Some days, Vincent forgets to eat.

It's not his fault, really. It's not his fault that he forgets, because there's just so much to do---from talking until his tongue dries up to practising until the space beneath his nails stains the piano keys scarlet. It's not his fault that there are a million fairies in the world around him, filling his vision with magic and leading him away from reality. It's not his fault that sometimes, his head gets so caught up in the clouds that frivolous, mundane duties like grabbing some nosh simply evade his memory.

"You're up early," Otis remarks, padding into the kitchen in flannel pyjamas that look like they've seen better days. He's unshaven, bleary-eyed, a far cry from the perfectly put-together professor he's tried to come across as for the past few days. "Have you eaten yet?"

Vincent stares down at his hands, fingertips covered in callouses, knuckles so red they look bruised. They're short, almost stubby. Still, they're pianist fingers, because Vincent believes everything is subjective, and they've served him well. "I don't eat breakfast, Otis." He winces at that, noting the way Otis lets out an equally obvious grimace. Vincent tries---he really does---but the word Dad refuses to flow onto his tongue. It stays stuck in his throat like it's been for the past eighteen years. In fact, Vincent can't remember ever saying Dad---since he hasn't exactly had a dad around.

Until now, that is.

Otis pinches his nose, and maybe it's the morning gloom, but he looks older than he'd looked the day before, as if Sunday's end had brought the clock forward another ten years. Or maybe it's the fact that his dining chair gets further from Vincent's every day, and Vincent knows that's not Otis' fault---after all, he hadn't asked to be saddled with a kid he hasn't seen since his birth---but he can't help feeling a bit gutted anyway.

"Right. I forgot. I'm sorry," Otis says.

Vincent shuts his eyes, because how could he forget if he never knew, but he knows there's no point---he can't mend chains that have already been broken, can't wish on wells that have long run dry. But Otis is trying, so Vincent forces on his usual honeysuckle grin, almost too familiar on his lips. "It's fine!" Shit. Too fake. He clear his throat. Tries again. "It's fine." Better.

Otis reaches into the fridge and yanks out a bottle of prepackaged cold brew. "Do you want one?"

Vincent shrugs. He could use the caffeine. Although it's still not as good as tea, coffee's surprisingly more decent than he'd thought it would be. "Sure. Thanks."

Otis tosses him the bottle. It slips around Vincent's fingers for a moment before he manages to get a good grip on it, wrapping his hands around the bottle like it's his last lifeline. "Your mother made sure your subjects matched up with the subjects you took back in your old school." Otis pinches the bridge of his nose again. "Which means your first lesson in your new school is with me."

He doesn't look particularly happy about it, and Vincent's heart sinks down into his sneakers. Still, he wills his smile to stay put---even though it's disappointingly obvious that Otis really doesn't want anything to do with him. Vincent supposes he shouldn't be surprised---after all, his father had left straight after he was born. "That's great!"

Otis lets out a whistle of air through his nose, and all it does is remind Vincent of how Trixie used to have the same habit. It makes something cold run up his spine, an icy fist wrapping itself around his chest and squeezing until his heart explodes into a million little shards of glass-tinted confetti. It makes him remember strands of gold pinned in a tight ponytail, a cleft chin that had always pointed up at the stars, a pair of freckled hands clasped together in something reverent, something holy.

You were the one who broke up with her, remember? You didn't think you could handle long distance. Even if it's only for a few months.

But no matter how many times Vincent reminds himself that it had been his own fault, he can't help regretting all the decisions he's made, especially when he sees Trixie's scarlet heartbreak in every mirror. It haunts him every time he tries to sleep---the tears in her azure eyes, the melancholy in her voice, the grim line of her peachy mouth.

Because Vincent fucking hates it when people hurt, and he hates it even more when he's the one who hurts them.

"Sorry," Otis mumbles, startling Vincent out of his head. "I know I'm terrible at this. It's just that...I wasn't ready to be a father then, and I'm still not ready now."

Is that why you left the second I was born? But Vincent can't bring himself to say it, because he knows it'll hurt Otis, and he doesn't want to hurt people anymore. "It's just for a few months. After the competition's over, I'll be heading back to London." Back home. Back to his mother. Back to his mates. Back to Trixie.

God, Trixie.

