Victory Lap
The music inside the club was so loud it rattled the empty glasses on the tables. Bass thudded against the walls like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the floor and climbing up everyone’s legs. Death Valley had already exploded once tonight when LSU took down Clemson in overtime — and now it felt like the whole city was pouring that energy into this cramped VIP section.
Royce stood dead center in the booth, arms thrown wide at one point as teammates kept coming up, grabbing him by the shoulders, hyping him up like he’d scored the game-winning touchdown himself. His white LSU polo was drenched with sweat from hours of play and now half-soaked again from champagne being sprayed overhead.
He barely noticed.
His left arm stayed wrapped tight around Alix’s waist, a casual grip that made it look like he couldn’t bear to be separated from her, even in the chaos. His hand rested just above her hip, fingers tapping the fabric of her shirt whenever the music hit a new beat. His body kept instinctively turning toward her whenever he laughed or clowned with somebody, tugging her closer like she was a permanent part of him.
If you didn’t look too closely, it could’ve passed for love.
But up close, Alix’s face told another story.
She was smiling — the same sweet, practiced smile she wore at booster events and media gatherings — but her eyes were far away. She sipped slowly from her plastic cup filled with mostly vodka, watching the celebration unfold around her like someone peering into a life that wasn’t really hers.
Every few minutes, Royce would nudge her with his elbow, or lean down to say something half-sloshed in her ear, and she’d tilt her head up dutifully, laughing on cue.
But there was a weight behind her laugh. Something heavy. Something tired.
Jay slammed his drink down onto the table, nearly spilling it over.
"Nigga, that shit was a fucking movie!" he yelled, throwing his arms around both Dorian and Earl.
Dorian pointed across the room, where some Clemson fans had been tucked away in a quieter booth. "Y’all see them? Motherfuckers wild for coming to Tigerland after that shit!”
Royce laughed so hard he nearly lost his grip on Alix’s waist, pulling her back against him so she didn’t tip forward.
Jay elbowed him. "Got you a lil trophy too, huh?" he said, nodding toward Alix.
Royce grinned lazily, squeezing her side like she was a lucky charm.
Alix smiled back, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Another round of shots appeared like magic, pushed onto their table by some overly enthusiastic freshman they barely knew.
"Y'all boys real-life celebrities now!" the freshman said, his voice almost cracking with excitement. "Man, I was tellin' my roommate, I SAW y'all eat last season, but tonight? Shiiiit. Different."
Royce laughed, knocking back the shot without hesitation. "Appreciate, lil brudda. It’s gonna be all season."
The freshman beamed, starstruck.
Royce turned back to Alix, nudging her with his elbow. "I ain’t know I was famous now."
She smiled faintly, lifting her drink in a silent toast, but said nothing.
Royce leaned closer, lowering his voice so it rumbled against her ear.
"You still gonna be fucking with me when I’m on ESPN in the league every week, right?"
Alix sipped her drink, eyes on the dancefloor, not answering.
Royce chuckled, pretending like he didn’t notice.
"You that drunk already?"
Nothing.
Just the distant thud of the bass and the plastic rim of her cup brushing against her bottom lip.
"Look at you," he said, grinning as he squeezed her hip again. "Mean mugging everybody. You know you ain't gotta be jealous, right? You the only one I got eyes for."
Still nothing.
Royce's grin faltered for a half-second, then he masked it by tossing back another drink.
More students filtered through the booth, hands reaching to dap him up.
"Aye! Royce! Big dawg! Y’all won me a grip on the parlay tonight" one guy yelled, punching him lightly in the chest.
"You need a bodyguard now, bro," another joked. "Whole club gon' jump on you when you walk outside."
Royce laughed, half-pivoting toward Alix again. "She gonna fight ‘em off for me."
Still no reaction beyond a polite smile, still looking anywhere but him.
Royce felt it then—the chill creeping under the sweat and the heat, the way she stiffened slightly every time he pulled her closer.
He tried again anyway, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"You tired?" he asked.
Alix shook her head, barely a movement.
Royce smiled like it didn’t hurt, like it didn’t scrape something raw inside his chest.
"Nah, you just drunk," he teased. "Lightweight."
Still, no answer.
Only her glass emptying slower and slower, her smile thinning more and more.
By the end of the night, her lipstick was smudged, her hair falling from the pins she’d twisted it into, and Royce’s hand was still on her hip like he couldn’t feel her slipping away.
And Alix just stood there, drinking, smiling politely for strangers.
Watching the life she was supposed to be a part of pass her by.
…
The door thudded shut behind them, echoing against the sterile quiet of Royce’s apartment.
He tossed his keys onto the counter without looking, the clatter loud in the stillness. His LSU polo peeled off and hit the floor in a limp heap. He barely glanced at Alix as he kicked off his sneakers and stretched his arms overhead, the high from the win still humming under his skin.
Alix stood near the doorway, barefoot, her heels dangling from two fingers. Her face was blank. Not tired, not angry—just... flat.
