Certainly a bit longer than the last. And viola! The cameos begin.

Blame! Arson
Sugar, Spice, And Insulin
Chapter 2: Black Wool

Baa, baa, Black Sheep,
have you any wool?

Their new roommate came in a muggy summer when they suffered from no air conditioning, the wood of their house making the doors swell and jam shut. The whole town smelled like burnt grime, the pillars from the smokestacks making prison bars on the horizon. The heat of the afternoon made waves on the pavement, making the world appear as though the two boys recumbent on the porch had taken some sort of hallucinogen.

At least, that was how Axel described it though his muddled speech. The poor guy was recovering from a tongue piercing he'd made a weekend travel to the city to get, and it made Demyx wince every time he saw his swollen tissue or heard the ball clack on his teeth. To his benefit, however, Axel was using his mouthwash aplenty (more often than he needed to, really).

"S'lak the 'ho' wor'd goes 'ipply."

"The whole world goes what?"

"'ipply. Ya know, waves."

"Oh, ripples."

"Ya."

Their conversation continued thusly: Axel's muddy speech telling him about his surrogate adventures in the city from when he moved away and they lost contact for three years. The start of their town's repression forced many families to seek finances elsewhere, using the last of their savings to move to the city.

Demyx's family didn't have any savings. Just a beat-up two-decade-old pick-up (that Axel had to work on frequently) and an air conditioner that only circulated the heat. These were luxuries; it was a childhood rough and rotten for sure.

It was just that Axel was a masochist to return to a dying town and an ex-best friend whose relationship with whom might as well be dead. When the offer was made for them to be roommates in a cheap rent across town (so Demyx could get away from the parents and older brother he just couldn't get along with), he couldn't turn it down.

Everything went swimmingly. Except, you know, the guitar that was almost collateral damage for the broken window that was revenge for the public humiliation that was in retaliation to the forcibly indecent exposure on a date that just might've had something to do with a series of other "unlucky" events that all started with Who Drank The Last Soda.

Yeah. They had argued a lot before settling on the Indian-Coined saying, "Let Bygones Be Bygones".

Else wise, he would've said bye and been gone.

And just as Axel lavished his own mouth with a slurp (supposedly the piece of metal striking through his tongue made him salivate more or something), a blur of inky black shot across their vision on the sidewalk. He gave his partner the quick raise of an eyebrow, and before he knew it the redhead was already down their driveway.

"'Ey! 'Ey, you, in the b'ack!"

He jolted up after him, partly worried about the trouble his friend could get himself into and partly worried the silhouetted-seeming person could verily whip around and punch him in the face. Wouldn't be the first time. But the figure didn't even freeze a muscle in its almost ... magisterial stride.

"Ag, dammar, ahm tahkin' t'you!"

It was certainly a rousing turn of events to be chasing down a friend who was chasing down a stranger decked in a black hoodie and too-baggy pants in sweltering heat, but it didn't take his mind off of the stagnant air making his lungs humid and mouth dry. Stupid Axel and his stupid impulsiveness and his stupid, stupid tongue ring.

Well it was no wonder why the kid wouldn't want to turn around. Axel sounded like he'd just gotten his tongue cut off for generating some riotous mob with some acidic words or been convicted and punished for a heinous crime. Come to think of it ... Demyx would probably be running away a lot quicker than the blond boy...

Wait--blond? Oh. Well, Axel was the type that ... if he didn't get your attention, he would get your motherfucking attention.

So he had decided to haphazardly jerk down a stranger's hood in the middle of an oppressive July after chasing him halfway down the road (nearly to the damn gas station) and make odd, half-coherent demands of him like, "why are you wearing a fucking sweater in the middle of summer?"

Yep. Axel was perfectly normal.

And clearly ruffled when greeted with a nonchalant: "Well, I'm not anymore, since you just pulled it down."

The boy quite obviously younger than them was ... somewhat breathtaking and eye-stinging: that radiant pain in your eyes from walking out of a basement and into the blinding light of day, so bright and painful that you saw only angry peach through the cracks of your fingers.

The blond hair wasn't just ... blond; it was golden and sun-kissed and insurgent Kurt Cobain Bleach at the same time. Not like Demyx's blond (that was so obviously supposed to be brown that the dark, short sides and bleary roots almost pulled his trash-80's look together), but a bona fide, carpet-matches-the-drapes blond that didn't look like a beach-bum or a hooker.

