CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"…You're breaking up."
.o.O.o.
Clarity was painful, and detestable. It was cold; colder than normal, colder than confusion and internal rigour mortis, sharper than the knives that had attacked the heart and brain with vicious temper and justified self-loathing. Those sensations were the closest things to pleasant memories that Roxas could readily recall. If the owner of the voice had anticipated this bleakness that had stormed throughout the blond and frozen him indefinitely, Roxas would smother him in his sleep.
The sky was dark with cloud, a frigid wind sweeping along the ground and making stray, winter-killed leaves scrape the bitumen, the legs of Roxas' jeans moving stiffly as he sat at a lonely bus-stop in the middle of upper-class suburbia. Gloved hands tucked into the pockets of his thick parka, the blond waited patiently, ignoring the strands of pale hair that tickled his half-lowered eyelashes. Compared to the inner ice, the crystals of it that encrusted the walls of his veins and organs, this meteorological chill was nothing. He could have gone naked, could have watched on impassively as his fingers and toes turned black when the snow came, and still have compared the weather to a hot summer's day.
Traffic glided thinly by as he sat like a part of the hard bench itself, tires splashing through the dirty slush in the gutters, creating a background soundtrack of wet motion and life that was distracting. His thoughts were weary and disjointed, altogether too clear at any one point in time for him to dare to cling to for more than a few seconds each. In the weeks since he had started taking his various medications, Roxas had struggled to be scattered, or to simply not think. He had gained an overall blankness that the owner of the voice had uncertainly attributed to being side-effectual, never for a moment imagining that it was self-imposed. And perhaps this empty-headed state was a direct result of the chemicals swimming his bloodstream like piranha, but one way or another, Roxas welcomed and nurtured it, dreading the times when it receded and left him exposed.
The air was bitter, the tip of Roxas' nose numb. The blond could smell a storm on the way, and wondered where he would be when it happened. Would it come while he sat here on the side of the road, and freeze him to the bench? Would it wait until he was on the bus, and make the roads slick enough for the entire, hulking vehicle to slide out of control, perhaps killing him in some miraculous collision? Or, the most desirable – would it hit after he had returned to the owner's apartment; where it would freeze the water in the pipes, ice the doors shut, seal him away until spring came to thaw it all away and finally allow his refrigerated corpse to begin the process of rotting?
A guy could hope. Sometimes, he felt that such a hope was all that kept him going from day to day.
It was ten minutes to one o'clock. There was a scarf wrapped around and around his throat, not nearly as tight as he'd have liked. It covered his mouth, captured breaths keeping his lips warm, blue eyes more prominent than ever above the dark navy wool. The owner of the voice had insisted he wear it, and he hadn't been in the mood to argue. If it made the red-haired man believe that the medication was working, then it would be worth it – Roxas wasn't sure how much more of the nagging he could handle before he snapped and made all the effort to date utterly useless.
While he sat there, the minutes ticking past, the blond's gaze came to settle on the small collection of buildings on the other side of the road, the large sign against its high, gothic fencing proudly stating it to be a school of standing, prominence, wealth and success. Never mind that it was for elementary kids. That was just the kind of area this was; pretentiousness and stature oozed out of every door and driveway, money falling from the fingertips of all who claimed it as their place of residence. Roxas didn't have much of an opinion on it either way; he had nothing against riches. Money, sex and murder were what made the world go round, the owner had told him that often enough. Resenting such a fact was like shaking your fist at the ocean for being so fucking aqueous.
From where he was, the blond had a clear view of the school's playground, a slew of brightly-coloured climbing and swinging equipment visible, the grass a brighter shade of green than normal against the gloomy backdrop of the looming weather. All of it was empty for now, silent enough to almost believe that the entire place was dead; all the little children in all their pristine classrooms, bent over their desks and breathless, eyes staring sightlessly while teachers patrolled the desks and smothered any who dared to twitch with life...
It was… such a clear image in his head. He could almost imagine it happening as he sat there, unmoving, staring, just out of reach. A passive accessory who neither saw nor attempted to stop.
