CHAPTER THIRTEEN

An hour later, Roxas heard the rumble outside that signified the van's return. Together, relief and anxiety slammed into being, creating a churning inside that did nothing to help his exhausted dizziness.

Hayner was back.

Straightening from where he'd been twisting one floral arrangement in its place, trying to show its best side for Aerith's sake, he rubbed a wrist over his sweaty brow and headed for the entrance. He hadn't yet managed to bring in all of the baskets; the eerie encounter in the hallway, coupled with his complete and utter lack of sleep, had slowed him down. He was trying, he really was – but no amount of good intentions could lend his heavy body speed or alacrity. He felt – sick. His headache had yet to fade. His face was throbbing all around the gash in his cheek, stinging, itching. The heat was getting to him. He just – he needed to lie down for a while.

He stepped out into the blinding sun, feeling its burn sear and envelop him, the perspiration prickling against his skin. Shielding his eyes, he paused for a moment to adjust, swaying slightly under the assault. The world went white-hot, swarming with minute dots, time hesitating as Roxas wondered faintly if he was going to pass out right here on the stone steps. This time, Hayner would be too far away to catch him, just like he'd feared, and no doubt there'd be blood galore. Knees weakening and wobbling, the temptation was there to let go, barely even a choice to be made, not Roxas' choice at least – his body was ready to take control and make up for the last couple days of neglect.

But that would mean sleeping, wouldn't it?

Oh, that just wouldn't do.

Willpower asserted itself more firmly, like a cold gust of wind to the face, forcing his eyes to blink rapidly. With an extra hard heartbeat, time resumed, Roxas gasping a deeper breath, legs moving before his vision had even cleared yet. No, no, no. No sleep. No. It wasn't an option. Instead, he staggered towards the van, its paint harshly reflecting the sun's rays, no shade out here, not unless he wanted to crawl underneath it and lie on the blistering paving.

Hayner was already working, hadn't spared Roxas a single glance throughout his tight-rope act between consciousness and unconsciousness, obviously still pissed at him, totally ignorant of the fact that his supposed best friend had been virtually assaulted within the freaky mansion while he'd been away. One small mercy had been that, though he'd kept one eye forever watchful for his reappearance, the man in the black coat hadn't returned.

As Hayner slid the side of the van open with a bang, Roxas drew level with him, reaching out to grip the lip of the roof to steady himself. He practically sagged against it, trying hard not to be obvious, then hissed sharply as the burning of the metal registered a moment later against his fingers. He yanked his hand back, Hayner finally sending him a look, a pitying one, before going still. There was a pause, as Roxas panted against the side of the vehicle, cradling his hand with ferociously knitted brows, before the taller blond sighed. "You fucking asshole."

Surprised, Roxas squinted through the blinding light, turned his head, only to see Hayner's shoulders shifting as he leaned into the van, rummaging noisily in amongst the many woven baskets, fronds, broad leaves and blooms. After a short hunt, with a sloshing sound, a half-filled plastic bottle of water was punched into his sternum with enough force to knock some of the breath from his chest. "Drink some, knucklehead," Hayner advised irritably, adding in a mutter, "Jesus."

Roxas looked down at the bottle suddenly in his grasp, hesitated, then unscrewed it and did as commanded, swallowing half of it down, then cupping scraping several handfuls across his sweltering scalp. It didn't make the ill fatigue – that weak, shaky, numb sensation – go away, but it cooled him just enough to pull him back from the hazy brink. If he was going to pass out, it at least wouldn't be from heatstroke.

Capping the now empty bottle slowly, he studied Hayner's grim profile, the thin blond back to work, hauling out several baskets and depositing them on the driveway. Drawing a short breath, Roxas softly said, "…Thanks."

"Uh-huh," Hayner grunted, bending to loop a group of them over his forearms, dragging them out of the van's stifled interior. "They're wilting, get going."

Roxas repressed the grimace that wanted to break out, a little disappointed, mostly unsurprised. Evidently, no thin gesture of goodwill meant that things were back to normal. Hayner wasn't going to bend that easily, and they weren't about to start acting as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

Fine, then. Roxas had made an effort, at least. If that wasn't going to be reciprocated, then the standoff would continue at Hayner's insistence.

He walled his expression over to mimic that of the other blond, and copied Hayner's method, looping his arms through the basket handles and carrying several arrangements over towards the house, stepping past the ones that had yet to be taken in. By this hour, all the plant life was beginning to look worse for wear, but it was hardly his fault – the owner of the goddamn house shouldn't have been so decidedly fucking absent. Maybe if Roxas hadn't had to spend so long dithering uncertainly through empty passageways, they'd be looking fresher.

As he headed inside to set them up in the main foyer – the only part of the house he felt comfortable, or safe, entering by himself – Hayner took over the job of bringing them to the door for him. They encountered one another at the crossover point on countless occasions, but ignored the other's existence each and every time. They just worked, and worked, until the van was empty, at which point Hayner joined him in quietly setting them up inside.

He paused at the entrance, arms laden with baskets, and eyed the crowded way the arrangements had been placed – on tables, on the floor, at the base and top of the two staircases, at the glass doors into the yard. "…This is what they wanted?" he asked, dubiousness breaking the silence.

Roxas scarcely glanced at him, curtly answering, "Fuck knows what they wanted. No one was around to tell me where to put them, so I just set them up how I could. These people are freaks, Hayner, they're weird, and the sooner we're out of here, the better."

