CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Roxas had a dream that he was a cold killer with a conscience.

This conscience came in solid form, though to others, it obviously didn't exist, since it was the disturbed spirit of one of his victims. But to Roxas, he was very, very real.

And, moreover, quite angry at his plight.

Roxas sat inside the office of the little blonde woman, hands clamped between his knees, staring dully into her forehead as if his gaze could create a hole through flesh and bone, could bore straight through to her brain and destroy her reason for being here, the intelligence that had got her through school and into this fancy fucking high-rise with her perfect hair swept around over one shoulder and her pristine white little outfit and understanding expressions. God, just let him kill without restraint, and she would be the first to go, the top of his list, her pretty little body thrust through the nearest window to plummet straight down, bypassing the ground and landing directly into Hell.

"Roxas…? Roxas, I need you to look me in the eyes. Roxas, I can tell that you're listening, and now I need you to do as I'm asking."

He would take her slender neck between his skilled, strong hands and squeeze until she gasped and wheezed and turned blue, until the bones snapped audibly within his grasp and she lengthened like a swan, even more graceful because of his administrations. No doubt she'd be happy with that sort of existence, that sort of end. Who wouldn't be happy to leave this place? Who wouldn't be happy to be gone?

He would be so, so happy if she was gone.

"Roxas, tell me what's going through your mind right now. Explain it to me. Draw me a picture."

She had placed paper and pencils in front of him, a short rainbow of colours, no black. She did this every time, believed in the healing power of art, pictures by famous artists and previous patients alike cluttering her walls, some of them looking like they'd been done by fucking five year olds. She'd love it, love it if he'd just pick up the pencil and draw his feelings – she could prance out into the hallway when the owner of the voice came to get him and show him just how much of a good boy Roxas had been. All Roxas ever, ever wanted to do, though, was grab the red and drive it through one of her eyeballs, then the other, and then make art of her body by punching holes into it with the dull point, dots and dots and dots of gore.

But, rather than act out any of these fantasies, knowing that the consequences would be too dire, too exhausting to have to deal with, the blond instead spent the hour and a half session ignoring her completely, while at the other end of the room, in front of the broad, sun-facing window, his brunet conscience slowly paced. Sora never said anything much during these times with the bitch, but the very act of him being Roxas' conscience was that he mostly appeared right when a death was getting ready to occur. Oh, sure, he came at other times, monitoring the blond, acting as a chilly, reminding shadow of sin, but he was strongest when killing was foremost on Roxas' mind. Whatever vital component in his heart that Roxas was lacking, Sora fulfilled; he was the guilt of his subsistence, the voice that told him in no uncertain terms that he was a monster.

Roxas had never contested this.

When the session finally drew to a close, the little blonde bitch released him into the hallway to where the owner would be waiting for him, always right on schedule to make sure he didn't feel alone or more psychotic than usual, but instead he exited into darkness. He paused, inhaled slowly, and then watched the lights of the subway train flicker around him, the perpetual rattle and clank of motion washing across the world, around and through him, steady and monotonous.

He reached up, grabbed a hand-hold, gazed down to where the boy of his hauntings sat across the aisle reading a book with a thoughtful frown. Clackety-clack, clackety-clack went the train, like something from a children's book, like a woman in a library was reading aloud and holding the pages aloft for all the boys and girls to see the picture of the blond staring at the brunet, watching him live and breathe and imagining the time when he might be able to snuff that light of existence out from the world.

At this point of his life, Roxas had yet to recognise the face of his future conscience, but his actions before long would lead to their bonding. His dream self knew this, accepted this, welcomed it; that haunting would be his punishment, and while the blonde bitch and the owner of the voice, and whoever else chose to, might think he didn't know what was going on in the world around him, the one thing he could forever be certain of was that punishment, any form of punishment, was precisely what he deserved.

Perhaps shame would one day warm his frozen bones.

.o.O.o.

With a heavy head, and numb extremities, Roxas drifted upward through layers of consciousness, beginning from the deep dark and levelling out to a plateau some inches below complete awareness. He sensed natural light, a bed beneath him, but a terrible, dull ache in his hands and feet that made his features twist, an unhappy, mumbling sigh escaping his lips. There was music in the air, fuzzy and far away at first, but slowly approaching, like a conveyer belt bringing it closer, clearer, with each new layer ascended. Eventually, Roxas found himself touching the final barrier, molten and aqueous like the thin, membranous film between submersion and oxygen; then, without warning, his eyes flicked open.

