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: Eep, sorry for the late update for this guys. I got carried away with my other multichapter fic and momentarily forgot about this one and Cooking Mama. (If a fem!Saix story sounds up your alley, do check it out!) Anyway, without further ado, here's chapter 6 for you. Thanks for the reviews and favs in the meantime!

BONE OF CONTENTION

LEA, THE BOY WHO'D DISAPPEAR

- eleven years before death -

While you were fixed up by a team of medical professionals, I sat in the waiting room and read up on the various diseases people could possibly die from. There were leaflets everywhere – too colourful, given their content – that explained the basics of pancreatic cancer, diabetes, epilepsy, how to spot them, who to contact, how it affected your life. There weren't any leaflets that explained what to do when you were affected by a disease you didn't actually have.

The door opened and your aunt and my dad exited. They were both worn from the stress of discussion. I stood up, immune to your aunt's nasty look at me. "…Daddy?"

"Sit down, Lea." I did, and he picked the seat next to me. It was the closest we had ever been to one another, but I knew he was just doing it to avoid my gaze. "Isa broke his femur, four of his ribs, and his right arm's completely shattered. He's going to be in a wheelchair for a year and face months of rehab afterwards. His family have to fork out money to pay for a carer inside and outside of school."

"Well, we're rich, we can pay for—"

"We've insulted them enough," my dad cut in. "I think you need to consider things from someone's perspective but yours. This is the second time Isa's been hurt at school and the second time you have been involved. You're not suited to be his friend, Lea. He's a nice boy, but the last thing he needs is someone to show him how he can't live his life. I've told his aunt you're going to leave him alone from now on."

I knew that was coming, but that didn't make me any more prepared for it. My stomach knotted up, a wild complement to my bubbling rage and guilt. "That's rubbish, Dad," I shot back. "You can't just say that without asking me first."

"Consider your disregard of me to be mutual," he answered. "We're running out of excuses for you, Lea. You're out of control, and Isa is the one taking the hits."

"He needs me," I murmured.

"Really. Do you think this is what he needs?" He gestured to the waiting room, bringing my attention to the sharp smell of the hospital. "You need him more than he needs you. That's why I'm telling you to consider another perspective. From everyone else's point of view, you're being incredibly selfish and immature."

I bit down on my lip. There wasn't much point in arguing with him. He was a prosecution lawyer, trained to drive routes that spanned a full circle to the same conclusion: I was guilty. Of course everyone saw me as selfish. They thought I was forcing you go out and have fun and be normal, as though these were things you would never wish for.

"…Can I visit him?"

"Be quick."

I slid open the door to your hospital room. You were pretty drugged up and though I didn't expect much from you, I did half hope you'd say hello at least.

Yet you didn't move a muscle. You just sat in your wheelchair with your head turned at a slight angle towards the wall, sporting quite a collection of casts, bandages and bruises.

"Hey." I sat on the edge of your bed, but you appeared in a bit of a daze, still staring into space, tears rolling down your cheeks. "I just got grilled by my dad, no surprises there. He's really cross with me. I think everyone is. But listen…" I leaned forwards a little. "I'm sorry you got hurt. It was my fault and I'm sorry. I bet it scared you. Scared me too, you know. This…this wheelchair's quite cool though, huh?" I patted its worn arm, treating it like an old friend. "Is it one you push yourself or is it electric?"

You said nothing. "…You know, you can still turn up to the athletics tryouts," I said, trying to guess what was upsetting you. "There's plenty of space in the stands to fit a wheelchair. O-or maybe it's the beach you're worried about?"

You continued to stare seemingly through the wall, not bothering to wipe your eyes or under your nose. "Because we can always go next summer. It's not like the beach house is going to pack its bags and leave."

Still, nothing. I studied your shattered arm, bruised fingers, awkwardly positioned leg, the way your breaths came out rattled and laboured. You stank of bitter medicine and something like disinfectant. Could it really be so simple…?

"Does it hurt?" I whispered.

