#to be afflicted with all these bad and terrible angsty thoughts all the fuckin time

[larchraven]

SHATs RPS week: Troffy Makeouts Gratuitous Hurt Comfort Pining

Title: Time Slips Away

Ship: Trott/Smith (Troffy but not actually Troffy (yet)), background Smornby

Rating: Gen/Teen

Wordcount: 3.6k

Description: Smith is a vampire; Trott is not. Smith has a caring boyfriend; Trott most definitely does not. Smith's yearning is thick as molasses. No one has sex, and no one kisses. I wrote one nice and fluffy one so now I can bring the hurt, right? Right??

Content details: Hurt/comfort. Mentions of anemia, and an abusive relationship. Fainting, mild head injury and blood/gore description, mentions of wounds and scars, and bruises. Blood tasting if not drinking. Vampires. If you have questions about the content you want answered before reading, feel free to DM me.

EDIT: to clarify, Smith and Trott are friends. Trott is in an abusive relationship outside of that friendship, and this is a lot of Smith struggling with being aware of that happening and not really knowing what to do about someone he cares so much about being hurt.

Another fragment of a draft that has sat in my digital clutter piles since last winter, that I totally let carry my away. That's why there's been this obsessed with everyone all bundled up in these past two. I still have a different Troffy vampires piece for Kez that will hopefully finally be wrapped up soon (...soon...). But I care a little less about this one being well done than I do that one, so have this instead. Also I don't like to hurt people too bad with gifts.

----------------------------------------------

It wasn’t until the third knock that Smith registered he had heard the first two. By now it was more a pounding than a gentle rap, and Smith hastily took off the headphones that had blocked out the noise of the door.

“Coming!” he called.

He fumbled the chain open, and slid back the deadbolt to swing the new and blessedly soundproof door back on its old squeaky hinges.

“Took you long enough. Having a quick fap?”

Trott was hunched over into his layers of leather jacket and hoodie, despite the fact that the hall outside Smith’s apartment wasn’t any colder than inside. One of the many patterned scarves from Trott’s collection wasn’t quite hiding the smirk he was giving Smith.

“Sorry, just. Practicing. Got caught up and lost track of the time.”

He let Trott in, doing up the locks again as Trott shed the jacket and draped it over the back of Smith’s sofa. He adjusted the scarf, but kept it on, and Smith’s inhumanly sharp vision caught on the small chips in the polish on Trott’s nails. Smith tried not to think too hard about all the things he noticed about Trott.

“When’s work?” Smith asked.

“Few hours. Eleven. You just getting up?”

Smith shook his head.

“Been up a while, couldn’t sleep.”

As Trott settled into the sectional that crowded Smith’s small living room, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, Smith carefully nestled his guitar back in the case. The little amp back into its pocket, and the headphones with their absurdly long cord onto the coffee table overflowing with his clutter.

“You can keep playing. I don’t mind.”

He looked up from the deep blue velvet of the case’s interior and met Trott’s eyes, always watching him. Smith thought about the song he’d been playing. Sentimental and full of longing; feelings he thought he’d gotten rid of centuries ago. He shut the case gently.

“Do you want some tea? Coffee?” It’s not like there was much else Smith had in the cabinets.

“I’ll make myself a coffee when I get into work. I’d rather have something with real espresso in it and not whatever swill comes out of the Abomination.”

Smith said nothing in defense of Ross’s Keurig and the corresponding collection of little plastic cups, which sat on the counter in Smith’s otherwise barren kitchen as if to personally spite Trott with its mere existence.

He wished he’d tidied up more before Trott showed up. The inspiration for a new bit of the song had hit him though, and before he knew it the hours had slipped through his fingers and onto the strings. Discarded sweatshirts he’d forgotten were collected on the chair at his desk mocked him, and there was definitely more dust on the TV stand than he thought there should be.

The guitar returned to lean on the wall next to its companions. Smith hesitated a moment, and looked over at Trott, tapping something on his phone. Brow furrowed, lip caught between his teeth. Hardened leather was between Smith’s palms before he knew it, case opening for him to draw out his favorite.

Trott looked up from the screen as Smith settled on the sofa next to him. He tucked the phone with his hands back into the pocket at the front of his hoodie.

With habitual ease, Smith brought the guitar back into tune, feeling Trott’s eyes on him the whole time.

“Thought you might enjoy this a bit more. You don’t have to stop whatever you were doing, you know.” He paused for a moment, but Trott didn’t fill the silence. “Let me know if you want to watch a movie or something.”

And before he could talk himself out of it, Smith started playing.

It wasn’t like he’d never played with Trott there before, far from it. He just felt in some way that the more times he did it, the less likely he would be to ever stop. But it gave his hands something to do, and the furrow disappeared from Trott’s brow as he closed his eyes and settled deeper into the cushions.