She dropped her shoes soundlessly by the wall and crossed the room toward him.
Royce half-smirked, expecting a smile, a joke, some kind of tension-breaking comment.
Instead, she didn’t say anything.
She stepped into his space, hooked her fingers into his waistband, and began unbuttoning his jeans.
Royce’s hands hovered in the air for a second, caught off guard.
No kiss. No laugh. No teasing.
Just her hands working his fly open, dragging his jeans down over his hips.
By the time he reacted, she was already walking backward toward the bedroom, shedding her clothes in a simple, mechanical motion, as if she were stepping out of a costume.
Royce followed her, confusion prickling under his skin but overridden by instinct.
They fell into bed without ceremony.
No kisses.
No laughter.
No whispered jokes.
Just the roughness of skin against skin, the dry slide of bodies moving on autopilot.
When Royce shifted over her and tried, almost unconsciously, to lean down—to make it something more—Alix turned her head away sharply, offering him nothing but her temple and the bare curve of her cheek.
Royce froze, chest heaving, staring down at her profile in the dim light.
He hesitated, muscles locking.
Alix shifted under him, voice flat but firm:
"Just keep going."
It wasn’t a plea.
It wasn’t affection.
It was a command. A transaction.
Royce swallowed hard, pressing his mouth into a tight line as he moved again, finishing the act with mechanical precision, no tenderness in his hands, no warmth in his touch.
When it was over, he rolled onto his back, arm flung over his face.
Beside him, Alix was already pulling the blanket around herself, already standing, already leaving the room like it was burning down behind her.
He heard the soft creak of the couch cushions as she settled onto it.
Royce lay there in the silence, the ceiling fan spinning slow and lazy overhead.
Finally, he called out hoarsely:
"Yo, is you cool?"
No answer.
Not even the sound of her breathing loud enough to reach him.
He waited a beat, maybe two.
Still nothing.
Royce exhaled sharply, a sound almost like a laugh but without any humor in it.
"Man, whatever," he muttered under his breath, dragging the sheet up over his chest and turning toward the wall.
Outside, Baton Rouge still pulsed faintly with the aftershocks of victory.
Inside the apartment, the night stretched long and empty, the silence pressing down harder than any loss ever could.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17004
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17004
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
It’s Only … From Here
The afternoon sun settled over LSU’s quad like a heavy hand, heating the brick walkways and throwing long shadows across the benches. Students moved in clusters, their conversations a lazy hum that blended into the background.
Royce walked between Dorian and Gio, the buzz of campus life barely registering. His head was somewhere else, somewhere heavier.
It had been three days since the win over Clemson. Three days since Alix had slipped away from him without ever really saying anything.
She answered his texts — eventually. Gave excuses for why she was busy. Laughed when he called, but it was hollow, like she was reading from a script.
And she hadn’t spent a night at his place since Saturday.
She hadn’t even tried.
He shifted his jaw, grinding his teeth lightly. He hadn’t done anything wrong. If anything, he’d been the one keeping them afloat — staying patient while she got in her feelings about God knew what.
If she wanted to pull away, that was on her. He wasn’t about to sit around and beg for scraps.
"Nigga, look," Gio said, breaking into his thoughts and elbowing him lightly.
Royce glanced up.
Three girls sat on the steps outside Middleton — sundresses, sneakers, soft laughs catching on the breeze. One of them caught Royce’s eye immediately — long braids, thick legs, biting her lip like she knew she was being watched.
Dorian chuckled under his breath. "Quad been too good lately. Might just have to extend this break."
Gio leaned back on his heels, grinning. "I don’t got class till three. I’m free."
Both of them turned expectantly toward Royce.
He hesitated for half a second — just long enough for the anger simmering beneath his pride to bubble up.
Alix was the one acting funny. Not him.
He wasn’t about to sit on the sidelines looking stupid while she played cold.
With a slow smirk, Royce shifted his weight and started walking toward the steps.
"You coming or what?" he called over his shoulder.
Dorian and Gio whooped low and followed, falling into step behind him.
Royce moved like he belonged there — easy, unbothered, a small swagger pulling his shoulders back. The burn sitting in his chest numbed with every step.
The girl with the braids noticed him first. She straightened slightly, her smile widening in a way that made her dimples show. Her friends followed her gaze and started to giggle.
Royce smiled — slow, confident — and stopped a few feet from them, hands tucked casually in his shorts pockets.
"Y’all look like y’all need somebody to make y’all day better," he said, voice low and easy.
One of the girls — a petite one in a pink dress — covered her mouth and giggled harder.
The braided one tilted her head and said, "And you think that’s you?"
Royce chuckled, deep in his chest. "Shit, I know it is, love."
Behind him, Gio and Dorian posted up like a couple of bodyguards, their grins wide as they watched Royce work.
He leaned in just enough to smell the faint vanilla of the girl’s lotion. "Where y’all headed?" he asked.
