Tronnor One-Shots

We're Delinquents, Darling

A/N: Trigger warning. Mentioned drug use, mentioned drug dealing and violence. I got a little carried away and this turned out to be quite the ride. Hope it turned out well though!

Growing up, everyone around me was a piece of shit. My mum, my dad, my aunts and uncles and older cousins; paper-bag-vodka, sugar-white-baggy, felon pieces of shit. I run out of fingers counting how many times someone in my family has gotten arrested for possession of drugs, trafficking drugs, DUI, etcetera. Sounds crazy bad right? Yeah, but it was a madhouse, so when one of us got arrested, all my relatives would spew laughter from their fried egg minds, bare their rotten smiles and joke about who's next. Like it was a chill thing.

But, for me, it wasn't. I dreamt of being taken into foster care, but somehow my parents always weaselled their way into keeping me. They refused to let anyone else raise me, so how could you possibly blame me for, well...me?

I swear, it wasn't my fault. When I was thirteen, my second cousin Aaron gave me my first bag of weed. It wasn't a lot but, with a doobie hanging from his mouth, he enclosed it in my hand like it was a godly gift. "Ambrosia, young Troye. The substance of the gods." He drawled, his nasty pot breath swirling up my nostrils and making me nauseous. I remember muttering under my breath, "Substance of the gods, my ass." I wasn't going to smoke that shit. I'd seen enough drug effects to give a rehab worker nightmares, and I wasn't going to add to the secondhand smoke already in my bloodstream.

So I hid it under my mattress for three years. I thought the problem would go away, but it's presence was so prominent that I could feel the baggy against my spine while I slept. I don't know why I didn't throw it out, maybe in fear that Aaron or my parents would find it in the trash and call me a pussy, but I kept it. And, a few days after my sixteenth birthday, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to do something about it.

And that thing I did, that thing I'd rather not name, that's why I'm here. Juvenile Detention, that is, zipped up in orange and isolated in a cell. I'm not in solitary or anything, I just don't have a roommate for some reason. And for that I'm glad, because even though I've been surrounded by criminals my entire life, my own presence is enough shameful circumstance to sleep beside at night.

I wanted to be alone with my depression and my shame, and I felt like at least I had some luck with my cell arrangements. But I should've known from my life in general that I never stay lucky for long.

One early, early morning, about a month into my sentence, my cell door banged open. "Get in there." An officer demanded firmly, though not to me. I groggily sat up in my bed as the door slammed closed again, blinking the sleep and slight darkness from my eyes.

A boy, probably my age, stood at the threshold. "Hey, bitch." He said, smiling crookedly. I kept myself quiet, because I didn't want him to know that my heart was pounding for several reasons. Firstly, he was really attractive. Small, leanly robust and pretty-faced, a boy I'd usually lust heavily after but, secondly, something about him felt off to me. What was it? He tilted his head; yes, there it was. He had the craziest look in his eyes.  

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He asked, the laughter and smile branding his body not fitting with the harshness in his words. I watched him carefully, squinting my eyes and pulling my thin sheets into me as he threw himself jovially onto his bed. "Are you a fucking mute?"

I shifted guardedly, forcing myself to smirk like a hardass. "No. I'm Troye."

The boy laughed loudly, obnoxiously. "Very original comeback, Troye. I'm Connor."

"Cool." I stayed stoic. "I guess we're cellmates then?"

"Guess so."

And that was really all it was; Connor and I didn't really speak at all after that. He went about his business, as did I, and it seemed that we were both perfectly content with that. If I were to be honest, I didn't like him at first; he was too high-chinned, too malevolently cheerful for someone being imprisoned like this. This pretty boy with the rock-hard, always-on smile and glassy eyes, I didn't trust him. He looked insane to me, and that's really saying something with the crowd I grew up with.