Work Text:
I
"What do you think you're doing?"
Lea looks back for a second, staring from the hand around his wrist to Isa, all thin-lipped and worried.
He frowns, making himself smaller, "You mind?"
"This is the exact reason why I asked if you were ready—" Isa huffs, pulling him down and behind him. Looking over his shoulder, Isa gives Lea a thoroughly unimpressed look. Knuckles pressed firmly on the space between them, huddled and hiding in one of the halls, he asks, "We just barging out, then?"
Lea devotes his attention to looking ahead over Isa's shoulder, on the lookout, voice barely above a whisper, "You got a better plan?"
He breathes slowly, trying to pick out anything weird, see if there's any trace—any clue—to follow, and coming up short. Empty halls and empty rooms and laboratories filled to the brim. Lea would think it'd be easier to find something off in a place as put together as the halls, but he suspects it'd be easier to pick anything from the lab they've just left—but they checked. Several times. They're already running late.
"I had one," he hisses, "but that's about done for, isn't it?"
Tense quietness falls over them. The castle is heavy with an energy Lea can't name.
Managing to get as far as into the lab and sneaking back out without the whole reason they came in trailing along was discouraging at best. It was a long shot sneaking in. They knew that. But they thought that if push came to shove, they could try again, but X's gone. For the past tries, it's been next time, next time, next time. Lea's run out of ideas by this point, and they keep getting thrown out half the time.
"We've always done this—"
"And we consistently get caught," Lea squints, decidedly not-pouting until Isa sighs, running a hand down his mouth, "Okay, fine. But stay behind me—"
"Yeah, yeah—"
"—Lea," he stops at the severity in Isa's voice. "Listen to me; you hear that?"
He frowns, eyes closing in concentration; a shiver runs down his spine when he manages to faintly make out steps, "—that a guard?"
He gets a shrug in response, and it's only then that Isa stops looking at him, "Whoever it is, they're far from the usual route. Something's happening. I don't like it."
Full of adrenaline and frustration, Lea forces his hand to stop shaking as he grabs Isa's elbow, "Better hurry then."
Isa doesn't look at him when he says, "If I tell you to run—"
"—Don't look back, yeah," he swallows thickly, "Yeah."
II
"What do you think you're doing?"
Stomping in frustration, Lea hisses, "You mind?" Kicking the heel of his high tops against the wall, he groans into the open air before addressing Isa, arms open, "What the hell are we gonna do now? It's been months, Isa!"
Arms crossed and eyes following his every move, Isa takes a deep breath, "I think—" He looks away as Lea stops to stare at him at full attention, hands in his pockets.
In the silence, he slowly stops fuming, knowing just by Isa's scowl that there's a new plan brewing in his mind, "What?"
Ducking into the neck of his jacket, he creaks, "—Nevermind."
"No, no—" he starts, stepping into Isa's space. Lea nudges him with a shoulder, "Go on. We've already tried everything. What's one more?" In response, Isa's shoulders rise, body taught with discomfort, "C'mon, Isa. Don't leave me hanging."
He doesn't look at Lea when he offers, "There's... one thing we haven't tried."
III
"What do you think you're doing?"
It's not a question, Lea can tell from the tone of voice—just a little too dull to be anything other but exasperation over fondness. He's heard this question for years, same cadence and rhythm; the response is etched into his vocal cords by this point.
Still, his heart jumps to his throat with anxiety.
Pretending he wasn't just balancing the hilt of a dagger on his finger, Lea squeaks out, "You mind?"
"Really?" Isa gives him an unimpressed look, and Lea bites his tongue.
"I mean—nothing. Nothing."
The brow of Isa's frown twitches with barely concealed laughter as he approaches, "Right."
Isa looks down at the clipboard he's carrying as he does, giving Lea enough time to get the dagger in its' sheath and put his gloves back on. He's still not used to the constriction, hands sweltering under the leather more often than not—but—they were given these coats almost as soon as they came in through the door.
Strange welcome wagon, Lea thought, as they took in the clothing they hadn't seen before. At all. Not when they were breaking and entering, or as they snuck around, and definitely not whenever they got kicked out.
It's a miracle they even got accepted as Apprentices. Lea remembers very little of it. He barely remembers what he and Isa said in favor of their case. Calling on their interest in studies and the community as the Elders looked them up and down.
Whatever Isa had said at the end as their closing statement had been good enough, convincing enough. Lea remembers his pulse beating a mile an hour and ringing in his ears soon as they requested an audience. He recalls Isa standing tall, severe, loyal—take us both. Where Lea goes, so do I—almost sounding like he knew they would take Lea and had to make a case for himself.
While Lea forgot how to breathe, forgot everything about his body, Ansem The Wise let their words sink in. Beside him, with a hand on his jaw, and two fingers on his temple, stood tall a man they hadn't seen much of before. Ochre and gold under silver studied them like samples, and Lea almost felt like dirt beneath his shoes.
