A/N: The amount of old fics I can easily convert to KH/FF characters cannot even be explained. Heck, I don't even like these two as a couple, but here it is anyway. Enjoy. RxR.

Trigger warning: while nothing is explicitly stated, sexual assault of some form is implied.

Rain and Routine

The bench is something regarded as an unspoken taboo in the area. No one uses it – it simply sits upon the edge of the sidewalk, underneath the endless rows of massive trees intertwining their branches and reaching up towards infinity, limitless in their growth. On the bench it is too shady when it's too cold out and there is no protection from the sunlight when there is a need – it's right by an anthill too, and the occupants thoroughly enjoy coming out and harassing any visitors to the old, antique bench. It looks so out of place amidst the modern walkways and speeding cars along the road a mere hundred feet away, the wood varnished and the railings antique and elegantly curved once upon a time.

(it is rusty now, and the varnished cracked, and doesn't look that pretty anymore)

She doesn't remember when it was pretty, although she knows that there was indeed a time when one could call the bench a lovely addition to the neighborhood. But in that aspect, she feels an affinity towards it, a strange connection and sense of sisterhood with it that pulls her to plop herself down upon that very bench day after day, sketchbook in hand and eyes empty of inspiration.

It was pretty once upon a time. It isn't anymore. And she loves that little bench for it, because unlike everything else in the world it accepts the passing of time and weather phenomena with grace and ease because hell, it's a bench and doesn't need to care. As long as is serves its purpose ('people sitting all over it,' she reflects in amusement) then it has fulfilled its duties.

Is it the same for her? She doesn't know. If anyone and everyone sits all over her, walks over her pride and takes away her dignity, then should she just allow it in order to provide them a feeling of self-betterment and sick joy? At least she would be thought of as useful then, if not pretty.

(it's hard to remember why being pretty is so important, but she knows it is to most people)

As she settles herself down, the grey clouds only seem to become greyer. A small frown pulls at her lips – it was said that it wouldn't rain that day, but looking overhead and feeling the brisk nip of winter upon her nose, that prediction seems more inaccurate than ever.

She doesn't have an umbrella. But she doesn't mind.

More than herself, she's worried about the sketchbook. It used to be full of many pages, full to the brim with new, fresh cleanness and opportunity. Now, however, most of the pages have been ripped out, leaving only a few in their stead. Whatever was used up was filled with darkness – she doesn't like to think about it, not now, not later, not ever.

(the cloud cover is eating away the sun, and she regrets coming out that day because it's getting dark. She doesn't trust the darkness. Not after what it did)

The empty pages are still waiting to be filled, but she doesn't ever fill them. All she ever does is wait, pencil poised at the ready but never to embark on its journey to creating a new masterpiece. She wants to draw, she truly does – but for some reason, she just cannot bring herself to taint the purity of those untouched pages.

But the rain will destroy them, and she has no umbrella.

Regret strikes as a sharp pang again, but her immunity to those emotions has long since dulled, and she doesn't really care all too much about it. Regret is the only thing she really knows inside out now, now that school has been abandoned and future has been given up on and the world seems to be flying by endlessly while she's still stuck in that same position.

So she sits on the bench, no matter how bad it is at providing shelter or rest or how ugly it looks. Because if she's going to be left behind, she might as well be a bit comfortable.

(sitting is more comfortable than standing, and drawing while standing is more than a bit awkward)

It's her daily pattern to come to the bench. It has been for a year now. Consider it therapy, but she never fails, no matter what the weather. People stare, thinking that she's strange – but she likes the bench. She truly does.

(she connects with it, she realizes. And then déjà vu strikes and she realizes that she's just going in circles – or maybe she's just not moving at all, she doesn't really know but it's not like anything's really mattered since that night)

She doesn't want to think about that night.

And then, the skies open up at last and release the thunderous downpour it has been holding in for so long, immediately drenching her, the girl with no protection upon that shabby little bench. She shivers, but makes no move to stand up, allowing the thick droplets to strike her face. It's invigorating, despite the chill which instantly sets into her bones and the platinum blonde hair which is oh so uncomfortably plastered against her pale cheeks. Instead, she simply tucks the sketchbook inside of her jacket.

