Story Info:
Written for Zheyne, because:
1) She was one of my best friends, and I fucking miss her.
2) She kept telling me I should write fanfiction, and it's better late than never.
3) To reiterate: I fucking miss her.
I don't own anything, but it should be obvious – this site is dedicated to stories written by fans about characters, places, and things which are not their intellectual property.
The smooth dotted ribbon drifting upward and separating into a zillion tiny pleas for mercy – oh, release me, release me – is made of ghosts and sadness and carbon monoxide formaldehyde tar arsenic hydrogen cyanide ammonia others I can't remember, Master Marlboro's sweet carcinogenic jizz nicotine. Your fingers burn as you unceasingly play with the lighter, skit-fsh-hss skit-fsh-hss skit-fsh-hss, praying to the flames or to God or to the Great Pumpkin or whatthefuckever, release me, release me.
She sits watching you, upwind. Your cigarettes always make her sneeze but you pretend not to notice cuz she never says anything. Well, other than "That shit will kill you," but that's always kinda flattering anyway. "That shit will kill you" could mean "I care about you," if you tilt your head and shut one eye. "That shit will kill you" could mean "I won't be repulsed if you finally get the stones to admit you love me," if you overestimate her intelligence. "That shit will kill you" could mean "I don't want to lose my favorite psychology project," if you remember why she likes to talk to you. "That shit will kill you" probably means "Hurry up and kick it, bitch," but even then it's flattering, because she's fucking paying attention.
That's how it is.
"This shit could kill you, too." Sometimes you wonder if she has a subconscious death wish, hanging around you so often. You're an accident lurking around the corner, a parasite, a highly contagious and incurable disease – you always have been, and either she's got a death wish, or she's just retarded. Nobody's invincible. Nobody. Even on meth: nobody.
Skit-fsh-hss skit-fsh-hss.
Maybe you should change your name. 'Ebola.'
Skit-fsh-hss.
"Not if I can get you to stop poisoning yourself. The only one allowed to destroy you is me."
"Good luck with that," you tell her. "Love me, baby, love me."
Good luck with that, you tell yourself.
"You're a bitch," she tells you. "A real bitch."
You're a bitch, you tell yourself. The truth never hurts so good as when she gives it to you, sharp and quick like belts. You treasure the welts on your heart as much as you treasure that stupid fucking ring he gave you when he thought you were someone else. The ring he took and threw in the dumpster, the ring you braved days-old kitchen slop andwhatthefuck else smelling like dog shit and ruined sheets and cheap motel to reclaim.
"A real bitch," she says again. You blow smoke in her face and pretend like it's a halo. Falling. Like you.
Ladling soup into another rundown fucker's bowl is such a cute parody of your rundown fucking life. Give, give, give. I'm almost out; more water. Gotta stretch it further. Give a little more. Just a little more water. Dammit, bitch, today your name is Oliver and no, you can't fucking have more. Okay. I'm sorry. That was wrong of me. I'm wrong. I'm so fucking wrong. Fine, report me, whatever. I'm always wrong. I can take the heat, I work in a kitchen. Wrong, wrong.I'm sorry.
You should be.
You should be.
I am.
You should be.
I am.
Are you?
Oh, how you hate them. Almost as much as you hate yourself. Almost.
In twenty minutes you're meeting Axel from that semester of college you never finished because yeah, okay, you tucked your phone number into that front pocket of his cute little college-ruled notebook thing when you pretended you couldn't balance equations so he'd take you home and put out. Poor thing, so cute. He had a cute little crush on you. He doesn't anymore, because he thinks he's in love with you. Stupid fucker.
"Am I done," you say. You don't ask.
"Get outta here, kid," says Xigbar. It doesn't matter that you're twenty-three. He's ancient. And he has an eyepatch. An old guy with an eyepatch can call you whatever the fuck he wants because it's not like you care anyway and decking an old guy with an eyepatch is probably one of the thou-shalt-nots.
Thou shalt not lie. (This has got to be defunct by now. It doesn't count.)
Thou shalt not kill. (You're safe. Killing takes too much effort and you're not as stupid as people think you are.)
Thou shalt not steal shit. (So you stole a car once. You were fucked up, and you gave it back. Nobody even knew. So you stole his favorite lighter. He was fucking asking for it, leaving it out like that and then leaving you in the dust like that. So you steal synthetic happiness. Who doesn't.)
