CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

It wasn't a mattress, but simply sheets strewn together on the floor, forest-green and white, with the two pillows laid over the top. The silver-haired man eased up onto an elbow, twisting to bring his knees up, the sheets sliding slightly as he pushed up to his feet. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced," he smirked, crossing the room. Roxas' eyes darted, taking in the wooden walls, the flat roof. It was small, stifling, the size of two garden sheds joined together. Roxas didn't know where the hell he was. There was nothing familiar here at all. "I am Sephiroth. I told that – friend of yours, a while back, but one can't rely on exes to pass this sort of information along…"

"He's not my ex," Roxas said instantly, hoarse. A second later, his teeth clicked shut again. Green eyes were narrowed at him, as the man sat on the lone wooden chair in front of what could ambitiously be called a window, but was in fact – plastic sheeting nailed over a gap in the wall? Murky light filtered through. The chair creaked, Sephiroth propping his elbows on his knees as he proceeded to slowly tug the black gloves from his hands.

"Well, he's not your current anymore, either," he said quietly, a thread of darkness running through each word. "You made a mistake with him…" Roxas closed his eyes. "So." He was all smiles suddenly, one glove free, pressed the side of his face as he tipped his head to the side. "I've introduced myself. How about you tell me a little of yourself? Name, age, occupation."

Roxas glared weakly. "You already know my name. Stop – playing games with me. What do you even want?"

His aggressor snorted a slight laugh, sliding down in the chair, legs stretching lazily out until they were only a couple of feet from Roxas' left hand. He moved on to the second glove. "My, you certainly are different today, aren't you? So, what's the deal with that, kid? The mother thing. What the fuck's up with those issues?"

Roxas glared, not answering. Disliking the vulnerability of his position, eyes fixed on the muddy bottoms of the boots, he pushed himself slowly to sitting. Pain blazed through his ribs and hands, stabbing like knives, bringing a small, hatefully-released grunt of anguish. The silver-haired man watched every motion, the shine in his eyes hovering on some brink between hunger and amusement. Now able to wrap his arms around his middle, coated in a film of sweat, blood throbbing mercilessly, Roxas darted his gaze around more fully. He froze, all too obviously, upon seeing the exit to the cabin-like arrangement, simple brown door shut tight.

Sephiroth followed his gaze, lips twitching. "By all means, try it if you want – we're in the middle of a forest. It would be entertaining to see how far you got before that poor abused little body of yours collapsed." He pursed his mouth thoughtfully, brow creasing slightly as he added, "Of course, I'd have to drag you back by your hair." He leaned forward sharply, tumbling onto his knees, snatching a handful of the blond spikes and shaking hard. Roxas cried out, hands automatically jumping up, one grasping the slender wrist, the other pounding the meat of the forearm with his knuckles. Laughing with a cruel edge, the man released him, pupils dilated. He slapped him none-too-gently with the gloves, leaving a sting on his face to match that of his scalp. Breath hitching, Roxas covered his head with his torn, blood-crusted hands, glaring out through shimmering vision as Sephiroth stood and went to the far side of the room.

"What do you want with me?" the blond demanded, panting harshly. "You're not really Sephiroth. Sephiroth died."

Something flew across the room, a small jar colliding with the boy's cheekbone. An expletive burst from Roxas' lips, fierce rage prompting him to snatch the object up and blindly hurl it back. His aim was off, the man caught it easily a foot to his right and flung it straight down again, just as sharply as the first time. It cracked against Roxas' skull, making the blond howl. Roxas' fingers dug into his scalp, rocking from side to side, the movement upsetting his other injuries, turning his existence to fire. In the new silence, the man quietly said, "I am Sephiroth."

Roxas shuddered in a gasp and croaked, equally softly, "No, you're not."

The man crossed to him in three long steps, eyes glittering, teeth bared. Roxas glanced up, saw him coming, let out a low, frightened cry and started to scramble back. For a second time, his hair was seized. He was wrenched to his feet, thrown against the wall, groaning. A hand jammed around his throat, bruises flaring at the roughness, those shining teeth with their threat of ear-tearing a bare two centimetres from his nose, the smell of his breath floating into Roxas' senses. Instinct screamed, and Roxas fell still.

