Well, I feel confident enough in it by now to post at least this much. I'm almost done with it anyways. It'll only be about four chapters long. I apologize now if you think I didn't get a mentality right, I just used what I could remember from my own experiences with disorders. This is a RoxSorRox story, I guess. There isn't any sex, and I don't think I made a more dominant one, because Sora definitely isn't as innocent as he's made out to be... I don't know, I just confused myself a bit.

Gah, what am I rambling about? Anyways, I hope you like it, even if you don't agree with it. I'm hoping it will have a happy ending, it probably will because I don't have the heart for anything else, and if it doesn't... Well, I'm sorry.

If you don't like yaoi, all I ask is you don't waste your time with filling my review space, get over it. If you have an constructive critiscm, please do review or message me. If you just want to say "Hi..." ... Hi. :D

First: The World

In all honesty, there was no sense in the act of gluing your feet to the floor. It was pointless, stupid, hazardous and would most likely result in physical pain of some sort. Super glue was quite strong, too, and it would most likely leave that hardened, nasty, crust that glue leaves behind in two foot-shaped spots on the rug for the rest of the poor thing's life. When trying to find anything productive in the activity of gluing your feet to the floor, there really was none that could be thought of.

Maybe you could say it was an experiment to see how strong the glue was, and just ignore the fact that there were other much more smarter ways of testing such a thing.

You could say that the incredible boredom you were experiencing of being home alone for three days with nothing better to do has driven you to insanity, and so, in the last bits of your remaining sanity, you decided to stop yourself from doing anything more stupid by gluing your feet to the floor.

But then you would have the issue of realizing that such a thing wouldn't work unless you glued your bare feet to the floor, which would be beyond painful to experience when trying to separate your feet from the carpet when said glue has already hardened.

That would be after you regained your sanity, of course.

But even with these few bits of logical excuses in his arsenal, Roxas was not one to lie about his reasons and motives for gluing his feet to the floor. His shoes actually, if you wished to be technical, but his feet were in his shoes, and so he counted the shoes as simply an extension of his feet.

Roxas considering clothing as an extension of his being. This is not the point though, there are other, more important matters to deal with.

Like, why exactly Roxas glued his feet to the floor.

Well, as said before, Roxas wasn't the type to lie. He was always told he could be brutally honest, to the point where it was rude, mean and extremely out of place. But even he, one who was known for his emotions ranging to the size of a table spoon, would color a bit at admitting that he was not experimenting the glue's strength, going mentally insane (something he may reconsider after closer examination later), or bored in anyway.

Yes, he has been alone for what felt like forever now, but that held no meaning to Roxas, he was used to such a thing by now. But we are getting off track once again, as Roxas's feet are still glued to the floor and the boy is still calmly thinking of a way to get out of such a dilemma as getting his glued shoes off the floor.

Sighing sadly, Roxas gave a (yes, spoken out-loud) farewell to his shoes, and simply slipped them off. Then he moved to return to the bathroom, leaving his shoes in the room in their glued down state.

His only regret: that didn't take up more time.

It was common knowledge that Sora was a busy guy, what with the curse of being a helplessly untreatable social leech. Yes, and the fact that he somehow managed to retain the wonderful blessing of balancing it perfectly with his school work, sports, and family, it was unfortunate, really.

Sora was the type of guy whose smile never fell, never faded, never lessened, never dimmed. His cheerful, go-lucky attitude, and terribly dumb optimism was the rhetorical bottle of arsenic that he would so lovingly bottle-feed the other chained souls of the fine learning institution known, exclusively, as "Goddamn-Fucking-Hell."

It was disgusting how much people could trust blind faith, horribly disgusting. But there was truly nothing Roxas could do to save the student body, not that he would've tried if he had wanted to, anyways.

They were long gone, too absorbed in the poison cruelly taking the form of a vertically challenged, bouncy brunette.

Roxas found it ironic that he of all people would be faced with the irony he was facing now, he really should've seen karma coming to bite him in the ass, she had done it quiet a few times already, and it didn't grow any more subtle or clear with each time she took a giant chomp.

No, in fact, she seemed to enjoy torturing him with the knowledge that he knew she was torturing him on purpose. If Roxas had to picture karma as a person, he imagined her as an incredible attractive woman with a sadistic nature and a bad taste in both de Sade and hairstyles. With that picture in mind, he would remember that was, in fact, his cousin Larxene.

