Nobody ever considers the lapdog a favourite, much like they would never solely eat the second-best flavour of the Neapolitan threesome, or choose to see a film about Robin when they could see a film about Batman. The thing behind that logic was that you didn’t have to ask for the second-best directly; the sidekick always comes along with the superhero (wanted or not), so why focus on it? They were just shadows to their bigger, more popular ally; if you didn’t look at them directly to catch their lips move, you probably wouldn’t catch them speaking.

That was Nicholas’ life in a nutshell.

It was fucked up and unfair, right from his birth. Illegitimate and neglected, the boy’s life was one big, pitiful sob-story nobody wanted to actually hear. Long story short: Nick was born out of wedlock and forced his parents into marriage and now he’s the only thing standing between these two people totally separating and actually enjoying their lives, which was a pretty depressing blame to live with. But, from his parents’ lack of family values comes a really positive set of cause and effects: because they don’t love each other, they work terribly long shifts. These terribly long shifts mean more money; more money means a huge house. And, basically, you’d think that a teenaged boy’s greatest dream is to have a huge house all to himself for entire weeks, with two parents who don’t even give a fuck to care where he goes, right? I mean, that obviously translates to “PARTY HARD AND DO LINES”, right?
Well, you haven’t met Nicholas.

He’s one of those losers who “respect” their houses – he may not like the way his parents treat him, but he’s such a fucking pushover he probably wouldn’t be caught dead thrashing the place up with some huge party. He’ll eat, sleep, bathe, game, and use the internet in it. That was literally it. When he wasn’t on the internet (because his gamer friends actually had plans probably involving family) he’d go biking somewhere far and hope he’d get a worried call from one of his parents, furiously demanding, like, ”NICHOLAS PETER GRAYSON, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? WHY AREN’T YOU HOME FOR DINNER? IT’S WAY PAST CURFEW! WE HAVE PLANS FOR TODAY!” Anything that would show they cared. I told you he was a loser; he’s like that kid in the stories told to you to make you feel ungrateful for your annoying parents, you know?

A nostalgic, retro-Nintendo Legend of Zelda fanfare sliced through the air like it did twice before in the last few hours. This time, though, the sound brought forth the slightest of movements from the carcass of a boy snuggled under a Star Wars comforter. It wasn’t much of a wonder that he was still a virgin – a guy with Hayden Christiansen’s Jedi face on his bed was never going to get laid. ”Mmm...” There was a groan, followed by a face surfacing from the fortress of warmth, brown eyes opening short after. Three calm breaths after, he reached his arm out of the blanket and flailed his hand over the left side table, flopping like a fish out of water until it met and grabbed his phone. With a yawn, he read the message and did his best to reply, however still groggy.

To: Avery
From: Nick
Yeahjdkjhf be there soon.

He tapped send and lay in bed for another twenty minutes, just to wear off the sleep and regain his motor skills. Then, he got up and showered, throwing on a comfortable olive v-neck and grey hooded jumper as soon as he got out and dried off. He spent a couple more minutes than he’d like to admit to standing in front of the bathroom mirror and consulting his appearance. It couldn’t be helped. He’d be going to another party with his best friend (the superhero) and Izzy (the superhero’s amazing girlfriend). Fuck, she was the most beautiful, wonderful girl he had ever met and she was wrapped around Blaine’s finger. It was incredible but also infuriating. Nick liked to think he had a chance with a girl like that, but it was basically impossible for her to ever find interest in a guy like him. She thought he was “cute”, but cute was probably the simplest appearance-based compliment anyone could ever get.

Nicholas made sure to pocket some of the things he might need for the night and went on his merry biking way to Avery’s house. Which was actually rather far, but he wasted so much time biking his legs had somehow conditioned themselves to the circular patterns and the distribution of force and what-have-you. In at least twenty minutes, he was there; he chained his bike to a near tree (you could never trust those country kids) and approached the front door. Eggshells and yolks were strewn across the house like some twisted festive decoration and it made him a little sick. Avery was a cool guy and even though Grayson was only a part of the “crew” by default (id est, by being Blaine’s best mate) he liked to think of the blonde-haired performer as a friend. A naturally shaky hand rang the doorbell and the awkward, soft-spoken techie was left on the porch awaiting admission into the home.