Well, maybe not on the latter of the two. His eyes had a naturally sensual gleam to them (a little angry, a little promising) and a totally untouchable depth that seemed to only observe and allure, drawing them into the evanescent whirlpool of spinning, shifting colors before obstructing the airways in the tight, smothering cesspit of his pupil.

A run-on sentence, a run-on thought, never looked so damn good, like the boy was simply an idea that could not die yet could not truly, tangibly exist.

"What are you looking at?"

Axel said something incoherently. Demyx translated. "How many layers of clothing are you wearing?"

It was only after he had said (and saw the serious look in Axel's eyes) it that he really started looking. The hoodie was unzipped and he wore a black shirt underneath it, but at his collar, there were other colors brimming over the edge. The petite boy (with his small hands and wrists) seemed swallowed in the fabric.

Who would wear so much in the summer? He sensed something amiss.

The anger in his eyes surged up torrentially, held down by golden brows instead of spilling everywhere. His hands dived darkly into his pockets and he whipped, not at all sparing the two a colorful "fuck off".

Axel was in front of him before he even had a chance to get to the next plot of lawn, voice somehow seditious perfection despite its nuisance; "Why are you wearing so many clothes?"

The boy bucked in the grip tightening on his shoulders but couldn't free himself with the constricted movement. Instead, he jerked his eyes away, passed the redhead and to the gas station that had obviously been his destination, flickering just out of his reach, irony like that of a man dying of a heart attack on a doctor's doorstep.

Demyx intervened, his words soft in the tension between the others. "Shouldn't we ... at least ask his name before trying to pry into his business?" The dearth of Axel's patience was clearly waning yet more. But Demyx knew he was soft, deep down, knew he would comply. "Come back to our house for a drink...?"

The scowl never moved from the stranger's face. "Okay."

He gestured to himself. "Demyx."

"Axel," came the grunt, voice disinterested in formalities.

"...Roxas."

Yessir, yessir,
three bags full!

Demyx tries his best to tip-toe around the shadow clinging to the ground, he really does ... but when his ankle becomes shafted to that unmoving black, he can't help but ... well ... land on his face.

Eyes burn at him, violent in the slim light; "Where have you been?" And the voice was just as hot.

Momentarily paralyzed, he searches for the right lie before giving a breath and setting his head down on his arm, simply looking at the youth. "Our usual. You should know that by now."

"It's getting a little ridiculous."

"It's been raining a lot," he counters with patience, voice a whisper even if there's no reason to, no one left to wake. Simply that early-morning ambiance. "Axel doesn't like it, but ... you know me."

"The reflections on the road."

"Yeah. You remember, right? The first time I showed it to you. How everything lights--"

"I remember," his shadow says smoothly, voice losing some of its strain and weight of sleep. "It'll be a year in a few months, huh?"

"Since you moved in? Yeah." Demyx rummages in his pockets, only to hear the plastic crumble as his cigarettes are torn from his grasp. "H-Hey!"

"You know you're not allowed to smoke in the house. It's your own rule."

"If it's my rule, Ican break it, right?"

"Wrong." Evidently feeling the motivation to finally get up, he moves across the room and throws the pack away. "Besides, these things are disgusting. They'll turn your fingers yellow, and what will you paint then?"

No one can see his smile through the darkness. "You, with your canary hair and skin of gold."

More shadowed moving, as Demyx watches the silhouette put on a t-shirt, and he frowns that he doesn't get to see that perfect skin. "Stop trying to sweet talk me. You're not getting them back, and that's that." He put more clothes on, stiff and straight.

He knows he's getting ready for work. He never needs an alarm, the way he and Axel aree always shifting around in the dark and waking him up. "But you smoke."

"I quit. You should do the same. We might get our rent in on time."

He pouts within the obscurity. "Low blow. Jerk."

"Just saying."

Two for the master,

It was the usual group of 12:o2 at the diner, the only place in town that was still in business due to its popularity even before the repression. It was still going good and strong, having the connections to order food in cheap and sell it for a decent price that a few of the working folk in town could afford (hell, sometimes it was cheaper than cooking meals at home).