After a minute, he nodded at Isa and told him they had conviction, then at Lea and told them they had heart. Then with a clap and a flourish, they were taken away, guided by Aeleus, looking not too impressed.
Here they are, now.
Pushing his hair back, Lea rises on the balls of his boots before playfully nudging him with a shoulder, "You really taking to this like a duck to water, aren't ya?" Then, in a whisper, Lea hums, "You... remember why we're here, right?"
He pauses, tensing something uneasy, "Do I have a choice? Someone has to keep His Lordship from kicking us out." Isa studies him, and Lea looks away, embarrassed at the scrutiny. Laughing through his nose, Isa puts the clipboard under his arm before fixing Lea's collar—"Just picking up your slack."
He's tried to get the hood to not bend in weird ways—heavy thing it is, and he's failed every time. Lea's worked wonders with the hem of the sleeves, fitting them snugly around his forearms like a charm.
If Isa's the ears of this operation, he's made it his duty to be the eyes and hands. Mobility is necessary for him, and it's useful for Isa to have him on the move. Lea's been sneaking out at night to tell him whatever comes across as relevant. Isa trusts Lea's memory better than he does his journals, obediently taking evasive notes of what strikes him as critical to look into in his own time.
Lea gives him a titering laugh, "Yeah, well. You're the brains and the brawn—I'm just here for the comic relief," Isa raises an eyebrow, now fumbling with the chains, and the smile Lea gives him in response is blinding, "And the icky jobs."
Isa points behind him with a head tilt, pausing until Lea lets him know it's safe, "I remember, do you?" He whispers, waiting for Lea to nod slowly, "Got any updates?"
"Yeah, no," he replies, scratching the crown of his head, "Still working on it."
With a sigh, Isa picks the pen behind his ear to twirl, lingering by the door for Lea to follow, "Come on. We're gonna be late."
Lea fixes the disheveled strand of hair by Isa's ear as he passes, "Gotcha."
IV
Taking a step forward, Isa demands, urges, to go first, hand placating behind his body to try and calm Lea's burgeoning fear. Looking over his shoulder almost pleadingly as Lea whines a choked-up sound, Isa mouths something at him, slow and deliberate. In the alarm, green and blue are the only things he sees. Lea's rooted on the spot when Isa looks away.
Hesitating for a second, he takes a knee when ordered, and his voice doesn't crack, but Lea has known him long enough to know he's just as scared.
He can't stop staring until—his vision blurs and blurs and blurs.
Lea returns to his body when he hangs a foot in the air, and all he sees is red, red, red and tan, and silver and gold. Suddenly, Lea processes—too late to do anything, too cold, too breathless—that the last words Isa offered him were, what do you think you're doing?
And—Run.
V
Nothing. Nobody.
The first days are both the easiest and the hardest for Axel. It's one of the worst things he has ever had to deal with. It's also incredibly familiar, like getting bored and daydreaming in the last minutes of class. They don't eat, and they don't sleep, and he's almost sure he's been standing in place for days without a single blink.
He used to have a flair for dramatics. Maybe it's only been a couple of minutes.
There should be nothing. And there isn't, not really. Not in a way that makes sense, not like they were told or promised. What there is, the existing, are merely echoes. Like a leaky faucet, his body is trying to fill up with something and coming up empty, circling the drain—but the echo? The echo remains in the hollow of his body, swindling around like the howling of the wind in empty halls and bare basements.
Getting to know the ins and outs of this projection of self is a hassle, and there's something uncomfortable just at the edge of his fingers. Something beckoning, something tart and terrible, lingering and tickling his forearms with force. It's a feverish sensation, confusing, unrecognizable, building and building right beneath his ribs, like having dirt under his nails.
He always liked recognition when he was Someone, and he has it here for the time being. Front and center, all eyes on him in the middle of the room.
There's something that nags at him, however. Grating at something on the back of his skull, he's tried to make sense of it with his eyes lost on the horizon. It's been dark outside the whole time.
Leaning over his shoulder, Xemnas calls, almost encouraging, "Number Eight, do tell." The low rumble of his voice melts into an oscillation so deep that he understands the words more than he hears them—like he's simultaneously speaking from inside his ear and further than the end of the world, "Show me. Why do you waver? What have you gained for your sacrifice?" Xemnas wants a reaction, and Axel's desperate not to give, "Did you not come here for wisdom? For power? "
The words don't awaken anything in him because all Axel remembers right now is that the answer is no. He can't pinpoint what it is or why he came here yet—what brought him to this new existence—but it was not servitude.
It was something else.
Losing time and knowing there's more than enough to waste, Axel craves to keep whatever game Xemnas is trying to play at a standstill. He needs this whole spiel to halt with him.
Staring out the window like a lost soul, he lets all words fall off him like rain on an umbrella.
