A/N: Another pre-358/2 Days 'fic, so it doesn't use the knowledge that Saix and Axel are from the same world or knew each other, although it could probably be rewritten to do so.

Important background for this 'fic can be found in two drabbles in this thread on Livejournal:

http : // community . livejournal . com / bits_and_pieces / 2083 . html ? thread=57379#t57379

Purity

It isn't Roxas's first world, but he has been to only one or two before. Xemnas has not, of course, sent them anywhere particularly dangerous or important. There are only one or two strong hearts here, nothing worth the effort of stealing it. The point is just for Roxas to learn the ropes. There should be half a dozen Dusks with them, but the boss is taking this unusually slowly, and so it's just the two of them. Axel's meant to supervise.

A steeple passes by overhead, and as they step beneath the shadow of the cross, he flinches. The blond beside him snorts and says, "Think it'll burn you? Maybe Xemnas should have sent me here alone."

Axel laughs, too quick, and shrugs his shoulders. The bald use of the name -- not Superior, not even "boss" -- would impress him any other time. He wonders when Roxas started doing that, but can't focus on it, keeps glancing at the shadow over their shoulders. "You never know."

He can taste the question before Roxas asks, so he changes the subject quickly. There are some stories that he never plans to tell.

*

It had been his first world.

He stumbled breathlessly, caught his weight on his hands and cursed their numbness, the torn gloves and the pink flush beneath them that said he was freezing. Wasn't used to weather this severe, never used to go outside at all if he could help it. Sure as hell never knew that snow could fall for hours and days and weeks on end.

For the thousandth time he tried to bring the fire out, warm his hands and face, warm his belly. Stave off the fucking cold.

For the thousandth time he felt a dim flicker, untrained, easily snuffed out by the frost in the air, and then nothing.

His Dusks had scattered. He didn't know what orders to give them, how to take people's hearts from them, and they seemed to know it. What was it that Number Four had sniffed, time and time again? The servants only followed them because their will was stronger, they were more focused. Axel wasn't sure he really qualified on that score, any longer. Maybe they were even still here, camouflaged against the snow. Waiting, silent and curious, to see him freeze.

He was going to die here. Again. There was something anticlimactic about that, something distinctly pathetic -- a Nobody dying on the first world he ever tried to take. Axel wondered feverishly if this time it would really be the end, or if there was something else a dead Nobody became. Something even emptier.

Had to get back up, had to keep moving. The sleepiness stealing over his body now would be the last thing he ever felt. But it was nice, just to close his eyes, press his cheek into the snow he could only sort of feel anymore. If he covered his face with his hands, he could shield it from the gusting wind, and then it would be quiet here, peaceful; six feet of snow as comfortable as any bed he'd ever owned.

The thick leather coat was the only thing that saved him. Without it, he would have been dead long before they found him.

*

There is a brilliant flash of light, and Axel grins as the idiot throng falls away, shielding their eyes and screaming as the strange brightness burns their faces and the feeble bare hands they have put up to protect themselves. They are terrified; no doubt they think their god has betrayed them, if a being of light can bring so much pain.

"Is light really such a shocking weapon?" Roxas asks drolly, and though it's supposed to sound rhetorical, tough and indifferent, Axel knows the edge of real curiosity and confusion when he hears it.

"It wouldn't be if they really knew their scripture," he replies. "Lucifer was the light-bringer, wasn't he? The most beautiful angel in Heaven. And look what he did with himself."

He can feel Roxas's eyes on his face, just daring him to say it. Daring him to say that he's pretty, too. Axel meets his gaze with wide, innocent eyes and tells him honestly, "What? I wasn't thinking of you."

*

When he woke up, everyone around him was dressed in black and white, like a parade of woolen-robed penguins. An elderly woman was peering into his face, touching the fresh mark on his cheek gingerly but not gingerly enough to keep him from wincing; the tattoos were still fresh, and he thought at least one of them had gotten infected.

"Gypsy?" another woman whispered, breathless and so soft that she must have been hoping he wouldn't hear.

