It's harder to get on than Axel thought. They're preparing for other small shows, little pieces here and there, and when it gets to practicing in the auditorium, there's Naminé, crutches to the side of her seat, looking small and fractured, Roxas next to her, staring with open and naked want at the dancers. Naminé looks sad, hopeless, like she's losing everything, and Roxas just looks enraptured, wrapped up in the story, and Axel can see him following each movement with a practiced eye, and wonders how he missed the feel of those eyes on him before he moved to New York, before he thought everyone was looking at him. Roxas understands ballet, it's clear, he knows a good movement from a bad, is shaking his head even before the choreographer stops them all, pointing and gesturing. It's relaxing, working like this, with Cloud and Leon, who are vaguely rumoured to be heading for big things as a working partnership; Leon as imperious artistic director, making sure everything fits into his little world that he wants to create, Cloud as the limber, lithe choreographer. It's rumoured he could have been the Nureyev of their day, had he kept on dancing, but he was drawn aside by Leon's view that he would make a better tutor than dancing. That's the party line, anyway, Axel strongly suspects that Leon's ass was a more tempting prospect for him than a row of skinny dancers, choked with neuroses and their own self-importance. The easy fluidity between them speaks of a good relationship, something strong and worth having, something which bonds them together more than dance was ever able to. Whilst Leon can be strict and vicious, Cloud soothes fractured egos and praises, and so, together, they are the easiest team anyone has ever worked with. They never seem to disagree with each other on the layout or movements, just perfectly in tune, perfectly in harmony. Axel believes that, had one not had to dance ien travestie/i, they would have made a wonderful dancing pair, either duelling or as lovers. Axel thinks all of this to distract himself from the fact that here, two weeks ago, he was dancing these steps through with the beautiful blonde girl in the fourth row, who can't meet his eyes. He can't let himself think of her, not now, not whilst he's dancing. It makes even the simple act of walking seem like too much of a betrayal.
One evening, Naminé doesn't come to rehearsal, and Roxas isn't there to ask. Axel goes straight out after, ignoring Cloud's calls for him to stay behind, to work on a section, because, well, fuck that. They don't follow him, though, so they at least know to leave him be. He rather expects Marluxia let them know just quite how damaged he seems to be by all of this, and made them aware of what it's best to do when he goes off on one. He heads to a bar, not a club, not wanting loud music and dance, not after the day he's had, and drinks, and drinks, and drinks. Plenty of people take an interest, but he doesn't want company, and makes that brutally clear. He thinks he sees one girl crying after he takes her apart, and feels nothing but broken shards in his throat, filling him up with bile and blood. The alcohol soothes that pain, the burn easing the way for swallowing down the agony of having broken another human being.
"It's so sad." Larxene had said, like it meant anything, like it was any way to talk about it, and he can't connect with her, can't let her speak like that, and so he stops seeking her out. She's not too bothered, as her old dancing partner is back from a year touring Russia next week, and she's busy making sure that she still measures up to him. Axel is glad. Someone who can call the ruin of someone's career, their life, their love, 'sad' isn't someone he can stand to be around right now. He snarls wordlessly at the bartender, who pours him another couple of doubles and ambles away, not going too far. He knows when he's needed. Axel doesn't usually drink much, no dancers do, because if you take a slender, starving person and fill them full of booze, they fall over and fracture things, and that's a stupid way to end your career. Almost as stupid as letting some fool, who is half in love with the way you dance, drop you in your first ipas de deux/i in front of a paying audience.
He walks back through the maze of the lodgings, considers knocking on Larxene's door, just for old times, but changes his mind at the last minute, deciding that she's not worth the hassle, not worth the lecture he'll get for being drunk when he's in the middle of a rehearsal schedule. He wants something, though, and he isn't sure if his want is hands, or arms, or fucking, but he knows he'll need another person for it, knows he can't be whole alone. So it seems like providence when he wanders past Naminé's room, barely paying attention to where he is, and spots Roxas stood outside, one hand clenched into a fist and one scrubbing at his face. He's… he's been crying, Axel realises, and some of the alcohol tries to vanish, but it's backed up by friends and he can't sober up fast enough to work out what he wants.
"What have you come to stare at? Had enough of her, want to ruin me, too?" Roxas croaks out, and Axel can almost admire that, the anger, hiding the misery and the grief and the guilt. He knows that one well, and slides closer, watching Roxas like a cat watches a mouse, Roxas wary of him, still letting silent tears trickle down his cheeks. He clearly doesn't dare cry in front of his sister, staying strong for her, but this is taking a toll on him. Axel suddenly wants to do something nice, so he presses closer and wraps his arms around the little blond, pressing him against the wall. Roxas fights for a second, squirming, then sags against him, letting Axel nuzzle his hair. The blond smells so good, and it takes Axel just a moment to realise that he's getting aroused, and that Roxas doesn't seem to mind it, before he's dropping to his knees and pulling Roxas out, mouth and hand on him before the blond can do anything to stop him. Fingers wind into his hair and there's a choked moan before his mouth is flooded, and he pulls away, grimacing. Roxas just looks at him, wrecked, more so than before, and Axel feels puzzled, doesn't understand why Roxas isn't happy with him.
"Go home. You're drunk." Roxas says, roughly, and Axel, feeling wetness in his jeans, moves, as if the order compels him, standing to let the blond tuck himself away, leaning on the wall for support, breathing ragged.
"I'm not that drunk." Axel says, finally, and Roxas doesn't even look at him.
"Go. Just… go."
Axel doesn't need to look to see that those tears are falling again, and that he has done nothing right, made nothing better, even though he doesn't understand why. He goes.