Your takeaways too clean, we gone need Royce to rock some bodies and pop out a fumble
Dying to Live
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The JZA
- Posts: 9436
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 13:10
Dying to Live
This boy Royce ain't play five games and already feeling his-self
Your takeaways too clean, we gone need Royce to rock some bodies and pop out a fumble
Your takeaways too clean, we gone need Royce to rock some bodies and pop out a fumble
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16969
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16969
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Shotgunning
The laughter of J.J. and Dewon buzzed faintly in Royce’s ears, muffled by the weight of his own thoughts. The three of them sat in their living room, the low hum of a sports channel filling the room. Dewon had the remote in hand, flipping through channels with the precision of a surgeon, and J.J. was nursing a half-empty bottle of beer. Royce was halfway through his second drink, trying to keep up with their jokes, their banter, but his mind was elsewhere—split between the flickering television screen and the cold, coiling dread settling in his chest.
He raised an eyebrow and reached over to stop Dewon.
“Hold up. Go back right quick,” Royce said, his voice taut as a pulled string.
“What?” Dewon asked, frowning.
“Just go back,” Royce repeated, waving his hand, leaning forward.
Dewon shrugged and flipped back a few channels, landing on a late-night news broadcast. There he was. Royce. His face. His name scrolling across the bottom of the screen like an accusation: ROYCE LAFITTE – LSU’S BREAKOUT STAR OF THE SEASON.
The clip showed shots of him on the field as two anchors talked about his play to start the season, the interceptions, the big plays. He’d thought he’d been flying under the radar, overshined by players like Harold and Greg, Garrett and Chris on offense. He didn’t like the spotlight, felt it made him look like a fraud.
…felt it made everyone’s accusations about his desire to steal Romeo’s shine all the more true.
J.J. slapped Royce on the chest and let out a low whistle. “My nigga out here cooking. Three games in and they already talking about that boy like an All-American.”
“Look, I got a running list of all the times you ate my food. When that NIL money starts coming in, just shoot me about $500 on CashApp,” Dewon laughed.
But Royce didn’t respond. He just sat there, staring at his own face on the screen, the anchors talking animatedly about him, his prospects for the rest of the season, if LSU had uncovered a diamond in the rough. A strange, but familiar, weight settled on his chest, like he was watching someone else entirely.
This is what he’d been chasing his entire life, the fam, the recognition, the validation. So, why did it feel like he was drowning?
He could see that dark figure that had been haunting him over the last year in the corner of the screen on the TV, a distorted vision of Romeo with skeletal fingers and a gaunt face. It pointed at him, mouth open in a soundless scream.
He finished off the rest of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and clearing his throat, trying to shake the feeling, the imposter syndrome that was beginning to creep back in full force.
“Yo, you good?” J.J. asked, shoving Royce’s shoulder.
Royce blinked, forcing a weak laugh, getting up to walk to the kitchen and grab another drink. “Yeah, I’m straight. It’s just lowkey weird as fuck seeing yourself like that, you know?”
“Man, you need to get some bitches over here. You got that pull for real now. Got your ass on TV and everything,” Dewon said, laughing.
Royce chuckled, but it was humorless.
…
That night, the nightmares came back.
Royce woke with a start, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging to him like a second skin, and his pulse pounded in his ears. For a few fleeting seconds, he didn’t know where he was. His eyes darted around the room—his stuff piled on the desk and floor, the glow of his phone charging on the nightstand—but none of it felt real. He rubbed his hands over his face, desperate to ground himself, but the images from the dream refused to fade.
They never did.
The flash of the gun.
The sound—sharp, deafening, final.
Romeo collapsing in front of him, blood spreading across his chest like ink spilled on paper.
Royce could still feel the sting of his own wounds, bullets ripping through his body. He could still hear himself yelling, reaching out for his brother, struggling to stay awake, stay alive, Coming to in the back of the ambulance, fading again, waking up in a hospital bed days later.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t shove away that night. He relived it over and over, trapped in an endless loop. The worst part wasn’t even the violence. It was the helplessness—the way time had slowed down, and yet, there was nothing he could do. He hadn’t been able to save Romeo then. He couldn’t save him now.
