CHAPTER EIGHT

Sora liked bowling, most of the time, but tonight he was feeling restless. He needed to go to the bathroom, but there was no way he was using the public ones at the bowling alley. The size of the mirrors in there freaked him – Sora didn't like mirrors. In fact, he was pretty sure he hated their reflective fucking guts.

So he stayed sitting where he was, filling out his score sheet with a frown, fiddling with the pen, but not particularly concerned – it was, after all, just one factor of his faint but persistent agitation. It was just that… something had been a little off all night, and no section of his mind was eager to figure out why. He tried to focus on the game, keep his head in the right place.

All around him, the late session was taking place. The families were long gone, replaced with groups of mostly young people, the diner distributing beer to the patrons at five bucks a cup, revelry high, voices loud. Sora had his own cup sitting next to him, toyed with and sipped at, but no particular interest shown in it, bought because it was there and he could, and everyone else was. It was important for him to emulate them, in order to gain the same enjoyment they were all getting. Sure, he didn't have the whole 'group fun' thing going on, he was here all on his lonesome and in no hurry to correct that, but he was sure that if he just acted enough like everyone else, he'd be back to having a good time, like he normally did.

He hated this squirming feeling.

There was something nagging at him, and it was bothersome. Anything that strayed from the usual was a source of irritation to Sora, and the fact that he wasn't having as much fun as he regularly did was beginning to set his teeth on edge. He didn't want to feel restless, he just wanted to have a good time, and that really didn't seem like such a huge request.

Scowling, sighing, he stomped his sneakers to the ground and stood, grabbing up his ball as it came rolling through the wire channel, warm and buzzing with static electricity. As he approached his lane, he wondered if it was bowling that was the problem. Maybe bowling just wasn't entertaining enough. Maybe he needed something that would better absorb his mind – bowling by himself was only giving him time to think, and thinking was something Sora just didn't want to embark on. It was an activity that belonged to other people, deeper people – Sora didn't want to be deep. He wanted to be shallow. Empty, hollow and light.

A face kept floating up into his mind, though, with blond hair and blue eyes, a face he was sure he'd seen before, lately, maybe, distracting him. Along with visions of blond hair, he also started getting flickerings of silver, eyes that were oceanic and distant, and it was at this that he really started getting unsettled. He just – he didn't want to think. Whatever the hell was flashing through his mind – he actively acknowledged that he wasn't interested in probing at it. It needed to be got rid of.

He scored a strike, the pins scattering and bouncing, being scraped away and replaced, and Sora moodily returned to his score sheet, scribbled it down as the TV screen over his lane recorded it with some artificial fireworks going off. He picked up his cup, took another mouthful of beer, grimaced at the cheap taste of it – they were sure as hell making a profit.

Nearby, someone else got a strike as well, a fanfare sounding from their TV scoreboard, and Sora sighed. He looked around, eyes skating over faces, clothing, cheer, feeling awkward and out of place. Why the hell was everyone having a good time but him? He lamented afresh his inability to be able to just get drunk. Maybe he should have stuck to the clubs tonight – maybe his body had had the right idea, going there even though his mind had been against it. He just – he needed to keep moving. He didn't think bowling was covering the urge enough. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, he hadn't tried it for a while, and the loud music pouring out of the doors had been attractive… but his thoughts were coming through too clear. His mind needed dampening.

That's when the lights all went off.

Sora gasped, shrieks and laughter erupting on all sides, all eyes automatically rising to the ceiling, where the black lights flickered to life, suddenly turning the world into shades of deep bruise and neon white. The energy in the air upped a little, the talking growing louder, music turned up, and Sora grappled with the fact that it felt like his heart was splitting in two. He staggered back to his chair, leaned over his table and pressed his hands hard into his chest, mouth open, small, distressed grunts slipping from his throat. His teeth found his bottom lip, pressed hard, almost hard enough to cut, eyes squeezing shut as he bent his head and struggled to bring himself under control. It was like someone had taken a hot needle and thrust it in there, a poker, an ice-pick. There was a stab, sharper than before, and a low cry popped from his mouth, lower lip glistening with saliva.

