CHAPTER TWELVE
In a room otherwise filled with darkness, screens flickered. A soft, electronic glow fell across the man that sat in the rickety chair in front of them, his head angled slightly back as he regarded the figure that walked through them, the footage on a loop that showed the boy again, and again.
The man's face was wrapped in weeks old bandaging, his clothing tired and several days unwashed, to match how long he'd been sitting there. His eyes were strained, gritty, bloodshot, but as focused as ever, endlessly scrutinising. His exhaustion was thick, but manageable; it was worth the discomfort, every moment of it, to be there at all.
After all, to all intents and purposes, he should have been dead.
One boot scraped the cold concrete ground as he adjusted the position of his left leg, fingers briefly tightening on the arms of the seat, but other than that, he was still.
Behind him, a door opened, heavy footsteps entering the room, bringing a burst of warmer air swirling in from higher up. It was sliced off quickly, leaving only a dull sense of the outside world, a black-swathed figure coming up behind the man in the chair and pausing, letting his gaze pass slowly over the many monitors.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Still breathing," came the curt response. "Have you located Axel yet?"
The black-coated male shook his hooded head, though the man in the chair couldn't see the motion, his eyes never leaving the replaying footage. "He's deleting all traces of himself as he goes. He's being meticulous about it."
The bandaged man snorted, unimpressed. "We were right, then. He doesn't want anyone to know he's here. He's operating independently."
"It seems most likely," the other agreed.
There was a heavy sigh. "It would appear that things are getting too difficult to maintain. I suppose I should have known better than to hope for much more than we've achieved…" Silence fell for several minutes, both men watching the screens, all reflecting the same images.
"DiZ… what should we do?" the standing figure asked softly. "We were barely controlling anything to begin with, but now… it's all slipping away."
Leaning forward, stretching his spine for the first time in hours, DiZ placed his elbows onto his knees, gloved hands coming together, pressing against his mouth as he scowled thoughtfully at the main monitor, the boy that traversed it, oblivious to the cameras that had, once upon a time, closely watched him.
"See to it that the boy doesn't leave town again," he decreed at last, quietly. A long moment passed, his words seeming to echo in the Spartan room, before the black-coated figure nodded.
"…Alright."
He turned, steps virtually silent this time as he exited the room again, leaving the man to continue his vigil, staring at the footage, bathed in the soft, blue light.
.o.O.o.
Sora liked night-time. He liked darkness. He liked to stand in place and lose himself in the stars, imagining each of those burning and reflective worlds to be separate, disconnected universes, ones he could someday maybe lose himself inside.
He liked the way the air was cool, the way the birds sounded so sleepy when they chirped to one another in the trees that he passed. He liked the way the world slept outside of Traverse Town, even as much as he adored the buzz of that crowded city. There was no aspect of night that Sora didn't enjoy.
Walking the quiet streets, he took it all in with pleasure, gazing around slowly, his sneakers scraping the pavement every few steps. He saw lights on in houses and apartments, blanketed by curtains, leaving warm squares of light, soft and comforting, that seemed to reach right through his chest and soothe his heart. Of course, he wasn't sure why it was soothing – he noted the tension in his body with confusion, tried to not delve too deeply into its cause, hoping uncertainly that it would all go away soon.
One sure-fire cure would be to get to Traverse Town in the next three hours and make sure he got the most out of his evening, before it was time to return and let life to take the reins once again, shunting his happy night-owl existence into the background.
He headed for the truck-stop on the edge of town, a regular source of hitch-hiking, Sora by now familiar with many of the drivers that stopped off at the diner before beginning their journeys. He knew by sight the ones that would give him a ride for free, quiet and peaceful, the ones that would talk his ear off in payment – doable, but not necessarily enjoyable – and the ones who would pull over, unzip, and demand a higher price than he was willing to give. He'd been stranded more than once on the side of that expanse of highway stretching between Traverse and Twilight, faced with the long walk to whichever side was closest.
He broke into a jog, quickly checking his watch, nodding with satisfaction at the hour. He'd be okay tonight – he had plenty of time for losing himself. Spirits high, he crossed the deserted tram common, all the clattering vehicles locked up for the night, and headed north, steps slapping rhythmically in the emptiness. He heated up as he went, the burn of daylight gone but not relenting entirely, keeping its presence felt even when venturing across the other side of the planet.
Passing through the silence of the pedestrian walkways, around the back of Twilight Town where, by this time, not many tended to wander, he was able to go more swiftly. He sucked in cool breaths, exhaled them swiftly, following the way he'd taken so many times before – so many, many times – and almost didn't see when someone stepped out of the shadows up ahead.
