CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Roxas hadn't realised he'd lost Hayner until he was well away from the crowds, by which point it was too late to go back. He'd told the other blond to follow him, had touched his elbow with an intense frown and said, "Come on" when they'd been standing behind the barriers, because over in the darkness a little way down the road he'd seen… a black-clad figure. The one from the mansion, the one who'd yanked him up and asked, "Can you feel Sora?"

But it looked like Hayner hadn't heard him, hadn't noticed. Roxas had abandoned the throng and flashing lights, had disappeared into the haze of smoke and left the glow of the fire behind, cautiously trailing after the figure, who had vanished between two buildings. It wasn't the smartest thing to do, but Roxas couldn't help but follow – in his head, all he could hear was Aerith's hearsay description of the arsonist that had destroyed the other florist in town, and he'd begun to connect dots. Whoever this guy was… no doubt he had to be ten kinds of crazy. No doubt grabbing the nearest cop and dragging him along would have been the clever thing to do. But… when the thought occurred to him, he just, he couldn't do it. His head… it ached. It – buzzed, like the sharp ringing of the fire alarm bells was still reverberating in his skull. Sensible thought didn't exist in this little sphere of existence that Roxas was occupying right now – only the clear, subtly insistent directive that he needed to go after the man in the black coat.

Bare feet sliding over cold pavement, he reached the corner, fingers trailing the rough, dark brick of the building, no light reaching into the alleyway but for what the moon chose to cast down. Taking in a breath, tasting acrid bitterness on the air, a fine film of ash, dust and sweat coating his face, the blond threw one final glance back the way he'd come, then stepped hesitantly into the alleyway, tongue coming out to dampen dry lips, heart beginning to beat the slightest bit faster. He could feel it pulsing in his throat, swallowed against it, ventured deeper in only to find that the guy had disappeared, probably down one of the side-junctures, and even with the flicker of warning humming to life inside his mind, Roxas continued on. The feeling was back, the tickling scrape at the back of his neck, like the ghost of a finger pressed into his spine, driving him forward with the slightest of touches. It was a shivery sensation, and one which he had – absolutely no inclination to fight. He had… to find the man in the coat. The man from the mansion.

Can you feel Sora?

Roxas slapped the back of his neck like an insect with prickled feet might be crawling there.

Then, just as he broke into a jog, hoping to catch up before the arsonist got too far away, the very figure of his determination emerged from the dark shadows at Roxas' left, unseen due to his black clothing, and grabbed the blond from behind. Roxas barely had time to gasp before he was slammed face-first into the wall, nose stinging, face numb, moisture springing unbidden to his eyes. Stunned, he had no time to react as he was then yanked back, an arm like an iron bar clamping across his chest, another wrapped around his throat, its hand snatching a handful of blond spikes and wrenching his head back far enough to elicit a crack from his neck, each inhalation suddenly hard to come by. All Roxas caught a glimpse of was the dark hood pulled low, before he was thrust forward once again into the wall, chest first, the air exploding from his body with a low, involuntary groan. A hard, lean body crushed into him mercilessly, breaths panting into his ear without voice. Roxas fluttered with fear, utterly helpless in the grip of a lunatic. It had taken seconds to reduce him to this; he hadn't even been given a chance. Low noises escaped his throat, eyes wide in the darkness.

A breathless, shuddering chuckle came from behind, hot air onto his ear, the arm over his upper chest pulling free while a shoulder instead jammed itself roughly between his shoulder blades, shoving him ever more relentlessly into the wall, pain bursting through his torso. "You came straight to me. Haha… straight to me." Roxas could feel the stranger shifting, could hear the rustle of fabric, then a more jarring crackle of plastic. When he tried to move, the shoulder rammed into him ferociously, the blond's weak cry of pain drifting towards the sky. "I didn't need to do anything… straight to me…" The voice, it was rough, quiet, nobody that the blond could recognise, mind and heart racing, teeth clenched together with chokes of air straining from his lungs. Roxas could smell petrol, then, with the crinkle of plastic occurring closer, a lighter scent, sweeter, more subtle.