And then the world made a bit more sense.

Now, you may ask what had changed between the couple of paragraphs less than a page ago and now, and Roxas would tell you his medication took a couple hours to kick in.

But he'd be lying, as he doesn't actually need any medication (according to his parents, but not to any doctors and close friends) and would just be saying that to poke a glaringly burning piece of metal into the commonly known fact that the United States relied much too heavily on the use of medication to keep the people of it's country in control. Something Roxas and his parents had vehemently opposed.

Proof of such a fact would be how he was diagnosed with ADD as a kid and his parents refused to give him his medication. Either way, he didn't care much, because he didn't want to shove any rather disgusting tasting pills down his throat anyways. But you'd think that maybe his parents would take the consideration of medication a bit more seriously after his psychiatrist highly recommended some Prozac. Quote: "Like… Now."

Nope, and Roxas would be oh-so proud at their personal stand against conformity, if it were not for the fact that his father worked as a mere pencil-pusher in a no-name company and his mom was a stay-at-home wife, something that just did not seem to be fitting of the label "Non-Conformists."

Now, don't start to try and read deep into Roxas's psyche merely based upon his personal opinions of those things, he is far from one of those Goths who conform in their own non-conformity. No, he couldn't actually care less about conformity and non-conformity or the fashions of people his age.

Strange, yes, since he has that boy band kind of face and voice, and the athleticism that could make him climb to the top of the social ladder (right next to Mr. Arsenic from earlier), and the ability to manage to actually blend into society as just another sheep in the herd of toxic mindlessness.

But no, at least, if you actually knew Roxas than you'd think that way. Roxas was definitely not interested in whether or not he was really conforming in anyway, or if he was drifting towards the counter-culture, or if he dressed like those "Scene"-kids, or the "Emo"-kids who ripped off a music label (or vice-versa, as Roxas couldn't really remember if it was the clothes based off the music or the music based off the clothes). No, he definitely didn't care if he blended in with the crowd, or if he even had "friends," or if he could sing like that Jessie McCartney guy or not.

Really, all that Roxas cared about was two things: not taking medication…

… And Sora.

And this is how we circle around to the beginning topic, the cause of this rambling.

It's not like the blonde liked the guy, in fact he rather despised him, which was probably the strangest thing of all, he loathed the teen's very existence. And no one who actually knew Roxas knew why. Then again, very few people actually knew Roxas, the total being probably about four people, minus his parents. Those people would be (in order) Axel, Naminé, Larxene and Demyx.

The funny part of it all would have to be the fact that Roxas went to school with only one of these people, as Larxene was in college and Naminé and Demyx were enrolled in some pretentious art school about a town over. Yes, Axel was the only one who he went to school with, and even then, Axel was only there because he failed a couple required classes in Senior year and had to retake them now.

It being that way, Axel often just stuck around for those classes and then got out of that place as fast as he could, occasionally taking Roxas with him.

In all honesty, no one really cared if Roxas was cutting school or not, they cared about his happiness and his intelligence (not to mention sanity), not whatever a piece of paper told them with letters and 4 or 5.0 scales.

The reason why Roxas loathed Sora so very much would have to be the fact that the teen resembled him in one too many ways, ways that Roxas would never want to touch upon ever again. And so, his friends were smart enough to keep their distance, to not ask questions, to just nod and say something insultingly rude at either the mention or the sight of the teen, whether the brunette was in ear shot or not.

It was probably because of this deep despising of Sora, it was probably because of his mostly irrational mind, that that Friday afternoon going down the way it did.

Picking up black eyeliner from the bathroom sink, Roxas had a vague thought of who it may have belonged to. Naminé? Axel? Demyx? Larxene? Any of them could have accidentally left it there, they all lived in the same house. But it didn't matter to him, really, even though it was most likely Larxene's and he'd most likely get chewed out later for deciding to try and actually use it.

The trouble with eyeliner was that it was a pencil. Why would you want to put a pencil so close to your eye? What if someone walked into you and made you stab yourself in the eye, you would forever lose your vision and have the dumbest tale of how you lost it. It made no sense why women did such a thing just for the price of beauty.

More importantly, how did they even get it on?