Otis takes a swig of the cold brew in his own hand. "Yeah." His eyes are red-rimmed, laced with sleep and sorrow. Then he coughs, patting down the front of his tattered flannel shirt. "You'll like the American girls, I'm sure."

"The boys, too," Vincent reminds him, like he hadn't greeted Otis at the airport with a notebook containing a list of important details about himself, including his sexual orientation and his recent breakup with Trixie Harlton. Give him a chance to get to know me, he'd thought at that time. It had seemed like such a good idea---until he'd found out that his father has the memory of a goldfish.

"The boys, too," Otis echoes. He stares down at the bottle in his hands, as if it'll somehow help him raise the son he hasn't seen in eighteen years. "There's a kid in my class you might get along with. Little bit moody, but according to your mother, you're good with the moody ones."

Vincent laughs breathlessly. "Mum was talking about animals, Otis."

"People, too." His father turns to regard him with that cloudy, slumber-heavy gaze. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you turned out like your mother."

In everything except appearance, Vincent thinks, because no matter how much he tries to deny the Kelle blood in him, it's there---evident in his last name, in the way he looks more white than Korean, in the way he's undoubtably a younger copy of his father, one still unworn by stress and responsibility and the cruel follies of life. Nevertheless, he tries not to harp on it too much, because it only serves to fill him with negativity.

Vincent doesn't like negativity.

"So, this moody guy. Is he cute?" Vincent asks.

Otis shrugs. "See for yourself and then tell me."

Vincent chuckles, forcing a persuasive sparkle into his brown-eyed stare. "As my father, you're supposed to look out for cute boys for me. Great parenting skills, Otis."

He feels his smile fade when his father flinches, his dining chair scraping just an inch further from Vincent's seat. I was just joking, Vincent thinks, but all the same, he doesn't bother trying to talk anymore. Instead, he stares down at the untouched coffee in his hands, letting it leak icy condensation over his fingers until Otis finally reaches for the car keys.

(´▽｀)ノ♪

Just be yourself, Vincent reminds himself for the umpteenth time as he swings one foot out of his father's car and proceeds to trip over the pavement. Okay, maybe not completely yourself. But yourself. Yourself enough so you can make a couple of new mates. Hell, befriend the whole school. It's what you do best, anyway. Think sunshine and rainbows and unicorns. And then spread those thoughts around.

He trips over the pavement again, managing to steady himself before he crashes flat on his face. Motherfucker---

"Are you okay?" Otis asks, yanking open the boot.

Vincent swivels around with a giant, only partially-fake smile plastered on his face. "Right as rain." Icy wind tears at his loose t-shirt, biting into the skin beneath his short sleeves. It's almost comforting, like there's some part of London that still clings to him, refusing to leave him no matter where he moves.

He can't help it---he twirls, a little pirouette that sends his shirt swirling around him and stirs the leaves beneath his feet. A small chuckle escapes Vincent's throat, because it's a beautiful day. The grey clouds above his head hang low, threaded with glittering silver, so close he's sure he could hug them. He could use a hug right now, and he's certain the clouds could too.

"Vincent..." his father sighs, and Vincent's laughter instantly dies in his throat. Otis shakes his head. "Never mind. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

Vincent swallows, hard. Right. I forgot where I was. "Sorry," he mumbles, hanging his head. He doesn't lift it, not even when Otis throws his backpack to him. He's relieved when he manages to catch it---after all, he doesn't want to disappoint his father any more than he already has.

"Don't be. I'm sorry. I'm not used to this." Otis slams the boot shut and attempts a wan smile, one that makes his eyes look even more tired than before. "Since my students never actually come to Literature on time, do you want to roam around a little? Or should we head straight to class?"

He's trying, Vincent reminds himself. And I probably need to act a little more mature, anyway. "Class sounds good!" he chirps. Not mature enough. Damn it. "I'd love to see your classroom."

"Right." Otis lets out another exhale through his nose. "Prepare to be disappointed."

It takes a lot to disappoint me. Although I suppose a father who was absent for eighteen years kind of did the job. But let's not get into that. Vincent slings his backpack over his shoulder and tugs down the hem of his shirt---it's risen slightly, just enough to show his pudgy stomach, and he really doesn't need to start his American education experience off with some crass bloke calling him fat.

"I promise I won't be," Vincent says, and when they finally make it to the classroom, he's gutted to have his promise immediately broken.

