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Description
Roxas understands about death.
He's seven, lying quiet under the bed whilst his mother screams, cries growing fainter with every thud of fist, with every expletive and he utterly, thoroughly wishes he was dead.  It's his fault, after all, it's his fault that he hurts her; it's his fault she takes it.  He doesn't believe in Heaven, or Hell, or going somewhere else when you die – he knows he'll vanish, be gone forever, but he doesn't think he'll mind.  He's not exactly living, anyway.

Axel understands about life.
He's thirteen, and Linda Morris has just jacked him off in the bathroom at the County Fair, wincing a little at the creak in her wrist, trying to talk instead of get him off, nervous, blushing.  It was glorious, wonderful, and he can't tell a soul, so he walks around with it boiling inside him, a little swagger to his step, a smug little grin stretched wide on his face.  He really, truly believes that if the rest of his life is like this, he'll be invincible, a creature of wonder and lust, and sexual magnetism.  He will never die.

They understand about survival.
Roxas has run and hidden half his life, making sure he never lets anyone see him cry so when he bumps into the tall redhead, his first response is to shuffle backwards, apologise, and gather his stuff back into his bag.  He doesn't expect anyone to help him.
"C'mon, let me get that –"
The stranger's face is the last thing Roxas sees, and then he's waking up to bring white lights and a worried face of a foster parent he barely knows.  He's eleven, he says, born in '93, and she's holding up six fingers.
Axel watches the coverage of the blast from home, unsure about why he feels guilty.  Some idiot with a point to prove decided a nailbomb would be incredibly useful in furthering his fucked up ideology, and they just happened to be in the right place, low to the ground, with a building of bodies between them and the epicentre.  He's still staring as the news channel repeats itself, and he can only think of the kid who pushed him to the floor like he had practice at diving out of the way.
They're still breathing.

Axel understands evil.
Evil is what makes his mother hate him, what made him wriggle out of her house as fast as he could, the minute he turned eighteen.  Evil is what he is, what this sick little want inside him is, what makes him want to play with the other boys instead of keeping an eye on the girls.  He's wrong, he knows that much, but doesn't she know that if he could stop it, if he could make his life easier, he would?  It's no fun crawling home with black eyes from guys who don't appreciate being propositioned, and certainly have no sense of humour when it comes to seeing the good side in being attractive enough that he even gave them a try.  All he wants to do is see this evil reflected in someone else, meet someone else who knows how to be right like he is.

Roxas understands good.
Good is what he is, on the days when he doesn't remember his parents, when his foster parents smile at him and praise him, when he takes his medication and does his homework, not even pretending, just getting on with it, knowing what he wants to do and how to get around it.  Good is a day when he doesn't stare at every redhead going past in case it's him, in case it's the one who he saved, who saved him, who took steps with him, even if only in Roxas' head.  He knows how to be good, knows what's expected of him, and what he's supposed to do when he is, but he knows there's always another side of the coin, there's always another lie and line to hide behind.  All he wants to do is let go of goodness for a while, and just be who he is, meet someone else who knows how to be wrong like he is.

They understand shades of grey.  No life can run in absolutes, not now, not ever, and they've coped with enough, had enough, chased enough shadows and lights to know that everything looks the same in the grey of dawn or twilight.  They meet in a dark club, Roxas off his meds, being bad, Axel on the prowl for something, and the spark of recognition is enough, the two of them pressed against a wall, barely coming up for air.  It leads to long nights in Axel's bed, twined together, shadows on the coverlet, arms around each other, indulging in their passion, in the one thing they share which isn't a chase, which isn't pain, inside and out, which isn't wrong, despite how many times people have told them that they're not supposed to do this.  Axel doesn't force Roxas to take his meds, because neither of them like the drone he becomes when he does, and Roxas doesn't let Axel draw himself into self-pity, to wrap himself up in being a defiler, instead of enjoying what he has.  They teach each other to glory in every part of the world which makes them smile, no matter what it is.
They understand each other.