"Maybe he didn't get anything," Number Two perks up, sounding very much frank—making something ring wrong, wrong, that sounds wrong—in Axel's ear, "Waste of time, that kid."
"Hush, Xigbar," Xemnas tuts. He pauses deliberately, "Are you suggesting I am mistaken in my favor? Do you dare insinuate that I have miscalculated in the conviction I decided to place in every single one of you?"
"Well, when you put it like that—" Xemnas raises a single brow, and Xigbar lifts a hand, admitting defeat.
Turning to him, he asks, "What are your talents?" Xemnas stalks, encircling Axel in five long steps, "What do you desire?"
He doesn't have an answer, but the immature thing he was does remember the echo of hungering for approval. When he turns his head, however, instead of looking at Xemnas, he glances at Isa for an answer. The name scratches at something at the back of his head, feeling both wrong and right. He seems just as aware as Xigbar and little Zexion do as he examines Axel from under his nose, tilting his head just a little.
It's more than enough for Axel to feel a spark of recognition as Saïx raises a brow.
Watching the exchange, Xemnas intones, "Ah, I see." Then, he beckons, eyes fixated on Saïx, "Is there anything you wish to say, Number Seven?"
There's a pause, "Lord Xemnas has granted you an honor." Even as they are, in the new way they exist, Axel feels the other is laying it on thick, "What do you think you're doing?"
Game over.
The first words he speaks have Axel grinning a dangerous thing, acid on his tongue, and gruff voice, and crackling embers between his fingers, "You mind?"
He burns. Singes. There's a hum he almost understands—almost sounds—as being humored before Xemnas has Axel snapping back to attention.
VI
After the nothing came flashes of everything. Old memories churn at Axel's gut, at moments making him—and others—believe they're remembering how to feel. Xemnas, voice grave, insists that the phenomenon they're experiencing is like blinking. The gut, brain, and muscles do the motions when one doesn't think about them, going haywire the moment one thinks of the process. Axel hates to say that it makes sense. Something, however, pushes at his chest and belly, and sternum. They must learn to deal with this until it fades. Until it plays like the background hum of public spaces instead of blaring like a siren—like a warning.
At times, Axel feels like he's staring at the sun—and it's one of those times that Saïx takes one look at him, clutches his arm in a firm grip, and leads him away with as little suspicion as he can.
Ordering, "Come with me. Now."
Cracking, "All you gotta do is ask, sir," with a sarcastic note, Axel follows without question, regardless.
"Alright," ankles over one another, Saïx decidedly doesn't look Axel in the eye as he pulls his hands back, "That should help."
There's a pull under his skin, like gravity. Axel runs the pad of a sun finger over his purple marks, feeling a low thrum, a low pulse under the digit. The charms hum with a familiar but unwelcome energy. The forces pushing against one another for a second before swirling. As if the memory of him and Saïx twined and twisted. Blending enough with the new, recognizing each other, and not knowing what to do with the changes.
Like a magnet, Axel can't stop—for his not-life—pressing down against his cheekbone. Making himself familiar with the drawl of push and pull, he waits until the cross sea of their energy calms down. Until it pushes in the same direction.
For a second, he recalls the feeling of black ink being dragged down his face with a thumb. The call of they'll stop you from crying, you big baby, in a laugh. Relief. Comfort.
"Thanks," the scowl, the flash of recognition he gets, doesn't deter him. Fixated on the stud in Saïx's ear, he clicks his tongue, "Your hair's getting long."
Without thinking, he flicks the earring with familiarity, and slowly, Saïx enunciates every word after a heavy pause, "What do you think you're doing."
Quick, Axel leans back on his hands, cooing out, "You mind?"
Saïx's gone before he's had the chance to finish laughing.
VII
Axel pulls at the hem of his sleeves, tugging at the fingers of his glove without being able to grip them properly. In an echo of frustration, he yanks the short gloves off with his teeth, throwing them over his shoulder into the hall before forcing the door closed with his heel.
Saïx barely looks back at him, a stark ochre film over the old green. He squints at Axel, almost in confusion, "What do you think you're doing?"
He sets his hands aflame, playing and twirling the fire between his fingers for a couple of seconds. The smell of heat fills the air, crackling with a glare in the quiet of the room, "You mind?"
Saïx turns his back on him, spreading files on the desk before him, "You shouldn't be here."
His words are slow and measured. They sound rehearsed like it's what he thinks he should say—what others expect him to say. There's an edge to them, too, like he's coming up short for reasons he should, and aversion is the only thing that makes sense.
Axel clicks his tongue, snapping his fingers to light up the room in flame, one, two, three times, "Someone's gotta fix your dressings, and you're not gonna do it. When's the last time anyone changed them? Days ago?"