All sound, every noise, swirled, grew an echo, crashed in the background, rising and falling like the ocean smashing into rocks. Sora lowered his head to the table, fought to breathe, another white-hot bolt piercing his chest, teeth grinding fiercely as he tried, tried so hard, to ride it out.

Someone touched him, his head swivelling sharply, eyes wide, to find a face peering concernedly into his. "Are you alright?" the owner of the face asked, eyebrows knitted with worry. "I saw you fall…" His voice was so loud. Sora wanted to ask him to not yell. Then, in direct contrast, the next time the owner of the face spoke, Sora couldn't hear him at all. His eyes were fixed on the stranger's mouth, seeing the consonants and vowels forming, the world suddenly as silent as a tomb. Pain tore him apart, made him sweat and prickle, dying inside. His eyes started slipping shut, panic sparking in the expression of the owner of the face, but as the stranger pulled away, started looking around for help, Sora abruptly stood. He gripped the table, keeping himself steady as his shaking legs threatened to let him fall.

"I'm okay," he lied, feeling the vibrations of noise in his throat, though his ears picked up none of it, instead filled with a vague thumping. Before the person could try and convince him otherwise, Sora was walking away. It took every ounce, every single little scrap of his will to not collapse. Desperation fuelled him, led him wobbling out of the bowling alley and down the pavement. Why, why couldn't he just find one place and stick to it? Why, these days, did he always end up wandering the night?

The only thing he was sure of was that he couldn't get caught. It had been a close one with the owner of the face – if anyone knew how much he was hurting, they might try to take him away, place him into hospital, and that just wouldn't work. He couldn't go, couldn't let them do it. It was impossible, it was his worst nightmare. If they grabbed him, drove him away, locked him up – he'd never see the lights of Traverse Town again. He was sure of it. He knew.

The thought was terrifying. As he heard the doors of the bowling alley open a few meters behind him, voices bursting out into the fresh air, he was afraid that it was the owner of the face coming to play out his good Samaritan role. Without pausing to look back, Sora began to run. Never mind that it hurt him to breathe, that the pains were far from gone – his fear was stronger. This was stronger even than his paranoia, sent him sprinting down lonely streets without hesitation, pushing himself, going as fast as he could, racing against time and nothing and everything, not stopping until he collapsed in a park, gasping terribly, the green grass short and itchy

For a while, he lay there and sweated, muscles jellied, head swinging and pulsing in time to his erratic, irregular heartbeat.

Nearby, a party was going on, he could hear it, could hear again, could hear the voices floating merrily on the wind. Forcing his eyes open, he rolled over clumsily, automatically wondering dimly if it was somewhere he could dance and lose himself, never mind the fact that he didn't even have a hope of standing. In the distance, he saw a massive white tent set up, a solid-looking marquee, light shining through the canvas flaps, black vases of white lilies sitting at the entranceway.

Sora's voice rang out in a thin cry as pain ripped through his body, fresh and without warning, a weight on his chest, a fist around his heart. Blue eyes, blond, spiky hair, long, silver hair, red hair, tattoos, green eyes like poison, all of it flashed through his head, images bursting into bloody being with every rammed blast of agony. He choked, lips pulling back tight, teeth bared to the moon, whimpers and misery floating into the air, unheard by any of the party-goers, lost in their own happy world.

His mind was returning. Doubtless he'd awaken very soon.

.o.O.o.

"What're you listening to?"

Roxas turned a page in his book slowly, legs crossed awkwardly in the small space between his seat and the one in front. Over his head, he'd opened the small, circular air-conditioning vent, twisted it to blow down and gently ruffle his spikes, adding some breathability to the dryness inside the plane. In his free hand he held a bottle of water, sipping at it constantly, battling the raging headaches the dehydration always gave him during these long flights.