The man was breathing hard, chest and shoulders heaving, gaze fixed unnervingly on the blond's lips, as if, at any moment, he would take a bite. The green eyes flicked up, intense under silver brows. "Watch your mouth, war-orphan," he said softly. His fingertips gentled to stroke the expanse of neck, feather-light. Roxas swallowed, the touch pausing briefly, a nail inserting with faint threat into the soft skin under his chin. "You should be better behaved than that. After all…" He lifted his other hand, fist curled around an object. "I have this..."Two fingers unfurled, revealing a glimpse of midnight velvet. Roxas jerked against his grasp, a zap of shock running through his muscles.

"Mother!"

A brow rose. "Mother?"

Roxas was frozen in place, no longer mindful of his many injuries, eyes wide. "Please," he muttered, lips numb. "Please, don't hurt mother."

Eyes narrowing, the man directed his gaze to the box, bringing it up to rest on a dais of fingertips, studying it. "It's just a little ball," he said, a faint sneer in his tone.

"Just – don't hurt mother," the blond insisted, heart thumping.

"I'm confused," Sephiroth murmured coldly. "I don't like you acting like this." He straightened, tucked the box behind his back, stepped back, eyes travelling slowly up and down the teen. His lip curled briefly. "Stop acting weak. You don't even have a mother, stupid little boy. Your mother died."

Roxas blinked rapidly. "Mother is real."

"Tch." A disgusted noise. He turned, stalked back across the room, bent to where a black rucksack lay and tucked the core away, Roxas following every motion with his faintly panicked gaze. "That stuff I threw – it's a balm," the man said shortly, not turning around as he dug through the bag. "You can use it on your wounds. I had a look at the cuts on your thigh while you were sleeping – they're deep. I didn't feel like sewing them up, though." He turned with a brilliant smile. "I prefer scars." He threw across a roll of bandage, it bounced at the blond's feet. "Take off your pants and clean yourself up. I didn't bother, and there might be infection. I'd rather you didn't become gangrenous. It wouldn't fit."

"Wouldn't… fit?" Roxas was dazed from having the core so close, thoughts jumbled.

"Cloud doesn't have gangrene," he replied rationally. His tone sharpened. "Now, get to it."

Sense returned. There was no way Roxas was taking off his pants in front of this guy. He scowled. The man saw his stubbornness, flared slightly, then subsided almost as quickly. "Yes," he murmured, eyelids dropping slightly. "That's right. That defiance – it's fine." Roxas was left feeling uncertain. His head and face pounded where the small jar had hit. It just added to the medley shaking his body. He sucked in a slow breath, sinking down the wall with a flutter of panic. He knew enough to realise he wasn't going to be racing off anytime soon – this meant he had to stay here, with this – this madman. And the madman had mother. His stomach churned, at the memory of that breath mingling with his, the comprehension of his… his complete and utter helplessness. His vision went briefly white, an extra powerful throb inside his chest, as he contemplated his future. Hurriedly, his mind withdrew from that series of possibilities, cast time away to exist in the one moment in which he was gasping. There was nothing else he could do.

"Are you hungry, dear?" Sephiroth asked, sudden pleasantness lacing his tone. He was still bent over the rucksack. "I have some bread here for you. I thought we could eat together."

"I… I'm not hungry," Roxas said quietly, drawing into himself, eyes lowering. The one calling himself Sephiroth faltered, straightened slowly.

"It's dinnertime, though. We always eat together at dinnertime."

"Look – " Roxas lost patience. "I'm not Cloud, okay? I'm not Cloud any more than you're Sephiroth. So… so, who the fuck are you, anyway?"

The man tucked the bag against his stomach, a small frown creasing his forehead. "Why are you acting this way?" he asked, voice low. Roxas took a breath, the words reaching his throat, but a second later, silver hair was streaming, eyes wide and wild, rucksack swinging around to slam into the side of his face. The blond's head thumped the wall, a grunt and nothing more coming out. Sephiroth bent over him, seemed to tower with fury, fists clenched, shoulders hunched as he spat, "What the fuck's the matter Cloud? You look like you, I look like me – there's no way this won't work!" He slapped Roxas suddenly, open-palmed. "Just close your eyes and fucking pretend." He paused for a moment, heaving for air, eyes darting all over the teen. Roxas had his face still turned to the side, one eye already swelling shut from whatever had been in the bag, a thin trickle of blood beginning to work its way from the corner of it down the planes of his cheek, like a slow, thick, bright tear. He breathed slowly, deeply, couldn't get enough air from the choking fear in his throat.