Hayner considered this, watching him work, couldn't resist shrewdly starting up, "So. Something did happen to you the other–"

"Nothing happened," Roxas bit off. He pushed up to his feet from where he'd been steadying the cracked edge of one of the baskets, wiping his hands on his shorts and darting several uneasy looks around. "Look, this house is some kind of cult den or something, so can we please just finish the hell up?"

After a second's blankness, understanding dawned on the taller blond's face. "Ohh. You met the guy in the black hood, right?"

Roxas stopped, pinned Hayner with a sharp look that made him falter. "You knew that that guy was running around like that, and you didn't warn me?" Hayner's mouth opened, no sound coming out as he hesitated, not sure how to argue that. "Thanks, Hay," Roxas snapped coldly, blue eyes narrowing. "I appreciate the heads-up."

Helplessly, the other blond stammered, "He didn't… I mean, it was just a robe, man…"

"And the guy under it is some kind of fuck-nut," Roxas muttered, stalking past to get more bouquets from the entranceway. "So thanks a lot for that. Thanks for abandoning me. Good to know I can count on you."

Undertones screamed. Hayner's teeth clicked together, cheeks furiously flushed, something akin to shame flickering in his eyes, but anger smothering it out. The unfairness of the statement echoed in the air, and this time, it was because of Roxas that the standoff perpetuated – only now, the bitterness was much closer to the surface.

.o.O.o.

With no reappearance of anyone inside the mansion, Hayner and Roxas left within the hour, having done the best they could without supervision or instruction of any kind. If the owners were unhappy with what they'd done, they could go jump off the nearest, tallest bridge, as far as Roxas was concerned. And if Aerith tried to make him go and move all the baskets a foot to the left, he'd consider quitting, he seriously would. He'd had enough of that house. Aerith needed a black-list, so he could write the address of that place over and over on it, and never have to go back.

The trip back to the store could only be described as bundles of fun, with a wall of ice a foot thick and sky high separating the males. Hayner took the corners wider than ever, Roxas gazing flatly out the window, refusing to react, not a word passing between them. Aerith's bright, air-conditioned greeting fell on sullen ears, the pair of them grunting in return as they headed for the lunchbox-sized employee lounge, their bodies in the same space but their minds a million miles apart and getting further with every minute.

Roxas heard the woman excuse herself from a customer, coming back to investigate, Roxas on the couch, Hayner standing with his back to him, the pair of them sipping water from the dispenser and pointedly cold-shouldering one another. She frowned. "How did it go? Was everything okay?"

"The baskets were all delivered and set up," Roxas replied neutrally, tiredness heavy in his tone. "No one told us we did it wrong, at any rate."

She glanced to Hayner, waiting to see if he had anything to add to this – no doubt he had been a lot less disgruntled the last time she'd seen him, making the abrupt transformation puzzling – but he did nothing but continue drinking, staring straight ahead and tuning out the conversation altogether. No one did dour withdrawal quite like Hayner – he could stonewall the entire planet if the situation called for it.

Familiar enough with his moods to know that pushing would get her nowhere, Aerith sighed, hands on hips, and eyed them both critically. "Neither of you have recovered yet, have you?" She shook her head. "Roxas, you look like you're about to fall over, and Hayner –" She gave a worrying smile. "You just look exhausted, dear."

Roxas lifted his gaze up to the back of the blond's sandy head, unable to see whatever expression he was wearing to make her utter such a comment. Hayner just tipped his chin down a little, some vague acknowledgement that she had spoken. She grimaced. "I'm sorry," she apologised, after a beat of silence. "I wish you hadn't had to come in so early. It's been a long couple of days for both of you." They both looked over at her, stung out of their distances by the regret in her voice. She smiled to finally have their attention. "…Take the afternoon off. I'll survive."

"But…" Hayner weakly attempted to argue. "But we took yesterday off, and you need us…"

"I needed you," the woman corrected, raising a finger. "And you both really came through for me, even with all the recent trauma and sleeplessness." Roxas barely managed to restrain a snort at that last one. Oh, if only she knew. She folded her arms across her stomach, regarding them with fond worry. "But I know you were planning to go to the police after work, so – why wait? Go now, boys. I won't need you again today, and I really want everything sorted out with Roxas."

Hayner turned to send the blond a long look, blue eyes meeting hazel in a moment of hard wondering. Roxas tensed – what was Hayner feeling spiteful enough to say, right now? 'In that case, forget it, Roxas is a fucking liar'? Or, better yet, 'Oh, it's not the police we need. A straitjacket will fix him just fine'.

Hayner pursed his lips, glanced away. "…We'll do that. Thanks, Aerith. You're a good boss."

She huffed a slight, dry laugh. "No, no, just a good businesswoman. Can't have the two of you slouching around my store all day glaring, you'd scare off the customers." She stepped into their personal space, the pair of them stiffening a little as she couldn't help but touch a motherly hand to each of their faces in turn. Her gentle, green eyes searched first brown, then blue irises. "Take care," she said at last, a thumb lingering at the corner of the large Band-Aid on Roxas' cheek. "Please, boys. I hate to think of you being unhappy."

It only took a couple of minutes to pack their gloves away and grab their wallets from the locked drawer in the employee lounge, shoving them into deep pockets and making sure Aerith hadn't changed her mind before they left. They exited across the back yard, through the gate and into the alley, Hayner double-checking that the van was safely locked up before they continued on towards home.

