sued into submission 🌷 tracob

25

Troye Sivan

A boring white button up with boring black dress trousers on an even more boring bloke. Today should be a blast.

How did we get to this bitter point again?

It's the coming down. After your happy high, your epiphany, you've unfortunately got an inevitable ride down. Sometimes it's light and fluffy, catching your breath as your head feels all cloudy, closing your eyes as you feel in another dimension. This wasn't the case. There's also the sharp coming down. The second you're alone and you snap out of it, your thoughts and pathetic feelings flooding back through your mind. And instead of catching your breath and feeling as though you're floating, you're choking on your breath and feeling as though you're falling.

Because I am. I'm falling.

I keep the same blank expression on my face as I slip into clothes and as I pace around my room that day. Mr Bixenman knocked on the door once, asking why I wasn't leaving the room.

When I didn't respond, pressing against the door and holding the knob in place so he couldn't open the door, he simply shrugged it off and walked away. I couldn't blame him for leaving, I can't say I'd stay to watch myself fall apart either.

But here I am now, twisting that same knob and stepping out of the room. Here I am cautiously walking down the stairs to the lounge, my eyes peeled, looking for the bloke surely still suited up.

My assumptions are proven correct as I round to the kitchen, seeing him pulling a tray out of the cooker and setting it on the worktop. He tightens the strings of his apron covered over his white button up and smiles the smallest of smiles to himself at what's in front of him. That small little smile falls as he looks to me though, fear and frustration etching its way to his face.

"Hey, you're not allowed to see. Get outta here!" He swats his hands my way, shooing me backwards.

I knit my brows together and give him a funny look, "W-wha-? Why?"

"Shush. Look at the dildo cake or something! Don't come back over here until I'm done." He practically whines, pushing me against the table and walking backwards into the kitchen.

"I'm watching you." He half-heartedly threatens.

I crook my head to the side, "Are you really?"

I hear him stumble into something, metal clinking as what I'd guess to be utensils falling to the floor.

"No...! Please don't look!" He exclaims, making me giggle the slightest and turn towards the table.

Noticing his laptop still sat open on said table, I slide into a seat and turn the screen to me. I press the pad of my finger over the touchpad, making the screen come to life. It was then I had to bite my tongue to suppress more giggles.

There, laid out in front of me, are several tabs open of:
cake recipe
chocolate cake recipe
god dammit double chocolate cake recipe
someoje help
cake
chocolate
fuck
nO NOT FUCK STOPP
I DOTN WANNA SEE THAT
yfcthvhbjjk

And I think to myself, wow, this is a grown man.

I close the tabs for him and impulsively launch up my email. It loading then several emails of happy birthday are listed down the page. I'm surprised I still even get these. I haven't been on or replied in forever. Even when I was still employed and had my own flat, I never replied to emails. Who would? It's usually just past clients that still cling to their attorney months or years after their case.

Hell, I even used to receive letters from the penitentiary from past clients. Some sweet and thankful for my try at help, some bitter and spiteful, wishing evil things towards me. It's like fan mail but with a bit of spice.