The question had been breathed into his right ear, its owner mindful of the dim lights within the cabin, the darkness and stars through the window, the little pillows and blankets most of their fellow fliers were huddled against the nearest upright surface with.

"Sinatra," the blond murmured, eyes travelling slowly over the printed words. Fingers traced his arm idly, a chin placed on his shoulder, a pleasant weight.

"Hm. Soothing," the owner of the voice and question observed. Roxas inclined his head faintly.

"Can be."

There was a hovering pause, before a gentle kiss was placed upon his cheekbone. Blue eyes fluttered shut, a small sigh working its way out of his lungs and into the atmosphere.

"I love you, you know."

Roxas knew. He found it comforting, and confusing. He'd never been particularly certain as to why the owner of the voice felt anything for him – he'd initially supposed that it was based entirely on looks and lust. Roxas was beautiful, and had a slight delicacy about him, all belied by the darker interior it obscured; he could understand how that would be appealing to a man such as the owner of the voice. There was something in the redhead that always hungered, something insatiable, hot and fierce, underlain by a cockiness of spirit that suggested he got precisely what he wanted, when he wanted it.

But this whole… 'love' aspect… it was deep and bewildering, and all too real. It had become a blanket under which Roxas could hide. It was cool, smooth, gossamer. It never smothered, even as it slipped along and against his body, fitting into every mould and dip of his flesh, coating his face like a shroud. He used it to protect himself, as best as he could, and somehow, it managed to warm him.

Roxas would never say that phrase of confession the way the owner so often did. He would never lower himself to that vulnerable level, and doubted even that he was capable of feeling it. He wasn't allowed to. But it made him happy to know that someone else was feeling it about him, even as it depressed him horribly to know it existed.

When he started thinking about love… loss was never far behind.

He looked sideways, into vividly green eyes, and wondered about what would happen to this man's heart if ever Roxas was gone, if ever he was the one forced to feel such acute loss.

"I feel so cold right now," he whispered, and the sparkle in the owner of the voice's gaze dimmed. If the owner was capable of warming a soul, then it was Roxas that contained the ability to chill it. In his ears, smooth whisky and smoke poured from the throat of another owner of a different voice. Yes, Sinatra was soothing. Or had been. Up until Roxas had started thinking, at the advent of those affectionate words.

Sometimes, he thought it would be better if he never thought at all. Life would be so easy.

He was tugged, unresisting, into an embrace, lips on his ear, the touch of skin hot. "Then turn off your air-con," the owner muttered. "I'll warm you up."

Slowly, the blond shook his head. "I won't be able to breathe properly if I do that. The cold is helping me breathe."

Neither one of them was sure if he was referring to the outer cold, or the inner. Neither one dared to address it.

.o.O.o.

Hayner left for work early, leaving Roxas sleeping on the couch, not bothering to poke him awake even to demand that the blond cook breakfast in payment for the makeshift bed, like he often argued and attempted. Roxas, as a result, woke up to an empty apartment, stillness hanging in the air, a bleakness left over from the night before.

Hayner hadn't spoken to him since agreeing to let him stay; it was obvious that the taller of the two was disgusted with him, but Roxas was wearily aware that none of it was really to do with him at all. Whatever had set Hayner off the day before had created a viciousness that would be in residence the next few days. He could handle it well enough; he'd done it before, and no doubt he'd do it again, just as Hayner would inevitably end up nursing Roxas through more gray patches in the future. It just sucked that the two crappy periods had occurred so close together, and in amongst… other troubles. They needed to learn to schedule these things around each other.

