Haii thurr. lol. so, this is my first story. i actually wrote a bit of an outline some time ago and finally got bored enough to write it. So yeah, uh..read it? Yeah? good idea. yes.

disclaimer: DO NOT OWN. just teh story line

Many young victims of divorced parents were spoiled; either by the mom, or the dad, or both, in a desperate attempt to buy their child's love. As if they're trying to make up for the fact that their marriage hadn't worked. Some kids are given ice cream, money, cars, or are taken out a lot, like to restaurants, movies. Or if one parent moved away, they would send everything by mail.

But Zexion was not one of those many. He was never given cars, money, and hell, sometimes not even food. The only thing he got from his mom and dad were headaches and bruises, respectively.

Zexion absentmindedly fingered a fading bruise on his upper left arm whose fingers were curled around the rusty chains of an old red swing, worn an odd salmon color from decades of pudgy, giggling children, plopping them selves down, and shouting at their parents to push them higher, higher, until the height made them scream with delight as they left their stomachs at the top. Zexion sighed.

For Zexion, bruises were a constant. They came in regular supply from his father. He had once been intrigued by them; their odd colors, mostly brown, sometimes green or purple; how they left an dull, unfocused hint of pain then poked, but were otherwise out of mind. But he quickly learned that they were all the same. They all hurt, and they all said the same thing: he was a nobody. He meant nothing, and deserved what he got.

Not only was it bad enough that his dad hit him, he couldn't even talk to his mother about it. His mother had an odd memory problem. She was not able to remember anything about her family or her life after she got married. For some reason, she thought she was herself from 15 years ago. She set food outside the door every day for a cat that wasn't there, and rode her bicycle to work her old shift at Hy-vee. The Hy-vee manager had at first been miffed at her determination to arrive every day at 9:00 am despite the fact that she had no job. But once, he had asked her how old she was, and she had replied 25, very seriously, he had determined that something was amiss, and kindly gave her a job restocking shelves. At the time, she had been 40, and even though that is not considered old, it was apparent with her features.

So Zexion couldn't really talk to her. He'd tried before. She'd either call him Dean, her old paper boy, he supposed, and give him a dollar and a quarter, or if he actually made it in, he'd start talking about his dad, and she would get nervous and suspicious of how Zexion knew her, and ask him to leave. So it would do no good to tell her about his father. So Zexion didn't try anymore. He didn't try talking to his parents, and he didn't try talking to other people. So, resultingly, he had no friends. Swinging idly, dragging his feet, Zexion sighed. Who would want to be his friend anyway? He was a horrible person; people made sure he knew that, every day at school. Well, not everybody. The people that could bully him, would. The others would just stand by and watch, afraid to stand up for him for fear of who they were standing up to. So they would just ignore how Zexion was kicked, hit, tripped, teased, stolen from, made fun of because of his hair, his clothes, his grades (no matter what they were, though Zexion commonly had A's), and even his mom, who they all knew about, because she did work at Hy-vee. So often times Zexion was left kneeling in the middle of his scattered papers, degraded to the ground, eyes downcast, as the bell rang for next period.

Public humiliation every single day. He hated the feeling of it, swirling in his gut, stinging behind his eyes; how it made him feel worthless. But there was nothing he could do. He was small, weak, and startling skinny from lack of food. His father provided cereal for breakfast every day to avoid, Zexion supposed, getting busted for child abuse. But he left Zexion to fend for himself for the other two meals of the day. School provided lunch, but since Zexion had no money and no friends, he often went without supper. Today he had had only breakfast (cornflakes today), because most of his lunch had been knocked to the floor by a "clumsy" kid on his way to his table. How he had fallen around three kids and over his backpack off at an angle from a potted plant and had succeeded in knocking only Zexion's food off his tray to the floor, he had a suspicion, but did not voice it. He would just have to hide better next time. So, seeing as it was now approaching supper time, Zexion was appropriately ravenous. His stomach growled out loud, and he sighed again. Digging the toes of his ratty sneakers into the dirt, he thought about food.

Zexion had been alone in the park this whole time (which is why he had chosen to come, because it was deserted. It was suppertime), so he was rightfully surprised when a boy about his age thumped down in the swing next to him and greeted him rather loudly with a cheery "Hiya!"

With only one had on the swing and his toes still in the dirt, the action of twisting most of his body around to see the noisy intruder caused him to fall backwards off the swing with a thud.

"Ohmigod, are you all right?" the stranger panicked, jumping up from his swing in alarm.

He didn't know what to do with himself, Zexion noted as he mumbled "um...I'm fine..." from his place on the ground. He hoisted himself back onto his swing wincing at both the new bruise on his tail bone, and the bruise on his pride.

"I'm so sorry about that. Didn't mean to scare you.." the stranger said, sitting gingerly back down on his own swing. "My name's Demyx."

Zexion blinked at the sudden supply of unrequested information and stared at the boy for a few long seconds before he realized that he was now supposed to give his name.

"My name is...Zexion." He couldn't remember the last time he had told someone his name. But that tidbit of information seemed to please this Demyx boy greatly, for he broke out in a huge grin. He was actually an interesting sight. He didn't smile like most people; he put his whole face into it. His cheeks were brushed with pink, and his eyes sparkled brightly, like sun on a pool of water. He had what looked like the love child of a mohawk and a mullet, and an elegant, creamy neck, which was the only other bit of skin showing besides his face, because he was wearing what seemed to be a black trench coat with combat boots. His slender, gloved fingers were curled around the chains of the swing tightly as though he was afraid that he too would fall off the swing as he turned his body to face Zexion.

To face him. Him. Zexion realized that he was staring and that Demyx was still smiling that amazing smile. He quickly looked away, ashamed with himself. He had made eye contact. Eye contact was forbidden for him. His father hit him for it, and the kids at school noticed him when he did it. But those weren't really the main reasons why Zexion avoided eye contact. To him, looking into someone's eyes was like looking into their soul, and often times he didn't like what he saw there. Hatred and malice were common, but mostly what he saw was pity, and pity was the feeling that Zexion hated most. It seemed that being himself made people feel sorry for him. It made him feel even weaker than he already was. It was hard to put into words, really. Grateful he hadn't looked into Demyx's eyes too long, he got up to leave.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Demyx asked, scrambling to fall in line next to Zexion as he walked away. "Can I follow you?"

Zexion faltered in his step, then stopped. He darted his eyes around, looking anywhere but at Demyx, who had stopped next to him and turned to face him. Why? Whatever for?

"Where?" he asked quietly, confused.

"Well, wherever you're going!" Demyx smiled again.

"I...I'm going to my father's house..." he admitted.

"Well!" Demyx said, his body showing just how excited he was to start walking on a journey to a new place. "I'll follow you home!"

Zexion started to walk again, Demyx quickly falling in step beside him. "I wouldn't really call it...'home' exactly."

"Demyx furrowed his eyebrows. "But you live there, right?"

Zexion, after a few steps, turned his head slightly without really looking at Demyx and opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it and looked straight ahead again. Then just as Demyx was going to ask what he was going to say, Zexion turned his head towards him again and said, choosing his words carefully, this time looking at Demyx's neck instead of a nearby tree, "There's a difference between where you live and what you call home."