It was a door, and Axel was staring at it. It was a door that he'd been through many times, the front door of his apartment; one that he paid for and shouldn't have to waste minutes staring at, and yet there he was, standing still minutes after pulling into the car port, staring. He was caught up in the strange notion that he should knock, that he should request entry, that even though he split the rent with Roxas, he was… bigger now, had more baggage to lug around—he was about to drag a mountain of fine print and unforeseen complications into their shared space, and guilt and embarrassment and denial froze Axel in place on the mat.

So he stood, and he listened to the muffled sounds on the other side of the thin, not-metal not-wood door: to the soft creaks of linoleum as Roxas padded around the kitchen just on the other side to the right, to water running and pots clanking, to Alice in Chains playing quietly on the stereo, to the general noise of Roxas doing things that were more or less for Axel, for when he got back so he wouldn't be stressed out the way he was right then, standing on the welcome mat and staring at the door. It hurt, ridiculously so, hurt in ways that were good and reminded Axel that he loved this person who was singing along with Lane on the other side of the door, and hurt in ways that were awful and truthful and had him poised to turn and slip back into his car and pretend the day hadn't happened. So he simply stared at the door, analyzed it, waited like a kid watching the ropes swing in a game of double dutch—waited for the right moment to jump in.

The door was plain, lightweight, painted a shade that had Axel frequently contemplating whether it could actually be called a color—not gray, not brown, not green, just something that could be labeled "cheap apartment door" and stuck in a Crayola box. Axel wondered if the not-color of the door truly symbolized how he felt, or if he merely thought the door had no color because of his mood. He grimaced, deciding his thoughts were circling too close to his protective shell of denial, and looked down at the woven straw of the mat between his shoes: a housewarming gift from Sora, someone else he would have to talk to about the last hour.

There was no help for it now, the shell was cracked and Axel had to swim for the surface or drown in it. His fingers clutched the doorknob and twisted, grip bruising as he made himself open the door slowly, normally, close it softly no matter how much he desired to slam it, make it bang and rattle and scream like he wanted to. He took care to study the linoleum with as much scrutiny as he had the door, if only for the first few seconds in the apartment, because he wanted to give those few precious seconds to Roxas before he unloaded a new set of problems neither of them had ever anticipated having to share. He didn't ready himself for the possibility that Roxas might not want to share in this new weight—there was no way to prepare himself for it.

He had a split second to notice the faintest wisps of steam still wafting up from the sink, belying the dinner Roxas had probably deliberately timed to be ready for when he'd pulled into the carport over ten minutes ago, before Roxas was closing the distance between them in a couple of strides and kissing him. Fiercely. Hands gripping either side of his face to pull him in close, teeth clashing, tongue delving in when Axel's own lips parted in surprise; his response was automatic, mirroring Roxas's almost demanding desperation in a way he couldn't give voice to.

He felt the familiar pang of loneliness in his chest, cloying at his throat, dissipating as Roxas continued to hold him, refused to let go. He couldn't shake the fear that Roxas would one day decide that Axel was too much to handle, that Axel would use him up, burn him out. He knew his moods were upsetting, irrational, consuming, and he'd thrown himself into therapy at Riku's suggestion, knowing that he had to before… before his fears were realities.

He didn't notice when the crying started, too wrapped up in clinging to the person he never, ever wanted to drive away, but he had to pull away to breathe, struggling to suck in air, and his eyes were hot and his nose stung. He licked his lips, tasted salt—he'd been sobbing, messy and unselfconscious in his fear, in that ache that hollowed him out and left him colorless, "cheap apartment door." His breaths stuttered, but he didn't let go of Roxas, realized his grip on his shoulders may have been painful and tried to relax his fingers.

