It was too early for Trent to be awake, let alone be out and about in the ever so populated streets of London. As it is, this part of the city was already clear of any sort of crowd that would plague the more popular streets. Still, there was a fair amount of people strolling, mostly that of young mothers with their babies, people who looked clearly in age retirement. Unlike the day before, and the day before, and the day before the day before, and more, there was a lightness in the boy's head. It was, ironically, a sort of healthy lightness. The night before was free from poison. Times like these could mean that there was a Quidditch match to watch on telly the night before. Sometimes, though, it could mean that Trent had simply run out of supply. It had become really easy lately, hiding all of his secret stash. Demelza had left, mysteriously. There wasn't much about the matter that Dean had to say to his son.
The fact that his mother had left without a word hurt immensely. It didn't help that the boy was not immediately and effectively told the truth. He was, for what felt like the longest time, left with the impression that she was going to return after a long vacation overseas with friends he didn't know she had. It was only when long became very long, very long became too long, and too long became impossibly long, that Trent finally managed to wrench the truth out from an increasingly impatient Dean. By then, the boy had already begun to have a greater taste of freedom. No one was there to nag to at him to tidy his room, no one was there to glare at him for coming home in a messy state, no one was there to yell at him for his angsty teenage impoliteness, and no one was there to demand an explanation for his returning home late.
The absence of Demelza almost sounded heavenly, years ago. Now, though, the house and its inhabitants were a bit at a loss. That, too, was an increasing understatement. Dinner had now become daily takeaways, if Dean didn't forget them on nights when he had to work late. It was no matter to the boy. If he wasn't fed, he'd feed on chocolates and cigarettes, and if he was lucky, some hash. Trent would sit around waiting for the sound of Demelza's keys at the door, distinctly different from the sounds Dean would make upon returning home. The house had become a mess, and even though Dean and Trent had both started doing their own laundry, no one was around to do the ironing, something of which the males in the family were hopeless at. It was true. The house was falling apart. And Trent felt as if he was bearing the brunt of it all. After all, it felt as if his father was never really at home anymore.
Trent squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun before he flicked the lit matchstick away to the ground. With that, he took a drag of his cigarette before continuing on his way to where he knew to go for some time away from some parts of the world, yet still immersing himself as a participant in it. By the time the boy entered The Walrus, he was done with his cigarette. Rubbing the bit of ash that had landed on his finger a second ago against his shirt, Trent eyed the patrons of the pub. It was as if he was expecting to see someone ... and he wasn't disappointed. No, not the least bit.
"Damitrius," he started, with a smile. Then, seating himself next to Millie, he directed his smile at her, just as he contemplated the warmer greeting he wanted to give her instead. The thought of it in front of another made it sufficiently awkward in the boy's head, so that he settled for what he had already done. A late reaction of mild embarrassment at his attempt at being social crept up just behind Trent, but he manoeuvred himself back to face the first girl anyway, determined to maintain an unbiased company to the two. He was mildly proud of himself. After all, he had come out of his self-made and self-proclaimed shell, and then he had gone on to initiate a sort of greeting to someone else besides Millie. The girl and her brother had, after all, been companions to his baby self. There were no heavy reservations left in his interactions with them.
"Fancy seeing you here," He continued. Another slight smile. "How's your summer?" One of the bartenders passed the table, on his way back from clearing glasses from a newly vacated table. He stopped to check for drink orders. Glad that he wouldn't have to walk to the bar for that, Trent was quick to ask for an English Ale. Swiftly, the bartender left to get the boy's order.
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