Thou shalt not lust after your neighbor's wife, your neighbor's material shit, or your neighbor's money. (Fuck that. Vexen on the corner has a sweet ice-blue Audi. You only went joyriding once, and remember, nobody even knew.)
Thou shalt not deck old guys with eyepatches.
"Thou shalt not," you say, and the old woman with too many scarves hanging loose from her neck into a bowl of what looks like spit and blood looks at you like you're disturbed. You laugh because you are. You laugh because you can. You laugh because why not.
When you reach the curb you imagine your body all diced up and spread out on the pavement under cars and trucks and stiletto whoreheels and you keep on laughing.
Axel has a sister. Her name's Kairi and she's real pretty. Real sweet. She's older, but she looks younger. She opens the door and says, "Hey, Roxas. Axel had to run to the store for Mom, but he'll be back soon. Come on in." It's sweet that they live with their mother still. Sweet in the way that trick-or-treating is sweet. You go in and smile because she is pretty. Prettier than Axel. Not as pretty as Larxene, but nobody's as pretty as Larxene.
You notice she's wearing a little silvery cross around her neck. You point at it and say, "That's really pretty." Way to sound retarded. But the idea of Christ is kind of retarded too. God is dead, God is dead.You're sure as hell not mourning. You weren't born yet when they killed him, but you're willing to take the credit like I do with everything in my life, goddamn.
"My grandma gave it to me." She's smiling all soft and blushing. You wish you were good enough to touch that blush. You already feel guilty for causing it. Cheapass liar. "It was last year. Right before she died. I miss her."
My grandpa's dead now, you want to say, but you don't. My other grandma's dead. My friends are dead. Don't talk to me. You'll die too. I'm a fucking bad luck charm,you want to say, but you don't. Even if she understood, she wouldn't get it. She doesn't know you.
"That sounds terrible," you say instead, and move a little closer. You're not coming onto her. You just want to see a little more of that sadness in her before she turns into Big Sister again.
"She died of lung cancer. Smoking's a bad habit," she tells you. It's like she's prophesying. "I wish Axel would quit."
"My therapist tells me I should quit."
"You have a therapist?" It's like you're a good person or something, because she sounds surprised.
You sit on the couch together. She's a little closer than you'd expect from a nice girl like her. You want her to get the fuck away, before you taint her. "Yeah, she's a real bitch, Larxene. All the other voices in my head are scared of her." It's already established that thou shalt not lie is a defunct commandment, and besides, sometimes you do hear Larxene in your head. She tells you that you're a fuckup. She tells you that you are worthless. All the things she never says anymore when she's outside your head trying to get inside, she says when she's inside trying to get out.
Roxas,she'll say, you're a pale shadow of a human being. A fucking shadow. A mediocre friend. Such a bland personality. If you weren't so pretty, I'd drop you.But what she'll mean is you're a punkass loser. Not worth anyone's time. I only hang around you because I like fucking with your head. And your eyes are like stale sky.
You really do love her. But Kairi's laughing and yes, you just fucked up again. You didn't mean to make her laugh.
She opens her mouth – that beautiful mouth – and starts to say your name, but then the door slams and Axel calls, "I'm home. NyQuil's on the table. I'll be in my room."
He smiles at you when he comes through the door, thin crooked lips and white teeth and sharp angles everywhere talking to you. Take me,his smile says. Take me,his body says.
"I'll...leave you two alone." Big Sister is back. You never even got to hear Real Kairi say your name.
"C'mon, Roxas. I've got that math book downstairs."
You get up and follow him and your shoes are out of place in this big, clean house, but the nice thing is that they don't care. Axel's mom is real nice and his dad is okay, too, as long as you agree with him when he rants about politics and compliment his chicken cacciatore.
His ass looks heavenly in those black jeans. Chick jeans, since his hips are so wide. From behind, he could pass for a woman, but you're glad he's not one. Women tend to get all emotional after sex. He just stretches and laughs like it's the best fucking day he's ever had. Every time.
He slams the door and locks it and you say, "I didn't come for the book."
"Good," he says. He turns around and you see he's got the same idea. His pants are tight and you like what you see. "Cuz I don't really have it."
