Lloyd never was the smartest kid in school, but even he knew that he shouldn't play with fire. But when the flames come in the form of a phoenix with dark brown eyes and a smile that could make him forget for a little while, maybe just this once he'd play the game. Because god knows he needed to forget, and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to remember anything anymore. Greenflame.

-Chapter 1-

Lloyd hadn't objected when his uncle had taken him to a rehab center in some godforsaken town he didn't care to know the name of. Truthfully, he was glad, as it got him just a bit farther from memories he wasn't too keen on remember. Of course, he'd be left alone in the hands of people he'd never really know; left to fight his own fights without a hand to hold or a voice faking sympathy to ease his heart. Although he was used to being without those things, he did enjoy the thought of such sentiments, and couldn't help but let the idea stay afloat for just a bit too long. There's a sharp tug at his hand, someone he says he knows leading him through the door, and then he's surrounded by white. He tries not to notice that he tightened his hold on his Uncle's hand, or that he's practically hyperventilating as a nurse walks up to him. No, it's just really cold and he's faking being the clingy little boy his Uncle knew so he'll get off his case, that's all.

"You must be Lloyd," the nurse's voice is too falsely sweet; too full of honey for his life made of vinegar. "Your counselor should be here in a couple of minutes to show you around, so please take a seat. Would you mind coming and filling out a bit of paperwork?" The question was directed at his Uncle, who nodded, releasing his hand and following her, leaving Lloyd standing in the empty waiting room.

It was the kind that filled horror movies: startling white walls, hard backed chairs with stiff fabric coating them to try and make them seem just a bit more appealing. He winced as the door finally shut, silencing his Uncle's calm voice and the nurse's sickly sweet questions. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, the blonde decided he might as well sit down, even if he refused to sit in one of those goddamn chairs. So, with a shaky sigh, he set his backpack into one of the chairs before sitting down in front of it, legs crossed over one another Indian style. The white tile was freezing, and his eyes were drawn to a pile of children's toys sitting forlornly in the corner of the room. He smiled softly, sadly, reaching up to pull his hood around his face. The fabric, despite all its years of being worn-all the memories it had gone through-was still a soft, welcoming distraction.

Tilting his head up, he looked at the lights, too nervous to pull out anything that could distract his thoughts even for a moment; old habits die hard and his were no exception. So, at the too bright lights he stared until spots appeared in his vision and he was forced to look away. A cigarette sounded nice, a shot even nicer, but he wasn't stupid. He may not want the help, may feel that he didn't need it, but everyone had always been smarter than him and knew that he needed help, and reluctant as he was he trusted them. Even though that trust was the reason he started in the first place, it was all he had. At least they had pretended enough to care to try and get him some help-had tried to act like a normal family that was concerned with their son's smoking habit, his addiction to alchohol six years too young.

Another sigh escaped his lips, shoulders rolling back to ease some of the stiffness already accumliating in his back. How long had it been? A few minutes? An hour? He never did have a good perception of time. It probably stemed from when things were almost okay-when he had his nose buried in some book or another that he managed to get lost in, forgetting everything until he was practically dragged to the table for some cheap take-out. He chuckled dryly, even though he almost liked the memory, it still wasn't rightfully his, and the laugh was more sad and frustrated than happy. "What does it mean to be happy again?" He whispered, softly, hesitantly, hopping against all the odds that someone, anyone, would take pity on him and answer.

"Some people say its their family; others say it's money. Some say drugs, others sex. But what about you? Doesn't anything make you smile, kid?" Lloyd didn't answer, lost in his thoughts. Did anything make him smile? He remembered, vaguely, laughing. Granted, he was probably higher than the Empire State Building, but it had felt genuine. "Yeah, once, maybe. When things were better; when we weren't a plastic family."

"That so? Sounds like you've been through a lot, kid. Tell ya what, how about you stop fretting about that plastic family of yours and come hang out with me." His head snaps up, and he's frantically looking around. A low chuckle greets his ears, and suddendly he's panicking. "Leave me alone," he's too quite; his voice is shaking too much. The laugh grows louder, and suddenly his hands are over his ears, clamping down on them tightly. "Go away!" he's not screaming, nobody can prove it. His voice isn't shaking-you can't prove that either. The voice keeps going, low chuckles and insults going back and forth, 'round and 'round his head until he's practically screaming for them to go away.

He's too hot, he's burning, burning, and the voice won't stop. Can't breathe, I can't breathe, how do you breathe again? Am I dead? I should be dead. Then I won't be able to hear him. Headphones-where are my headphones? Gotta get him to shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

And suddendly it's over, the hands on his ears held in a warm hand while another brushed the tears from his cheeks. "You don't have to tell me what's up, but you can talk to me, okay. Just talk to me."

"He's gone?" The stutter is there, and the hand on his cheek slows.

"He's gone now. You tell me if he ever shows up again and I'll take care of it, okay?" He nods, sniffeling, hands squirming until they were released. Rubbing at his eyes, Lloyd asked, hesitantly, "Who're you?"

"I'm Kai," the speaker is warm, even warmer than his hands, "I'm gonna be your counselor, if that's okay."

"You were late." The speaker-no, Kai-laughed, using the hand that had been holding his smaller ones to ruffle his hair affectionately.

"Yeah, sorry about that. My sister's cat got all lovey-dovey and refused to eat anything than tuna that had been microwaved for fifteen seconds, no more, no less. It took three different cans before she finally ate something." Lloyd smiled shyly, and Kai smiled back easily. "Do you want something to eat? Or do you want to take your stuff to your room first? Your choice."

"Room." He mumbled, and he watched at the warm teen stood up slowly. He was average height, taller than him by an inch or two, with brown hair messily spiked up in way that was too artful for bedhead but too messy to be anything else. His eyes were brown, warm like the rest of him, and they looked straight at him. "C'mon, let's go uh..."

"Lloyd, it's Lloyd."

"Lloyd," Kai says it slowly, gently, "nice. It's nice." He doesn't specify what is nice, but Lloyd has a feeling that it's him, and it makes him feel just a little warmer. Kai offers him a hand, and he takes it, reveling in the fact that he was so warm. He's nearly pulled into the taller boy's chest, and his face flushes and the boy laughs and it's almost okay. He can almost forget; forget that he's here because he's drinking and smoking and doing drugs he shouldn't even know exsist at fifteen.

"I'll carry your bag; all you have to do is hold my hand and don't let go." Kai brushes past him, slinging his backpack-his old, battered backpack-over a strong, red clad shoulder, before offering his hand again. "Taking my hand means you're going to go through hell and back; it means that you'll break every single bad habit you've ever made. But it also means that you won't be going in alone. Take my word for it, Lloyd; from here on out you won't be on your own."

Hands trembling, he takes the older boy's hand, almost afraid to look up. It's not fake sympathy, hell, it's not even pity, but it's nice and warm and he feels like he could drown in it. And he's so desperate, so depraved that he'll dive head first into this warm with a weight around his ankle and not even try to swim to the surface. Because Kai promised.

And Lloyd was tired of hearing broken promises.

So, Lloyd is fifteen, Kai is about eighteen. Lloyd's an addict, and is hearing voices *cough cough Overlord cough cough*.