It wasn't the chicken, was it?"

He was shot a briefly bewildered look. "No, man, it was the bourbon, that shit always makes me reach for my boots, you know that." There was a beat, then, "Why? What was wrong with the chicken?"

"Did you say 'chicken', chicken?" Seifer joined them on the deck, no real interest in the jab, just complying with habit. Hayner flipped him off dismissively, kept drinking, Roxas gratefully taking a gulp of his own. Seifer went over to his previous place against the rail, putting his back to the ocean and relaxing, a loud crunching filling the air as he consumed potato chips from a shiny bag. Fuu and Rai were evidently elsewhere, perhaps cleaning with Olette – no doubt Seifer gave the word, and they jumped to it, perfect lackeys that they were. No one spoke, the blond's presence suppressive, instantly dispelling the natural comfort the three males felt in one another's company.

In silence, Pence and Seifer finished their food, Hayner and Roxas quietly re-hydrating. After what seemed an interminable length of time, the fresh sea air blowing softly along the side of the house, Olette came out, leaned beside Seifer, accepting the chip he offered over. "Well, everything's back to normal," she said, sounding ready for bed again already. "We really need to get going, guys, or we'll get fried."

Roxas sighed, nodded, knowing that the only thing that would make Aerith even harder on them would be tardiness. Gathering what little they had brought or bought, the group left the beach-house, tramping back through the short hall, the damp laundry, all windows once again sealed and latched. Olette locked up, returned the key to its hiding place, and with a silent good-bye to the plant, Roxas followed Hayner and Pence back along the lane, the side-road, the seven of them straggling along the crumbling main road and climbing the stairs into the station, the train to Central already sitting on the tracks. They leapt into it, with altogether more energy than Roxas thought he was willing to part with, before it could pull away and strand them for another fifteen precious minutes before the next one happened along.

Roxas, Hayner and Pence sat along one side of the train, facing opposite Olette, Seifer, Rai and Fuu, all eyes averted as they prepared to once more separate, with weary eagerness. By the time they reached Central Station, Hayner and Roxas had twenty minutes before Aerith started cutting their pay, the two of them dragging Olette from Seifer and setting off at a run for the tram, every jolting step sending a splinter through Roxas' skull. The three youths sprinted to the best of their ability, spotting the ambling vehicle in the distance, rumbling and clanking away. Hayner grabbed Roxas, gave him a shove, the least healthy of them, lagging behind. Taking the hint, the blond took a breath, swallowed his discomfort, and peeled ahead, putting his morning runs into practice, ending up being the first to jump aboard. Hayner was next, helped Olette up, dragging her bag and cell phone. Puffing and sweating, hot as hell all of a sudden, the three took seats together, the tram car almost empty due to the hour, the day. Olette spent most of the journey anxiously checking her watch, Hayner picking up on her nervousness and occasionally turning the girl's wrist towards him to see how much longer til Aerith started getting scary.

At their stop, the blonds and brunette parted ways, Olette rushing along and around the corner, up the hill towards The Usual Spot with a quick wave, while Roxas and Hayner power-walked, stiff-legged, to the florist's store. They burst in at five to ten, the bell clanging overhead, to find Aerith hurriedly setting up solo. She darted them sharp glances, an eyebrow rising at their haggard states, the permanent wince of Roxas' expression. "I see," was all she said. "No time for a lecture, boys, get going, we've got five minutes before that sign turns around to 'open', and I've got a heavy order of orchids coming and going for a bridal party."

The blonds lurched into action, wiping sweaty faces, eyes blinking rapidly to clear the slight blur, shifting everything into position, not bothering to take the time to pull on their gloves as they wrestled with rough-surfaced pots, the calluses on their hands growing just that bit thicker. It seemed that only Aerith had the power to milk so much out of a mere five minutes, directing them quickly to allow greater space for both the delivery to fill the room, and, eventually, the bridal party itself. Roxas could already almost hear the swish of taffeta filling the shop, garishly-coloured dresses once thought by the bride to be daring and tasteful sending pins through his already abused brain. Ten o'clock hit, and not a moment later, Aerith flipped the sign, propped the door open in preparation, warm air flooding in.