The trip was predictably quiet. No conversation, no running commentary, no dry remarks – nothing from either camp. Cautious, wary, resentful silence dogged their every step and breath, giving neither blond a moment's peace. Their flip-flops slapped the ground, the sun burned; life went on around them like the proverbial pebbles in the greater river that they were, paying their consuming dramas which meant so much to them, so little to the passers-by, no heed.

Then Hayner paused at a set of traffic lights, turned to Roxas, and, ignoring the other pedestrians forced to move around them, said, "Choose, Roxas."

The spike-haired blond jerked his head up from its sunken position, shoulders straightening uncertainly as he took in his friend's hard expression. Hayner had crossed his arms, was frowning heavily, gaze unwavering. He was the very picture of grim resolve, and Roxas had – absolutely no idea what he wanted. "I… what?"

Hayner tipped his head to the right. "That way is home. We go there, and that's the end of it. If you're so determined to be a fuck-up about all this, then I won't support you through it anymore. You can fix your own damn cuts the next time some psycho comes knocking at your door, and I won't be so forgiving when you go berserk and try to kill me. I'll be out of it completely. And I mean that," he warned darkly. "I'm not going to soften up and help you if it happens again, because it'll be all your own fault. Short of the guy dragging you into some alleyway and raping you, I will have nothing to do with it, so don't come to me." Roxas stared with wide eyes, the implications not having time to sink in before Hayner went on, nodding to the left, "That way… is the cops."

Roxas went cold, spine rigid at the mention of the police, blue eyes narrowing stonily. Hayner paused, eyed him wearily, taking note of the reaction with resignation.

"…If we go that way, then I'll be behind you every step of the way. If that red-haired prick shows his face again, I'll do my best to beat it into a whole new shape, and I won't let him go until he's bleeding from as many orifices as possible. I'll listen to you, Rox. I'll be your wingman. Anything you need, I'll provide. I'll help you get drunk to get over the trauma, and I'll even hold your hair when you start puking everywhere afterwards." He lifted his shoulders lightly, a deliberately casual expression in place. "I'm your best friend. I'll fill the shoes like a best friend should." He regarded Roxas steadily. "It's up to you, though, man. It's your choice." The shorter blond hesitated, making him sigh, voice taking on an impatient quality. "I'm sick of fighting with you. Between your recent grey phases and my own stupid shit-storms, I'm getting kind of tired of the mood swings, you know? I want us to make a resolution, one way or another." When the blond still didn't speak, he groaned, lightly kneading his brow, and requested, "Tell me this, at least – what's so insecure about going to the cops? That's your issue with them, right? It's not secure enough, you said. So… why is that?"

A spike of panic tingled at Roxas' nerves, leaving discomfort in its wake. That was… a very bad question for Hayner to be asking him. Very bad.

Because Roxas didn't have an answer.

"…I don't…" Roxas stopped, bit his tongue between two canines. I don't know. Hayner wouldn't accept that, he knew. He wouldn't accept the weakness of it. All it would do was compound the theory that Roxas was losing his mind. He thought for a moment, searching his ridiculous mind, then hesitated, quietly said, "They're just… not. It's… my decision." Frustration flashed through Hayner's features, but he kept his silence, no doubt biting his own tongue hard enough to bring blood. "I choose home."

The taller blond narrowed his eyes, a tense pause developing between them. There was a breeze, the first whispers of ocean air sweeping through their sleepy little burg. The traffic revved and honked, the clacking of the tram audible beneath it all.

Eventually, Hayner inclined his head shortly. "…It never happened, then," he decreed. Roxas glanced away from the disappointment in his gaze. Another moment of stillness passed, before Hayner adjusted the hem of his shirt awkwardly, needing something to do with helpless hands. Head lowering a little, he turned to the right. "Let's go home." He rubbed a forearm over his perspiring forehead, briefly closing his eyes, Roxas cautiously trailing as he began walking again, muttering, "I have to call the bank and find out what my stupid number is."

The blue-eyed male watched his back warily as their flip-flops resumed scraping and scuffing the pavement with tired steps. He couldn't quite believe that Hayner's tone had held any finality with the statement that it had never happened. That wasn't Hayner; Hayner pushed. He didn't bargain until he knew he was beat. So what did that mean, then? He'd – given up? Conceded defeat in the face of Roxas' complete and utter inflexibility? …Had the last couple of days really been that intense for him?

A stupid question, he supposed, eyeing the sweaty blond's back unsurely, guilt sharpening its many little knives on the threads of his insides, not quite ready to start stabbing, but acknowledging that some future butchering was probably in store. Hayner pushed, but Roxas had pushed even harder. And now… his best friend was down, he'd won, and it felt hollow, like all the best victories always did.

At least, by Hayner's own admission, that was the end of it. It was over now. Roxas could finally begin the process of forgetting, even as his fingers rose to flatten the curling edges of the Band-Aid down against his cheek.

He jogged forward a couple steps, catching up, drawing alongside his friend. Hayner threw a little glance sideways, a small crease between his brows, relaxing imperceptibly when Roxas shot him an equally brief look and focused ahead. This was the truce. This was all arms being laid down, an end to what little gunfire had passed between them. It was unspoken, but felt keenly by each of them, each with his own measure of relief.

Roxas just didn't realise exactly how much of it was on Hayner's side, or what that sudden lift of tension could mean.

.o.O.o.

The showerhead hissed. Roxas tasted salt in the cool water that streamed through his hair, down his face and into his mouth, tasted his own sweat being washed away and let it gush down his chin as he rejected it. The sounds of his short gasps of air filled the bathroom, feet shifting silently against the cold tiles in amongst the constant swirl of his sluiced filth. The Band-Aid had given up the battle and been temporarily plastered to the wall, sticking with a mixture of leftover adhesive, water, and a little bit of blood. As long as he didn't leave it there, Hayner couldn't be grossed out.

