You know, I have like two other stories in need of being updated right now. Why start a new one? Because I had this sudden urge to...plus, I haven't written a serious story for Kingdom Hearts yet. No more crack...innuendo...bad jokes...

Okay. Maybe some. Hehehehehe...

Warning: Angst..YAOI...AU...Serious Issues involving a serious illness.

Disclaimer: After extensive searching of each game box, I found no contract declaring I was the owner of Kingdom Hearts...yet.

Pairings: AkuRoku, SoRiku, Zemyx, Cleon and all the other yaoi-canon-pairings we all love and cherish! ^_^

So...can you guess whose POV this is? It really is easy to guess.

Also, please don't be put off by the first two chapters. I know they're filled to the brim with angst, but after that it is light and fluffy! Trust me and please don't get put off!

ENJOY!

Chapter One - Dead

Beep.

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You know, it's kinda funny. Dead funny.

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Actually, I'm wrong. Dead wrong. This isn't funny; dead or alive funny. I'm sure as hell ain't laughing and I'm pretty sure no one else is laughing either. This is serious. Dead serious.

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He's probably laughing though, inside his head at all of us. Laughing because he'll find it funny. Dead funny. Only, that dead funny will turn into dead serious once he realizes what he looks like. You see, he thinks he's gorgeous. Drop-dead-gorgeous. Yeah, he'll drop dead when he finally sees how he truly looks. I said 'when' not 'if'. There is no 'if' in this situation. I'm being serious. Dead serious.

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It is sorta mean to say that he no longer looks drop-dead-gorgeous. Mainly because the irony is killing me, but also because I still believe that he is. Gorgeous; of the drop-dead variety. Only, that is my biased opinion, of course. No one else reckons he is gorgeous; drop-dead or not. They all say the same thing: he's too pale, too skinny, too tall, too gangly. That is their opinion though. Not mine. I know that logically he isn't supposed to look gorgeous, especially not now, but in my eyes he's different. He's always been different.

He's special. A certain breed of special. The kind of special that, no matter what, they'll always look stunning. Even if they are in a hospital bed wearing last season's hospital gown. The gown is horrible. The cotton looks itchy and there is a ridiculous patten of multicoloured shapes all over it. It doesn't do anything useful, it only serves to make him appear even paler. Dead paler. Which isn't exactly good, considering his situation.

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His situation. Not many people would consider his situation as funny. Dead funny. Most people wouldn't appreciate my morbid humour either. My brother certainly didn't; my mum and dad didn't either. My drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend's brother found it hilarious though. I found his fake laughter comforting, in a twisted way. I found it even more comforting when I realised that his tears weren't ones of mirth, but ones of pain and agony.

However, no matter how many tears he shed, he genuinely found it morbidly amusing that his brother was ill. Which is sick and wrong and twisted, considering his brother's situation. Which is serious. Dead serious. You see, my boyfriend doesn't get ill. He's never had so much as a sniffle or a cough. So when we found out how sick he was, well, you can imagine how ill we ended up feeling. Dead ill.

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My boyfriend was invincible. Immortal. Indestructible. That's how I see him, how I will always see him, no matter what my head tells me. Heh, my head used to agree with me; now it scoffs and tells me otherwise. Now, he looks fragile, vulnerable, delicate and all the other demeaning words my mum had cooked up for him. I had known my boyfriend for a whole year. Which is three-hundred and sixty-five days more than my mum. I knew who my boyfriend was and I knew what he wasn't. I also happen to know what was wrong with him. I was there, always, always there. His mum wasn't, his dad wasn't. His brother tried though. Not that our help did much.

He sometimes listened to me. He could ignore the pain and the agony and the little voice that were always there. That little bitch of a voice that could hurt him in ways that I couldn't possibly understand. I don't think I want to understand. I'm being serious. Dead serious.

Beep.

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You know, the beeps are kinda annoying. No, they're dead annoying. They make me believe things that aren't real. They make me think that he's in a coma. Well, he isn't. They're just...watching him. Keeping track of his vitals. You know, in case something bad happens. This kinda thing has happened before, you see. Except, he put up a hell of a fight last time; this time he just allowed them to carry him to the bed. He was all docile and weak, batting away at pitying hands like a cat.

