%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
Trying a little something-something. |
| [Introduction]
Things will happen. (Much to my horror, it is true!) Ah, this is the first, what else can I say to that? Hopefully, the one person I invite won't end up laughing in my face. She's great, though. At any rate, this may end up completely random, so it's really hard to describe.
|
| Something was missing, but what? In Zayn's sleepy frame of mind, he could easily feel the absence, but his brain was still cloudy from last night, eyes refusing to open. One arm was thrown lazily out to one side, and suddenly- he knew. Heavy eyelids raised half of the way up, murky green eyes focusing in a heavy stare to the empty spot on the bed beside him. That was right. That was what was wrong: there was no one there. Damnit. He should have figured- No, he should have remembered. That same arm lifted again, fingers running down his face in a lazy rubbing, removing any traces of sleep that still lingered. He curled up underneath the sheets, refusing to move; his temples throbbed, the pillow beneath him damp from a long night of crying. Of course, what had happened to put him in such a state was beyond comprehension. Only the empty bottles of alcohol strewn about the bathroom floor could give weight to any guessing, and they only gave a vague hint to someone having drank enough to damn near soil himself beyond memory. He closed his eyes again, burying his face against the surface of the pillow, as if urging the pain of his head to go away. But of course- it didn't, and he supposed (loathedly, as he should) that he deserved it, after all. It had been he who had chosen to drink of his own free will. But who wouldn't, in his position? And hey, he was young enough to be lured into loving someone so much that whatever they did to him, that he would still believe they loved him - even if they abused him continuously, even if they left him for dead on more than one occasion. Of course... there had always been apologies said after such incidents, sweet promises made. Maybe that was what made Zayn believe his many lovers would change- all those promises and apologies. Most would consider Zayn young and naive, and the fact was real. He stumbled over to the pile in his boxers, chest and back covered in healing bruises and marks, all out of the way of public visibility. The last guy had been at least smart enough to keep the injuries from open view of anyone else. As for Zayn, he had grown used to the pain, and so he would barely notice any of the marrings the beatings left, unless someone pointed them out. Which happened rarely, thankfully enough, because he didn't always like to be reminded. He dug through his clothes, hastily pulling out the day's uniform and slipping the two articles on. Socks and shoes came next, both hidden beneath the edge of his bed, nearest the small box with mirror hearts and plastic roses. In the small reflections he could see the sky behind his window, the color a mix of hazy dark blue, and an overcast grey - a promise of rain, if not a warning of how the day was sure to go. It felt weird, dressing without anyone else in the room- no one else touching him, no one's eyes trained on his body- and it was unnerving, even with the alcohol still fogging his memories. But that still didn't mean he couldn't faintly remember his ... many lovers. That was the point of drinking, he understood, to forget about the pain of being thrown away like an over used toy. A point that had been lost to him. It was short work to be rinsing out his mouth, brushing his teeth, and trying to detangle the mass of brown hair that was scattered in every other direction but down; a small blessing from above, he thought sarcastically. He dressed, the usual grooming of the day already done, and headed for the door; homeroom always came too fast, and always lasted too long, and by the time he hit the door, he was sure his stomach had bottomed out. The first days of the new years were always the worst. But in just a few hours, he reminded himself, it would be over. |
| Royce stood leaning up against the wall of the brick-built university and smiled as he puffed on his cigarette. He had lived here all of his life. He was twenty-one, born and raised by his loving parents, who didn't love him all too well after they found out about him being gay. That's how most parents were though, and he had accepted that. Seeing as they treated him so well up until that time, he learned quick not to bring it up at all around them. He respected his parents, and he hated having to dodge those fists and hateful words that just ate on his heart. Royce dropped the cigarette and stepped on it as he adjusted those thick black frames around those bright hazel eyes, and running his hands through those long, straight, and well-taken care of black strands. His pale skin just seemed to fit into the rainy scene and his smile just simply faded after that cigarette was gone. All he wanted was someone who liked him for who he was, but instead all he had were hateful people who didn't want him because he worked in a library and was majoring in architecture. They thought he was a nerd. What if he was? Did it matter? "Someday..." He whispered softly as he headed inside the double doors and up towards the library. |
| Zayn cut across the grounds of the courtyard, skipping around the corner of the Alumni building but pausing to knock the sides of his shoes against the wall- knocking off what mud he could, and frowning down at the rest. "Of all the days to rain," he mumbled. "It had to be the firs-" His voice cut off as his head rose, eyes narrowing to the blurred image of someone ahead of him as a frown took place of his previous scowl. Great. First it's raining, now someone has heard him talking to himself. Things just couldn't get any better, could they? He'd already left his contacts in the bathroom of his dorm room, so he was stuck with his glasses (currently tucked haphazardly in the loose fold of his uniform tie). "...'Lo." he mumbled, head lowering as he wiped the bottom of his shoes on the concrete and began walking towards what he HOPED were the doors. If not, well, he'd simply be groping a glass wall looking for a handle. Not that it would surprise him at that point. |
| Royce watched the boy struggle to find the doors, obviously not wanting to put on his glasses. That made him smile, a boy afraid to wear his glasses. He looked upset or something as he mumbled a soft hello in the form of two letters. "Hm..." He said as he kept his eyes on him and opened the door for him, "Why don't you put those glasses on, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to break any of your precious bones." Royce said as he laughed softly and walked in behind him. He had put the blue tarp over his Honda motorcycle and tied it securely so no rust would form. He twisted the water from those damp strands and cleaned his glasses. His only tattoo left visible from his white button shirt opened, revealing the tattooed chest; a large two-headed pheonix, in full orange/red/ and yellow colors. He had his lip pierced twice on the right side, along with his left eyebrow twice, and his ears gauged to an eight, with three conch piercings in each ear. This was the bad boy, that everyone in school new as the librarian or book nerd, but truth be told, his ass packs a fairly painful punch. |
| The sound of a door opening caught his attention, and he turned towards the hushed squeak of sneakers coming from- what he could only assume was- the inside. Following that, and that alone, he stared ahead, squinting when he needed, but otherwise walking blindly forward. Only a stranger's voice behind him made him pause, stopping suddenly where he was, and feeling something (someone?) hit him. Assuming they were talking to him, he turned, frowning at who he could only hope was the one who spoke to him. "I don't need them, and I'm not your sweetheart. I'd appreciate it if you kept your comments to yourself." And it would have been all fine in handy, if he hadn't actually been saying this to a statue of the Dean just to the right of him, while the real person stood off of his left... |
| Royce snickered and waved his hand dismissively, "Whatever doll face, I was just trying to help." He said as he pushed his black atreyu messenger bag behind him and crossed his arms, "Also, I'm on your other side." He laughed before taking his glasses and putting them on his face, "Why don't you wear them?" "I told you I don't need them, and I prefer you to not call me that either." He said as he removed those frames from his face. He had beautiful eyes; a rare color. "Fine, what's your name, boy?" He was growing tired of trying to be friendly, and pushing himself on this boy. He'd thought he'd help and that backfired right in his face. "You can cal me Zayn, not that it matters much, we'll probably never run into each other again." He said as he shook his head and attempted to look him over, but most likely couldn't see anything about him. Maybe that's why he didn't know who he was. The whole school talked about him all the time, but if you didn't see his face, you'd never know who he was. "You know what? Sorry I interferred, it seems you're doing just fine and you obviously don't want me around, babycakes. I'll just leave you to your, uh, rambling and talking to statues." He said as he started to walk away from Zayn, knowing he didn't want to in the least bit. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
