Disclaimer: They aren't mine.

A/N: LB is currently rising from the ashes. My bad for the 80 year wait. You will probably quickly realize that it was not worth it at all, heh. 117 Days still going on, link on the profile. New fan art also on the profile. I wrote an AkuRoku oneshot, Fortunate Son, also on the profile. Do you love repeating records? God damn do I ever.

My deepest thanks to everyone that reviewed the last chapter: you're all on crack, and I can't see what you see in this story, but I love you all the same. The quote at the beginning of the chapter spawned the underlying philosophical aesthetic for this story. Deep shit. ENJOY!

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Chapter 14: Ballerinas

"And there is no evil in our bodies, for ugliness and disease are a defect in form and a lack of due order. What is here is not pure evil but a lesser beauty."--Pseudo-Dionysius, The Divine Names.

Old habits die hard. Tongue stuck to the back of your throat, heavy with chemical dread and something just short of comprehension, an endless stream of things getting away from you. Rome, Roxas reasoned, didn't fall in a day. A single act like the hand of God didn't come in and sweep its foundations away, its years of cultivated glory. Instead there was an inevitable chipping away of things, a slow decline. Besides, Roxas should know better than anyone that a kiss is just a kiss. So when Axel texted three days into the summer break, an impersonal, "Hey, what's up," no punctuation involved, Roxas responded nonchalantly. He stared at the text for twenty minutes, sat through a highly uneventful phone call with Axel that felt more like pulling teeth than talking to someone you've been jacking off to every night—sometimes in the afternoon—for three days straight. After they'd hung up, Roxas stared at his hands long and hard before calling up Sora's dealer and buying a sack of weed that he'd since spent more time smoking than he spent eating or pissing. His mother, worried about him in a frustrated, Why Are You Doing This To Me, way that meant she walked around him with her hands on her hips, asked him if he was taking his medicine.

Yes. Yes, he was. Medicine, self-medicating medicine.

Riku insisted they see Sora, eyes bloodshot and staring up at the roof of his Benz while Roxas polished his cock with the really bubbly kind of spit that happens after you gag. It was a new thing, the sucking Riku off thing, but Roxas wasn't concerned about morality anymore. There ceased to be a Right and a Wrong, instead there were different shades of gray, some more exciting than others. In the last logical stronghold of his mind, Roxas reasoned that it wasn't Wrong if he sucked Riku's cock as long as he didn't like it. His dick got hard, but like Sora said: he could get hard over toast. Not a big deal. Just sucking cock. Swallowing down bitter warmth—Riku's cock lodged in what felt like his trachea, Riku mashing his face down against the rough scratch of shaved pubes—Roxas wondered what Axel was doing. Maybe he was sucking cock, too.

Sora was sitting in a chair with his knees drawn up to his chest, a trail of drool dribbling out of his mouth, dragged down by gravity as his body listed to one side. He was on a cocktail of antipsychotics, Haldol probably, and Roxas envisioned himself sucking at the inevitable puncture wound in Sora's ass, a child suckling its mother for one drop of tranquilizing bliss. Roxas never thought he'd envy Sora, crazy Sora with the clown shoes, but shit. Must be nice.

"Hey, baby," Sora drawled, crawling his way across the table and sticking his tongue in Roxas' mouth. Riku rolled his eyes in what was supposed to be annoyed amusement, but Roxas could see the hurt. Sora was slimy in his mouth, tasted like morning breath and despair. "You've been sucking on peen," Sora whispered into his ear, and Roxas stilled. "Peen sucker," Sora whispered, tongue fucking his ear passage. Aside from being supremely disturbing, not much was accomplished from seeing Sora aside from a) wanting to ransack the hospital pharmacy for sedatives and opiates and b) the mild entertainment of watching Sora accuse Riku of being "heartless," before miming attacking Riku with a giant imaginary weapon complete with cheesy sound effects that, from what Roxas gathered, were Sora's version of lasers and impressive beams of heroic light. That, or aliens.

After Sora upended the ping pong table in the corner, weidling the two paddles like a particularly violent brand of schizo, the orderlies asked Roxas and Riku to leave. Roxas had to physically restrain Riku from driving downtown to buy a hit of smack, just one taste, please, Rox, please.

