Work Text:
In the short-seeming time that he’s been alive, Troye’s dealt with a lot of death. Not the most out of the people he’d known, but enough to be accustomed to the common smells and sounds of funerals, the proper way to walk and talk (or lack thereof), and the feeling of grief you got when you realized that person was gone forever. He’s watched people he loved being placed down in caskets or be reduced to ash. He knows how to deal with that- knows the process of mourning someone whose light had been taken out before anyone was ready.
It’s different to mourn someone who is still alive.
It’s different because while they’re missing from your life, you can still see them in other people’s. You can see them in pictures or in passing: smiling, laughing, dancing, talking. Know that they’re happy even without you. Knowing that even if they aren’t dead that entire part of your life must be because they aren’t even thinking about you while you’re up at night wishing they would. Wishing it was okay to call them. When someone dies you eventually realize they can’t ever call you back, when someone you know keeps on living you always have that hope.
Troye doesn’t eat dinner. Not because he’s intentionally trying not to eat- he’d done that before, but the habit was mostly broken now- but because he was so lost in thought he forgot he was hungry. When nine o’clock comes around his stomach growls for the first time; or maybe just the first time that he realizes it. He debates on ignoring it, his bones feel too heavy to move from his seat on the couch right now. He would be content to sit there for the rest of his life, melting into the seat until they were the same thing. A voice that suspiciously didn’t sound like his own conscience nagged at him though, reminding him if he starts the habit again it will be a hard one to break, and this time he wouldn’t have the same kind of support as he did the last time. Something cracks when he stands up, but he’s not sure what and nothing hurts so he assumes it was nothing.
Unwilling to make anything that takes longer than five minutes to prepare, he decides on cereal. He doesn’t remember buying milk but it’s not expired and he doesn’t want to question a good thing. He realizes a few moments too late that he should have cooked something, because at least that could get his mind off of his troubling thoughts. Cooking takes paying attention. He needs something he can pay attention to right now other than his computer. Other than that smiling face and bright eyes that make his stomach hurt and his chest feel hollow.
Afterwards, he finds himself in bed. He doesn’t remember moving to the bedroom, and thankfully he didn’t cook because he probably would have left the stove on. He wants to write. Writing always helps him when he feels like something is missing. Only this time he doesn’t know what he would even write about. How is he supposed to get his feelings out when his thoughts are so muddled? So complicated?
In the end he stares down at his paper only to realize he’s just written the same name enough times to cover the page, different fonts making it seem like a middle school child’s school crush. He crinkles it up and tosses it across the room with more force than needed, and as a result it misses the trash can. He knows this means eventually he’s going to have to see it again when he’s picking up, but right now he doesn’t want to move and he’s already eaten so he doesn’t have any reason to. He buries himself under the covers and screams into his pillow because for a few seconds the air fills the hole in his chest. He doesn’t like feeling like something is missing.
He doesn’t have any missed calls when he finally gets around to checking his phone. It seems like the whole world is just as quiet as his apartment. Even his friends, the ones he talks to daily now, seem to have gone to bed for the night. He thinks about texting them, but decides better of it. He doesn’t want them thinking he’s going insane. Maybe he is though. Maybe he should be concerned. Walking around his apartment like a trapped spirit can’t be good for him. His fingers play with the keypad on his phone for a few seconds before he relents.
He dials a familiar number, typing it all the way through even when the contact pops up under suggestions. He thinks it’s because he’s waiting for himself to chicken out. He doesn’t this time. When every last digit is typed out the urge to hit the dial button is still there, so he presses it. It’s the first time he’s done so in months, and even still he’s unsurprised when it goes to voicemail.
“Hey it’s Tyler, I’m probably asleep or my phone’s on silent. I’ll call you back as soon as I can if you...”
He hangs up, and even though Tyler never answered the hole in his chest aches a little less just from the sound of his voice. Troye thinks that can’t be healthy. Even still, he finds himself watching Tyler’s YouTube videos. Tyler’s voice sounds different in the videos, like any YouTuber does, but it’s almost enough. It’s more human than he’s felt in weeks and he finds himself crying. That doesn’t seem like a step-up from anywhere but until then Troye had felt too numb to even accomplish that.
He moves to turn off the light beside his bed, but realizes it’s already turned off. He doesn’t know if he turned it off sometime earlier or if the light blew out, but decides that whatever it is can be dealt with in the morning. He would need to ask someone if it was normal to be forgetting things like this, or if it was a sign of bad things to come. He doesn’t have any hope on the matter, really.
His final thoughts before he drifts asleep is a hope to wake up to a missed call.