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Guess-A-Sketch 04
AnOtic
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I goddamn hate being here. It's the biggest waste of time.
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There's this laughably short table by the door, with children's seats on either side of it. That's where I like to sit, on the midget table. I have my feet on each of the chairs and my history textbook open in front of me. I reach for the Rainbow Pony eraser, or whatever it's called, and rub the last crappy sentence of my essay into Lethe.
The therapist is sitting in the window armchair. For the most part, he doesn't really bother me. He just lets me get my homework done, which is a pretty good deal. In just one relatively unpainful hour, I can get my dad off my back about two things: a) school and b) the big, bad devil inside me.
Goddamn prick.
I'm thinking about moving out on my own. I was looking at apartments the other day, and I could probably room with Axel. He'd be cool with that, I think.
"Who's Axel?"
Had I said that out loud?
I look over to the psychologist. He's regarding me with that cold, distant look of his. He's got blue eyes, close to the colour of Sora's, but they couldn't be more different. "He's a friend," I say curtly. It almost makes me laugh, but I'm not sure how else to describe our relationship in one word.
I could probably nail it in two words, and call him a fuck buddy.
But that wouldn't be so correct anymore, and I doubt this prim and proper bastard of a therapist would accept that well. He'd probably preach some Christian shit about Jesus rolling over in his tomb every time someone decides to engage in premarital sex.
"Are you and your father still having troubles?"
I give the man a good stare down, even glaring a little. It's really a lot like a game: as long as I stay silent, he'll stay silent, too. The only rules are that if I talk about it, my dad wins; and if I don't, I win. This way, I've been winning for the past month. The idiot just sits there and watches me, as if I'm supposed to say something. I figure I can humour him this time – after all, I've been nothing but rude since I started these "sessions", and it's not really the poor guy's fault. He's just doing his job.
"I'm still here, aren't I?"
I go back to my history paper. He goes back to whatever the hell it is he does over there. A few moments pass in silence, as the rest of our session has, but I find it intolerable now that I've actually spoken. I look back up, and he's still watching me like a creeper.
"Is it about time-up, yet?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "You've got a good ten minutes to go." Then he turns his head to the side, wonderingly. "If you're done your paper, could you do an Etch-A-Sketch for me?"
I scoff, remembering the toy I'd taken to playing with during my long hours in this hellhole of an office.
"I don't feel like it today," I say boredly.
I cast him another once-over. I don't feel too bad for being a rude little brat, 'cause the guy is getting paid for this. I bet mine is the easiest hour's worth of work he's ever done. A part of me likes the idea that my dad is paying a pretty penny for virtually nothing, 'cause he's a goddamn jackass. Another part of me is just pissed off at the idea of being here. Like there's something wrong with me, that he can just pay someone to extricate it from me.
My history paper has been abandoned on the floor. I'm still watching the counsellor, and his icy blue eyes hold mine. What's his name again? I'm pretty sure it's either Leonhart or Strife – those were the names on the office door. I should know this by now. Mybye his name is Leonhart Strife.
How ugly.
"Doesn't this seem like a waste of time to you?" I surprise myself at how conversational I am today. I suppose I can still win if I just remember to play my hands right. Talking isn't so bad, as long as I keep control of the conversation – I have to be the one questioning.
"Not at all." He shakes his head, smooth and cool, with the same fluid, detached motion that's in his eyes.
"I sit here and do nothing for nearly a full hour twice a week. That's not a waste?" I ask, as full of attitude as ever.
"You do your homework," he says, gesturing towards the textbook on my lap. "That's not a waste."
"Don't you have something better you could be doing? Don't you have like a waiting list of clients?"
The therapist smiles at this. No, he's smirking. 'Smile' is too friendly a word to apply to this guy's facial features. He leans forwards and rests his elbows on his knees; he's damn good at keeping up a stare. "I might be too optimistic in thinking this, but I believe the time you spend here does help you. Whatever your problems are with your family, this is at least an hour of your day that you don't have to deal with it. This is an hour where you can sit in peaceful silence and finish some schoolwork."
I frown. He made that sound cool, somehow.
