CHAPTER SIX

Roxas woke up early, eyes revealing themselves slowly, without focus. His bare arms lay over the top of the blankets, cool air caressing his flesh, rippling along the naked surfaces. He swallowed, inhaled, stared sightlessly at the ceiling for… minutes upon minutes. Timelessness breathed him in, held him deep within its lungs, kept him in stasis so that every thought was abstract and distant, holding little meaning, no care for the world.

Nothing mattered.

Not anywhere.

And he didn't think that it ever had, for anyone. He couldn't fathom that there could be a meaning to any of this, not to waking, not to sleeping. Not to tasting, or touching – there was no such thing as scent, nothing that could ever hurt, or feel good, or contact him, physically or mentally. No such thing as emotion. Nothing that could pass itself off as love, or longing. There was no hope, or hopelessness. No anxiety, or cheer. Just empty, blank, hollow grey. Not even a black and white to flank its endlessness. He could scarcely understand why his body continued to function like this – didn't it realise, didn't it know, that it was already dead? His life was already over, it hadn't been real in the first place. He'd be lucky if it turned out he was even just a figment of some sick, twisted, fucked-up imagination in a sightless, soundless world of perversion. He was already ash along the ground. And forgotten… yes, he was already forgotten.

He'd never even drawn a single breath.

And yet…

Smoke tried to tell him that this was – wrong. Smoke that wreathed and swirled, that permeated surfaces soft and hard, planes of existence beyond his mental capabilities. Smoke equalled fire, did it not? Fire led to existence, even if to eradicate it. A person had to exist in order to die. Smoke was its predecessor, the prelude to its own existence. Smoke reeked from pores, from follicles of hair, from between lips and ribboning up to the ceiling in happy post-coital bliss, while Roxas lay in darkness and watched.

Was this a memory? A dream? A taunting form of nightmare?

But it was light now – there was no smoke to swim upward, no orgasm to come down from, no reason to lie lazy and loose and sleepy. The sun had entered the sky, turning the black to the endless grey which, in actual fact, had hues of blue streaking it, turning its omniscience into lies. Smoke continued to linger, though, and he couldn't figure out why.

There was motion beside him, frightening him badly, an arm throwing itself across his chest, slipping beneath the covers to press hot skin to hot skin, a hand against his ribs. His head twisted slowly, eyes widening, brows lifting and knotting together as red, scarlet and crimson came into view, filling his vision and senses, touch, smell, taste even. He could… hear the colour that it was claiming to be. It was trying to tell him that its name was smoke, that it was ephemeral and gasping, that it was ever-shifting.

A new colour attempted to exist, telling him its name was blood, but he was quite sure it was supposed to be trying to be green. He was sure that, if he lowered his tongue to its shining depths, it wouldn't be metallic – it would blink. And yet, it insisted that its name was blood. Roxas chose to not believe, he chose to draw his own conclusion, and when lips claiming to be fear smiled, he found himself smiling back.

Good morning, the owner of the voice said, but Roxas couldn't hear properly over the clamouring of his body parts screaming their names. He could only hope that this is what the owner was wishing upon him, hope it wasn't something cursing and foul. He chose to believe what he wanted to believe – that lips were lips, hair was hair, and the owner wanted only good things for him.

He opened his mouth, whispered, "Good morning."

The owner of the voice asked, What do you want for breakfast?

Roxas stretched, a luxuriating motion, smiled lazily and shrugged, a muscle twitching inside his eyelid as the owner's teeth begged for mercy. They didn't want to be subjected to anything too hot, too cold. They wailed and pleaded for Roxas to not inflict that upon them. They wept real tears, and then the lips were sealed against his own, the tears leaking into his mouth, salty and born of bitterness. He tried to ignore them, swallow them down and pretend they were sections of ocean that somehow had become displaced. We are not teeth! We are life! Please, please, don't burn us! Don't freeze us!

Please, stop hurting us.

And Roxas said, "I can't."

The owner of the voice looked at him strangely. "Can't what, Rox?" When the blond didn't reply, he leaned over, wrapped two long fingers around the sides of his jaw, brought him close for another sweet kiss. The boy responded willingly, almost tenderly, though there was, as usual, some section of him holding back, the part that would never say, 'I love you'. When wet mouths broke apart, the owner whispered, "I'm going to the store – is there anything you want?"

