"You're so nice, and you're so smart. You're such a good friend; I have to break your heart."
It's getting to the point where he's outright avoiding her—ducking around the corners in the hallway, sprinting back home on a different path to prevent from seeing her face. He shuts his phone off whenever he sees the Nokia lighting up with an Incoming: Naminé.
Incoming, indeed.
Sora, who sits next to him in Spanish and hasn't talked to him (really talked to him, that is) since eighth grade, unlocks his face from Kairi's and says, "Hey, do you dig her or what?"
"The fuck?" Roxas snarls and feels a bit terrible when Sora flinches. But not terrible enough to apologize like he means it. "Uh, hang on." He's got a text from Naminé—meet up after Spanish? I miss you! Luv Nami.
Sora jabs his finger at Roxas's phone, helpfully telling him that he has four missed calls. "She's all over you like white on rice, huh?" he laughs, tapping the Nokia's screen. His hands are greasy and smell of french fry oil. This isn't surprising—Kairi, in an attempt to act like she actually cares about Sora and his idiocy, buys him lunch from Wendy's everyday. This (and making out with him between classes) is the extent of her affection. Besides, word on the street is that the school's sweetheart has a thing for Olette, anyways—in a weird, keep-it-on-the-down-low way.
Because cheerleaders don't date the captain of the Mathletes, despite whatever movies the public may've been exposed to.
"So, Rox." Sora says, edging his stupid idiot moronic good-looking future-frat-boy face into Roxas's face, "You boink her yet?"
He flips him off—and does not give a shit when Sora's face falls.
[x]
Saturday brings booze and weed and Hayner chugging shot after shot and lining sugar up against Kairi's bared stomach amid her yowlings of, "Watch it, okay? I just got this shirt! Do not mess this up!" Pence is making bongs out of apples and hiding them in the cupboard where Luxord bleats that youcan'tfuckingdothatmymomwillflip! and Olette is rolling her eyes and her hips and her fingers in some bizarre come-hither-fellow-lesbos to the girl across the room, who looks like she's interested but too busy giving Xigbar a lap dance to move away.
It is bursting with people. Roxas presses his fingers to the wall and imagines people spilling out, bodies fastened together and oozing out into the road.
Sora is going, going, gone—doing body-shots with Riku, too drunk for anyone to plaster his face to their blog "that homo". Someone's gone and invited Xemnas—who is crazy as hell and twice is good-looking; he's parading around the room in his boxers—the girls mewl in disgust and snap pictures with their phones. Luxord looks like he's hysterical—eyes rimmed red as he watches Vexen and Rikku and Saix and jeez, his little teenybopper-eighth-grade-shiny-shoed-n-pigtailed sister, Alice (poor kid) do lines on his mama's coffee table. He goes appropriately batshit. Youguyshavetostopmymomisgonnaflip! The music is too loud and too awful and he can hear Sora screaming, "I'm gonna slap a BITCH!" in the background, his voice shot to hell and back.
It's more hysteria than anything, and he knows this better than anyone. He was this just seven weeks ago. Average high-and-mighty stoner with zero to negative common sense but the ability to build a bong with his eyes closed. What was wrong with him? He should be inside doing body shots, licking sugar off of Kairi's collarbone, maybe boning Naminé in Luxord's bed, her nails digging into his back and listening to everyone turn down the dial and listen in like they paid for it at the movies.
Except he doesn't do much weed anymore (Naminé won't buy it, Demyx won't give it), and body shots bother him 'cause he's never quite sure what to do with his hands. And he and she had tried to do the whole we're-young-we're-in-love-or-at-least-we-hope-so thing and have sex but—touching her body kind of made him want to puke.
There is nothing left in that house for him.
"Emo much?"
He cranes his neck upward to see Demyx, who appears to be taking up the entirety of the night sky. He even appears to block up the music—just yards and yards of Demyx and his smirking face.
"Shut up." His chin hits his chest and Demyx collapses next to him. He folds his knees up to his chest and taps a finger on the ground.
