troye likes being alone.
troye is gray and blue and all the colors of the city before it really wakes up. he's a dove, a fawn, a soft blanket and a warm cup of cocoa in front of the fire on a cold day. he's his favorite yellow cable-knit sweater that his mum gave him for his 17th birthday; he's old cassette tapes and coffee table books and pastel rain-soaked umbrellas and thoughts, hundreds upon thousands of thoughts that consume his mind and never seem to cease.
jacob hates it.
jacob is the color of the walls of his favorite nightclub-blood red and black. he's flashing neon signs and edm and shots of vodka. he's the fading rose tattoo on his middle finger that his best friend hari gave him with a sewing needle and some cheap india ink while high (two out of its 3 leaves aren't connected to the stem and it definitely got infected). he's love and he's hate and he's every other emotion that you could imagine bundled into one body. and yes, he's tall and he's strong, but it's still a burden.
february 19, 2016:
it's late. 3:45 am, to be exact. so really, it's more early than late, according to troye mellet. he is already awake. he isn't tired. he's never tired (mentally, at least). he's nestled into the alcove in his kitchen, the one that he's padded with pillows and blankets, the one from which he watches the sun rise over the city every day. he's been here nearly 7 months and he hasn't missed one morning yet. it's dark now, but soon the sun will begin its ascent and will start staining the sky from the bottom up, replacing the darker colors with lighter ones, hopeful ones. troyes favorite time is the in-between point: when the colors are watered down, when the city is all grays and shadowy blues and steels and slates and every variation of those two colors you can think of. these colors are not quite hopeful, but they haven't given up either. troye sits and thinks, sipping his coffee (french roast, weak. no milk, 1 sugar.) as he waits for the day to begin.
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meanwhile, jacob bixenman is passed out drunk. has been for a couple hours now. he insists he doesn't have a drinking problem, he refuses help."i just like to have fun"
there's a time where it no longer becomes fun anymore, and jacob has crossed that line, been across it since he was 19. every year sends him spiraling further and further away from that point of hope, and he really does know he has a problem, deep down. he just doesn't want anyone to worry about him. it's not like he has a bad life, has rich parents who pay for everything, goes to a good school, lives in a penthouse near the park with his best friend. she's tried to help, enrolled him in every treatment program in the city, it seems like. he's never showed up to one meeting, one appointment, and he sure as hell doesn't plan to. he wants to fix himself. oh jacob, we can't always fix ourselves, though. sometimes we need a little push.
jacob wakes up at 3 pm. he's already missed 2 classes (physics, boring as fuck, and english, the worst class in jacob's opinion. math is his favorite, numbers don't lie), and he figures why bother with the rest. his grades are shitty as it is, he knows if his parents weren't such good friends with the dean he'd have been kicked out by the second semester of freshman year. he's a junior now, studying to be a journalist but he knows he's probably going to end up bumming off his parents for the rest of his life. it's gotten to the point where he doesn't care about much else other than the alcohol, he shakes without it. strange colors flash behind his eyes and sometimes he can barely stand. it's as if it's his lifeline, and he clings to it with trembling fingers. he wants to scream, cry because of it. he wants to laugh at himself for being so stupid. can't do either of those things until he has a drink, though. he walks to the fridge and grabs the first bottle he sees. it doesn't really matter anymore, if it's alcohol, he'll drink it. he takes a couple swigs and heads back to the couch, setting the cold drink on the coffee table. it's brandy.