Blue eyes stared for an interminable length of time, the owner waiting patiently, accustomed to it. Five minutes passed, ten, and still the boy was thinking. The owner sighed softly, stole a kiss from the blond's throat. "I'll get you something nice," he promised.

"Are you sure you want to?"

The owner of the voice blinked, tilted his head quizzically to one side, smiled confidently. "Of course," he said. "I love you."

Of course. I love you. Roxas could only hope that these had been the words that the soft, thin lips covering the sobbing teeth had said, and not a prayer that he would just die where he lay. I love you. He wondered if he himself felt love, could only tackle it on a mental level since his heart had ceased beating so very long ago. It had turned to smoke in his chest, and now, every time he breathed, he exhaled a little more of its fine ash. He imagined this was why the owner was happy to kiss him like he did – he breathed smoke, too, when there were cigarettes around. He was used to the taste of charred heart, then.

It took a while for the blond to realise that the owner was no longer around. This was what inspired the energy it took to remember that he continued to own limbs, that they weren't going to twist away from his torso and leave him behind. He sat, gathering the sheets against the chill that stalked what was claiming to be his flesh, but with the way everything was lying lately, he wasn't sure whether or not to believe this. He was… wary.

His eyes travelled the room slowly, finding familiarity, landmarks that soothed – books, a chair, clothing piled haphazardly here and there. Not a hotel room, then. Not this time. This time, the owner of the voice had brought him home, had tucked him into the darkness of bed and let his mind rest. He reached up cautiously, pressed a finger against the place where he knew the crack was forming, feeling the hiss of gas escaping. No one else could see it, they couldn't feel it, but he knew it was there. It was his own mind, after all.

When he blinked again, the chair was empty of the mess that had spent several weeks accumulating, was replaced instead with a person, a boy. Said boy had his elbows on his knees, was leaning forward into his hands, watching Roxas steadily. A weary, smiling grimace rested on his mouth, and Roxas found, to his surprise, that no part of the boy was trying to pretend to be anything at all. He just – was. This, then, was a person more solid than what reality was trying to attempt. "Are you ready to go yet?" the boy asked, eyebrows quirking upward, and Roxas found something inanely familiar about that gesture. Who…?

"…He's coming back, though," the blond murmured, voice rasping. He was cold, pulling the blankets higher, up to his chin, tucking himself down into his knees. "He said… he'd get me something nice."

"Then you're not ready?"

Blue eyes drifted up, fixed on the boy's face and, gradually, Roxas began to shake his head, side to side, side to side… "No."

"I can wait," the boy promised. "I'll go, so he doesn't find me when he returns – but, Roxas, you know you can't stay here much longer, don't you?" Intense, angry eyes burnt deep into him, like the smiling-face of cigarette burns the owner of the voice had seared into the small of his back, branding him as his own. The boy was calm, but his eyes – they were fire, lit from rage, born from hatred. Roxas nodded.

"You should go," he softly urged. "He'll think something is strange if you're still here…"

The boy nodded grimly. "I agree. We can't let him know. I'll be seeing you then." He stood from the chair, gazed down at him with those accusing eyes, said, "I'll be watching."

Roxas closed his eyes, waited. He heard the door slam after several minutes, and thought that this was the boy finally leaving – what had he been doing all that long time? – but… no, it was the owner, he was back. He'd brought things for Roxas to eat, broke them into small pieces and fed each bit between his lips, encouraging him to chew with stray kisses pushing them past his teeth.

It had been close, then. If the owner of the voice ever found Roxas with the boy, there was a high chance he would kill them both. Roxas kept his eyes open, as the green eyes slid shut and the man sighed smoke into his lungs.

.o.O.o.

Sora liked movies. Not just DVD's or prime-time specials, but movie theatre stuff, big screens, surround sound, armrests and cola in bucket-sized cup, popcorn peppering the worn carpet. He liked the way his shoes stuck to the floor, and made a tacky, Velcro sort of noise when he lifted them. He liked sitting right at the front, the very front, so close he had a cramp by the end of the closing credits. This was what made it fun – anyone could sit right at the back, encounter it like a blown-up TV screen for their better viewing, but that wasn't experiencing it, as far as Sora could tell. How did you know you were there if you lost yourself in what was showing? Better to be uncomfortably aware of your surroundings because your neck was aching, there was nowhere to put your feet up, your fingers were slipping into the cup-holders all the time because you were sunk so far down to see a little better. At least, that way, you could fully appreciate the full ninety minutes of darkness and flickering light. Otherwise, you were better off staying at home – and Sora hated home.