Sucking in a faint breath, he pressed his cheek against the wall, trying to put some distance between them, and ground out, "Let go of me, you pyro freak!"

Another laugh, louder this time and holding a chilling edge of sudden familiarity. Roxas stiffened as the hooded man followed him in, leaning again over his ear and murmuring on a smile, "Seems like you remember me after all, delivery boy…"

The blond froze, mind grinding to a halt.

…Oh, no.

The air stuck in his throat, heart feeling for a moment as if it had stopped completely, time stalling as the realisation struck with all the brutality of a blunt blow to the skull. He could feel a slow shiver starting under his skin, nerves and fear and horror and numb dread colliding. No, he hadn't remembered him, he hadn't even recognised him. Even with that laugh striking a cord inside his memories, he'd have continued to imagine it was the guy from the mansion simply because of the outfit. It hadn't occurred to him, not for a second, that this man was the responsible party. And the fire… oh, God.

Nobody knew where Roxas was. Nobody except maybe Hayner knew he was missing… and what could Hayner even do? Come running to the rescue, knight in shining boxers? His apartment was gone, the flames still burning – the last thing he'd think of right now, especially after recent events, would be hunting after Roxas.

He was alone in this, alone down a dark alley, away from all the commotion, with cops and fire services swarming a couple hundred feet away, so uselessly out of reach. Worst of all, he'd done this to himself. And now what? This guy had threatened to kill him last time they'd met, and Roxas had maced him right in his fucking eyes. Did that mean that this time…?

Panic threatened to burst forth. All this realisation had occurred in a three-second time period, thoughts whipping and whirling through the blond's mind, searching desperately for an out, a solution of some kind, coming up woefully, terrifyingly blank. Then, very abruptly, the storm fell calm around one single, gleaming idea. Roxas swallowed, cleared his throat, tried to relax, to seem non-confrontational, voice level and low as he said, "Axel, right?" Injecting more certainty into it, he repeated, "You're… you're Axel."

There was a slight hesitation from behind. The blond didn't dare to hold his breath, didn't twitch.

Then, very cautiously: "…What're you saying?"

Internally, Roxas soared, but he kept it forcefully out of his voice, insisting determinedly, "You. You're Axel. We're… friends." Friends that make out on the sitting room floor? He stumbled for a second, then amended in a slightly strangled manner,"…More – than friends."

To his unending relief, the pressure between his shoulder blades lessened somewhat, allowing a full breath to be drawn. There was a pause, before the man said warily, "Go on."

God. The blond inhaled gratefully, but began to flounder, wondering what the hell else there was to say. "You, uh, you don't need to do this," he flailed tightly, staring out down the alleyway from his compressed position against the wall. "I know it was you who torched Hayner's building, but I won't tell anyone, because, because we're friends. More than friends. And… I… remember you."

Another pause, longer than the last. The pressure against his back didn't decrease any more than it already had done, but neither did it return to its original force. He could tell he'd set the guy off-balance, and now all he needed was for it to last long enough, for this lull to allow him a single window of opportunity, if only he could… "What do you remember?" came the faintly suspicious, so slightly hopeful question, to which Roxas blinked rapidly, before replying, "You."

It was starting to wear thin, his vagueness. The shoulder twisted warningly against his spine, Roxas holding down a grunt. "What about me, though, Roxas?" He pressed himself closer, hips to hips, that bone of his shoulder melting away for the moment so that they were chest to back, the taller man unrelenting with his arm around Roxas' throat but enveloping him with the rest of his body almost sexually, as though violence and sensuality could exist in and of the same moment. Both males felt the way the blond swallowed at the contact, both felt his pulse swing up, although the red-haired stalker psycho didn't yet know for sure whether it was fear or a positive response to his movements – or maybe he thought it was both.