Smith kept playing, songs Trott knew, songs Trott had probably never heard before. He didn’t particularly feel like singing, so he didn’t. But he hummed a bit, more to himself than to try to fill the space the lyrics should have been. It was peaceful. The quiet sound of Trott’s breathing and his aimless guitar.

A part of Smith wished it could always be like this. The both of them getting up in the evenings and moving around each other. Separate and together in this apartment, like he did when Ross stayed over. Coming home together to watch bad TV until the sun was bright behind the thick curtains and they went to bed. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus. Repeat.

Far from being ungrateful of the gap between his selfish fantasy and reality, Smith felt a painful and overwhelming thankfulness. Trott unfailingly stopped by several nights of the week, even though he seemed to be almost constantly working, and just as constantly exhausted. And was involved with the vampire who Smith had pledged himself to. A position that left little space for anything or anyone else.

He glanced over at Trott, whose closed eyes were visible over his scarf. Smith suspected he was asleep. Letting the last bits of a song fade away, Smith held off continuing with a new one. Trott didn’t stir. Smith set an alarm on the phone Ross insisted he have. He was determined to let Trott sleep, but didn’t want to let him miss his bus either.

Keeping the guitar on the couch beside him, resting like a faithful dog, Smith took advantage of the chance to look at Trott without being observed himself. It was a habit of Smith’s to mark the passage of time by the changes and needs in those around him. Ross’s routine visits to the doctor, the way he inevitably trimmed his nails short every sixteenth day, the dwindle of coffee in the kitchen, and the healing from scab to purple scar to faint white that scarcely seemed to indicate the marks that had once stood out so prominently on Ross’s skin. Trott was a bit different, his presence less regular by nature and most of his own physical changes stalled so long as his mistress didn’t release him from servitude to freedom or death. But Trott’s hair was almost long enough now to pull back completely, when it had barely brushed his cheekbones not so long ago. Though short hair at the back and sides still couldn’t quite reach into the tie, Trott pulled most of it back in a messy way Smith loved. It amused Smith, that he had seen the fashion of hair lengths oscillate over and over. The wheel of time turning the old into the new again.

His phone chimed at him, and he was startled to realize how long he’d been caught up staring. He would blush if he could. Trott shifted at the sound of digital bells, rubbing his eyes and propping himself up on an elbow.

“What time is it?”

“Only ten. Didn’t want you to miss your bus so I set an alarm.”

“Thanks,” he said, and smiled at Smith.

Trott heaved himself up, stretching his arms over his head. He took a step, and then time seemed to hesitate in its inexorable crawl as Trott’s knees buckled. He fell. Despite the almost certainty that Smith could have made it to Trott in time to catch him, he was paralyzed and unable to move. The sound of Trott’s head hitting the edge of the coffee table broke the grip that had frozen Smith in place, and in a moment he was kneeling beside his friend.

Blood welled from the split in the skin of Trott’s forehead. Red ran across the curve of his brow and soaked into Trott’s hairline. The metallic smell filled Smith’s nostrils and he gagged at the urge to drink. His own hunger in the face of his friend’s pain sickened him.

Quickly, he tugged off his shirt, balling it up and pressing it against the cut. It was likely not serious, and might have been able to wait for long enough that Smith could run to grab something more disposable to stop the bleeding. But Smith cared much less about his shirt than he cared about Trott.

“Fuck,” Trott gritted. “This shit again.”

“Again?” Smith grabbed some of the pillows off the couch. “Put your legs up on these.”

“I’m fine. It’s not a big deal Smith.”

Smith shot a sharp look down at Trott.

“Pardon me Trott, but its a big fucking deal to me when you pass out in my apartment and then tell me ‘again’.”

“It just happens sometimes, alright? Usually I can sit down before I pass out.”

“Really fucking heartwarming Trott, glad we have that all cleared up.”

He pulled to loosen Trott’s scarf.

“Smith, don’t-” Trott protested, but Smith ignored him.

When he got the fabric loose he could only look for a second. A second was already too much.

Somehow, he’d not bothered to look past his assumption that if it wasn’t just a fashion statement, Trott was probably wearing the scarves to cover up bite marks. He could go years, decades, without finding a new way to hate himself. But confronted with the bruises on Trott’s neck that he was sure came from supernaturally strong fingers, the punch of self loathing made him reel.

