Disclaimer: They aren't mine.

A/N: The good news: MORE FANART! *sob* I don't know what I've done to deserve such awesome treatment, but damn does it feel good. Links at my profile: pouikee at dA, the last scene from "Marionettes" where Axel is tucking a drunken Rox into bed, the Riku and Roxas Thanksgiving scene in "Density," and Little Vista; and mutilatedsideburns at dA, the beach scene from "Marionettes" where Rox lets Axel corrupt his non-virgin sensibilities in a highly illegal way. All are absolutely beautiful.

And the bad news: This chapter was hell. I had to cut an important scene because this thing is changing under my my hands. They do what they want to do. No apologies for the themes at all, ever. Just know that this isn't a story you want to show to your parents. ALSO: There is a Faulkner reference hidden away in here. By "hidden" we're talking almost totally obscured by my narrative, though if you know your Faulkner, it will be obvious. PM me the reference or drop it in a review; the first person to catch it will get a one-shot from me, any pairing, themes of your choice.

Thank you so so much to all the new reviewers, favoriters, and alerters. You guys fucking kill me. I don't know how to show my gratitude other than to keep writing the hardest shit I can, even if it means writing for fourteen hours straight, which totally happened. Thank you, seriously, thank you.

--

Chapter Five: Cadences

There are two kinds of hangovers. There's the kind that leave you weak and wailing, clutching at a porcelain god and ridding yourself of things long metabolized. Then there are hangovers that obliterate every last bone and nerve in your body until you can only half-think that you are never, ever going to drink again. Roxas is having the second kind. He woke up at an unknown hour, groaned, leaned over, and promptly vomited up the bile in his stomach before falling back into a fitful sleep. He dreamt of fire: a furnace slowly eating away at his skin, turning all the important parts of him to ash. He dreamt of blood: a winding river, thick and appealing. But Roxas never remembers his dreams.

Zexion, bleary-eyed and wondering what, exactly, happened to his other sock, wandered down the hallway toward his door. Eyes slitted, arms wobbling and stretched out on either side of him, Zexion would like nothing better than a hot shower with all the lights off, then possibly some nachos, and then possibly a blunt. He knew, however, that the white styrofoam cup full of what tasted like a Bloody Mary sitting beside the door to his room with the post-it note that read, "DRINK ME—Axel," was probably a good indication that he'd have exactly zero showers and zero nachos in his immediate future, and instead one disheveled and horrifically hungover roommate. The blunt, though, was still a possibility. Zexion rubbed at his eyes, thought seriously about drinking the Bloody Mary himself, and then unlocked the door. He assessed the situation inside—Roxas' clothes strewn in every direction—with frightening speed.

"YOU HAD SEX?!"

Roxas, who had been awake for at least an hour, had been wondering when his blood would stop trying to kill him when Zexion's voice cleaved through his mind like a particularly unholy sledgehammer. "Nnnnghh." He made the sound without moving since just five minutes ago he'd discovered that if he held his body just so, that he would not immediately feel like throwing up his entire stomach. "Shouting. You," Roxas groaned.

"Your 'raised by gorillas' speech is quite endearing, I admit, but I have a hangover cure with your… well, with Demyx's douchbagging roommate's name on it." A cup was thrust above Roxas' face. "I will give you this magical elixir if you tell me the name of the lucky girl you boned." Roxas reached for the cup, but Zexion deftly piloted the Bloody Mary out of his reach, inadvertently dripping some on his roommate's face. "No, Roxas, your cute little scrunched up 'Oh, is that glorified tomato juice all over me?' face is not going to work. I HAVE THE RESOLVE OF…" Zexion thundered, bleary eyes slightly crazed and grasping for some metaphor, "…A MAN WITH RESOLVE!"

"You fucking ass," Roxas moaned. "I am in pain, massive pain, and you come in all bellowing and…" Roxas trailed off, massaging his temples. "First, I did not have sex. Second, if I did have sex, it wouldn't be with a girl."

Zexion made a dismissive noise and waved the Bloody Mary perilously over Roxas' face. "The alcohol you've consumed has clearly devoured your long-term memory. Despite whatever kind of sex you may have engaged in last night, you are straight. Straight, I tell you!"

"You're still talking," Roxas groaned, shoving a pillow over his face. "Why are you still talking?"

"Telling me you like dick would seem to have proven adverse to your desired outcome." Zexion sipped at the Bloody Mary thoughtfully. "If you're gay, then why did I walk in on you jacking off to Naminé's Facebook last year?"

Roxas made a strangled sound and sat up, clutching the pillow to his chest. "That was one time!"

"You came."

"STOP! We aren't talking about this!"

"But you did. I have excellent timing, apparently," Zexion continued. "You'd think you would've had the sense to lock the door."

"YOU HAD A KEY."

Zexion paused. "Yes. Yes, I did. Funny how that works out. But, Roxas, you're skirting the issue."

This sobered Roxas instantly. "I don't know what I am."

