Disclaimer: Characters are copyright to Square Enix.

Warning: Rated T for now, later chapters will be M rated for language, violence, sex and disturbing themes.

A/N: I bring you Lea and Axel :)

BONE OF CONTENTION

LEA, THE BOY WHO'D DISAPPEAR

- eleven years before death -

When I came home after Sports Day, my dad really put me through the wringer. It was a bit like being on a spit roast, getting burned and baked for one half of the cycle, and then being turned upwards to have a bit of a break. The thing about cycles, though, was that they went on and on and on. So once my dad had finished criticising me for skipping more than a quarter of this term's classes, he composed himself and began to berate me for breaking your foot.

"Your mother's been on the phone to that boy's aunt, apologising on your behalf. Luckily, they have health insurance to cover the injury, but that doesn't negate the fact that in your foolhardy play, you inconvenienced so many others. That boy will be in crutches and a cast for the next five weeks. Your mother, who I need not remind you is six days overdue, does not deserve the stress and complication you work so hard to create. For goodness sake, can't you behave?"

"I came third in the sprint today. Second place in hurdles, last place for long jump – oops – and only a measly first place for javelin!" I made the announcement I had been fighting to keep in to everyone; where everyone was my mum, dad, three sisters and rabbit; and of that everyone, the rabbit got the award for most attentive. I was used to it, of course. In big families, you could disappear, and no one would notice.

"Lea, please," my mum complained, dragging me back onto the spit roast.

"It was an accident," I told her (not for the first time). "I did say sorry, and I did sit with him until the end of school."

And on that note, I felt a twinge of guilt. After diagnosis, you were fitted with a cast that somehow doubled as a gag. You said nothing else once it was on you. You just sat there in bed, chewing your lip and clutching your flask of wishes. I had so wanted to give you a hug but, too afraid that I might hurt you again, I refrained, and now I regretted it. I was sure many people saw your disease before they saw you, and without meaning to, I had become one of them.

-x-

My dad was a prosecution lawyer, and Radiant Garden's finest at that. Most days, he was either in court or preparing for court, and since he was rarely home except to sleep, it meant that on the day my mum went into labour, my youngest sister and I were the only ones around.

We managed to take her to the hospital before she became unable to walk. Along the way, an old woman closed her sweet store early so that she could help out. In addition, a man who had previously been smoking at the park entrance, promptly stamped out his cigarette and ran to hold doors open for us.

I thought of their kindness, how they had dropped what they were doing when they saw a pregnant woman in need; and then I thought of you crying on Sports Day, and how people gathered round not to assist but to stare. Your disease was your way of life – the only way of life you could have – and people were quick to judge on that.

I wondered if on Sports Day, you had heard one boy shout, "Faker!" at you. I wondered if you were in too much pain to hear him; or if you were so used to the judgment that his voice simply hit the bubble you sat in and ceased to travel any further.

-x-

Ironically, I ran into you when I wasn't looking for you. For nine days after my baby sister was born, I searched the school corridors and playground, keeping my eyes peeled for a glimpse of blue, my ears listening out for the sound of crutches. I never came across you.

Then, one afternoon, my maths teacher sought to punish me for not paying attention in class, and sent me next door to fetch a board wipe. Guess who I saw?

You sat at one of the front desks, one hand propping up your chin and your legs slightly splayed. You lifted your head at the sound of my voice, smiled and returned my wave. And because you did, I suddenly found myself grinning through the rest of my class.

I legged it to you after the bell for home time rang. You were still packing away your books. Even the teacher had left, and you explained to me, "I leave a little later than everyone else. I miss the crowd that way."

"You should petition to leave earlier," I answered. I slung your schoolbag over my shoulder as you reached for it. "I'll walk you home. Unless you're meeting your cousin?"

You wrinkled your nose and I grinned. "Yeah, I don't walk with my sisters either. I have a status to maintain, you know?"

You gave your crutches a none-too-subtle glance. "Then why are you hanging out with me?"