(she used it when she was still an art student, so it has a lot of warmth in it and she doesn't want to let those far-off dreams go)

At least her clothes are fairly adequate. She doesn't feel a lot of cold, more numbed out to the wintry weather more than anything else. She hasn't worn anything light in a long time, after all, opting for dark, thick mufflers and long jeans and sweaters that make her look like nothing but a stick wearing a bag. But she likes that image. It doesn't show the image of a soft-hearted, loving, pure, pretty young girl.

(sticks wearing bags aren't pretty, and back when she was pretty, it was her prettiness that ruined it all – that's how she was hurt)

So it is a complete and utter understatement to simply announce she is 'shocked' by a large plastic umbrella being held over her head. Instantly, she bristles, shying away from the holder of the protection in order to feel the comforting embrace of the raindrops. In raindrops, there's solitude and safety and comfort, but not under the protection of umbrellas.

Especially not when those umbrellas are being held by unknown men.

He smiles at her softly, the tips of his nose and ears a brilliant crimson due to the sheer cold, but makes no move to allow her back underneath the covering. Instead, he turns and sits down as far away as he can from her shrinking form.

(her breathing rate triples but she doesn't realize, too focused on her sketchbook and how she mustn't ruin it)

"It's cold," he comments softly, but his melodious voice is somehow muffled and dulled in her ears, the cascade of water between the two blocking the words. "Don't you think so?"

She doesn't respond. No one has spoken to her in a long, long time – the words to reply fail her.

(it's probably just because it's a man, she shouldn't have come out there that day, men are scary and vile and-)

She can't see his face, there's far too much rain for that. The man continues on his little monologue after seeing that she is lost for words, and more than a bit uncomfortable from his close proximity to her. "I like dancing," he states, more to himself than to her. "It's a glorious feeling, to dance. I usually do hip hop, but I've tried a bit of everything. You might enjoy it if you tried it, too."

She doesn't know how to explain that she has indeed tried dancing, and she has two left feet.

(he's nice enough, she thinks, but she doesn't trust that idea because although it's already been a year, that night, the man she met seemed nice to offer her a ride but she shouldn't have taken it and she regrets it more than anything)

He sighs and scoots over, but pauses when she shrinks into herself even more, her tiny frame disappearing in the gigantic sweater which is eating up her figure.

"You come here a lot. Every day, right?"

She freezes.

"I work across the street. I see you come here, doing work or something." A gentle smile tugs at his lips, but she simply looks down at the slight bulge in her drenched sweater, to the 'work' he had been talking about.

(she wonders whether it is completely soaked now, and a little piece of her shrivels up at the thought because that little sketchbook is all she has left of happiness)

Without her realizing it, he slides over just a little more, and she feels the raindrops cease their fire upon her small body as he shifts his umbrella to cover her completely. "You always look so sad," he whispers, looking down at the ground abashedly, "and I just never knew what to say to help." He looks up again, and now that the curtain of water is no longer blocking her view, she realizes that he is handsome in a childlike way – large, expressive blue eyes and a snub nose and a dainty jawline and sopping, dark blond bangs covering his forehead, so much like her own, just more spiked.

(she starts in surprise. She hasn't seen a man as handsome in a long time)

And then he smiles, and the chill doesn't seem so bad anymore, and her breathing calms down just a bit. She doesn't smile back, nor does she acknowledge his presence anymore than she did before – but she does relax and lean back upon the bench.

Happy with this small gesture of acceptance, the man holds out a gloved hand for her to shake. "I'm Roxas, and I work in the dance studio, just across the street there." He takes up one of her frail hands, squeezes it tightly despite the violent locking of all her muscles, and then points to the aforementioned building. "The one with all the glass, see? Some of my friends are practicing right now."