"Bisexual, it would seem," Zexion said, secretly pleased that he could now ogle Roxas' goodies without feeling completely depraved. "So… who's the lucky guy? Demyx's douchebagging roommate? He left you this lovely double entendre on the Bloody Mary I'm drinking."

Roxas took the post-it and read it aloud. "'Drink Me—Axel.'" He looked up at his roommate and found the other boy's eyes sparkling with unvoiced laughter. "I don't get it."

Zexion smirked and passed the cup over to Roxas. "That much is apparent. But let's talk about the sex, please."

"I didn't have sex," Roxas muttered, sucking at the exquisitely made drink. Did I? Did I have drunken sex with him?

"You could have, you know," Zexion said lightly, though a heavy sort of implication ran through his words. "You're hungover now, so you must have been drunk then. Anything could have happened."

Wait. "Are you saying…" What?

"Yes, he could have raped you," Zexion said frankly. Then, "Does your ass hurt?"

Roxas didn't know what felt worse: the throbbing in his head, that his roommate thought his friend had raped him, or that he, too, wondered if his friend had raped him. His friend. Axel. Slut. The internal comment surprised him before the sober events of yesterday night flooded into him. Slut. Slut. Slut. Even though his mind would not remember the non-sober parts of last night, Roxas knew Zexion was wrong. "He wouldn't have raped me." The other boy looked unconvinced. "It probably wouldn't have hurt if he had," Roxas said, more to himself than to his roommate.

"Pardon?"

"I'm not a virgin." Roxas would have laughed at the way Zexion's mouth fell open if he wasn't so busy feeling his pulse race.

"I don't know whether to throw a gay pride parade in your honor or sulk moodily that you've been so secretive," Zexion admitted.

Roxas shrugged, worried at the increasingly heavy feeling in his chest. "I value your friendship." Axel's words sounded weird in his mouth; hollow, wrong. "I wanted you to know the truth."

Zexion's brow furrowed. "Well, I'd be touched if you didn't look exactly like I just told you that your cat died or something." He flicked one of Roxas' flattened spikes. "You okay?"

Tell him. "I'm fine. Just hungover." He glanced at the clock on his desk. "And late. I was supposed to drive home an hour ago."

Roxas heaved himself from his bed, taking care to step around the puddle of regurgitated stomach acid. He was staggering around his room, throwing clothes into his backpack, when a quiet knock sounded at the door. He knew before he opened it that Axel would be on the other side. Axel struck him as the type to keep knocking in a steady staccato beat until the door was opened.

"Hey." Slut.

"You're still among the living," Axel said, his lips turning up.

"Yeah." Slut.

"Smoke?" Axel asked, holding out Roxas' own pack of Parliaments to him. "You dropped 'em in my car." Roxas went to move down the hallway when Axel's hand closed over his shoulder. "You, uh, might want to consider putting some clothes on first." Shit. He was, of course, still only clad in his briefs. Roxas hurried back into the room and shoved his legs through his jeans, ignoring how hard Zexion was laughing on the top bunk.

"How's the hangover treating you?" Axel asked as the two of them made their way down the stairs. "You were totally gone last night."

"Better than it was. Thanks for the drink."

Axel smiled around two cigarettes, lighting them both and passing one over to Roxas. "No problem." The redhead took a huge hit, and Roxas wondered if he saw Axel's fingers tremble. "Least I could do, I figured."

Yeah, Roxas thought, eyes on the horizon. Because the only way to counteract the hangover is with a drink. A hangover from all the drinks last night that were supposed to counteract the fact that you are a fucking slut. "You really didn't have to. I drank too much. My fault." Slut. "I mean, I know you don't keep alcohol in your room. You didn't have to go out just to get me this stuff."

Axel was quiet, pushing the filter of the cigarette between his fingers in a circle before taking another hit with, Roxas was pretty sure, shaking hands. "So you're mad." Axel leaned down and put his cigarette out on the ground and slowly placed Roxas' pack of Parliaments on the concrete bench beside them. He stood, not looking at Roxas at all. "I get it." He started walking away.

Roxas' mouth had gone completely dry. The inside of his head felt fuzzy, and everything the sun touched looked out of focus. Everything too soft, blurred. Axel's back looked nice, the way his head was down, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. Leave it. He's sick. "A-Axel," he forced out. The redhead turned, mouth set, eyes blank. "I'm not mad."

Axel took several slow steps back in Roxas' direction. Hands still jammed in his pockets, eyes on the ground, and shoulders slightly hunched, Axel asked, "What?"

"I said I'm not… mad." Aren't you? Aren't you fucking pissed? "I'm not mad at you."

Axel was silent for a few moments before he lifted his eyes to Roxas'. "Don't fuck with me." His voice, soft and threatening, sunk past the layers of fuzz and Roxas felt it prick at his chest.

"I'm not trying to," Roxas said.

This, it seemed, satisfied Axel. He sat roughly beside Roxas and grabbed at the pack of cigarettes, pulling out another one and lighting it. "So," he said, exhaling. "I guess you don't remember dancing on the table last night."

Roxas was pretty sure his eyes dilated in horror. "Um. What?"