You finally looked up at me, and your lower lip trembled in betrayal to the bravery you had kept up for so long. You nodded a little, then a bit more, then so fiercely that you burst into tears.

"Come here," I said, though I came to you. Your good hand scrabbled for the material of my top, gripping so tight that my collar dug into the back of my neck. I hugged you as best as I could, tried to make the confines of a wheelchair a little less lonely, tried to ease the shock and trauma and injuries that ran deeper than flesh and bone, that no one else seemed to be able to see.

-x-

For the week you were kept at hospital before receiving the all clear to go home, my dad ensured I stayed away from you. He thought by holding Bunnymoon's food supply ransom, I'd relented and given up on you. He soon realised the actual reason, though, was that I had used that time to devise a plan that would satisfy everyone. Such a thing – where both defence and prosecution were happy with the outcome – didn't exist in court, but maybe in the real world, it did.

"Lacey and I got a good look at the jerk on that bike," Elenar said to me on the sixth night without you. She had mistaken my planning as a gesture stemmed from guilt. "We know what class he's in. He's to blame for going on a bike when it was a no bike zone. Some people are saying that."

"And everyone else?" I prompted her. "They better not be blaming Isa for having OI. It's not his fault."

"Most people blame you." She folded her arms, cocked her head to the side, her bright blonde hair as stark and glaring as the truth. "Even Isa."

-x-

I refused to believe my sister.

I refused to even think for a moment, that it was possible for you to hate me.

I had come up with a great plan that would make everyone happy. Every party had come to agree – my dad, me, your aunt, the school, your doctor. Somehow, I managed to plead my case and end up with a milder sentence. I liaised with everyone so that instead of playing the blame game, we sought for a solution.

The only one I needed to convince now was you. You weren't allowed to hate me, not when I had come this far.

Admittedly, I felt weird for buying you flowers, but figured I'd feel even weirder if I didn't. I bought a massive bunch which, according to the florist, symbolised friendship and was conveniently the most expensive bouquet at the stand. I didn't care about being ripped off, though; I just wanted to make you feel better.

To my dismay, you only gave the flowers a surly look as I placed them in your lap, and you transferred that same look to my face. "…Are they supposed to cheer me up?"

"Well, yeah," I admitted. "It works when my dad does it to my mum. What will cheer you up then?" I asked, on seeing your stony gaze.

"A normal, healthy body would be nice." You shifted to look out the window, propping up your chin with your good hand. I could tell by your reflection that your grumpiness ran in tandem with hurt.

"So…how are you feeling?"

"Fine," you answered swiftly, automatically, as if I was just a nameless nurse doing the mundane task of checking up on you. "My aunt said you had agreed to stay away from me."

"My dad was kindly speaking on my behalf," I replied. "He's a lawyer. He makes it his business to speak on behalf of everyone. I'm actually going to stick around. Unless you want me to stay away, of course."

Your face, if possible, grew even darker. I had never seen you so formidable. But the look went as fast as it came. You snaked your arm round the flowers and gave a one-shouldered shrug. "…Well, it's up to you, I guess," you mumbled. "You ought to listen to your dad, though."

"So you want me to stay away then."

"No, I want you to stay out of trouble with your dad."

"Which means staying away from you." I didn't realise I had raised my voice a little, until your eyes flashed and you scowled.

"For goodness sake, Lea, don't rub it in." You couldn't slam your hand down on the armrest – as much as I could tell you wanted to – so you screwed up your face instead, as if the very sight of me made you retch. "Of course I want you to stay. I want to hang out with you and go round your house every day after school and play with the rabbit and go to the beach and do everything you say I can do, but I can't do that any more."

"Because I end up hurting you?" I guessed, and I felt my throat block up with the various truths of our friendship I didn't want to admit.

"It's not that," you muttered. "Your dad's right, Lea. We're not suited to be friends. We don't match."

I found myself slipping back in time to remember reading a science experiment about metals in water. I remembered one reaction so violent, the glass bowl shattered as soon as the metal broke the surface. Was that you and me?

