a/n: I PROMISE YOU, I'M GETTING TO THE REVIEW REPLYING. But I thought you'd rather get a new update than a reply at the moment 'cause I feel like it's been a while. And those drabbles I promised certain people...I'm working on them (honest). Anyway...onward, readers!

VI. As Good As It Gets

If you did, say you did it

And if you didn't, suck it up

And say you did.

-The Dresden Dolls, "Mouse and the Model"

In the grand scheme of things, Roxas Potts was deemed to be a slightly luckier-than-average person. Roxas was a middle child, but due to a few familial-based mishaps, his elder siblings had jumped ship (so to speak) and left for towns that could only be visited by a combination of trains, cars, and –sometimes—airplanes. His father was more or less a dead-beat, and showed up a least once every two years to ensure that he wasn't dead and to make himself useful by handing over Child Support to the matriarch. He was now given the pleasure of being the eldest (in the household, if not biologically).

Roxas was a certifiably smart teenager, equipped with beauty, grace, and a National Honors Society badge.

But Roxas lived with a slightly insane mother, a deformed monkey-boy (otherwise known as Chip, the youngest), and was constantly being paraded around the town as someone who owned a uterus. This would've been resting on the plane of not-so-bad if Roxas had actually possessed one.

But he didn't. Boo-fucking-hoo.

Due to a serious of unfortunate events (none of which included three miserable, whiny children and a suspicious looking older man with a tattoo), Roxas had been emotionally and psychologically stripped of his manhood at the tender age of twelve, whereupon his Struggle bats were packaged up in the garage, all notices and offerings of everything from Struggle matches to Football had been fed to the fireplace that his father had built the last time he'd come skulking around, and that the next meet for Varsity Cheerleading and Color Guard was tacked to his bedroom door.

At first, he'd had the average response of, "Mom, what the hell is going on?" when he'd stumbled into his room to see his mother neatly hemming one of Namine's old summer dresses on his bed. He'd turned red and fumed when she'd held it out in front of herself and said, "Roxas, sweetheart, try it on to see if it fits, please?" He'd even cursed a bit at his mother before she turned to him, her blue eyes flashing as she said quietly, "Roxas, dear, honestly. You'll never catch a man like that—no boy likes a woman with such a filthy mouth."

And then, Roxas got it. He totally got it.

"Mom's gone crazy," he hissed to his father over the phone. It had taken a few weeks of wrangling the phone number off of Sora (digit by digit, even) and then milking the area code from Namine, who, between modeling sessions and The Photographer From Hell, was nearly impossible to reach. And, of course, there was the matter of duct-taping Chip to his bed, 'cause he was a total snitch. "I'm serious. She put me in a—Dad, I'm wearing a fucking dress, okay?"

To be specific, it was a nightgown. One of Namine's old ones—complete with the lace piping and metallic pink coloring.

"Ah." His father said sagely. "That does suck, sport. But you have to understand, after Sora and that thing with the athletic meet…not to mention Namine and the photographer…well; your mother's been a bit stressed as of late. Can you really blame her?"

"Oh, yes." Roxas hissed, clenching the nightgown's fabric so hard the thread began to split. "Yes, I can. Can't you just impregnate her again or something?"

His father laughed. "Hell no! Do you know how expensive children are, Rox? She's gone and popped out four of you, all of which she has an issue with. I'm not spending any more money on that."

"You are a failure as a father."

"Yeah, whatever, kid. Go cry yourself a river or somethin'." His father-who-he-was-so-going-to-disown said heartlessly. "I'm totally chill, hanging out here with Elena. Think I'll stay away from your mama if she's gone and taken her crazy pills again."

"I hate you." Roxas seethed. "I hate you so much."

"Great." His father said, and as he yelled back to his current girlfriend to fetch him a beer, and "don't skimp on the ice, okay, hon?" Roxas hung up on him. Reno wasn't much of an authority figure anyways, even with the double-whammy of him being a father and a cop. He was especially useless whenever with current flings were in the background, typically being slutty and knowledgeable in the background. Reno's thing seemed to be dating women with beauty as well as brains—although he'd slipped up with Elizabeth Potts and ended up knocking her up, marrying her, and then watching her drive the entire household to insanity and other evils.

The other evils being his mother's after-school lessons, of course.

Poise & Grace—the Subtle Differences. Makeup 101. The Hitchhiker's Guide to Proper Bargain-Hopping. Bare legs vs. Pantyhose. Tuesdays with Mascara.

By his freshman year of high school, Roxas Emil Potts ("Just tell everyone the 'E' stands for Emily!" his mother hissed in his ear, after scratching out several legal documents) was capable of stopping a run in a fellow friend's nylons, knew how to flirt without coming off as a total whore, and could expertly apply foundation, eyeliner, and mascara within three minutes. He was a renowned cheerleader, regularly winked at in the hallways by everyone from jocks to stoners, and was documented as Radiant Garden High School's "hottest piece of piece of ass" since the double-threat of Sora and Namine, back in the day.