Right now, even Roxas couldn't be a hundred percent certain that it wasn't.

He sucked in feebly, tried to steady himself, mind whirring and whirring and coming up empty of inspiration. "I remember… I…" He closed his eyes, heart rate climbing, sweat popping out over his skin. There was silence between them, and this time, Roxas didn't know how to break it, what to say. His mouth had jammed up along with his thoughts.

It didn't take long for the pressure behind him to change, to lose its sly aspect and instead become cruel, the man's body shifting abruptly and now crushing him, pushing against him smotheringly, as if he could flatten him completely against the wall, burst him open. "That was mean," Axel growled. His grip around the blond's neck became a stranglehold, completely twisting off his air supply in a sudden, fierce movement. He jerked back, heaving Roxas with him, the boy's arms finally free, hands leaping up to try and loosen the choking grip, clawing ineffectually at the thick fabric while his legs thrashed. Breathing hard into his ear, the man whispered viciously, crushing the boy's throat even tighter, "You like being mean, huh? More like yourself than I even thought, Rox."

Axel released him more suddenly than he was expecting, a wild inhalation and sagging of limbs following, before he was grabbed again by the shoulders, not even a moment's thought allowed before he was being driven forward towards the wall, as though the man would smash Roxas against it, head-first into the brick. The blond let out a startled cry, the first real sound he'd uttered since the man had grabbed him, and wrenched up his legs, instead taking the impact against the balls of his feet and kneecaps, skin scraping, forehead knocking against the hard surface but with only a fraction of the velocity it would have. He bellowed, "Shit!" then, "Help!" and finally began fighting back, at last given the room to, pressing palms and shins against the wall and shoving back against the man with all his strength. For several moments, a ferocious scuffle ensued, both of them battling for the upper hand, both strong, and both desperate.

Then, just when it seemed like Roxas was losing, a newcomer entered the arena: a voice called commandingly, "Stop!" and with all the abruptness of a switch being thrown, the two young men did precisely that, twisting in place like rabbits caught in headlights to face the intruding presence.

With the darkness as it was, it was difficult for Roxas to make out who stood at the end of the alleyway, faintly silhouetted by the distant gleam of the streetlights and more distant illumination of the raging fire. Behind him, however, his hands still tightly grasping the boy's upper arms, Axel, from inside his heavy hood, whispered, "Oh, shit." He turned sharply, hauling the blond around with him, only to stop again – there, at the other end of the enclosed lane, stood another figure, this one easier to identify, blacker than the night itself: a tall, slender clone of Axel in his coat, the same dark hood pulled low, the same clinging material, shining metal attachments dangling down onto the chest. With great, blinding clarity, Roxas was very suddenly certain that he knew precisely who that person was – or, if not who, from where.

"Axel!" Again, that strident voice, calling dauntingly from the other end of the alley, the redhead spinning around, dragging Roxas' hanging form with him.

Sounding flat, muffled by the hood, Axel responded icily, "DiZ."

Roxas, realising that he wasn't going to get a better chance than this, resumed his struggling with new vigour, twisting and thrashing in Axel's grasp, grunting and swinging his elbows. As the man snarled and shook him savagely, rattling him, the figure at the alley's mouth let out a rich, appreciative laugh that seemed entirely out of place. Why wasn't he doing anything? Couldn't he see that Roxas was being held against his will?

"Ah, now that's a good sign, wouldn't you say?" the newcomer called, merriment swimming through his tone. "Roxas doesn't appear to want to go with you, Axel."

"Cram it, DiZ!" the redhead yelled back angrily, and with a sharp motion kicked Roxas' legs out from under him and slammed him to the hard ground, where he stayed, stunned. Straightening up, Axel hunched his shoulders, furiously exclaiming, "This is bullshit! You're a fucking cockroach. You're supposed to be dead!"