Quietly, Saïx separates files by importance, date, and subject. Axel's seen him do this for a long time—in between gathering information—and the pause in his movements makes him think that Saïx's still measuring how to go about this. Axel's not here to offer comfort. He couldn't, wouldn't, can't. Won't. Part of him doesn't want to, but they're here, and he needs the dressings changed. If Axel was—ever—loyal to anything in this forsaken existence, it's to him, to them, to what they used to be. To memory. To the cracks in the mirror and the phantom of care beneath the charms on his cheeks.
Axel waits for him to put a chunk of paper together, patting them against the table until the file is even, "This is but a surface wound. Go back to your room; you have a mission in the morning."
A scoff escapes Axel as he tugs Saïx's wrist to turn him in place, the files falling in waves, spreading out like a pond with sudden rain.
Bare palms flush against the desk, wrinkling whatever is left to the other's annoyance, he closes in, boxing Saïx in like a target, "How long? I'm not asking again."
Tipping his head down to glare under his brow, Saïx presses a palm to Axel's chest, pushing as he utters, "Get out."
He doesn't budge, "Lemme change them, and I will."
Saïx bares his teeth, white film over ochre, over green, a hint of static in the air, rumble in his tongue, "I said," he snarls, "get out."
VIII
Elbows and forehead firmly pressed to cobblestone, Axel wheezes on his knees, trying to get enough air into his system to stand when, suddenly, someone reaches out from beside him.
Turning him until all he can see is the curtain of his hair, Saïx asks—"What do you think you're doing?"
"You—" He coughs up a sputter as he pushes himself up on his elbow, dramatically sitting on his haunches, back pressed to the grim wall, "you mind?"
"Lea—" he looks down at him and closes his eyes in frustration at the familiarity. Lips in a line and brow furrowed, he rolls his eyes as Axel whines when he pokes his ankle with the inside of his boot, "you should have RTC'd hours ago."
He huffs, elbows firm over his knees, "Yeah, well." Axel sniffs, pressing the pad of his thumb to a nostril, wincing at the feeling of a broken nose without blood. "Gotta stay in top-notch condition. Do as Xemnas asks, or whatever… Say, Saïx," he starts, a little edge to the name, "think we gonna get a rest soon?"
Axel knows it's silly to ask. Still—the unamused look Saïx gives him is always too fun to pass up. They don't rest; not really. Least of all, Saïx—always the first one up and the last to settle down if he does. Always up and running and making dues of whatever Xemnas wants, always at his beck and call.
They don't need rest or sleep, but it's the one thing Axel lets himself indulge in, one of the things they all do out of habit. Between targets, he naps and wakes, doing anodyne missions tailored for him: thinly-veiled information recompilation, target after target elimination. Saïx delivers order after order, and Axel barely follows the guidelines of what Xemnas wants him to do. But, what can he say? Axel always gets the job done. He can go about it as he pleases nowadays.
The missions scatter him all over the place, all over the worlds, following some logic Axel cannot understand and doesn't care about. A reasoning Saïx has been keeping to himself for long enough that he's stopped caring to ask, dragging him up and down dark corridors like a helium balloon. It would get on his nerves if he had any to get on.
The phantom of pain is already too much of a hassle. He complains, just to have something to do.
"That's enough," Saïx soughs, hoisting him up by the neck of his coat and letting Axel rest more than half his weight on him, "Learn to pick your fights."
"Nah, don't worry," he jokes, even knowing it'll fall flat, "Shoulda seen the other guy."
The hand around his waist tightens when his step falters as they close in on the castle.
IX
"Don't you have anything better to do?"
Axel hums in contemplation, eyes searching the Library, "Nah." He passes his hand over the spines of the tall pile of books beside him, "Not really."
Forehead pressed to the curve of his arm, Saïx sighs long and deep through his nose, and Axel looks over his shoulder for a moment. He clicks his tongue, moving the tallest pile into another table, arms taut with its height. Then picking at the smaller set of discarded books, Axel hums at the print, taking his time to organize them by mouthing every scribbled title. Turning on his heel, he places them back as he goes along the hallway, one after the other, exactly where they belong.
When he returns, Saïx's tapping the end of a pen against a different mission report, the heel of his palm pushing painfully into his socket as he flips through the pages. Axel takes the mission report—squinting at the small print and the angular slant of Larxene's handwriting—and taps the page with the back of his hand.
Dutifully, he pretends not to notice Saïx scrutinizing him from the corner of his eye.
As he straightens up, fingers tangling on the shorter strands in the crown of his head as he pushes the hair back, he mutters, "What do you think you're doing?"
Axel chuckles without humor as he reads, "You mind?"
He's never acknowledged his question with a response. It's particularly daunting this time—like lying in wait.
Hand out, Saïx motions for the report back, "I don't have time for this."
Looking him up and down, Axel crosses his arms, shrugging a single shoulder, "Funny that, me either. Never know when the next mission's gonna be a pain in the ass, y'know?" He gestures with the report in circles, "When's the last time you had a break?"
To no avail, Saïx tries to snatch the pages back. Axel tuts as he pulls it out of reach, pressing, knowing the other's expression will turn something sour, something tight, teeth pressed hard enough to burst.