Royce’s hands shook as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He needed to move. To get out of his head, out of this room.
Grabbing a hoodie, he shoved his feet into his slides and slipped out into the night. The warm art hit him like a slap, sharp and bracing, but it wasn’t enough to clear the fog in his mind. He wandered aimlessly, his thoughts as fractured as the quiet streets around him.
He soon stood in front of a store, open late into the night, The neon sign buzzed faintly, its glow reflected in a puddle on the sidewalk. Royce walked inside, to the back, grabbing a fifth of vodka from the shelf and bringing it to the cashier.
The cashier looked at the bottle and glanced at Royce, debating for a moment. After a few seconds, she popped off the security cap, scanned the bottle and told Royce the price.
He wrapped the brown paper bag tightly around the bottle as he carried it out into the night, finding a quiet corner in the courtyard in front of his apartment building. It was a small, tucked-away space, surrounded by ivy-covered walls and dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp.
He opened the bottle and took a long drag from it, the taste hitting his tongue and burning his throat as he swallowed it down quickly.
The alcohol didn’t make the memories go away, but it dulled their edges, blurring the sharp details until they felt just out of reach. He welcomed the numbness, the way it softened the weight pressing down on him.
But even as he drank, the thoughts clawed their way to the surface.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, Royce dragged himself to class, though he couldn’t tell anyone why. His usual morning activities for football knocked the hangover out of him momentarily, but it came back soon after. He sat in the back of the class, his laptop open but the word document blank, his fingers hovering uselessly over the keys.
The professor’s voice was a distant drone, explaining the ins and outs of various aspects of the building blocks of chemistry, the words slipping past him like water through his fingers.
His phone buzzed on the desk—texts from all over the place, teammates, Alix, Bree—but Royce ignored it. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, feeling as though he’d been sitting in the room for hours already.
Instead, it shown that only twenty minutes had passed… of an hour and a half long class.
He stared at the clock, watching the second hand move forward. It seemed to stretch, bend and curve as it slowly ticked around the clock.
After another minute passed, he sighed. Slapping closed the laptop, he shoved it into his bag and got up. It was one time that he’d take his privilege of being an athlete to cut out of class, knowing he’d get the lecture notes some other way.
…
The campus was alive with the usual midday chaos—students rushing between classes, friends laughing, the faint sound of someone playing a guitar out on the parade grounds in some sort of weird Bohemian expression. Royce walked without purpose, his hands stuffed in his pockets, until he found himself in front of the union. His stomach grumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.
As he approached the entrance, a small group of students caught his eye. They were gathered around a folding table, clipboards in hand, calling out to passersby.
“Shut down the plants! Dismantle Cancer Alley!”
Royce stopped a few feet away, curious despite himself. Tyrell had always told him about the people who sought to get rid of the industry on the river. Misguided altruism he called it. But this was the first time Royce had experienced it in person, people in his circles not particularly caring about the environment.
He watched as a girl stepped up to the table. Her light brown hair, streaked with natural golden highlights, fell loosely over her shoulders, effortlessly tousled like she’d walked out of a sunny magazine spread. Her complexion, warm and glowing, reflected someone from parts of the world further south than Louisiana—smooth, honey-toned skin that looked kissed by the sun.
She wore a cropped knit sweater in a soft terracotta hue, just slouchy enough to look relaxed without trying too hard, paired with high-waisted, light-wash jeans that were cuffed above her ankles. Simple white sneakers finished the look, scuffed just enough to show they were loved but still clean enough to be sharp. A delicate gold necklace rested against her collarbone, and a canvas tote bag with faded lettering hung off one shoulder, the strap crossing over her slim frame.
There was something about her style—in a sea of students wearing old t-shirts, sweats and shorts—that caught Royce’s attention.
She turned just as Royce realized he was staring, catching his gaze.
Her lips curved in a half-smile. “You don’t look like the type to care about this,” she said, her voice light and melodic.
Royce stepped closer, taking one of the clipboards from the table to look at it. “Actually, I care a lot about ‘ending chemical chattel slavery.’ It’s definitely at the top of my list.”