Another chuckle, drier than the last. "And you are supposed to have alerted the rest of the Organisation to the fact that you have found Roxas. It would appear we're both breaking some rules." Voice suddenly darkening, the newcomer said, "It also seems that you and I have something in common, Axel. Roxas –"

The redhead snarled, took a menacing step forward over the inert blond's body, "You stay away from Roxas. Roxas is mine, he's –"

The blond chose that moment to swing his feet around and smash them straight into the back of Axel's exposed knee. The redhead toppled without a sound, leg completely folding out from under him, and though his hands were already clawing the air in search of the boy, Roxas had thrust away from beneath him and up onto his feet, already sprinting for the other end of the alleyway. The only one standing in his way was the original black-clad figure, silent as yet, looking immovable yet making no motion to stop the blond as he tore along towards him.

"Roxas!" Axel's panicked voice was drowned out almost instantly by the strident tone of the other man, who called after him, "Roxas! To the mansion!"

Although he felt as if he would be snatched at at any moment, the figure in black let him pass without interference, merely adding, "We can protect you." Then, astonishingly, Roxas was free of the alleyway, free of Axel, unmolested in his escape. He fled into the night, arms pumping, legs flying, trickles of blood drying down his shins from where he'd been shoved into the walls and ground, but otherwise unscathed.

Once he was out, though, he slowed slightly, hesitating, not knowing where to go next. Hayner's place was gone. His own apartment, Axel knew where it was. There was no one else he would choose to endanger – not Olette or Pence, not even Seifer, not when his petty thuggery was far outshone by Axel's sheer violent insanity.

To the mansion. We can protect you.

The only mansion they could mean was… the fucking pot place. What – what the hell? That was where he'd first encountered the man in the dark coat, and he was the same guy, the voice was identical, that low intensity was unmistakable.

But how did they even know who he was? Or where he was? How had they been in the right place at the right time?

And how did they know who Axel was?

He didn't even realised that he'd come to a dead stop, indecision and confusion halting him in his tracks. He couldn't stick around here, he had to keep going or God only knew that Axel would catch up to him… but where, from here?

With no one to trust in a situation like this – where?

.o.O.o.

"Get out of my fucking way." Axel's voice was a soft growl, the exit barred by DiZ's little patsy.

"Axel." The man was trying to sound reasonable behind him, slowly approaching. "You surely must realise by now that Roxas is not a well person… He isn't the boy he used to be…" He paused. "For one thing, he's kinder. Capable of actual emotion."

"Like you said," the redhead barked over his shoulder, "he's not well."

"But then again, maybe he is, for the very first time…" DiZ's voice held a tantalising depth of persuasive gentleness. "Maybe this is how he is supposed to be, did you consider that? No normal human being is as void in human emotion as was XIII before he disappeared. Perhaps as merely Roxas, he would be far more capable of… loving you."

Axel went very still for a moment, then lowered his head. His shoulders began to tremble, before a sudden laugh tore free from his throat, chin thrusting back, face coming up, eyes glittering as they glared into the black hood of his silent opponent. "Do you think," he said, voice loud, the laugh still in there but a dangerous edge slicing it through the middle, "that if I wanted love I would be with Roxas? You think too much, DiZ. That has always, always been your problem." He turned his head to the side, sharp profile outlined, adding coldly, "But then, maybe this time your biggest issue is that you haven't thought enough." The patsy was already moving as Axel twisted, lunging forward to stop him as he made a sharp motion towards the stiff-postured man behind him.

DiZ snapped, "Riku, stay!" but it was too late for him to alter his course – Axel, the entire thing a complete and utter feint, ducked swiftly under the other's arms and shot free of the alleyway like a bullet from a gun, sprinting as fast as his legs would take him, nothing in his mind except the need to catch up with Roxas before he got too far ahead.

Damn it, DiZ knew exactly where he'd be heading, too – he'd told him where to go, and Axel didn't know where the fuck that was, hadn't even known that DiZ was in this tiny little town let alone revolving his pathetic machinations around Roxas. If he had, Axel would have damned all previous ideas and just fucking grabbed the blond right from the outset.