He was awake.

Golden sunlight flowed down onto him from half a window, the other half covered by lemon-coloured curtains pulled partway across. Dirty glass lay beyond, spider's webs static and woollen-thick in the corners of the frame. Bleary, unquestioning blue eyes swept slowly sideways, finding the ceiling and its curious, mottled marks, like water from above was gradually, gradually seeping through to stain. The sunlight, he noticed, came in beams, rays that spanned from the window to the opposite wall, entire ballrooms of dust motes waltzing slowly within. The wallpaper was peeling, faded, pale navy stripes and tiny white flowers. The music he could hear was quiet, like a Big Band playing two streets over, but with the faintest hiss that spoke of radio airwaves, and a sense of proximity.

His hands and feet were really beginning to throb now; previously, in his slumber, the pain had filtered through so that some part of him even asleep was aware of it, but now, with consciousness building higher, it occurred to him that he was severely uncomfortable, not just his appendages but also his shoulders, his neck; everything hurt. It was all registering too slowly, frustrating him distantly. He wanted to understand, and he wanted to understand now. What was going on, here?

His gaze slid upward, along the length of his right arm and up, up, up to his wrist, suspended back and away from his head, a silver bracelet glinting hotly in the sun. The light bounced straight into his eyes, shooting pain quick to follow, the blond blinking and inhaling sharply, flinching his chin back down to his chest, hearing a slight clatter and jingle as he did so. He tried to move the hand toting the bracelet, and couldn't; tried to move his other hand, similarly up and back, and couldn't; tried to draw his knees up towards himself, and couldn't. He couldn't curl inward. He couldn't move. He was – stuck?

"Couldn't have you slipping away on me, could I?"

The voice came murmuring out of nowhere, bewildering Roxas. He looked left, looked right, struggled to lift his head and saw a figure with blazing red hair sitting on the floor in the corner of the ten-by-twelve foot room, over in front of the dull wooden door, hands playing idly with a packet of cigarettes: open lid, shut lid, twist, fiddle, rotate. Open lid, shut lid… Green eyes stared over at him, flesh pale underneath a black tank top, bare feet poking out the ends of similarly dark pants, toes curled in towards each other. Twist, fiddle, rotate. The Big Band song ended, making way for the dim voice of some anonymous announcer, and there, scattered around the redhead, were all of Roxas' things. The wallet he'd had tucked into his shorts lay disgorged upon the threadbare carpet, with Hayner's Polaroid from his back pocket as the centrepiece, just an inch away from the man's right foot.

As comprehension struck, Roxas jolted hard, pulling involuntarily as his wrists and ankles, gaze snapping up to find that he was shackled to the bedposts. Eyes widening, he demanded, chest hitching, "H-andcuffs?"

Axel inclined his chin in confirmation, glancing down as he folded the cigarette box open wide, like a gaping frog mouth, quietly telling the blond, "Got 'em from the sex store down the road." He slid a cigarette out, pushed the filter between his lips for a moment, then snatched it back and returned it to the pack, his every gesture unsettled.

Roxas' head fell back onto the pillow, heart pounding, pupils wide with fear, breaths short. His eyes darted around the room with fresh perspective, trying to figure out where they were, how they'd got there. Panic grew, hands again wrenching at their bonds, chest swelling and voice getting ready to come bursting out when the man interrupted, "If you scream, I'll have to shut you up, Rox. I don't want to hurt you."

The air came hissing out from between his teeth before he could stop it, face jerking up and snapping back towards him, all that gathered potential instead becoming a disbelieving, high-toned echo of, "You don't want to hurt me?!"

Axel kept his eyes averted as he said, "I've been sitting here waiting for you to wake up. I had five hours during which I could've smothered you with a pillow, Roxas, but I just sat here and did nothing. I didn't touch you, not once." He crossed his legs, cigarette back in his mouth, and lifted his chin to gaze flatly over at the blond, hands limp in his lap. He gave a moment for the information to sink in, appreciated or not, and repeated, "But if you start trying to make life difficult, I'll have to stop you." He blinked hooded eyelids. "I don't want to do that." He tugged out a cheap plastic lighter, lit his cigarette, blew out a breath of smoke several silent moments later and continued, "You don't know where we are right now, and I'm not going to tell you, except to let you know that Twilight Town is far behind us. You can't go back there, ever."