"Well, why not?" I ran to hold the classroom door open for you, deciding it was far too hard (not to mention embarrassing) to elaborate, because my reasoning was more than why not. The day we met, I realised I had found someone like me. You were shunned for who you were; I was shunned for who I wasn't. I imagined us as tissue paper or the thin petal of a dying flower, one red and one blue, who were only whole and complete and visible when put together as a dash of purple. You didn't make me feel as if I had just bled into the scenery behind me, out of existence. The way your blurred eyes studied me, how you made me work to get a smile out of you – you wouldn't let me disappear.

I'd later reveal to you that having my dad as a prosecution lawyer did not make me popular at school. Falling asleep and skipping most lessons and still coming out to be top of the class – that didn't make me popular, either. I was living proof that you didn't have to be disabled to be disliked. I wasn't sure if this fact would make you feel better, or reaffirm your suspicions of needing to be a certain calibre in order to fit in.

We set off at a slow pace, to better accommodate your walking. Click, thud, click, thud you went, gingerly testing your crutches on the cobblestone. I talked about silly things – how I snapped a ruler that said it was shatterproof, how I replaced my sister's make up bag with colouring pencils this morning – but you were busy concentrating on not toppling over. When we got to your door (and I could tell from the front garden alone that you lived in a right dump), you took out your keys and gave me a look I couldn't quite decipher. Your shoulders seized up and you became as stiff as a corpse, except for the hand that fiddled with the keys.

"Can I come in?" I blurted out. "I don't need to be home until teatime."

At times like this, my mum would spam my forehead, snap my name and apologise to the offended person. Apparently, I was too forceful and pushy for my own good. But you broke into a smile and from it escaped a sigh of relief.

"That saves me from trying to invite you in," you said.

Your house was smaller than mine, a lot more cluttered and disorganised, but at least it didn't have air freshener that was the scent of rabbit. I channelled my dad and behaved like him, commenting on the great choice of furniture and nice upholstery (what did that word even mean?).

"It's a tip," you said blandly. You were confident in using your crutches here, swinging over the laundry basket and CD pile to the kitchen. "Do you want a drink?"

I said yes and took the drinks tray for you. The two mismatched glasses reminded me of your household's lack of order; but then I reconsidered and thought that maybe you had never taken out more than one glass.

"Go upstairs first," you said, and handed over your crutches. "Can you take these as well? My room is second on the left. I'll come afterwards. Don't…don't turn round," you added, suddenly nervous.

I didn't know how someone with a broken foot tackled stairs, but I could tell there was nothing dignifying about it. "I'll wait in your room," I promised, and with your crutches tucked under my arm, I took our drinks to the second room on the left.

Your window was only open a fraction – and to a junkyard of a back garden at that – but I could smell the strong scent of orange blossom. It was the first thing I noticed, and couldn't quite forget about. On your windowsill was the flask I had given you to store your wishes. I very nearly took it to have a read, but I was certain that with a room this clean, you'd notice if there was even a post it out of place.

Your bedroom was nothing like the rest of your house; it was so orderly, I was almost certain that it had been cut out of another house and forcefully meshed with this one. I remembered with a powerful hit to my stomach that this wasn't far from the truth. I spotted a picture of your mum on the edge table. Save for the eyes, you looked just like her.

You were clearly a massive fan of sticky labels, desk trays and the alphabet. The star charts on your wall were pinned at each corner in such level alignment that I could've been at an art gallery; the books on your desk shelf too, were cosmic themed and lined up faultlessly. In fact, the only clutter in here was a set of cards scattered across your bed, each one depicting a picture and gold text underneath. Four of Cups, I read. The Chariot. The Moon. Eight of Wands. I had seen those somewhere…

"Tarot," you said, limping inside and crashing onto your bed. I could tell you had wanted to do that ever since leaving it. Some cards slid down the quilts, and I wheeled over on your desk chair to pick them up.