"I'll fuck you," Roxas promised. It was a fair exchange, wasn't it? Sanity for sanity? Riku's for Roxas'. They fucked in Riku's room, on his elegant, four-postered bed with a heavy canopy. Roxas, on his hands and knees and feeling dirtier than he had in his entire fucking life, stared at the digital clock on Riku's bedside table, vivid green glare searing into his retinas as Riku fucked him to a lazy orgasm, spiraling neons pulsing out of his guts while Riku kissed down his sweating spine and licked at the come dribbling out of his ass. Roxas was reminded of the drool dangling from Sora's mouth, long and glistening. He felt like throwing up.

Despite long hours smoking pot in his backyard until every shape had a sound, every color a voice, Roxas felt remarkably absent, often staring at his ceiling for hours before falling asleep for half a day. He was awake for less than eight hours a day: smoke, shit, eat, smoke, go over to Riku's, sleep, smoke, suck cock. The predictable drone of days went on and on, and Roxas wondered when he'd last seen his cellphone, wondering if maybe Axel gave a shit enough about him to call. It was far, far too much effort to care too much. It was much easier to smoke his way through the days, skin waxy with a thin sheen of body oils and disuse, and let Riku fuck him instead of blowing his veins on heroin. Halfway through the summer, Riku started to get rough. Started chewing on his neck while they fucked, called him Sora until Roxas screamed that he was Roxas, he was Roxas, goddammit, held his wrists behind his back in one hand while choking him with the other. It was the only time Roxas felt anything at all, Riku fucking him dry, tearing into him while kneading the muscles of his back with bruising force. Later it would hurt to lie on his back, four fingers searching mutely at the gaping hole his ass was becoming. How, he wondered, was this going to work now? A giant hole in him, big enough for what little heart was left to freefall out to its death. There was some victorious joy at being this abused, about being this fucked. What a dirty, dirty slut he was. No way Axel would ever touch him now. Or, hey, maybe they could compare diameters.

--

The hardest part was talking to no one. Riku wouldn't talk. If Roxas tried, Riku would kiss him until he stopped, or Riku would leave.

"You're running away," Roxas said, watching Riku's back. Sora was being released in another week.

Riku paused, Benz lights flashing as he unlocked his car. "There's no use in talking about it."

"He's out in seven days and four hours. Will you be fucking me then?" Roxas flicked the lighter and pressed the flame to the piece in his hand, rough burn of smoke hitting the back of his throat before the set of coughs erupted out of him, hacking away into the afternoon sun. He'd forgotten he was in his front yard, out in plain view. It didn't really matter.

"We're just bored."

"Bored," Roxas repeated. He'd started looking gaunt, hollows under his eyes and at his neck. He didn't eat much, which was great for the anal. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his phone.

"Maybe you should take it easy." Riku, suddenly in his face, was taking the pipe out of Roxas' hands.

"Fuck you."

"You go off your meds?" Riku took a calculated hit and cashed the bowl, tapping the ash out onto Roxas' lawn. Roxas growled and made a grab for his pipe. He'd need to buy another sack soon. "You sleep all day, eat nothing, and smoke like Sora." Riku palmed the front of his shorts and Roxas closed his eyes, tilting his face toward the sky. "It's starting to feel like fucking a sack of bones."

"Mm." The sound rumbled in his throat. It felt good when Riku talked shit to him.

"I'm serious, Rox. Take it easy."

Roxas scowled, shoving Riku away. "You sound like that jackass. I know my fucking limits." Roxas stormed away into his house, pounding up the stairs into his room and tearing the head off a stuffed animal he kept in his closet. Sora had given him the stuffed floppy-eared dog when they were kids. When they weren't kids anymore, he made a hole in the neck and started stuffing down extra pills. You never know when you're going to be desperate for oblivion, when all you have are a handful of fucking empty orange bottles with not even residue to lick up. An emergency stash of pilled freedom, pilled release, pilled peace. There were more than Roxas anticipated, a rainbow of pastels raining down on his bedroom carpet. Easily identifying the Lorazepam, Roxas shoved four under his tongue to dissolve. Take it easy? I'll fucking show you taking it easy.