This particular time, he was mostly alone in the theatre. He couldn't figure out why – it was Disney, for Christ's sake. Who didn't like Disney? Especially the eleven o'clock session. Disney at night was like a freaking contradiction in terms, all the more better because of it. Sora sat there with his head just about bent over the back of the seat, a foot wedged in underneath so that he wouldn't lose his balance as he took in the whole screen, refusing to miss a minute of the show. The music kicked all sorts of ass. He loved all that singing and dancing stuff. It was just… the only problem was…

Sora sighed, glanced sideways at the empty seat beside him. The only problem was that someone was missing from this, and he didn't even know who. He felt like there was supposed to be some other presence in on all this, someone or something sitting beside him. He didn't even think that the addition would necessarily enjoy it all like he did… but he knew that there was just – something not right. Being alone like this – it wasn't right.

Sora sat through the whole movie, left feeling a little happy, a little confused. He picked up some candy from the candy bar before leaving – something for the road – and exited the brightly-lit, broad and graceful cinema onto the worn pavement, the wind of the early hours. Sora walked along, hair and clothes whipping every now and then with the rhythmic, gasping gusts, jaw working, spit mixing with sugar and food-dye, tongue turning shades of orange, red and blue. He studied the human traffic as he went, tipping out the balls of confection onto his palm, feeding them one by one between his lips, bright, blue eyes focusing on one person, shifting to the next, taking in features, expressions, impressions. None of them gave him a second glance, except maybe to notice the curious shade his lips were turning from the mixture of dyes.

Pain pulsed one, twice, three times in his chest, in time to the thump of his heart, which sped up exponentially for that period of time. He was… growing used to it, though, didn't falter in his step. The confectionary rattled as one hand jumped to his sternum, slipping under his jacket to press against the briefly numb section of skin. Used to it, but not… unworried. He was pretty sure hearts weren't meant to do that, not on a regular basis. He couldn't quite figure it out.

Continuing a mostly aimless walk, Sora took Traverse Town's various streets and paths, passing groups passing in and out of clubs, walking home from restaurants, parties, plays, trips to pizza places and convenience stores. It didn't bother him to be on his own, except for when things thinned out for too long. Like – around three a.m., when most people were back home but he continued to wander. He knew home-time was approaching, but to take the step to return was almost a painful thought, more disturbing even than the phantom stabs of his heart. He was growing sleepy, but sleep was an enemy. He despised it, loathed it with every ounce of his being. To go back to that apartment, to lie in the cold bed, alone, to close his eyes and just relinquish himself… it hurt.

He detoured, found an all-night pharmacy, wandered its aisles looking at various hygiene products and vitamins, flipping through the magazine rack, all under the watchful eye of the attendant. The boy sighed, put back a two-dollar romance novel, the back of which he'd perused without interest, eyes drifting around to find something more to occupy. He spotted the ice-cream bin, went over and studied the pictures, the prices, chose one and finally purchased something. Of course, now he had to leave again; the security guard at the door was scowling at him.

He returned to square one, albeit with something to gnaw on, at least. His sneakers shuffled the pavement, but as far as he was from the epicentre of the action – specifically, the clubs, which he had promised himself he would not enter this time, no matter what – more and more of the city was going to sleep without him.

He was alone again, feeling watched again, hidden eyes dogging his every step. He felt it shudder down his spine, like someone had taken the cold, blue sea-salt bar and run it along each vertebra, leaving an icy, oozing trail in its wake. He couldn't help but twist, glance over his shoulder, knowing that, as ever, no one would be standing there, no one visible among the shadows. This was – paranoia, thick and strong. He knew the word for it, knew its effect, knew he suffered it during these quiet moments, because the feeling – it had been growing stronger. Sometimes, he even felt it when he slept. He would open his eyes, for the briefest of moments, with sunlight spilling across the world, and there it would be, anxious, cold, unrelenting. He didn't even know what he should do to get rid of it, except maybe drink it off, but Sora just couldn't drink that hard or fast. He inevitably ended up groaning on the tiles of the public bathroom, entirely too conscious for his own good.