"Tarot's cool," I remarked, trying to remember if it was fortune telling or a card game. Your mouth twitched with possible impatience. "And you're an astronomer, too?" I ploughed on.

"Astrologer," you corrected, abruptly cutting a moody figure in that bed of cards. "They're stupid hobbies. My uncle calls them cosmic mumbo jumbo, and that I should have more productive, tangible interests."

"Oh, my dad's like that," I answered, and just like that, your scowl lifted. "He moans at me for doing athletics and having no other hobby. He calls javelin a caveman sport and that a career as an athlete will end once I hit thirty. 'Use your brain, not your body!' he says, again and again, which is him basically saying that I have to become a lawyer or else he'll disown me."

"A lawyer?" You sat up, curious.

"Yeah, like him. He's beastly in court. Oh!" I jumped in my seat, and the rush of a brilliant idea took control of me so that I tapped your arm in a rhythm faster than the wing beat of a hummingbird. "Yes, that's it, Isa! The next time my dad has a public trial, I'll take you to watch. We can go after school. He's incredible – he's a prosecution lawyer by the way, so he prosecutes criminals – and every case starts with his opening statement basically saying that he's going to prove that so-and-so did this crime, and then he finishes his statement with, 'Commit it to memory'." I tried my hardest to copy my dad's baritone voice, but it was surprisingly difficult. "It's cooler when he says it," I concluded. "You ought to come along."

"I'd like that," you replied. A ghost of a smile flitted across your face.

"It might not be any time soon, though. My dad's really moody with me at the moment. I think it's stress in general. Plus we have a new baby, and she screams like a banshee by a microphone. She's got dark hair still, but it'll go blonde too, I'm sure."

You cocked your head to the side, absently collecting up your tarot cards. "Too?" you repeated.

"Everyone in my family has blonde hair. Gah, even the rabbit." I threw my arms up in a fashion that would put my very dramatic mum to shame. "Everyone except me, that is."

You glanced at my shock of red hair. "It's not impossible," you said.

"Yeah, it's possible, but no one looks beyond what they see. I can't tell you how many times I've heard jokes like the milkman or postman being my real dad. And do you know our postman actually has red hair? How annoying is that? Pass me your leg." I veered off subject and you jerked a little in surprise. "I'm going to draw on your cast. Is that all right?"

"Sure." You edged along your bed and rested your bad leg across it.

"Genes," I scoffed, delving into my bag for felt tips. "They really messed up when it came to you and me."

When I looked up, you were grinning. You bit down on your lip in resemblance of someone who shouldn't have been laughing, who had forgotten how to laugh, but now, couldn't help himself if he tried.

AXEL, THE FLURRY OF DANCING FLAMES

- four hours after birth -

Because someone has to feed the rabbit.

During the hours we roam these streets, we don't come across a single person. We're only accompanied by hunched creatures, as sublime and indistinct as a stifled sigh of relief. Neon signs croon over us like ugly flower heads, buzzing with the drone of something alive when it shouldn't be. The buildings are shells, cracked skeletons of what used to be whole and living and wanted, and you scrape your fingers across the rough bricks and mortar as if trying to tap into their song.

When I turn corners, I half expect these skyscrapers to be boards, propped up by two planks of decaying wood. My shadow bleeds into the concrete and I wonder if I have a shape or form at all. Sometimes, I struggle to distinguish between a dead end and an empty stretch of road.

It starts to rain. Just droplets at first, gone in the blink of an eye; then a downpour, a storm, beating our leather backs and forcing our eyes shut and heads down; and suddenly, I'm shit scared that I'm going to lose you. I stretch out an arm to pull you along – a shoulder, that will do – and locate a side roof for us to sit under.

You begin to tug at your hair again. It's all you do, once you reach a pause in thought or action. You twist and pull and wrench that silky blue curtain, clawing away at your head.

"Stop it." I coax the offending fingers away and sweep your hair so that it falls over one side of your neck. I do up your hood, and you slump against the wall, purposefully banging the back of your head.