A pressure started building in Roxas' head, an ache behind the bridge of his nose. As the clocks hit one pm, a sudden, grating bell erupted within the school, distant, but close enough to make the blond's eyes squeeze tightly shut for a moment, as if it was inside his very skull that it was shrilling. It wasn't long before the children came swarming out, and now Roxas knew that he preferred the thought of them dead; like this, they were noisy, argumentative, irritating beyond all else. They screamed, they cried, they bullied, they laughed, they ran about in a variety of garishly coloured raincoats and boots, and not one of them was cute, not one. They were all hideous, repulsive, like miniature demons; they were the future, and it was a vile one indeed. Roxas felt his stomach churn just looking at them.
But then… like a little angel appearing from out of their midst, he saw one in particular who was familiar to him. The sulky line of her mouth, the scowl of her brows, the black-and-yellow bee motif of her raincoat; she was unlike the others. She was quiet, though he didn't notice the ones who were quieter; she was alone, but he didn't see the ones that were lonelier; she was a single shining ray of light inside the darkness, with wisps of curling blond escaping from under her hood. Somehow, to him, she was a paragon of everything good and right in the world, if ever such a thing could exist. She was… merely a child.
He watched her for a while, narrow blue gaze following her through the mess of playing students. He noticed the games that she favoured, the way she avoided the others, the people she chose to speak to and those she ignored. He was fascinated by everything she did. The traffic passed by, cars momentarily blocking his vision of her, but always he managed to relocate her. She couldn't get away for long.
Then out of nowhere, for a split-second, he felt a piercing pain in his chest, and it had nothing to do with anything physical. Roxas paled, jolting forward a half-inch, blue eyes widening, teeth grating together. A breath was sucked in through flaring nostrils, catching harshly in his throat, cold, dry. He swallowed it down, struggled to force his mind back to a blank state, and the little flicker of – panic, was it? – began to fade. The world grew a little duller.
Chest expanding with a large breath, he removed suddenly sweating hands from inside his jacket, splaying the fingers wide on the blue denim of his jeans, and focused once more on the school, shaking slightly. He reached up, pawed at his eyes, froze as a voice said, "Don't."
Ah, yes. The one thing no medication could take care of, unless it was a lethal dose of morphine that would block Roxas' consciousness forevermore. It didn't matter where he was, or in what state of mind: the boy, his pale eyes like chips of ice in an otherwise pleasant face, would find him even in the darkest of moments. He was everywhere, a stain that no amount of scrubbing could dislodge. He was a disease.
"Don't."
Roxas didn't glance over, kept his posture slouched, staring dully at the schoolyard as if no one had spoken. The boy had appeared out of nowhere – if only Roxas ignored him for long enough, perhaps he would return to nowhere. The bench vibrated as the boy shifted, turning sideways and staring hard at the blond. He leaned forward slowly, voice low, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Roxas remained unmoving, his only concession to the new presence being his fingers curling in on his palms, nails digging in. He exhaled softly into wool.
"I asked you what you're doing. Don't pretend you can't hear me. Answer me."
Roxas' eyes slid shut, teeth gritting together. Somehow, he never could hold out for long. "I'm just… I'm waiting for a bus."
"Liar." The word was sharp, the boy coming closer, icy, intent, threatening in the most subtle of ways. None of it reached his expression; it was, as ever, entirely in his eyes. Roxas knew he shouldn't have spoken, shouldn't have given him the opportunity to dig in any one of his all-knowing knives and gain purchase. This boy… he knew the blond too well. He knew his every blink, and precisely what they meant. Roxas couldn't lie to him successfully. And yet, he continued to try.
"No," he denied flatly, deliberately calm, forcing down his unease. "I'm just waiting for a bus. That's all."
One arm snaked out, hand clamping around the wooden back of the bench, boxing him in, the boy hissing, "Liar." Roxas didn't flinch. "Don't do this," the boy murmured next, and in his tone, the blond detected… a hint of pleading? His head gradually swivelled to face the boy directly for the first time, blue eyes meeting blue eyes. They were still so cold, so filled with rage, but the expression on the boy's face countermanded it so powerfully, it was as if he were two different people holding two different agendas. Roxas was momentarily bewildered.