Muscles tensing, Roxas trembled, wanted to ask, What'll you do if I try? Kill me? …But he was too afraid of planting the idea in his head. There seemed to be an absence of the enraged insanity that had possessed the man that last time they'd faced one another, but it didn't mean it wasn't still there, lurking under the skin, and Roxas absolutely could not forget his initial threat of murder, back in his apartment. He was terrified that this person was going to kill him. He didn't want to die.

Axel sent him a long, level look. "What, you're just not going to talk to me? You don't care? Your little friends, Roxas, you're never going to see them again, do you care about that?" Green eyes suddenly narrowed, a ribbon of white curling up from the redhead's lips, a pause developing before, snake-quick, Axel's hand darted down to snatch up the Polaroid. With the fingers of the other hand, he tugged the cigarette from his mouth and turned it around, burning tip hovering a bare twitch away from the photograph's shining surface, Roxas jerking up as far as he could over on the bed and yelling, "Don't!"

His voice rang in the small space before falling flat. The redhead studied him closely, the cigarette remaining in position, Roxas with his head up, expression drawn and fearful, unconsciously pulling on every one of the shackles. Then, slowly, Axel raised the Polaroid, away from the smoking cigarette, waving it around to watch Roxas' eyes follow it anxiously. Thoughtfully, he decided, "…You care. So we're going to play a game, now. I say something, and you respond. Whatever comes into your head. And if you don't, I take it that you don't care, and I burn your picture here of the Twilight Town gang."

Roxas' features morphed into a look of twisted pain and rage, before his body fell limp, handcuffs rattling, mattress bouncing slightly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Axel told him, "but that's the last non-verbal answer you get to give. Remember, this is my game, and if you don't obey the rules, you pay a forfeit." Eyelids lowering, green irises darkening, he added, "That's the way it's always been between us." He smiled crookedly, expression growing darker still. "Although usually, it's been your game."

Roxas closed his eyes, squeezed his teeth together hard enough to hear them squeak inside his skull. "…Whatever you say."

Smirk lingering, Axel slipped the cigarette for the moment back into his mouth. "So, how about we start off with a question? Ask me anything. Ask me nothing," he flipped up the photograph, taunting, threatening, "and this cute last reminder of your buddies goes the way of your blond pal's building."

Sick anger bubbled in the pit of Roxas' stomach, at the manipulation but more searingly at the mention of Hayner's apartment. A sledgehammer hit his heart a second later as he realised that his best friend would now be homeless. No apartment, no possessions, and no… no idea where Roxas had disappeared to. Again, his eyes found the window. Daylight. How long had he been missing?

In the end, all of it was because of Axel, and the only question that – that really came to mind, the only one that nagged at Roxas right now, so dispiritedly, was, "Why me?" His voice was quiet, frustrated. Why couldn't this… have been someone else's problem, far away from Twilight Town? Why had the man chosen to focus all his destructive, obsessive energy on Roxas? Before, when he'd been trying so hard to not think about Axel, it hadn't been an issue, but… lying here, with so much falling to pieces for so many people, he just – he needed to know. For closure, maybe. For sanity's sake.

For a while, Axel didn't speak. He continued to smoke, not looking at the blond, knees drawing up and elbows resting against them. Was he thinking? Had he not heard? Was he refusing to answer that one simple question? Eventually, the man responded with a question of his own: "Where were you, and what did you do, before Twilight Town?"

Everything inside Roxas went blank, wooden, answer coming robotically from deep inside, "It doesn't matter."

Axel laughed a little, voiceless huffs of smoke, and drew a thumb meditatively across his nose, before forming the hand into a fist and suddenly slamming it resoundingly into the wall. The little room shook. "No? I think it matters." His tone contrasted the violence, casual and light, Roxas frozen in place over on the bed, staring stiffly at the ceiling. "See, I think it matters quite a lot what you were doing before Twilight Town," Axel continued pleasantly, "and for that reason, I'd like you to tell me exactly what springs to mind when you think about it." His smile was dangerous. "There's nothing you can say that doesn't matter to me, Rox."