"Remember your place," he says. Temper bubbling to the surface like muscle memory, Saïx's tone of voice is meant to be dangerous. But the cadence is too blunt, too dry, too familiar to sting, "Stop being a nuisance and give that back."
Axel smirks, leaning over his shoulder to grab onto the backrest, report sticking out at the bend of his wrist on his hip, just out of reach, "That an order?"
Stand-still, Saïx's intense gaze slowly but surely turns his smirk into something a little blank. A fuzzy feeling pulls at Axel's stomach like a sprain the longer he stares. Clearing his throat, he brings the old report forward to study; it's several days old.
Absently, Axel reaches for a nearby chair, turning it backward, and, with a sigh, Saïx mutters, "This doesn't concern you," as he sits.
"Yeah," Axel plucks a pencil from the offering hand, tone flat but not sarcastic, "Sure doesn't. Got it memorized?"
It really doesn't. Axel does what he has to do, nothing less, nothing more, and this isn't it. But. He's watched Saïx do this long enough to know it shouldn't be taking so much time—efficient as he is. Knows him enough to be aware that he never falls behind schedule. And, while it would be fun—easy—to let him be, there's something taut in Saïx's shoulders, something that Axel doesn't like. Something wired and simmering under the surface.
He makes a note on the margins, running his eyes over the desk and quickly making sense of the lists and paragraphs and the purpose behind the report Saïx's typing down. Sweeping over Larxene's handwriting with a cursory glance, Axel switches hands to make an addition to the figures in Saïx's organizer, waiting flat and open between them. It's not long until he hears the scratch of a pen on a new bundle of paper.
Shortly after, there's a pause, and he huffs as Axel keeps changing hands between annotations as he types, "Show off." Then, as an afterthought, "You're free to leave."
"Nah," he stretches, languid, knee accidentally bumping into Saïx's as he reaches for another report, "'m good."
X
Xigbar has always rattled his nerves. Even before. That, Axel, will admit.
From the very beginning, he's found himself watching him from the corner of his eye, waiting with fire and coarseness at the tip of his tongue for an entrance. Axel's had the vantage point of slowly but surely, having Xigbar snarl down at him to getting the privilege of looking at Xigbar under his nose. It's one of the very, very spread out things that, had he known, he's sure he would've gotten a kick out of as a kid. It's immature as they come. It also feels like winning.
He sure has fantasized about punching him under Kingdom Hearts' light, but Axel's good at executing self-control. He's only singed him a couple of times, after all. All of them justified, if he may say so himself. In retaliation, Xigbar's shoved the barrel of his gun to Axel's nape when he still trained him more times than he cares to count.
He'll give him this, Xigbar's good for one thing: Confrontation. Going back and forth. Scathing words, cutting remarks, cackling snarls. Axel's sure he never throws punches below the belt, but it helps crack away at the deep roots of his frustration. He is the old hands, which makes him valuable for that—and little else—as far as Axel is concerned.
Xigbar thinks the same thing about him, always willing to pick him out of a crowd to taunt. It's strategic. A game. Generally getting on everyone's nerves—their sensibilities anytime Xigbar's concerned—as they go. It only amps up the fun for him, anyway.
Every time they start, Axel counts, patiently tallying out how far they can go at snapping at one another before—
"Are you done?" Axel doesn't know who Saïx's referring to when he asks, "What do you think you're doing?"
Arms crossed, Axel mouths the words—You mind?—when Saïx spares him a glance at all and any of Xigbar's body sighs.
It's gotten hard to catch the quirk of Saïx's lip, and whenever he does, Axel thinks it might be wishful thinking, but he'll take it.
"Planning a nice tea party, isn't it obvious?" Xigbar laughs. With a snap of his fingers to make them look at him, he continues, "Flamesilocks here wanted to invite you along, but I don't." He shrugs, feigning offense. Taking in the way Saïx's eyes squint for a second, Xigbar's voice is honey and smoke, just short of condescending, "What is it to you, anyway? Thought you had better things to do than listen to the old flame spew the worst comebacks I've ever heard."
"Hey," Axel pours water on the oil fire for another reaction. Something. Anything, "Rude."
Pointing a thumb over his shoulder, he asks, "See? Shoulda trained him better when you had the chance."
He stares, unimpressed, and Xigbar cackles with delight the moment Saïx makes the executive decision to ignore him, "Remember to report in after today's mission, Axel."
He barely waits for a response before he's barking at Demyx about something that not a single one of them, least of all Demyx, really cares about. They watch, entertained as he comes up with excuses on the fly, stuttering his way out of the Grey Area.
Xigbar pretends not to know that Saïx can still hear them as he taunts, "Fang in a mood, Red?"
Laughing without humor, "Isn't he always?" he sneaks a glance at Xigbar, waiting for a beat until he knows Saïx won't listen. He pretends to think it over with a roll of his neck, "It's no fun being on his bad side, I'll tell you that."
