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Warnings: Roxas has a potty mouth. D: ANGSTY STUFF. Summary: AU. Axel/Roxas. He doesn't believe in ghosts, but that doesn't keep him from being haunted. The kitchen was freezing when Roxas wandered into it in search of a late-night snack. He ignored the cold and poked through the cabinets sleepily, hoping to find something simple like Pop Tarts so he wouldn't so much as have to use the microwave. You left them out on the table again. Roxas spun around, eyes wide and frightened as he sought out the owner of the voice he had just heard. There was nobody there, but his box of Pop Tarts was indeed on the table. He figured he'd just been so tired he had made up the voice, and moved forward to open the box and sit down. As soon as he was seated, a figure appeared in the chair across from him. It had hair like fire, eyes like absinthe, and a wicked, wicked grin. Hey, Roxas. Miss me much? Okay, so he was half asleep, eating at his kitchen table, and hallucinating that his dead best friend was talking to him from beyond the grave. He could deal with that. He was in mourning. People who were depressed could act pretty crazy, right? Right. He pretended his hands weren't shaking as he tore apart the foil and stubbornly ignored the apparition. I go to all the trouble of haunting you and you won't even look at me? Come on, kid. You know you can't ignore me forever. Roxas chewed his food and stared blankly down at the table. He needed some sleep. Badly. There was too much stress in his life to deal with this too. Damn Axel for invading his mind again, for always being there. For not being real. He choked back a sudden onslaught of tears. Even if Axel wasn't really there, the man wasn't allowed to see him cry. I'm not going to leave you alone this time. Roxas shot to his feet, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter, and slammed his hands on the table. He distantly noticed that the remaining Pop Tart was crushed under his palm, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he get rid of his insanity, find a way to make himself normal again. He glared at his delusion, putting all of his considerable anger and pain into the look, and stormed away with his mouth set in a thin, painful line. He almost made it out. Are you really that mad at me, Roxas? Do you hate me now? The damnable voice sounded so distraught, so defeated, that Roxas had to spin around and scream that no he didn't hate Axel, how could he think that after everything they'd been through; he was just so fucking angry at the world and so completely lost without his best friend that he'd started imagining his voice, driving himself crazy with what-ifs and whys, and Axel was the best goddamn thing that had ever happened to Roxas, and his dead ass had better not ever fucking forget that. The words died in his throat when he saw the empty room where there was nothing but the breeze from the open window blowing his crumbs across the table. He turned to the wall next to him and beat at it until there were holes where each of his hands hit and his knuckles were mangled and bleeding, staining the walls and the floor and his clothing, and he sank to his knees crying like he'd been holding the tears in since the day he was born, leaning over his clenched fists and not caring as his salty tears mingled with his blood, burning where they landed. And none of it mattered because Axel was fucking gone, he'd even scared off the man's goddamnghost, and he'd still never had the bravery to tell Axel just how much he fucking needed him, how much he'd always fucking needed him. There was a feeling like a hand was rubbing his back, and the wind sounded like someone whispering soothing words to him, but he didn't believe in any of it and he didn't move.  Chapter Four
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