The best he could do was stick to the crowds, and hope things would turn out okay. How strange, that in the one situation it would be easiest to follow him, watch him entirely undetected, he didn't feel in danger at all. But, on his own, without another soul in sight, it was like there was a subconscious echo of every step, someone catching at his heels…

Sora's eyes rose, his breaths puffing out steamily, gaze passing beyond the current mortal coil and finding the stars. For a moment, he ceased walking, stared at them.

There was… a certain freedom in stars, he felt. They were the pool-balls of the universe, just waiting for him to come along and start playing. And he would drink his beer, and piss off the other patrons like always… and maybe, out there, he wouldn't be watched. He felt his independence was stifled by this – he missed being able to just sit inside himself and watch, rather than feel like it was someone else doing the same, with him as the prime target.

He felt trapped, standing here on the earth, rooted down, weighted with body, with soul, with a heart that kept hurting for reasons unknown. There was… some part of him… that told him this was wrong. This whole hanging around business, surviving from night to night on the fun times to be had…

Wasn't there somewhere else Sora was supposed to be?

Something else to be doing?

Such thoughts, whenever they occurred, were inevitably short-lived. The blue-eyed boy had an inability to cling to anything too deep for very long, and, much like the name 'Riku', this sensation drifted away, was lost. It would be found again, some other night, during some other burst of lonely fear, when his eyes again found the stars and heavens… but for now, it was – home-time.

.o.O.o.

Roxas woke early, from a blank sleep of nightmares and disruption, eyes opening with a dry snap, the shallow depths of slumber instantly dispelled. He stared at the ceiling, body sprawled awkwardly on the bedclothes, shirt twisted at his armpits. Light was appearing distantly, dawn coming fast, the sun readying itself to rear over Twilight Town in all its blazing, destructive glory. The blond's spiky head turned slowly on the thin corner of the pillow, eyes going to the window, its thin curtains drawn across to block the view. He had slept in his clothes, suddenly not secure enough to take a shower, in case – in case someone broke in while he was naked. He didn't want to be vulnerable like that.

He was sticky with sweat, felt dirty from the previous day's hard work, stank of his efforts, limbs uncomfortably hot in the already-building heat from outside. His nerves buzzed with nervous energy, that which had jolted him out of exhaustion in the first place – it was like a fire had been lit under his skin, tingling and rough. He couldn't continue to just lie there, something was going to spontaneously combust if he tried.

His body was heavy, like rock. He gripped handfuls of the bed, dragged himself up, face brushing the feathering edges of the curtain. He stared at it for a moment, able to see vague outlines through its almost gossamer fabric. Habit would have him throw it aside along the rail, its rings clicking and clacking together, the window thrust open to allow what little cool air there was to breathe in, the stale air of the night to leak out in an old exhale – but today he hesitated. It was – it felt…

He inhaled slowly. What? What was it? What did it feel like? He knew why he wasn't showering, that was easy – some red-haired guy knew where he worked, knew his name, had bruised his hand with the crushing grip he'd put on it the previous afternoon; who was to say the guy didn't know Roxas' home address? The only reason he'd spent the night here on his own was because of the window bar – the long, white, metal rod he used to hold the glass in the sitting room shut when he was out, as if someone was ever even going to break into a third-floor apartment via the window. He'd held it close through the night, ready to smack the shit out of anything that moved, yet had somehow managed to sleep, as impossible as it seemed. His distress at finding he was being followed had blanked his mind enough to overcome his determination to remain awake, exhaustion and sick fear sending him spiralling into unconsciousness. It was almost, uneasily, like one of his unfeeling episodes. Grey was encroaching on the edges of the world, blurring it slightly to his mind's eye, setting the grinding energy in his bones onto an even sharper edge.

In the end, he left the curtain as it was. He wasn't in the mood for fighting irrationality right now – he was jumpy, unhappy, unwilling to disobey whatever instinct was telling him to keep everything shut up, no matter how illogical it seemed. Flipping the window rod from one hand to the other, he lifted his legs, swung them to the side, momentum pulling his torso to follow, jumping lightly onto his toes, digging the pole into the mattress for balance. He carried it with him into the bathroom, set it within easy reach and quickly ran the faucet, gathering handfuls of water and drenching his face, hair and neck, dampening his shirt. He then peeled yesterday's clothes off, eyes flicking ceaselessly over to the doorway of the cramped room, changed into his jogging apparel, knowing there was no way he was getting through this day without some of this tight energy being burnt away first.