While the boys went to pull on their gardening gloves, gulping cups of coffee in the break-room before the hard work started, the flowers filled the shop, ordered in express from Traverse Town. Stepping from the back room into the showroom again was like entering some twisted version of Wonderland, in an alternate reality in which the snooty damn flowers had got their hands on some heavy artillery and decided to take over the world. Roxas sneezed. The invoice sat on the counter, Hayner wandering over to take a glance, eyes widening. "How many orchids?" He darted Aerith a bewildered look. "Exactly how many bridesmaids are there?"

"Enough for us to have a task on our hands," she replied, in the ultimately calm voice she used when at her most frantic. "Hayner, you're with me fixing bouquets, there's a list under the register of the arrangement order for each one, we'll be using samples from the shop as well as the orchids." She fixed Roxas with a look made up of equal-parts pity and exasperation. "As for you, there are too many here for you to help – your allergy's only going to get in the way." Roxas sneezed again, in confirmation, the pollen from the orchids filling the air in a choking mist. Soon, it would be all over their fingers, rubbed into eyes, massaged into necks aching at the angle of the work. The previous spring, just after Roxas had first got the job, he'd nearly crashed the van during deliveries. Orchids, that season, had been all the rage, the back of the vehicle packed with the bastards. After a quick test by Aerith to see if Roxas would no longer be suitable due to what seemed like a violent reaction to any and all spring flowers, it was thankfully determined that the problem lay with the one specific species. And now, the shop was overflowing with the deadly creations.

"That works out nicely, anyway," the woman continued coolly. "I wasn't planning on letting you hang around the shop looking like you're about to fall over at any given time – Hayner told me you were sick yesterday, Roxas. Why on earth did you go out drinking? And don't tell me you haven't, you boys reek of it. You," she added to Hayner as an afterthought, "go get a breath-mint from the van before we begin."

Feeling like a naughty boy, like he should start kicking a toe against the ground, mumbling apologies and calling her 'ma'am', Roxas waited for the punishment he knew was coming. "I got a call from the new owner of the thirteen pots," Aerith, sure enough, continued. "He says the plants are wilting, and haven't been quite put into the positions he first instructed. Roxas, you're to go and take care of it."

Hayner exploded, "What? We put them right where he fucking wanted them! We worked for fucking hours!"

"Language," Aerith rebuked, sending him a warning glance. It spread to encompass Roxas a moment later, her expression set. "I don't want to hear a complaint from either of you," she continued, a sharpness to her words. "I don't approve of your professionalism today, or should I say, lack thereof. Part of being a professional, Hayner, is understanding that even if you put the pots in their correct positions, even if you worked and sweated for hours and made things perfect, if the customer decides they asked for them to be balanced in a gigantic tower for their neighbours to see, you nod, you smile, and you get right on it, with an apology. Am I understood?" Mutters, some under-breath cursing that the woman chose to ignore. "Now, please, we don't have time for this today," she added, more peaceably. "Roxas, be careful with the van, make sure all the pollen is out of your system before you start driving. And Hayner, for God's sake, the breath-mint, you smell like a home-brewery mixed with ash."

The two boys trooped back through the shop, through the back-room, into the yard and through the gate, to where the van patiently waited. Hayner, having grabbed the keys from the workbench, unlocked the vehicle, clambered inside, hissing and swearing at the burn of the steering wheel as it pressed against his stomach, shirt riding up as he squirmed. He popped open the glove-box, grabbed the box of mints, shot from the car and jumped around, saying, "Ahh, my fucking skin, I've been branded by the goddamn wheel!"