"You totally did," Axel smirked, and Roxas knew the redhead was going to avoid what had just transpired. "It was awesome. Alice Cooper's 'I'm Eighteen' came on and you kinda lost it."

"That's bullshit!" Roxas cried, cheeks burning. "I don't even know that song!"

"But it's my favorite," Axel said, smirking all over his face, "and you decided to give me a little show."

"There is nothing, I really mean nothing, that would have possessed me to dance on a table."

"Okay, okay. So maybe it wasn't on the table. We were getting up to leave, and then you stood up and closed your eyes and kinda started doing this little dance. It was…," Axel smiled, "it was cute."

"Whatever," Roxas grumbled.

They smoked in companionable silence, systematically working their way through the rest of Roxas' pack. The sun was high overhead when Axel finally stood again. "I know your secret."

"Doubt it," Roxas said. He knew, just like he knew he'd never dance on a table, that he would never have admitted to his thing with Riku. He learned years ago that he'd need to keep his mouth shut when drinking with Sora.

"You're a talker when you're sauced."

"It didn't happen. I wouldn't have said anything," Roxas insisted.

"Yeah, well," Axel shrugged. "I'm pretty good at math." Roxas looked confused. "Meaning I can put two and two together," Axel laughed. "How the fuck are you going to drive anywhere? I know you're not this slow normally."

"Well, if I crash and die on the way home, just know that I couldn't have done it without you."

Axel shook his head, smirking, and stretched his arms upward, his shirt riding up to reveal a thin swatch of pale skin just above his hips that Roxas definitely did not notice. Definitely not. "Ahem," Axel cleared his throat. Roxas looked up, startled. "Yeah. Eyes are up here, Rox." The redhead winked.

"Um," Roxas managed. Was it hot outside? It was pretty hot.

"We cool?"

"Yeah." Roxas suppressed the desire to hug the other boy. Why am I such an idiot to him?

"You sure? I don't have to worry about you calling me a slut behind my back?"

Roxas allowed himself a small smile. "Knew you were a mind reader."

"Very funny, punkass." Axel pulled him into a brief hug, and Roxas felt all the air go out of his lungs. "Have a good Christmas."

--

The sky was dark when Roxas pulled up to his house, a hastily pirated and burned copy of Alice Cooper's "Love it to Death" blaring over his car speakers. He was humming under his breath and carrying an armful of Christmas presents when he tripped over Sora, the presents clattering to the ground. Sora, sitting on Roxas' front porch with a mostly cashed piece still clutched in his hand. Oh, shit.

"Mmm, Roxas," Sora said, grabbing hold of Roxas' pants and pulling himself up. The brunette's arms went around Roxas' waist and he felt Sora's chapped lips pressed to his neck. "Broke up again."

"Shit, Sora. Why didn't you call me?" Hands on the brunette's back, rubbing. Smelling the pot clinging to his best friend's hair as he dropped his lips to it.

"Got high instead," Sora mumbled, nuzzling his face against Roxas' neck.

There was a time when Roxas would have felt ashamedly elated at the news. After Riku's and Sora's seventh break up and consequent make up, Roxas got tired of bothering. The first time had been horrific: Sora sobbing on Roxas' bed for nearly a week straight during their senior year of high school, the monotony of tears broken only by popping Xanax, eating crackers, and pissing in empty water bottles. At the end of the week Roxas drove to Riku's and nearly knocked down the other boy's front door, but stopped short of violence when he found Riku sitting in a semi-circle of empty syringes and pastel balloons reminiscent of a ritualistic rite of protection—Riku's crudely drawn haven of smack and filth. He loved him even then, but he fought down the lust coiled and ready to strike, and instead dragged the unresponsive boy to Sora and handed him over as an offering. Within minutes they were "back together."

It's not that Roxas didn't have patience for their "on again, off again" revolving door charade—for Sora he would have all the patience, all the anything, in the world—but he didn't like being the one to keep the pieces together until the two of them decided (again) that, yes, they really did love each other.

"Don't smoke that, Sora. It's all burnt herb," Roxas said as Sora pulled away and put the piece back up to his mouth.

"One hit left," Sora said, lips around the pipe. A flicker of light. A cloud of smoke exhaled into Roxas' coaxed open mouth. Lips almost touching. Almost.

"The cops are totally going to roll by any minute now," Roxas said, bending to pick up the fallen presents.

Sora turned to the street and made a grand display of flipping off any potential cops with both hands high in the air before turning to help Roxas with the presents. Sora stacked them in the blonde's arms sloppily before breathing heavy in Roxas' ear, "Which one's mine?"

Roxas chuckled, using his elbow to push down on the handle of the front door since Sora was clearly out of commission for the night. "I know you better than that. That shit's completely hidden." Sora tugged at Roxas' hair lightly and made a high whining sound. Roxas laughed, "Not this year, Sora. This time you're at least waiting 'til Christmas Eve." No matter how firmly Roxas held his ground, year after year Sora somehow managed to worm his gift out of Roxas days before actual Christmas. On several occasions Roxas had discovered his gifts re-taped and re-packaged, Sora smiling only half-guiltily at having peeked beforehand. Because Roxas could have patience, but Sora didn't even know the meaning of the word.