“Oh yeah? I think they’d be pretty mad downtown if they knew LSU had players signing petitions to get rid of the chemical industry in the state,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Hell, they might be mad here.”
Royce laughed as he set the clipboard back down. “What makes you think I’m here for sports? I might be pre-med or some shit.”
She grabbed his hand and held it up. “Your hands. You got some crooked ass fingers. You either play a sport or you’ve been working in a mine since you were 10.”
He shifted his hand to hold her hand, soft and delicate in his. “Well, Ms. Observant. I’m Royce.”
“Josefina,” she said, shaking his hands. She pulled her hand back and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “But my friends call me Effie.”
“Effie, huh?” Royce said, liking the way it rolled off his tongue. “How do I get to be a friend, then, Effie?”
She smiled, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “I don’t know, Royce. That’s up to you.”
“Let me get your number then.”
Effie laughed, turning to walk away. “You can add me on IG. I’m not hard to find on there.”
Royce shook his head, watching as she disappeared into the union.
“Are you going to sign?” one of the students asked, holding up a clipboard to Royce.
He looked at them and then the clipboard, scoffing out a laugh and heading into the union himself to get something to eat.
The laughter of J.J. and Dewon buzzed faintly in Royce’s ears, muffled by the weight of his own thoughts. The three of them sat in their living room, the low hum of a sports channel filling the room. Dewon had the remote in hand, flipping through channels with the precision of a surgeon, and J.J. was nursing a half-empty bottle of beer. Royce was halfway through his second drink, trying to keep up with their jokes, their banter, but his mind was elsewhere—split between the flickering television screen and the cold, coiling dread settling in his chest.
He raised an eyebrow and reached over to stop Dewon.
“Hold up. Go back right quick,” Royce said, his voice taut as a pulled string.
“What?” Dewon asked, frowning.
“Just go back,” Royce repeated, waving his hand, leaning forward.
Dewon shrugged and flipped back a few channels, landing on a late-night news broadcast. There he was. Royce. His face. His name scrolling across the bottom of the screen like an accusation: ROYCE LAFITTE – LSU’S BREAKOUT STAR OF THE SEASON.
The clip showed shots of him on the field as two anchors talked about his play to start the season, the interceptions, the big plays. He’d thought he’d been flying under the radar, overshined by players like Harold and Greg, Garrett and Chris on offense. He didn’t like the spotlight, felt it made him look like a fraud.
…felt it made everyone’s accusations about his desire to steal Romeo’s shine all the more true.
J.J. slapped Royce on the chest and let out a low whistle. “My nigga out here cooking. Three games in and they already talking about that boy like an All-American.”
“Look, I got a running list of all the times you ate my food. When that NIL money starts coming in, just shoot me about $500 on CashApp,” Dewon laughed.
But Royce didn’t respond. He just sat there, staring at his own face on the screen, the anchors talking animatedly about him, his prospects for the rest of the season, if LSU had uncovered a diamond in the rough. A strange, but familiar, weight settled on his chest, like he was watching someone else entirely.
This is what he’d been chasing his entire life, the fam, the recognition, the validation. So, why did it feel like he was drowning?
He could see that dark figure that had been haunting him over the last year in the corner of the screen on the TV, a distorted vision of Romeo with skeletal fingers and a gaunt face. It pointed at him, mouth open in a soundless scream.
He finished off the rest of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and clearing his throat, trying to shake the feeling, the imposter syndrome that was beginning to creep back in full force.
“Yo, you good?” J.J. asked, shoving Royce’s shoulder.
Royce blinked, forcing a weak laugh, getting up to walk to the kitchen and grab another drink. “Yeah, I’m straight. It’s just lowkey weird as fuck seeing yourself like that, you know?”
“Man, you need to get some bitches over here. You got that pull for real now. Got your ass on TV and everything,” Dewon said, laughing.
Royce chuckled, but it was humorless.
…
That night, the nightmares came back.
Royce woke with a start, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging to him like a second skin, and his pulse pounded in his ears. For a few fleeting seconds, he didn’t know where he was. His eyes darted around the room—his stuff piled on the desk and floor, the glow of his phone charging on the nightstand—but none of it felt real. He rubbed his hands over his face, desperate to ground himself, but the images from the dream refused to fade.