Roxas balled up his soiled clothing, tossed it into the laundry basket, returned to the bedroom and hesitated, glancing around uncertainly. He wavered for a moment, then went to the bed, lowered to his knees and pulled a black backpack from underneath, his standard excursion pack for when Pence felt like going to a gallery, Olette to a concert, Hayner to the beach – Roxas himself never had any urges to leave Twilight Town, but he always went along with them, part of the group, black bag filled with supplies ranging from emergency food, gas money, a first-aid kit, and, out of sight, sewn into the depths – a small, slender canister with an aerosol top, the size of a pen-light, with the capacity to limitedly blind and smother: capsicum spray. That, plus a palm-sized bottle of almond oil. Both went into a small pouch, which was then buckled around the thicker muscle of his right thigh, straps pulled tight enough to remain stable through the impact of each step. He straightened, feeling a little breathless, stamped his foot a couple times to test the hold of the buckles, then sat sharply, pulled on his trainers and laced them tightly, tucking the loose ends into the sides of his ankle-socks. Kicking the bag back under the bed as he stood, Roxas grabbed up the window rod, carried it all the way to the front door, left it sitting just behind it, so that… if he entered in a hurry, or – couldn't close the door for some reason – it'd be within easy reach.

The blond was suddenly, dizzyingly relieved to have spent all these months running several mornings a week; to have got a job that kept him fit, accustomed to hard, hot conditions, rather than growing soft and cool within the confines of an office. Despite every time he'd ever complained about it to Aerith, he was, in this moment, glad to have a boss that wouldn't let up when there was a job to be done. It was brief but sharp, making him sag for a moment against the back of the plain, white door, drawing an unsteady breath. He had some kind of stalker now – yes, he was glad to be fit, prepared to run if the occasion arose. The guy – those eyes – he'd been crazy when he'd looked at Roxas.

He'd looked halfway insane, and Roxas had never seen anything like it in his life.

Shivering, lips twitching, the blond straightened, held himself upright, hands splayed against the wood for a moment, before stepping quickly back, opening the door and leaving the apartment before his nerve fled him altogether, trapped him, quivering, indoors for the rest of his days. Maybe he couldn't open the curtain and expose his bedroom to the world yet, maybe he would be toting the window rod for a few weeks to come, but he'd be damned if he was going to let this totally rule his life. It was just one guy, after all – one guy, Roxas could handle. Had handled. All he needed was a clipboard, and he was cool. And hell, he'd already one-bettered that with the spray and oil.

Determined, a scowl on his features, confident with the weight at his thigh, Roxas hopped down the stairs as always, opened the side door of the building, emerged fast, ready to sprint, and ran straight into the side of the van, parked at the edge of the road.

His arms were able to snap up in time to avoid the inevitable face-plant it would have been, absorbing the brunt of the impact with a loud thud of flesh against metal, sending him bouncing back. If anyone was stalking him right now, their muffled laughter would be a dead giveaway. The silence was a bleak comfort.

Cheeks burning a little, Roxas threw glances all around the immediate area, glared briefly at the treacherous vehicle, forearms throbbing, and started up a slow jog past it. The keys were upstairs; last delivery-boy of the day always took it home to return the next day, on the off-chance that things wouldn't occur according to fixed hours. Aerith's trust was nice, but right now, the van was a bitch, as far as he was concerned. Talk about adding insult to injury.

He increased his pace steadily, slightly faster today, having started earlier, the sprinklers not clicking on until near the end. He felt the nervousness leaking away with his sweat, thoughts and fears taking the backburner as only his body continued to exist in an active manner. The run was cathartic, almost, stripping him of all extraneous emotion, leaving only that which mattered in this present moment. He crossed that fateful driveway, no red cars in sight, and a sudden memory of the vibrant colour from that startlingly ridiculous daydream the last time nearly made him skip a step and fall over. He was saved by the regularity of rhythm, his body's familiarity with every impact, refusing to falter for something as minor as a mere memory, but his mind was skittering along the pavement, gaining grazes, bruises, blood.

Red – red hair like whoa. Visions he'd spent an entire day clamping down on, until his episode had occurred, pushing all else to the back of his concerns, wiping them clean and still, still only now were they leaking back. He hadn't been given a chance to recall that dream again, through one reason or another, but now –

"Different," he spat from between clenched teeth, turning a broad left onto his street, the van's white smear on the horizon gaining definition the closer he got. Yes – different. The dream, the crazy guy – they were separate, not related, completely disconnected.

