If darkness and lightness is eternal, then there will always be a place in between; where light and dark are one in the same and everything gets lost and blurred in between.

The proverbial shades of grey in between the so boldly outlined black and white.

Xemnas brings him in one day. Axel looks and him and thinks he’d never amount to anything; looks short, looks scruffy, looks weak.

Their thirteenth member is a dud, he laughs. Mocking, challenging. Roxas’ eyes meet Axel’s, and the intensity he finds there is almost frightening.

Xemnas smiles.

Roxas, Xemnas says, was created from Sora. Roxas can wield the keyblade. Roxas can help them achieve their goal.

Axel is not impressed.

It’s only a few days later when Axel finds Roxas sitting on a window ledge. Legs dangling, hands gripping the window sill, knuckles white. Roxas is lost in the folds of black leather. Looks smaller, weaker, in clothing that doesn’t fit.

Pathetic, Axel mocks, and his voice bounces off of too-white walls. Pathetic.

Roxas hops off of the window; legs crouch beneath him. He holds out his hand. Axel sneers at him.

A keyblade appears in one hand, chain dangling slightly.

Roxas stands up. Holds out his other hand.

A keyblade appears in his other hand.

They twirl so quickly that black looks like white, and white looks like black, and together they look grey. Axel can hardly follow them with his eye.

You’ll have to be better than that, Axel mocks. See, I can do it too.

Chakrams, spinning, lightning fast. Axel grips them, twirls them menacingly.

They clash; fire hot sparks and Axel is a little tiny bit impressed, maybe. Roxas is quick. Roxas is strong.

They back away, Roxas panting just a little.

Axel smiles.

Say, Axel.

Yeah? Axel sounds bored; the castle is boring. There’s nothing to do. Not until Sora wakes up.

Do you remember anything? Roxas is tagging along with him, following him like a shadow. Funny how these things happen.

Remember anything? Axel stops in mid stride, and Roxas stops with him.

You know…what it was like to have a heart.

Axel swears he can feel his own heart skip a beat. Swears he can feel anger rise up inside him, bubble upwards, swell like a tide crashing and roar out of him. But if you asked Xemnas, none of them felt anything.

No, nothing. Short. Cold. Axel starts walking again, quicker this time. Roxas watches him almost sadly, and then speeds up with him.

I remember. I remember what it was like.

Look – Axel doesn’t stop this time. His voice is weighted with exasperation, his sigh soft and hard to hear; Roxas moves quicker.

-- Don’t ask these kinds of things here.

Roxas has some crazy ideas; Axel admits that he finds them all too amusing.

The water balloons in Vexen’s lab was the first one. It was their muffled giggles that gave them away, as they sat crouched in a corner just down the hall, listening to Vexen’s screeches of frustration.

Then there was the paint; Roxas’ idea, of course. Marluxia is a pansy! proclaims the wall, in bold lettering. A sloppily drawn flower accompanies it; while most of the Organization members find it amusing, Axel and Roxas still find themselves cleaning it up.

Last was Demyx’s concert. They took his music sheets late at night, and stayed up until the crack of dawn rewriting them all; throwing random notes in for the sake of random notes, adding all sorts of slurs and articulation, and then replacing them posthaste. The agitated sounds of Demyx’s sitar muffled their laughter as they raced off, not eager to be caught again.

Axel feels genuinely happy – as close to genuinely happy as one with no being can be.

It’s dark and they’re alone; back by the window ledge where they’d first fought. Roxas pries the window open, and they squeeze out, Axel nearly losing some of his hair to the window’s frame.

They climb along the roof, Axel digging his chakrams in for grip, not caring about the damage they’re causing. They find a balcony a few feet below them, and Axel slides down first, chakram leaving a trail of sparks for Roxas to follow. Roxas trails down after him, sweaty hands losing their grip on the keyblade.

Roxas spirals, looking more surprised then scared; Axel moves, and Roxas lands square on Axel’s stomach, knocking them both down in a flurry of motion.

Roxas slides off of his stomach sheepishly; Axel sits up, not saying anything. They stand, Axel dangling over the balcony, and watch as the sun rises, painting everything in a fiery glow.

Aren’t you going to call me weak? Roxas askmumbles, staring determinedly at the rising sun. Axel looks at him, blinks, and then casts around for a memory.

Oh right. He drawls, snapping his fingers. You’re pathetic, Roxas.

But he’s joking, and they both know it; Roxas flashes him a shaky smile, and Axel can’t help but think that he may be the pathetic one.

It happens a few weeks later, in Axel’s room, at night.

Roxas is different. Something happened. Axel goes to ask him about it, and Roxas kisses him.

Just like that.

Things are sloppy; Axel accidentally bites Roxas’ tongue, and Roxas runs his tongue over Axel’s teeth in a highly unattractive way, but it’s fine the way it is.

Imperfect.

Sort of like them.

Roxas leans, perhaps a bit too hard, and they both go tumbling, landing on Axel’s bed in a mess of sheets and black leather.

Roxas sits up, legs around Axel’s waist, face flushed and breathing heavily. Axel pauses, hesitates for a split second, then grabs Roxas’ arm and pulls him back down.

They kiss again, and Roxas rolls off of him, fingers fumbling with the Organization cloak. Axel’s more inclined to watch him struggle, watch as his fingers find zippers and push back folds of black.

And then – fingers like ice-cold fire – Roxas brushes hands over skin. Roxas moves his lips too and Axel shivers. Goosebumps run up and down his arms, and yet he still doesn’t feel anything.

Roxas moves and Axel bites his lip. Roxas’ fingers trail down his stomach, stopping at ribs and hips and Axel feels like he’s going to explode into a thousand little pieces.

Things burn; Axel’s breath catches in his throat.

Roxas…

Axel wakes up and Roxas isn’t there anymore. It’s hardly surprising. You don’t do these kinds of things in the Organization. Pseudo-feelings should mean nothing.

Should be easy to ignore.

But they’re not, and something tugs at him. Something that he can’t quite figure out…

Axel doesn’t see Roxas for the rest of the day.

The next time Axel finds Roxas, he’s by himself. At first Axel isn’t too sure – although who else could be that short? – and he’s about to call out a greeting when Roxas turns

and grins.

And Axel feels like something has been lifted; lighter, somehow, and he grins back. Even though the tension in the air is crackling like lightning between their fingertips, they both don’t say anything about It.

Roxas stares at the ground, never making eye contact. He looks tempted but they both know that the words that sit on the tips of his lips would poison them both.

At first, everything is almost normal again. They hang out together again, pull pranks together again, visit that balcony at night every once and a while, and Axel’s okay with that.

They can’t hide it completely. It sneaks up on them in the form of accidental contact, accidental thoughts and accidental feelings that Axel still can’t shake.

He’s not supposed to feel. It’s occurred to him before. Pseudo-feelings for pseudo-people.

We should talk, Roxas says, finally.

Dread and anticipation both bubble up in Axel at once.

Yeah? What about? Axel asks, casually, leaning up against the window ledge.

Roxas flinches. Looks at the ground.

About… you know.

It? Axel fills in.

Yeah. That. Roxas looks uncomfortable. The poison is dripping off of his lips, and Axel has never felt better.

Lightening-tension crackles. Axel waits for Roxas to finish. Wishes the poison would kill him quicker.

A few days later, Roxas mentions that he’s leaving.

A million things rise to the tip of his tongue, but Axel chokes them back.

It’s stupid to go against the Organization, Axel remarks. Trying not to sound too hurt.

Not like anyone would miss me, Roxas says.

I would.

But his words fall on deaf ears.