The figure emerged directly into Sora's path, the boy at first not noticing, so deeply did the black coat blend into the darkness. When he caught the flash of motion, he slowed to a walk, startled, and then, as the presence's appearance registered fully in his mind, Sora stopped cold.
He stared, for the longest of moments. Frozen in place, shoes rooted to the pavement, his blue eyes went wide, spiked hair swaying in the sea-breeze. Several feet away, the black-swathed figure remained similarly still, regarding him from within the obscured depths of his hood. Sora couldn't see his face, not a single section of his features, but still, the sight of the stranger was enough to strike ice-cold terror into his heart. It came as a stab, like someone had crawled inside his chest with a pick and slammed the tool directly into the struggling, fist-sized slab of muscle.
The breath he'd been unknowingly holding burst free of his mouth with a string of saliva, an almost-sob, followed by a hard-won gasp. Suddenly, it was like he couldn't inhale properly, couldn't catch his breath, panic and fear coursing his veins in a dizzying medley.
The figure straightened slowly, the creak of leather sounding clearly as he tightened his loose hands into fists. Sora stiffened, unconsciously mimicking the movements, the lean muscle of his arms shifting as he tensed. His breathing regulated sharply, but was still too shallow, too short to properly oxygenate his adrenaline-filling body.
As the black figure stepped forward, a single pace that exuded deliberate threat, even though no words had yet been spoken, Sora automatically stumbled a back little in response.
"Nn."
The small noise that escaped his throat was pitifully clear in the silence. There was a low snort from under the cowl of the black-coated aggressor, and these two sounds combined to stop Sora in his tracks. Chest hitching, he swayed visibly, then solidified, feet shifting apart, shoulders hunching slightly as, still scared, he leaned forward, making a blatant stand of defiance. His mouth opened, shivered slightly. "…Leave me alone."
A short laugh from under the hood, the figure looking away for a brief moment, reaching up to push his nose with one leather thumb. Something about the sound of the voice sent the slightest shudder of apprehension down Sora's spine. He stiffened, eyebrows drawing together, uneasiness rising. He took a step back, hesitated.
I don't want to be trapped here.
He wanted to leave Twilight Town. He'd already been here too long, discomfort sharp at having to hang around. He just wanted to find a ride and get the hell out for a while – go have fun in Traverse. God only knew this place didn't have an ounce of fun to be had for someone like Sora.
He couldn't just turn around, couldn't go home. Every part of his soul burned to lose itself in frivolity, keeping the thoughts and memories at bay for one more night.
He couldn't just give up.
He hardened his stance, took a deep breath, the first decent one in minutes, and narrowed his eyes. His fists became determined, no longer just a mimicry, no longer simply defensive and afraid. He sent the black-coated figure a dangerous look. "Get out of my way."
Another laugh, more chillingly recognisable than the last, and the man matched his attitude, his posture, knees bending in preparation for a fight. The world, and time, seemed to freeze.
Then Sora struck.
He launched himself forward, threw a punch that glanced off the cloth edge of the hood, the owner of the laugh dodging to the right, drawing back and snapping a sideways kick at his exposed back. Already turning, Sora managed to avoid the majority of the blow, catching a hard toe to the hip, bending low and throwing himself along the pavement, legs lashing out. The owner of the laugh jumped, aimed a second kick directly into his face, Sora just about scraping his nose along the ground to avoid it, feeling it sweep through his hair.
He rolled to his feet behind the man, missed the vicious backswing of elbow, slammed the heel of his palm into the black-clothed spine with enough force to send him staggering forward. That split-second of vulnerability allowed the boy to leap into a tuck and ram both feet straight into his enemy's lower back.
With a cry and a grunt, the attacker fell to his hands and knees, the first great noise of the battle, spurring Sora to press his advantage. He darted in as the man twisted around, throwing each fist and having them deflected by quick, desperate blocks, but the owner of the laugh was in an awkward position, he couldn't get up, Sora just kept raining smashing knuckles into him until they started going through.
He hit his face once, twice, the owner's body jolting with each swing, and with the third hit, the man used his backward momentum to grab Sora's ankles, drag himself rapidly beneath the boy, between his legs. He threw himself to his feet, shoved his back into Sora, bounced forward.
They spun to face each other, grim, neither one willing to give, and Sora suddenly halted, mind, body and spirit.
