Kit Herondale sat in front of his T.V, slumped down on his couch. Already finished bowls of popcorn and nachos lay strewn across the floor. He was watching a F.R.I.E.N.D.S rerun, which seemed like the perfect way to spend a Saturday at home. It seems completely normal. Of course, only if every day is a Saturday, he thought miserably. He almost laughs at his pathetic situation. Kit is jobless, nearly bankrupt, utterly single, living on Jem and Tessa’s money (his sort of adoptive parents) and Oh! Did he forget to mention he’s twenty-five goddamn years into his miserable life?
Kit had always been alone, with nobody to protect him, nobody to care for him, nobody to make him hot cocoa when he was down. He never had a home, a friend, a family. Too many angst-y feels, he thought. He was grateful to have Jem and Tessa and Mina there for him, but lately he felt like no matter how much they loved him or he loved them, he had to move out on his own. He knew the attachment and will to keep living with them was because of his lack of this sort of affection when he was young.
His only friends now were Jaime Rosales from next door and Drusilla Blackthorn from L.A. He met Jaime three years ago when he moved into this shit hole of an apartment. They’ve been great friends, almost brothers ever since. He first met Dru when he was fifteen, and he taught her how to pick locks. Though they lost touch for a few years, they reconnected in Dru’s first year of college. His often thought of Jaime as his first close friend and tried not to correct himself. It never worked. Some idiot, masochistic part of his brain always brought back memories of ink black hair and stormy eyes. The longest lashes he’d ever seen casting shadows on pale cheeks. Slender hands untangling a headphone cord, a pair of headphones slung on elegant shoulders. His first best friend. Memories of words said and unsaid, things remembered and forgotten, tears shed and wiped, and unspoken goodbyes. He was fifteen when he first met him, and fifteen when he last saw him.