He almost couldn't look at Roxas, handle the concern and encouragement he saw even through the blurry haze of tears, but he held onto the image as he waited for speech to come back to him. He absently stroked Roxas's collar bone with his thumbs, finding touch calming, reassuring, something he always knew how to do. When Axel was ready to speak again, he couldn't joke, couldn't manage anything but honesty, "I don't know how…"

"Come here." Roxas didn't let go of Axel, or let Axel let go of him, just drew him backwards a few steps into the living room to the couch. He tugged Axel down onto the cushions, pulling him closer and closer until he was wrapped up around him, arms and legs, fingers soothing over his shoulders, combing through his hair. "I don't know how, either." He placed a few kisses on Axel's forehead. "But I'm here, and I'm gonna stay here, so." Axel was fairly certain he'd never loved Roxas more, for the way they could be scared and vulnerable together, handle everything together, even if that something was himself.

"Mentally ill," Axel blurted out, testing it on his lips, his ears; putting it out there for Roxas to hear so he couldn't simply talk himself out of it. His voice hitched, even so, grinding out of his throat, and in his fear he sounded pissed off. "She said I might be… bipolar." His eyes closed, lids dropping over his view of Roxas, and he leaned to the side so his head rested on the back of the couch, suddenly exhausted in a leaden but fantastic, resolved sort of way—it was a "duh" moment, something simple but monumental, something that had to be true and explained so much and offered relief and a chance to move forward. It also stuck Axel on a shelf of tidy explanations, turned his blackest moods and creativity into constraining facts, into something Axel despised.

It wasn't so much the doubting he was actually bipolar as not knowing who he was without it. For all of his highs and lows, Axel had never had to worry about identity; they were simply a part of who he was. Even if he had to watch everyone else around him fall away or struggle to hold onto… something: like Sora calling him late at night to insist on going out for ice cream in the ghetto because he had a craving like he'd been smoking the very best pot (while denying it had anything to do with Axel isolating himself from everyone for three days, snapping at anyone who breathed too loudly), or Roxas weathering Axel's urges and disappearing acts while all but refusing to share his own problems, or Riku listening to all of his late-night rants and plans and confessions of ever-present loneliness until finally suggesting he get help.

Axel knew something was wrong, had known it for years, back to when he was twelve years old and his mom had teased him for being a drama queen and his dad had snorted and insisted on one-upping his "teen angst" with "adult problems." When he'd stopped caring about making friends or doing anything with his hair or changing his clothes, when his grades had plummeted from straight "As" to a GPA that would never get him into a college worth attending. When he'd met Roxas.

He opened his eyes again, gaze taking in everything about the person in front of him, still holding him. Still concerned, reflecting his own sense of shock mingling with confirmation with mourning, grip tight and secure in a way that no one had held Axel since he was a kid. Tears sprang up again, but this time Axel laughed, shook his head in bemusement, pressed a kiss that was somehow lazy and frantic to the same spot on Roxas's collar bone.

This punk kid had been with him through the best and the worst, from the very first day things had started to fall apart, and maybe it hadn't been love at first sight or maybe it had and Axel'd been spinning his wheels too fast to realize it, but it had been enough. One stupid sociology project had been enough to let Axel know that he was different, that it was probably going to be a problem, as he'd darted through crowds of people, getting stupidly high off of the contact and their laughter as he asked pointless questions and jotted down answers he'd never think about again, and then falling abruptly into the woeful realization that none of these people really meant anything to him, that they returned the same level of concern. And then there was poor Roxas, who hadn't interviewed a single person because talking had been too personal, too intimate, like partaking in a survey was a lifetime commitment; he'd stayed for frozen yogurt, and he hadn't thrown Axel some empty pity party—and he never would, even when Axel would practically beg for one.

Like now, it was "we'll get through this," not "I'll handle this" or some accusing glare that probably would have just about killed Axel. He'd been seriously planning how best to leave the fucking state, just drive off and disappear because what the hell did a licensed therapist and a primary physician and a psychiatrist know, anyway? Sitting right here, though, Roxas didn't make Axel think he ihad/i to deal with it, he made him want to. For himself. Because Axel had been afraid, driving home, barely registering traffic lights and pedestrians and motherfuckers who couldn't meet the speed limit, that maybe he wouldn't feel the same about Roxas once he started treatment, or vice versa; but this was the boy he'd considered over the glow of a single candle in a bowl of frozen yogurt, the one who'd stuck around for exhilarated Axel, for bleak Axel, and for the Axel in between.