Boneless, sitting out in his backyard and staring up at the golden sun until, despite the sunglasses and sunscreen, his eyes burned and his skin was the color of a dick rubbed raw, Roxas started wondering about things. Existence, purpose. What, exactly, was the fucking point anymore? What was the point when your best-friend is a nutcase, when your lover is your best friend's boyfriend and you can't stop letting him fuck you because it's the only thing that makes you feel, when the guy you might be in love with is probably a bigger asshole than you anticipated. When everything you touch collapses in upon itself, when everything feels like a black hole sucking at your insides. What was the point?

There wasn't one.

--

It was four in the afternoon in the middle of August, Roxas having battled boredom all day. It wasn't proper boredom, just the feeling of it in his body; a sense of dissatisfaction with everything, with what he read, what he watched, how he sat. Boredom just under the surface of his skin, impossible to extract. He'd tried drinking wine to offset the numbing agitation, but his mom noticed, threatening to ground him or something ridiculous. Rather than dig into his stash of benzos, he decided to by a sack of medical. He cut into his financial aid account to do it, quite a bit more than his $40 every two weeks could cover. It was potent, one-hit-fucked stuff that had him immobile on his bed, sweating into his sheets, head lolling. He'd given up smoking in his backyard when, after he'd first tried smoking the medical strain, he couldn't get up to go inside, the world spinning around him until he was on the ground again, giggling weakly. He decided not to tell Riku he'd bought more pot, just showed up stoned to holy hell and let Riku come in his ass. His own dick wouldn't get hard, and he suspected Riku was starting to get disgusted from touching him, swallowing a sneer as he ran his hands over Roxas' body. It didn't feel good anymore. Then again, nothing did.

Sora hopped out of his mom's minivan all smiles, and Riku had to pinch the back of Roxas' arm to get him to plaster a forced, toothy grin on his face. Sora hugged him first, a long, swaying squeeze that Roxas couldn't feel at all. Sora pulled away, peered into his eyes.

"You fucked up?" Sora looked sedated, edges muted with new mood stabilizers. Roxas licked his lips and nodded. The smile on Sora's mouth trembled. "You sharing?"

"Of course he is," Riku said, pulling Sora into a hug. Riku glared at Roxas over Sora's shoulder. Shit. "I missed you."

"Mm," Sora said, voice muffled by Riku's neck.

Despite Roxas' reservations, Riku drove them out to the beach. Sora wanted to go, wanted to smoke and swim. In reality, very little swimming was involved, Sora content to lick his way across Riku's body as the three of them smoked on a safer, less populated stretch of sand. Then it was fish tacos, Sora plowing through four before he looked up, eyes bloodshot, and said, "Munchies." Roxas picked at his own taco, wondering how he'd ever eaten them before. The beach, roaring beside them, was bugging him. He didn't want to be at the beach ever again. Not ever again.

Smoothies, Sora insisted, were necessary, so they walked down to the pier. Sora talked and talked about the kids he'd met in the psych ward--about Cassidy who drew sad-faced stick figures on the walls of their dorm with crayons, about Roach whose brain chemistry was fried from too much E—all the while Riku sending little glances Roxas' way. But Roxas couldn't pull himself together. It was the goddamn beach, and being so bored all the time now, and what was Axel doing now, and Riku slid into him easily now, so easily, and Sora had no idea, no idea, no idea.

"Rox?" Sora's smoothie hovered in front of his mouth. "Sip?" Roxas sipped obediently, eyeing the breaking waves and wondering how bad, really, drowning would hurt. "Did you get any of that? Pool party at my house?"

"For what?" Roxas refocused on Sora's face, big, eager eyes looking right through him.

"Your birthday, retard."

"Oh. Yeah." That's right, his birthday. He was turning twenty at the end of the month. "Yay."

"Wow, well don't sound too excited or anything," Sora said, bumping shoulders with him. "I'll get my parents out, and we'll invite everyone. Sound good?"

Over Sora's shoulder, Roxas noticed Riku glaring at him again. Get your act straight, the look said. Wake the fuck up, it said. "Yeah. Sounds good," Roxas lied.