Damn, damn, damn!

Where the fuck was Roxas?!

"Axel!"

He hissed through his teeth as the patsy's voice drifted after him. Riku, huh? Another one who was supposed to be dead. Would nobody in this world just lie down and expire already? If only everyone was dead except him and Roxas – then it would be okay. Then they'd finally get a little peace.

Sending that silent wish skyward, the redhead put on a burst of speed, gaze darting about, trying to think as Roxas might in order to track him down again. A dampness grew along outside of one leg as he ran, silent curses bursting through his mind as he realised that the little plastic bag in his pocket hadn't been resealed properly since he'd started to take it out in the alleyway, was leaking all over him and losing potency by the minute. This night was turning into a disaster, and it had started off so goddamn promisingly. He could still smell thick smoke on the air.

This was stupid. No way was he finding Roxas just running through the streets like this. Turning sharply, he made for the direction of the rental car, nestled far enough away from the site of the fire to not be instantly found by roving police, or so he hoped. Behind him, giving chase, Riku also changed direction, a chunk of the distance between them vanishing far too quickly. Axel sprinted until he sensed the other man drawing close, then turned and savagely attacked, throwing a series of punches across his face and body, only about half of them blocked. Then, snatching hold of the front of his coat, Axel drove him back until the other male's legs tangled and he fell, the redhead landing on top of him, straddling him and yanking back his hood, gripping a fistful of long, silver hair and pulling upwards hard.

"If this isn't the girliest fight I've ever been in," Riku gasped derisively at him, head jerking along with his hair, "I don't know what is. What's next, you gonna use your nails? Call me names?"

A fist to the face shut him up pretty quick.

"Where's Roxas going?!" Axel demanded roughly, shaking him hard. "DiZ told him to go somewhere, now where is it?"

Riku laughed breathlessly, blood running down from nose. "You know what has always, always been your problem, Axel? You just don't think enough."

This was going to get him nowhere anytime soon – another square punch for satisfaction's sake, then Axel left him lying on the ground nursing his face and continued on towards the little egg-white car. He found it in record time, untouched since he'd left it, grabbed the key from on top of the wheel and unlocked, wrenched the door open, threw himself in and slammed it shut a bare half-inch after his foot. Throwing back his heavy hood to increase visibility and look less suspicious to anyone who happened to see him, Axel started the rental up, got it into gear, and roared forward, swerving into the street. He had to force himself to slow down; he didn't want to draw attention to himself with the authorities crawling nearby, nor alert Roxas to his approach. The blond didn't know he had a car, it was the only thing he had going for him right now. The element of surprise still had a chance of winning out.

Though it pained him, he made the search a methodical affair. Hoping only that Roxas hadn't headed straight back towards the burning building and relative safety, he prowled in ever widening circles, hunting through the darkness, not too fast, not too slow, and eventually came across the blond jogging barefoot down a side road. This late at night, the traffic had to be bare minimum; Axel doubted anyone had been by recently. As a result, upon hearing the engine and seeing the lights, Roxas spun, the glisten of his damp skin illuminated, his face looking dirty, and after a second's hesitation, flagged the car. Axel didn't stop right away: instead, he drove a little way beyond the blond before pulling over, as if it was an affair of afterthought. He left the engine idling, and waited. Roxas had come to him once – he would come to him again.

It was in his nature to do so, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

As the boy came alongside the car, unable to see through to the red-haired man from a combination of window tinting and the blinding wash of the headlights, Axel slammed open the door, straight into his legs, knocking him to the ground with a shout of pain and surprise. He was out of the car in the next instant, blue eyes down below widening with horror as the kid understood that he'd done it again, walked straight into the web like a fly begging to be trapped and devoured, and Axel knew that somewhere, somewhere deep inside, that was exactly what Roxas was doing. There was some part of Roxas watching these proceedings with a detached, unearthly air, completely uncaring and yet fractionally desirous that the farce be brought to an end.