"Pleaaaase," Sora said, flopping on to Roxas' bed after the blonde deposited the presents in the living room under a tree his mom had already decorated with ancient looking ornaments and dim, darkly-colored lights that Roxas absolutely loathed. He wondered where his mom was as he pulled off his shirt, frowning at the way it still smelled like vomit. "Pleaaaase," Sora said again. "Come on! I just broke up with my one true love."

"You are a total girl," Roxas said, tossing his shirt at Sora's face. Unperturbed, Sora put Roxas' shirt on over the one he was already wearing. "Ew, Sora, no. I threw up in that."

Sora hugged his arms around himself, bloodshot eyes closing happily. "But it smells like you."

"Cigarettes and vomit? Sora, I'm touched."

"No, douche," Sora smiled, leaning back against the wall, legs folded under him on the bed. "Like the beach and that banana sunblock I really like and… I dunno, the forest." Sora produced a bag of Chex Mix from, apparently, thin air and shoved a handful in his mouth. "And cigarettes," Sora concluded, "That, too."

"Feed me, bitch," Roxas said, slipping off his shoes and climbing onto his bed. Sora dug in the bag and pulled out a handful, tossing out all the pretzels that Roxas hated before dumping the rest in the blonde's mouth. Roxas licked the crumbs from Sora's splayed fingers, sucking briefly on the index finger before announcing, "We're weird."

"Good," Sora said, leaning back on Roxas' pillow and staring at the ceiling. Roxas knew he wasn't even close to being high from one shotgunned hit, but the way Sora crunched on the food was suddenly hilarious. He would have laughed then if he hadn't felt Sora's hand, the non-Chex Mix'd one, flutter at his throat. Sora's fingers traced the same lines of fear and worry, of endless possibility. "Missed you," Sora whispered.

Roxas knew that it was unhealthy. You don't take several dozens of Psychology classes and not know that a relationship like the one he and Sora shared was obviously unhealthy. It didn't change anything, this knowledge, and Roxas hated Riku for complicating his perfect equation with Sora. But it was always a very small hate, more akin to annoyance (chronic) and frustration (sexual). He had been gone for less than a month, but the time spent away from his best friend felt like years, the distance like worlds. He knew that the burn in his chest every time he took the freeway off-ramp toward his street was unhealthy. He knew that sleeping with his phone under his pillow, just in case, was unhealthy. He knew that if—god forbid—Sora somehow died, got sick or had an accident, that he would kill himself. There wouldn't even have to be thought involved. He would kill himself. And this, of course, was unhealthy.

"Missed you, too," Roxas whispered.

--

The first day Roxas was home he only got one text from Riku: Home yet? He didn't respond. The day was spent playing Grand Theft Auto IV and finding new places to hide Sora's Christmas gift. The next day he got three texts. He swam at Sora's house in the abnormally warm weather and asked his best friend if he had the hooks for some coke. The next day he received five more. Roxas ignored them all, polished off a 750ml bottle of rum with Sora, and debated buying a bag of shrooms off a sketchy motherfucker Sora had the hooks with. Instead he bought an overpriced sack of kush and smoked a fourth of it with Sora in his backyard. The whites of their eyes like skin rubbed raw, Roxas sat in Sora's lap and told him in whispers about Axel. On the fourth day Riku texted Roxas no less than twenty-three times, and Roxas caved. Sora was in the shower and Roxas was in the kitchen, hunched and dialing Riku's number.

"'Lo?"

"Stop fucking texting me."

"…Hey, Rox."

"I'm not kidding, Riku. You know I'm with him."

"Come over."

"WHAT?"

"Come over."

"Are you fucking high?"

"…What?"

"Riku, you idiot." Roxas held the phone away from his ear, listened for the sound of the shower still running upstairs. I am the worst person in the world. "I can't come out tonight. It's Christmas Eve. I always spend Christmas Eve with Sor—."

"Stop."

"What?"

"Don't say his name."

Roxas swallowed, drumming his fingers against the granite countertop. "Can't you just get back together already? It's been almost a week."

"…Just come over."

"Fuck, Riku. I said I—"

"JUST FUCKING COME OVER!" Riku's voice cracked over the line, hysterical.

"…Tomorrow," Roxas promised, eyes closed. "I'll come over tomorrow."

"Early."

"Yeah, okay, Riku. Early." Roxas sighed heavily. "Just—just don't do too much."

There was a weird rush of air over the line, like laughter with all the joy cut out. "Tomorrow, Roxas." Then the line went dead.