"Language," Roxas mimicked with a smirk, taking the box and sliding out one of the green, hard-boiled, sugar-free confections Aerith kept on twenty-four hour standby. Squinting at him, Hayner stopped pawing his stomach, snatched it back, stuck a couple in his mouth, tossed the packet in through the open door, not willing to brave the hellish depths a second time. He clapped Roxas on the shoulder. "Well," he said, the mints clacking against his teeth as he talked, "you have fun, buddy. Sorry about the gardening, but at least it's not deliveries, right? That'd suck."

"There's still time," Roxas wearily predicted, certain he hadn't got off easy just yet. Not when Aerith would have sent him on this errand anyway, just to get him out of the shop. Shrugging, Hayner wandered back into the yard, with a, "Be good," called over his shoulder. The gate was shut, latched, and Roxas was on his own. Sighing, he cautiously stuck his head into the van, reminiscent of a slow-roast oven, touched the steering wheel like it was a burning stove element. Mouth twisting, he tugged off his shirt, Aerith not minding what they looked like in the van so long as they were decent by the time any customers got a good look at them, and draped it over the sizzling leather. Hauling himself up into the vehicle, adjusting the wing and rear-view mirrors from when Hayner had last been driving, he cranked down the windows, pulled the door shut, and wrenched the keys out of the lock, inserting them instead into the ignition.

The van started up, easy as always, and he pulled out of the side lane, headed up through town, past The Usual Spot, no sign of Olette, towards the hills of the grand homes of the nouveau-riche. Hot air swirled in a buffeting storm through the open windows, tossing Roxas' flaxen spikes in messy directions, making his eyes flicker as they dried. Mimicking Hayner's position from the other day, he drove with his elbow on the door, head in hand as he carefully traversed the roads. The pain in his skull had slowed to a steady, aching throb from the knitting-needle effect, but he wasn't sure how long this reprieve would last with hard labour in his immediate future. He wished he'd thought to at least wash his hands and face before coming out, taken the chance to freshen up a little. He felt sticky, salty, skin scaly from last night's foray in the ocean. At least the mint made it so his mouth didn't taste so goddamn foul anymore, a result of the alcohol aftertaste mixed with the bright blue sports drink.

Pulling up the sweeping driveway of the large house, Roxas stopped the van, pulled on the handbrake, peered through the windscreen at the towering place with a sigh. Where would the owner want the plants put this time? If it was anything too drastic, he'd have to call Hayner in for backup, after all…

He was kind of hoping it'd be something drastic.

Groaning quietly, he kicked the door open, lifted himself down to the ground, ran his hands through his hair to tidy it as he sloped up the last rise of the drive, mounted the several clean-swept steps, knocked at the broad door. Hands digging into pockets, he waited, shoulders hunched, rocking back onto his heels every few seconds. Half a minute passed, with no sign of acknowledgement from within. Irritation flickering, Roxas knocked a second time, more insistently, waited some more, found himself still standing by himself on some jackweed's doorstep a half-minute later. His third knock was impatient, a full-fisted pounding at the wood, jaw unconsciously tightening against the annoyance.

No one. Was fucking. Home.

"Oh, for crying out – " As Roxas spun on his heel, stomping back down the first of the steps, ready to call Aerith and ask the big 'what next?', a flutter of paper caught his eye. He was distracted by it, hesitated, eyed it uncertainly as it waved invitingly to him in the hot breeze, pinned to the ground by a statuette of angels kissing. He glanced around, one hand still buried in its pocket, shrugged and bent, tugged it out with a little rip of the final corner, straightened and read its sloping-handed cursive. He blinked a couple times, expression slackening.

Pavestones have been marked. Everything two feet to the left.

He twisted slowly, stared impassively at the door, as if expecting to find the owner peeping through a gap and sniggering. If it had been Roxas himself, he'd totally be doing that, because this – was a fucking joke.

"Everything… two feet to the left?" This was something he had to see for himself. Heaving a breath, Roxas took this as his invitation to prowl the property, returned to the van and opened the back, withdrew his gardening gloves and, tugging them on, wandered around the side-entrance to the little courtyard area he and Hayner had slaved in last time they were here. Lo and behold, the pavestones were indeed marked. As Roxas slowly traversed the circumference of the wide circle of pots, two feet to the side of each was a small chalk circle scribbled onto the rough stone. His job was to cover those up with the terracotta pots, and bring a little vitality back to the limp-looking things. The heat wasn't treating them well, away from Aerith's loving hands.