Sitting up, fingers digging into the worn fabric of the sofa, Roxas swung himself around, feet hitting the floor, a bone-tired yawn working its shuddering way through his frame. Aerith had, naturally, given him the day off, after his idiotic performance yesterday at the church. He might as well have been some swooning damsel in distress, for all the way he'd fallen straight into Hayner's arms like that. He could have at least been manly enough to cut himself on the bitumen, maybe get a little concussed or something. As things stood, he just looked humiliatingly weak. And… to think that the red-haired guy might have been watching…

Roxas' neck prickled, a hand reaching up to smooth the skin uncomfortably. He felt safe here, at least. He could probably put up with a thousand days of Hayner's bad moods, if it meant he didn't have to be jumping at every little noise. This whole thing – it was really starting to strip his nerves, thread by thread. To have someone come up to him out of the blue like that, a perfect stranger, and say, 'I think someone might be following you'… It was just – kind of unthinkable. It made Roxas' mind go blank with incomprehension, disbelief – especially since he still didn't even know what the hell the guy wanted from him. Or how he knew him. Because Roxas had absolutely no recollection of his existence, and he was pretty fucking sure that on any day of the year he would remember a guy like that. The intensity of his eyes alone was enough to sear its way onto your cerebral cortex.

This thing of staying at Hayner's place – it was a patch-fix at best, but it was enough until Roxas at least felt more up to the task of tackling his very own personal stalker. Just a few days of strength-gathering would be enough.

He'd tell Hayner about it once he was out of his funk – then he'd have some backup when the confrontation came. It was a flimsy sort of plan, but the best that Roxas could come up with without seriously considering the thought of reporting it to the cops. That was the sensible option, he knew, but as things stood, he still didn't really have anything to report. He needed something solid – needed some proof. He dreaded to think what that encompassed, but he wasn't prepared to just wander in and start spouting off with nothing to back up his claims.

Of course, there was always his hand, the bruises fading now… but still, Roxas was wary. The last thing he wanted to do was blow it all out of proportion, when the guy might only need to be scared off by a couple of pissed blonds with baseball bats. He'd even bring Pence along for the ride – hell, if he really felt the need, he'd consider Seifer. The guy was a bastard, but he'd proven with Olette that he at least wasn't totally heartless, and Roxas didn't have so much pride that he'd turn down an extra set of muscle.

That would take care of it, he was sure. He just had to wait for Hayner to snap back to himself, discuss it with everyone, and then go on the initiative.

In the meantime – Roxas didn't think he'd be going home again. It twisted at him to admit it, but he was too uneasy to be there by himself. After having fallen asleep so easily here in Hayner's apartment, the thought of curling up with the window rod just – it really didn't appeal. There was no need for it. If Hayner knew the truth, he wouldn't kick him out, even in the throes of the worst of his moods. Roxas had a – a place here. It kind of epitomised the friendship, that, even when everything was going to shit internally, Hayner wouldn't hesitate to let him stay. It gave him a little warmth inside.

Still, he thought, glancing around the apartment, if he was going to stay for several days, he'd need to make just one visit. He needed clothes, toothbrush, shaving materials – food, considering that Hayner subsisted mainly on cigarettes and pop-tarts, along with whatever Roxas could be bothered hauling out of the mostly-ignored freezer. It didn't thrill him, the thought of going home, but at least it would be during daylight hours. Day, he could handle – it was the nights that had him worried.

Drawing a breath, he finally got up, deliberation done with, grabbed a handful of trail mix from the blue bowl and fed it from his fist into his open mouth, calling it breakfast. Digging his outfit from the other day out of the bottom drawer in Hayner's room, he quickly showered, put the old-sweat clothing on, which was at least better than the yesterday's-sweat items that he'd slept in, making a mental note to take them all down to the laundry room once he found some nice, shiny quarters. He went back to the couch, bent low and hooked his flip-flops out from under the coffee table, slid them on, the hard foam snapping against his soles as he made for the front door. Quickly checking that he still had the key to get back in, he nodded to himself, closed the door, headed downstairs and out onto the road at a shuffling jog.