The blond's breaths were shallow. "…I don't know." His head hurt, it ached badly. He closed his eyes, tried to inhale more deeply.

"You don't know? What you were doing?" Axel studied him for a long minute, then wiped his forehead wearily. "Well, what do you think of that, Roxas? You never stopped to wonder what was going on with that whole 'I don't know' thing?"

His temples throbbed in time with his heart, the boy wanting abruptly to do nothing more than hide his face away, keep it in darkness where the light that poured in from outside couldn't reach, couldn't pierce. "I just don't know," he grated, an edge hardening his strained voice. "I don't care, I don't know, I don't care." Agitation levels were rising, heart rate increasing, the pain growing denser all the while.

"…Okay, then. Don't hurt yourself." Axel tipped his head back, sucked thoughtfully on his cigarette. "All right, your turn. Ask a question."

"I already asked you a question," the blond snapped fiercely, sweating, twisted up inside. Axel nodded.

"Yeah, but then you couldn't answer my question, so both our questions are out of bounds, now. They've been done. New rule of the game: can't ask the same question twice. You don't like it, that means you don't care about your picture or your little friends." He smiled coldly. "Either way, I win."

"Okay, sure, I've got a question for you," the boy spat out between clenched teeth, "how long are we going to do this? You like power games, huh? How long before you're satisfied, you asshole?"

Axel's eyes gleamed, lips curving slowly upward. "...I just wanted to get you talking, Roxas. Otherwise you'd end up lying there forever, not saying a single word. I know how you get."

"No you don't," the boy angrily responded, though the ferocity was leaving his tone and mood; he was coming down from the spike of adrenaline, the headache receding almost as swiftly as it had occurred, aside from what already hovered. "You don't know me at all, you just… just found me somehow, and… and made it like this…" He trailed off, sucking in a deep breath, returning his gaze to the stained ceiling. He was quiet, then said, "You're my – psychotic stalker, and I wish you'd leave me alone. I wish you'd stayed away from me. I wish you didn't exist."

There was a short silence, before Axel let out a breath and sat back against the door, gently knocking his head against it. His eyes slipped shut. "I hate it when that asshole DiZ is right about things. I really, really do." Then, inhaling through his nose, cigarette almost finished, he conceded, "But I already knew that things weren't right with you, I guess. I don't really know what I was expecting, when I followed you to Twilight Town, but it sure as hell wasn't a situation like this." He was silent for a while after that, leaving Roxas to turn things cautiously over in his mind. Thus far, the guy wasn't seeming particularly… murderous. And yes, if his plan had been to kill Roxas, he could have already done so. He had the blond handcuffed to a bed, but that was the extent of it so far. He didn't like to think about whatever the future might hold right now – there was nothing in it that could bode well for him – but as long as Axel was being… some form of rational…

But still, where did that leave Roxas? The guy had kidnapped him, he'd been abducted, but if he wasn't going to turn up in a dumpster somewhere, then where was he going to end up?

Steeling himself, keeping in nature with 'the game', he stiffly asked, "So, what are you going to do with me?"

Axel grimaced, glanced over to the brightness of the window. "…Well. That's the question, isn't it? Because you're out of your fucking mind, and I can hazard a guess that Xemnas isn't going to like that much." He blew out the last breath of smoke, crushing the butt in the glass ashtray next to his foot. Spreading his hands, he sent the blond a dully beseeching look and asked, "What do you propose, Rox? What should I do with you?"

"I'm not out of my mind," the boy replied sharply, eyes glittering. "Remember? You're the one who's been stalking me, the one who thinks he knows me. Don't you get it yet? Before you ordered flowers from my boss' company, I had never set eyes on you. I didn't know you, I don't know you, and all of this is what's crazy – not me!"