They never did.
The flash of the gun.
The sound—sharp, deafening, final.
Romeo collapsing in front of him, blood spreading across his chest like ink spilled on paper.
Royce could still feel the sting of his own wounds, bullets ripping through his body. He could still hear himself yelling, reaching out for his brother, struggling to stay awake, stay alive, Coming to in the back of the ambulance, fading again, waking up in a hospital bed days later.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t shove away that night. He relived it over and over, trapped in an endless loop. The worst part wasn’t even the violence. It was the helplessness—the way time had slowed down, and yet, there was nothing he could do. He hadn’t been able to save Romeo then. He couldn’t save him now.
Royce’s hands shook as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He needed to move. To get out of his head, out of this room.
Grabbing a hoodie, he shoved his feet into his slides and slipped out into the night. The warm art hit him like a slap, sharp and bracing, but it wasn’t enough to clear the fog in his mind. He wandered aimlessly, his thoughts as fractured as the quiet streets around him.
He soon stood in front of a store, open late into the night, The neon sign buzzed faintly, its glow reflected in a puddle on the sidewalk. Royce walked inside, to the back, grabbing a fifth of vodka from the shelf and bringing it to the cashier.
The cashier looked at the bottle and glanced at Royce, debating for a moment. After a few seconds, she popped off the security cap, scanned the bottle and told Royce the price.
He wrapped the brown paper bag tightly around the bottle as he carried it out into the night, finding a quiet corner in the courtyard in front of his apartment building. It was a small, tucked-away space, surrounded by ivy-covered walls and dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp.
He opened the bottle and took a long drag from it, the taste hitting his tongue and burning his throat as he swallowed it down quickly.
The alcohol didn’t make the memories go away, but it dulled their edges, blurring the sharp details until they felt just out of reach. He welcomed the numbness, the way it softened the weight pressing down on him.
But even as he drank, the thoughts clawed their way to the surface.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, Royce dragged himself to class, though he couldn’t tell anyone why. His usual morning activities for football knocked the hangover out of him momentarily, but it came back soon after. He sat in the back of the class, his laptop open but the word document blank, his fingers hovering uselessly over the keys.
The professor’s voice was a distant drone, explaining the ins and outs of various aspects of the building blocks of chemistry, the words slipping past him like water through his fingers.
His phone buzzed on the desk—texts from all over the place, teammates, Alix, Bree—but Royce ignored it. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, feeling as though he’d been sitting in the room for hours already.
Instead, it shown that only twenty minutes had passed… of an hour and a half long class.
He stared at the clock, watching the second hand move forward. It seemed to stretch, bend and curve as it slowly ticked around the clock.
After another minute passed, he sighed. Slapping closed the laptop, he shoved it into his bag and got up. It was one time that he’d take his privilege of being an athlete to cut out of class, knowing he’d get the lecture notes some other way.
…
The campus was alive with the usual midday chaos—students rushing between classes, friends laughing, the faint sound of someone playing a guitar out on the parade grounds in some sort of weird Bohemian expression. Royce walked without purpose, his hands stuffed in his pockets, until he found himself in front of the union. His stomach grumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.
As he approached the entrance, a small group of students caught his eye. They were gathered around a folding table, clipboards in hand, calling out to passersby.
“Shut down the plants! Dismantle Cancer Alley!”
Royce stopped a few feet away, curious despite himself. Tyrell had always told him about the people who sought to get rid of the industry on the river. Misguided altruism he called it. But this was the first time Royce had experienced it in person, people in his circles not particularly caring about the environment.
He watched as a girl stepped up to the table. Her light brown hair, streaked with natural golden highlights, fell loosely over her shoulders, effortlessly tousled like she’d walked out of a sunny magazine spread. Her complexion, warm and glowing, reflected someone from parts of the world further south than Louisiana—smooth, honey-toned skin that looked kissed by the sun.
She wore a cropped knit sweater in a soft terracotta hue, just slouchy enough to look relaxed without trying too hard, paired with high-waisted, light-wash jeans that were cuffed above her ankles. Simple white sneakers finished the look, scuffed just enough to show they were loved but still clean enough to be sharp. A delicate gold necklace rested against her collarbone, and a canvas tote bag with faded lettering hung off one shoulder, the strap crossing over her slim frame.