Axel, as ever, intended to give him precisely what he wanted, and needed.

From his pocket, he tore out the plastic Ziploc bag, snatching hold of the back of Roxas' head as the boy tried to worm away, pinning his arms beneath his knees, wrenching his face back with the one hand while the other brought out the still-wet washcloth and compressed the entire thing over the blond's nose and mouth. He held it there, and held it there, and held it there until Roxas ceased struggling, his motions becoming weak, feeble, useless, until he stopped. The chloroform flooding his system, the blond faded away. His world went dark.

Roxas lost.

.o.O.o.

It took three hours for Axel to drive from Twilight Town to the Traverse domestic airport. Throughout the journey, he held Roxas against him, the blond seeming as if he were slumbering.

With as long as they had together during that trip, he'd had a lot of opportunity to study Roxas' face, the pale, placid expression of his unconsciousness, the dark circles under his dear eyes, the terrible, awful gash that he himself had inflicted upon him. For that, he'd deserved to get sprayed in the eyes like he had. He'd gladly suffer the pain all over again, in penance, as long as afterwards he had Roxas within reach. It – it hurt him inside to see that inflamed mess destroying the otherwise beautiful boy's face. It would need to be dealt with, as soon as they found somewhere safe to lie low for a while. He would atone for what he'd done.

Until then, he just held the blond tighter.

Arriving at the airport, he paid entry into the long-term parking lot, finding a space towards the back, out of sight of the guard station. Now that he was here, he would need to slow down his thoughts, take his time to meticulously execute the following steps with care. It wouldn't do to end up with everything falling apart just after he'd finally got it going so right.

He rested Roxas gently against the passenger's side door, then opened his own and went to the back seat, where the duffel bag of his clothing sat scrunched on the floor. Pulling it out, he continued around to the trunk of the car, resting the bag on top of the cool metal and unzipping his coat, laying it to one side before neatly peeling every scrap of clothing from his body. Standing naked, he used a packet of disposable wet wipes from within the bag to clean off his fingers, his chest and stomach, his legs, his wrists and arms, especially his face, anywhere that might have had either fuel from the fire or dirt and blood from the later fracas. The scented wipes eliminated the vast majority of the odour, so that even his experienced nose couldn't quite detect the greasy petrol smell. The clothes he'd worn, other than the coat, were shoved into a paper bag, rolled up, and would disposed of in a garbage can in the airport food court. The coat itself was returned to the car, stuffed beneath the driver's seat. At a later date, he would send for it, when the stench had faded from its fibres and the fire was no longer within anyone's minds. Luckily, he'd got it from a Traverse Town hire agency, so the chances of anyone catching a whiff of fuel and connecting him to the event were virtually nonexistent. Still, it never hurt to be a little cautious.

Confident of his cleanliness, the redhead next dressed himself deliberately from the selection in his duffel bag: a slightly wrinkled suit, not too expensive, not too cheap, just the sort of look to blend right in with the crowd. The greatest thing that made him stand out, his hair, was slicked down with copious amounts of gel and then twisted around his head into a loose knot, a tight hat placed over the top of it to hold it in place, so that, while the colour remained distinctive, the length appeared to come to just over his ears, only the ends exposed. The tattoos on his face were eliminated with a swift, skilful application of foundation, three bottles of the hue most suited to his skin colour travelling with him at all times for just such an occasion as this.

The final touch that came with eliminating himself from the eyes of all who saw him was a pair of coloured contacts – nothing major, just a duller green than that which he naturally possessed. He'd often found over the years that the most effective disguise was the also the most subtle; it was the little changes that made the greatest difference, not the act of turning yourself into an entirely new person. Making yourself into somebody you weren't was more likely to attract glances than simply dumbing down what was already available. He had dulled himself, and dull was akin to invisible in the minds and eyes of others. He now looked and smelled like a passably boring human being whose only foible would be wearing a hat indoors.

