neoncycles​ [x]
Chris picks up his phone as soon as it began to ring with Simon’s name on the screen, obviously worried for his son who apparently sneaked out again for the second time in a week. He now knew how his own pops felt when he sneaked out years ago when he was in highschool.
“Where are you this time, kid?” he asks, tone angry.
He breathed heavily into the speaker. God, Soccer Dad was going to M U R D E R him for sneaking out again. Checking the screen on his phone, —(in an effort to make sure he called the right father)—, the corners of his lips tugged into a frown, sighing. Why didn’t he call the C O O L  D A D? Right. Because he had a big game tomorrow.
   “—DADDY, so... what happened was...”
The teen explained that he escaped the prison that was his modest home in an effort to see Ghost Bath perform, running into a bit of T R O U B L EÂ with the kids from school. A heavy breath finished his lengthy, bi-lingual problem.
   “—SO, can you pick me up without Papa finding out? Don’t tell       Papa, please.”