--

It was exactly the way you'd expect a college party to be, complete with a shitty keg of beer, red Solo cups, and various patches of vomit on the floor. Destruction of property was at a minimum, and all the rooms were, at this point, thankfully copulation free. Most of the partiers congregated around Sora's pool, a drunken whirl of splashing and near nakedness. Roxas, nursing a cup of beer, sat in the corner of the backyard, a splatter of birthday gifts littered around him like a gaudy, sparkling court. Sora had convinced him to put the pot smoking on hold, but his failing grip on reality was nevertheless slipping, so much water through his hands. Riku, dripping and glorious, had hardly looked him in the eye for nearly a full week now. Roxas had forsaken speaking almost entirely, given instead to long hours watching porn and jacking off until his dick was sore, aching in his hands like he'd been fucking sandpaper.

Tidus had been one of the first to show up, hefting a case of beer through Sora's from door and reeking of boy and spit. That, Roxas had thought, noting the angle of Tidus' cargos on his hips, is an exciting prospect. But getting laid seemed to be the last thing on Tidus' mind, forgoing foreplay for getting shit-faced and nearly losing his stomach in the pool. Kairi, dancing in the water to the music Sora had pounding out of a system he'd rigged to his laptop, had done little else than remind Roxas of Axel every time she had the opportunity.

"Have you guys been keeping in touch?" Her lips glittered in the moonlight and Roxas bet they tasted like candy.

"Yeah," Roxas said with a shrug, busying his mouth with his beer to save him from having to improvise a lie.

"You two are so cute together," Kairi went on, smiling indulgently. "Hayner was bitching about it all over the house, but we're all really, really happy for you." Happy for him. Everyone so happy for him. He wondered if Axel even remembered his name. His face.

Sometimes he woke up and tasted Axel in his mouth, deep and warm. That split second of post-slumber haze was quickly becoming his favorite part of every day.

"Come in the pool!" Sora shouted over to him, splashing up a halo. Roxas shook his head minutely, swallowing down more beer. "Miserable" wasn't quite the right word, but it wasn't far from the mark. There was an ice cream cake sitting in Sora's freezer, a frosty monstrosity in the shape of a reindeer that Sora had insisted on, whining to his mother as she packed her bags. It had been Sora's idea, a mini-vacation from the stress of having to deal with Sora in the hospital for the last couple months. His parents tried to mask their relief, but they weren't very good at it, trying to pretend they didn't know Sora would be throwing a party. They left with little fanfare, Sora's mother fixing him with a pointed stare before saying she really liked this vase or that painting, and could they please be civilized while they were gone. Yes, mother. Don't worry, mother.

The way Roxas saw it, as long as no one was getting hurt, it was okay. It didn't matter how much he smoked or how intensely he disregarded his body, as long as life went on, it was okay. Nevermind that it was more like killing something inside him, about destroying himself in any way available to him short of shooting himself in the head, short of jumping off his roof. It wasn't about having fun anymore; it was about forgetting every shred of knowledge he'd ever learned, about obliterating faces from his mind, forgetting grammar and logic, eating himself from the inside out. The best—worst?—part was that no one seemed to notice at all, the way he was crumbling away to ash. All the trouble he'd gone through to remind people that he was okay away at college, that he was strong enough, and now no one could tell when he was fucked, so fucked he didn't think he'd be able to pump his brakes in time. After awhile, it doesn't seem worth it. If you fuck up a little, why not fuck up a lot? What was the point anymore?

"There isn't one," he whispered, tossing his empty cup on the pool deck. There wasn't one, had never been one. Who had it right? The post-modernists? Life is absurd. There is nothing. There are people on a flat expanse of ever-imploding earth, and soon there would be nothing at all. Roxas had this in mind as they brought out his cake, twenty sparkling candles like miniature explosions catching the liquid in his eyes. All the people singing, the cake in Sora's hands, and he hardly knew any of them. Most of them were kids he'd known his entire life and couldn't call his friends. Riku's drug buddies, Sora's co-workers, a selection of neighbors and people he'd been in elementary school with. They sang so loud, like they meant it, like they loved him. Who, Roxas wondered, the fuck did they think they were kidding.

