The coffee in Vincent's hands almost seems to mock him, silhouetted in the bland, dreary morning grey. Each time he peers into the mouth of the bottle, fragments of his reflection echo back at him in splintered facets, every fractured plane an unanswered question.

Is he okay? his sleepless mind wonders, plagued with leaden worry from the night before. Did I say something wrong?

Vincent exhales lightly, his breath puffing out over his nose in tiny white clouds. Note to self: never bring up Tom to Simon. Or Simon to Tom. He rubs his calloused fingers over the bottle of cold brew, as if he'd be able to summon an all-knowing genie that could sweep away his burning curiosity.

"Morning," Otis greets, voice still laced with the dregs of sleep. Vincent had heard him coming from a mile away---his slippers aren't exactly quiet. But since he's still not sure how his father wants him to react, he fakes a small jump in his seat and plasters his best smile onto his face.

"You scared me," Vincent fibs, one hand dramatically placed over his heart. He grins wider, jaw clenching until he feels something pop. Because he hasn't spoken to Otis since Literature class the day before, and he's not sure if he wants to. Still, because Otis is trying, Vincent will try too.

"Sure," Otis mumbles in reply, reaching into the fridge and yanking out a bottle identical to Vincent's. Vincent's thumbs find each other, twiddling together nervously, unsure if he's stepping on landmines, unsure if they'll blow up in his face.

"I took some of your coffee, by the way," Vincent babbles, because when in doubt, talk. "I'm sorry if I wasn't allowed to or anything, but I---"

"Vincent," Otis interjects, and Vincent instantly presses his lips shut. Okay, so maybe talking wasn't such a good idea. "I'm sorry."

Wait, what? "Oh, you don't have anything to apologise for, and I---" Vincent starts.

"I was jealous," Otis admits. Vincent immediately closes his mouth again, utterly perplexed. "About yesterday, I mean. It's just that..." Otis groans, dropping his head onto the table before raising it again. "I'm the teacher, and I can't even get the class' attention for two minutes. And you just walked in there and made everyone look at you like..." He trails off, guilt fissuring his gaunt visage into something distorted, almost haunted. "I'm sorry, Vincent. That was unfair of me. I shouldn't have done what I did yesterday."

Vincent freezes, and something dark clouds his heart---hurt, if he had to put a name to it. Because such a frank, honest, unwanted confession from his father hadn't been something he'd prepared for at all, and although Vincent's good at improvisation, he can't find the right act for an answer. So he pushes, pushes, pushes, buries his feelings away like he always does, because his thoughts don't matter, never have, never will, and all that's important is that the sun shines and chases the night away.

"It's fine," Vincent chuckles, forced happiness bleeding from every shard of his smile, and it all just falls into place so easily. "You made up for it with my schedule, anyway! Was having me share that many classes with Simon intentional?"

Otis seems to hesitate, but nods, the motion heavy with remorse. "I thought it would be better if you had a friend in most of your classes. Simon could use a friend, too. Always alone with his homework, that one."

Vincent laughs, the sound rolling off his tongue like melted honeydew. "Don't worry about me, Otis. I've never had any trouble making friends!"

"I wouldn't know that," Otis mutters---quiet, so quiet that Vincent almost doesn't hear. "I haven't seen you in years." His fingers clench around the bottle in his hand, so tight his knuckles turn snow-white.

The replying silence hangs between them like a knife over their heads, ready to fall any second and plunge itself into Vincent's chest.

Otis breaks it, and it almost seems like a peace offering, an olive branch offered in place of eighteen years of parenting. "How's your competition piece going? You haven't used my piano since you came. Are you planning to practice, or are you just going to wing it? Your mother said you had the perfect piece picked out, and---"

"Yeah, so, about that..." Vincent swallows, the idea of actually already having a piece bringing giggles to his lips. "I lied." He twirls a strand of chocolate hair around his finger, studying the curl as if it'll give him the score he needs. "I don't have a piece or a score or anything yet. I knew that Mum wouldn't let me come to America yet if I told her I didn't have a piece yet, so I made up something on the spot."

Because I wanted to meet you sooner. I wanted to know what having a dad is like. I wanted to know why you didn't want me.

Otis exhales, air whistling out through his nose again. Vincent tries not to think too much about it, but he can't help it---Trixie is engraved into all four corners of his mind, hovering there, staring at him sadly, a ghost that refuses to fade. "You're in trouble."

"I'm in deep shit," Vincent remarks cheerfully, and he wonders how he can be so casual about it, when there's just a little over a month to his competition. He supposes the panic and self-doubt will kick in two weeks before. It always does. But truth be told, at the moment, Vincent just can't bring himself to care. It's just there, a little niggling worry in the back of his head, one that will undoubtedly flourish with time.

