Troye Sivan
Standing in front of the mirror, I put my fists in the air and flex my tiny excuses of muscles.
"This is just sad," I mumble, shaking my head and throw my hands back down to my sides.
I stare at my nude body and frown. He is right, I do need to work on this.
"Sivan! Downstairs!"
It's five am, what the hell? Alas, I pull a robe over my freshly bathed body and scurry down the stairs to the living room. I find an impatient, surely hungover, looking Mr Bixenman.
"Good morning," I whisper, getting down on my knees in front of him.
He shakes his head, backing up and scoffing.
"That's not what I called you down for. You're going to the gym with me." He mutters, snapping his finger and motioning for me to get up.
I furrow my brows, "You work out in a suit?"
He looks down at himself and shrugs, "Don't ever really work out in public, but today we are. Go get changed, I guess I will too."
I get up and hug the robe tighter to my body, nodding and stepping back away from him.
"Alright, I'll uh- I'll be back down in a minute." I murmur and turn around, shuffling to the stairs.
I stop once I hit the first step and turn back to him, "Actually, um, can I borrow a tank or something? All I've got are button ups and dress trousers."
He nods and waves for me to follow him.
"Yeah, sure, come on."
I follow him down a hall I've never been in before and into a room twice the size of my old flat. It's almost sad when I walk in though. The pictures, the mix-matched stitch pillows, the dirty clothes, they're nowhere. Nowhere to be found. His room is as boring and robotic as his personality. Uptight yet cocky, just like him. With the black blankets, dark grey pillows, and short white carpet. Awful. The only picture in the room is one postered to the wall. It's a portrait about six feet tall of him in a suit next to his Bix Inc logo. I avert my eyes to the ground and keep my arms crossed over my chest to keep the robe together.
He walks over into his closet that alone was the size of my previous washroom doubled together. I stay by the door, too scared that my feet I just washed would leave little prints on his carpet. In moments he's back with matching black tanks and shorts.
"Take it for what you got, I don't have much of a variety when it comes to clothes that aren't suits." He mutters and hands me the clothes.
I nod and hold them against my chest, "Thank you."
"Meet me in the car when you're done. I have to get to work by nine."
I whisper an alright and hurry on up out of the hallway and upstairs to the guest bedroom. I said alright but my mind is yelling what to heck. It's five am. This bloke wants me doing hurdles around him for four hours. Have mercy. I quickly get changed and look at myself in the mirror, that frown from earlier finding its way back to my lips. I look like I'm five. Both the tank and shorts sag on my body, him being two sizes bigger than me. I roll the shorts up on my hips and pat them down, the shirt I can do little to nothing to. Remembering he's quick as an arrow, I shake off my own silly thoughts and run downstairs.
He's already in the car with it started up when I rush out and into the prissy white vehicle.
"This is what, your first time out of the house since you were in hospital?" Mr Bixenman questions with a quirked up brow, pulling the car out of park and backing out of the huge lot.
I nod, "I suppose so."
I cross my arms over my chest protectively and look around outside anxiously.
"Calm down, Mellet." He mumbles and turns into the road, speeding off down the hills.
I swiftly buckle up and cross my legs, only feeling ten times more protective.
"'m nervous. Haven't been out since everything." I murmur, trying to keep calm.
He sighs, "You've got nothing to worry about. Everyone figured you died on the streets or went to America to work as a prostitute. No one knows you're living at my house except for the few that come to meetings, and they know not to say anything."
I glance at the boy who's eyes are trained on the road, his words coming out as easily as anything else that passes his lips. I blink slowly and nod.
"That doesn't make me feel better," I admit under my breath.
He doesn't respond, sighing and turning up the radio. He doesn't flip to a station of overplayed pop songs, no, he goes to the news station and turns it up. I bite my tongue and hold back on giggling at how ridiculous he is.
On one side he's this sophisticated arsehole but I'm slowly but surely starting to get a peek at this childish goofy side of him. The side that burps on cue and carries boys to their room, the one that listens to the news by choice in a car ride. I want to see more of that part of him, if it really exists.
...
"C'mon, don't puss out on me now." Mr Bixenman 'coaches' me, AKA, finds a reason to ruin my life even more.
I clutch at my chest, huffing for air and panting.
"I... I feel like I'm having a panic attack." I gasp out, leaning back against the wall and falling down to the floor.
"Well, it doesn't look like it so get up. We've still got half an hour left." He chirps, motioning for me to get up.
I groan and fuss, though I still manage to get up, holding onto my achy ribs.
"We've been going at this for five hours... You- you said you had to get to work by nine!" I exclaim.
He smirks, "I lied. Don't have to go in 'til evening. We can stay here all day if we have to."
I dead-eye him, "You're the devil."
"Whatever you say, here, drink and get back to the bench press. Gotta fix up those noodle arms." He chuckles and gestures to my arms, handing me a tiny plastic cup of water.
I simply grunt in response, taking the water down in a gulp and tossing it into a can in the corner. He watches, raising his brows and pointing to the bench.
Begrudgingly, I trudge to the bench and lay down on my back.
He stands in front of me, watching as I place my hands on the bar and squeeze tightly. I breathe heavily and spread my arms shoulder width apart. The weights he put on being fifties, but with the fourty-five weighed bar, I'm lifting almost twice my weight. I'm only just now teetering back to a hundred kilograms, having lost all of that weight when I starved out in the cold.
I flex my muscles and lift the bar, huffing for air and feeling my face go red.
"You got it, Mellet, you got it." He encourages.
I nod over and over, knitting my brows together tightly and shakily bending my arms, lowering the weights to my chest. My heart feels like a balloon filling with toxic gas, begging to pop and explode everywhere.
"Breathe."
I huff out air and raise it back up, beaming up at the ceiling as I successfully get my arms up straight.
"You're doing it! You got it! Wa- wait, what are you doing? What are you doing, Mellet?"
"Mellet!"
-
a/n: aye lmao
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sued into submission 🌷 tracob
Fanfiction"troye sivan, you've been served." the man in a black coat says, handing me a folder. i clench my jaw, taking it. "all i did was spill a coffee on the bloke, it's not like i fucked his mother in hindsight."