As Roxas stood in the centre of the ring, knuckles loosely placed on hips as he worked up the energy to throw himself into it, he entertained the idea of just rubbing all the little circles out and taking the rest of the morning off… But, no. People this anally-retentive noticed things like that. They noticed things like 'two feet to the left'. And Aerith would notice his ass being flung out the store door to go do it again, with the kind of disappointment only the most dedicated of mothers were generally able to muster.

So, Roxas got to work. The sun beating down, sweat erupting without preamble from every pore his body possessed, the blond, after having trundled the little trolley from the van, steadily, with growing illness, shifted each and every one of those goddamn pots. He crunched them down onto the white circles with vicious satisfaction, imagining each to be a finger of the sadistic owner, wishing he knew what the guy looked like so he could better picture the wails of agony.

It was on his break that he noticed things weren't – exactly normal with this place. The last of the pots had been shifted, his shoulders were aching like the bitches they were, and he had chugged three-quarters of a bottle of hot water from the passenger's side floor of the van. He leaned against the pink-flowered logo plastered to the side of the vehicle, trying to ignore the way the metal burned through his shirt, too exhausted at the current moment to hold himself up all the way under his own steam. The world was silent, utterly, completely. The sort of quiet reserved for libraries and airless summer afternoons, when the early sea-breeze has fallen still, gathering strength for its next volley of breaths. Roxas had his eyes shut, chest finally slowing from its panting state, and that's when he heard the minute, electronic whir. He paused, cracked an eye open, puzzled. He looked around a little, not entirely sure if the sound had existed outside of his own head, when it came again, low and steady. His gaze was drawn to the house itself, a small frown in place, wondering what it was he was even looking for. Motion caught his eye, slight, but noticeable now that he was searching – a camera up in the eaves of the doorstep, peeping out from the overhang. It shifted systematically, making a slow cycle of the driveway and door. Then Roxas noticed its twin, in the opposite corner, mimicking every movement it made, but encompassing the areas it wasn't at that moment looking at. Between the two, the entire front of the house was being perpetually observed, and, quite frankly, it freaked the blond out a little.

Memories of the previous night came spiking back the slightest amount, without the same deep fear, but bringing an edge to his mood which hadn't existed before. He was being videotaped. Somewhere, at someone's leisure, he could be viewed at any given time, operating on the assumption that he was entirely alone. Despite the fact that he was on a stranger's property, it felt like he'd been followed home and found a face pressed against his bedroom window halfway through undressing.

Scowling, he pushed away from the vehicle, leaned over to trickle some water into his sweaty hair, mussing it up, capped the bottle and tossed it back into the van, slamming the door shut. He wasn't interested in procrastinating this any further – he very abruptly wanted nothing more than to be driving away from this place, with no plans of ever returning. He only wished he could find a way to track those tapes down, from both today and the last time they'd been here, and crush them underfoot until it was all just black splinters and ruined ribbon.

Gloves grabbed down from their position on the van's roof, Roxas returning his hands into the perspiration-damp depths of the thick material, he went around to the open sliding door around the other side, hauled out a bag of mulch, a length of hose looped around his neck, the custom-built water-saving nozzle clamped between his teeth. He shambled back around to the yard, slammed the heavy plastic bag to the ground, unfurled the hose and connected it to the faucet it had taken both he and Hayner together ten minutes to hunt down the other day, so out-of-the-way and well-hidden, as if the designers of the house hadn't wanted anything so pedestrian sullying the grandeur.

He got the water running, tested the flow by spraying the pavement a couple times. Hooking the handle of the nozzle into the back of his shirt, where it dragged at his collar, the hose following faithfully like a long tail as Roxas returned to the centre of the yard, tore open the mulch, went to each pot in turn and renewed its supply, packing it quickly, with slightly less efficiency than he normally displayed. Each time he was finished, he'd snatch the hose from his back and give the plant a liberal spraying, until there were, at last, thirteen darkened patches on the pavestones.