He sat in the kitchen, phone gripped in a fist, until Sora called for him from upstairs. Roxas eyed the full plates of food his mother had left for him and Sora before going out with a group of friends. He frowned at the idea of his mother at a bar attempting to pick up a guy. It reminded him of…

"Presents now?" Sora asked, arms going around Roxas' stomach. Roxas' fingers quickly flew over the keys of his phone to erase the recent calls history, little tendrils of guilt sinking their claws into him as Sora pressed his chest against him. A cascade of Roxas' shampoo wafted in the kitchen, and Roxas was instantly seized with distinct feeling of déjà vu. Sora smelled like his shampoo… like Pop Rocks. "Rox?" Sora asked, releasing him and stabbing at a slice of ham like it was a creature.

"I—" Roxas faltered. He remembered being soaked, clothes drenched with rain. A tingle ran down his back as he remembered being warm, perfectly warm. What the fuck am I remembering? Pop Rocks?

"Earth to Roxas," Sora said, waving a speared piece of ham in the blonde's face. "I am going to eat this, and then we are going to open presents." Roxas nodded absently and headed to the last place he'd hidden Sora's present: sealed in a ziplock bag and set afloat in the toilet tank. Pop Rocks. I like them? What does that have to do with rain? Soft strains of Sora at the piano in the living room floated up the stairs. Shit. He's going to hate it. Roxas frowned at the small square package in his hands. He'd thought long and hard about what to get his best friend and had posed a series of hypothetical questions to Zexion, Axel, and at one point, Hayner: What would you think if someone you knew got you this for Christmas? All three of them had agreed that Roxas' gift was "pretty weak, man," but Roxas had contented himself with the fact that none of them were Sora, so none of them would understand. But now, heading down the stairs toward where Sora was playing a mournful sounding nocturne—Chopin? Debussy?—Roxas was sure that he'd gotten it wrong, that Sora would hate it, or worse, not have any opinion on it at all. Fuck.

"You've been practicing," Roxas said, sitting next to Sora on the piano bench. Sora shrugged, fingers gliding over the keys in a crescendo before stopping abruptly. He glanced briefly at the blonde before playing the opening notes to a song that Roxas knew well. Roxas' brain instantly replaced the piano with violins, knew instinctually where the sopranos came in, knew when his cue approached. He didn't sing. Sora nudged him and replayed the measure.

"Sing," Sora said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world, and replayed the measure again. Roxas felt the music bloom in his lungs, felt the words slide against his tongue. It was like torture, sitting next to Sora as he played, breathing and listening for his cue like they'd done what seemed like every afternoon of high school. Before Riku, before they were bored enough to drink or angry enough to smoke, before Roxas knew what it was like to love something that wasn't his, they had done simple things. Beautiful things, even. They made kites. They learned choir music. It hurt to remember now, like remembering somewhere perfect that you could never visit again.

He hadn't realized he was singing, the words leaving his mouth in a quiet tenor that always managed to sound surer than Roxas thought he was capable of. Sora alternated playing the accompaniment with the alto line, humming an approximation of the bass part under his breath. Sora's piano dropped off at the end of the song, and Roxas finished on a B flat.

"I'm not the only one who's been practicing," Sora said, bumping shoulders with Roxas. The blonde shrugged and placed the small square box he'd been holding on the keys of the piano. Sora eyed the box thoughtfully, no doubt trying to guess what it might contain. "You know," he said, picking up the box and shaking it, "You have the most beautiful voice in the world." Sora tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice caught on the word 'beautiful,' and Roxas' hand went to Sora's cheek.

"Open it."

Sora smiled, brushed a tear away. "Saving the best for last." He scooted off the bench and knelt before the tree, the ugly lights Roxas hated winking obnoxiously. "This year my parents didn't even give me shit about hauling all my presents over here." Sora shook a huge package and tossed it to the "clothes" pile. "You'd think after five years they would've figured out that this is like a tradition."

"Is that what we're calling it? A tradition?" Roxas asked, smiling. "I thought it was more you desperate to figure out what you got and me going along with it five years in a row."

"Don't be an ass, Roxie," Sora said, tossing a particularly elegant present at the blonde. "That's from my mom. I think it's porn."

"Ha-ha." Roxas rolled his eyes. Years ago Sora's mom had given Roxas a bunch of DVDs for Christmas, and due to some manufacturing blunder, what should have been a cutesy teen comedy was instead an hour and a half of graphic lesbian porn. Sora and Roxas watched it, ate popcorn, and never said a word to Sora's mom. The "I think it's porn" line had been tossed out every Christmas since.

Roxas ended up with a stack of 20s cleverly hidden in a bundle that he swore was socks, several DVDs (all not porn), a bunch of clothes he'd never wear, a big ball of cheese, random designer sunglasses that looked like they were made for a girl, one actual nugget of coal, and, somewhat mystifyingly, a book about sushi ("The pictures are nice?" Sora offered). The only gifts left under the tree were Roxas' gift to Sora, the things Roxas had for his mom—random perfume that he thought she'd owned before, a charm bracelet that she'd probably never wear, and Roxas' default present for everyone, a DVD (also not porn)—, and a rectangular box wrapped in silver paper that exclaimed "Happy Birthday!" in garish neons.

"We ran out of the Christmas kind," Sora said sheepishly, handing the box over to Roxas. "You first."