They then connected wires and drips into his arms. They shoved tubes into his body, placed machines around him, fluffed up his damn pillow--even though that last one was my job. I was the self-declared pillow-fluffer. Everyone knew that. Well, they were supposed to. You know, looking at him now, I feel sorta...sick. Like nauseous and floppy. Like I want to do something for him, I really do, but I can't.

I want to, but really, what can I do that they haven't done already?

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He didn't want anyone else the first time he came here. He only wanted me. Just me, no one else. Naturally, he ended up hurting his brother's feelings, but the guy said 'no sweat' and pushed me into the room with a beaming smile. That beaming smile was a frequent sight to see. Not because his brother was happy or optimistic. No, it was because that smile was fake. Fake, fake, fake. I don't do fake. It just wasn't my style.

Plus, my boyfriend hated me being fake. He could always tell when I lied or forced a laugh. I don't lie anymore. Well, not to him anyway. I just couldn't. I wouldn't be able to. Although, I feel kinda lost. He doesn't like me being fake, so I don't smile. He doesn't like seeing me sad, so I can't cry. I want to cry; badly. I want to have tears streaming down my face; I want my eyes to burn with agony and my throat to dry up and my entire body to be rendered numb.

I would love to become numb. That way, I won't feel anything. No pain, no sorrow, none of that agonizing waiting feeling. Waiting for good news. Waiting for bad news. Waiting for news altogether. I would love to cry, just to show them that I can feel. That I do feel upset. I can't. I don't. I won't.

He hates me crying.

I won't cry. I don't want him to wake up and have the first thing he sees to be my sticky, wet face. No, I want him to wake up to my smile, my real one. I want to wake him up with a kiss and a laugh and a hug.

Beep.

He won't wake up with a kiss. I should know. I've tried it before.

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Besides, he isn't Sleeping Beauty and I'm sure as hell that I'm not Prince Philip. My kisses do nothing. My love brings nothing.

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That beep is annoying. Dead annoying.

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You know, I feel sorta cold. Dead cold. I'm just sat there, doing nothing, because I can't do anything. I just sit there, next to him. I'm all curled up on a plastic chair. Bright green, the colour is. It kinda reminds me of his eyes. Only, it also doesn't. His eyes are nowhere near that gaudy or tacky. They're vibrant, vivid and vonderful. Heh...they're full of life. At least, they used to be. I don't think they're like that anymore. I don't want to go and check, because I can't. I couldn't reach over and lift up his eyelids. It would be rude. Dead rude.

So, I just sit here, next to him. Curled up into a ball. On a gaudy green chair and wait--for news; bad or good--and whilst I wait, I watch. I watch him sleep, because that is exactly what he is doing. He may look dead and wasted, but he isn't. He's just sleeping. It's kinda funny how he sleeps. You see, he's a heavy sleeper. A dead heavy sleeper. I've learnt from the first few weeks of being his and his alone, that it was impossible to wake him up with noise. You see, sound has no effect on him whatsoever.

You could blow up his beloved scooter in his room and he wouldn't twitch. Yeah, his precious scooter (because motorbikes were so overrated), a scooter that no longer belonged to him. He had been working on that baby since he was thirteen. The scooter had just been finished; every single mod, every last slick of paint. The scooter had been finished, but then he had to sell it.

For his hospital bills.

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You know.

None of this is his fault. Being in a hospital, leaving his friends and family to worry, selling his lovely scooter. Nothing was his fault.

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Axel doesn't believe me though.

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Reno, his brother, does. My brother, Sora, does.

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Axel. Axel says he does believe me. I know better. I can see it in his eyes, he wants to believe me, but he can't. He won't. He doesn't. I know what will happen if I tell him that it truly wasn't his fault--Axel will smile gently, ruffle up my hair and tell me that he knows. Got it memorized? Then he will close his eyes and shut me out. He won't tell me anything else, he refuses to acknowledge his pain. Which hurts more, you know. Axel has gotten so good and pretending that the pain wasn't there, that he's gotten other people to believe the same thing.