"You want to know what's crazy?" the redhead countered, pale brows rising. "In a couple days' time, your little friends are going to file a missing persons report on you, because that's what friends do when their play-date doesn't show up a few times in a row. And the cops are going to tip themselves off their chairs to go sniffing around for you. They'll have my description, and pictures of you from when I hurt you last, and a whole heap of suspicion, but then you know what's going to happen? A week into the investigation?" He tilted his head, smiling bitterly. "It's going to get called off. Someone, somewhere, is going to claim they're your family, and that you came home. They'll provide pictures, maybe, and a police report confirming it, and that'll be that. You won't be missing anymore, and it won't matter how much your pals bleat about it, the whole thing will be dropped." He blew out a short, frustrated breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "And then, the clock will be ticking on us."

The blond gazed at him levelly. "…That's impossible. There's no one who would do something like that. I mean – what the hell kind of conspiracy are you trying to sell me?"

Axel thought for a minute, watching him, forehead resting against one palm. "…Look. I can't… take you anywhere, Roxas. I mean, I don't mean that literally – we won't be staying at this motel long – but I mean that…" He leaned forward, pushing his fingernails across his scalp, frowning. "I don't know what's wrong with you right now. Your memory is all just – screwed. I don't know. I don't know what happened to you, but what I do know is that I can't let the Organisation find you like this." He shook his head. "I just don't know what Xemnas would do if he knew you were like this," he said bluntly. "Except that I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be good." He gave a slight laugh. "You don't even know what you're involved in, though, do you, Rox? You don't know a damn thing." He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "I'm getting a headache."

There was silence, but this time, Axel didn't expect Roxas to fill it, leaving that to the softly playing radio. The game, for now, was over. There was nothing left to be said; Roxas couldn't think of a single thing to help himself in this situation, no reasoning, no pleas, and – at least while the guy was right here – he couldn't even yell for help. He would have to… wait, and hope that whatever happened, he would survive it long enough to find a way to escape.

Over by the door, after some quiet minutes had passed, Axel grunted, lifted his head from his hand, and pushed himself resignedly to his feet. With the Polaroid in hand, he walked over towards the bed, the blond tensing warily as he approached. Flicking the photo above him, he said, "I'll hang onto this for a while." He tucked it into his back pocket. "I'll give it back to you when I've decided you're being a good boy." Opening the top drawer of the nightstand, he pulled out, with a clunk of glass on wood, an unopened bottle of bourbon, and assumed a businesslike expression. "Anyway. It's time I did something about that gash on your face." Scowling as he twisted off the lid, breaking the bottle's red seal, he asked, "Why didn't you get it checked out sooner? Didn't your little blond friend care about you, or what? You're gonna get sick if you leave it like that, you've barely attended to it at all. Don't ignore your health, damn it." This last part, however, he said more gently, looking down at the boy with a soft smile, nostalgia in his expression. Roxas stared back mutely, not willing to take his gaze away, not yet sure what the man intended to do, only that he was looking ready to do something.

Fears coming to life as the redhead sat on the edge of the bed, Roxas warned quickly, "Don't touch me. I don't need you to do anything for me. My face is fine." Axel threw him a sidelong glance, before uncapping the bourbon and throwing back a long swallow straight from the bottle.

"Your face is more than fine. But…" He reached out slowly, Roxas flinching away from his touch. "…I hurt you." His hand hung in the air where the boy's cheek had just been, before slowly returning to his side. Eyes hardening, he said, "You haven't got your pepper spray this time." He tipped the bottle up against his lips, taking a large gulp but holding it in his mouth without swallowing. His gaze burnt into Roxas, unwavering, the blond beginning to sweat and shift under the fire of it, Axel placing the bottle onto the nightstand and moving closer, his weight pushing down the mattress. As he leaned down towards the boy, Roxas started, "Don't -!"

The man grabbed hold of his head, handcuffs rattling as Roxas resisted, nowhere to escape to as Axel lowered himself, fingers digging harshly into skin, and pressed their mouths tightly together. Roxas' jolted, slammed his wrists and ankles at their bonds, eyes clenching shut but then popping open again, desperately, as Axel pinched off his nose. The boy fought wildly, hands and feet suffering the cut of metal, face turning red with the effort, the sudden oxygen deprivation. The redhead had Roxas' mouth sealed completely with his own, waiting patiently until the blond could stand it no longer and wrenched his lips open. Axel released his nose almost instantly, but still the boy coughed and spluttered as the alcohol burned down his throat, as much trying to enter his lungs as his stomach. Blue eyes watered frantically as he choked, a pressure on the back of his head surprising him, gaze jumping sideways to where the man was helping to elevate him with a hand.