Xigbar scoffs, grinning, "There's another?"
With a fleeting raise of his eyebrows, Axel pointedly doesn't laugh, "Stingy."
XI
Axel doesn't think he's ever thought of the feeling of leather on his neck as gentle in recent years—yet, here he is, with his back against the wall and the faintest touch to his collarbone.
"What do you think you're doing?" Saïx practically hisses against him.
It's dissonant. The tone of voice does not match the chill on Axel's skin. Saïx has always run a little cold, even before all this. He should feel cornered, but he doesn't. Waiting, business as usual.
Arms crossed in the space between Axel says, more than asks, "You mind?"
Saix's eyes narrow, closing a little before relaxing. He runs his thumb over Axel's windpipe before pressing on his pulse. It's just a second, not enough to make him light-headed, but enough to be noticeable.
It's not a warning; it never is. It almost reminds Axel of comfort.
In all honesty, he's not sure that Saïx ever gets quite so personal with anyone that isn't him. It's not how he does things; he uses his voice for everything: for instructions and orders, reprimands, and cutting snarls. Axel would know; he's on the receiving end more often than not. However, Saïx tries to keep most of their interactions as private as he can. A silent agreement, hallway meetings, barging into his room unannounced. The new normal they've made for themselves.
It's not much; nothing close to the lingering touch from their limited time before all this, but it's something. Whatever it is, it's raw and brittle, like holding broken glass put back together with ceramic glue. Axel doesn't know why he insists on finding him in desolate hallways—like Saïx's trying to keep him at a distance, close enough to touch. It's encompassing, the remnant of young hearts. Push and pull, waning crescent moon to full luminaries; muscle memory, a reflection. It almost feels like caring.
They know better than that.
Axel stares him straight in the eye, huffing before shoving his hand away with a flick of his forearm.
Not one to back out, rarely the one that takes a step back between them, Saïx looks at him from under his brow, "You're only making things more difficult, Lea."
"Ha!" shaking his head, he says, "Shame," Axel spreads his arms out and leans forward, "And here I thought this was a walk in the park."
There's something sour in the way Saïx's jaw tightens, and Axel forcibly remembers Isa throwing his jaw to the side when particularly upset.
It's been a while since. Isa had still been taller than him, then, hiding discomfort and joy in the neck of his jacket. He doesn't need to do so anymore. His scant expressions, irritation, and scorned exhilaration serve a higher purpose here. The man he's become—the underlying anger—has served Saïx well, almost as much as he has. Almost.
Still, Saïx allows Axel to turn him in place in a fluid motion, tensing momentarily before letting him push them forward. They walk, his fingers pressed to the middle of Saïx's back as if Axel does this all the time, not just to add wound to injury.
"I'm working on it," Axel hisses, looking over his shoulder. "It's just taking a little long, is all."
He hums, long, languid, and mildly irritated, "So long as you get the work done." With a sardonic tilt to his lip, he clicks his tongue, "Think you can manage that?"
Axel grins, teeth bared. Carelessly throwing an arm over his shoulder, he practically purrs, "Don't I always?" into Saïx's ear.
He's pushing; he knows he is. And it's such a silly thing that anachronic collaboration makes him pause, forcing him to tilt his head in suspicion. It's like Saïx suddenly remembered where they are. For that matter, so does he.
Axel puts a fist on his hip, practically hanging off of him. The footfalls at the top of the stairs do not catch him off-guard, but something tightens in Saïx, his ear aligned to the noise. Axel can tell every single member apart by the way they walk, but—this noise wants to throw him off. Manufacture. Manipulative.
He holds his breath, and it's showtime. They're not supposed to be close for survival's sake, so they're not. It makes Saïx treat him like burning embers, watching at length, keeping the flame alive but not burning his fingerprints off. It's what's worked so far, even if it tears at Axel's belly like hunger. And, light, does he burn.
He shakes him off when he's sure Xigbar can see. Axel, in turn, raises his hands in a placating motion as if he'd gotten too familiar and meant to avoid punishment. Which he has, for all the rest of the Organization knows. What else is he supposed to do with this?
Saïx opens a portal beside them with a flick of his wrist, enunciating every word, "Early morning. Are we clear?"
He leaves without waiting for a response; Axel lets his arm fall with a heavy thud, "Crystal."
XII
"You sure, Axel?"
"Yeah, yeah," He shoos them, looking back through the hall towards the noise, "You go on. Just need to check something."
Xion smiles at him when Axel ruffles her hair and nods, "Alright."
Roxas doesn't seem so sure, "What is it?"
"I dunno," he answers. After a pause, he pushes Roxas' shoulder with the inside of his elbow, "Go. I'll see you guys in a bit."