I know it hurts. I'm experiencing the exact same thing. Someone has just handed me a manuscript and told me to pick it up and carry on. Where there should be my life story, of memories I worked so hard to collect and preserve, there isn't one. Pages aren't in order, some are damaged and others are missing completely. There are hazy spots, kinks in my memory that I can't smoothen, dozens of events and occasions that bear so much significance but make little sense. Who knew that uncertainty could be so painful? It's no wonder why you tear at your hair. You're trying to reach into yourself, agitated and upset, because you know your soul has to be there – it just doesn't want to be found.

"Shh, now." I keep your hands with mine as you protest. "You're all there, I promise."

And because you believe everything I say, you stop struggling and give a furious nod. You mirror me, a hapless, hooded ragdoll so pristine on the outside but shattered within.

But that's us, isn't it? We're always breaking. You break bones, and I break everything else, from the ice between us to the promises we make.

Sorry I'm such a bad friend.

I glance up through the rain at the castle overhead, stark white against the black sky. I suspect that this place is so geared that any hope of escaping is through that castle. I don't really want to go. I relay the idea to you anyway, but you shake your head.

"They only need one of us," you reply, and a small frown graces your face.

Sorry I'm such a bad friend. Driving you into a corner was never my intention.

I lean in to catch your breath against my cheek, just to check you're still there. Your voice is so quiet, so hoarse. I hold onto you tight, because even if you haven't figured it out yet, I have. The Organisation only needs one of us since they know the other will follow.

He moves with the slow, languid pace of someone lost in thought. I almost mistake him to be another of those shadowy creatures, but when he approaches us, he's fresh faced and youthful. He doesn't look a day over eighteen. "My name is Zexion. I have been sent to collect you." He unfolds his arms and his leather coat hums with the rattling of rain. "You both have an immediate placement in the Organisation. Of course, you can deny our offer, but given how comfortably you wear our coats, I will assume you are just as accommodating with our cause."

Zexion has a voice that lingers, as though he is still testing it out. I've heard it before, I think. Zexion confirms my suspicions with a small smirk. "I was the one who detected and retrieved you both. I am never the first to doubt my senses, but I did have some qualms. After all, you are Nobodies found not only side by side, but with your hands unconsciously locked together. We founding members, despite crossing at the same time, were separated at birth. So already, without even knowing who you are or how you came to be, you have accomplished more than us. How did you do it?"

Zexion takes a step closer, a movement meant to stem from curiosity, yet I can only see it as a threat. I growl and pull you closer. Zexion's smile widens. "I see. Nothing too complex. You simply didn't want to let him go."

Your fingers slip beneath your hood and you claw at your head again. You're muttering away, punctuating your conversation with shudders and pained moans. Who are you talking to?

Because someone has to feed the rabbit.

"He needs a name, and fast," says Zexion. "He's reverberating and refusing at the same time."

"Look." I stand up and let go of you in the process. You topple sideways and fall onto the sodden ground, your hair spilling out to soak up the rain. "I can barely understand half of what you're saying."

"The key points, then," says Zexion. "Reverberation is the persistence of sound when the original sound has been removed. It is when you copy and eventually distort something that used to be, when you wear someone else's shoes and think you can walk in them, when you create a picture from jigsaw pieces and overlook the glaring gaps. Essentially, reverberation is when you are so good at pretending that you fool yourself. Reverberation is what your friend is resisting; and it is what you have fallen into without so much as a minute of protest."

Zexion sighs because he knows he's bypassed the 'key points'. "The Organisation can help you," he finishes. "The only prerequisite is a name." He lifts a hand and seemingly on his command, an oval of dark space materialises, black tendrils creeping along the ground at his feet. "All that pain. The Superior can make it stop."

You lift your head at the promise, and Zexion sits on his haunches, ignoring me. "That's right. The emptiness you are experiencing now; the Superior has been through it first hand. It is no difficult feat for him to assist you. We merely need a name."