"Maybe nowhere now," she said, smiling slyly.
Royce laughed under his breath and let the conversation float there, weightless. The quad melted away — the classes, the team meetings, the text messages from Alix that sat on read for hours at a time.
This was easy.
This was simple.
Not whatever the Alix had decided to turn them into.
She was the one who had changed the rules.
She was the one acting brand new.
She was the one pulling away, like it was somehow his job to drag her back.
He wasn’t chasing anybody.
If she wanted space so bad, she could keep it.
The braided girl stepped a little closer, her hand brushing Royce’s wrist under the guise of adjusting her sunglasses.
He smiled lazily, feeling the old rhythm slipping back into place like muscle memory.
A few minutes later, they split off — numbers exchanged, plans floated for the weekend. Royce slid his phone back into his pocket without a second thought.
Gio nudged him with his elbow. "Back in your bag, I see."
Royce smirked. "I ain’t never left."
Dorian laughed. "Nigga act like he don’t be in his feelings and shit."
Royce shrugged. "Feelings? Y’all don’t know. I’ll learn ya something."
He said it like a joke. Played it off. But the words hit harder than he let show.
He could already hear the inevitable excuse in Alix’s voice if she ever found out — if she ever asked.
You pushed. I did what you wanted.
He knew that if she wanted to hold onto him, she would’ve. If she wanted to be in his bed, she'd be there. If she wanted to call him first, she would’ve.
She hadn't.
Pride pulled him forward as he and the guys made their way toward the Union. His smile never slipped.
But deep in his chest, the fracture line was already there — clean, quiet, growing longer by the hour.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bell above the door jingled as Royce stepped into the coffee shop, the air-conditioning washing over him. It smelled like burnt espresso and day-old muffins — the kind of cheap, anonymous place where nobody looked twice.
Delpit was already there, tucked into a booth in the back, his sleeves rolled up, sipping on black coffee that looked like it hadn't moved in a while.
Royce slid into the booth across from him without a word, slouching back like he had nowhere else to be — even though tension sat under his skin like a low-voltage current.
"You want something?" Delpit asked, nodding toward the counter.
Royce shook his head. "I'm straight."
He wasn’t. But admitting it wasn’t in him.
Delpit studied him for a second, reading between the lines like he always did, then leaned back with his coffee.
"You settled back in yet?" he asked. "Fall classes treating you alright?"
Royce gave a shrug. "Same shit, different semester."
"Workouts going good?"
Royce flexed his hand once on the table, still feeling the bruises from mat drills. "They got us working. Coach ain't letting nobody coast after last season."
Delpit chuckled quietly. "Good. You can’t afford to."
Royce tilted his head slightly, the irritation already prickling under his skin. "Ain’t like I’m out here slacking."
"I didn’t say you were." Delpit sipped his coffee. "I’m saying you’re not a surprise anymore."
Royce frowned, his knee bouncing under the table.
Delpit set the cup down, speaking low and even. "You know what happens to people when the spotlight moves? Some of 'em shine. Some of 'em melt."
Royce snorted. "I ain’t melting."
"Maybe not," Delpit said, unbothered. "But you’re one bad headline from the light swinging the other way."
Royce nodded absently, staring past him out the window where a group of students crossed the street, laughing. One of the girls — short, dark hair, denim shorts riding high on her thighs — reminded him of the one from the library steps earlier.
"You listening to me, kid?" Delpit said.
Royce dragged his eyes back to him. "Yeah. I’m listening."
Delpit leaned forward. "You had your moment. Clemson. The SEC. Now people want to see what you do next. Whether you build something. Or just collect claps and fizzle out."
Royce’s hand tightened around his phone in his lap.
"Look," Delpit continued. "You think Clemson was pressure? Wait ‘til you’re expected to be the best every damn week. Wait ‘til they not cheering your name unless you dragging somebody on third down. Wait ‘til you slip once and every motherfucker who smiled at you got something to say."
Royce gave a low, humorless laugh. "Shit, it’s already like that."
Delpit’s mouth twitched. "Then you better keep your head right. 'Cause you ain’t playing for noise no more. You playing for future money. Future leverage."
He pulled a small card from his jacket and slid it across the table.
Royce picked it up — heavy cardstock, no logo, just a time and date stamped in clean black ink.
Thursday. 7 PM. Private dinner.
"You still want to do more than just play ball, right?" Delpit asked.
Royce nodded slowly. "Yeah."
"Then show up," Delpit said. "You don’t gotta say much. Just be in the room. Keep learning the language."
Royce tucked the card into his pocket next to his phone — feeling both of them pressing against his leg, heavy with things he wasn’t sure how to carry yet.
"You good?" Delpit asked.
Royce looked up, forcing a smirk. "Yeah. All good."
Delpit didn’t push it. Just clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he stood. "Don’t let a good night make you lazy."
Royce stayed in the booth after Delpit left, staring at the scratched-up tabletop.
Finally, he pulled out his phone.