It kind of sucked. Like, a lot.

Roxas never been much of a person to begin with—hey, all he was known for was being relatively decent at Struggling, and it's not as if he ever got his name in the paper, or a photograph or something, like Sora—and he wasn't the kid you'd stop in the hallways and say, "Oh, wow!" He was the kind of boy who inspired an "Oh."

It was actually kind of sick, Roxas thought, to only garner this much attention when he put on a skirt and heels. To only be stopped in the hallways once he learned how to perfect a smile and how to properly apply blush. That only when his trademark pout was being printed in countless magazines like Teen Vogue and Seventeen that people began to notice him.

Roxas the man, it seemed, came significantly after Roxas the woman.

He'd been part of the Homecoming Court since freshman year, was invited to senior prom as a sophomore, and had been the only fourteen-year-old on the NHS. He didn't wobble in his sister's heels, and his lip gloss was never out of place. His boyfriend was the hottest indie-emo-faux-stoner on school campus, and no one even connected him to the Track & Field Incident, or the Attack of the Butch situation.

"That's really, really sick." Roxas lamented, as Demyx built some sort of cocoon of arms and legs behind him, his blonde head resting against his boyfriend's chest.

"What?" The musician said, kissing the top of Roxas's head. He smiled down on the boy in his lap. "Did you say something, Roxy?"

"No." He hauled himself up and faced Demyx, dropping a kiss on each of his eyelids before murmuring, "Love you."

Demyx's eyes closed in contentment. "Love you too, Nam."

The muscles in his jaw twitched. This was really, really sick.

[--]

Trouble came in small packages—chronologically speaking, it all started with Sora. Sora fit into the 'small' category, being just under the exalted height of 5'9". He was the star of track and field, and was far by one of the most popular people at RGHS—the other being Namine, who was pretty and smart and kind, as well as frequently photographed in catalogues as an up-and-coming model, and Riku, Sora's best friend.

Of course, Sora had to do the whole cliché thing and get caught in the locker room tonguing Riku, of all people. Jeez.

And then the Attack of the Butch came when Namine, just on the cusp of graduating high school and wheeling away from this god-awful town, was photographed for a…lady magazine. Or, you know, if you were his mother, a 'Pictorial Guide for Sapphists'.

It wasn't that it was a naughty picture—just a simple black-and-white of Namine posing with her hair swept to the side. Her arms raised above her head and her stomach bared, (with the exception of the suspenders) clearly showing the tiny print of 'i am your rainbow girl' across her midriff.

And then, in case anyone missed the message—the blaring headline. 'MEET NAMINE, NEWEST LEZZIE ON CAMPUS'.

Yeah, so subtle. Nearly a subtle as the article on Namine's "coming out" and her "darling", Larxene. It wouldn't have been as bad if Larxene had been some cutesy little photographer, but there was no mistaking it; the nearly-flat chest, the smirk captured with her arms around his sister's waist, encircling her closer to deposit a kiss on her temple.

"Lesbians." His mother had hissed, edging it into the fireplace. Due to the utter fakeness of the fireplace (Reno couldn't be bothered to actually make a real one), it merely buzzed around the electric, flame-shaped lights before settling to the bottom. It was rather anti-climatic, but his mother made her dramatic exit anyway.

Chip, who was but a little Gerber-baby of five years at the time, looked up and lisped, "What's a lethbian?

Roxas lied, "Um…another name for a best friend."

"Okay." Chip said, satisfied. Then, "What's gay mean?"

"…Friendship. Um." His left eye twitched. "Special friendship."

"Okay." He hopped off the couch and raced to the kitchen, screeching, "Mama! Mama, guess what? Roxas is the bestest lethbian EVER!"

His mother's scream could be heard for miles.

[--]

This was probably when the modeling thing started.

Namine used to model; nothing big, just small-time catalogues, the occasional thing for Kohl's or L.L. Bean. She wasn't the most famous model—she had yet to face the wrath of plastic-injected wraiths angered over losing the battle with time on so-called "reality television" or been caught launching at least half of her internal organs into the nearest toilet, all the while moaning that she wanted to be skinny and perfect. She was a few stocks short of being seriously beautiful (their mother attributed this to the slight gap between Namine's front teeth that gave her cutesy grin that made her look all of twelve), but she had a figure that photographers cooed over and a flawless complexion. She was a very pretty girl, to be certain.

