from the field where the cotton is picked

Roxas creased the paper. Folded it clean in hard-pressed thirds with the flattest part of his thumbnail.

Eight days. For eight days he'd marked decora from September 19th to 26th on the crazy-industrial Economy paper he'd mounted to his oven door with several rounds of silver-black duct-tape. The red ink crosses on his over-large catalogue counted out the days until his results where printed, stamped, and mailed. It had been a right-comic joke between them.

White-water eyes brushed back to his letter.

Crucifixes weren't funny anymore.

Roxas dug his phone. Punched quick dial #2—#1 was reserved for the clinic—and settled into an anxious wait.

It rang all of twice.

"Hey."

Riku was tired; weary like the browbeaten skin-crumples that had begun their own quiet congregation at his mouth.

Fleeting, Roxas mused if he, too, had bloodied up a calendar; worried his hair to an even deeper slate.

"Mm."

There came a synthetic scrambling. The plastic film from some Oodles-a-Noodles had probably just been slit.

"You, um." Roxas flattened his letter. Pursed his lips and eyed his verdict. "You got a minute?"

Riku set away his meal. Styrofoam made static on the nightstand.

"It came today."

The unemotional silence was enough confirmation for Riku.

"Roxas. Ah. ... I'm sorry."

Kingdom Hearts © Square Enix