Well, the rest of life might have been jumping all over the place, but Roxas knew he could always count on the sun to be hot as hell. It was just as brutal as ever, stepping outside just as deadly, the star deciding not to take pity on poor, melting Twilight Town. He slowed down after only half a block, already panting at the small amount of exertion, walked the rest of the way to the tram common, catching hold of the vehicle as it went rumbling by on its tracks and swinging himself up and in.

Throwing himself down into the nearest seat, Roxas slouched, feeling as if he'd sprinted halfway home rather than having come just ten minutes from Hayner's. He was glad he'd had the shower – doing this with a layer of grime pre-laid on his skin would have been foul. It was brilliant, the way regular old life managed to suck just as hard as its more complicated aspects.

Crossing an ankle over one knee, Roxas propped an elbow up on the empty seat next to his, listening to the chatter of a nearby little girl sitting on her mother's lap, a series of shopping bags surrounding them. The female duo got off at the next stop, carrying their bags, the kid cheerfully carrying her very own striped-pink one. It looked like a candy-bag. The rest of the trip was quiet, unbroken.

As his stop approached, Roxas hauled himself up, yanked on the looping cord that lined the ceiling, a small bell jangling up with the operator. The metal behemoth paused, silence falling over the world as Roxas jumped down, flip-flops slapping the pavement, before it started up again in its steady, click-clacking monotone, and vanished around the corner.

Sniffing, wiping his face tiredly, feeling a little sick from the heat, the blond made his way up the hill, thigh muscles complaining unreasonably at the workout. "Oh, come on," he muttered to himself, taking on the worst of the peak, "it's not like Aerith doesn't work us harder than this." He crested the hill, continued on for several meters, turned right into the short alleyway running alongside the building, entered the tucked-away door. It was cooler inside, a breath of relief from the sweltering quality of the outdoors, the sun's rays unable to reach him in the stairwell.

Roxas took the steps at a steady pace, ran a hand through his hair as he walked along his floor, glancing around watchfully. The place was empty, so far, and there was nowhere for any redheaded weirdos to be hiding out, waiting to lunge. Mollified, he pulled out his keys, unlocked the door, pushed it open and entered the apartment.

Everything looked much the same as he'd left it, nothing out of place to suggest that anyone had been rummaging while he was gone. The white window-rod, when he checked, was still in its secure position behind the door. He hooked it up, swung it from hand to hand, performing a cautious check on each room in turn, all but sniffing the air to check for anything foreign.

After a few potentially tense minutes, he called the search to a halt. Relief trickled through his unhappy nerves, kissing them better for the first time in days – the place hadn't been invaded while he was away. It was a boost, knowing that headquarters had yet to be breached by the crazy. It kind of made him want to stay, almost… but, gazing around, feeling the isolation of the place, he realised he still wasn't confident about being alone. Not yet – not even when it was untouched like this. It would still be worth his while shacking up with Hayner until it all blew over.

With this in mind, he set about gathering supplies for the days to come, pulling his excursion pack from under the bed and emptying it out, replacing its contents with more everyday items. He pulled open the bedside drawer, swept out a handful of shirts and shorts, folded them, along with several pairs of boxers, neatly, efficiently into the bag. He went into the bathroom, gathered together all his toiletries, returned to the bed and shoved them into the gaps between the clothing. Unzipping the black backpack all the way, folding down its front and punching it to stretch the material, he dropped it just outside the doorway, left it there as he trailed into the kitchen, swinging the window-rod thoughtfully as he eyed off the various boxes of cereal sitting in an uneven line along the counter. Two of them, and only two, would be able to fit into the bag. For someone that didn't eat a lot of breakfast, Roxas, much like Hayner, had mastered the art of owning mostly breakfast foods – although the shorter blond, at least, also had his fair share of perishables stowed away inside the refrigerator.

After a short deliberation, he placed the metal pole on the counter, grabbed a box in each hand, one cereal made of wheat, the other made of corn, and shook them idly as he carried them out to squeeze in on top of all his other stuff.