Down the road, the bellow of a heavy engine alerted both males to the coming of a bus. Neither knew if it was the one that Roxas wanted, but both were aware that, either way, he would be boarding. Sensing time slipping away, the boy pressed on urgently, "Do not do this. You know, you know what'll happen. You can't keep going like this, you're breaking up."
Roxas scowled, muscles tightening. He shrugged the boy off sharply, climbing to his feet, chin tucked into his scarf. "You're forgetting," he said, the bus rapidly approaching, "that I'm already broken."
The source that fuelled the look in the boy's eyes came into precedence, as if compassion had only ever been an act in the first place. Voice like diamond, he told him, "You can break further. You'll split. You'll cease to be. Don't think that this is the lowest you can get, because rock bottom is only the surface. There's still Hell, Roxas."
The bus stopped, the doors sliding to one side to allow him access, but at the foot of the stairs leading up, he couldn't help but hesitate. He turned his face to one side, glancing only briefly over his shoulder. "…You trying to tell me I'm not already there?" he quietly enquired. When the boy had no reply, Roxas mounted the steps, paid his fare, found a seat.
He didn't look out the window as the bus slid past the stop, didn't need to; he knew that the boy would have already left. He'd abandoned Roxas to himself.
.o.O.o.
Axel was calm on the inside, agitated on the outside… or maybe it was the other way around. The time for leaving Twilight Town had come, and he didn't plan on making the journey alone.
Night had fallen deeply outside the curtained window, a single lamp burning on the nightstand of his cramped motel room. It cast steady shadows across the walls, disturbed only by his own restless progress back and forth as he swiftly packed his belongings away, meticulously ripping up any scrap of paper he'd ever used within the town's confines and tossing the pieces into the small metal trashcan on the carpet next to the bed. Body humming with tension, jaw tight, he zipped up his bag and threw it towards the door before heading into the tiny bathroom, turning on the light with a flash. The mirror was harshly reflective, showing lingering inflammation in his eyes, green irises more vivid than ever against the red stain, a constant, taunting reminder of just how badly he'd screwed things up. It shouldn't have been like this. Damn it, if he'd only shown a fucking ounce of self-control; there were a thousand better ways he could have handled their encounters. But – when it came to Roxas… Axel and control… they just, they didn't go together. It wasn't there.
Gloved hands trembling faintly, the redhead grabbed a facecloth from the corner of the small basin, moistened it under the faucet, then jammed it into the drain, wedged it in place with a twist of long fingers. Sniffing hard, he snapped a broad paper medical mask over his mouth and nose, adjusting it with his fingertips.
On the edge of the ceramic basin stood two bottles, one a bright blue mouthwash, the other appearing to be a children's cough syrup. He reached for the medicine. A healthy family, plus glossy dog, grinned out at Axel from the label, with an almost maniacal insistence that, 'Yes, this was the elixir that made us so damn happy! Buy it, fucker, and be just like us!' The irony of what had been funnelled into the bottle's brown walls instead did not escape Axel, but right now he couldn't bring himself to laugh. Not tonight. Not when this was his last chance to make things right.
He unscrewed the cap, head drawn back to avoid inhaling fumes, and upended the half-bottle of liquid into the small, off-white sink. The colourless fluid swirled briefly, settled around the washcloth, before beginning the gradual process of being absorbed. A creeping sickly-sweetness wafted upward, Axel leaving the room and going to the bed, where a single Ziploc bag had been placed neatly beside the laid-out black fabric of his heavy, hooded coat. He plucked it up, smoothed it out, checked swiftly to make sure that the seal was working seamlessly – a leak wouldn't serve too well, now, would it?
Returning with it to the bathroom, he slipped his hand into the plastic, flexed his fingers, then reached into the sink, spreading it wide around the saturated cloth. In a deft movement, he scooped it up, turned the bag inside out with the washcloth on the inside, liquid gathering in the corners, and zipped it tightly shut. Tipping it upside down to test it's effectiveness, Axel gave a satisfied grunt, then slammed the faucet on hard, water thundering down into the basin as he went back out into the bedroom.