Next, came Roxas. Axel hadn't brought any spare clothes in the blond's size, having not anticipated the fire early enough to be able to cater to him. It was no matter, though; what he did have was a wheelchair in the trunk. Taking along chloroform to a job also automatically meant hauling a wheelchair wherever one went, for the happenstance of finding yourself with a heavily unconscious body and a need to hide it in plain view. Thus, dropping the duffel down onto the bitumen of the parking lot, he unlocked the trunk, withdrew the folded transportation aid, and set it up firmly. Rolling it around to the passenger's side of the car, he carefully opened the door, catching Roxas' gracefully sliding form as it attempted to limply escape. Gently, tenderly, he transferred the blond to the chair, seating him as comfortably as possible. Taking a blanket he'd also brought along, he draped it over the boy's knees for warmth, covering the scraped legs, tucking the edges in around his thighs, fingers tingling to be actually touching Roxas again. As he crouched there on the pavement, working diligently to push at the blanket, he gazed up at the blond, slowing in his motions to stare. For a whole minute, he stopped entirely, simply to drink in those features. He had been starved of Roxas for too long. To have him again, to be touching him, was more than he'd hoped for. He had been given… such a wonderful second chance.

He'd never let Roxas get away from him again. Not ever.

It if hadn't been for the chloroform still tainting his face, Axel would have leaned up to kiss him. He didn't want their first kiss in so many months to be sweet simply from chemical, though.

Rather, with reluctance, he instead returned to his duffel bag and pulled out another of the paper masks that he'd worn when soaking the chloroform into the washcloth at the motel, taking it back to where Roxas sat slumped in the chair and carefully drawing the elastic around his head, settling the mask snugly over his face to obscure his sweet features and the ugly wound. There was no way of eliminating the smell of smoke and sweat from his clothing, but the mask, that illusion of illness, ought to keep anyone from getting too close.

Finally, the two were ready. The very last things that Axel took from his bag were two plane tickets. Then, hooking the bag's straps over one of the wheelchair's handles, he locked up the car, making sure that he had everything, including the paper bag with his old clothes and the soiled wipes within. Taking hold of the chair's grips, he turned Roxas towards the bright spot of the airport in the distance, and began pushing.

Never had the night air smelled or tasted so sweet; never had this sort of anxious joy existed before inside of Axel's heart. With his love fast asleep right in front of him, going nowhere in the near future – going nowhere, period, without Axel – and a flight to catch that would take them far away from everything that haunted their existence together, his feet had never felt lighter.

Life, for once, was looking good.

The terminal was warm, stuffy despite the summer heat outside, the sort of thing that could cause riots on busier nights, but with the hour long since ticked over into the youth of the next day, there was just a low, gentle hum of activity. True to expectation, no one gave the thin man pushing the boy in the wheelchair more than a second glance. Axel was tired, his general weary air hiding them even more from sight; they were just a regular couple of people, not even a couple, making their way to somewhere else in the country as painlessly as possible.

With only thirty minutes to spare before their flight left, Axel went directly to the food court, buying a juice from the all-night newspaper stand to sit in Roxas' lap for show before stuffing the lumpy paper bag as far down into the most out of sight garbage can in the sprawling room. As easily as that, the last traces of his sin were gone. He wheeled Roxas quickly to the exit gate for their flight, appearing just as the final call was being sent out for their seating numbers. The attendants ushered him in urgently, allowing him to seat Roxas beside the window without assistance, taking the aisle seat himself and buckling the two of them in. The wheelchair was folded back up into its compact state by the stewardess and slotted into the overhead compartment along with Axel's bag, pressed against other peoples' carry-on luggage without a second thought.

Twenty minutes later, the non-stop flight to Midgar was taxying along the runway; ten minutes after that, they were in the air, with Traverse Town diminishing beneath and behind.

Axel had won.

.o.O.o.

Sora woke slowly.