No new messages.
The last one from Alix was from hours ago — a simple "ok" after he asked if she wanted to come over later. No follow-up. No smiley face. No “see you soon.”
His thumb hovered over the thread for a moment.
He thought about texting again.
Thought about calling.
Instead, he shoved the phone back in his pocket, stood up, and walked out the door without looking back.
The afternoon sun settled over LSU’s quad like a heavy hand, heating the brick walkways and throwing long shadows across the benches. Students moved in clusters, their conversations a lazy hum that blended into the background.
Royce walked between Dorian and Gio, the buzz of campus life barely registering. His head was somewhere else, somewhere heavier.
It had been three days since the win over Clemson. Three days since Alix had slipped away from him without ever really saying anything.
She answered his texts — eventually. Gave excuses for why she was busy. Laughed when he called, but it was hollow, like she was reading from a script.
And she hadn’t spent a night at his place since Saturday.
She hadn’t even tried.
He shifted his jaw, grinding his teeth lightly. He hadn’t done anything wrong. If anything, he’d been the one keeping them afloat — staying patient while she got in her feelings about God knew what.
If she wanted to pull away, that was on her. He wasn’t about to sit around and beg for scraps.
"Nigga, look," Gio said, breaking into his thoughts and elbowing him lightly.
Royce glanced up.
Three girls sat on the steps outside Middleton — sundresses, sneakers, soft laughs catching on the breeze. One of them caught Royce’s eye immediately — long braids, thick legs, biting her lip like she knew she was being watched.
Dorian chuckled under his breath. "Quad been too good lately. Might just have to extend this break."
Gio leaned back on his heels, grinning. "I don’t got class till three. I’m free."
Both of them turned expectantly toward Royce.
He hesitated for half a second — just long enough for the anger simmering beneath his pride to bubble up.
Alix was the one acting funny. Not him.
He wasn’t about to sit on the sidelines looking stupid while she played cold.
With a slow smirk, Royce shifted his weight and started walking toward the steps.
"You coming or what?" he called over his shoulder.
Dorian and Gio whooped low and followed, falling into step behind him.
Royce moved like he belonged there — easy, unbothered, a small swagger pulling his shoulders back. The burn sitting in his chest numbed with every step.
The girl with the braids noticed him first. She straightened slightly, her smile widening in a way that made her dimples show. Her friends followed her gaze and started to giggle.
Royce smiled — slow, confident — and stopped a few feet from them, hands tucked casually in his shorts pockets.
"Y’all look like y’all need somebody to make y’all day better," he said, voice low and easy.
One of the girls — a petite one in a pink dress — covered her mouth and giggled harder.
The braided one tilted her head and said, "And you think that’s you?"
Royce chuckled, deep in his chest. "Shit, I know it is, love."
Behind him, Gio and Dorian posted up like a couple of bodyguards, their grins wide as they watched Royce work.
He leaned in just enough to smell the faint vanilla of the girl’s lotion. "Where y’all headed?" he asked.
"Maybe nowhere now," she said, smiling slyly.
Royce laughed under his breath and let the conversation float there, weightless. The quad melted away — the classes, the team meetings, the text messages from Alix that sat on read for hours at a time.
This was easy.
This was simple.
Not whatever the Alix had decided to turn them into.
She was the one who had changed the rules.
She was the one acting brand new.
She was the one pulling away, like it was somehow his job to drag her back.
He wasn’t chasing anybody.
If she wanted space so bad, she could keep it.
The braided girl stepped a little closer, her hand brushing Royce’s wrist under the guise of adjusting her sunglasses.
He smiled lazily, feeling the old rhythm slipping back into place like muscle memory.
A few minutes later, they split off — numbers exchanged, plans floated for the weekend. Royce slid his phone back into his pocket without a second thought.
Gio nudged him with his elbow. "Back in your bag, I see."
Royce smirked. "I ain’t never left."
Dorian laughed. "Nigga act like he don’t be in his feelings and shit."
Royce shrugged. "Feelings? Y’all don’t know. I’ll learn ya something."
He said it like a joke. Played it off. But the words hit harder than he let show.
He could already hear the inevitable excuse in Alix’s voice if she ever found out — if she ever asked.
You pushed. I did what you wanted.
He knew that if she wanted to hold onto him, she would’ve. If she wanted to be in his bed, she'd be there. If she wanted to call him first, she would’ve.
She hadn't.
Pride pulled him forward as he and the guys made their way toward the Union. His smile never slipped.
But deep in his chest, the fracture line was already there — clean, quiet, growing longer by the hour.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bell above the door jingled as Royce stepped into the coffee shop, the air-conditioning washing over him. It smelled like burnt espresso and day-old muffins — the kind of cheap, anonymous place where nobody looked twice.
Delpit was already there, tucked into a booth in the back, his sleeves rolled up, sipping on black coffee that looked like it hadn't moved in a while.
Royce slid into the booth across from him without a word, slouching back like he had nowhere else to be — even though tension sat under his skin like a low-voltage current.