There was something about her style—in a sea of students wearing old t-shirts, sweats and shorts—that caught Royce’s attention.
She turned just as Royce realized he was staring, catching his gaze.
Her lips curved in a half-smile. “You don’t look like the type to care about this,” she said, her voice light and melodic.
Royce stepped closer, taking one of the clipboards from the table to look at it. “Actually, I care a lot about ‘ending chemical chattel slavery.’ It’s definitely at the top of my list.”
“Oh yeah? I think they’d be pretty mad downtown if they knew LSU had players signing petitions to get rid of the chemical industry in the state,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Hell, they might be mad here.”
Royce laughed as he set the clipboard back down. “What makes you think I’m here for sports? I might be pre-med or some shit.”
She grabbed his hand and held it up. “Your hands. You got some crooked ass fingers. You either play a sport or you’ve been working in a mine since you were 10.”
He shifted his hand to hold her hand, soft and delicate in his. “Well, Ms. Observant. I’m Royce.”
“Josefina,” she said, shaking his hands. She pulled her hand back and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “But my friends call me Effie.”
“Effie, huh?” Royce said, liking the way it rolled off his tongue. “How do I get to be a friend, then, Effie?”
She smiled, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “I don’t know, Royce. That’s up to you.”
“Let me get your number then.”
Effie laughed, turning to walk away. “You can add me on IG. I’m not hard to find on there.”
Royce shook his head, watching as she disappeared into the union.
“Are you going to sign?” one of the students asked, holding up a clipboard to Royce.
He looked at them and then the clipboard, scoffing out a laugh and heading into the union himself to get something to eat.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16805
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16969
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16969
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Real You
The late afternoon sun spilled golden light across the campus, turning the pavement into a mosaic of warm hues. Alix adjusted her bag on her shoulder as she emerged from one of the academic building, the faint hum of students chatting and laughing in the distance blending into white noise. She had just wrapped up an hour in math lab, her mind preoccupied with formulas and charts, when a figure stepped into her path.
“Alix, right?”
Alix slowed her pace, frowning slightly as she glanced up. The girl in front of her’s expression was neutral, almost too neutral, but her eyes flicked with a barely concealed edge. Alix didn’t recognize her, but there was something unsettlingly deliberate about the way she’d positioned herself in Alix’s way, like a chess piece making its first move.
“Yeah,” Alix said cautiously, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I know you?”
The girl crossed her arm, her expression unreadable. “My name’s Britni. We haven’t met, but I know Royce.”
At the mention of his name, Alix’s stomach tightened reflexively. She’d never been approached by anyone concerning Royce before—their relationship appearing largely “just friends” on the surface for the most part until they’d gotten to LSU. It was only recently that they started to be seen in public together almost couple-like.
But something about Britni’s tone didn’t quite sit right with her. It wasn’t “hey, girlie.”
“And?” Alix asked, arching a brow. She didn’t owe this girl anything—not her time, not her attention, and definitely not any answers. Still, curiosity tugged at her. “What’s this about?”
Britni’s lips pressed into a flatter line if possible. “I was just wonder—are you and Royce together?”
Alix blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. “Why is that any of your business? What do you mean ‘you know’ him?” she shot back, her voice sharped than she intended. The last thing she needed was some random girl prying into her business.
“Because,” Britni said, shifting her weight. “Royce isn’t who you think he is.”
Alix’s jaw tightened. She’d known all there was to know about Royce. He’d confided in her himself, telling her his story, his background. People loved to talk and with Royce’s growing popularity, she wasn’t surprised that people would have more to say about him. He made it easy with the way he hid so much.
“Okay,” Alix said, forcing a calm she didn’t quite feel. “Who are you… exactly? And how do you know Royce?”
Britni tilted her head, studying Alix with a faint air of pity. “We go way back,” she said vaguely, her tone laced with something that felt almost like condescension. “But I’m not here to talk about me. It doesn’t matter to you who I am. I’m here to talk about him. You think you know, but you don’t. Royce is the reason that his brother’s dead. He always hated him, hated being in his shadow. He’s not some kind of victim, if that’s what you’re imagining. He’s toxic. He’ll drag you down like he’s dragged everyone else down.”