Soon you're watching him spread out on the bed, inviting, grinning like he knows what you are and just how much you care and he doesn't care that you don't care at all. You want to jump on him, but that would be counterproductive. You want to ask him to fuck you this time, but he wouldn't. You want to tell him this is wrong, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, but you can't. Sex is good with him and he's curvy in all the right places and he's not Larxene. You can't have sex with Larxene because she doesn't deserve to have your disgusting skin on her, in her. You don't deserve to worship her, to be inside her. Love ruins things and you're ruined. You can't ruin the things you love.
But you can have sex with Axel.
"I've missed you," he tells you through breathing.
You crawl on top of him and snatch that lube from your dingy coat's pocket before you chuck it in the corner – the lube you pretend you just forgot to take out after last time. "I missed you too, Axel."
And it's the best badness. Because of your hollow existence, the agonizing burn in your chest intensifies by tens, by thousands, by forfuckingever, bythisiswhatIdeserve, by Nothing.
Burn, motherfucker, burn.
She's across from you in that plush pink seat her mother gave her and you're looking anywhere but her eyes – vats of acid you could swim in. Swim and swim until your skin burns off and swim and swim until you're nothing, nothing, more nothing. You're looking at her lips pulled into such a malicious grin and her fingers tapping symphonies on the wood armrests and her hair, blonde antennae bouncing with each breath.
You don't say anything, but you wish she'd give back your cigarettes. At least she let you keep Riku's lighter.
Skit-fsh-hss.
"I love that face you're making," she coos. You wonder why she's even nice to you. You've seen how bitchy she can be. She knows you enough to know that putting you down only validates you, though, so maybe that's why. It's another tactic. Another fucking tactic. She's heartless. But so are you don't think about Axel most of the time.
"What face?"
"You want to fuck me."
Skit-fsh-hss.
"Sure. You're pretty, Larx."
Skit-fsh-hss.
"But you haven't made a move. I know what that means."
Skit-fsh-hss.
"I seriously doubt that."
"You love me, you cute little douchebag."
Skit-fsh-hss.
"No I don't."
"Yeah, actually, you really do."
Skit-fsh-hss. Skit-fsh-hss. Skit –
"Are you fucking retarded? I'm practically begging here," she tells you. "I know you're into kinky shit, but if you think I'm not rough enough for you, then you really are just a punkass loser. Roxas." It's your name that gets you hard. Really, it is. She never says it like that, all wanting and special. "I'm not wearing anything under my coat. Come and see."
You don't want to, even though it's the thing you really do want more than anything. If you touch her –
It doesn't matter. She's already on your lap and touching you. Your body wants it. Your mind wants it – or at least, most of your mind wants it. Your heart doesn't want it, but whatthefuckever, right? It's not like your heart is functional.
She wants this. Fine. But you need a better place to do this shit, seriously. You want her to fucking destroy you, and this little green chair can't handle that.
"Bedroom," you say.
"Fucking idiot," she says. Into your mouth. Pulling you up. Fondly.
You're gonna fucking explode.
Olette Franklin, age 20.
DOB, DOD. RIP.
You died inside.
You're still dead.
How many times will you look at that fucking obituary before you realize she's been dead for over two years?
Your apartment is freezing because the heater's broken, but you barely notice anymore. Just like you barely notice the card on the doorknob telling you Vision has invited you to yet another bash. The Godly kind of bash, where everybody cries praises all over each other and they all cream themselves at the thought of being Saved. You met one of them at the soup kitchen on accident and she hasn't left you alone since. Fucking crazy stalker.
"Shit," you say. Your refrigerator is empty again. In your pantry you have some ancient yogurt-covered raisins left over from when Hayner stayed at your house months ago. That empty vodka bottle should have been thrown away three weeks ago. You finished the rice last week.
No wonder you've lost weight.
No wonder you fit in at the kitchen.
No wonder Axel looked at you like he was worried or something equally stupid.
No wonder you're exhausted.
You should order Chinese or something. Going to the store like this would be pointless; nobody can shop when they're hungry. If you learned one thing from Mom, it's how to grocery shop efficiently. At least you know you're not going to blow your money on food when you have those books to buy. You need a new flashdrive for your computer and you're pretty sure you can't stretch your deodorant any more. So no, you shouldn't order Chinese. You should just walk to the fucking store. It's only a half mile away. You can make a list before you go.
Later tonight, you tell yourself. After it gets dark.
Or tomorrow. You have some writing to do. If you don't get this out, you'll scream or explode. You'll suffocate reading over it anyway, but at least if you write, you won't wake up your neighbors.
Yeah. Tomorrow.