At the risk of sounding conceited, Roxas supposed that all of them were rather good-looking. He wasn't blind—he knew that his face was decent and that his body was as toned as it could be (that is, without making him seem overly-masculine, and due entirely to his mother's barking for him to run faster on the treadmill she'd set up in their basement, complete with a taser that she used solely to threaten him with). Although he was no Namine or Sora—being equipped with a stockier stature and a collection sparse freckles and birthmarks scattered across his skin that his mother clucked at during the shoots—he knew that he ad a certain amount of charm to his smile when he wasn't being sulky or aggressive, as was his wont.

Chip wasn't at the age where he could be considered cute. He was a sticky-faced, demonized little imp that happened to share living space with Roxas.

With the Wonder Twins gone and leaving sparkles (gay sparkles) in their absence, Elizabeth Potts became convinced that she needed to find a new staple for the family's income. Namine and Sora had pretty much held up the entirety of the household with the modeling and athletic abilities combined, but now she was left with Chip (who showed no talents, save for snitching), and Roxas, who was only kinda-smart and in the possession of adequate features and a decent amount of common sense.

It made perfect sense for Roxas to be the new model. With the cosmetics and specially made push-up bra, he looked either very girly or very gay—but the catwalk made him all girl. Swaying hips, little to no smile, the blunt stare. Businesses fell at Roxas's well-manicured feet and practically threw cash at his mother. "You'll be just like Namine," his mother had said casually, tucking bills into her purse, "Just like her."

And he was.

He walked the walk, he talked the talk. He wore her old summer dresses and manufactured the shy giggle she gave to compliments. He could fit perfectly into her old prep school uniform, even wore the star-shaped pendant that Namine'd thrown at their mother the evening of the Butch Attack. He owned her GPA (3.45 exactly), was dating her boyfriend, spent free time helping out in all of Namine's old extracurricular activities—the Go Green club, vice-captain of Varsity Cheerleading, golden member of NHS and student council. He was stopped in the hallway by fellow classmates, be it a appreciatory tap on the ass or a high-pitched, "OMG HI ROXAS!" from his adoring peers.

So what did it matter if his mother sometimes got dewy-eyed and wistfully called him "Nami" from time to time? What did it matter that Demyx—his fucking boyfriend, even though his mother was prone to making the sign of the cross whenever The Gay was mentioned and wanted her offspring to be as heterosexual as possible; it was assumed that she'd forgotten her goal in the process of making Roxas identical to Namine—was content to kiss him and love him and pretend he was his sister every time he saw him?

Roxas pushed the older blonde off of him, manicured nails sweeping across the planes of Demyx's face. "I've gotta go, okay?" he said apologetically, rising from the ruffled bedspread (Namine's) and approaching the closet. He began sifting through the clothing, tugging off the flowered blouse that his mother had forced upon him earlier this morning (which had been documented by him forcefully shoving that weird redheaded kid from the store—what was his name? Edgar? Warner?—from the porch swing where he'd slept as his mom lumbered throughout the house, screeching and provoking Edgar's sleepy mumbling as to what was going on and Roxas's irritated whisper-shouts of "Go go fucking go").

"Stay awhile." Demyx suggested, tugging at his hips from behind. He tried, in vain, to pull the younger boy back into his lap, but Roxas—forgoing the typical girly reply of gently pushing his hands away and giggling nervously—slapped at his calloused hands and bit, "Don't you have classes or something?"

He smiled. Demyx was one of those people who'd barely made it into the local college and frequently skipped classes, opting instead to be lazy and talented somewhere else. In his case, playing guitar and loitering. "Not until one."

"Liar." Roxas snapped, and only barely remembered to say it playfully. He seized a pair of shorts from the disaster area that was his closet and tugged them on. If he had felt like being girly, he would've squealed "Turn around, perv!" to Demyx; but as it was, he was going to be late and Dem looked rather bored, laying there on Rox—Namine's—bed and watching his girlfriend-who-was-really-a-boyfriend get dressed.

He turned around to the mirror and held up a tube top; a sequined, neon-pink thing that implied that Roxas was sassy (or at least, that's what the gold letters said) by the hem. If he had been manlier looking (like Sora), he would've appeared to be very, very gay instead of passing as a skinny girl with an awkward haircut.

"I kind of hate that one." Demyx said from where he was attempting to suffocate himself in the ruffled coverlet. "The blue one's better. Brings out your eyes and shit."

"Fuck you, baby." Roxas said graciously, shimmying into the 'sassy' tube top. "I like pink. It's my favorite." FALSE. Roxas didn't even like colors. He liked clear (or was it transparent?) things. Was that even a color?

The musician sighed. "Yanno, Namine was never this—" He stopped, and chanced a look at Roxas's face in the mirror. It had gone stiff and still and was unlike his ex-girlfriend's in the most extreme sense. The word unfair came to mind and he lunged from the bed. He touched the smaller boy's bony shoulder and said softly, "Um."