I bunched my trembling hands into fists and stomped over, standing right in front of you. "Says who?" I demanded. "No one can decide what you can and can't do or have, not even my dad—"

"I know," you cut in coldly, "and not even you."

I would have been lying if I didn't say your words stung me. I hated the fact you hated me; and I hated the fact you had every right to be that way.

"Isa," I began, pretending to be unaffected. I was surprisingly convincing. "I got you this too." I passed you the latest copy of your favourite astrology magazine. "To read in your own time. And also, I have some news. It's great, it really is." I grinned so much it hurt. "Your aunt's agreed to let me be your carer while you're in school."

You stared up at me with the surprise and shock I knew you'd display. You stopped fiddling with the ribbon round the bouquet; you may have even stopped breathing.

"Isn't it great? My dad actually let me. It's a brilliant plan. I'm going to take you to and from your lessons at school. Because I'm the one looking after you, your aunt doesn't need to pay for a school carer, so she saves money. At the same time, I get to stretch myself by being put in a class two years up, so I'll pay attention and who knows, maybe even stay awake. And obviously, since I'll be taking you to every lesson, it means I'll improve my attendance rate and Dad won't be so cross with me. Plus your doctor said it'd be nice for you to have a friend look after you. Isn't it great?" I said again. I couldn't think of a more perfect plan. Everyone benefited and most importantly, I could remain a part of your life.

I waited for you to exclaim and agree it was the best idea ever, but you never did. In fact, your face went a tremendous shade of scarlet and your eyes flashed, livid. "I…I don't want you as a carer…!" you spluttered. The words would hardly leave your mouth.

"Well why not?"

"Because…!" you spat, and now your fingers shook with either anger or impatience. "It's…I don't know, embarrassing!"

"Embarrassing? Why?"

"It just is! Everything about it is. I'm stuck in a wheelchair. I can't do anything for myself and it's demeaning and I don't need you to highlight that when everyone else does it so well." You took a deep breath, and I had the feeling you could only rant like this when I was on the receiving end. "I don't like to look so weak and disabled around you, and I won't have you feeling sorry for me. We're a mismatch. Get over it."

Your argument was that every second I touched the handles of your wheelchair, I would be reminded you had a bone disease and were weaker than me. You found it degrading and humiliating but in all honesty, I had complete conviction that no one had as much of a problem with osteogenesis imperfecta, than yourself.

I waited for you to meet my gaze, because I had something to make very clear. "You're stupid, Isa."

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you flushed again. "Thank you," you spat bitterly, and your voice shook with fury. "Another label, just what I need."

"You're stupid because you think sitting in that wheelchair and doing nothing will keep you safe. It won't. You're going to get hurt, no matter what you do. You can sit there and sulk in the corner as much as you like; that doesn't mean a ceiling panel won't fall on you and crack your skull. You have OI, okay? You can't get rid of it, but you can decide what to do with it. If you're going to break bones, you might as well have fun doing it." I rapped my knuckles on your armrest, and you jumped a little at the noise. "And this wheelchair, by the way? It was invented to enable you to do things, not to trap you."

You looked torn trying to decide if you felt like screaming or scoffing. Your mouth twitched and you kept gritting your teeth, but you never once looked away.

"You've got two constants to your life, Isa. One, you're always going to break your bones. You might as well get used to it. The other constant is me," I finished. "I'll see you on Monday at the school gates."

I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder and grunted at the impact.

"You're going?" you asked, because that surely insulted you more than anything I had said. "Why?"

"Because someone has to feed the rabbit," I answered, not bothering to look back. I wondered if my dad felt this ghastly cluster of guilt every time he grilled someone in court. I wondered how he could say the things no one wanted to hear, and not want to run back in afterwards and double check the damage.

I left you. I slid the door shut just in time, so that you didn't see me cry. No one saw me cry, for I just grinned and grinned until my eyes gave up trying to expose the hurtful truth – that your admission of calling us a mismatch was more than enough to make me feel I had broken every bone in my body.