" 'Whatever my problems are?'You mean, my dad never told you why I'm here?"
He raises a thin, blond eyebrow at me. He doesn't answer, and I understand this to mean 'no'.
A hint of a grin begins to spread on my face. It's kind of ironic: I've been resenting this counsellor heavily for nearly four weeks, for everything he knew about me, for every judgement he probably made about me. It was likely because my father was the one who sent me here that I figured this man was another one just like him.
Intolerant.
But I guess I was the one assuming things about him. I suppose this still doesn't mean anything much. I won't be caught off guard. I can't lose this game.
"What did he say to you?" I ask.
The therapist's cold eyes roll to the side for a moment, to his left. That means he's remembering. "That you're a confused young man, that you're rebellious and refuse to listen to reason, and that you have several issues that you need to work through before moving out into the world next year."
When he finishes he remains staring off to the left. It makes me wonder if he's going to say anything more, but it is quiet for a long time and he just sits there with that stupid, distant look on his face.
"So, what do you think?"
"About what?" He looks to me now, and it's kind of unnerving. I've never spoken so much with him before.
"About my issues," I say in a near mocking tone.
The lines of blond above his eyes both draw downwards, moving towards eachother. He studies me carefully. I wonder vaguely if he's only reciting words my father has given to him for me. Then he speaks, slow and lazy, with a deep voice. "I think if you need to talk about your 'issues', then you will. If you don't, then I think spending time here gives you a good break from your father. Besides, he's the one paying for it, isn't he?"
I think I like his voice. It really has a beautiful sound to it.
I smirk at this. "I'll let my old man know you're scamming him."
He just nods, and looks like a space-out once more. I want to ask him something so he'll speak again with that voice. I like conducting our conversation.
"I'm gay," I blurt.
It takes approximately two miliseconds for my heart to shoot up into my mouth, and I choke on all my inner organs that are dragged with it. I'm rendered speechless, so I can't take my statement back. I can only sit here and wonder stupidly why I had to ruin my chances with that nice voice. Here comes the Jesus speech now. I've shown my cards.
I look back up at him, and he's staring at me with an unreadable expression. They're awful, those eyes. It's like they give frost bite. I notice his knitted sweater, nicely form-fitting I might add, is a deep navy that all along has been accentuating that cold gaze. He looks like he's sick with me.
Then again, you never know what's going on behind that lazy face.
Time seems to be standing still – time should already be up, shouldn't it? He said there was only a few minutes left, didn't he? He's leaning forward still, moves his hand up to rest his chin on. He's thinking, thinking, watching me. I'm going to be the one that's sick. He opens his mouth now, eyes still fixed on me, and speaks in that voice, "Your father… doesn't tolerate this?"
But I'm yelling already. It's hard to stop myself, so my words come out something inarticulately like, "Look, I'm goddamn tired of fucks like y-!You…? What did you just say?"
"He's intolerant, right?"
"Y-yeah." I dumbly answer. I blink, realise that I'm stuttering, and clear my throat, swallowing down my stomach and intestines again. This is not right; he's the one in control right now. I struggle for the reins again. "Did you know?"
He shrugs and stands, stretching with a small yawn. "I can put two and two together is all." He points to my bookbag. "You better get your stuff in order. Time's up."
Then he walks out into the other room.
I linger momentarily, wary of the therapist in the next room. He acts like it's nothing, like it's unimportant. I've just revealed to him my biggest, most painful secret, and he does nothing but walk out on me. He doesn't even address the issue itself, as if it isn't an issue at all. I'm sure he'd like me to believe that. I am aware that someone like him would be after my trust in order to get me to talk, and my trust has to be under heavy guard because of it. This is a part of the game, too; I can't lose after holding out this long.
I glance at the clock, and I'm five minutes late to pick up Sora. We were supposed to go to Vivi's for coffee – it's been two weeks since I've even spoken to him, excluding the awkward phone call last night.
I jam all my crap into my bag and rush out. When I pass the therapist at his desk, he stops whatever he's typing and looks up at me. I have to pause, and I nod to him in a small bow. I'm not sure if I can say anything to him now, but I feel like I should. I flounder on the spot for a moment, summoning the far reaches of my vocabulary.