Description
Roxas understands about death.
He's seven, lying quiet under the bed whilst his mother screams, cries growing fainter with every thud of fist, with every expletive and he utterly, thoroughly wishes he was dead.  It's his fault, after all, it's his fault that he hurts her; it's his fault she takes it.  He doesn't believe in Heaven, or Hell, or going somewhere else when you die – he knows he'll vanish, be gone forever, but he doesn't think he'll mind.  He's not exactly living, anyway.

Axel understands about life.
He's thirteen, and Linda Morris has just jacked him off in the bathroom at the County Fair, wincing a little at the creak in her wrist, trying to talk instead of get him off, nervous, blushing.  It was glorious, wonderful, and he can't tell a soul, so he walks around with it boiling inside him, a little swagger to his step, a smug little grin stretched wide on his face.  He really, truly believes that if the rest of his life is like this, he'll be invincible, a creature of wonder and lust, and sexual magnetism.  He will never die.

They understand about survival.
Roxas has run and hidden half his life, making sure he never lets anyone see him cry so when he bumps into the tall redhead, his first response is to shuffle backwards, apologise, and gather his stuff back into his bag.  He doesn't expect anyone to help him.
"C'mon, let me get that –"
The stranger's face is the last thing Roxas sees, and then he's waking up to bring white lights and a worried face of a foster parent he barely knows.  He's eleven, he says, born in '93, and she's holding up six fingers.
Axel watches the coverage of the blast from home, unsure about why he feels guilty.  Some idiot with a point to prove decided a nailbomb would be incredibly useful in furthering his fucked up ideology, and they just happened to be in the right place, low to the ground, with a building of bodies between them and the epicentre.  He's still staring as the news channel repeats itself, and he can only think of the kid who pushed him to the floor like he had practice at diving out of the way.
They're still breathing.

Axel understands evil.
Evil is what makes his mother hate him, what made him wriggle out of her house as fast as he could, the minute he turned eighteen.  Evil is what he is, what this sick little want inside him is, what makes him want to play with the other boys instead of keeping an eye on the girls.  He's wrong, he knows that much, but doesn't she know that if he could stop it, if he could make his life easier, he would?  It's no fun crawling home with black eyes from guys who don't appreciate being propositioned, and certainly have no sense of humour when it comes to seeing the good side in being attractive enough that he even gave them a try.  All he wants to do is see this evil reflected in someone else, meet someone else who knows how to be right like he is.

Roxas understands good.
Good is what he is, on the days when he doesn't remember his parents, when his foster parents smile at him and praise him, when he takes his medication and does his homework, not even pretending, just getting on with it, knowing what he wants to do and how to get around it.  Good is a day when he doesn't stare at every redhead going past in case it's him, in case it's the one who he saved, who saved him, who took steps with him, even if only in Roxas' head.  He knows how to be good, knows what's expected of him, and what he's supposed to do when he is, but he knows there's always another side of the coin, there's always another lie and line to hide behind.  All he wants to do is let go of goodness for a while, and just be who he is, meet someone else who knows how to be wrong like he is.

They understand shades of grey.  No life can run in absolutes, not now, not ever, and they've coped with enough, had enough, chased enough shadows and lights to know that everything looks the same in the grey of dawn or twilight.  They meet in a dark club, Roxas off his meds, being bad, Axel on the prowl for something, and the spark of recognition is enough, the two of them pressed against a wall, barely coming up for air.  It leads to long nights in Axel's bed, twined together, shadows on the coverlet, arms around each other, indulging in their passion, in the one thing they share which isn't a chase, which isn't pain, inside and out, which isn't wrong, despite how many times people have told them that they're not supposed to do this.  Axel doesn't force Roxas to take his meds, because neither of them like the drone he becomes when he does, and Roxas doesn't let Axel draw himself into self-pity, to wrap himself up in being a defiler, instead of enjoying what he has.  They teach each other to glory in every part of the world which makes them smile, no matter what it is.
They understand each other.