"Make a wish, Rox!" Sora beamed, lips pulled wide over a textbook smile. Sora, his Sora, his little prince.

Roxas lowered his head, stared quietly at his hands in his lap. Him. Just him. I just want him. He gathered the air into his lungs and blew, a steady stream of breath like singing the intricate descant of a song, the driving force of a swelling choir: breath, air, hope. There was assorted cheering as he blew all the candles out in one breath, but it was muffled by Riku's lips. How it happened, he'd never be able to explain. One second he was blowing out his candles, the next he had Riku in his hands, shoving his tongue past teeth. The moment stretched on indefinitely, slight reciprocation before Riku coiled back under his hands, pulling away. Roxas' eyes fluttered open, his mouth a small O of surprise. He felt himself look around, slow motion horror, and locked eyes with Sora. Hurt glinted in Sora's eyes before he deposited the cake in Kairi's hands and walked away, in through the double doors leading into his kitchen.

"You fucking idiot," Riku hissed, darting away after Sora.

He anticipated sheer terror, the way you'd expect to feel at the dawn of the apocalypse. Instead he felt an aimless, wandering nothing, the crowds of people dispersing, embarrassed, around him. Sifting through the gifts, Roxas pulled Riku's and Sora's from the bunch before picking his way over discarded red cups toward the door that led out of Sora's backyard and into the street. His car was in the driveway, but he was too drunk to remember where he'd put his keys—or his pride, his dignity, his sense of self, of loyalty, of anything—so he walked the mile and a half home, stopping to piss in someone's hydrangeas.

His mother was out, probably fucking some rich businessman she'd met in a bar as thanks for a cosmo or two. How strangely cyclical life was. Shoving a hand into the stuffing of the floppy eared dog, Roxas hauled out two pills, he didn't know what kind, and swallowed them, unwrapping Riku's gift. A cylindrical bottle of lube, Sora's favorite, and a gift card to some trendy, expensive place taped to the side. Sniffling, Roxas dug through his bags until he found the blue buttplug Riku had given him for Christmas, setting it on his bed next to the lube. Now that he thought about it, the pairing of these gifts had a very clear meaning: go fuck yourself. His face was wet and burning as he stripped off his clothes, shivering despite the August night. He unscrewed the cap of the lube, tore away the seal, and coated the buttplug the color of Sora's eyes, his eyes. He lowered himself on it easily, his abused body hardly protesting. Okay, Riku. Okay. Shoving another two pills in his mouth, Roxas ripped the wrapping paper from the large, strangely shaped gift Sora had given him, working his legs against the ground, his limp cock twitching between his legs. A kite, brilliantly colored was under the wrapping paper, capable looking, strong. Sora had given him a kite, a small sticky note pressed to it: This Post-It good for one BJ. Love you! –Sora. Roxas choked on a sob, legs trembling as he fucked himself on the edge of his bed. Another two pills, then another, then another, then another. Why not fuck up a lot? Why? Why not? What was the point? There was no point.

After a while his legs cramped, his dick only semi-hard, and it was difficult to stay awake, the world dizzy around him. He pulled the buttplug from under him, a wet pop of suction cracking in the silence. The pop replayed over and over, an infinite loop of his failure to even fuck himself properly. He tossed the toy, dripping with lube and blood or shit, on his backpack and curled on his bed with the remaining handful of pills. One by one Roxas chewed them up and swallowed, no longer tasting the bitter chalkiness, powdered chemicals into his bloodstream, into his heart, his head. The entire world tilted and he heard strains of conversation, laughter swoop into his consciousness and swing away. No point. There's no point. Why not? Why? Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry sorry. He remembered this little kid's craft project, a spinning dial you splattered with sticky paint until you had a dizzying swirl of colors that you could call art. He felt like he was stuck on one, spinning and spinning. They could call him art when they found him, stomach full of pastels, blue eyes wide, lifeless.

Where, Roxas wondered, was his life flashing before his eyes? This was what it felt like to die, it had to be, his stomach churning, his fingers down his throat as he heaved over the side of his bed. He didn't want to be doing that, didn't want to be trying to save himself. Where it came from, the fighting desire to live, he didn't know. The sweat poured off him, damp in his sheets, delirious, each heartbeat like rattling at the bars of a cage. Let me out, let me the fuck out. In the space of an hour he was unconscious, limp in his bed, heart fluttering weakly.