It was as he was winding the hose up again, in preparation of fleeing the place, studiously ignoring the three more cameras that whirred and clicked at strategic placements around the yard, that he noticed the first white chalk circle. The blond paused, not necessarily paying attention, flustered and overheated, feeling like if he didn't get some downtime soon, he'd end up passing out somewhere inconvenient.

To begin with, he thought it was just one of the cigarette-burns dotting his increasingly strained vision, as his stomach churned and head burned. He twisted slightly, concentrated his focus, noticed that the mark wasn't moving with his eyes. He stepped closer, heart slowing for a beat, bent over. Hesitantly, Roxas reached out a hand, carefully brushed a finger over the white shape. His skin came away – chalky. His gaze moved to encompass the yard, feet shifting and scraping, hands fumbling with the hose as he continued to wind it up, breathing a little faster than before. "Nu-uh," he said out loud. "No way."

He went into the centre of the ring, all his hard work, and slowly turned, sweat turning sickly as he realised there were thirteen chalk circles to the left of every pot. New and white, unsullied by his footsteps, definitely not crushed beneath terracotta like they were supposed to be. Not even washed away by the trickles of water, though some were beginning to smudge as they were touched by the runoff. It was as if Roxas hadn't shifted the pots an inch.

Blue eyes leapt narrow, the blond whipping around sharply, studying the entrances and exits to the yard. There was no way this wasn't some kind of sick joke, some kid playing a trick. And maybe that would have been easy enough to believe, if Roxas wasn't so certain that, if he went back to the van and whipped out the measuring tape, all the goddamn marks would be almost exactly two feet from the pots' current positions. God knows they had been before, the work of a perfectionist.

His gaze rose slowly to the mechanical eyes against the side of the house. He stabbed a finger at one. "You. You saw me do it. I damn well did my work." He glared at the chalk circles, adjusting the hose over his shoulder, then went to each, and scrubbed them out with the toe of his shoe. Roxas returned to the van, finished packing everything away, and climbed in. The breeze picked back up as he reversed, sweeping in through the open window, cooling the sweat against his skin. The blond spared the house one last resentful, uncertain look, then wrenched the wheel and peeled away.

.o.O.o.

Aerith's shop was now empty of orchids, the waves of blue replaced with an almost gaping emptiness, the bridal party having come and gone in the few hours that Roxas had been absent. The air was still thick with pollen, but the woman had got several portable fans going, blowing the sweet air towards the open windows, clearing it as much as possible before he got back. She was calmer now, more genuinely so, when Roxas entered the yard, stomped into the back-room, bad-temperedly stripping his gloves and slamming the faucet on, water erupting from the spout. "How was the customer?" she called from the front, the store evidently empty of patrons for the time-being.

"Decidedly absent," the blond bit off, shoving his grimy, sweat-itchy hands under the cold flow, scrubbing away the evidence of his time at the hellish house. There was a hint of chalk under the nail of the finger he'd scraped the ground with, which he dug out with a deep scowl. Hayner wandered back to greet him, mildly exclaimed, "Whoa, you're looking – all hot and bothered." Roxas swung his gaze up, heated from the combination of his brain-splitting headache and the more recent events, giving the other blond momentary pause. Hayner lifted an eyebrow, asked, "What happened to you?"

The boy hesitated, then shook his head roughly, the anger leaving his features, giving way to weary puzzlement. "It really doesn't matter. Nothing happened. Owner was absent, so I just did it and hoped for the best."

"Ah, yes." Aerith appeared at the doorway, one gentle hand on the frame, her nodding making the long braid down her back sway a little. "He did say that he might be called away on business – he said he'd leave instructions if that happened. Was it anything too complicated?"

Roxas sighed. "No, nothing complicated. Just stupid, trivial shit."