"If it isn't the delivery boy."

Roxas yelled, the boxes jumping in his grasp, clutched them tight to his chest and whirled with deep, loathing recognition.

Today, there was none of the cockiness, none of the smirk and swagger. The redhead stood with his arms by his sides, the same black, wrinkled jeans, a white t-shirt. His hair was as wild as ever, but his face, in stark contrast, was serious. Roxas stared.

"I've gotta commend you, Rox, you might have left everything behind, but you've still got the instincts," the man said casually. "You haven't been properly alone since I saw you the other night. Not at work. Not in Traverse." Green eyes flashed, darkened. "You didn't even come home last night."

The blond, heart speeding, head light with shock and slow, dull panic, eyelids fluttering, strangled out, "Ho – how – how do you kn-know where I live?"

A short, mirthless laugh, the smile on his face twisted, almost scornful. "I looked you the fuck up, of course." His expression hardened. "It's not like it's hard to do. I was willing to give you a little privacy, not just come barging in like this, but shit, Roxas – it's not like you gave me a choice." Bitterness appeared. "After that little stunt the other night, I figured it was time for the mountain to come to Mohammed, you know?"

There was no escape. The redhead was standing in the path to the door, deliberately blocking the way. He was slender, but strong looking, corded muscles obvious under the short sleeves of his shirt. Roxas could only gaze at him, mind spinning for a solution.

The window-rod was in the kitchen. He swallowed with the realisation; it wasn't on hand, but it was close. All he had to do was ditch the cereal boxes at his head, make a run for it…

The man took a breath, hands rising to his hips, elbows bowing out behind him as he dipped his head, took a noisy breath and puffed out his cheeks. "I've been given these icky orders," he confessed idly, "to bring you back or kill you."

Roxas turned to ice, the breath stopping in his chest. Every part of him froze, eyes going round. Green eyes turned up, watching him from under scarlet brows. The blond's heart erupted several beats later, fear flooding sharply through every vein, making him gasp deeply just to try and get enough oxygen to fuel it.

Kill you.

The guy – wanted to kill him? Roxas' mind latched onto those shocking words, stripped them to pieces, found their raw intention and nearly made him sick with the realisation that he was trapped in his apartment with someone that wanted to kill him.

This was going to require more than a couple of blonds with baseball bats.

"I know you've had fun playing pretend with all your little buddies," the man continued, waving a hand lightly, sounding, of all things, like he was trying to be reasonable, "but Roxas, remember who your real friends are."

Blue eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" he demanded tightly.

The guy jerked, eyebrows knitting together, staring for a long, silent moment, before lowering his gaze to the side, sadness sharp in his features. "So, it really is true." He sighed deeply, muttered, "You really don't remember."

"…I don't even know," Roxas attempted urgently, "what you're talking about."

Tongue coming out to lick thin lips, the redhead nibbled the inside of his mouth, nodded shortly, resentfully, eyes averted. "Yeah. I got that." Green irises flashed up, new coldness within their depths. "In that case… I guess I'll just take you as you are. We can… figure out what's wrong with your head once we get you home."

Roxas shook his head slowly from side to side, the redhead nodding just as gradually in answer.

"I've been looking for you too long, Rox." There was something raw in that statement, something that was echoed in his eyes, and it was this that snapped Roxas.

He swung back and hurled the first box, all cardboard corners backed up by two pounds of Cornflakes, knocked aside with a shout of displeasure, followed a moment later by the second, squatter box, bursting open as it slammed into his arm, sending a storm of crumbled wheat fluttering through the air. The redhead was annoyed, was waiting with arms already open for Roxas to come bolting past, blinking as, instead, the blond lunged for the kitchen entrance, disappeared behind the wall.

Roxas heard him growl, an irritated sound as he came stalking in his wake. He reached for the window-rod, snatched it off the counter, clutched it vertical to his body, shoulders hunching with his back to the doorway as the man entered.