The aggressor's hood had fallen off during the chaos, revealing long, gleaming silver hair, eyes covered in a sheer, black blindfold to obscure his features at first glance – but Sora felt like his soul would recognise that face anywhere, at any time.
Riku.
The man's lips were tightly pressed, resolve firm even as blood ran down his chin, his pale skin bruising under the moonlight.
Riku.
That name, that haunting name that knocked at his consciousness every time a male with any similarity whatsoever passed through the boy's bubble of existence, that lost presence from his side.
Riku was his attacker, and Riku knew who he was.
So then – why was Riku trying to hurt him?
Sora's mind rose up, revolted, became a beast and bit down savagely on all thought, blanking his every ounce of being, bringing pain searing through his chest. He cried out, a noise torn between dismay and agony, and without even knowing what he was doing, Sora twisted, tears blinding his eyes, and started to run.
He heard the overly-familiar voice behind him, yelling out, but there was no way in hell he was stopping, no way he would return. His legs took him faster than he'd known he could go, flying back the way he'd come, seeing nothing of the night's beauty now, the world blurring around him, melting, growing darker.
He gasped, feeling a wall in his mind coming, feeling it rush towards him with the force of a freight train, ready to obliterate his every ounce of self. He had to get home before it came, had to tumble into bed and draw the covers up, so that when the crushing blow impacted, he would be able to just… pass into unconsciousness, and not fear for who would find him… or in what state.
He made it. Just. And, eyes and chest ablaze with tears, fear and pain, Sora sank into oblivion.
.o.O.o.
"This isn't normal, Roxas."
The blond ignored the voice, kept his focus on his meal, the sharp tongs of his fork piercing through pale, roasted flesh. When he pushed it between his lips, all he tasted was the life that had once existed within it. It sickened him to the base of his soul, every morsel feeling more damned and damning than the last, yet still he continued to slice and consume.
The restaurant was lit in an intimate ambience, the gentle sound of a piano playing in the background. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying the flowing music accompanying their evenings, but to Roxas, the sound was eerie, the player's hands a pair of spiders he would love nothing more than to crush underfoot and be sure were dead.
He supposed idly that this was the sort of thing the owner of the voice was talking about.
He didn't care, though.
"Look at us, Roxas – where are we?" the owner hissed, leaning over his plate.
"Last time I checked, planet Earth," the blond replied dully, before eating another bite of long-dead life. After swallowing, he added quietly, "Call it purgatory, if you will."
The owner's eyes slid shut, a look of supreme patience being fought for on his slender features. He remained bent across the table, struggling hard for composure, no mean feat in a man famed for his fiery temperament. "We are – in the middle of an incredibly nice restaurant, actually," he corrected, voice tight, eyes still closed. "Having what is supposed to be a nice, romantic, us-time dinner… and you're looking like you're going to go postal at any minute. Do you know the way you're looking at the pianist? Do you even see yourself?"
"I'm sorry, I don't have extendable, rotating eyes," Roxas bit off, sawing at his cooked corpse, the steam rising from within in a thin wave, "so I can't answer that question affirmatively."
The owner of the voice sat back sharply, with a sigh, and glared down at his own plate. "I just… what does this say about us? Can't we ever just have a normal relationship?"
"That's rich, coming from you," the blond responded curtly. He jabbed his fork into the meat, placed it in his mouth to be detested and digested, while the owner swept up his bulbous wine glass and took a deep gulp of red, expression caught in a snarl he was obviously trying to repress.
"There's no such thing as normal in you and me," Roxas told him more calmly, eyes remaining fixed downward, seeing not a meal but a punishment to be endured. "If we try, it will break us."
Quietly passionate, the owner placed his glass down, reached across with one hand and stayed the blond's cutting, fingers tight around his knuckles. "But I want us to be normal! I want us to be able to celebrate anniversaries without being weird, I want a house and a dog in some anonymous neighbourhood, I want late nights and early mornings next to you, I wanna grow old with you, Rox!"
Blue eyes stared at death made edible, then shifted slowly to the hand gripping his. They noticed the peeling cuticles, the little flecks of white within the thin cartilage of his nails indicating a lack of calcium in the man's diet. They saw the mottled patch of flesh, ranging from the base of his thumb to halfway across his knuckles, differing shades of brown, red and white, from where new skin had been grafted over burnt-away skin several years previously.
Roxas saw a hand that had touched him more gently than anyone had touched him in his entire life, one which had slapped him in rage, one which had held a lighter and pressed its burning surface again and again into Roxas' bare lower back. He was more familiar with this one hand than he had been with any section of his own body.