He knew what their mutual mistress was like. While his relationship with her was purely one of politics, and distant professionalism, he saw plenty of what she did to others. The humans and vampires alike that she used. Naïvely Smith had told himself that Trott was smart. Trott could take care of himself. Hell, he managed his life better than Smith had ever handled his own, even with Smith’s extra centuries. Smith hated that he’d let himself believe the comfortable lie that whatever she and Trott said and did was because Trott wanted to, even if it looked like hurt from the outside. The things Trott had mentioned to him, which made something in Smith that still resembled humanity flinch, were only that way because Smith didn’t understand. Maybe this was another mark of that. But faced with layers of yellowed and purple secrets Trott had hidden from the world, Smith couldn’t find it in himself to believe what he had so long tried to convince himself.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom to get shit to clean and dress this with.” Smith kept his voice calm, the practiced bedside tone easy to fall back on. “I want you to keep pressure on that while I’m gone.”

“Okay,” Trott said hollowly.

In the solitude of the bathroom, Smith’s composure cracked. He sat on the closed toilet, digging his fingers hard into his thighs as his slow breathing shuddered. How could he have been so stupid? He needed to focus. Trott would be fine. This was very, very bad.

He shook his head, forcing himself to move. The crumpled shirt from the top of the hamper was good enough for the circumstances, and he didn’t want to bother getting a clean one from the bedroom. Antiseptic. Bandages. A wet towel. Smith left the bathroom with his hands full, and steely determination driving his steps.

Trott was where Smith had left him, laying on the floor with a hand holding Smith’s shirt in place. He moved his head to watch Smith deposit the first aid supplies on the coffee table, but neither of them made an effort to speak.

The sparse kitchen was devoid of anything that Smith could give Trott to eat or drink. Ross’s diet soda was useless, the food all packaged meals that required preparation and time. For once Smith wished that Ross’s eating needs were more a part of the time he spent at Smith’s apartment. He frowned, pulling open the drawer where Ross insisted on sticking the plastic cutlery that came with the food he ordered, despite Ross never using them. Many of them had little paper packets of salt and pepper. Sugar for Ross’s coffee lived in a tin beside the Keurig. Smith filled a glass with warm water from the tap. There weren’t many salt packets, so he tore them all open one after the other, dumping the tiny quantities of crystals into the glass. He spooned some sugar in and stirred it, carry the solution back with him. It would have to do.

The cut wasn’t particularly large, Smith was glad to see when he pulled back the shirt. Trott held still, and didn’t complain or comment as Smith sponged blood from his skin, and out of his hair. Normally Smith would have expected back talk to cover for them during the times Smith’s fingers touched Trott’s skin, and the places where Trott’s side pressed into Smith’s knees. The muscles in Trott’s face shifted as he clenched his jaw tighter and looked carefully away from Smith’s face, and eyes. Smith replayed the words he had said as he wiped around the cut with antiseptic,and the self loathing that had hit him earlier grew a bit more.

“It’s not too bad Trott,” Smith said softly. It was too late to take back what he had said, and how he had said it. But maybe Trott could hear the apology in his voice. “Doesn’t really need stitches or anything.”

Trott stayed quiet.

“Just needs a few butterfly plasters.”

Smith peeled the bandages from their paper, carefully holding the split in Trott’s forehead closed as he smoothed the white plastic against warm skin. As he worked, his head spun with attempts of what to say. He needed to say something, about the fainting, about the bruises, about Trott. Smith was at a loss. The wrong thing might push Trott further away. He trusted Trott, completely, and only hoped that maybe Trott trusted him a little in return. But Smith knew how fragile a thing like trust was, and how easily broken. Worse though, if he left it alone entirely, he worried that some part of Trott would be lost to him forever. That Smith’s lack of comment would tell Trott he didn’t actually give a shit what Trott’s partner was doing to him so long as it wasn’t a problem for Smith himself.

“I’m sorry Trott.”

“Smith you don’t-”

“Yeah, I do Trott,” he cut Trott off. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. And as much as I’m glad I didn’t in a way, I should have listened when you told me to stop.”

“It’s okay Smith.”

“I was worried about you. I am worried about you. It got the best of me.”

His confession sat, heavy in the air.

“Do you think you’ll be okay to sit up?” Smith looked away, balling up the trash from his neat if hasty patch job.

“Yeah.”

He helped Trott sit, leaning against the sofa, and passed him the glass of sugar and salt water.

“Drink, as much as you can. It’ll probably taste like shit, but it’ll help.”

Trott took a gulp, and grimaced. But he downed the entire glass. Smith took the empty cup back, and set it on the table where it wouldn’t be kicked. He leaned against the sofa beside Trott, close enough their sides touched.

“I’m not sure you should go to work.” Smith was careful not to make it sound like a demand.

“Don’t want you to get an inflated ego over it, but you’re probably right.”

“If I promise not to inflate my ego, will you call out?”