They always got faintly embarrassed at this part, when it was time to open the things they got each other. Roxas remembered the very first Christmas gift Sora ever got him was a Ring Pop, watermelon flavored, and the first thing he ever got Sora was a snap bracelet he picked up for 99 cents printed with the repeating likeness of Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction. They'd progressed since then, sometimes picking the sentimental over the comedic, sometimes the nostalgic over the functional. Roxas thought there was something very soul baring about the whole thing: the kinds of gifts you give people reveal the kinds of things you value. He always felt helplessly vulnerable every time he spent a lot of time thinking about what to get someone, usually Sora.

Roxas sucked in a quick breath and then ripped the wrapping paper off in one deft swipe. The brown box underneath revealed little, and Roxas could feel the nervous energy rolling off Sora beside him. He opened the box gingerly and found a digital camera, obviously brand new, shining inside.

"Turn it on," Sora whispered, scooting close and resting his chin on Roxas' shoulder. Roxas powered on the camera and Sora's smiling face popped up on the screen. Sora moved his thumb against the directional pad as Roxas held the camera, and pictures flipped past. Sora on the pier, waving. Sora frowning, holding up a blue popsicle. Sora on his roof, pretending to fall. The sunset from the beach. The lights of the city at night from one of their favorite spots for sitting and talking the night away, the Crest. An empty parking lot Roxas recognized as Lot K, a place they'd hung out at almost every night of junior year until the cops told them to clear out. Sora and Riku, making faces. Riku's dog, Champ, chasing its tail. Roxas' empty driveway followed by Sora sitting in the spot where Roxas' car should've been parked, head down and knees drawn up. Sora sitting on Roxas' bed, his pillow clutched to Sora's chest, the brunette's faced buried in it. Sora, back to the camera, standing in Roxas' empty room. When Roxas' tears splashed on the small screen, Sora turned the camera off.

"Are those happy?" Sora asked, touching Roxas' tears like pointing out stars, connecting constellations.

"Yes," Roxas whispered. Sora nodded and picked up Roxas' gift, small and square. Roxas wiped at his face and held his breath.

Sora went very quiet when he lifted out the silver necklace from the box. The crown, cut exactly to mimic the crown Sora had tattooed at the base of his neck, had been drawn from Roxas' memory and handed over to the silversmith seventy miles north of Kingdom University. At first Roxas had been unsure what to get. Sora had three tattoos: two on his wrists—a strange-looking key on his left and a keyhole on his right—and the crown. In the end Roxas decided on the crown. He knew the three symbols were connected to Sora's other reality, and while Sora had been forthcoming about nearly everything from his delusions, these three symbols were only referenced vaguely. Roxas figured Sora had been a prince in his other world, someone just and brave. Someone strong in a way past strong. He'd always liked the idea of Sora as a prince—his prince—and he thought this would be an easy way to show it without actually having to admit it. Because that would be embarrassing, wouldn't it? If Sora knew his past delusions were things that Roxas enjoyed hearing about? This way he wouldn't have to say it. Sora would know.

Sora put his arms around Roxas' neck and pressed the blonde to his chest, his arms weak against Roxas' back. They were like that for a while—quiet, Sora quaking against him, little gasps soft in his ear.

"I love you, Roxas," Sora whispered, arms too weak to hold his best friend tighter. He felt like turbulence in Roxas' arms, strong limbs convulsing in a breath of silent wind. Roxas, who felt like the world was collapsing beneath him, like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe air, could only press his lips again and again to Sora's neck, feeling the life there while pleading to someone unseen. Please, not him. Never him. Don't ever take him. Never him.

--

Christmas Day dawned surprisingly bleak, a thirty-degree drop in temperature overnight casting a chilly sheen over their sleepy city. Roxas and Sora woke up curled on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, arms pricking with sleep after being wrapped around each other. They devoured their untouched food from the night before, and after a few whispered sentiments, Sora was out the door and in his car headed for home. Sora's parents had come to allow him to spend Christmas Eve with Roxas, but they demanded him on Christmas. This meant Roxas could spend Christmas with his mother… who was conveniently absent. The drive to Riku's took all of five minutes, and Roxas buzzed his way into the gate obscuring Riku's ridiculously large home.

Riku's father, a businessman who was not home more often than he was, had given up on Riku long before Roxas had ever known him. Though Sora knew more of the intimate details, Roxas knew that after Riku tried to kill himself at fifteen, his father had shipped him off to an island in the Caribbean. The residential facility had been a nightmare under the guise of luxury: water torture, cruelty, food deprivation—all to teach the "wayward children" some "manners befitting their breeding." It was there, amongst the cast off children of the wealthy elite, that Riku had picked up his heroin addiction. That had been the last straw for Riku's father. He shelled out money for whatever Riku wanted—drugs, toys, cars, a metal box full of spaghetti—and washed his hands of the rest of it. Riku said he didn't care, said he preferred the company of his "help," but Roxas knew that it was all a poorly constructed ruse. Riku was fucked up, and while it wasn't all because of his father, the man certainly had a large hand in it.