"He certainly looks the part," the first agreed slowly, but Axel could tell she didn't really believe it. Her eyes were grey and piercing and he had the strange feeling that she knew, just by looking at him, exactly how and why he had come to be wandering out in the cold. "But they wouldn't leave one of their own like this."

His head was spinning and he felt sick. It didn't stop him from wondering how to phrase the explanation so this woman would be sympathetic. Should he say he had hoped to stay with them through the harsh winter, a poor penniless child, only then he'd done something innocent but inexcusable like failing to show one of their gods proper respect? Did those "gypsies" have gods, or a god, that they worshipped that intently?

Stupid. He didn't know. Mingling with them had been impulsive, desperate; he'd let them put ink in his skin so that he might hide there until he could think of a better plan, but all it had taken was one little kid to catch him lighting matches idly for practice. The cry had gone out, he's a demon, get him away from the women and the children, out into the cold dark night--

Couldn't think. Not clearly enough. There were words, pretty words, good enough to gain the confidence of all these people -- but none were coming to him now. Axel lowered his eyes, respectful or ashamed or whatever else they would most like to see in him, and let the silence speak.

If anything, not seeing their faces only intensified his awareness of their eyes on him, so many many judging eyes. But he only curled in on himself, very slightly, like a frightened rabbit. Eventually some of the eyes turned elsewhere.

It was an eternity of seconds before the old woman stood, her decision made. "Get him some dry clothes and a warm bowl of stew. Wherever he has been, the Good Lord sent him to our doorstep for a reason. He will stay here tonight."

Silence again. Then a hesitant male voice murmured, "The Archdeacon--"

"What Frollo does not know," she cut him off, "will not hurt this young man. The stew, if you please, Father."

Another face leaned down over his, and as it came into focus, Axel's foolish fading thought was that this man, although his hair was already silvering through its blond, did not look anywhere near old enough to be anyone's father.

*

One of the priests is sobbing when they reach him. He lifts his head from folded arms to meet Roxas's eyes, and in his shock goes silent. Axel can all but hear him thinking, But it's only a boy.

One keyblade spins, comes up against his pale throat, and the other slides neatly into place just above his heart. The slightest twist and suddenly he's screaming, the sound still wet with tears, as darkness steals unbidden into his heart. Eating him away from the inside out. Roxas is less merciful than efficient, but it is at least over quickly, and the priest collapses with eyes frozen, still so very surprised.

His mistake. It's never only a boy.

*

Father Dumoulin was his name. He was too young for gray hair, clean-cut and very tall -- tall enough to have been imposing, if he hadn't also been slender and soft-spoken. And he was fascinating.

Axel had never been around a prime heart before, only heard it described, so at first he hadn't quite recognized the feeling. He was simply drawn to the silver-blond man, his eyes pulled in that direction as surely as if Father Dumoulin were standing in a spotlight. Only the light was just beneath his skin, bright and appealing and so -- intensely, incredibly pure.

He wasn't really thinking of his mission anymore when he began to maneuver himself closer to the Father. After weeks of trying, Axel knew the mission was pretty much hopeless. Number Seven had intended it to be. Dumped here with no weapon, scant control over his element, on a world where there wasn't enough darkness to make a single Heartless, let alone enough to build a corridor and get himself the fuck out of here? No. Number Seven hadn't intended him to come back from this one. He had probably already told the other numbers that their new recruit was dead.

No, he wasn't thinking of the mission. He just liked the scent of Father Dumoulin's pristine heart. There was something appealing, on a very basic level, about the idea of sullying that pretty, pretty heart.

The Father was hesitant at first, obviously still worried about the mysterious Archdeacon Frollo, but what walls he put up were easy enough to break down. Axel figured his conscience was probably doing most of the really hard work for him; after all, Father Dumoulin had consigned a poor scrawny boy to death. Once the sisters let him out of bed, all that boy had to do was bump into the Father once or twice, all wide eyes and awkward limbs and stammering apologies, for any lingering coldness in those brown eyes to fade completely.