"You want something?" Delpit asked, nodding toward the counter.
Royce shook his head. "I'm straight."
He wasn’t. But admitting it wasn’t in him.
Delpit studied him for a second, reading between the lines like he always did, then leaned back with his coffee.
"You settled back in yet?" he asked. "Fall classes treating you alright?"
Royce gave a shrug. "Same shit, different semester."
"Workouts going good?"
Royce flexed his hand once on the table, still feeling the bruises from mat drills. "They got us working. Coach ain't letting nobody coast after last season."
Delpit chuckled quietly. "Good. You can’t afford to."
Royce tilted his head slightly, the irritation already prickling under his skin. "Ain’t like I’m out here slacking."
"I didn’t say you were." Delpit sipped his coffee. "I’m saying you’re not a surprise anymore."
Royce frowned, his knee bouncing under the table.
Delpit set the cup down, speaking low and even. "You know what happens to people when the spotlight moves? Some of 'em shine. Some of 'em melt."
Royce snorted. "I ain’t melting."
"Maybe not," Delpit said, unbothered. "But you’re one bad headline from the light swinging the other way."
Royce nodded absently, staring past him out the window where a group of students crossed the street, laughing. One of the girls — short, dark hair, denim shorts riding high on her thighs — reminded him of the one from the library steps earlier.
"You listening to me, kid?" Delpit said.
Royce dragged his eyes back to him. "Yeah. I’m listening."
Delpit leaned forward. "You had your moment. Clemson. The SEC. Now people want to see what you do next. Whether you build something. Or just collect claps and fizzle out."
Royce’s hand tightened around his phone in his lap.
"Look," Delpit continued. "You think Clemson was pressure? Wait ‘til you’re expected to be the best every damn week. Wait ‘til they not cheering your name unless you dragging somebody on third down. Wait ‘til you slip once and every motherfucker who smiled at you got something to say."
Royce gave a low, humorless laugh. "Shit, it’s already like that."
Delpit’s mouth twitched. "Then you better keep your head right. 'Cause you ain’t playing for noise no more. You playing for future money. Future leverage."
He pulled a small card from his jacket and slid it across the table.
Royce picked it up — heavy cardstock, no logo, just a time and date stamped in clean black ink.
Thursday. 7 PM. Private dinner.
"You still want to do more than just play ball, right?" Delpit asked.
Royce nodded slowly. "Yeah."
"Then show up," Delpit said. "You don’t gotta say much. Just be in the room. Keep learning the language."
Royce tucked the card into his pocket next to his phone — feeling both of them pressing against his leg, heavy with things he wasn’t sure how to carry yet.
"You good?" Delpit asked.
Royce looked up, forcing a smirk. "Yeah. All good."
Delpit didn’t push it. Just clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he stood. "Don’t let a good night make you lazy."
Royce stayed in the booth after Delpit left, staring at the scratched-up tabletop.
Finally, he pulled out his phone.
No new messages.
The last one from Alix was from hours ago — a simple "ok" after he asked if she wanted to come over later. No follow-up. No smiley face. No “see you soon.”
His thumb hovered over the thread for a moment.
He thought about texting again.
Thought about calling.
Instead, he shoved the phone back in his pocket, stood up, and walked out the door without looking back.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13263
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
a tale as old as time
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7996
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
This man hit can’t help himself
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17004
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Can’t Choose Them
The low buzz of Royce’s phone rattled against the kitchen counter, pulling him out of the half-sleep he’d drifted into while scrolling through his group project notes.
He glanced at the screen. Rana.
He let it ring twice, debating. Part of him wasn’t in the mood. The other part — the part still anchored to family no matter how much he pretended otherwise — thumbed the screen and answered.
"Yo," he said, voice low and rough from disuse.
On the other end, there was a pause, like Rana was weighing whether to speak. The faint sound of a TV filtered through — something soft and distant, like she was sitting in the living room after putting Julian down for the night.
"Hey," she said finally, her voice thinner than usual. "You got a minute?"
Royce leaned back against the counter, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Yeah, what’s up?"
Another pause. Then:
"I heard from some people back home," Rana said. Her words came careful, deliberate. "Some old friends. They been checking in on Reg."
The name alone tightened something deep in Royce’s chest. He didn’t say anything, waiting for her to get to it.
"They said he’s bad, Ro," she said quietly. "Worse than what Daddy mentioned."
Royce shifted, suddenly feeling the cold of the tile floor beneath his feet. He turned away from the kitchen window, staring instead at the cabinets like they might offer answers.
"You sure they know what’s sick for that nigga?" he asked finally, his voice clipped. “It might just be the dope.”
"I wouldn’t be calling you if it was just talk," Rana said. Her voice was firmer now, more like the sister he remembered — the one who had patched him up after fights, who had took him in after Romeo died, neither of them saying much because the hurt was too big for words.