The pressure of the endless stream passing through the increasingly puckered gash stung a little, but didn't affect him beyond a sensation to be noted, business as usual. It might as well have been someone poking his side – his mind went, "Oh, there's something happening", and left it at that.

He'd been in here for fifteen minutes so far, knowing he had to climb out soon, but it was his first shower since the grey plunge after the attack – it was nice to enjoy the various sensations that accompanied a satisfyingly chilly shower on a hot, sticky day. However, aware that sooner rather than later Hayner would come bitching about hot water and electricity – surprised that he hadn't already, actually – he forced his hands up after a couple more minutes, dripping and trickling, and twisted off both faucets.

Silence haunted the bathroom as he quietly opened the small, rippled glass door, stepping out onto the damp mat on the floor. He could distantly hear Hayner's voice elsewhere in the apartment, muffled through the walls and hall and doorway, obviously displeased about something. Sniffing, the noise echoing around him, Roxas drew the towel from the rack, dried himself briefly, then tightened it around his waist. He opened the white door, wood trickling with light condensation, and reached over to the linen closet, grabbing a second towel for his hair.

Stiflingly warm air pressing against the lingering water on his skin, Roxas headed down towards the bedroom, Hayner's voice growing clearer and more insistent the closer he got. A spike in volume, genuine anger ringing in his friend's tone, and Roxas paused. He gazed down the hall, frowned slightly, then continued with wary curiosity to the sitting room, scrubbing slowly at his head.

Hayner agitatedly faced the sliding door, glaring out at Twilight Town as he argued with the person on the other end of the phone clutched hard against his ear. "No. No. You're not listening," he said carefully, teeth gritted against impatience. There was a beat of silence, then another, "No." He let out an irritable sigh, clutching his head and beginning to pace, ranting, "No! Listen to me, I'm telling you, I've been with this stupid bank since I was a kid, okay? My mom got me an account for my thirteenth birthday; I have been with you for almost ten years. I did not forget which bank I'm with, thank you very much, nor am I confused about which card I used. I have an account with your bank, and I even have two hundred and thirty nine bucks in it – so stop telling me I don't!"

Bewildered, Roxas entered the room completely, hair bedraggled now, tucking the towel against his chest and shifting into Hayner's line of sight with a questioning eyebrow. The other blond noticed him, sent over a frustrated look, shaking his head sharply. To whichever hapless bank official he was haranguing, he snapped, "That's ridiculous. Where the hell is my account? Your computer is wrong, buddy." He spent a moment letting the person speak, while Roxas took a seat on the couch, digging his arms into the damp towel and pressing it against his stomach, watching the stray drips slither down the hanging locks of hair in front of his eyes while he listened.

"You know what?" Hayner's voice rang scathingly in the small room after a minute. "Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on. I'm coming down there, and we're going to sort this out where you can be a condescending shit to my whole face instead of just my ear." He ended the call abruptly, looking like he wished he was on a phone more traditional than just his cell so that he could slam the receiver down and deafen the person on the other end.

He buzzed with angry energy, flinging over to Roxas, "Can you believe that these – these – people," – evidently no insult offensive enough was springing to mind –"are claiming that I don't have an account with them?" He stuck his phone fiercely into his pocket, stalking to the bedroom. "That's why my number didn't work the other day," he spat, the sound of various drawers being pulled open as he changed his shirt. He hadn't even taken the time to shower yet – no wonder he was pissy. "Not because I was being thick, but because they are claiming I don't exist. How about that for a guy's confidence, huh?" He reappeared, tugging a black tee down over his chest, ranting, "Eight years of loyalty, and for what? 'I'm sorry, sir, we have no record of your funds in our databank. Perhaps you're thinking of First Bank of Twilight?'"

"You couldn't ask for the manager?" Roxas asked calmly, aware that any ire he chose to display on his friend's behalf would only stir him into a deeper, more justified rage.

"I did. He's a jackass. I'm gonna enjoy meeting this guy." He stormed into the kitchen, snatching up his wallet from the counter, dragging a hand through his hair as he returned to the sitting room, eyes darting restlessly for anything he'd missed that needed doing. "Okay, I think I'm ready. I'm gonna run down and sort it all out with them, and I swear to God, I'm not leaving til I've got my money." He levelled a finger Roxas' way. "You. Don't open the door to anyone, and don't take anymore fucking showers. Don't think I didn't notice you taking advantage of my battle with the idiots."

"Hayner."

"What?" the blond snapped. Roxas met his fiery gaze placidly.

"Calm down. If you go in yelling, they'll get security to kick you out."

"I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. I'm aware." He took a breath, chest and shoulders lifting slightly, and put some effort into quietening down. "I'm calm," he assured, sounding a little strangled but generally more patient. He inclined his head towards the blond. "I'll get it sorted, and pick up something for dinner on the way home. I don't feel like choking down another burrito." As he headed for the door, he jabbed a finger into his left temple, twisting and reciting, "Remember: door, shower. Both a no-no."

"Don't know why you're bothered about the door," Roxas replied idly, attention down on a Struggle magazine that had been left on the coffee table at some point, fingers sliding through the pages. "After all, nothing ever happened… right? If nothing happened, I've got nothing to fear… right?"