This hand loved him.
To the hand, he said, "Then you want to break us. You want to twist us away from everything that we are, and pretend that we are something we're not. You want a fairytale." Then, to soften the sting he knew the hand would be feeling, he lowered himself and kissed its unevenly-coloured surface.
The hand tightened over his, the knife in his grasp slipping slightly over the pale plate's surface, and then it rose, hooked a knuckle under his chin and lifted his face easily. His eyes drifted up, no longer able to properly see the hand, and met with burning green across the table.
"Besides," Roxas continued idly, "do you really think we'll ever get the chance grow old? With or without each other?"
The owner's eyes darkened, and a moment later, Roxas was pulled into a hard kiss. The cutlery clattered, the wine in the glasses swinging from side to side in their clear, smooth-walled prisons, as the owner of the voice pushed his tongue into Roxas' mouth, sucked in his exhalations, acted as if, given the opportunity, choice and chance, he would take it all into himself, pour all of himself into the blond like a vessel, moulding their souls into the one container. He was torn between giving too much and taking too much – it would always be too much, either way.
Roxas could feel the instability of the pushing-pulling combination, the war between them, with himself sitting fragile at the centre of it all. He was accustomed to it by now. He used it to warm his blood.
When the kiss ended, Roxas was left with the lingering taste of his untouched wine. The owner pressed their foreheads together, continuing to greedily partake of the blond's rejected breaths.
Voice shaking, he muttered, "We need to get home."
Roxas tilted his chin forward, touching their mouths together, and agreed against the wet surface of his lips, "Yes."
.o.O.o.
What you said just now – that wasn't normal. This is beyond the call of duty for me. I don't want to enable you anymore than I already have.
Roxas was haunted by these words. Hayner had given up on him.
The second day's grace dawned on two very quiet blonds.
Roxas and Hayner took turns in the shower, Roxas feeling the world around him like there was a curtain in place. It was sheer enough to see through, but opaque enough to keep the details fuzzy, cutting him off from the rest of the human race like an observer. He had a headache that threatened to overwhelm his entire skull, born from lack of sleep. He'd hoped that the new cleanliness would help to ease it a little, but, as he pulled on the clothes he'd brought from his apartment, eyes watering at the lingering spice of capsicum spray, he found nothing to be alleviated.
The mace, as faint as it was, wasn't helping in the slightest. Still, he didn't feel like trying to explain to Hayner why he'd need to borrow a shirt. It wasn't worth it, not right now. Speech… wasn't big on his agenda. He could see that this was both ticking off the other blond, and inspiring worry in him; he was scared that Roxas was diving back down.
Little did he know, Roxas was pretty sure he'd used up his grey quota for the month. He wondered distantly how it would be the next time an episode occurred – would it be doubly vicious to make up for all this?
At half-past five, with the sun creeping into the sky, the two males finished getting ready and headed for the door, silence heavy between them. They descended the stairs, Roxas bringing up the rear, pressing his palm tenderly against the covered gash on his face, making sure that the condensation from the shower hadn't got in and dissolved the adhesive. Patting it lightly, he lowered the hand to the banister, ran his fingers along the cool surface all the way down, the sounds of their footsteps sharp in the enclosed space, in the silence.
Emerging out onto the street, both boys turned automatically to the right, hands in pockets as they headed for the tram common for the earliest ride. In the distance, a truck's horn bellowed, the sound of the day's first trains chugging out of Central drifting along the momentarily cold, early sea-breeze. Wordlessly, they reached the common, clambered aboard the right tram, and sat with elbows on knees, waiting for it to commence its journey.
Roxas could see Hayner darting him looks out of the corner of his eye, but made no effort to engage the blond's gaze. He wasn't – he wasn't angry, as such… but he didn't know how to act around Hayner right now, just as much as Hayner wasn't sure how to act around him. They were both awash in uncertainty, a faint uneasiness hanging in the air between them like a chasm. Roxas knew he owed a lot to Hayner for his treatment of him since he first threw the trail-mix bowl at his head – an act which kind of horrified him with what-ifs, when he took the time to consider them – but he couldn't bring himself to thank him, or apologise, or… anything. He just – he didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to address this.
He didn't want to be told to get help. Not by Hayner. Not by the one solitary person who would actually put up with his shit time and again. Roxas didn't want to face the thought of doing it all alone from now on. It made him feel… like he couldn't quite catch his breath. It made his chest tighten with dread. He didn't want to be abandoned.
