Axel wakes, muzzy, feeling like something died in his mouth, aching and sore from more than the usual ballet stretches. He has rehearsal in an hour, and he knows full well that there's no chance he's going to get out of bed in time for it, and certainly that he's not going to be able to dance with his head doing pirouettes without the rest of him following behind. He wants to be sick, but isn't, mainly because he isn't sure he can crawl to the communal bathrooms yet, but also because he doesn't want to see, in reverse order, exactly what he consumed last night. He has hazy flashes of a bar, somewhere full of people who were looking at him admirably, but he didn't want any of them, can't have done, or he would have taken someone home. Still, he does remember going to his knees for someone, so it can't have been too bad a night, really. His stomach disagrees with him, and he stumbles upright, dragging on some sleep pants in a vague attempt at modesty, before staggering out into the corridor and towards the bathroom. It is as he's retching, heavily, he hears someone crying, out in the main area of the room, publicly, and there's a whisper from some girls, before more crying. He wipes his mouth and spits a couple of times before opening the stall door.
"What's going on?"
"You didn't hear?" one of the girls asks, not looking up, "It's Naminé, she – " She stops as she catches sight of him, and looks back down, tears slipping down her chin.
"It's what? What's happened?"
None of the girls answer him, they just keep their arms around each other and cry. He tires quickly of the emotions, and walks back out into the corridor, which, previously empty, is now full of crying dancers. He doesn't know what's going on, but no one will meet his eyes, although he hears them whispering to each other as he passes.
"Such a shame, she was such a lovely girl."
"So sweet to everyone, not a drop of malice in her."
"A brilliant dancer, she had real potential."
"If only – "
"If only – "
"If only - "
He whirls around, finally.
"If only what?"
The corridor goes silent, and he realises the figure he cuts, skinny, hungover, half-naked and furious, and sinks back off the balls of his toes.
"If only you hadn't dropped her."
The voice comes from nowhere, and then Roxas steps out into a space between two girls, who part to give him more room. Axel is suddenly hit with the sensory memory of being on his knees, staring up at that face, and he can see the moment Roxas realises it, too.
"If… what's happened? Will she…." Axel stops, because it's too terrible to think, but says it anyway, "Will she never dance again?"
"Oh, she'll dance." Roxas says, slowly, eyes never leaving Axel's face, "She'll dance, Axel, but she'll never dance to professional level ever again. Not even with months of physiotherapy. You've got your prima donna – sorry, prima ballerina. Congratulations."
He sweeps off, icy, and the murmuring in the corridor doesn't start up again until he's well out of sight. Axel stares for a little longer, then walks back into his room and slams the door, slumping back onto the bed. He tries not to think of anything, and wills himself back to sleep.
He goes to see Naminé the next day, skipping rehearsal for another day, taking his life in his hands, as Leon can be pretty irate when crossed. He thinks Cloud will explain it, though, when he doesn't show up again, and wouldn't be surprised if they've had to stop rehearsal anyway, because just walking towards her room he is crowded by red-eyed ballerinas sending their good wishes. He knocks, and Roxas answers the door. Their eyes don't meet, because they can't, not without one of them punching the other, and Axel doesn't delude himself that he wouldn't deserve it, or that anyone would leap to his defence. When he steps into the room, he can barely see Naminé, shrouded as she is in covers, left leg in plaster. She looks childlike, impossibly thin, like a doll, or a caricature, and he wonders how he could have been so stupid, so blind, that he didn't see this happening. He was wrapped up in Larxene, he realises now, and yet, looking at the both of them, he can't see how he thought she was more important than Naminé. This is the girl who taught him everything, the one who didn't laugh when he was still growing into his height, who showed him how to lift, to make the most of his relative strength, how to turn them both into showpieces, rather than chorus dancers. He is impossibly in love with her, in all the ways which count, and he sinks down at her side, his head on the covers next to her frail body. She strokes his hair, gently, and he realises there are hot tears running down his face. Her fingers smooth them away and she murmurs softly to him.
"It's okay, Axel, I don't blame you. It's okay."
"You should blame him." Roxas says, and it cuts through the air in the room, but Axel doesn't argue. She should blame him, should hate him and refuse to see him, but she won't, because she is good, and perfect, and so, so beautiful. His hand finds hers, and she squeezes gently, stroking her thumb over his wrist, and he's so damned ashamed of himself that he can't even find words, can't manage to refute Roxas' cold damnation, her sweet forgiveness, the guilt he feels. It's like he's been dancing to music all this time, and now someone has taken that music away, and he's got to keep time without anything to help him do so. He feels off-balance, lost, unable to find his place within the classes, and ballet in general. He only came here, only deserved to come here, because of her. Now, she will never dance the way he can, may never dance properly again, and it is all his fault. She gave him dance, and he reciprocated by giving her a bone fractured in four places. It hardly seems like a fair trade. So why is it, he wonders, that she can keep smiling whilst he sobs out onto her bed?
Roxas follows him out, leaning against the wall, head tilted back and breathing hard, like he's just seen something abhorrent.
"She shouldn't forgive you." he says, and Axel leans with him, not sure his unsteady legs won't buckle under him and send him tumbling to the floor, "She should be furious with you, refusing to see you, hating you for doing this to her. Anyone else and she would, you know."
Axel smiles at the lie.
"She's too sweet to hate anyone. We both know that."
"I don't know, she could get pretty mad when I stole her dolls." Roxas says, and Axel grins at the camaraderie before both of their faces lock down again, thinking of the slender girl in the big white duvet inside the room. They are not allowed to bond.
"Thank you. For letting me see her."
"What do you mean?"
"You could have locked me out, told her I wasn't interested in seeing her. You didn't. So… thanks, I guess." Axel says, stretching out his back. For a moment, Roxas looks like he's staring, then snaps back into the moment.
"Yeah, like she'd have believed it." Roxas says, with a tiny smile playing about his lips, "She thinks a hell of a lot of you, you know. She thinks you might be the greatest idanseur/i ever."
"Yeah, right." Axel mutters, moodily.
"She does." Roxas says, adamant, "She really, really does. She wants you to go on and dance, to do what she can't. She expects a hell of a lot from you."
The two of them look at each other for a minute or two of silence, then Roxas moves closer, so they're standing almost cheek to cheek, and Axel can feel the boy's body heat, can smell hair gel and fresh laundry. His hair brushes Axel's ear.
"Don't you dare let her down." The blond whispers, and then he's gone, Naminé's door clicking quietly shut behind him. Axel stands, awestruck for a moment in the corridor, before he pulls himself upright. He's got classes to go to, rehearsal to make up. If Naminé believes he can be the best, then, for her, he will be.