--

Waking up after an overdose is, if possible, even worse than the moments right before an overdose. What, your whole life is a massive fucking failure, and you can't even kill yourself right? What the fuck is wrong with you? How did they even make you? Roxas' life was a series of colossal disappointments and wrong turns, and now he couldn't even escape it. Oh, fuck, he thought, pulling open his crusted over eyes. It smelled like piss and shit and his mouth was dry like he'd been running a marathon through the Sahara, his muscles fuzzy and pliant as he tried stretching. His arm, it seemed, felt completely fine even if he pulled it the wrong way. He felt like rubber, like air. His bed was stiff with sweat and piss, smears of shit on his sheets from when he'd fucked himself. Oh, fuck. Stumbling around, Roxas found his cellphone in the corner of the room. According to the date, he'd been out for two days. Does that qualify as a coma? Oh, fuck. His mom, apparently, hadn't been home from her latest escapade. The tiny icon at the bottom of the display told him he had three new texts. From his mom: Sry baby got tied up. Happy 20!!! From Sora: ? And finally, with a couple minutes to spare before it would've been belated, from Axel: Happy 20th. Got you something. Roxas fought down the urge to laugh hysterically and instead stripped his bed of sheets, taking them downstairs to the laundry. Like walking on a ship at sea, he kept swaying into things, his rubbery legs refusing to cooperate.

People make it out to be some grand event, waking up in an ambulance or on a hospital stretcher while they force feed you liquid charcoal to get the pills out of your body, where they hook you up to intravenous drugs set to counteract how badly you wanted not to be alive anymore. Not everyone dies, no, but not everyone has the circus parade resuscitation, the sobbing, worried parents and the empathetic physician. Some kids just wake up, alone as ever, and find that no one even noticed. Your pathetic attempt at death, your last gallant stand against injustice or indifference, gone the way of the wind: ignored, underwhelming. He hadn't taken enough, Roxas realized, stuffing his sheets into the washing machine. When overdosing, there's a certain amount that you need to take—more than enough to knock you out, but not enough to puke up. Get the amount right within, depending on the pill, two to five pills, and you're in the clear. In the ground. Wonder if mom has any Xanax lying around, he wondered idly, peeling away the pith from a banana. It was the first thing he'd eaten in around four days, his stomach protesting as he chewed. What would he do now? What the fuck could he do now? Stumbling his way through his front door to raid the mailbox for potential birthday money from relatives—Maybe I'll have enough to buy a gun—Roxas promptly tripped over Sora, sprawling face first into his concrete driveway.

"There you are," Sora said darkly, an enormous kite sitting across his lap. "I've been looking for you."

Roxas wiped at the blood on his chin. The sight of it did something to his guts, grinding up something inside him. "I was—"

"Yeah, well," Sora said loudly, shrugging. "Figured we might as well test the kites out since you're going back to school on Sunday." Roxas could tell Sora was angry, the way he shrugged a lot and jostled his leg around like he was anxious. This was the part where he would stubbornly refuse to talk about what had happened. "I brought your car," Sora said, nodding toward the street.

Tell him and get it over with. Say it. Say, "Sorry, Sora. I tried to kill myself." Say it. "…Thanks."

They stood awkwardly in front of his door before Sora raised his eyebrows. "So… are you going to get dressed?"

"Oh," Roxas said, looking down at his briefs. Clearly his synapses were misfiring.

The ride to the beach was a quiet affair, Sora staring out the window with his arms crossed, legs bouncing against the floor mat. Roxas eyed the cars in the lanes next to him warily, wondering why he didn't feel the impulse to careen into them, going out in a blaze of gasoline and steel, Sora nothing more than a casualty, a victim in the war of all against all. It was like his death drive was malfunctioning, broken apart by a little bit of blood, unexpected and jarring, like the concept of bleeding at all had shocked him into mild retardation. Sora had to advise him on where to park, on how to get his kite in the air. Roxas was reminded of their first midnight drive to the beach, ending up driving down the promenade and nearly mowing down the ambling throngs of vagabonds, wares packed up for the night. Disgruntled and nervous, they'd ended up driving twenty miles north, out of the way, to find a spot on the side of the road. They'd listened to the surf and talked until sunrise about never living anywhere else but there, never anywhere else.