"Hey," you say. Your smile is so forced, but she will buy it. Everybody buys it. You've learned how to lie so convincingly you can sometimes even fool yourself. You're kind of happy to be there anyway, because family is family, and family takes care of family. You shouldn't have neglected Naminé for this long, anyway. She's your fucking sister.
Xion runs up to you, followed by Alice in her white apron and Kiara in her lion costume. She never takes off that stupid lion costume.
"Roxas," she cries.
"Hey, Xion," you say, and accept her hug. She's only about as high as your knees, even though she's almost six; but she's different from the rest of your family, too. Dark hair, too-bright eyes. Cute little feet and a compact body. She's going to be strong and short, like you. Like you were, before you gave up. Before you gave in.
Alice is up to your shoulder, and Kiara is up to your chest, but Alice is ten and Kiara is seven. They're going to be tall. Probably taller than you. They have the trademark fair hair; Kiara's eyes are brown, but she fits in better than Xion does. Hell, youfit in better than Xion does, and you're the family fuckup. You're the mistake.
"I'm here," you call, even though you'd rather walk out the door and pretend you never came.
"Oh! Roxas!" Your mother walks into the living room in all her sweatpants-clad, bloated glory, and you want to throw up. You should have supported her more in her diets, you should have cheered for her, you should have done more research, you know she's so upset and disgusted with herself, it's your fault that –
No, this is not going to happen. It's not your fault. That's what Larxene said once, at the very beginning, before you knew just how much of a bitch she was. It's not your fault. You don't have to apologize, even in your head.
"I missed you," she says, tucking your head under her chin in her hug. Even your mom's taller than you. How embarrassing. It's good you don't make nice with too many people; it means you have to endure less stupid teasing. Wow, your eyes are so weird. Wow, you're so short. Are you sure you're an adult? Are you sure you're not twelve? Are you sure you're human? Wow, your mouth is so big. Wow, your hands...I didn't know they made them in that size. But with your height...does the rule still apply?
Fuckers.
"I missed you too," you say. Into her shoulder. You feel like crying, mostly because you're right where a baby would be and you want to know what she'd do if you did start crying. Too bad you don't know how to cry on command and you hate showing emotion to anybody, even Larxene. Maybe especially to Larxene.
"So, I was thinking...we have to buy Nami a new violin and I can't pay the babysitter, so maybe you could stay for a few weeks and..."
"Roxas, come play chess with me," says Alice, interrupting your mother.
"No, come play dolls with me," argues Kiara. "You can be Mufasa."
Xion just clings to your leg.
"The girls just adore you. Nami will be home in a couple of hours...you can help her with her homework and help her with her violin – you're the musical genius in the family."
Shut the fuck up, you want to say.
"Sure," you say instead. Because why not. You don't have anything else to do, unless Larxene comes back from whereverthefuck she went or Axel has a free moment. You don't currently have a job anyway. Working is for other people; you're not good at things. You're still living off the money Liza gave you for those massages. Her huge fucking family used up all your strength but you used up her huge fucking wallet so you're still living off it.
Hey, if you're staying with the fam, you won't be using any of the utilities in your apartment.
"Sounds great. I miss you guys."
And I prefer it that way, you don't say.
"Hey, Roxas," she says.
"Hey, Nam," you say.
She stands in front of you and puts her chin on the chin rest and draws her bow over the strings and she's communicating with you better than anyone ever could. She gets you, even if she doesn't know you and she doesn't know how sick and disgusting you really are. She doesn't know you're a parasite and she doesn't know you're not worthy to hear her music.
But she plays for you and she's so excited because this is her audition piece and what did you think and because she's so fucking earnest, you don't have the heart to tell her it was perfect.
"You need to work on your timing," you say instead.
Axel's room, Axel's bed. This is where you realize you haven't seen Larxene in three weeks. She never goes this long without calling you to pick your brain. She never goes this long without insulting you. You miss it. You miss her threats and her terms of endearment, like bitch and douchebag and baby.
"Oh, fuck," you say softly, and it's into Axel's mouth so he thinks it's just for him.
"Yeah," he agrees. You think it's kinda odd that he's not undressing and you're not undressing him and you almost kinda agree with him, about the yeah.You don't like thinking like this.
He pulls away and you're irritated, but you don't show it.
"Hey, Roxas," he says, head on your chest. It's an awkward position, because he's so tall. You can only see red silkish spikes all separated by sweat like a hedgehog and the top of his forehead now, but you can feel his lips against your chest through the fabric of your shirt.