Otis' fingers tighten again, anxiously skittering over the bottle in his palm. "I wish I could help you," he says.

No one can. Right now, I mean. But it doesn't matter. I'll be fine. I always am. I've been doing fine without your help for eighteen years and---never mind. Let's just not...yeah. That doesn't matter now. The past is the past, right?

Vincent pushes the thorns in his mind back into the shadows, leaving nothing but the crimson iridescence of his rose-tinted thoughts. "I wish you could too." His usual honeysuckle smile comes to him easily, almost too easily, and it's so simple to just bury all the bad ideas six feet underground---where they belong, where they'll never kiss the golden sun again. It's so simple to block everything out and pretend the world's okay. It's so simple to just let go.

(´▽｀)ノ♪

Looks like Simon doesn't take Business.

Vincent's fingers glide over the nearest desk gently, wondering if he should ask the occupant if he can sit next to them. You'll be fine. You said it yourself---you've never had any problem making friends.

Before he can open his mouth, a loud voice cuts through his thoughts. "Vincent! Hey!"

Tom's large hand is in the air, waving him over. Vincent heads over gratefully, curiosity burning in his chest. At least Tom's not avoiding him, even after he'd run away at the mere mention of Simon.

In the tiny wooden chair, Tom looks even bigger, tall and bulky and athletic. Vincent knows he isn't small, exactly, but he feels tiny when he slides into the empty seat next to Tom's gigantic build. "Thanks," he says.

Tom chuckles. "No problem. You're great company. Sorry I got all weird on you and ran away yesterday, by the way."

Something tugs at Vincent's ribs---the urge to know, know exactly what's going on between Tom and Simon. But something tells him not to ask, and so he keeps his mouth shut and tilts his head in a graceful, doll-like nod. Because he has to play the part of Barbie, even when he feels like Annabelle in the darkness of her box-closet. "No problem. We all have our weird days."

He still remembers how bland Simon's reply had been, as if him rushing off at lunch hadn't happened at all. A stomachache, he'd said, his text blaring white on Vincent's screen. A simple really fucking painful stomachache. As if he hadn't had diamonds in his eyes and glass in his throat. As if he hadn't treated Tom's name like it had shot him in the heart.

"Right." Tom's hand slides behind his head, stretching until his joints crack and pop in their sockets. His smile is as wide as it had been the previous day---pure, undiluted sunshine packed into a cracked-tooth grin that glimmers like the stars. An old lady walks in, dressed in the flowered blouse and black pants of a typical teacher, but Tom doesn't seem to notice---not even when the class stands up to greet her in a cheerless monotone. Vincent follows, quickly bucking out of his seat and making sure a little of his usual enthusiasm leaks into his Good morning, Madam Bell. "So, Vincent, do you do any sports?" Tom asks.

Vincent settles himself back in his chair, allowing an airy laugh to escape his parted lips. "With this kind of body? They'd ruin my gorgeous curves." His hand travels to his belly, fisting the chub there for emphasis. He's learned to live with it, and as long as Tom doesn't decide to turn into a chav and call him fat, he'll continue living with it.

Tom snickers, no trace of malice in his cerulean eyes. "Funny. You know what I mean. Are you planning to look into any extracurriculars or clubs or...anything like that? I can give you some recommendations to make your life less boring."

Vincent pouts. "Aww, but boring is fun." He chuckles, reaching up to tug at one of the stray locks curling over his ear. "I prefer to focus on my piano, but I'm auditioning for the drama club. Moral support for Sim---"

He catches himself before the name slips out of his mouth, but a shadow has already darkened Tom's sunny face. To his credit, he recovers his jollity quickly with a well-timed snort. Except for the way his fingers thread themselves together anxiously, there's nothing in his casual stance to suggest the uncomfortableness he'd displayed the day before. "You'll love the drama club. My girlfriend's the president. Lynn. You'll love her too."

"I'm sure I will." It's hard to imagine Lynn not being a female version of Tom, because Tom seems like the kind of person to lock arms with birds of his feather---pretty, cheerful eagles with passion tucked under their wings. And if Lynn's a female version of Tom, Vincent's sure he'll like her immediately.

Tom's quiet laughter sobers, dropping to musing thought. "It's really good that you're doing this. Accompanying Simon, I mean. He needs to get out of his shell a bit more." He sighs. "He always did."

There's a silent heaviness to Tom's words, one that makes Vincent wonder. And Vincent knows he does that too much nowadays---wondering---but there are a million questions in the air, a million questions hanging in the lives of these unfamiliar, troubled people. So he lets the curiosity fester, dragging him down the rabbit hole of all the possibilities that can be possible. A childhood friendship gone sour. A romantic entanglement towed into the mud. A bloody tango in China with robot sharks.