…and that was pretty much it. It wasn't entirely Demyx's fault. He was just a nice boy whose girlfriend turned out to be a skirt-chaser and was now with his ex's little brother. He'd been subtly threatened into it by said little brother's fearsome mother and was supposed to be nice and kiss him in public and got paid every time he and Roxas were seen in public, acting coupley and ignoring the PDA rule.

He did like Roxas, really (sort of). He was a nice kid (on the inside). A bit surly at times, a bit blank-faced whenever he was concentrating on being feminine or modeling or being the picture-perfect Namine-clone. More than a little bitter and selfish and—kind of lacking in the personality department, to be truthful. Not that he could be blamed; the last time Roxas had seen his personality had been when he was, like, twelve, and even then it could be summed up in "I like sports." and "That Limp Bizkit concert was totally rockin', man, like totally."

Roxas wheeled around before he could say anything appropriately boyfriend-like and hit him full-force with a sugary-sweet smile. "Demy, can you give me a ride? Thanks, babe." He edged forward and dropped a kiss on the older male's nose, snatched up the purse hanging off of his bedside table and skipped off, muttering something between a voodoo chant and Britney Spears's "Piece of Me" under his breath.

Demyx cast an uneasy look about the room and fished his car keys out from underneath the envelopes on the desk, following Roxas at a quick trot.

[--]

"Do you ever feel bad?" Sora asked nervously, running his finger across the edge of his tea cup. Truth be told, he didn't even like tea (and neither did Namine, actually) but Larxene drank it like she breathed and since this was her house, it was all they had to drink. Well, that and soy milk, but Sora hadn't yet stooped so low.

Namine's brow wrinkled. "About what?" She stirred a more than healthy amount of sugar into her cup and blew gently over the surface, looking up at her twin over the rising of the steam.

"Oh, yanno." Sora wracked his brain for a euphemism, came up with nothing, and just continued lamely, "Mom and, yanno…stuff. Loose ends." He snuck a quick look at his sibling to make sure that she wouldn't be tossing around china in an unholy rage and, seeing that it was not the case, let out a relived sigh. Maybe all those hard feelings and bitter memories of Out-Gay-Demons were forgotten?

His sister smiled serenely over the delicate china. "I could care less what that old hag thinks."

Okay, maybe not.

"I just…what about Roxas? And Chip? Mom's probably giving them a hard time." Sora soldiered on bravely. "Not to mention that Reno's…um…" He frowned, trying to use the appropriate adjective to describe Roxas and Chip's father.

"Reno is what is known as 'unhelpful'." Namine said cuttingly. "I guess he doesn't need to think 'cause his floozies do all of that for him. But, yes, I do suppose the Old Hag is giving them a hard time." She smiled winningly. "But I don't give a shit."

"Now, now, Nami. You know that Mom is, uh…" The muscles in Sora's hands twitched slightly. "Very insa—lovely, intriguing woman."

"Are you on crack?" Namine demanded, setting down her tea cup with a soft clatter on the saucer. Her blue eyes narrowed into slits, a polished nail reaching across the coffee table to prod her elder-brother-by-two-minutes in the chest. "Has Riku been feeding you love-pills again, because I swear to god I thought I told him I'd castr—"

"That was one time, Nami, and he apologized!"

"—and when has Elizabeth Potts not been a crazy, selfish, manipulative bitch? Never, So; she was, like, born that way. We were trophies to her—shallow, shallow representations of what she couldn't achieve when she was young!" Namine screeched, pounding her jean-clad thighs in irritation.

Pause.

"Wow, Nam, you put a lot of feeling into that. You've definitely got that bitter-angst-boo-hoo-I'm-all-alone shiz down pat."

"I know, right?" She beamed proudly. "I've been practicing for this audition for a movie, it's called—"

"—How to Become a Lesbian in Twenty-Five Days?"

Namine smiled contentedly "I'm going to beat you."

"Sorry, sorry."

Another pause, comfortable and silent with the exception of Namine dumping more sugar cubes into her newly filled cup of English Breakfast. In the background, mixes of Riku's latest obsession played, spewing "I'm alright, you're alright, and together we do just fine" into the quiet. Sora cleared his throat and said, "Nam, do you ever—"

I'm alright, you're alright, and together we do just fine.

"—Nevermind. Hey, wouldn't it be funny if your soap-opera thing was called, like, Gays Of Our Lives and then we could all be in it and just—"

"Don't even start, Sora."

Will the KHOP formation succeed in their dastardly plans? Will Roxas ever leave Demyx for Axel? Is clear really a color? (no, seriously guys, is it? I don't know.) Why is Reno such a loser of a father--and is Pence really as gangsta as he seems? All this and more will be answered by the push of the review button. Have a nice day, lieblings.