"What."
"What are we even doing?"
You laugh, kinda. "Well, we were kissing the fuck out of each other, but now I'm lying here and you're...listening to my heart, or some shit."
"That's not what I mean." You can feel the frown through your shirt. His eyebrows, or what's left of them, go down by his eyelids, and you can feel that too. "I mean when are we gonna talk to each other about more than math and lit – things you're not even learning? When are we gonna do more than sleep together and laugh when my mom calls you a cutie?"
"Axel, don't," you say.
"Roxas, I'm not an idiot."
It's this statement that catches you off-guard. He knows what you're doing and he's not doing anything about it. He's not making you change, like Larxene wants. Wanted. Maybe you were so bad in bed that she's finally ditched you out of disgust. Before Larxene, you never slept with a girl.
"Oh yeah?" You're defensive. You don't know what to do when people see through you.
"Yeah. Roxas, whatever happened to you-"
"Don't make it about me," you say, but it's halfhearted. "I don't have to say anything."
"I know." Now he's up and looking for his lighter. You figure you at least owe him something, for whatever reason. You don't owe him anything. But you feel like you do, now that he's figured you out. So fucking guilty now, this is wrong, this was wrong and this is wrong.
Skit-fsh-hss.
"Thanks," he mutters, and it's sweet carcinogenic jizz flowing out of his mouth. Master Marlboro, you fucking saint.
"This isn't what you think it is," you say lamely. You're a real cheapass. You're such a douchebag. You don't really deserve him, you never did. You just had him because he thought you deserved him – like Riku, he thought you were a different person. But unlike Riku, he won't throw you away. He's not mean enough for that, plus he loves you. Fuck, it's like hell.
The little Tinkerbell sound goes off and you lean over to dig your phone out of your coat pocket. It's Larxene – your little black dysfunctional heart leaps.
Finally gone to Traverse Town. Was fun while it lasted. I'll send your diagnosis in the mail.
"Bitch," you say quietly. So you were just another fucking experiment. But you knew that. You always knew that. And you still love her but you fucked her, so she's ruined. Just like everything else you touch. And you're even more of a douchebag now, sitting next to someone you've ruined so well and being hurt by somebody else you ruined – somebody who would have ruined you, had you been whole and clean to begin with.
You steal his cig and skit-fsh-hss and pray to the flames or God or the Great Pumpkin or whatthefuckever, release me, release me.
He lets you take it and watches you like Larxene used to watch you, but not like that at all. Interest, but not the malicious kind. The kind kind of interest. You want to shake him, to make him understand. You're not fucking worth his time.
"If there's anything I could do to...uh..." He scratches his cheek and pretends he didn't say anything in the first place.
"I'm not someone you have to save, Axel. Don't you dare try."
"I didn't say that." His voice is sharp and you kinda like it.
"Just don't even bring that shit up, okay?" He scares you, but you'll never admit it.
"I didn't say that," he says again.
Scoop, slop. Scoop, slop. It's monotonous and Xigbar is kinda giving you the evil eye, but then you're not so sure cuz he only has one eye. Old guy with the eyepatch. He might just have a headache.
There are no fakeout Olivers and you're pretty happy about that. Simple things, you realize. You're happy nobody's bothering you. Nobody's talking to you except to give thanks.
You're thinking about Axel and what he said before you left. You're worth the aggravation, he said. He doesn't know you. He doesn't know about you. He doesn't know what you did to Olette and he doesn't know what you did to Riku and he doesn't know how you fucked up your family and he doesn't know why you can't like him as much as he wants – as much as you want.
He has Olette's eyes. His are a little brighter, a little more like fire, But he's got Olette's fucking eyes.Plus he likes you too much. He shouldn't like you. Sex is so much easier without emotions involved. Emotions can turn nasty and turn into love, which is even nastier. Axel should know.
Scoop, slop. Scoop, slop. Water. Stretch it a little thinner. We're nearing the end.
It's ten minutes and you're suddenly on the curb again and you're suddenly laughing again and you're suddenly compelled, compelled, to step out in front of that fucking semi. Except you don't do it, because what a fucking terrible way to go. How uncreative. How inelegant. You have a family to take care of anyway. Axel would blame himself because he wants to save you, even though he says he doesn't.