Alix flinched at the words, the air between them suddenly feeling heavier, thicker. She tightened her grip on her bag and squared her shoulders, looking around at the other students who walked the sidewalks around them. “I know what happened,” she said evenly, though her voice betrayed a faint tremor. “And I know who Royce is. Whatever you’re trying to do, you can fuck off.”
The look on Britni’s face melted into something colder, sharper. “Do you, though?” she pressed, her voice dropping into a near whisper. “Do you really know what happened? Do you know what Royce did that got Romeo killed? Why he didn’t care what would happen to his him? What it would take?”
Alix’s heart skipped a beat. The way Britni said Romeo’s name, with that hint of intimate familiarity, made her stomach churn. But she refused to let it show. “Whatever you think you know,” Alix said, her voice firmer now. “I don’t need to hear it. My relationship with Royce is my business, not yours.”
Britni laughed, a low, bitter sound that echoed faintly in the air. “Fine. I’m not surprised that he’s tricked you, too,” she said, stepping back. “Royce’s good at making people believe in him, but trust me—he doesn’t give a fuck about you. He’s just using you until he’s done with you. He’s just going to pull you under and toss you aside.”
“Fuck you,” Alix said plainly.
Britni shook her head before turning to walk away. Alix watched her go, her mind racing with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answers to.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce lay sprawled across his bed, one arm slung lazily behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. The room was dim, the blinds half-drawn to keep out the sun. Shadows from the trees outside played faintly against the walls, the shifting leaves casting restless shaped that moved like phantoms. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the cologne he’d sprayed days ago but hadn’t bothered to wear.
Across the room, Emilia was perched on the edge of his desk chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, on foot bouncing in a slow rhythmic motion. She leaned back casually, phone in hand, her acrylic nails making soft clicks against the screen as she scrolled.
“You know,” she said, breaking the silence, her tone light and airy, as if they were merely chatting about the weather. “I’ve always wanted to go somewhere exotic like Bora Bora or Tahiti. What do you think? I mean, you got to get out and see the world and shit, right?”
Royce didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the slight imperfections of the ceiling he hadn’t noticed before. They zigzagged across the plaster like scared, jagged imperfections that didn’t quite belong in the otherwise pristine room. He traced them with his eyes, following their path as if it might lead somewhere else.
He wasn’t sure how long Emilia had been talking, or what she’d been talking about, or what she’d been talking about before this. None of their conversations were important to him. He got what she wanted from her, and she got what he wanted from him. Or what it seemed like she wanted, places she wanted to go, things she wanted to buy, people she wanted to impress. It was like listening to a podcast you hadn’t subscribed to.
Not that it bothered him, if anything, it made things easier. They both knew exactly where they stood with one another.
It was perfect. Transactional.
“Or maybe Europe,” she continued, her voice lifting with excitement. She didn’t even glance up from her phone. “We went when I was a kid, but that’s not the same as going when you’re an adult and don’t have you parents around you,” she paused, as if picturing it, then added. “I’d look fucking amazing with some designer dress at the Eiffel Tower.”
Royce exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with deliberate calm. He didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t frown, didn’t react at all. His phone vibrated next to him with a text. He picked it up, glancing idly at the screen.
’You free tonight?’, the message from Alix read.
“Yo,” he said finally, his voice low, the word slipping out like a sigh.
Her thumbs paused mid-scroll, but she didn’t look up. “Hmm?”
“Get the fuck out.”
That got her attention. Her phone stilled in her hands as she glance dup at him, confusing flashing across her face. “What? Why?” Her voice had an edge now, the lightness replaced by something sharper.
Royce sat up slowly, his movements deliberate, as if the weight pressing down on him had finally grown too much to bear. He ran his hand over his hair. “Because,” he said simply. “I’m tired.”
Emilia blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Tired?” she echoed, her voice rising slightly. “Tired of what? Me?”
He shook his head. “This ain’t forty fucking questions Just get the fuck out. I’ll call you later.”