”Yes sir, how can I help you?”

”Can I have another ginger ale, please?”

A lean young man sat comfortably in his seat, letting his husky English drawl hang in the air. The flight attendant nodded and took his empty can and headed to fulfil the task she was given. He smiled a devilish grin, content to mask his anticipation; his cold blue eyes scanned the scene outside the small airplane window, overlooking the waking city of Toronto. The sun was only just rising, slowly spreading its golden rays across the already-busy streets and buildings like arms opening for a most glorious hug. He always wanted to watch the sun gradually rise higher into the sky (because he was the type of person who only had time to glance out of windows twice: to see the sun dipped behind the horizon and then suddenly be covering that part of the earth) and he thought this might be his opportunity to, but his eyes were drawn away from the view as his lovely attendant brought some more drink to fill his plastic cup and ease the nerves in his stomach.

The pilot’s voice came on the speakers, giving the usual information about the city before they stopped in (time, date, temperature) and the seatbelt lights came on. The boy yawned and ran a hand through his perfectly messy, don’t-really-give-a-fuck hair. The plane landed at the Pearson International Airport within minutes and there was that warmth in the air felt when a bunch of people just wake up. It had been a long flight from Heathrow, so it was clear everyone got plenty of sleep. Eventually the usual plane procedure went on as people picked up their carry-on items and awkwardly shuffled down the narrow aisles to get off the plane without losing anything. He double-checked his belongings were all on him before stepping into a misshapen line and walking down the runway to the arrival terminal.
The signs were comforting: Welcome to Canada.



Finally, his taxi came. He had been perched by the window, looking out at the cars coming in and leaving like a hawk stalking prey. It was one of those moments where you can’t leave to go anywhere because the luck of the gods would end up making the cab come at that exact time when it hadn’t come the hour or so you spent waiting, you know? The man, South-Asian by the looks of it, helped put the bags into the boot of the vehicle before driving the young man to the Mariott hotel. It was difficult for the English kid to stay awake; his driver wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

At the hotel, Silas checked into his room and got all his stuff up (eventually). Now, he had time to loiter. Where would he go first? He wasn’t quite too sure. Of course, he’d really fancy a nice espresso and a smoke, so no matter what he’d have to slip on his light trench coat again and go for a nice walk.

He took his time (it was hours before the actual reunion) and tried to focus on the scenery he probably missed out on as a teen. He was always too reckless to care for simple things and preferred to speed past them in his friends’ cars on the way to the nearest party. Man; that was the life. Then again, not having to look for work was good, too. He got to go to sophisticated after-parties, walk on runways for designer brands and spend some time with the gorgeous girls in his photo shoots. In a way, he was probably living the dream. Silas was a very fortunate lad.

He stepped the heel of his sneakers on the pavement, crushing the embers of his cigarette, before stepping into the Starbucks. It wasn’t too busy, but still oddly filled for such a time. It was too early for lazy university kids and too late for busy commuters. Nevertheless, he got in line and waited the ten minutes to the front. ”An espresso, please.” He pushed a fiver and some change across the counter and moved to the receiving part of the stand. Once his hands clasped over the tiny, warm cup, he stepped out of the way and sat himself in a seat nearby.

And, naturally as ever, this was the point he reminisced. Memories of people resurfaced from the depths of his mind and instead of thinking about Miranda Kerr’s number burning in his contacts list, he found himself remembering the names of the kids he used to see every single day, and probably neglected. Hell, he didn’t really know if those kids ever liked him (mostly because he didn’t care about anything) since they never bothered to keep in contact, aside from the occasional event invitations most likely sent to him as a result of the person sending to “all friends” (and I put superficial quotations around that to denote the fact that majority of contacts a person has aren’t even their friends, and Mark Zuckerberg should probably consider just renaming the section, “People This Person Knows” because it was less misleading).

I taught myself the only way to vaguely get along in love
Is to like the other slightly less than you get in return
I keep feeling like I'm being undercut

I cannot emphasize enough that my body
Is a badly designed, poorly put together vessel,
Harbouring these diminishing, so-called 'vital organs'
Hope my heart goes first,
I HOPE MY HEART GOES FIRST!