Unless – unless Roxas had caught a glimpse of him from a distance? If the guy had been following him around, it would have been easy enough. If he'd stayed far enough away to have individual features not be memorised, but close enough for that hair to worm its way into Roxas' subconscious… The fact that it had been a sex dream had nothing to do with it, that was just his frustration rising up, finding an excuse to get excited, and – and – it was just a coincidence. Roxas had never seen the guy in his life. Nothing other than his hair colour, at any rate.

Reaching the apartment, Roxas grabbed out his keys, unlocked the main door and headed inside, upstairs, ragingly thirsty from having forgotten his customary bottle of water. The apartment felt stifled, but undisturbed, the window rod still in place, snatched up almost as soon as he was back. Holding it swung over his shoulder, Roxas went grimly to the kitchen, drank several cups of water one after another, stretching slowly while he waited for his pulse to come down, muscles to cool, switching the white bar from hand to hand as needed, balancing against the edge of the counter.

He stayed there too long, until he was running late. There was a clock on the wall that showed the minutes ticking by, the second-hand relentlessly pushing on, taking the hour closer to its next, when Roxas should have been at work again.

Work. Where the guy knew he would be. Where he had gone, looking for Roxas.

For what reason? What did he want? Why had he ordered flowers, and how had he even known Roxas would be the one to deliver them? Had it just been some wild hope or guess? If it had been Hayner at the door, would the exchange have happened just the same as always, basket swapping hands, register filled, with the guy back at square one?

Definitely not a bank official – those guys didn't hide in motels, ordering flowers in order to lure unsuspecting blonds to their bedside… to his knowledge.

He just – he didn't understand what this was all about. Perhaps if he'd stuck around a little longer, pressed for answers… but Roxas hadn't wanted to ask these questions last night. They hadn't occurred to him, not even faintly, not a voice at the back of his mind, nothing – the only instinct, deep and screaming, was to get out, get the hell out and not look back.

Of course, every apprehension had been proven when the redhead had then followed him out, threatened to break his hand if he didn't give up his key – there was no doubt about it, the guy was a freak, and however he'd found out about Roxas, whatever he did want, it couldn't possibly bode well for him. The man had ways of getting in touch with Roxas, though, of watching him without the blond's knowledge, and this was – so incredibly unnerving. Not frightening, not yet – the invasion of it clawed at his insides, made his breaths shorten, but, damn it, he wasn't some wimp to be stomped into submission.

And yet… he kept hanging around the kitchen, an eye on the clock, watching it get closer and surpass when he should have left, should have returned to the circle of that man's possible observation. He couldn't even call in sick, not with the van here – the amount of trouble he'd be causing with that alone wasn't worth it, and besides… maybe the guy was already there, and maybe, if Hayner came to get the van, he'd be leading him right to where Roxas didn't want.

No, there was no way around it, really. He'd have to go. And – he'd be okay, he would. This weird redhead was just some phase of his life – the stalker phase. He was sure everyone got one, at some point in life – right?

Sure. Stalker phase. Why not.

Taking a breath, shaking himself out, grabbing up the rod, he left the kitchen, went into the bedroom and once again went through a rapid outfit change. Grabbing the delivery-boy hat from the nightstand, where he'd tossed it upon realising it was still stuck firmly to his head, he tucked it under one arm and went out to the sitting room, grabbed the keys, replaced the white bar in its easy-to-reach position behind the door and exited the apartment for the last time. He wasn't exactly sure when he'd be back, so kept the capsicum spray, tucked into one deep pocket. If the guy was following him, tried anything aggressive, all Roxas had to do was squirt him in the eyes – he'd already proven to be reasonably easy to overpower, or at least escape from – and hey, presto, he had himself a reason to report the guy to the cops and get a restraining order. Or something. He wasn't totally certain how that sort of thing worked, but at least he had the law on his side.

Keys jingling from one finger, he left the building, unlocked the van and hauled himself into its depths, warm but not yet hot enough to burn. The air, when he slammed the door shut, was oppressive and thick, making him wind down the window to allow some of the baking wind to enter and ventilate. The clipboard still lay on the passenger's seat, its cover sitting skewed over the mess of papers, making the blond curse at its slightly torn state.