Trott looked up at him with the ghost of a smile.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, jackass.”

He dialed anyways. Even if he wasn’t a vampire, Smith would have been able to hear the entire conversation, as close as Trott was. He was glad that Trott’s employer at least seemed to care. The voice of the man on the other end sounded genuinely concerned, and insisted over Trott’s apologies that if Trott wasn’t feeling better to just take tomorrow off too. Trott hung up the phone, with one last apology. Trott sighed, dropping his phone on the floor and leaning his head back against the sofa. The column of his neck caught Smith’s eye, a sight which would normally have appealed to a multitude of Smith’s desires. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

“Can we talk about the bruises Trott?”

“If we have to.”

“We don’t have to. But like I said I’m worried about you, and not just because of that. There’s been other stuff and now... I just don’t want to not say anything.”

“Then have out with it Smith.” Trott stared up at the ceiling, knuckles white where his fist lay in his lap. “I want to get this over with.”

“Right.” Smith took a deep breath and soldiered on, trying to sound as neutral as possible. “Did She choke you?”

“It’s not like that Smith.”

“Not like what Trott?”

“Like...” Trott shifted, grimacing as he sat up straight again. “It’s not like I didn’t deserve it.” He covered the side of his neck with a hand.

“I can’t think of anything anyone could do to deserve that. Least of all you Trott.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know me like she does. I’m...not as good as you make me out to be sometimes Smith. And its not like I don’t know that whatever I’m doing will piss her off, when I’m doing it.”

“Did you want her to though? I know you’re- you’ve told me about things you enjoy that might look bad, to me, if we hadn’t talked about it.”

“Smith-” Trott looked away, but Smith caught a glimpse of Trott’s wet eyes. “Can we not talk about this, please?”

“Of course Trott.”

Carefully, Smith put his arm around Trott and pulled him closer. Trott let him, leaning his head against Smith’s shoulder.

“Like this.”

“Hm?”

“This. This will piss her off. Coming back, smelling like you. The fucking gash in my head.”

Smith stiffened, and almost pulled away.

“Don’t.” Trott stopped him, hand touching Smith’s leg. “I don’t want you to leave. Please don’t.”

“You know you can stay here, if you want Trott. Get some more sleep. You’ll have the whole bed to yourself.”

“In for a penny in for a pound.”

Smith wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Trott that he shouldn’t just accept whatever would happen if he stayed, if he crawled into Smith’s bed and let himself fall asleep. Knew that Trott would suffer because of his closeness, because Smith didn’t tell him to leave. But above all he wanted to respect Trott’s choice. That Trott wanted to be here, and had asked Smith to stay beside him.

Shouldering the guilt of whatever happened to Trott next was a small price to pay for whatever comfort Trott could get from Smith being with him, however he could.

Trott stood, slowly and with a reluctance that Smith couldn’t parse.

“You’re sure you don’t mind me staying here?”

“No. Never.”

Trott nodded, and retreated to Smith’s bedroom with a last unfathomable look over his shoulder.

For a long time, Smith stared. Looking at the sliver of dark that lay beyond the light that leaked past the ajar bedroom door, and listening to the slide of sheets against each other. The soft creak of the bedframe, and the movements of Trott as he got comfortable, and then stilled. Smith watched, and tried to think of what he could possibly do.

Nothing offered itself as solution.

Eventually Smith rose, picking up the towel and shirt from the floor. Intending to drop them in the hamper in the bathroom, Smith paused. Hand hovering over the wicker basket that held his dirty clothing, he thought about Trott. About the wet red seeped into cotton in his hand, turning brown at the edges. Hoping he could be forgiven this violation, he pressed the bloody fabric to his tongue.

The stale taste, like beer left on the counter for a night and drunk in the morning, made him gag. No vampire would be able to drink Trott’s blood and not know how sick he was. Blood starved of iron, and thin from the depletion. Smith made himself check again for longer. Knowing, but needing to be sure. Unable to stand the thought of ever wearing the shirt again, Smith shoved it and the small towel he’d used into the bin beside the toilet. He stood for a second, and then picked the bin up and took it to the kitchen where he dumped it into the larger one beneath the sink. He’d have slammed the cabinet door shut, if not for knowing Trott was sleeping just down the hall.

The sectional was too large, Smith thought as he stood in the living room. Too large, without another person sitting on it beside him.

Gently, he picked up his guitar. Running fingers along the wood, whispering the ghost of songs played against the strings. As carefully as he’d patched Trott’s head, Smith held his instrument. Even though it wasn’t meant for this guitar, he played the song that Trott had interrupted. He played it through, with the taste of Trott’s blood still on his tongue.

And after he was finished, Smith sank down onto his too large sofa, and cried.