"I’m going down there tomorrow," she continued. "I’m gonna see him. Before it’s too late."
Royce swallowed, the taste of resentment bitter on his tongue.
The same Reg who barely acknowledged him growing up. The same Reg who never protected them when shit got bad. The same Reg who let the streets chew him up while Royce had to pick up the pieces at home.
He tightened his grip around the edge of the counter until his knuckles whitened.
"You should come too," Rana said, softer now. Almost pleading. "He’s still our brother, Ro. Blood doesn’t change just ‘cause you angry."
Royce let the silence stretch so long he could hear the fridge kick on behind him, the mechanical hum louder than her breathing on the other end.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
"That ain’t my business," he said, voice low. He hated how it sounded — defensive, too sharp — but he couldn’t help it. "But I’ll try."
There was a beat where neither of them spoke.
Then Rana sighed — a sound that carried more hurt than anything else she could've said. "Alright," she said, her voice gentling. "That’s all I can ask."
Royce pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the pounding in his temples to ease.
"You driving or...?" he asked roughly, already regretting the softening in his voice.
"Yeah," she said. "Tyrell's staying back with the baby. I’m taking Roni with me. Figured she should see him too."
Royce rubbed the back of his neck. "She don’t need to see him like that."
"She deserves to know where she came from," Rana said quietly. "Even if it’s ugly."
Royce didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words stuck in his throat, too heavy to push out.
"I’ll text you in the morning when I leave," Rana said after a moment. "If you wanna ride together."
"Alright."
Another small pause.
"I love you, Ro," she said, voice tight.
Royce closed his eyes for a second, letting the weight of it hit him. He didn’t say it back. He rarely did. But he didn’t hang up either.
"Safe drive," he muttered.
He heard her smile — he could always hear it, even when she didn’t laugh.
"I’ll see you tomorrow."
The line clicked dead.
Royce set the phone down and braced his hands on the counter, staring down at the worn granite like it might split open and swallow him whole.
Reg.
He hadn’t thought about his brother in years. Maybe longer. Not in a real way. Not in a way that didn’t come with anger and the quiet, aching kind of grief you didn’t admit you carried.
Not your business. But you’ll try.
The words echoed back at him, hollow and bitter.
After a long moment, Royce pushed himself off the counter and headed toward his room. His steps felt heavier than usual, like he was dragging old ghosts behind him.
Tomorrow, he’d face one of them.
Maybe even try to forgive.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he let the anger win.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun sank low over UL-Lafayette’s campus, casting the oaks along the quad in long shadows that stretched like lazy arms across the cracked sidewalks. The air smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass and something fried from the Student Union, mixing with the thick, humid breath of an early southern evening.
Arianna perched on a low brick planter near Cypress Lake, her smoothie dripping condensation down her hand. Her legs swung absently, brushing against the worn bricks as she watched students shuffle past — some dragging backpacks, others laughing in tight, familiar groups.
Next to her, Jonah lounged with the kind of casual ease that only came from being exactly where he belonged. His jeans were ripped at the knees, his shaggy hair tucked under a backwards Ragin’ Cajuns cap, and his t-shirt looked slept-in. He popped a piece of gum into his mouth, chewing with lazy focus.
Across from them sat three newer faces — people Arianna had met through the spoken word community that had slowly started to feel less like strangers and more like... possibilities. Tasha, fierce and quick-witted with a red scarf around her braids. Marla, half her hair buzzed and tattoos crawling up her forearms. And Chris, the lanky boy who always carried a notebook half-full of abandoned poems.
They were sprawled on the patchy grass, notebooks open but mostly ignored, the easy lull of friendship settling in.
"So," Tasha said, twirling her pen between her fingers, "you coming Thursday or what?"
Arianna pretended to focus hard on the smoothie in her hand. "Maybe."
"Maybe means no," Marla sing-songed, not looking up from her phone.
Chris chuckled without lifting his head. "It’s tradition to freak out before your first real set."
"Nah, it ain’t that," Arianna said too fast — too defensive. She tugged at the hem of her shorts and shifted on the brick ledge.
Jonah smirked without even looking at her. "She lying."
Arianna shot him a glare sharp enough to cut, but he just winked and stretched out in the grass, propping his hands behind his head.
Tasha leaned forward, her bracelets jangling softly. "Nobody expects you to come in like a headliner. We just wanna hear you."
Arianna shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool even as heat crept up the back of her neck. "I just... I don’t know if I really belong in all that. Y’all good. I’m just... playing around."
"You think we popped out the womb spitting bars?" Tasha laughed. "Girl, everybody was trash once. Some of us still are."
Chris snorted into his notebook.
Marla tossed a pebble toward Arianna’s foot. "You write. You show up. You bleed a little onto the page. That’s the only membership fee."
Arianna stared down at her sneakers, biting the inside of her cheek. She could feel the tight, familiar knot curling in her gut — the one that told her to sit back, to stay quiet, to not make herself bigger than what people had already decided she should be.