"You don't deserve food anymore," the man said sharply. "You want it? You have to earn it." He stared down at the boy for a moment longer, then broke away, stalking to the opposite side of the cabin, finding the darker corner and sitting abruptly, hugging the rucksack to his chest. His bright eyes fixed upon Roxas in the dying sunlight that strained through the sheet-plastic. There was nothing, nothing in the world, that frightened him more than the thought of being alone with this insane creature at night. For the whole night. Nothing at all.

.o.O.o.

They were lying side-by-side, moonlight illuminating the room murkily. The madman was asleep, his breaths slow and even, expression peaceful in repose. When Roxas chanced to look over, he was struck by how young he seemed in this light. He could barely have been older than Axel by more than a year or two. His lips were fuller now, not being pulled so constantly by tension and insanity. He looked human.

The blond was already realising how quickly that could change.

He was unpredictable. Roxas wasn't sure how to deal with him, how to do anything. He hadn't addressed the teen again after their argument, had lapsed into dark, brooding silence, the tendrils of his sickness crawling across the ceiling, the walls, to smother Roxas and any courage he kept trying to muster. His injuries burned, as if a container filled with fire-ants had been emptied onto the flesh of his right leg and palms, swarming around the sites of the wounds from where the wire had dragged through his flesh the night before. It was like being eaten alive, cell by cell. The agony of it kept him conscious, long after he wished he could have passed out. It wasn't fair, that his tormentor could sleep so peacefully, while he shivered with fright at the realisation that he was sharing the same breathing space as a killer. He turned his head slowly, coming to rest on the beaten half of his face, staring with his wider eye at the stillness of the man's expression. Oh, God, please let him die and never wake up. Make that breath his last one… or that one… or that one… Sephiroth just kept breathing.

His words echoed in Roxas' mind, becoming a shout as the pain in his thigh increased – "...there might be infection. I'd rather you didn't become gangrenous." Could it end up that bad? What Roxas had seen of it had just been the state of his jeans – black now, stiff with all the blood that had come pouring out, spread wide around his upper leg and delving down to peter out beneath the knee, becoming stray trails. The jar of balm was close by, just on the other side of the bed, beyond where the man slumbered. The bandages had been set beside it. He didn't mind taking care of himself now that he knew the one calling himself Sephiroth wouldn't be watching every moment. He felt frustration, an intense and pure sort of rage at himself, for not having asked more about him at the time. He'd had over a week to find out the details about the madman, but had chosen to leave that part of his life alone, opting to focus on the more immediate troubles. Who knew they'd all end up combining in the end? If he just had some knowledge, if he knew for an absolute, unshakable fact that the real Sephiroth was dead, and this was some kind of impostor, at least he'd have something to cling to. And his relationship with Cloud! Why hadn't he found out more about that? He'd had all that time… Hindsight sucked. Really, really badly.

He had stiffened up about an hour after waking, once the adrenaline had died down to reveal the scary weakness beneath. It was impossible to move without pain. He'd reached a point where he either had to stop moving altogether, or just grit his teeth and swallow it down. Accept it. Because to fight it would break him, piece by little piece.

He watched the man for a while, warily, making certain that he was, in fact, definitely asleep. Roxas still didn't even know what the man wanted from him – he'd inflicted so much, hurt both Roxas and Axel, and now he had him, but – why? What the hell was the point? Was one overheard conversation, and some sort of physical similarity to Cloud, enough to spark this insanity?

Roxas slowly, teeth gritting, breath catching in his chest, pushed himself up to sitting. He was terrified of disturbing the man, who had insisted on sleeping beside him, even despite his silence. Maybe it was because it was the only excuse for a bed around, but the blond had the sinking feeling that maybe… maybe it was because of the fact that Cloud and Sephiroth shared a bed, once upon a time. That – gave him the shivers. He was almost completely at the man's mercy. He was vulnerable in the presence of a lunatic, who wanted to recreate him in the image of someone he'd once loved… or claimed to love… or still did… Ugh, the confusion was making him queasy. What he wouldn't have given for just a glimpse of his jailor's thoughts.