Roxas scowls, nodding before turning to Xion. Axel watches after them, barely making out what they're gossiping over. He chuckles when she prods Roxas with an elbow and when he playfully pushes Xion's shoulder before they bolt up the stairs. Waiting for them to be out of sight, Axel sighs, hand on his hip as he sways forward with the edge of it.
He cracks his neck with a motion, palm to his nape, "I don't get paid enough for this."
A louder crash has him on edge, fight or flight instinct activating faster than he can make sense of it. Still, he said he would check it out, and check it out, he will.
Sneaking his way through the halls and conspicuously pressing the tip of his fingers to the walls to make out any vibration, Axel stops in a corner to look back over his shoulder. Suddenly, he feels very young, knowing no one has his back this time if shit hits the fan. Maybe he should have brought the kids along.
"Ah, Axel. There you are. Good evening," Axel doesn't blink as he straightens up.
Nodding slowly, he drawls, "Luxord." Apropos of a greeting, like he's not surprised at all.
"I was wondering when you'd show," He states, appearing and disappearing an ace of diamonds on the hand propped up on his wrist.
Observing the card, he asks, "New get-up?"
Luxord hums, "Why, yes. Xion came across them. She informed me they seemed, quote-unquote, right up my alley and offered them to me." He flicks a wrist to bring a joker up top, "How could I say no?"
Axel sullies his voice, "Perish the thought."
He laughs, patting the card into his open palm Luxord offers, "Yes, of course." After a second, he gestures to the space beside him, "An inquiry, if you will?"
Punctually, he gives Axel his full attention, and Axel pointedly ignores the crashes nearby to tip his head forward, stepping into the offered space, "Shoot."
He puts both hands behind his back, "I offer a wager." He pauses, "You have noticed the racket, I presume?"
He waits until a new brief drawl drags into the halls to scoff in good humor, "Don't think I did, no."
"Ha!" Luxord tuts, "Cheeky."
"Uh-huh. What've you got?"
A coin flip.
Of all the things Axel ever expected to lose to Luxord, he never would've guessed a damned coin flip. That's, however, only the first part of the bet. Had he known, he wouldn't have come to this side of the castle. Obligations be damned.
He hears hissing and feels the cold swelter of blue flame in the hallway. Axel sighs and goes through the arch without hesitation, sweeping into the training space with two long strides.
Dusks are lucky that they're not preyed upon like this. The sweep of Saïx's weapon breaks mannequins in half before contact, reeling with the energy around Lunatic. With curt steps and the slam of claymore down to earth, Saïx makes shackles of the room and fragments of the pieces.
He's so caught up in training that he hasn't spared a single glance at Axel, standing in the middle of the room, which is both good and bad for the bet.
If he survives, he wins, after all.
Calling, "Oi, Saïx!" Axel watches as, reflexively, he throws his claymore toward the door.
The snarl of his voice rings a familiar, "Get away."
He stands tall, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Lunatic comes close in a breath of air. The heat is so high that it jumps right into freezing. Axel doesn't move.
The claymore dematerializes a second away from his face.
A beat behind the weapon follows Saïx, hand picking at his coat with a vice grip, snarling, teeth bared, white over ochre in a daint yellow. He stares at Saïx from under his nose, watching as he heaves breath after breath like a creature, hand in the air. Axel scoffs, and Saïx squints, contempt in his eyes.
Hair slowly falling into place, he takes a deep breath through his nose, letting go with a scoff, "What do you think you're doing?" He asks, pushing past his shoulder.
"You mind?" Axel turns to look after him, questioning, "What's it to you, anyway?"
Abruptly, Saïx stops, barely turning his face enough to let Axel know he'll speak, "I could have killed you."
A dry laugh, "You underestimate me." He pushes. Hook, line, and sinker, "Does it matter?"
Finally, Saïx deigns him the honor of looking at him over his shoulder, face twisted in a frown. He leaves with a whisper, "No, I guess it doesn't."
XIII
There's nothing else he can do. At least, not for the time being.
As he squeezes out the rag, his hands shake. He doesn't know if it's from exhaustion or worry. Still, when he presses the fabric to Isa's forehead, he pats in small sections, mostly to distract himself than to be throughout.
It's been a while. The water Roxas brought him has already gone cold.
Humming, "Huh, well, it's not like you can complain, anyway." He should probably stop talking to open air, but Ienzo encouraged him, and Xion only looks at him with worry when he stays longer than he should—when his laughs are a little sadder than they should. They don't blame him. With a flare, Lea heats the rag just a little before patting down his neck, "We're starting to get worried, y'know? Even won't shut up about it whenever I'm not around—Xion told me.
"Getting you back was a pain in the ass, too. D'you gotta make things difficult all the time?" He scoots closer to him, perched on the side of the bed. It's useless to ask, he knows. Still, with a desperate note, he whispers, "C'mon, Isa," dread pulling at his gut, "Time to wake up."