For a moment, she didn’t move. The silence stretched between them, thick and uneasy. Royce could feel her staring at him, could sense the way her mind was racing, trying to piece together the sudden shift in his mood.
“Whatever,” she said finally, standing abruptly. Her bag swung over her shoulder as she straightened her spine, her posture stiff with indignation. “The dick isn’t that good for you to act like this, you know?”
“Yeah, whatever. You’ll be back,” he said, laying back down on the bed, his arm once again draped over his head.
The slam of the front door echoed in through the apartment, and then she was gone.
He clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into a fist behind his head. A flicker of anger played at the back of his mind, gnawing at him despite his best efforts. The imposter syndrome still attacking him. Thoughts of having normal relationships with other people something that wasn’t in his cards.
He picked up his phone and pulled up the messages.
’Yeah, come over.’, he sent back to Alix.
The late afternoon sun spilled golden light across the campus, turning the pavement into a mosaic of warm hues. Alix adjusted her bag on her shoulder as she emerged from one of the academic building, the faint hum of students chatting and laughing in the distance blending into white noise. She had just wrapped up an hour in math lab, her mind preoccupied with formulas and charts, when a figure stepped into her path.
“Alix, right?”
Alix slowed her pace, frowning slightly as she glanced up. The girl in front of her’s expression was neutral, almost too neutral, but her eyes flicked with a barely concealed edge. Alix didn’t recognize her, but there was something unsettlingly deliberate about the way she’d positioned herself in Alix’s way, like a chess piece making its first move.
“Yeah,” Alix said cautiously, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I know you?”
The girl crossed her arm, her expression unreadable. “My name’s Britni. We haven’t met, but I know Royce.”
At the mention of his name, Alix’s stomach tightened reflexively. She’d never been approached by anyone concerning Royce before—their relationship appearing largely “just friends” on the surface for the most part until they’d gotten to LSU. It was only recently that they started to be seen in public together almost couple-like.
But something about Britni’s tone didn’t quite sit right with her. It wasn’t “hey, girlie.”
“And?” Alix asked, arching a brow. She didn’t owe this girl anything—not her time, not her attention, and definitely not any answers. Still, curiosity tugged at her. “What’s this about?”
Britni’s lips pressed into a flatter line if possible. “I was just wonder—are you and Royce together?”
Alix blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. “Why is that any of your business? What do you mean ‘you know’ him?” she shot back, her voice sharped than she intended. The last thing she needed was some random girl prying into her business.
“Because,” Britni said, shifting her weight. “Royce isn’t who you think he is.”
Alix’s jaw tightened. She’d known all there was to know about Royce. He’d confided in her himself, telling her his story, his background. People loved to talk and with Royce’s growing popularity, she wasn’t surprised that people would have more to say about him. He made it easy with the way he hid so much.
“Okay,” Alix said, forcing a calm she didn’t quite feel. “Who are you… exactly? And how do you know Royce?”
Britni tilted her head, studying Alix with a faint air of pity. “We go way back,” she said vaguely, her tone laced with something that felt almost like condescension. “But I’m not here to talk about me. It doesn’t matter to you who I am. I’m here to talk about him. You think you know, but you don’t. Royce is the reason that his brother’s dead. He always hated him, hated being in his shadow. He’s not some kind of victim, if that’s what you’re imagining. He’s toxic. He’ll drag you down like he’s dragged everyone else down.”
Alix flinched at the words, the air between them suddenly feeling heavier, thicker. She tightened her grip on her bag and squared her shoulders, looking around at the other students who walked the sidewalks around them. “I know what happened,” she said evenly, though her voice betrayed a faint tremor. “And I know who Royce is. Whatever you’re trying to do, you can fuck off.”
The look on Britni’s face melted into something colder, sharper. “Do you, though?” she pressed, her voice dropping into a near whisper. “Do you really know what happened? Do you know what Royce did that got Romeo killed? Why he didn’t care what would happen to his him? What it would take?”
Alix’s heart skipped a beat. The way Britni said Romeo’s name, with that hint of intimate familiarity, made her stomach churn. But she refused to let it show. “Whatever you think you know,” Alix said, her voice firmer now. “I don’t need to hear it. My relationship with Royce is my business, not yours.”