Jonah sat up then, brushing grass from his elbows. He met her eyes, serious in a way he rarely was.
"If your story isn’t yours to tell," he said, his voice low but certain, "who else is gonna tell it?"
The words landed in her chest with more force than she expected. No jokes. No teasing. Just truth.
She looked away quickly, blinking toward the mottled water of Cypress Lake where a turtle floated lazily among the moss.
Her story. All the things she kept pushing down. All the things she didn’t think were worth hearing.
Maybe it wasn’t about being ready. Maybe it was about being tired of being silent.
Arianna shifted, planting her sneakers flat against the bricks, grounding herself.
"I’ll come," she said finally, her voice a little steadier than before.
Tasha grinned wide, flashing a gold-capped canine. "That’s what I’m talking about."
"You performing or just watching?" Marla teased.
Arianna hesitated — fear still tight in her chest — but she nodded. "I’ll perform. Maybe just one piece."
Chris raised his pen in salute. "That’s all it takes."
Jonah leaned back, smiling, the pride in his face so obvious it made her look away, grinning despite herself.
"You already better than half the dudes we heard last week," he said easily.
"You biased," Arianna muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Jonah shrugged, smirking. "So what?"
The others laughed, the tension breaking, and just like that the knot in Arianna’s gut loosened a little. Not gone. Not yet. But she could feel the crack — the place where sunlight could start to bleed in.
For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was borrowing someone else’s story, wearing someone else’s armor.
She was just herself.
Scared. Unpolished. But showing up anyway.
And for now, that was enough.
The low buzz of Royce’s phone rattled against the kitchen counter, pulling him out of the half-sleep he’d drifted into while scrolling through his group project notes.
He glanced at the screen. Rana.
He let it ring twice, debating. Part of him wasn’t in the mood. The other part — the part still anchored to family no matter how much he pretended otherwise — thumbed the screen and answered.
"Yo," he said, voice low and rough from disuse.
On the other end, there was a pause, like Rana was weighing whether to speak. The faint sound of a TV filtered through — something soft and distant, like she was sitting in the living room after putting Julian down for the night.
"Hey," she said finally, her voice thinner than usual. "You got a minute?"
Royce leaned back against the counter, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Yeah, what’s up?"
Another pause. Then:
"I heard from some people back home," Rana said. Her words came careful, deliberate. "Some old friends. They been checking in on Reg."
The name alone tightened something deep in Royce’s chest. He didn’t say anything, waiting for her to get to it.
"They said he’s bad, Ro," she said quietly. "Worse than what Daddy mentioned."
Royce shifted, suddenly feeling the cold of the tile floor beneath his feet. He turned away from the kitchen window, staring instead at the cabinets like they might offer answers.
"You sure they know what’s sick for that nigga?" he asked finally, his voice clipped. “It might just be the dope.”
"I wouldn’t be calling you if it was just talk," Rana said. Her voice was firmer now, more like the sister he remembered — the one who had patched him up after fights, who had took him in after Romeo died, neither of them saying much because the hurt was too big for words.
"I’m going down there tomorrow," she continued. "I’m gonna see him. Before it’s too late."
Royce swallowed, the taste of resentment bitter on his tongue.
The same Reg who barely acknowledged him growing up. The same Reg who never protected them when shit got bad. The same Reg who let the streets chew him up while Royce had to pick up the pieces at home.
He tightened his grip around the edge of the counter until his knuckles whitened.
"You should come too," Rana said, softer now. Almost pleading. "He’s still our brother, Ro. Blood doesn’t change just ‘cause you angry."
Royce let the silence stretch so long he could hear the fridge kick on behind him, the mechanical hum louder than her breathing on the other end.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
"That ain’t my business," he said, voice low. He hated how it sounded — defensive, too sharp — but he couldn’t help it. "But I’ll try."
There was a beat where neither of them spoke.
Then Rana sighed — a sound that carried more hurt than anything else she could've said. "Alright," she said, her voice gentling. "That’s all I can ask."
Royce pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the pounding in his temples to ease.
"You driving or...?" he asked roughly, already regretting the softening in his voice.
"Yeah," she said. "Tyrell's staying back with the baby. I’m taking Roni with me. Figured she should see him too."
Royce rubbed the back of his neck. "She don’t need to see him like that."
"She deserves to know where she came from," Rana said quietly. "Even if it’s ugly."
Royce didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words stuck in his throat, too heavy to push out.
"I’ll text you in the morning when I leave," Rana said after a moment. "If you wanna ride together."
"Alright."
Another small pause.
"I love you, Ro," she said, voice tight.
Royce closed his eyes for a second, letting the weight of it hit him. He didn’t say it back. He rarely did. But he didn’t hang up either.
"Safe drive," he muttered.
He heard her smile — he could always hear it, even when she didn’t laugh.
"I’ll see you tomorrow."
The line clicked dead.
Royce set the phone down and braced his hands on the counter, staring down at the worn granite like it might split open and swallow him whole.