So he kept his silence, grim and tight-jawed, Hayner matching it minute for minute, the ride feeling awkwardly longer than usual. The loud rattling of the tram heralded them the entire way, the world warming gradually, the air rushing through growing hotter, the voices of the birds heard distantly through the clatter. Roxas watched the town pass by through the windows, bobbing with every shudder of the vehicle.
As Aerith's store eventually neared, they got to their feet in the carriage sparsely filled with heavy-eyed early-risers. Gripping the handholds, the blonds watched the road rumble past, waiting until the pavement swung their way before leaping nimbly with the ease of practice, neither one willing to wait for the allocated stop and double back on foot.
Their sneakers slammed to the sidewalk, Roxas' legs bowing beneath him, the spike-haired blond nearly tumbling straight to his knees, but Hayner's hand was there to stop him, wrapping firmly around his upper arm and tugging him without thought. As Roxas stumbled back onto his feet, they looked at each other for a tense moment, before Hayner released him.
They continued on, walking until they reached Aerith's, the store's sign against the window reading, 'closed' and displaying their business hours, but the door unlocked as they pushed through, setting off the delicate bell set above their heads.
Evidently listening out for them, Aerith called from the back room, her voice oddly loud in the stillness. The boys passed through the dark shop, brushed by fronds and reaching leaves, the scent of soil and greenery swirling to encompass them, the natural humidity the many, varied plants created swallowing them. It really did seem a lot more like a very small nursery than a florist's – Roxas sometimes wondered why Aerith didn't just claim they were a garden centre that delivered flowers and get it over with. But no – apparently, despite her love of all things growing, the woman favoured flowers, and made them her profession.
As they entered the back room, Roxas was made aware of this afresh as his eyes took in the sight of dozens of overflowing baskets, spewing forth every type of flower they stocked and then some – he was pretty sure he recognised sprays from Aerith's own garden, which he'd had the opportunity to marvel over all of twice in his employment, at her incredible converted-church home.
The woman herself was seated in the middle of the floor, utterly surrounded by arrangements, hair tightly braided back and swept over one shoulder, dark smudges of fatigue shadowing each eye. She looked up with a tired smile, letting loose a satisfied sigh. "Morning, boys," she said hoarsely, sounding for all the world like she'd been there the entire night. The more Roxas gaped about at the fabulously-done compositions, the more likely it seemed.
"Aerith…" Hayner exclaimed in awe, trying to take in the wild chaos and make sense of it. "Please tell me you went home last night."
Her nose crinkled as her smile grew warm. "I went home last night," she assured him. As he sighed his relief, she added, with a wink, "For a jacket." Hands pausing from where they were even now arranging, she lifted her fingertips to the short red jacket covering her upper torso, straightening the sides, before returning to her work. The blonds gaped.
"Are you telling me you didn't sleep at all?" Hayner demanded. "Aerith!"
"Hayner!" she mimicked. "It's my job, my business, remember?" Rolling her eyes at his attitude, she waved a hand, saying airily, "It's not like it's the first time I've pulled an all-nighter. I promise there weren't any boys or alcohol." As Hayner huffed, Roxas gave a slight smile. Aerith's gaze found him, gaining compassion as she asked, "How are you, today?"
"I'm good, Aerith," the blond assured her quietly. "It's good to have something to occupy my mind."
She liked this answer – it seemed to put her fears at rest, posture relaxing from its rigid state now that they were both here to remind her she wasn't some kind of flower-weaving robot. Stifling a yawn, she stopped again to check her wristwatch, murmuring, "Oh, I lost track of the time." She rolled her neck from side to side, working out the stiffness from sitting for so long. "My friend should be back any minute with coffees for us all. She stayed with me to keep me company and make sure nothing happened in regards to that arsonist."
Both blonds grimaced at the reminder. "I really hope nothing like that happens to this place," Roxas muttered, eyes skating around the room. Aerith shivered a little.
"Oh, don't even suggest it." She placed her hands on her crossed knees, gesturing out at the overwhelmed room, asking, "So, then – how does it all look?"
"Nothing less than incredible," Hayner admitted, looking around. "Those guys at the mansion better be paying you good for all this work."
Aerith laughed, a tired sound, but pleased. "You can start loading up the van straight away, just take any, there's no order to them. It'll take a couple of trips, though." As the boys headed for the door to the yard, she called after them, "And don't worry about chilling the back, it's early enough to not wilt them, and it's all a one-way trip."