"Thank you," I manage. Awkwardly, I search for the next words, and I remember that I don't know his name. I risk it with, "Mr. Strife."
He just stares blankly at me for a while, and I wonder if I've gotten his name wrong. Leonhart, then. He must be Leonhart. I'm about to correct myself, and I'm just thinking how odd all of this is. Usually, I merely walk out of here like the arrogant brat I tend to be, without anything resembling a goodbye. But I've realised something about him now, even though I'm not sure what it is.
"My parents immediately kicked me out of the house when I came out."
"Huh?" I ask stupidly. I've never felt more retarded in my life than during this less-than-eloquent conversation with this Leonhart guy now.
"I was fifteen."
It's always disorienting to realise how little you know about a person.
"Good luck, Riku," he says to me.
"Aa, thank you, Mr.–" I'm about to say Leonhart, but he interrupts me.
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"You can just call me Cloud."
Talking is definitely dangerous.
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"Sora, it's for you!"
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The boy in front of me was one I remembered, though barely. He had this what-the-hell-do-you-want kind of expression when he answered the door. His deep, aquamarine eyes were exactly like Sora's, but when they narrowed at me in that way, I knew they couldn't possibly have any relation to those of my closest friend. I know Sora's eyes well. These eyes that turn back to me again now, resting haughtily on me and moving up and down my body, I know they are both the most alike and most unlike things to the source of Sora's gentle, ocean-coloured vision.
"He'll be a second," the boy says to me.
I know his name. Irino Roxas. Sora often speaks of him. His infamous blond hair is in the flipped style customary for your average emo. It's nothing special; in fact, it's fluffed, and messy in an almost organized way. I watch it carefully, wondering why Sora talks about this kid's hair like it's out of a magazine.
Then, I hear Sora's voice bellowing through the small building. The blond in front of me twists slightly to better listen.
"Who is it?!" The one inside screams in the same manner his twin does.
The boy Roxas makes a face, annoyed-like, turning to me again. "He wants to know who it is."
"I can tell," I answer cautiously. The blond is still staring me up and down. I have to look down at him because he has Sora's same genes. He's a bit taller, though.
"I'm Riku. I used to hang out with you when we were younger," I offer.
His mouth twists, and his eyes squint a little before relaxing again in an almost stoic way. "I'm Roxas," he says. "I don't remember you."
I nod. It's quiet for a second, then:
"Right. Let me get Sora for you." He turns and sticks the top half of his body through the door, leaning against the wooden frame as he shouts. "His name is Ricco!"
"Who?!"
"Riku," I supply.
"Riku!" It is relayed in Irino-speak.
An incoherent, jumbled shout is returned. Then stomping noises.
"He's happy to see you," Roxas translates for me. I nod again. He opens the door wider, steps aside for me. "I guess if you want, you can come in and wait."
"Aa…" I don't know why this is so awkward. Mybye it's because I'm more of a resident of this house than the little snot in front of me and he's treating me like an absolute stranger. Like I don't have a voice myself, that I can yell at Sora to get his ass down here. Actually, I normally just walk in. However, I decided to be polite on my first day back, and knock like any normal person.
Now this.
"Thanks, but I think-"
Sora chooses this moment to come barelling through the open doorway, and pounces on me. All of his hundred and twenty pounds are thrown at me so hard I almost lose my balance. Luckily, I don't, and I hold my ground, horribly conscious of the blond Roxas' glare as he watches us.
"RIKU! When did you get into town?!"
"Aa…" I can feel him under my hands now, as my arms fall around the boy's waist. Sora's a skinny little guy. My face grows warm as I hold him, and his shining blue depths stare up at me happily. It's an embarassing kind of reunion, especially with the closeby scrutiny of his twin brother.
"I guess you can handle it from here," said brother mumbles, wandering back into the house and leaving us alone on the doorstep.
I step away awkwardly, try to redirect myself properly. I push Sora off of me and stand back with my hands in my pockets, clearing my throat loudly and trying to find a line for conversation. The thought of Vivi's floats to the surface of my mind.