Bending over his coat, he felt about for the pocket, stowing the plastic baggie in deep, making sure it wouldn't be able fall out when he wasn't paying attention. Pacing back to the bathroom, he peered critically at the thundering water, picked up the mouthwash, added it, glugging, to the maelstrom. The overpowering scent of cold mint flooded the bathroom, erasing any other smells that had ever existed.
Leaving the blue storm to rage, Axel returned yet again to the bedroom, time pinching at his nerves. He snatched off the paper mask, snapping the feeble elastic strands holding it to his face, and dropped the whole thing into the trashcan to lie on top of the phone numbers, names and addresses he'd gathered during his stay. With the sound of the hammering water echoing out from the bathroom, he opened the small drawer of the nightstand, pulled out a book of matches, drew two and struck them simultaneously. The little flames flaring to life, he nudged the trashcan over towards the door, far away from the smoke detector bolted to the wall above the bed, and dropped them onto the flammable pile. The face mask caught instantly, curling, smoking, eaten away by flame. The rest of the bin's contents were quick to follow, the metal can briefly becoming a miniature bonfire, sides blackening wherever the fire licked. The blaze lasted only half a minute, a handful of ashes and some threads of melted elastic left behind. Axel picked the trashcan up, opened the front door, letting in a swirl of warm air, and threw the blackened, disintegrating remains into the night wind.
Closing the door quietly again, he placed the bin back in its usual position, went into the bathroom, finally turning off the faucet. Silence hit suddenly in its wake, making his pulsing heartbeat somehow louder than usual. The water bubbled and gurgled as it was swallowed bit by bit, an hourglass in fast-forward. The sink emptied, only a few shiny streaks of pale blue left behind: it was impossible to tell that there had ever been anything untoward inside it. Tomorrow morning, housekeeping would come, they would clean the place, and that would be it. Axel's presence would be scrubbed indefinitely away from Twilight Town. The next time he lay down to sleep, it would be somewhere far from here.
Standing at the foot of the bed, shrugging his shoulders slowly to make the coat settle more comfortably around his narrow body, Axel's gaze carefully burned in a circle around the room, taking in every inch of every surface, seeking any remainder of his stay. Steps measured, an element of calm beginning to seep through his being, he re-entered the bathroom, took up the cough syrup bottle, screwing the lid back on tightly. Straightening, he studied himself in the mirror above the sink, eyes inevitably dropping to the black of his coat, the silver glint of the zipper underneath the halogen light. Mouth quirking down into a grimace, the redhead suppressed a sigh, reached behind his shoulder, fingers grasping for the coarse fabric. With a tug, he lifted the heavy hood, slid it over the long spikes of his hair, feeling its weight over his brow, its shadow partially obscuring his features from sight.
He would play the part of the villain, if that was what Roxas insisted on.
Flicking off the light, Axel vacated the tiny, tiled room, pulling the door shut. Scooping up the long strap of his bag, he hooked it over his shoulder, left the key on the nightstand, switched off the lamp, and left the motel.
Boots crunching over loose bitumen, he slid through the night with comfortable ease. Green gaze forever on the lookout, he travelled down the line of silent doors, around the corner and into the back of the parking lot behind the motel. His rental car sat patiently, door open and waiting, duffel tossed carelessly in onto the passenger seat. Walking around to the trunk, he unlocked it, lifted the lid, stared dully at the two large, metal containers that lay within. Stretching a hand in, he experimentally grabbed hold of the handle of the nearest, tested its weight, double-checking that everything was as it was supposed to be. It was heavy. Something sloshed within as he shifted it, and, inclining his head faintly, he placed it back as it had been.
Shutting the trunk again, he went around to the driver's seat, the car dipping on its suspension as he climbed in and slammed the door as his feet found the pedals. He started the engine, released the handbrake, got the car into motion and left the parking lot behind, streetlights sliding over the windshield. Driving through the near-deserted streets, this hot, sleepy almost-beach town was quiet so late at night.