Of course by that point Axel had figured out what "father" meant, but the other meaning still seemed apt. With the hesitation gone, Dumoulin turned out to be a kindly man, indulgent and doting and just like every pleasant father figure in every vid he'd ever seen. When he forgot his gloves (accidentally of course), it was Father Dumoulin who came rushing out after him with a pair to borrow. When the nightmares came and he cried out in the dark (very genuinely of course), that same man crept into his room to wake him gently with warm milk and a story.

It didn't take them long to get very, very close. Father Dumoulin listened to all his troubles, all his fears. The parents on the other end of France who were hoping, so desperately, to be sent money by their only son; the guilt he felt at being free of them now, safe and happy, far away where they could never again take their misery and frustration out on him. Dumoulin listened, Dumoulin understood. He had his own troubles, his own fears, and when the firelight was dying and Axel had said all he could bring himself to, lower lip bitten with hesitation to go on, Father Dumoulin began to share them, one small worry at a time, until his heart lay bare between them, vulnerable and exposed.

*

"He made a lot of noise," Roxas says abruptly.

Axel doesn't have to ask what he means. "Well, yeah. He was kind of terrified." He is careful to be neutral in his tone, not overly amused, but not unnecessarily concerned or sympathetic. Wait for it.

"Do they always make that much noise?"

He still can't really tell from Roxas's tone what answer he's hoping to hear. Finally, Axel shrugs. "Depends on if you want 'em to. You can get them much louder than that, too."

Blue eyes go still and distant, contemplating. Roxas is usually so quick and decisive, not one to spend this much time thinking about -- anything. Slowly, his lips curve. He's made the decision Axel made, the decision almost all of them make. "I'll keep that in mind."

He's decided to enjoy it.

*

The only real flames he could make were still small and sudden, but Axel had figured out how to raise the temperature of his body enough to spike a fever. He let the sisters put him back in bed, pile on the blankets, and fill him up with thicker stew, but that night he left his bed, clad only in a long nightshirt, and crept down the hall to find Father Dumoulin's room.

It wasn't exactly appropriate, and the Father clearly knew it then, but he ignored the oddly-naked legs and pulled Axel close to keep him warm, the constant feverish murmur probably reassuring (he wasn't aware of what he was doing, of course he wasn't), and going very still when a hand settled innocently on his belly. Axel watched him through his lashes, expressionless, for an hour or more, and twitched his thumb in a sweetly-unintentional little stroke over bare skin whenever Father Dumoulin seemed about to relax and drift off to sleep.

After that night, it was only a matter of time. They already ate together regularly, but now he would sit down a few inches closer, once even settling firmly in poor the man's lap. He brushed his ankle lightly over Dumoulin's calf, buttoned only most of his shirt so that his pale throat and collar bones were nicely exposed, and came very close, when he whispered, to brushing his bottom lip over the Father's earlobe. But all the while, Axel was careful to keep every touch incidental. Nothing that the sisters would notice, and nothing that Dumoulin couldn't have convinced himself was just his own imagination.

That last part was crucial, if he wanted to taint the purity glowing beneath that good man's skin. He had to think it was all his fault, didn't he? Had to think that the sweet, skittish sixteen-year-old boy would never have meant to put such terrible, terrible thoughts into his head.

Axel had expected it to take longer than a week. Silly of him. Hearts were fragile things -- wasn't he living proof of that? Father Dumoulin had needed only the smallest push, the briefest temptation. Present a man of god with flesh, and evidently he stumbled badly.

They met in seclusion, late one afternoon. He told the Father that he had to talk to him, and the Father came like a lamb to slaughter.

"I... I wanted you to know," Axel whispered, his head bowed as if he could not quite bear to look at the older man. "I've done something terrible."

He could feel Father Dumoulin's eyes on him, concerned but also watchful. He hadn't, Axel suspected, really wanted to be alone with him. But he was afraid of himself, not of some poor unsuspecting child, so here he was, to offer what comfort he could. "God forgives," he said, soft and almost hollow.