"Roxas…"

"Stupid, trivial – bananas." The blond grumbled, as he shut off the water, "Goddamn it, I hate bananas."

Aerith smiled, said, "Take thirty minutes, okay? Make sure to drink plenty, I hear it's a little warm out there today." Hayner rolled his eyes at the understatement, gripped Roxas by the elbow, steered him into the mini break-room partition of the room, sat him down on the tatty couch ingrained with several years' worth of soil and employee perspiration. Leaning against the small table, complete with electric kettle, tea-and-coffee implements, and a water cooler, the taller of the two sent his friend a dry, expectant look, waiting. A silence stretched, during which Roxas sank down into the soft material, tipping his head back with a low exhalation, wishing he could just fall asleep here and now and wake up once night had come. Hayner made an impatient noise, nudged his knee with a toe. "So, what's up? What happened? What 'really doesn't matter'?"

Roxas opened his eyes, grimaced. "Doesn't the fact that I said that make it so that – it really doesn't matter?"

The other blond snorted, waved this away with a dismissive gesture. "Forget that. I want to know why you came in with such a mighty-sized bug up your butt."

Roxas rubbed his cheeks, stretched back the skin of his forehead, massaging one eye with traces of leftover agitation. "No, look, it was nothing. Seriously. I was just – it's no big deal. It's not even a little deal. I did my job, I'm back now, I don't need to think about it anymore."

Hayner was sceptical, a half-smile on his face as he persisted, "What did you do, walk in on someone naked? Were you propositioned by the owner's wife? Did some poodle decide to start humping your leg? That's not your 'nothing' face, Rox."

Roxas sighed shortly. "You know, you're right." He bent forward, took his head in his hands, stretched his shoulders as best as he could, said, "It's my, 'shut the hell up' face. It's my, 'I'm tired and sore and sick' face." He squinted up at the boy, pointed at him. "I went to Olette's beach house for you, so shut your damn mouth and let me be hung-over in peace."

"What, still?" Hayner smirked, leaned forward to clap a hand on Roxas' hot shoulder. "Man, I stopped feeling sick ages ago. You really need to catch up, Rox." The blond growled, shrugged him off, rose slightly from the seat to reach across the cramped space and fill a mug with spring water, flumping back down and gulping at it sulkily. Hayner shrugged, found a little rubber ball he'd left next to the sugar their last time here, started bouncing it against the wall for something to do while Roxas glowered and attempted to recover from the last crappy twenty-four hours. After a while, he dozed, lulled by the rhythmic thocking of the ball, until Aerith stuck her head briefly in, and informed him it was time for deliveries. And that was that – he was thrown to the dogs.

.o.O.o.

Roxas hunched over the steering wheel, golden afternoon light stabbing the windscreen, his eyes and skull, just as violent as dawn. He peered through it, driving slowly as he searched the street names. The back of the van was emptier today, the flowers sliding around with each turn, but the deliveries had spanned a broad section of town, eating up extra time. He really did detest this. He and Hayner each had their reasons: Hayner was easily bored by driving in circles, having to take each corner carefully, always keeping a happy face for the customers. Roxas didn't suffer so much in those areas, being a more naturally cautious driver, and barely bothering with the cheerful act in the first place; He hated the forced interaction. Hated the fact that he had to encounter so many random people, had to talk to them, pretend to be halfway glad to be gifting them with their bouquet, their basket, their teddy bear and chocolates. When they fluttered and flushed and exclaimed, it was all he could do to not remind them that he was just the messenger – no, didn't want to hug. Basically, it all came down to the fact that, as Hayner would say, he was an anti-social shit.

However, for this day at least, his anti-social habits were going to be challenged once, and only once, more. Then he was home free, after Aerith had taken one last look at his pasty face and allowed this to be his last task before going home to sleep. All he had to do was find the goddamn place. The delivery was in the industrial section of Twilight Town, and though it was small, it was a warren of one-way roads and side-lanes, all with hideously similar names. The numbers of the buildings often disappeared into the unknown for several miles at a time, emerging only to inform the blond that he'd overshot his target.