Hayner paused, one hand on the doorknob, halfway out into the hall. He stared back blankly at Roxas' downturned, damp head for a moment, a measure of stillness finally penetrating his tension. "Jesus, Roxas."

The words were sighed out, then the door was shut, and Roxas was alone.

Blue eyes glanced up from the magazine, a hand smoothing down its glossy cover, fingertips drumming briefly on the surface. He exhaled softly, fingernails scraping along his scalp, and stood, holding the towel loosely at his hips as he went into the bedroom. His backpack sat in the corner at the foot of the bed, partially unzipped. Roxas crouched, dug through it half-heartedly, drew out a shirt and pressed it to his face to sniff. "Ugh." He flinched back at the peppery quality. God, how long did that stuff cling, anyway?

For the first time since it all happened – the first time while lucid, at least – Roxas found himself considering the red-haired guy. Axel. Grim satisfaction flashed through him at the idea of all this and more continuing to torment him. If this was what Roxas' shirts were like a couple days after the fact, then there was a fine chance the guy was still weeping like an infant and blind. With the slice in his cheek still holding beads of water from the shower, he sure as hell hoped so.

But still – he didn't think he could wear his shirts while they made his nose prickle like this. He really didn't feel like being reminded of it every single time he got dressed; having the reality of it lingering in his mind was more than enough. Grabbing hold of the bed, he pulled himself heavily to his feet, eyes slipping shut as the temptation to lie down on the soft mattress, the cool sheets, struck hard and clung. Oh, how easy it'd be to just crawl naked under the covers and sleep until everything faded away, all the intensity, all the thoughts, all the exhaustion… It had been so many, many hours since Roxas had last properly closed his eyes...

No, though.

No sleeping.

He shoved himself up straight, staved off the stagger that wanted to shake his legs weaker, and made resolutely for the drawers. He yanked them open, dug through and pulled out shorts and a wife beater, both too long, too large, but good enough for now. Hayner wouldn't mind, especially since Roxas was about to do some laundry for both of them. Grabbing up his backpack, he snatched up Hayner's dirty clothing from the pile on the floor and shoved it on top of his faintly mace-scented ones. Zipping it up, slinging it over one shoulder, checking to make sure he had enough quarters, he passed through the silent apartment, grabbing his keys from the corner of the coffee table, and exited out into the hallway, locking up as he left.

Down in the basement, it was actually cool for once. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as first one of the washing machines, then one of the dryers rattled and snarled with age, the room empty, quiet, Roxas sitting on one of the metal fold-out chairs with his legs apart and his hands folded over his stomach, staring into space. Every blink threatened to take him into unconsciousness, every breath frighteningly deeper and slower than the last as the inactivity continued, but, though it made his head thump fiercely and a bitter taste to spring up at the back of his throat, he remained awake.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd stayed conscious this long. It had been… almost three days now. The third night was approaching. That long without sleep. And in a way he felt like death, it was – dragging at his limbs, and eyes, and he felt so unhealthy, but… oddly enough, he also felt like he could keep going if he chose to. This wasn't the end of his reserves. Sure, he was maybe tapping into the final silo, but there was still a reasonable way to go yet. He was – capable of more.

At last, he was snapped out of his daze by the dryer finishing its cycle with a shrill beep that seemed to go on forever in the hush. Wincing as it spiked through his tender skull, Roxas eased up, shuffled over and dragged the hot bundle of fabric out of the machine, feeling the static electricity pass into his fingers, the light hairs on his wrists standing on end. He folded each item slowly, hands clumsy, pausing every now and then to rub at itching eyes, before shrugging his backpack back on, tucking the small, warm tower of clothing under his chin and making for the stairs. He ascended leadenly, toes catching on the corner of each concrete step, pushing back out into the natural light and heading up to the fourth floor.

As he levelled out again, making a sluggish beeline down the hall for the apartment, he disengaged one hand from the pile, delving into his pocket for the keys. He hooked them out on a finger, bringing them out with the light jingle of metal on metal. Glancing at his palm, he sorted through the tangle with a thumb until Hayner's spare was singled out, fingers clutching it in readiness as he approached the white door, featureless except for the brass number hammered to its front. The key rattled, twisted in its dark little hole, the lock disengaging and letting him in, only to find a stranger sitting on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, the Struggle magazine clutched in his hands.

The breath caught in Roxas' chest, steps freezing as the person's head turned, cold eyes digging into him, expressionless and yet somehow accusing with every ounce of being.

"You're breaking up," he said flatly. Roxas closed his eyes, heart wrenching painfully with the shock, a short, soft gasp pulling at his throat. He all but sagged against the doorframe, making the male frown. "Chicken-Wuss?"

Roxas went still, that note of familiarity striking a chord deep inside, blue eyes fluttering back open after a moment. "…Seifer?"

Whoever he had been was gone, banished like smoke, features once again recognisable, what had looked like dark hair turning out to be the ever-present beanie crammed over blondness, the blue eyes definitely cool but now touched with wariness as they took in Roxas' reaction.

"Well, aren't you a bundle of steely nerves," the man dryly observed, turning a page in the magazine and settling deeper into the couch.

Roxas drew a deep breath, weak all over, blood pounding at every pressure point, sharp-edged with the lingering traces of violent fear. "You know something?" His voice held only a hint of shakiness. "Just when it looks like you're halfway to human, you go and fuck it up, Seifer. Every single time." He closed the door quietly, tossed the keys onto the table with a loud clatter, and left the blond sitting there while he went to put the clothes away.

