sued into submission 🌷 tracob

15

Troye Sivan

I sputter up blood in the air, my arms buckling. I whip my head back and forth between my hands, thinking to myself 'well, this is it.' God has other plans though because the bloke previously standing in front of me rushes around and picks up the bar with one hand like it's nothing, setting it on the rack. He pulls me backwards off the bench with his other hand, falling down to the floor with me and cradling me as I cough up blood.

"F-fu-" I choke out as he pats my back.

"Don't talk, just breathe." He instructs, positioning me to sit up.

I nod and lean against his chest, tears daring to spill down my cheeks, pathetically enough.

"You're fine, you're fine, just breathe. Keep breathing."

I frown, looking up at him to see him genuinely frowning. Does he think I'm gonna die?

"Ja- I'm f-fine, it just happens when I work myself too hard." I admit, making him scowl down at me.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" He more-or-less shouts, caught up in the moment.

I frown, giving him a pitiful look.

"I'll be- I'll be fine, can we just take a five-minute break?" I ask, wiping the blood spilt from my lips and down my chin with the back of my hand.

Mr Bixenman jerks my hand away from my face, "God, stop. Here, use my shirt."

He pulls his shirt over his head and hands it to me. I take it and wipe the fabric over my lips, impulsively sniffing his rich aroma. I lock eyes with him for a moment, breaking it and looking down at my lap.

"What the hell else is wrong with you that's making you cough up blood?" He speculates with wide eyes.

"I don't know, I just blame my diabetes." I mutter, "So can we have a five-minute break or no?"

He gives me the most incredulous look, "Have you gone mad? We're going home and you're getting into bed."

I furrow my brows in confusion, "Why? I'll be fine if we keep going."

He rolls his eyes and stands up, taking my hand and pulling me up to my feet. I stand on wobbly knees and brush my trousers off, rubbing my forehead with the back of my hand and sighing.

"You've still got blood on your face- here..." He takes his shirt from my fingers and dabs it around my face.

I watch him pat my skin, making unintentionally funny faces as I do so.

"Best hope no one knows you're here today. A shirtless Jacob Bixenman and bloody Troye Mellet, that may get out. People will talk." I chuckle lightly, staring out the windows of the room, the lot thankfully looking quite empty. In fact, the entire gym is empty aside from us.

Jacob shrugs, "Won't have to worry about it, I bought this building this morning and shut it down. It's labelled as foreclosed, paparazzi wouldn't dare to show up."

"Oh... smart," I whisper.

"Yeah, let's get out of here. You okay to walk?" He questions, hovering an arm behind my back.

I nod, "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure," I crack a smile and step around away from the bench.

"How sure?" He asks and runs up behind me, lifting me into his arms and swinging me to his chest. I squawk at the bloke as he holds me bridal style just like last night.

"The bloody hell are you doing?" I exclaim, clutching the shirt in his hands to my chest.

He shrugs, "Carrying you to the car. Can't have you passing out on us or something."

And just like last night, I simply go limp in his arms, giving up. If he wants to carry me everywhere we go, then god damn it he can. I'm not complaining.

It felt like it happened in flashes as we got out to the car, inside, drove off back to his house. He Even Carried Me Inside And To My Room.

"Just shut up and let me at least try to be nice for once, okay?" He snaps when I speak up about him acting like a completely different person again.

I pip a small okay and let him do as he pleases. He sets me in bed and tucks me in, leaving just my head poking out of the blanket.

"You did great today, I'm- I shouldn't have pushed you that hard though. Tell me when to stop next time... Alright?" He tilts his head to the side, a sympathetic pair of hazel eyes shining down on me.

"Alright," I whisper.

He nods and holds his hands together, "Okay, what are we having for lunch?"

"Whatever you want, I don't mind." I murmur, rolling over on my side and holding my hand against my chest.

"No, what do you want?" He retorts, putting me on the spot.

'I'll uh- noodles are fine." I smile up at him in nerves. He's being too kind. Far too kind. Too generous, too fake. I'm scared.

"Alright, noodles it is. I'll spice things up and throw some alfredo sauce in there or something. I don't know, I don't really cook. I'll be back in... however long it takes to cook noodles? Oh god, I'm going to burn my house down." He holds his cheeks in his hands, stressing out over the silliest of things. He doesn't know how to cook. He's never had to before, he's always had someone else to do it for him.

"You do have a chef, y'know?" I inquire, raising an eyebrow up at him.

He shakes his head, "No, I'm gonna do this. I'm gonna go cook noodles. I'm gonna go do that. Yell for me if you need me."

He paces out without another word. I hear him run down the stairs like a little boy, surely rummaging through his kitchen now and pulling out old recipe books. Of course he is though. He doesn't trust the internet, even if it is a recipe. I guess after you've had as many rumours spread about yourself and your loved ones as him, you start to lose faith in things.

I end up dozing off after patiently waiting half an hour.

When I'm woken next, it's with a box of pizza hovered over my face.

I throw my head back laughing, the sight for sore eyes pouting at me. Dough stuck in his frizzed out hair, splashes of what I don't even want to know all over his button up he must have changed into while I was asleep, and what looks smoke residue painted over his cheeks. It's safe to say he looks like a hot mess.

"I can't cook." He admits.

"Oh, that's funny!" I guffaw, clapping my hands together and grinning up at him.

He tosses the box on the other side of me and walks around the bed, hopping onto the other side and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Is Bix grumpy now?" I tease.

His lips twitch a bit, begging to curve up into a smile.

"Just eat the damn pizza, don't gotta rub it in my face." He grumbles, nodding to the box.

I sit up and poke my hands out of the blanket, lifting the pizza box open.

"Oh my god, this smells like actual royalty. I can't recall the last time I had-"

"I said not to rub it in!" He fusses, making me titter.

"Oh, sorry. Thank you for the food, Bix, you tried." I pick up a piece of pizza and nibble on it.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

And so for the short amount of time spent before he had to get to work, we ate that entire pizza and mumbled to each other, messing with the other. When he left and the box was empty, I rolled off of the bed onto the floor and positioned myself up. I knew I was alone. I continued finishing my workout, doing push-ups, crunches, and all those god-awful things that make my chest ache.

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