You still smile at the idea of whoreheels squishing into a mess of you and coming up with bits of brain or eyeballs. You'd be the next big fashion accessory.
It's a date, a fucking date,and only Naminé knows because if your mom knew what you do, what you've done, what you'll probably continue to do, she'd hate you. She'd hate you and you'd never get to teach Alice more about chess. You'd never get to help Kiara with her reading again. You'd never get to see Xion at her first tee-ball game. You'd see Nami, of course, but you love your whole family, even when your mom's a bitch.
"Sorry I can't introduce you as a...date," you say, and it's hard to say the word at all. "Mom's a religious person and I...well, you know. I don't want to say anything because it's pointless, unless there's an established relationship. It causes unneeded contention."
"I'm not upset," he says, but he's hurt. He won't say it, but he's hurt.
I'm such a douchebag. I'm doing this because he refuses to sleep with me unless we're dating, but actually I don't know if that's the reason. I also don't know if I'm using him as some kind of fucked up rebound. Larxene was never mine to keep and I didn't deserve to keep her anyway, but I still have that hole in me like she really was mine. I don't want Axel to fill that hole. I don't think I want anybody to fill that hole. I don't deserve that. I'm such a fucking douche.
"...Sora's supposed to come home in October," he says awkwardly.
You can't help but hate Sora. Stupid Sora, Kairi's stupid husband, the guy Riku loved. The guy you pretended to be. The guy you were. Riku dumped you for Sora, who didn't even appreciate him. You were so fucking perfect for each other, even though you pretended. He was perfect, he was pretty, he was mean enough to hurt you and nice enough to make sure you weren't incapacitated. He was such an asshole but he was smart – really smart – and something like elegant, even though he wasn't really.
But Axel doesn't know about Riku and you. He didn't do it on purpose. He didn't bring up those memories on purpose.
Scream for me, baby. I love you so much. But you're not thinking about that.
"So he and Kairi will get their own place?"
"Probably." He goes to grab your hand and you let him because I'm such a cheapass liar. I don't deserve this attention but you can't force yourself to say no. You don't know if he's a fucked up kind of rebound and you can. Not. Say. No.
"Are you excited?"
He laughs weirdly. "To lose Kairi? Or to see her happy again?"
"Both, I guess," you say, and you squeeze his hand because this is weird. You don't date because nobody can date you. It's kinda exciting. You don't fucking deserve him though. This is so fucked up.
"Yeah. I'll never really lose her anyway, and while she's happy in her own place with Sora, I'll have more room. Mom doesn't want me to leave, because she can't take care of herself when my dad's not around." He squeezes your hand and something's wrong. Something is wrong.
"I know what you're thinking," he says.
"No you don't," you say.
He shrugs and laces your fingers together and says nothing, and you head into the restaurant like it's a normal thing. Like you do this all the time. Like it isn't killing you to be on a date you don't deserve.
Olette Franklin. Age 20.
DOB, DOD. RIP.
Fuck.
You don't know if you miss her or if you miss missing her or if you miss knowing what she looks like. Other than her eyes, she's slipping away. Olette Franklin.
Fuck.
Sora says something about 'my friend Riku' and 'hospital' and 'bullet' and you hunch into yourself like you'll puke. You're pretty sure it's a possibility. Riku was an asshole and he left you to rot and he made you go dumpster diving he didn't make you, nobody made you, you did that yourself, on your own fucking advice that day, after that fight, that day you stole his favorite lighter. The ring hanging on a cord around your neck burns a fucking hole through your skin and bones and into your dysfunctional heart.
Kairi cries and Sora hugs her helplessly and Axel notices you hanging back. You accept his hug because you know by now he won't take no for an answer and he's trying so fucking hard to save you and you really don't deserve him, dammit.
"You look a lot like Sora," he says into your hair, and you want to hate him for reading your goddamn mind.
"Whatever," you say. You push him away and dig your shit out of your pocket. He watches you passively as you slide a stick into your mouth and skit-fsh-hss.
"You know, if you ever, I mean, you know you can tell me anything-"
"Don't," you say. "I don't want you to-"
"Fucking deal," he says irritably.
You love him for that. Except now that you've thought it, you really just hate him for that. You don't deserve him, dammit.
He's kissing you and you're fucking him and he's saying your name, like worship, like God or flames or whatthefuckever. It takes you a minute to realize you're returning the favor.
Fuck.