"I love you," he stated simply, processing the last few seconds of silent contemplation and realizing how often Roxas rode these waves. "Like… really. A lot. I do know that. And how."

Roxas was quiet, but not distant, as he traced the line of Axel's hair, brushing wisps back from his forehead with his thumb, letting him process, letting him know that nothing would change between them, letting him know he wouldn't be alone. Not on the days like this, nor on the days when he maxed out his credit card on a new couch that "fit better," and the days when he resolutely sat out on the rain-spattered balcony because it was the only place that was blank, that didn't pressure Axel to think a certain way or be what someone else wanted. "I love you, too. All of you." Every part, pretty or ugly, high or low, happy or sad. Roxas's finger traced down to Axel's chin, rubbing over the hint of stubble there, smiled softly, not denying that it would be difficult, but knowing just as strongly as Axel that it would be worth it.

Roxas's voice had this effect on Axel that was a lot like… sugar. Not the wincingly sweet kind that made his teeth hurt, but something smooth and natural, something that eased away tension and left Axel boneless on the couch. Or maybe that was the fingers threading through his hair. In any case, he slowed down—thoughts, emotions, blood, everything settled and gave him a chance to figure out where he was at, truly.

It wasn't necessarily a good place, wherever he was, still caught up in fear and doubt and that ever-present spark of rebellion that would probably lead to multiple arguments over whether or not he needed to be on medication; but it was something he could deal with now, something ihe/i could think about, without his view being obscured by… a different him. And, ultimately, Axel knew who he was, when he was most like himself—the him that wasn't constantly feeling like too much wasn't enough or like too little wouldn't give him a break. Apparently he just needed some help staying that way, even if he was going to resent it later.

He reached out, returned touch for touch with Roxas, trying to group his thoughts together to voice them and then just deciding stream-of-consciousness had always worked for him pretty well. "We'll probably fight. Knowing me, three months into meds I'll think they're not working, and anyone who tries to talk me out of it…" He shrugged, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It slipped when he thought of the other people he'd have to talk to, the people who hadn't insisted on sticking around throughout his last few years of on-and-off hell.

Fuck, he'd have to call his parents. Was he supposed to apologize? Like, was bipolar disorder a kind of twelve step program? He hadn't really asked the therapist about that, settling instead for humming occasionally and staring blankly at the wall above her head. But right now, these obstacles were still something that Axel could handle, hurdles he'd be able to jump, instead of crushing weights or road bumps he simply didn't have time for. And Roxas was still there, Riku and Sora were still waiting to hear from him, so however bad it seemed, it wasn't actually catastrophic. But today he just wanted to curl up, take the time he needed to process everything, be around Roxas so he could feel warmth and muscle, inhale and smell the spice of soap like an aura that wrapped around him and wouldn't let go. "We should watch The Faculty. Eat some cheap Chinese. Egg the neighbors' car."

Roxas raised an eyebrow. "Like we wouldn't fight anyway." Well, they might fight about something with lower stakes, just because it was natural to get irritated sometimes, to feel the friction between yourself and someone else. Or just fight so they could make up. The point was, they would get through it, come out stronger on the other side.

"I actually made you some ravioli, if you want that. Probably needs to be reheated by now, though." He'd forgotten about the strainer he'd seen in the sink, but homemade ravioli sounded so much better than take-out Chinese, and Axel ticked off this moment as the most he'd ever loved Roxas, and in a few seconds he'd probably amend that again. Roxas leaned in for a kiss, brief but lingering, fingers still toying over Axel's chin in a way that made his skin tingle like he'd been drinking wine. "Definitely can do the rest, though. The carton in the fridge is almost past the date." They just didn't eat eggs fast enough, but there were always alternate uses for them.

Axel kissed the fingers on his chin, then Roxas's mouth, and sat up straighter on the couch as he considered the best time possible for parking lot vandalism. He grinned for what felt like the first time that day, teeth bared in a way that anticipated drying yolk and glares from neighbors who would know it was them because who else could it be? "We get caught, we just say I'm crazy."