Being back in the van brought a sliver of unease back into his bearing, memories sticking hotly to the seat and steering wheel, jolted into life by the several dots of what could only be blood spotting some of the register sheets. He sat a little lower, a deep scowl forming as he gingerly opened the folder, tried to tidy the thin, fragile papers without tearing them. For the most part they were okay, just crumpled. Aerith wouldn't be delighted, but neither would she put a guilt-trip on him. He could just claim a dog had run out onto the road, and the sudden stop had thrown the clipboard against the dash. That would sit okay.

The last sheet, the topmost one, was the one belonging to the syringa and tulips, as yet unsigned. He paused, lips pulling back from teeth with a low hiss. His mind worked briefly, before, coming to a snap-decision, the blond leaned over, punched open the glove-box and grabbed out a black pen. Straightening, he bit off the lid, breathing a shrill whistle through the small hole in its tip as he lined up the ballpoint, paused to gather himself, then quickly scribbled a random signature. He tried to make it look as unlike his own writing as possible, messy like a prescription, then pulled the pen away and inspected his efforts. It'd pass muster. After all, Aerith wasn't looking for a forgery, she barely even glanced at the signatures; as long as one was there, she was a happy florist.

He capped it, threw it back and shut the glove-box again, carefully folding the cover of the clipboard into place, looking at it for a moment with a critical eye. Everything was looking okay. The blood-spots could be similarly explained away, blamed on the fabled sudden-stop, and no one would be any the wiser. Not unless… the guy actually showed up, said something to Aerith about what had happened. He wouldn't, though. Roxas was certain of it – what kind of idiot would just waltz into the shop after something like that? No, if the guy had any Spidey-sense whatsoever, it'd be screaming that he was going to get his face flattened if he showed it around the blond again. That was all there was to it.

Starting up the van with a rumble, Roxas put it into gear, pulled away from the apartment, eyes peeled for any flashes of red as he left the area. So far, everything seemed clear enough. The longer he was on the road, taking the regular twists and turns without drama, the more he relaxed, bit by bit. Air rushed through the vehicle, the sun searing the arm not driving as he propped his elbow against the window's edge. A measure of calm entered him, soothing away the jangled nerves, returning him to something like normal. He felt like he could do this day, and maybe avoid anything upsetting. Yesterday had been one hell of a time, and wasn't going to repeat itself – something like that came once in a blue moon, wrapped in a fit of bad luck. Things were going to be… better this time.

Pulling into the lane, he'd virtually all but pulled the keys from the ignition when a pair of hands slammed sharply against the door, wrenching it open, grabbing him by the shirt and dragging him out with a startled cry. If they hadn't been holding him so tightly, he'd have fallen headfirst to the pavement, but as it was, he found himself shoved up against the side of the white vehicle, before he even had a chance to pull the pepper spray, all thought of it fled from his mind, scattered back in a space where he had actually been making conscious decisions instead of being thrown around like a rag-doll.

It all happened faster than the blond could compute, leaving him hanging helplessly in someone else's grip, dazed for a split-second. When he finally started catching up to the situation, blinking and directing his gaze into the pair of eyes set a bare inch away from his own, confusion set in, followed quickly by blazing anger. He brought up his knees, rammed them into Hayner's stomach, and very abruptly, in a thumping of bodies, both boys were lying on the ground, Hayner winded and gasping, Roxas struggling onto his hands and knees. He turned on his friend viciously, snarling, "What – the hell – was that?" He leapt over, slammed a fist into the other blond's arm as Hayner quickly twisted out of the way, still gaping like a fish out of water.

Both scrambled to their feet, fury pulsing through Roxas, bewilderment seizing Hayner's features as he gripped his middle, panting hard. At last, he wheezed, "What the fuck, man?"

"I could ask the same," Roxas yelled angrily, arms exploding in a violent, agitated flail. "What the hell were you thinking, grabbing me like that? I thought you were some kind of fucking abductor, you asshole!"

Hayner stared at him, pulling a face of utter incomprehension. "Who would want to abduct you? We're in Twilight Town, man – people don't just disappear off the streets. I'm sorry if I scared you!"

Roxas glared for a moment longer, teeth back to clashing together, hands jumped back into tight fists. But slowly, forcibly, he swallowed, let himself fall loose. He took a breath, exhaled sharply, nodded, said, "Okay, fine. I wasn't – scared, you just – " He scowled. "I mean, what the hell was the point of that?"