"Are you ready to go, then?"
Sora turns his cute brunet head to the side, curious. "Go where?"
"Aa… didn't I tell you yesterday?"
I can feel my face heat up. I remember calling him, yes. I was a little distracted at the time, and possibly intoxicated. In such a state, I can't be sure what I might have said to him.
Sora screws up his face at me, his eyes rolling slowly over to the left. That means he's remembering. "Yeah, you called at, like, one in the morning."
"Two."
Both Sora and I look over through the doorway, where his twin's head is frowning from around a corner. I thought he was gone. The blond glares as he repeats himself. "It was two in the morning," he nods to me.
Then he disappears again into the kitchen.
Sora explains to me in a low whisper, "Roxas is a little grumpy today. He didn't get enough beauty sleep last night."
I suppose that would be courtesy of me and my late-night, under-the-influence phone call, but I decide that I don't want to go there, simply because it would be too annoying to deal with. Emo boy can resent me or whatever he wants; so long as Sora doesn't seem to care, I'll be fine.
Once we're safely in my car – a jet black '68 Camaro, my pride and joy – an awful unease settles in me. Sora is his usual bouncy self, face fresh and cheeks pink from smiling. His eyes have the same spark in them as always; if I'm lucky, he's forgotten the conversation last night entirely. But, thinking about it now, I'm fairly certain that it must have been at best awkward on Sora's end of the line.
The truth is, I'd had a few drinks. Axel had also been passing around a joint for the four of us: me, him, and his buddies Demyx and Marluxia. I'm not really big on dope, I only indulged a little, but I'm sure it was enough to effect me somewhat. All in all, I'm pretty sure that I wasn't exactly myself on the phone. That and the fact that Axel had followed me when I left the group, started sticking his hands under my… clothes, while I was trying to talk to Sora. Obviously he'd sufficiently distracted me and I'd forgotten to mention that I was coming home today.
I'm already thinking of excuses now; in all likelihood, Sora's going to ask me about last night. He's going to bring up how strange I'd sounded – probably because I was trying, and failing, to fight off a certain redhead from the fly of my jeans. There's not many excuses I can come up with, either. He's innocent and kind of immature, but despite all appearances I know he's far from an idiot. My potemkin reasons always have to be flawless.
He stops talking now, looks at me seriously, sizing me up, like. I panic for a moment, wondering whether I should have been listening for the last block of his mindless chatter. I start to nod, purse my lips in a way that could be interpreted as anything from 'I understand where you're coming from' to 'I have to go so bad I'm about to piss my pants,' neither of which, of course, is true.
A silence passes for a moment; I pause at a stop sign. As I inch forward a little, taking more care than needed in this perfectly empty street, Sora inhales like he's about to say something. "Riku…" he starts.
I brace myself, deciding at the last minute that I'll skip the dumb act and go with the I-was-about-to-apologize-for-that route. But this is Sora, and I guess it just wouldn't be if I could predict what he was going to say.
With genuine curiosity, he asks, "Have you ever had dreams come true?"
I pause, remember that I'm supposed to be driving, and steer the car forward before answering with a offhanded, "Yeah, sure."
"Really?"
I frown, look over at him. His wide blue eyes are focused solely on me, scrutinizing in a way that makes me feel like I'm under a spotlight. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks and quickly turn my attention back to the road. I can't shake the feeling of that brunet in the seat beside me, watching me with that adorable quizzical look, his innocent, tanned face tipped to the side.
"Yeah, sure," I manage again. I have to clear my throat a little to get it out.
"Hmn…" he replies unevenly.
I feel like I'm supposed to, so I ask, "Why?"
"Well, the other night, I had a dream that my head was full of butter."
This throws me off for two reasons: first, I'd figured that he was talking about dreams as ambitions or wishes; second, the statement was just so randomly Sora-ish that it could throw anybody off. I'm not sure what to say, or if I should reply at all. He stays silent for a while, expectant.
"Okay," I say, to show that I've heard him.