Heart thundering, gasping in a breath, Roxas twisted when he knew the redhead was close, and slashed with every pent-up ounce of strength. With a yell, the man leapt back, stomach sucking in as it blew diagonally down his body, avoiding the sharp, sawn-off metal edge by millimetres. Roxas followed, swung hard at his head, the redhead dodging to the side, cursing viciously as the blond kept coming.

Hands sliding towards the ends, Roxas wielded his weapon desperately, ramming it after him, slashing again and again, always missing by only the slightest amount as the man danced and twisted, face contorted furiously as he fought to remain out of reach.

He hit the couch abruptly, Roxas homing in, ready to drive the pole straight down into his exposed chest, all thought gone, the world a white haze of sweat and effort, panic electric in the background.

Then long-fingered hands darted out, wrapped around Roxas' grip on the rod, pale, tattooed face arching up, snorting through clenched teeth, and in the next instant the blond was stumbling backwards. The redhead threw himself forward, crushing Roxas' hands onto the bar, the pair of them staggering before slamming into the wall.

Roxas was on the back foot almost instantly, the metal digging across his shoulders, fingers trapped against his chest, blue eyes meeting green for the briefest of seconds before the blond brought his knees up with savage force.

The redhead had anticipated.

He stepped sharply back, Roxas losing every ounce of momentum and strength, meeting nothing by air where his kneecaps should have been stabbing into flesh. Rage flashed in the other's eyes, he reared back, tore the window-rod free of Roxas' futile grasp, and in the next heartbeat, he slammed the sharp edge into the blond's face.

Roxas stumbled sideways, fell soundlessly to the ground, thumping hard.

Heavy breaths filled the air, both chests heaving, Roxas lying awkwardly, face pressed on its side into the threadbare carpet. His hand was trapped beneath him, aching, one knee still supporting his weight, not quite completely collapsed. Behind him, he heard the red-haired attacker suddenly draw a deep, sharp breath, and let out a noise of despair.

Turning his head slowly, painfully, Roxas swivelled his gaze numbly back over his shoulder. The man was looking absolutely stricken, the window-rod clutched hard against his chest. "Roxas… I'm sorry."

The blond said nothing. Blood was slow to rise to the pale slash along his cheekbone.

"I'm so… so… sorry. Oh, God."

Bending low, the redhead slowly placed the bar down, got onto one knee, a hand touching the ground, eyes impossibly wide, expression stripped bare, agonised. Roxas forced himself onto his back as the man started crawling towards him, long arms and legs moving hesitantly over the carpet. Drawing a broken breath, the blond tried to back away, tried to worm out of reach, too stunned, too dazed, to get to his feet yet and run.

"I'm sorry, Roxas. I love you so much." So much pained feeling in those words. His expression grew cautious as he climbed Roxas' body, waiting to see if the blond would fight, but the fight was gone, it was over. Roxas choked, eyes squeezing shut as the redhead gradually eclipsed him, limbs forming a raised prison around his helpless figure, nowhere left to go.

"I didn't want – I didn't mean to hurt you…" Lips beside his ear, words distressed, fearful, before a careful, urgent kiss was placed upon his left temple. "Please, please forgive me. Oh, Roxas, I'm sorry." He pressed his nose into the side of the boy's face, Roxas letting out a cracked noise and turning his face an inch away, even as another kiss was bestowed upon his forehead. Sensing the inevitable next step, the blond weakly lifted a hand, pushing against the sternum hovering over his own. He deterred nothing.

Warm lips sought him out, sealed his own, an anxious, desperate kiss. He couldn't fight, couldn't stop it, eyes opening to find green irises boring down, before the redhead closed them, brought his hands up to wind into blond spikes, pulling away with a soft pop. "I'll remind you," he promised in a whisper, and joined them once again, tongue pressing down gently.