AXEL, THE FLURRY OF DANCING FLAMES

- fifteen days after birth -

I grew up playing tug-of-war with me on one side; and on the other, my parents, your guardians, admirers and of course, the cruel grip of your disease. I fought to keep you, dragged you back to my side time and time again until you choked to death on that rope of selfish want.

A few days ago, you came to me with a hesitant suggestion that you were a bone of contention. You seemed surprised you could be the source of conflict, the point of argument. You never were able to comprehend your worth.

You told me the Superior had plans for you, and when I listened to the faint echo of pride in your voice, the matted knot of my insides in all likelihood just exploded. My blood crunched up into cracked ice, and in the split second you missed by blinking slow and serene, I wanted to punch your fucking face in.

-x-

I hate being away from you.

I get sent on endless missions to cull the Heartless population; in the meantime, you stay back at the base and keep the Superior company. I only really get to see you at the beginning and the end of the day.

It's not enough. I can't stand it.

"Hey, Lexaeus?" I address Number Five, who only talks at mission end, because I need to get to the bottom of this. "How come I get paired up with everyone on missions except the Superior and Saix?"

"The Superior doesn't see to missions personally; and since you recently proved incapable of controlling your element, it is hazardous to have Saix partnered with you."

I scoff, although I know Lexaeus is far from whom I should be directing my contempt at. "That's the only reason is it?"

"As far as I know," he replies mildly. We return to the Castle through a portal, and then Lexaeus walks off without saying goodbye (or well done, considering the fact I eliminated far more Heartless than him). I wander to the lobby and look for you, but I catch the wrong eye instead.

"Looking for me?" Xigbar pushes himself off the wall with a foot and sneers. "Course you weren't. He's with the Superior. They've been together all day, as a matter of fact. You don't like that?" He spots my contorted face. "You think he's taking Number Seven away from you?"

"Isn't he?"

"Personally, I can't see what the fuss is about," Xigbar replies idly, "but I'd imagine the Superior does have a bit of interest in Seven, enough to keep him close at hand and away from what's dangerous. Or who's dangerous," he adds with an empty smile. "Hey, you want some free advice? You're better off letting the Superior do what he likes. He doesn't have much tolerance for people who step out of line. But if you want to challenge him, I won't stop you. Who knows, it might be quite fun – for the spectators at least."

At some point, I have bunched my hands into fists so tight, the leather of my gloves creaks in protest. I know Xigbar is just stirring things – he seems to think everything is a game – but at the same time, I can't hold back the bubbles beneath the surface of my skin. I don't know what will happen if I open my mouth. I might roar and holler until my throat is torn apart; I might be sick.

"If he tries anything, I swear I'll…I'll fucking—" There's a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see you, and you're still here, and looking at me the way you always do, and…

and…

"Hey," you say lightly, with a half smile that seems to dim everything else. You hold a first aid kit in your arms and fucking hell, you're Isa through and through. "Good mission?"

…and what was I angry about again?

-x-

It's odd how we feel safer in the empty length of the corridor over the lobby. You relax against a pillar, apparently waiting for something. Your fingers curl and uncurl over the silver handle of the first aid box, and then you simply say, and your voice echoes off the marbled walls, "Can I?"

I realise the prickling sensation on my face is from the presence of blood. "You don't have to bother. I'll just wind up getting more cuts tomorrow."

"Still." You put a damp cloth to the top left of my forehead. "This is as close as I come to Organisation missions." Your eyes narrow a little with concentration, and even after looking at you for so long, I'm still unused to the clarity of your irises. They're not bleeding into the sclera of your eyes, they're no longer foggy and lost. "I haven't shadowed a mission since that one with you."

"Well, killing Heartless gets a bit bland after a while," I lie. "I don't even understand what purpose it's meant to serve."

"No, I don't understand either," you agree. "We're not in a position to be demanding answers, though. Bottom of the rung and that."