They were staring up, yards of twine pulled taut against their kites, edges ruffling in the light ocean breeze. "You haven't been eating," Sora said conversationally, not taking his eyes from his kite, a deep blue like the color of the sea, neon accents a decorative plumage.

"Yeah," Roxas said, ducking under Sora's kite line, unraveling his line from around the other. It was oddly calming. Simple, straightforward. They'd done this in high school, skipped senior year to drink Coronas and fly kites, Sora lifting limes from the over-priced market closest to the beach, tearing them apart with their fingers and squeezing them into the necks of their bottles, sucking away until they were buzzed and covered in sand, kite lines tied to their ankles as they laid back on the sand trading touches and whispers.

Sora pressed a kiss to his cheekbone, thumbed the scrape on Roxas' chin from where he'd face-planted onto his driveway. "Makes you look sick. You want to get some tacos?"

Roxas' stomach felt like it had been removed. "If you want." Seventeen, playing in the sand like they were five. Back before Riku, before Roxas fucked it all up by deciding to go away to school, before, before, before. He would've missed this, at least. This, spending endless hours with Sora, removed completely from thought and pain, having found solace in the one safe place in the entire world, the one haven. Fish tacos and smoothies and, if they were down enough, the towering ice cream cones from behind the carousel on the pier, thousands of calories of creamy concoctions that dripped over their fingers. His stomach felt hard and disgusting after they ate, Roxas putting away three fish tacos to satisfy Sora before he doubled over, groaning about distension and possible rupture.

"Crybaby" Sora said. They were flying their kites again, burping up fish tacos and wondering where they could score some Coronas. Roxas felt remarkably untroubled, thinking of nothing other than the way his kite dipped in the air, how it looked like it was running an unwinnable race, bobbing up and down in a repeating loop.

"I'm so sorry, Sora. I'm—really, I'm so—"

"Don't apologize." Sora's hand on the back of his neck, brushing lightly. Roxas turned his face, met Sora's lips. It was soft, imploring, non-sexual until Sora slid his hand down from Roxas' neck, across his back, settling it on his hip and pressing their bodies closer together. "There," Sora said, nodding toward an outcropping of rocks farther down the beach. "The other part of your birthday present." They made to walk down the beach, but found that their kite lines had crossed while they weren't paying attention, the twine looped and tangled together hopelessly. Sora fiddled unsuccessfully with the lines before shrugging and gnawing them apart, biting away at the tangled bits. Both their lines were shortened considerably, Sora spitting twine, and they reeled them in quickly, securing them under piles of sand before Sora undid Roxas' shorts and sucked him into his mouth.

This, Roxas understood, head tossed back against rough rock, is about lust. He ran his finger's through Sora's hair, thick tufts perfect for gripping, for holding the back Sora's head and pushing down and lifting up, fucking his reddened, wet mouth. He didn't think about it being Sora, didn't think about it being his best-friend; it was a mouth, his dick was hard, so why not. Why not fuck up a lot. Sora swallowed as Roxas came down his throat, stroking the curve of Sora's eyebrows while he pumped lightly, once, twice, before falling back against the rock, sweating.

It wasn't until later, stripping down to their skin in his room, Sora staring at the lube with wry comprehension on his face, that Roxas thought to ask.

"You broke up with him again, didn't you." His palms smoothed against the expanse of Sora's back, softened shoulder blades, lean muscle. Sora nodded, popped open the lid of the lube and squeezed an amount into his hand, bent down to coat Roxas' dick. The remarkable nothing that sat over Roxas, an aura of apathy, did wonders for his guilt complex as he laid on his back, Sora lowering himself onto Roxas' glistening dick. It had usually been the inverse, laying in this exact same spot, jacking off to the image of Sora riding Riku, that determined, open-mouthed eroticism coloring his features while they swapped sweat, spit, whispers. He hadn't thought about fucking Sora before, not in any articulated way, but it was nice, Sora stuffing his fingers into Roxas' mouth and rocking against him. It was nothing as contrived as love-making, nothing saccharine and weepy. They fucked, hard and hot, and Sora's come splattering onto his chest sounded like what Roxas imagined bludgeoning someone must sound like: a wet smack, anti-climactic, vaguely nauseating.