He was tired of this feeling of displacement every time he came back to the world, but somehow, this time it was more pronounced. One by one, strange sensations registered: there was light beyond his eyelids, irritating and omnipresent; there was a cold, constant draught slipping through the room from an unknown source; and then on top of that, there were curious smells and sounds that he couldn't quite place. He felt nauseous, head thumping like a drum, somehow managing to feel thick yet hollow at the same time. The world spun, even with eyes closed, his stomach turning but too weak to actually reproduce anything. He felt – motion sick. The pressure in his skull was vile, sickening all on its own even without the uneasiness in his gut, and his body felt like lead.

Confusion seeped through him slowly, mind in a dizzying whirl, like swinging on a swing upside down while being twisted around and around. He couldn't find any anchored thoughts, no explanations for what had caused this sensation or strange alienation, and that in turn created yet more bewilderment until he barely knew what was up or down anymore. He wanted to groan, but could find no voice for it; wanted to shift, but could draw from no strength. It was as if his muscles were still sleeping, even with his mind gradually returning from the dark depths of nonexistence. He couldn't… couldn't figure it out.

The one thing he did manage to do was – open his eyes. Just a little. Just about – halfway. The effort it required was superlative, almost beyond him, but he needed to know what on earth was going on. The world was blurry at first, clearing slowly to his hazy mind to become that same dim glow of the unending light against… against seats? Sora stared hard, struggling to make it out, deciding after several moments that yes, he was looking at the back of two seats, brown and cream colour scheme, velvety sort of material.

…Why… was he looking at seats?

His mouth felt dry, a curious, chemical sweetness on his breath. When he tried to swallow, he found he didn't have the saliva to do so, leaving him curiously breathless. He inhaled slowly, swivelled his eyes to the left, and found himself gazing uncomprehendingly at a tiny, cold window that looked out into pure darkness. For a moment, Sora waited for the reason for this to rise up within his memories, but none was forthcoming, and so instead he directed his eyes elsewhere, over to the right.

A flash of red caught his attention, head turning a fraction, but with all the suddenness of complete, flooring shock. Blue eyes flared wide, Sora staring at the man that sat beside him with eyelids down, not quite napping but neither completely alert of his surroundings, or else he'd surely have noticed the gaze boring into him with all the intensity of a drill. It took a long while for the absolute astonishment to begin to fade, at which point something colder rose up to take its place.

Sora knew who this man was. He was Axel; one of the Organisation. There were slight differences to his appearance – shorter hair, lack of tattoos, more formal dress than the man usually indulged in – but he remained unmistakable. Piece by piece, things started to fall into place within his mind, fingers twitching slightly with an impotent desire to curl them into his palms tight enough to make the nails bite. Because, if Sora was sitting here beside Axel… on a plane no less, he finally realised… then that meant that…

Axel had found Roxas. Not only found, but by the looks of it requisitioned.

And if Axel had Roxas, he had, part in parcel, Sora as well.

Slowly, icily, the self-imposed veils fell away. Sora knew all, remembered all, everything that Roxas was too scared to face; and in gazing at Axel, Sora knew his enemy, the blockade to peace for Roxas, and freedom for himself.

At the moment, up here in the air, there was nothing he could do. Perhaps at no point in the immediate future would Sora be able to take them away from Axel, but nevertheless, he would lie low, he would bide his time, and he would watch for his opening. It would come eventually, and when it did, he would seize that opportunity, and they would again vanish into nothingness, become nobodies about whom nobody else cared.

It was what Roxas owed him, after all. This was the control that Roxas, in his darkest hour, had appointed to Sora.

Sora would not return to death. Not while Roxas continued to breathe.

He simply couldn't abide to sleep, but nevertheless closed his eyes, because strength needed preserving… and perhaps the next time he awoke, they would be somewhere where opportunity could again be found, and he could take his blond-haired, blue-eyed self to an elsewhere where they wouldn't be found.