At length, it was only through stopping the damn van, jogging into one frantic little business and asking for directions that he found his way at all. With twilight rapidly approaching, far later now than Aerith would have intended him to be working – Hayner was probably five minutes from leaving the shop, walking home – Roxas hauled himself back into the idling vehicle and swung around, taking several back-streets to find the location of what turned out to be a dump of a motel.

Nose wrinkling, he stopped the van right outside, leaned out the window to look up and down the line of doors. Checking his register, he scanned for the room number destined to receive the gift, found it, leaned back for a moment to take a breath. Man, but he was tired. It had been an endless couple of days and nights. He was looking forward to just curling up and becoming one of the dead for a while. Exhaling sharply, he gathered the last of his reserves, pushed open the door and went around to the side, slid open the van. The lone basket-bouquet looked miserable all by itself, colour in amongst soil and steel. Soon enough, it'd have its home.

Roxas lifted it carefully, propped it on his hip as he shut the van, glanced around. There was no one about; it was a quiet area, tucked in behind several larger buildings, opening out onto a one-way street. He didn't think the van would get broken into for the brief time he'd be away – he left it unlocked, looping the basket over his arm, register in one hand. The final touch, he grabbed the store-logo hat Aerith insisted they wear during deliveries – a joint reason to loathe the task all over again – and crushed it over his spikes, adjusting it, feeling it dig into the sides of his ears.

The blond stepped up onto the cement lining the long, squat building, checking the number of the first door he came to. Twelve. He was looking for sixteen – not far to go at all. His sneakers were silent as he walked, eyes flicking to each tarnished-brass number until he came to the correct one. He raised his knuckles, knocked. There was silence from within for a moment, before a voice called, "Come on in, it's open." Roxas hesitated, eyebrows rising, then shrugged, tested the handle. It twisted easily in his grasp, and he stepped inside.

The room was gloomy, the darkness momentarily startling, before he realised the curtains were drawn, blocking out what little light was left of the rapidly sinking sun. The furniture itself had a dingy air, but the place was clean enough, just a little old. Whoever was staying here either hadn't been here long, or was leaving again relatively soon, because the bed was covered in bags, clothes, a general scatter of chaos, which would explain the unusual summons, when Roxas was so used to just passing the goods off at the door and high-tailing it back to the van. He felt uneasy, being around someone else's personal belongings, as if he was going to be accused of being where he shouldn't, despite the invitation. He shifted from one foot to the other, realising the person intended for the flowers was in the bathroom, the door ajar. "Um, I've got this delivery here for you, from Aerith's Ancients… It's…" He bent his head, placed the basket on the bed, picked at them a little. "Um, there's some syringa and white tulips, and – "

"I know what they are," the voice came easily, its owner bumping the door open with a foot, emerging at last to accept the basket. "I ordered them." The man was shirtless, black jeans wrinkled, traces of toothpaste around his mouth. Whatever good the act of brushing his teeth had done was immediately cancelled out by the fact that he lit a cigarette and slipped it between his lips. He tilted his head to the side, as Roxas' gaze was drawn, inexorably, to the fiery spikes adorning his skull in a play of hair, so unbelievably bright.

Red hair like whoa.

"Well, if it isn't the flower boy. Nice hat." The owner of the voice was smirking, a hand on one hip as he studied Roxas just as intently as the blond was suddenly scrutinising him. Green eyes, as vivid as their scarlet counterpart, narrowed slightly.

Tattoos under eyes. Not like a clown.

"You say you ordered them?" Roxas' voice was sceptical, when he found the breath to speak. "You – ordered flowers for yourself?"

A cocky lift of one shoulder, the smirk back in full force. The man crossed the room slowly, coming close to Roxas. The blond stiffened, darted a glance over his shoulder to where the door still stood open, twilight struggling with the darkness inherent in the room, losing rapidly. "What can I say…? I felt like flowers." A crimson brow arched as he tilted his chin down, to maintain eye contact despite the height difference between them. "It doesn't hurt when it's you that delivers them... Roxas."