But then… was it really a jail?

Blue eyes travelled slowly over to the door, stayed there for several long minutes. It was locked – it had to be. There was no way it was just… open. That would be asking for Roxas to run… He grimaced slightly as he unconsciously shifted, pain spiking through his right leg. Well, he wasn't in any condition for it right now anyway. But at least it wasn't the most secure of holding areas – if Roxas was forced to try and escape, he actually had a chance.

He hesitated. To reach the balm, he'd have to lean over Sephiroth. The whole thing reeked of a trap of some kind, designed to terrify, to kick him while he was down. It was like contemplating reaching over a vampire at dusk – should be sleeping, sure, but if he's not… Roxas' eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. He'd do it. He had to. Now was the only time.

He drew a breath, held it firmly in his chest, ribs protesting. One hand splayed with difficulty on the sheets, sliding slightly as he transferred his weight over, careful not to touch the man. He shifted, winced, gaze darting down nervously. Sephiroth slept on, seemingly unaware of the pounding heart and shallow exhalations going on nearby. Silver hair spread on the pillow, long, soft and still, dark lashes touching cheeks without stirring. The lips were parted to allow each inhalation, too close as Roxas stretched flinchingly across his narrow chest, arm hovering high, trying to create an arc over the black leather. He was forced to move his hips, putting sudden pressure on his legs. The agony on his right quads and hamstring wrenched at his head, threatened to send him spinning into a swoon. A drop of moisture rolled from Roxas' forehead, down the line of his nose, shivering and then dropping. It landed with deafening impact upon the hard black surface, certain to wake even the dead.

The temptation to give up and tumble was strong for a moment – holding on was hard – but a flash of red in his memory tugged him firmly away from the precipice of fainting. His eyes fluttered open, and Jenova slid back into the recesses of his mind, her final act before relinquishing control to clasp Roxas' fingers around the jar, smallest one hooking the roll of bandage close. Consciousness returned to full capacity with a burst, sent him yanking back. The sharp motion made his knee bump the man, the sheets skidding beneath him on the wooden floor. He drew into himself, breath caught and held, eyes wide as he waited for the glimmering teal-green irises to be revealed, thin from overwhelming pupil.

Nothing. Sephiroth insisted on sleeping. Roxas could almost find the time to envy the ease of it – how long since he had slept that deeply and soundly? Last night, well, he'd…

Last night.

"Oh, fuck." He muffled his mouth, gagged himself with the brown bandage, even as his lips and tongue moved to whisper, "Axel."

He hadn't forgotten – no, he hadn't. He'd been there, he'd seen it, he'd fought it, damn it! But… she was still in him. Still nestled between his ears, settled and patient, waiting for when they would leave in the morning – yes, she believed that. She actually believed this was temporary. She was holding the events of the previous night further from his conscious mind, to – save him? Keep him pliable? He never forgot what had happened… but she was holding the thoughts of Axel at bay. She had summoned the man's image only to help Roxas cling to waking – did this mean she had realised her mistake in trusting Sephiroth? How could she come to the rescue, but still be exuding confidence that the silver-haired 'saviour' would be returning them home?

He is a good boy, came the distant whisper.

"He is bad," Roxas hissed around the fabric. Horrified, he jammed it in further, knees rising, and waited for Sephiroth to wake. Mother said nothing more, but the urge to clean himself became strong. There was a smell drifting up from his leg, bitter, metallic, just the slightest bit sweet. Mother wanted him to repair himself. Roxas let out a shuddering sigh, muscles quaking with frailty, and slowly pulled the material from his mouth, tongue dry now, lips cracked. His kept his gaze on Sephiroth as he carefully, painfully crawled back from the makeshift bed, the slip of the sheets becoming cold, smooth wood. His right leg hobbled and dragged after him, not so much participating as hampering. One of the hardest things Roxas ever had to do in his entire life was not cry out then, even softly. He was so sick of tears, yet they sprung to his eyes, stinging hot. He sucked a slow breath through his teeth, tipping his head back, trying not to make a noise against the ground.