It didn't take Axel long to get where he was going; fifteen minutes later found him standing once more on solid ground, the rental shut tight but not locked, the trunk lid coming up again and the containers coming out. Their handles were cold, heavy, pressing hard into the black leather of his gloves, knuckles inside going white. Arm muscles bunched and hardened, but Axel was accustomed to such weights; it all felt so deliciously familiar.
A slow tingle of energy began threading through his veins, trickling into his arms, legs, up his throat and into the base of his skull, the first faint stirrings of a thrill that never died. Heart pumping the slightest bit harder, breaths stopping a little shorter each time, he slammed the trunk shut with his elbows, the keys already stowed on top of the front tire for when he returned. Footsteps quiet, soft, the contents of the metal containers making not a sound, Axel smoothly walked around the block, keeping to the darkness. No cars passed, no pedestrians were out. He was alone in the night.
Passing a long brick wall, the redhead turned a corner, and finally was standing at the base of the stone stairs to the apartment building in which Roxas' dearest little blond friend had a home. How cute that they were rooming together during such a difficult time.
How positively fucking cute.
Axel adjusted his grip slightly on the metal handles, mounted the stairs evenly, placed the containers silently to one side and pulled a small collection of random keys from his pants' pocket, all useless scrap metal save for one, an unremarkable-looking creation except for a curious lack of teeth. Instead, a series of short, tiny, needle-like protrusions disturbed its smooth edge, disappearing into the lock of the building's main access door, locked tight for the night. He pushed it almost all the way in, then bumped it the last little way whilst twisting. Click. Easy, painless, and hell of a lot faster than using laborious tools.
Keys jangling slightly, he stowed them back in his pants, held the heavy, automatically-closing door with the toe of one foot, and swung the containers back up, one metal edge scraping the concrete with jarring loudness. For a moment, Axel stiffened, looking around quickly before disappearing into the building, senses extended to detect signs of motion nearby, the rumble of voices, the click of doors opening. He stood still and silent, just out of sight of the entrance, breaths stopped and waiting.
…Nothing.
Lucky, for all involved.
Chest relaxing, grim determination resuming, he continued onward, following the memorised schematic of the building he'd dug up from government records the previous night. It was old, and basic, the layout a cookie cut-out of so many other apartment blocks in existence. Finding his way through it was a cinch, especially when his only aim was the basement. As he opened the door, a gasp of cold air escaped past him, the temperature dropping steadily as he descended into the darkness.
Three rows of washing machines and dryers stood dormant before him, their white sheens showing dully through the black. Without light, he placed one of the rectangular containers down on the hard ground, the sound ringing out through the emptiness. Carrying the other over to the middle row of machines, he rested it briefly on one of the plastic orange chairs that sat beside them, then with methodical ease went along and opened every second lid, a silent length of ghostly-white soldiers saluting into nothingness. Turning at the end, long coat fanning out slightly, he surveyed the tableau, then strode back down the line and picked up the container on the chair. Unscrewing the heavy lid, clutching the container around it, he heaved it high, tipped it up, and began walking, steadily pouring the contents. Fluid splashed into machines, over machines, into machines, over machines, until the stench of petroleum filled his senses like ambrosia.
The first container emptied, he returned for the second, repeated the action, carefully minimising the amount that inevitably ricocheted back onto him. After all, it would serve no purpose to go down with the ship. If ever Axel was going to take a bullet, he'd make damn sure that his eternal soul got something out of the fucking deal first.
When the second container was half gone, the redhead stopped, righted it, cautiously skirted the growing puddles on the floor as he returned towards the stairs. Leaving the empty one where it sat on the ground, Axel proceeded to trickle the remainder of the fuel after him, dollops and lines, a dark snake that followed him up the steps, into the hall, all the way to the main door and back outside into the night. Under the moon, the jagged trail glistened, the man coaxing it across to the other side of the street, into the shadows, where he finally ran out of petrol, finally stopped.
The metal can was placed to one side, empty, useless, just another piece of evidence for the cops to later find, not that they wouldn't instantly recognise a work of arson when they saw it. His gloves left no trace, no sign of his existence, and even if he had managed to smear a print or two onto the steel, they'd never find him anyway. Axel was like smoke.
