Note: Sorry I've been gone so long. Instead of a proper fic, all of my failed attempts at fanfiction over this past year and a half results in but a paltry seven drabbles, Axel-centric, clocking in at 100 words each exactly. It still sure feels good to be writing again.

arrhythmia
as in hearts beating

o

i.

Axel sighs deeply into the darkened room and the room sighs back. He thinks about this past week, being caught up in the swell of Roxas's laughter. Sees the blankets crested at their feet like sea foam, their bodies driftwood, splayed naked and unashamed. Tomorrow, he thinks tiredly, the idea feeling surreal. Tomorrow I will go home and explain everything to her. Roxas snuffles against him but doesn't stir. His soft breath on Axel's skin and he thinks no more, tugging the cord to the blinds, letting slow sunbeams streak in, one muted chink in the darkness at a time.

o

ii.

Maybe you ought to let me in, Roxas fumes, voice clipped with restraint. Maybe you should treat me like the friend you pretend I am.

There's nothing "pretend" about this. Axel hates accusations. In that second, he hates Roxas. You think this is a game? That the danger isn't real? You don't know what they're capable of. Something calamitous. And friends? Don't be naive.

Roxas's gaze is fierce, something brewing far out at sea. Axel feels his own words reflected in that gaze, hard and three-dimensional. He resists kissing him to make his point, kissing him to—to—

o

iii.

… And since we travel by portal so often, we skew the temporal-spatial alignme—hey! Are you listening? Roxas stops, scowling. Axel groans, hands cradling his porcelain queen.

What does it look like I'm doing?

Hey, I'm only trying to explain to you why you're getting sick, Roxas huffs. But I guess it takes a special kind of mind to appreciate theoretical physics.

FYI, I'm puking up my lifeblood here. Roxas grumbles but his eyes are surprisingly soft when he towels away the vomit around Axel's mouth.

Long story short, take a break from traveling. I think you've earned it.

o

iv.

So that's where you've been, she hisses. I knew it. Fucking a brazen little whore this whole time. You bastard.

Axel opens his mouth to defend himself and finds that he cannot.

Yes, he says finally. You can hate me. She gapes at this easy admission and he's reminded of yesterday, Roxas standing in the doorway to their room in the motel, sheets clutched around his waist, shouting miserably at Axel's retreating back. Yes, you can hate me. I deserve it. He remembers the crack in Roxas's voice as he called after him. Morning inelegance. But he's not a whore.

o

v.

Beauty in little things, burgundy sheets decanted over a naked body to match the romantic curl of smoke from his cigarette in the waning sunlight. Like some rich wine, distant flavors, a foreign intrusion in the heart as Axel watches helplessly by the window, careful to blow the smoke outwards. A beautiful contrast, juxtaposition of firm red and pale flesh. On the bed, the body stirs. Stomach in throat, Axel feels two desperate, fearfully intense urges warring inside him.

When Roxas is finally conscious enough to mumble who's there, Axel has vanished, leaving the air thin with want behind him.

o

vi.

We're gonna be partners forever, right? They recline atop the clock tower.

It's not like you to speak in hyperbole, Roxas remarks dryly, breaking off a piece of his sea-salt ice pop with his fingers and eating it.

Don't be an ass.

I call them as I see them. Something on your mind?

Yes.

Seems like you've had a lot of secrets recently. His tone is mild, belying the tension in his eyes.

Nothing you need to be concerned about. Axel's being honest—he can't know. Can never know. Roxas's face tightens. Clearly he's been wanting to ask for awhile.

o

vii.

The ocean is gritty under his eyelids and salty in his nostrils. They clamber aboard a lifeless gray beach where water erupts onto monstrous dark rocks like knuckles punching upwards. Roxas wades out to his knees, laughing ecstatically. Axel doesn't remember anybody ever laughing like that, black cloak billowing in the water like some alien stigma, churning and relenting with each wave, the ocean's pulse. His collarbone, wet with spray, in sharp relief in the early morning sun. They shouldn't be here, but Axel indulges Roxas's whims.

Come on in, it's fun.

Okay, he replies. But not for too long.