By the time he reached the corner of the room, the same one that the silver-haired man had spent the evening sulking in, Roxas was a shaking mess. His weak fingers couldn't hold their load anymore, and the little jar with the thick glass walls went rolling away. He lunged after it, gasping, nearly falling and just staying there. But he caught it before it got away, and dragged himself back up to sitting, with all the effort of a mountain-climb. The newest test was to not throw up. It was lucky he didn't have anything in his stomach, hadn't done for over twenty-four hours now, otherwise he'd have had no way to keep it from all bubbling back out.

Despite the fear that urged him to hurry, get this over with before it was noticed that he was missing, Roxas spent the next ten minutes with his head against the wall, eyelids lowered almost completely, waiting for the hot, dizzy churning to leave. The sweat cooled gradually on his brow, clinging to his stinging shoulders, where it seemed more, lesser cuts resided. He lay his legs out straight, taking long, long minutes to do it gradually, not wanting to pull the delicate healing that had already occurred. The one thing he didn't think he could handle right now was more fucking blood. The leftover scent and evidence on his jeans was more than enough to twist his gut and senses.

The worst of the damage, to his mind, was in his hands. He lifted them, gaze skating over the jagged strips, the punctures. Dried, crusted, sick-inducing. He wouldn't be able to function properly like this, not if he was going to ever have a chance of getting away. They were perhaps the more numb of the pair of major injuries, but by far the most distressing. He had to force control into his respiration, to keep from hyperventilating at the horror that spiked through when he studied them. He lowered them unsteadily, picked up the balm with a thumb and forefinger, and lifted it onto his left knee. The cap unscrewed easily, an astringent smell wafting up from the pastel-coloured innards. Just as Roxas was reaching to dip into the cream, he wondered if this wasn't some new trick of his tormentor – what if there was – acid in it? Or, or, pepper or something. Chilli. Fuck, he gagged at the thought. Painstakingly, he bent a little at the waist, exhausted by now, only able to lower himself slightly, and sniffed cautiously. He tried to assess the different components of the smell, but all it formed in his mind was an impression of medicine. That had to be a good thing, right? Kitchen and salsa would be bad imagery. Medicine meant it was pharmaceutical.

In the end, all he could really do was resign himself to whatever was going to happen. He really needed to get this done, and delaying wasn't going help his nerves or his health. He couldn't shake the idea of gangrene. Rotting. Roxas could recall, albeit fuzzily, precisely how he got the wounds, and it scared him to think of the kinds of bacteria and filth that might have entered his bloodstream. For the amount of time he'd been left to fester, wasn't that enough to poison him? What if this sickness had nothing to do with his pain at all, was some kind of grease swimming through his system that was going to kill him in the next twelve hours?

Calm. Breathe. The dizziness was encroaching again, making it hard to think. As easy and ever near the surface as it was, he had to – not panic. Had to keep a cool head. Otherwise, he'd lose it, start screaming, wake the madman. Axel entered his mind again, only this time, it was because Roxas brought the image up, squeezing his eyes shut, the balm's stench swirling around. Axel. Axel was out there somewhere, waiting for his Roxie to come home. If the blond concentrated, cut through the haze, he could hear his voice in his head, with its mocking twang even when he was being loving. He could see the eyes, brighter green that the ones he'd seen lately, purer, filled with fire rather than ice and alienation. Roxas could feel him, wrapping his arms around the teen, could almost imagine that it was possible to just open his eyes and find himself back in the castle. It was all… so close. So recent. Perhaps that was why it stung so much, when he opened his eyes and found himself… still here. Willing alone didn't save you, didn't transport you back to safer ground and caring caresses.

Yes, Axel was out there. And he was hurt. And he'd be worried about Roxas, the blond knew it, knew he wouldn't be blamed, couldn't be. Axel knew Roxas would never hurt him. But if the blond didn't return sometime soon, didn't figure out a way out of this new nightmare and back to the castle… Axel wouldn't survive. It occurred to him slowly, blowing a coldness through his veins. Axel had held on all this time, watching and waiting, pouring his soul into someone who wasn't even going to necessarily appreciate his heart on a platter. He had given it without hesitation, and didn't want it back, because, rightfully, it belonged to Roxas now. Axel had no stake in it at all. However… one needed a heart in order to live, one way or another. Being in the vicinity of its beating kept him cheerfully alive, but if you take the heart and its bearer away… you leave him with an empty chest. Axel… didn't have a heart anymore. It was within this cabin, in the middle of some nameless forest Roxas didn't even know. Keep the flesh and its reason for being separate for too long, and it was inevitable that it would fail, would break down, would simply cease to be.