And speaking of which: the redhead peeled off his gloves, flecked as they were with flammable fluid, tucking them under an arm for the time being. From one pocket he drew the matches from the motel, their logo emblazoned on the back beneath the flint strip. He plucked one out, held it away from his body, struck it to life, and watched it flutter to the ground. The trail ignited, the flame scurrying away, over the road, out of sight into the building.
By the time it discovered the riches of the basement, Axel was already walking away, stretching his gloves back over his fingers.
.o.O.o.
For several hours, Roxas had been curled up in a ball on Hayner's couch, breaths slow and steady, dark, heavy circles haunting his sealed eyes as his body devoured the sleep finally granted to it. Every limb was like cement, a quality that he was conscious of even as he slumbered, an absolute inability to move. Eyelids only faintly flickering from time to time, he was swallowed by this exhaustion, consumed by it. Nothing else, in all the world, could possibly co-exist. He was drowning in it, likely never to resurface, and as he lay there, he felt something whispering in the back of his mind. Something soft, insistent, like a blunt fingernail scraping idly along his brain stem… and every time it came, it came like a heartbeat, it came with relentlessness, it came and pushed its breath across him like a… like… it felt… so much like being trapped…
Br…k-ng – u-…
BOOM!
Roxas rolled off the sofa with a yell, every nerve, every muscle alive, every single piece and particle of his being screaming as the entire building shook. Dishes in the kitchen shuddered, a glass fell into the sink and was broken, the cutlery clattered together, an intense fifteen seconds before it all went back to being eerily quiet. It was only moments before Hayner's door burst open, the blond in his boxers, hair askew and expression wild, gripping the doorframe and demanding at the top of his lungs, "What the fuck was that?"
Eyes round, Roxas, a handful of couch cushion in one hand, the palm of the other pressed against the edge of the coffee table, shook his head. "I – I don't –"
There was a roar like a vicious wind blowing right through the apartment, and while Hayner's sleep-stricken mind was plunged only deeper into bewildered fear at the sound of it, there was something in Roxas that clicked like a bone slipping out of its socket and back in, an interruption that brought his thoughts to a stuttering halt.
The blond's eyelids flickered, lips slipping apart. "Fi…" Hayner stared at his blank expression with knitted eyebrows. Roxas' gaze was hooded, dull. "…Fire," he uttered faintly, and a moment later, as if on cue, a piercing bell began screaming through the building. Hayner covered his head, flinching down away from the terrible noise, Roxas' eyes drawn upward by a crash in the above apartment. "…We have to get out of here," he murmured, dazed, voice lost within the metallic cacophony. His gaze returned to Hayner's cowering form, lips feeling numb all of a sudden. "…We'll burn."
He slumped slowly against the couch, fingers slipping from the table, eyes losing focus. Grey crept upon the world, existence fading at the edges, a trembling deep within Roxas' core starting up.
Then, Hayner was suddenly there, jerking him up by the collar and bellowing, "What the hell is wrong with you?" He dealt a stinging blow to the back of Roxas' head, the blond barely wincing, and took one look at his expression before snarling, "Oh, no, not right now – you are not grey-ing out on me, buddy. So help me, I will kick your ass from here to next Saturday if you so much as think about it!"
Roxas was thrust away from the sofa, onto his feet, steps stumbling, but Hayner was right there behind him, snatching a handful of his shirt and keeping him up. He pushed and shoved the blond towards the sliding glass door, ignoring Roxas' stammers of protest. With the hysterical clamour of the bells all throughout the building, screaming in their ears, Hayner fumbled with the lock on the door, snapped it to one side, hauled the glass open with a swirl of night air and the unmistakeable stench of smoke. The darkness was chaotic with motion, the fire escape already crawling with bodies making their way downward, a fierce red glow providing a ghoulish backdrop to it all.
"Jesus Christ," Hayner breathed. "There really is a fire." He stepped out, the breeze ruffling his hair and boxers, hands wrapping around the cool metal of the rail, leaning over and gazing down with wide eyes. Roxas drew alongside him, fear prickling at his nerve endings.
"Make way! Children coming through!"