"You got it, boss," Hayner yelled back, voice bouncing off the fence walls, echoing up into the sky. They grabbed their gloves from the workbench, tugging them on, cold for now but warming quickly. Roxas took the keys and went to unlock the van, while Hayner started setting up baskets by the door, ready to be hauled out into the lane and the waiting white vehicle.
Together, silence persisting, they loaded up the back of the van, efficiently and without complaint. The only point of displeasure for Roxas was when he realised he was carting, among other things, orchids – he could feel the pollen irritating already. Making sure his gloves were pulled as high as they went, he kept his face back and moved quickly, feeling sneezes build inside his sinuses like bombs waiting to go off.
Noticing his discomfort, Hayner paused, frowned as they headed back in the heating air for more. Roxas stifled the first sneeze, eyes reddening, and the taller blond muttered, "Leave those ones for me. Focus on the others." Roxas blinked away the moisture in his eyes, sniffed, nodded. The baskets developed a segregation as they continued, and Roxas' allergy, for the most part, came under control.
As the van reached the half-filled point, an unfamiliar voice bellowed for them to come in. Throwing each other momentarily bewildered glances – before remembering that they weren't talking – the boys slowed, stopped, returned to the store and cautiously entered.
Crouched in the new blank space on the floor, beside a still-working Aerith, was a woman with long black hair, holding two large, cardboard coffee cups. Her dark eyes rose from watching Aerith's hands, a bright smile in place as she greeted, "How's it going, guys? My name's Tifa – I got you some caffeine to tide you over until the job's done."
"Oh – hey, nice to meet you." Hayner tugged off a glove, grabbed his coffee gratefully in one hand and shook her hand with the other. Roxas offered a superficial, thin smile, doing the same, murmuring his thanks and lining up the small hole with his mouth.
"Oh, hey, be careful!" Tifa warned, alarmed. "It's really –"
"Ah!" Roxas hissed, snatching his head back from the sudden stinging burn on his tongue and lips.
"…Hot," the woman finished helplessly. "I'm sorry, I should have said so straight away."
Gingerly touching his mouth with one finger, Roxas shook his head. "It's fine, don't worry about it." His mouth tingled, slowly turning numb. He placed the cup down in the cramped, sectioned-off employee area, popping the lid off and replacing it loosely to allow more steam to escape. Rubbing his mouth absently, he tugged on his other glove, glanced at the women and said, "I'll – wait for it to cool." He got back to work, Hayner joining him a moment later.
It took twenty minutes to fully pack the van, leaving a third of the baskets still sitting on the back room's floor. Aerith and Tifa were co-operating on the last several, talking earnestly about world topics over the flowers they placed and shifted, providing background noise to distract the males from their continuing stalemate… up until it was time to deliver the first load, that is.
"Due to time constraints, both of you will go," Aerith commanded from her cross-legged position, "then you, Roxas, stay behind with the load while Hayner returns and packs up the last of them. Roxas, just put them wherever the owners tell you to, there should be someone on hand to give you your instructions. Hayner will be joining you soon after, and once you've completed everything, just come on back, boys. The shop will be open for business hours by then, and we can get going on the regular tasks."
Hayner sucked a weary breath, nodded. "Sure, Aerith, no problem." Grabbing the van's keys from the woman's outstretched hand, he jangled them in his fist, tossed Roxas a glance, asking flatly, "Are you ready?"
"Uh-huh," the blond muttered in return, not meeting his gaze. Both smiled at the women, who waved a brief good-bye before returning to their previous conversation, Tifa settling across from Aerith and beginning some form of argument. Their voices faded as the two blonds tramped out through the yard, over the scraped paving and through the gate, Roxas swinging it shut behind them, Hayner heading straight for the driver's seat.
Making sure the rear and sliding doors were secure, Roxas joined him, hauling himself up into the passenger's side. The van started up, and, the boys rolling down their windows automatically, Hayner pulled out of the lane and retraced the roads to the massive home among the hills.
The vehicle reeked of every type of flower, Roxas having to place his face halfway out the window to keep from being overwhelmed by the orchids, which Aerith had already apologised for and explained were unavoidable additions.
Once again, silence reigned between them. Aside from the few words they'd had to utter, they remained close-lipped on the one topic that occupied both their minds, disappointments, fears and expectations forming blockages within throats that prevented words from getting past. A lot of sighing went on, though. A lot of… almost-words. The tips of their tongues were crowded with a thousand warring speeches which neither knew how to deliver.