The nurses and doctors would wander in and he would shut them all out. They ask: 'are you okay?', he says: 'I'm fine, got it memorized?'. They'll believe him. If one doctor however has doubts, he would be pitted against Axel's age old argument. After all, no patient wants to die due to a wrong dosage or the wrong medicine after all. Even if they need it. Axel's vehemently disagrees with me there. He is not weak, pathetic or vulnerable. He does not need help.

He. Is. Fine.

...

I know better though. Axel. Is. Not. Fine. He has a problem. A dead bad problem, one that he will ignore and stifle down underneath all of his other problems. I can see right through him though. The eyes say it all: the pain, the torment, the wish to be freed. I understand but that doesn't mean I can help. I want to help, but I'm useless. How can I help? I've heard doctors tell him his problem, but he dismisses them all. I've tried to talk to him about his problem, but he reckons that he can just kiss all of my words away. He can't. He knows he can't. I let him kiss me anyway.

He doesn't want his problem to become my problem as well. Too late. I have made it my problem, because he is my boyfriend and I want to see him get better. I will help him get better. Although he says that his problem is minor and that there isn't much to do, I know better.

The real problem, I know her name. The real problem, I know her game.

Beep.

Ana.

Beep.

I know that she is the one to blame. After all Axel, no knows you better than me. She hurt you, she caused all this to happen. I've heard her name slip from your lips during countless nightmares. She controls you, doesn't she. Ana; she is the one to blame, right? After all, who else could have caused such mess. A dead messy mess. Ana is a witch, a nasty piece of work that whispers nasty things into your ears. You believe everything she says, everything she has to say.

Why can't you listen to me? Why can't you believe me?

Beep.

Beep.

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You know, I lied earlier. This situation--I don't find it funny. I'm pretty sure Axel won't find it funny either. He'll want to break out again. He hates the wires, the tubes, the very smell of the hospital room. Heck, he'll probably hate the chair I'm sitting on right now as well. This is not funny. Dead or alive. Axel is just lying there: skin pale, hair dull and face blank. I want him to wake up, I want him to get rid of Ana, the nasty bitch that she is.

She came into your life not long after I did. Well, there is only enough room in Axel's heart for one of us--and I definitely ain't moving out! Axel is mine and I'm not letting some sneaky little witch push me out. I was here first, not her. I will stop at nothing, nothing, until she goes away...far away. Never to return at all.

Beep.

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However, I must confess; this whole 'situation' hasn't been explained very well...has it? Axel is in hospital because of Ana. That really doesn't say much, does it? Perhaps, I should start from the beginning. The very beginning, where this whole 'situation' began. I have time, Axel isn't going anywhere and besides, Reno said that I could look after him for now. The doctor said that only family could enter, but Reno said he rather have me here, instead of himself. Besides, I am Axel's family. Reno treats me like a brother, my mum and dad treat both Axel and Reno like sons. We. Are. Family.

Now, for the next crucial forty-eight hours, I am here; watching over my boyfriend. Me, myself and I. Reno is busy trying to scrap enough money together to pay for Axel's treatment. We don't get it free here. Sucks kinda bad. Dead bad.

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So, here I am, next to my drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend, sat on a dead tacky chair. So far, I probably haven't made a lot of sense. Which in itself, makes tons of sense, because nothing in my life has ever really made sense. I digress; this is Axel's story--and I'm being serious.

Dead serious.

Well. This is a change from all the crack I had been smoking last year.

Yeah. Last year...damn. That's when I first got into this fandom! Man, look at that little clock whizzing past my window, time does fly by quick, huh?

So, if you haven't guessed, this is Roxas' POV.

This story does deal with a very serious illness. There will be some humour as we head back in time to when Roxas and Axel first meet, but there is always that serious undertone. I'm trying to write this as carefully as possible, because I know two people who have experienced and still are experiencing this illness.

Perty please review and remember that it does get fluffy and happy from Chapter Three onwards! ^_^

Love City Girl

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