Riku's personal maid, a small slender girl called Talia, opened the front doors before scuttling away. Roxas made his way to Riku's room, knocking once on the blindingly white French doors before stepping in. The room was in disarray, clothes deposited everywhere, boxes of takeout at random intervals over the flat surfaces, and telltale balloons scattered carelessly about. Riku was sitting in bed, staring at Roxas. When the silver-haired boy smiled, Roxas' heart leapt.

"Finally," Riku said, patting the space beside him.

Roxas hopped on the bed, biting his lower lip nervously. He'd only been in Riku's room a handful of times since Riku usually insisted on being anywhere but his own home. "Merry Christmas," Roxas said shakily, pulling out a CD case.

"A mix?" Riku asked, sliding off his bed and moving toward an impossibly complex looking stereo.

"Don't listen to it now," Roxas said quickly before Riku could insert the disc. Riku shot him a look. "It's… not a mix. It's something I wrote. A friend at school, Demyx, he helped me record it."

Riku placed the disc back in its case and set it on a stack of CDs by the stereo. "You wrote me a song?" Climbing back on the bed, Riku stared at Roxas, smiling. Roxas said nothing as Riku's hand reached up to his face, the other boy's thumb tracing his jawline. "That's so sweet, Roxas."

Roxas swallowed thickly. They're broken up. This is okay. Just this. "Thanks?"

Riku smirked and picked up something from the side of his bed. "This is for you." Roxas eyed the package wearily. Riku's gifts over the years had been completely arbitrary: tickets to a concert, a carton of eggs, a giftcard for $500 in gas, a backpack, and, embarrassingly, an assortment of flavored lube that he'd opened in front of Sora. "Open it," Riku said. His eyes blazed in the dimly lit room, curtains drawn against the daylight.

Roxas held his breath and unwrapped the gift. When he saw what was inside he felt his guts seize up like he was about to vomit. You've got to be fucking kidding me.

"Riku…" WHAT THE FUCK.

The other boy smirked, hand stroking feathery touches against Roxas' neck. "Like it?"

"Riku," Roxas whispered, cheeks blushing furiously, stomach rioting, and… "You can't give this to me as a Christmas present."

"I can do whatever the fuck I want," Riku said, still smiling. Roxas noticed for the first time that Riku's pupils were like tiny pinpricks of darkness, little dots in oceans of aqua, though they should've been huge in the dark room. "If you don't like it, you can just say so."

Roxas swallowed noisily, feeling the burn on his cheeks. His stomach clenched and unclenched, and… Say you don't like it. Tell him you don't want it. Fucking tell him, Roxas… and he felt a thin curl of desire spill down his body. And he was aroused. Turned on. "You can't give this to me if you love Sora," Roxas said, voice rasping.

"Why not?" Riku challenged, opening the box. "It's friendly enough. Just a little butt plug, Roxas." He waved the sex toy in the air like it was something mundane that didn't make Roxas feel ashamed and erect all at once. "Why are you blushing like a fucking virgin?" He held the toy up to Roxas' face. "Look. It even matches your eyes."

"Stop," Roxas whispered. Matches Sora's eyes, too.

"You want it, don't you?" Riku smiled, leaning in until he was close enough to kiss. "Don't you?"

YES. FUCK, YES. "You're going to get back together with him."

Riku shrugged. "Maybe." He reached into the nightstand next to his bed and pulled out a bottle of lube. "Sora loves this stuff," Riku said, spreading a layer between his fingers. "Why don't we try this out?" Riku asked, hands gliding up and down the toy, eyes on Roxas. Roxas was sure that his heart would fail, that the beating he could feel against his throat would just stop. Oh my god. Oh my god.

"Come on, Roxas. We were broken up last time, too." Riku licked his lips and leaned closer, exhaling words against Roxas' ear. "Didn't stop you then." The tip of the other boy's tongue traced a slow path over the arc of his ear. Fire erupted all over Roxas' body, streaming in waves from the center of him outward. He couldn't help it. He moaned softly. "That's it," Riku said, pushing Roxas back slightly until the blonde was lying on the bed. "You want it." A kiss to his jaw framed by warm breath. "I want it." A kiss to the spot below his ear, fingers sliding up past his hoodie. "God, you still smell so good." A kiss at the corner of his mouth.

Roxas wouldn't realize it then, mind scattered and uncomprehending, but the kiss at the corner of his mouth that reminded him of Sora was not the only thing that made him sit up. Something about smelling good—a memory already associated with Riku—had tugged at something else in Roxas, something he couldn't remember. The jolt of memory was enough to restart his brain.

"No," he said, sitting up.

Riku stared at him for a moment, eyes and breath heavy, before shrugging. "Whatever." He stood and walked toward the balcony. "Bang some H with me."

Roxas was shoving the sex toy, slick with lube, into the front pocket of his hoodie when he heard the request. "What?"

"I stopped you before; I won't this time, I promise. 1cc, five milligrams. You can take it easy." Riku held up a syringe.

"I'm not going to slam boy with you on Christmas fucking Day, Riku."