"Even me?"

"If you show penitence," Dumoulin began, and again there was something hollow in his voice; you could almost hear him asking silently if he himself had shown penitence enough. "The Lord is patient with His children. He knows that what He asks of us is sometimes difficult. If we meet His challenges..."

Here, Axel allowed a quaver to enter his voice. "Penitence -- means that you're sorry for what you've done, right?" he asked haltingly.

The man seemed to regain some of his former warmth and energy here. He was nodding, the movement just visible while Axel kept his own head lowered. "Yes. The regret is important, it shows--"

"That's just it, Father." He felt the smile on his own lips, irrepressible, and turned away to keep it hidden. "I don't think I am sorry. Not really. It felt..." He wet his lips, swallowed, went on in a husk, "It felt so good."

And just like that, the warmth was gone again. He could feel the glow behind him dimming, flickering, a seed of doubt, a trace of shadow in Father Dumoulin's once-brilliant light. "What?"

The man sounded as if he could hardly breathe. Well, Axel could do better than that, couldn't he?

"I don't know," he said, strained and wanting. "I was asleep, I think. I dreamed. You were there, and you held me close, and I was hot all over, and the clothes felt so constricting... You helped me get them off, tore at them like you couldn't wait, I could feel your breath on the back of my neck, and then your hand was -- you were touching me, someplace that felt incredible -- I wasn't sure, but you said it was fine, that it was right, and when I woke, I felt that same way... so hot my skin was on fire..."

No sound behind him, no stirring, except the strangely-ragged pulse of Dumoulin's light, as the darkness rushed in just like he had known it would. Finally he turned back, on the spot, and lifted his head: lips parted, his own breathing carefully staggered. He closed the distance between them, reaching up to tangle the fingers of one hand in silvery-blond hair.

"Part of me was hard," Axel told the kind man sweetly. "So I slipped my hand down to touch it, and fireworks went off inside my head..." He had to stand on tiptoe to bring his mouth close enough to Dumoulin's, close enough that their lips could brush now. "I didn't know what to think... I just knew I wanted your hand there instead..."

"You--" The poor thing, he had no idea what to say. But he wasn't resisting.

Axel tipped his head back, let spikes of red sway a little, and missed the stud that should have been in his tongue as he dragged the tip of it over the Father's soft upper lip. "Can you save me? Or are you going to leave me here, and let me drown in this..." It was so inappropriately childish, so horribly malicious, he couldn't resist. "In this S-I-N of yours..."

Something in Father Dumoulin broke, and the man surged forward, kissed him hard, a startlingly ferocious need in his lips and teeth and lashing tongue. It lasted only a few seconds before he gave a sudden startled cry and tore away from him, away completely, his eyes as wide and wild as his mouth had been.

"What..." he started, and then looked aghast at himself. "What have I..."

The dark was all around them now, in that little room. Axel could feel it, cool on his skin and welcoming. Like a homecoming. Like a real savior. He hadn't been sure what would happen when he broke the poor fool, but so much darkness was spilling out of Dumoulin's heart that he could almost form a corridor. He could almost leave this world behind.

And he had already begun to pull that dark together when he realized what else he could do.

*

"What's a prime heart?" Roxas asks idly, as he desecrates the last of them. "I mean, I already know they're important. Tied to the heart of the world or whatever. But this darkness, it feels different."

It is different. Axel watches him pull the white keyblade from what remains of the corpse at his feet, most of his attention on its whitening, twisting body. Prime hearts almost always become a lesser Nobody, at the very least. He thinks he sees the tinge of dusky pink that means Dancer or Gambler.

"When most people die, they just become a Heartless. Sometimes a Nobody. But like you said, a prime heart's tethered to the world's heart. More darkness comes out of them, and sometimes..." He smirks faintly. "Sometimes, a really big Heartless."

Roxas shoots him an irritable look. "So, what. This darkness is from the heart of the world?"