He still doesn't reply, and I suddenly realise that we're already passing Vivi's. Goddamnit. I give a rather sharp turn, without any time to use the blinker. The car behind me gives a loud, angry honk while passing, but I just disregard the asshole and put my Camaro in park.
"Thanks, Riku," Sora smiles at me in a way that renders me completely speechless, then unbuckles himself and hops out of the car. After giving myself a quick shake, I reach over to lock his door, and then follow.
He passes silently through the doorway before me, staring dead ahead with a look of contemplation. Right behind him, I notice the strange, hooded cartoon creature hanging above the doorway. Yellow eyes glow out of his obscured, dark face, and he's a squat little thing, painted on the sign that reads 'Vivi's Coffee Shop'. I don't like him much; Sora does, though. Thinks he's cute. We used to argue about whether or not the creature was Vivi himself, until one day Sora stomped up to the counter and asked.
He'd been right.
The brunet is already ordering himself a hot chocolate by the time I catch up. "Sora," I whisper, jostling him in the side, "hot chocolate is for winter. I invited you out for coffee today."
By now, the aproned idiot behind the counter has frozen midstep with a mug in hand, staring between the two of us. I just smirk at Sora, and he puffs his cheeks at me angrily. He's always hated coffee.
"C'mon, Riku," he whines. "You know I don't need any more universal powers out there trying to stunt my growth!"
Come to think of it, now that I've seen the infamous older version of Roxas, it makes sense that Sora would be so self conscious about his height. By far, he's the shorter twin.
"Coffee is not a universal power," I mutter, butting him out of the way and addressing the confused barista. "House blend, please. I just want it black."
He nods, turns to fetch the drink, and I look back to Sora. "I'm not paying for your hot chocolate, loser. It's either coffee or you're on your own."
"Ehh?!" His amazingly blue eyes widen at me. I have to bite my tongue, hard, and look away from him in order to hold my ground, but he's pulling my sleeve and whining already. Loudly.
One great hassle later, in which I fork over all the cash, we are both seated at a circular little table, me with my lame pick-me-up after a long drive in and a lame therapy session, which we do not speak of, and Sora happily clutching his own beverage. He ended up with a steaming Caffè Mocha, extra chocolate. He was leaning over the counter and shouting directions throughout the whole process, and eventually came out with the tiniest shot of caffiene, expense free. I glare at the table and curse my soft spot for the guy.
"So, when did you get back?"
Our eyes meet from across the table, and the look in his eyes nearly makes me choke. He usually doesn't stare at me so much, and I can feel myself flush with warmth at all the attention. Normally, I can handle attention, hell, I bask in it. I can flirt with anyone, guy or girl, but when it comes to Sora I'm nothing more than a flustered little schoolboy, and it just makes me nauseous.
I quickly stare into my coffee mug, sipping it for an excuse even though it's scalding hot. I hold a straight face as my tastebuds slowly melt away – I probably won't be able to taste anything all week – and mumble a reply. "A few hours ago. I would've come to get you sooner, but I had-" Shit. I just had to go and open my mouth, didn't I? "-Had to do something for my dad. Y'know, family bonding stuff."
As far as Sora knows, I'm as painfully overachieving and normal as my father wants me to be. Top grades, limitless popularity, athletic and musical at the same time, and most certainly not a current psychiatric patient of one icy-eyed therapist with a perpetual kind of bedhead that's somehow even worse than Sora's. The Strife Leonhart guy, or whatever his name is. Cloud. Yeah, him; he's a secret.
"Family bonding?" Sora tips his head at me again, and it's unbearably cute even though he's already sixteen years old. "When have you and your father ever done family bonding?"
I frown at him, give a disbelieving look to buy myself some time as I come up with a good excuse. Lamely, I mutter, "He just wanted me to move some furniture," into my coffee again. I swallow some more, and can almost hear the sizzle of my tongue dissolving in the magma that is my drink. This time, I can't help but hiss a little and jerk away from the cup.
Thankfully, Sora doesn't seem to notice this. He's laughing at me. "That's what you call father-son bonding, is it?"