In an instant, he turns, startled by the picking up on the monitor. He's not an expert on these things, but—he scoffs at himself, "Yeah. Right." Changing the cloth for a dry one, he sucks his teeth in, patting down Isa's skin dry, "Just wishful thinking."
In a blink, a hand shoots up, grasping at his wrist.
It's almost like he has to use all the air in his lungs to ask, "Lea?" The noise that comes from him when Isa looks at him sounds painfully close to a sob. With an inhale, Isa croaks out, mouth dry, "What—" he chokes. The no-nonsense sound of his voice has him reeling forward, "D'you think—"
"—shut up," he gapes, incredulous. Lea has never wanted to dignify him with a response, but he'd always let him finish. Isa sucks in a breath, and Lea all but barks, "Shut up." And he cries, his forehead pressed where their hands meet, "shut up, shut up—"
i
Isa's voice is quiet, "What do you think you're doing?"
"Why?" Lea starts, pushing Isa's fringe back, thumb running over his brow. Gut reaction, "You mind?"
The following silence would be comfortable if he could ignore the ringing in his ears and the heat on his cheeks. Isa stares, recognition in his eye, and Lea chuckles when he scoffs.
"You could've asked instead of boxing me in like this," his words are a little brisk, hidden behind the rim of a soft drink. Reserved.
It's thrilling for Lea; there's little space between them, barely a couple of inches between one another, and Isa's back against the wall.
"Ha, ha. Sorry," Lea runs his thumb over the pointed ends of his scar, before brushing the longer strands behind his ear. "Really—this okay?"
It's dissonant, the hitch of breath compared to Isa's impassive expression. He looks at Lea for a second, stark green under his lashes. A single second is all he gives him before gazing away, head turned. Away from Lea, away from everyone else.
In the low hum of conversation, he can almost hear Isa swallowing thickly, "It's you. It's fine," then he huffs, "couldn't stop you if I tried."
His ear moves when thinking about something, rising like he's tightening his jaw. He leans into Lea, pressing his shoulder against his forearm, looking back at him when Lea pulls back to put his thumb in his pocket.
Lea chuckles, "Gotcha." He hides a smile behind his drink, tapping his fingers on his thigh. Maybe another day.
Isa frowns a little deeper, following after when he takes a step back to press his shoulder to the wall. And Lea thinks it doesn't matter if he's done it without noticing or deliberately.
He likes this, the honesty they're trying to maintain with each other, even if what comes after is always a bit like trying to pet a stray animal. He'd invite him to dance if he felt a little braver—if he wouldn't feel relief over rejection, if Isa saying yes didn't scare him dead.
Is that crude to joke about? It probably is.
He's never taken denial personally. Not from Isa, anyway. Water under the bridge, every time. He says yes more often than not. Sometimes Isa says no, halfway through the motions of doing whatever he's asked; it's nice to joke around again.
It's weighty, distinct, like baring teeth before bumping foreheads, the hiss of cleaning a wound and clamoring with instant relief as it starts healing.
They don't talk about this—they don't have to talk about this. Lea doesn't always make sense of what 'this' is. This devotion and zeal—he thinks it has to do with dying and coming back (and then dying and being forced back, and in some cases, dying again). Something must've broken in the way Lea's heart valves pump. Muscle and pressure, pulling and pulling, and pulling at his sternum in ways he doesn't always understand—tearing him apart like charcoal.
Isa doesn't talk much about adapting to this new state of being, and Lea doesn't ask. It's not like the quiet corner of a party is the best place to, anyway. Sometimes, however, he catches Isa staring, and Lea—Lea apologizes, gut-churning, a force of habit from the guilt he carries around.
You're fine, Isa will tell him, and I should be the one saying that, and he never does. He keeps staring and staring until Lea cracks a joke—the dumbest he can manage—just to hear Isa snort. Only to wait for him to taunt you haven't changed at all, and light, Lea wishes that were true.
It's how things have been. Rebuilding slowly—painfully so. Lea's never been patient, except—to grasp this connection with both hands. Isa pulls more often than he pushes, content with letting him hold the reigns of their reconciliation.
Yet—Isa clicks his tongue, "What are you getting at? Do I have something on my face?"
He sputters, soda going down the wrong pipe, "Do you have—" Lea's voice is but a wheeze, and he coughs, wrist pressed against his philtrum like that will help with anything. Bubbles on the back of his throat, annoying, enclosing, and stingy—his face warming further with embarassment, "Sorry, what? Are you for—oh, you're doing that on purpose—" Isa flashes him a grin, and Lea feels like dying for an entirely different reason, "You asshole."
Ravenous, he tries sucking air into his lungs, coughing between breathy laughs that are halfway silent with strain. Wheezing within the emptiness of his chest, he purposefully ignores that he's dropped half his drink down the front of his shirt, but Isa does not.
Pushing himself off the wall, he asks over his shoulder, "Whatever am I going to do with you?"
Lea cackles, watching Isa's back as he leaves, "Fuck you."