I discover I don't mind the ambiguity of my situation, so long as what does remain clear is your involvement. I can take out Heartless and watch them explode into wispy tendrils of smoke for no reason whatsoever except for it being the Superior's orders. I can wear this uniform, answer to Axel and constantly have fire simmering in the pit of my stomach – all this I can bear, provided you're still around.

"What do you do with the Superior?" I'm almost afraid of asking. The question itself is an acknowledgement that there's a chance of you slipping away. (Why are you with anyone who isn't me?)

"Not much, if I have to be honest. A lot of the time, I sit around while he works and wonders what to do with me. Sometimes we go to the library, but he never says anything unless I ask. And when he does talk, he often avoids answering whatever questions I have for him. Rather like you," you add.

"Oy." I jerk my head back and the warm tips of your fingers stroke the stuffy air instead. "I'm not like that at all."

"Is that right?" you reply. Your eyes dart up in thought – they always do that, because you like to draw pictures in the sky that is your canvas – and then you give the coy but satisfied smile I will never tire of. "Then tell me how I died."

"That's the one thing I can't answer."

The corners of your mouth tug a little more. "Tell me how you died."

"And that," I amend, and you find a sliver of humour in my sheepish grin. I haven't met anyone so gracious in accepting his lack of knowledge, but you somehow pull of the lowly state and twist it into an almost-desirable position. You accept the fact people know things you don't, have things you don't, can do all the things you can't. From day one, it's been drilled into your head that you are a defect, an imperfection; and the act of pursuit – of all the things you truly deserve – is something beyond your capabilities.

You were built to rely on someone, to be happily led around with a blindfold over your already-trusting eyes. All I did, some years ago on a sports field, was jump in before someone else really took advantage of you.

As such, it's cruel how you refrain from pressing me for answers, but your situation could have been a lot worse without me.

"Do you talk to the Superior like this?" I say after a minute.

"Like what?"

With half-lidded eyes, gentle strokes to his face and the ducked head of submission, I think, but I just shrug and rephrase the question instead. "Do you like him?"

You pack away the first aid kit, and your thumb grazes where my cut is, admiring your handiwork. "I don't know. He's kind and patient. I like the Castle," you admit. "It's quiet and reassuring, and I'd rather not be anywhere else."

That the Castle is a product of the Superior and his immeasurable command doesn't quite leave my mind. "So we're staying," I confirm.

"Yes," you say carefully, and both your voice and gaze suddenly drop. "But on our agenda. Isn't that what you said?"

You tilt your head, and the curtain of long blue hair slithers over my waiting hand. A rush of triumph courses through me when you repeat the words I once fed to you. We're in this together, and we're going to be all right.

And yet.

And yet, my thoughts continue to linger on the Superior, and it I feel them mutate into an unhealthy obsession with challenge. The way I see it – and I might not necessarily be right – is that he's playing a bit of a game with me. He commands you to follow him around, to do nothing and say nothing, and you actually do it. He doesn't even need to lift a finger to keep you at his side. He has a lazy grip that bites the circumference of your head, while I struggle to stay hanging on the newness of your sleeve.

I might not necessarily be right.

I might just be making a…what was the phrase again?

The thing is, I have spent too much time and effort, given too much of myself and been with you too long, to lose you now.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"Yeah, fine." I push my lips to the side of your head, and it's a claim, not a habit, and for that I'm sorry. I feel for your waist and you grunt at the strength of my hold. I shove you backwards and up into the pillar, so that your feet barely scrape the floor and your mouth opens in a gasp.

Through the force of a rough kiss, the cold metal of the first aid kit clangs between our bodies and I absently note that it's beautiful. You're beautiful, to think that a tiny box will nurse and cure me of every injury I could possibly conceive; and the thought that you might need it more than I do, never actually crosses your mind.

A/N: I had a difficult time dishing this chapter out, particularly with Axel's section. Lea's been done and dusted for the last month or so, but I couldn't get my head round Axel's bit so you can blame him for the lateness in my updating :) Thanks for reading, comments are great for motivation and I'll see you (hopefully) next chapter, with Isa and Saix :)