Roxas occupied his with the coffee he'd brought along, luke-warm now, sipping at it periodically as Twilight Town went rushing past on either side, the streets and architecture familiar, comfortable, warm. He felt, despite everything, a quiet rush of affection for the place, which he hadn't had time to indulge in since his episode commenced the previous week. He liked living here, and even though he complained about the heat, he enjoyed the sleepy atmosphere it lent.
As they pulled up to the mansion, Roxas drained his cup, bent the edges inward, and placed it on the dashboard, squinting through the sun-splashed windscreen at the looming home, the van cresting the rise of the driveway and drawing to a halt. The engine cut out, both boys pulling deep breaths, not looking at one another as they exited the vehicle. Hayner headed straight for the doorstep as Roxas went around and opened all the doors wide, allowing both of them to haul the baskets out as swiftly as possible.
By the time Hayner returned, a disturbed expression in place, Roxas had unloaded ten of them onto the paving, beginning to build up a sweat. The taller blond hesitated, watched him for a moment, then asked, "…Roxas?"
"What?" the boy returned shortly, not looking up as he swung two more out and carried them to the others, gloves negating the cut of the weaving into his skin. He sniffed, rubbed his wrist over his forehead, returned to the van.
"You know how you came back the other day all sort of… in a bad mood?" Hayner ventured. Roxas scowled darkly.
"Don't worry, it won't repeat itself. You won't have to put yourself out by enabling anything." It was an unfair, bitchy statement; he felt it, felt useless for having uttered it, but somehow managed to retain just enough stupid pride to only hesitate before continuing as if nothing had been said.
Hayner did the same, a slight pause developing, before saying flatly, "Never mind, then."
Part of Roxas wanted to flare, demand if that was actually what Hayner had been desiring to ask about, but he subsided after a teeth-gritting moment, threw himself into his work, muscles working hard, sweat building and trickling. Hayner operated from the rear doors, the two blonds maintaining a wall between them that was now officially stronger than it had been before they'd made the mistake of speech. This had been precisely why neither of them had tried conversing – there was too much tension, too much potential for bitterness from each, threatening to turn even the most idle chatter into an opportunity to inappropriately vent frustration.
The van was unpacked a damn sight faster than it had been loaded up, and it wasn't long before Hayner was pulling himself back into the front seat, restarting the vehicle and pulling away without another word. Roxas glared after him as he took the corner too wide, too fast, the van's wheels protesting with a slight screech, the engine noisy as the blond accelerated away. Then he was alone with the baskets, the hot breeze, and the large house.
He turned to it with a frown, inspecting its face, eyes automatically seeking out the cameras from last time. The fact that they were still there was somehow enough to relax him – they were a permanent fixture of the house, used by hyper-alert owners for security purposes. Maybe it was the tail-end of the grey talking, but he didn't find it bothersome today like he had last time. Freaking out at the thought of being captured on tape seemed an exaggerated over-reaction to today's Roxas, and, without qualm, he gathered the first of the baskets and headed for the front door.
Realising that Hayner had neglected to tell him anything the owner might have said, he quietly cursed the tall blond, lips pursing unhappily. The door was open, though, propped wide and held in place with a small wedge of smooth rubber. Sighing, resigning himself to seeking someone out and asking for a brief rundown, he turned sideways, a broad basket clutched against his waist in each arm, the heads and long, graceful leaves of the flowers bumping against the wood as he entered.
The inside of the manor was dim and hushed, nothing like he'd been expecting – in truth, with some important something-or-other brunch requiring all these massive arrangements decorating the place, he'd thought that the caterers would already be in place, fighting for driveway space with all the aggression of the hospitality business. It was unusual that they were all alone here – that he was all alone here.
Eyes skating the large foyer he'd entered into, he raised his voice, called, "Hello? I'm an employee of Aerith, I just need some guidance here, please!"
His voice all but echoed in the high-ceilinged space.
He waited for a minute, waited for someone to appear from somewhere and provide a little direction, but no one did. He might as well have kept his mouth shut. With a heavy exhalation, he lowered one of the arrangements to the floor, holding the first more securely, glancing over his shoulder and out into the bright sunlight, to where all the others were sitting fully exposed to the sun. They would begin wilting soon, if he didn't transport them in, and there was nowhere out there shady enough to transfer them to until Hayner returned in forty minutes' time with the next load and the given instructions.
Clamping down on his irritation, Roxas looked around the interior of the house, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Hello! Need a little help here, if you please!"