He heard Seifer grunt, then footsteps a minute later as he followed, calling, "Where's Chicken-Wuss the first?" Roxas was on his knees in front of the chest of drawers when Seifer appeared at the doorway, leaning against it with crossed arms and angling his gaze down. "And why the hell are you wearing his clothes?"

"What the fuck is it to you?" Roxas muttered tightly. He pulled open the drawers one by one and began to place the clean washing away. After a moment, he paused, turned his head and glared suspiciously up at the intruder, a smirk starting up on Seifer's face as he saw the next question coming. "How did you even get in here, Seifer? You don't have a key."

"Maybe not," the blond agreed smugly. "But the locks in this building are piss easy to pick. Blondie's lucky I don't come and clean him out every time he leaves for work."

Outrage flooded Roxas, the shirt in his hands slamming down to his knees as he demanded, "You broke in? Seifer, you are breaking and entering. Do you realise that that's supposed to be a bad thing?" As the older male laughed, apparently pleased with himself, Roxas scowled, returning to his task. "What are you doing here, anyway? Hayner's out, and if he was in, I'm pretty sure you'd already be bouncing down the stairs on your ass."

Seifer snorted his scepticism at the likelihood of that scenario, and answered, "I needed somewhere to hang out for a while, and what better place than the Den of Wussiness, where a big, strong man is needed to keep you both from wetting your pants every time someone knocks at the door?"

"Never mind that no one asked you," Roxas snapped, lifting up on his knees and jamming several shirts in at once. Seifer just snuffed a laugh. He stepped into the room, jumped over Roxas' hunched back, and landed on the bed while the boy continued to sort through the laundry. As he made himself comfortable, long legs stretching, hands behind head, Roxas shot over a puzzled, frustrated look. "Look, don't take this the wrong way or anything…" Seifer glanced over, an eyebrow arched, lips curved up in preparation to be amused by whatever limp insult the shorter blond was preparing to deliver. "…but – did you ever notice that you're not our friend, Seifer?" The man's head turned a little, the eyebrow lifting a little further. Roxas listed off on his fingers, "You piss Hayner off at every opportunity, you practically ignore my existence except to poke fun at me, you're a shit to Pence, always calling him names – all of us, actually…The only one who likes you is Olette…" He dropped his hand back down, shaking his head. "My point is, what are you doing here?"

Seifer's eyes narrowed at him, mouth stretching into a slow, thin smile. "…You invited me, remember?" He made a show of getting comfortable, stretching a little, expression beatific. "Maybe you don't like having me around, and maybe I do deliberately try to make Hayner lose his cool and throw a bitch-fit… but this time, right now, you've got no one to blame but yourself." He smirked. "Hayner called me because you got attacked, because you were acting like a freak and he didn't know what to do." Roxas' expression fell, darkened. "I got bored, and I felt like coming here, and there ain't nothin' you can do about it," the man concluded pleasantly.

There was a brief silence, before Roxas growled, snatching up the last of the clothes and standing. He glared down at Seifer, who was back to looking pleased. "You're such a bastard," he accused. Shaking his head sharply, he added, "God," yanking open the top drawer and shoving some balled-up pairs of socks to the back to make room for the last of the shirts. Suddenly, he felt something sharp dig into the soft skin webbing between the base of his thumb and forefinger. With a hiss of surprise, he wrenched his hand back, slamming the bone of his wrist on the wood on the way out. Seifer threw him a look as he nursed his hand uncertainly against his chest.

"What's the problem, wuss?"

"…Nothing." Roxas shook his hand to rid it of the momentary sting, grabbed the handle to slide the drawer shut, remembering clearly the sight of Hayner shoving something quickly away when he'd entered the room last week, that feeling of having intruded on some private moment. He didn't know what it was that had jabbed him, and he wasn't about to go in after it and find out.

Seifer was another matter. "You looked like something burnt you in there, Roxas. What is that, Hayner's underwear drawer?" Eyes shining abruptly, he swung his legs around, sitting up with great, relishing interest. "What did you do, find his porn stash and a gigantic rubber dildo?"

Roxas sighed, replying irritably, "Don't be a jerk, Seifer. There's nothing in there, okay?"

"Says you," the blond retorted, grabbing Roxas by the forearm and tugging him hard, kicking a foot out from under him, standing smoothly as he toppled with a startled noise onto the bed.

"No! Leave it, damn it!" He struggled to clamber back up, Seifer shoving him back with a hand to the face, other hand already sliding the drawer back open. Roxas kicked his feet out at the man's knees, Seifer expertly dodging, complaining, "Gross, I think I touched your cut. Fuck, dude, that thing is going to be nasty in a few days." He delved into the drawer without compunction, digging swiftly around while Roxas drew his knees up and flipped over, crawling to the foot of the bed and half falling off in his lunge for the asshole, clutching one shoulder and yanking him angrily back.

For once, Seifer came easily, twisting away from the drawer and holding up a white square of card, thumb and finger carefully pressing one corner as he lifted it over Roxas' head and squinted.

"…The fuck?"

"God damn it, Seifer, you really are something else, you know that?" Roxas was torn between disgust and panic that Hayner would magically materialise at the doorway and catch them at it. He grabbed for the square, Seifer snatching it out of reach, a frown falling over his features. Roxas noticed the expression helplessly, dreading whatever it was that Hayner would have to suffer from this day forth. Seifer was not someone you revealed a weakness to; he would use it, and he would make life miserable. This was apparently the lesson Hayner had learned in the schoolyard, and it was about to be proven, all over again.