A shiver bolted through the boy's muscles, a frown creasing his face. There was a pause, a shift in the air, those eyes boring into him.

Then Roxas turned sharply, left the room without a sound, no questions.

"Hey!"

He just walked out.

"Hey! Roxas!"

Forgetting that the guy was meant to sign to prove that he'd received his flowers, Roxas threw the register through the open window of the van as he approached, heard it crack against the opposite window, wound up for once.

The red-haired, shirtless, owner of the voice followed, his bare feet slapping the concrete. "Oh, so, what? You're just walking away from me? Christ, you're just walking away. Great." As Roxas opened the van door, the man slammed a hand on the hood, the loud bang making him flinch. "Again."

Not looking up, the blond pulled himself into the vehicle. Before he could get the keys into the ignition, a long arm stabbed through the open window, grabbed his hand and crushed his fingers around the hard metal edges. He finally, finally, raised his gaze, fearful. "Let me go."

Green eyes glared. Voice low, he demanded, "You really think I'm going to? Roxas, get out of the van. I'll break your damn hand if I have to."

"I don't know you," the boy said sharply. At the edge of his vision, he saw someone come out of one of the motel rooms, arms stretching over head, not yet looking in their direction. He met the man's hard gaze determinedly. "You came to my work yesterday looking for me, not the other way around. I've never seen you before in my life. However the hell you found out about me, or where I work, you need to back the fuck off, buddy."

The redhead hissed, grip tightening. Roxas gasped as his knuckles ground together, glanced over to where the person had lowered their hands to their hair, starting to look around. Realising he had the edge here, the blond lowered his lips to the pale hand enveloping his own, bared his teeth, and sank them in, jaws crushing. The redhead cried out in pain and surprise, fingers automatically jumping loose. Roxas got his mouth back before his teeth could be knocked out by the force of the instinctive wrench, stabbed the key at the ignition, missing the first time, hitting deep the second and twisting. The van's motor had never sounded so hardcore.

The person by the motel room looked over at the roaring noise, just as the redhead forgot his woes and leapt forward, trying to grab the keys from the car itself. Roxas pulled back, grabbed the clipboard holding the register papers, and smashed the edge into the guy's nose. The cigarette went flying.

"Son-of-a-fucking-bitch, Roxas!"

The blond let go of the park-brake, and the van leapt forward, nearly yanking the owner of the voice off his feet, cursing and bleeding from one nostril as he struggled to withdraw his arm before it got dislocated from his goddamn shoulder. "Roxas!" he bellowed, staggering, starting to follow as the vehicle swung past the motel, over towards the exit, the one-way street. In one last attempt to get through to the guy, Roxas yelled out the window, as he performed a perfunctory check for oncoming traffic, "I don't know you! Leave me alone!"

"Don't – don't know…?" The man was jogging to catch up, called desperately, "Just – let me talk to you for second, okay? Please? Roxas!" The van was pulling away. He started to run. "It's me, Axel!" Roxas saw his face in the wing-mirror, twisted and torn, frantic. He pressed on the accelerator, left the motel behind, caught sight of the guy in the rear-view, giving chase. The faster the van went, the faster the redhead ran, until he was sprinting, screaming hoarsely for the boy to slow down, to slow down, to stop!

The pain on his face became rage, fury, as he realised Roxas wasn't listening. He slowed sharply, mouth open and moving, obviously shouting after him, but the blond heard nothing but the air rushing through the window, throbbing as he shifted up a gear, increased his speed further.

The owner of the voice became a blot in the mirror, then vanished from sight.

Roxas kept up the speed all the way home, never pausing for a moment to ask himself what the hell he was scared of. He was just – scared.

Terrified.

He all but fled up to the apartment, threw himself through the door, into his room and finally, into the closet. He closed the door on himself, hunkered down in the darkness, and didn't come out again until the choking feeling that he was going to start sobbing faded from his throat. Then, he just slept.