And Roxas – Roxas was kissing back. Tentatively, uncertainly, fuelling the redhead, whose grip on him tightened, intensity rising as he took this as agreement, encouragement. His weight pressed onto Roxas as he lowered himself from his high position, tongue becoming more insistent, tangling with the blond's own, the breathy, damp sound of their kisses filling the apartment's stillness.

A thumb circled Roxas' hip, found the blond's downward-creeping hand and caught his fingers, squeezing firmly. Roxas sighed shakily as teeth grazed his bottom lip. Blood welled in the gash on his cheek, trickled slowly, tear-like. The redhead felt the dampness, pulled back momentarily to view the calamity, whined unhappily and returned to kiss Roxas more fiercely, forcing every ounce of apology into it as he could, so frantic for forgiveness.

Roxas returned the fervour shakily, obviously uncertain, but willingly going along with it, facing heating up as those fingers stroked at his stomach now, infinite in their softness. Shifting up along him, finding a more comfortable position, the redhead rubbed a thumb through his hair tenderly, shifting his attention around to the uninjured side of Roxas' face, blue eyes blinking at the wall through a haze of sweat, hand dipping into the pocket of his shorts.

"I've missed the way your skin tastes," the man muttered, bringing a shiver through the blond's muscles, before dragging his tongue along the length of his face, from jaw to temple. Roxas bit his bottom lip tightly, eyes shutting as his fingers touched something small, cold, hard.

"I've missed you so much," came the urgent whisper, before their hips were pressed together, trapping Roxas' hand, making him moan feebly, breaths speeding up, a low whimper escaping his lips. He wrapped a leg awkwardly around the one pressing between his legs, felt the redhead's chest hitch as he wriggled his hand free. Bolts of pleasant sensation stabbed through the blond as the man shifted deliberately on top of him. Roxas' fingers slowly rotated the canister in his palm, finding the tip.

His lips parted as the redhead, brow creased almost into a scowl, scraped his teeth lightly down his throat. His free hand came up, twisted into a handful of crimson, spiking hair, holding the man's face against his collar, shuddering as he nibbled at the flesh there.

"I don't… even know…" Roxas gasped out, "your name."

The redhead paused, looked up at the boy's squeezed-shut eyes, chin twisted away to the side. "It's me," he said helplessly. "Axel."

Roxas lifted the capsicum spray, pumped down on the nozzle, and let loose a stream of liquid agony straight into the man's upturned face.

The reaction was instantaneous. Axel reared back with a roar, quickly growing shrill as he clawed at his face, staggering to his feet, slamming into the wall as Roxas, choking and coughing from the excess, scrambled up. He covered his mouth and nose with a forearm, eyes red and streaming, while the redhead screamed and dropped back to his knees.

Out of his other pocket, Roxas fumblingly retrieved the almond oil, poured it onto his right hand, darted in near the man and dug it through to his skin, smearing the fluid liberally onto his flesh, sealing the chemical against him. Hands flew out, nails like talons, the redhead dragging down at him, coughing violently, gagging, face an ugly, swollen, inflamed mess.

Roxas drew back, lifted a bare foot, and slammed it straight into his forehead. Holding his breath, the spicy air suffocating, eyes red and streaming, the blond scuttled around his blind victim, snatching his backpack from next the wall, steps thundering past the agonised, thinly wailing man.

He exploded out into the hallway, stumbled along and down the stairs, slipping and tripping, snatching at the handrail desperately.

Shoving a shoulder into the building's door, he slammed out into the alleyway, fled out into the sunshine, and sprinted down the hill, back towards the tram, soles burning with every step.

.o.O.o.

Nearby, a pair of eyes watched the blond flee, with a fairly good idea of what had transpired.

Dressed heavily despite the weather, sweltering as he stood within what shadows he could find, the figure turned his gaze up Roxas' building, seeking out one particular street-facing window, staring at it for several long, thought-filled minutes.

Then, slowly, he turned, and vanished down between the split between two buildings, boots sounding out heavily across the pavement.