She nods, eyes vacantly drifting over the see-through walls of a studio which was, indeed, very visible from where they sat. At the moment, there are two figures inside, both acting completely strange – one man with flaming red hair was moving gracefully through a routine, which a dirty blond was perched on a chair by the glass, waving frantically at none other than Roxas himself, innocence radiating off his form.

(she nods, but it's more out of involuntary reflex, because she just held a man's hand and it's both frightening and disgusting and she feels like throwing up because it's just so wrong but at the same time she can't help but be a little proud because wow, it's been a year and she isn't breaking down completely in his presence)

(but he has other friends nearby, there are more of them, she's outnumbered)

He notices her extreme internal doubts, however, eyebrows furrowing in concern. "Are you okay?" he murmurs, bending down in order to peer upwards into her face.

(he's too close to her lap, she doesn't like it, this is how it all starts)

But he doesn't try anything inappropriate, nor does he grab her right then and there forcefully. He simply reaches up a hand and brushes moisture off of her cheek – tears, she hadn't known that she had been crying though – and murmurs, "Whatever it is, you'll be okay."

And she finally responds to him by shaking her head, because although it's been a year and she has healed a bit, she won't be okay for a long, long time to come – so many awful memories have stopped the world from being okay.

(just blend in, sit on the bench, and no one will notice you and then no silver-haired, silver-tongued strangers will offer you rides and take you to even stranger places)

And then she lets out a little sob as he places a hand intended to comfort upon her knee, and realization flashes across his face as quick as the lightning which seems to brew overhead. Immediately, he releases his hold and leans back on the bench, expression nothing short of utterly troubled as he stares out across the hundred feet to the street where vehicles continue to zoom by without a care for the two figures upon the bench.

"I didn't know," he offers, but she doesn't respond. There's nothing to say, nothing that can mask the shame.

(and she's left wondering why she didn't just run away when he first came, why she didn't just suffer the pain on her own and let the rest of the world forget her because internally she knows she is clinging to this stranger who has realized her truths even though they're so disgusting)

He does a peculiar thing then. Holding out his hand, he gestures towards the lump in her jacket. Without hesitation – she just wants him to go away, to leave her upon her forgotten little bench alone – she pulls it out and drops it on his open palm. Deftly, Roxas places it upon his lap and opens up the pages to peer within.

(she's happy to see that although some pages stick together at the edges, it isn't ruined and waterlogged completely)

His eyes pop open a bit when he sees what awaits him. "They're empty."

"They're pretty," she offers, and her voice is feeble and it cracks from a long period of silence.

(silence is safer, blending in is safer, no need to draw attention from strangers)

He blinks slowly, as if processing her words and her voice at last takes too much of his brainpower to formulate a proper response. "But they're just white."

"White is pretty. Pure. I miss it."

The corners of his lips quirk upwards, despite the inexplicable sadness she sees in his eyes, and he moves even closer to her. But his eyes never leave her, and they promise no harm, and the sun has not set fully despite the cloud cover so there isn't any darkness to muffle a scream yet. And because of that strange warmth, that lonely, lonely warmth that exudes from this Roxas, she doesn't move away this time, allowing the umbrella to be firmly situated between the pair.

(she doesn't understand why he's sad, or if it really is sadness, because she can't call it pity since it doesn't look like the looks that everyone else gave her when they found out about that stranger a year ago)

"Pure and white and pretty doesn't mean better," he murmurs, tilting the umbrella upwards just enough to look at the massive, towering clouds overhead. "In fact, sometimes the things that are a bit broken are the best. I like fixing things, and when I'm done fixing something, I always take care of it until the end." His eyes don't look that lonely from learning her truth anymore – more than that, he just looks hopeful, sincere.

And she believes him, looking up into the sky after a moment also.

(when he wraps an arm around her after twenty minutes of silence between them, helping her to stand up and insisting they'll grab a coffee, she doesn't reject it. And she leaves behind that little sketchbook on the bench, the old, forgotten, broken bench, thinking that maybe one day they'll fix it up together and it'll be theirs forever, because for some reason she can imagine herself moving forward with this boy, this man.

still scared, but not as scared as before.)