It's not bad, but it is disappointing. It's bare, nearly empty, nothing but two worn books lining the teacher's table. No literature-packed shelves line the walls, and the sad cluster of tables in the room are chipped and loaded with scribbles. The walls are white, washed-out and faded---much like the rest of the room. Much like Otis himself.

Otis dumps his own duffel bag on the teacher's chair---a pathetically tiny wooden affair---and turns on his heel. "I knew you'd be disappointed. I'm going to the toilet."

Vincent nods mutedly, and once Otis is out of sight, he instantly hops onto the teacher's table. It's hard underneath him, but the forbidden position does brighten his mood a little. He contemplates checking his newly-acquired schedule (courtesy of Otis' night terrors waking him up at two in the morning to remind him that he had neglected to hand his son anything he needs for school) or flipping through his music scores, but he doesn't want to seem like a nerd if Otis' mysteriously-absent students were to traipse in. So he sits, waiting, enjoying the allure of the brand-new universe stretched over his gifted fingertips.

And then a boy walks in.

He is melancholy personified, a frown creasing his sharp face, dark circles ringing even darker eyes that droop with ill-hidden gloom. Messy black hair cuts across thick eyebrows in a jagged swoop, tapering down to a wide nose and thin pink lips. He's pale, almost sickly-looking, skin so white it's nearly blue. He's ridiculously tall, his body a tangle of angles and bones. The cerulean jacket he's wearing hardly conceals the way his slim neck dips into knife-like collarbones, and Vincent wonders if he'd cut his hand on them if he touched them, if this boy, with his broken-glass irises and his ire-slumped shoulders, would even let him touch them.

The boy is not gorgeous, like the models in the magazines. He is not extraordinary, like Trixie Harlton. But there is something lacing the curve of his chin and the slope of his eyes, a quiet beauty, so soft it's almost impossible to see. And Vincent can't help it, can't help his morbid curiosity, can't help wondering if this silently bewitching boy loves as quietly as he looks.

Vincent watches intently as the boy's pinwheel mouth parts in a tight O, the despondency in his ebony gaze fading into something almost resembling awe. He can't stop the grin that spreads across his face at that, because the boy is even more gorgeous when his eyes are filled with fascination instead of pallid ennui.

"If you're looking for Otis, he went to the loo," Vincent says.

He notices the way the boy's throat bobs as he swallows, hard. His lips split again, and he stutters out a shaky, "T-thanks."

Fuck. He's cute.

Vincent can't help it---he giggles and twists his mouth in a lopsided smile. "Maybe America won't be so bad after all," he teases, an exaggerated lilt to the accent he barely has. He knows he shouldn't---but he can't stop himself.

He's delighted when the boy's face explodes in a myriad of crimson, roses blooming on his thin, pale cheeks. The universe resides in those dark, dark eyes, and for a second, Vincent plummets like the stars. The descent is swift, sudden, an invisible luxury, and it nearly feels like an honour.

Vincent knows it's just him. He knows it's just his stupid little paper heart and the tiny staccato butterflies that paint his chest in screaming colours whenever he even glances at something pretty. He knows it's just the way he falls too fast and loves too hard. But he can't help it.

Because there are a million ways to fall in love, and in that moment, Vincent Kelle crashes into every single one of them.

i might rewrite this chapter later because i freaking hate it oop like the first chapter was trash but this one is the whole dumpster 💀💀💀

aNygayS my chest hurts like a b!tch right now and i have literally no clue why. maybe it's because i wasn't supposed to exercise for a week after getting the jab but i waited like three days and then exercised anyway 💀💀💀 #noregrets #okaysomegregrets #ifigetheartproblems #weallknowwhy

but on the bright side i told my dad about my boyfriend and this mf already knew for like a year and never told me that he knew because "i respect your privacy" so wow ok i didn't think i was THAT obvious but go off king

what did you think of this chapter? it's a little shorter than my usual, and i'm personally REALLY unhappy with it, but do let me know what y'alls think cause i need feedback <3

if there's any mistakes or corrections to be made, do let me know! constructive criticism is more than welcome :D

as usual, stay safe, stay healthy, stream Angel Baby because Troye Sivan is the LOML and his songs are literally the best, and i love y'alls so so much 💙 see you in next Saturday's update, my precious smol beans!

xoxo, Alex