So Roxas wasn't just trying to save himself anymore, he realised. When he was finally able to try, that is. He had to do it for Axel, as well. And… this meant he had to try sooner. He wasn't sure how long the redhead would last. He turned his gaze downward to the little jar, poised a finger above it, dipped it into the cold mixture and drew it out again. He hesitated, wondering whether to just smear it all over or concentrate on certain areas. In the end, he settled on just… just spreading it in a thin, all-over coat. It hurt like hell, stung, renewed the fire-ants' determination to devour him. His eyes watered from the faint fumes, making it feel like they'd had a layer peeled off, leaving the rawness underneath to deal with the punishment.

By the time both hands had been done, the balm rubbed as far into the slashes as he dared to endure, Roxas was panting, trembling, jerking. His skin was smeared red from where the dried blood had been dampened and spread. His flesh was buzzing, no longer numb, sensitive now, consumed. Small tears clung to his eyelashes, and he wasn't even finished yet. Closing his eyes, he reached down with feeble fingers and unbuttoned his jeans, drew down the fly as gradually as he could to not further disturb the silence that hovered thickly through the cabin. When his eyes did open again, they were staring in the direction of the window, filled with longing. It was so close, the ability to leave… But as he lowered his gaze to his leg, peeling his jeans down to his knees, chest hitching at the agony of it all, he realised he wasn't going to be capable of it yet – not tonight. He'd thought his hands were the worst. He'd been wrong. He closed his eyes, teeth clenching, and bit back the choke of despair that welled in his throat. This was going to hurt, so badly. But it had to be done.

.o.O.o.

Roxas wasn't sure if it was exhaustion, the pain finally knocking him out, or some other reason that made him sleep peacefully through the night. A cocktail, perhaps. It seemed ridiculous, to be caught in this sticky web of one dilemma after the next, yet be able to dream benignly. He'd have expected – nightmares. Monsters, evil men riding out of the shadows, Axel dead or dying, a host of friends gathered around blaming him for the misfortune of the world, hell, even just one of the more regular ones where you can't move properly, to highlight his helplessness – but there was none of that. The one time he had reason to, more than ever, and his subconscious instead chose to take him drifting. Maybe it was just a case of the brain knowing what was good for it – if there was no escape from the tension, a perpetual trap of waking from one nightmare only to plunge into the next, he was certain to lose his mind. Perhaps this was just self-preservation kicking in, to allow him time to heal and recover. But then again, maybe it was the lack of sleep-walking. For the first time in weeks, he dreamed, yet didn't visit the playground. It had been destroyed, had been consumed by mother. She had no reason to plague him anymore, since she had already taken over. Roxas could feel her, watching him sleep, patiently waiting for daylight to come.

Even as he dreamed, though, some part of him remained lucid, aware of the cold ground – he had chosen to stay in the corner, couldn't face dragging himself back to lie down next to that man – of the quality of light, first moon, then sun, conscious of the other slumberer nearby, ready to snap back to alertness if danger seemed apparent. As the one calling himself Sephiroth began to stir, early morning, just past dawn, Roxas woke, heart clenching. The sounds of movement sent spikes of adrenaline through his over-stressed system, brought his nerve endings to life, tingling. The pain from the night didn't seem so bad in the face of the fear. It was smothered by the shadow that gripped his lungs. He hadn't even known how much this all frightened him, until the moment the man awakened.

Roxas pretended to be asleep. He didn't want to have to face this, not now, not ever. Postponing the inevitable, maybe, but this was what his panic demanded – play dead.

Sephiroth grunted, the sheets rustling before his boots found the floor, clomping. He came over to where the blond lay, stopped. Interminable silence. Heart jazzing in Roxas' chest, sore against unhealed ribs, pulsing at his temples with vertigo.

"Cloud…" Roxas' eyes squeezed tighter without thought, giving him away in a heartbeat. The man crouched, fingers gentle as they brushed through his spikes, down his cheek, tapping thoughtfully at the bruising. "Why do you always sleep somewhere else?" He sounded… mournful. "Why don't you come to bed anymore? Is it because I repulse you?"

Blue eyes sprang incredulously open, to meet sad green irises. "I don't even know you. Let me go. I'm not Cloud," he said hoarsely. A hand on his waist, light, making him flinch.