The boys' heads snapped up at the firm shout, bare feet shifting automatically back as a young girl and boy were sent down the extendable ladder, dressed in thick jackets over pyjamas, the girl of the pair toting a tightly-clutched teddy. Up above, Roxas could make out the grim faces of the parents, the male of which nodded shortly in acknowledgement before sending his wife after them.
Turning to glance at Hayner, the blond was startled to find himself alone, the curtains twitching violently across the doorway from recent passage. Grabbing them, tearing them out of the way, he stuck his head back in to demand of Hayner's retreating shoulder-blades, "What the hell are you doing? The building is on fire, Hayner!"
"I've gotta get something," the blond threw tersely back, jogging to the bedroom and vanishing inside.
Outraged, amazed, all dazedness wiped from his system, Roxas threw aside the long curtain, stalking after him, demanding, "What could you possibly…?"
He got to the doorway, Hayner barely glancing up as he dug through his second drawer, tugging free the photo of him and the others from inside a collection of shirts – it had moved from among the socks and underwear, Roxas noticed. Slipping the Polaroid gently between his teeth, Hayner yanked a white tee over his head while he was at it, forcing his arms through the holes, snatching it free a second later and swiping at his mouth. He shot the watching Roxas a hard look, holding the picture down by his thigh, out of sight, grabbing the blond with his other hand, grip strong. "You didn't have to follow me," he yelled over the noise, annoyed, pushing Roxas back out into the sitting room and following closely, poking and prodding him until they reached the balcony again.
They stepped out, glancing upward to see more of the building's occupants descending. Down below, the glow of the fire had intensified, though no sign of any flame could actually yet be sighted. "Get going," Hayner commanded, grabbing the back of Roxas' neck and steering him to the rail, the rusted ladder on the other side extending down to the next floor, still shaking from the last person to have gone down.
Eyes flaring wide, the blond stuttered out an indignant, "But –!"
Hayner all but picked him up and threw him off the edge, overriding his attempted objections easily, Roxas finding himself clutching the ladder's rungs, getting smacked on the top of the head with a short, "Down, boy!" being drawled at great volume into his upturned face. Frustration burned, but with Hayner already beginning to climb after him, wasting no time on the luxury of Roxas' pride, there was nothing to do but descend.
Smoke and heat strangled the air, choking and stinking, yet somehow still without a clear source. With their chins tucked close to their chests, the blonds made their rapid way downward, the rough rungs scraping at their palms. Then, all of a sudden, Hayner gave a dismayed shout. Roxas froze in place, head jerking back hard enough to crack his neck, in time to see the taller boy snatch frantically at the air… with the small square of the Polaroid fluttering down and away.
"Jesus fucking Christ," the blond muttered fiercely, and lunged outward with his right hand, snatching the photo as it passed by. He barked, "Hayner! Stop shaking the ladder!" Looking pale, Hayner grabbed on tightly again, nodded, and tucking the picture into his back pocket, Roxas resumed climbing.
They scrambled from ladder to ladder, three balconies to the ground, all the hours of labour at Aerith's coming in handy, muscles hardening and lengthening, breaths coming hard as they neared the bitumen. At this point in the descent, it was now officially fucking hot. Sirens of emergency services filled the air, but nothing could quite drown out the frighteningly nearby, voiceless snarl of flames, seemingly right below their feet. The ladder rungs were warming way too quickly, an incredible wave of burning heat radiating from the side of the building the lower they climbed. Sweat dampening his shirt, trickling down his back, Roxas threw a quick look over his shoulder, saw the ground nearing. He hissed between his teeth as he glanced up at Hayner's legs, feet mere inches from his fingers, then took a breath and jumped the last five feet, pushing away from the building as hard as he could.
Feeling the vibration, Hayner looked down, startled, then quickly lowered several more rungs and followed suit. The boys landed within several seconds of one another, slamming to the bitumen, and were quickly directed by approaching firemen to the other side of the street, where barricades were being set up a safe distance from the calamity, the building's inhabitants herded behind them.