With a wheezing gasp, Roxas slammed away, the bed shaking, exclaiming, "Don't touch me!"

"Come on, Roxas." Axel's voice was firm, expression determined. He had the bottle again, balanced on his knee. "This is how we always do it."

He took another large mouthful, Roxas snarling, "I never –!" then being cut off as once again their lips met, this time the struggle far less organised, Axel holding him down and transferring the alcohol into him. The blond gulped, gasped, coughed raggedly and felt a hand brushing through his hair, smoothing the spikes away from his forehead. He gagged at the unpleasant drink, bourbon never a favourite, always the type to intoxicate him fast and leave him sick at the end of the night.

As if reading his thoughts, the hand still moving across his head, Axel murmured, reeking breath fanning his face, "I know you don't like this, I know it's not fun, but it's the fastest way to get you drunk, Rox. I can't do this unless you're drunk, I don't want to hurt you."

Terror split through the blond, mind screaming, What will hurt?! His heart had never hammered harder, adrenaline erupting through his helpless body, and the fear, oh God, the fear of what was coming…

Again, the man's mouth came down insistently to his own, Roxas whipping his head first to one side, then the other, then finding it utterly mobilised once more by those strong hands. There was a moment of resistance, then the vile fluid filled him from above, accompanied, this time, by a questing tongue. He gagged again, the tongue retreating, Axel's face hovering over his own with a flat expression. His throat burned, chest tight, nausea raging. After that third dose, the man left him alone, withdrew from his line of sight, leaving the blond to pant and recover, and slowly slip below the surface of inebriation.

Axel didn't like to do it to him, but he wasn't going to put a strong enough painkiller into Roxas right after the chloroform. Better to take advantage of the chloroform's lingering properties, knock the kid out faster that way. He'd be sick later, but at least he wouldn't care about the feel of the needle passing in and out of his cheek.

Sure enough, within ten minutes, Roxas was drifting away from the world. Already weakened by last night, his eyes became glassy, the strength leaving his body, expression going slack as he stared over at the window. Axel left him for a while, waiting for the numbness to really take effect, smoking another cigarette before washing his hands, getting out the first-aid kit from his bag, unpacking the organic thread and slender needle for the sewing of parted flesh. He pulled on a pair of disposable rubber gloves, sat back on the edge of the bed, and spent a moment studying the dazed figure upon it. Roxas was still conscious, for sure, but disconnected from the world. Bourbon always packed a punch for him, no matter the circumstances. To have him like this, though, lying vulnerable and accepting of his environment for the first time since he'd woken… it was a test for Axel to leave him be, to not just – take advantage of the situation, and damn the consequences.

But, no – no, he'd made the decision to remain in control, of himself and the situation. If he lost it now, went ahead and fucked the kid when he was loaded against his will like this, whoever Roxas was now would never trust him. He'd already messed up so many times, and he was tired of it. He didn't know how long it would last, but for now, he was keeping his libido firmly in check.

With a deep breath, he twisted around on the comforter, using a disinfectant dilution and sterilised swabs to clean the wound, breaking the scabbing away and leaving the site raw and inflamed, though more hygienic than it had obviously been in a few days. Then, threading the needle, he deftly, professionally began a series of sutures, piercing and drawing the wide gorge on Roxas' face gradually shut. It looked ugly, even closed up like it was, even with Axel's careful work; it had been a bad cut, oddly shaped, and to have been left for so long the edges had begun healing in their split position. Axel could have strangled the little bastard that Roxas had been staying with, letting him end up like this. Didn't he know how to deal with Roxas? If not, then he shouldn't have bothered trying to be near him in the first place. There was… an art to Roxas. An art to knowing him, to weathering his moods, to understanding his thoughts and motivations. To Axel's mind, there was no one else in the world capable of taking care of him but he himself; and before long, hopefully Roxas would recognise this, as well. It was inside him, that knowledge, somewhere… It was just up to Axel to root it out, and bring it back to the fore.

