Title: Fire

Rating – PG-13

Pairing – None but hints of akuroku if you squint.

Warning(s) – Character death.

A/N –I had this weird dream and this was inspired by that. Hur hur. Hope you all like.

DISCLAIMER – I don't own Kingdom Hearts or any of its characters.


'You're so dangerous. Doing what you shouldn't. Stealing fire from the gods and burning everything away. Burning lies, guilt, disappointment and fear. You're so dangerous that the gods should fear you.'

He'd always had an affinity to fire. Some type of weird connection that always pushed him to try new things with it. Little bundles of straw, twigs, dry leaves, weeds, bark and bone, bound together with twine. He would burn it all and watch the smoke crackle and pop, pop, pop until there was nothing but ash and smoke left.

He'd been in therapy before, many times. He would sit on that couch, the same one many people sat on, and talk, talk, talk. He would talk nonstop for the hour he was given. He would talk about school, about homework, about his teachers, his friends, his brother, his mother, his father. He would talk about everything, but none of that was what the therapist wanted to hear about. Axel never spoke of fire with him. And all the while he would play with the high polish chrome Zippo Inferno in his pocket. Slick silver with an attached emblem of bright red fire. He never left home without it. He didn't feel safe if he didn't have it on his person. He would leave after his hour was up and the session over. He never looked back at the man nor said a good-bye.

Everyone knew he had a problem; he didn't try to hide it. What was the point of hiding something that was quite visible? He didn't lie about it either, if asked directly, he would reply with as much wicked honesty as he could. Everyone thought him mad. He was the type of person who didn't just talk about taking evil to school—he would actually pull the trigger. But even then he'd never touched a gun in his hand. Unless kitchen knives counted, in which case he wouldn't pull a trigger but stab with as much ferocity as if his life depended on it.

He always carried that Zippo. It didn't matter how many more he had on him, the most he'd ever had were eight different Zippos and all filled to the top with butane, he always needed to carry that Inferno one. It was his comfort blanket.

He always burned things, random things, significant things, any type of things. And he always got an answer from the fire.

Even the way he looked showed his bond with the basic element. His hair was as bright and as red as a hellfire just before it consumed everything in its path. His eyes were an electric forest green that high-contrasted against his pale skin and fiery hair. Fire gave birth to him, nurtured him and taught him how to live.

It made some sense that fire would also kill him.

Even when burning things inside the apartment he shared with Reno, his brother, he had always kept a fire extinguisher close by in case the fire got out of control. Amazingly enough he'd always been very careful when handling and burning things. And at first it hadn't made sense that it'd occurred by accident. Roxas knew, he hadn't wanted to admit it, but he knew that it hadn't been an accident.

It'd all happened so fast.

Axel had been sitting cross-legged in the middle of his room, trashcan in front of him as he threw inside photographs, college applications and some CDs. He'd used vodka to help feed it, taking a swig of it before pouring just the right amount into the bin. He'd put the bottle away and had taken out Inferno. He'd twirled the Zippo a few times before lighting its flame. With a click and a whoosh the fire came to life and Axel closed his eyes as he heard that satisfying first crackle and the flames caught on, spread, danced and rose.

The fire spoke and he watched attentively, listening to what it said. Those pop, pop, pop sounds were so reassuring—the louder the crackle, the better the omen. And the rate of consumption couldn't be beat—the way it burned so bright, so hot and so dangerous. Axel listened to the fire and the fire spoke. Axel never went against what the fire told him.

The priest spoke, he spoke of birth, of life, and of death. Reno cried silently, half-leaning on his best friend Rude and half trying to keep his composure. His mother wept loudly, so loud that Roxas couldn't hear the light breeze that fell upon them, and clung to her husband, who simply looked dead himself, his eyes set on his son's coffin. Everyone was hiding underneath black umbrellas to keep the rain away. Roxas cracked a wry smile. Axel had never liked rain. It seemed almost right that he was covered by the lid of the ornate black coffin. Faces all around, most of which he knew, were all sad and crying. Surprisingly enough he was the only one not crying. They'd been best friends and Roxas couldn't find it in himself to shed a tear for the redhead. He couldn't really, because it would've been wrong. Because he could picture Axel scoffing at him in an amused manner, crossing his arms and cracking a teasing smirk, "Are you crying Roxas? You're such a wuss." So Roxas didn't cry, not even one tear.

And as he stood there, underneath a black umbrella and surrounded by people, he wondered…

What had the fire told him?

XXxx

And that's it. Hope you all liked it and thank you for reading!

Criticism is always welcomed and so are reviews!