--

Roxas dreamed of nothing, woke up and felt more of the same. Nothingness and Sora's come crusted on his chest, the pillow damp under Sora's mouth where he drooled lightly into the shape of, if Roxas turned his head slightly, a fish. Curious, Roxas palmed Sora's dick, felt it limp with sleep and devoid of lust. He remembered those sticky hands they'd traded Chuck E. Cheese tickets in for, reams of candy pink tickets spit out from standard fare arcade games, beating smiling rats on the head with oversized foam mallets, trapping the cycling flashing light between neon arches, skee-ball. A sticky hand that had lost its stickiness, that's what Sora's dick felt like. Sora giggled then, and Roxas looked up, met his best-friend's eyes.

"Hi," Sora said, small amused smile pulling at his lips.

"Hey," Roxas said. This was the part where Sora wouldn't say anything about what had happened the night before, where they pretended they weren't just skin under the top sheet, where Roxas didn't have his hand over Sora's dick.

"Lose something?" Sora asked, re-positioning his face closer to Roxas' on the pillow.

"Probably," Roxas admitted, pulling his hand back. "Sorry." He felt his cheeks flame and Sora laughed, pulling his palm close and licking the length of it, tickling Roxas' life line with his tongue.

They were in the middle of breakfast, a bowl of marshmallows and chocolate chips, when the doorbell rang. Popping a marshmallow in his mouth, Roxas dashed over to answer the door. He felt the puffed mass lodge in his throat when he saw who was on the other side.

"Please," Riku said, shadows under his eyes. His entire left arm was a bruise. "Sora—I know he's here, I—"

"What the fuck, Riku," Sora said, darting around Roxas and taking Riku into his arms.

Riku, slumping and pale, looked more dead than alive. "I couldn't stand it. I had a l-little too much, and I—"

"What the fuck, Riku," Sora said again, burying his face into the older boy's neck.

"I passed out. The needle was still in my arm when I woke up. My fingers are still blue, and I—"

Roxas tuned the rest out, backing away from the door and returning to his kitchen where he sucked on another marshmallow, tonguing it against the roof of his mouth. He'd have to leave for school tomorrow. He'd fucked two people, had sucked cock more times than he could count, had overdosed and told no one, and now he suspected he'd killed off his soul, assuming souls existed. Is that why he didn't give a shit that Riku could've died? Probably. Probably why I don't care that I fucked my best-friend, that my mom's missing, that my asshole is the size of a fucking personal pan pizza. Swallowing the sticky mass in his mouth, Roxas eyed his mother's kitchen knives, stainless steel with fitted handles protruding out of a fancy wooden block near the stove. I could stab myself, I guess. Right in the chest. Cause a scene, send Sora to pieces. They're probably out there sucking face. It would be poetic almost, romantic, bleeding out over their makeshift breakfast while Sora tugged Riku upstairs and out of his pants, licked the whole of his bruising arm and fucked him while Roxas bled to death in his kitchen. Right out of a fucking movie.

Roxas pulled out a steak knife and examined the edge closely, serrated curves winking prettily under the kitchen lights. Nah. You don't have the balls, do you. You'd stab yourself in the ribcage and cry like a pussy in the OR while they pull it out and stitch you up, medicate you for a couple weeks. Then you'll be dropped from your classes, numbed out like a zombie. And Axel… Axel, his happy, promised Axel who'd sent him a grand total of two texts and one call over the entire summer. Sure, conversation was a two way street, but what the fuck. His entire life, a colossal failure, a cosmic joke where he was the punch line, doomed to doom, to wallow in his own incompetencies. The Midas touch, except completely fucked. Roxas sighed and slid the knife back into the wooden block, tossing a couple chocolate chips in his mouth. What in the fuck, he wondered, would he do now.