Chapter Text
Timothy was a scrawny teen. That wasn’t to say he didn’t have any meat on his bones, his mom certainly made sure of that, though if you dragged the boy into a fight, he certainly wasn’t a likely contender for a winner. And his hair was a lot shorter than it was now. Usually not worn as anything but bed hair, he always thought that looked cooler. His friends agreed. His mother disagreed. His father cared less. His sister would drag a brush through it.
She'd do that a lot, he found. When she was younger and their father wasn't home and their mother was cooking, she'd drag Tim upstairs and into the floor of her bedroom. She'd have him sit on the floor, play hairdressers with him. As they both grew older though and Timothy cut his hair more often, she began to drag a brush through it. He wouldn't let his mom do it. It was embarrassing to have her fawn over him and make a mess of it. But if his sister wanted to 'play hairdresser' still, he'd let her. If anyone at school commented on it, he'd just blame her. Nobody did though.
Timothy was one of those kids who started growing stubble young and declared he'd grow a goatee, only to backpedal almost instantly when he realized it wasn't working out. His dad was busy with work, he'd told him, so he had to learn to shave from scenes in films he watched. He was excited, to start off with, writing down notes like young kids do with the chewed-up pencil pressed between his teeth, and his eyes trained on the screen. His notes weren't anything of substance and would prove to be absolutely detrimental to his shaving career. And people at school definitely made comments on it.
For once he took his mother's advice on something. He'd seen her shaving her legs in the living room one night and asked for advice, peach fuzz growing a little unruly. Well he told himself that at least. She'd smiled, brought him up to the bathroom at the drop of a hat, scooched up next to his sister and began to explain the fundamentals of it to him. Sure, Rand still nicked himself once or twice but unlike before, he didn't look like he came out of a cat attack.
Timothy was the type of kid who attached himself to the hips of two others, absorbing their interests, the likes, anything he could enjoy to be like them. Of course there were still things he enjoyed himself. Timothy enjoyed DnD and he certainly roped his friends into that one. Most of the time though he latched onto his friend's hobbies. It's always fun for a kid to learn something new after all. It didn't take long for him to be skipping class behind the bleachers with Becky and Kian, nor did it take long for him to lend some Vinyls from Rolan and then beg his mom for similar songs. She'd complained at the time, saying they were quite expensive and besides, they already had plenty of good music at home. She'd caved though. She couldn't say no to her little boy's face.
And he enjoyed stargazing late at night with his sister, telling her about constellations he'd learnt about to impress the Space buff. (and instantly have it pointed out between sips of root beer that no, that wasn't canis major, that was canis minor. He'd joke with her, say 'what's the difference' and smile when she starts going into an in-depth rant about it.)
Timothy was the kid who went out partying when he was older. Well, he told them he was older and with his early growing scruff they believed him pretty quickly and by proxy his friends were let in too. And they had the best time they'd had in their lives. The music was loud, the people were loud, everything was bright and it was amazing. He swore he could see stars in Kian's eyes when the boy got up on the table and everyone began watching him. And hell, maybe Timothy also had stars in his eyes as he looked up at him. It left the back of his throat dry as Kian sang along to the music on the vinyl. Loud and proud. He needed a drink.
There were solo cups, all neatly lined up together on the table, the cloth below them soaked like someone had dumped the whole bottle out over it in an attempt to fill as many as possible as they could in the shortest amount of time. He'd picked one up off the dining table, swirling the liquid inside that looked almost yellowish from the warm lights of the living room. And he took a long sip.
The cheap beer had rushed and stung the back of his throat. He could feel the flush of drunk bubbles in his stomach and the warmth bloom across his face. And for a moment, he let himself sink into it. Let himself get lost in the buzz, in the atmosphere until it was just him. It was just Timothy in the party in his own world. In his own ceaseless void, taking long, long swigs of the bottle.
Rand let the bottle clatter to the floor of his attic, clinking against another as it rolled. It pushed itself back to him. Almost calling out to him. He could hear it in the back of his head, 'I've still got a few drops left!' . His eyes strained to look at the bottle on the floor but when he couldn't make contact with it he let them fall back to his ceiling.
" I know baby ,"
'Pick me up again,'
"I can't do that," He sighed, closing his eyes.
'Why not?'
"Oh come on, don't make me say it." Rand laughed.
The attic responded in silence and a rustle of wind through the trees outside.
"I love you but it's a few drops, I can just open another bottle. You're not worth it ." The trailend of his sentence came out harsher than he'd of liked.
…
"Oh Don't-be-like that . You know I don't mean it that way."
No response. Timothy groaned, and turned over, facing the wall.
'You're making this situation a lot harder on yourself.' the bottle called out.
“ What -" he gulped, the taste of bile clung to the back of his throat like a parasite, "what situation?”