It wasn't until they were finally able to stop, shoulders moving with their panting, in the growing crowd from their own building and the surrounding ones being evacuated by the steadily mounting number of fire and ambulance personnel, that they were able to see the full extent of what was really going on. "I don't believe it," Hayner mumbled, sounding shocked, echoing the low, horrified voices of those around him.
The first floor wasn't just on fire – it was being devoured. It was lost, gone, absolutely obliterated, and the flames were climbing. Every electrical appliance, every scrap of clothing, every section of flaking wall, it all served to fuel the blaze. It burned so hot, and so violently, that nothing could possibly have been surviving it. It was pure destruction. From the side of the building, where the boys had come down from, the flames themselves hadn't been evident – but around the front here, it was all too clear that there'd be little chance of redemption from this inferno. It was kind of looking like… maybe Hayner had just lost his apartment.
Officials were moving through the crowd, calling for everyone to start shifting back, the heat already beginning to reach out and caress their faces, dry their hair. Soon, the police would arrive, and lead the suddenly homeless mass towards the nearest refuges, while the fire services would… attempt… to control the wild blaze.
The expression on Hayner's face as he silently obeyed the officials' orders was one of stunned disbelief. Hadn't… hadn't they just, just been sleeping in that building, not more than – fifteen minutes ago? Hadn't everything been – peaceful? Or, or if not, then close. Okay, so maybe emotions had been running high, the last time he'd been up and awake up there, but it hadn't been anything that couldn't be solved. It hadn't been anything permanent. He'd been asleep, Roxas had been finally asleep, and things… things could have turned out pretty decently. They really, really, really could've. And now, his apartment complex was on fire. And Roxas…
Roxas.
Where – was Roxas?
Hayner stopped dead, twisted on the spot, found himself alone. He stretched up on his toes, trying to find the distinctively spiked hair that denoted Roxas' presence in a crowd. Dark brows coming together, he peered through the collection of despairing families and individuals. "…Roxas?" he called, his voice going over their heads. He turned again, scanning up and down. "Roxas?" He'd been beside the blond only minutes ago. They'd been standing there, watching the inferno rage, and then the fire guys had started ushering them all back further, and – where? Where had Roxas got to?
Hayner bounced up on his bare toes, yelled, "Roxas!" He wasn't worried – just confused. And okay, concerned, but only because he didn't want his friend to be alone anymore than he himself wanted to be right now… and… okay, so maybe Hayner just didn't want to be alone, never mind how Roxas might be feeling. Maybe he just needed – his best friend.
The crowd shuffled around him in varying states of dismay, faces blank, eyes grieving, but not a single one of them was the right person. Hayner recognised this one or that, but none of them was Roxas. A hand fell upon his arm, an official saying, "Kid, please, you need to keep moving."
"No, but my friend…" Hayner glanced around. Roxas – where could he possibly be? He had to be around here somewhere… unless – he'd wandered off? His expression, back in the apartment, it had been classic grey material. He'd seemed connected enough when they were climbing down the side of the building, he'd even rescued Hayner's Polaroid, but – what if it had just been a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing? What if, the second they were safe again, Roxas had promptly shut down?
What could Hayner say? 'Please, sir, my best friend who might be a little weird right now has gone off somewhere'? Roxas was twenty-one years old; they weren't going to rush out to look for him. They had enough to worry about right now. Christ. And he couldn't just wander off himself, he needed to find out what the fuck was going on here, he needed to know if, at the end of the night, he'd still have a home to go back to.
…All he could really do was keep his eyes open and hope to God that the other blond would drift into view. At least he wouldn't be able to get near the fire, not with all the fire-fighters all over the place. At least, Hayner hopelessly supposed, wherever he was now, it would be safe enough. Safer than here. He must have just kept going through the crowd when they joined it, and continued on into the night without… without a single thought in his head for Hayner.
He told himself he should be used to it by now; but all he could feel was a stinging disappointment, and a traitorous breath inside whispering that he wished he had a best friend who was halfway to normal. With no other avenue open to him, Hayner continued on, following the other occupants of the burning building, little realising that he'd never see Roxas again.
If only he'd known, he could have at least said, "Good-bye."