"Bummer. I actually like my name." Heâs proud of how heâd coined it, using his original backwater name and twisting it into something partially interesting. Lea was the poor Catholic boy, trapped in a house with a God he didnât want and a family that didnât want each other. Axel, on the other hand, didnât squander his time on things that werenât worth the effort. So yeah, itâs a little 80â˛s metal band-esque, but itâs something to hold onto. Itâs why he doesnât question a name like Roxas, as odd as it is, uncommon and never before heard in his current lifetime.
   Then comes that loaded question. He even thinks heâs ready to give the hefty answer to it, but rethinks that decision the second it comes to him. Did he want to give out the reason he was blackening his lungs beyond their original organic composition, thoughtfully alone in a park long after the hours say anyone should be on this side of the fence? Just like you canât stop a hurricane on its path, Axel could not just bottle his thoughts up and hand them over, a simplified answer in the palm of his hand. Itâs not a good time, not yet. Theyâre still strangers balancing precariously on the line of becoming almost more and while he could hit the mental rewind and view every single step thatâs brought him to this city, to this skate park, this spot in front of Roxasâ Axel vows to save it for later.Â
   Because heâs convinced, at this point, that there will be a next time. Why wouldnât there be? An all powerful deity in the sky didnât set this meeting up, because They didnât exist, but the universal forces that bring unlikely people together do. Fate or whatever the kids called it these days, he wasnât up to date with all the trends. That existed. It was real and it had to have been what possessed this wholly uninterested skater into spilling meaningless commentary that would naturally catch Axelâs interest. This conversation that otherwise would have never happened, did, and it was too late to take it back. On Axelâs side, at the least. Which meant he was going to pursue this, even if all he got in the end was a familiar living body passing the night hours away with him.
   It would just be too hard to discard this, all of this. This being what kept his eyes trained on that youthful face, unmarked like his own. Even when the board had noisily hit the ground, he hadnât broken contact to glance at it. Axel was too busy thinking, too busy committing the details of this encounter to memory. He had to speak eventually, though, and if he couldnât yet tell the whole story, heâd tell the truth, as much as that surprised him. âIâm not working tonight and sleep would elude me anyway. Thought Iâd shave off a few more years of my life with the nicotine while I waited for the sun to rise. Gonna kick me out?â
      Lips quirk upwards of their own accord, an ease to this manâs presence that creates an unlikely comfort Roxas cannot ignore or fight off. Every part of him aches with the urge to shutdown, retract, step back and reanalyze the situation. Close off with walls up, a steadfast guard to ensure maximum defense. But Roxas does the unwise thing, not for the first time in his short twenty-one years, and chooses to proceed.Â
      The streetlamp flickers, Roxas crosses his arms, and the night bleeds for them, the clandestine meeting of two of Satanâs rejects. âI never said I didnât like it.â He does. Like Axelâs name, that is. Ridiculous, as formerly stated, but unique. Simplistic. Something about it matches up to all the piercings lining his ears, the permanency of his tattoos, the clothing, the swirling nicotine cloud that goes floating up when he puffs on his cigarette.Â
      They donât know each other (yet) but Roxas likes to think that Axelâs name fits him to a T, down to the bare bones of his essence. âItâs not my place to kick you out. I donât own the park.â Frequents it every single day more naturally than clockwork, sure, but the only thing in this park with his name on it (other than his board) is the old, beaten up quarter pipe on the other side of the park. Heâd tagged it way back when, during his first summer here. The park was new, freshly built, just like Roxasâ new identity, and that quarter pipe had been his best friend for months until the half pipe had gone up and the park plans had started moving along.
      Roxas has class tomorrow, knows that he should go home, the same way he knows that he shouldnât be rolling his board under foot to keep his itching body in motion, the way that he shouldnât be curious about Axel, about what he does for a living, how he really passes the time, where heâs from. Millions of blank spaces open up for every passing thought that Roxas allows himself to contemplate over Axel, and suddenly heâs determined to fill in every single one. Axel is an empty scantron, and Roxas is here to study for the final.
      A hand passes over his left ear, tugging at the black orbital there. A tic that Roxas picked up just as soon as heâd gotten the piercing in the first place. Not necessarily out of nervousness -- it grounds him. Keeps him tethered to his body, makes him feel real for at least enough time to prevent any unwarranted out of body experiences. Roxas wets his lips. âHow do you feel about nasty, greasy diner food at two in the morning?â The night is hot, the air is stifling, Roxas isnât thinking. Or maybe heâs thinking too much. Both of these pose as a real, honest to god problem.
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