You pull a face, still managing to look so elegant. You shake your head and mutter, "I don't remember," and in a startling resemblance to a snake eyeing up its next meal, Zexion turns to me.

I know not to reel it off my tongue as if it holds little value. You've told me before that you feel like you're handing some of yourself over when you give your name; and that every time someone calls you, it feels like a breeze coming home to your heart or a searing blade to your ribs – depending on who's doing the calling.

Sorry I'm such a bad friend. But you're hurt and upset, and I can't help you this time.

"It's Isa. He's Isa, and I'm Lea."

"Thank you," replies Zexion, and he goes to haul you to your feet. I run forwards, knocking him aside.

"Don't! You can't pull him up from the armpits. It's…it's his bones, they're fragile." I lug you onto your feet the proper way and realise that both of us are shivering. Zexion gestures to the dark oval.

"Through here. These are known as dark corridors which, in due course, you will be able to summon of your own accord. I will take you back to the castle now and inform the Superior of your arrival."

Really? I can step through that corridor and wind up somewhere else? Then again, the idea doesn't seem so farfetched, because I swear I've done something like it before. I'm pretty sure I was running away from something; and I'm pretty sure I dragged you into the last seat instead of…well, that bit's still hazy.

-x-

So far, I have played my part faultlessly. You know what I'm like. I laugh when I'm scared; I smile when I'm uncertain. I hold back my fear and feign confidence, I behave as if nothing can push me over, and it's all for you.

I'm sorry, though. This room is too much.

We get transported to a circular hall, with walls and seats so white, like the mouth of an ice cavern. The ceiling stretches further than I can see, and five sets of eyes bore into me, as Zexion announces, "These were Isa and Lea."

I think we're in a courtroom.

I can hear the sound of decision and contemplation. We stand on a platform, a balance perhaps, as they weigh us up. The silver haired one spreads out in the highest seat and flexes his fingers, a judge testing the waters of his authority.

For some reason, a courtroom makes me laugh. I recall the pounding gavel and the red faces of the accused and accusing, the hysterical voices vying to be heard and the wearisome struggle to comb apart lies and truths.

I don't know why it makes me want to smile. I don't even know if it's out of admiration or disdain. It hurts to think about it. As soon as I start thinking about one inconsistency, I begin to stumble on the other gaping holes of the jigsaw that is my memory.

Why do I have an affinity for court?

Why do I keep rubbing my left arm, convinced that it's not there?

Why do I insist on hearing the phrase, "Because someone has to feed the rabbit," in the back of my mind? What rabbit? What someone? And how do I know that after that phrase, there follows a painful night where I laugh and cry myself to sleep?

"Shh, now." You echo my words, squeezing my left hand that really shouldn't be there. We stand together, your thumb running up and down mine, as the judge makes his decision.

"Today, you will join the Organisation as our Numbers Seven and Eight." Somehow, he manages to appear right in front of us. He walks with grace that would put even you to shame. His lips curve into something that might have once been the way he smiled, but is now an inexplicable reflex.

The Superior pushes your hood back and the tips of his fingers scrape the side of your face, and would it be quite bad if I admit to you that I want to kill him right there and then?

"Recovery time is, on average, eight days. This depends on the amount and intensity of your memories. We find that having a name assists greatly in recuperation. A name grants you identity and a fresh start. A name is a lifelong possession that exists beyond death. Do you have a name?"

He addresses us both.

"Lea."

You simply shake your head. The corner of his mouth twitches, and the Superior seems happy with our responses, or lack thereof.

"Then you are Eight," he says to me. "You will be called Axel. You are Seven." He straightens your hood so that his rests snugly against your back. "From today, you are Saïx."

He looks at you differently as he does to me. You look at him differently as you do to me.

A/N: Chances are that this head hopping has the potential to get very confusing, but all four POVs are written now. In any case, any comments or feedback will be greatly appreciated.