Reg.
He hadn’t thought about his brother in years. Maybe longer. Not in a real way. Not in a way that didn’t come with anger and the quiet, aching kind of grief you didn’t admit you carried.
Not your business. But you’ll try.
The words echoed back at him, hollow and bitter.
After a long moment, Royce pushed himself off the counter and headed toward his room. His steps felt heavier than usual, like he was dragging old ghosts behind him.
Tomorrow, he’d face one of them.
Maybe even try to forgive.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he let the anger win.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun sank low over UL-Lafayette’s campus, casting the oaks along the quad in long shadows that stretched like lazy arms across the cracked sidewalks. The air smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass and something fried from the Student Union, mixing with the thick, humid breath of an early southern evening.
Arianna perched on a low brick planter near Cypress Lake, her smoothie dripping condensation down her hand. Her legs swung absently, brushing against the worn bricks as she watched students shuffle past — some dragging backpacks, others laughing in tight, familiar groups.
Next to her, Jonah lounged with the kind of casual ease that only came from being exactly where he belonged. His jeans were ripped at the knees, his shaggy hair tucked under a backwards Ragin’ Cajuns cap, and his t-shirt looked slept-in. He popped a piece of gum into his mouth, chewing with lazy focus.
Across from them sat three newer faces — people Arianna had met through the spoken word community that had slowly started to feel less like strangers and more like... possibilities. Tasha, fierce and quick-witted with a red scarf around her braids. Marla, half her hair buzzed and tattoos crawling up her forearms. And Chris, the lanky boy who always carried a notebook half-full of abandoned poems.
They were sprawled on the patchy grass, notebooks open but mostly ignored, the easy lull of friendship settling in.
"So," Tasha said, twirling her pen between her fingers, "you coming Thursday or what?"
Arianna pretended to focus hard on the smoothie in her hand. "Maybe."
"Maybe means no," Marla sing-songed, not looking up from her phone.
Chris chuckled without lifting his head. "It’s tradition to freak out before your first real set."
"Nah, it ain’t that," Arianna said too fast — too defensive. She tugged at the hem of her shorts and shifted on the brick ledge.
Jonah smirked without even looking at her. "She lying."
Arianna shot him a glare sharp enough to cut, but he just winked and stretched out in the grass, propping his hands behind his head.
Tasha leaned forward, her bracelets jangling softly. "Nobody expects you to come in like a headliner. We just wanna hear you."
Arianna shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool even as heat crept up the back of her neck. "I just... I don’t know if I really belong in all that. Y’all good. I’m just... playing around."
"You think we popped out the womb spitting bars?" Tasha laughed. "Girl, everybody was trash once. Some of us still are."
Chris snorted into his notebook.
Marla tossed a pebble toward Arianna’s foot. "You write. You show up. You bleed a little onto the page. That’s the only membership fee."
Arianna stared down at her sneakers, biting the inside of her cheek. She could feel the tight, familiar knot curling in her gut — the one that told her to sit back, to stay quiet, to not make herself bigger than what people had already decided she should be.
Jonah sat up then, brushing grass from his elbows. He met her eyes, serious in a way he rarely was.
"If your story isn’t yours to tell," he said, his voice low but certain, "who else is gonna tell it?"
The words landed in her chest with more force than she expected. No jokes. No teasing. Just truth.
She looked away quickly, blinking toward the mottled water of Cypress Lake where a turtle floated lazily among the moss.
Her story. All the things she kept pushing down. All the things she didn’t think were worth hearing.
Maybe it wasn’t about being ready. Maybe it was about being tired of being silent.
Arianna shifted, planting her sneakers flat against the bricks, grounding herself.
"I’ll come," she said finally, her voice a little steadier than before.
Tasha grinned wide, flashing a gold-capped canine. "That’s what I’m talking about."
"You performing or just watching?" Marla teased.
Arianna hesitated — fear still tight in her chest — but she nodded. "I’ll perform. Maybe just one piece."
Chris raised his pen in salute. "That’s all it takes."
Jonah leaned back, smiling, the pride in his face so obvious it made her look away, grinning despite herself.
"You already better than half the dudes we heard last week," he said easily.
"You biased," Arianna muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Jonah shrugged, smirking. "So what?"
The others laughed, the tension breaking, and just like that the knot in Arianna’s gut loosened a little. Not gone. Not yet. But she could feel the crack — the place where sunlight could start to bleed in.
For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was borrowing someone else’s story, wearing someone else’s armor.
She was just herself.
Scared. Unpolished. But showing up anyway.
And for now, that was enough.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7996
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Reg cussing Royce out on his death bed going to blow minds.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17004
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Royce gonna pinch his nose shut. Cuss that outCaptain Canada wrote: ↑28 Apr 2025, 13:04Reg cussing Royce out on his death bed going to blow minds.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17004
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Big Brother'd
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7996
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Absolute punishment 
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17004
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Warming up