"How- have- you – been - ?" He speaks like he's got something wrong with him. Brain damage, aphasia, something like that.
I'm fine, thanks. And yourself? "I'm really sick of your sister. Maybe if she'd go away, I think I could miss her."
There are a thousand other things to say here—don't you love my sister, don't you dare talk about her like that, don't you go and leave her like that when you were the one who wanted her so badly in the first place, don't you dare tell her that. Don't. You. Dare.
Demyx is quiet and the quiet is too loud.
"I think," Demyx says through chapped lips and carefully-crafted concern, "that you should be telling her this, not me. What am I gonna do about it?"
Roxas—seventeen-years-young, self-pitying, sorrysicksweetheart Roxas—grips onto Demyx's forearm like he's got something (anything) to lose.
"Exactly, man." he rasps. "What am I gonna do about it?"
[x]
1:45:56 a.m. Roxas is kissing Demyx is kissing Roxas is kissing like he needs a lifeline and Demyx is most precious thing he's seen for days.
[x]
"I'm not supposed to do this."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"Well, I don't."
[x]
He wonders why he didn't hear the heels on the pavement.
Maybe it's because she never wears heels—always sandals or sneakers or bare, toes skimming the ground.
But he definitely hears her voice.
"I—Ro—Dem—you're joking."
Where's the punch line? Can we laugh now? You ready?
"I thought you…"
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
"But you said—"
"—Give me a chance to."
"—You love me! You DO! You told me, over and over and over and over—DAMMIT, ROXAS, YOU LOVE ME WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
(this is a joke that nobody realizes is funny until everyone stops crying).
[x]
Demyx wraps himself up like he's got somewhere to go and looks at Roxas in a way that feels pathetic but looks pitying. His sister turns and runs—heels snapping off on the concrete.
"See you tomorrow?"
Roxas doesn't look at him. "I dunno, maybe."
[x]
But he doesn't. He doesn't see Demyx tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that or in any day that comes after. It's a shame. He kind of misses him.
Naminé doesn't even show up. He doesn't miss her much.
On a Sunday morning, before Roxas heads to Hayner to worship with a case of Mike's Hard Lemonade and illegal videos from Malaysia, he sees chalk scraped over his house. It's clumped in the corners and brightbrightbright blue, punctuated with a lopsided frowny-face.
I HAVE LOVED YOU, says one side of the house.
IN SECRET, says the entirety of the other side.
And by the front door, there's a little scribbling of poetry or prose or whatever. Mom's gonna kill me.
He flips his phone and captures it before his mother élans out of the window and shrieks her displeasure, waking up half the neighborhood.
you just had to have your
cake and eat it too,
didn't you? but i'm under the ground
& i'm still loving you & i still want
you more than anything
His phone buzzes, and he hears the amused voice of someone who hasn't gotten high in a while but desperately wishes they had. "Roxas?"
"Speaking. Who's this?"
"Your fairy godmother, baby. All of your wishes are coming true, ain't it great? They love you, babe, they really, really love you! Enough to put up with your shit, enough to wipe out entire cities. They really, really love you. So—congrats, kiddo."
"Who is this? Pence? This isn't funny."
"Give you a penny for your thoughts if I ever thought you had any. One that's not about yourself, m'boy, keep it in the clear, now."
"What the f—who is this?"
"Someone who loves you." The laughter is out-of-sync and strangely pleasing. It reminds him of cracked earth and babies not being born. "I love you, kid, enough to hurt you and break you and hurt you all over again, watch you bleed and—"
Call Ended.
"Fuckin' weirdo."
One (1) New Message.
hey rox check under the tarp theres a surprise for you--xoxo A
--And there are bodies at the bottom of the pool that his dad never got around to clearing the water out of, their eyes shining like wet chalk, like dead stars.
a/n: Lyrical credit to Kimya Dawson. The lack of people reviewing versus those who story-alert it astounds me. Review, guys, c'mon.