Rubbing his stomach, pressing it tenderly, Hayner started to straighten from his pained, hunched position, most of the uncertainty leaving his face, though a shadow of it remained in the cast of his eyebrows. "You're late, remember? And – Aerith…" He glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the yard, the gate standing open. Roxas frowned, followed his gaze, suffering a spike of worry.

"What? What about Aerith?"

"Well…" Hayner scratched his head. "She's kind of… gone a little nuts." Roxas swung his head around, one eye squinting. The other blond just shrugged helplessly, gestured him forwards. "Don't bother locking up, man, we're going to be working our asses off loading up the van in, like, ten minutes' time. Once she's done shrieking at you."

Dubiously, Roxas asked, "Because I'm late?"

"…Among other things."

The blond felt his chest constrict, heart thumping a little – 'among other things'? What else was there to shriek at him about, other than his lateness? Had the red-haired guy really called and complained, demanding compensation for being attacked? Had Roxas – somehow misinterpreted the situation, and – no. No way. So then – maybe – the pots? Had the owner of the house called in a claim that Roxas hadn't done his job? But he had! He'd fucking done it! He was still aching from the effort, for Christ's sake! What more did the guy want, arrows drawn from his blood on the fucking paving stones to indicate where the damn things had started off and ended up?

Apprehensively, stomach tight, Roxas entered through the back room, heard Aerith talking rapidly, frantically on the phone in the front. Shooting Hayner a puzzled look at the vastly different tone of voice their boss had taken up from normal, he cautiously entered the front of the store, only to be blinded with white. He had to fight the urge to throw his arms up and shield his eyes; white blazed from every corner of the shop, every shelf, every counter, lilies as far as the eye could see. The sign on the door was flipped over to its 'closed' side, remaining locked despite the fact that business hours were well and truly begun. Blinking, stunned, he shuffled in a couple steps, felt Hayner's hand clap his shoulder encouragingly. "We're a… lily shop, now?" he guessed.

Upon hearing his voice, Aerith whirled, the look in her eyes wild, unsettling, like a predator homing in on prey. She swooped over, shouted into the phone, "Hang on, I'll talk to you in a second!" Ripping it from her ear, pressing it to the front of her pink dress, Aerith's green eyes zeroed in on Roxas' with mesmerising intensity, her hand gripping his upper arm, drawing him further in. "You're late," she snapped. "It doesn't even matter, not now that you're here. We don't have time, we don't have time!" She cut him off before he could speak, said, "I was called last night with a request, and I tried to get hold of you, but there was just no way, your phone was off the hook or something." She dragged him over to the front counter, said sharply into the phone, "I'll be with you in a moment," crushed it back against her front, said to Roxas, "Start loading up, both of you, straight away. No complaints, nothing. We've been commissioned as an emergency second for a wedding, the original florist has fallen through, a mistake was made with the orders, we are now catering the floral arrangements for an entire wedding, and the wedding starts at four o'clock this afternoon."

"Oh," Roxas offered, before being shaken by the hand clamped over his arm.

"Start loading up the van," she desperately, hoarsely hissed, before spinning away, running with dainty steps over to the counter, pushing through a load of lilies in search of the logbook, drawing the phone away from her chest and snapping, "Alright, I'm back – tell me the directions again?"

Bewildered, Roxas turned to Hayner, who shrugged. "Where exactly is the wedding?" he wondered, sparing an incredulous glance over a now furiously-scribbling Aerith, bent over the counter, nose hovering above the logbook. Hayner grimaced.

"Traverse Town, of course. If we're going to have an emergency, why not one that's three hours away?"

Roxas' face fell, eyebrows rising. "Traverse Town? All that way?" His gaze swept over the massive deluge of lilies, only lilies, though they varied in species here and there. Well… it would keep him busy, he hopelessly supposed. And at least Traverse was far away from certain redheaded stalker-types… Shaking his head slowly, the blond went into the back room, pulled on his gloves, went to pull open the van's sliding door and prepare the area to be packed with hundreds of blinding-white flowers. Hayner started hauling bags of ice from the deep-freezer in the back room for the long trip, pouring thousands of cubes, tumbling and crashing, into crates to line the vehicle's interior. "Man," he complained in a mutter, as Roxas went past with the first load, "I hate weddings."

With Aerith audibly running around in a frenzy in the front room, bellowing for the first time in existence, as far as Roxas knew, and with two incredibly long drives ahead of them – there and back – with nothing better than the fear of a stalker to return to, the blond couldn't help but silently, wholeheartedly agree.