Chapter Twelve: C'est la vie.

Life's not fair; live with it.

He was told that all the time, beginning with his toddler years. You know, the two- and three-year olds that you see in the grocery store being dragged by their mothers and whining for this or that, screaming "THAT'S NOT FAIR!" when they're told no.

"Life's not fair" is the generally accepted, and used, parental response, leaving the toddler grasping for arguments. Finding none, they proceed to throw themselves on the floor and wail despairingly. Yeah. That was him as a child.

He couldn't comprehend the intensity behind the words that so effectively halted all his begging, but later in life he thought he understood. The odd thing, though, was that he still didn't agree with it. Well, only to a degree. Life was most certainly unfair, and that was undeniable.

But there was always this nagging feeling in his stomach that told him no, life wasn't fair, but there was something especially unfair about his situation. Like, he didn't know, he was supposed to be somewhere else with someone else doing something else, but by some twist of fate that life didn't decide (life knew how to be unfair in a fairly fair way) he was directed wrongly.

There wasn't any actual proof for this theory, and it was a stupid theory to begin with, but that didn't help. He still had that sensation, and sometimes it grew and sometimes it waned. When he laughed with his friends, it grew until he was SURE that life's intent was for him to be laughing with other people, and when he was alone it waned, because life had always intended him to be hermitical.

And then... then, there were the times that he thought for a split-second that he was living the life meant for him. He'd turn to look behind him, opening his mouth to say something to the person who was always there, but it was empty space. He never knew what it was he was going to say or who he was going to say it to, but when he realized that he couldn't, his chest hurt. His throat tightened and his eyes burned, but he refused on principle to cry for something that he never had--at least, that he couldn't remember.

Sometimes he called people the wrong names, names that he'd never heard before. As this tended to happen most often when he felt emotional (an uncommon occurrence for someone as stoic as him), he assumed that it too had to deal with the life that he didn't lead.

One day, as he wandered aimlessly as he always did on Saturday afternoons, something else happened.

Browsing his way slowly through the outdoors art fair being held that particular day, something possessed him to stop at a jewelry stand. It wasn't the girly, sparkly type that was infused with gems, but rather a masculine collection with fierce pendant designs and thick rings sculpted into shapes. As his eyes scanned the table, they latched onto a circular pendant that was sitting father back and slightly hidden behind a gaudy metal wrist-band (that honestly looked more like a gauntlet, he thought as he mocked its creator for their lack of taste).

Extracting it from the pile of accessories around it, he admired it closely. It was about the size of his palm, made with silver (or something similar-looking) but with some parts coloured red to accent the ridges and curves of the piece. The shape itself was complicated; a circle containing a smaller circle, with spokes and even smaller circles connecting the two. Around the outer edges were spikes, and when he ran his finger over them he felt that they'd be able to cut his skin with enough pressure put behind them.

A sense of familiarity came over him as he looked the pendant over, and he quickly passed the $25 necessary to buy it over to the seller without a word, and she nodded at him before moving away to help others. Still examining the object in his hands he slowly turned his head and shoulders, and inside he knew that he was instinctively turning to the person-who-was-never-there.

"Hey, doesn't this remind you... of..." his voice trailed off when he tore his eyes upward and instead of the consciously expected empty space, he saw a subconsciously just-as-expected person standing there.

The man was tall, taller than him by a head, but it didn't feel awkward or intimidating. There was fire-truck red hair that couldn't be natural, and green eyes that had to be contacts, but he also knew that they were completely hereditary. Two triangular teardrop tattoos (he almost laughed out loud when the alliteration flew through his mind) lay upside-down on his cheekbones, and he didn't begin to think they were out of place.

Even the large grin that the man's mouth twisted into, both predatory and gentle, didn't alarm him.

"Roxas," the redhead greeted. Roxas nodded hesitantly, wondering why it wasn't creepy that this person knew his name.

"You know, you took your damn sweet time. I thought we agreed we'd meet up?" the other continued. Roxas gave him a confused look, which sent a disappointed frown to replace the man's grin. Sighing, he reached into his pocket with long fingers and pulled out a lighter and a cigarette.

The moment the engraved lighter clicked open and a flame flickered to life, though, Roxas' mind either shut down... or lept into overdrive.

Fire. Fire was red, red was like his hair but he'd always said he liked Roxas' hair more with green eyes flashing over him that he had left and forgotten and never came back because he vanished and then he saw him die.

The sensation of memories that felt like his even more than the ones he'd thought were his (until less than a second ago) left Roxas feeling like he'd been run over. Blinking multiple times in surprise, he looked back up at the redhead. "...Axel?"

To be continued...?

Roxas and Axel (c) Square Enix