Roxas had never watched any one of his house mates put their eyeliner on, wasn't even sure if Naminé had any eyeliner now that he thought about it, and he looked at his own eyes in the mirror, judging whether or not to put it all around his eyes or if it was just suppose to go in the corners, or just on the bottom lid or… He was clueless, plain and simple. How did Axel and Demyx ever figure it out?

Why did Roxas associate with grown men who wore eyeliner?

Bringing the pencil up, he made a cautious mark around the general area underneath his bottom set of eyelashes, then stared at the dark, dark, line against his suddenly paled skin like it was some wonder of the world. He moved to put more on, then more, and more, and more.

He looked like he was dead, or at least dying. But that had not been his aim, however, now that he looked at himself, he couldn't help the thought that it looked good on him. Death, that is.

But he wasn't done, he could feel it. Something felt so irresolute in just putting eyeliner on, just making himself look dead. He knew that train of thought probably should invoke suicidal thoughts, but Roxas knew he wasn't suicidal, he didn't want to die just yet. That wouldn't be what it took to win this, he had to do something different.

Something different, not enough, death, he sounded just like a normal teenager.

How wonderful that he could pretend, convince himself, that for just a couple moments, he was just another sheep in the herd. It felt oddly relaxing to hide for a moment, to blend in to the wall stained with marks that were suppose to resemble letters and perhaps coherent sentences if you squinted.

No, he was not suicidal just yet, maybe a bit masochistic whenever left alone, but not to the point where self-harm was needed.

No, he wasn't exactly what you would describe as a normal teenager, no matter how he had once been considered, but not to the point where you would label him with anything that was either counter-cultural or stereotypical (excluding the misinterpreted title of "lone wolf.").

And even though Roxas didn't particularly care of such things anymore, he wouldn't deny his slightly masochistic tendencies, or how he sometimes missed his old life.

Currently, though, eyeliner was being used like the pencil it was, the wall a tablet that would preach his innermost thoughts to the world, the ones he found, himself, unable to gather the courage to speak aloud. That was most likely when he realized that eyeliner could be removed rather easily, in fact, he was pretty sure water would get rid of it quite easily.

How sick.

Sitting in the middle of a class of other teens his age felt nerve racking most of the time, nauseating only occasionally. When it became to be unbearable, he would find Axel and demand a ride home. The most that demanding involved though, was looking at the redhead and the guy was already pulling his car keys from those same jeans he seemed to wear everyday.

That Friday, however, Axel had the flu, Larxene had blown up the toaster that morning and was probably looking to buy a new one somewhere, Naminé's car was in a ditch a couple miles east of a positively ancient mansion, and Demyx was still MIA after a party he went to last night.

This all translated into, Axel was too tired to get up, Larxene still had anger issues, Naminé was still a horrible driver, and Demyx got laid for the third time in his life.

So Roxas was left to wallow in his own misery underneath the staircase by the back exit of the school, the one only used by janitors to get rid of trash and students who were emptying their classes' recycling bins. This place felt oddly comfortable, like Roxas felt he could sit there forever and never be found, never find, never get lost, never face reality once again.

That would've been real nice, since it was only one of the two few wishes he had.

But, since irony was probably attempting to form into a shape similar to karma, something had to come along and ruin this moment for him. That just happened to be in the form of a brunette with blue eyes, just a shade deeper than his own, and tanned skin that Roxas would be able to rival if not for his last couple months indoors.

Sora was the last person Roxas wanted to see. Sora was too much like him, back a couple months ago, they would've probably been something like twins in another life if the world wasn't so cruel.

But the world was cruel, or maybe merciful in retrospect, and Sora and him were brought to meet face-to-face at this moment.

This moment, when Roxas was feeling beyond nauseas from the thought of interacting with other humans, of loathing the world and it's inhabitants, of hiding underneath staircases by backdoors that lead to the area where people dumped their trash because he couldn't find any way to reach his own home.

Now that he thought about it, though, a three to four mile walk wouldn't be so bad compared to this.

It had started out simply innocent, Sora had just gave him a concerned look and bent down to make sure Roxas was okay, he just asked him if he was feeling alright, a kindness Roxas certainly didn't deserve seeing how he had quite obviously hated him for the few weeks he had been at the same school as the boy.

