Title: American Boy [1/3]
Pairing: past Axel/Roxas
Warnings: language, nostalgia
Rating: PG-13
Beta: the BetaMistress alovelysilence
A/N: Moped Romance was originally inspired by experiences had by a good friend of mine while we were studying abroad in Rome, Italy, in the spring of 2009; this developed out of the desire to see what happens to our boys after the final chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts, but I do get a kick out of writing for the fandom. This epilogue's theme song is "American Boy" by Estelle. Give it a listen; it's perfect.
Summary: In which there is such a thing as a happy ending.
In this chapter: Roxas has a strange encounter on New Years' Eve.
Author's Note 2: This is meant to take place about a week or two before Axel lands back in Rome with his students for their study abroad. Enjoy!
New Years Eve in the Eternal City always had a certain hold upon him. The city, already beautiful and glorious, came alive beneath his and millions of other feet pounding across the cobblestones; ancient buildings lit up and guided the way for those roaming the streets in search of the next bar, the next party, before the city rang in the arrival of the new year.
Six of Roxas' New Years Eves had been spent in Rome, with this promising to be the seventh after spending two years up north with his family. As much as he had come to enjoy his family's company (except for his father's, though that was a lost cause anyway) Roxas felt overjoyed to be back in his city, surrounded on all sides by his friends once more. On this night the world began anew; when the bells at St. Peter's tolled and the video screens at Cube 2 switched to all zeros, the Earth started on yet another 365 revolutions around the sun – the perfect time to start fresh.
After spending several months in the hospital and in rehab, the better part of the last year had been spent living in his mother's villa, learning to live with his brother without killing him, and working when he could find a position. Jobs were still hard to come by, but Roxas was already thinking about moving back to Rome at that point. Through a little finagling and a lot of luck a position opened up at the Scuola Leonardo da Vinci for a long-term substitute teaching higher-level Italian to international students. When he worked at the tiny internet café in town for long hours, he'd spent every free moment studying his English books so that he'd be able to communicate with them better. There hadn't been much need for any bilingual skills since . . . well, they weren't necessary in most of the jobs he'd been taking, so Roxas was fairly rusty when he started studying again.
He didn't talk about the person he affectionately (and sometimes harshly) referred to as 'the American.'
'The American' was a touchy subject with Roxas, even after seven years – the last few had definitely softened the taste of bitterness in his mouth when he said the man's name, and now it carried a more wistful tone. They'd both known what was going to happen anyway, so what was the point in feeling bitter?
Roxas was adamant that the American rarely ever entered his train of thought anymore, but Olette and his other friends knew differently of course. They knew Roxas would never account for the playlist on his iPod – creatively labeled 'shitty stupid songs' – that reminded him of the American, and neither would he explain the disappearance of his precious necklace (not that he needed to) nor why there were tourists' guides to various American cities hidden in his bookcases. All of these things simply were, and nothing anyone did would ever change that – now they were as timeless as the medieval churches tucked into corners along the streets of Rome and the clubs that never seemed to die.
Cube 2 was thriving, pulsing with the heavy bass coming from inside the club when the taxi pulled up. There was a line, sure, but Roxas just nodded to the burly bouncer and walked right in with Olette and Hayner on each arm. Inside the beat was far more overpowering and glorious; music sang like the gospels in his head, pulling him onto the crowded floor in to a fast-paced, hypnotic rhythm. Roxas danced with so many people that night, he lost track. He really didn't care – there was too much alcohol in his system to, and hell it was fun to dance.
As the clocks started to count down the seconds to the New Year, Roxas found himself standing in the middle of the dance floor, staring.
Roxas had downed about four shots of Patron and a very strong iced tea when he saw him. Immediately he knew he was a mirage, a figment of his imagination – a ghost his heart had tried to forget. Roxas had managed to forget a lot of other men over the years, but the American had always been there in the back of his mind, never really leaving at all. It was actually pretty ridiculous as far as he was concerned, because really – it had been nearly eight years, but Americans never really had the manners to know when to pick up and leave anyway . . . His American remained completely lodged in a tiny corner of his memory, never to be removed.
And yet there he was, standing just across the dance floor, out of reach; the vision Roxas had was pristine and absolutely clear, making the American's bright vermillion hair and Technicolor green eyes pop in the middle of the dimly-lit, fog-filled room. The tattoos under his eyes stood out deep purple against his pale skin – and maybe it's a trick of the light bouncing off the disco ball, but Roxas is sure he can see glitter painted on the American's skin.
Yup. Definitely a mirage. The American only wore glitter in drag.
He looked gorgeous, though. He was all in black, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to reveal his exquisite forearms, collar open to the center of his sternum, to play up his collarbone. And the smoldering look in his eyes was dead set on Roxas – he couldn't escape, not that Roxas wanted to ever again . . .
The mirage of the American smirked like the ass he always was, then turned around and disappeared into the darkness of the club amid the rush of sweaty, glittering bodies counting down until the clock struck midnight.
Roxas was absolutely shaken by that moment; why did his Patron-filled mind bring him back into his thought process after so long? What was the point of that, to remind him of another year gone since he'd said goodbye?
Unfair, Sir Patron, Roxas mentally chided the liquor in him.
Even though at one point Roxas had feared his memory, he found himself very much ok with seeing him again. After he left, Roxas had berated himself over the decision – but what else could he do? He'd been foolish enough to (maybe) fall in love with the American, here on a semester abroad with a reckless, fun personality. And since Roxas couldn't – wouldn't – pick up his life and move to America for someone he'd only known a few months, instead he sent a part of himself with the American. That was the best he could do.
He wondered what the American was doing.
Roxas realized that he wasn't just ok with seeing him – even imagining him, but that his memory was actually pretty comforting.
In the end Roxas threw himself back into the fray, amid the wildly dancing bodies, welcoming the glitter that stuck to his skin as they counted down the minutes. When he got back to his apartment hours later, he looked at the clock and thought, Happy New Year, Axel.