"Since when are you Mr. Perfect Fucking Angel?" Riku spat, fiddling with a pale yellow balloon. The first time Roxas saw the heroin Riku shot, he was sure there some mistake. It looked like actual shit, sticky and dark like a chunk of dirty tar. Riku pinched at the small lump of heroin in his hand, depositing an amount in the jagged bottom of a Diet Coke can. Roxas watched wordlessly as Riku prepared his shot, felt his heart pound as the other boy pushed the tip of the syringe at a forty-five degree angle against the perfectly formed bright vein in his right arm. Riku's veins had always stood out, delicate tracery against his pale skin, and he'd explained to Roxas how the kids at his residential had been jealous of him for his perfect veins. He never tied off.

Riku withdrew the needle and looked over to Roxas, tilting his finger briefly. Roxas was on his feet instantly, hurrying to Riku's side. Was something wrong? Did he take too much? Oh, fuck.

"Riku?" he asked, keeling beside the other boy. Riku's eyes were closed, head angled toward the ceiling.

"Let me tell you something," Riku said quietly, an unguarded smile settling over his mouth. Roxas' heart pinged and, wondering if he smiled like that at Sora, he leaned close. In an instant Riku's mouth was against his, tongue pleading for entrance against his lips.

There was a moment he could've a resisted, a moment he could've stood up and walked out. But I don't want to. His lips parted and he tasted Riku, sighing into the kiss. How long had he wanted this again? Years now. More than two. He'd dreamt of the way Riku tasted—bottled water and muted vanilla—dreamt of the way Riku felt against him, in him. His breathing came harder, faster, and every touch Riku pressed against him was one that he arched into. Yes. Finally, yes. He was on the floor, Riku above him, hand pressed between his legs. It was a lost feeling, pleasant, but helplessly lost, like searching with the tips of your fingers for something in the dark, something you know is there if you could just find it.

When Riku's hand slipped into his jeans, Roxas whined at the back of his throat; desperate, hungry. Yes. He could stop, he acknowledged. If Riku didn't look like this—consumed completely with lust and want and need—then Roxas would stop. If Riku looked like he was having fun, he would stop. He didn't want this to be a game, a little battle with words and dropped hints. He loved Riku.

"You don't taste like him at all," Riku moaned into his ear, erection pressed roughly into Roxas' hip, callused fingers pumping against him to an unsung rhythm.

"Don't," Roxas whispered, rocking his hips up and into Riku's hand. "Don't talk about him."

"Why?" Riku asked, tongue touching the pulse in his neck. "God, you're so alike and so fucking different. It is such a fucking turn on." Riku directed Roxas' hands to the front of his pants. Roxas closed his eyes and felt the heat on his palms, felt it twitch as he smoothed out scorching ridges. Fuck. He wanted it in his mouth.

"Because," Roxas gasped, Riku's hand sliding rough against him.

"You want him," Riku exhaled into his mouth. "You want him like this." Roxas writhed beneath Riku, hips rocking erratically.

"Fuck you," he hissed, back arching.

"It's okay," Riku cooed in his ear, licking at the lobe. "He wants you, too."

Roxas came, hard, in Riku's hand and saw flashes of light, the glow of wings like angels turned electric, fluorescent. He panted, mind reeling, as Riku grabbed Roxas' hand and pumped it against himself. After Riku came, kissing Roxas hard on the mouth and shooting all over Roxas' pants, the blonde scrambled to his feet. He wasn't thinking, not really, as his legs carried him out of Riku's room and down the stairs. He couldn't hear anything at all as he went out through the elegant front doors and climbed in his car. It wasn't until Axel's song came on over his car speakers, the one Axel had called his favorite, that Roxas realized he was home, parked in his driveway, shaking, smoking a cigarette with all his windows rolled up.

There was a blissful moment of nothing before he realized where he'd been, what he'd done. Fuck. But they were broken up. Oh, fuck. It didn't count. Yes, it does. Kill yourself, you sick fucking asshole. He had wanted it, though. You wanted more, you bastard. He had liked it. Liked it? You loved it. You loved it and you'd do it again. Roxas tried to scream, but found that the effort required would not come to him. He felt the scream in his chest, ready to rip out of him, but he could not call it to the front of his mouth. How do you hold him—your best friend in the entire world—how do you let him cry in your arms and then go and let his boyfriend get you off? How? You're not even human. People with real emotions don't do this. You're so sick, Roxas. Roxas quietly hyperventilated, gasping repeatedly as he pressed the back button on his stereo and Axel's song came on again and again. He won't forgive you for this. You're not even sorry. You wouldn't ask to be forgiven, you sick fuck.

He didn't know how long he sat there, smoking cigarette after cigarette, only deciding to leave after his car battery died and Axel's song cut off mid-chorus. He went to his room and collapsed on the bed.

--

Later that night, sitting naked in bed and staring at a bottle of lube and Riku's gift, he heard his phone ring. He knew before he looked that it would be Sora. New text message:

Back together. Love you.

Roxas cried as he fucked himself.