As the blue eyes rolled around to gaze at him emptily, he met them, head cocking to one side, trying to find that hint of recognition but seeing nothing. Despite this, he didn't lose heart; Axel was a patient man when he needed to be. Roxas would know him again, eventually.

.o.O.o.

Roxas spent the afternoon heaving over the toilet. Axel stood in the doorway, watching him, having unlocked the handcuffs to allow him this one luxury, but unwilling to take his eyes off the blond, even for a second.

Roxas wouldn't let the man near him, kicking him away whenever he tried to approach; had he had the energy, and had he not been almost constantly needing to vomit the meagre contents of his stomach, he'd have attempted more, put up a fight of some sort, but the way things were right now, the only fighting going on was with himself. He hugged the cold ceramic base, inhaling dusty bathroom air, sweaty forehead perched on the seat, trying not to think about who else might have been sitting there in the last twelve or so hours. At least it smelled like cleaner; that was one small mercy.

When he wasn't hurling, he was feeling violently hung-over, and all it did was serve to remind him of Hayner. God, where was he when you needed him? Roxas didn't even know how far away Twilight Town was, let alone his chances of being miraculously found by his friends. He missed them. He ached for them. Olette had been crying the last time he'd seen her, and Hayner had been so mad… and Pence, when was the last time he'd taken an hour to properly talk to Pence? And oh, man, Aerith. Did she even know yet that she was down a labour monkey?

His heart constricted, formed a tight fist of breathless pain, so that, out of sight of the ever-present, hated redhead, tears began to sting his eyes and leak down into the bowl water. He had to fight, with everything he had, to not let his breaths shudder, or his shoulders rock. He couldn't stand the thought of that man touching him; it had been bad enough that he'd got him drunk and then sewn him up. Roxas' first instinct, upon realising what he'd done, had been to tear the stitches all out again, and never mind the fucking pain… but in the end, it seemed like keeping a horrible scar on his face would be too much of a permanent reminder of the day that he'd got it. Better to get rid of it, even if it was through his administrations, than to have it staring baldly out of the mirror every day for the rest of his life. But the violation of it made his skin scream and crawl, the knowledge that those hands had been all over him like that, and, worst of all, the understanding that while he'd been out of it, Axel could have done anything to him. Anything at all.

But the thing he wasn't sure about yet, what made him uneasy, was whether or not he was pleased that he'd come back to his senses without having been… interfered with. On the one hand, he hadn't been… interfered with; but on the other – Roxas didn't… want to trust this man. He didn't want to relax around him, or think for a moment that he was safe. There was no goddamn way he was falling into Stockholm Syndrome. Axel was, and would remain, the enemy; the destroyer of his peaceful life.

At length, after Roxas' body had finally fallen quiet, his gulps and retching fading into a weary echo of hot breaths inside the toilet, Axel shifted restlessly against the door frame, said, "Hey. So. It's evening, and I'm hungry. You wanna go get something to eat? There's a diner near here."

Incredulity slowly filled the boy. He turned his head away from the toilet to stare at the redhead, whose eyebrows hitched up a little at the look on his face. Voice hoarse from stomach acid, thick from illness, the boy demanded critically, "Do I look like I want to go get something to eat?"

Axel eyed him, shrugging. "It's not like you've got anything better to do. And you never know, something solid might make you feel better, Rox."

The blond shut his eyes, exhaustedly returned his forehead to his forearm on the seat. "Don't call me that. I'm not your friend."

There was a pause, Axel exhaling audibly, mouth twisting down. "…Whatever. Anyway. We're going, so you might as well get your head out of there and brush your teeth." He turned to leave the bathroom, saying over his shoulder, "You've got a toothbrush on the sink. I bought it for you."

"In between the sex shop and the liquor store, right?" Axel didn't hear him, muttered as it was, left him there to pull himself together. Roxas felt his absence like a fresh breeze, even if he was only just over in the next partition of the room. He pulled himself heavily away from the toilet, head feeling leaden, neck weak, and cautiously looked around the tile room. There was a window of mottled glass over by the shower, set high in the wall, a narrow, horizontal rectangle of dying dusk. Well, that put escape out of the picture – Roxas would have been lucky to manage to fit an entire arm through it, let alone squeeze his whole body out. No doubt that was why the man had left him like this; no fear of him getting away. However… just because he couldn't get out, didn't mean that Roxas couldn't yell out, couldn't haul himself up and hail a passerby, get them to call someone – the police, Hayner, anyone.

