Ty is fun b/c he swears a lot. No lie.
In direct response to myarmcanfly's post (I'm sure she could have seen this coming...), here: Television Rules the Nation
"Liar, liar." The irritated strain of Ty's voice preceeds the soft click of the tiny television set in the corner of Con's cramped apartment. He doesn't know who the man in the Ferrari is... but he's pretty sure it wasn't a scene Rom was happy to see broadcasted on national television, no matter how well the guy can smile and tease and play to the crowd... The familiar swell of jealousy and worry doesn't sit well in his gut and he tosses the remote onto the side-table to get up and pace it off - not that there's much space to pace in here. Fuck, he hates it here... he can't understand why Con would ever choose to live in some tiny-ass apartment, in a crap end of town, when he has the skills to make a decent living. But the boy insists it's enough for him - that he doesn't need more. He's still working with Big, though they'd been picked up by a larger corporation and hired on as a sub-contracted team of designers, so at least he's making a steady paycheck. He makes enough, Ty knows, that he could well afford a better place... if he weren't sending half of everything he does make back home. What a fucking bleeding heart of a boy he's got... but does he say anything? No. It's not even worth the argument he knows would be all he'd get.
Wandering into the miniscule kitchen, he continues the prep for tonight's dinner that the interview spot had interrupted before. He's too pissed to keep watching, and besides... he's taping it at home, anyway - he can always watch the rest after he gets back to Cambridge. That doesn't stop him thinking about it, now, though... He probably won't get that fucking image out of his head for the rest of the night. Who the hell was that guy? Was that really consensual? Fuck, he wish he just knew. He hasn't seen Rom in forever, though... What with school and now spending time with Con on the weekends... he hasn't had the time to travel around to concerts and... truthfully, he's been trying not to. He can't... he doesn't want the temptation. He'd promised Con... But still-- he pauses as he realizes he's turning the pork into mincemeat, sighs at himself, shakes his head, and lays the pieces in the marinade to soak.
Whatever...
He's been reduced to the same level (or nearly) of information as every other fan of Riot's - news articles, talkshows, fucking radio, and the Internet. Fucking Inernet - as much as he's in love with it, it's practically more shit than truth these days. He washes his hands in the tiny sink, and dries them on the second-hand dish-towels, and reminds himself that next weekend, he's asking Con to come see him at his place. His phone is in hand before he even realizes what he's thinking, flipping it open and scrolling down to Rom's cell and just staring at the number for a long moment... wondering if he should just call him. Just ask... He almost does...
Almost.
He jumps as he hears a key slide in the lock of the door, quickly pocketing his phone again and turning back to chopping the vegetables as Con shouts out that he's home with dessert.
"Liar, liar." The irritated strain of Ty's voice preceeds the soft click of the tiny television set in the corner of Con's cramped apartment. He doesn't know who the man in the Ferrari is... but he's pretty sure it wasn't a scene Rom was happy to see broadcasted on national television, no matter how well the guy can smile and tease and play to the crowd... The familiar swell of jealousy and worry doesn't sit well in his gut and he tosses the remote onto the side-table to get up and pace it off - not that there's much space to pace in here. Fuck, he hates it here... he can't understand why Con would ever choose to live in some tiny-ass apartment, in a crap end of town, when he has the skills to make a decent living. But the boy insists it's enough for him - that he doesn't need more. He's still working with Big, though they'd been picked up by a larger corporation and hired on as a sub-contracted team of designers, so at least he's making a steady paycheck. He makes enough, Ty knows, that he could well afford a better place... if he weren't sending half of everything he does make back home. What a fucking bleeding heart of a boy he's got... but does he say anything? No. It's not even worth the argument he knows would be all he'd get.
Wandering into the miniscule kitchen, he continues the prep for tonight's dinner that the interview spot had interrupted before. He's too pissed to keep watching, and besides... he's taping it at home, anyway - he can always watch the rest after he gets back to Cambridge. That doesn't stop him thinking about it, now, though... He probably won't get that fucking image out of his head for the rest of the night. Who the hell was that guy? Was that really consensual? Fuck, he wish he just knew. He hasn't seen Rom in forever, though... What with school and now spending time with Con on the weekends... he hasn't had the time to travel around to concerts and... truthfully, he's been trying not to. He can't... he doesn't want the temptation. He'd promised Con... But still-- he pauses as he realizes he's turning the pork into mincemeat, sighs at himself, shakes his head, and lays the pieces in the marinade to soak.
Whatever...
He's been reduced to the same level (or nearly) of information as every other fan of Riot's - news articles, talkshows, fucking radio, and the Internet. Fucking Inernet - as much as he's in love with it, it's practically more shit than truth these days. He washes his hands in the tiny sink, and dries them on the second-hand dish-towels, and reminds himself that next weekend, he's asking Con to come see him at his place. His phone is in hand before he even realizes what he's thinking, flipping it open and scrolling down to Rom's cell and just staring at the number for a long moment... wondering if he should just call him. Just ask... He almost does...
Almost.
He jumps as he hears a key slide in the lock of the door, quickly pocketing his phone again and turning back to chopping the vegetables as Con shouts out that he's home with dessert.