"Shut up. Let's talk about something else." I don't mean to sound miserable, but I'm slightly irritable at this point, and I think my tongue is bleeding. Honestly, why is it absolutely necessary to bring some harmless coffee to a tempurature past the boiling point before you serve it to even more harmless people?
Suddenly, Sora's voice interrupts my bitter thoughts. He sniffs at his café mocha, sips a little, all the while staring intently at me. There's something dancing in his eyes, and I even fancy I can see a new colour in there, like the frothy caps of waves. I've never seen a better example of a smile reaching a person's eyes than in Irino Sora's case. He's so easily readable.
"So that dream I had," he says, eyelids blinking cover over those brilliant blue eyes. When they open again, they roll to the side, to the left. That means he's remembering. "When my head was full with butter?"
Right. Here we go again. "Yeah? Did it come true?" I scoff, "Did you get butter in your ear today?"
He scowls for the shortest moment, then looks back to the left. Back to remembering. "No, that didn't happen. But when I woke up, my mom made me a cheese sandwhich."
I blink, stupidly. Something tells me I'm not quite on the same track as him, and he's waiting for another response. Feebly, I give another "Okay?"
"Do you get it?" he asks, cocking his cute head to the side yet again.
Normally, with Sora, I can pretend like I understand long enough to carry a conversation, and we get through it completely with him remaining none the wiser. However, in such circumstances as these, I opt for a blatant negative.
There's no way I could fake my way through this one.
"No, I don't."
"They're both dairy products!" He grins into the silence, like an idiot telling a punchline that's doomed never to be understood. A really lame punchline.
I don't know what to say to that, so I do the only thing I can think of. Abruptly change topics. "So, we have school on Monday, ne?"
He frowns. "Yeah, we do."
"Did you get all your homework done?" I sneer.
"On the first day of break."
"Oh," and I'm stuck again, at a loss for what to say.
"What about you?" He counters. "Did you get it all done?"
My thoughts shift for a moment to the backpack in the backseat of my car, with the unfinished essay inside. It's probably rumpled beyond all legibility by now, with the way I shoved everything in there. Most likely, I'll be up all Sunday night finishing that stupid thing. Other than that, though:
"Of course I finished my homework."
He's giving me a suspicious look, though his eyes are still positively dancing with that confusing emotion, and opens his mouth again to speak. Quickly, I interrupt him. "Do you want a ride to school on Monday morning? We could go together," I offer with a poker face.
The delighted expression in his eyes changes completely and he sits back in his chair. "No, I can't."
"Hmn? Why not?"
Then, while he summons his reply, he bites his lip thoughtfully. I might not have noticed it if it wasn't always a bad habit of mine to pay attention to these things. In fact, I almost don't notice. But then, those amazingly blue eyes shift to the side.
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To the right.
That means he's lying.
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TBC
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A/N: DUNDUNDUN! (I was told that I needed a "dramatic music sting" at the end…) This wasn't very fun to write. I made Riku really annoying. Sorry, sorry… I really am sorry. Slash, today really sucked. I was dead tired and school sucks and I got caught by my big, big, biggest boss sleeping in the staffroom… ten minutes after my break ended. :goes to console self:
Things that need to be said: THANKS YOUS OMFG to WhiteLightning. Gander, you put up with a lot of poo… I appreciate your nicenessness. –lessthanthrees- You should get that really cute haircut I showed you because it's so CUTE! X3
Mindless Advertisement: Today's is going to be Something Beautiful, by Great Big Sea. Why? Because NUMBER ONE: they're Newfie :REPRESENT!:. Number two? I GOT TO FUCKING SEE THEM IN CONCERT even though I wasn't a volunteer for the Canada Winter Games. They're were so kickass live. I mean, one guy whipped out his accordian and all played up in the other guy's face and it was kickass. Er… I don't know when this'll be posted, but, yeah the concert was on March 11, their fourteenth BIRTHDAY as a band, so I got help sing a collective kinda Happy Birthday for them and you should be really proud of me. X3 fwee.
Review and stuff PLOX. If you don't, it'll be a long time before I can update again.. motivational purposes, you understand. DX
AO