When still no response came, he made the decision to go in search – there was simply nothing else for it. He hadn't so much as a cell-phone on his person with which to contact Aerith, such things belonging to those with foresight and a hell of a lot more sleep than Roxas had been indulging in lately. His thoughts were muffled, his steps heavy as he headed cautiously towards the nearest door, cracking it open and calling, "Hey, is anyone around? I'm from Aerith's Ancients, trying to help set up for the party or… whatever it is."
His voice came bouncing back at him, sounding frustrated. With a sigh, he set off down the hallway, hoping to God that he wouldn't get in trouble for venturing where he wasn't allowed. People got weird about those sorts of boundaries with delivery boys. Still, it's not like they'd left him with any other choice in the matter. Was it really so hard to have one person within earshot of the people decorating your goddamn mansion? Was it seriously that much to ask?
Huffing a breath impatiently, he hitched the basket further up his chest, shaking his face free of the several gardenias jutting out, venturing deeper into the house, determined to find someone. Looking around, though, he wondered why these people were even bothering with all the flowers – all of Aerith's wares combined couldn't mask the fact that, on the inside at least, it was a dusty, dilapidated sort of place. Everywhere he looked, on every raised surface, a layer of grime was evident, the sort you could trail a finger through, leaving a shining snake in its wake. Furniture was broken and looking like it wasn't going to be fixed anytime in the next millennium – honestly, who went to the trouble of paying so much money to prettify the place only to have the aged mustiness overwhelm it again?
Perhaps they were new to the area, he supposed. Maybe the place was a fixer-upper. Didn't change the fact that there was no one the fuck around.
"God!" he exclaimed, reaching the end of the hallway and looking left, right, back the way he'd come. Angrily, he wondered if he should just head back. He wasn't comfortable being this far in uninvited, he was going to get into trouble, and quite frankly, these were the assholes who had made him shift every goddamn pot a foot to the left. Who knew where they were, or what they were doing, or even what they found amusing – flower boys wandering their hallways unattended? Sure! Why the fuck not! Entertainment plus!
Shaking his head, growling under his breath, Roxas performed an about-face, stalked back down the dim passageway towards the point of light in the distance that was the exit into the foyer. He would just bring everything inside and wait for Hayner to get back. Maybe it'd give him time to wake up a little – he was beginning to feel sick, he was so fuzzy-headed and clumsy.
He still wasn't going to sleep if he could help it, though.
Suddenly, he tripped, over seemingly nothing. He fell hard, landing on the arrangement, sending the flowers erupting out onto the thin carpet, winding himself slightly on the surprisingly hard, woven basket. His small cry died quickly on the flat air, features forming a deep scowl as his mind caught up with his sprawled body. Grunting, his palms found purchase against the floor, pushing him shakily up to his knees.
A second later, a strong hand wrapped tightly around his upper arm, and he was yanked to his feet, biting his tongue in the process. He looked over quickly, eyes widening sharply at the sight of a tall person dressed entirely in black, a thick hood drawn over to heavily obscure the wearer's features. He couldn't stifle the gasp that popped from his lips, shock and fear spiking in his chest.
The figure – it looked like Death.
Roxas had never been afraid to die – never really thought about it in earnest – but there was something about being faced with someone from a Grim Reaper's cult that brought it all home with a jolt.
He could only stare as the figure brought its head close, face remaining unseen, though it was obviously peering hard into Roxas'. A moment passed, Roxas' heart jumping hard.
Then, the figure spoke.
"Can you feel Sora?"
It was asked intently, voice low, male, a searching quality to it. Almost… a desperate edge. Roxas hitched in a breath, confusion rising. He shook his head helplessly, eyes scouring the dark cowl. "Huh?"
The hand tightened cruelly for a moment, then released him abruptly, nearly throwing him away. Roxas choked out a protest, the man striding down the passageway, away from the light. Roxas hadn't even heard him approaching. How did he move so damn quietly?
He could remember Hayner demanding the self-same thing of him, once upon a time, early on in their friendship. Pence had likened him to a ninja at Olette's grandparents' beach house, and he wondered if this was what it was like to have someone completely and utterly sneak up on you like that.
The difference being, though, that Roxas was Roxas. Once they saw him, the scare was over.
"…Can you feel Sora…?" he murmured aloud, testing the words out, gazing after him as he vanished around the distant corner.
Slowly, feeling his upper arm throb from where those fingers had gripped him, Roxas gathered up the scattered flowers into the basket, and carried them back into the light.