'𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝘿𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙚 𝘿𝙖𝙡𝙚.'
They weren't suppose to. It was illegal, they're parents enemies. He was suppose to hate every fibre of his being, he thought he did at first. That stupid laugh, that unruly...
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He was a prince, he would always be royalty in the world their parents lived in, he was royalty. He couldn't change that, he couldn't change many things. He would never call himself royalty, sure he was entitled to it, but he hadn't earned it. He knew he would always bow down to Joseph Trotta, whether now or in ten years, when school's a faded illusion. Whether he liked it or not, whether it would kill him, he'd always drop the sword with a clang, he'd always have respect for Joseph Trotta, and he couldn't change it, all he could do was blow away the crushing guilt of betrayal one ring of smoke at a time.
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𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟎
He was sixteen that day. His leg bounced rapidly in the dimly crimson lit room, wax scent engulfing the air. The slurred chatter clashing in the air, the clinks of liquor bottles, the expensive kind. Church was an illusion. Smoke dusting the airs, some of the richest kids sitting before him. He took a shot of the hot liquid from the clear bottle, he winced, it was always terrible at first. Passing it on, there were about twelve of them.
Her green eyes caught his from across the room, he smirked. She took a shot, the laughter grew louder, he joined in. They had tons of the stuff, he lit a blunt. Easing, his leg halted, he took another shot, he didn't wince this time. He took a long drag of the blunt, they were all getting easy. It was water to the taste of fire. His pulse quickened, his blond hair curtaining his eyes, she watched his every move with a smirk. Everything blurred, it was bottle after bottle. He couldn't say he didn't like it, it made everything fade, it made everything easy. He was pushed to the side, another one bites the dust, as they say only the strong will survive. Dutch debris thick in the intoxicated airs, they were all dutch.
