He needs an answer, needs it like air, like food, like water.
Uncertainty doesn't suit him. He needs an answer.
Just tell me, Roxas.
The blonde diverts his eyes and changes the subject.
Axel wants to grab his face, fingers gripping the sides until they turn pale, and force their eyes to meet, but he doesn't.
He wants to scream at him until his lungs are about to collapse, ask him why he can't just answer the question, but he doesn't.
More than all, Axel wants to ask himself why it bothers him so much.
But he doesn't.
He's decided that he's not going to let it be unanswered any longer than it already has.
Just answer the question, Roxas. Do you love me?
The blonde looks around yet again, not meeting Axel's eyes. His gaze settles on a vase of flowers, and he picks one out of the bunch. He studies it for a moment, then hands it to Axel.
The answer, he says, and walks away.
Axel is in his room. He wonders how the answer to his question is held in a flower.
He stares it it. It's a beautiful flower, a daisy. Perfect white petals, not at all unaligned or discolored. A picturesque sight.
He loves me, he loves me not.
He isn't sure where the words come from, but they appear from somewhere, and he realizes what Roxas meant.
Axel counts them instead of picking them off one by one.
Eight white petals.
Suddenly the flower isn't so beautiful.
A crushed flower sits on the floor of Axel's room when he goes to sleep.
The next day, Roxas is gone.
Axel burns the flower.