There was Ms. Crumpet and her gaudy jewelry, leaning over her soup of the day, most likely looking at a wallet-sized photo of her deceased husband in her hand. Her yard went to shit after he died: those flamingos that Demyx sometimes swore watched him as he passed in the mornings. She was just a lonely old bitty now.

Of course, Mr. Fribley sat in the corner, mumbling incoherently on the other side of his newspaper, occasionally pretending to flip a page to steal a little glance at Ms. Crumpet. It was a well-known secret throughout the town that he had been in love with her since before her husband's death, but he had never actually made the attempt to be recognized in her eyes. He'd always make the excuse he was waiting for her heart to heal.

He was a gentleman, really. Far more gentle than the next customer: Val DeElkirk. The bitch had a hollow stare, given life only by a gratuitous amount of skin and jeans sitting too low on her hips. The whole town knew she had a hard-on for the big city and an even bigger hard-on for Axel, who had lived in and breathed in and tasted the desirous smog of the metropolis. She thought he was her key to the bustle.

Axel just brushed her off as he walked through the door. He not-so-quietly swore to Demyx she was a lesbian, anyway. Probably a whore, too, especially with the initials "V.D."

He was more interested in a different pair of legs, anyway; he leaned over the counter to get a good look at them. Black denim-clad (the kid had never gotten used to not wearing black), weight leaned on one, pad of paper on a hip, and his red pen cap touching his lips as the shine from the screen in front of him reflected in his eyes.

"Aeris! This stupid, fucking thing isn't working again!" ... So much for the peace.

"Roxas, I've warned you about your language in front of the custom-... Oh, it's only Axel. Never mind." She ignored Axel as he gave his show of being mock-offended, humming as she leaned over the blond's shoulder to press a few keys. "There you go, love. You just typed in the check number wrong."

He had never been technologically brilliant. Having to use the stupid things for his job only made his tolerance for them shorten. "Right. So what're you here for, a free meal?"

"So kind of you to offer, Roxy."

"I wasn't. And don't call me that."

Aeris laughed, all that gentle grace and benevolence. "It's okay, Roxas. He did work on The General's car and only charge him half price. I think he deserves recompense."

"He's only been paid back about four times now," Roxas muttered in disdain.

"Speaking of your boss, where is he?"

The gentle woman's eyes seemed to grow sad for a moment. "We're arguing."

"AGAIN?"

She gave a defiant shrug, turning back to the window that showed their usual grill-cook's back: "Xig, put on Axel's usual." When she saw the tall man give a sarcastic salute, she turned back to the warring roommates. "So how's work going, Axel?"

"All right. I had a guy come in today that wasn't getting enough fuel to his carburetor, so that'll cost a pretty penny."

"Does he have that kind of money?"

"I certainly hope so."

"You're heartless," Roxas muttered as he went off to collect an order.

"You probably thought so when I took you in off the street before the lights got cold, huh?" All he received was a glare over his shoulder.

one for the dame,

He finds the parallel entertaining. Axel's always annoyed when he has paint splattered across his hands at 4:oo a.m. But when the redhead comes home, he always has ... oil, grease ... every bit of mechanic's dust and grime clinging to his jump suit.

He has the thing tied around his waist, white wife-beater full of stains that Demyx can only get out with a splash of turpentine, grumbling about how he's wasting it again instead of using it to get that nice fresh-blood look on his canvas.

But that's only when he uses oils. Those were desperate things for desperate measures.

He hasn't had one of those in a while. And he's starting to worry. With that hag's face on his mind, would he be able to paint anything else? Be able to charcoal sketch anything but those abstract divots and painfully sharp lines?

And when he comes home, Axel will see him on the couch, staring vacant and thin into the white noise on their cheap, bunny-eared television set that's probably only played that salt-and-pepper race for the past few hours.

He's learned to leave his boots on the porch to not track in the stains, learned to strip down to his boxers before he hits the bedroom and throw his clothes in a separate pile for washing, and they've all learned to be courteous at first around each other to test the waters, see who's in which mood.

But Roxas won't be home for another two hours, and Axel can't help the cruel smile at how vulnerable his little artist looks on the couch with that blank stare.

As much as he wants to, he can't.

Not really. Not until the time is right.

but none for the little boy,
who cries down the lane.