"Don't say that. I know we can work things out, Cloud." He smiled. "We always do, don't we?"

"I'm not – Cloud."

The hand became a claw, finding the exact site of his cracked ribs, fingers digging in viciously, face briefly contorted into a snarl of rage. "That's not right. Now is when you agree! Now is the time for you to say you're sorry!" Roxas cried out and writhed, a low scream echoing through the room. "Say it! Say it, Cloud, say you're sorry!"

"I'm sorry," the boy wailed, as the man just about tried to rip a chunk out of his side with his bare hands.

"Sorry who? Who am I?" He pulled away, slapped the blond sharply across his swelling.

"Sephiroth! I'm sorry Sephiroth!" Roxas crumbled into tears, howling, as Sephiroth drew back, face pale. He was sweating, strands of silver hair clinging to his face. The fury melted slowly, to emptiness, then to horror, remorse, as Roxas forced himself quiet, sucking erratic breaths through his nose as he bit the inside of his lips for silence. His skin had turned pasty grey, clammy, waves of sick white prickles sweeping over his body, his vision.

"I… I'm sorry," the man said quietly, sounding almost confused. "I don't know why I hurt you. I never… never normally hurt you." There was a long pause. "Baby?" He laid a hand on Roxas' face, the boy flinching, unable to shift away, closing his eyes hard against the world. "I'm sorry, too," the soft voice admitted. "I just – it hurts me, waking up and finding you've slept somewhere else. It's like you can't stand to be near me anymore."

Roxas didn't answer this time, tasted blood as he sank his teeth deeper, struggling to keep the weeping in. Sephiroth's hands were gentle, careful, yet merciless as they pulled the blond up to sitting. Roxas' lips burst apart with a low moan, arms hanging by his sides. Every inhalation was agony now. He could still feel those same fingers burying into his skin, as if they could meet inside him, snap the ribs free one by one. It felt as if he already had. There was a bonelessness to the boy, a complete lack of energy, of strength. His mind had slowed with the shock, become addled and thick. Sephiroth's hands found the teen's face, brushing away the perspiration, swiping it down the sides of his jaw. "You're so beautiful," he murmured. "Everything about you. You make me better just by existing, Cloud, did you know that?" He smiled, kissed his forehead, whispered, "But of course you do. You know everything about this soul of mine, don't you? You see straight through every wall…" Another kiss, on the boy's temple. "…and into the heart I didn't even know was there…" On his cheek. "…until you came along." His mouth, which was slack, brain barely registering that he was being kissed, gently at first and then passionately. It was only when those hands began to wander that Roxas blinked back into his skull, rising from the fog of his daze. "Don't," he begged voicelessly, as Sephiroth's touch spread down his skin, beneath his shirt, across his chest. The man had shifted to suckle the corner of his jaw, his body creeping forward, sitting intimately close on Roxas' left thigh. Fingers stroked the underside of his chin. "I know you still love me," Sephiroth whispered, eyes fluttering shut. "You love it when I touch you like this, don't you? You always said it drove you wild…"

It sickened Roxas. Every time their flesh met, it left a rotten, burning hole. Every motion meant to be seductive soured his stomach, left a bitterness at the back of his tongue, in amongst the taste of blood. His chest began to heave, panic returning, as he realised the man wasn't planning on stopping. Despite Roxas' lack of response, his obvious recoiling, he continued with growing ardour, murmuring sweet nothings and almost seeming to pretend he was receiving them back. The blond squirmed, lifted his clumsily bandaged hands, push without power at his shoulders. His wrists were caught, pressed together, that mouth back on his, that tongue pressing through. Roxas began to struggle, as best as he could, but every pitiful attempt was swept aside and replaced with yet more excitement. Sephiroth's breaths had increased, he was building himself up, acting as if this was some meeting of kindred sexual souls, beginning to groan softly at each touch. With horror, Roxas realised his pathetic writhing was pushing his thigh into the man's groin.

"I'm going to make you feel so good, Cloud…"

"Get off!" he commanded suddenly, voice tight and high. "Get off, get off, get off of me!"

"But this is what we do," the man sighed into his ear, hands moving lower, plucking at the button of his jeans. "We fight, baby, and then we make up, and tell each other how much we love each other."