Roxas hadn't wanted the concern or the kindness anymore, and he didn't understand how this idiot managed to keep up such a terrible façade of care when Roxas had pretty much insulted him behind his back everyday since the sight of the other, and to both of their knowledge that the other knew Sora would always hear the nasty words.

Roxas didn't want it, didn't deserve it, did nothing to provoke such kindness, but Sora gave it to him unconditionally. What would it take to make this guy hate him back, to make him despise Roxas, to make someone just like his old self hate him. What would it take for the old Roxas to despise who he is now.

His lips were soft and warm, completely frozen in place against his own from shock. Warm breath danced across his face when a sigh escaped from his nose, the only reaction either of them had made since the blonde had leaned forward. Their eyes, two different shades of beautiful blue, locked, one in masochistic curiosity, the other in paralyzed confusion.

The brunette found he couldn't take another breath in, whether or not his mouth was occupied, not while those eyes were locked on his, not while he could feel the warmth of the other body, the one that held a personality so cold. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't remember his own existence. There was just Roxas, sitting in front of him, body and person contradicting, lips pressed against his, unmoving.

That day, Sora had received a kiss, underneath a staircase by the back exit of the school where people dumped trash just outside. Roxas gained bruised knuckles and sore feet when he knocked Sora out immediately afterwards, then began walking home.

A knife had many interesting qualities about it, one would be it's tip, as it was always as sharp as the actual blade, but it dulled rather quickly if it were not of the highest quality metal 5 teens with part-time jobs could afford.

The quality was, quite obviously, not anywhere near high, not even to them. And so, when Roxas began carving into the walls of his bedroom, he didn't manage to do so well.

For one, the upper-body strength required for such a task as carving words into the wall with a cheap knife that was more likely made of plastic than actual metal, was much more strength than Roxas would care to admit he didn't have. So the entire accident would be blamed on the cheap knife and Larxene's poor shopping capabilities.

Then Roxas decided he didn't need words, exactly, he just had to destroy that fucking wall. The pure white was pissing him off to no end, and the very fact the walls were so bare that they echoed seemed to make him feel more hollow than he wished to be.

So he picked up the desk chair in his room and held it steadily with both hands, his grip so tight that his hands themselves were turning white. Then he smashed, and smashed, and smashed.

And it felt like a momentary promise of relief, then a broken promise of content.

Roxas had had no idea that small town people really did know almost everything about everyone in town, such as addresses, or that he would need to do something like lock his front door in such a small town that was ranked so safe.

He had had no idea that Sora would wake up, find his own friends, and tell them why he had a giant bruise forming in the area right below his right eye, then tell them why he absolutely had to see Roxas at that moment.

What Roxas knew was that no one else had been home for whatever had just happened in the past couple hours, no one had been there to stop his mini-episode-slash-rampage.

What Roxas knew was the shocked face Sora had when he finally found Roxas curled up in a corner of his room, crying for the first time in what felt like seconds.

What Roxas knew was that Sora didn't even hesitate to get on his knees and hug him as comfortingly as he could.

What Roxas knew was that Sora still didn't despise him, and instead was quite possibly showing even more concern and kindness than before.

It didn't make sense to Roxas, he wanted to hug the guy and push him off a bridge at the same time because he was just so wretchedly kind, that pure nature of his just seemed to radiate like he was a fucking sun and Roxas was what was left of the Arctic after Global Warming.

It was horrible, it made his head spin, it made him nauseas, it made him want to make those masochistic tendencies a bit more suicidal.

But, at the same time, it made him feel just the opposite. And it was those exact opposite feelings that allowed Sora to hold him, allowed Kairi to take his cell and call Axel (because he was the first and only person she recognized on his contacts), and allowed Riku to try and start fixing the place up a bit.

Two months later, Roxas laid on his bed, memories rushing through his mind so fast he couldn't breath properly. Sora laid right next to him, his arms wrapped around his waist and his face buried in his collarbone, the only place Roxas could put his arms was around the other, he wasn't about to go out of his way to put them in a less comfortable position.

And when Sora would wake up, he'd stare at Roxas for a minute or two as the blonde would pretend to still be asleep. But, until then, Roxas laid there, staring at the wall behind the plaster he had knocked out with his chair, and risk suffocation because of memories too strong.

Roxas still absolutely despised Sora, but he despised Sora because of himself.