But then, Axel was back. He hadn't even been gone thirty seconds, and he met the poisonous look that the blond shot over with a nod. "You're slow," he observed. "I'd have thought you couldn't wait to get over and scream for help." He had a white shirt on, buttoned over his black tank, another cigarette in his mouth, hands coming up to automatically shield the flame as he lit it up. Releasing the first curl of smoke, he sent the boy a cocky wink. "Or is it that you subconsciously don't want to be saved?"

The breath exploded out of Roxas in disdain, glare powerful as he pushed himself up onto shaking legs. "You're a fucking poisoner," he stated in low, hard tones. "That's the only reason I haven't done anything before now."

With disinterest, Axel inspected the filter of his cigarette, replied, "Huh, really? I'll make sure to keep doing it, then." He smiled thinly as he returned it to his lips. Trembling, partially from anger, partially from frailty, the boy went to where the sink sat bolted to the wall and found the promised unopened toothbrush, green eyes following him all the while. It was bright red, like Axel's hair; he didn't want to use it. He turned it over in his fingers for a moment, gaze sliding over to where the man stared hard, before deliberately putting it to one side, plastic and cardboard wrapper intact. Instead, he ran the water, caught it in one cupped palm, and sucked it up. Finding a small tube of toothpaste, he squirted out a worm of the stuff onto the end of one finger and jammed it in with the water, swishing the mixture around for a few moments before spitting the whole coloured stream down the drain.

Water shining on his chin, Roxas glanced into the mirror, pausing at the sight of his appearance. He looked dishevelled – pale skin, dark eyes, mussed hair – but he'd grown accustomed to that sight since he'd stopped sleeping. The only real difference from the last time he'd taken a good look at himself, in his apartment with Hayner, was the fact that… his cheek was looking better. Axel had put a clean, white gauze over the site, taped it into place, making him look less like he'd just come out of a schoolboy scrap and more like he'd actually visited the emergency room like Hayner had told Aerith. Damn it. He hated Axel, hated him. He wished all over again that he could just tear the shit straight back off his face, let the wound gape and be a testament to the fact that the man did want to hurt him, was more than willing to slice him open. Who was he trying to fool, anyway? Did he really think that Roxas was going to change his opinion of him, even for a second?

The guy was out of his fucking mind.

"Tick-tock, Roxas." He was obeying the blond's wish to not be referred to with such familiarity. Hate, hate, hate. "I wanna go get a table before the place fills up."

Roxas scowled darkly into the mirror. "You're not worried that I'll get help? One yell from me, and the whole place is going to realise something's not right with us."

Axel smiled easily. "You think I don't know that? This is why I like you, Roxas – you don't underestimate me. You don't just think that sort of thing, and plan your little plans, because you know I already know eeeverything that's in your mind." He tapped his forehead smugly.

"You don't know jack-shit," the boy snapped back, holding himself up on the basin.

"I know that you know that I'm not stupid," Axel replied placidly. "Sure, you could yell, and there's nothing I could do to stop you. You could even try to overpower me and go running off into the night. But I'm the one that has your passport, sweetheart. And all your other documentation, and even some letters from your psychotherapist, so…"

Roxas went still, staring at him through the mirror, fingers tightening around the lip of the sink. "…What? My what? What?"

"All I need to do is show them all of that, and they'll realise that you're… kinda confused." His smile became sympathetic, almost. "So there's really no point in it. The irony would be too much for you, I think, having the cops on my side."

"You're lying," the blond quickly retorted.

Axel gazed at him, saying nothing for a moment, before replying seriously, "No. I'm really not." The smile came back, with a lost quality to it. "I wish I was, but I'm not." They locked eyes for a minute, neither one speaking, a trickle of helpless, confused fear running a cold line down Roxas' insides. Then, finally, Axel quietly said, "Come on. I'm hungry, didn't you hear me? I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. I've been too busy trying to get you back."

"You shouldn't have bothered," the boy whispered back harshly, staring at him in the reflection. Axel lifted a shoulder.

"When it's you," he replied, "how could I not?"

Hate.

Roxas followed him out of the room.