This one-shot has nothing to do with any of my other stories. It doesn't connect in any way. Ok, I'll admit I was inspired by Frozen to write this, but hopefully it isn't as predictable and stuff like that. Let me know what you think, and thank you for giving this a read!

The tray rattled in Jack's hands as he stood in front of the door, bringing one of his tenant's favorite dinners. Well, it must've been one of his favorites, because there were only a few he cleaned the plate of. Others just sat there with a few nibbles taken out. Jack set the tray on the floor. With one shaky hand, he rapped his knuckles on the wood of the door.

And then he turned and walked away.

It had been years since Jack returned from the island with the other boys, and he himself felt like he was finally alright again. Now he was twenty years old, had a good job, a nice house, and a solid financial foundation. However, not everyone was doing so well. Roger was sent to an insane asylum for six years, and in that time, Jack visited him almost every day. He worked hard to gain enough money to get Roger out of there—the constant screaming of other patients and the impractical "care" Roger was receiving was only making things worse for him. So Jack had bailed him out, so to speak. He brought him back to his large house. Immediately, Roger took a liking to the room down at the very end of the hall; after he went in to unpack what little belongings he possessed, Jack never saw him again. Roger just never left the room. The only way his redheaded friend knew he was still there was because he'd go in and check every night at midnight; quietly open the door, peek his head in, see a sleeping little bundle tucked under the many blankets Jack provided on the bed.

And he'd leave little bits of food on the plate of every meal Jack left at the door.

It had been nearly two years of this—this constant silence in the house, the gloomy hallway, the shut door. When Jack had gone to get him out of the asylum, he expected it would be a good thing, and that Roger would enjoy having sane company for once as he lived out his life. But he'd always locked himself away. He hadn't even given it a chance. Jack wanted his best friend back. He hated hearing sniffles and sneezing while he stood in the hallway, knowing that he couldn't get in to go wrap Roger in a warm blanket and get him some medicine to reduce his flu. He hated sitting at the dinner table alone, knowing that he could have someone in the chair across from him. He hated going to pick up the plate outside the door and see that only a bite or two was taken out of the sandwich, or the soup was only stirred, or the beef just had one small corner cut off.

Another awful part was that Roger didn't talk.

Sometimes Jack would stand at the door and tell the little ghost boy about his day, ask him to come out. Not a single word. Ever. That night, Jack went back to pick up the tray of dishes that he hoped looked a little used. Through the dim light he walked slowly. Nothing on the tray had even been touched. The door hadn't even been opened. Jack's heart gave a lurch—Roger had given up. He knew it was bound to happen; eventually the young man would just get tired of living and completely shut himself out from the rest of the world. So Jack knocked on the door. Tears built up and his throat choked. But then, a soft, silvery sound whispered from the other side of the wood.

"P-P…P-Please…"

Jack's breath hitched. Roger was speaking. He was speaking again, this was what he'd been waiting for! In a moment, the door would open up and Jack would finally see him standing there, not lying asleep in bed, and everything would be ok. He'd fall into Jack's arms and let himself be consoled…finally, things were going to get better—

"L-Leave…me…a-alone…."

A million knives stuck themselves into Jack's heart. No, it was getting worse now. Roger had spoken. But it had been a plea, a command. A command to be left alone. Jack didn't know why he left. He shouldn't have, because what if something were to happen to Roger that he could've stopped? But he walked away. He walked down the hall. Shivering, shaking, crying. He left Roger as he wanted to be. His friend would die—he'd probably take his own life in that room, and eventually the plates outside the door would pile up with rotting food because Jack would always keep pretending that there wasn't a dead body in there, that Roger was still around. The thoughts terrorized Jack that night as he lay in bed, wondering how long he'd be able to be able to play along. Wouldn't that make him insane too? So he swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulling himself up, making that long, cold trek down the hall again. He opened the door.

Roger wasn't asleep.

He was sitting on his bed, the single desk lamp the only source of light in the corner of the room. He was staring at his hands. Jack stepped inside quietly. They stared at each other for a while, just looking into the eyes they only remembered, hadn't seen for years. "P-P…Please…" Roger began again. Jack's eyes filled with tears. He didn't want to be shut out again. He didn't want to be left alone. "H-Help me…" The moment those tiny words were softly spoken from Roger's lips, Jack's walls broke and he ran to the bed. He gathered his small friend up into his arms, rocking him, crying, sobbing. It was so painful to hear Roger admit that he needed more help—all that wasted time in the horrid asylum…it had done nothing for him. Through the oceans of tears, Jack nodded. He held onto him for the rest of the night, afraid that if he let go everything would go back to the way it was, the way he hated. And in the morning when he went to fix breakfast…

Roger left the door open.