Britni laughed, a low, bitter sound that echoed faintly in the air. “Fine. I’m not surprised that he’s tricked you, too,” she said, stepping back. “Royce’s good at making people believe in him, but trust me—he doesn’t give a fuck about you. He’s just using you until he’s done with you. He’s just going to pull you under and toss you aside.”
“Fuck you,” Alix said plainly.
Britni shook her head before turning to walk away. Alix watched her go, her mind racing with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answers to.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce lay sprawled across his bed, one arm slung lazily behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. The room was dim, the blinds half-drawn to keep out the sun. Shadows from the trees outside played faintly against the walls, the shifting leaves casting restless shaped that moved like phantoms. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the cologne he’d sprayed days ago but hadn’t bothered to wear.
Across the room, Emilia was perched on the edge of his desk chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, on foot bouncing in a slow rhythmic motion. She leaned back casually, phone in hand, her acrylic nails making soft clicks against the screen as she scrolled.
“You know,” she said, breaking the silence, her tone light and airy, as if they were merely chatting about the weather. “I’ve always wanted to go somewhere exotic like Bora Bora or Tahiti. What do you think? I mean, you got to get out and see the world and shit, right?”
Royce didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the slight imperfections of the ceiling he hadn’t noticed before. They zigzagged across the plaster like scared, jagged imperfections that didn’t quite belong in the otherwise pristine room. He traced them with his eyes, following their path as if it might lead somewhere else.
He wasn’t sure how long Emilia had been talking, or what she’d been talking about, or what she’d been talking about before this. None of their conversations were important to him. He got what she wanted from her, and she got what he wanted from him. Or what it seemed like she wanted, places she wanted to go, things she wanted to buy, people she wanted to impress. It was like listening to a podcast you hadn’t subscribed to.
Not that it bothered him, if anything, it made things easier. They both knew exactly where they stood with one another.
It was perfect. Transactional.
“Or maybe Europe,” she continued, her voice lifting with excitement. She didn’t even glance up from her phone. “We went when I was a kid, but that’s not the same as going when you’re an adult and don’t have you parents around you,” she paused, as if picturing it, then added. “I’d look fucking amazing with some designer dress at the Eiffel Tower.”
Royce exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with deliberate calm. He didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t frown, didn’t react at all. His phone vibrated next to him with a text. He picked it up, glancing idly at the screen.
’You free tonight?’, the message from Alix read.
“Yo,” he said finally, his voice low, the word slipping out like a sigh.
Her thumbs paused mid-scroll, but she didn’t look up. “Hmm?”
“Get the fuck out.”
That got her attention. Her phone stilled in her hands as she glance dup at him, confusing flashing across her face. “What? Why?” Her voice had an edge now, the lightness replaced by something sharper.
Royce sat up slowly, his movements deliberate, as if the weight pressing down on him had finally grown too much to bear. He ran his hand over his hair. “Because,” he said simply. “I’m tired.”
Emilia blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Tired?” she echoed, her voice rising slightly. “Tired of what? Me?”
He shook his head. “This ain’t forty fucking questions Just get the fuck out. I’ll call you later.”
For a moment, she didn’t move. The silence stretched between them, thick and uneasy. Royce could feel her staring at him, could sense the way her mind was racing, trying to piece together the sudden shift in his mood.
“Whatever,” she said finally, standing abruptly. Her bag swung over her shoulder as she straightened her spine, her posture stiff with indignation. “The dick isn’t that good for you to act like this, you know?”
“Yeah, whatever. You’ll be back,” he said, laying back down on the bed, his arm once again draped over his head.
The slam of the front door echoed in through the apartment, and then she was gone.
He clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into a fist behind his head. A flicker of anger played at the back of his mind, gnawing at him despite his best efforts. The imposter syndrome still attacking him. Thoughts of having normal relationships with other people something that wasn’t in his cards.
He picked up his phone and pulled up the messages.
’Yeah, come over.’, he sent back to Alix.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7958
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Goddamn, this nigga is a monster fr 
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Soapy
- Posts: 16805
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Soapy
- Posts: 16805
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
shoot that nigga again and humble him plz