"Exactly." That, Axel thinks, and it sets off a chain reaction. Destroy all the primes, and you deal a very serious blow to the heart of the world. Destroy the heart of the world, and suddenly there are Heartless everywhere, swarming over everyone, until the world -- and everything in it -- all collapses into darkness. "It's the fastest way of taking down a world," he murmurs.

And the only way, if you don't have an army of Heartless and Nobodies at your beck and call.

*

The Father was terrified now, terrified of him and everything he had done. Shaking. It seemed to be making the darkness spill out faster. But Axel himself felt remarkably calm; calmer and more in control than he had felt for weeks.

He crossed the floor of their secluded little room, and reached out to touch the Father's cheek, one hand sliding lower to caress his chest. What he said came out in a strange sort of purr: "If you want, I can show you how very, very good it felt..."

His fingers seemed to sink through the older man's chest, slow and warm and soft like he had plunged his hand into a jar of molasses. He touched the pink beating thing that was Father Dumoulin's heart, and for an instant he felt electric, even ecstatic. As if its warmth was his now.

Axel hesitated, and then squeezed, so hard that the beating thing shattered in his hand. The dark was everywhere, he couldn't see. But behind him he heard -- or felt, or both -- the Dusks returning to him.

They were different now; he knew that much before even looking at them. Their long pale limbs had expanded, so long and wide that they could no longer stand comfortably erect, and they hunched over instead, leering at him strangely with their long pointed faces. Or was that perhaps a cowl of some sort, hanging down to hide their eyes?

They would have been terrifying to another boy, in another life. Axel only smiled. How could he fear a part of himself?

"I like the arms," he told the nearest one. "You could shred things to ribbons with arms like those. What are you guys? Not Dusks anymore."

She dipped her head, and said but didn't say, We are your Assassins.

Perfect. They were perfect, all six of them.

Father Dumoulin wouldn't be joining their ranks. His body wasn't changing into the right sort of shape. And -- somehow, Axel was certain of this -- he hadn't been the right sort of Somebody. Well, if it wasn't his, it didn't matter. Not really.

Only.

To the Assassins, he murmured, "Will he remember who he was? What happened here?"

A little, perhaps. More if he is like us, and becomes a Calculator or a Sniper or a Monk.

He nodded, stiff and precise, then moved to break the leg off a table, and brought it back to beat the twisting white creature until there was so little of it that it could only ever become a Creeper. When he finally straightened, he was sweaty and pale. It hadn't cried out. After all, Creepers couldn't speak.

Sir? said another Assassin, gliding through the rug to come up beside him. What now?

Axel laughed, breathless. "We burn it down," he told his servant. "We burn it all down."

*

The backwater world is coming apart at the seams. Roxas looks as if he would like to stay and watch a little longer, but the longer they stay, the harder it will be to build the corridor home, so Axel starts to make it silently behind them both while the blond gazes down at the ruined streets.

They are seated on the church rooftop, with the steeple between them. Axel knows he's trying to prove something when he lays his palm flat on the tarnished bronze of the cross, and is disappointed that the teen doesn't seem to notice.

"It's almost sort of pretty," Roxas observes, oddly constricted.

He glances over, can't quite help it, and then shrugs. "It can be, yeah." The way the tension leaves those shoulders, as if he just wanted to hear someone else agree, as if that would give him permission to be a monster himself, is much prettier. Roxas is going to be so strong, so fucking lethal.

But he doesn't need to see any more of this. He doesn't need the grim satisfaction of distant screams, doesn't need to watch the sky split and everything go dark.

"Come on. Let's go home."

Roxas glances at him, and for an instant Axel thinks he's going to attack him, shove him down on the roof and maybe break a bone or two for the fleeting protective impulse he can't possibly know was even there. His eyes are so coldly, brilliantly blue. But then something there softens, and the blond stands, offering a hand expectantly.

They're halfway into the corridor before Roxas says, maddeningly, "If you wanted to go, you should've just said."

And he has no response to that.