(Maybe not the last one, but Vincent's always had an overactive imagination.)

Before he can open his mouth again, Tom's voice slices into his head. "Hey, would you like to meet Lynn sometime? I could introduce you. I think you guys would get along really well. She's a swell girl. You'll love her."

Vincent feels his lips split in a bright beam. "It's a date." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Or, well, a threesome, in this case."

Tom instantly breaks down into loud guffaws, only to be stopped by Madam Bell's angry shouts. "Tom! Keep quiet! This topic is coming out for your exam, you know!" She tsks. "The new student's only been here a day and you're already being a bad influence on him. Do you want to be moved to the front?"

"No!" Tom replies hastily, raising his beefy palms in surrender. "I mean, no, teacher, I'm sorry, it won't happen again---"

Vincent's concentrating on trying not to go blue with barely-concealed laughter when it hits him like a truck---an all-too-familiar scenario, almost a dream, playing out on the phonograph of his mind like a VCR tape scratched back to life. A girl, swinging her legs back and forth, her corn-gold ponytail swaying along with her. Him and his stupid jokes, cackling loudly at his own nonsense until his Chemistry teacher had ordered him to pack up and head to the seat in the very front.

Trixie had brushed his hand gently with her baby blue nails as he'd headed to the chair of shame, head hung with the slightest hint of embarrassment. It'll be fine, she'd mouthed, her freckles covered in natural scarlet. We can always chat again after class.

And they had. They'd talked after class all the time, until one day, when he'd pulled her over to a secluded part of the cafeteria, and he'd told her that he was going to America for a few months, and he'd said that he didn't think he'd be able to handle long distance, even for a little while...

Vincent presses his fingers to the side of his head. The thorns in his mind easily stab through the paper defences of his exaggerated cheer, bloody with all the dusk he'd buried in his mental grave. So he shovels harder, digging his demons away, locking them from the surface, drowning them in the deep unknown.

I'm sorry, he'd said.

I know you are, Trixie had replied, and the bright blue of her glittering irises had seemed dull, shiny with something other than her usual radiant glow. It's okay. I understand. Her freckled hands had clasped themselves over Vincent's own, fingers stroking his palm warmly, and tears had rolled down her cleft chin and reddened cheeks.

Vincent had hurt her that day. Trixie had tried to hide it, and she had kept her head high and her parting words warm, but he had hurt her. He'd known it, knew it, knows it now. And he hates it with all the fire in his weak, jelly heart.

I'm sorry, he thinks, even as Madam Bell finishes her tirade against Tom, even as his headache clears, even as marketing strategy bullshit fills his aching mind to the brim with useless facts he's sure he'll never need again. I'm sorry, Trixie.

in today's news, my hands fricking hurt.

mainly because my RSI is acting up and the joints on my right hand are really effing painful nowadays. like Vincent, i have an upcoming piano thing coming up. (unlike Vincent, it's an exam instead of a competition.) so i've been practising everyday. and since i'm Grade 8, my pieces involve A Lot of Very Hard Notes.

combine that with my writing (both digital and physical, since i still need to write a ton of essays for school), typing, and generally using my right hand for everything because it's my dominant hand (although i have switched to my left for jacking off---FOR LEGAL REASONS THIS IS A JOKE), you have a really fricking painful hand. sometimes i can't even open the door because it's too painful for me to twist the doorknob. it's really bad and i'm actually kinda worried because my RSI has never been like this before.

in other words, if i like, dip for a while or whatever, or if my writing quality/length goes down, it's mainly because i wanna preserve my hands for my music exam. cause that's the important thing right now. but for now, since it's bad but not unbearable, i'm all gucci.

aNygAyS

i took up swimming again cause i used to love it but i haven't swum in like three years lol. also i got some cute crop tops and had a mental breakdown in the middle of H&M because i thought i was too fat for crop tops and was afraid that everyone was gonna laugh at the obese kid buying clothes and that even XXXL wouldn't be able to fit me

(after i got past the mental breakdown and graduated into actually trying on the clothes, i found out that apparently, the only size that fits me, size-wise, is XS. who woulda thunk. anygays my gay ass has like three crop tops now.)

what did you guys think of this chapter? i wrote it while i was waiting for my dad to finish his dentist appointment. personally, i'm happier with it than i was with my last few chapters? like, i'm still not really happy with it, but i think it's better than chapter 3-5. let me know what you think!

sorry for the slow pace of this book so far! i plotted out more than half the book already and...well, let's just say it moves very, VERY slow. Simon and Vincent slow af smh.

thank you for all your love and support! stay safe, stay healthy, and keep shining! see you in next Saturday's chapter!

xoxo, Alex