"I'm not Cloud," the blond hissed through clenched teeth, "and you're not Sephiroth." A hand inserted itself down into his underwear, making him whimper, throat thickening, hands shaking but clutched hard in one of the man's.

"We are," he crooned, "we are. I know you like this." Roxas pushed with his elbows, head throwing from side to side, hating it, hating that touch. Did he expect this to work? Did he expect Roxas to be aroused? "I don't want to, I don't want to," he cried brokenly. "Stop it!" His eyes squeezed shut as Sephiroth stroked the flaccid flesh, able to feel every uncomfortable callus in the man's fingers, every rough slide, and he couldn't even move, was in too much pain, was held too tightly. "Stop it!" he gasped, a sob breaking free, because there was nothing, nothing he could do.

And then there was silence, and darkness, and a mother's cool embrace.

Blue eyes flashed open, hard, glinting. Operating at three-quarter capacity, half-strength, motivated by cold outrage, his right wrist wrenched to the side, slipping out of the man's grip, palm falling down and then cracking across his face with stunning force. There was pain, but it was inconsequential. There was awkward discomfort, but it was easily manoeuvred. Roxas glared icily, as the slap-reddened face turned back to him, green eyes round, breathing hard. "Wh-what? Cloud!" Anger blossomed on the saviour's face, matched and overwhelmed by the ice in the teen's.

"You will not touch us this way," Roxas said, voice capable of cutting glass. "This behaviour is that belonging to a bad boy, not the good boy mother thought you were. Roxas is in pain, he is crying again. Mother heard the tears in his head and came. Mother will protect her son, and you will remove your hand from Roxas' pants."

Sephiroth did as bidden, startled by the fury pulsing the air, the frigid power within the eyes that warned him a line had been crossed.

"My son is not your plaything," Jenova said sharply. "He may be your love, and for that I grant you grace, but Roxas has a love, and you are not he. When Roxas was with his love physically, he was happy, mother felt his joy even from a distance. When you touch Roxas like the good boy touches Roxas, he is unhappy. We feel this, we feel it acutely, and we deduce that you can sense it also. So why do you persist?" Her gaze sliced into him. "What is your name?"

The silver-haired man gaped. "I – I'm Sephiroth."

Her eyes narrowed. "We have been exchanging small amounts of proximal data in the hours past, and I now know that you are not General Sephiroth. He is dead – he had physical differences to you that do not match your profile. So tell me who you are!"

"I – I am Sephiroth," he insisted, a frantic flash in his expression.

"Get off my son, now." The man scrambled back. With a mother's tempest, Roxas' body was quickly examined for fresh injuries. None were found. Her gaze found him harshly. "Roxas needs sustenance and medical attention immediately, he is far too physically weak, and this affects his coping abilities. Your treatment of him is abysmal – you do not act towards him as his own love does, which leads me to assume that Roxas is not your love at all. If indeed he is, you will change your behaviour, and you will do so quickly." Blue eyes tightened, studying the astounded man. "I am not leaving until my son is being taken care of."

Sephiroth blinked rapidly, bewildered. "Who are you?"

"I have already introduced myself," she replied sharply. "It is high time you did the same. I am Roxas' mother."

"He doesn't have a mother," the man bellowed suddenly, face twisting savagely.

"I am his mother," she thundered back, each word clipped and severe.

"And I'm Sephiroth," he screamed, losing control. He lunged for the teen, fist flying, but the blow was caught, his wrist twisted hard to the right, then smashed back into his own face. He tumbled back, lay still for a stunned moment. When he raised his head, shocked, she was watching him calmly.

"Alright then," she reasoned. "You are Sephiroth, as I am Roxas' mother. I understand." There was confusion, a trickle of red appearing from one nostril, from where his knuckles had been forced. "Roxas needs medical attention," he was reminded. He blinked several times, to clear his head.

"You – you're…" He frowned. "Where did you come from?"

"From Roxas, of course," was the placid response. He hesitated.

"Roxas?"

"Yes," she confirmed. The man's bewilderment increased.

"Then – where's Cloud?"

"Why do you need him?"

This question seemed to stump. Slowly, Sephiroth lowered himself at the boy's feet. Quietly, he went to work, not saying another word, until Roxas' injuries were at last properly taken care of.