Seifer grabbed a handful of his shirt, twisting it sharply and pushing him down again onto the mattress, with as much effort as it took to swipe at a bothersome fly. A second later, the white square was slapped onto his forehead. "Relax, wimp. You're not even on it." His tone was suddenly different than it had been, the scorn and curiosity dried and dead. He released Roxas, left the room, boots clomping audibly towards the kitchen. Confused by the about-face, Roxas unstuck the article from the dampness that had beaded on his skin in the struggle, automatically glancing at it, thumb sliding over its glossy surface.

It was – a Polaroid. Like the kind from Pence's hobby camera. In fact… it was one of Pence's, he was sure of it. How else would Hayner have got hold of it? It was old, slightly faded, but the image was clear enough; it was unmistakeably of Hayner, Pence, and Olette.

Roxas' face softened at how young they all looked – completely trouble-free. The three of them were posed outside the gates of some big, old place or another, Olette with her hands on her knees, dressed in violent orange and khaki, Pence toting some dorky red sweatband, Hayner trying to look tough in army fatigues. She and Pence were smiling brightly, while Hayner wore the kind of long-suffering smirk that said he was way too old for this, but doing it anyway – probably because they wanted to.

It must have been taken five, six years ago. All those years… and even though he'd been too cool at the time, Hayner still had it. Hid it. Treasured it. It was a memento of simpler days – when life had consisted only of the three of them, of endless summers, and Seifer as the arch enemy.

Lowering the picture, Roxas frowned in the direction of the kitchen. Did Seifer not like being reminded of that? Was he really that sensitive?

…Naw.

Roxas flapped the Polaroid idly against his shirt, mouth twisting pensively at one corner, several moments spent in thought before he realised – he was still holding the damn thing. With a flood of guilt and sudden fear, he quickly stood, pawing through the collection of socks and underwear, desperately trying to recall exactly what part of it he'd thrust his hand into previously, when the accursed thing had made it presence first felt.

Biting down on his lower lip, he flattened the photo down towards the back of the drawer, then tidied the various items, smoothing and arranging so that hopefully no evidence of his and Seifer's tampering would be found. He didn't know for sure why Hayner had the picture tucked away like this, or whether he'd be embarrassed rather than mad that Roxas and Seifer had found it – Roxas albeit involuntarily, but he honestly couldn't see Hayner appreciating the distinction – but he just knew to the absolute bottom of his soul that seeing it constituted some kind of betrayal.

And oh, sweet Jesus – Seifer was going to tease him about it. Never mind his weird reaction; now that Seifer knew Hayner had a sentimental keepsake kept to one side where no one else would see it, he would make it his mission to take the ever loving piss out of him.

Before he could begin to fret in earnest, Roxas heard a coughing from the kitchen, followed by a second's intense gagging. Head snapping around, slamming the drawer shut with his palms, the blond went to wearily, worriedly investigate, when Seifer suddenly bellowed, "UGGH! Why the fuck do you chicken fuckers have sour milk in your refrigerator?! Ugh, oh God, I swallowed that…"

Roxas entered the kitchen to find the man bent over the sink, white-flecked saliva being virtually vomited out into it, Hayner's beloved dollar-milk on the counter beside him. He blinked, startled, then couldn't help but fold his arms weakly over his stomach, sag onto the frame, and start laughing. If he'd had the energy to, he'd have pointed, as well.

Seifer slammed on the faucet, thrusting his open mouth under the thundering flow and letting it blast it clean, eyes squeezed shut. Roxas kept on chuckling, a helpless, almost hysterical pitch to it, digging the base of one hand into his top teeth to try and stifle the noise.

Eventually, Seifer had had enough. He twisted off the tap, coughing and spitting out water, obviously still with a taste on his tongue but maybe… minus the floating chunks the milk container appeared to be sporting. He remained there, panting over the basin like a drunk waiting for the next wave of nausea, fluid shining on the sides of his jaw. Slowly, he reached up to try and wipe it away, a clumsiness to his motions. His eyes stayed shut, and gradually, Roxas' amusement faded as he took in what seemed to be – a beaten expression on his face.

"Talk about adding insult to injury." It was muttered, almost beneath his breath. Perhaps if it hadn't been so silent in the kitchen after the pounding water, it wouldn't have been audible. But it was, Roxas heard it. He shifted against the doorframe, wondering what to do – help him somehow? Apologise? Get on the warpath and tell him to get the hell out, and never mention the Polaroid again?

Seifer's blue eyes flashed open, bleary at first, pinning Roxas across the room. He carefully pressed one hand against the edge of the counter, pushing himself up, sleeveless white trench coat whispering around his ankles as he stepped back, wiping his mouth. He paused, hand beside his lips, gaze digging into the blond, then said, "You'd have been in it, if you'd had the chance to be. He values you." He lowered his hands to his sides, straightened his shoulders, and began the trademark Seifer strut, aiming beyond Roxas for the hallway. "He values all his friends, to the most stupid fucking extents. All you have to do is look at the last couple days to realise that." He brushed past, bumping the blond with a hard, careless shoulder. "I changed my mind." His voice had regained its cocky obnoxiousness. "Somehow, the idea of hanging around this dump has lost its charm."

Roxas turned, following him with a scowl. "Seifer…"

The man stopped at the front door, throwing back a smug look. "I'll do you a deal – I won't tell your boyfriend that we went digging through his tighty-whities, if you conveniently forget I was ever here in the first place." Roxas jumped a little, feeling like his mind had just been read and his inner thoughts somehow mocked. Seifer narrowed his eyes. "So, are we good?"