"Yeah," he agrees, and in a little while you're too spent to correct him and did you really just say that out loud. You're on his shoulder like a baby and you feel like crying again, but this time it's because you don't deserve him but you keep taking him. You're so selfish, such an asshole. Whatever happened to more water, stretch it a little further. You don't deserve –
"I'm sorry," you say, and it's agony, but real.
"Fucking deal," he says.
"The fuck does that even mean?"
"You know what it means."
You're pretty sure you do. It means grow up and it means don't be such an ass and it means stop apologizing for things I've already forgiven and it means deal with your issues and his shoulder is sweat-soaked and not as tan as his face.
It means stop doing that thing where you hate yourself, but you can't. You can't not hate yourself. You really just don' deserve –
He bites your ear a little and it tickles and you laugh.
"I love you," he says. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"Don't," you say.
"Shut the fuck up and take it like a man." It's so funny you can feel tears on your face.
"Shit...you're crying, aren't you?"
"No, I'm laughing." You roll your head around to face him, to prove you're not crying. You'd be embarrassed if you were crying. In theory. If you were any old normal guy.
"Whatever. You know, Roxas, this is getting fucking old."
"Then leave me behind," you say. "Dump me. Whatever. You're not doing yourself any favors."
You think he's really going to do it. That pointy jaw works for a moment, like trying to decide how to say you're such a cheapass bitch, get the fuck out of my room and out of my life.
But then he sits on you. Fucking sits on you. It's like a bad dream, because he's too close and his eyes are, you realize, not like Olette's at all. And then you have no excuse and it's not just a nightmare, it's a torture dream, except it's not a dream. He's sitting on you and expecting something. He's not a goddamn replacement and it's fucked up because that's what you want him to be.
Skit-fsh-hss. Your lighter. It always can save you from thinking with that little burn on your thumb.
Pray to the flames or to God or to the Great Pumpkin or whatthefuckever. Release me.
"Have you ever let anybody in? Have you been this closed off your entire fucking life?"
"Yeah, pretty much." It's the truth and you realize you wish it wasn't. Except trusting people is a death sentence.
"I love you," he tells you.
"Don't," you say.
"If I promise to leave you when I hear something I hate, will you just...fucking...tell me something? I know you. I know you don't have a job but you make enough money to live. I know you live by yourself and you're a writer but you don't share any of it. I know you have four sisters at your mom's house and you value them over most other things. I know you played violin until whatever happened to make you give up. I know your mom resents you and you were in love with that asshole, Riku. I know you love spaghetti but you never eat it. I know you...you blame yourself for things-"
"Stop," you say, but you don't try to push him off you. In a way, it's good to hear him say all of this. He's hurting you so bad. It's been a while since someone's hurt you in this way.
"Start," he counters.
So you tell. You explain how Riku thought you were Kairi's husband and you dyed your hair and everything and became Sora because you wanted him so fucking bad. You explain how he yelled and left you in that shithole motel, how he always knew there was something wrong, how he never really gave you a chance anyway cuz you were just a piece of ass he wanted and your personality was too flat, how he only let on he knew you weren't Sora because he realized you were in love with him.
You explain how you were such a fucking chore for so long and your mother should hate you a lot more than she does and you started smoking because she hates it and because it was kinda like smoking a joint, except fuck no, not like that at all, but it does calm you and you pray to the stupid flames and you explain how you don't deserve your sisters and you don't deserve Naminé and you don't deserve to live either, because you take things you don't deserve anyway.
You explain how Larxene only wanted you around because you were so boring, because she wanted to figure out what was inside your head, even though there really was nothing. You explain how she convinced you to fuck her, and then she went and disappeared like Riku.
You explain how all of a sudden Olette was dead and it's your fault, you spun her a tale of tragedy and it was like saying I support your death, you never sang her to the heavens like you wanted because you were too pussy to use your fucking voice, and your writing is toxic and you're toxic too.
You explain how you keep fucking up and you know he loves you and you shouldn't touch him, let go, stop it, because you don't deserve him and you led him on and you've ruined his body, tainted it, and don't fucking touch me, don't you get it?
He doesn't kiss you. He just holds you, around the shoulders like that, against his chest like that. You feel too light, like he's taken something from you. It's third-degree burns and knives through your chest and firecrackers and stinging like so many whips. Heaven, hell, both. Torture.
"I don't deserve to love you," you tell him, but he just holds tighter.
"Fucking deal," he says.