(no subject)
For mourir, wishing her all the luck on her studies. God, I haven't written Roxas in a literal year, none of you are allowed to judge.
Knee-deep in the river, Roxas prods through each little wave. He keeps a firm grip on his fishing pole: the current is gentle but persistent, and he's not going to spend the rest of the afternoon hunting for another stick with the perfect weight. These things are important; Roxas understands in the same way that he doesn't.
Maybe it's instinct.
The current twists; his toes flex and dig in, holding balance. River stones shift beneath his heel, scoured and ground and gritting-sharp. He tracks each sensation, then tucks them away--to turn over inside his head, maybe, during some dark afternoon in the castle under a half-hearted moon.
Come to think of it, fishes are weird. Not human, but pulse-driven. If every thing that lives has a heart, then even this river's seen more hearts than he has. A floating school of a thousand pinprick lights--but that's an image to keep to himself. It isn't fair, Roxas has learned, to expect Axel to have the answers for everything. You might as well reach into the hole in someone's chest, close a fist where their heart once beat.
(He just doesn't know why it's not fair, sometimes. Shouldn't the memories help?
But today's not the day to think about that.)
They're passing him as he hesitates. Their bodies curve to sleek flashes and are lost between the tangles of light across the water. Roxas turns to call to the shore, but Axel cast himself down on the makeshift pillow of his shed coat a while ago. He's fast asleep by now.
Sun prickles his nape; Roxas rakes his fingers through his damp hair and laughs. Well, he's got a stick, and common sense--in this heat, Axel'd probably be too lazy to summon either. Even for dinner.
He keeps trying.
Later, when it's dark, Axel will start a fire, over which they'll roast the lone fish Roxas caught straggling on the stick he kept all afternoon. And maybe it's okay that they're not on a tower, and Roxas hasn't forgotten all his shadows and his answers. Maybe this is real enough.
It's a good memory. That's all that matters.
Knee-deep in the river, Roxas prods through each little wave. He keeps a firm grip on his fishing pole: the current is gentle but persistent, and he's not going to spend the rest of the afternoon hunting for another stick with the perfect weight. These things are important; Roxas understands in the same way that he doesn't.
Maybe it's instinct.
The current twists; his toes flex and dig in, holding balance. River stones shift beneath his heel, scoured and ground and gritting-sharp. He tracks each sensation, then tucks them away--to turn over inside his head, maybe, during some dark afternoon in the castle under a half-hearted moon.
Come to think of it, fishes are weird. Not human, but pulse-driven. If every thing that lives has a heart, then even this river's seen more hearts than he has. A floating school of a thousand pinprick lights--but that's an image to keep to himself. It isn't fair, Roxas has learned, to expect Axel to have the answers for everything. You might as well reach into the hole in someone's chest, close a fist where their heart once beat.
(He just doesn't know why it's not fair, sometimes. Shouldn't the memories help?
But today's not the day to think about that.)
They're passing him as he hesitates. Their bodies curve to sleek flashes and are lost between the tangles of light across the water. Roxas turns to call to the shore, but Axel cast himself down on the makeshift pillow of his shed coat a while ago. He's fast asleep by now.
Sun prickles his nape; Roxas rakes his fingers through his damp hair and laughs. Well, he's got a stick, and common sense--in this heat, Axel'd probably be too lazy to summon either. Even for dinner.
He keeps trying.
Later, when it's dark, Axel will start a fire, over which they'll roast the lone fish Roxas caught straggling on the stick he kept all afternoon. And maybe it's okay that they're not on a tower, and Roxas hasn't forgotten all his shadows and his answers. Maybe this is real enough.
It's a good memory. That's all that matters.