The twenty-one-year-old blinked a little, then nodded. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever."

Seifer sneered. "Good." The door was slammed behind him, enough to make Roxas wince, and after that, there was silence.

.o.O.o.

Day passed into night, and then some. In a motel room towards the edge of town, a single light glowed inside darkness. All curtains were drawn, all appliances off, not a single flicker or sound except for fingers occasionally hitting keys. Colourless illumination washed faintly across the walls, creeping towards the room's dark corners but dying long before it could reach them. A narrow, flushed face and spiked red hair were lit sharply by contrast, situated right in front of the laptop's screen, green eyes bloodshot, staring.

It was the early, early hours of the third day's grace.

Slender fingers hovered as Axel read carefully through the information in front of him, trying hard to keep from blinking. He was so tired, his entire face feeling three pounds heavier than the rest of his body, like the skin was hanging off his bones, drooping, ancient and dried up and warped. Every time he closed his eyes, they watered, burned, stung, blinded him, all the more so because he was forcing them to stay open to avoid precisely that, creating a vicious cycle of pain and yet more pain. There was no escaping the seared sensation of his sinuses and throat, the constant, dull throb behind his forehead. There was no moment or heartbeat in which his eyes didn't beg to be clawed from his skull; but it would pass. Eventually, gradually, day by day, he'd improve. A week from now, it would be a memory. He could last a week. He could handle this.

He was bent awkwardly into the space between the motel bed and the little nightstand, the laptop balanced on his knees, a slender cord connecting it to the landline plug in the wall, the room's phone disconnected and placed to one side. A box of tissues sat at his bare feet, half emptied, and from time to time he would reach down and tear another one free, blowing his nose as it continuously ran and tossing the soiled paper up onto the bedspread. He avoided rubbing or touching his eyes in any way, the eyeballs themselves like miniature suns within their sockets, the broad area around them raw from the boiling water and turpentine used two days previously to scrape away the oil.

Axel was a mess, and it was all because of Roxas. It was only ever because of Roxas.

Using a phone connection to slither his way through various solid-seeming firewalls felt amateurish, sloppy, would have been risky if he was some kid or asshole looking to let loose a virus or boost someone else's funds, but it was the only option he had at his disposal. All other channels of communication that were readily available to him would be monitored by any number of people; too dangerous. He knew only too well how unreliable these sorts of things could be – after all, he was monitoring others' himself, not the least of which was the Twilight Town Police Station.

He'd had a direct feed of their information since the moment he'd been capable of opening his swollen-shut eyes without wanting to rip at his hair and scream his throat hoarse with the agony. So far, no report had come in. Nothing about a blond kid getting jumped by a mysterious, highly identifiable attacker in his own home. It hadn't even been masked as a lesser offense, like a mugging, to put the cops on their guard without bringing them roaring into Roxas' private life. It had been two days, and there was nothing.

Axel didn't know where the boy was. He didn't know where his little friends lived. Everyone within a three-person radius of Roxas had been blanked from every record he could have got his hands on to track them down, so that even though he'd now got to the stage of being more than willing to seize one of the fuckers as they came out of the house and shake him or her til they sang addresses out of every hole in their head, he couldn't. Someone was protecting them. Someone else had found Roxas, long before Axel could, and had put measures into place anticipating just this scenario. It made his blood boil, to be foiled time and time again by this hidden entity, but most of all, it terrified the hell out of him. Not for himself, never for himself – but for Roxas.

It was only ever because of Roxas.

And just as he was about to shut down for the night, just as the hopelessness welled to the point of sending him to bed to stare at the wall, feeling small and useless, pathetic to the core of his being… the screen jumped. A slight beep sounded in the silence, Axel's breaths stopping completely, eyes forgetting to stay wide and blinking automatically, sending him into a flurry of burning, rapid winks, spontaneous moisture blinding him, teeth gritting together with the effort that came of not beginning to instantly paw at them. Although it pained him to have to postpone this for even a second, he forced himself to calmly take the computer off his knees, standing and carefully stepping over the short cord. He went to his bag, sat on the bed, and spent several minutes squeezing sterile isotonic solution onto each eyeball, letting it coat, surround, soothe to the point of stemming the tears that kept trickling down his face as his body attempted to rid itself of whatever the hell he'd managed to get into one of the most vulnerable parts of it.

At last, he was able to see again, though blearily, and, wiping his nose on yet another tissue, he sat back down on the floor, twisting the laptop carefully towards himself, reading the information that had come up. Attack… red-haired suspect, distinguishing tattoos… blond victim… afraid to testify, reported instead by friend… pictures…

With a frown, Axel accessed the pictures, a series of scanned-in Polaroids showing on the screen. Seeing them, he nearly blinked again, nearly made it start all over again. A bolt of ice flashed through him, followed by blazing heat, a tingling in his stomach and fingertips, breaths growing shorter.

Roxas was staring out at him. Roxas, with his sliced face, the injury that Axel himself had caused, but that wasn't what sparked such a reaction in him – it was the fact that that was… exactly the way Roxas used to look at him. That flat, dull, uncaring expression. That look that screamed that he wouldn't hesitate to step over your dying body if you were in his path, with a single, scathing remark about how you'd slowed him down.

This was the Roxas that Axel loved, and had, for a while, lost track of. And beneath these pictures, there was an address for the police to contact him, should he happen to change his mind, and feel like making a statement after all.

For the first time in three days, the redhead smiled.